End of the Tantrum?

Now I am going to continue in my attempt to describe the impossible. Our Colorado pilgrimage began with spreading some of Weston's ashes in Telluride and continued with a trip back across the state to the Rocky Mountain National Park area for a family reunion for Shannon's side of the family.

Admittedly, I was not looking forward to this portion of the trip. I warned Shannon and my in-laws about my dread months ago. I just knew that, with the reunion taking place in July, I would be a complete mess, and I was not looking forward to being a mess around people I don't know. (This was my second time attending this reunion, the first time being six years ago. I met everyone then, but I still didn't really "know" anyone.)

Shannon ended up being in charge of most of the activities, so I planned to just hide out for the weekend. As a side note, the reunion was at a beautiful family camp in the mountains with NO Internet connection. I wouldn't even be able to hide behind my iPhone!

We arrived relatively early. For some reason, I felt comfortable with the crowd almost immediately. I had to be introduced or re-introduced to almost everyone, but it was fine. It also didn't hurt that we had the world's sweetest and most charming three-year-old girl with us.

And thus began a weekend with almost no time spent hiding out in our room. It became clear almost immediately that hardly anyone knew about Weston. I had to hear, and answer, the dreaded question, "How many kids do you have?" over and over.

Sometimes the line of questioning would end with "I'm really sorry," which was fine. More often, though, people asked follow-up questions. This was a pleasant surprise. My answers were almost always accompanied by tears, which, surprisingly, was also fine.

At one point, a man walked up to me, somewhat hesitatingly, and opened the conversation with, "I didn't know you lost a child." Well, he just about had to pick me up off the floor! This was a man who has been through a scary and painful health struggle over the past several years. He wanted to know all about Weston and wanted me to know how sorry he was. I know it was scary for him to walk up to me and start such a conversation and watch me cry, but I will never forget his kindness. He cared enough to step WAY outside his comfort zone and ask a virtual stranger about her dead child.

The weekend went on and on like this. I have complained in the past about how people tend to hide behind God when others experience traumatic events by saying such hurtful and unhelpful things such as, "God has a plan," "This was God's will," "He's in a better place," "God works everything together for good," etc. In case I've been unclear in the past, these platitudes are THE WORST thing to tell a grieving parent. (And I try not to speak for other grieving parents, but I have never met one, Christian or not, who is comforted by the above. C.S. Lewis, as a grieving widower, felt the same way: "Talk to me about the truth of religion and I'll listen gladly...But don't come talking to me about the consolations of religion or I shall suspect that you don't understand.")

Shannon comes from a conservative Christian family, which was the make-up of the reunion attendees. I must have repeated Weston's story ten times, and NOT ONCE did I hear any of the above platitudes. This blew me away. People listened, said they were sorry for what we are going through, cried, and promised their prayers.

On Sunday morning, the family put a church service together. I was dreading this too, because I knew I would cry all the way through it. And I did.

Caroline was not interested in sitting still, so Shannon or I would periodically leave to check on her. She was playing with her cousins in the hallway. Toward the end of the service, Shannon was in the hall with her, and I felt very strongly that he needed to come back in. I didn't know why. I went out in the hallway to get him, and as we were returning, we were invited to stand in the front of the room.

My words will not be able to truly describe what happened next. Most of the folks in the room got up and stood around us. Then they took turns praying for us. It became clear pretty quickly that people knew a lot of details about Weston, details that I don't necessarily remember sharing with any of them. And I don't really know what happened, but God planted himself firmly in the midst of that big group, where Shannon and I were in the middle. I have no idea how long it lasted. I don't even remember what people said/prayed (I was trying, trying; I didn't want to forget anything about those sacred moments). All I know is that, as Shannon said later, God met us there, in that retreat center in the mountains.

I haven't cried that hard in a really long time. And it didn't matter at all.

I felt loved by all these people I hardly knew. And I felt seen by them. As I have said, grief is isolating. It makes me feel invisible and trapped inside my own torment. That weekend, the walls of torment were removed and absorbed by God through the loving presence and prayers of these wonderful people.

More importantly, I felt loved and seen by God. I have always "known" that God loves me and that I matter to him, but that knowledge vanished this past year. Except for a few things here and there, my life has been a spiritual desert.

I have thrown a yearlong tantrum at God's feet. I have yelled the typical questions: Why did my baby suffer so much, only to die? Why weren't my prayers answered? How could you do this to me? Do you even care about my family? Why, why, WHY?

That sacred experience in Colorado didn't answer any of those questions. But that's OK now. Throwing tantrums is exhausting. And that morning, I guess the fight left me. It was like God telling me, "I know this is so hard, and things are so unfair, but I love you, and you're always safe with me. And I don't love you any less because you're sad or mad."

Things are different now. I don't know how to explain it. I miss Weston as much as I always have, and I am no less sad about his death. But I feel some peace and hope in my soul. Perhaps I'm experiencing what the Bible calls the peace that transcends all understanding.

I've been a little scared these past couple of weeks. I don't want this to just be a "phase" of feeling relatively good. If there's anything I've learned about grief this past year, it's that feelings can change minute by minute. But this peace has remained.

No one likes tantrums. I'm hoping that mine is over. My anger still flares up from time to time; maybe it always will. But this sense of peace envelops all of it. I still feel sad most of time, and I know that periods of deep sadness and despair will continue. But, it's different. (Told you I'd have trouble putting this into words.) Maybe the difference is the hope-expectation, even-that the misery will end. And relief that, despite the fact that my baby died and that I have spent the last year in a perpetual tantrum, God still loves me.

~

You can't, in most things, get what you want if you want it too desperately...'I must get a good sleep tonight' ushers in hours of wakefulness...And so, perhaps, with God. I have gradually been coming to feel that the door is no longer shut and bolted. Was it my own frantic need that slammed it in my face? The time when there is nothing at all in your soul except a cry for help may be just the time when God can't give it: you are like the drowning man who can't be helped because he clutches and grabs. Perhaps your own reiterated cries deafen you to the voice you hoped to hear.
C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed