Tension

Often life is lived in tension.

I don’t mean “tension” as in conflict or physical stress – I mean the tension of being pulled – the tension of the both/and.

In those terms I suppose most, if not all of my life is lived in tension because I am rarely an either/or person; I prefer the both/ands of life. I guess I like to have my cake and eat it, too.

As a person of faith I find that tension ever present, especially during Lent. On one hand, it is a season of setting aside, loss, and death only so that embracing, gain, and life might be revealed. Holy Week is filled with all kinds of tension. As people who have the gift of hindsight, do you ever find yourself almost embracing the events of Good Friday so we can claim the life and love of Easter?

Light AND Dark. Yin AND Yang. Death AND Life.

All are essential.

One cannot exist without the other.

Tension.

For the last 10 years, I have always lived in a very real and present tension. On April 1, 2007 my wife and I experienced the stillborn loss of a son. Three days prior, Courtney’s water broke prematurely and a next day visit to the doctor confirmed there was no longer a heartbeat. On the morning of April 1, we went to the hospital where a few hours later, Courtney gave birth to Payton Darin Chandler.

The loss of life – the loss of expectation – the loss of everything was overwhelming. During this time, we were surrounded by family, friends, and faith community who sat in silence with us, cried with us, and gave us the space needed to go through every stage of grief more than once. As is always the case, we also had good and well-meaning people who said some of the most awful things – things that only served to make them feel better, with little regard to how it sounded or the impact it might have on a grieving family.

Grief has no timetable. It comes and rarely goes, even when it might feel like it has. Grief has a way of lurking and waiting, even in the midst of joy.

A few months after our loss, we held our breath at the news we were expecting a child again. Grief babies are not uncommon, and in March of 2008 (and with much turmoil), our son Liam came into the world – a 9 pound healthy boy who has brought much joy, love, and laughter to our family.

Liam is well aware of Payton and often speaks of his brother. Many times Liam has kept us informed of Payton’s activities in the presence of God, as well as in Liam’s own presence. For Liam, the child he has never known is very much a part of his life and spirit. Just as much as it is Courtney’s, Collin’s, and my own. Just as much as I know he will be a part of his sister Liliann’s life. He often speaks of how he wished Payton had lived.

But, there is tension.

Tension because Liam has not figured out the math. Tension because Liam does not understand the biological concept of pregnancy.

Payton was born on April 1 and had he gone full-term, he would have been born in late summer of 2007. Liam was born in March of 2008.

Had Payton lived, Liam would not been born. With Payton, there simply would be no Liam.

Tension.

Grief is necessary. Anniversaries and remembrances are essential and healing and healthy. Yet, for 10 years now, I have always experienced the tension between grieving one child and celebrating the life of another.

I cannot possibly imagine life without Liam. Does that somehow dishonor the loss or potential of Payton? Does remembering Payton every April 1 for 10 years somehow diminish the very present and vibrant life of Liam?

Tension.

How do you hold both in balance?

I don’t really have an answer.

Other than, “you just do.”

I believe it is possible to do both. To mourn and honor the life lost while embracing and celebrating what you have.

I will not say it is easy. I will not say it has never been done with tinges of guilt and questioning. I will not say it has not felt contradictory and illogical.

But there is tension. Always, there is tension.

Especially on and around April 1.

The Sunday morning Payton was born just happened to be Palm Sunday – the beginning of Holy Week – a week filled with tension and dichotomy.

I skipped the typical ceremony of Holy Week thanks to an understanding congregation and a most valuable colleague and partner in ministry who pastored to my family and the community of faith through his leadership and compassion.

My return to the pulpit was on Easter Sunday, one week after Payton was born.

Tension.

Over the course of one week, I went from personally experience the pain of death, to proclaiming the good news of life and God’s overcoming of death.

It is April 1, ten years later, and Payton is very much a part of our family unit. Every day I am grateful for Collin, Liam, Liliann, and Courtney and their presence in my life. We speak of our family being “complete” with our little surprise, Liliann, coming into our lives unexpectedly in 2014. But is it? Is it really? There is still, it feels, a piece is missing. Yet, if that piece were present, another piece would not be.

Even ten years later, when asked how many children I have, I respond, “Four.” There’s Collin, Liam, and Liliann; and there is Payton – a child, very much of his mother and me – who never lived, but who still does. 10 years later, he still very much lives in each of us. In me. In Courtney. In Collin. In Liam. Even in Liliann.

For that, I give thanks.

For that, I am grateful to live in the tension.