Brave, or Incredibly Reckless?

Back in November, I caught the tail end of an announcement that a National Public Radio correspondent wanted to interview people that either are atheist or who are struggling with their faith after losing a child. Well, count me in. My faith struggles are obviously a big part of my grief. It was another platform to tell Weston's story, another way to be his mother. And...I loooove NPR.

So I showed up for the interview. There were about ten people there. Barbara Bradley Hagerty, the correspondent, was wonderful. We sat in a circle, and she stood in the middle with her big microphone. We talked, and she mostly listened. Sometimes she would ask a follow-up question. By and large, though, the words (and tears) flowed naturally.

Truly talking about our religious beliefs, or lack thereof, is often taboo. In the Christian circles of my childhood we didn't question or confront the big issues. Everyone was expected to have the same views, so authentic conversations about faith were few and far between. That is just how it was, and how it often still is within the church. I am quite fortunate to have a loving family and many friends who have given me the freedom to question, yell at, and rage against God since losing Weston.

But talking about it in a roomful of strangers and very new friends about whom I still know very little beyond their child's name and circumstances of death? That is intense. Losing a child unleashes intensity of which I was blissfully unaware before losing Weston.

Our beliefs were as varied as our children and our stories of loss. Some never believed in a higher power, some lost their faith forever, some lost and regained their faith, and some are not sure what they believe. But there were no dividing lines. Profound loss binds together like nothing else does. We all lost children, and we are all struggling in different, but similarly major, ways. And we all struggled/are struggling with turmoil in our faith or world views.

Our interviews are part of a larger series on faith that is supposed to air in January. It is already January 12, and I haven't heard anything about it yet. Hopefully I'll find out soon and will be able to listen. Since blog readers knew before I did that Weston was in the New York Times and the Baylor magazine, it is entirely possible that the whole world, except for me, has already heard the interviews. Keep me posted, y'all!

So, to ask the question in my post title: brave, or incredibly reckless? Unfortunately, the answer to that question is almost entirely based on reactions of others. Before choosing what and when to share about Weston, I ask myself the same questions: will this offend someone? Will this hurt my family? Will I be judged for this? Will someone insult or try to minimize my loss? Will someone say something else that is really hurtful? Most of the above has actually happened since Weston died.

But I have NEVER regretted sharing something with a fellow bereaved parent. It is the ONLY place where I feel completely safe and know that no matter what I say, (1) no one will judge me; and (2) someone else has probably experienced the same thing. Am I completely crazy for trying to bring this safety and lack of judgment into the rest of the world: the world where children outlive their parents? Sometimes I think so.

I am definitely mourning "out loud:" I have this blog, I send Weston's story and picture to print media, I go talk to NPR about him, I put his name on my race numbers when I run races, I sometimes link the blog up to other online threads that have nothing to do with losing a child, etc. I have even thought about getting a personalized license plate with Weston's name.

To further answer the question of my post title: it also depends on the day. I feel reckless when bad things happen as a result of mourning out loud, aka oversharing. Then I beat myself up over it, because, after all, I did put myself out there.

But I don't like to hide. My child DIED. It is pure agony. Why should I shut myself up in my house? To spare everyone else the discomfort of witnessing my agony? No, thanks. I am still alive, I am still part of society, and I am still Weston's mother. I am also Caroline's mother, Shannon's wife, and a daughter, sister, aunt, granddaughter, cousin, and friend.

But I usually feel that I am doing a good thing by sharing Weston with the world. When in doubt, I just need to look at my inbox filled with messages of how Weston has inspired people. He is the most amazing little boy, and I am so glad to be his mother. I just miss him, terribly, terribly.

Specifically, sharing how Weston's death has affected my faith is a mixed bag. It also is probably the most difficult part of the grief process for me. We all know not to bring up politics or religion at the dinner table. Turns out, that rule holds especially true when you lose a child. I have already been silenced for being honest about the seismic upheaval in my faith. That does not feel good. And it can push people away from God when they need him the most. I don't want to speak for others, but how could I NOT question God when my innocent baby boy dies? When ANY innocent baby boy dies? God is God: I think he can handle our hard questions.

(And believe me, I am holding back. I told a new friend last week that I should be able to drop the f-bomb all over the Internet without anyone batting an eye. If any occasion warrants the use of profanity, it's losing a child. But, I have not gotten that brave (or reckless?) yet. You just never know...Just know that I'm THINKING it in my head all the time!)

Life is not happy and easy and rosy just because someone is a Christian. Everyone struggles to some degree at some point in life. When Christians do struggle, why is it not OK to struggle with God? This frustrates me to no end. We struggle in relative silence. On top of dealing with my child's death, which is lonely enough, if I struggle with my faith in silence, I am left to wonder if something is wrong with me. Then I have to expend even more mental and emotional energy convincing myself that no, in fact, nothing is wrong with me. The "only" thing wrong is that my precious baby died.

So that is why I shared Weston's death and its effect on my faith with NPR. Although everyone listening will not necessarily know where I am coming from (assuming Weston and I, and our real names, even make it onto the show), everyone in the room with me that evening listened to me without judgment. It was a safe place. And maybe the next parent who loses a child (or that person's family/friends/church) and is struggling with faith will be just slightly comforted and better informed by hearing a similar story over the radio waves.