Funerals are a bit of a bizarre phenomenon to me.
I honestly never really paid attention during them until the past year or so. (We'll just leave the reasoning at this: Dead bodies. And, I will be cremated.)
I got the opportunity to pay close attention to a funeral yesterday as I shadowed my Field Education supervisor while he led a funeral service. Not to mention, he was doing this was for a family he had never met. He's friends with a funereal director up the road from our Field Ed. site, and the director calls him when families come in that are in need of a pastor to lead the service because they don't have one otherwise--don't have connections with a local church, haven't been to their home churches in many years, etc.
Our pastor had a lengthy discussion with one of the daughters of the deceased prior to the day of the funeral, and it was clear he had done his homework as he transitioned through each piece of the service. He talked with them while he led the service like he had always known them and their loved one, all while being incredibly respectful of the fact that he didn't.
As he moved from the goal of their time together to the hope we have in the Gospel to discussing special memories about which he had been informed prior to the service to the necessary "Where do we go from here?" piece, an overall sincerity seemed to be the glue that held everything together.
The family was sincere in their grief, in their love for a mother, grandmother, sister, friend.
Our pastor was sincere with his intentions in leading the service--to look back and be thankful, to look ahead and be hopeful.
I'm still piecing together what it will even look like for me to lead families through grief when the time comes, but I feel like I got a pretty good starting view yesterday into how I hope to lead, how I hope to provide comfort.
I think most of all it has to do with loving the grieving family authentically, speaking sincerely (when it's appropriate to speak), and being a vessel of God's presence and care for that family so that the grieving process continues and doesn't stop at the, "Life will always stay right here, in this moment" phase.
Life does go on after death as hard as that is to fathom in the moment of immediate grief. And while the service was not led in such a way that pushed the family to hurry and get to that mindset, it seemed as though the Spirit was inviting that understanding. Most everyone gathered seemed so open--open to celebrating and remembering their loved one's life as well as open to the idea that their loved one would want them to keep going, keep making each other laugh, and keep loving one another even though the loved one was no longer there to lead the charge.
It was beautiful, really. Watching and sensing a hurting family s l o w l y begin the initial stages of moving through their grief together. All right there in that very room. Gathered close to one another as beautiful words and stories were shared from a place of sadness, love, and hopefulness on the loved one's behalf.
Funerals really are bizarre phenomenons. In the span of the 30 minutes to an hour they take place, they manage to acknowledge both the very real feelings of the sting/pain/grief/torment/bereavement that comes with death, but also glimpses into the refreshment/deep breath/calm/peace/rejuvenation that only eternal life in Christ can bring.
Jesus' promise to always be with us was almost tangible as I sat at the back of a room that held a grieving family yesterday--from the comfort of the pastor, to the detailed care of the funeral director, to the love and compassion the various friends and families showed one another and showed their loved one.
Who could have ever known I'd be blessed by attending the funeral of a person I didn't know from Eve? I didn't, but I'm very thankful I got the opportunity to experience such an incredibly ... bizarre phenomenon.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
My Grammy is on my mind today.
My Grampa passed away when I was a senior in high school, only a month or so before my paternal grandfather, lovingly known as Pepaw, left this world. It was strange. I had never experienced the pain of anyone close to me passing away before the deaths of these two great men. I can remember going to the funeral home when friends of mine had lost loved ones throughout our childhood--grandparents, parents, a brother. All of that was incredibly sad, yet when my Grandfathers passed away, I don't remember feeling a whole lot of sadness for myself, just everyone else they'd left behind in their journey to eternal life.
Shortly before Grampa passed away, my mom's family was made aware that my Grammy was in the early stages of Dementia, which is essentially a precursor to Alzheimer's. We were fortunate that the progression to Alzheimer's began slowly and that even today she's about as healthy as a 90 year old woman with Alzheimer's can be, besides the memory loss, that is. We've also been fortunate that my grandmother has not become violent as her disease and age continues to advance, as is often the case Alzheimer's patients. She lives comfortably and happily in an assisted living home, and continues to report that she loves it there and that the "food is great!" despite no longer knowing where she is.
This woman has never had, nor do I believe she will ever have, a mean bone in her body.
As hard as it is on my mother and her siblings to sit in the painful everyday reality that Grammy no longer remembers where she is, that it's her house in which we congregate for special occasions and holidays, and most heartbreaking, who they are anymore, this amazing group of women never ceases to surprise me with the ways they band together to selflessly and courageously take care of my grandmother. Never mind that they all have their own family and work responsibilities and health concerns of their and their immediate family's own. They somehow figure out how to balance their responsibilities, take care of Grammy, and manage their grief all at the same time. I don't know how they do it, but I am continually inspired by the perseverance they have exhibited throughout this difficult journey.
Because I'm many miles away from home, I've not had to help with these responsibilities. In fact, I'm almost certain I haven't even seen Grammy since Thanksgiving of 2012. Almost two years. Though I've called, sent a couple of cards throughout my time at seminary and also some pictures with descriptions and dates on the backs of them for the photo board that hangs in her living room at her apartment (She used to think that was the greatest gift she had ever received.), I would be lying if I did not say that there is guilt and heartbreak and sadness that dwells within me for not making the appropriate plans to see her over the years. Shoot, I'm scared to even call and talk with her anymore because I don't know how she'll react to not knowing who's on the other line, and I'm not sure I could handle her not knowing in the first place.
Used to when I would call and remind her who I was that same ol' Grammy that I had loved all my life would pipe up and say, "Of course. Hello, sweetheart, how are you today? What have you been up to at school?" I miss those calls, and I'm ashamed to say I don't call anymore. Because I haven't been around the past couple of years, I haven't had to experience my grandmother, the one who loved me more than life itself at one point in her life, look me in the eye and say, "I'm sorry, but who are you?" Though I hope to see her before she leaves this world, that particular moment will be one I will have to breathe and pray deeply to get me through it.
I refuse to end this blog on a sad note (since you were so kind enough to read through the ramblings in my head this fine afternoon), so I will leave you with some of the happiest memories I have of my Grammy and our time together:
My Grammy has the sweetest eyes, and though my mom's have more strength/passion/fire/sass behind them (I get that from her :) ), they're basically identical.
My Grammy loved to read more than anyone I had ever known. Seriously, the woman would go through two huge novels in a matter of a week or so and not bat an eye. I loved our trips to the library.
She would take me to the local country club swimming pool and throw things for me to dive after.
We always played games--everything from card games to Chinese Checkers--and it never failed we would laugh our way through them.
She would drive anywhere from ten to forty minutes down the road to watch me play sports growing up.
She was (and is still, I would imagine) so calm. You couldn't help but be at peace when in her company.
I loved helping her in the kitchen. She was always doing, baking, cooking something in there, and I loved helping her with (and sometimes sampling) all her hard work.
We used to go on dates to Waffle House, and I refused to eat at any other Waffle House because it "just wasn't the same" without her there.
I loved listening to her tell me stories as we sat together and flipped through old photo albums (The woman was a champ at picture organization--names and dates on every Polaroid print.).
Most of all, I just loved the way she loved me. And the rest of her family. Her hugs were the most gentle and sincere of them all, and she definitely knew how to make sure everyone in her presence know they were special, cared for, and loved. What a gift this woman has been to our family. My life is even more of a gift because of her.
My Grampa passed away when I was a senior in high school, only a month or so before my paternal grandfather, lovingly known as Pepaw, left this world. It was strange. I had never experienced the pain of anyone close to me passing away before the deaths of these two great men. I can remember going to the funeral home when friends of mine had lost loved ones throughout our childhood--grandparents, parents, a brother. All of that was incredibly sad, yet when my Grandfathers passed away, I don't remember feeling a whole lot of sadness for myself, just everyone else they'd left behind in their journey to eternal life.
Shortly before Grampa passed away, my mom's family was made aware that my Grammy was in the early stages of Dementia, which is essentially a precursor to Alzheimer's. We were fortunate that the progression to Alzheimer's began slowly and that even today she's about as healthy as a 90 year old woman with Alzheimer's can be, besides the memory loss, that is. We've also been fortunate that my grandmother has not become violent as her disease and age continues to advance, as is often the case Alzheimer's patients. She lives comfortably and happily in an assisted living home, and continues to report that she loves it there and that the "food is great!" despite no longer knowing where she is.
This woman has never had, nor do I believe she will ever have, a mean bone in her body.
As hard as it is on my mother and her siblings to sit in the painful everyday reality that Grammy no longer remembers where she is, that it's her house in which we congregate for special occasions and holidays, and most heartbreaking, who they are anymore, this amazing group of women never ceases to surprise me with the ways they band together to selflessly and courageously take care of my grandmother. Never mind that they all have their own family and work responsibilities and health concerns of their and their immediate family's own. They somehow figure out how to balance their responsibilities, take care of Grammy, and manage their grief all at the same time. I don't know how they do it, but I am continually inspired by the perseverance they have exhibited throughout this difficult journey.
Because I'm many miles away from home, I've not had to help with these responsibilities. In fact, I'm almost certain I haven't even seen Grammy since Thanksgiving of 2012. Almost two years. Though I've called, sent a couple of cards throughout my time at seminary and also some pictures with descriptions and dates on the backs of them for the photo board that hangs in her living room at her apartment (She used to think that was the greatest gift she had ever received.), I would be lying if I did not say that there is guilt and heartbreak and sadness that dwells within me for not making the appropriate plans to see her over the years. Shoot, I'm scared to even call and talk with her anymore because I don't know how she'll react to not knowing who's on the other line, and I'm not sure I could handle her not knowing in the first place.
Used to when I would call and remind her who I was that same ol' Grammy that I had loved all my life would pipe up and say, "Of course. Hello, sweetheart, how are you today? What have you been up to at school?" I miss those calls, and I'm ashamed to say I don't call anymore. Because I haven't been around the past couple of years, I haven't had to experience my grandmother, the one who loved me more than life itself at one point in her life, look me in the eye and say, "I'm sorry, but who are you?" Though I hope to see her before she leaves this world, that particular moment will be one I will have to breathe and pray deeply to get me through it.
I refuse to end this blog on a sad note (since you were so kind enough to read through the ramblings in my head this fine afternoon), so I will leave you with some of the happiest memories I have of my Grammy and our time together:
My Grammy has the sweetest eyes, and though my mom's have more strength/passion/fire/sass behind them (I get that from her :) ), they're basically identical.
My Grammy loved to read more than anyone I had ever known. Seriously, the woman would go through two huge novels in a matter of a week or so and not bat an eye. I loved our trips to the library.
She would take me to the local country club swimming pool and throw things for me to dive after.
We always played games--everything from card games to Chinese Checkers--and it never failed we would laugh our way through them.
She would drive anywhere from ten to forty minutes down the road to watch me play sports growing up.
She was (and is still, I would imagine) so calm. You couldn't help but be at peace when in her company.
I loved helping her in the kitchen. She was always doing, baking, cooking something in there, and I loved helping her with (and sometimes sampling) all her hard work.
We used to go on dates to Waffle House, and I refused to eat at any other Waffle House because it "just wasn't the same" without her there.
I loved listening to her tell me stories as we sat together and flipped through old photo albums (The woman was a champ at picture organization--names and dates on every Polaroid print.).
Most of all, I just loved the way she loved me. And the rest of her family. Her hugs were the most gentle and sincere of them all, and she definitely knew how to make sure everyone in her presence know they were special, cared for, and loved. What a gift this woman has been to our family. My life is even more of a gift because of her.
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
There are many (necessary, and sometimes blood-pressure-elevating) hoops to jump through in order to become an elder in the UMC through the ordination process. One of the most stressful parts of this process is making sure that all appropriate paperwork is filled out at the appropriate times.
One of the first sets of paperwork I ever had to do needed me to state when I was baptized. I didn't remember it, so I assumed that I was baptized as a baby because the UMC believes in infant baptism. When I called my mom to ask her about it, she told me that actually wasn't the case.
Turns out my sister and I were baptized together. She was a newborn, so I was probably 4 or a fresh 5. As she began to tell the me about the day we were baptized, one tiny, blurry piece of the day returned to my memory before she could get to that part of the story. After the baptisms had taken place, our pastor at the time took my sister in one arm and took my hand with his free one, and he walked us around the sanctuary.
What a weird thing to remember.
I actually preached on baptism and calling this past Sunday, and I was really struggling. It had been a long, hectic week at school, and before I knew it, the end of the week had snuck up on me only at the beginning stages of my sermon. I had stretched my brain and my resources, and nothing was coming together. Nothing was making sense.
My husband took me out to dinner and a movie to escape the stress, but it lingered around in my mind for most of the evening as much as I tried to suppress the anxiety about how it was all going to come together. As we drove home that night, as I often do when I get stuck on a paper/project/sermon/real-life situation, I began to spill aaaaaaaaaalllllllllllllllllllllllllllll my thoughts about baptism that I had up until that point and what'd'ya know? Mine and my sister's baptisms popped into my head.
As I began to vocally flesh out what I thought baptism meant and think about that through the lens of our baptisms, it became blatantly apparent to me how our calling was nurtured and encouraged and supported by our church family who renewed their baptismal covenants that day, promising to raise us in the faith. I was not only promised in my baptism that I would never go it alone from the standpoint that Jesus would always be with me, but my church family and the greater Universal Church would also always be with me.
Not to mention my sister.
As we've gotten older, we've gotten progressively closer. Turns out we've ended up having a lot more in common than we originally thought back in the day when we spent the majority of our time together yelling and throwing things at each other.
We were baptized on the same day. We were given our call on the same day. From that time forward, we've continuously grown closer to one another, but also closer to God thanks to the support of our parents and our church families who made a promise that day to always help us advance in relationship with God.
I'd never stopped to consider the close bond I have with my sister today was in any way shaped by our joint baptisms years ago, but now I really think it played a part. Not only are we both working toward similar vocations, but we also help one another understand a little more about God the more we have opportunity to reflect on those things...together.
We not only joined the Body of Christ that day, but we were initiated into our own little community--a safe space that presented itself as we got old enough to recognize it, a place where God is at the center when we are intentional, a place where we grow in our understanding of God and how we're supposed to live out each of our respective callings in light of our initial call to join Christ in ministry to all the world.
It's a place I love to go, love to be fully present. A place where we laugh, cut up, say stupid things, voice our frustrations, spill our heartaches all over the other one, all while unconditionally loving each other (as much as humans can do that sort of thing), and encouraging each other to press forward in what we feel like we've been called to do though it is sometimes painful.
I think my takeaway from this realization about our baptisms is that I hope to work harder at creating more Christ-centered relationships--ones where I'm not scared to talk about my faith, where I can authentically encourage others to talk about theirs, where we can ask questions, where we truly seek to have the love of God at the center as a means to better understand what it means to live out our calling in the world as we were first given at our baptisms.
One of the first sets of paperwork I ever had to do needed me to state when I was baptized. I didn't remember it, so I assumed that I was baptized as a baby because the UMC believes in infant baptism. When I called my mom to ask her about it, she told me that actually wasn't the case.
Turns out my sister and I were baptized together. She was a newborn, so I was probably 4 or a fresh 5. As she began to tell the me about the day we were baptized, one tiny, blurry piece of the day returned to my memory before she could get to that part of the story. After the baptisms had taken place, our pastor at the time took my sister in one arm and took my hand with his free one, and he walked us around the sanctuary.
What a weird thing to remember.
I actually preached on baptism and calling this past Sunday, and I was really struggling. It had been a long, hectic week at school, and before I knew it, the end of the week had snuck up on me only at the beginning stages of my sermon. I had stretched my brain and my resources, and nothing was coming together. Nothing was making sense.
My husband took me out to dinner and a movie to escape the stress, but it lingered around in my mind for most of the evening as much as I tried to suppress the anxiety about how it was all going to come together. As we drove home that night, as I often do when I get stuck on a paper/project/sermon/real-life situation, I began to spill aaaaaaaaaalllllllllllllllllllllllllllll my thoughts about baptism that I had up until that point and what'd'ya know? Mine and my sister's baptisms popped into my head.
As I began to vocally flesh out what I thought baptism meant and think about that through the lens of our baptisms, it became blatantly apparent to me how our calling was nurtured and encouraged and supported by our church family who renewed their baptismal covenants that day, promising to raise us in the faith. I was not only promised in my baptism that I would never go it alone from the standpoint that Jesus would always be with me, but my church family and the greater Universal Church would also always be with me.
Not to mention my sister.
As we've gotten older, we've gotten progressively closer. Turns out we've ended up having a lot more in common than we originally thought back in the day when we spent the majority of our time together yelling and throwing things at each other.
We were baptized on the same day. We were given our call on the same day. From that time forward, we've continuously grown closer to one another, but also closer to God thanks to the support of our parents and our church families who made a promise that day to always help us advance in relationship with God.
I'd never stopped to consider the close bond I have with my sister today was in any way shaped by our joint baptisms years ago, but now I really think it played a part. Not only are we both working toward similar vocations, but we also help one another understand a little more about God the more we have opportunity to reflect on those things...together.
We not only joined the Body of Christ that day, but we were initiated into our own little community--a safe space that presented itself as we got old enough to recognize it, a place where God is at the center when we are intentional, a place where we grow in our understanding of God and how we're supposed to live out each of our respective callings in light of our initial call to join Christ in ministry to all the world.
It's a place I love to go, love to be fully present. A place where we laugh, cut up, say stupid things, voice our frustrations, spill our heartaches all over the other one, all while unconditionally loving each other (as much as humans can do that sort of thing), and encouraging each other to press forward in what we feel like we've been called to do though it is sometimes painful.
I think my takeaway from this realization about our baptisms is that I hope to work harder at creating more Christ-centered relationships--ones where I'm not scared to talk about my faith, where I can authentically encourage others to talk about theirs, where we can ask questions, where we truly seek to have the love of God at the center as a means to better understand what it means to live out our calling in the world as we were first given at our baptisms.
Monday, October 13, 2014
[Foreword: I began writing this post last week and have just now had an opportunity to complete it.]
Suffering is abundant this week.
In reality, suffering is consistently abundant. But the subject itself and its emotive/moral/religious side effects within the life of my loved ones as well as within my seminary classes is very prevalent this week.
For a semester that has proven itself such a rejuvenating source in my life, this semester has also forced me to wrestle with the idea of suffering and how we think about it within the context of faith and in relationship to God.
In my Wisdom Literature class, we've just finished three weeks of studying the biblical book of Job. For those who are unfamiliar with the story, Job is presented as an entirely righteous man who is suddenly plagued by a number of devastating misfortunes, including--I would argue the most heartbreaking--the loss of his children. He also loses all sources of livelihood and contracts an insufferable skin condition that refuses to go away. His three friends show up when they hear the horrible news of the loss Job is suffering and each eventually present three viewpoints of God to try to convince Job, no matter how righteous he thinks he is, that he MUST have done something to deserve all of this pain and loss. The reader finds out in chapters one and two that God has essentially caused this death and destruction in Job's life by allowing Hasatan (Satan) to make all of these things happen to Job. Job spends 35 of the 40 chapters arguing his righteousness with his "friends" and angrily demanding to know why God even created him if God was going to take everything away from him. He claims that God is silent during this time of devastation and destruction in his life, but I have to ponder the question, "How much did Job's friends deter him from finding/hearing God in the midst of such tremendous suffering?" Other questions abound from this piece of wisdom literature such as, "Why does God cause/allow bad things to happen to those who love God?" and "How do Christians, as people charged with the call to love God and love all people, talk about hope and grace within the suffering frameworks of Job and today's real-life situations of suffering that those around us face?"
While I do not concur with the ending of Job--where God "restores" all of Job's fortunes, because, well...what about children who died in the beginning?--I will always believe in and search for hope/God's presence/God's action in the midst and aftermath of suffering because I believe with all of my heart that is what I am called to do. I refuse to explain away or dismiss suffering, but I will always work to be diligent in being fully present with those in my ministerial/familial care to hopefully remind them that divine love cannot be defeated or overcome by suffering, though we may not want to even consider God or God's love for us for several years after we face heartbreak.
There is no quick fix for suffering. It is real. It is messy. It is often unfathomable, with no explanation.
I received a text from my mother earlier this afternoon before my second class of the day (Theodicy, ironically) informing me that one of the little girls with whom my younger sister has worked with in an outreach program for underprivileged children for the previous four summers or so passed away in her sleep last night. She was six years old. In the face of such devastation, what do we say to the family? What do I say to my sister who loved this child like she was her own?
In my opinion, those are both kind of trick questions. I believe that there is a considerable amount of healing power in love through presence and silence. Nothing I can say will bring that child back. Nothing I can say will automatically flip a switch in the hearts and minds of her family and my sister to make their mourning cease. I believe that life will continue, though it will not initially feel like it for those who are grieving her loss. I do not believe that the hole they have in their hearts because of the loss of their daughter, sister, grand daughter, niece will ever be filled.
But I do believe that these, and others who suffer, will be given what they need to survive. Even when life doesn't seem like it's worth living because the suffering is so great. God's power is not shown by smiting those who are not righteous enough, nor does God use God's power to kill children. No. God's power is made known to us in the inward transformation that happens when we experience suffering in our lives--through family members who take time off work to be with us in time of loss, through our community who actively takes time to pray for God's peace and presence to be known in spite of suffering, the people from small-group who show up to our house with food for us and our family, in the friends who do not make us explain what we feel and in the pastor/pastoral presence who does not attempt to explain away our pain or move us to some sort of healing, when frankly, we are in no way ready to even utter such a word.
Suffering cannot and should not be explained away. I think it is our duty as Christians, as well as human beings, to wrestle with it, yes, but also to do our work to alleviate suffering in the world. That's what we're called to do. No, such work does not involve "quick-fix" answers. This kind of work calls us to be authentic, to provide a safe space for sadness and mourning, and above all, to love those who hurt as Christ taught us to love.
I believe in healing. I believe in the transformation that comes out of bad situations. But I also, while not believing that God causes suffering, believe fully that God is big enough for us to blame God at first when bad things happen to us--because it hurts and as the Creator of all things, whom many of us believe to be all-loving and protecting, it makes sense that God would be the first target for our anger, our grief and our questions. God is big enough for that. God is also big enough to heal and to restore. And it happens all the time. Maybe not in the way we'd like it to happen or in our timing (at least, that's often my experience), but I do believe that is the work of God: healing and loving and restoring God's people.
While this is in no way the end-all, be-all answer, it's the answer that makes the most sense to me as of now: I believe that God loves us through our suffering, and that that's what we are called to do for others in their time of need.
Suffering is abundant this week.
In reality, suffering is consistently abundant. But the subject itself and its emotive/moral/religious side effects within the life of my loved ones as well as within my seminary classes is very prevalent this week.
For a semester that has proven itself such a rejuvenating source in my life, this semester has also forced me to wrestle with the idea of suffering and how we think about it within the context of faith and in relationship to God.
In my Wisdom Literature class, we've just finished three weeks of studying the biblical book of Job. For those who are unfamiliar with the story, Job is presented as an entirely righteous man who is suddenly plagued by a number of devastating misfortunes, including--I would argue the most heartbreaking--the loss of his children. He also loses all sources of livelihood and contracts an insufferable skin condition that refuses to go away. His three friends show up when they hear the horrible news of the loss Job is suffering and each eventually present three viewpoints of God to try to convince Job, no matter how righteous he thinks he is, that he MUST have done something to deserve all of this pain and loss. The reader finds out in chapters one and two that God has essentially caused this death and destruction in Job's life by allowing Hasatan (Satan) to make all of these things happen to Job. Job spends 35 of the 40 chapters arguing his righteousness with his "friends" and angrily demanding to know why God even created him if God was going to take everything away from him. He claims that God is silent during this time of devastation and destruction in his life, but I have to ponder the question, "How much did Job's friends deter him from finding/hearing God in the midst of such tremendous suffering?" Other questions abound from this piece of wisdom literature such as, "Why does God cause/allow bad things to happen to those who love God?" and "How do Christians, as people charged with the call to love God and love all people, talk about hope and grace within the suffering frameworks of Job and today's real-life situations of suffering that those around us face?"
While I do not concur with the ending of Job--where God "restores" all of Job's fortunes, because, well...what about children who died in the beginning?--I will always believe in and search for hope/God's presence/God's action in the midst and aftermath of suffering because I believe with all of my heart that is what I am called to do. I refuse to explain away or dismiss suffering, but I will always work to be diligent in being fully present with those in my ministerial/familial care to hopefully remind them that divine love cannot be defeated or overcome by suffering, though we may not want to even consider God or God's love for us for several years after we face heartbreak.
There is no quick fix for suffering. It is real. It is messy. It is often unfathomable, with no explanation.
I received a text from my mother earlier this afternoon before my second class of the day (Theodicy, ironically) informing me that one of the little girls with whom my younger sister has worked with in an outreach program for underprivileged children for the previous four summers or so passed away in her sleep last night. She was six years old. In the face of such devastation, what do we say to the family? What do I say to my sister who loved this child like she was her own?
In my opinion, those are both kind of trick questions. I believe that there is a considerable amount of healing power in love through presence and silence. Nothing I can say will bring that child back. Nothing I can say will automatically flip a switch in the hearts and minds of her family and my sister to make their mourning cease. I believe that life will continue, though it will not initially feel like it for those who are grieving her loss. I do not believe that the hole they have in their hearts because of the loss of their daughter, sister, grand daughter, niece will ever be filled.
But I do believe that these, and others who suffer, will be given what they need to survive. Even when life doesn't seem like it's worth living because the suffering is so great. God's power is not shown by smiting those who are not righteous enough, nor does God use God's power to kill children. No. God's power is made known to us in the inward transformation that happens when we experience suffering in our lives--through family members who take time off work to be with us in time of loss, through our community who actively takes time to pray for God's peace and presence to be known in spite of suffering, the people from small-group who show up to our house with food for us and our family, in the friends who do not make us explain what we feel and in the pastor/pastoral presence who does not attempt to explain away our pain or move us to some sort of healing, when frankly, we are in no way ready to even utter such a word.
Suffering cannot and should not be explained away. I think it is our duty as Christians, as well as human beings, to wrestle with it, yes, but also to do our work to alleviate suffering in the world. That's what we're called to do. No, such work does not involve "quick-fix" answers. This kind of work calls us to be authentic, to provide a safe space for sadness and mourning, and above all, to love those who hurt as Christ taught us to love.
I believe in healing. I believe in the transformation that comes out of bad situations. But I also, while not believing that God causes suffering, believe fully that God is big enough for us to blame God at first when bad things happen to us--because it hurts and as the Creator of all things, whom many of us believe to be all-loving and protecting, it makes sense that God would be the first target for our anger, our grief and our questions. God is big enough for that. God is also big enough to heal and to restore. And it happens all the time. Maybe not in the way we'd like it to happen or in our timing (at least, that's often my experience), but I do believe that is the work of God: healing and loving and restoring God's people.
While this is in no way the end-all, be-all answer, it's the answer that makes the most sense to me as of now: I believe that God loves us through our suffering, and that that's what we are called to do for others in their time of need.
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