Lenten Reflection
By Marilyn Crow
God and grief are strange companions, or maybe fierce competitors, or antonyms. Two years ago, a glioblastoma took my 47-year-old treasured daughter, Diane, from us. When Diane was diagnosed, we saw every specialist, tried every treatment, and I prayed. I prayed and prayed. Diane’s sister and a brother-in-law are doctors, and the second sister is a nurse. We had extensive knowledge across the medical field in America. Wasn’t I in close contact with God? Diane was on the prayer list at church, and even at friends’ churches. We had this.
Diane’s sisters and brother-in-law in the medical field gave it their best, but glioblastoma is not a brain tumor that can be cured. Some days I gave God a break and told myself he was just too busy with others to listen, but soon He would hear me. Much of the time I was deeply sad and angry that he was silent. He promised—ask and it will be given. I tried praying to angels. I never really asked before because my life with my husband and three daughters had always been relatively smooth. I found time for prayer and to seek guidance and protection, but never really asked. Now we needed a miracle. This time I asked, begged, and pleaded. No miracle arrived.
During that same year, just before Diane was diagnosed, my vertebrae began to spontaneously break. I was in the hospital having one fixed when Diane was in the giant tube in Colorado having her brain examined. Over several months, nine vertebrae fractured and had to be repaired. The pain was excruciating, and I was basically bedridden. I would just heal and then another surgery was needed. My daughters were caring for Diane and for me, flying to Colorado and back home frequently. My husband stayed home and cared for me. My own brothers and sisters and close friends were the rocks I stood on daily. All I could do is listen, talk, encourage, and pray. At home and healing in bed, I had lots of time for asking the Lord to help. We all needed help—Diane’s sisters, my husband, and I did too. But most of the time I prayed for healing for Diane. No healing occurred.
Diane’s unbearable pain needed constant management. We were grateful to find the right medicine, palliative surgery, and treatments to ease her journey. Her friends and family never paused for a moment from surrounding her with gentle, soothing care. Nine vertebrae repaired and many months later I was finally able to fly to Colorado to be with my daughter until she left us. I said the 23 Psalm with her and at her memorial service. I had fortunately memorized that Psalm in confirmation as I could find no other words. Her outdoor Zoom service was beautiful, attended by hundreds and reflected the world of religions, Christian, Buddhist, and Jewish. I watched and appreciated, but religion and I were on shaky ground.
Then, there was emptiness and sweet, kind letters and cards and warm phone calls. Most of the time, back home, I sat at our dining room table completing jigsaw puzzles and cried. Eventually, I started walking—first 5 minutes a day, gradually extending to almost an hour; first in my condo, then outside in the sunshine. I read about grief; thank you Trinity for the perfect books for me. I was offered counseling. Pastor visited. I went in the hospital several times for pain management for my back. I was offered medicine. I declined. Nothing seemed to be what I needed. Then, I found it was the walking in God’s beautiful world that comforted me. It was the time alone, the quiet, and reflection. After quite a while, I started to pray as I walked the first few blocks. Just a little--just a hello, God. Your world is so beautiful today. Frequently, the mourning doves coo-ed and reassured me. The prayers have ebbed and flowed as I’ve walked this past year and a half. I have only recently made it through a remote church service without having to stop and cry. My body has mostly healed, strategies for anxiety keep my emotions steady, but truthfully my faith is a work in progress.
Mother Teresa said, “Prayer is not asking. Prayer is putting oneself in the hands of God, at His disposition, and listening to His voice in the depth of our hearts.’’ Sometimes I shout: Well, Mother Teresa, I prayed. My daughter died. His voice was silent, and I only know He said, “No miracle, sorry.” Other times I think: But what did He really say, if anything? I am working on answering that question. I know He was right there with each family member, including Diane’s husband and sons, as they diligently, fearlessly cared for her. I don’t doubt it because each day in their home I was witness to constant, visible acts of love. I know He was there with my daughter as her body failed her, because her light shone brightly from the inside out, right until the end of her time on Earth. In the depth of my heart, I did not directly hear that voice that Mother Teresa heard, but I saw and felt we were and still are in His hands.
A grief minister, friend, said, “God is not an interventionist. That does not mean He isn’t present.” Perhaps my friend and Mother Teresa are right. I’ve decided we must put ourselves in His care and then trust. And I’m hoping He doesn’t mind if we get angry with him or turn our backs on Him or misunderstand Him. He must know that sometimes, many times, often faith is challenging. As the days go on, I am recognizing that God was there every step of the way, holding me up, holding my family in his arms, caring for Diane. I am understanding that grief and God are perhaps not competitors or antonyms, but I am still working on what else I know. I do have strong faith that God is—Love, and that will help me sort the rest of it out, little by little, as I continue my search for acceptance and peace.
The peace of God, which surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Phil 4:7
