Falling Out of Time ~ A Stunning Chronicle of Parental Grief (Book Review)

From the first page, I knew that this is a book in a category of its own. No . . . from the title, which I saw when I stumbled across it in a bookstore last week: I immediately guessed the topic, as we who have lost our children are the ones who speak of having fallen out of time.

As a mother and a pastor, I have purchased a boatload of books on loss and grief, and especially on parental loss. Many are straightforward, not a few are little more than drivel, and two (the other being Nicholas Wolterstorff's Lament for a Son) capture the language and experience of those who have "learned to live the inverse of life."

At first, the narative/poem/song/lament reminded me of Thornton Wilder's Our Town, with the Town Chronicler serving in a role similar to the Narrator's. Then it began to morph into an epic journey, like that of Odysseus, or Dante, except that the pilgrims are a small, heartbroken community of mourners who seek that which is completely unattainable: a path to their beloved children.

I cannot recommend this book highly enough. Perhaps not for parents in the first couple of years, but for those who have made it through a few, long enough for the reality to sink in, and who wonder where we might find companionship in the silent solitude in which we now live

*****

The above was my Amazon review, written a few months ago.  I revisited it this morning, after having been shocked into a brief depression by a blog post claiming that restlessness at night is a sinful rejection of the assurance of God's presence.  I could probably count on my fingers the nights I have slept soundly and for more than a few hours at a time since my son died ~ and I wondered, reading the blog post: Do I now have to add the sleepless hours of the past eight years to my litany of sins?

And then I remembered this book, with its small band of pilgrim parents, wandering the nights in circles, seeking their lost children, and seeking one another, those others who know those walks of the wee hours.    I think I have written before of how I used to slip out of my seminary residence late at night, or early in the morning (by which I mean 1:00 am) to walk in circles around the silent campus, peering into the darkness and knowing that I would find only more silence.

The parents - Man who becomes Walking Man, Woman who becomes Woman Who Stayed at Home, Cobbler, Midwife, Mute Woman in Net, Centaur, Elderly Math Teacher, and those who observe them, night after night, are woven into community, a community of those who live in a dark solitude, uncomprehending but insistent upon giving words to their uncomprehension:  It's like a murmur.  ...  A murmur, or a sort of dry rustle inside your head, and it never stops.  So the Centaur tries to explain to the Town Chronicler. 

*****

As I was reading this book the first time, I wondered: How does he know? I have read syrupy, insipid books on parental loss, books in which everything is wrapped up neatly within a couple of hundred pages and a few months of plotline, or in a few paragraphs of well-intended advice.  This book, this poem, this little masterpiece, however, is filled with parents who live by day and walk by night.   And so I looked up the author's name and, of course: he lost his 20-year-old-son to Israel's war with Lebanon. And he concludes, through the final reflection of the Centaur:

Yet still it breaks my heart,

my son,

to think

that I have --

that one could --

that I have found

the words.

Celebrations ~ Friday Five

Celebrations are hard-won around here, but today's Friday Five asks about them and . . . why not?

Here's what 3dogmom asks:

It’s the time of year when celebrations abound: graduations (the end of that season), weddings, anniversaries, family reunions, and more. I’ve just officiated the blessing of my sister-in-law’s recent marriage, an event that incorporated a variety of celebrations within the celebration. Fun stuff, all around!

The season notwithstanding, causes to celebrate can be found in our daily/weekly/monthly lives, too. For today’s FF, share with us five things you are celebrating these days!

Here's a much younger version of my husband and me, concluding a backpacking trip on Isle Royale:

He turned 65 in mid-June, so we celebrated with kids then, and will be with friends Sunday night, and perhaps with his extended family in the fall when he  . . . retires!  Forty-plus corporate years are yielding to pottery making and senior track competitions.  Yippee for him!  And three celebrations.

I am quietly celebrating the end of a week of Vacation Bible School tonight, in which I was much more involved than I had anticipated being.  It went really well -- kudos to our Christian Ed Director and amazing volunteers --  but I am long past the time in which I would have bounced right back from mornings spent with many, many preschoolers.  (See photo above ~ maybe then?)  The rewards:  Big hugs from small people for Pastor Robin.

I am also celebrating the fact that it's now been about ten years since I finished my year with the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius.  Last night I wrote a note to Spiritual Director Emeritus, now 86 years old and newly assigned to a new administrative position at Georgetown, to thank him (again). Without his patient guidance ~  no Exercises, no seminary, no survival of the loss of my son, no ministry.  Such a huge part he has played in each! At Georgetown a couple of years ago:

In spite of myself, there are things to celebrate!

My Fantasy Life with a Mother

My personal experience, which I do not claim to be a universal one, was that after my mother died when she was 28 and I was seven, life went on, and I came to accept the new normal fairly quickly.

It had not occurred to me that my life might have been different until one evening when I was about thirteen or fourteen, and spending the week-end with my maternal grandparents.  By that time, my younger brother and I had acquired a troubled (you don't want to know) stepmother and four step-siblings, two of whom lived with us in Ohio and two with their father in Florida, and I had already been in boarding school for two or three years.  My grandmother broke down ~ the one and only time I was ever witness to such an extraordinary event ~ and sobbed that our lives "would have been so different if your mother had lived."

What an astonishing thought!  How had I missed that idea?

For some inexplicable reason, I've been thinking about that alternative reality recently.  My husband says, "You can't know," but I have a whole narrative worked out that differs considerably from the real one.

I would have grown up in Florida, to which my parents were trying to move from Ohio.  I would have grown up TWO BLOCKS FROM THE BEACH, where they had built a house.

I might have still gone to boarding school (always my dad's dream, since that had been his experience), but not until high school, and with a sense of enthusiasm and adventure, rather than dread and despair.  And I would have done well, because I would have been excited and full of energy, and would have been receiving encouraging letters from my mom every couple of days.

I would have gone to Vanderbilt or another southern school, because my roots would have been in the south.  (In reality, my 12th grade religion teacher tried to get me to consider colleges down south.  He was from North Carolina, and considered us all far too parochial in our New England snobbishness at the ripe old ages of 17 and 18. He had a point.)

I would have majored in biology in college, because I love science and because I would have been so well supported emotionally in high school that  I would not have given up when I first stumbled in math, and I would not have abandoned all of the preparation needed for college-level science courses.  My MOTHER would have made sure that I did no such thing.

And then I would have gone to med school and become a brain surgeon, just as I had planned back when I was eleven.

So . . . I guess if my mother had lived, I would be Meredith Grey.

Of course, Meredith has mother issues, too. 

But if MY mother had lived . . .  I would be a surgeon in Jacksonville FL and she would be around, all the time.

It's a great fantasy.

My Fantasy Life with a Mother

My personal experience, which I do not claim to be a universal one, was that after my mother died when she was 28 and I was seven, life went on, and I came to accept the new normal fairly quickly.

It had not occurred to me that my life might have been different until one evening when I was about thirteen or fourteen, and spending the week-end with my maternal grandparents.  By that time, my younger brother and I had acquired a troubled (you don't want to know) stepmother and four step-siblings, two of whom lived with us in Ohio and two with their father in Florida, and I had already been in boarding school for two or three years.  My grandmother broke down ~ the one and only time I was ever witness to such an extraordinary event ~ and sobbed that our lives "would have been so different if your mother had lived."

What an astonishing thought!  How had I missed that idea?

For some inexplicable reason, I've been thinking about that alternative reality recently.  My husband says, "You can't know," but I have a whole reality worked out that differs considerably from the real one.

I would have grown up in Florida, to which my parents were trying to move from Ohio.  I would have grown up TWO BLOCKS FROM THE BEACH, where they had built a house.

I might have still gone to boarding school (always my dad's dream, since that had been his experience), but not until high school, and with a sense of enthusiasm and adventure, rather than dread and despair.  And I would have done well, because I would have been excited and full of energy, and would have been receiving encouraging letters from my mom every couple of days.

I would have gone to Vanderbilt or another southern school, because my roots would have been in the south.  (In reality, my 12th grade religion teacher tried to get me to consider colleges down south.  He was from North Carolina, and considered us all far too parochial in our New England snobbishness at the ripe old ages of 17 and 18. He had a point.)

I would have majored in biology in college, because I love science and because I would have been so well supported emotionally in high school that  I would not have given up when I first stumbled in math, and I would not have abandoned all of the preparation needed for college-level science courses.  My MOTHER would have made sure that I did no such thing.

And then I would have gone to med school and become a brain surgeon, just as I had planned back when I was eleven.

So . . . I guess if my mother had lived, I would be Meredith Grey.

Of course, Meredith has mother issues, too. 

But if MY mother had lived . . .  I would be a surgeon in Jacksonville FL and she would be around, all the time.

It's a great fantasy.

Hello, Blog, My Old Friend . . .

It's been six weeks!

I find, these days, that it seems as if it's all been said.   And much of that which hasn't been said by me said can't be said by me.

But my writing skills are rusting from disuse. 

So maybe for awhile I'll just look for some prompts and go for it.

Lady G 'n Me

My college students ~I teach as an adjunct in the Theology and Religious Studies Department of the local Jesuit university ~ were dumbfounded last week to learn that I am a Lady Gaga fan.

I mentioned it to them because Lady G had just posted an expression of gratitude to her Catholic priest on twitter and, consequently, I discovered that she had attended the Convent School of the Sacred Heart in New York City.  "So Lady Gaga and I were both convent schoolgirls," I told my class.  "We both spent part of our lives wandering around in Catholic school uniforms and hanging out with nuns."

Lady G first came to my attention about a year ago when a local radio station began playing her song Edge of Glory.  Could the lyrics be about what I thought they were? I wondered.  On the surface, they are about sex, and the video exudes a blatant and raw sexuality, but I thought there was more to it.  Indeed, it seems that she wrote the song as her beloved grandfather was dying, and that "glory" means exactly what I thought it did.

Glory is what comes next.  After the horror, after the sorrow . . .  glory.

If you know that I have lost a child to suicide, a child with whom I walk every day and whose death haunts my dreams, that perhaps you understand why I sometimes open the car's sunroof and crank my music up loud to listen:

It's time to feel the rush to push the dangerous

I'm gonna run right to, to the edge with you

Where we'll both fall far in love

I'm on the edge of glory and I'm hangin' on a moment of truth

Out on the edge of glory and I'm hangin' on a moment with you.

Lady Gaga's tweet about the meaning of the Eucharist created some controversy among those who understand faith to be more about law than about grace.  I'm guessing that they those folks don't much like the Edge of Glory video. 

But grace abounds in the most unusual places. 

Lady Gaga sings it.  I raise the bread and the wine and I think it.  I'm on the edge of glory, and I'm hangin'on a moment of truth. 

*********

PS: Now that I know about her convent school background, I also "get" Lady Gaga's inspired Sound of Music tribute to Julie Andrews at the 2015 Oscars.  Even though I can't carry a tune, I was actually in our school production of The Sound of Music (7th grade; Kurt) and have astonished my family by my encyclopedic knowledge of every line and lyric, but more than that: it was a convent school. I suspect that Lady Gaga's powerful performance honored Sacred Heart sisters as well as Julie Andrews.

School Daze ~ Friday Five

mictori says, "Let’s reflect upon our school days in today’s Friday Five" ~

1. Favorite class during your many years of school?

A graduate course in Ignatian Spirituality, back when I was working on a master's in Humanities, and before I knew that I was going to transfer a lot of those credits to a seminary!  That course was one of those which set me on a path toward an entirely unexpected future.

2. Toughest class you have taken?

Chem 101 ~ I tried three times, and never got beyond the drop/add date.  I didn't understand a word of it, and I was surrounded by young pre-med students who'd already taken AP Chem.

3. Class you would love to retake?

Hmmm . . . . in seminary, I really.did.not.like. my required Christology course, which I took during the winter quarter.  One evening that next spring, I was sitting outside the library when a friend stopped by to tell me he was taking Christology with the new professor just arrived on campus, and that I would love it. Ha!  I said.  Not for me!  I have earned my credits and collected my grade, and I am quite finished with Christology.  He practically dragged me with him that night, and I was entranced.  Finally ~ the sort of scholarship and discussion which I had imagined seminary would be all about.  I audited the course for the remainder of the term, did an independent study and then a seminar with the same professor, and ultimately invited him to preach at my ordination. I would love to re-take that course, now that I have a few years of ministry and weekly preaching under my belt.

4. Favorite seminary or theologically-themed class?

See above.

4. Dream class – if you could design the ultimate undergraduate/graduate course, what would it be?

I am thinking about doing some work on wisdom literature and trauma,  so maybe it would be something like that.  Second choice: I have just finished a second time teaching an undergrad course in law (my first field) and religion.  I was unhappy with the way that I re-designed the course this time around, but I think that now I finally know how to do it.  If I get another opportunity, that one has some real potential.