Facing guilt with grace

In the extreme and relentless tide of emotions I’ve been attempting to swim, as opposed to sink, in - there has been one particularly persistent undercurrent I’ve found myself fighting: guilt.

Mummy-guilt is a well documented phenomenon. Even when both my baby boys were healthy, developing at an above-average rate and melting the hearts of everyone around them, I still had to be wrestled away from them for an evening’s spa session by my lovely mum. I don’t know if it was just my love of being with them or some mystical maternal insight that triggered such guilt and anxiety then. But compared to the constant gut-wrenching guilt I feel regarding my role as mother now - that felt like second nature in hind-sight.

There probably is something natural and evolutionary about mummy-guilt. No doubt somewhere in the potent hormone cocktail that pregnancy and birth dishes out to a woman’s body - there’s a decent splash of hypersensitivity to all the potential risks and failings faced in a pursuit to raise babies into children and beyond. It keeps you on the ball.

Now my guilt, (at not being there to help MJB sooner, not seeing any signs of what would happen, not being able to ultimately save his life and the resulting grief and devastation of everyone he was loved by - in particular his incredible dad, not being the capable mum I felt I was before all this to JD now, being an often-weeping wreck of a wife, sister, daughter, friend etc. to everyone else - that guilt.) knocks me violently off ‘the ball’ just whenever I feel brave and strong enough to try and get on again.

At times I have hated myself for my failings so vehemently that I’ve wished myself out of the picture completely. After all, my existence is a fundamental component in this hugely devastating incident. But the more small hints of this poisonous self-loathing I let slip, the more distressing, tiring and eventually boring topic of conversation I recognised it was becoming to those around me who love me - of which there are more than any one person could ever deserve.

And the funny thing is - that despite my harsh hatred of myself, when it came to reacting angrily towards anyone or anything else that has perhaps contributed to the hurt of our grief and loss, I discovered a grace within myself that shocked me with the ease with which I was able to apply it to others. Despite however far-flung from ‘the ball’ I was at that particular time.

Without going into unhelpful details, I was able to sympathise, forgive and overlook some pretty horrible accusations, insinuations and, on one especially baffling occasion, even someone trying to offer their inappropriate and exclusive availability to my husband for his comfort. Yes really. Don’t get me wrong, theses things knocked me down with the instinctive anger I felt initially, but after a brief mindfulness session in the bath - I suddenly felt able to let it go. To forgive. To trust the best-case scenario that paints the subject in the kindest light. Maybe I just didn’t have the energy to hold a grudge? Maybe my sense of perspective had been dragged drastically wider since the unthinkable happened to my unsuspecting family? Either way, this new capacity for grace has served me so much better than what would be my usual instinctive behaviour.

Yet still, in an embarrassing rut of self-obsession, I couldn’t escape the guilt I was sinking deeper into. I wonder if in hindsight, however uncomfortable, it was actually a way of avoiding the even worse conclusion that perhaps someone else was more culpable than I - perhaps someone I love. Perhaps God. Rationally I know this is not the case; my son MJB was a happy, strong, determined little life. There were no signs. No-one could have loved or cared for him more - least of all me.

My faith at this stage depends on the confidence that this wasn’t something God ‘did’. He didn’t stop it - and only He can know why. But I trust that He mourned the loss of my beautiful boy and the grief that ensued just as we do. Do I believe He can work all things out for good? I hope so.

Motivated by my self-consciousness regarding my boring obsession with my own guilt, I challenged myself to test the limits of my new found gracious outlook - how far could it go? Who was beyond my sympathy and redemptive prayers?

So sat in the bath (much of my reflection seems to take place in this soapy solace) I attempted to apply grace to the individuals least-worthy-of-forgiveness I could think of. For example, Hitler: How awful to live such a cancerous existence based on suspicions, fear and insecurity. How detached he must have been from the beautiful insight and enlightenment that comes from diverse and inclusive community. To live with the awareness, however subliminal, that you are personally responsible for the torture, suffering and death of literally millions of innocent people would surely be as bad as living hell. If only his sense of identity and belonging was more nurtured perhaps he’d have been less vulnerable to the evil that ravaged his soul. His actions go far beyond my ability to forgive; but for whatever remnants of his soul are still capable of remorse, regret and repentance - I pray for redemption and peace. Obviously, not for one moment am I claiming the right to forgive him on behalf of others, I just choose to use a gracious perspective, rather than an angry, bitter one, when thinking of him.

I managed to apply the same practice to a selection of the most vile people I could think of. This included ISIS war criminals (what an exhausting and hopeless delusion to be consumed by…), Katy Hopkins (how shameful to sell your soul to be the face of xenophobia, classism and spite. How impossible for her to balance that with being an effective parent to her poor children), and even Jeremy Hunt (probably despised just as much by the capitalist fat cats exploiting his punchably smug face and spineless morality as the overworked, underappreciated frontline NHS staff whose lives he brings such misery to).

Since what has happened to my pure and perfect boy and undeserving family, the brokenness of the world is now all too apparent. The fragility of humanity. The overwhelming darkness we are constantly living amongst. The Bible, as the sacred reference of my faith, has never tried to deny or gloss over any of this, nor the fact that as people we are far from perfect. Worthiness and blamelessness are not conditions on God’s eligibility criteria for grace though. It’s arrogant for me to make them mine.

Scaling down my extreme grace-perspective exercise to my own situation has helped me handle the guilt. Objectively, I can say my intentions were good. My boys were my first priority. All I wanted to do was get washed so I would be clean while devoting the rest of my day to caring for them myself. My dad was, and is, a very loving and capable person who, with my mum, has successfully raised 3 healthy, well-rounded children (even if I do say so myself). There were no signs of what would happen. All reasonable care and attention was given. It was not anyone’s fault. Not God’s, not my dad’s, not mine.

It still makes me cry to say it aloud, but: It was not my fault. I could not have worked harder to look after my babies. I did so joyfully. I loved, and still love, them with all my being. I’m as broken and flawed as the rest of this mixed-up world, but even if there was some culpability due to an unintentional oversight on my part - I am not beyond the reaches of grace. Denying that faith leaves me trapped in a pit of self-pity, and as the saying goes: self-pity is not pretty. It’s not practical or productive and is no way to honour MJB’s joyful legacy - spending all my time on a futile search for closure where there is only self-doubt.

I hope with time it becomes easier but from now on, I choose grace.