In the carefree days of my childhood, before the time of seatbelt laws and child safety seats, I used to ride around in the front seat of the pickup with my daddy, willy nilly. Daddy would take me to the driving range or to his best friend's house to hit golf balls; to the hardware store to pick up materials for things I helped him build in the garage; to the nursery to pick up plants that I helped him put in the ground. These moments with my daddy are some of my favorite childhood memories.
When we did our trips around town, we always took our trusty companion, Cutie. She was the best dog I've had to this day (don't tell Deuce), and the one my dad still says was his 'best friend'. She lived in our backyard, but would dutifully sit on the mat by the back door on the cold nights when we'd let her inside. She was a traveler, visiting her former owners' home on the nights when the rain or hail would come, but then returning the next morning after the storms had passed. She once traveled from Dooley street in Grapevine to the median of I635 before being rescued by a stranger. She would eat anything, so we fed her like a pig, emptying our plates into her doggie bowl after dinner each night. She once even survived an encounter with rat poison.
This dog was special, a mixed breed of Alaskan Husky and poodle, and I loved her with all my heart. Daddy once caught me allowing her to lick me in the mouth, and asked disgustedly, "Amy, why would you do that?" My response: "Because I love her Daddy." She was my baby, my best friend, my constant companion.
One of our favorite things to do with Cutie was to ride with her on the front seat of the pickup with us. I'd sit in the middle so she could put her head out the window, and we would laugh as her little paws tried their best to keep her stabilized, jumping back and forth between the dash and the windowsill.
One day, as we drove down a back road, we discovered it was even funnier to watch her try to stay in place if Daddy swerved just a tiny bit. So there we were, windows down, Daddy giving the steering wheel just a little tug here and there, and Cutie's paws were just dancing on the dash, sliding back and forth as she tried her best to stay in place. One final tug, and the next thing I knew, Cutie had flown right out the passenger window. I screamed and looked at Daddy, who brought the pickup to a screeching halt. Neither one of us moved for the briefest of moments, sure that we were about to find our favorite living being dead on the road behind us. As the pickup doors creaked open, we stepped tentatively out, afraid of what we'd find, only to see Cutie shaking herself off and running towards us, her little tail just wagging away. I truly think she was excited about the adventure she'd just undertaken.
Now if you ask Daddy, he will tell you that as long as he lives, he'll never forget the look on my face when Cutie flew out the window. He says I looked at him like he'd just killed my best friend, and he had never before and has never since felt so guilty. But the view from my seat was different, and the look I'll never forget as long as I live, is the one of guilt and hurt upon my father's face. The look he gave me spoke a thousand words of remorse, regret, apology and love. The look he had on his face said he wished he hadn't caused me pain, and that he'd give his very life to take that pain away.
As I've worked through this journey of grief in the two months since our unborn baby died, I've struggled with my relationship with God, and I've often felt a disconnected inability to identify the emotions I feel when I try and fail to pray, or to explain why when I try to sing, I cry instead. I've tried yelling at God, crying to God, praying to God, and ignoring God. None of it has changed the way I feel, and the hurt hasn't gone away.
But the other day, as I tried to think how God might be reacting to all my accusations and attempts to ignore Him, I remembered this moment with my Daddy. I think, probably, that this image that is burned so clearly in my memory, the look of guilt and sadness and pain on my Daddy's face, is probably what God's face looks like as He looks down upon me these days. My Daddy told me on the night that we lost the baby, "I hate to see my baby sad." I think that's how God feels when we experience pain and loss. He too, wishes we didn't have to experience pain, and would give (and has given) his very life to take it away.
(I don't intend for this blog to become focused only on grief or faith, but I do hope that sharing my grief journey and struggles in faith might in some way help anyone who has experienced or is experiencing a similar journey or struggle.)
