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I have heard the expression, “God never gives you more than you can bear.” I don’t know who made up that load, but I am here to tell you that God often DOES give you more than you can bear. It’s the very reason that people crack up, go on shooting sprees, or, like me, exercise obsessively and need medication to sleep. For my husband and me, maintaining any sort of normalcy now that Carrick is gone has been like riding a tornado. We are rushed around in emotions, swirling with pain and guilt and never ending grief...... we cannot get off the ride. Imagining that God would take our second born son because “we could bear it” is not a viable thought. I know God knows I cannot bear this loss. Sometimes, my emotions can sap me of the very energy I try to channel to escape the horror that is my life. Recently, my hubby and I were riding bikes and I was struggling to get up a steep hill that should have posed no problem. “What’s wrong with you?” My husband asked, as I pedaled slower and slower and less efficiently. “You used to be so much faster on a climb. Are you sick?” I had been carrying this great big ball of sadness in my heart that whole day. Some days the grief is like a tumor that overtakes my heart, my lungs, my very breath. I didn’t know what to say to him. “Maybe you should go to the doctor.” He urged, looking at me seriously. It broke free. “I. am. just. so......sad.” I finally managed to say. I don’t like to tell him this because I know he carries around his own suffocating sorrow. I cannot be responsible for adding to the hurt and pain that he must bear each and every day as well. Usually, I just stuff it all way deep down inside and lock it away. The sadness is too hideous to contemplate, too overwhelming to discuss, too raw to explore..... so I don’t. But this day, I don’t know, I just had to tell him why I could not dig deep and muster up the energy to conquer that mountain. Instead, I could only look ahead and sadly plod like a broken down mule. “That’s why I cannot do better.” I cried, tears dripping. “I am just too sad.” “I’m sorry.” He said. I immediately felt horrible for casting a damper on the day. “I mostly cannot believe we had a son that died.” His voicing this unvoicable truth was like acid on my heart; breaking open the seal of avoidance and denial I case the truth in each and every morning. We talked about our loss, the pain, and as usual made no progress in healing. Because the truth of the matter is: some wounds never heal. Like a toxic infection that takes over the body, the loss of a child is too overwhelming of an emotional injury to heal. Instead, we can only wrap our emotions in busyness, flee from situations which hurt too badly, and forge forward the best we know how. The best we know how isn’t that great, frankly. I wonder what our two living sons will say about this dark period in our lives; what Brock, who has stayed with us since before Carrick’s death, will remember and take from our zombie-like parody of living. We try to go through all the motions of living, eating meals, working, traveling, but it is mostly futile. We are bad actors cast in roles we do not want to play. I try to remember the me that I used to be; and I am stunned to recall my eternal optimism and great joy in life. I now look towards holidays with dread where I once anticipated every aspect of celebrations. Mostly, though, I spend a lot of time pleading with God to use our tragedy as a very public miracle. “Bring him back.” I pray, even though I am pretty sure that isn’t going to happen. “Because.” I finish up my prayers, “this pain is too much for me too bear.” See, but that doesn’t matter because it was not God who made up that ridiculous statement: “God doesn’t give anyone more than they can bear”. Instead, it was most likely some half-witted person who probably thought they were extending some form of hope to another human paralyzed with grief and pain. I struggle to endure the days and know that I will never understand God’s plan for us as long as I draw breath on this earth. I long for the day when it is all finally clear and I break free from the fog of pain that has defined my life since the death of my dear, sweet second-born son.
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