Time to say goodbye

Yesterday we euthanased one of our dogs. It was a particularly heart-wrenching experience because it was the first time our kids lost a pet. Navigating their first experience of loss, and grief, was also a first for us - helping them to know what to expect from the experience while trying to manage our own grief was tricky at times - trying to figure out when to hold it together and when to reveal or own pain....

But I think my lasting lesson will be my son's unwillingness to accept this. Right the way through he refused to give consent to the process. Even after she had died he kept saying that her dying was not okay, should not be happening, was not what he wanted, was not the best option, had to be stopped.

To an extent he is absolutely right. While death may be a part of life, it is not natural, and we all feel that instinctively. Death was never a part of creation until Adam and Eve ate the forbidden fruit.  Only once sin entered the world did God speak of death as a part of the penalty.  Instinctively we know that death is unnatural and instinctively we rail against it. My son's heart cries were holiness in action - a cry against the effects of sin and a plea for God to restore and heal that which is irrevocably broken.

Our hearts long for that day when death will be no more. But till that day, we are left with the pain of having to say goodbye, of having to live with the absence of the other. I have no answers as to whether or not our pets will be raised to life again, of whether or not we will see them again. It's hard to accept that when our fur babies die they are truly gone forever.

Thank God, though, we don't grieve as those without hope when it comes to people! Thank God I know where those I love, who also love God, will be and that we will be together again on that day when death is no more! (And how great the tragedy when those I love do not love God - but that is a topic for another day...)

Rage, rage against the dying of the light

As I was driving home the other day, I passed near to the home of a friend, James Thomas, who was killed in the Nairobi Westgate Mall shooting on 21 Sep 2013. I began to contemplate the events and its consequences, and was surprised how quickly my anger at both the fact of James' death and the manner of his death rose to the surface again. Grief is a strange animal, walking in circles and spirals, never fully resting.

(Some great articles were written about it at the time. Here are a selection: iol news, Mail & Guardian, Daily Maverick.)

In allowing my rage a voice, I found myself quoting from Dylan Thomas' epic poem to God, so I wanted to share this poem with the world again. James was one of those individuals who simply did not consider getting old. Every moment was one to grabbed by both hands and exploited to the fullest. He had a deep and abiding joy, and a zest for life, that is rare. He was a 'wild [man] who caught and sang the sun in flight'. I know that it came from his deep faith in God. I miss him terribly. I know the world is poorer because he is no longer in it.

Do not go gentle into that good night

Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

What will you do with your dash?

Having been on a leadership conference the past two days, I wanted to share some of the moments that really touched me.

While many of us may choose to be cremated when we die, the principle illustrated in this photo is true for all of us. Our lives can be summed up by that little dash between our birth date and death date. It's such a little thing, and, cosmically speaking, our lives are actually that insignificant - unless we choose to make them significant.

What are you doing with your dash?

You only get one life. It will probably only last about 80 years (excluding the possibility of a dread disease or accident killing you before then). 

One of the most recent Nobel Peace Prizes was given to the youngest ever person - a 17 year old girl who, at age 15, had already been campaigning for the rights of girls to receive education. At age 15 she had already angered a group of people to such an extent that they shot her. Her name is Malala Yousafzai. I tell you about her because I know that when I think of 80 years as a life span, I am tempted to think that 'my life only really began when I started working'. Doing so allows me to excuse myself from having made a difference until I was age 20-odd. Yet, here's a girl who, by age 15 was already making a SIGNIFICANT difference.

So I challenge you again - what will you do with your one and only dash?

And before you start thinking that only young people can make a difference - remember that Mother Theresa was 87 when she died, still active in her calling of helping lepers and that Archbishop Emeritus Desmond Tutu is currently 83.

And if you start thinking that your socio-economic status is a hindrance to making a difference, or your gender, then, again, you're wrong. Over the years I have seen plenty of news stories about women in the townships who have taken in scores of AIDS orphans on next to nothing, out of which the GoGo's Trust has been established.

So I ask you again, what will you do with your dash?

I have been challenged by this. I believe I am already making a difference - by trying to raise my kids in the best way I can, by being the best teacher I can, by getting involved in leadership in my local church, by volunteering with Cape Town Expo to help train and teach teachers and pupils about the scientific method, and by having started Born Sleeping. Yet, I still feel the challenge. I still feel there is more I could be doing. I am so conscious of the incredible need around me. At times, I am overwhelmed by it, to the point of emotional exhaustion when I feel I have to tune out the entire world - from the beggar at the traffic lights to my own kids just to survive.

But when I die, the legacy I want to leave is a trail of lives that I have affected for good. I want there to be a long line of people who have come to faith through my actions (and I'm rubbish at even friendship evangelism!), whose faith has been deepened and encouraged by me, by people who got an excellent education, who were inspired to DO something (not just to feel good), and who felt the comfort of God through my words and hands. I want my kids to say that I have left them more than just money, but a legacy of faith and trust in our Lord.

What legacy do you want to leave behind? What are you doing to make that legacy a reality?

Gratitude day #4

Holidays are usually the time in which I get to catch up with friends I haven't been able to see during the term. Last night we had dinner with friends who were involved in a car accident about 6 weeks ago. They are both lucky to be alive (someone else died in the accident), and are both still in recuperation and booked off work.

Chatting with them about their accident, I was struck yet again how fragile life is. One moment you can be going about your normal, daily life, and the next you could be dead. 

They aren't able to drive yet, so I collected them from their place, and took them home again afterwards. Although they have always worn seat belts, they mentioned how they have developed a deeper appreciation for them.

I am grateful for the person who invented seat belts. When I think of the road deaths in SA every year, mostly caused by drunk drivers, but also by people not wearing their seat belts, particularly parents who don't strap their kids in, it makes me so cross. Such a simple little thing, but it really does save lives. One little click. (Ei only vant tu hear vaan click!)

In reflecting on our evening together, I am especially grateful that these friends are both still alive and able to spend time with us. These are people who I am learning to like more and more as we get to know them, people I think could become life long friends at a deep level, people with whom we share so much in common.

Death and drugs

A few years ago, in our previous cell group, we had a member of the group who was living on the streets. His name was Steven. Steven was a homosexual who was infected with HIV and he was a drug addict. I saw 'was' because he died last weekend. He didn't die from AIDS, from the TB he had contracted. He didn't die from exposure from spending most of every day being on the streets. Steven died, we presume, from a drug overdose.

Steven had his 'spot' at two different traffic lights where he would sell whatever he could - jewellery he had made or second hand books. After we left that cell group to lead another one, we saw Steven at church occasionally, but we saw him regularly at the traffic lights. We would always wind down the window and have a quick chat between the light changes. It never ceased to amaze me how cheerful he was despite his circumstances. 

He was a young believer, with a lot still to learn about God, but then, if we're honest with ourselves, I think we all still have a lot to learn about God, no matter how long we have been believers.

I won't lie and say that Steven was a friend. He wasn't. He was secretive and, quite honestly, his poverty, HIV and drug addiction made me uncomfortable. I was comfortable as long as he was kept at arm's length. My kids knew who he was, but I had deliberately not told them his background, because I wanted to give them the opportunity to respond to him without my baggage, without my prejudices. I wanted them to just see him as another human being. They liked him, and for that I am grateful. I think to have the love of a child is healing, and the surprise on his face when my daughter would rush up and hug him was worth my discomfort.

But about 2 weeks ago my prejudice caused me to pull back when really I should have reached out. I was in a rush, not that that is any excuse. I just didn't want to have my "perfect" life interrupted and discomforted by him. So when we stopped at the traffic light on this occasion, and despite the little voice in my head telling me something was wrong with him, I moved on with my life. I did not help him with the small request he had of me - for a bottle of water. I could easily have done so, but I chose not to. Even had I not helped with that, I should have stopped and had a proper conversation with him, because I could see he was in trouble. He was not his usual self. He was filthy and scruffily dressed, despite living at the Salvation Army and having access to clean clothes and showers. His eyes had a feverish look to them. I knew something was up, and I chose not to stop.

A week later, the cops found him, disorientated, and complaining of chest pains. They took him to hospital, and he died there. He died of a drug overdose, we think. I don't know whether an autopsy was done, but if it was, I doubt I would hear of it.

I could wallow in guilt, that I chose not to respond to my fellow believer in need. I could wallow on guilt that I did not respond to another human being in need when the solution was so obviously within my ability to help. I could wallow in guilt that the example I set my kids was beyond poor. I could wallow on guilt over my selfishness. But I won't. I have asked god's forgiveness, and when I see Steven in heaven one day, I will ask his forgiveness too. 

Instead, I hope that in reflecting on this whole horrible mess I have learnt a lesson. I hope that the next time my fear and anxiety threaten to prevent me from disrupting my own life, that the next time I find myself with an opportunity to let my life be discomforted, I will make the right decision - the decision to be the hands and feet of Christ in a broken world.

My privileged upbringing has isolated me from my own humanity. It has bred in me a fear of others who are different to myself. I know that the journey to change all that will be a long one. I am not now suddenly 'fixed' because of this one experience. I know that this journey will be a long and difficult one, but this is a journey I must make if I am to truly become like Jesus. It's a journey I have not wanted to make, and have avoided (& excused myself from) for far too long. I still don't want to, because I don't want my nice comfortable life to be discomforted and disrupted, but increasingly I hear the voice of God about this, and increasingly I understand the value in embarking on this difficult journey.

The way of the cross is not easy, nor is it comfortable. Jesus never promised us an easy life. I hate that about Christianity. I want an easy life. I want to be comfortable and isolated. Yet, my heart is melting slowly, and I find myself moving closer to the edge of something more exciting - a life that is more than just comfortable....

The measure of success

In conversation with someone tonight, I found myself commenting that while this has been a hard year, it's been a good one too. I was surprised as those words left my mouth. Why? Because I'm a complainer. I love any excuse to bemoan my fate. Yet, here I was saying I've had a good year. What's more, I didn't realise that was true till I said it.

Yes, this year has been tough. Not as tough as 2007/8, granted, but still tough. I've had several people I love suffer depression. I lost a friend to the Nairobi mall shooting. Financially it's been incredibly tough. Both my mother and mother-in-law had serious ops. My father and step-mother have also had frail health this year. We lost a house we had an offer accepted on, very last minute, which broke my heart. Work has been... extremely pressured. It's been a difficult year. I'm looking forward to the holidays.

Yet, it's been a good year.

As I reflected on where that truth sprang from, it struck me afresh that it's been a good year despite the difficult circumstances. Circumstances don't dictate success, or lack thereof. Rather, it's our attitude that does.

This year has held significant break-through for me, in my faith and my relationship with God. It's because of that, and the changed attitudes of my heart, that my perceptions of reality have changed. My reality is now less focused on the circumstances that surround me, and more focused on the God who loves me, and sustains me. 

My measure of success is becoming His perception of my life, rather than how much money I have in the bank, how many compliments I've received, whether I meet all my deadlines, or whatever. This is not to say I have this waxed! Far from it! Yet, I can look back over the year and see significant strides forward in this, and so I know that I have made progress. Because there is progress, though my circumstances have not changed, I feel the flush of success. 

This has been a good year, not because my God has walked alongside me, but because I am learning, once again, to walk alongside Him, and that feels so good! 

How do I say goodbye to yesterday (Boyz II Men)

How do I say goodbye to what we had? 
The good times that made us laugh 
Outweigh the bad. 

I thought we'd get to see forever 
But forever's gone away 
It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday. 

I don't know where this road 
Is going to lead 
All I know is where we've been 
And what we've been through. 

If we get to see tomorrow 
I hope it's worth all the wait 
It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday. 

And I'll take with me the memories 
To be my sunshine after the rain 
It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday. 

And I'll take with me the memories 
To be my sunshine after the rain 
It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday.

Farewell, James Thomas. This is not the end, this is not goodbye forever. This is just goodbye for now. I know we will meet again, in the hereafter. But till then, my heart aches. 

You were a gentle giant, with a giant-sized heart. You loved deeply, and passionately. You pursued your dreams, actively hunted them down, and made them reality. You touched lives all over Cape Town, and abroad. Your hugs are legendary. Your smile was infectious.

Thank you for everything you did, for being who you were. Our lives will never be the same now that you are gone.

A grief unending

Today I came across this blog post about a mother losing her children. Read it. That is all.

Farewell, Stranger

This afternoon I witnessed something rather horrific - I saw a man killed. It all happened so quickly... I didn't even realise what had happened until several seconds later. He was on a motorcycle and trying to turn right, when an oncoming car hit him, and knocked him off his bike. I heard the ka-thwack of his body hitting the road, and it took me a few seconds to realise that he was on the ground, and not moving.

Incredibly, a cop car had been coming down the road, so within seconds the cops had stopped to help, diverting traffic and calling the ambulance. The guy who drove into the motorcyclist stopped his car just past the intersection and had run over to try and help. He was distraught, but, sadly, all for naught. The motorcyclist died on the scene after he stopped breathing despite CPR.

As I drove away, all I could wonder was how his family would cope. My heart goes out to them. It's one thing to lose someone who is ill; it's quite another to lose someone unexpectedly. It reminded me how important it is to always part on good terms with people - there may never be a chance to repair a relationship at a later date. I also wondered whether he has a wife, and children, and if so, how they will get through their grief - what impact their grief will have on their lives. At least he died quickly, and never regained consciousness: he would not have felt any pain.

I can only pray that this stranger's death will be gentle on those he loves, that they have Jesus to lean on, and a strong family support system to lean on.

Farewell, stranger. Rest in peace.

Have we cracked the nod?

I've just had such an exciting phone-call. Many of you who have been reading this blog for a few years will know that G and I run a support group for parents who have lost a child through miscarriage, stillbirth or neonatal death, based in Cape Town, but for all South Africans. For a long time, we pushed on doors at various maternity hospitals and wards, to publicise our work, to no avail. We had several positive meetings with various people, but since then, we've heard nothing at all.

In retrospect, it was probably a good thing, as I doubt we could have coped with much more than we were doing at the time. On average though, we get about 4 or 5 contacts a month, several of whom take it no further - just needing to know that there is someone there if they need it. However, we've been having about one meeting a month of late, so things are slowly picking up.

Which leads me to the phone call I've just had. I don't usually answer my phone for numbers I don't recognise, but for some reason tonight I decided to answer. On the phone was a trauma counsellor who works for Discovery, wanting to know whether he could refer someone to us!! I'll skip the bit about the woman involved, and jump straight to the bit I found exciting. I asked him how he got our number, and he said he's not sure. He didn't know of anyone offering a support group for stillbirth, so he contacted a friend at Cape Town municipality, who then contacted someone else, who then contacted someone else, who just 'happened' to have our number (not even our website url or email!).

Now I ask you - if that isn't Providence, then what is?

So - it seems that news of our small support group and the work we do is slowly starting to filter around the city. This thrills me beyond words! Not because I want to be famous for anything, but because it means that the men and women who are in deep distress can be reached, and comforted, and given hope. I'm not expecting much to change in the immediate future, really, because our experience is that Saffa's don't like to talk about death, or about losing a child.

Yet, just knowing that the right people out there are becoming aware of us, and can refer others to us, means that I know that our work of bringing hope and support and comfort to these very broken people will increase, and that excites me intensely.

Words show meaning

When someone dies, how do you refer to it? Do you say the bereaved "lost" their family member, or do you say that the deceased has 'gone to heaven' or has 'died'?

This morning I learnt that the wife of one of our elders died last night. She'd had cancer. In thinking about it, I realised that I wasn't sure how to discuss it. My initial reaction was to say that her husband and kids had "lost" her. Then, thinking about her faith and peace and trust in God, I thought that maybe I ought to say that she had "gone home".

The way you naturally discuss it says a lot, I think, about your perspective on death, on life. Something I've been thinking about a lot recently is trying to keep my eyes on God, not my circumstances, so that my trust is in him, not in my circumstances. I'm hoping that by practicing this now, when the tough times hit us again (as they inevitably will) it'll be such a habit that I won't waver in my trust.

It struck me, while thinking about our elder and his 4 small kids, that my concern was for them. If all I look at is them, then I start to question why God would allow such a wonderful woman and mother to die so young.

Yet, her own faith is a witness to me, because she had absolute peace and faith, right up until the end. As a mother, I'm not sure how she did it. If I knew I was dying, with my young kids, I would be angry and panicked - after all, my kids need me; they need to grow up with their mother's love surrounding them. So the fact that she had peace tells me that she was leaving her kids in God's care, that she trusted him to provide for them, to uphold them and that she believed her death would not (ultimately) have a negative impact on their lives. That's faith.

If she could have that kind of faith, then how can I, as an outsider to the situation, question what God's motives are in allowing this to happen? Surely I should follow her lead, and trust that God is good, all the time?

Which brings me back to my original question - how do I, how do you, how do we discuss the death of a loved one?

I met someone recently who had known my uncle. When he saw my surname, he asked if I was related, and I replied in the affirmative. I went on to say that my uncle IS a wonderful man (nearly a year after his tragic death), before I corrected myself to say he WAS. Then I almost corrected myself again, because I know that my uncle IS still alive, in heaven, waiting for the rest of us.

A grief remembered

I've just returned from attending Trevor's funeral. I deliberately chose not to attend the viewing of the body in his home because I knew I wouldn't manage it very well. I was feeling fine as I sat in the pew, until the casket was wheeled in. Then the grief hit me full force.

My first thought was 'my God, he's in that box'. My second thought was 'just like Zoe was in hers', upon which I started crying.

I remember carrying her tiny coffin into the church. I was so blinded by tears I could barely see where to walk.

I stood in the pew and watched Trevor's mother enter behind his casket, supported by her mother (I presume) and sister (again, I presume). I watched this poor, broken woman and my heart broke afresh. I know her pain. I know the hell she is in now. I also know that there is nothing I can say or do that will make it any better for her.

It struck me that his little sister won't remember him - she's only about 3yrs old. While I know that Nellie doesn't remember Zoe actively, I know that she understands, and we still talk about her often - how we wish she were still with us, how we miss her, how we know we'll see her again one day. But Nathan doesn't know any of that yet. I know he doesn't understand. I don't know how to tell him, or when. I guess I'm hoping that as Nellie and I talk about it he will just imbibe the knowledge by diffusion.

I remember sitting in the church, listening to Stephen preaching. I don't remember a word he said. I remember thinking that his words were beautiful, and comforting, but I don't remember a word. I hope Thelma can remember the sermon today - it was perfect. It said all the things that needed to be said, without minimising the tragedy or the grief, but equally without softening the truth in any way.

This grief never leaves you. The pain and suffering never end. You just learn to live around it, or to ignore it for a while. But it never leaves. Give it half a chance, dwell on it for a moment too long, and it's almost as fresh as the day it first entered your life.

I don't know whether I was crying for Trevor, for Thelma, or for myself and Zoe, or both. There were times when I wanted to moan - I know those were mostly for myself and Zoe, but I also know that part of what I was experiencing was a sharing in Thelma's grief. I know her heart continues to break, and I know both the feel and the sound of that tearing of the soul.

In that regard, the preacher was also spot on. He didn't offer platitudes. (Thank God for small mercies! I think I might have had to leave the church to throw up if he had!) He didn't offer false comfort. What he did say, though, is that NOTHING can ever snatch us out of God's hands. That doesn't mean God makes us immune to suffering. Instead, it means that we are never alone, we never die alone, and that God is with us through and in our suffering.

In all likelihood, Trevor died in pain - both from his stab wounds and possibly from being suffocated as he lay bleeding to death. Yet, he did not die alone. He was held in God's hand through it all, and God took him away to a place where there is no more pain, or suffering, or crying. I was oddly comforted by that.

It struck me that although I wasn't aware of exactly when Zoe died, she didn't die unnoticed. God was with her, and God knows the exact moment she crossed over from this life into the next. My baby girl has never known loneliness, because she has always been surrounded by God's hands and his love.

As horrible as Trevor's death was, we do not grieve as those with no hope. He is in a better place now, and we will see him again. I will see my precious Zoe again. Till that day, I know that they are both in a place of peace and love and joy. That is the comfort that God brings.

Farewell, Trevor

Last week I was half-listening to the news on the radio while trying to drive and simultaneously hold a conversation with my 5yr old. On came a news item about a boy found stabbed in his bed in a suburb on the Cape Flats. I didn't listen too closely, except to note the basics of the story.

Two days later, I got a phone call (during school holidays and on a Sunday!) from a colleague to ask whether I'd heard the news about Trevor, one of the boys in my tutor group. What news, I asked? The news that he had died 3 days previously. I was shocked! As she started to tell me the sketchy details she had, I realised that the brief news item I had heard on the radio had been about this boy.

I immediately ran to the trusty internet to see what other details I could find, because there seemed to be rather a lot of confusion surrounding the event. When I did, I discovered that one of the other girls in my class had messaged me on Facebook, asking whether I had heard and could confirm any details. The details I did manage to find weren't pleasant. No signs of forced entry, yet the house had been turned upside down and the boy's body had been stabbed repeatedly, then left hidden under a duvet and pillow on his bed. He had just turned 16 two weeks prior to his death. Fortunately, his 3yr old sister had been staying with their grandmother, but he had been at home alone. When his mother couldn't get into the house on her return from work, she called the police, who broke in and discovered his body.

Later that morning, as I took my family out for a morning at Kirstenbosch, listening to their happy chatter, I couldn't help but feel shell-shocked. How does the world continue to turn, how do other people's live go on, when tragedies such as this occur? I remember feeling that way for a VERY long time after Zoe died. How could others just go on? Why didn't the entire world stop? I can only imagine the grief that his mother feels right now.

The real tragedy of it all is that Trevor was just starting to get his life back on track after losing his own father 2 years ago. He had gone through a troubled patch, academically at least, but was starting to turn things around. He had such potential, and the world is the poorer because he is no longer in it.

The funeral is this coming weekend. I really don't know how I'm gong to handle Monday when we return to school after the holidays - I'm sure there will be a special assembly. What I'm concerned about though is how to help the tutor class. Of course, not everyone in the class was a good friend of his, or knew him very well, but as a class they've been together since they started at the school.

For all the violence I experienced in UK schools, I've never had to deal with a death of this nature, or one for a child in my class. At times like this I wish I was a trained counsellor, so that I would have some clue about how to manage the situation.

The person I feel most sympathy for though is his mother. She has lost two people she loved in two years, and not just any two people, but her husband and now her son. There are no words. Life sucks sometimes.

A sense of humour loss

I think I've lost my sense of humour. Browsing through my recent posts, they all seem so serious. I know I've laughed a lot recently, both long and hard, but always at stuff other people have said. Somehow I seem to have lost my sense of humour when it comes to reflecting on my own life (which I tend to do in blogging). I'm not sure how that happened, or why, but I'm hoping it returns soon.

Actually, thinking about it, I think I can probably guess why. It's called panic. While I'm very excited about going into hospital tomorrow, a large part of me (that I'm trying very hard to ignore) is quietly panicking that this baby is going to die. Thus far, he's been active and healthy, but because all that can change in the blink of an eye (he could go from alive & healthy to dead in less than 20 minutes), I'm too scared to believe he's going to be okay until I can see his eyes open and hear him take a breath.

Is that a lack of faith? I'm not sure. I know that God understands, though. He understands my frailty. He's seen my tears, heard my pleas, felt my fears. He also knows that I know that this process is in his hands alone. There is nothing I can do to change the outcome. What will be, will be. Choosing to hang onto my fear is more about trying to protect my heart than anything else.

Unless someone has lost a child, I don't think they can understand my mind-set. I believe that God can save this child. I believe that God wants to save this child. However, those two facts together do not mean that God WILL save this child. That's the lesson I learnt with Zoe.

I feel like the sword of Damocles is hanging over my head, and that with each passing hour it drops closer to me. Only when my child is born, and alive, will I feel we are free and will I be able to fully experience the excitement of his birth. I just know I'm going to sob a LOT in the next few days and hours - either from sheer relief and joy, or from extreme heartbreak.

Oh dear God, let him be born alive. Please. Please.

I have no fear of the labour, although I'm not looking forward to the pain and although I keep wondering how I got through the last two. My only fear is that I'm going to go through this only to lose him. I guess contemplating the death of a child is enough to make anyone lose their sense of humour.

So I'm praying I recover mine, because that will mean he's born alive. I don't care if he has to be in ICU for weeks. I just want him alive. Please God.

Meme time again

Imagine you've been told you have less than a year to live. What would you do with the remaining time allotted to you?

I ask because tonight G and I watched 'Bucket List'. It's the story of two old guys who wind up in the same cancer ward, and are given the same diagnosis - you have less than a year to live. One starts a 'Bucket List' - a list of things to do before he dies. The other then starts adding to the list. They then embark upon this crazy tour of the world, ticking off their items. The movie is generally very funny, with moments of real poignancy. I think I'll add it to my list of favourites.

The underlying question of the movie though is about how we choose to spend the time we have left, since most of us have no idea how long we have left to live. Of course, the thought of me dying, and leaving Nellie to grow up without her mommy is enough to have me balling my eyes out and leaving snot trails bigger than a slug - so let's not go there. (Graeme's a big boy; I know he'd cope without me. I hope he'd find someone else to love.)

But it got me thinking - what would I do with my life if I knew I only had a year or less left? I've been pondering some of the things on the main characters' bucket list - like to kiss the most beautiful girl in the world (I won't spoil it for you if you haven't seen the movie... how they go about achieving this one is a beautiful miracle! What I will say is that I have already done that one, and I'm not vain enough to think that kissing my own reflection in the mirror as a child qualifies!), see something majestic, skydive.

So I'm going to create my own list... although it will probably take me a few days. When I'm done, I'll post it for you, probably, if I have the guts.

I challenge you to do the same - come up with your list and post it somewhere. Really think about your life & what you would do if you had a year or less left. I don't want pie in the sky stuff - like becoming the first woman president - nor do I want dreams you know will never be fulfilled (like getting to walk your daughter down the aisle - if you were to die in the next year, that probably wouldn't happen unless your daughter is already dating her one true love). I want real stuff, achievable stuff, but stuff that also has real meaning to it. OK, I know we all have to work to earn a living, and that does rather put a damper on the amount of time and resources we would have available to really make the most of the fictional year we have left. Still, give it your best shot. What would be on your list?

Farewell Marcello

I mentioned that last week our home group meeting was spent discussing Marcello - a man in our church who committed suicide. At the time, I couldn't picture him. Then I read this incredibly beautiful tribute to him, and suddenly I remembered who he was. He used to take Nellie for SuperChurch (the kids church group)!! Thinking about the man I met, I would never have guessed that a) he was depressed, or that b) he was suicidal. He struck me as someone who loved the kids deeply, someone deeply committed to Jesus, and to helping his fellow man. Although I never knew him personally, I found the tribute to him helpful - both in terms of learning more about who he was, but also in terms of how the church eldership viewed his act of suicide.

Farewell Angela

In December last year, I blogged briefly about a friend (one of Graeme's ex-girlfriends) who was battling ovarian cancer at the local hospital where we'll be having Baby 3. Sadly, she died this morning at about 5am.

Angela had only been married a year when her cancer was discovered. She was an incredibly brave woman, who suffered through every different variation of radiation and chemo possible - all without success. When I first heard that she had cancer, I knew immediately that she wouldn't make it. I don't know how I knew, but I knew. I desperately hoped she would. I prayed she would, but as every treatment failed, I became more sure of what I was trying to hide from. And now she's dead.

Thankfully, she died in peace, without pain, surrounded by family. I guess, under the circumstances, one can't really ask for more.

Yet I wonder - should I have said something to her 15 months ago when all this started? Should I have said anything to her at some point along the way? Would it have been better for her not to bother with treatment and rather enjoy what time she had left, rather than being constantly tired and nauseous and unable to do anything? Maybe she wouldn't have had as much time, but should I have said something anyway? Probably not, but still I wonder...

I guess if I were her, I would have opted for every treatment, no matter what someone else told me. I would have fought as hard as I could. She fought incredibly hard.

Mostly, I feel so sorry for her husband. They only had 1 year together. They never had children. Those are tragedies that only add to his grief and loneliness. I can only pray that in time he is able to find someone else to love and share his life with. Not because I want him to forget Angela, but because I want him to experience the joy of a lifetime spent with one person, and I want him to experience the joy of children.

Farewell, Angela. Rest in peace now and for eternity. The world is colder and darker for your absence from it, but we hope to meet again one day.

Farewell

Barry's funeral was on Wednesday afternoon. It was as beautiful as these things can be. Unusually, it was a communion service, but it felt so right given that my uncle was such a devout Christian - I learnt that not only is he a warden and sidesman, but also the treasurer.

The church tradition is 'high' church (or at least, it's a lot 'higher' than my experience of Anglicanism). This means that the clergy and others helping to run the service all wear robes (and stoles for clergy); when entering or leaving a pew, or when crossing the church in front of the altar, one genuflects to the cross; crossing oneself when certain words or phrases are used is expected; the congregation stands for the reading of the Gospel. I was surprised that the Gospel wasn't paraded into church and that incense and bells weren't used. A lot of it felt odd to me, because my tradition is much 'lower' church - I'm not a pomp and ceremony kind of girl. And yet... and yet...I realised something that I would not have previously anticipated.

G and I have recently been going to a non-denominational, charismatic church. (Ooooh boy, I can see how admitting that is going to open up a whole can of worms for some people!) While we love a lot of things about the church, it's not the perfect church, and I'm not even sure if it's the perfect church for us.

Sitting in the funeral service on Wednesday, I realised that I have really missed the Anglican liturgy. I found myself not only able to sing the hymns by heart (apart from one), but I was able to participate in the liturgy by heart too. (From a practical perspective, that was probably a good thing, because I was crying so often during the service that I would have struggled to read text anyway.) I finally had an experience of how liturgy can be a useful, supportive, encouraging thing. This is not to say that I've been anti-liturgy, because I haven't been; merely that I am not a liturgy kind of girl.

I don't like formulaic religion that does what it does because that's the way it's always been done. Religion like that is often empty and meaningless. For many years, as a child growing up in the church, I would recite liturgy without even thinking about it. When I realised what I was doing, I began to hate liturgy. I needed something to make communion 'fresh' to me, to help me realise what it's all about, why it's such a sacred (and yet secular) experience. I didn't get that from liturgy.

But on Wednesday, I suddenly saw a new side to liturgy. I found being able to recite the prayers comforting. In many ways, being in that church felt like coming home, which was odd since it was the first time I've ever set foot in that building. But that's precisely what one of the aims of liturgy is - it's supposed to make it easy for Christians to go to an Anglican church anywhere in the world, and feel at home; it's supposed to remind us that we are all part of one family, with one purpose for gathering together. On Wednesday, it succeeded in that role for me.

But I realised something else on Wednesday.... right now, my precious Zoe is getting to enjoy her great-uncle! His laugh, his sense of fun, his twinkling eyes - his love of children - she is getting to experience that right now. And he is getting to experience her in all her beauty and grace. And that comforts me too. I miss him, and I miss her, but at least they are together now, and one day, all of my family will join them, and together we will worship our God - there can be no more precious experience than to worship our Maker and Master as a family. I look forward to that day.

Ahh yes, I remember it well...

You know, one forgets very quickly how awful the process of grieving is. It's exhausting.

I have a pile of marking to do - none of it urgent, but I'd like to get it done before the holidays so that I can actually HAVE a holiday. I had time today, but I simply couldn't concentrate enough to do it.

I have an assignment to do for lectures tomorrow.... it's an easy one, and it's already half done. I couldn't face finishing it.

I need to sort out labels for the nappies (because the ones I have aren't working), but I simply don't have the energy to pick up the phone and have a conversation with my supplier.

I need to go and buy weed killer for the lawn because it's very obvious that my efforts at weeding are not up to the task. But I know that when I get to the nursery, I'll stand in front of the rack with the weedkillers and not be able to make a choice about which one to buy.

I remember this state well. I hate the fact that I don't have time to grieve. That's something to be said for the Jewish culture. When someone dies, you sit around at home for a week or so, and do nothing. You sit Shiva. Everyone gives you a week off to do what you need to do - to sit numbly, to cry, to yell, to remember, to tell stories. Our western culture has robbed us of that necessity.

I was offered some time off this morning because I was in tears before I even got to class. But to be honest, I don't want to sit at home alone. Grieving is something to be done as part of a community. It's not an individual effort. Yesterday I spent the day with my family, and it was such a blessing. We talked about Barry, and we talked about everything under the sun. It was so nice to be with people, and to have the freedom to talk to them, or not. If I was at home alone, I would be alone, with no-one to talk to.

With Zoe, I reacted by withdrawing completely from everyone and everything. While that approach works too, and while I know I need that to some extent to process my own emotions so I can support my dad and my aunt, right now, I don't want that. I want people around me I can talk to, and say 'Remember when...' to. Since I won't get that if I'm at home alone, there's no point in being home. Better to be at work and at least feel marginally useful.

But not processing means I'm even more exhausted. And so I'm getting stressed because there are things to be done, and I can't get on and do them. My stomach is tied up in knots and I feel almost ill - both from grief and frustration. I'm sleeping well, which is good, but when I wake I still feel just as tired as when I went to sleep. Grief takes its toll, I guess.

This evening I sat in front of the TV, munched on chocolate, and mended a very old teddy bear of mine called Bruno. Before he was my teddy, he used to be my brother's teddy. Now he's Nellie's teddy. There was something very therapeutic about working with Bruno tonight, something that spoke to me of continuity, and legacy, and heritage, of the connectedness of family, of being part of something bigger than just myself. It made me feel less alone, and less lonely.

As I was mending him, I noticed that he'd been mended before. This is one well-loved teddy! While I hope that one day Nellie will be able to pass him on to her children, I know there will come a day when Bruno won't be able to mended anymore, when he will have to be thrown away. Everything must come to an end I guess. Even us. It's just so hard to say goodbye and to be left behind.

One amazing man

My uncle was 75, and fitter than many 35 year olds I know. He was an incredible man with a great sense of humour. It's hard to describe the role he played in the family, because he was often in the background, but he was a real pillar of the family. Dependable, loyal, wise.

My father and my aunt had a really tough childhood (understatement of the year), and my uncle (who was 10 years older than my dad, and 12 older than my aunt) was their surrogate father. He took care of them, provided for them, loved them.

To us kids from the next generation, he was always good for a laugh. He had the most incredible stories to tell, and would tell them with such aplomb. When it was hard to get my father to talk about his parents or his childhood, my uncle would always oblige, telling incredible stories about the things they would get up to. He was also a joker. He would love to wind people up - especially my aunt. I suppose that after 50 odd years of marriage you really know which buttons to push, and he loved pushing them. He would wink at you, smile, and then say something or other. When my aunt would react, he'd grin, chuckle and just keep going till everyone around was in fits of laughter.

My uncle was also a man of deep faith. Even at 75 he was still very involved in his church community, and loved the Lord deeply and quietly.

He was, as I've said, very fit. Every week he walked on the mountain with a group of his friends, which included his minister, so he was no stranger to it, or to its dangers. He and my aunt also have a house out at Langebaan where he would walk and sail. Since their retirement, they would spend probably half their time there, and half back here in the city, so he was always very active.

My biggest regret is that I didn't see more of him since we returned. Just a few weeks back Graeme and I were saying how we really ought to invite him and my aunt over for a meal, because we hadn't seen them for such a long time... Nothing like death to put one's priorities back in order!

I shall remember him for his stories, and his wisdom. He had such life experience, and such wisdom from that experience, that he could always tell you the best thing to do in any given situation. I will miss him terribly.

He leaves behind him his wife, two children (both living in the UK), and 3 grandchildren (also all living in the UK).