On Wednesday night, I had the privilege of being the soloist for the Faure Requiem with Pierce College Choirs and Northwest Sinfonietta. The Faure was a great success and it was a lot of fun to sing but the program also was a personally moving experience. The theme of the program was death and loss, which sounded like an odd choice for a spring concert, but it was some of the best programming choices I've heard in awhile. It was clearly a personal experience for the conductor and as a result my mind evaluated the losses I've sustained in my life and what those losses mean for me.
My first acquaintance with death was at age 15 with the sudden death of my grandfather in a plane crash. Papa was a perfect man in my mind. He had promised to teach me to fly when I turned 16 and some of my fondest memories are fishing with him. There were no funeral services so the next day I continued with plans to go to Girl Scout camp where I was working as an aide to a disabled camper. I had a few hours of free time the next day and vividly remember my experience praying in the forest alone. I don't think I had ever cried so hard and yet had such a peaceful feeling. Suddenly, everything that I had been taught all my life about our Heavenly Father's plan for happiness made sense to me. I knew that I wanted to live my life in a way that would allow me to see my Papa again. Since that time, I've also experienced the deaths of my other grandfather, a dear friend, and my father. Each has brought deep feelings of sadness as well as a confirmation of that lesson learned at 15 to live my life fully and valiantly so that we could be reunited again.
But even as I had this confidence that we could be together forever, I also have had great fears of being alone. When I was a young mother at age 25, my husband had his first serious brush with death. Within the space of that year, he had at least 10 close calls. It rocked me to my core and I was terrified. I was young and still figuring out who I was and had two little children who needed me to stay strong. I met several widows during this time and seeing them actually scared me more. I didn't think I was strong enough to survive.
Now fourteen years later, my husband miraculously is still with us. He continues to take his journey precariously close to the brink of death on occasion but most of the time now remains predictably stable. I like predictable and stable. I've learned that I can do hard things, especially when they are predictable and stable. I now know much better who I am and am not as terrified about how I would survive if and when he is called home.
But at the same time, I've realized I've lived all of these fourteen years in fear. Many years were excruciatingly hard and I was fully convinced that the next cold or virus would take him. Whole years of his life were spent nearly comatose. I would lie next to him at night afraid to go to sleep because I didn't know if he would be breathing the next morning. Living under that specter of impending doom and trying to plan a future are rather anachronous. And while he has gotten so much better and stronger in recent years, somehow that fear has been slow to fade because I know that death will still one day come for him.
I've spent all these years mourning a fear that has fortunately not materialized. And while there has certainly been grief associated with the lost opportunities and memories that his health issues have stolen and the heartache of watching his constant pain, that same time has been filled with bountiful tender mercies, critical life lessons and precious time that I never thought I'd have. I let that fear stay with me despite assurances that all would be well because I somehow thought it would protect me; that it somehow made me stronger and would help me survive when his time came.
But I've also come to realize that faith and fear are not compatible. Fear robs me of putting my whole faith in God. Fear robs me of loving my husband with 100% of my heart. Fear weakens me and ultimately leaves me more vulnerable to the very thing I fear.
A quote from my seminary lesson this morning read, "[Make] a choice of peace and protection and a choice that is appropriate for all. That choice is faith. . . Choose faith over doubt, choose faith over fear, choose faith over the unknown and the unseen, and choose faith over pessimism." (Richard Edgely, Nov. 2010).
I realize that the way I feel is a choice and that I can choose to replace fear with faith. That isn't always easy but I can see that there's so much more to lose if I let fear govern me. Because death and loss aren't always the same thing. Losing someone because I was not courageous enough to work through the hard parts would be far worse in my opinion. Loving with my whole heart leaves me more vulnerable but the sweetness of surrendering my whole heart will hopefully be enough to sustain me.
