The Bandit

 

Grief is not linear.  It does not ascribe to the rules of logic, the laws of normal.  It is messy and unkempt, it ebbs and flows, receding to the back of your mind one minute, and then charging forward to rear its ugly head the next.  You would think I would have learned this by now.  I haven't.  I am still surprised when the aching paralysis of grief emerges without warning.  When the tears come unfettered from my eyes for absolutely no reason.  When I get choked up trying to say a simple thought.  It doesn't happen as often as before, but it still happens.  And, I know that it always will.

I also know that the feelings I have and the emotions I feel are a testament to the impact and importance that Elizabeth had in my life.  The wonderful way that she was able to teach me so many lessons on how to be a better person, how to cope with adversity with a glad spirit, to embrace the joy in every day, and to receive the gift of peace from a loving God thankfully and gladly.  I am still learning from her even today.  I have seen that the legacy of our Elizabeth is a wonderful constant lesson in how to live courageously.  The grief and the sadness that comes along sometimes only emphasizes the lesson--it pushes me to recall the power of that little girl's smile, and the wonder of her story. 

 

I am also starting to see the broader strokes of the picture God painted for us through Elizabeth.  The way her example and her presence was able to change each of us in such fundamental ways.  The joy she brings to us--even as we mourn her loss.  I think that may be the ultimate way we can reconcile our feelings--by focusing on the joy we have--and not the sadness we harbor.  It's much easier said than done, by the way.  I fail more often than I am successful at it.  But, it continues to be the goal I want to accomplish.  It's the goal Elizabeth set for us.  


 

"It began in mystery, and it will end in mystery. 

 But, what a savage and beautiful country lies in between."

 

  ---Diane Ackerman

 

My dad is pretty great.  He always seems to know how get through to me when I least want to be taught anything--which tends to both frustrate and amaze me.  We were talking a couple of weeks ago and he brought up something.  "You know, Matt, I think you aren't mourning Elizabeth anymore, you have moved on to remembering her." 



At first, I was ticked--even angry--that he would even suggest that.  Of course I am mourning Elizabeth!  That will be forever!  How dare he presume that he even knew if I was in mourning for Elizabeth!  What does he know?  It still hurts just as bad as before--nothing has changed.  I would not insult Elizabeth's memory to say I wasn't mourning her.  I am.  I always will be.  Dad just doesn't know what it's like...and, then...I caught myself...





Dad does know what it's like to lose Elizabeth.  He lost her, too.  He lost a granddaughter and has had to watch his child go through the pain of the loss of a child.  He WAS a part of the process.  I couldn't minimize his role in this.  I couldn't get all huffy and defensive--he went through it, too.  So, when I realized how stupid I was being, I stopped internally ranting and  finally listened to what he said.  He had a point, of course. 


The time of mourning--the time to embrace the sadness of the loss and grieve the circumstance--was ending.  And, that is okay.  In fact, it is normal and healthy.  You cannot feel bad for the circumstance interminably, or you will be stuck forever in that horrible hamster wheel of grief. 

 
So, we are trying to change our viewpoint a bit-- to not get mired down in the sadness of mourning and embrace the fondness of remembering.  It's a difficult evolution.  It goes in fits and spurts.  But, sometimes, if you look around, you can see little nudges that you might be moving in the right direction.  

Here is just one:

Elizabeth's grave is located at a historic cemetery in the middle of our town.  The story about how God secured this location for our Elizabeth is a story all its own and well worth repeating, but I won't do that here.  Maybe later.  Anyway, I drive by this cemetery every day on my way to and from work.   At first, that was jarring for me.  I felt compelled every day to drive by and "check on" the site.  Don't really know what I was expecting to do, or what I was supposed to "fix", but I guess I just felt like I needed to go by there and say hello to my E.

 Soon, though, this seemed to be more emotionally weighty on me than I would like to admit.  I was sloughing over there every day seemingly getting more and more mired in the rut of this "mourning" thing.  Wallowing in sadness.  It wasn't doing me much good, frankly.  The stone was still right where we placed it,  E was still buried there.  Nothing had changed.  It was becoming this weird exercise that I was forcing on myself for no apparent reason.  It was not like anything could change the circumstance.  E was gone.   And no amount of visits to her grave would change that.  It was not what Elizabeth would have wanted me to be doing with my mornings (or my mourning, for that matter).  It was contrary to her legacy.  But, I felt compelled to walk that rut to "honor" her, I guess.  Seems weird, I know.  But, there it is...





Then, one day, as I drove past the site, I noticed that someone had put something there.  It was a simple addition of three brightly colored metal daisies.  Simple, beautiful and happy.  Right there.  It surprised me.  I knew it wasn't Kathryn who had put them there.  Maybe Elizabeth's grandparents?  Her aunt?  How strange...



I called Kathryn and asked her, but she had no idea who had done it.  We called and asked our family and they didn't know who had done it.  We wanted to thank whoever had thought about Elizabeth, whoever had taken the time to acknowledge her, but no one would claim to have done it.  It was a neat little mystery.  Soon, as we continued to strike out with finding out who had placed the daisies there, we began to see that maybe...just maybe...we weren't supposed to know who did it.  The stubborn anonymity was strangely comforting and encouraging.  There was a simple joy in not knowing--in allowing the mystery--as it were-- to continue.  I forced myself to accept the gift as it was and not spoil the blessing by trying to "figure it out".

 

In the same way, I think we all instinctively tend to over-analyze and try "figure out" life and explain those mysteries we are shown daily. We want to have an explanation for all the inexplicable events -- all the moments we can't easily categorize. We spend so much effort and time searching, grasping for the solution, the explanation, the answer, that we may have overlooked the point of the blessing.  Just enjoy it.  Appreciate it.  Accept it. 

"I would rather live in a world where my life is surrounded by mystery,

than live in a world so small that my mind can comprehend it."

 

  --Henry Emerson Fosdick

 

God, I think, wants us to more readily acknowledge His supremacy in our lives by releasing that desire to explain all of life's moments.  So, maybe Kathryn and I can't identify the person who left a remembrance at Elizabeth's grave.  So what?  It doesn't minimize the glory of the act--the kindness of the gesture.




 In fact, the relentless search for every answer may just tend to dilute the blessing a bit.  Elizabeth taught us that.  She was a medical mystery of epic proportions.  And, while we valiantly searched for any way we could assist her with her medical needs, at some point in her life, we began to accept the inexplicable.  To "embrace the question mark" as I put it long ago.  And, that act was very freeing for us.  It allowed us to sit back and enjoy our time with her and not wander about trying to explain away the miracles we saw.





So, now, after Elizabeth has been completed, we who remain should listen to her legacy.  I have wasted far too much time trying to understand my grief at losing my child--and I may have missed several opportunities to just let go and appreciate the journey.  I focused so hard on being in "mourning" that, without my father's wise counsel, I might have missed the transformation of that time into one of remembrance.





So, in recognition of that change, in conformance with what Elizabeth taught us, we purposely quit trying to identify the person or persons we lovingly refer to as the "Bandit" and just learned to appreciate the kindness they performed.

"Wisdom is fortified, not destroyed, by understanding its limitations. 

Ignorance does not make a fool as surely as self-deception."

 

     --Mortimer J. Adler

 

And the "Bandit" continued to leave items at E's grave.  Every season or holiday for the last year, there was a new little reminder.  And, once we accepted that there was great joy in the mystery, we drew great comfort from these acts of remembrance.  It allowed me to enjoy those little "winks" that reminded me to pursue remembrance of a spectacular young girl who I was blessed to call my daughter.  The time for mourning has expired.

 

So, I would encourage each of you to also accept and embrace the "bandit" mysteries in your life.  Stop a bit in your relentless search for meaning and allow "meaning" to be granted to you by God.   I can assure you that when you do, your mourning will slide away and you will be granted the freedom to truly appreciate the wonder of life to its fullest extent.

So, our deepest thanks to the "Bandit".  Please understand that we won't be trying to smoke you out of the shadows, because we want to enjoy the mystery.  But, know that your simple act of remembrance has helped us realize the joy in Elizabeth's legacy. 


Good job, Bandit, good job!