The Haunted Face of Life

When Groan Prayers Speak Louder Than Words

Original image credit to Martino Pietropoli

My Dear Lovelians and Lifers,

What a little wild thing Life can be. Sometimes it plays a masked lady, showing off the splendors of her appearance and making onlookers jealous. Other times, it skips about as a small child in a state of wonder without a care in the world. I have even had tea with the motherly side of Life. Her name is Grace.

These are only a few of the faces I have met. I consider our interactions thrilling because I never know which face will greet me when I wake up in the morning, and it often changes throughout the day. For this reason, I cannot call us friends, but I have a healthy respect for its untamable nature, if not more than a little fear.

The funny thing about Life is many of its faces, namely the ones mentioned above, can be easily ignored, which sounds incredibly ironic but remains true none the less…that is, spare this one.

This past week, I encountered a face of Life I had only personally met once before. I expected him then because my grandmother was elderly and quite sick. Predictable, no. Expected, yes. But this time, when I looked up and saw him standing in the doorway in his classic black suit, confusion and shock numbed my thinking. His visits are difficult enough without the added element of surprise.

My first thought jumped to my elderly grandfather, but my mom shook her head as she gathered the rest of my siblings. My mother in tears is an unnerving sight unto itself, not just because she is my mom but because tears are not her usual expression of emotion, even during times of crisis. Apparently this was different.

She proceeded to tell us our barely middle-aged uncle, who struggled with chronic pain for longer than I was aware of, just left a goodbye message.

I had no prayer for this. No consoling sentiments to give. Only wordless groans later translated Papa, save him! I cannot imagine losing a younger sibling at all, much less like this. By the time we were made aware of the situation, everything that could be done happened already. Family and police were contacted and on their way. All we could do now was wait.

My family and I sat together. The face of Life never changed. I watched him and my dad pace figure-eights around each other. I closed my eyes and felt fear and confusion swirl a Starry Night around me. I felt my Jesus draw near, and I grasped that comfort in two white-knuckled fists. Then I stood up and marched to my room. I might not have the words to fight for my uncle’s release from his pain and oppressive cloud of hopeless thoughts, but I had friends who did. I knew prayer was not magic, so there was no guarantee any number of words would save him, but it was all I had.

I cried out for help to six people. I chose them not only because they were close to my heart but most importantly because prayer was a natural part of life for them. What can human prayers do that God Himself cannot? I think that is the wrong question. I do not believe this situation revolved around the question of capability. So, what then? In all honesty I do not know. All I knew then was desperation, and prayer touches on something real. I needed real.

After a time of little word here and there, nothing reassuring but also nothing final, I encouraged my sisters to do something to take their mind off the situation. We all needed a respite from the weight of silence and discouragement. One of my sisters left for our weekly young adult gathering at the church we attend; I waited on a call, so I stayed home with my other sister and watched a movie. At this point, my family and I resigned ourselves to face the worst. I found added comfort in the knowledge my friends sat in my boat and actively spoke amidst my wordless groans that now dwindled to anticipating silence.

I remember lying in bed that night and studying the face of Life I rarely met. There was a sad, haunted look in his eyes; almost as if he knew as well as I that there was something disturbingly wrong and out of place with the whole concept of death; as if it were a puzzle piece that did not fit anywhere in the larger picture, yet its edges flaked and barely held together from the number of times it forced connection with other pieces.

During the phone call with my friend, I had asked her How can I encourage people to pray and talk about the power of prayer if it fails when it matters most?

By releasing Him from the judgement seat tied to the outcome. His character is not available for questioning. His goodness is not up for debate.

In other words, prayer is not magic like I have been saying all along. My temptation towards anger and doubt because He might not comply with my request proved that in my secret thoughts, I believed I could be Him or at least control Him with my words. No, I do not believe for a second He acts out of spite because He has nothing to prove, especially not to me.

I release You. I told Him. You are not on trial in my heart anymore. You are my greatest ally and hope for making it through to the other side of this.

As I dressed the next morning, I pondered how we would all change as a result of this event. I worried it sparked new fear and wondered how much guilt wove itself into the hearts of those closest to my uncle. Aftershocks, one might call this period of time.

My cell phone became my closest companion all morning as I focused on work. I told my supervisor about the emergency with as few vague details as possible. Around 10AM, it occurred to me I had not seen Life’s haunted face since last night. Strange. Then my phone vibrated and lit up, revealing the two most beautiful words I had heard all day.

He's alive.

I felt like Easter Sunday as relief flooded my system and made my brain giddy. I laughed as I rejoiced with my friends. The attempt failed. I reeled from the sudden reversal of emotions. Moments before, I was resigned to loss. With the length of time that had passed and difficulty people had reaching him, I felt certain…but no. He walked out a very much alive person. Incredibly unwell, but alive none the less.

I still had no words to pray. But now my heart vibrated with warmth and gratitude; translation: Thank you. How wonderful to serve a God who can translate the sounds of my heart, the strongest of which speak much louder than words.

What now? My grandmother convinced my uncle to allow her to help him get well again, though his chronic pain persists. What can I do moving forward? I may not have the close relationship with him others have, but I refuse to carry on unchanged. Do not let me forget, I pleaded that night. I gazed back and forth from Papa to the haunted face of Life. Please. I knew if I accepted what happened and continued as normal, full speed ahead, like I always do, my heart would forget. Forget to rejoice and value the life and people around me. I adapt so easily. Too easily. The bullet holes absence leaves in the heart cannot be healed with time, only the presence of the one lost. But time can numb.

There lies a safe in the center of every person’s heart for grief such as this, to be opened upon reunion. The problem with me is I do not store this sort of longing in my heart. I tell myself the space is reserved for the dead. I say this is life; better walk on top of it or it will walk on top of me. As a result of living 24 years with an empty safe, I am not at all sentimental, which in and of itself is not wrong, but when I am reunited with people I have not seen in a long time, the joy that comes from satisfied longing eludes me. This I find disturbing. I was already disturbed, but now I am adamant this cannot continue.

I took Papa’s hand and reached out for the haunted face of Life. His hand felt surprisingly warm. May I be haunted with you? Just a little?

I want to live, not just for myself anymore, but for the sake of those who did not receive that second chance and those who question whether to continue is worth it. I believe it is.

I came so they may have Life and have it to the full ~Jesus

So now I wear a little black. Just a little. And not all the time. I still hold Papa’s hand, though I let the haunted face of Life go, back to its wild ways. I find myself not so desperate to move forward at the speed of light, more like the speed of Life, which can be either fast or slow at any given moment. So annoyingly unpredictable. I feel in my heart another journey looms on the horizon, one that will take me back in time and restore the longing my heart lost somewhere along the road when I decided adapting fast is best. Time to enter the foreign lands of Nostalgia and Sentimentality.

Stay Curious,

Olivia

P.S. A friend sent me this video. It is a recording of a prayer to help release any lingering negative effects of incidents such as this one. Hope it gives you the comfort it gave me.

Trauma Prayer.wmv - YouTube