Tonight we’ll take our children to the graveyard, we’ll talk about what might have been, perhaps shed a tear or two, and then we’ll go out for ice cream to celebrate a life that changed us.
It’s what we do every year on this day. Every year for eleven years.
Today is the eleventh anniversary of the day my son died.
I woke up that morning, eleven years ago, to find out that his heart had stopped during the night. Hours later, he was born. Lifeless. Still. But so very real.
Today is the day that changed my definition of motherhood. Today is the day that I birthed pain and lived to tell the story. Today is the day my breasts filled with the milk of anticipation only to dry out days later when there was no-one to suckle them.
Today is the day I shook my fist at God, and yet turned in the same direction when I needed comfort.
Eleven years in, pain has become my companion, my friend. It doesn’t stab me with raw and brittle edges like it once did. Instead it curls up in a smooth and familiar ball inside my chest, tightening my throat now and then, but mostly gently reminding me that I am alive, that I am well, and that I have a story to share with other wanderers along this path.
Pain is my teacher, guiding me along the path, deepening my experiences and enriching my relationships.
Pain is my gift. It helps me paint the world with richer colours and more honest shapes. It helps me write with truth and courage.
Pain is my story. It frames the world for me and urges me to enjoy the depths of beauty and joy within the frame.
I am forever grateful for the gift that is my son, Matthew. Never let it be said that he did not live a full life.
I’m proud to say that I come from a long line of pacifists. My Mennonite ancestors decided that they would rather seek peace than participate in war and that became a tenement of our faith.
Uncle Menno with his granddaughter
Not only do I have pacifist blood running through my veins, but I have lots of models in my family tree of how to live justly, humbly and with mercy. One of those models is my Uncle Menno, a man who has spent most of his adult life serving people in various African countries. (He currently lives in Nairobi, Kenya with his wife Lydia.)
When I first considered entering the field of international development, I visited my Uncle Menno for wise words of advice. I deeply respect the wisdom he has gained in his lifelong commitment to living out his faith by serving to make the world a more just and peaceful place.
Today, in honour of the International Day of Peace, I’m posting a piece that Uncle Menno wrote.
War – What is it Good For?
by Menno Plett
I’m sitting here enjoying a cup of tea from a mug we received in Zimbabwe many years ago. On the mug is a dove, with the inscription Let There Be Peace. As I work at my computer, I’m listening to the hauntingly beautiful voice of Joan Baez, singing Bob Dylan’s song, With God on our Side.
As I sit here alone, listening to the words of the song, reflecting on the state of the world, our place in it, and more specifically, what we have dedicated our life to, I begin to cry.
Here are the words, written by Dylan in 1963, at the height of the Vietnam War.
Oh my name it is nothin’My age it means lessThe country I come fromIs called the MidwestI’s taught and brought up thereThe laws to abideAnd the land that I live in Has God on its side.Oh the history books tell itThey tell it so wellThe cavalries chargedThe Indians fellThe cavalries chargedThe Indians diedOh the country was youngWith God on its side.The Spanish-AmericanWar had its dayAnd the Civil War tooWas soon laid awayAnd the names of the heroesAre us to memorizeWith guns in their handsAnd God on their side.Well the First World War, boysIt came and it went And The reason for fightingI never did getBut I learned to accept itAnd Accept it with prideFor you don’t count the deadWhen God’s on your side.And Second World WarIt Came to an endWe forgave the GermansAnd called them our friendsThough they murdered six millionIn the ovens they friedNow The Germans now tooHave God on their side.For I’ve learned to hate RussiansAll through my whole lifeIf another war comesIt’s them we must fightTo hate them and fear themTo run and to hideAnd accept it all bravelyWith God on my side.But now we got weaponsOf the chemical dust (And) it fire them we’re forced toThen fire them we mustOne push of the buttonAnd a shot the world wideAnd you never ask questionsWhen God’s on your side.For many dark hoursI thought about thisThat Jesus ChristWas betrayed by a kissBut I can’t think for youYou’ll have to decideWhether Judas IscariotHad God on his side.And now as I’m leavin’I’m weary as HellThe confusion I’m feelin’Ain’t no tongue can tellThe words fill my headThey fall to the floorAs God is on our sideHe’ll stop the next war.
This song holds a lot of meaning for me. The title refers to Paul’s Epistle to the Romans in the first century, “If God is for us, who can be against us?”, written in a context of intense persecution, referencing Jesus’ victory through death. This statement has then been reinterpreted through the centuries in the context of war.
So why cry? My emotions well up within me when I think of the futility of war, and the devastation suffered by millions over the years. The song I’m listening to points out the absurdity of rationalizing that God picks sides. We have somehow convinced ourselves that our colour, our ethnicity, our nationality, our religion, our position in life, is in some way more special in God’s eyes than the colour, ethnicity, nationality and religion of others. The same God who created all men in his image cannot recognize these man made distinctions.
We have spent the better part of our life working with people who have suffered from war; working with people who have experienced death, loss and injury; working with people who are picking up the pieces after war.
I think of working alongside people in Liberia, Sierra Leone, Wau in South Sudan, Darfur in North Sudan, Rwanda and the DRC. I remember, too, working with First Nations people confined to reservations in Northern Canada, and those locked in cycles of poverty in affluent Canadian cities – a reminder of what we have done to a people who were once hunting and trapping freely in our vast and rich land.
Currently our attention is riveted on the Horn of Africa, which is suffering a terrible drought, made worse in Somalia by ongoing clan fighting, leaving millions with no place to go for safety.
So what is the point of war, really? What good is it? Who gains? For a properly researched response, we would need to look at each war in turn to come up with the answers to those questions. We know that a few gain immensely from war, but the masses lose.
Wars are too often about religion. Christians fighting Muslims. Muslim sects fighting each other. Dare I say Christians attacking and killing ‘fellow’ Christians? My own people were martyred by the thousands in far off Europe, for departing from the strictures and theology of state-sanctioned churches. Our people interpreted scripture in a way that was not accepted by the political and church powers of the day, and this resulted in efforts to exterminate them.
So where does all this leave me as I sit here alone, in Nairobi, crying for a broken world?
Tonight I am anticipating the arrival of our children and their dear one year old daughter (our only and most special granddaughter), and I am determined as ever to continue living a life that promotes peace and not war. In spite of what I have seen, in spite of peoples’ failure to live in peace, I want to live a life that exudes hope. I want my life to reflect my desire to promote life and not death.
I want to continue working with people who are promoting peace, not war. I want to continue working with people who are helping relieve suffering from war. I want to continue assisting people who suffer from others’ aggression.
I want to continue working for a better world, as naïve as that may sound. But why? Well, it is a response to God’s call on my life. It is for the sake of our children and our granddaughter. That is what I have been called to do. That is what we have all been called to do, wherever we are and whatever we are involved with. For the sake of all that is good, for the sake of God who gives us meaning and purpose, for your own sake and the sake of those whose lives you touch, I urge you to work and live for life, not death.
The students I teach in the continuing education program at the university are working on certificates in human resource management, project management, or public relations. Few of them have ever dreamed of being writers. Only a handful of them have ever considered the power of the written word.
Most of them just want to be handed the formula for “how to write an effective email” so that they can pass the course with flying colours and move on to what they’re really interested in.
“There are no formulas,” I tell them again and again, when they come to me holding their graded papers hoping to be told exactly how they can ensure an A+ for the next paper. “I can’t tell that the answer to A+B=C, because in writing, it doesn’t work that way. The only way to get better is by practicing, not by trying to find an illusive formula.” And sometimes, when they’re especially resistant (and sometimes argumentative), I add, “I’m not here to ensure that you get an A+, I’m here to teach you to be a better writer.”
Instead of giving them a formula, I push them in ways they don’t expect to be pushed. “Stretching Exercises”, I call them, and then give them creative writing assignments that have nothing to do with the course material. “If you don’t stretch yourself creatively, you’ll never be an effective communicator. No matter what your line of business is, effective communication is one of your most critical tools.”
“Writing is a transformational tool,” I continue. “If you don’t understand its power, you will misuse it.” And then I give them their final assignment – find a piece of writing that impacted your life and tell the whole class about how it changed you.
They look at me with an air of disbelief, and some of them sit with their arms crossed and pens sitting idly by while the rest of the class stretches their writing muscles.
They don’t want messy creativity or untrustworthy transformation. They want rules.
At the end of the day, I debrief with myself as I ride the bus home. “Am I teaching this the right way?” my inner doubter says, after a few too many blank stares. “Maybe I should be a little more formulaic – give them what they’re asking for. Stick with the textbook and skip the creative stuff.” And yet every time I sway in that direction, I get that icky feeling that tells me I’m not serving them well if all I do is try to invent a formula when there is none.
Each week I show up and push them all over again. And each week I get the same resistance. Sometimes the resistance grows as we get closer to the final assignment.
But then something else slowly begins to happen. A spark starts to appear in a few of the students’ eyes. They remember what it felt like to first discover the power of the written word back in grade 1 or 2. They dig into their memory vaults and remember the things they’ve read in the past that have changed their lives. They start sharing the stories they’ve written, surprised their creativity has shown up on the page. The spark grows and soon they’re telling me that they’ve dug up old journals and are writing in them again.
And then the last class comes, and I hear the most beautiful stories of people who have been transformed by novels, signs on cafeteria walls, eulogies, newspaper articles, websites, and blog posts.
That is why I teach – the re-awakening, the a-ha moments when they realize the role that good writing has played in their lives. Even if it’s just a handful of students whose spark is re-ignited, I want to be there to see it happen.
And that is why I knew it was time to stretch myself, step away from a textbook, and start offering my own classes that have nothing to do with effective business communication.
I want to see more sparks.
This week is the first class of Creative Writing for Self-Discovery, a course that has already attracted a fascinating and diverse circle of people. I could hardly be more excited. This is what I was born to teach, and these are the people who long to learn it. This is one of the things I’ve been called to gift to the world, and these people are willing recipients instead of reluctant learners.
And you know what? I wouldn’t be in this place, trusting myself to create a course that is fully in line with my own gifts (writing, teaching, facilitating personal growth, hosting a circle), if I hadn’t signed up for Teach Now last year just when I was transitioning from my job as a director in non-profit to teacher and business owner.
Teach Now is starting up again, and I’m excited to say that I am serving as a Teaching Guide for this year’s offering. If you are at all interested in learning more about what it means to be a teacher and/or stretching yourself in the role of teacher you already hold, I would highly encourage you to sign up.
Teach Now is transformational. It’s what helped me to be bold in what I teach and not give in to the demands of my students for something more formulaic. It helped me to be true to what I believed about writing and the results are clear in the students who tell me the class has been transformational. It helped me dream of the courses I want to offer in the future (including more Creative Writing and Leadership offerings).
Sign up for Teach Now, and if you’re in Winnipeg, I’d love to have you join the circle for Creative Writing for Self-Discovery. Both courses will stretch you and excite you – I promise!
Note: Full disclosure – As a graduate of Teach Now, I am also an affiliate, which means I’ll make a little money if you sign up through the links in this post.
Another note: Though I’m creating my own courses, I happily continue to teach at the University as well. That handful of awakened sparks in the room makes it worthwhile.
“Are you sure you don’t want a ride to the camp? You can just skip the rest of the kilometres for the day, rest up, stay off your blisters for awhile, and start fresh tomorrow.”
We heard that often along the 100 km. walk. Well-meaning organizers, volunteers, and medics wanted to help us avoid some of the pain we were experiencing. They wanted to give us short-cuts, assuring us there was no shame in missing a few kilometres.
Every offer only set our resolve deeper, though. It even made us reluctant to visit the medics when the blisters got particularly ugly. We weren’t there to do 87 km – we were there to do 100.
Yes, it was painful. Yes, there were toes on our feet that were hardly recognizable as toes anymore. Yes, there were moments when there didn’t seem to be a single muscle in our body that was exempt from the overwhelming ache.
But we were there to complete the journey. We were there to test the limits of our endurance. We were there to be present in every painful step.
We live in a culture that likes shortcuts, especially when it comes to pain. We try to rush through grief, thinking that we’ll be better off if we can just put a bandaid on it and get back to real life. We over-medicate, thinking a dulling of the pain will help us feel “normal”. We short-circuit the birthing process (both literal and figurative), with unnecessary c-sections and inductions. We over-consume, thinking that shopping therapy will dull the ache of loneliness or heartbreak. We clamour over quick fixes and fill our lives with cheap throw-away solutions to our problems.
We prefer ten easy steps to one thousand painful ones.
But it’s the thousand painful steps that will change us. It takes those thousand painful steps for us to grow into what we’re meant to be at the end of the journey.
In ten easy steps, we can build little more than a house of cards, not the rich, beautiful temple we are meant to become. A strong wind blows away the house of cards, but the temple withstands the storm.
A fascinating thing happened at the end of our three day journey. We three women, walking together every step of the way, always within about 100 steps of each other, all began to menstruate before the end of the day. In just three days, our cycles aligned (though I wasn’t expecting mine for another week and a half and I’m not sure about the others). Interestingly enough, the next day was the full moon.
I’ve lived with enough roommates, daughters, and sisters to know that it is not unusual for women living in community to end up with cycles that are in sync. I’ve never seen it happen in such a short time, though. Three days of sharing an intense, painful experience, and our bodies were in tune with each other.
Extrapolate that story forward, and you have three women, living in community, whose bodies are preparing to go through the pain and glory of childbirth together. It’s a beautiful, poignant story. Expose three women’s bodies to shared pain and they find a way to support each other that goes much deeper than words.
Women, we are amazing vessels. We birth children and carry each other’s pain. Every month, we shed blood – our little painful sacrifice for the beauty we bear within us.
As an added element to this story, it was pain and childbirth that brought these three women together in the first place. Cath’s loss of Juggernaut led her to a place where walking helped her live through the pain. Christina’s deep compassion for her story and sharing of her pain made her want to support Cath on the journey. My own story of the loss of Matthew bonded me to Cath and made me want to be with her for the journey as well. It was pain that bonded us, pain that we journeyed through together, and pain that caused our bodies to align themselves with each other so that we could most fully support each other.
Our bodies carry wisdom that our minds know nothing about.
Our bodies understand the value of pain.
Without the pain, we don’t have the beauty. Without the blood, we don’t have the birth. Without the sacrifice, we don’t have the growth. Without the sharing of agony, we don’t have community.
We can’t shortcut through the pain. It’s not serving any of us. Shortcutting through our own pain makes us careless of other people’s pain. It makes us careless of the pain we cause Mother Earth.
Mark Nepo talks about pain as the tool that carves the holes in our bodies to make us the instruments through which breath blows and beautiful music is made. When we are present in the pain – when we don’t try to take shortcuts through it – our holes are seasoned and polished and the music comes out sweet and rich.
Imagine an orchestra playing on half-finished instruments, with holes that had never been polished and strings that had never been pulled tight. The music would be dull, lifeless, and out of tune.
Pain begets beauty.
Pain shines the edges of the holes through which God breathes.
The next step may be painful, but it must be taken nonetheless.
I only hope that your next painful step will be taken in community and that you will be supported in your pain.
And when the pain subsides and you can stand up straight again, let God breath through you and make your music beautiful.
“In stories and in life, pain is our friend. It’s an unwelcome friend, but a friend nonetheless. The good news is if we make friends with our pain, it won’t stay long and it will leave us with a gift. But if we avoid pain, it will chase us down until we finally accept the gift it has to offer.” – Donald Miller
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Note: Full disclosure – I did take a few painkillers along the way, so I don’t want to paint myself as some kind of martyr. AND I do not want to stand in judgement of anyone who accepted a ride – we each must choose our own thresholds for pain and our own values and reasons for completing a particular journey. There is no shame in being supported through the roughest parts of your journey.
Another note: Cath has created a beautiful offering to help you walk through your pain, called Remembering for Good. She is letting her pain be turned into music.
