If there is one thing I have learned in the short few months since becoming an oblate candidate, it is that benedictine spirituality is about the here and now, the reality that surrounds us, the concrete actuality of our lives which serves as the context within which we form our relationship with God. Within this context we are called upon to bear witness to the constant presence of God. While this is most plainly
evident when we find ourselves surrounded by great natural beauty or experiencing gifted artists give back to God what they have received from him, what about during those difficult times we all experience?One evening in October, two girls were driving along a quiet road near our house, hurrying to avoid being late, when the car apparently slid on some gravel, left the road and struck a tree. One of the girls was killed instantly. She was sixteen years old, an only child and classmate of my son’s since kindergarten. It was his first experience with sudden death. My wife and I gave him room over the weekend to digest what had happened and begin to work things out. He kept us informed of the
funeral arrangements and his plans to attend, but for the most part he behaved stoically, manfully going about his business. Then one evening before the funeral he visited the site of the crash with friends. They joined other young people, content to be there with each other amid their questions, doubts, pain and perplexity. Later Jim described how they sat by the side of the road, silent mostly, and talked a bit about the accident. I had the impression they were mostly there as other young people, survivors for the first time in their short lifetimes.I believed I knew their questions. Actually, I was certain. The same questions plaguing them ruminated about in my heart as well, where they were by this time seemingly permanent residents. The problem I had, however, was one of age, experience, so-called wisdom borne of the past. I felt I should have answers to these questions which have been asked by humans since before the psalmists anticipated their cries. Why do these things happen? Why does a young girl so full of life, so new, die suddenly, abruptly? Why the pain, the suffering, the loss? And where is God during all of this? Why does he allow this? Where is His compassion, His love, His mercy? I found myself acting as Jim’s surrogate in these
questions. While he learned to grieve, I pondered a summation of all of the above queries, one which has lingered within my heart for many years: Does God go AWOL at times?Like every parent I found myself hurting as I watched my son go through this difficult process, and I experienced a certain helplessness that while I knew the questions, I was precious short on answers. There is pain in unanswered questions, a sense of futility, and it soon dawned on me that he and I were not so much united in our pain as we were grappling with our own separate issues. His were separate from mine even though I had lost friends while young and so in one sense understood his predicament. But in this here and now, this all-present reality, I dealt with these questions as a parent who wishes desperately to ease the pain of his child. He, in turn, possessed his own suffering, unique to him, for it was his loss he was dealing with.
We do not feel each others’ pain, despite the lip service this trite phrase has received over the past few years. I did not feel his pain: I felt my own, just as he felt his own. We can experience compassion and sympathy for another human being, but it is presumptuous to pretend that we experience the pain they are going through. We may relate to a common situation such as loss through sudden death because of our prior experiences, but the pain, the suffering, is unique to us as individuals. And therefore we must own it as such. My son had to own his own loss, he held the responsibility for asking the questions it generated within him, and he would have to search for the answers. My suffering in this matter was confined to watching and waiting; to revisiting my earlier loss; and to reprising those old questions after all of those years, after all of the battles and their attendant casualties. And to be present for him. I told him of my experiences with the death of those close to me when I was young, and I raised the questions which were generated then. But as before, the answers were few and far between.
As the weekend progressed, so did he. While he did not speak much about what he was experiencing, I took this as evidence that he did not know precisely what was happening. But I could see it cooking. His eyes held a questioning sadness, perplexed at times, simply downcast at other times – usually when he had quiet moments. But for the most part he kept busy with his normal activities. Occasionally he would say that the reality of his friend’s death was beginning to sink in, but it came in small bits, a little at a time. Beyond that he did not seem to want to venture – not out loud, at least. In the meantime I kept up the watch, and at the same time, searched my heart for what I would say when these questions finally surfaced. The only certainty I had was that of a refusal to mouth platitudes or gloss over the experience. I would not discount him and his suffering, nor would I be unjust to my own.
Following the funeral, Jim returned from the church more animated than he had been. There was a hint of anger that seemed to cast him suddenly into a more serious adult light. There was a maturity about him in sharp contrast to the awkward boyishness of a teen struggling with something new. It was obvious that his friend’s death had finally sunk in, become real in his mind and in his heart. The funeral had perhaps served its purpose for him by driving home the finality of death, the reality of sudden death and loss. The agitation he showed was controlled, and clearly borne of grief finally felt deep where it resides, where it is supposed to dwell – in the heart.
We finally talked in the kitchen, where most important conversations take place. He confirmed what I now saw in his eyes and in his manner, then stood there waiting for me to reply. I had nothing prepared or pre-approved in my mind, and had no thought of saying something just to be comforting, to provide relief, or to water down the reality of the situation. So I found myself telling him that I knew the questions he was asking, and that they were valid. And that I did not pretend to know the answers – but that young people do die, as if they somehow insist on getting themselves killed, be it accident or war. And then we are left with the questions, always the question as to, why?
Then I found myself saying, "But there is always the Presence of God." The words were in my mouth and rolling off my tongue before I even had the chance to listen to them internally. They were just there, as if spoken by someone else. He looked at me strangely, steady, but I saw in his eyes that he was wrestling with the giant leap we had just taken, from inexplicable painful loss to the Presence of God. Much like C. S. Lewis, who also grappled with the question of suffering. I told him that loss, its pain and suffering, were part of the deal. If there is no joy, there is no suffering; the two go hand in hand. I asked him if, for a moment, he felt his life would be better if he had never known the girl. Of course not, he replied. It is relatively easy to understand, to believe in God’s Presence during those happy times as it is whenever our lives are going well, I said. It’s easy to sit in a peaceful meadow, watching birds dart about, listening to their songs blending with barely audible soft breezes, and understand His loving Presence. But if He was present then, it is only a small step, not the giant leap we conceive in our minds, to believe that He is present now when everything has darkened and we struggle with seeing beyond, through the pain. God is unchanging. If He was with us then, He is with us now. That, too, is
the reality of the situation. How can we know joy if there is no suffering? If there is no loss, we had nothing to lose in the first place – but through both runs the unchanging, merciful, loving Presence
of God.A life without joy, without people who enter our hearts and matter to us, who love us and allow us to love them, is not what God has in mind for us. And he understands the accompanying baggage of suffering and loss. It is the same Hand that guides us to the good times that cradles us during the painful.
No one gets out of this world without experiencing loss. We need only look around at the people all about us and understand that we share in this condition. We all share as well in the all-penetrating and emerging Presence of God. He is all about us, through us and in us. The fact that we are all created in His image ensures us that we all share a divine spark. This is part of our human condition, which we in turn share with His only Son, Who was sent to bring us home to the Father. We share our human condition every moment with that of Christ. The joy, love, loss and suffering – we are all part of this shared humanity, each uniting us to our Redeemer who guides us home.
Jesus shares the pain of sudden death of those close to him. We need only reflect on the execution of His cousin, John the Baptist, to understand that when we look into the eyes of each other at such moments, we are also looking into His eyes. In our shared humanity with each other, with Christ, we find the road to divine union.
Jim studied my face, eyes still locked to mine, then nodded, simply, convincingly – and I saw his faith for the first time. A few days later he wrote a fine letter to the Mayor of Inver Grove Heights suggesting increased lighting at the bend in the road where his friend was killed. He had moved on.
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