A Foot in Two Worlds

On Saturday, June 18, 2005, Gabe’s best friend, Russell, came to our door with the news: Gabe had collapsed while out fishing, and he had no pulse. I have relived that moment in its most dramatic and dreadful detail a million times, often in the dark of night. In exactly two weeks we were to celebrate our daughter’s wedding. What was to be a joyful family time had suddenly become a savage heartbreak. I could not process or believe the injustice of it all. June 18th was my entrance into a lifetime storm, and my invitation to understand what made no sense. Even now I can barely speak of it. This storm became a dull ache that haunts my life day and night. It has divided me. My existence suddenly has become a hybrid of two parts, even two lives: the before and the after. The before remains a sacred and joyful memory; the after becomes a painful and heartrending reality. Gabe was the eldest of our three children, and he was more a man than a boy at the time of his death. But he will always be my boy. Born September 8, 1975, Gabe was four years older than his sister Valerie and eight years older than Tiffany. They were the textbook trio, and my house was happy and full. I couldn’t say one of their names without saying all three. Gabe, Val, and Tiff flowed like one name to me. I felt like the most blessed man on earth. My family seemed perfect. When Gabe was born, like many young dads, I was overcome by the miracle. While driving home from the hospital, I had to pull my car over onto the shoulder. My eyes were full of tears. On the day Gabe was born, I wept with thanks for the gift of a son. And on the day he died, I wept with sorrow—great sorrow. And I would weep for years. First Steps after Loss People treat you differently after losing a child. No one knows how to respond or what to say. So they often do neither. It made me feel shunned. Likewise, I marveled at how others used my storm to measure me: Will he be able to get back to work? Will they divorce? Will he be the same old Vince? Will he still go fishing? Will he still be my friend? Meanwhile, I was wondering simply how to breathe again, how to live, how to hope, how to believe, how to function, and how to continue. That is precisely the reason I invest myself in writing this book. Many good souls endure terrible storms, and they, too, must find ways to breathe again, to live again, to hope again, to believe again, and to continue. It is for those who have been invaded by life’s winds and waves that I humbly submit my story, and my experience. This story is also for those who love and support the bereaved, trying to understand. They are much needed. Each person, ultimately, must weave and dodge storm clouds—with many left feeling the full brunt of the tempest, some more tragically than others. And when the winds and rains have accomplished their untimely crime, they leave. In their wake the rubble remains to be sorted out by grief and time. Like Christian perfection, grief never arrives; rather it becomes a learning process. We each must ultimately learn to live with loss, for life and loss are part and parcel of this earth. We are all vulnerable. No one spends life in a storm shelter—nor would most choose to (as if we had that God-like choice). I have always been a person of faith. I grew up in the church and now I lead one as its pastor. I have always lived with the concrete sense that there was a right and a wrong, a good and a bad, and an up and a down to this world. I believe life has a sense of purpose and cycle to it; found somewhere between God’s supreme design and our self-made reality. And I have believed the universe has an intended order involved, like that of a honeycomb or a microchip. These things I have held are of God. Likewise, the scriptures have long intrigued me, not in such a way that made me question, but in the way that something gives one pause. I have tried to live my life by them. Their stories have become my stories and their lessons my lessons—all of this, of course, before the storm of June 18, 2005. After the storm passed, spiritual matters became hard for me. My faith seemed awash. My spirituality suddenly became packaged up with so much mystery, question, and emotion that I felt it better left alone. For someone who pastors a church, this became a significant dilemma. I didn’t feel myself capable of the critical thought necessary to formulate a sermon, a bible study, or even a conversation. My District Superintendent at the time informed me that one well-intentioned member in my parish thought I should just swallow the lump in my throat and jump back in the pulpit. For a moment I hated that person. But I know that he just didn’t know, he couldn’t know. I minister with my heart. I preach with my heart. I counsel with my heart. I lead with my heart. I teach with my heart. I love with my heart. And as my daughter reminded me, my heart wasn’t working. It had been broken. It had been crushed. In an effort to educate both myself and those who seek to comfort people in grief, I compiled a little list of ideas. It was a list of tips for those whose circle of friends and family included bereaved parents. However, it seems these apply to any family loss. Even in the center of that swirling debris of loss and grief, I knew I really wasn’t despising my consolers. I thanked God for them. It was more that I was so desperately vulnerable that any misplaced word bit with venom. You don’t get a rulebook when your children are born, and neither is there one should they die. I tried to fix that, even though parental grief protocol was difficult to nail down. Nevertheless, with some risk involved, I offered to my churches, my friends, and my family, these suggestions: • Do not avoid a family because you feel helpless in the light of a tragic loss. They will benefit long term from whatever support and understanding you give. Offer to do practical things like mowing the yard, washing the car, running errands, providing childcare. Do not just say, “Call me if you need anything.” • Mention the name of the one who has died. The bereaved long to hear the name of their loved one mentioned again. Don’t fear it will only lead to further pain. The opposite is often true. Share your stories and memories of your time with them. • Please avoid pretentious sayings or religious platitudes like, “I know how you feel,” or “everything happens for a reason.” These will seem presumptuous and will likely undo any good or comfort your visit has brought. • Learn how to simply say, “I’m so sorry.” There are no magic words in moments like these and you don’t need to feel compelled to find some. This kind of pain is not appeased by what you say. A hug, a touch, and a simple “I’m so sorry,” will do. Don’t be afraid to cry with them. • Become a good listener. This means not responding every time a thought comes to your mind. The bereaved will need people who will just listen and to whom they can unload their thoughts. Your ability to receive their words will be more cathartic than your desire to speak. Just being there is sometimes the best comfort. Don’t be afraid to ask if they want you to stay. • Do not judge them. Bereaved people will say and do many irrational things. Mood swings are normal. They may even say cruel things about you or your family. Anger and bitterness can be the norm. Intense sadness may prevail. Regardless, your gift is your presence, not your judgment. Bereaved parents do not “get over” the death of their children nor “snap out of it,” as the outside world often seems to think they can and should do.