It's Me

I hate dislike hate going home. It's difficult for me to really talk about with anyone, because at GCC you don't meet many people who come from such convoluted and frequently disastrous home lives, and then at home, why would I go up to my family members and say, "By the way, I would rather be anywhere else." It'd be suicide. I want to live, and I have to live somewhere, so no thank you, I'll just be quiet and keep to myself. And that's exactly what going home is like for me during break periods. I come home and I say hello and if it's summer I'll work and sometimes I get dragged around to events and things, but in the end the majority of my time is spent upstairs. In my room. With the door closed. And it makes me sad, you know, because who wants to be asked about their family and have to hunt around for things to say because, really, they try to avoid their family as much as possible? Coming home for the funeral-related events was even worse, because the people in my family don't really talk to each other about deep things or emotional things. So in addition to being really upset about the death of my grandfather, I was faced with the thought, "Oh, holy crap, everyone's going to be crying and showing emotion," and other thoughts like that. I'm appalled at myself when I acknowledge that the thought of any emotional contact, tangible or intangible, with my family, makes my skin crawl. Because we don't do that here. But recently, I've started to recognize something: It's just me.

I don't know how to explain this properly, so maybe you won't understand the words I'm saying in addition to not being able to understand the feeling, but I'll try. I realized that I'm the only one in my family who doesn't want to touch anyone else, or at least the only person with such a bad case. I'm the only person (though I have my suspicions about my mother), who defaults to a solemn, stoic face (frequently deemed "mad at the world" by my family members) when confronted with emotions that I've decided need to stay hidden. It's not that my family doesn't hug, it's that I don't hug my family. It's not that no one in my family shares things or gets emotional, it's that I don't allow myself to share things or to be emotional. I was hanging out with my grandmother on Monday and she told me that it was good to hang out and have fun with me, especially since I'm alway so solemn. Excuse me? Has any one of you ever used that word in conjunction with my name? I've found myself in the middle of some sort of double-headed identity crisis. I've posted on my own blog that I recognize how Christ has changed me into the happier, more loving Tavi. But then at home, it'd be idiotic of me to deny that I'm closed-off and emotionally selfish. So who, or what, am I? Couldn't tell you. But I will tell you what I'm trying to do.

First, FFG, or Family Family Group. I've shared before my doubts about my family's "salvation status." For the majority of my existence my prayers for them have been along the lines of, "Please save them, and please send somebody else to them." Essentially, let this cup pass from me. I won't deny that I still feel that way sometimes, but instead of moping about I'm attempting to counteract it by forcing the members of my family to sit down and do Bible study together, weekly. We're supposed to start on Saturday...we'll see. I'll have no choice but to be spiritually and emotionally open to my family during these times, at least if I'm trying to do it right. Second, I'm trying to show my younger siblings that I like them. Obviously I love them, because they're family, but according to my mother, they think I hate them. This is probably because I'm the only person in this family who even remotely attempts to discipline them on a regular basis, and so I'm the bad guy. Fine, whatever. But while I'm absolutely positive that my disciplinary efforts are the reason for this, it can't be ignored that I rarely ever try to do things with them for the heck of it, to show them that I care about them in ways beyond hugs (which I don't do with them. One step at a time, people.). Third, I'm trying to communicate with my mother. This is an exhausting and frequently frustrating exercise that I will decline discussing. But I'm trying.

Rainy

There are some moments in some days when I stop and I think:

What are you so excited for? What is it to you? You think you stand a chance?

Because inevitably the constant search for silver linings stops when I realize that I've just been dealt a ridiculous number of storm clouds around which to find them. I get tired sometimes.

Help Me.

On Saturday, May 7, at 1:00 am Chicago time/2:00 am Philly time, my grandpa died. I was watching Gladiator in Meyerson when it happened. I missed all of the phone calls and the text messages because my phone was dead. After the movie was over I trekked back to my room and crawled into bed. I read a notecard that I left on my bedside lamp (I leave a lot of random things there; it's a transition spot. Loose change before it goes in my change jar, glasses while I'm asleep, notecards before I have a chance to tape them to my walls). Colossians 4:3--At the same time, pray also for us, that God may open a door to us for the word, to declare the mystery of Christ. I remember when I read it that I thought, weird thing to read now. Are You trying to remind me of something? I'm paying attention to my roommates, I'm praying for my family. God, I've got this. Then I plugged in my phone. Then I turned it on. From my youngest sister: Call Mom ASAP. From my mom: Call ASAP. Missed calls all over the place, my phone was having grand mal seizures in its hurry to alert me. Earlier in the week, my grandfather had returned to the hospital, having suffered either a heart attack or heart failure. He was old. He was tired. When I saw all of those messages and all of those calls, I knew, and I didn't want to know. But I called back anyway. My mom answered her phone and I tried to explain that my phone had died while I was out, but she didn't even want to wait for explanations. "Grandpa died, Tavi." It wasn't mean, it was just really blunt. Very matter of fact. I asked when, I asked how. She told me it happened at 1 am Chicago time, so I had been in Meyerson with an incapacitated phone when it had happened. I started crying; she told me to call my sister. So I called Ari. She was crying, so for all of three seconds I cried with her. Then I hung up, because my family and I don't do that. We don't share and we don't get emotional with each other, not on purpose. I can't handle my own feelings the majority of the time, and I find myself ill-equipped to deal with theirs. Up to this point, Ari is the only person I have heard cry. Tomorrow is the actual wake and funeral service. I think everyone will cry then. I'm not prepared. After I finished talking to Ari, I cried myself. For real cried, at something like 2:30 in the morning. I was of myself and yet I was outside of myself. I could hear myself crying and I heard the sounds of a wounded animal. I realized I had almost never had a real reason to cry until that moment. That was crying. That was a reason to cry. And it was in that moment that I felt my faith in God and clung to it more tightly then I ever had before. I didn't ask why. Why does anyone die? Since Adam and Eve, everyone on Earth is born fatally allergic to life. Sooner or later, that allergy gets everyone: accident, murder, disease, defect, and old age are all common side effects. I already know the why. Sin. Got it. I asked, "What do I do? God, help me." Helplessness and anger. Is this my frickin' door? 

I went to Lily's because I couldn't be by myself, and I cried. She listened to me and talked to me and prayed for me. Frank and Joy bought me animal crackers, strawberries, tissues. It was sweet and horrible. I did not and cannot believe that this was/is happening. Not to me. I tried to think about it but I couldn't really comprehend it. Grandpa isn't here anymore. He is not shuffling around our backyard criticizing the length of the grass. He isn't sitting in that same spot in the kitchen, or his spot in the living room, or the dining room, or in any room. I said I would see him again when I got back in the summer, but I came back and he is not here, and that's why I'm here so early. He won't ever mow our lawn for us again, or come out to our sporting or academic events again, or help Ari move in, or give me hugs anymore because he is not here anymore. That is what death is. I didn't get it until now. Now I see the potential for sting that death has. I'm not afraid, not for myself. But I am terrified of losing another person. I learned something new; I have new depths of emptiness and new reservoirs of nothing inside of me. 

The next few days after I found out about Grandpa were whirlwinds of stress and selfishness. I had to finish my last final and I had to pack (the horror. the abject horror) and I had to say hurried goodbyes (and in many cases, not say goodbye at all with no chance to say goodbye properly in the future) and I had to cancel plans and I had to keep busy in order to keep from falling into my brand new abyss. Death has horrific timing. I got a ride to the airport and I didn't want to go inside. Got through security and sat at my gate and wanted to turn around and go back. Got to Chicago, went to the bathroom, cried. Got into my dad's car, went to the funeral home, changed shoes, walked inside. Saw people I hadn't seen in ages, met people, re-met people. Saw Grandpa in the casket across the room. Didn't even try to go close. Sat down and took out my phone because my mom said it was okay. G-chatted Cindy, told her about the casket thing. She got it. I was able to get close later and I looked at him. I tried to remember that there wasn't a person inside of the person anymore. That's just a body now. Grandpa is a soul. Soul is gone. Body is here. I looked at him and I had to hold my breath, because when I was breathing my mind played tricks and made me think that Grandpa was breathing. He really did look asleep. People write that in books all the time, and Grandpa's body looked asleep. He also looked straighter. The body I know was always a little hunched over. He looked smaller. He looked a little waxy. I think that's a chemical/preservative thing. And then I left. Like I said, the wake and the funeral are tomorrow. The actual burial is on Monday in St. Louis, because Grandpa the soul wanted his body to be buried in a military cemetery there. I've never experienced death before. I had no idea there were so many steps and so many things to do. I thought you just had the eulogy and buried the body. Wouldn't it be easier that way?

I have never needed church more than I needed now. I have never needed God more than I need Him now. But I'm so terrified. I know I'm not alone but I feel so alone. I need prayer. I need God to take my hand and carry me through this. I want to be at Penn where I can corporeally feel GCC and my other Christian friends, but the next best thing is for you all to pray for me. Please. I need you. I am desperate for help, because I am so weak now. I have no support network here. I am adrift. And yet...this is my door. I need your help because I need to be with God if I want my family to be with God. I need to be whole in God before I try to help them get there. I need God and I need your prayers for me to fill all of the pits in my spirit. I am unashamed to beg you. I covet your prayers. I love you. I love You. Now help me. Now help me.