Twistaroo

Life is confusing. It's just one big twistaroo.

--Kestrel, 8 years old

Last Tuesday was the Fourth of July. We went to my husband’s Great Uncle Jerry’s for his birthday party I didn't realize it was a birthday party until about halfway through our time there. I thought it was just a big family reunion. It's not everyday that you don't realize that you've gone to a birthday party. In fact I can't remember a single time that I've gone to a birthday party without knowing that I was at a birthday party. I believe he turned 79.

His farm is in small town Ohio, not far from Dayton. Driving in, we got to cross a creek through a covered bridge. It was very quaint. At Jerry’s the kids played hide-n-seek in the barn. Is there anything more American to do on the Fourth of July?

I was a little concerned about the pond behind the small farmhouse. I was not worried about the big kids, but there were three or four toddlers running around, and keeping track of all of them was no easy task. I never felt like it was my responsibility, but situations like these, where there are fifty or more adults and at least fifteen children, well this is what drownings are made of. Sort of like an invitation to all is an invitation to none, how easily could any of us have assumed another was watching the littles, only to discover that a baby had toddled right into the cooling arms of the pond, tucked neatly out of sight and earshot.

I was not overly concerned about my kids’ safety. They all know how to swim, and we told them to stay away from the pond. My children are pretty obedient.

I am happy to report that no harm came to any child at Jerry’s birthday party, save my son receiving his first wasp sting.

We made it back home to Indy in time for a relaxed dinner and fireworks at the pool. Our Fourth of July was not confusing or twisted.

The next evening, I read the following Facebook post:

Last night, we got some terrible news: one of M's classmates drowned yesterday while swimming in a lake. I didn’t know him very well, but her school is small (50-ish kids) and the kids are all like family. M (10 yo) is processing the news in her own way, and I am trying to do the same - I feel heartbroken, especially for his mama, and I have been wrestling with God in prayer and great grief. Please pray for the boy’s family, and for Molly, and all her classmates and the teachers who are grieving and hurting so deeply.

To call this a twistaroo is too light of a word. But it is a twist, a turn, a moment that delineates now from before. There is no going backwards for that family--life will never be the same. I hope, in time, they will still be able to claim God’s goodness, that their hearts will feel sure of their son’s peace, despite the horror of his last moments. I pray that the Spirit grants them peace as they process and grieve.

Maybe the boy’s mother and I enjoyed similar Fourth of July festivities up until her turning point. Maybe, like me, she had just fished a huge ant out of her shirt, one that landed on her chest, sped down between her breasts and frantically crawled across her abdomen in search of a way back to the ant hill. Maybe she, like me, had just softly chastised one of her kids for applying bug spray near everyone’s food. Because who wants Deep Woods Off on their cheeseburger? Perhaps when she lost track of her boy, she was unconcerned about him versus the water, because ten year olds can swim. I imagine her enjoying a margarita, some adult conversation, maybe cuddling a baby niece. I see her now, unaware of the terror her son was experiencing. I see him now, all alone with so many nearby, unable to call for help.

_____________________

We’ve all felt the truth in the cliché that “life is a rollercoaster.” My daughter recently declared a similar sentiment, that life is a “big twistaroo.” Even my eight year old has begun to accept that life brings twists and turns that we’d never anticipate.

My favorite rollercoaster is the inverted steel Banshee at Kings Island. I could ride that coaster ten times in a row, I bet, and still find it exhilarating. I like that the train cars hang from a steel beam, that each row seats four across, and that I surely spend equal time upside down as right side up. I like that the seat grips me firmly, so I never feel like I will be ejected from the ride at the most perilous moment. But what makes this my favorite ride is the final loop into left corkscrew. This counterclockwise twist just feels like a lunge in the wrong direction. I always expect a right leaning denouement, but instead we are flung up and over, like a ragdoll in the hands of a three-year-old coked up on cotton candy.

I'm not really sure why it is called the Banshee, except for the repetitive witchy screaming noise played on a loop as the ride begins. In consideration of my daughter's “twistaroo” philosophy, and how it reminds me of the rollercoaster adage, I read about the banshee of Irish lore. A banshee is a female spirit that announces the death of a family member with a loud shrieking or wailing.

My same philosopher daughter noted while we were on a coaster at Kings Island that the worst part of any roller coaster is the slow climb up the big hill. She’s so right. The clicking up and up toward the peak gives the rider ample time to review their errant choices, to fantasize about their impending demise, to scream out, “Stop the ride!” though that never works.

I’ve learned about the sudden loss of many sons in the past week, beginning with the boy who drowned in the lake in Austin. I think I hear the banshee screaming for these mothers. With the news of each loss, I feel like we take another click up the hill and I want to scream out, “Stop the ride! Let me get off!” I don’t want to hear the banshee shriek for me, I don’t want to climb the hill, I don’t want to lose my illusion of control and succumb to the twists and valleys that I don’t see coming.

And yet to try to stop climbing the hill, to beg to jump off the ride, is to give up on all I’m trying to preserve. If I resist moving forward because I am afraid, I fool myself into thinking I control my circumstances. But the folly is that I never held the reigns to begin with, or to stick with the metaphor, I'm not the ride operator, I'm the seat occupant. To choose paralysis by fear is to choose to let God’s precious gift, today, blow right by. And to live in that fear is the same as saying, “God, you said you're good and promised good for me, but I know better: you lied.” This I do not believe, though my limited vantage point and extremely short shelf life do their best to convince me that I ought not trust, that doom is headed my way at any moment. What’s more is that life brakes for no one; the world keeps right on spinning.

Still, I look back on so many gifts, some of which presented themselves on rides I just stumbled across, in counterclockwise corkscrews. So, I will buckle in, breathe deeply, keep clicking up and up the big hill, thankful for the twistaroos, the happy ones and the painful ones.