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Death for me over the years has rarely been difficult to process and move on. I've buried quite a few, only mourned a couple. The two I mourn are now memories I guard so earnestly a mother bear could not rival my ferocity. These two people immediately bring on the wet eyes and short tight breaths when I just so much as think on their lives, their influence, and my loss. This past January I experienced a third loss of someone very important in my life. It's hit me very hard, and I am surprised it's taken me this long to be able to pick up a pen and put it to paper finally. It's been thirty days, and this is still difficult to even bother to proof read. I did pour out my initial shock and pain all over social media. I tracked every article on his death I could find. I even found video from where he was that day and watched a VBIED explode in the distance. I had to somehow be there. Witness his chaos, hear the intensity, and visualize the finality that damage brought on in the war he volunteered to fight in. Albert Avery Harrington had volunteered to fight with Kurdish forces against ISIL two years ago. When he had initially announced his plans, I debated, I argued, and I even pleaded for him to reconsider and find another way to render aid. I knew he would end up severely injured, or worse, dead. But he went anyway, fully accepting the almost guaranteed risks that would change his, and the lives of all who loved him, forever. He sought life and purpose on his own path, and if death found him, at least it was while he was in pursuit of what made his existence fulfilled. This outlook on life is the only reason I can accept his death without anger or regret. No anger at his dying in a situation that he willingly allowed danger to follow, or regret that I never convinced him to put down this flag for a noble cause. Our last goodbye was back in September. He'd asked me if I could use my press privileges and get him in to Kurdistan. I'd laughed him off, quietly relieved he wasn't currently in harm's way for the moment. I knew it was only a matter of time though, and once again I would get erratic messages from the front lines in Kurdistan where he would complain about needing sleep and I would promise him the juiciest burger money could buy once he got back. If. But he didn't make it back. January 18th he and four others were hit by not one, but two, VBIED (vehicle-borne improvised explosive device) during a special offensive titled "Wrath of the Euphrates" in a small village called Suwaydiya-Saghirah village in Raqqa. The goal was to cut off the supply line to ISIS's stronghold in Raqqa. Three men were instantly killed, and Avery succumbed to his wounds in the morning hours of the 22nd at age 50. He is listed as a martyr with YPG/MFS Kurdish forces and buried in the land where he fought to defend innocents against ISIL's tyrannical cult. It appears their sacrifice has paid off since Kurdish forces have wrested control of Kukhkhan and Bir Said villages from ISIL in northern Raqqa. While the progress made since his death has been bittersweet, seeing the word martyr was a difficult thing to process at first. See, like myself, Avery was an atheist. He was living proof of atheist in foxholes and he was very much a humanist. One I try to model myself after. Honestly, I don't know how he gave so much of himself to so many. I get exhausted, but Avery thrived on it, I believe. "Give me a mission," he would say. So, when I saw him being referred to as a martyr, my teeth began to grind. The days to come proved even harder when others began to share their own pain and thoughts on his passing. As I followed up on news posted on his remembrance page, I began reading the thoughts and prayers comments. I also had to walk away from my computer a few times when I read speculation about whether he'd gotten right with god or turned back to Christ on his death bed. At first, I interpreted this kind of talk as an affront to what he stood for. His legacy should not be tarnished with the idea he was going to Hell unless he managed a last minute conversion. Could people not see the insult to everything he stood for by questioning his very humanity based on a belief system he did not even ascribe to? Those questions and speculations made me cry. They made me angry. I felt Avery's very purpose of pursuing a larger case for compassion on the world stage had been overshadowed. And after my rage subsided, I realized what was wrong with all these thoughts that were screaming in my head. The word "I". The long and the short of it all comes down to the fact Avery is dead. He can no longer be personally offended. He can't feel. He is oblivious to the world as he lays in his box under hundreds of pounds of dirt and rock in Syria. This is about my desire to preserve his memory in my life as I feel it should be. When the desires of other's to do the same do not match up to mine, then I want to stomp them out. And this is incredibly unfair. It minimizes the grief of others, it alienates in a time when coming together is most comforting. The desire or belief that Avery found God and is now in Heaven does no harm to his memory in my life. It puts a comfort to the personal loss of another, and I don't have the right to control another's grieving process by demanding their hopes be dashed. Just as Avery showed understanding for religious culture and customs of those he sought to protect, why can I not afford the same respect to those who now have a gaping loss to deal with in their lives like I do? This is a practice I will struggle with for years to come, as do all of us, but for those of us who do not believe in a hereafter, we feel the loss even more permanently than those who do believe. Why should I make a demand for conformity on behalf of those who are dead? Why allow the anger to take away from what we have lost? Do I really need to ask them why their God saw fit to allow such atrocity that eventually motivated Avery to protect those God would not? No, I won't do that. Even if when some say this god supposedly had a plan for Avery. Grief and loss do not belong to only one individual, though the process is individually different because of perception of the relationship one shared with the deceased. All of us who loved and cherished Avery have one thing in common, his death. Some of us will look forward to dining with him at the table in Valhalla, the rest of us have only his influence to pass on through our own actions so he may life on in the life of others - even if some who will be influenced by him, won't even know his name or know he is the source of their benefit. I can honestly say that my relationship with Avery ended with no regrets, and the past is forever the past, and tomorrow will always show me where we once were together. I love you, Avery. We miss you.
My mom passed Sept 16th. This just happens to be the same day as a junior high schoolmates birthday, one I have celebrated for many years now, we just got back in touch on Facebook a few months before. Unlike my friend who I had lost contact with for many years, I had either seen my mom or spoken to her every day for the past 30 years. While she was diagnosed with cancer, moved to a facility and then shortly after that, moved to an hospice, this enabled me to break the habit of calling everyday. Her death was a blow to me. She was really "gone". I faced it head on and that is when realized that I was "no longer a christian". I was grievously aware of the void of spiritual talk and banter with others and I scrutinized every unction toward prayer. I felt alone. Really alone. I couldn't talk about this with either my brother or sister or dad. I removed myself from them and even found it difficult to make the courtesy calls to family and friends of her passing. Even though there is a void of sorts by the lack of the christian lifestyle, I know that I have adapted to losing her, adjusting through my deconversion and progressing in my new life. It's amazing how much progress we can make personally when we have just a few thoughtful supportive and respectful "friends" around us at times like these. I think of the forums and here at Exchristian.net where I have felt acceptance that enabled me to work through the issues rather than deny them as I did when I was a christian. Loss really affects our lives. I will never be the same. Even though my mom died at the age of 87, we had all expected her to live well into her nineties. I just wasn't ready to let her go but I had to do it anyway. BTW; isn't she beautiful...
I think I'm just going to end up blurting a bunch of stuff out here, so if it's rambling and doesn't make a lot of sense, I apologize in advance. My grandfather died one week ago. He was 97 years old and someone I loved very much...but there were issues that prevented me from developing a close relationship with him. One of which being the fact that I live in and was raised in Seattle while they are in Birmingham Alabama. So, we didn't get to visit much. The good stuff is that my grandfather was always there for my family. When my mother started going insane and could not/would not provide for us anymore, he paid a stipend every single month to make sure we were all taken care of, could stay in our house, and so on. If you needed him, he was there for you. He was also a really inspirational person. He had many friends and did a lot for the community. He was a doctor and innovated some new techniques for his field of specialty. He also taught medicine, developed local hospitals, and worked tirelessly to make sure that people who could not pay for medical care got it anyway. He also cared a lot for animals, especially birds. He loved birds and built birdhouses, fed them, and helped with endangered species conservation. He lived a good, long life and genuinely cared about others. Now for the conflicting parts...my grandparents are Old Money Deep Southern Blue Bloods. This means that I've had to deal with listening to some racist slurs and their devout Presbyterianism. My grandparents were elders and decons at their church for many, many years. My mother suffered religious abuse growing up, and became apostate and an agnostic. She could not WAIT to escape from the South. She also really hated her mother and they never got along. She loved her dad dearly though...she just couldn't really have a relationship with just him without getting through my grandmother first. I grew up in an atheist/agnostic household, so my parents did NOT want religion to influence on us. My parents split up briefly when my brother was around 4 years old and before I was born. Mom moved back with her parents in Alabama for a bit at that time while the parents were trying to work through the trouble in their marriage. My brother showed me the Sunday school around the side of the church that he went to during that time. My brother is also an atheist, and I was shocked to learn he'd actually been to Sunday School (I never have.) I said, "I guess Mom wasn't going to get away with preventing you from going so long as you were under the grandparent's roof, hunh?" My brother nodded and said, "Yeah, more than likely." I was one of the pallbearers. One of the things while I was trying to squish my way over that Alabama red clay mud and not drop it was, "Dead people are surprisingly heavy." It really hit me then that I was carrying my granddad and he was really gone. As if he had never been The same as the clay I was trying not to slip on. I kind of muddled through the memorial after that in the church. I felt like I was sitting in a really pretty insane asylum and trying not to attract the attention of the inmates. One of the hymns we sang was "The Old Rugged Cross", which I was fortunate not to have heard of till then. "On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross, the emblem of suff'ring and shame; and I love that old cross where the dearest and the best, For a world of lost sinners was slain." Um...That's really disturbing. O_o It was just...awkward. Lots of talk about God and how my Granddad isn't really gone, he's just been called home. And I felt intense pain because I know that isn't true. But I really wanted to believe again that he was out there without his body somewhere with my mom and our loved ones, and I'd get to go "home" someday to them too. I thought I was OK with the thought of just oblivion, but I guess I'm not quite so yet. I guess what really hurts most here is that I had to miss out on having a special loved one in my life because of religion and other dogmatic beliefs. Again, I'm sorry this is just a disjointed word dump. I just needed to get that out of my system and try to find some comfort with others who understand what I'm going through and feeling here.