Memento Mori

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Confession time. I didn’t want to write this post, at all, and I told myself I never would because, to me, grief is a very deep and personal experience. As much as it would be wonderful if it weren’t so, it is almost impossible to find someone who can truly relate. And yes, I have talked about some hard stuff on this blog before, don’t get me wrong—but the Africa stuff happened years and years ago, and I have had much more time to process and come to terms with what happened. This, however, is a good deal newer.

Seven years ago, when I was way younger and way smaller, I fell in love. Sure, I was young, and I get that. So I understand if you’re already raising your eyebrows and assuming it was nothing because I was young—and because at that age, why would it be something? Are young people capable of real love? That seems to be a pretty common question. Can young people form lasting attachments? You are free to disagree with me as you choose, but from where I stand, I believe the answer is yes. 

From the very first time I met him, when he was introducing me to his pet cat, I knew that I wanted to marry him. (I’ll be honest, I was a hopeless romantic back then.) I never ever doubted that, for better or for worse, he was the one I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. He was wonderful, and for a while, he was my best friend. Honestly, I would have given up everything, even writing, if it meant that I could have him forever. And I’m not just saying that flippantly—these were conscious decisions that I mapped out in my mind, because I have always been one to prepare for the future. I adored him. Even when he hurt me. I made the choice, every single day, to love him despite his faults. To forgive him. To stay faithful to that little pipe dream in my mind. 

I don’t want you to think that I dated him, because I never did, and I honestly don’t know if he ever realized how much I cared for him. Despite my feelings for him, I never shared them—I never wanted to give anyone that sort of power over me, even someone I loved. So, I think to him I was just a friend, maybe not even a best friend. Maybe he had no clue. At this point, it doesn’t matter either way. 

Because three years ago yesterday, he died in a car accident. There had been some complications in our relationship a year before that, and at the time when he died, I was no longer allowed to speak to him. For reasons that I won’t explain to you, both for his sake and for mine, I had been faced with a difficult decision, and I made the only choice that I could in good conscience make, but it was also the choice that meant I would lose him. I made my choice, knowing the consequences, because I loved him, and if I had it all to do over again I would still make that same choice, even now, even knowing there would be no way to get closure. To this day, I don’t know if he was angry with me when he died, or if he understood why I did what I did. Or if he knew that I had forgiven him. 

I had always told myself that, when I turned eighteen, I would contact him and things would be okay and we would be happy. At least we could be friends. More than anything, I didn’t want to lose track of him, I didn’t want him to slip out of my life. But of course, by the time I turned eighteen, he was already long gone. So that New Year’s Eve I stayed up to ring in the new year and my birthday, and I cried because it fully hit me that the future I had always wanted, a future where he was alive and maybe, in my wildest dreams, in love with me, was never going to happen. And in that moment of realization the world became so impossibly empty and cold. What was the point of turning eighteen when the main reason for turning eighteen was gone? 

I have had many, many dark days in my life, and I have not met anyone else outside of family who has lost as much as I have. But I believe I can safely say that the darkest day I have ever lived was the day I attended his funeral. Because we had not spoken for a year before he died, I went to his funeral feeling that I did not have a place there, that as much as I cared about him, I did not belong there. Yes, it was an occasion for those who had loved him, for those who wanted to say goodbye. There were people who had legitimate claims on him, like his family, who had the right to grieve openly. But if I let myself cry as hard as I wanted to let myself cry, no one would understand why. And I didn’t want people looking at me to wonder because it wasn’t their business and because it didn’t matter anymore. It didn’t matter that I had loved him so completely that I felt like I had died—it didn’t matter that I had built all my hopes and dreams on him. He was dead. So I sat through the entire service and didn’t let myself shed a single tear. 

You may be wondering why I’m talking about this now, after all this time. The answer is, I’m not sure. I know that I still feel that same internal pressure to stay silent, like I did at his funeral—that same sense of something very nearly like shame when it comes to sharing what happened. And if I feel that way, I wouldn’t be surprised if others have felt the same as well. I realize that most of you never met him, and even more of you wouldn’t understand why I cared so much. That’s okay—I’m not looking for sympathy here. Sympathy won’t change what happened. But I have carried this weight for years and it’s heavy, and I guess I just wanted to set it down for once. I am sure that there are at least some of you out there carrying your own heavy burdens, and I just wanted to let you know that it’s okay—it’s okay to set them down from time to time, to open up and talk even though you’d rather swallow a bucket of live fire ants. Life is impossibly painful, and the trick is to not go it alone. 

The things is, awful things happen to us, and we never fully understand why. I could give you a handful of explanations for why God didn’t just step in and save his life. God could have done that, you know. And sometimes I wonder if I come up with those reasons because they are logical and I want logic and order, or because I actually believe them, or because I just don’t want to think that he died for nothing. 

I think it’s fairly undeniable that I would not be the writer I am today were he still alive. I would not be the person I am today, were he still alive. If I could give you a cross section of my life and show you all the parts of my existence like the rings on a tree, I’m certain I could point out to you the exact moment when I completely changed, when I went from a pretty shallow person to someone who can think more deeply (though not as deeply as I would like). And that moment took place after the initial shock of losing him faded and reality began to sink in, after I stopped waking up in the middle of the night and consoling myself with the possibility that this had all just been a vivid nightmare and that I would wake up in the morning and laugh at myself for taking a dream seriously. 

As much as I have been hurt—from losing my home, my possessions, and my friends in Africa (twice), to experiencing a bitter church split, to losing the boy I loved, and all the smaller hurts in-between—the terrible things I have experienced have served to shape the person I am today. And if someone offered me a chance to go back and live an easier life, I would say no. Because as much as it has cost to become the way I am, I would not trade myself for someone different. Before each round of suffering, I was a lesser person, and if tough love is what it takes to get me to where I need to be, then that’s what it takes. But God has never ever left me alone in my pain to carry it by myself, and he has never ever let me suffer without just cause. 

I know for some people, the idea of pain for gain can seem rather barbaric. Why would God hurt you when he could just make you better? Isn’t he powerful enough to do that? Why is it worth it? Believe me, I have struggled with that line of thought, and there are still times when I find my mind turning in that direction. So please don’t think I’m speaking from a place of deep wisdom and total emotional stability. But I have realized this—God does not need me to defend him. He is more than capable of defending himself. And if breaking a glow stick is the only way to get the glow stick to do its job and glow, then the glow stick need not demand an explanation for its pain. (If it were, you know, sentient and all.) It feels so unnatural when God breaks us, so cruel and so hard and so gratuitous. But if we could see from the other side, from the perspective of the person breaking the glow stick, would we ever, ever call that person cruel? Would we call that pain unnecessary? 

When I’m feeling especially down, I remember the title of a book my mom read to my sister and me when I was starting high school—A SEVERE MERCY by Sheldon Vanauken. I have long believed that this is the best way to sum up my life. God has been merciful toward me, a sinner, but it has been a severe mercy. It has been the mercy I needed, not the mercy I wanted. 

Well, my little coffee beans, I know that was a lot more serious than what I normally write, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway. If you don’t mind sharing, what are some areas in your life where you have been given a severe mercy?