An Open Ended Question on Hope and Unanswered Prayers v. 2 - A Response and Purpose

An Open Ended Question on Hope and Unanswered Prayers v. 2










I received a lot of good feedback and discussion on the previous post, http://www.facebook.com/darcy.leech#!/notes/darcy-leech/an-open-ended-question-on-hope-and-unanswered-prayers/471345525814. I wanted to go a little deeper into why I would be motivated to share a personal revelation that reveals such a weakness. If anyone asks me how it was to live with a handicapped brother I say it was the biggest blessing in my life and has formed me and shaped me to be the person I am today. I know I was lucky, and I know God did much better and weaving the tapestry of my life than I could have asked even in the wisest of prayers. Not everyone gets the positive feelings I had in separating from a loved one through death. I knew my brother would die before I did from the day he was born. At age three my parents explained that to me and we lived our lives in a celebration and enjoyment of my brother’s short time with us. Because of our blessing in knowing that Dustin would die young, we had the chance to make the most out of his life. Not everyone gets that. On that previous note post, there were many others who commented about their loss, honestly expressed how it was difficult to realize that we don’t get everything we want in life, that loss is hard, and not all the emotions we feel in this complex world are positive. I appreciated that honesty so much, and appreciated more that the honesty of loss came with a reaffirmation of faith. In essence, I didn’t create that post because I was looking for reaffirmation that I was taking the right steps in my faith; it was a great side benefit though. I posted that because I wanted people to comment on it, to share, to express loss and pain openly and reaffirm that our God is big enough to hold us even when we aren’t 100% certain or 100% happy. Our God is big enough to let us pray, give us hope, let us hurt, let us die, and have us growing towards Him and His will through all the suffering. That is the biggest message I can give anyone – it’s ok, inevitable, human, that we feel hurt, sometimes lost, sometimes angry, but there is somewhere we can go no matter what the pain is – God. Isn’t that beautiful?



But I was lucky. I knew from a very early age God was with my family and that no matter what happened God would love and take care of my brother, even if he died earlier than I wanted. Not every death in a family is like that. Not everyone was lucky enough to be raised with a faith that let them pray fervently for something that never happened. Yes – I was lucky to have such an unwavering belief in praying for something that would not occur on Earth in physical form. I was lucky to have an unanswered prayer; it prepared me for life. I have wanted many things and not gotten them, but that experience taught me to want worthwhile things with passion, dedication and heart. I have wanted many things and not gotten them, but that experience taught me God has a better answer, something wiser and more wonderful than the greatest joy my simple heart could imagine. I was lucky to learn that my will is not what makes me happy in life, me getting my way is not what makes life worth living. I learned that lesson at an early age, and it hurt, but that lesson is so valuable, makes my life so much more content now that I’ve learned it. Not everyone gets the closure, the strong connection to faith, or really has an experience of feeling God’s love because they feel alone... they haven’t talked to anyone yet who understands and can share their faith.



The death in my family pulled everyone of my family members closer to God. My brother’s life and death made me a better person. I was lucky. There are those who don’t know the comforts of the faith so many of us expressed when telling of our losses. There are those who have a death in the family, perhaps even a violent death, and their faith in God and humanity suffer. There are those who lose their faith to the death of a loved one. Ellie Wiesel, the author of Night, is a famous example. Wiesel was a young boy when he was taken to a death camp for Jews in Hitler’s Europe. He saw so many die and asked: where is my God? We are all people of the faith, and Hitler is an evil man murdering millions. Where is my God and why does he not answer my prayers? Ellie Wiesel does not come out of his experience from war reaffirmed in his faith; he loses his faith. He is not the only man to lose faith from death, loss, or evil.



That is why it is so important to share our own stories, in honest pain, in honest difficulty, admitting that God doesn’t seem to answer every prayer, that sometimes it seems that things that shouldn’t happen do, that maybe evil plays out in the world because of human choice and God doesn’t always stop it before it happens. Yes – evil happens and God doesn’t stop it. History shows us that over and over again. It leaves a huge void for why. People ask why God allows evil and death everyday. I can’t give an answer to that. Philosophers have tried, maybe it affirms faith, maybe by allowing choice the human experience is more valid, maybe we need to be able to choose evil to really choose to be good. Who knows… but what I do know is that I was given a gift in that I kept my faith through my suffering and pain. I’m not meant to keep that gift to myself.



I didn’t share that story because I needed a pat on the back. I shared that story because I believe there is strength in admitting that faith isn’t always easy. I shared because I know people who have been hurt by experiences similar to mine, that their answer might be clearer if I can honestly talk about my pain and my journey growing in a mature spiritual relationship with my Creator. God isn’t a teddy bear, the world isn’t all good, and faith isn’t easy. What good is it to someone whose faith is hurt if we can’t admit that? What good is it to tell a grieving parent that God answers all prayers and has perfect timing when they feel their child was ripped from the world too soon? What we would say about God might be true – but faith isn’t that easy. Faith, in it’s struggle, is beautiful. If faith were a given, if faith weren’t a choice, it couldn’t be faith. If we knew God answered every prayer and that everything would happen exactly as it should, what is there to believe in? If our world were perfect… well, it isn’t. God is, but we aren’t. As humans we affect one another. There is murder in the world, rape, injustice, and some see that in God’s creation and lose faith in Him. If we’ve seen injustice, overcome loss, and have reason for faith – I believe we should be honest about what we’ve felt, the struggle it was to realize that the human condition isn’t perfect. Sharing the struggle helps build faith because it is a real connection to those who don’t believe God is perfect, that God’s timing is unquestionable, that God’s will makes sense no matter what we think of it.



I can’t show someone God, but I can show someone the real struggle and real journey that give me reason to put my faith in God. I can’t make some touch God, but I can share a part of myself, maybe connect to a similar experience or emotion, and perhaps touch their heart in a way that beckons them to seek faith. Christians say God has perfect wisdom and perfect power, but if we want to help people come to faith, help those who struggle in a world with evil and natural disaster, we can’t use God’s perfection as the reason to believe when so much in the physical world that they see, hear, smell, touch, and live in is far from perfect. If you’ve struggled in life and have faith, you’re one of the lucky ones. You don’t have to have a perfect faith; parts of faith are difficult for me, I disagree with things some would tell me I should believe, but I know and will never doubt that my Creator made me in Love and has offered me Grace through the Greatest Sacrifice He could give. But even if I had doubted God or Christ and again found my faith, I would have the gift. If you’ve seen pain and have faith you have a gift: you can connect to those who have seen pain in similar ways and have hurt faith, maybe never had faith, or lost their faith. You can help those who need God the most.



There is beauty in the fact that God gave us free will, even if it allows evil. There is beauty in the release of death joining us to heaven when God calls us. There is beauty that we are able to want things that aren’t in the plans, to pray for things that will never give answered. There is beauty in hope through the pain. If you’ve seen that beauty, you can give a gift… you’ve been given a gift. Use your story to help others that struggle. God didn’t make us isolated; no man is an island. In the human condition we are meant to share our stories, and that’s beautiful.







What do you think?











If you want to do some extra reading (as if these notes aren’t already too long for facebook) my favorite piece on evil and suffering is On Choice of Free Will by Augustine.



PDF NOTES: http://faculty.cua.edu/hoffmann/courses/201_1068/201%20Augustine-2%20DLA%201.1-11.pdf







TEXT: http://www.questia.com/read/82265498







MY PHILOSOPHY TEXT FROM COLLEGE THAT CONTAINS THE PIECE: http://product.half.ebay.com/_W0QQcpidZ1099507046QQprZ2292904

An Open Ended Question on Hope and Unanswered Prayers

This is written from a Christian perspective; to be more specific, it is a Christian perspective that has difficulty with faith in praying for physical healing. I don’t ever doubt that God exists, or that Christ died for my sins, but I have a … hole… in my faith that really doesn’t let me whole hearted pray for someone’s healing.
One of the most troubling scriptures for me is a rather uplifting story in Mark 2: 1-12. Here is a short summary (from http://rotation.infopop.cc/eve/forums/a/tpc/f/4576068121/m/9876068121) A man who is paralyzed comes to the Healing Teacher Jesus. His friends help him to get past the crowds by lowering him through a hole in the roof. Seeing the friends' faith Jesus declares to the man, "Son, your sins are forgiven." His offer of forgiveness causes uproar among the religious leaders. Jesus invites the man to pick up his mat and walk. The crowd is amazed when the healed man walks through them.

This scripture inspires a bit of jealousy inside. It wasn’t the faith of the man who healed him necessarily, but the beyond expectations and out of the normal call of duty faith of his friends that inspires Jesus. The man is healed, and walks.

When I was young I had a child-like faith, strong, and trusting. Every night I prayed my brother would one day walk. Sometimes I was ambitious and prayed God would help Dustin to speak. Optimism, even if more guarded as an adult, has always had a stronghold in my personality. I believed God heard my prayers and that He was helping my brother. Whenever I saw a wishing well (so every mall we went to and many hospitals), I would throw in a coin and make the same wish: God, please help my brother to walk. My requests to my father for a coin to wish upon were so consistent that he would consciously check to make sure he had change before any shopping trip. Even if I had to fish my hand in the water to get a coin to throw in, I couldn’t walk by a wishing well without asking the only wish I ever put into a wishing well: God, please help my brother to walk. I even threw coins during high school, until my junior year. I’ve never used a wishing well since.

I was so sure as a child that my prayers mattered, were genuine, heard by God, for the good, and would be answered. I knew it might take time, but I was unfaltering in my confidence of God’s answer. I remember being brought into my brother’s special education classroom in grade school. They had built a special walk way for him, he had leg braces on, and a one on one para-educator that moved with him. He took five steps, each lumbering, hands on the rails, his waist held by the para. I’d repeat the experiment at home often, carrying the weight of my brother as he labored to move his legs. He didn’t like it much; I made him cry once or twice in the trying of it. Eventually he’d fuss before we tried, simply when I stood him up. My father got orders to move the family to a new base. The school there didn’t have the same equipment. My brother’s feet that had been surgically altered, were curling in again like club feet. Dustin’s progress stopped.
Almost dogmatic in my goal oriented determination, I kept trying. My brother was in middle school when my mother talked to me on our back porch, told me the doctors said Dustin probably would never walk, and that it was simply too expensive, troublesome, and painful to keep trying. She asked me not to lift him and have him take steps anymore. I thought of it as a lack of faith, doctors who hadn’t seem my brother over come all the odds, a school district that didn’t want to risk an investment in a miracle. I stopped trying to help my brother walk, except when both my parents were working. I’d try in secret, holding my brother, him hesitant, possibly in a bit of pain. I’d move his legs with my hands, stand him up straight, let more of the weight sit on his legs, and sometimes move his upper body to hold onto the couch or some rail so that I could look in his face and smile as he stood there. Sometimes he’d look back with something of a smile, sometimes a deep sigh, but almost always after about five seconds he’d bend his knees and let his bottom hit the ground, sometimes rather hard. My mother’s wisdom was farther than my own, I probably shouldn’t have been trying. He didn’t like it when his butt hit the ground hard…
My brother never walked. Five steps was about the farthest he ever got. He actually got worse at it; his body got heavier and his legs didn’t get much stronger. His arms gained strength though, and he was quite adept at patrolling on his own in the wheel chair. If you didn’t watch him he could go any where flat. He knew to be afraid of inclines or stairs. I’d probably taught him that when my arms couldn’t hold his weight and I dropped him down the last three stairs of my grandma’s porch. He didn’t trust me for awhile after that. I can’t blame him. My childlike hope and naive determination probably hurt my brother more than once when I was just trying to do him good. I didn’t want to accept my own limits, and I didn’t want to accept his; hard lessons to learn.
Nowadays I’m much better at accepting limits; certainly still not great, but perhaps a little less naive. However, there is a down side. It’s rare that I can bring myself to ask God to heal someone. I don’t mind praying for someone’s comfort, even laying my hand on someone to transfer the positive energy of prayer through touch. Yet, when I’m asked to pray for someone’s health or recovery, usually all I can get out is “God, your will be done.” In my heart I believe prayer is powerful and that praying for one another is a great gift; however, I don’t believe that the faith of anyone’s friends will bring about the miracle of walking. Well, maybe I do believe it, but my heart hurts to think about it. I want to believe it; I want to like that scripture. I don’t like that scripture.

Greg’s sermon today was in part about asking open ended questions. I have one. I know that God exists. I know that God loves me and my family. I know my brother was a great blessing. I know he never walked. I know I prayed for it pretty much every night until he died. I had hope, optimism, faith, and prayer. It didn’t work. My brother never walked.

God, here it is: In the Bible, when Jesus is around, faith healing seems really easy and really attractive. I tried God; I tried to be the friend that led my brother to healing through Jesus. I know he outlived expectations, and I know that’s a great blessing, but why was I allowed to believe and hope in something so passionately and not have it answered? Why is prayer so important to us when what it comes down to is your will, not ours? Why do we have unanswered prayers?
It made me angry to have my prayer unanswered. It made me feel the limits of my own faith. It made me mad at God to give me the beautiful gift of my brother and take him away. I’ve struggled with this for years. Most days, I’m not mad at God, and then some days, I remember how fervent those prayers were, and I’m mad that I was given such a high capacity for hope to not see the day that hope came through.
I had a conversation with a friend the other night and we talked about the losses in life and how they affect us. He told me he’d come to one conclusion: in life we’re meant to have hope. But we both knew that hope is hard to hold onto when things go wrong. He said death was the most destructive force on earth. It is. And this is where I fight myself.
I know part of me is angry that I was able to believe whole heartedly in something that never came to be. But I also know that when I say ‘never’ I’m holding the word to it’s earthly sense. I know death is destructive, and I know it tears up the people left behind, but I also know that death is a beautiful release. I often am told now my brother walks with the angles; the ambitious ones say he dances or jumps. I hate when they say that.
About a month after my brother dies I have a dream. In that dream the family is in Carlsbad Caverns, the last vacation spot the family went with all four of us. In the dream we are in the exact spot we were when he was alive, except it’s just me and him. He’s in his wheel chair, he gets up, he walks to me, gives me a hug, and says “Darcy, I love you, and you love me very much. I’m in a better place now.” A picture I bought and stamped his name to falls off my wall. I wake up, there’s a light from my window on that wall. My skin still tingles when I think of that dream. I knew my brother had come to say his good-bye. And he walked.
Next time I go to the mall, I’m taking a quarter, and even if I cry in public, I’m going to throw that quarter in that fountain, and I’m going to make a prayer for healing.
We’re meant to have hope in life, even after we’ve had unanswered prayers – and that’s hard… but we’re meant to… right?

(an open ended question is meant to inspire dialogue if you feel the impulse to answer or comment:)

A Swingset and a Plaque - the journey of figuring out how we define ourselves

During my lunch break today I did some reminiscing, stood outside of the office and read the names on a plaque. Three of the names on the wall I had taught. Five of the names on the wall I had gone to school with. One was mine. There were only two names on that plaque I didn’t know. Every year at Central I tell the same story. Early in the semester we cover the Autobiography of Ben Franklin and in the lesson I dip into my own biography.

I was sitting in Mrs. Seaton’s chemistry class. She had a tough reputation, gave me one of my first B’s, didn’t make exceptions and had a set of rules that helped her run an efficient classroom. I was balancing a chemical equation on our chemistry test when the phone rang.
“She’s in here, but we’re taking a test.” She listened. She looked me in the eye.
“Oh, I see. I’ll send her right down.” She looked down at her papers, put the phone up, looked back at me.
“Darcy, bring your test to me and head to the office.”
I did as she said without interrupting the testing atmosphere by asking a question. She smiled at me when I put the test on the table; her eyes told me she wasn’t angry, her lips told me something was wrong. I walked out and closed the door behind me. The empty hallway echoed my three steps. My heart burned and my brow furrowed. I swallowed as my throat went dry. I don’t know if I thought it or heard it, but very distinct words went through my head: “Darcy, your brother is dead.” I shook my head to clear it, said aloud “No, that’s not right.” My heart knew it though, and I couldn’t make myself take that next step. I dug my fingernails into my palm trying to build the courage, finally walking to the water fountain to clear my head. The rest of the walk to that office is a stoic memory, one blur of unfeeling mistiness.
When I walked into the office both my parents stood next to each other.
My father’s voice was husky. “Darcy, your mother has something she wants to tell you.”
The response I gave him wasn’t the most compassionate, I certainly didn’t plan to say it; the words escaped my lips before I even thought them. “I know.”
And I did. My mother didn’t have to tell me. My brother was dead.
My mother said something, something I can’t remember. I said something back, calmly. The conversation is muted in my mind, not a word of it important, not a word of it I really felt. Mr. Vaughn asked the three of us if we wanted to use his office. I remember sitting in that chair, the rigid feeling of plastic hitting right below my shoulder blades. When the weight left my legs, as soon as I felt the bottom of that seat, it was then that I cried. Cried isn’t the word for it. I wailed, lamented. Everyone in that office heard me cry. I’m not a loud crier; I haven’t done it since, at least not in public like that.
***
That morning I had stood at the edge of the stairs, backpack on, keys in my hand. I stopped, looked over at my brother resting on the floor. I waited. His back rose slowly and heavily, and descended; he had taken breath. I remember so vividly watching him take the last breath I would ever see him take. I walked out the door.

He had been sick that week, a common cold. My brother had been sick a lot. He had spent the first three years of his life in a hospital. He was born with myotonic dystrophy, a rare genetic disease of muscle atrophy. They said he would live to get out of the hospital, live past three, past eight, past twelve. He was thirteen.
***
Every year I’ve told my classes that story, explain to them how hard it was for me to be 16, how much my life shook, how my passions changed, how it was difficult to make things matter in the same way. Every year I tell them I read Ben Franklin’s autobiography excerpt shortly after, that I tried to use the text to regain a grip on my life when it seemed out of control. I’m pretty good about feeling in control of my life. I’ve never cried when telling my students this story – until this year.
***
My last class to share the story with – I struggle with them sometimes, a small class of eleven. Some of them need glasses and refuse to wear them, some of them are dyslexic, some of them read at a grade school level. They love to talk, have almost used up the majority of their bathroom passes already… one of them has already dropped out, second week of school. For some reason I feel compelled to tell them more than the rest, not just to tell them the bad thing that happened to me and how I persevered through it, but to let them actually hear words that admitted weakness. When I first told them my brother died one of them asked “was that your only sibling?”
I told her it was. She said “I’d need counseling after that. You’re strong.”
I pushed it off with a joke, told I probably did need counseling, to ask my husband about it. Truth was, I know I need something. I know something inside of me is broken, I know some cord is snapped. It wasn’t fair for her to think me strong, I’m not.
Two of the girls, the two that always seem to have their cell phones and the latest gossip; they cried. First time I’ve had a student do that, much less two of them. They kept the box of tissues right next to them, went through half of it. Maybe that softened me up…
I told them about that plaque on the wall, the one with my name on it. Told them how it was a peer voted award to be the most representative senior female, told them how my peers carried me through some difficult times. Then I admitted the contrast. I felt so lost after my junior year. I had trouble relating to others, couldn’t put my heart into my sports the same way, let my grades slip. I told them I cut lunch. No, not the worst thing I had ever done, but I needed to admit it. I cut lunch to go to the park, sit in the swings where I had sat next to Dustin. I cut lunch to cry. That’s what I remember the most about my social life my junior year – I wanted to be alone because no one else understood and I just needed a safe place to let it out so I could pretend in public it didn’t hurt me.
***
I’ve been called a perfectionist once or twice in my life. In high school I wasn’t, I was sloppy, disorganized, more in it for the experience than the results. I fight it now, but I know part of me is. The way I escaped reeling in pain from the loss of my brother was to succeed at everything I could after that. My junior year I went numb. After that wore off, I went with full effort at everything I did that I saw worth doing. When I was young my self definition probably started with “I have a handicapped brother and I love him very much.” I didn’t have that any more. I had to define myself. People had always been nice to my family, given us extra opportunities because of our terminally ill family member. Everyone would smile at me when I pushed behind my brother’s wheel chair, even in Wal-Mart check out lines. I enjoyed and expected people to look at me and smile in a friendly way. I’ve been chasing that feeling for awhile, trying to build the type of character and reputation that make people smile at you when they see you. I have high standards, high expectations, and I work hard. I’m coming to realize that a part of the reason I do that is to try to feel special like the nice sister of the cute handicapped boy that everyone smiles at when they see.
I’m a perfectionist and I’m a pleaser and I try to escape negative emotions by chasing success. It took teaching a kid who lost his own brother to make me realize that about myself. He was the same way – succeed at what you do and you don’t have to admit you hurt. It’s a hard way to be…
I stood in front of that plaque and marveled at myself. That was my proudest accomplishment through high school, that award. You might even be able to say I defined myself by it for awhile. I really try not to be arrogant, but part of that award made me think I should be the things my classmates thought I was, that I was meant to be those things, perhaps even that I had to be those things. I marveled at myself because I built my whole college career on that feeling – succeed at what you do and you don’t have to admit you hurt. I marveled at myself because I realized for the first time that chasing success and achievement and reputation had become my safe haven, my false refuge. That feeling might have put a lot of stress in my life, left a lot of less pleasant emotions to linger under the surface. I’m 24. I want to start my own family one day soon. I need to stop defining myself through achievement and running from the uncomfortable emotions through diving into hard work. I need to let myself feel those uncomfortable things I avoid by trying to stay too busy. I owe to my family to not be constantly running from something I don’t want to admit to feeling. I didn’t say those words to my class today, but today I admitted to myself.