A Father’s Grief Observed
Thomas V. Chan
Today
is a particularly dreary and windy Sunday in April.
Listening
to the hauntingly beautiful music our eldest son composed while driving home from
an awesome worship service in which our God is exhorted as the risen Lord who
wants to come in and reconstruct our broken lives - mine, in particular - I
felt led to reconnect in a tangible way with our 25-year-old son, Mikael, who took
his life two-and-a-half years ago. I drove to the park where an oak tree was planted
in honour of his memory and then the plot where his ashes are buried.
The
oak tree still looks bare, scrawny, and dead as if it has not grown an inch
since we planted it soon after Mikael died. I immediately drew a parallel between
that young, slow-growing oak and the enormity of my grief which continues to be
raw, fresh, young-in-age, and hopelessly pitifully.
Since
our tragic loss, there has not been a day when I stopped thinking about our son
and lamenting his untimely death. Since the day Mikael left this world, the sun
hasn’t shone for me. I have lost my joy and passion in most things I once enjoyed.
I merely exist in a monochromatic sepia world drained of all living colour. I
find the present difficult to bear and fear what other pain the future might bring.
I am changed. I am no longer who I was. This persistent self-diagnosis
frightens me.
I
had a close relationship with Mikael, as I do with our other three sons, but,
Mikael tugged at my heart in a special way. Debbie, my wife, and I became
shockingly aware of the severity of Mikael’s mental illness after his first
failed attempt at his own life a year before. He was admitted into a psych ward
for several weeks while we made arrangements to move him back home with us upon
release from hospital.
During
the months before his death, Mikael and I did many things together. We went on
a canoe and hiking trip in Whiteshell Provincial Park. On school days, I
offered him rides to the university before going to work. We talked. He
confided in me about his spiritual struggle as he walked through “the dark
night of his soul”. I encouraged him to take life’s struggle one day at a time.
On hot summer days, our neighbours would see the pair of us sitting on the
front lawn, reading and enjoying a cold drink between us.
The
slide shows in my mind remain as precious memories of my son, whom I miss so
desperately each day. These happy remembrances, ironically, grieve me deeply,
but not as deeply as a life-time of regret that I chose to pour my time,
attention, and energy, during the children’s formative years, into my work,
instead of into my family.
Yes.
Many regrets! Yet many happy memories!
I
wonder if my life, at its conclusion, will be reduced to unzipped mental
images, many of which are fading fast in fidelity, colour, and pixels.
My
wrestle with God as to why Mikael died continues daily. My wrestling and
hoarse-sounding laments are, ultimately, my own deep-seated struggle with my
own faith in a loving Father-Creator-Redeemer-God.
One
day shortly after Mikael’s passing, I persisted with my daily questioning of God:
“Lord, where is my son?” To which both
God and Mikael responded in unequivocal black-and-white as I read 1
Thessalonians 4:13-17 where Paul shares his belief about those who die in the
Lord. I was reading from Mikael’s Bible, and in his inimitable tiny
hand-writing, Mikael wrote beside the verses in the margin: “The dead will
precede the living in getting to heaven.”
Cool! Very cool!
As
I read and re-read the laments I have written about our son, I noticed the
tentative rising of a resounding hope out
of the ashes in a particular one.
In the midst of my loss
Unimaginable pain
Unfathomable grief
I behold your radiant countenance
Smiling broadly into His.
I smile and shudder
To ever doubt that
His grace is more than enough
For here, now, and eternity.
Is
that not sufficient for me for now in this pilgrim’s progress?
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