Recently a couple of people have asked me how things seem
now, six years after our daughter died. One of the first big changes is simply
the pace of life – now that we have three young boys, and are both working part-time
(which involves quite a lot of hours and a lot of juggling of schedules) there
simply isn’t all that much time to really stop and think about it. Or at least,
there doesn’t seem to be time to really reflect on things but that does not
mean we do not think about her, some days more than others. We’ve recently
passed through the strange week in May, where we remember her death and our
second son’s legal adoption exactly two years later, and our first son’s
birthday three days after that. That week is always a strange jumble of
emotions, and really it is a reminder that God’s timing is perfect, that He can
bring hope out of sorrow, and that He simply does not make mistakes.
There are some things which are harder as the years go by.
When she died, we had been living in one African country, and then were
evacuated to Johannesburg for the six weeks of her illness. We returned for a
further two years after she had died, and during that time our next son was
born (during a four month stay in the north east of Scotland, where we had
never been and where we had no friends or family at the time when we arrived) and our second son was adopted.
He had his life-threatening illness around that time, and by the time we
returned to our UK base four years ago, we had a one year old and a recovering
seven month old. A lot of the drama had passed, and the people who had walked
beside us during those challenges were now many thousand miles away. Of course
some people in the UK had met our daughter before we moved back to Africa when
she was three weeks old, and many came to the funeral. But that was not the
same as living the events with us.
I think that is the thing that is hardest now. I do not know
whether it is a result of our itinerant lifestyle, or whether this is normal
after several years, but people simply don’t remember or know that we even had
a daughter. It can be a dilemma for me when meeting new people who often remark
on our boys, whether or not to speak about her. Sometimes it just seems to make
others uncomfortable. Much depends on context; if I think it is relevant or
helpful I will talk about her. I always say I have four children, but then people
are so taken with the three boys so close together in age that they forget to
ask about the fourth. It’s often easier that way.
We never wanted to define ourselves as people who had lost a
child. I do not wish to seem harsh, but it does seem that in countries where
child death is a less frequent occurrence that a family who has a child die can
be almost smothered by the responses of others. And yet at the same time, there
is a distance, that ‘we can’t possibly imagine what you have been through’ kind
of response. We were always clear that we were thankful for her life, and that
God in His wisdom would be more glorified through that short life than through
many much longer lives. And if God is glorified, and she is now perfectly
restored in heaven, then what is there to be sad about? And on one level, it
really is as simple as that. It certainly is to the other children, who cannot
really understand why we get sad from time to time. For them, it is something to
rejoice about and to look forward to!
However, despite that, perhaps more so now, I sometimes do
wish that people remembered. There have been a couple of instances lately where
I have found people a little insensitive as they have spoken with lack of faith
about more minor illnesses in children, or where people have tended to put
parents of an ill child on some kind of pedestal as though they have shown some
kind of extremely remarkable faith. I don’t wish to sound unkind, and some of
it may be me coveting a bit of human sympathy or encouragement myself. There
are times when I feel like pointing out that sometimes children do die, and that
is not a result of anybody’s lack of faith, nor is it a reason to fall apart,
but rather that God knows the day ordained for each of us. Sometimes I want to
point out that in the city where we were living when she died, one woman in two
would have a child die under the age of five. It was so normal, so much part of
life, that without minimising the sadness and sorrow, there was no room for
dramatic emotions, and over the top responses. Sometimes I want to tell people
to open their eyes to the world around them, to turn on the radio for just a
few minutes or to read a newspaper, and then they will realise just how
comfortable and easy many of us have things here.
In some ways this is good. I feel very aware of how simple
life can be, and of what a blessing it is to have a roof over our head, to have
sufficient food, to have jobs which are challenging and enjoyable as well as
providing enough money, to have family, to have friends, to be able to worship
in freedom, to be able to read the Bible in our own language. I think part of
this appreciation comes from knowing we cannot take that for granted. Some of
this will be due to our daughter’s death, and some of it will be from having
lived in several low resource countries and having seen the harsh realities there.
Sometimes I try to work out what it is that makes us feel
different. The Bible talks in several places about being ‘strangers and aliens in the world’, or in other translations, ‘pilgrims’. I don’t think a Christian
should ever feel fully ‘at home’ in this world, because our whole worldview is
based on eternity. The Apostle Peter writes about trials which come for a time,
in order that our faith, which is of greater worth than gold, which perishes
though refined by the fire, may be proven genuine and result in praise, glory
and honour at the revelation of Christ’. Paul talks about ‘light and momentary
afflictions which are achieving a weight of eternal glory’. If our true home is
in heaven, then nothing in this world (home, material possessions, jobs) should
really tie us down, these things are all temporary. But I think there is
another sense of restlessness. I had an interesting conversation about that
with another family whose daughter died a couple of years ago, where they
described the same restlessness. I think we know the reality of heaven, and
there are days when we simply long for this life to be over, and to be reunited
not only with our children, but to see the glorious reality of Christ face to
face. The other factor that can make us feel a bit misunderstood is having
moved around so much and having seen a different side of life. We find it
difficult to relate to people who are keen to settle in a nice house in
suburbia, get their children in to the right schools, and basically stay put
living a quiet life for the next twenty or thirty years. There may well be nothing
wrong with this, and that kind of stability can lead to strong relationships
being built, commitment to a particular church, and from these, clear communication
of the truth and hope of the gospel. But it is not easy for us to relate, because
we tend to live one day at a time, perhaps having a ‘medium term’ plan, but always
with the knowledge that God could change it all in an instant.
It is very rare that either of us will have a proper
conversation about our daughter. Sometimes I long for that. I would love to sit
with a friend and talk through her photo album, to laugh and to cry, to remember
and to reflect. We don’t really have that level of relationship, again partly
because we have moved around (since returning from Africa four years ago, we
have lived in four cities in three different countries). Part of it is the pace
and schedule of our life-work balance – that we often have work related tasks
to complete in the evening, or are hosting Christian events or are attending
our mid-week meetings, or there are additional professional training events to
attend, and once a week or so we will both be on clinical duties until about
10pm. We home educate our children – there are many reasons for this, partly
because it offers good solid continuity as we move around, but even more importantly,
we can build the biblical worldview which is our greatest priority for them,
embrace the opportunities that arise day to day, allow each child to progress
at their own pace in each subject, allow them space and time for imaginative play
and a ‘real childhood’ and to encourage the formation of healthy relationships
across ages and different sectors of society. But this also takes time and
effort, and whilst the boys are young, it is not often possible to have an in depth conversation with a friend.
Most of the time, I am content about this. Each day is
filled with blessings and encouragements, yes there are also challenges, but
there is purpose and direction. We are responsible before God for how we live
for today, not for our reminiscence about yesterday or our dreams about
tomorrow. And so we live very much in the present, looking forward to a future
with hope. Sometimes it is simple pragmatism. Some things matter, others don’t.
And there is no point in getting upset over things that have no lasting value.
There is a kind of steadiness and maybe even emotional maturity, whereas when I
was younger I would tend to get into a spiral of despair about something which
was perhaps trivial, and which certainly could not be changed.
But alongside this, I am so moved when anybody does mention
my daughter. There are those friends, although separated by many miles who
really did walk with us, bringing comfort and encouragement. These are the
people who really understand us. When I receive an email or text message that reminds
me of her, or that tells me that others remember her, my heart sings. Often as
I spend time out of doors with the boys, enjoying the warmth of the sun and the
beauty of creation, as the boys run ahead, climbing and jumping, racing,
laughing, playing, then I remember her, I remember the soft, warm bundle of hope that she was, and despite the beauty that surrounds me, know that there is
something even more magnificent ahead of us.
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