Life and Death

Grief and Hope Hold Hands

My son has been asking a lot of questions about death lately. It’s jarring, but also precious, a little mind trying to wrap itself around something no one can really know or understand fully.

“What if it’s too crowded around God? What if we all bump into each other?” he asks, and I answer him reassuringly, the way a mother does when it’s past bedtime, but she still wants to offer comfort.

But of course, I cannot answer him without internally screaming, thinking of all the death and despair on the other side of the world. The children. The children.

I detect, if not fear, at least a bit of anxiety in my son’s questions. And I wrap my arms around him in the dark and think about this:

Is there any desire in the world stronger than a mother’s determination to protect her child?

I long to say to my son, “I will never, ever let anything bad happen to you. And if anything bad should ever happen, I will be right there with you.” These are guarantees I cannot make, even from the relative safety of this quiet little bedroom in Seattle, where my son is surrounded by stuffed dogs in a bed with construction vehicle sheets.

What I wouldn’t give for those words to be sayable. With every beat of my heart, I remember all the parents whose worst nightmares are coming true every minute of every day. Parents who cannot even fantasize about saying those words to their children, since they must spend every moment desperately trying to ensure their survival. Lord, have mercy.

My son is so majestically unique, such a tiny masterpiece of God’s creativity; he contains entire galaxies within himself. So does every child, every person on earth.

Every child deserves safety. Every child deserves peace. I feel like that’s what we’re all screaming from over here on the other side of the world. And we’ll scream until we’re hoarse, until we’ve lost our voices entirely.

Because it’s Advent, I think about the first Christmas, about the fear and uncertainty and discomfort of it. I wonder if it was a relief to Mary and Joseph that they didn’t have to explain to their newborn, “You were born here among the animals because not one human would make room for you. We have to flee now because someone powerful wants you dead.” The first Christmas is as grim as it is graceful.

I don’t have any answers, no neat bow to tie this all up. But I do believe with all my heart that every person’s suffering offers us an invitation. Will we enter into it and let ourselves be changed by it? Will we choose isolation or solidarity?

If there’s a rock I stand on, it’s this one: it is in suffering that we really encounter each other, and it is in each other that we really encounter God.

During this week 45 years ago, in the midst of a terrible crisis, St. Óscar Romero posed these questions and offered these answers: “What paths will God use to enter history? On which paths will we concretely encounter this God who comes to save? On which crossroads, on which dead end streets will El Salvador find salvation in God? […] God saves in history. Each person’s history and each person’s life is the place where we meet God.”

The doorways are all around us. May we enter into them, hand in hand.

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A Few Hopeful Things

-My friend Laura got THE BEST NEWS after her surgery last week. No! Cancer! Please rejoice with me and continue praying for her as she recovers.

-On Tuesday I got to join Gracie Morbitzer, Marcie Alvis Walker, and Camille Hernandez in the most inspiring conversation about the new Modern Saints book. I loved every minute and am so grateful I could be part of it.

-I really loved learning about this feminist Christmas carol from Amy Peterson, and, even more, hearing Aunt Molly Jackson sing it.

In grief, in hope,
Cameron