Loss

This week, two families in my circle of friends experienced loss through death. One family said goodbye to a mother. Her death was long, slow, and often painful for her family, and at times for her. Alzheimer’s had taken over years ago and had turned her into a truly horrible person. And then gradually the disease loosened its grip on her personality; she wasn’t lucid, but she was loving, and when she finally slipped into the arms of God, she and her family were at peace, and the love remained.

Another family said goodbye to a teenager. The boy had been born with muscular dystrophy, and had never lived a moment when his body wasn’t trapped by the disease.  Yet he was a remarkable kid with a remarkable attitude. He dedicated time to helping others and held no bitterness about his broken body. He loved his life and his family, and made a difference during his sixteen years. And then suddenly, unexpectedly, he was gone: he took his last breath in this world and was released from his pain forever.  

Suffering and loss are universal in the human experience. I know that the world isn’t fair, but I don’t know why it isn’t fair. The randomness of pain, the infliction of bad things on truly good people: there should be a better system. It seems to me that a God who can create the Amazon ecosystem and our remarkable brains and so many amazing things could come up with a better plan.  

Theologians point to Adam and Eve and the serpent and the fruit and free will—and I say, “Really? These families should suffer because of a slice of papaya at the dawn of time?” This week, that is not a satisfactory explanation.  

Yes, often we grow and learn and develop deeper faith through pain. I’m not sure the gain is worth the price. And I’m not sure who is supposed to be doing the learning here. I am always frustrated by the story of Job. God allows Satan to test Job by killing his children. The children are like props in this story, which is a crazy way to view people. Job’s wife surely also suffers from this loss, but she’s a throw-away character; in fact, she is harshly judged by history for her lack of faith.

And in the end, the Book of Job provides no answers to Job, or to us. We are allowed to ask the questions, but we should expect no answers, at least not yet. God is who he is, and he does as he does. He’s got control, even when we don’t see it, and he has a plan, even if it is not obvious to us.

I envision heaven as a place where this will all make sense, or maybe as a time when our earthly questions will no longer matter. But in the here-and-now I accept that it is not my task to understand or explain the ways of God. It’s my job to walk with those in pain, to pray for them and with them.  That is all that I can offer, and although it does not feel like nearly enough, it’s all that God requires.