Sensing Him in the Senseless

We found Angel dead this morning. Killed by a coyote a couple of days prior. Our family dog of four years—a Christmas gift for Ella. A useless, stupid tragedy. A senseless act of nature. Crushing childhood hearts and dreams. I try to make sense of it.

Two days before, on Ella’s birthday morning, our trash had been ravaged, old coffee filters and chewed meat packages strewn across the lawn. Without time to clean up the mess, I loaded the kids in the car for school. We got home late that evening, and as I was cleaning it up, I realized that Angel was nowhere to be found. I called for her, searched the yard with a flashlight. Gary mentioned that he had heard her yelp outside our window as he was getting ready for work that morning, the sun still sleeping.

I had asked God, for the kid’s sake, to let us find her—deep down knowing what had happened. Within the past two weeks, we’d lost an array of animals—a new kitten, bunnies, chickens. We thought it was a neighbor’s dog. Ella had found the kitten in the yard. Tears streaming down her face. Dutch asked why everything had to die.

Ella has big plans with friends and a sleepover for her birthday. We get home late. Angel’s still missing. I know deep down. The girls wake up and make cinnamon toast. They get dressed to go outside. I lace my tennis shoes to go searching, but the girls beat me to her. Ella with her tear-stained face comes back to the house and says, “We found her.” I go to see for myself, buzzards swarming overhead.

Sometimes things just don’t make sense. Animals die. Best friends move away. A coworker gets cancer. Relationships break. Friends’ marriages end. I ask God, “Why?” I feel like Job. I know that I can handle it, but I worry if my kids can—if they are strong enough. The questions from them come again. Why do all of our friends have to move? Why does everything have to die? In my mind I revisit a conversation with Ella. Her sentiment: Why should I even invest in people—in new relationships—if they’re all going to leave me in the end? How do you answer that?

 My fear? That my kids will remember their childhood as one of pain and dejection—rather one of enchantment, adventure, and carelessness. That the day we started losing people and things will outweigh the years of plenty in their minds. Is a happy childhood all that it’s cracked up to be anyway? I know tons of people who didn’t have one. Is a happy childhood even a real thing? I thought I had one. Or is it a façade, a trick mirror? A phony time that ends in disappointment?

Again, I feel like Job. Sometimes you think that you’ve lost so much, you can’t possibly lose anything more. And then you do. Over and over and over again. It makes you want to hold tight of who you’ve got and to loosen your grip on all things in the here and now, all at the same time. It makes you want to grasp hold of something that can’t be taken away. These kinds of days make you want to stare up into heaven and say, “Lord, come now.” How do you stay joyful in times such as these?

Riding on the lawn mower, the sky overcast above, I watch as Gary scoops Angel’s small, lifeless body up with a shovel. Tears well up in my eyes as I think how she was not what she is now. All the wild, endearing energy of her spirit is gone from her shell. Who she was is not her body. It reminds me of how temporary this all is—how this physical world will fade away—how this is not the end. How the spiritual world will go on. How we as followers of Him will receive new bodies. How we will eventually live in a world with no sickness or death.

But the pain is still here and raw right now. I still try to make sense of it. Where is God in all of this? Why let this happen? I still praise you even though I do not understand. But please help me understand. The clouds still fill the sky. Where are you, God? I look up and a hole in the clouds just the size of the sun appears; bright, blinding light shines down on me like a spotlight. God, is that you?

At church we are studying the Beatitudes. Jesus says, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” Am I blessed? How so? Is it because I know the devastation of this temporary life in such a way that I crave eternity. I crave the Comforter. I struggle to comfort my own kids. What do you say? Life’s not fair, but it’s temporary. They ask the same questions over and over again. I ask my God the same questions over and over again. I don’t know the why, but I know the Who. He knows the sadnesses of our hearts, the joys, too. He gives and takes away. He is there, always will be, always has been. And when the mountain of losses compounds and conflicts me, I will go up on the mountain to be with Him—and to be comforted. I will sense Him in the senseless.