“Before us the thick dark current runs. It talks up to us in a murmur become ceaseless and myriad, the yellow surface dimpled monstrously into fading swirls traveling along the surface for an instant, silent, impermanent and profoundly significant, as though just beneath the surface something huge and alive waked for a moment of lazy alertness out of and into a light slumber again.” (141, As I Lay Dying)
How do we face that which overwhelms us?
In the past few weeks I have been the relatively distant bystander to families and friends absorbing the devastation not only of death but of suicide: a teenager, a family in our neighborhood, a father, a stepsister. The blunt force of suicide in a family story creates waves of pain, confusion, and deep sadness that I’m not convinced ever really abates. The burden of that type of traumatic death is heavy and stunning for me as just a bystander to tragedy. I cannot imagine how it feels to be the loved one who must now write a life story that includes this reality.
I never cease to be amazed at the ways that despair and hopelessness can convince a person that death is preferable to life. In Faulker’s As I Lay Dying, the mother, who is dying, dies and travels an arduous journey to burial, only speaks for herself once. Her story is told mainly by her children who mold who she was to what they needed her to be. In the middle of the story, her children and husband decide to cross a flooded river which ends in multiple misfortunes. As each person deals with the power of the water around them, Faulkner gives Addie her one and only chance to speak for herself and she reflects on her own relationship to water and to her children. As I read her words, I know she is one who has known deep despair and hopelessness.
“In the afternoon when school was out and the last one had left with his dirty snuffling nose, instead of going home I would go down the hill to the spring where I could be quiet and hate them. It would be quiet there then, with the water bubbling up and away and the sun slanting quiet in the trees and the quiet smelling of damp and rotting leaves and new earth; especially in the early spring, for it was worst then.
I could remember how my father would say that the reason for living was to get ready to stay dead for a long time. And when I would have to look at them day after day each with his and her secret and selfish thought, and blood strange to each blood and strange to mine, and think that this was the only way I could get ready to stay dead. I would hate my father for having ever planted me.” (169)
In one of the churches where we are conducting interviews for the Homeward Bound project they have posted fliers throughout the building with tips for how to cope with holiday and family stress. The tips include such activities as taking deep breaths, leaving a crowd or party if your senses are overloaded and your anxiety rises, listening to music, and my favorite:
Water—Listen to it. Drink it. Sit in it.
Despite living though hurricanes and floods where water’s collective power to destroy and drown, disfigure and devastate is in full display, water also offers a force for life and peace. When in it, gravity loses its hold on our limbs, when drinking it, our cells become more robust and full of life, and when hearing it move, our heart rate calms and our eyes widen. Water can invite us into a place of wonder and thanksgiving grounded in a spirit of deep humility.
As I sit today with the weight of suicide on my mind I am reminded of the season of the Advent. A Christian season we are beginning now that invites us into darkness and asks us to imagine a world without knowing that God loves you, without knowing God as Emmanuel, a God who walks with you. What despair we invite into our thoughts which makes clear why in so many advent hymns we cry out, “Come!” When I served a church in Illinois one of the teenagers, Sam West, and I worked on an Advent song together, and I find myself singing it even now.  A song that taps into the yearning of the prophets of old and flips the well know hymn “Silent Night” on its ear and acknowledges that for so many the night is not silent. The worries and demons and shame and hatreds of this life circle in in the night and it is then we pray fervently for silence. To be still and know God, the God of love and peace.
“I long for a silent night,
I long for a holy night,
When the young will see signs
And the old will dream dreams
And love will reign as the power supreme,
And sleep will speak,
Sleep will speak to your heavenly peace.”