Why I am not as afraid of Covid19 as I probably should be.

Everyone is understandably feeling anxious right now. This is a world pandemic. Many people are ill and have died. Many more fall ill and die. It’s a scary time.

I want to say thank you to every NHS and front line worker. Thank you so much for all that you do for us.
I can’t imagine how hard this is for you.
But I look at the levels of panic, and honestly, I just don’t feel it. Is there something wrong with me?
I do worry for elderly and vulnerable family and friends, so I know that I am not heartless. I understand why people are afraid, but I don’t understand why I am not. This all feels so distant from me: I know that it’s serious, I follow all Govt rules in staying at home, social distancing and hand washing. I know that it’s real. But I just don’t feel afraid. I know that I might get ill: in fact I am at higher risk than many people of my age, so I definitely do not feel immune.
And yet. I have done social isolation, not being able to go I to work, and facing my own mortality, thanks to cancer. I am used to fear, sickness, reduced income (my husband is self-employed), and not seeing friends. I have faced the death of a loved one: my son died in my arms last year, due to a congenital heart defect.
What I am not used to is other people being in the same boat as me and my family. I am used to other people’s lives being busy and happy and successful while we get left in the dust. So, I quite like that we’re not alone in this latest disaster. It feels like we are all one family now, looking out for each other. Sharing home schooling and exercise from home tips. Volunteering to help others, and being kind. Talking about our fears, rather than having to pretend that everything is ok because other people can’t handle our pain. Because everyone is in pain, it feels a lot less lonely.
I feel grateful for the little things: sitting in the sunshine in my garden; spending days learning, baking, playing and being creative with my kids; being grateful when there is milk in the shop. Others must be feeling this too?
A couple of months ago, I remember wishing that life could just be put on pause for a while. I was too busy and too tired. I needed a break, but couldn’t see how I would get one. Even in holidays, I rush around, planning trips and visits without taking much time to rest, or just enjoy my family and home. Now I can do that.
My cancerversary is coming up in April, and my son Samuel’s birthday and anniversary of his death in May. I won’t have to keep going during these, powering on through, because the world has crashed. My family’s lives crashed last May when Samuel died. It feels nice that we aren’t so alone now. It’s ironic that when we are most physically alone, I feel the least lonely.
Please forgive me if I sound unsympathetic. I do know how awful and unfair this virus is, especially for the vulnerable and the poor. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. I stand with those who mourn.
But is this really the first time that some people have realised that they are mortal? We are all going to die. It’s no use pretending otherwise. Maybe you should think about what you believe in what happens to you after death now, rather than pushing your fear of death to the back of your mind. Write a will if you don’t have one. Stop living like your time isn’t the most precious thing.
Yes, this virus is unfair, but then so is life. Time to face up to that. Take the time to play with your kids; read a book and look at the flowers in the garden. Message your friends to check in on them. Volunteer if you can.
Soon crazy busy normal life will return, but hopefully we will be kinder for this shared disaster.

Hope when it’s hopeless

I am going to come right out with it,¬† something that’s been bothering me for a while: Christians are not always that helpful. Christians are not always great when you are having a terrible time. Sometimes they say stupid, ignorant things. Sometimes they ignore you because that’s easier for them. Sometimes they throw inappropriate and out-of-context Bible passages at you like so many bricks, then walk away smugly, thinking that they have helped, when in fact all they do is make you want to stop going to church, simply to avoid people like them.

Yes, it’s harsh but it’s true. Thank goodness that I put my hope in Christ, and not people. That’s the problem with putting all of your faith in someone human, no matter how much they love you, one day they are going to let you down.

Before I get lots of defensive replies, let me also add that sometimes Christians are literally a God-send. Sometimes they are the perfect friend at the right time, and even though they don’t know what to say; even though they may have never been through trauma, they are still kind. They still give you a little bit of joy or peace.

And, of course, non-Christian friends are wonderful too. If you haven’t got any friends who are not believers, you are missing out. People don’t need to have faith to be kind, honest or generous.

I am in the club with the most expensive membership fee, the club that nobody wants to join: people whose child has died.

Meeting other people who have lost a child can be helpful, tiring and sometimes really sad. I found myself recently in a bereaved parents’ group, and honestly I felt so sad for them. A bit sad for myself certainly, but mostly for them. I was thinking about why I felt this way, amd I think that it’s because even in the most hopeless of circumstances, I have hope.

People who don’t believe in God think that they will never see their child again. If you haven’t had a child die, you have no idea what this is like, but try to imagine it for a second. Most people won’t, because our brains try to protect us from harm. And the death of a beloved child is the most harmful thing that our bodies, minds and spirits will ever have to face. I have had life-threatening cancer at a fairly young age, and I can confirm that this is a walk in the park compared with holding your baby as he breathes his last.

The thought of never seeing your beautiful child ever again for me is the definition of hopelessness. It is sadness, dismay, emptiness, fear and pretty much all of the bad things, rolled into one.

But I do believe that I will see my Samuel again. I did not want him to be ill, I did not want him to die. I get cross with God for putting us through this. It is completely unfair. Please do not tell me that this will work together for our good. But I do know, as much as I know anything, that one day I will see him in Heaven. I will hug him, I will be overjoyed. I have to, probably, want a long time for this meeting. But I look forward to it.

I have hope in the hopless situation, because I know God.

If I did not believe that God loves me and gave up his only son to die on the cross for me, and that he is looking after Samuel for me, I would be inconsolable. I would fall into the depths of despair. Nobody’s kind words or saying that he is a star or a butterfly or an angel now, would help. Superstition and traditions ring hollow. The only person that I put all of my hope into is Jesus. The only thing that shouts truth to me, is what is written in the Bible.

I have faced my own mortality head-on, and it does not scare me. I know where I am going. I know where my baby is. No popular culture or secular academic argument will ever sway me. I must either be completely deluded, or right.

How do I have hope? Even though I am traumatised, harrassed, been physically and mentally ill, grieving, incredibly sad and sometimes very angry? Because I know that God loves me. I don’t know why life has to be so flipping¬† hard, but I know that he will never let me down.

 

 

 

 

Waiting

Waiting for a baby to be born is an exciting, knackering and slightly scary time. Waiting for those first contractions is like being in an airport and wondering when your flight will be boarding. You are packed and as ready as you can be, and all that you can do is now is to grab something to eat and try to be patient.
I remember looking forward to meeting my two older children. I knew that labour would be the hardest thing that I had ever done (although the second one was much easier); but imagining holding your beautiful new baby in your arms can get you through many contractions and indignities.
I am also looking forward to meeting my youngest child, Samuel, who will be born soon. I imagine holding him in my arms for the first time. I picture the joy on my first two children’s faces as they meet their baby brother. I will love having photos of us as a family of five together.
But, the truth is that he may never get to meet his siblings and wider family. We have no idea how long he will live. Those first few cuddles as my husband and I hold him for the first time, may also be the last. That first photo of me holding him just after birth, when let’s face it, I will be far from photogenic, may be the only picture that I ever have of us.
I packed my hospital bag for myself and him, but he may never wear some of the nappies and clothes that we bought. I am preparing myself for labour, just as I have done before, but we are having to plan his funeral at the same time. Many people don’t even plan their funeral or think about their death even when they are old and ill. We are planning our son’s funeral even before he has left the womb.
Waiting for Samuel’s birth is like waiting for a flight, but this time it’s not to a destination that you ever wanted to visit. Although things look the same from the outside: I am well, he will look healthy when he is born, it will be a natural birth, we will still get to cuddle our baby; the place that we are travelling to looks dark, feels scary, isn’t normal.
I love Easter, and not just because of the chocolate eggs. Believing that Jesus chose to be born on Earth, with the intention to die as the sacrifice for the sins of all people, is the most important part of the Christian faith. That the son of God wanted to be born as a helpless human baby to then take the sins of all of us upon himself, and die; and therefore to save those who put their faith in him from eternal death, is a truly amazing thing. It’s so unfair and love-filled and seemingly crazy that many people can’t get their heads around it.
By dying on the cross for me and everyone, Jesus has taken away my fear of death, because I know where I am going.
But does that take away death’s sting? No.
Does that mean that I don’t mourn loved ones when they die? No.
Does that mean that seeing Samuel die so young will be easy? Definitely not.
I am confident that we will meet Samuel again one day in Heaven. His heart will be perfect then. But that doesn’t mean that we won’t suffer when he dies; or that we’ll ever ‘get over’ his death.
God gives and he takes away. There will be no crying in Heaven, but there is plenty of it here on Earth.