See Part 1: Walking Through The Storm

…Well if I should be immune to all of those things, then I’m clearly failing as both a Christian and a Vicar because in the last four weeks or so, I’ve cried more tears than I can ever remember.  I’ve desperately sobbed at a seemingly solid sky as I’ve wept, “But WHY? WHY is this happening?  Why me?  Why now?  Why us?  Haven’t we already had our fair share?  It ISN’T FAIR!!”  I have also said to the Bishop, quite openly and honestly, that I was struggling to pray, I simply didn’t have the words to say, didn’t know what to say, there were only tears.  The Bishop, who said that was perfectly understandable, has sat with us both as we have cried, has listened patiently and endlessly as we have ranted, and has prayed for us when we couldn’t pray for ourselves.

In other words, neither my faith nor my profession make me immune to the doubts, the fears and the anger that an experience like this has triggered.  Wearing a bit of plastic around my neck and having “The Rev’d” before my name doesn’t miraculously turn me into some kind of super-human who knows all of the answers.  As much as I wish I did, I simply don’t have the answer to why.  I don’t have some kind of “get out of jail free” card that would allow me to walk away from experiences like this.  I don’t have the power to speak to the wind and the waves as Jesus did and calm them with a word.  Perhaps, right now, He might need to look at me and say gently, “You of little faith, why did you doubt?”  And maybe then, I would be able to cling to him and say, “Because it hurts God, it hurts too much and I cannot bear it.”

And yes, even as I write these words, I am in floods of tears again – something that is becoming quite normal for me, even as it is abnormal for me.  In the course of my work, I have been privileged to take many funerals, to sit with many families who are grappling with questions like these, and I have heard many times, “Why me?”  I have sat with those who weep, I have prayed for those who cannot pray, and I have wept for their pain myself, but one thing I don’t have – have never had – is the answer of, “Why?”  I honestly think that those who try to answer that question must tread very carefully indeed, lest they trample on something precious, vulnerable and fragile.  Lest they produce platitudes that hinder rather than help.  It is one of the most difficult things to sit with someone who is weeping and raging, “But WHY???” and not try to produce an answer, but simply to sit in the dust alongside them.

And in my own pain, at first, I simply could not pray, I could only weep, rant and rage.  I wanted to pray because it has been my strength for so long, but I found I could not.  I had no words to say, nothing to encompass the horror of what was overtaking us.  “That’s ok,” said the Bishop.  “We’ll pray with you and for you right now.”  He has also put me on compassionate leave so I don’t have to worry about being a good vicar or about having all the answers, which is just as well, and indeed compassionate.  I asked others to pray for me, for us, and they have – you have – responded in your hundreds and thousands.  “What can we do?” Many people asked, “Please somehow let us help, what do you need?”  At first, I didn’t know what I needed because I was simply too overwhelmed, but then I was able to explain that one of my fears has been immensely practical: not quite two years ago, Chris became a self-employed contractor so that he could be Adam’s primary carer and could support me in my ministry; he was in excellent health so we weren’t too worried about things like holiday pay and sick pay, but now he gets no sick pay and so I have been worried about how we would pay the bills.  “We’ll start a GoFundMe then,” a group of friends said, “We can’t fix this, but we can stand with you through it.  We can give.”  And they started a GoFundMe on our behalf and the donations so kindly given have reduced both Chris and I to tears on numerous occasions.

“What else can we do?  How can we help you?” Members of my parishes asked.  “We can shop, cook and clean, walk your dogs, anything.  Just let us know.”  Hesitantly, I first asked if they would buy me a few simple groceries and an hour later, those appeared.  When in desperation to get to Chris in hospital, I asked if they would sit with Adam while he slept and they were here in less than ten minutes.  Eventually, I asked if they would decorate a room in the vicarage that Chris had never been able to finish when we moved in here just twelve months ago, it was the dining room on the ground floor and would make a perfect bedroom for him when he was discharged from hospital (I refused to let myself consider “if”).  “Of course we will,” members of the Parish said, and they rolled into action:  Paint, wallpaper, laminate flooring, hanging the blind; nothing was too much trouble and it was done in less than a fortnight.

“How can the Diocese support you?” Both Archdeacon and Bishops have asked.  “Can you install grab rails and drop down rails in the bathrooms so Chris can come home and actually use the toilets and shower here in the vicarage?”  “Yes, of course,” they said and and have then applied to charities for funds on our behalf and it was done.  “Can you change the door and install a lock on the dining room so Chris can use it as a bedroom and be able to rest safely away from our autistic son who does not understand what being gentle means?” I asked.  “Of course,” they said, and it was done.

The doorbell has been regularly ringing with deliveries of cards, flowers, boxes of wine, and even a full box of PieMinster pies!  Our freezer is full of donated food, so very kindly given by lovely, lovely people.  The cards included heartfelt messages of love, kindness and support, the flowers filled our home with their beautiful scents, the food filled our bellies when I could not bear to cook.

Slowly, over the four weeks since this hellish storm overtook us, I realised we were being completely and totally surrounded by love: from those we knew well, those we had only recently met, and those we had never met.  None of this love actually took away the storm, but all of it in its own gentle way, has helped us to endure even the beginnings of it.  And even as I wept, and cried out to God, to the sky, to the universe, I didn’t so much hear, as feel the answer, “I’m with you.  Even in the midst of this storm, I am with you.  I have never left your side.  I’m with you.”  And because music has always helped me, particularly to pray when I had no words, I found myself playing “Praise You In This Storm” by Casting Crowns once more.  This is a song that held me while Adam was in neonatal intensive care and I could not pray, and it is holding me now.  In part, the lyrics say, “I was sure by now, God you would have reached down, and wiped our tears away, stepped in and saved the day.  But once again, I say Amen, and it’s still raining.  But as the thunder rolls, I barely hear you whisper through the rain, I’m with you…”

And I really, really, want God to take away this storm, I want God to step in and save the day, it’s good that God is with me, but I also want God to stop it.  If God really is God, then why doesn’t He step in and calm this particular storm?  Why doesn’t he just take it away?  Take all of the bad things in our lives away?  Being a person of faith, does not make me immune to those particularly questions and I’ve been asking them, a lot.  And where are the answers?  Are there any answers?  Maybe, maybe not….

Part 3:  Why Doesn’t God Calm The Storm? (Coming soon)