As my workload diminishes out here and my need to process grief increases, you can expect more frequent blog posts, both for my own self-therapy, and by God's grace, to be informative and therapeutic for you as well.
When tragedy strikes, especially death, it poses an objective problem for all those affected--namely, how do you process something that is in no way reasonable or rational? Despite the petty cliches, tragedies are not a normal part of this world and death is not a part of life. They are alien impositions upon a world created good and a humanity created in God's image.
The way deals with the objective problem of a tragedy poses a new, subjective problem--namely, grief. Minor instances of grief might be alleviated by changing circumstances, time, talking, or psychological treatment. Major instances of grief prove too sloppy for normal remedies. One can do nothing about a tragedy itself, so that problem must remain unresolved, but one can affect grief, which can be channeled in a number of different directions. Here are some of the primary options:
Grief to depression. This response is rather common. One realizes their inability to affect the objective problem--tragedy--and throws his/her hands up in the air. I descended onto this plane at times during my childhood, at the death of my friend, Chelle, in college, and to a lesser extent, during my first year or two of marriage and simultaneous professional instability. This pathway makes no attempt to find light at the end of the tunnel. It resigns itself to darkness and casts a pall over both present and future. In light of David Lyon's death, it will be easy for some to say "This is war." "This is life." "This is how it all will inevitably end anyway." I know that I am consistently distracted right now by thoughts of David and Dana's non-existent children and future. But just as likely as, and often in conjunction with depression is anger.
Grief to anger. If depression expresses resignation in the face of tragedy, anger is an act and attitude of defiance. It finds answers in the wrong places. This is what tempts family members to turn against each other when a loved one dies. Unable to make sense of the tragedy or process the grief, people remember real or perceived slights against themselves or the deceased, and attack. When a soldier is killed, there is always a risk that other soldiers will try to seek revenge against any/every enemy. They also can grow disillusioned with the war effort ("Why are we helping them when they are killing us?") They can also turn against family members and their ability to continue with the mundane things of life. I sense in myself a deep-seated anger that is looking for convenient targets. I remember perceived slights more, and find myself angry to the point of muttering and "Christian swearing" (dang it!) when my internet connection doesn't work, someone knocks on the door, or people are being too loud outside of my office. Often times, I am simply angry with myself.
Grief to guilt. You will often hear people say "I wish I would've/could've/should've..." after a tragedy. They regret everything short of perfection in their relationship with the deceased, now that they have lost the opportunity to ever make amends. "I should've said 'I love you' more!" "Why didn't I go to say 'Goodbye' when I had the chance?" Guilt is very common amongst soldiers after a death. "That was my soldier/battle buddy, and I should've protected him!" "I wish it was me." Guilt is the attempt to control the past because it is impossible to control the present and future.
And guilt presently shadows me. Why didn't I follow up with David when I knew he was isolated and lonely up north? Is busyness truly an excuse? Why didn't I get to know Dana when I saw her so much? Why am I always so superficial, so that everyone knows me but I rarely know them? Of course, guilt wouldn't be complete without asking "Why not me?" Even at thirty one years of age and head of a young family, I feel spoiled with life, riches, and love. I constantly think "Why do I get all this and he won't even have the chance?" None of these questions help. I can't change the past. In its attempt to control the past, guilt is often accompanied by nostalgia.
Grief to nostalgia. While nostalgia isn't bad in itself and seems to pale in comparison to depression, anger, and guilt, it can still be unhealthy. How many hours are wasted wishing for a past time that no longer exists? How many days are spent piecing together memories that were relatively insubstantial until tragedy struck? I befriended David over the course of several hours early in this deployment, but my mind is working in overdrive to meticulously put together all fading fragments of memories of a man who no longer exists on this earth.
Ultimately, all of these pathways are understandable and require the time, energy, and empathy of others, but they are also sinful. In trying to come to terms with the brokenness of this world, these pathways enable an individual to resign himself/herself to hopelessness, turn grief upon others, and try to control the past. They each make idols of something created--either the broken fabric of the world itself, other people or circumstances, or the past. And none of the idols will alleviate the pain more than temper it, let alone wipe tears from the eyes of the hurting.
Grief to hope. While there is no opportunity to comprehend the mysterious providence of God in a tragedy, one can submit his/her grief to Him as the One who alone holds all of human existence within His sovereign control. Some have claimed that because of this belief, religion is an opiate for the masses. I would argue the opposite. Opiates cover pain, but do nothing for a wound. Depression, anger, grief, and nostalgia are all opiates. They seem to soothe for a time, but merely pacify the grief for a time and do nothing with regard to the tragedy itself. The truth of biblical Christianity, on the other hand, doesn't seek to deal simply with understanding and overcoming grief (like much of modern psychology), it provides understanding of the real world and gives the tools for overcoming it in it's brokenness. Christ is not an opiate--He heals.
In Christ, I know why this world is the way it is--human sinfulness and rebellion against God, which infects the very fabric of this world. I know that the natural consequence of mankind's sin is a natural death and that the spiritual consequence is wrath and damnation. I know that God, the Judge of the world, sent His own Son--fully God and fully man--to experience a life of brokenness, yet without sin, and to bear His judgment on the cross in place of the damn-worthy. I know that the Gospel of grace is rooted in the eternal love of God for His people, and is expressed in the tears of Jesus, who wept at the tomb of a man he was about to raise. He didn't grieve because of despondency, but because He was there at the beginning and was looking upon what man had made of His creation. He washed the feet of those who abandoned Him and cried out for forgiveness for those who crucified Him. He promised, at the very end of His Word, to wipe away every tear from the eyes of those who belong body and soul to Him.
And so, as the Apostle Paul tells us under God's direction, the believer is not grieve as the unbeliever does--without hope--but we grieve as those with hope. The present suffering cannot compare to the future glory that awaits us, when Christ will appear and we will appear with Him in glory. With the arm of the cross and the arm of throne, God sweeps up His people in the historical past and future, granting us comfort in the present. Sin will not win, nor suffering, nor death. When this is all said and done, it will be Christ on the throne. And in the meantime, as many of us wrestle with depression, anger, guilt, and nostalgia, we must lift our souls to the Lord, to worship now on earth as David does in heaven, and as all belong to Jesus will do in the age to come.
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