Amy Lyon - Only God Knows Why: A Mothers Memoir of Death and Rebirth

A Mothers Memoir of
Death and Rebirth

___________

AMY LYON

Dedication
For my children, who have inspired me beyond belief.
And for my husband, who is indeed the man of my dreams.

Copyright 2012 by Amy Lyon.

All rights reserved. For permission to reuse content, please contact Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, (978) 750-8400, www.copyright.com.

Cover image: karenroach/Bigstock.com

Cover design: Elizabeth Wright

www.chalicepress.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Lyon, Amy, 1976

Only God knows why : a mothers memoir of death and rebirth / Amy Lyon.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

ISBN 978-0-8272-2752-1 (alk. paper) ISBN 978-0-8272-2753-8 (EPUB)

ISBN 978-0-8272-2754-5 (EPDF)

1. ChildrenDeathReligious aspectsChristianity. 2. Bereavement Religious aspectsChristianity. 3. GriefReligious aspectChristianity.

4. MothersReligious life. 5. Consolation. 6. Lyon, Amy, 1976-I. Title.

BV4907.L96 2012

248.8'66092dc23

[B] 2012028179

Printed in the United States of America

I was in my condo washing the yellow Pyrex mixing bowl Id swiped from Moms house when I first thought it:

It might be fun to have a family of my own someday.

From there my thoughts turned to having a baby and I was annoyed, at first, by the notion of excess baggage weighing down my light load. No kids had been my mantra since seventh-grade health class and it hadnt occurred to me until then to change my tune. As I grew into my early twenties, several of my friends shared dreams of large families, but I never thought that far ahead. Whoever coined the phrase, Live in the moment, had me in mind.

But that day, washing dishes, my mind ran wild like I was a five-year-old playing house. I imagined my husband and my childa faceless, nameless little sprouturging me to finish the dishes so we could head off to the Hennepin County Fair.

Just a minute, I would tell my little family with a syrupy sweet voice that could put June Cleaver to shame. I cant bear the thought of coming home to dirty dishes.

My imaginary child would tug on my leg and plead, Pleeeease, Mommy, and I would wipe my hands on the dish towel and throw it on the counter.

Oh, what the heck! Id say. The dishes can wait!

My mind perked up at the family fantasy, despite the fact that there was nothing Leave it to Beaver about my current lifestyle. I was freshly single, had recently bought my own two-bedroom condo, worked full-time as the editor of a weekly community newspaper, and went out more nights than I stayed in. I was twenty-four and incredibly proud of the work I did, especially since my college education ended with a two-year associate of arts degree from a local community college. I had started as an intern at the weekly newspaper a few months after turning twenty, and over the next four years Id worked my way up the small companys ladder from intern to receptionist to staff reporter to assistant editor and finally, to editor.

Dad had a tendency to announce my title to random acquaintances when we were together. I was the first one in our family to go to college, unless of course you counted Dads auto body classes at Dunwoody Technical Institute. He couldnt spell to save his life and Mom said some of her worst childhood memories involved writing papers for school. So, it was a mystery to our entire family how Id picked up the writing gene.

The chaos of the newspaper world had a way of bringing out the best and the worst in me. Looming deadlines molded me into what the position required: a strong-minded, work-is-my-life twenty-something that was content with an income hovering just above poverty level.

I had recently vowed to take a break from serious relationships. The one-, two-, and three-year relationships that had followed each other back to back left me concerned that the next one might be four years and Id wind up just as empty-hearted. I maintained an active social life with my coworkers, though, mixing business and pleasure like a high-octane cocktail.

Janelle sold advertising and was single, too. She called me Little Lulu and quickly became the big sister Id never had. She was genuine and supportive of all of my decisions, especially when I announced to her that I needed to fill my free time with yoga and kickboxing classes. She gently pointed out that I was too high strung to relax into a yoga class and there wasnt an aggressive bone in my body for kickboxing. I knew she was right, but I needed to fill my time. It was hard for me to be aloneused to the company of someone, even if he wasnt the oneand I reasoned that the yoga and kickboxing classes could propel me into a new dimension where I could learn how to feel comfortable by myself. And, just as important, the classes would undoubtedly tone my body, which would be a bonus when Mr. Right did come along.

But you do what you need to do, Little Lulu, she said to me on the phone the afternoon of my twenty-fourth birthday. Its all about taking care of you now.

That night I celebrated at her apartment in Minneapolis. Shed invited several of our friends from work and some friends Id never met. She baked me a chocolate cake with a flaming 24 candle on top.

This is going to be the best year yet, she whispered to me as someone took our picture

The next day was a Sunday and I woke crumpled in a hung-over ball on Janelles futon, which she lovingly covered with blue and yellow daisy sheets on the nights she figured Id be staying over. As I lay there, face down, I tried to piece together the events from the night before. Each time I thought I had compiled a complete rundown of goings-on for the night, another scene played out on the backs of my eyelids, and the more that came, the more mortified I felt.

I pushed myself up slowly and sat on the edge of the futon, then collected the contents of my purse, which were strewn next to me. I flipped open my cell phone and saw an unfamiliar number, then noticed that I had had a conversation with the owner of that unfamiliar number for nearly an hour after bar close. I wanted to wake Janelle to ask her about the mystery person but, like me, she wasnt much of a morning person. I flipped the phone shut and saw that it wasnt even 8 a.m. I felt sick to my stomach, but even more disconcerting was the unexplainable urge I had to go to church. I wanted to confess my sins and do whatever it was that good Christians did to make themselves feel clean in their own dirty skins. However, I only knew for sure of one Lutheran church in the metro area besides my childhood institution, which I had vowed never to step foot inside again. The stench of being reprimanded in confirmation class for questioning the validity of Marys Immaculate Conception still hung too fresh in the air. And I was pretty sure it was against the rules to go to a church outside of the denomination in which you were raised.

Propelled by who knows what, I straightened my tank top with a quick yank, unfurled my jeans from their tight twist around my legs, collected my belongings and slipped into my shoesstill sticky from spilled drinks the night before. I headed toward home, a two-bedroom condo just outside of Minneapolis that Id bought that spring. It was located in the city where my parents grew up and near the high school from which they both graduated. Although my mom, dad and younger sister had moved to Florida a few months earlier after my dads retirement, I took comfort in walking the streets Mom and Dad had walked as teenagers and eating at some of the restaurants theyd visited while dating. It connected us despite the distance. Now my parents were in the process of a fairly-civilized divorce and, ironically, I felt close to them as I pulled into the parking lot of Gethsemane Lutheran Church where they were married thirty-two years earlier.