Two Years

Family picture

Two years ago today, Faith joined our family. One year and 10 days ago Niko joined our family. One child in our arms. One child in heaven. Two special miracles that have changed me and continue to shape every day.

Yesterday I preached about grief. For me, preaching about a subject that is largely taboo in our culture today, a subject that continues to be close to my heart, is part of my grieving process. It is how I articulate my theology of grief and grieving. It is one of the ways I open myself to my grief and where I give myself permission to grieve. It is one of the ways I give purpose to my grief.

Today I have heard from several people how meaningful it was for them to share in my story and to be given permission to grieve their own losses. I have talked to those for whom miscarriage is part of their story. I have heard from those for whom the loss is an inability to conceive. I have heard from those who grieve the loss of a dream, who have never before been given permission to grieve for what never was.

Two years...and perhaps the legacy of my daughter is a legacy of listening, of opening space for grief, of learning to recognize grief in its many forms. Perhaps her legacy is in naming grief as part of our journey as followers of Jesus, in making space for the darkness in our faith, in helping us to understand that our anger and pain are not to be feared or hidden away but brought to the foot of the cross as offerings in all their messiness, because the God of Love desires to be welcomed into our hearts even when our hearts seem to us to be the least welcoming place imaginable. It is when our hearts are in pieces or drowning in chaos or darker than the darkest night that we become malleable clay that can be molded into the image of Christ. 

I don't know what the next years will hold but I do know that I want them to hold opportunities for me to continue to hear the stories of others' grief and a vision for how the church can become a more welcoming place for healthy grieving. How do we make space for people to grieve all types of loss? How do we help each other to realize that death is not the only cause of grief? How do we make space for people to grieve for the wishes and dreams and "never was" parts of our lives, because often these are as painful as losing a loved one since these are the things we hold closest to our hearts. And, how do we find the grace to give ourselves permission to grieve with all the messiness and ugliness we need and welcome Jesus into our grief? Because until we find safe ways to grieve and allow others to grieve, we will never fully be able to be the church, God's kingdom on earth.

September 11, 2001

It was Spiritual Life Emphasis week at my private, Christian high school. I was one month shy of my seventeenth birthday. We sat in the chapel listening to a speaker. As he finished, the principal of the school got up on the platform unexpectedly and shared that one of the towers of the World Trade Center had been hit by an airplane. She explained that they were not yet sure if this was just a tragic accident or if it was an intentional attack, but it seemed increasingly likely that this was intentional.

I walked to my next class, senior honors English. It was eerily quiet. Everyone was silently digesting what had happened wondering what was to come. I arrived at class and sat at my desk. My teacher turned on his radio in the classroom and we listened in shock as it was reported that a plane had hit the second tower, as first one tower collapsed and then the second. The rest of the day was spent in classes watching or listening to coverage of the events of the day. At lunch we quickly ate our food and then gathered in a common area to continue watch the news.

As the day progressed, I listened as my classmates processed what all this meant, as some tried to contact family members who were airline pilots, as they talked of retaliation, of "killing all the Muslims." After three years of feeling alone in my desire to embrace the pacifism of the tradition in which many of us had grown up, I was devastated by what I heard.

I was disillusioned with the world, with the attitudes of people, with the lack of love and understanding in the world in which I was rapidly nearing adulthood. In my adolescent mind, I could not see a way through this tragedy. I knew that the world as I'd always known it had changed forever, and I was terrified of what that would mean. Hope seemed far away.

As soon as school dismissed for the day, I got in my car and drove to the elementary school where my mother was a teacher. I sat in her office and told her that I couldn't imagine what was to come in our world. I couldn't imagine ever wanting to bring a child into the mess that our world was rapidly becoming. She reminded me that I born during a time of world conflict at the tail end of the Cold War era. My name, she said, was a reminder of the hope that we have in Jesus no matter what the world around us looks like.

That night I purchased a necklace. The pendant was a dime sized dove with an olive branch in its mouth. I put it on and didn't take it off for years. Sometime during my senior year of college I realized that the promise, peace, and hope that that necklace represented for me were deeply embedded in my heart, mind and soul. It no longer felt necessary to wear the outward symbol. I still occasionally wear the necklace, but I no longer need the constant reminder.

September 11, 2013

Twelve years have passed since the destruction of the World Trade Centers. Today, I sat in a rocking chair in my living room holding my son who is eleven months old today. As I rocked him to sleep we listened to Adele sing "Make You Feel My Love," and I was struck by how much has happened in the last 12 years. The world around me is still violent and messy. It feels as though we continue to be on edge of self-destruction, as though we're one moment, one decision away from our own end.

In the last 12 years, I have learned and continue to learn many things, but by far the most important thing I continue to learn each day is what it means to live in the present reality of the kingdom of heaven. As I sat rocking my son, I was overwhelmed with the realization that each new generation must learn this lesson for the time in which they live and the realities they encounter. For my parents, my name was a reminder of this lesson. It was a reminder and a challenge to raise children that live as members first of the kingdom of heaven and second as members of this world, who speak the good news of God's kingdom on earth to the rulers of this world.

Just as my parents did for me, N's name was chosen because of what it means and represents. His first name means "victory of the people." This was significant for me because in some ways he feels like our own personal victory, but it's also significant because true victory of the people can only come through our faith in the God of miracles. His middle name is given to him in honor of his great-grandfather who was part of the Nazi resistance in the Netherlands during World War II to remind N (and us, too) of just how important it is to choose the kingdom of heaven no matter how great the personal risk.

Today, on the 12th anniversary of a horrible day in the history of my country, I recommit myself to the love and kingdom of Jesus. I commit myself to raising my son to know the God of love and peace, to introducing him to Jesus who showed that love and sacrifice of self are more powerful than hate and revenge, to modeling for him what it means to be a citizen of the kingdom of heaven. I commit myself to love him with all that I have and all that I am and to give him the space to grow into the person God calls him to be, to choose for himself the kingdom to which he will belong, to giving him the tools to make that decision, and to allow him the free will that God gives to all of humanity. I commit myself to continue to fall and make mistakes so that I can grow, and I commit myself to allowing my son to do the same.

I can't make promises about making the world a better place or raising a child who will do that. I can hope and dream that my life and his will in some small way contribute to a better future, but I realize I cannot control the world around me. All I can do is continue to pray as Jesus taught me, "Your kingdom come, Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven." May this be the prayer of many hearts today, not just mine alone.

An apology to my son...

Dear N,

Your first Mother's Day was a big day for all of us. It was not only your first Mother's Day, but it was also your dedication at church, the day that we as parents commit to raise you to know and love Jesus and when the congregation commits to helping and supporting all of us as we do that. It was a wonderful day, a day to celebrate the gift that you are to us and be reminded of the privilege and responsibility it is to be your parents and raise you.

After spending years looking forward to celebrating the dedication of our child, I was ready for the day to be spectacular, joyful, and it was! But, I was unprepared for just how bittersweet it would also be. Standing on the stage with you and Daddy and the other families whose children were being dedicated, I suddenly realized that every milestone we celebrate with you will mark a milestone we didn't get to celebrate with your sister, a milestone which she is not here celebrating with us. Every birthday of your life, your first day of school, your graduations, your baptism, wedding, children (should you choose these things for your life), I will cry. They will be tears of joy for the momentous occasions in your life and tears of sadness for the missing member of our family.

I promise today to make sure that you grow up knowing all about the sister you never met, knowing that my tears are not to be feared or a sign of my displeasure or my unhappiness. Because as much as I wish we could have celebrated these moments in  your sister's life and celebrated the ones in yours with her, I realize that you would not be here if Faith was here. In and ideal world, you would both be here, but in the real world in which we live there is physically no possible way for that to be. I will never for a second regret that you are here and your sister is not, and I will tell you that every time we talk about Faith. I will always have a hole in my life and heart that only your sister can fill, but your smiles and hugs remind me that that hole is only part of the whole. There is a space in my life and heart that is uniquely yours which only you can fill and each day that I spend with you that space is filled with overflowing love for you.

So I apologize to you now for the weepy mother I will be throughout all the important moments of your life. I will try to help you understand my tears, and I will use them as an opportunity to teach you about empathy. I will use them to teach you about grief and loss and brokenness, that no matter how many bad days there are the good ones are worth all the bad ones, that by relying on God through the brokenness of life will help us grieve gracefully, that family and friends will give you the love and support to see you through anything tat comes in life.

I love you always,

Mom