Well, God and I discussed the situation again today at Mass.
Alright fine - I talked and he, I'm presuming and hoping, listened. I suppose we'll see.
I have such a difficult time leaving this in God's hands. Aside from the fact that my ability to believe that he has my best interests at heart has been compromised by the death of my son, I'm not really used to trusting someone else with something this large.
I don't particularly like the label control freak, but if figuring out what needs to be done to achieve a desired end and making sure I do everything in my power see those tasks through to completion makes me a control freak, then so be it.
It's hard for me to leave this all up to mother nature and the gods.
It's even harder for me to accept the fact that for some reason I'm not meant to be pregnant right now.
I feel like the finger of God is pointing down at me from the heavens as he proclaims emphatically, "NO! No live babies for you!"
Because really, maybe he is - maybe that's exactly what he's saying to me. Maybe Thomas and our other two tiny little souls are it for us. After all, it's more than some people have after years of trying. But the thing is, so many people have so much more without any effort at all (in my jaded, self-pitying eyes, anyway).
As God as I were chatting this morning, I pointed out that I know I'm asking for a lot - a live, healthy, take-home baby - but I'm not asking for more than billions of people already have. If it can happen for them, why not us?
Seriously God, why not us??
After I finished my prayers I sat back on the pew and looked up at the beautiful wooden relief on the wall behind the altar, installed there in place of a crucifix. It's a carved sculpture of Jesus speaking to a crowd of people. Jesus is sitting in front of the crowd, facing both us and the wooden listeners in the relief.
I sat and looked at Jesus for a few minutes, and then I asked him point-blank why God took my son. I didn't expect an answer, of course. I was just blowing off a little pre-Mass steam. But when I looked at the sculpture after I'd silently asked my question, I noticed that Jesus was looking at me with a bewildered and beseeching expression - his arms helplessly outstretched towards me.
It satisfied me to think I'd stumped him. It made me feel good to think that he was wordlessly begging me to stay - to forgive him for his participation in something that has wounded me to my very core and shaken my faith to its foundations.
That's art for you. Open to any interpretation the viewer wishes. I know the wooden Jesus is meant to be looking kindly at us and at the eager wooden audience in front of him. He has his arms outstretched because he's talking and, like most people, he's talking with his hands. He's been caught in mid sentence, deep in thought. And that's all.
That's how I've always seen it before today. But today, in my current state of mind, I made it something ugly and twisted. I shouldn't have, but I did.
But the thing is, I also stayed for the whole Mass and listened in the hopes of finding something in the words of the scriptures or the musings of the priest that would convince me that my interpretation of the art was wrong. I gave Jesus another chance. I tried to open my heart. I tried. I've been trying so hard for so long.
Shouldn't that count for something?