write what you know

I went to a day-long (if you consider 8:30-2:00 day long!!) training for Stephen Ministries today.  It was cloudy and rainy, grey skies, and inside the training was on grief, suicide, and depression.  I was fascinated by what I heard.  The women who led the training sessions had all experienced the things that they were talking about, and they spoke from the heart.  I was especially struck by the second woman, who spoke on suicide.

Her name was Vicki, and she was preceded by another very knowledgable woman who told us about mental health issues.  She was very interesting--at a professional level.  I was interested but not absorbed.  Then Vicki spoke.  This brave woman lost her 21-year-old son to suicide four years ago, and her story was riveting.  She very forthrightly spoke about the mistakes that she made, the signs that she missed, and the grief that she was still experiencing.  One thing that she said struck me to my very core.  It was by no means the meat of the lecture, but it was life-changing for me. Forgive the paraphrase--it didn't occur to me to write it down.  But it's fairly accurate.

"There are others around now who can also speak, and at first I thought I would pass the responsibility on to her,  (but) I have assimilated the experience within myself.  This is what I know.  This is what I do."

Yes.  Finally I understand my own calling.  For years I have hesitated to write overly much about grief, death, suffering, but they are who I am.  I have dealt with loss from before I can remember.  I am 55, and in that time I have experienced the hospitalization of my mother numerous times, her stroke, heart failure and eventual death.  I have dealt with depression and mental health issues in my own life and in the life of my family.  I lost my mother at 15, lost one child through miscarriage and another through premature birth and eventual death, lost all my uncles and aunts and some cousins.  My father died when I was 34 (not out of time for him--he was 81).  My niece died when she was 20 and I was around 26.  On and on it goes.  But the most powerful loss that I experienced was the death of my husband when I was 35.  I did not recover from that for many many years.  You might say that I never will recover--you don't "get well" from grief.  You learn to live with it and move on, but it never entirely goes away.  Nor would I want it to.  He was my husband, and I loved him.

So what does all this mean?  Well, what it does not mean is that I go around with a cloud over my head all day every day.  Most days, especially now, are pretty good.  I can live from day to day with joy, because I understand that God is on the throne and I will see my loved ones again.  But it also means that I am different than many of you.  I come from a different place.  And I would not trade places.

When I lost little Tommy, I started going to a support group, "Sharing Parents".  This group was a godsend, not just for me, but for my entire family.  We all went, starting with Tommy's death and going through Val's.  One meeting in particular stood out for me.  We spoke of infant loss in general, with the speaker talking about doing funeral services for babies that were so young--miscarriages, really--that there was nothing to put in the coffin.  The speaker went on to say that the parents have been forever changed, but they would never go back.  It's the difference between being a virgin and getting married--you will never have the innocence again, but you would never want to go back to that naivete.

That's me.  I have learned many lessons in my life, and I don't regret a single one.  Not a single one.  If it were possible, yes, I would prefer to have my husband and son with me, but I don't regret the experience.  God became real to me in the pain.  I felt this from an early age, and it has just increased over time.  It was especially true in times of greatest need. For example, one day I was admitted to the hospital and it was determined that I needed to go in for gall bladder surgery.  Nobody was able to come and be with me, and I was very alone and very scared.  I keenly felt the loss of my husband.  As the gurney came to carry me to surgery, I called out for God to be with me, and I felt his presence beside me, holding my hand as I went down the hallway.  As I waited, it turned out that there was a complicating factor and I didn't get the surgery after all, but that sensation didn't go away.  It stayed with me as long as I needed a friend, and then it eventually dissipated.  Years later, my sister and my daughter were both at my side for my corneal transplant.  I was happy because they were with me, but of course, they can't go with me into surgery.  I was expecting God's hand to be there as I went down the hallway, and I was disappointed that I didn't feel it.  I questioned it as I went, and I heard God's voice, "I will be there for you when you need it."  Down we went to the operating room.  I saw the door open, the blinding lights of the room--and there was God's hand, right at the moment of my need.

When I moved from Bakersfield to Tucson, this relationship suffered.  For the first time since my youth, I was hurt and angry with God.  I moved because I knew it was the right thing to do, but there was no human companionship, either at church, at school, or in my community.  I realize now that I was very depressed and unable to reach out, but that was not something I could have helped at the time.  I'm grateful for my son, David's, presence.  But I've never felt so alone.

Slowly, gently, God took my hand once again.  As the years passed, I realized that there was one person that I needed to get reacquainted with--myself.  Through trial and error, with many steps backward and even more steps forward, I have been brought back to myself.  I'm thankful for that.  And as I've become more driven to write, I keep thinking, 'You have to write what you know.'  And what I know is pain and loss.  So I will not be afraid to write about pain and loss.

That doesn't mean that I will stop writing about other things.  God has given me a brain, and quite an analytical one at that.  I enjoy dissecting things.  I enjoy the idea of lectio divina, reading through scripture many times, with different intent each time.  I love exploring ideas.  All these things are fun for me, and I will definitely blog about them.

But I do believe that my first published works will probably deal with loss, with pain, with grief, with emotional trauma.  Write what you know.  But why write about this doom-and-gloom stuff?  Not to be maudlin, not to sink into the pit of despair.  No, to paraphrase the verse, I suffered and I was comforted.  And now I hope to write (and minister) to those who are suffering so that they can receive that same comfort that God gave me.

Going back to my training, when we finished and were preparing to go outside, one of the trainees remarked that the sun had come out.  We walked out of the building into the still-wet street, and the sun was breaking through the clouds.  I see both my writing and my ministry as that:  staying with others and sharing the walk through the rain and darkness until the sun finally comes out and it is once again possible for them to walk alone.  That's my goal. And I think it's a good one.