Divine Disturbance and Collective Grief

I've been eating a lot of peanut butter and jelly lately. We've been under "lockdown" here in NYC - unofficially for two weeks, officially for one week. Since the state mandate of "shelter in place", I've been slathering peanut butter and jelly (actually, Polaner's All Fruit - strawberry) on a thick piece of challah bread and devouring that daily. There's some strange comfort in this ritual at a time when all sense of time seems to be lost and every day is the same yet not.

I'm not sure why I've been drawn to this particular "quarantine comfort food" as I've been calling it. PB&J was not particularly a childhood staple for us. But there is something strangely soothing - maybe even falsely nostalgic - in this simple joy of sweetness that conjures innocence and delight.

These days, it seems to be the little things that provide comfort in the face of overwhelming information and horrific stats. A cup of coffee drunk in the eerie quietness of each morning in a city that is never quiet. Text messages from friends. A short walk outside and seeing budding blossoms on bare tree branches. A cold beer to accompany a home cooked dinner.

From the news, the COVID-19 situation in NYC looks terrifying. Friends and family from around the world have been sending messages and checking in to make sure we're all right. On the ground, the sickness and death feel so close yet also removed. We know the virus is here. By now, almost all of us know someone who has been diagnosed. And yet, confined within the walls of our home, the terror seems to lurk outside - elsewhere - hanging over the city like an ominous dark cloud, present but not quite palpable. Daily, we hear siren roars that are magnified in the surrounding silence, punctuating our hours with more frequency than what feels normal (or is that just in my mind?). Each siren accompanied by a thousand silent prayers.

I am struggling with how to live with this sense of collective grief. I am not so sad for myself - I have been immensely grateful for our continued health, sustained work, and daily provisions. Life may be inconvenienced personally but it hasn't been detrimental. But this greater sense of those who are suffering, whether from the virus or from conditions resulting in the virus' societal impact, the heaviness of the burdens carried by those in this city, country and even world.... the realization that we will not go back to the world we knew.... the severity of Loss is hard to bear. How do we share in this collective grief but not allow it to consume? How do we make space for the mourning that is happening and is to come? This virus has not only revealed but further stressed the existing cracks in our systems and infrastructure - the injustices and inequity brought to harsh light by this merciless invisible enemy. In some ways, the virus discriminates against no one. And yet in our responses and defenses, those with resources and privilege are much more equipped to fight with less risk in losing the battle.

And yet.

Somehow in all this, there's also a sense of Divine Disturbance. Perhaps underlying all this is also a struggle to bring balance again. In a world where we have acted destructively in our relationships with one another, creation, and the Creator, this pandemic also feels like a backlash against our selfish ways, just-a-matter-of-time consequences of our greed and indifference. Stripping us of all things that distract, entice, and consume us, we are left with the simplest things - focusing on basic necessities while staring our mortality in the face daily: pondering life and death, forced to be in waiting, control absolutely ripped out of our hands.

To be in the season of Lent while death and decay surround us feels highly appropriate. This is the most memorable Lent I've ever experienced as I grapple with the reality of death while crying in prayer each day. There is either more to all this or there is nothing. There is either hope or we fall in despair. There is either a Love Supreme or there is brutal meaninglessness.

Even as I draw tangible immediate comfort from my peanut butter and jelly spread, I know my heart longs for ultimate comfort. That in the midst of this, there is a way still - and that way, regardless of how scary the world feels - remains steadfast, confident, and sure.

happenstance?

two friends ran the boston marathon on monday, both slated to finish around 3 pm when the explosives went off. one friend planned on pushing his two young sons in a jogging stroller to the finish line, but ended up running slower than anticipated and was two miles away when the explosions occurred. another friend was running bandit and tracking his run with his phone, which he lost around mile 14, so he stopped. these seemingly small, and perhaps even irritable gestures at the time became merciful acts of protection in retrospect.

for many people, circumstances did not work out to their physical protection on monday. a delayed minute or two there, running faster or slower, deciding to watch the race or not that day, caused them their life or their limbs. choices that seemed insignificant ended up monumental.

we can call it many things: happenstance, coincidence, fate, luck. but at the end of the day, we are struck by this hard realization that our independent actions are actually not so independent after all - we are woven into a greater tapestry, and our action and inaction affect others and vice versa. what we think we have control over is frighteningly uncontrollable.

every moment matters - let us be conscious of that. but let us not live in fear but in faith. for those who subscribe to belief in a Higher Power, one that is sovereign and loving, we are able to walk through the moments of our lives with confidence. we ultimately have no control, but a God who is all-powerful and gracious does. and even in times of darkness and devastation, we can cling to the knowledge that in Christ, this is a God who entered that darkness and suffered as well. He did not shy from persecution and death but plunged right into the heart of it and emerged victorious from the tomb. this is a God who does not avoid suffering but chose to endure it. most importantly, He triumphed, giving us a way to triumph as well.

this is my consolation as i continue to grieve with those who grieve in boston and around the world. we cannot ignore the reality of pain and suffering, but we also need not be crushed by it. we do not know how our actions will play out or how our days will unfold, but if we can trust in a greater glory and a higher hope, then we know that all things - even when they are very, very awful - can still work out for good.


cups of coffee:  1

mood:  mourning

boston love

you are a city that's been so good to me - you took me in as a young adult, as i tried out my fledgling wings and learned to stand on my own two feet. you gave me my first true experience of community, from lifelong friends to a church that i still call home. you challenged me, encouraged me, showed me beauty in acts of human flourishing. you still hold for me pockets of quiet retreat, old haunts that i'm always happy to stomp around.

yesterday, someone decided to perform an act so horrendous, so atrocious, attempting to gut the joy out of one of your most cherished traditions on a day that celebrates not just you but our nation. o, boston, my heart is heavy for you. i grieve with you as you grieve the loss of loved ones. i demand justice be laid with a strong arm on the perpetrators. i seek comfort and solace for those who are hurt and frightened.

but you are resilient, boston. you are a tough city and you always have been. most of all, there is a God who is sovereign and merciful, and He is ever present to heal the wounded and bind the brokenhearted. He has not forgotten you, even in this present darkness, and He will bring forth your light again.

 Copley Square, photo taken by Eva

 Museum of Fine Arts, photo taken by Eva

cups of coffee:  1

mood:  sad

christmas mourning

28 dead, including the gunman. 20 of those killed - children between the ages of 5 and 10.
it's impossible to escape the images and stories permeating the media from the sandy hook elementary school shooting. beneath all the confusion, bewilderment, anger and deep sadness, there is the overwhelming "why?" - a helpless question with a resounding silence in response.

my own heart has been aching incessantly since the news broke, and with each new piece of information, my heart breaks a bit more. imagining the fear of these children, especially those that were shot at close range....this is not the world they should know. this is not the way things ought to be.

the juxtaposition of the holiday season makes all this seem even less tolerable....in this time of celebration and excited anticipation for feasting and gifts with family and friends, this atrocity is even more jarring. how can we even think about christmas at a time such as this?

but strip away the sentimentality with which we've come to adorn this holiday. take away the tinsel and the christmas cheer, tear down the lights and put away the cookies. think instead on the historical event that launched the establishment of this holiday. ponder the incarnation, the claim that God himself, clothed in human flesh, entered this world as a baby.

recall the infanticide that accompanied the birth of Christ - the slaughter of innocents ordered by a troubled tyrant fearful of a prophecy. imagine the howls and wails that must have filled that night. recount the fleeing of mary, joseph and the babe, running for their lives in the cover of night as Jesus experienced his entrance into this world as a refugee. and then remember the life of the Son of Man himself: the scorn, rejection, betrayal, torture, and ultimately, a wrongful execution.

the heart of the incarnation is a desperate cry for help that was answered. we may not always have the answers we want when terrible things happen, but if the incarnation is indeed true, then God came down to dwell with us in the midst of our pain and suffering. He entered this world of brokenness and devastation, not to observe as a spectator, but to participate fully and to experience it himself, to the point of death. and then if the resurrection is true, He triumphed over the grave. He defeated the powers of fear and darkness and promised that someday, we will experience victory as well and all these experiences of sorrow and grief will be reversed. He made good not just possible but definite even in the face of evil.

the knowledge of this may not alleviate present pain and grief. there is still this need for mourning as we cry for the loss of innocent lives and weep for injustice. but these atrocities also point us straight to the tension of mankind's depravity and desperate desire for a better world. and if the incarnation is true, then victory is not just possible but promised. even as we labor against existing injustices and strive, sometimes successfully and sometimes not, to improve the conditions of this world for all its inhabitants, there is the promise of this world to come in which justice will reign and goodness will prevail.

and so our hearts long, even as they break with grief and boil with anger. we long......


cups of coffee:  2

mood:  grieving

precious days

births, deaths. weddings, funerals. events that are personally extraordinary yet universally ordinary: simultaneously momentous and mundane. in the past couple of months, i have mourned the death of a friend, celebrated the births of friends' babies, rejoiced with loved ones uniting in wedded bliss. all the while facing my own transitions and thoughts of change as i prepare to leave 9 years here in shanghai to return to the states.

life is this strange current of constant change. the days, when lived one by one, seem quite ordinary - waking, eating, working, talking... but the compilation of these days, the story threaded through the weeks, months and years - remarkable.

the shock of glen's death still washes over me in cold, unexpected waves. while celebrating at a friend's farewell party the other night at karaoke, my heart got sad amid the loud singing and rambunctious dancing. life felt so full, so rich, so young. to take that away abruptly...tragedy.

these are precious days in so many ways. i have six weekends remaining in shanghai. 47 days to wrap up nearly a decade of relationships, dreams, regrets and good works constructed in this city. in light of glen's death, these days seem even more precious; each day to live and love is, in truth, an extraordinary gift.


cups of coffee: 2

mood: pensive

things that disappear

we held our final SHAC exhibit at our studio space yesterday. by the end of this week, all the tenants of 696 wei hai road will be evicted and the buildings will be razed down or renovated to sparkling newness for whatever bars, cafes and boutique shops will occupy their spaces.

to mourn this loss, our last exhibition was appropriately titled "things that disappear", and all selected pieces wrestled with the reality of insistent disappearing in our lives - from buildings to people, memories to relationships. special attention was given to installations that embodied an act of disappearing; most works were scratched, painted, carved into the walls with maximum use of negative space and intentionally designed to remain in the studio and disappear with the building when it is demolished.

i debuted as an installation artist, collaborating with a couple of other friends to create a "confessional tent." draped in black cloth to form a black box-like room, the confessional tent served as an installation the prompted participants to release the burdens they carried inside: grief, bitterness, regrets, heartaches. the tent was dark inside except for a shaft of light that fell through a hole cut at the top to illuminate a paper shredder, painted black and suspended from the ceiling. the walls were bare and dark except for one quote scrawled in white chalk on one long wall:"when i kept silent, my bones grew old through groaning all the day long."

participants were invited to write their burdens on pieces of white paper with charcoal pencils or publicly declare their burdens by writing it in chalk on the walls. if they wrote on the paper, they would then step up to the lighted shredder and put their paper through the shredder. pieces would fall directly to the floor beneath - a pile of white, shredded confessions.

i also collaborated on another piece, one that was much more personal. at our 'urbanity project' opening, my friend glen had come to show his support. a photograph was taken of him in deep conversation with our friend oli, amid the art and other attendants. as glen recently passed, it seemed an appropriate memorial to pay honor to him somehow in this exhibition.

my friend faith, a very talented artist, reproduced the photo onto the very same wall where glen and oli had leaned. using ink and actually removing pieces of plaster from the wall, she created an exact life-size replicate of the photograph. with layers of the plaster and wire beneath the walls showing through, the whole reproduction had an eerie feel to it - glen as the only fully drawn person in a sea of negative space.

original photo

reproduction

 

faith asked if i would write a poem in lieu of an artist's statement. i agreed but it was much harder than i'd anticipated. i had to remember. i had to think about details - his voice, his face, the way he carried himself. i had to force my mind back into his presence - or his presence back into my mind. i had to wrestle with the undercurrent of grief and the continued aftershock. i had to consider how i think about death. and i had to do it all under time constraint for the exhibition.

the process was both painful and cathartic. in writing it, i was trying to force some sort of closure by the poem's end - more so because i feel like i should have closure, not because there was any real sense of closure. it was good to receive feedback from friends and come to terms with not having closure, with letting questions remain unanswered.

anyway. here it is.

Letter to the Dead

You occupied this space, once. Your voice carried as a warrior’s call, clear and brassy. Your speech – clipped and precise, a rapier slicing the air. Your endless spouting on politics, on love, on how tea ought to be drunk. Your hands – strong, athletic – never shaky, never fumbling. Space widened around you, aura rippling like a golden globule of oil in water. Every ounce of you, grounded.

Until to the ground you fell. Body flat, a forgotten plank. Gravity.

You disappeared without trumpets or kisses. No last glance from a twinkling eye, no wave from the closing elevator door. No letters, no cards, no sentences scribbled in haste on the back of some ripped note. Just sudden vacuum.

How does space become negative? How does nothingness become so unbearable?

We pressed our Sunday best. We spoke in measured tones and weighed words, dishing comfort like winter’s stew. We shuffled down corridors, fear dressed as sorrow. All the while muffling wails that would quiet a banshee.

Do we pay penitence now or are they coins too meager and too late?

Memories of you burst like sudden light - aurora borealis. Flash of brilliance, then pitch black.

Are you the dust and we the breath, or is the other way around? Perhaps you are here, waiting quietly in the dark. Are you touching the walls, pacing the floors, reaching out to brush our skin, missing bodies once warm and familiar?

Perhaps you tread with ghosts, drinking bowls of wine, pouring libations to the living. The silly, silly living. Perhaps the eyes of the dead see so much more than what the living will ever know or comprehend.

Or perhaps we squint, through darkened glass, searching for dappled sun to guide our trembling steps.  

In memory: 

Glen Camille El-Hayek

February 7, 1978 – March 22, 2011

cups of coffee: 1

mood:  thankful

grief

the sadness comes unexpectedly. it's a beautiful sunny day, the sky is clear azure, the breeze is just right....and then, BAM. you're reminded of how he's not here to enjoy this day. you're reminded how this is exactly the kind of weather he loved for riding his bike.

and then in the scurry of daily life - as you eat, as you work, as you sleep - you remember that someone is no longer here to do those very things. the activities i take for granted, sometimes even conduct begrudgingly - he is not here to do them.

grief is a terribly difficult process.


cups of coffee:  2

mood:  short-fused

sitting shiva

So much of what we live goes on inside–
The diaries of grief, the tongue-tied aches
Of unacknowledged love are no less real
For having passed unsaid. What we conceal
Is always more than what we dare confide.
Think of the letters that we write our dead.

- "Unsaid", Dana Gioia

grief and joy both require the participation of others. joy is made more full when shared, grief more bearable.

in jewish tradition, shiva is the week-long period of grief and mourning for the seven first-degree relatives: father, mother, son, daughter, brother, sister and spouse. it's essential to the bereavement process, time set apart specifically to grieve.

beneath all the layers of law, i think shiva is a beautiful and rich practice. there is something right and true about mourning fully - we are acknowledging how the world is not supposed to be. death is not okay. losing loved ones is not okay. even as we cry in grief, we cry for the world that ought to be. we long not just for the loved one lost but for a paradise lost.

but we who believe in a God who redeems also weep for the world to come. we cry not out of despair but out of desperation. "o Lord," we cry, "come and make all things right."

How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I take counsel in my soul 
and have sorrow in my heart all the day?
How long shall my enemy be exalted over me?

Consider and answer me, O Lord my God;
light up my eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death,
lest my enemy say, "I have prevailed over him,"
lest my foes rejoice because I am shaken.

But I have trusted in your steadfast love;
my heart shall rejoice in your salvation.
I will sing to the Lord,
because he has dealt bountifully with me.

- Psalm 13


cups of coffee:  2

mood:  grief

comfort

Before the throne of God above
I have a strong and perfect plea.
A great high Priest whose Name is Love
Who ever lives and pleads for me.
My name is graven on His hands,
My name is written on His heart.
I know that while in Heaven He stands
No tongue can bid me thence depart.


When Satan tempts me to despair
And tells me of the guilt within,
Upward I look and see Him there
Who made an end of all my sin.
Because the sinless Savior died
My sinful soul is counted free.
For God the just is satisfied
To look on Him and pardon me.


Behold Him there the risen Lamb,
My perfect spotless righteousness,
The great unchangeable I AM,
The King of glory and of grace,
One in Himself I cannot die.
My soul is purchased by His blood,
My life is hid with Christ on high,
With Christ my Savior and my God!


- Before the Throne of God Above, hymn

loss

we met almost 3 years ago - his brother and i were friends from college days in boston. his brother and sister-in-law were vacationing in china, and we all met up for a hot pot dinner on a balmy early summer evening.

g and i hit it off from the start; we found common ground in witty banter, love of thai food, cheesy 80s music, secret (ok, not-so-secret) nerdiness and overall smart-aleckiness.

he celebrated two birthdays with me, encouraged me when i was down about my job, attended art fairs with me and took me out for sushi. i helped him edit essays for business school applications, shop for art for his apartment, and fed him with occasional homecooked meals. we argued about the existence of God and swapped books to read: i lent him tim keller's "the reason for God" and he lent me christopher hitchens' "God is not great."

late wednesday night, i received an email from his brother: g was found dead in his shanghai apartment early tuesday morning by his cleaning lady. he was 33 years old.

my first response was to laugh - first sign of shock, perhaps? my second thought was, "i guess i'm not getting my book back..." terrible, i know. realization finally started to sink in like a heavy stone yesterday afternoon. i stared at his photos on my facebook. i re-read his last text message to me. i deliberated whether or not to delete his contact info from my iphone (i can't....not yet).

the last time i saw g was before chinese new year - he had broken his toe and was hobbling around on crutches. we watched "sixteen candles", drank blueberry tea and talked about the future.

i've never grieved the sudden loss of a friend before. it feels as if something just sucked his presence from this planet, and now there's this gaping hole that his body once occupied.


cups of coffee:  2

mood:  heavy