Not That Good Grief

October 2019

“To love another person is to see the face of God.”

Over the years, that quote has repeated in my head thousands of times- in glimmering moments of joy and in the deepest moments of despair. When anxiety has gripped my body, a vice tying me to the bathroom floor, or as I was clawing at my husband’s chest attempting to somehow bury my shaking body inside his rib cage, seeking comfort and relief. It has served as a little mantra. I have faces to love. I have also survived trials. Even within the tension of those most desperate times, I never felt forsaken. I had hope.

For many reasons, my eldest and I had a desperately rough start. The bonding did not come as I had assumed. I remember meeting with a doula a month before her birth and saying, “I am nervous about giving birth, but not about having a newborn. I have taken care of babies since I was 11.” I cringe at that high horse memory. Within her first 3 days of life, my eldest knocked me off my colt like a battle scene starring Mel Gibson. And for extra measure, she circled her stallion back to kick me in the shin for good measure.

Back in college, I was a nanny for newborn triplet girls and their 3 year old sister. I color coded those babies; bathed and napped them, and played candy land in the extra time.  It was fun! Wouldn’t it be fun to have my own singular baby?

It was not fun. It could be its own book of not fun chapters.

My little baby looked like ET for the first month. And I knew it. But in tiny moments of quiet, I could look at her alien face and swear I saw God. And I felt hope. And it got us through….. Even in the dark, I saw Him.

Or at least I thought I had.

A group of 5 girlfriends have been intertwined throughout my life for 30 years. Some of the girls have been larger players within certain times, but collectively, they have filled a certain cavity of my heart and memory file for most of my life. Views and practices of religion are diverse among us. I have held the position of most conservative, The Church Goer. In our midwestern version of the Ya-Ya sisterhood, I am not the most eccentric. A couple of us may tie for second, depending on the year. We are close in ways our husbands do not understand and after short attempts, quit trying and surrender. “The ladies” is how the men and children refer. Said ladies can make me crazy; sometimes they don’t listen, there can be unsolicited advice and opinions, lots of dead horses beaten. And yet, I would run into a flame filled mental ward to retrieve any one of them, belting The Indigo Girls as my crispy legs carried us. There is Thickness. We are Woven.

The years after high school, I establish new groups of friends to stack on top of my childhood base; college friends, work friends, and church friends- a truly diverse collection. I have been gifted nice groups. The sleepless nights of the past months have given me plenty of time to reflect on all of the relationships tied to my life. My most grateful assessments have been awarded to the people who have just shown up. The ladies just kept showing up, sometimes against my words and wishes, but always for the greater need I couldn’t see at the time. And my childhood friend, while grieving a loss of her own, just showed up.(with a huge cat face pillow.) And a couple of friends from college stalk me via text until I fold… still, after 5 months. These are the people who took my kids, did constant check ins, fed us, and one even forced me into the bathtub. All needed. And in unfair judgements, it makes a graph in my brain of the folks who did not show up.

Maybe I had somehow already made up my mind on some people. And maybe that has influenced the feelings that certain words from certain people have felt hollow. Regardless, the (likely) biased evidence of my charts reveal: the folks who have claimed the religious and theological least, have, for me, shown up the most. And I have been chewing on that spear os wheat for a good while now….

The music from the musical Les Miserables should stir your insides.

While rooting around my parents’ basement in July, I found my 2 disc CD set of the Broadway recording of Les Mis. Many moons ago, on my sixteenth birthday, the boy I had a crush on for over 3 years gifted me that soundtrack. One of “the ladies” had suggested it to him. At my party, said boy reported that he’d had no idea how to pronounce or spell the title and therefore, walked around the mall record shop with an employee for what felt like a torturous amount of time to find it. Also, he only liked me as a friend; still a nice gesture. Flash forward 20 years: I am driving around town, missing my mom, listening to every song and belting out lyrics while intermittently crying. Fantine, I hear you! I will join the crusade!

Solid gift.

I have seen Les Mis on Broadway, on tour, at Community theatre. I think it is always good. Even an off-key Valjean can hit a nerve with those lyrics. A few years ago, PBS ran a special concert version of Les Miserables. I thought it was well done and mentioned it to my mom, after my Dad had said he’d “taped” it.

“Have you seen it, mom? It is great.”
“You know, I’m not really interested. It looks a little boring.”
“Boring?! The music is amazing!”
“Well, I more like that Joseph and the dream coat. It’s more jazzy.”
“Mom. They took a bible story and made a spectacle of it, like a joke! It is fun, agreed, but Les Mis is on a whole other level!”
“Well, I like that Donny Osmond.”

My faith has been a foundation in my life since the 3rd grade. A knowing. No rules, just a core belief that the path was secure. And I have always walked it at my own pace. Sure, some stones have been lodged at me along the way. There have been bumpy patches. But the lane was always in my line of vision.

The clearings are now gone. I am in the middle of the corn maze and all the trails, even the tricky ones, have rapidly grown in.

A soldier marching in a sea of stalks. I hear the distant drums….. I think it is a combine.

I am not angry at God. I am angry at life.

My story is relatively low on the sad scale; feelings are valid, but I was not dealt a terrible hand. The game just ended too early.

Every Tuesday evening, my daughters and I meet at a Helping Place. The other people who attend, because of a loss, show their cards while we meet in a circle. It’s rough. It provides prospective. It suddenly feels that, possibly, my faith has been a joke- sparkly jackets on former child stars who perform catchy songs. While their legs are dancing, their brains are just counting down to their smoke break.

I don’t like feeling stupid. I like feeling right. And it all makes me angry.

Eleven years ago, when describing the frustration of being a week overdue with the birth of my first child, a treasured friend once asked, “Like, kick cars in the parking lot angry?” Yes. Exactly. And since, I have measured all frustration in that way.

While walking into JCPenny, would I kick all of these bumpers along the way? I am not proud to say that, even before the mess of this year, my answer would generally be yes. But in the past few months, I would gleefully set those cars ablaze with a flame spewing tomahawk and punch anyone obstructing the way.

Move. Out. Of. My. Way. Grandma.

Some of “the ladies” don’t believe in God. This used to make me feel worried and probably self righteous, too. Over the weeks that my mom died, there were moments when each of them acted as the hands and feet of Jesus, like Christians are called to do. How can that be true if they have never decided to serve? If those same ladies, at times, had mocked my deepest convictions?

I think maybe it is just called love… chew chew chew.

It is rare that I am physically alone. I don’t want to fuss, I have set up my life in a way that my children and I share space 89% of the time. My babies have grown. Once they were a baby with an alien face and once an infant with a swollen meathead. They have both altered into sweet domes with big, seeking eyes that fondly greet me each morning. Love.

Still, I did not want to share Les Miserables with them.

They ask too many questions and I am tired. Also, I wanted to be able to sing/feel my feelings and I don’t do that well, in real time, with others….

Look at the marching mommy getting all of the things done! Her jaw may be parked in the clenched position, but our house is tidy! ……

Anyway, it took awhile to listen to the full 2 discs of music. Thank you, again, Scott M., circa 1997. I was cruising home from the CVS when the final song played. In that song, voices of the characters who have died throughout the show come back to join the rousing chorus, leaving audiences with feelings of hope, even in the grieving times of war. An uplifting crescendo as I pulled into my driveway, “To love another person is to see. the. face. of. God..”

 I jabbed the off button before the final note, muttering to myself, “Bullshit.”