2022 Lent Stories: Renee
Each Sunday during Lent, different members of our congregation are sharing their stories of pain, suffering, and even death, and how they are finding hope in Christ through it all. Renee shared these words at our March 20, 2022 worship service.
I’m going to share three stories from this fall and winter, three tragedies that happened in dizzying proximity – proximity to me in both my work and home, proximity in location, and proximity of timing. Not much time has passed, so this may read like a raw stream of consciousness, ebbing between narrative and my grappling with grief and Christ in the midst.
. . .
I ran up the four flights of stairs to find you. Collapsed. Baby crying. Wide-eyed toddler. The pad lock on your door bent in at a 45 degree angle. “Did he hurt you? May I call an ambulance?” Moments earlier the fire alarm blared, directing my staff to exit. I step out and see shattered glass, turn a corner to check on others. Confusion, then dead stop as I recognize the figure hurling concrete chunk into storefront glass. Recognition and dread. Adrenaline stops time as I reverse all prior direction. Not a fire, shelter in place, I need to check on someone upstairs. Back to the present, baby in arms, medics with mom. Long hours stretch into evening, playing toddler games, limiting young trauma. Plywood goes up. Sweeping glass, the adrenaline fades, replaced by hot tears.
There was a sermon earlier that week about the place of singing within the church. John mentioned times we sing, including, strangely, when we feel sad. My pew mate and I rolled our eyes at each other, sing when we're sad? But as I lay in bed that night, my mind racing and replaying the trauma, I gave it a try. Worship music played through the dark. Each ordained lyric and my tears mingling to form a prayer.
The following days and weeks reveal the difficult and life-altering nature of getting back on one’s feet after living through intimate partner abuse. Courageous steps, advocacy, heartbreak, confession, horrifying court appearances, the body counting the score. A deep love develops in vulnerable sharing between her and I, holding presence in the grief and pain. At times, fear and anger intertwine with my own places of woundedness and threatened to choke me out. At other times, I’m overthrown by the guidance of the Holy Spirit through this.
It’s now a few days after Christmas, I’m leaving the warm hospitality of the Alexander’s home, and check my phone. It’s a work call, on my personal phone – not a good sign. The news is the worst possible outcome, where are you, can you get here now? Shock and anger. How could one life sustain so much trauma and pain? Dear God! Another long dark evening with medics and police, holding the baby, playing toddler games, limiting young trauma – their mother is dead. Covid and health complications, so sudden it’s cruel.
How am I doing? I’m… living through the grief bit by bit. I can’t go into detail, because trial is pending, but I’m wrestling with concepts of justice. Somehow, it helped that I had no faith in our court’s ability to bring justice. Christ ultimately is the changer of hearts, the healer of mental health, the arbiter of justice, and the caretaker of traumatized children. In my workplace we talk about expecting and accepting non-closure…but gosh, that’s too real this time.
. . .
A month later would be the one year anniversary of the end, for another couple I knew - the wife murdered by her husband. All over the news. How the system had failed her, though she filed numerous reports and pleas for protection. Hadn’t she been the warm face that welcomed me into a new church? Hadn’t he been the one who approached me in friendly conversation just 6 months prior, at our mutual friend’s wedding? The proximity and repetition of these traumas, a drum beat growing loud in my head. A friend moves in with us for 3 months, while exiting an abusive marriage. Wasn’t it my Healer’s words, “I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me” but also, “I was in prison and you came to visit me?” …No thank you.
. . .
Earlier this fall, a life was gunned down 500 feet away from me. On her front stoop. On the block where Rocky and Adrienne’s budding love was filmed. Her husband caught her as she collapsed back into their open front door. But I am in denial. Tomorrow I will admit that I know her name. I’ll admit that tomorrow, I was supposed to be at her front door. And I am not ok. Tomorrow, my coworker says God spoke to her in the night, said “Things aren’t over there. That block is my work now, you may rest.” It is a good word. A wise word. Because there have been 6 murders on that block in 2021 alone. My boss was cut off by the killers’ car just moments before, immediately sensing something was off by the look of pure fear in their eyes. Two young men, hired, caught. They say we lost three people that day, because their lives are over too. But the resurrection puts forth a counter argument - I think of another friend who spent 20 years behind bars. Also hired, caught, blood on his hands. But my Savior had already spoken for his life, and today he is a lover of Christ and is given a new life, with a daughter, and a wife.
. . .
The proximity of these tragedies takes a toll on mind body and soul. I don’t have 89 years like Clair does, of trusting the Lord. But I’m grateful for my 30 some. In 1st Timothy Paul admonishes his young disciple, to train his mind body and soul in godliness, much as an athlete trains for physical fitness. Romans tells us that suffering produces endurance, character, and ultimately hope. Am I courageous enough to enter into the pain, again and again? In my moments of grief, and years of excruciating loss, my lungs burn gasping for air, at times I fall out, collapsed in despair. But with repetitive exercise, my lungs and hope are growing in capacity. They feel stronger and more steady for the next attempt from the enemy, to steal kill and destroy. It’s God’s breath in my lungs, so I pour out my praise. I have to sing, or the depression will drown me out. I need my brothers and sisters. I need to see the blessings and hear your stories of redemption. For the darkness has much to say too. I don’t know how Christ will restore the things we’ve lost, but he promises that he will bring perfect justice and redeem all things.