I sat at the table with a group of girlfriends. I was a junior in high school, and my cricket phone buzzed on the table. Hello? The other person on the line was a stranger. Yes, are you kin to Van Beasley? (sidenote kin? What a weird way to ask that). He has been in an automobile accident, and he has lost his legs. Are you his mother? Would you please inform your family? I hung up. Dialed my parent’s home phone, told my dad the news and demanded he NOT tell my mom. After the concise conversation with my dad, I proceeded to sit at the table and spoke nearly a word of what all this commotion had been.
I ate the breadsticks on the table and even finished the meal. I was not OK, but I did not feel rattled or shaken. I felt almost nothing. The feeling of nothingness didn’t stem from my lack of love or affection for my older brother. If anything, he was who I looked up to most. Not only did I look up to him, but I also LOVED being with him. I anticipated going to school most days because I knew I had 30 minutes of locked-in time with just me and him. Any memory of my childhood that included him was a fond one. I remember the two of us getting a stomach virus. My mom made a pallet on the floor and hooked us up with sprite, crackers, and movies. Van turned, throwing up into a game. He beat me 6 to 4.
Van was OK.
The rest of his friends in the car were OK. The accident caused traumatic injuries, stress, guilt, and shame.
Fast forward. I am living in New York City and Tyler, and I have two boys. We were at a marriage conference when my phone rang. Thankfully this time, a sleek iPhone. It was my dad. His voice was shaky. Van is scheduled for his second open-heart surgery, and this time the doctor is saying there is a slim chance he will make it. I hung up. I had no tears. I felt nothing. I reengaged with the worksheet we were working on and even asked about something we had missed. We got home and booked flights out the following day. I am not a psychologist, writer, intellectual, etc., but I believe that the mind and body work simultaneously to provide coping mechanisms. I am so thankful for that. I also know that within me lies dysfunction. Dysfunction often forms when we are so tiny. It intertwines with our unique personalities, making it challenging to understand what is me and what is not. The little I know is that when grief lurks around the corner, I shut down or off. I suppress. I move on. I do my absolute best not to feel. The feeling makes things natural, and I would much rather live in an alternate universe with no pain or suffering. Wouldn’t we all ha?
The problem with avoiding grief is we miss out, and we miss out on the presence of God when he accompanies us in that dark place. When we suppress, we often do it alone, not allowing the presence of God to wrap His arms around us. The other issue with this avoidance tactic is when the grief or darkness is gone or even lifted momentarily, we miss out on the joy that comes with that. When I received the diagnosis for Amos, I was determined to avoid it, but within seconds I knew this time I simply could not. Amos is growing inside of me. I feel his kicks and jabs every 3 minutes and am reminded if I self isolate, I rob myself. I rob my community, Tyler, Amos, and my other sons of this promised presence from God. As a mother, my ultimate desire is to protect my children. I long to protect Amos from feeling any pricks or pain. For goodness sake, I cried my eyes out when my other two were circumcised. When Hank asks why I am crying, I want to protect him. I don’t want him to know of the pain in this world, especially when I don’t know how to explain it. The truth is. I can’t protect him. I don’t want to miss out on the presence of God and the joy that only he can bring. And you better believe if a miracle happens, I will be so mad for not letting others feast in that miracle with us.
At this point, Van has been miraculously healed/protected/saved, whatever you want to call it, from a horrific car accident, falling off a roof, and two consecutive life-threatening open-heart surgeries. I witnessed the pain he went through after those surgeries, and I saw the cords, the tubes, the bruises, and the scars. I immediately felt angry at God for allowing me to know/see that pain firsthand. Now I know what to picture when my 7-pound baby endures that same procedure.
I hope I don’t miss out on the grief because I know and am learning that God’s presence is so much better than any darkness that could ever be.
tocarryamos.com 