Big Feelings

A couple weeks ago, some of our family had gathered at my son Nathan’s house. His wife, Kelsey, was busy cooking, and at one point she asked Nathan to run to the store for an item she needed. He grabbed his keys and dashed out the door.

A few minutes later, my almost three-year-old grandson, Rowe, realized his dad was gone and asked where he was.

“Daddy just ran to the store,” I told him cheerily. “He’ll be right back!”

Instantly, his face flashed surprise and then hurt. “But I want to go with him!” he cried. He raced to the front window and saw that his father’s car was gone. “I want to go to the store with my daddy!”

He started to sob and then dropped to the floor, his entire body writhing in protest. “I want to go with Daddy!”

I kept telling him, “Daddy will be right back, Rowe. In just a few minutes!”

But he was inconsolable. Wailing.

Finally, I invited Rowe to join me on the front stoop to watch for Nathan’s return. “That way, we’ll see Daddy as soon as he drives up,” I said. “And he will be so happy to see you!”

Rowe got to his feet, still crying, and followed me outside. We parked ourselves on the front step, and I put my arm around his bony little back. “It’s going to be okay!” I assured him. “Daddy will be home soon.”

For the next couple minutes, I tried to distract Rowe. And to reason with him. I reminded him that his dad will go to the store “a hundred more times and you can go with him!”

But this thought only seemed to upset him more. “I want to go now!” he sobbed, throwing back his head.

I wondered how such enormous feelings could reside in such a small person. And how something as ordinary as a trip to the store could trigger such an avalanche of pain.

But the longer we sat there, the more I felt Rowe’s despair. And the more I realized how valid his crisis really was. To feel like you’ve been left behind is to feel abandoned. Like you don’t matter. And to know you’re missing out on a wonderful experience with someone you love, someone who defines your world… 

Why wouldn’t you wail?

I thought, too, about what I want and need from others when I’m devastated. I don’t want a reframe, a fix, or to be told that whatever is bothering me is not that bad. I want someone to name my sadness and agree that it’s awful.

 So I changed my approach. “Rowe, I’m so sorry that you didn’t get to go to the store with your daddy,” I said, rubbing his back. “No wonder you’re sad. That must really hurt.”

For the first time, he turned his wet face up to me. “Yes,” he said. “It weelly hurts!” And burst into tears again.

I worried that maybe I had stoked his pain. But soon, he took some shuddering breaths and I felt his little body start to settle. We talked about a friend at school. And then—the heavens opened, the angels sang—there was Nathan pulling up in the driveway.

Rowe, thrilled, jumped to his feet squealing, “Daddy!”

Yet when Nathan got out of the car and picked him up, Rowe got upset again. “Daddy, I wanted to come! But you were gone!”

I recognized this feeling, too. The mix of relief and recrimination. 

Nathan explained to Rowe how sorry he was. How he had thought Rowe was busy playing with his cousin.

Still, a bit of hurt lingered on Rowe’s face. Some things are just so hard to get over. 

Of course, I think of my grief around Noah’s death. 

The anniversary is days away. I admit there are still moments when I feel angry at the universe. I want my son back. Today. And the idea that I’ll get to see Noah in the next life is about as comforting to me as my assurance probably was to Rowe that his father would be home soon.

Soon is relative. And when your loss is permanent, soon sounds like forever.

But since our little wait on the steps, my exchange with Rowe has brought me comfort. Something about bearing witness to his heartbreak has made it just a little easier to believe in a universe that lovingly bears witness to my own. I can almost imagine a world in which I am the toddler, inconsolable, and Love joins me on the stoop and says, “I know it still hurts. Tell me more.”

If you think of it on Halloween, say a prayer for us and for the loved ones of Noah’s victims. Even nine years on, it’s an impossibly hard day for many.

As usual, our own family will gather at a nearby neighborhood so that our five grandkids can trick-or-treat together. There will be drama, glitter, zany costumes, and candy corn. And possibly, tears. 

Some of us are bound to have big feelings, and hopefully we will honor them all.