GOOD GRIEF

          by Cheri Roland

GOOD GRIEF, CHARLIE BRO… no, CHERI ROLAND!

This has been my mantra as of late.  Good grief!  Why can’t I get a grip?  Good grief, why can’t I stop wanting to cry?  Good grief, where has my energy gone?  Good grief, why do I still have a head ache?  Good grief, why do I feel tired after seven hours in bed?

I don’t want to write this, but something is nagging at me and that usually means the Lord’s prompting to attend to something I‘ve been avoiding.  Hectic responsibilities and crazy busy days are so useful for covering up emotional stuff.  Being buried in busy-ness is so much easier than facing the messiness of reality; this has been my defence mechanism, my modus operandi, for most of my adult life.  But working at the seminary has afforded both of us the luxury of time and space coupled with a very conducive atmosphere for contemplation, a scary thought for me in all its ramifications.

The “wonderful village called SMMS” has just come through the tragic suicide of our president on May 2^nd, the first day back from a five day holiday break.  “Stunned” doesn’t begin to capture the vibe.  Classes were cancelled as we came together as a village to mourn and cry and shout out our incredulous anger at a God who was supposed to protect us from this travesty.  One lecturer had his class write their personal “cursing psalms” which they shared with everyone.  We just abided in the Chapel of Christ the Servant for an undetermined number of days, while prayers and petitions for grace flew and circled and rose like flocks of doves moaning for peace.  But still there was no peace.

The entire seminary plunged into accepted “comfort the grieving  mode”, walking around the corner to visit wife Shayne and their sons, Peter, seminary student Wesley and pregnant wife Nicole, staff member Jon Mark and girlfriend Rev Diane.  But we all had obligations – to our classes, our studies, our duties, our schedules, our appearances.  The calendar was in stone.  So, we all pitched in to ready the campus to receive hundreds of mourners from all over South Africa on Friday, May 11.  Then we all braced ourselves and the campus to present a brave front at the very first graduation ceremony, Saturday, May 19^th, proceeded by the first Peter Storey Lecture that Friday evening.  As you can imagine, we staff members wore several hats simultaneously, and managed to march through each charade of celebration as time, like an ever-rolling stream, unsuccessfully attempted to sweep all our tears away. 

I’m left with lots of unanswered questions.  And I’m not alone.  Our village’s chief has run away.  He was our leader, visionary, counsellor, teacher, preacher, father, neighbour, boss man all rolled into the most dynamic personality I’ve ever worked with, under, around and through…  But I dealt sufficiently with my issues, emptied my wastebaskets of soggy Kleenex, and was “pastorally” offering my shoulder for others to cry on. Then, at our centering prayer group Wednesday, my smouldering ignored grief spewed out from my paved- over “Ross-volcano”.   Shocking it was, on so many levels!   And why does this bubble up other memories of loss and betrayal and pain?

What can anybody do in the inevitable face of grief? I look back at the sincere words of comfort I’ve dispensed (like pills?) over the years – HA!  So well-meaning and sincere and naïve they are. We physically cling to each other, in our humanness, unwillingly learning more about this foe with each new loss, strung as stepping stones over a rushing river dangerous in depth and intensity and will. But this is not enough.  I need more.  My heart needs surgical repair to seal that hole or I fear my soul will leak out!

I’m drawn back again to the cursing psalms, humanity’s comfort for ages and ages past.  Psalm 22 is most eloquent.  I figure if it was good enough for Jesus…   Here I can cry and rail at the Lord, knowing that He is bigger than my insults.  Since He made me to begin with, He programmed me to react like this until sheer exhaustion finally rules and I’m done wallowing.   I think David had it right when he penned, “ Even though I walk through the valley” of death’s shadow; he points to the sign leading us on a journey with our tumultuous emotions,  even as my heart would prefer to take the detour.   But the response to “even though” is most important.  Even though we are wandering through the black shadow of gut-wrentching feelings, WE ARE NOT ALONE.  God promises to go with us!  The Holy Spirit promises to commune in our stead when we have no more words.

Pilgrim’s Hymn, by Michael Dennis Browne, has stuck in my soul as only a sung truth can be.

“Even before we call on Your name

To ask You, O God ,

 When we seek for the words to glorify You

 You hear our prayer;

 Unceasing Love, O unceasing Love

Surpassing all we know. 

Even with darkness sealing us in

We breathe Your name,

And thru all the days that follow so fast

We trust in You.

Endless Your grace, O endless Your grace

Beyond all mortal dreams.” 

So what have I learned about good grief after putting these thoughts onto paper (or screen)?  I guess I have given myself permission to cry, to question, to wander through “the stages” even though they aren’t following the correct order, for as long as it takes.   But I must trust my head knowledge, and allow that certainly that the Lord is with me and the Lord is with Ross to work on my soul.  Trust will keep a flicker of light alive until it again blazes up in joy.  Trust and grace.

Now come to think about it, this is the advice I’ve given others.

2 May 2012

by Doug Roland

Our story and experience of the tragic events of May 2, 2012, cannot be understood without a word about two people who have, in subtle but real ways, changed our lives.

In 2007, I asked Dr. Peter Storey if we could volunteer at the new seminary.   At that time the seminary was only in the minds of the founders. Two years later, Ross Olivier, a friend and colleague of Dr. Storeys' for decades, was appointed first President of Seth Mokitimi Methodist Seminary.  He was charged with carrying out the vision. The two worked closely together to give birth to the seminary.  They were deeply dedicated to the formation of leaders to transform the church and nation.  As to the details of how to do all that? Well, suffice to say that it was an uneasy peace.  So it often is with leaders of uncommon abilities and skills, and who are passionately dedicated to the same thing.  

We made our offer to serve to Peter in 2007, he assigned it to Ross and Ross invited us to come to South Africa in 2010.  He wrote one paragraph in an e-mail describing the vision of what he saw for us.  We have since given life to that paragraph.  For 17 months we worked with Ross side by side as full time staff members.  We learned quickly that he was a man of extraordinary vision.  Our job was just one of his dreams.  We became part of the seminary family.  We've lived next door to Ross and his family since we came in 2010.  We've become comfortable here.  Strangers in a strange land, we've achieved a rhythm. But on May 2, 2012,  the music stopped. Our president, our leader, our friend and our neighbor, had died.  

Late in 2011, Ross became ill.  We could tell that he was not quite himself.  He was diagnosed with diabetes, and he suffered pain from a condition in his right jaw.  He worked hard and succeeded in losing weight, but something was still wrong.  Fortunately, around that time, a longtime family friend , a retired psychiatrist, moved to Pietermaritzburg to be closer to his daughter. Ross was able to consult with him about his condition and treatment. 

He was in the hospital a couple of times near the end of the year to deal with the pain and to be observed.  The pain and his exhaustion from overworking was a recipe for what was to come.  Though we did not know it at the time, he had slipped slowly into depression, a disease as potentially lethal as most any.  Both pain and anti-depressant medicines were in play.  A delicate balance was difficult to achieve.

  At the beginning of this year, he came to the office a few times but stayed for only an hour or so.  In his last appearance before the entire seminary community, he proclaimed that the theme for the year was - "Live the Light".  He encouraged the seminarians to become as a Light in whatever they do.  He taught no classes, saw very few people and in some way seemed to be detaching from the seminary.  He wasn't the same.

Eventually, the Governing Council of the seminary, chaired by Peter, gave him three months medical leave, and delegated most of his responsibilities temporarily among members of staff.  The overall guidance was divided between Peter, and Bishop Purity Malinga, Vice-Chair of the Governing Council. It had become clear that the president would not be able to resume his work for at least the remainder of the year.

On May 2, Peter came to the seminary to work on planning for the seminary's first graduation. He met with heads of department that morning. The rest of us went about our usual business.  The seminarians were in class, or doing their field education, or were studying as the end of semester is close.  The seminary hummed along.  It was a beautiful, sunny day.  We had just come off a 5 day weekend, were rested, and life was mellow.  It felt like any other day. Ross and his wife, Shayne, had just returned from a two week respite at their house near the South Beach. She felt well enough to leave Ross at home, and to come in and work a little.  Ross rested at home.  

Shortly after lunch, Peter called the staff into an emergency meeting.  Something was wrong and we hoped it wasn't what we feared.  When I walked in, it didn't look or sound the same.  Some stood, some sat.  There was an uneasy tension in the room, broken only by soft voices.  Someone closed the door.   Visibly shattered, Peter stretched his hands upon the table as if he wanted to embrace all of us.  Choking back the tears, he blurted, "My friends, Ross has left us!"  A collective gasp, then muffled crying and unabashed grief.  

  

About an hour earlier, Peter had asked Shayne if he could meet briefly with Ross to go over a few details regarding the graduation.  Ross had been sleeping when she left home, so she called first to wake him up.  He didn't answer.  She asked Peter to wait 10 minutes while she went  home to wake him up.  A little later, Peter went to the house and noticed that the garage door was partially open.  He found Shayne there holding a lifeless body. Ross had ended his life.  

The staff was stunned, having lost our leader, our compass, our friend.  Peter knew that we needed to be led to some sense of comfort.  Like us, he wanted to cry out, and ask why at times like these.  We knew Ross had been in a dark place but none could fathom the depths.  We alsoknew that our faith would carry us through, but the knots in the gut do not soon dissolve. Sorrow is a stubborn emotion. The Chaplain then read Psalm 23 from his cell phone.  

An immediate concern was to get the information out accurately, especially to the seminarians, while we still had control of it.  Peter decided that the information would be transparent.  We would not dance around the suicide issue. 

Some staff comforted each while others returned to work.  An emergency meeting of the seminarians was called for 3pm, about an hour away.  

The seminarians returned quietly to campus.  The word was out, but not the details.  They entered Christ the Servant Chapel with reverence.  A place normally full of raucous joy was a place of sorrow.  Someone began the old hymn,  "Be Still and Know.'  The community met in a way it never had.  We grieved together. 

  There were no robes or vestments.  Everyone still wore what they had put on in the morning. The table at the alter was barren save a single Bible.  Faces were buried in arms or were expressionless.  There was no liturgy for this moment.

Peter began by retelling the events of mid-day and comforted the community in the same way he had comforted the staff.   

"Remember this day,"  he said.  We have lost . . . " one of the giants of the Christian faith."  

He was a "great human being that took the audacious adventure of starting a new seminary."  "He literally gave his life for this place." 

He then reminded us that  . . . "we are also Easter people, and Easter ends with a cross and with an empty tomb.  Thank you for listening and for letting your hearts to begin to break with us."

A quiet hymn followed.  The Chaplain read from 2 Corinthians 4:7-9, the passage about jars of clay. 

  The Dean prayed asking us to …"cradle the family in our prayers." 

The service ended with the hymn:

"Ha ke mpotsa tsepo ea ka

ke tla re, ke"

(If you ask me where my trust lies, it's with Jesus)