My friend Robin C. has a new name for her blog: Beautiful and Terrible. You may know Robin from her Metanoia or Gannet Girl blogs. She is a gifted writer, a pastor, wife and mother. Two of her children are here; one is in heaven.
The title of her blog comes from this quote:
“Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.” ~ Frederick Buechner, Beyond Words: Daily Readings in the ABC’s of Faith
This intersection of beautiful and terrible is where I find myself right now.
“Don’t be afraid” is not always as easy as those three words sound.
Looking at the photos of David standing on the pontoon of that helicopter in Switzerland, looking down thousands of feet – knowing that he had a parachute and was strapped to a professional skydiver, but that accidents can happen – brought back the fear of 2006-7, when Katie was in the hospital, being treated for cancer. Post-traumatic stress reared its head; I felt the vertigo.
I found the photos of his helicopter ride – and the jump – both beautiful and terrible. The natural splendor of the region, the snow, the blue sky at dusk, the raw emotions of anticipation, fear, exhilaration and joy on my son’s face – these are beautiful. The fact that he could have died, that a mishap might have occurred, that the risk was unnecessary, that I felt once again the fear that my child could die, – this is terrible.
I am glad that David is not living in the shadow of fear. I am grateful for his zest and passion for life; glad, for his sake, that he had this experience. For my own sake, I wish that he would never take such a risk again.
We found out about his skydiving after the fact, and he apologized in case it had caused me grief. I told him, My fear is not your responsibility. But I tell you, it is sometimes hard to bear. I have a case of the “after-nerves,” though I still can’t seem to stop looking at the photographs.
With the beauties of the Christmas-Hannukah-New Year season upon us, I feel the energy behind the preparations. I read the Advent scriptures, and I try to muster some anticipation. But I am falling back this year, back into 2006, when we were living in Ronald McDonald House with a very sick, frail and miserable Katie.
I can feel the fear, the anxiety, the discomfort, the homesickness, the longing for our family traditions. I remember making decorations for our room: a wreath and two artificial trees for the children. I remember the kindness of the carolers who arrived to sing for us, the cookies and cider, the Christmas-night feast laid out by generous volunteers, who could have been at home with their own families, but chose instead to share in our “not-at-home” Christmas festivities.
There are parallels which can be drawn between that time in our lives, and the journey of Mary and Joseph to the little stable behind the inn where Jesus was born. We were lovingly provided for: lodging, food, medical care, kindness, friendship, prayer. I could make a beautiful story out of these elements, drawing out the parallels, and perhaps, someday, I will.
Today, however, I am missing my daughter, wishing that she were here to share in decorating our home, baking cookies, wrapping gifts, dressing up, hosting and guesting with us. Today, I feel the emotions of longing, homesickness, grief for what was and will never be again.
I tell myself, Do not ruin the holiday with sadness. Do not waste it with ingratitude. Do not dwell on what you do not – and cannot – have. Think of others, less fortunate than you. Do something for them. But the pain in the pit of my stomach, the sense of being ill at ease, remains.
It has been six years since we spent Christmas at Ronald McDonald House, yet my emotions are as raw and painful as if it was last year.
Advent may be just what I need…if I will only open to it, rather than clinging to my sadness. “Be not afraid,” he said…and he said it often.
Heavenly Father, help me to open my broken, traumatised heart to Your love, to Your son’s coming again. Come, Lord Jesus.