Two Years Since Obadiah was Born and Died: More Thoughts on Grief
Today is the second birthday of my seventh child, Obadiah Malachi. It’s also the 2nd anniversary of his death. As I previously wrote, it was the most grievous day of my life.
The past two years have seemed to move in slow motion. Each day is a trial. Each day presses me in some way. What used to be easy is now hard. Some things that were once difficult are now much easier.
Infinity and Grief
I liken the pain to a concept like infinity. When you tell a child about the concept of infinity, they think it’s so cool. When they finally think they’ve grasped it, you taunt them with this: “I know a number bigger than infinity”. They look at you as if you have lost your mind. Didn’t you just spend two months helping them understand that infinity has no end? How then can there be a number bigger than infinity?
“Infinity plus one”, you say. And you watch them re-experience the entire mind-blowing concept of infinity. They thought they understood, but they realize all over again how amazingly big it is. Hopefully, as a Christian parent, you use such a concept to demonstrate the infinite power, wisdom, grace, love, and knowledge of God. Just when you think you know it, just when you think you’ve grasped it, God shows you differently.
Grief is a lot like infinity, too. As much pain as you go through, you realize that most people don’t understand it. Worse, you know that, somehow, others have gone through pain much worse, even though you can’t really conceive of it yourself.
So many parents have lost children, many of them older than newborns. As painful as it was to lose Obadiah, I somehow think it must be more painful to lose an older child - one in which you’ve begin to form a relationship with outside the womb - and yet, I can’t imagine a pain more intense than what I’ve experienced the past two years. It has to be out there, but I hope to never discover it.
And that’s what I try to remember when others are insensitive, seemingly uncaring, or just unresponsive. They can only know grief as strong as they’ve experienced. And maybe, they can only understand grief that is the type of grief they have gone through. They can’t know, even though they think they do know.
It’s hard to remember that at times. You want to reach out and strangle some people. You want to punch them right in the nose. Undoubtedly, I’d be forgiven for doing so in some people’s cases. But you just have to thank the Lord for the children that He has chosen to keep in your care and stead. You have to think of them - constantly. You have to think of your wife - constantly. And you have to forget about those hurtful people.
Because just like that concept of infinity, I can’t imagine, even to this day, the grief my wife experiences on a daily basis. She held Obadiah in her womb for nine months. She gave a full and natural birth to him. She had no idea that Obadiah had died about two hours before he was born. So, as much grief as I have felt, I somehow know she has had more. How much more? I can’t know. And she can’t explain. Not in a way I could understand. It’s just the way grief works, it seems.
Imagining Grief
Three years before Obadiah died, one of my best friends, Eric Olson and his wife, Elaine, lost a child (Micah) that was about two months old - also in May. With them having moved to Nebraska, all I could offer was a heartfelt condolence. I felt helpless and sick about it. But I had no idea what he was going through. How could I? I couldn’t imagine. People say that all the time: “I can’t imagine”. It’s very true. The mistake then is to try and imagine and act accordingly. Or speak accordingly.
If you can’t imagine…
You can close your eyes and listen to the sea, you can feel the Holy rhythm. It says ‘Great is the Lord and Greatly to be praised, for the mercy He has given. He’s still giving. It’s the same old song and dance. (Andrew Peterson, Song and Dance)
My toughest moment was when I was alone in the hospital with Obadiah. The nurses took me to him and his little beaten and blue body was just lying there on a small hospital bed. Even though I knew he was dead a few minutes after he was born and would not be waking up, the hospital worked on him for nearly two hours. It amazed me. The doctor came and told me that they try everything on infants - even some unproven stuff - which they wouldn’t do on elderly folks whose “time had come”. Of course, Obadiah’s time had come just as rightly as an old person’s time, but I understood his words.
So when I finally got to see him, he had been worked on for so long he looked a bit worked over. But when you stand there and see your child, who looks so much like your other children, just lying there, breathless, with an air tube still in his throat, the entire world you live in becomes some place entirely different. Entire parts of your brain split off, your soul is shattered, and everything turns upside down. And everything comes into focus at the same time that your mind is completely unable to handle it. You will never be more alone and helpless than in that moment.
And you will not wish such a crushing moment on any person - even the worst person in the world. Not Hitler. Not Osama Bin Laden. No one.
I so wish Obadiah were here with me. It seems selfish perhaps, because I know he’s in a much better place. I fully know that God took him early for a purpose, for something good. It doesn’t ease the pain much to think about that, but it’s true. But as David said after his son died, “He won’t return to me. I will go to him.” (My friend Dietrich Browne was wise enough to include that in the song that he wrote after Obadiah’s death - “Obadiah’s Victory“).
Easy and Hard
In the weeks and months that followed, I was changed. Forever. For better or worse. I wasn’t myself, but maybe that was a good thing. Some people didn’t like it. A few understood. I slowly picked myself up and tried to go through the motions of “normalcy”. It seemed like what you were supposed to do. Some books also suggested it. Maybe it works for some folks. It didn’t really for me.
As I said earlier, some things are easier. And some are much, much harder. So that you can understand if you know someone going through something like this, I thought I’d share a bit about my thoughts on how things have changed.
What has become harder?
- Investing time and energy into things without lasting value
- Being around large groups of people just being social (goofing off)
- Fully worshiping God
- Tolerating dissent and discord among Christians
- Being patient toward those who make their living killing children (Abortion Industry) - more on this in a later post
- Listening to those who justify their divorces (weird, I know, but it’s true) - more on this in a later post
- Being a good father and a good husband
- Suffering fools lightly
I’m not saying that these are impossible. Just harder. Some of them are harder just because I probably wasn’t trying as hard before. And now I do. Or I want to.
And some stuff was always hard for me, but it seems almost insurmountable nowadays.
What has become easier?
- Walking away from wasteful relationships
- Appreciating my children every moment of the day - even when they are testing me
- Feeling love toward other’s children, even when their parents are dolts and have raised them to be rebellious punks
- Spending time and money listening to great music that lifts my spirit
- Focusing inward on my family, and less outwardly on the rest of the world
- Reminding folks about Christ, whether they like it or not
- Trying to live a more righteous life
- Telling folks to have children (I’ve always done this, but now I get serious about it)
- Not worrying about other people’s concerns as much
Some of these may seem a bit in contrast with the Harder list. Maybe so. It doesn’t have to make sense. It just is. These are just the patterns I’ve seen in myself. My wife has gone through her own things. Some of it very different. Some of it similar.
Some Words of Advice
If you know someone who has gone through a serious loss in their family, especially a child or a spouse, avoid the following behaviors. I experienced them all. Each was very hurtful to me and my wife.
To those who don’t know me, let me state that I’m traditionally as hard as a rock. I’m the shoulders on which giants stand (so to speak). I’m not an emotional person by nature. I stand firm when others falter. I say that not to boost myself up (my weaknesses are numerous too!), but to help you understand that I’m hardly the kind of person that is hyper-sensitive to mild provocations. If this stuff bothered me, you can bet it bothers others. They may not say much about it, but they feel it.
1. Don’t make Empty Promises. If you offer to help the family in some way, do it. Do it without intrusion as much as possible. Don’t make a big deal of it, or expect a huge handshake and a hearty welcome. Just do it - quietly and without fanfare. But do it. If you offer your service, but then never do it, you would have been better off had you never offered anything.
2. Make a Major Effort to Reach Out. The funeral would be a good illustration of the contrast between what a “major effort” is versus “no effort”. I had friends show up and make a huge effort - people who I hadn’t spent a lot of time with in my life. Some who weren’t even members of my church. One lady contacted us who had experienced a similar thing (who we never knew) and came to our funeral - just to support my wife. One of my friends drove from several hours away and was the first on scene to help get things organized. One sweet friend played some opening and closing music on her guitar (thank you, Nancy!) with no advance notice or ever being asked. Our florist, Brevard Florist, refused to let us pay for the flowers. There were many other examples of this kind of thing. We had people come who were merely acquaintances, or friends of friends.
At the same time, we had some other things happen. A few folks showed up late. My own pastor at the time never bothered to even say a word to or acknowledge my wife during the funeral or the reception afterward which hurt her deeply. I didn’t find out about until later. That was instrumental in our decision to later leave that church. Worse, I had close friends who never showed up or sent word. Some had a flimsy excuse (child’s baseball game).
Everyone’s different, I understand. But understand that your friendship can hinge upon your actions during a time like that. What you do or don’t do sends a very powerful message. Although we’ve forgiven, we aren’t God. It’s hard to forget.
3. Be sensitive. You think it would go without saying, but I was shocked by the indifference that some demonstrated over the coming weeks and months. A few cases stand out. I received an email from a fairly close friend that said “Gee, that’s too bad.” That was the entire email. It was as if I had told him about a recent loss of the Miami Dolphins, not the death of my son. I had several close friends and family suggest, at various intervals, that we needed to “get over it”, “move on”, “pick ourselves up”, or words to that effect. My advice here is simple and very Thumper-like, if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all. That means, shut up. Go away. Your absence of condolences will be more easily forgotten than hurtful and misguided attempts to comfort.
4. Be normal. I lost all perspective of what normal was. I probably still have to some degree. The last thing is I need is for my friends to be abnormal. In other words, even though it may be awkward, when you do make contact with someone who has recently been in a loss, acknowledge it and be sensitive (as above), but speak normally about normal things. I have a great appreciation for my friend Matt who invited me to his Catholic wedding the month after Obadiah died. Having never been to a Catholic wedding, and feeling sure I didn’t need to be in a group of people so shortly after what happened, I called him to let him know I didn’t think we could go. He was extremely gracious and spent an hour on the phone walking me through the various Catholic ups and downs (literally) and talking just as we might normally. Not cavalier or brash, but humorous and positive. He made it clear that he understood, but that he truly wished my presence there - despite it being a large wedding. With so many others either prancing about on tip-toes, or being insensitive, it was very helpful to just get back into the business of life. That was a hard wedding to go to, but it was instrumental in helping me to get out of the house. Maybe he knew that, maybe he didn’t. But he was normal with me - and that was what I needed to be around.
5. Don’t remind with little quips. How often we heard “God is still on His throne”, “God has a reason for taking Obadiah”, or worst of all, “Time heals all wounds”. Yeah. We get that. We aren’t dumb. All those thoughts hit my head within minutes of realizing that Obadiah was dead and with the Lord. Knowing it in your head and getting it into your heart takes a lot of time, grief, tears, prayer, and actions that you can’t do for someone else. It doesn’t take little Hallmark lines.
Better to be silent. Just hug. Or just say “I’m sorry”. That’s enough. That’s all we could even absorb. We weren’t ready for other’s captivating thoughts about what they thought, much less heady theological discussions.
I can’t speak for every couple that has experienced such loss, but for me, I later realized how I reacted to people. I would have a little conversation with them. If I liked the first thing they said, I would ask something else. If I liked that, too. I would ask a little more. Very anti-social. Very baby-like. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I think I couldn’t deal with anything but the most comprehensive and wise understanding of a few close friends. Since most people don’t have that gift, it’s probably best that others just didn’t say anything.
But there’s always the few that think they have some captivating word of wisdom that’s going to put me in a pre-May 21, 2006 state. No. It won’t ever happen. At this point, I can laugh inwardly at such novel expressions of trite sentiments. But at the time, it was very trying and exhausting. My advice for others is that, unless you know you have something absolutely amazing to say, something that would shock the world with its profound and keen insight, something that could get you a book deal, then it’s probably best if you say very little at all for the first few weeks. Maybe even months. Possibly forever.
Summary
I have great hope for the future. I am a very positive person overall. But that future looks so very different from what it used to in my mind.
In the two years that have followed, I think about how Obadiah is up in heaven enjoying the presence of the Lord. And we’re still stuck here on earth. Sure, I get excited about new technologies, web applications, football season, and other stuff. I love being with my children and watching them grow. I love teaching them about everything that parents should.
Yet, life is short. So very short. Death hangs over me like a cloud. I’m ready to go and fully accept it. I hope it doesn’t happen soon. I want to see my children grow into fathers themselves. I want to see their grandchildren. I want to travel around the country with my wife in a rusty motorhome. Maybe Canada, too. If we haven’t invaded it yet and made it part of the United States by then.
Friends were a big change. My friend list literally flipped over and turned itself inside out. I’ve met some new good friends who I didn’t really know well (or at all before). Some of my old “good friends” are pretty much long gone. And some friends stayed through it all - or became even better friends. I can’t explain it anymore than I’ve already done here. But I’m okay with it. Life is too short too spend on some people. Doesn’t mean I don’t care about them. But I just care about my time with other people more. My family. The other better friends. Even the friends I’ve yet to meet.
I’m going to end, on what else?, a song by Andrew Peterson. Honestly, if you are a Christian, you need to listen to AP. Especially if you ever liked Rich Mullins. I promise you won’t regret the money spent. This song pretty much sums up the past two years for me.
No More Faith, Andrew Peterson, from “Clear to Venus”
This is not another song about the mountains
Except about how hard they are to move
Have you ever stood before them
Like a mustard seed who’s waiting for some proof?
I say faith is a burden
It’s a weight to bear
It’s brave and bittersweet
And hope is hard to hold to
Lord, I believe
Only help my unbelief
Till there’s no more faith
No more hope
I’ll see your face and Lord, I’ll know
That only love remains
Have you heard it said that Jesus is the answer
And thought about the many doubts you hide
Have you wondered how he loves you
If He really knows how dark you are inside
I say faith is a burden
It’s a weight to bear
It’s brave and bittersweet
And hope is hard to hold to
Lord, I believe
Only help my unbelief
Till there’s no more faith
No more hope
I’ll see your face and Lord, I’ll know
When there’s no more faith
And no more hope
I’ll sing your praise and let them go
’cause only love
Only love remains
So I will drive these roads in thunder and in rain
And I will sing your song at the top of my lungs
And I will praise you, Lord, in glory and in pain
And I will follow you till this race is won
And I will drive these roads till this motor won’t run
And I will sing your song from sea to shining sea
And I will praise you Lord, till your kingdom comes
And I will follow where you lead
Till there’s no more faith
No more hope
I’ll see your face and Lord, I’ll know
When there’s no more faith
And no more hope
I’ll sing your praise and let them go
’cause only love
Only love remains
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Wow.
Thank you for putting your heart on the line and righting this. I appreciate your thoughts on how to help those who are grieving.
Much love, SJA