Goodbye, Zachary

It has been a rough week. I'm usually not at a loss for words, but this is very, very difficult to write.

There is a family at my mother's church. The father is a tall, handsome police officer. I don't know the mother's profession, but she is blessed with good looks, a particularly gentle disposition, and a gift for teaching young children in an efficient, thoughtful way. There is a set of grandparents, too -- a cheerful Filipino grandpa and a Southern belle grandma. I didn't know the family well, as I don't attend church regularly. But to the extent that I did know them, I liked them. They were part of what I regarded as good and right in this world.

The family revolved around Zachary, a five-year old boy, adopted from Korea. Zachary definitely displayed a high degree of intelligence -- he was definitely smarter, more verbal, and a better reader than I was at that age. He was also remarkably well-behaved.

The parents had adopted Zachary some time after their firstborn had died, after four months of life.

On Wednesday, I learned that Zachary, a five-year old boy at my mother's church, died from cancer. He had been sick for a few months.

I cried then, just as I cried the previous Sunday during Easter service when I heard he was returning home from UCLA for hospice care. I felt guilt over little things, like not stopping by to drop off a cake. (I knew they were overburdened with requests to visit, and didn't want to contribute to that; but a cake is more tangible and, in my view, more effective than distant, silent prayers.)

I was angry, too. Sunday night, I had prayed, in my own reckless, spiteful fashion, to a God I didn't believe in. I made an offer: if God healed him, and allowed him to live a productive life, I'd swallow my pride, become a Christian, and even seriously consider entering seminary. That's how badly I wanted him to live.

And I was angry at God for making this family go through so much. Did any family deserve this much sorrow?

I always hated the story of Job. God came off as prideful, even arrogant, and Job's children and wives are regarded as trivially as the livestock, spoken in the same breath, and completely replaceable. It is only interesting in that it's a case of God having faith in a man, in a book that seems crammed with commandments for the direction of faith to go the other direction.

But, in the end, the anger passed -- or at least died down to a persistent smolder. But the pain did not. Why did I feel so strongly about this boy and this family? I'd met him only once. I barely knew the parents or grandparents. 

If I can be brutally honest, and selfish, the pain I felt was at least in part due to something specific to me and my life, and had nothing to do with them. Their story, their pain, their loss -- these were a stark reminder to myself that life is not fair, that we cannot count on a divine arbiter to promote justice. We are alone, and if our world is to be more just, more fair, more humane and loving, it comes from us.

And the second part is this: I had counted on the young children like Zachary (and my young cousins) to be better than I was -- raised in more stable homes, raised to be brighter and stronger and more emotionally confident than I was. It would make my failures and pain and seeming inability to do any fucking thing right ok. They would be there to pick up the slack.

Except Zachary won't  be. He leaves a hole in his family, in the church community, and, if one can imagine his full life, an absence that won't be fully appreciated, but will have an impact, across everyone who would have had a chance to know him. That's why the death of a child seems particularly wrong, a particularly heinous act of either a spiteful God or an indifferent, godless universe. 

Selfishly, Zachary and others were my "opt-out" card. They were the people who would let me continue to coast along, not doing much of anything, going through the motions of life in a depressed, indifferent, and callous state. 

So perhaps I won't be able to do that, now. I still don't know how I'll ultimately react and change, or if I will. The last couple days have been marked by escapism, headaches, and sleeping a lot -- definitely depressed behavior. And I feel disgusted with myself that it should be because of what it means for my life, rather than what it means for his family's. 

Maybe Tim points the way forward. Tim, Pam, and their son Ben were members of St. Paul's UMC when I lived in Ithaca. They had lost their younger son  to cancer. Tim stopped his previous career and turned the painful experience of caring for his dying son at home to start studying to be a nurse. He found, in his grief, a way to express it through service. He'll e a damn good one too -- if only more fathers would be possessed of such kindness, gentle grace, and good humor as he has. 

So while there might be no one to pray to, I will ask for strength, to do better, to stop waiting for someone to fix me, to stop waiting for my "real" father to show up one day and make things better. I am a flawed, flawed vessel, but hopefully, I can still hold it together enough to carry whatever I must, for as long as I must, if for no other reason than that there might be no one else left to do it.