river

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.

Broken Records: The Choice To Be Healed

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Adam is a friend of mine.  We have gone out to eat on multiple occasions since being introduced.  He’s a bit eccentric, he carries a notebook everywhere, has humor that doesn’t quite hit the mark, spiritual rather than religious, dresses a little like an old-school hippie and is sort of alt-right conspiracy-minded. 

Adam is also depressed and a broken record.  Time and time again he goes back to his relationship with his father and wants some sort of validation that he never does receive.  His father, his opposite politically, left when he was a child, seems to have some mental issues of his own and can be very degrading when things don’t go his way.  It is quite evident that the sins of the father have visited upon the son.

I have urged Adam to move on, told him that his biological father will never give him what he so desperately wants, and have suggested that he do as I have done when let down.  Namely, I have told him to come to Holy Cross.  The Orthodox have fatherly figures who represent the Heavenly Father for the fatherless. 

Unfortunately, Adam, despite his desperation, is stuck on doing things his own way.  From the first time we met until now there is a wall of resistance that goes up against Christian religion and even what seems like an inability to understand simple explanations.  For example, I used the illustration of Naaman having to dip in the river Jordan to be healed, thought I had explained well, and got nothing but a blank look of his being genuinely perplexed.

There’s truly not much hope for Adam until he is able to let go of his disappointments and hope of some sort of resolution on his own terms.  And, quite frankly, even if his dad would miraculously transform into the father he envisions as ideal, that would not fix what broken in Adam.  He will try drugs, he asks for my “fellowship” with him, but absolutely refuses to dip in those healing waters of the Church.

It’s sad because his repeatedly going back to this makes me feel as if I’m wasting time on a lost cause.  I mean, it’s hard not to do that inner “here we go again” eye roll when there seems to be no progress.  And it does certainly work on my patience too.  But there’s one big reason why I do not write him off entirely.  What is that reason?  Well, maybe because I’m not all that different from him.
 
My Own Skipping Record

In the days of vinyl records there was nothing more annoying than the skip.  It was what happened when the record had been mishandled and the surface grooves scratched.  The needle would travel down the groove, reach the scratched area, and jump back into the prior groove.  The result is that the music abruptly stops and makes an unpleasant transition over and over again.

Being stuck in a rut is not fun.  Ending up in the same place no matter how hard you try will exhaust the strongest person.  Worse, when others try to help pull a mired soul out, and the stuck person goes sideways rather than forward, many will leave concluding that they do not want to be helped.  And sometimes that is indeed the case.  Some do enjoy the pity party attention and are simply a drain of resources that could be used for those who truly want out.

Those who have read my blogs over the past few years have probably started (long ago) to wonder if any progress has been truly made.  And, believe me, some days I do wonder myself as I give a slightly different angle on the same themes over and over again.  I mean, you get it.  I had some really big expectations and ended up really disappointed at the end.  So move on already, right?

And the truth is, I have in many regards.  I’m not the same person as I was a year ago.  I have gained confidence, continue to attend to my responsibilities, and the feelings of loss grow less intense with each repeat cycle.  That said, the recent setbacks, the physical pain, along with the unresolved situation with Charlotte, can very quickly lead to that spiral back into those past hurts.  There was no real resolution or closure there, to survive I simply pivoted to new hopes.   

Completing the transition, out of the wilderness of broken glass to my new promised land, means seeing a fulfilment of the impossibly.  That means Charlotte being here.  Until that moment when we meet in the airport terminal, her safely on US soil, there will be that cloud of uncertainty hanging over me.  It does cause me to skip at times, to go back to those feelings of helplessness and worries that my hopes are still entirely delusion.

I choose to believe. But not because it is easy to believe.

As the man with the sick son who came to Jesus, “I believe; help my unbelief!”

Do You Want To Be Healed?

A year or two ago, this was the text for the Homily one Sunday morning:

One who was there had been an invalid for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there and learned that he had been in this condition for a long time, he asked him, “Do you want to get well?” “Sir,” the invalid replied, “I have no one to help me into the pool when the water is stirred. While I am trying to get in, someone else goes down ahead of me.” Then Jesus said to him, “Get up! Pick up your mat and walk.”

(John 5:5‭-‬8 NIV)

It really struck me, more than ever before while hearing this passage, that Jesus asks the man if he wants to be healed.  Imagine that, a man, waiting for nearly forty years, nobody helping this unfortunate man into this healing pool.  He, like Adam, like myself before the pursuit of the impossibly, had been waiting on rescue by the means that he could understand.  His days must’ve passed an increasing nightmare of his own paralysis and being surrounded by other hurting people more concerned with their own needs.

Jesus asks, almost as if knowing the man’s will to be healed is permission.  And the incredible part?  After hearing the man’s complaint about no help, simply commands him “get up” and the man does.  His faith set him free.

That in contrast with this:

Jesus left there and went to his hometown, accompanied by his disciples. When the Sabbath came, he began to teach in the synagogue, and many who heard him were amazed. “Where did this man get these things?” they asked. “What’s this wisdom that has been given him? What are these remarkable miracles he is performing? Isn’t this the carpenter? Isn’t this Mary’s son and the brother of James, Joseph, Judas and Simon? Aren’t his sisters here with us?” And they took offense at him. Jesus said to them, “A prophet is not without honor except in his own town, among his relatives and in his own home.” He could not do any miracles there, except lay his hands on a few sick people and heal them.

(Mark 6:1‭-‬5 NIV)

The disbelief of those who knew Jesus as merely a man, the carpenters son, limited what he was able to do.  Spiritual healing is, and has always been, a matter of our own choice.  So many of us insist on doing things our own way, we refuse to dip in our muddy Jordan rivers because of pride, we wait on rescue believing that our salvation comes from other people, yet all we need is to look up in faith and then healing is possible.

No, this does not mean we will be spared physical ailment or live forever in our current form.  Even Lazarus, raised from the dead, passed from this life.  But we can be made spiritually whole.  That is why I keep writing, maybe I sound like a broken record, maybe this is too much for many people who stopped reading this blog long ago, still I write so that my most faithful friends may someday also share in my joy having known of my sorrows.