perverse gratitude?

Every once in awhile someone comes into my office with a story so horrific, or unbearable, that I wonder how they are still standing up and walking around. (Generally, they wonder that too.) This happened this morning. The details of the conversation don't belong even on an anonymous blog, but suffice it to say that this woman has endured more than any one person ought to, and it hurt just to listen to it. People don't always tell the truth, of course, and even when they do the truth you hear is their version of events, but - if even half of what she said is true, then that would be more than enough.

After those conversations, I usually have two reactions.

One: to wonder, again, why a good God allows such events, especially when one person seems to be living through more than their fair share of them. This is where all my decent theology about "God isn't fair, which really benefits all of us because 'fair' would leave us in the ashes anyway," or; "God is present in our suffering," or; "your questioning and lamenting is a prayer and a form of faithfulness just as it is," really hits the wall. I believe all these things. I really do. They are the only way I can wrap my mind around a world where things that are and the things that should be are so far apart. I realize she wasn't really looking for answers, so I don't feel the pressure anymore that I used to when I first started this gig, to be God's receptionist and try to answer all questions about where he's been lately. So that's good. But I still have to face the fact that theology can't solve everything. This is where 'ministry of presence' had better be okay with the good Lord, because that's all I've got.

My second reaction: to be grateful for my own life. Isn't that perverse? "Wow, your life really sucks right now and damn, I can hardly imagine what you're going through. Thank God I don't have to deal with that." (Note that I do not say that out loud. Ever.)

I have that reaction after visiting people in the hospital too. Walking out to the parking lot, I often find myself focused on the particular body part that landed my visitee in the hospital: if it's a broken hip or replaced knee, I feel the strength in my legs; if it's pneumonia, I breathe deeply; a stroke victim makes me think about my thinking. (This experience would be troubling if I were visiting, let's say, a colonoscopy patient. So I don't always do this. But it's a fair generalization.)

On the one hand, I know my reaction is perfectly normal. We all do this. Read about a car accident which killed a child, and you want to hug the first child you know and love. Hear about a horrible divorce, and you go home and kiss your partner and rejoice. Listen to someone complain about their terrible parents, and you call yours just to hear their voices. C'est la vie.

There is something perverse, though, about the fact that it so often takes someone else's tragedy to remind me to be grateful for my life. To look honestly at what is good, right now, and to notice it, and pay attention to it, and not let it pass you by, because it won't last forever.

I'm going to quit before this turns too Oprah-style "live out your gratitude." It's just an odd experience, is what I really wanted to say.