Accommodating Crisis: The Stories We Tell Ourselves

I’ve experienced a life of relative stability, with the broad strokes of the future appearing relatively predictable. Yes, there’s been ups and downs over time, but they have all seemed in the realm of ‘normal’. It doesn’t feel this way anymore – the political, social, environmental, and economic context is shifting outside the expected, outside of what I’ve experienced in the past. The stability of the world as I’ve known it has been jolted, futures that once seemed concrete are now in question. ‘Normal’ is quickly receding in the rear-view mirror.

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My mom died at age 71, and while I understood that her death at that age wasn’t particularly odd, in some ways it still felt too soon. Lots of other people lived well beyond 71 so in the quiet moments after her passing it was tempting to ask ‘Why not her?’

I try to temper these moments by remembering that there are many in the world who could look at me the same way – ‘Get over yourself, Chris. Don’t feel so hard done by. Your mom made it to 71 whereas my loved one died much younger.’

It’s true – instead of asking ‘Why did she only make it to 71?’ I could just as well say ‘I’m so happy she made it all the way to 71!’

I’ve heard stories from people who’s realities have been shattered by a loved one dying young (i.e. sooner than ‘normal’). Their assumptions and beliefs about how the world works are often challenged in the most personal and heart-breaking ways. These can be inflection points in their lives when their worldviews are forever altered. They are often make or break moments for one’s beliefs about God, good and evil, and countless other assumptions that have, until now, been anchors. The tragedy they experienced didn’t fit their worldview, so a new story of reality is needed, one that can accommodate the crisis.

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Reality has always been messy, but by accident of timing, geography, and family history, my experience of the messy bits has been minimal. I have been shielded from the instability and insecurity that so many face. I recognize this as a blessing, but perhaps also a point of weakness. A blessing in that I’ve been spared much turmoil and heartache – I have a childhood I can fondly recall, a family that is loving and supportive, and have lived in a time and place that is not wracked by violent conflict or environmental instability.

The less positive side of things is that because my worldview was constructed in a time and place of stability and security it is less able to accommodate crises and periods of distress. My worldview and psyche haven’t had to deal with such strife, so like little-used muscles that are suddenly called into service, they are not prepared for the task.

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That my worldview can’t easily accommodate tragedy, crisis, and turmoil reflects poorly on the philosophy, theology, and assumptions that make up my worldview. After all, these things have always been part of the world, so why should they come as a surprise when I (finally) experience them?

It is here that I think I have much to learn from people who have experienced significant hardship in their lives, people who have lived in uncertainty and instability. I imagine their worldviews assume much more instability than mine, and thus they are more likely to have the theoretical insight and cultural tools necessary to process and navigate times such as this.

From my Christian/Mennonite perspective, this looks like learning from Christians past and present who, rather than lean towards blaming God for calamities, ground themselves in their faith to carry on through tough times. They are more likely to have perspectives that are more resilient than my brittle worldview which tends to rattle at the mere threat of instability. I do not have a robust theology of suffering.

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I am reminded of the book of Job. Job is wealthy man who experiences a series of tragedies that leave his life in tatters. The bulk of the book is a conversation between him and his friends as they try to make sense of what happened to him. The book does not provide a satisfying answer to the question of ‘Why?’ but the fact that ‘Why?’ is the question at all is perhaps of note.

Asking ‘Why?’ seems to assume that the events are somehow abnormal and unexpected. We typically don’t ask ‘Why?’ about everyday experiences, only about those that seem different from the norm.

My normal has been stability, but with that stability now being at risk, I (and many others it seems) are asking ‘Why? Why is this happening? It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.’ Our cultural narrative is having trouble integrating this experience.

‘Why?’ isn’t necessarily a bad question, but it should perhaps be paired with the recognition that many of us are fortunate to have lived in a time and place where instability and crisis have not the been norm. The relative peace and stability in North America over the last decades is perhaps the exception.

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How does instability fit (or not) into our cultural narratives? How does our Western culture make sense of tragedy and turmoil? How can we accommodate crisis? We may be about to find out.