By Michelle (Graceful, Faith in the Everyday)
Last year we experienced death up close and personal, in our own backyard.
Throughout the winter we had observed a large cocoon dangling like a leather satchel from the river birch tree. We weren’t confident it contained a hibernating creature – Rowan had prodded it too vigorously a couple of times, batting at it like it was a miniature tether ball, so we didn’t have high hopes for its metamorphosis. Nevertheless, one May evening Noah stormed into the house shouting, “The moth is here! The moth is here!” and we all dashed out to take a look.
Its body was furry and plump, like a tiny fruit bat, with a wingspan as wide as my hand. Two bushy antennae sprung from the moth’s head like centipedes, and on its intricately patterned wings shone bright yellow spots, unblinking owl eyes. It dangled a few inches from its cocoon, gingerly folding and unfolding its giant wings, hairy legs twitching a little as they clung to the branch. We all posed for photos with the moth like it was Julia Roberts suspended from the tree.
The next morning when the kids ran outside to inspect the moth, they discovered it was gone from its perch. Noah, who’d been roaming around the yard, suddenly screamed out, covering his face with one hand and pointing at the woodchips with the other. There on the ground lay what was left of the moth, its bat body torn in two. Just a bit of the head remained, the shell of it actually, its innards presumably extracted by the probing beak of a hungry bird. Two wings lay scattered in ragged pieces on the woodchips.
Noah crumpled to the ground sobbing, rocking back and forth on his knees as I hugged him. He cried for twenty minutes straight, keening with grief on the grass, pausing only to inquire why I wasn’t crying, too.
The questions began...
As his crying eased into a few sliding tears, Noah’s questions began: “How did the moth feel when he died?” “Is the moth in Heaven now?” “Do moths have a separate Heaven from people? Will I see him when I go to Heaven some day? Will I recognize him there? What if there are other moths that look just like him, and I can’t tell which one is my moth?”
I tried to work through the questions and comfort Noah in his pain and grief. But it was hard. Not only was my heart breaking for his loss, I also didn’t really know what to say. I was afraid I would instill in Noah the same paralyzing fear of death I’d had as a child.
I also realized, sitting there on the warm grass with Noah’s head against my chest, that inside I was still asking many of the same plaintive questions about death and the afterlife that he was. And I didn’t have any answers. As I fumbled through my explanation to Noah, I felt like I was constructing a plaster-of-paris theology, throwing together a glumpy hodgepodge of rambling thoughts as I was going along.
Someday, we will understand.
“Honey, I just don’t know,” I admitted. I told Noah that there is so much about God and Heaven and how it all works that we just don’t know. That God is so big our human minds can’t always get it, so we have to try to be satisfied with not knowing all the answers, satisfied with the knowledge that someday, when we are hanging out with God face to face, we will understand.
The truth is, we learn about death and grapple with our fear and understanding of it largely on our own. While I struggle to provide a framework, a foundation on which my children can rest as they tackle these big, murky questions, I realize that they need to work through it themselves, in their own way. Facing death, wrestling with the big questions, is a solitary experience. Yes, a strong and supportive faith community – family, friends, church – can help. Yes, a trusted faith community can stand with you as you wrestle with the big questions. But by and large, a person decides on the answers, or not, on her own.
Having kids has offered a fresh opportunity for me to re-examine my own relationship with God. Noah and Rowan's questions and ponderings help me realize that questioning is okay, that perhaps questioning is even part of the process. Although my role is to help my kids, to guide them in the best way I can, in doing so I often discover some understanding myself.
Michelle is a Christian wife and mother of two originally from Massachusetts now living in Nebraska. She is a part-time writer, editor and fundraiser for Nebraska PBS/NPR. Michelle loves to write about how her family illuminates God's presence in her everyday life, and on finding (and keeping) faith in the everyday. Michelle enjoys reading, running and writing. Be sure to go visit her blog, Graceful, Faith in the Everyday.