God Moment

I was thinking of when I created this blog and named it.... Living with Loss, I knew I would have to live with this loss, but at that time I wasn't living, I was surviving. It was a goal of sorts… but also a mission to keep breathing. It is only now, over six years since the death of my son that I have begun to know how to live again. The sharpness of those first months and years have softened and the pangs of grief strike less frequently, though when they do they rage with vengeance.

What a journey of emotion these past six and half years have been from overwhelming and consuming grief, disbelief and shock, depression and fear, finally acceptance and the incorporation of the loss into our lives.  I remember in the first months after Wyatt's death, I would walk through the house and tell myself he had gone on a very long trip to a place far, far away. He was unable to contact me and I unable to contact him. I later learned counselors think this is a poor method for working through the grieving process.... however, it was a tactic that temporarily blocked the trauma and horrific truth and allowed me to remain upright.

For me, the sheer destruction of early grief has mostly abated, but I can often see its heavy burden in the faces of others.  I recall seeing this pain in the face of a colleague, his head down, his hair noticeably more gray, his eyes distant; and, in the walk of our neighbor who slumped over, walked slowly and without purpose, and leaned on the mailbox to catch his breath.  Grief is a wicked, silent phantom that lurks in the mind and drains the body of any life-giving source. For some it becomes all consuming, and annihilates the person’s core, others stagger like zombies until they learn to incorporate the loss into their lives and make it a part of who they become.

As grief is a journey, it twists and turns, there are U-turns and roundabouts, stop signs and green lights, hills and valleys and twinkling night skies. I never know what the day’s journey will be or become, but I have not stopped, I will not stop… I cannot stop for his name is Wyatt, he is my son.

I have however taken this journey with my God. Yes, I still love my God but that does not mean I have always been happy with my God.  As with any relationship, we must be honest with our feelings and share with the other when we are sad, angry, upset or whatever it is that causes discord or imbalance.  The key is we share those feelings with love. Love is a gift that allows us to share the range of emotions the human heart can feel and remain friends, remain connected, and still wish to be in the presence of the person's company. That's how it is with my God.

I have a habit of talking to Wyatt, it's one of the ways I handle his absence. I also talk to my God... just in a slightly different way than how I talk to Wyatt.  When I talk to Wyatt, I tell him how much I love him, how proud I am of him, how sorry I am that he is not here and ask for his forgiveness for some of the choices I made in life that in retrospect, I find quite poor. When I talk to my God, I share the inner most feelings of my heart, my anger, my joys, my fears and my hopes, I ask for guidance, I seek counsel, my God is a sounding board for all mortal emotions.

At times in this journey there have been God Moments. A God Moment is defined as a time when God's real plan, presence, and love is revealed; the moments you feel God's overwhelming grace and loving presence in your life.

 I had a God moment last week in Ecuador.

 My complete inability to express the depth of emotion I experienced during a short-term mission is frustrating.  Nevertheless, the God moment was evident.

Welcome

 In this small church people were everywhere, standing, sitting, praying, and talking. I looked up and saw the slight woman, with short dark hair and deep brown eyes. She was slumped in her seat, hands folded in her lap, her face devoid of emotion in the midst of numerous supplications. I was drawn to her... my fear and shyness melted away in the silence of my mind and the only thing I knew was I had to greet her, I had to pray with her and for her.  I walked across the room and sat in front of her and took her hands in mine.  She looked at me with an open heart and acceptance. May I pray for you, I asked. She bowed her head and I prayed for my God to comfort her aching heart, to soothe whatever sorrow burdened her, to give her strength and peace.  I prayed in English ending with the universal amen. She lifted her head and gave me a little smile, an acknowledgement that though she did not understand my words, she knew the compassion of my heart. I hugged her and walked away. As I began to walk out of the church, my priest said to me, do you know she just lost her son a few weeks ago.  I turned around and rushed to her. I held her. I sobbed on her shoulder. We sat and held hands and learned each other's names. A friend came to interpret for us, respectfully entering the sacred space only known by those who have lost a child.  I learned her son's name, and she mine.  I told her I would pray for her and for her son.... we held hands and talked and embraced in the knowledge that in all the world we found each other.

Two days later, I had opportunity to see her again.  Inside the church everyone danced and sang in a great fiesta.  We stood just outside the church doors holding each other and resting our weary heads on the shoulder of the other, her burdened by the smothering sadness of early grief, me in the lingering fatigue of my own grief journey and aching for her and the path before her.  We must have stood there for 20 minutes, never a word spoken between us. Words are unnecessary when you know this grief.

 I shall never forget the gift of her compassion. 

 I shall never forget this God moment.