Dear Barry
A friend and I spoke about you on Sunday. You were both of our friend you see. And we had both experienced you in our lives significantly. And we were both grateful that you were a part of it.
I enjoyed talking about you. I still feel sad when I see your profile on Facebook and often find myself going there to see the posts from people who still think of you too. I know we never spoke often towards the end of your time with us, but when we did, man it was cool... and funny, and usually full of too many things we both had opinions on.
The thing we both shared was our faith, in a God who sent his son to die for us, who loved us unconditionally, even though I was gay and you swore like a trooper. :)
We also shared a love for the Church. A longing to touch the people in our cities and tell them about the same God we both had devoted our lives to serving.
And then you lost your life.
And I lost my faith.
Now don't think it was all about you, Barry. But you dying clinched the deal. A friend who reads this blog commented on the last post and asked what exactly I did believe in now. Did I suddenly feel like everything I used to believe in so passionately was now a lie?
I want to answer her.
But somehow I feel like you would be the only person who would understand me, and get me to a place of understanding.
So here goes...
I don't know what I believe anymore.
I can't help but believe that if there is a God, he or she is not really that interested in us. Especially after you died. You were so full of life. And when I heard you were missing, man, did I pray. I remember sinking to the corner of the garage outside my office and begging God for you to be found. Found alive and breathing, and able to return to the family who loved you and the congregation who listened to your every word each week.
I begged.
I had faith.
And this God I loved, was silent.
And so were you.
Jenny and I spoke about your death. She finds comfort in knowing that you live on with God. I find distress knowing that you have young children who won't remember you. And a family ripped with grief.
I am angry. Not just about you. I'm angry that I'm lost. I'm not sure I've been this sad inside for so long ever. I'm angry that a part of who I am makes me wrestle with the community of believers I once devoted my life to. I'm angry that I don't belong. I'm angry that I care that I don't belong.
And I'm sad. I can't fight the sadness anymore. And after Jenny and I spoke, I realised you and I needed to chat. Get this out in the open, because the silence is consuming me.
I miss your presence. I miss our God. I miss the moments we shared and the impact we had. On each other. On others. All for a higher purpose.
I wish I could believe in that God. I wish I could believe that he is in control.
I wish I could believe.
But I can't.
I wish you were still here.
You live on. Always.
Much love
C
4 comments:
Very powerful words, Clive. I can really feel some of your pain through what you have written.
Although I'm not religious at all (I'm more of a follower of Richard Dawkins!) I do see why religion can be a comfort in times of grief and loss. And of course you and Barry were connected because of the church. So without it you would probably not have known him.
For atheists like myself we have to find comfort in the fond memories we have of those who have died, and of course their legacy which continues long after their death.
It's so surreal reading your letter, today of all days. I woke us this morning in a bit of a depressed state, I dreamt about my friend who died three years ago. I haven't felt this deep sadness regarding his for a while now. I loved this person. Initially, it was a bit of an attraction type love as he was good looking, but it quickly evolved into a very close friendship based on mutual interests and shared personality traits. He was my friend throughout my university years, a stage of my life when I became a lot of the person I am today.
He was immensely accepting of the fact that I was gay, even paying for expensive tickets to Botswana to go visit him and his wife so I can have a nice holiday with them soon after I came out as gay. He did have a good laugh about my homosexuality though, and could always gently rib me about it.
He died two years ago in a car accident that also took the life of his just-born daughter, but not her twin brother or his widowed wife. A terrible, senseless, undeserved ending to his story and their relationship.
I realized again this morning that the sadness will never truly go away, and that I really have lost something unique from my life in his passing. I suppose this is what they call getting older.
I share and sympathize in your pain, Clive, and your letter touched a part of me today that appreciates the shared grief.
Words cant adequately describe how I feel when I read this - your pain, do deep, is gutting.
You remain in my thoughts as you find your way to contentment, fulfilment and peace - I really want that for you. In whatever form you find it.
xxx
This is very, very beautiful.
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