Lamenting a Loss

This blog is dedicated to the memory of my niece Danielle Dennis-Towne who blessed us with her arrival on April 6, 1993 and transitioned much too soon, on July 16, 2011.  It was written loosely following a suggested format for laments in the book Rachel’s Cry.  Writing this blog helped me to process some of my feelings, and I hope reading it helps someone else out there in some way.  Blessings and peace…

Dear Spirit of Life, Soul of the Universe, Mind of God~

You already know why I’m writing, but bear with me.  I need to say it anyway.  I’m in the midst of writing my thesis on fourteenth century mystic Julian of Norwich, who is famous for saying that “all shall be well.”  My niece was murdered two weeks ago.  I am not convinced that anything shall be well, let alone that “all shall be well.”  My faith is shaken, and my hope is dead.

I know that sounds melodramatic.  Objectively, I also know it’s not entirely true that my hope is dead, or I wouldn’t be writing this letter.  But it feels true.  It would be more accurate to say that my hope has suffered critical injuries and recovery is uncertain. Danielle’s story is tied to mine, maybe more tightly than I’d ever recognized. Her father was my brother, and the challenges he brought to our lives bound us through silent, subterranean connections, like those forests of trees connected at the roots, and when one dies the rest die too.  If there is no hope left for her, can there be any left for me?

She was born into sad circumstances.  Her parents were troubled souls; although they both loved her dearly they were inadequate parents and loving them brought challenges for everyone who knew them.  Unable to rise to that challenge, I avoided my brother in order to avoid the pain.  Subsequently, I didn’t see Danielle often, one of many regrets that her loss seems to trigger for me.  I did call, though, from time to time.  When she was about four years old, he told me that she’d chopped through a board in karate class, yelling “yabba dabba doo!” while she taught that board a lesson about messing with preschoolers.   She had spunk from the get-go.

Gradually her maternal grandmother took responsibility for raising her, and by the time she was thirteen both parents were deceased.  Family members on both sides made sure she never went without love, though.  She knew she was loved.

In spite of the sadness surrounding her, she was happy.  We spoke about it the last time I saw her.  I’d gone to Chicago to support family when my step-mom was in the process of being diagnosed with ALS.  Danielle spent a few nights at my dad’s so that we could connect.  We went running every day, shopped a little and talked for hours. 

She shared the achievements she was making at the time, as well as her dreams for the future.  She was an honors student at the same high school I graduated from. She was a Junior ROTC commander and planned a military career. She told me about her awesome boyfriend, Ronnie, and how happy they were together.  She was a good kid and an impressively strong young woman—not giving up on life because it was tough, but rising to the challenge.

I asked her how she was doing without her parents and if she ever missed them.  She sure did miss them, she assured me, but didn’t dwell on it or feel sorry for herself.  “Who wants to be around someone who’s sad all the time?  Life is hard, and bad things happen.  But good things happen too, so I just look for the good in things.”  She said one day she’d have a chance to make her life her own and that’s where she kept her focus.  A lot of people would have given up, but not Danielle.  She never gave up on herself.  She never gave up on life.

So why, God, did you allow some obsessed idiot to murder her?  Why did you put her through all of that pain in her life and fill her with hope for a happy ending, only to let it end like that?  Everyone who knew her wanted nothing more than to see her succeed—it was impossible not to be on her side.  So what about you, God?  Where were you?  And more importantly, how can any of the rest of us dare to hope for a happy ending if you can let this happen to someone who made the most of every moment?

This is hitting me really hard—harder than I want to let on—because I needed to see a piece of my brother function in the world.  And I didn’t realize it until she died, but she was that beautiful piece of my brother that gave me some hope for my own ability to transcend the heartache of loving and losing him.  Maybe I was the same for her?  Who knows?  Now she’s gone and I can’t ask.

A childhood friend shot her in the back of the head.  I hope she didn’t see it coming.  I hope she died instantly and didn’t suffer.  I will continue to think she died quickly and painlessly without the agony of betrayal and loss until forced to think otherwise.  She suffered enough.

But maybe, God, she and I were connected not just by virtue of the pain of my brother’s life, but maybe also by some common strength—the same strength that allowed her to find joy and love despite her many pains and losses.  That doesn’t stop me from thinking that life was horribly unfair to that little girl.  It was.  But it does allow me to see past the pain.  It also forces me to realize that I have no idea who might be reading their life in the light I shine, so I have to find a way to shine it even though it’s hard right now.  We are all so interconnected, really, whether we realize it or not.

Show me, God, how to be true to the sadness in my heart as well as the optimism in hers.  Hopelessness seems an inappropriate way to commemorate such a brilliant life, yet it creeps into my bones throughout the day.  Optimism feels out of place in the face of such a horrible loss.  Nothing feels right.

Some people say “God has a plan.”  Frankly, I don’t believe this was part of God’s plan.  I believe in a God of Love, and that type of God isn’t capable of being the God of Murder, too.  I don’t believe this was God’s plan for Danielle.  But here’s what I do believe:

I believe, O Source of Life, that you were the source of her hope and her strength whether or not she knew it. I believe that you brought her all of the things that she needed—loving family members, loyal boyfriend, and supportive friends—and in just the right quantity to result in a truly beautiful human being.  Your plan was for her success and happiness.  She lived according to your plan.

I believe, Soul of the Universe, that you tried to change the direction this particular situation was headed in.  You were the source of the misgivings she initially had about going on the trip.  You silently encouraged family members to tell her not to visit this friend.  You probably tried in some way to reach him as well, to tell him that killing her wasn’t the solution to any of his problems.  But he pulled the trigger anyway.  He violated your plan.

Julian, fourteenth century mystic and subject of my thesis, had a near-death experience, and wrote of the great peace and bliss she felt in your presence.  Many others who come back from near death experiences say the same things.  I believe that is the ultimate plan, and the real end of Danielle’s story: she is with you now in bliss and peace. 

I believe, too, Mind of God, that you will help us all find a way back to the light, back to the beauty and hope that Danielle stood for, in spite of the crushing weight of her loss on our hearts.  I believe your plan is for all of us to live as Danielle did, looking for the good over and above the tragedy. Most of us are not there yet, but hope is creeping in around the edges of the pain.

Death does not have the last word. 

Love does.