On Grief and The Shooting at Union Station

     It's 3:43 AM, the house is dark and quiet, and I'm awake because I just can't sleep. February brings an ache that I just can't shake, with memories that wake me in the middle of the night. Just when I think I've looked my grief square in the eye and dealt with it, it slithers out to surprise me on the day of the girls' Valentine's Day parties at school. One thing I know for sure is that running from grief doesn't help. I'm "doing the work," but my tender, perfectionistic heart still struggles with the chasm between how different things are from how they are supposed to be. 

(4th grade Valentines party)

    This past fall was heavy, driving me back to counseling. I'm immensely grateful for the gift of a wise counselor. After retracing things, my counselor almost instantly finds the root cause: grief with a side of regret. As soon as she names it, tears fall down my cheeks. There it is perched, next to my pain, and initially, it was pretty difficult to perceive. At this point, I recognize that I feel embarrassed over my grief because shouldn't I be past this by now? Can't we just move on, permanently? Pain has other plans, and as John Green says, "That's the thing about pain. It demands to be felt." Today, I'm digging deep and uncovering all sorts of surprises. 

    At 4:47 AM, Evie saunters down the stairs. "I'm so excited for my Valentine's party, I woke up!" Fantastic. Escorting her back to bed, I explained she could sleep for another two hours before she needed to be awake for school. 

She quickly asks, "OK then, why are you awake?"

"Because sometimes grownups have trouble sleeping."

"Ok, well, you know that happens to kids sometimes too!"

"I know. Try to close your eyes and go back to sleep."

Some days, it's easier said than done. 

    I come back downstairs. My mind flashes back eight years, and I recall a pile of heart-covered pink and red Valentine's gift bags sitting on my parent's dining room table. I found them there, waiting to be gifted to us and the girls, when I was called to their home the morning of my mom's death on February 28th, a full two weeks after Valentine's Day. Before the 28th, I had felt too busy to come by; plus, the girls (ages 2.5 and 6 months at the time) had been sick. The moment I saw the Valentine's bags, heavy regret fell over me like a weighted blanket. 

    This week, Valentine's Day, the Chiefs' Super Bowl parade, and Ash Wednesday all fell on the same day; in some strange way, it resonates. In a horrific turn of events, a shooting occurs at the event my family attended. Ashes are painted on our foreheads to the tune of "From dust, you came, and to dust, you shall return." We come from dust; we learn about love, connection, celebration, pain, regret, and sorrow, and then to dust, we return. I'm convinced God uses each degree of sorrow I embrace to provide a counterweight of growth in my ability to experience a whole host of other emotions, including delight and desire. Could it be that our souls are shaped in direct proportion to our ability to let suffering stretch us? In my own life, it feels like each inch of light is holy and hard-won. 

    We try to distance ourselves from the dust in our fragile humanity. We deceive ourselves to believe we have more control over our timeline here on Earth than we actually have. At bedtime, I ask the girls if they have any questions about the shooting that took place at the Chiefs rally that we skipped for lunch (after attending the parade). Adelaide covers her ears and says she doesn't want to talk about it. I don't force the topic. Evie has approximately a million questions, so I take her to her room, lie in her bed, gently stroke her hair, and thoughtfully try to answer each one. "Were the people shot all girls or all boys?" "Why are guns even a thing? That's my question." "How many were kids?" When I tell her nine children had gunshot wounds, she realizes out loud, "That could have been me, but it wasn't." I close my eyes and squeeze her more tightly than I typically would. 

    Listening to Lectio 365 in bed on Valentine's evening, I learn, "Eastern Orthodox Christians describe Lent as a season of 'bright sadness.'" I'm prompted to pause and "acknowledge both the brightness and the sadness I've experienced today." Where to begin, God? We have so much ground to cover.