#9. Calluses

There was a time I questioned God. Interestingly enough, never in this new life.

As a teenager, it seemed mythical and impractical. I clung to science, and religion (up until that point) had only hurt me. No God would hurt you. For me, God is not in religion, and in early development of my theology I had determined that if God was not in religion, God was not in life. It wasn't until later in life, I found Faith and Spirituality. It's something I learned while hunting.
I was in my early teen years, rowdy and hell bent to be unique and tough. My father had taken me hunting and I sat still in an oak bush, listening intently and deathly still. I watched the deer funnel down a finger to water and I observed their breath as they stood feet in front of me. I was alive with intrigue. Living, breathing, and vulnerable. They were beautiful to me, majestic and real. A small buck trailed behind the does to water, I had been intently watching for quite some time and movement was required but not possible. It would have to be controlled movements. Slow, and calculated around the attention I had not gathered, yet. I moved with my breath, inhale through my nose.....be still.......exhale through my mouth, lift hand slowly...watch, watch....be still. Over and over until I had the gun positioned into my shoulder and had not alerted the herd of my ever looming and dangerous presence in the brush. My father sat behind me, breathing encouragement under his breath in a way that only a skilled hunter could do. "Be still sister" he would hiss into the wind so only I could hear. My heart raced. My mind raced. A traditional muzzleloader, a wild animal, my breath....be still. The buck stood broadside at twenty five yards, I repeated my father's mantra over and over in my mind on how to squeeze the trigger, and don't forget to aim. My finger gripped the trigger and I squoze it with what seemed like all of the strength I had when suddenly the sound ripped through the serene setting and sent a small round ball hurling towards the vitals on the beautiful animal that stood breathing in front of me seconds before. The smoke filled my vantage and I began shaking with adrenaline and anticipation as the light breeze and the distant sound of the herd running cleared the scene. Dirt was being kicked around by hard hooves, I could smell the sulfur in the smoke still swirling my senses. There he was. Dying.
"I got him Dad!" I yelled/coughed through the smoke. "I got him!"
I scrambled to my feet, leaving the single shot muzzleloader where it lay and disregarding everything I had previously learned about reloading, and being patient. I ran to the animal, struggling for breath. Perfect vital shot. There it was. What I had done. What HAD I DONE? My dad's hand found my shoulder, and he pressed his thumb and forefinger into the nape of my neck, the way he always did. It hurt, but in a safe kind of way. It was firm. He had anticipated this. I looked at him with tears filling my eyes as the animal lay still, jerking occasionally as the nerves gave up their will to live.
He didn't speak to me right then. He just knelt by the animal and motioned for me to come closer. What had I done.
He took my hand as I knelt beside him and placed it over the animals lifeless eyes. We, together, closed the lids. I moved my hands down his neck, stroking him as if trying to comfort him in death. I could feel the energy leaving him, and I knew I had done this. How could this be right? My hands found the small entry hole where a tiny trickle of blood ran out of, and bounded down the hide to a large pool that had formed below him. The exit wound.
I cringed.
I placed my hand over the wound, and held it there forever. Warmth, wet, death. I pulled my hand up and saw it was covered in blood, and hide. I did this. My dad took his finger and placed it in the blood, he streaked it on his cheeks, and then on mine. He still didn't speak, but to me, I interpreted this action as allowing the animal to become a part of me.
We prayed. We thanked the creator. We thanked the universe. We were gracious. I fed my family. I did that. It's a weird guilty sense of pride that comes from a desire to survive, and connect with nature. It's necessary for my soul. Not to kill, but to be part of the flow of energy.
Spirituality started here for me. It's the same feeling I get every time I catch a fish. The transfer of energy. I'm gracious every time.

God became a possibility when I discovered I was pregnant. It was one step forward and two steps back when I lost my first pregnancy. It was possible again when I found out I was pregnant with Kole, and it was absolute when I held him in my arms.

I know that questioning faith is something that transpires when you lose someone, especially someone close to you, and not in a "usual order." You aren't supposed to bury your babies. From the day they are born, the race is on. I had full intention of whipping their ass in the race to the grave. I'd dive in head first in order to beat them. No question. It's not something you fathom, and something you avoid thinking about. There is a reason no one talks about it after the fact. Unfortunately, it's reality. Millions of children die every year. Millions of parents bury their babies. I did. I had to.

I believe I chose this. And in my heart of hearts I know that there is no one who was more perfectly suited to be my child's mother, than me. I wouldn't trade those four years with him, for a lifetime with anyone else. He is mine. The time was mine. I'd do it all over again, even if the outcome HAD to be the same. Even if I knew the rest of my life I'd move through the sunrise and then the sunset in so much pain that the calluses are impossible to see through. Even if I have become those calluses. I would do this over again.

For me, personally, my faith increased. It had to. I was faced with the decision in blaring hot fashion....baptism by fire (if you will.)
Somewhere along my journey I read an interesting take on faith that I have adapted to MANY aspects of my life. It's a collaboration of ideas taken from random places, anywhere from Disney movies, to theology, to the bible, to the babble of a two year old child.
No man can walk out on his own story, you are required to be an active participant in the story line even if you choose to write your story as a blank page. Your choices on faith are as follows, believe, or don't believe. But think that through. If you chose to not believe in God you may go through your life, governing yourself in a manner that suggests you don't believe in him. And let's say you get to the end of your life and you were right, there was no God, no harm no foul. But what if were wrong. What if there was a God? Now let's say you choose to believe in God, and conduct yourself in a way that suggests your faith. You get to the end of your time here, and find out you were wrong. Still, you lived your life full of love, doing right when possible, never inflicting hurt. And if you are right, thank the heavens you chose that path. To me, faith becomes logic. Why look for an excuse to do, what you inherently know is wrong.

I've used this logic to grant people the benefit of the doubt on a million occasions. I choose to believe that people are doing the best they can, because that paints a scene for my story that is hopeful and not lost to the abyss of evil and destitution that is probably more likely. I choose to believe people are inherently good because this is MY story. I get to write it. If I'm disappointed, I'm still the person at the end of the day, who believed in you. I tried. I will sleep at night knowing I tried. You are responsible for dealing with your own thoughts, and judgements.

I have thought, and rethought many things people have said/done to me in regard to the loss of my son. I choose to believe they were trying to help, or acting out of self preservation. I don't blame them. I harbor no resentment. And I have forgiven. Truly forgiven. I seek not to understand. There is no room for anger.