Thunderstorm

If you have ever spent a summer in Wisconsin, you know that we have some amazing thunderstorms. This particular thunderstorm wasn’t over-the-top; it didn’t make national news. While this thunderstorm was pretty average as far as thunderstorms go, it will be forever etched in my memory; it left a permanent imprint on my heart.

It started out as a typical day. Well, maybe not typical, but as typical as typical could be just a few short months after losing your infant son. I stayed in bed as long as I possibly could. I guilted myself into getting out of bed by telling myself, “Just because you have a dead child doesn’t mean that you can stay in bed all the time. You have two children who are very much alive and need their mom.” I decided that two seven-year-olds fending for themselves for breakfast every morning wasn’t going to earn me any Mother-of-the-Year awards. I got up, got dressed and trudged down the hall to the kitchen and said a semi-cheerful “good morning” to my sons.

The day was hot, as many summer days in Wisconsin are. Even at ten o’clock in the morning, the sun, still fairly low in the eastern sky, made it too unbearable not to run the central air. The dogs, two disobedient beagles named Howard and Stella, lay on the ceramic tile to try to keep cool. The boys were alternating between video games and cartoons for most of the hot, humid day. I spent my day staring out the window watching the field corn grow that surrounded our home, alternating between trying to hide my anguish from my sons and crying freely, my face drenched from my tears. I couldn’t see our neighbor’s homes once the corn got high enough. That feeling of isolation was both welcome and irritating at the same time.

The plethora of emotions I felt over the previous months since losing my son ranged from one end of the spectrum to the other. Early on, I felt empty, hollow. Where my belly used to protrude, stretched to the limit with a healthy baby boy, it now was flat. The only reminder that a baby used to call my stomach home, were the purplish gray stretch marks that marred my skin. A few days after Teagan’s birth and subsequent death, my breasts filled with special milk that was meant specifically for him, to nourish him and help him fight disease for the first few years of his life. While my breasts ached with unshed milk, a deeper ache in my chest took hold. Heartbreak truly is a physical pain.

Some days I would curse God; I would scream at him for putting me thru what I have now labeled as the worst thing that has ever happened to me. “Haven’t I been thru enough in my life? Haven’t I been a good enough Christian? I don’t deserve this! Why me? Lord, I HATE you for doing this to me!” Other days I would beg him for forgiveness, petrified that I wouldn’t get to Heaven and be reunited with my son.

That August day I felt a dull ache somewhere deep inside me that I had grown quite accustomed to. As I sat there, staring out the window, I decided that I would drive out to the cemetery to visit my Teagan. Lower Weston Cemetery is fairly small compared to some cemeteries I have seen. It is located in the lush, green hills of Weston, southwest of Menomonie. The cemetery is surrounded by rolling farm fields, this particular year, soy beans were planted creating a picturesque green landscape. As I turned onto the dead-end road that the cemetery is located on, I noticed the large herd of cows along the fence that are always there to greet the mourners going to visit the graves of their loved ones. It is almost like they can feel your grief as they look at you with their big, sad, black eyes. There are many generations of Teagan’s family buried in the Lower Weston Cemetery dating back as early as the late 1700’s.

I parked along the back side of the cemetery along the road that encircles it. I walked past my husband’s grandfathers grave, blew him a kiss and whispered, “Hello Papa.” Papa passed away one month to the day after Teagan died. He took Teagan’s death very hard and I suspect he died of heartache. As I kneeled down in front of Teagan’s grave, I started my labor of love washing his tombstone, rearranging the many small statues I had previously placed there and pulling the grass that had grown too long.

Just as I started to talk to him, the sky above us opened up into a torrential downpour. The wind started to howl blowing the leaves on the trees in every direction. The tall evergreen bushes that dotted the cemetery were bending in half from the force of the wind. A huge branch from a tall oak tree snapped off the tree and fell to the earth below about 20 feet from where I stood, dumbfounded. I ran to my car as I saw a bright flash of lightening and heard the loud clap of thunder followed by a deep rumble. The sky had a greenish hue to it that I always relate to tornadoes.

Safe in my car, I surveyed the scene as it played out around me. I decided the conditions were not safe enough for me to start the twenty minute drive home. As I sat there soaking wet in my car, a seething anger overtook me. I felt hot and cold at the same time; cold from the cool rain that had soaked my clothes and hair, hot from the anger inside of me. I started sobbing; uncontrollable, deep sobs wracked my body. Large, hot tears rolled down my face dripping onto my shirt that was already drenched from the rain. I started screaming at God, cursing his name for putting me thru so much pain in my life. He knew how it felt to watch his son die, only unlike me, he was able to hold him afterwards, stroke his face and know that they would never be separated again. How could he be so cruel to me, his loving servant who had shared his word with so many?

I was eventually able to get myself under control. At about the same time the storm started to dwindle, turning the rain into a light mist. By this time, I did not have the energy to get back out of the car and return to my son’s grave; I was spent. I turned the key in the ignition, put the car into drive and slowly made my way down the wet, muddy cemetery road. Exhaustion! I could feel it in every muscle of my body. I turned off of the dead-end road onto the farm road that marked the first part of my trek back home. As I crested the first hill, the sight before me took my breath away. I pulled over to the side of the road.

The skies had turned into a beautiful blue; there were white, puffy clouds off in the distance. The most beautiful, vibrant rainbow I had ever seen stretched across the sky, its arc perfectly laid out before me. It looked like I would be driving right thru the center of the rainbow. I thought back to the story of Noah in the Bible. The rainbow signified God’s covenant to Noah that he would never flood the earth again, killing all of mankind. The rainbow took on a different meaning to me that day. I felt as if that particular rainbow signified that God had heard my cries; he both felt and understood my anguish.

I also like to think that Teagan played a special part in putting that rainbow in front of me. It was his way of letting me know that he is happy in heaven, watching over his family back on earth. He knew I went to the cemetery that day to visit him and the rainbow was his way of acknowledging my presence and thanking me for my devotion to him.

I don’t know why my son was taken from me in such a tragic way. Is my purpose in life to help others deal with such a horrendous loss? Is my purpose to become a Midwife to help be an advocate for expectant parents during their prenatal care? Is my purpose in life even related at all to the death of my special baby Teagan? At this point in my life, I don’t know the answers to those questions; I may never know the answers! However, the storm that ranged around me that hot August day reminded me that I am a child of God. He hears our prayers and feels our pain. If I stay a faithful servant to my Lord and Savior, I will be rewarded with the gift of eternal life. I will be reunited with my perfect beautiful son. What more could I possibly ask for?