Then where will we find the joy?

My husband is as solid as a rock.  He is black and white to my variations of gray.  No nonsense.  He tells me he is a "realist" when I say he is a pessimist.   He is reserved and slow to warm up to people, often; I am open and will talk to anyone.  I am more likely to trust.  He is smart, and thoughtful, and kind. But I never considered him upbeat.  Of the two of us, I always thought I was the positive one.  

On Friday, when the whole world went awry and some of our tiniest angels were lost in Newtown, I had a conversation with him that changed my mind drastically.

That night, after our preschooler went to bed, I crawled into my husband's lap and cried for all of the families who lost loved ones.  Once the tears slowed to a trickle, I asked him, "May I ask you a theological question?"   His faith is unquestioning and complete.  Mine comes with a tome full of questions and a healthy dose of skepticism and doubt. 

Sure, he said.

"Why does God let things like this happen?  How can he let this happen to children?  I don't understand.  I can't understand it." 

We talked about faith, and hope, and love.  This life is difficult, he said; there's that realist side.  Maybe we're not meant to understand.

That makes no sense, I protested.  I feel certain that most, if not all, of those parents asked God to protect their children and keep them safe.  It seems their words have fallen on deaf ears.

We can't possibly understand everything, he said.  In this life, every day is a battle.  We have to fight every minute and trust that the afterlife is better.  We know it is better than this one.   It's not easy.

"Then where will we find the joy?"  I whispered into his shoulder.

Oh, Babe, it's all around us.  

It's the moment our son wakes up and says 'I love you'.  

It's the rain in a dry month.

It's the sun coming up on a gorgeous Austin morning.

It's seeing a buck on the ranch and watching him walk by.

It's catching a fish in a Colorado stream to feed my family.

"I can't imagine how parents find the strength to go on after something like this," I said, imagining their despair.

I would tell you that most of them will, he said.   Because as long as they're alive, their child's memory lives on.  It lives with them and will be celebrated by them for the rest of their life.  We have to find the joy in our lives and celebrate with them and for them.  Our joy is in his crib upstairs and it's up to us to cherish him every moment that we can.  

The last words he said to me for the night were:  Some good will be found even in this situation.  No one knows what it is yet, and it may take a while, but it will show up. 

These words carried me to sleep that night even as I thought "No way. No way can any good be found from this."  My sunny outlook was shattered, for now.   

After many years together, I have discovered that perhaps it is he who is the positive one.  It has changed the way we treated each other over the weekend, and the way we communicate.  It may have changed us forever. 

Find your joy and cherish it.   

Wring joy out of this difficult life and make it a better place.  

Because although we can't reverse acts of evil, and we cannot possibly make this road any easier for those parents, what we can do is love our children and each other the best we can.

Love,