Letter from Lynn Krieger

Dear Sisters,

My father lost his battle with pancreatic cancer on April 7th, 2018. He was 51, and I was 18. My life had been pretty easy up until my dad got sick. I got good grades, my family was amazing and supportive (they still are), we all got along well for the most part, and had many, many good times together. Then, on Christmas Day 2017, my father was diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer. By April he was gone, my world came crashing down, and I was thrown headlong into grief.

On the day my father died, I felt an odd sense of peace; at least, it felt odd to me. I should have been freaking out, bawling and sobbing on the floor and pulling my hair out. But instead, all I felt was peace. I knew it was God giving me the strength to get through that moment, and to be honest, I haven’t felt much peace since. And that’s okay.

In the following months, I both clung to Jesus and pushed Him away. Some days I cried out to Him at every moment, and others, I honestly didn’t care what He said of my suffering. The feelings were so intense that they made me turn in on myself, and the devil convinced me that turning away from Him and not letting Him in was okay, even good for me. But in the end, I always knew that He is the only one who can heal all wounds. I clung to the Sacraments, particularly the Eucharist, and consciously chose to stay close to Him. And I am so glad I did. In that dark time when I felt like I didn’t know anything and I was hanging on to a piece of driftwood in the middle of a hurricane, the Lord kept me afloat, even if my head was barely above water.

After a painful yet needed summer to figure out who I was again (which I still really haven’t figured out), and a semester of seeing a school counselor and learning to deal with my grief, I found myself at a conference for young adult Catholics. Through adoration and confession, God brought me close to Him, and He let me feel it as well. He held me close and told me how much He loved me. Then, I went to a talk about the redemptive nature of suffering, the resilience we are called to have as Catholics, and the hard truth that life is really hard. I felt like I was hit with a spiritual two-by-four, and I didn’t know what to do. I ran up to the chapel, trying to make sense of what I had just heard about resilience and suffering. But I was too overwhelmed and stuck in my grieving head to figure it out.

So, I went downstairs, found a table of Dominican priests and said, “I don’t need confession, I just need to talk.” I’m sure this sounded a tad weird and awkward, but God works through the awkward, and one of them walked me over to a table and sat down with me. I told him my story and why I was freaking out at the moment, and he said, “Healing is often times a choice. You can choose to pick at the wound and let it fester, or you can choose to let it heal. You can choose who you become through this, because you will become something. You can become angry and bitter, or you can become stronger and use your experience to help others.” His words have stuck with me ever since, and I am incredibly grateful to him for his time and advice. Since then, his words have been my mantra: Healing can be a choice, and I am choosing healing.

I once heard someone describe grief like the sea: one minute it is calm, and the next you’re bailing water out of the boat in buckets as the storm rages. Grief is a lot like that for me. I never know what’s coming. I can wake up and feel ready to tackle the day, and in the afternoon, I feel like I want to scream and run and be anywhere but where I am. In those moments, all that matters is that my Daddy was taken from me. But what I’ve found out is that my grief doesn’t change who I am at my core. When it comes down to it, I am God’s beautiful and beloved daughter. That’s it; nothing else really matters. So even though I feel like my grief defines me because it occupies the majority of my thoughts and prayers to God, He has taught me that it doesn’t define me. Most of my prayer time is spent crying to Jesus about missing my Daddy or fighting with Him and demanding answers and an end to my suffering. But time and again, when I kneel before the Blessed Sacrament and tell Him of my sorrows, all He says is, “I am here, and I love you.” And that is enough

It is so freeing once we realize that it is only His Love that defines us. When I remember that I am His, I can rest in His Love. It doesn’t take my suffering away, but oh, it is so liberating. I let Him tell me who I am, and He transformed my identity from a young woman grieving the loss of her father to a beautiful and beloved daughter of God. When I remember that I am His beloved daughter, I don’t feel like I have to grieve “properly” or in a certain way, or to “progress” spiritually. I have a tendency to compare when I look at others’ journeys. I think, “Why can’t I be like that? If only my grief wasn’t keeping me from it.” But I am not called to have the same journey as anyone else on this earth. My grief is not a setback; it’s a stepping stone. My stepping stone may look different than someone else’s, but it does not mean that I am “doing life wrong.” And besides, there is no right or wrong way to grieve.

Today when I choose healing, I remember that choice doesn’t often coincide with my emotions. I make the mistake of thinking that my emotions should rule my decisions. But that’s a dangerous way of thinking, and it will only lead to despair. A lot of the time I don’t feel like going to work or class, but I choose to go anyway. Sometimes I’m caught up in my grief and tempted to despair, I ignore God and act like He isn’t there and doesn’t care about me (which happens a lot more than I’d like to admit). In those moments, all I can think about is my grief, but I have to make a choice to hold on to the truth despite the voice in my head that says my sadness is all there is. No matter what, I am His beloved daughter, He loves me, and He is interested in every little thing I do, think, feel, or say. When I want to resist being vulnerable in therapy and try to hide how I truly feel, I have to choose to be completely honest, because it is only then that true healing happens. Even when I don’t feel like going to Mass or adoration, which as a Catholic is where I am happiest, I have to choose to let Him love me by going anyway, because He is the only one who can heal me. But sometimes I don’t choose to do what God tells me is best for me and choose the opposite. During those times I don’t, He still calls to me, promising His healing Love at the moment I say “yes.”

St. Teresa of Calcutta once said that suffering is “a sign that you have come so close to Him that He can kiss you.” I’ve thought of that many times, and most of those times, I thought, “That can’t be true. I definitely don’t feel like Jesus is kissing me right now.” However, now when I look at the Cross, I see it: He is close to me because I am sharing in His suffering, and through it He is making me into the person He created me to be, no matter how painful it is. Because, Sisters, if going through intense suffering means we will be holy, He will let us go through it, because He loves us and wants only the best for His children. Anything worth having never comes easy.

My dear Sisters, in the middle of the storm, He is there. If you feel alone, know that you are not. He is always with you, and so is the entire Body of Christ, even if you can’t see us. I’m praying for all of you; please pray for me.
In Christ,
Lynn