empty palm

I clearly remember the first time I felt out of control. I was in maybe 6th grade, and we'd just pulled up to someone's house where we were going for dinner. The conversation on the drive there had somehow lead to my dad answering my questions about nuclear war, and as I got out of the car, I pictured missiles up in the sky somewhere, directed right at me. As we walked up to the house I wondered if I'd even be able to enjoy my food knowing this could be it for us all. How do you live with the knowledge that a nuclear missile can be deployed at any moment?

Growing up, I was secure in the knoweldge that if my dad said things would be ok, they would be ok. But he was careful not to promise things that he couldn't control (thus, the cold war discussion). My dad has always been very honest with us--when I was in a car accident in 5th grade I asked him if the egg on my head meant I had a concussion, and he looked up from his work and calmly said, "Maybe, we'll have to see." While some risks are higher than others, I realized that there were some areas of uncertainty that I'd just have to learn to live with.

When just out of college, my roommate Robin and I would talk about this--the fear of losing. Granted, at this point in our lives it mostly consisted of the fear of losing our gifts (beauty?) and dreams (men?) in our lives. I remember Robin, who is considerably wiser than I, said we have to learn to hold our gifts with an open palm. The thought of not holding on for dear life to a future spouse or child or a job or my health felt so scary to me. When you find something you love so dearly, how on earth can we just let it sit there on the palm of our hand where it can fly away at any time?

We have control over a lot of things in our lives--what we eat, who we hang out with, and to a certain extent, our hair, but there are far too many things over which we have absolutely no control. Part of growing up is realizing our lack of control.

As great as it is to keep up with stories of people through social media and non-social media, sometimes the massive number of stories of disasters, death, and loss are overwhelming. In the past when Greg found me sobbing over a dead woman's blog (whom I never knew), he reflected that we weren't built to know all of these stories, which is true. Not too many years ago, our communities were smaller, and we'd know the lives and loss of our families and immediate community, not the entire world or even the friend of a neighbor's cousin who has tragedy strike. And while it's good to be "up" on the news, I sometimes wonder the psychological and emotional effects of knowing it all. (Either callousness or depression?) After all, we don't need to go far to experience or hear stories of great sadness, which further emphasize our lack of control.

Like when a friend's sister made supper for her family, then went to lie down for a nap and never woke up. (I think of this every time I take a nap.)

When an older friend had to watch her son slip away to mental illness.

Or when my brother-in-law lived through the shooting at Arapahoe High School.

The examples of losses go on and on. Lost security, lost dreams, lost relationships, lost health, lost innocence.

We just found out that one of Greg's colleagues died this morning. Greg was telling me about him just last week, saying he was so excited to send his son to 1st grade to Holland Christian, and we should have him over sometime. Already this year, Greg's school community has buried a high schooler who died in a boat accident, a teacher who died in a freak car accident, a 4th grader who died of a brain tumor, a 7th grader who died very suddenly of a rare cancer, a couple fathers of students, and a young HC alumnus.

After supper Greg left the table to grade and work on exams, and besides lack of sleep (he is an English teacher) he seems to feel the defeat of this community. I asked our girls if they'd heard about their dad's co-worker who died (they hadn't), and this quickly led Kate to question if something was going to happen to us next.

That's what we do, isn't it? We rage against the losses of others, cry for the injustices of life, and fear that our turn for loss will be next. Selfish, perhaps. Coping mechanism, probably. And, Kate's moment of realization that there are some missiles pointed our way.

I can't even pretend to know what sense of panic or grief comes from surviving a child or a spouse. No idea. I wonder if it makes you feel more in-control or less in-control. I wonder if it makes you wise beyond your years. While we weren't made to hear of all of this pain, we certainly weren't made to experience all of this pain either. To those of you who know, I do see your pain. I read your blogs. I acknowledge your devastation. And I pray you've felt the inexplicable peace of God.

I have seen different communities we're a part of (church, school, extended family, friends, etc.) rally around their sick and grieving. I have made meals and written cards, and I do feel comfort in the knowledge that I will not be alone if I have to walk through a loss (or a nuclear disaster). But I think the thing about community, besides being tangibly helpful, is that we share the sorrow. I've stood alone in my kitchen crying for my dear friend who lost her little boy, I wailed (literally, it took me by surprise) at my uncle's funeral, I begged God for a miracle for our friend's son. I've learned that our hearts can break under the strain of other's pain...but then, I guess that means it is our pain too. We are all out of control, but it's their empty palm. Maybe it's just our job to hold them.