32. ANGRIEF

Thursday afternoons I drive down to Farmington Elementary School and pick up my grand daughters, Beth and Tess, after school. I cherish the chance to be with them. I pull up next to Forbush Rock between the school, the pool and the Arts Center. Today they sat with their friend Junie flipping trading cards on the sidewalk as I pulled up. Usually Beth is sitting on the bench reading while Tess is climbing or pretending with whichever stuffy she carried to school that day.

All three girls hopped in the car. I dropped Junie off at her house near the school, then rounded the corner to Main Street.

"I'm a grump today," I said, for no reason at all. My girls make me feel safe talking.

"I'm sorry," Tess said.

"I hate feeling grumpy." Beth lamented. "Do you know what's causing the grumps?"

I thought a second, then replied "Nah, not really. Just... you know..."

They both said "Yeah."

I love that neither of them felt like they had to fix me. 

When I dropped them off they flung their backpacks over their shoulders and thrust their little hands toward me, their fingers forming the ASL symbol for I love you.

My old lady fingers lifted from the steering wheel before I backed up..."Back atcha!"

On the way home, stuck in the traffic of construction on Main Street, I found my eyes watering. The angels that hang out on my right and left shoulders had a conversation, trying to figure out what to do with me. I listened, caught between the two of them.

"Wow, she's really a mess lately!"

"I know. Poor girl. "

"Wadda you mean, poor girl? She has absolutely nothing to worry about! I could show her what real trouble is!"

"How can you say that? You know her. She's trying. It just feels overwhelming to her."

I listened to the two sides of my conscience arguing. It made my head hurt, and the tears multiply.

At some point one of them suggested we turn off the news on the radio. I reached my hand forward and hit the button. Silence was instant. In the relative quiet I heard the voices whispering shoulder to shoulder. One of them commented on what a rough week it's been. She recounted little brain bubbles that constantly fizz in my imagination. Personal stuff, hurtful stuff, on top of the chaos that has become our nation. The frightening weather patterns everywhere, a war that feels like it popped up out of nowhere, leadership that misrepresents so much that I hold dear, death in the family, illnesses, job losses, shaken faith and trust... heartaches everywhere. Heavy-heart overwhelm. 

A few nights ago I laid in my bed, tears wetting my pillow. I couldn't sleep, feeling the weight of personal and societal injustices recently presenting themselves. Heeding my mother's old advice to write things down that worry or distress me, I jotted a rather lengthy list.  People who I have historically felt a kinship with are falling from their pedestals. And I feel myself falling from theirs. I am confused and baffled by how good people can take such unkind stances. My nature is not to think ill of people. It breaks my heart to feel a loss of respect. Reading and re-reading that list of frustrations, I could hear the peculiar voice of Mr. Rogers in my head... "What do you do with the mad that you feel... when you're mad, mad, mad, mad, mad?"

Mad, in a person uncomfortable with mad, turns into sad.

I asked the Lord to hold the mad for me so I could sleep. Sleep restores strength. 

"Let me wake with strength and guide me to know how to handle all the mounding feels," I prayed.

At some point blessed sleep tucked me in.

Angrief is that middle ground when anger doesn't yet realize her divine nature. I am reminded of the words or CS Lewis recorded in his his book, A Grief Observed. As background, Lewis had finally allowed himself to love and be loved, then, when his Joy died, he was angry with  God... mad at the world... mad at everything. Like I feel... sort of mad at everything. 

Lewis, exhausted by anger, gave us these words:

I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief.

Grief feels like anger that's been humbled.

Grief, while maybe more piercing than anger,  carries innate cracks that let in light. Grief promises the presence of the Comforter, if we'll have her. And the Comforter is the source for true healing...scarless healing...the kind human bodies can't do by themselves.

Loss, the father of grief, puts us down in our crib and lets us cry because he cannot feed us. The Divine Comforter lifts us, wraps us warm and places us to her throbbing breast. Her tender care holds us confidently until we are able to feed ourselves.

It conjures the 26th chapter in "The Little Prince", when the dying prince tells his friend, the pilot:

"And when your sorrow if comforted (for time soothes all sorrows) 

you will be content to have known me."

Antoine de Saint-Exupery, The Little Prince

In that place between anger and grief,  make me quiet enough to let the Comforter come in. When her task is complete, if it ever is, I promise to stretch my arm toward her as she backs away, my human fingers forming the sign I Love You.

Beth and Tessa