Anonymous
What happens to a child, or a teen, in-particular, when disaster strikes? Do they fall into depression and debauchery, turning to anything that will distract from distress? Do they push through according to the values of truth, justice, and the American way to become young heroes? For myself, at least, nothing so dramatic resulted, but rather the continuous struggle to cope.
What disaster would prompt the need to cope for a year of my young life or more, some may ask, and I will answer. First, though, it will be helpful to understand the years before 15. I was a unique child. There were those who tried desperately to fit in and either disappear or become popular, and there were those who tried desperately to be independent non-conformists. I had no need to try not to conform. Conformity was never an option. I was, from early on, the most vocal and opinionated intellectual Christian in the place. That made me enemies among those with different opinions as well as those with no opinions, those who wished to be vocal and those who could not be so, those who competed to be more intellectual and those I made to feel inferior. In short, I was the biggest geek in the school. Not that I was unhappy about it, at least so far as I knew. In fact, I flaunted my uniqueness, my superiority in every way I could think of. Perhaps that was part of the reason for the abundance of enemies. Yet through it all I was convinced in my faith in God, that He was all the friend I needed, and that He would defend and vindicate me in the end. I was convinced that I was doing and saying exactly what He wanted me to, and that, along with the pleasure of my parents and teachers, were the only things that mattered to me. The rest could go sit on tacks, for all I cared.
When my mother and best human friend died of colon cancer a month after my fifteenth birthday, my world was shaken. It did not come tumbling down, and I was not shocked or devastated, but I was shaken. I had several years to grieve her passing before she died, and I was determined to remain strong for my family in her absence. I coped.
I did a number of things in my intellectual, opinionated, vocal and Christian efforts to cope that might not have been typical. First, I read a number of books about cancer, death and grieving, which I found interesting and useful from an academic and psychological perspective. I didn’t feel all the emotions of which they spoke, but I could understand how others might. The books about cancer were beyond my understanding, and it was not until someone explained it to me that I got the basic concept. Still, to speak of the illness that ravaged my mother almost made me sick, so I avoided the subject of cancer itself at all costs.
Of course, I turned to my faith in God with a vengeance. This is particularly important, as it was that same faith that informed us, through the pens of her family, that if we’d had enough faith she wouldn’t have died. Not being one to back away from what I believe, I set my feet and declared boldly that God could take my mom if He wanted, I had nothing to do with it either way, and I would believe in and trust Him regardless. I would refer to the story of the Israelite young men in Babylon, who told the king, as recorded in Daniel 3:16-18 “"O Nebuchadnezzar, we have no need to present a defense to you in this matter. 17 If our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the furnace of blazing fire and out of your hand, O king, let him deliver us. 18 But if not, be it known to you, O king, that we will not serve your gods and we will not worship the golden statue that you have set up.” In other words, for me, “If God will leave my mother here with me on Earth, let Him, but even if He doesn’t, I will not deny Him, nor will I turn away from His worship.”
I did, ultimately, doubt my own faith in God, but I did not for a moment doubt His goodness or His power to save those He chose to save. This is not to say that I had an easy time of it. Through the following years I began to slack off significantly in my school work, and my grades suffered accordingly. My father had a hard time of it, while I tried to take the place of my mother, for my younger brothers, which, of course, no one appreciated. Yet I never dropped the practices associated with my faith in God, nor, as I look back on it, my faith itself in Him.
It was that faith that guided me at her funeral when I spoke for a good ten minutes about who and what she had meant to me, and what I felt about her death. We had an assignment at the time, in my English class to deliver a speech to a group of people. My teacher came to the funeral, and chose, much to my pleasant surprise, to give me credit for my funeral speech toward that assignment. This went quite far to relieve the stress on me of trying to deal with seemingly meaningless homework assignments, and it inspired me to continue using my gift for speaking, and use of the language in general, to get the message out to the public. Since then I have spoken on countless occasions to various groups of people about many topics, but most often about my faith. I look back on the way that teacher helped me in that difficult time when giving credit for what I now do for a living and for a ministry.
Things happen in life, be they the result of the fallen-ness of the world, our own stupidity or sin, or of God’s direct will. Some people are crushed by the negativity and some come through with flying colors and are recognized as heroes. Others, like me, fall back on what we know and believe in our effort to cope. Eventually we come out of the worst of those particular battles; stronger for having hung on and pressed through; people who will withstand the further difficulties to come with life; people who will cherish the good that comes in a life of faith.
