Julie's post entitled "fragile" really resonates with me. While the tragedies of my spring and summer have been mostly at arms length, the suffering of those I know has been unrelenting. When I can no longer count the tragedies on both hands, it feels overwhelming. Sometimes the hurricane is on the gulf coast, sometimes it's in a hospital ward of a loved one. In either case my well wishing and prayers always seems far too powerless. (The rest of this is a bit long and rambly, you might just want to skip it.)
Exposure, even at arms length, to so much suffering has left me feeling more than a little empty. When I am feeling empty with nothing substantive to offer others, I hear the words of a friend echoing from my past. "It's a gift, Tim." I hated those words when I heard them the first time. It didn't want the gift then; I don't want the gift now. Where is the "gift return" counter? I still feel a little angry when I think about those words.
How is pain and suffering a gift? I'm still working that one out. Sometimes I think that phrase is just one of those mysterious things that people who are pretending to be a guru say when they don't know what else to say.
I suppose that people who have lived through suffering and tragedy are often more keenly sensitive to others later on. They seem to take the time to come along side people in the middle of crisis and find ways to care. It is still a "gift" no one puts on their personal amazon "wish list".
In other cases, people who live through difficulty gain perspective that allows them to more accurately know what is important in life. I suppose that is a gift of sorts.
The supposed benefits of rotten gifts aside, I often find myself looking for God in the face of suffering. Why do I do this? This is a tough question for me. I suppose the easy answer is that I was socialized to react in that fashion. If I am feeling cheeky, I think it's an inherited genetic brain defect. The more complex, less flip answer is that I want something bigger than me to be able to fix the suffering or at the very least explain it to me. Admitting that out loud makes me feel like a sucker. "What are the odds Tim? Why would God start caring now." That's what I hear in my mind.
In Kite Runner, which I just finished reading, there is this desperate hospital scene. The main character who is not religious is helpless with a young child who is near death.
"This is the real house of God, this is where those who have lost God will find Him, not the white masjid with it's bright diamond lights and towering minarets. There is a God, there has to be, and now I will pray ... "
Like the main character in Kite Runner, when I have nothing to offer and come face to face with my own emptieness and my own inability to fix things, I want to believe in God too. Mind you, I don't want the God I grew up with; I want something better. Sometimes you have to play the powerball; maybe it's better to believe in something that is somewhat doubtful at times than live with the nothingness of my own inability to respond to tragedy.
