These days I seem to be trapped in a vicious cycle of gratitude, guilt and fear. There’s a reason I have watched all six seasons of Schitt’s Creek at least three times. Sitcoms are my sweet spot. Where I can unplug without having to worry about the stress of viewing anything sad. I typically won’t watch or read anything if it has a R-A-P-E scene. Yes, I spell the word because it is too horrible a concept to even speak freely. I have never liked hearing tales of misfortune (not like anyone really does) but especially after London died, I have taken extra caution to shield my heart from exposure to sadness.
When my shelter is broken and I am awoken to the realities of the utmost suffering, I of course feel a surge of gratitude. Yes, my daughters died, but at least it was of natural causes. At least my children were afforded medical care. At least they weren’t victim to savage violence. Not all mothers are so lucky.
After my gratitude comes a wave of guilt. My heart breaks for the mothers who cannot meet their children’s basic needs of food, medicine, and safety, through no fault of their own. The mothers whose children are living in unsafe neighborhoods or war-torn countries. Why them and not me?
After the guilt comes the fear. Is my turn coming? What other suffering is waiting for me in my lifetime? Will I meet an even worse fate? The unknown is terrifying. It makes me feel like sprinting as fast as I can through life, until I am safely in the end zone and can be assured the worst is over.
For me it doesn’t matter. I have no fear of dying, for 50% of my children are already on the other side waiting for me. I fear what every mother fears, her children’s suffering. I do believe that when it is our time, the angels come and take our hand before we feel any pain. But what about before that moment? The journey to death is not always quick and the suffering and fear can set in long before.
I had a student who asked me once if I had a nice childhood. I hesitantly told her yes knowing she didn’t. She responded, “What’s that like?” A girl who was dealt such an unfair hand in life, yet somehow fought to remain kind and good. I will never forget her.
Again, why her and not me?
I look at my sons and how blessed with love and security they are. Then my heart breaks thinking of all the children in the world who do not have a safe, loving home. In pours the guilt and then the fear.
So how do we do it? How do we enjoy our blessings and fortunes knowing we live in a world filled with murder and corruption? It is not a rhetorical question I really want to know. Sometimes I feel like I need to suffer for a sense of solidarity. I used to be comforted by the endgame, Heaven. The notion that Heaven and Hell made everything equal, gave everyone the atonement they deserved. My biggest fear is that’s not true.
All any of us are trying to do is make it through this crazy thing called life. For me, I need it to make sense, if only to me, if only in my head. That is part of my goal in my writing daily for the 40 days of Lent. To push myself to explore my faith, to understand, to ask the uncomfortable questions. For some of us will have a long time to wait until we learn the answers on the other side, and personally I’d like to break the cycle before then.