Grief in the Hands of a Child

When I was little, my faith came easily. You could not convince me that God didn’t exist, just as surely as the sun will rise. I have always been a trusting person: saying “hello” to anyone, giving strangers hugs – let me just tell you how much I terrified my mother! – and believing the best in others, even if they may not deserve it. With an easy smile and sunny disposition, my childhood nickname at school was “Smiley.”

I was the child to wake up early on Sunday mornings to attend Mass. I sang our hymns with all my soul. I had my favorites, and I knew exactly where they were. I was excited to go to Sunday school, have my first Communion, but only after a quite dramatic episode in the car before my first confession where I was convinced I was going to Hell after lying about something as insignificant as having two cookies instead of one.

When I was 5-years-old, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer for the first time. And, being raised in a traditional Catholic family, we prayed, my grandmother went to church, lit candles, the whole nine yards. After a hard battle, my mom went into remission.

Until two years later, when I was 8, she relapsed. Again, we prayed, went to church. She got better, and thankfully, she has been in remission ever since. A 22-year (and counting!) survivor.

And so, the precedent was set. In my young mind, the correlation was clear: something terrible happens to someone I love, I pray, they get better and all is right in the world. Simple, right?

Wrong.

My grandfather was always one of my favorite people in the world. His spirit matched mine and I loved every minute I was lucky enough to have with him. He was sick my whole life, from heart disease to diabetes and all the terrible conditions that come with it. I’d watch as he prepared his insulin shots, but couldn’t bare to watch as he injected himself, though I’d pass him the Band-Aid he needed after.

When I was 13, my dad was deployed to New Zealand, we lived in Washington, and my grandfather was hospitalized in his home state of Idaho. My dad was granted leave from his deployment to go see him. I begged to go, but ultimately, the decision was made – my grandfather didn’t want me to see him in a hospital bed.

It became simple: If he got better, my dad would return to New Zealand to finish out his deployment, and if not, he would come home.

Now, again, the precedent had been set: pray and your loved one will get better. So I prayed, and prayed some more, and some more.

Later, on a cloudy Saturday morning in October, when my mom called me downstairs because she has something for me, I thought nothing of it. Skipping down the stairs to the final landing and shrieking with joy as my dad rounded the corner with a big smile on his face. I ran down the stairs and jumped into his arms.

As soon as his arms wrapped around me, the realization set in and my world came crumbling down in dusty pieces. I sobbed until my chest hurt and I’d soaked through his shirt. His arms wrapped around me are the only things that kept me from shattering and crumbling to dust, myself.

I wanted to. For a brief moment, I thought I would. And in a sense, part of me did.

After a “calming” shower that I sobbed my way through, I went to my room, sat on the floor, tears rolling down my face, and gazed up at the crucifix hanging above my closet doors.

I became angry. Furious. Rageful.

“HOW DARE YOU? HOW DARE YOU TAKE HIM AWAY FROM ME? I DID EVERYTHING YOU’VE EVER ASKED! What did I do WRONG?? Give him back to me, please!”

Now, anyone that has lost someone they loved so much, especially at a young age, can absolutely understand the feelings I went through. Quite frankly, it’s been 14 years and I can still feel every bit of anger, grief and devastation as if it just happened. That kind of pain will never go away, not completely, but it does get easier to bare, over time.

After my grandfather died, I resented God. I couldn’t fathom why He would take away someone so important to me when I prayed for him to stay the same as I did with my mom, and she got better, so why not him? And then I wondered if it was selfish of me to want to keep both – would that have been too much, too greedy? What should I have done differently? What kind of God would ignore the pleas of a young girl who just wanted the chance to have her grandfather around for a while longer? Long enough to see her get married and meet his great-grandchildren.

I didn’t step into a church for nearly four years. And it helped, for a while, but then it didn’t feel right anymore. The more I learned about other religions around the world, the less it made sense to believe in God, when the Catholic churches I attended seemed to preach hate and intolerance for people who are different or make choices they don’t agree with, while preaching that we should love each other as God loves us, that God is merciful and forgiving.

I stopped again for the better part of a few years, occasionally attending a service to see if my feelings had changed, all while still never fully releasing the anger inside of me.

Last May, my dad and I took a trip in tribute to my grandfather – his dying wish, if you will. He said that one of the most beautiful places he’d ever been to was at the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

He said, “Now don’t be lazy. I want you to go all the way to the bottom.”

A 9-mile hike down to our campsite, with a 5,000ft. decline, which I cursed the whole way because these short legs were certainly not prepared for the reality of climbing down over boulders on the edge of a canyon wall with a 40lb. pack.

You know what, though?

He was absolutely, 1000% CORRECT. It was breathtaking. Knowing what I know now, knowing just how challenging that hike was, I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Sitting on a boulder overlooking the stream and up out of the canyon, I felt the most at peace that I have felt in years. I felt connected to my grandfather, to nature….to God.

That’s not to say that I started going to church right away, reading the Bible every night, singing His praises. No. None of those things happened.

What did happen is understanding. I was finally able to understand and accept that what happened to my grandfather was years in the making. He was born with some health conditions that no amount of optimism or praying was going to undo. I understood that the doctors did everything they possibly could. I understood that he was tired, no matter how much he wanted to stay.

That doesn’t mean that my 13-year-old self isn’t still angry and hurt. But it means that my 27-year-old self can give her a hug and tell her that it’s okay to be angry and hurt and sad, but that it’s not God’s fault, or the doctors, or anyone. No one is to blame for the tragedy that occurred when she was too young to understand.

But now it was time to let go of those negative feelings and to live in the beauty of the moment that her beloved grandfather left for her. To sit in the comfort of his embrace as the breeze tickled her skin and wrapped her in a hug, sitting beside her in the warmth of the sun.

And maybe, just maybe, she could crack open a window for God to seep through.