There are still nights when I cry myself to sleep. Sometimes, I am convinced the neighbors can hear me sobbing and will rush over to see if I am OK. In a way, I wish they would. Their concern would seem like proof there is a God and He is listening.
Nine months ago, my mother died from non-Hodgkin lymphoma. She was my biggest cheerleader and my greatest inspiration. When it became clear she would not be there to see me get married someday, that she never would coach me through cooking my first Thanksgiving turkey, that she never would would meet her future grandchildren, my world came crashing down.
Through the whole ordeal of her illness, I had remained firm in my trust in God. It was just a matter of finding that “miracle” combination of chemotherapy and radiation that would beat back and destroy the cancer. I believed God was present, working through doctors and friends, providing comfort and peace. Sure, the treatments were rough; but as long as my mom was still going through her days in a fairly normal way, there was hope. However, when we got together last September, she was completely altered. My strong, vibrant, talkative mother was gone. She had been replaced by a quiet, withdrawn shell of a woman who seemed as if she would breakin two if you hugged her too hard.
As the change in my mother took place, a change began in me, as well. I felt angry with everyone and everything, and especially angry at God. I could not believe God could just sit there and watch my mom suffer—that God could bear to see her in such horrible pain. I know I could not.
At church, I felt like a sham standing up in front of my students speaking of a God of love and compassion. I could not talk about a God who answers prayers, because I did not feel like God was hearing me at all. Then, on the terrible night when I got the phone call that my mother had died, I felt abandoned. My world had ended.
My students and volunteers became a huge network of support. These people let me be vulnerable. I was a broken, emotional disaster; and yet these people, my faith community, loved me and did all that they could to make sure I was OK.
More Questions than Answers
The most important person in my journey through grief has been my spiritual director, Sherry. As we have met monthly, she has listened intently. Even nine months later, as I once again sit sobbing on her couch, she reminds me I am fragile and to be gentle with myself, to remember it is OK to feel crappy, and that it has not been that long.
Sherry does not always have answers (and answers are not as important as I used to think they were), but she always has questions. She asks questions that make me look more closely to see where God is within all the messiness that is my life.
Spiritual direction has made me realize God has been walking with me, through every bad day and overwhelming night. I have begun to recognize God is big enough for my anger, compassionate enough for my grief, incarnate enough for my doubt, and loves me in spite of those things.
I have come to know my questions have not really affected my ability to minister to students, but, rather, have helped me to join them in their journey—full of doubt and wonder, confusion and anger—to be reminded of what it is to be vulnerable and not quite certain of all I thought I knew.
Amanda Weitzel is Pastoral Associate for Middle School Ministry at St. Philip the Deacon Lutheran Church in Plymouth, Minnesota. She has a Master of Arts degree in youth and family ministry from Luther Seminary.
