Breakdown

My youngest sister has the spiritual gift of a tender heart; her compassion and sensitivity tend to leak out of her eyes. I wouldn't say that's among my gifts (I have the gift of ... melodrama? Mopiness?). Thanks to my family of origin, I probably do cry more than the average Jane -- but only after plenty of build-up and almost never in public.

Today was the exception that tests the rule.

Uno and Dos asked me about J, the 14yo from my Sunday School class who passed away last fall, over breakfast. Uno wanted to know how he got to the graveyard if he was dead -- "because, you know, dead people can't walk." I explained caskets and hearses. Dos wanted to know (again; we've talked about this before) how he died, so I explained that asthma made him unable to breathe. Uno demonstrated by exhaling, then holding her breath. Dos got scared. "Uno, I don't want you to die!" I explained that Uno would be fine because she was only pretending; her lungs work just perfectly.

"Why did God make germs and spiders and asthma?" Uno asked. She asks things like that a lot lately. I know the grown-up answers: We live in a fallen, imperfect world; suffering refines us in the same way that rough polishing makes gems sparkle; bla bla bla. I don't know how to make sense of it to a 5yo, though. I should, but I don't.

Enough time has passed that I don't mind talking about J anymore; I don't get emotional. The girls ask me all sorts of questions about him, running the gamut from ridiculous to profound to profoundly insensitive in any other context (ah, kids!) and I do my best to give honest but concise answers. Not a problem. Mostly.

Anyway, after our enlightening breakfast I went Visiting Teaching (a program of our church's women's auxiliary wherein we, um, visit and also teach a brief spiritual message to other women from the church). The husband of one woman we visit had been J's scoutmaster for years, and their families are pretty close.

Our conversation meandered from all the snow, to how our Christmases went, to how J's family (and his mom in particular) is handling the holiday without him. "I don't know," she said. "We've all been sick for weeks around here so we've been stuck at home; I haven't really had a chance to talk to her." She sighed. "I can't imagine losing a child so close to the holidays, though. You have no chance for that initial grief to settle over you before you're hit with the next wallop...."

I tried to fight the tears, but the more I struggled to suppress them the faster they fell, and moments later I was a completely unexpected blubbering, sniffling mess. I tried to explain that I didn't usually react that way, that perhaps the girls' questions this morning (and my inadequacy to answer the hard ones) had got me down.... I know nobody thought any less of me for my mini breakdown, but I don't like doing it.

I feel a little bit guilty that his loss still makes me sad -- like who am I to burst into tears at the mention of his name? His family has definitely earned their grief; this woman and her husband, who have been close with his family for years, have earned theirs; I taught him Sunday School for 40 minutes once a week for a year and a half, that's it. What have I lost? What right do I have? I'm sure nobody else thinks about it that way; I'm sure his parents would be honored to know that I thought of their son so highly and still miss him. But I feel the guilt anyway.

I guess that's my gift of melodrama.


~RCH~