Tragedy, Surrender, Hope and Heaven

Kirsten Anderson

My cousin Kirsten died late Tuesday night, victim of a freak accident.  She was 29 years old.  I have been able to think of little else this week.
There is something about the death of a young person that stops us in our tracks, reminding us of both the fragility of life and the cruelty of death.  "Not fair" is a very natural reaction. "Why would God allow this?"  is another.
As I have been thinking all of the above and more, I have been very aware that I did not really know Kirsten.  She was just a year older than my little sister Jamie who is thirteen years younger than me.  I am one of the oldest of the 33 Schneider cousins--number four maybe--and when I was a tween and teen, I hung with the cousins my own age.  As we all grew older and lost first my grandfather (1985) and then my grandmother (2002), the large family reunions that had happened regularly while I was growing up, stopped.  Between that and our move to Texas, it has been over a decade since I have seen a lot of my extended family.  So, I did not know Kirsten well.  In some ways, I feel that I do not have the right to grieve.  I haven't been able to talk myself out of it though.

Margaret Grace Schneider

My grandmother, GG, had a special fondness for Kirsten and vice versa.  I remember the Sunday that everyone came to Camp Kreitzer to see GG.  She was dying and it would be the last time many of them saw her.  Kirsten was there.  Her presence brought levity to the house and to my grandmother.  I was being a Martha that day, fixing food and playing hostess.  Kirsten was more of a Mary, sitting with GG, holding her hand, hugging her.  I don't think I've seen Kirsten since grandma's funeral.  It turned out to be a kind of last, all-family gathering.
I don't know if this will make sense to anyone but me, but I can honestly say that my immense love and respect for my grandparents extends to everyone dear to them.  Instead of "Mi casa, tu casa", it's "Tu querido, mi querido".  That definitely applies to Kirsten.


Over the past few days, this is the picture that keeps popping into my mind:

You may recognize it as Guernica by Pablo Picasso.  He painted it to represent the tragic bombing of the small Spanish town of Guernica by German and Italian forces in 1937 at the behest of Spanish Nationalist forces.  I had the privilege of seeing the mural in Madrid.  It is massive, awe-inspiring and frameless.  It has its own room in the museum.  It must have made its way deeply into me because the image often pops into my head when life drops one of its bombs.  Mostly I see the woman to the left holding her poor baby and the woman to the right wailing, hands raised to heaven.  I don't really like the painting.  "Like" isn't even the right word for the feelings it inspires.  I do think Picasso expertly captured despair, helpless suffering, and the question--"WHY?"
I think it's only natural to try to come up with answers to that question.  I've heard a few this week, presumably to offer hope or healing.  It's important to remember though that there are things we cannot know.  Holding on to our own made-up answers may help for awhile but if we insist on them, we miss the opportunity for something better---the opportunity to embrace the things we do know.  Most importantly, we know that God loves us and our loved ones more than any human being could.  We know that He is in charge.  In trusting Him completely without demanding answers or reasons, by completely surrendering ourselves to Him, we gain everything.
The person who suffers a prolonged death is able to gradually surrender his or her own life and hand it over.  In a tragedy like this one, loved ones must do the surrendering or risk living in a perpetual state of despair.  At times like these, it becomes very clear that "Hope" must be lived as a verb.
I "hope" that my cousin is having tea with my grandma in heaven.  Perhaps GG is reciting one of the many poems she knew by heart.  Perhaps they're trading stories, catching up and laughing.  Both GG and Kirsten had amazing smiles.  As for those of us still on this side, well, it's not called a "vale of tears" for nothing.