Angst

There has been something about having a 5 at the start of my age that has sent me into a perpetual state of reflection, anticipation, and pondering. The result of all of this is a deep understanding of, and perhaps even welcoming of, the condition of angst.

Human beings, as far as we know, are the only living creatures who ponder their own death before it happens. Yay, humans!

I always knew, of course, that I would die someday, but the angst is recent. I can't say that the pondering is entirely recent. You may recall that I previously confessed in a blog post to contemplating suicide as a teenager, but this pondering that is linked with a complete understanding of the complete and utter erasure of my being is certainly recent.

In a conversation with my son, Tony, one day, we talked about a church member and mother of one of his friends who was battling cancer and had very little time left in this world. We contemplated how we might feel if we were faced with this certain end. He said something that was so profound to me that it was possibly the catalyst for my angst. He said,

"I'm not afraid of dying, I'm afraid of not being here."

Now that, my friends, is exactly where I'm at. I've never been afraid of dying. My dark teenage thoughts were encouraged to linger because of that. My family raised us in an atmosphere of open discussion about the realities of death. We contemplated it whenever a relative would die. We all thought we were so enlightened because we were not afraid. I truly wasn't afraid of death, I was more often afraid of the process of dying - how hard would it be, would it be painful, etc.

Once Tony voiced the more terrifying state - of not being here - I haven't been able to shake it. I sit in my house now, typing this, and looking around at the life that I have and how precious it is, and how beautiful my children and grandchild are, and all that I have to look forward to and then it rushes at me. The angst. The sheer meaningless reality of human existence.

I photograph headstones as a volunteer for Find A Grave and sometimes when I'm standing over that stone, I try to imagine the person interred there. What did they sound like? What was their favorite thing to do? What foods did they hate? The stone doesn't tell me. The dates tell me whether there is likely to be anyone alive still who could know, but in the end, enough time will pass for all of us that nobody will still be around who really remembers us.

Ecclesiastes 1:2 (NIV)

Angst.

The writer of Ecclesiastes had it. We don't even know for sure who he was. Even if we do think we know who he was, we don't know what he sounded like. We don't know what his favorite thing to do was. We don't know what foods he hated.

Angst.

It can either paralyze you or empower you. When we are truly aware of the limited days we have, we can become depressed and fearful or we can feel a drive toward making our lives count for something.

I'm choosing the latter. While I can get teary-eyed when I'm filled with angst like I am today, the condition itself calls for action. I begin making plans. I start thinking about goals. I cheer myself toward making a difference in the world (and by world I generally mean my corner of it).

And I write.

Because, that is one thing that could tell somebody 200 years from now who I was, what I found to be most important . . .

and maybe even what foods I hated.

Memories: Re-Imagining the Rain

A very large part of the person I am today originated in the year 2002. In January, my baby who was just over a year old, was diagnosed with cancer. I had separated from my husband a few months before, I was unemployed and attending university, and I had two other children at home, ages 5 and 3.

Through that year, I encountered more challenges than I ever had before, or ever have since. Struggling through the end of an 18-year marriage, dealing with the realities of poverty and single parenting, and existing as a person whose child was battling a life-threatening illness was daunting and difficult. If I ever say anything that makes it sound like it was easy, I'm covering for you so that you don't have to feel bad about it. It was hard. Add to that an ex-husband who didn't help, a church family who deserted me eventually for whatever reason (I'm told that my ex was telling them stories that made them not want to be there for me), and my own father dealing with a heart attack and subsequent bypass surgery, which left my own family barely able to be present for me, and you have the very definition of hardship.

The good thing about hardship, though, is that when we endure it, when we focus on positives, set goals, and pull ourselves out of it, we have embedded a certain trait into our psyche - one that will define how we approach every single challenge from then on. This little thing is called grit.

At the time, though, grit was the last thing on my mind. Often, I would come home at night from school or the hospital feeling alone. Many times, while my children slept in their beds, I searched, begged and pleaded for strength. Sometimes this was in silent prayer, but often it was in the form of song.

Music is a big part of my life. I mentioned another song in the blog post "Amazing Grace" which has profound meaning to me, and for sure, that song was sung often while I rocked my son to sleep in those hospital rooms. However, when I was at home in those moments when I was barely hanging on, there were two songs that I would sometimes play over and over, singing as loudly as I could without waking up the children. After two or three repeats, I would move from my deepest desperation into a complete sense of empowerment.

The songs were "I Can Only Imagine" by Mercy Me and "Bring on the Rain" by Jo Dee Messina. The combination of these songs reminded me of the two powers I have within myself to encounter and defeat any difficulty that comes my way.

"Bring on the Rain" reminded me that my life was going to be experienced in the way I chose to experience it. Whether I decided to focus on the negatives and have a negative life or whether I chose to embrace the positives and know that negatives are just another part of the whole adventure, was entirely up to me.

"I Can Only Imagine" invoked a power beyond myself. The power that God provides and which always has been and always will be there for me. The power that has overcome the world. My God has my back. He always has and always will. Sometimes outcomes are not what I want them to be, but I can always know that whatever those outcomes are, God will have my back. He had it in 2002 and revealed himself to me in so many minute and infinite ways.

Still today, the sound of those songs brings back memories, tears, and a renewed sense of empowerment. They are a reminder that rain can be seen as a storm or as a giver of life.

The choice is yours.