agnosticism

Why I Stopped Asking Why

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With God, all things are possible.  That was a phrase that got me in trouble.  If pursued to the full literal extent this is an assurance which leads to disappointment.  All things may be possible, but in the sense that you only want what is about to happen.  What we have is more like the quote attributed to Henry Ford: “Any color the customer wants, as long as it’s black.”

Anything is possible if you want the possible.

It is what it is.  That has more or less been my life of the past few years.  Marriage has been good for me.  There is less need for a fight for a faith in the impossible when the actual has been decent enough.  This could simply be a matter of age.  You’ll become a little agnostic after being on the other side and seeing some of those foolish hopes of a child.  Not saying it is impossible, but it is just improbable that my Filipino son will be over six feet tall as he hopes.

The biggest chance in my life is not asking the question why anymore.  Now I am that father figure supposed to give answers and needing to play a stabilizing role.  There is just not enough time, the dishes need to be done, the baby needs to be fed, and nobody could ever answer my questions.  It seems my own answers were as good as any.  Why is a cry for answers, an underlying belief in an authority that can answer.  Why ask why if there is no authority to ask?

Sunday evening went a bit sideways soon after my wife and I crawled into bed.  I had seen a story, soon before going to the stairs for the night, that made me briefly consider that it could fit the profile of a family friend: A ten-year-old girl being swept away by the swift river current, friends trying to help, an adult woman going in after them.  But then, now in bed, I saw the post on social media confirming that indeed it was a tragedy that was hitting very close to home.

It was Claue

Kevin and Michelle are a couple very similar to my wife and I.  We met a few years back at a Filipino-American event.  He was also employed in an engineering related field, a guy with German background similar to my own, and also had chronic back issues that gave us a common bond considering what a pain my neck had been.  But what I liked most about him is that he was a family man who put his wife and children first.  Michelle likewise is a dedicated mother, one of those hardworking and unassuming types—who offered her quiet support to my wife as we dealt with the immigration gauntlet.

Claue had come with her mother from the Philippines.  Like my son, she had no real choice in the matter and suddenly found herself in South Williamsport with a school of American kids.  Unlike my son, she was shy and spoke very little English.  And, from what I recall, it was difficult for her initially to leave her mother’s side.  That’s why I was so happy to see her in a basketball jersey—it meant that she was finding her niche.

I knew the river was a special place for the mother and daughter.  Many pictures were posted of Claue wading in the shallow parts and enjoying a break.  

On May 4th, with baby in the stroller, Claue was splashing around again as her mother watched from shore.  The river was up just a little after some rains—the water slightly murky at this point—and she slipped.  The current pulled her away into deeper water where she was clearly in distress.  Her two friends tried going out to save her and also were being swept downstream.  Michelle, seeing it all unfold, did not hesitate to enter the water despite—like her daughter—being unable to swim.

The whole group would soon end up over the dam in the turbulence that is known to keep even experienced swimmers trap in its watery grasp.  Miraculously Michelle was pulled out.  But she did not escape without injury, she was taken to the hospital where she was treated for broken heart syndrome and remained for days.  The words “help me Mom” the last thing she heard her precious Claue say before she disappeared.  The two other children were saved—only Claue lost.

A design to keep dams from washing out keeps the victim in the froth where even a great swimmer will be helpless and in danger of drowning.  That our friend, the mother, escaped is a harrowing account requiring presence of mind, will to survive, and a hand from above.

The rescue operation has changed into recovery, but no signs of Claue have emerged a week after she disappeared.  I’ve set up a GoFundMe for the family as we wait and hope for our dear Claue to be brought home.

Waist deep in tragedy…

My life has been rather average, I suppose, in that I can’t claim it has been very tragic in comparison to some.  Nevertheless, there is a ‘tortured soul’ aspect to my existence that has once been called out by my little sister and is to some extent true.  I do tend to feel things very deeply and cannot ignore all the suffering in the world as some seem a little more able to do.  And always with this care came a big question: Why?

Why do such awful things happen to such undeserving people?

It is a question that will stay swirling in your mind if you let it.  Religious people will say it is for some greater reason we don’t know—the judgmental will try to assign blame with their Monday morning quarterbacking skills—and both never satisfied me.  If death is a path to salvation for a child, why would we ever oppose abortion?  We would celebrate the millions of babies sent straight to God to eternal worship.  And if you’re one of the people who think life can be risk free—that all suffering is preventable—you’re either a very lucky person or as dumb as a box of rocks.  

Every year there are around twenty cases of commotio cordis.  That is when a hit within a certain window of time stops the heart.  A young baseball player takes a line drive to the chest—collapses and dies.  

Does this make me a monster for allowing my son to play this dangerous game?

No!

Someone could spend their life hiding under their bed sheets, afraid to do anything, and get hit by a re-entering Soviet-era spacecraft.  The only tragedy, in that case, being that a person so risk adverse has not lived life and is already dead.  My cousin Uriah, who was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer near the start of the Covid shutdowns, had every reason to remain home and ‘safe’ from the disease—yet, with only a year to live, he decided he would live.  My most cherished memories with him would not have been possible if he picked a path of total risk avoidance.  Life is always risky and we cannot prevent tragedy by avoiding it.  Why huddled in fear?

They want easy answers.  Those who look for someone to blame or explain it by some hidden heavenly cause.  But the true reality is murkier.  Job was doing everything right and yet his friends found fault.  That’s not to say that we should not make an attempt to manage probabilities.  But something much bigger than us ultimately holds the dice and there may be no reason why other than that it happened.  Some can cope with a simple explanation—bad parenting or cosmic plan—great if that works for you.

Go with the flow…

Unlike my siblings, who were basically fish, I could not float and could barely swim.  My mom had tried to help and she sent me to swimming lessons, but when the instructor lowered me in the water I would stiffen up like a board and sink.  Some of the problem was that my BMI was probably five, skinny, and my lips would turn blue after a minute or two in the water.  All I could think about is getting back out and being cozy wrapped in a towel.  Add to that, one of my earliest memories was laying face down in a pool thinking it was game over.

That’s the funny part of advice given to “just relax” or “be confident,” we would without all the fear, anxiety, experience or regret in our lives, right?  

But then those who fight for control, who do not deal with life as it truly is, they are most miserable.  Acceptance is key.  It is what it is and what will be will be—because there is no other answer I can find.  That is also to truly choose compassion rather than judgment—it is people with the answers who are harsh in times of tragedy, who truly know nothing and yet believe they are morally superior or act as if they never fail.  Those who don’t lead with mercy either lack self-awareness or have never been chewed up and spit out by those beasts that lurk on the edges of their placid waters—which could draw them in at any moment despite their assumed sure-footing or preparation.

Faith too can also become a banal attempt to right equations that can’t be righted.  This is where I can appreciate Orthodoxy when it doesn’t offer answers, but does offer that a priest (with the right permission) may lead a service for a non-Orthodox person as an act compassion.  I would be more impressed if someone could command Claue to rise and she walked out of the river.  However—with no better answers—I learned to be content with compassion as an answer.  

Asking why does not ease a mother’s pain, nor does criticism, nor do those “God has a plan” pat answers.  Sometimes the best we can do is sit together, talk and laugh a little, humanity has continually won against those devouring forces of nature by sacrifice for the tribe or looking out for each other. Hugs never tell us why, but they do silence those nagging questions even for a moment.  A tear with a friend is medicine for a broken heart.  It is better to rest, not knowing, and be okay with it, because we’ll never know why…

Small, initially shy and yet energetic, Claue came from the Philippines with her mother knowing very little English.  This year she went out for basketball and seemed to be adjusting.  Her classmates miss their friend.

The Day My Little Hope Died

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I was a failure in my own mind.
My engagement ended. I had hurt someone that I loved deeply. My lofty romantic ambitions ended in a grinding and painful defeat. I was not the hero that saved the day.

I was confused, embarrassed, disappointed and determined to make up for my failure to deliver as promised.

That feeling of obligation only intensified when my ex-fiance became pregnant to another man a bit later. The relationship with the child’s father had not worked out. I was worried for both mother and child.

I wondered how my friend would be able to provide and decided I would offer the best support that I could as a friend. When I met Saniyah for the first time my fears began to subside. Holding her filled me with a fatherly pride.

Eventually, as my friend and her child were sufficiently cared for in her community, my initial fears were replaced with a little hope. Saniyah was real living proof that something good could come out of failure and represented hope that my friend would have the lifelong companion.

Nothing could prepare me.

It was a normal sunny spring day, March 26, 2009, a Thursday. I was still getting adjusted to my life on the road as a truck driver and had run hard that week.

I was still on the road when I received a text message. The contents, something about my friend’s baby being in the hospital, really didn’t register for some reason.

However, the message that came a bit later, the one telling me something unthinkable, I did understand and it hit hard.

“Why!?!”

My mind screamed for an answer.

There was a moment of intense anger.

Saniyah, only eighteen months old, was no longer with us. She has been found in her crib lifeless and blue. Her death caused by a combination of asthma and pneumonia. There was nothing that could be done to save her.

My work week ended abruptly. I told my dispatcher (whose office I was in at the time) that I would be unable to finish the week and had decided I would drive to be there for my friend. Soon after I was on the road headed east.

A surreal night and a mother’s wail.

The morning sun had been replaced by dark skies and driving rain. I drove through the torrential downpour, at the edge of control, the worn grooves of I-80 filled with water, and at a higher rate of speed than safe.

I arrived in Brooklyn that evening not even sure how I got there or what to expect. I had left without any real plan where I would stay or what I would do. All that mattered to me was that I would be there for my friend if she needed me.

I was soon feeling a bit better. My friend was willing to see me, her composure was amazing and soon we were back at her apartment with the small gathering of family and friends.

I had settled down on the couch. My friend was in the other room, which was connected by a large opening, she was looking through pictures as I chatted and then came a moment that will probably be with me to my dying day.

My strong friend, whose calm had been my comfort until then, let out a groan, a wail only a mother could make, and it was a sound that penetrated me to the deepest depths of my being.

That night, while she cried, I bit my lip and held back trying to be strong. But in that moment something broke, something tore deep inside me, I stared through the hole down into a hopeless and terrible darkness that I had not known before.

That was the day my little hope died.

We buried Saniyah a few days later. I recall staring at that little lifeless body, feeling helpless, overwhelmed and knowing that I did not have the faith to bring her back to life. I would have traded my own life to give Saniyah back to my friend.

The hole that stared back at me.

I stopped talking to members of my immediate family who did not attend the funeral. Before then I had been frustrated with a couple of my siblings who always seemed too busy when I called and now were too busy to honor the life of Saniyah.

It was not fair to them that they bore the brunt of my feelings (nor was it fair to the online community that I was a part of then) but I had a deep anger raging inside that could not be calmed. They became the more tangible enemy that I so desperately wanted.

And then there was the guilt. My friend had told me about Saniyah’s health issue and how the doctor seemed more interested in scamming the state than providing quality care. Why had I not intervened then and insisted that she see another physician?

I was not thinking rationally.

I was trying to stay one step ahead of a monster inside of me.

But I could not always run fast enough and in moments where I felt helpless, things that would only cause a healthy person a bit of concern, my gaze would turn inside and the nightmare would catch up to me.

I would look deep into that hole that had opened the night Saniyah died and a despair that I cannot begin to describe in words would envelop me. It is that thing of Lovecraftian horror, the words of Friedrich Nietzsche come to life, a terror that would leave me in pieces and sobbing.

My religion, largely an intellectual project, failed to provide me with good answers. I was, despite regular church attendance, an agnostic for all intents and purposes. My inability to protect those who I loved or prove my way to faith, along with a string of other failures to realize my dreams, left me hollow inside and feeling totally helpless.

The return of a new hope and purpose.

Tears still well up when I talk about Saniyah and the circumstances of her death. Life is never the same after an experience like that. But those episodes of helplessness and profound loss, of reliving that moment from the night she died, have gone away.

My anger subsided. My estranged relationships restored and mostly better than ever. My faith now built on foundation more substantial than the book knowledge that had been so woefully inadequate to save me. I have a bigger hope now than the little one based in my own efforts.

After years of struggle and questions too big for my own mind, I realized that the hope Saniyah represented still lives on. It is a hope built on trust on faith not of my own works and found in the sufficiency of God’s grace.

My temporary loss is heaven’s gain.