The April TWOs
The calendar designates April Fool's Day as 24 hours of caution. For me, it is the following morning - April 2nd - that I tend to be mindful of. It is a day of anniversaries that draw conflicting emotions. Most people look forward to celebrating their wedding anniversary, especially the first. And today, marking eight years married, it is still a little difficult for me to be completely joyous as I think back to our "first and worst."
I wrote the following on April 2, 2013 -- after a year of reflection and soul-searching:
Today commemorates two very important milestones in my life. In 2011, I married the loving man only heaven could have polished and prepared for me. Exactly a year later, on our first wedding anniversary, we received news that my estranged father in the Philippines had passed. Needless to say, April 2nd will forever be a bittersweet day of remembrance.
It was a particularly rough week, this time last year. Just days before, Sean and I were in the hospital for a routine ultrasound during our 9th week of pregnancy only to discover that the fetus had stopped developing a few weeks earlier. I was bed-ridden with grief and the pain medication. So to receive news of yet another tragedy was much more than my heart could handle. And needless to say, my faith was tested - but not in the way many would have expected.
I didn't ask the typical "Why?" or "Why me?" and probably the most obvious, "Why now? All at the same time." Because for the first time in my life, I really believed the cliche that God had something better intended in the future... that He knew what He was doing... that I simply needed to trust His plans. So I didn't ask "Why?" because there really was no need to.
But amidst this mighty calm (though don't get me wrong, a lot of crying was involved in the weeks and months ahead), a different obstacle rear-ended me. Because I lacked the desire to question/doubt His plans while still drowning in the misery of the recent events, I did not have the need to pray. Instead I had convinced myself, that if God could read my every thought and hurt anyway, why was it necessary to fumble through words to express all that rocked in my soul? And more importantly, even though I wanted to, how would I do such an impossible task? No combination of words in any language (in existence or not) could properly represent my thoughts or feelings. So why bother, right?
I reverted back to my younger days when prayers entailed the pre-scripted words passed down through the generations. I continued to say grace before meals. I attended mass regularly and participated accordingly. There were even times when I could complete the rosary before sleep took over. But it was far from the relationship with God that I had been slowly and steadily building through my adult years.
Coming to this realization, I sought help. Not from mental health professionals, not even from the clergy within my local parish. I sent my friend, Robyn, an email soliciting her assistance. In the decade I have known her, she has always been the person of faith I needed to continue my Christian journey despite the difference in our denominations. To say she knows me well, would be an understatement and she was the most likely candidate to approach for the task I had in mind. For the first time in my life, I asked someone to pray for me - and I do not mean, to lift up intentions that I needed - but this time, I needed Robyn to pray for me. To pray on my behalf because I wasn't doing it for myself the way I once was. She was taken aback at the gravity of my request, but as I knew she would, she took on the added responsibility of my prayer life willingly. For this, I will be eternally indebted to her.
Months passed, and as always, I got my the answers while driving alone. Throughout that whole "when it rains, it pours" period in my life, I remember just wishing it all didn't happen at the same time. And especially not around my first anniversary. I must admit that I was a bit disappointed with heaven for not cutting me some slack, and instead busted out their "big guns" of tragedy. Then it dawned on me... God had nothing to do with the timing of it all.
The first trimester miscarriage, for example, was the handiwork of what scientist would describe as natural selection. There was something wrong with the genetic foundation in the early developmental stages and simply ceased production. The heartbeat, according to the doctor had likely stopped weeks earlier and for one reason or another, my body had not processed the termination on its own and kept the fetus instead of dispelling it. Strange isn't it, how so many use science to debunk the existence of God, and yet when science rears its ugly head, we are all so quick to blame Him.
Again, science was to responsible for the death of my father. An alcoholic for a majority of his lifetime, he had also started smoking in his early teens. These vices by themselves would have cut anybody's life span significantly and combined, they proved to be a lethal pair. If anything, he probably lived so much longer than he should have. Given the circumstances, it is a miracle that he lived just short of his 68th birthday. So you see, I don't believe that God scheduled my father to die on my anniversary to make me miserable. It was my father's body that just gave up because the work to stay alive was just too difficult and painful. And in fact, if we must get scientific, it was still April 1 Pacific Standard Time when we found out the news. Technically, he didn't die on our anniversary.
But on a grander scale, a very important revelation has settled within me since: perhaps God did have a reason to postpone his death until this specific date. After all, He knew very well that the relationship with my father had been strained for decades. We hadn't spoken since I visited Manila in 1997 and although the letter I sent twenty years afterward expressed forgiveness and even gratitude, its receipt was never confirmed. God knew that we let life fly by so quickly and my father was definitely the last on my list of worries, even when he was alive. And it is because of these points that I have come to accept the high possibility that his death on April 2, 2012 was no coincidence.
Yes, celebrating my wedding anniversary from now on will be bittersweet knowing that amidst the joyous occasion of the day, there is also a sense of loss because my father's death will forever be linked to it. But I now understand God's reason for allowing the cards to fall as they have: this was the only way He could guarantee that I would think of my dad... at least once a year. A day that would assuage the pain of his loss with the happiness of another successful year with my husband. A reminder that my dad would have turned back time if he could, to dedicate to marriage and family, the way Sean and I have the opportunity to do today and everyday ahead. And a lesson in the importance of communicating love to our parents and children because life is temporary and time passes so quickly.
These lessons, on the other hand, God has everything to do with. And who am I to contest that?
I wrote the following on April 2, 2013 -- after a year of reflection and soul-searching:
Today commemorates two very important milestones in my life. In 2011, I married the loving man only heaven could have polished and prepared for me. Exactly a year later, on our first wedding anniversary, we received news that my estranged father in the Philippines had passed. Needless to say, April 2nd will forever be a bittersweet day of remembrance.
It was a particularly rough week, this time last year. Just days before, Sean and I were in the hospital for a routine ultrasound during our 9th week of pregnancy only to discover that the fetus had stopped developing a few weeks earlier. I was bed-ridden with grief and the pain medication. So to receive news of yet another tragedy was much more than my heart could handle. And needless to say, my faith was tested - but not in the way many would have expected.
I didn't ask the typical "Why?" or "Why me?" and probably the most obvious, "Why now? All at the same time." Because for the first time in my life, I really believed the cliche that God had something better intended in the future... that He knew what He was doing... that I simply needed to trust His plans. So I didn't ask "Why?" because there really was no need to.
But amidst this mighty calm (though don't get me wrong, a lot of crying was involved in the weeks and months ahead), a different obstacle rear-ended me. Because I lacked the desire to question/doubt His plans while still drowning in the misery of the recent events, I did not have the need to pray. Instead I had convinced myself, that if God could read my every thought and hurt anyway, why was it necessary to fumble through words to express all that rocked in my soul? And more importantly, even though I wanted to, how would I do such an impossible task? No combination of words in any language (in existence or not) could properly represent my thoughts or feelings. So why bother, right?
I reverted back to my younger days when prayers entailed the pre-scripted words passed down through the generations. I continued to say grace before meals. I attended mass regularly and participated accordingly. There were even times when I could complete the rosary before sleep took over. But it was far from the relationship with God that I had been slowly and steadily building through my adult years.
Coming to this realization, I sought help. Not from mental health professionals, not even from the clergy within my local parish. I sent my friend, Robyn, an email soliciting her assistance. In the decade I have known her, she has always been the person of faith I needed to continue my Christian journey despite the difference in our denominations. To say she knows me well, would be an understatement and she was the most likely candidate to approach for the task I had in mind. For the first time in my life, I asked someone to pray for me - and I do not mean, to lift up intentions that I needed - but this time, I needed Robyn to pray for me. To pray on my behalf because I wasn't doing it for myself the way I once was. She was taken aback at the gravity of my request, but as I knew she would, she took on the added responsibility of my prayer life willingly. For this, I will be eternally indebted to her.
Months passed, and as always, I got my the answers while driving alone. Throughout that whole "when it rains, it pours" period in my life, I remember just wishing it all didn't happen at the same time. And especially not around my first anniversary. I must admit that I was a bit disappointed with heaven for not cutting me some slack, and instead busted out their "big guns" of tragedy. Then it dawned on me... God had nothing to do with the timing of it all.
The first trimester miscarriage, for example, was the handiwork of what scientist would describe as natural selection. There was something wrong with the genetic foundation in the early developmental stages and simply ceased production. The heartbeat, according to the doctor had likely stopped weeks earlier and for one reason or another, my body had not processed the termination on its own and kept the fetus instead of dispelling it. Strange isn't it, how so many use science to debunk the existence of God, and yet when science rears its ugly head, we are all so quick to blame Him.
Again, science was to responsible for the death of my father. An alcoholic for a majority of his lifetime, he had also started smoking in his early teens. These vices by themselves would have cut anybody's life span significantly and combined, they proved to be a lethal pair. If anything, he probably lived so much longer than he should have. Given the circumstances, it is a miracle that he lived just short of his 68th birthday. So you see, I don't believe that God scheduled my father to die on my anniversary to make me miserable. It was my father's body that just gave up because the work to stay alive was just too difficult and painful. And in fact, if we must get scientific, it was still April 1 Pacific Standard Time when we found out the news. Technically, he didn't die on our anniversary.
But on a grander scale, a very important revelation has settled within me since: perhaps God did have a reason to postpone his death until this specific date. After all, He knew very well that the relationship with my father had been strained for decades. We hadn't spoken since I visited Manila in 1997 and although the letter I sent twenty years afterward expressed forgiveness and even gratitude, its receipt was never confirmed. God knew that we let life fly by so quickly and my father was definitely the last on my list of worries, even when he was alive. And it is because of these points that I have come to accept the high possibility that his death on April 2, 2012 was no coincidence.
Yes, celebrating my wedding anniversary from now on will be bittersweet knowing that amidst the joyous occasion of the day, there is also a sense of loss because my father's death will forever be linked to it. But I now understand God's reason for allowing the cards to fall as they have: this was the only way He could guarantee that I would think of my dad... at least once a year. A day that would assuage the pain of his loss with the happiness of another successful year with my husband. A reminder that my dad would have turned back time if he could, to dedicate to marriage and family, the way Sean and I have the opportunity to do today and everyday ahead. And a lesson in the importance of communicating love to our parents and children because life is temporary and time passes so quickly.
These lessons, on the other hand, God has everything to do with. And who am I to contest that?
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