A letter to the
man who received Daniel’s liver and to his wife
Dear David and wife,
Thank you each for taking the time to sit down and write
your respective letters to our family. I
imagine that you both also have many different emotions that come and go as
David has healed from surgery, begun to enjoy renewed physical health, but also
to reflect on the reality that made his new liver available.
Carol wrote her letter first, so I am going to try and not
repeat sentiments or details that she has expressed. As she describes very well, the process of
seeing our oldest son die and then deciding to have his organs taken for
transplantation is painful beyond words and wrought with a complex sense of
ambivalence and conflicting thoughts, questions, and emotions. But, given the timing and circumstances of
Daniel’s death, our decision to have his organs donated provided an incredible
opportunity to have our other children and two very close family friends be with
us and Daniel in the final hours as we said our earthly good-byes to him. We will forever cherish those holy and sacred
moments as our family stood together in enormous grief and gratitude and
committed our son’s body and soul back into the care of a gracious and loving
God.
Daniel was indeed remarkable and especially so given his
relative youth. He quietly sought a deep
relationship with God and with seemingly everyone he met. His time in college was profound as he
impacted a large numbers of fellow students with his infectious faith,
personality, and a very quirky sense of humor.
A favorite saying to his dorm buddies was – “check your dignity at the
door” – an admonition to not take yourself too seriously and let loose, have
fun, and take risks in connecting with people.
As Daniel’s father, I had the privilege of speaking at two
different memorial services and shared the same words at each – we have
experienced unspeakable grief and amazing grace in the loss of our
beloved son.
The unspeakable grief is obvious – there are no words to
fully describe the deep sense of pain, loss, and loneliness that comes when you
lose someone this close. The amazing
grace has come to us in many ways – at Daniel’s bedside as described above, at
the two memorial services where several hundred family, friends, and neighbors
surrounded us with their love, and in many, many other moments as we sense
God’s hand at work in our lives and in the lives of so many others whom Daniel
touched while on earth and continues to touch even now.
Even in his death, Daniel has been a vessel that God has
used to channel amazing grace to our family and to many, many others.
This seeming paradox of grief and grace has for me become a
way to see not only this treacherous experience of losing my son, but much of
life and its complexities. I cannot
imagine ever really healing from this loss – at this point, I don’t really even
want to heal if that means losing my sense of pain over the loss of one whom I
loved so much. But, I also know that I
am beginning to recognize more grace in my life and in the lives of those
around me. And, for that gift, I am
indeed grateful.
I pray that you each will also have a deepening awareness of
the gifts in life that you have received, including, but certainly not at all
limited to, Daniel’s liver.
Grace and peace to you both,
John
Daniel's Father
January 13, 2008
The unresolved
turmoil in my head
Reflecting on the value of writing in a journal as a
grieving person, Martha Hickman comments in her book that the process of
journaling takes “a grief that lies like a lump against our hearts and moves it
away from us” and thus “relieves us of the pressure of having so much
unresolved turmoil in our heads.”
I love both those descriptions of grief – a lump lying
against our heart and pressure from so much unresolved turmoil in our heads.
I find that I often feel something akin to fatigue, where I
feel physically tired, emotionally drained, and the metaphor of a lump lying
against my heart seems apt for how I feel.
Likewise, the pressure from so much unresolved turmoil in my
head is also a daily occurrence. In some
respects, I think I have always had some level of this daily experience simply
trying to keep track of too many details related to work, family, and all the
other activities and people that intersect our routine lives. Adding the loss of Daniel and all the
unresolved turmoil that accompanies that, simply compounds this natural
pressure exponentially, to the point where the sense that you are about to
explode becomes very real.
This process of journaling does help to decrease some of
this pressure and provides some resolution or perspective on the turmoil I feel
in my head and in my soul. Putting some
words to the feelings and naming some of what I am experiencing seems to allow
me to step away from it and see it from a slightly different angle, and often
recognize that I can and am handling that pain and the pain is not going to
kill me or paralyze me.
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