On Loss, Faith and Perseverance

It has come to my attention over the short course of life I have lived that, at times, one is challenged by immeasurably difficult odds for seemingly no reason at all. In business, I have sent emails that were determinant of employees keeping their jobs. In academia, I have submitted opinion papers loaded with editorial content from a conservative perspective to professors I knew disagreed with my stances. At many points in life, I have reached moments that I thought surely would take the heart of me. But until I experienced the loss of my child through miscarriage, and then again a second time only months later, I did not realize how every moment of discouragement I had experienced in my young life paled in Goliath sized comparison.

It was in those moments that I followed the common thread of grief. Denial that it had even occurred. Anger at God for striking me with such heavy heartache, only to then bargain with Him that if this was simply an accident and that I imagined the whole thing, I would be a better Christian, a better husband, and a better father. Then came depression as I grieved the loss of what could have been. Until eventually, after a long time, I came to accept the reality of what had happened.

The darkness that surrounded me during this time felt inescapable. I had nobody to turn to, I thought. Nobody I could talk to who would understand. I reached out to a few people, but in their defense, what do you say to someone going through such a thing? The entire time, I had a wife who was going through the same thing, and all I felt I could do was act strong and help push us up the hill, never taking the time to stop and grieve alongside her.

I had always held a Samwise Gamgee approach to leading my little family through hard times. The idea that I could not carry their struggles, but I could carry them as best I could, was what I thought I was supposed to do. I was wrong. I was desperately wrong.

When we incur such a deep strike to the heart of ourselves, we cannot then allow ourselves to pretend it does not exist. The idea that men are to grin and bear it, remain stoic, and show no quarter to the waves of emotional turmoil is one I have long believed in, and to a large extent still do. Society does not need weak men, nor should it tolerate them. However, I have come to understand that a man is not weak simply because something manages to break him. Weakness and vulnerability are not the same thing. Some moments require pause.

Some require that we examine ourselves and allow, even if just for a moment, the pain festering inside us to work its way through our hearts. Strength is not found in pretending we were never wounded. It is found in accepting the wound and refusing to let it keep us down.

What is the point of this piece? It is deeply personal, and for a long time I had no intention of sharing my experience. However, in my discussions with those around me, and with the priests and pastors I generally turn to for debate and counsel, I found a significant weight lifted from my overburdened soul. Perhaps, I thought, my story could reach someone experiencing this now and provide them some shelter from the storm they've found themselves in.

We will all experience loss. It is a feature, not a bug, of this fallen world. Shouldn't have eaten the apple. People will lose those they know and care for deeply, and some will lose those they have yet to know, as my wife and I did. Though it is hard, it is okay to grieve them. Since the fall of man, death is a natural part of life, filled somehow with both tragedy and celebration. Tragedy in the loss of someone you cared so deeply for, and celebration in the belief that they are in a much better place. I believe they are with the Lord our God.

While I'm mowing, because I do love to cut me some grass, I often use that time to ponder the mysteries of life and think about the things I've done, the places I've gone, and the people I've loved. The other day, I was struck with a deep melancholy as I remembered this tragic chapter in my life. I became nostalgic for times that had not yet happened, an anticipatory nostalgia in a way. I could play movies in my head of my little girl playing with her new sister, or running from her new brother as he chased her with crawfish. I thought about getting a table for four instead of a table for three. Those are strange things to miss because they never happened, but I miss them. My heart hurts for them.

As my melancholy carried on, however, it was soon interrupted by a different feeling. A bittersweet image popped into my head. I could see Christ holding my two unborn children, swaddled in fresh linens with their little hands sticking out as if to grab His beard, while He peered down at them as if to say, "You can stay here until they get here." In that moment, nearly driven to tears by the thought, I felt relief.

The Catholic Church does not claim to know definitively the fate of children who die without baptism. Instead, it teaches us to entrust them to the infinite mercy and love of God. I am satisfied with that answer. If it was good enough for King David, it's good enough for me.

I am often reminded of how God can turn anything toward His glory. He can take even the smallest scrap of evil in this world and use it for good. Since these events, I have had many large, life altering decisions to make, things that stress me like a rope being pulled at both ends by immeasurable forces. However, on several occasions I have found myself thinking: Nothing can hurt me like that did, and so, whatever the outcome of this moment, I will certainly survive it.

Though it is hard to trust God's plan when it appears, to us, to have gone awry, we must stay the course. We have to believe that even moments of intense trial and tribulation can be used for our good. At times, we are all Job.

One last thought before I close this out. I believe a man should control his emotions rather than allow his emotions to control him. This belief of mine should not be misconstrued. I think of that control like a rider on a bull, holding tight and refusing to be thrown. But control does not mean pretending the bull isn't beneath you. Eventually, you will be bucked off. We will all be bucked off. The bull of life is going to kick so hard that there will be no amount of flat braided rope that will keep you up there. Eventually, it will throw you down into the dirt where you can be convinced you belong. But you don't belong there. We belong on the bull. Our life is up there, riding it over and over again. Strength is not somehow making ourselves immune to being thrown. Strength is climbing out of the dirt and getting back on.

We all experience loss. We all eventually find ourselves in the dirt. But we must learn to pick ourselves up and press forward, for the sake of not just ourselves, not just those around us, but for the people we loved so dearly.