I was reading the blog of a family who lost their 9 year-old daughter on Good Friday. She had struggled from birth with various illnesses and genetic disorders, eventually lost her sight, underwent a heart transplant ... The list of suffering went on and on. It was painful to read, and to reflect on the sense of loss this family must feel.
Losing a child - I came so close to experiencing that heartache. When I rock Emma to sleep in my arms each night, I silently thank God for allowing me to keep her, to know her, to watch her grow, and laugh, and teach me all He has in mind for me to learn through her. It has been a profoundly life-altering experience. And sometimes, when grief for the passing of my father overtakes me, I feel the need to check myself, apologize for mourning the passing of a man who had 75 years of life, as though this loss cannot possibly hold the same sense of pain, sadness, life-altering grief as the loss of someone who is young.
I am not attempting to compare the loss of a child and an old man - one had a chance to live, to love, to have children, travel, grow old, the other did not. However, I believe the measure of a life to lie not in years, but in the impact it has on those left behind. A newborn child never had a chance to be known, but do not deny the importance of that life to the grieving mother and father. The body found on the road-side may not have a name, and may be unclaimed, but someone is impacted by this very anonymity, the fact that a human being died so uncared for, so alone, so unclaimed. An old man passes away and leaves behind a wife, children, grandchildren, and friends, and there is also loss, and sadness, and grief, for what was, what is, and what will never be again - the common thread for all these being a life that once was is no more.
For me, it is the loss, the feeling of a void, the sense of confusion at the start of each new morning, as one's mind tries to focus on the day ahead and the checklist of loved ones to call upon includes a particular name, a particular face that comes to mind, words to say, thoughts to share ... and then the realization settles anew, he is no longer there, where he has been for so long, no longer accessible, no longer tangible, no longer alive.
My father was not an earthquake victim. He did not die in a tsunami. An immigrant to the United States, he served this country in the Army, but did not die the death of a war hero. He took his last breath at home, after years of suffering from various ailments. In the end it was terrible, for us to watch, for him to live through. He chose hospice, which turned out to be less beautiful and peaceful than we thought and were promised. But we were there for him until the end, the very end, his last breath drawn moments after my children kissed his forehead and said their hellos for the day - ultimately, their last good-byes. The void is great, the pain almost unbearable at times, the thought that he is truly gone not one I can wholly accept. Perhaps it is just that a life that means so much to others can never truly disappear - he is with us in memories, in the faces of the grandchildren who resemble him, in family anecdotes that feature him as the central character.
More than that, though, is the belief I have that he really is somewhere, whole again, free from the pain that ravaged his entire being for so long. During the last weeks of his life, he spent more time speaking with relatives and friends long since passed, than with those of us sitting vigil by his side. It was almost comforting to know he was receiving fellowship on a level we could not understand, could not offer ourselves, could not see, and for some, can not even fathom. The basis of a faith system, for me, is this idea that our souls, so unique to each one of us, so deep and profound and elusive to even fully define can not be killed, can not just end, go away, be silenced.
My father's soul lives on. The measure of his life in years may be over. But, spiritually, he thrives. For that, there is no measure.
No comments:
Post a Comment