Choosing to SEE - Mary Beth Chapman [75]
Our plan was to take that pitcher, hurl it into the concrete, and then take the broken pieces and glue them back together. The jug would be an Ebenezer – a physical reminder – of God’s spiritual work in our lives. Our idea was that the mended pitcher would leak water, our reminder that in our brokenness and eventual healing we would leak out the comfort to others that we ourselves had been given. The idea had come from 2 Corinthians 1:3–4:
Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.
We all gathered in the driveway. We prayed. Then I threw the pitcher onto the pavement . . . where it broke into not hundreds of pieces, but about a million. Actually, some of the pieces smashed into a fine, white powder. There would be no physical way to glue our brokenness back together again.
In theory it was a great idea. But like so many other things in my life, it didn’t quite work out according to my plan.
Sometimes Steven would go up to his home studio, which is soundproof, and scream as loud as he could, “Blessed be the name of the Lord! He gives and takes away! Blessed be the name of the Lord! ”
And like the rest of us, sometimes he’d just collapse at the foot of the back stairs, praying and crying out to God.
One day the rest of us were gone somewhere, and Steven was alone in the house. He took an extension cord and a pair of electric hair clippers out to the driveway, and buzzed his hair at the accident spot. In that time of deep grieving, the thought of just continuing on like normal, fixing his hair each morning, seemed like a travesty. He felt like Job; he wanted to do something as a visual representation of his mourning, like tearing his clothes and shearing his head.
When we came home, the hair was already cleaned up from the driveway. So it wasn’t until we walked into the house that we came eye to eye with the buzz-headed Steven Curtis Chapman.
He decided to stop shaving as well, and grew a beard, though much, much later he shaved it off.
“Daddy,” said Stevey Joy. “I liked your beard. Can you please put your beard back on?”
So he did.
30
“We Can Do Hard”
I’ve walked the valley of death’s shadow
So deep and dark that I could barely breathe
I’ve had to let go of more than I could bear
And questioned everything that I believe
But still even here in this great darkness
A comfort and hope come breaking through
As I can say in life or death, God we belong to you.
“Yours,” verse added after Maria’s death
Words and music by
Steven Curtis Chapman and Jonas Myrin
Endurance is not just the ability to bear a
hard thing, but to turn it into glory.
William Barclay
On the night of the accident our pastor, Scotty Smith, had gotten in touch with a trusted counselor who could walk with Will through the tragedy and the hard months to come. Another doctor prescribed medication to help Will sleep, as well as an antidepressant. Meanwhile, my doctor had advised me to switch from my usual antidepressant to a more powerful one. He also prescribed additional medication to help me through the days immediately following Maria’s death.
We got in touch with a trauma therapist who works with children. I’ll call her Dr. Lois.
Dr. Lois specialized in working with children who had experienced trauma of various kinds. Right from the start, she was incredibly insightful and tender toward us. She asked us about our plans for Shaoey and Stevey Joy during the memorial service. Sometimes adults want to keep children away from funerals, she told us, but little people need to be able to say goodbye too. It’s really important for closure.
She