Musings on Marriage

Tag: Grief

Remembering…

Dear Daughters,

           Today is the 27th anniversary of my brother’s, your Uncle Steve’s death.  He was only 40 years old – soon to be 41 – his life ending much too soon.

Steve loved the outdoors.  One of his favorite pastimes was canoeing down the Snake River, once coming home with a banged-up boat after going through some tougher than expected white water.

            I can still see him playing the piano with his large muscular hands – one of his favorites was Easter Song by Annie Herring.  He also loved to whistle.  In church when other people would be singing, Steve would whistle.  He and I sang duets together, spent time together, but he never talked about the depths of despair that haunted him.

            He went to Mexico to help the poor.  He loved God but had a difficult time loving people.  No one knew, not even Steve himself, why interpersonal relationships were so challenging….     

            I remember that dismal day well. 

            The Koopman clan had planned to spend four days in the heart of the Sawtooth Mountain Range in Idaho.  Redfish Lake was our destination, sitting at an elevation of 6,550 feet where the waters are crystal clear and the beaches are sandy.

            Our full family van had recently arrived from Kansas, our home at the time, anticipating another splendid summer vacation with our family in Idaho.

            It was a tradition, you remember, for as long as you girls have been living.  Each summer our extended family would gather together for three nights and four days, enjoying mountain climbing, water skiing, canoeing, and simply delighting in time together.

We stopped to wait at a designated spot to meet up with Uncle Steve and some of his children, but they never showed up.  We waited far beyond the agreed meeting time until Uncle John came and told us the reason that he had not come.  Steve had been found – dead.

             Even though I was told plainly with words that my brother was dead, my mind could not comprehend it.  I was in complete denial and drove to the hospital to see which room he had been admitted.  When they told me there was no one registered by that name I walked away in a daze. 

            I don’t remember how, but eventually we all ended up at his house and walked out to the garage where the death took place.  The details of the story slowly emerged.  It had happened the evening before, July 4 – Independence Day – when Steve took his own life.  From his perspective, life had become unbearable and he could no longer survive the emotional turmoil that was raging inside him. 

            As we were driving away from his home that dark evening, the guilt, shame and stigma of suicide began to descend on Dad and I.  I was embarrassed, humiliated and ashamed that this happened to our family.  This was for other families, not mine.  Yes, I knew my cousin had given up on life a few years earlier, but things were different in our family. 

            I was absolutely certain that no one would show up at the funeral.  It was too horrifying to think about, much less talk about.  In my mind I imagined a big black letter S sewn on my back.  I felt like an untouchable, a reject, cast out to sit on the ash heap. 

            Dad, one of the few who could stay focused on what needed to be done, helped my sisters and me go through the clouded motions of picking a funeral home, choosing the casket, writing an obituary, planning the service – something I had not been prepared to do on my imagined carefree vacation to Idaho. 

            Then came the day of the visitation.  I was going to be strong and greet the people who could possibly be brave enough to stand with us in this atrocious grief.  But as I walked into the dimly lit parlor and saw his body lying lifeless, his trademark pith helmet lying on his chest, I stayed for a few seconds and then fled out of the room, sobbing uncontrollably. 

            The day of the funeral dawned even though I was hoping it would never arrive.  With legs like lead I got dressed and mechanically prepared the family to go.  I was quite certain that maybe, just maybe, there might be two rows of people brave enough to attend.  Who in their right mind would want to be identified with such an atrocity? 

            When I walked in the doors of the church, my high school friend, Lora, was there with tears and a hug.  She had heard the news and she had come.  Some cousins came from Washington to grieve with us.  People trickled into the church until it was packed.  I remember nothing of the service, just sitting there numb, except for the overwhelming fact that there were people who came and cared and cried with us. 

            God was there in those people who took time out of their glorious summer day, and it was because of those people I knew for certain that God still loved our family.  I was afraid He would perhaps turn His back on us but the presence of many who cared assured me that God was present, even in the midst of our personal horror.

            Riding in the family coach on the way to the cemetery I watched as people mowed their lawns, played catch with their children, some laughing as they were talking to their friends.  I wanted to scream at them to stop.  STOP.  STOP.  Cry and wail with me.  The whole world, all of you, should stop, everyone should feel the same heart-breaking grief that I‘m feeling.  There should be no smiles, no laughter, no joy….not today, not now, maybe not ever again.

            It was a fierce good-bye.  Uncle Steve had devised a permanent solution to a temporary problem. 

It took months, no it was years slowly turning into decades, to be able to process all that had happened.  I read books about suicide, I grieved with friends, cried while singing in church, mourned with tears of unspeakable guilty grief into the early hours of many mornings.  I will never understand what happened, but now 27 years later I don’t feel the need to understand.  Simply knowing Jesus walked with me is enough. 

Nothing can separate me from the love of God.

            I bring up this memory of Uncle Steve to thank you, daughters, for choosing to live even when struggles get hard and relationships are fractured, when life hurts and everything seems so unfair.  When you are in the depths of despair, when your heart is breaking, God walks with you and I will walk with you.  He’s there even when you slog through the valley of the shadow of death.  He is permanently there.  Always.  He will never leave you nor forsake you.  There is always hope, light, and life, even when life seems hopeless, dim and futile. 

            Always choose life.  Love fiercely.

Love, Mom


The Blessing of Thorns

Dear Daughters,

My friend gave me a copy of this story a few months ago, so thought I would share it with you:

Sandra felt as low as the heels of her shoes as she pushed against a November gust and the florist shop door.  Her life had been easy, like a spring breeze.  Then in the fourth month of her second pregnancy, a minor automobile accident stole that from her.

During this Thanksgiving week she would have delivered a son.  She grieved over her loss.  As if that weren’t  enough, her husband’s company threatened a transfer. Then her sister, those holiday visit she coveted, called saying she could not come for the holiday.

Sandra’s friend infuriated her by suggesting her grief was a God-given path to maturity that would allow her to empathize with others who suffer.  

She has no idea what I’m feeling, thought Sandra with a shudder.

Thanksgiving?  Thankful for what?  She wondered.  For a careless driver whose truck was hardly scratched when he rear-ended her?  For an airbag that saved her life but took that of her child?

Good afternoon, can I help you?  The shop clerk’s approach startled her.

I need an arrangement, stammered Sandra.

For Thanksgiving?  Do you want beautiful but ordinary, or would you like to challenge the day with a customer favorite I call the Thanksgiving Special? asked the shop clerk.  I’m convinced that flowers tell stories, she continued.  Are you looking for something that conveys gratitude this thanksgiving?

Not exactly! Sandra blurted out. In the last five months, everything that could go wrong has gone wrong.

Sandra regretted her outburst, and was surprised when the shop clerk said, I have the perfect arrangement for you.

Just then the shop door’s small bell rang, and the clerk said Hi Barbara!  let me get your order.

She politely excused herself and walked toward a small workroom, then quickly reappeared, carrying an arrangement of greenery, bows, and long-stemmed thorny roses.  Except the ends of the rose stems were neatly snipped: there were no flowers.

Want this in a box? Asked the clerk.

Sandra watched for the customer’s response.  Was this a joke?  Who would want rose stems with no flowers?  She waited for laughter, but neither woman laughed.

Yes please, Barbara replied with an appreciative smile. You’d think that after three years of getting the special, I wouldn’t be so moved by its significance, but I can feel it right here, all over again, she said as she gently tapped her chest. And she left with her order.

Uh, stammered Sandra, that lady just left with uh…., she just left with no flowers!

Right, said the clerk, I cut off the flowers.  That’s the Special.  I call it the Thanksgiving Thorns Bouquet.

Oh, come on, you can’t tell me someone is willing to pay for that! exclaimed Sandra.

Barbara came into the shop three years ago feeling much like you feel today, explained the clerk.  She thought she had very little to be thankful for.  She had lost her father to cancer, the family business was failing, her son was into drugs, and she was facing major surgery. 

That same year I had lost my husband, continued the clerk, and for the first time in my life, had just spent the holidays alone.  I had no children, no husband, no family nearby, and too great a debt to allow any travel.

So what did you do? asked Sandra.

I learned to be thankful for thorns, answered the clerk quietly.

I’ve always thanked God for the good things in my life and never questioned the good things that happened to me, but when bad stuff hit, did I ever ask questions.  It took time for me to learn that dark times are important. I have always enjoyed the flowers of life, but it took thorns to show me the beauty of God’s comfort. You know, the Bible says that God comforts us when we’re afflicted, and from His consolation we learn to comfort others.

Sandra sucked in her breath as she thought about the very thing her friend had tried to tell her.

I guess the truth is I don’t want comfort. I’ve lost a baby and I’m angry with God.

Just then someone else walked in the shop.

Hey Phil! Shouted the clerk to the balding, rotund man.

My wife sent me in to get our usual Thanksgiving Special..12 thorny, long-stemmed stems, laughed Phil as the clerk handed him a tissue-wrapped arrangement from the refrigerator.

Those are for your wife? asked Sandra incredulously.  Do you mind me asking why she wants something that looks like that?

No, I’m glad you asked, Phil replied.  Four years ago my wife and I nearly divorced.  After forty years we were in a real mess, but with the Lord’s grace and guidance, we slogged through problem after problem. He rescued our marriage. Jenny here (the clerk) told me she kept a vase of rose stems to remind her of what she learned from thorny times, and that was good enough for me. I took home some of those stems. My wife and I decided to label each one for a specific problem and give thanks for what that problem taught us.

As Phil paid the clerk, he said to Sandra I highly recommend the Special.  

I don’t know if I can be thankful for the thorns in my life.   Sandra said.  It’s all too fresh.

Well, the clerk replied carefully, my experience has shown me that thorns make roses more precious.  We treasure God’s providential care more during trouble than at any other time.  Remember, it was a crown of thorns that Jesus wore so we might know His love.  Don’t resent the thorns.

Tears rolled down Sandra’s cheeks.  For the first time since the accident, she loosened her grip on resentment.

I’ll take those twelve long-stemmed thorns, please, she managed to choke out.

I hoped you would, said the clerk gently.  I’ll have them ready in a minute.

Thank you.  What do I owe you?

Nothing.  Nothing but a promise to allow God to heal your heart. The first year’s arrangement is always on me.  The clerk smiled and handed a card to Sandra.

I’ll attach this card to your arrangement, but maybe you would like to read it first.

It read: My God, I have never thanked You for my thorns.  I have thanked you a thousand times for my roses, but never once for all my thorns. Teach me the glory of the cross I bear; teach me the value of my thorns.  Show me that I have climbed closer to You along the path of pain.  Show me that through my tears, the colors of Your rainbow look much more brilliant.

Praise Him for your roses; thank Him for your thorns.

–Author Unknown

Lori, the friend who gave me this story, has been confined to a wheelchair for 23 years, following a car accident.  Since her accident she has broken both her legs and suffered infections which have kept her bedridden for months, yet she is probably the most content woman I know.  When visiting her I marvel at the grace, gratitude and peace she exudes.  She knows that someday she will stand in the presence of Jesus Christ and her body will be whole, so is content to do what she can until that time comes.

Lori has taught me much about acceptance and gratitude.  I often forget to thank God for the good things in life, then complain about the thorns.  What makes us think life should be easy and comfortable?

This year, join me in giving thanks for the thorns as well as the roses.  In God’s wisdom they all belong to the same plant.

Love, Mom

The Lord is my Shepherd I shall not want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures,

He leads me beside quiet waters,

He restores my soul….

Psalm 23

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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