The Bestowing Fire
"You know you're going die, right? This is the end.", I said to my father, wanting to give him the clarity he deserved. His response couldn't have been more ecstatic, and the peace he had with it gave me an assurance I didn't know I needed. It was done, and I had delivered on my part as power of attorney, which came with the final authority of turning off his internal defibrillator/pacemaker. The defibrillator was doing its job, only now it was doing it way too much—it was running a fool's errand. His heart was wanting to be done. His doctor told me it was end-stage heart failure. However, my father had peace, and not only was he ready for it, he embraced it. He embraced it with a warrior's demeanor, without batting an eye. Yet, simultaneously, he welcomed it with childlike happiness, for when I told him, he said, "I get to see my Mama!" How can one not be moved by that?!
Seeing that he was good with dying and that he was at peace, I began to weep. Knowing my father would be gone within the next 24 hours jumpstarted the grief, and saying goodbye in this manner carried a lot of weight. But then something spectacular happened. As I wept, my father, who was lying on his literal death bed, in his weakened and painful existence, leaned up and pulled me in close. I cried on his shoulder while he was dying. How could this be?! He was the one dying, yet it was he who was consoling me. He got to be what he loved being most until the very end—a father. He died the following morning.
While it was an immensely heavy loss, it was also perfect. My father's last grand gesture towards me was one of unspeakable love, of unspeakable selflessness—this was the most profound moment of my life. One of the most profound ways I have been impacted by this gesture is the notion that, if I could practice even a fraction of that kind of love, I could do something remarkable in this world, that I could simultaneously carry on his legacy and contribute to the world in a meaningful way. He bestowed unto me a fire meant to celebrate the good in the world, to be a beacon of love. This bestowing fire is one of my greatest sources of inspiration, and it has led me through some tough times when I could have easily chosen to toss meaning aside and succumb to nihilism. But I vowed to myself that I would honor his dying gesture by living in accordance with this memorable deed. It has not been easy.
However, there is more to this story, and its history is scarred by devastation. You see, about 12 years earlier, my father attempted to take his own life, and I was present. He barely survived, but the real problem was that he had a massive stroke while in a medically induced coma in the ICU. It was not known until about a week later. Naturally, the damage was done by then, and my father would never be the same. To say it devastatingly crippled his mind would be an understatement. It virtually took away his favorite pastime—talking. His personality was also severely diminished. He would never be the same, and in a large way, I lost my father at 20 years old. My hero had fallen, and his tragedy bestowed unto me a fire meant to transform my existence in a grueling and exquisitely painful way. That bestowing fire has not failed to live up to its purpose.
This is where things got really bad. After my father psychically recovered from his attempted suicide, there would be a long series of unfortunate and problematic events that would add to the psychological fallout of that proverbial nuclear blast. I won't get into the details here, but it is worth noting that the blast of trauma that night will echo long after I'm gone. Just as nuclear radiation can last an incredibly long time, so can trauma—it often outlives us and is inevitably carried on generationally. But that does not mean we are doomed because of it. This is where my story comes in, and where the purpose of the bestowing fire reveals itself. It is the thing that taught me that we can be better, not in spite of, but because of what happens to us.
Little did I know that the great gesture my father left upon me was the last seed he planted in me. And thank God for that! You see, I've been through Hell, and I spent a lot of time there, too. However, I somehow managed to emerge. Initially, however, my emergence was merely climbing out of a world of darkness and pain. Yet, the light of day would eventually bring me many gifts, particularly my wife and child. Nevertheless, the bestowing fire of that traumatic Hell would continue to burn. I suspect it always will. Fortunately, I have learned to transform it into something good. Rather, I should say that I am fortunate that it has transformed me into something good.
As it turns out, my work with people has revealed that our suffering, when given meaning through sharing our hope of a life after Hell, can save lives. And through a long and humbling quest to make my own suffering bearable by sharing such hope with many people, I have been forced to accept that I have indeed saved lives. I say forced because it's not a badge of honor that you brandish for all the world to see. Nonetheless, I accepted this truth. So much so that one day it occurred to me that I had often secretly fantasized about going back in time and changing the way the events of that night unfolded. However, it also occurred that my position on that has changed. I had the revelation that if I could change the events of that night, it would undo all the good I had done, that it would undo the lives I saved. And also that, as difficult as it is to accept, I would not change a thing.
The bestowing fire imparted into our souls is meant to transform us in a deeply personal and often painful way. If we hide it, or attempt to suppress it, it burns everything, leaving only emptiness. And that is not good. But, on the other hand, experiencing the profound meaning that comes with transforming suffering can teach us that life is worthwhile and wonderful things can happen, not in spite of it, but because of it. As long as there is pain and suffering inside us, we will have something to give meaning to, to turn into something good in the world—something to transform us. However, I've also realized that because the pain is so inextricably connected with everything we are and do, it takes an incredible amount of conscientious effort to understand the implications of suffering and how to give it meaning.
It is through a redemptive process that we do this, and my work is primarily driven by this notion, which requires that I explore as much as possible regarding how to carry out this process. It's too much to detail here, but the drive to understand and master this process underlies every aspect of my work in this world. Therefore, in an attempt to make my approach more understandable at a fundamental level, I felt it was necessary to begin telling my story. Stories connect us to each other because they connect us to the deeply ancient humanity in each of us. And God knows we need to sort out humanity these days! The positively impactful moments in our lives serve as a fire inside us, reminding us to celebrate what is good. The suffering inflicted upon us also sparks a fire inside us, one that is unspeakably painful. The bestowing fire of suffering never really becomes pleasant. We know this because if we try to suppress it, it will incinerate us from the inside out. The ambiguous nature of the bestowing fire will invariably burn away aspects of ourselves. The key is in our choice to give it meaning. If we don't, it will burn away everything, both good and bad. If we give it meaning, it will still burn, but it will only burn away what is dead and terrible, leaving us with the truth necessary for our redemption, to rise above the ashes, and to be precisely who we need to be. And the world would benefit from our existence.
