“We’re having a program to honor Ann,” Rod Durham said over the phone. “Can you come?”
While the funeral at Good Shepherd was packed full of friends and loved ones, there was one noticeably absent group: Ann’s theater peers. On that day, the Leon Thespians were in Tampa for state competition, so at 2:00 p.m.—the exact time our service started—the drama troupe formed a circle at the hotel to honor her. As soon as everybody was back in town on Tuesday night, the teens wanted to share their memories with us.
We were deeply touched that they wanted to remember Ann, but we weren’t sure what to expect when we arrived at the small auditorium classroom. It began with the song “We Shall Walk Through the Valley in Peace.” Then two of her friends, Colin and Casey, gave short but touching eulogies about how she was a behind-the-scenes helper as a student director, a member of the technical crew, and a stage manager.
When she was a senior, Ann came out from the background and was persuaded to be one of the main characters in the play Proposals. That year, she won the Thespian of the Year Award, which would be named “Ann Grosmaire Thespian of the Year” in her honor after we created a drama scholarship.
“She was quiet, but when she talked,” Casey said, “people respected her.” It was so moving to hear what a good friend Ann had been to Casey. Afterward, they sang “The Rose” and finished with Sarah Folsom singing “Angel.” The way this memorial would work was simple. Each person had thought of one word to describe their friend, which they’d say as they lit one of the tea lights on the table at the front.
The first student came up to the table, grabbed the lighter, and ignited the little wick. “Witty.”
Another walked up, lit the next candle, and simply said, “Beautiful.”
The next: “Reliable.”
It was very powerful in its simplicity. Though they were drama students, this was no performance. After about the fifth student went to the table, lit the candle, and uttered his one-word tribute, I suddenly thought: We’re not recording this. I won’t remember this. I’m not writing this down. I’ll forget the words.
“Funny,” a student said.
“Loyal,” said another.
“Considerate.”
The words were so beautiful, so poignant. I told myself to enjoy the experience instead of worrying about documenting it. I remember thinking every parent of a teenager would want to hear their teen described by their friends in this way—maybe for graduation or another significant milestone.
Honestly, I’d sometimes get frustrated at Ann for staying so late at her play practices. She’d be at school until ten or eleven o’clock at night, then be exhausted by the time she got home.
“Did you do your homework?” I asked after she rolled in late one night.
“Sure,” she said, not paying me much attention.
“When?” I asked. “If every night you’re up there for the play?”
At the time, drama created . . . well, drama between us, as well as the other aspects of teenage life. In fact, the conflict had gotten so intractable that I finally had gone to God in my exasperation. When she turned eighteen, I had a talk with him one evening at church. “God, you gave her to me for eighteen years to raise. Thank you for that. Now, I’m giving her back to you. I hope I’ve done my job.”
I wasn’t giving up on her, but it marked a transition for me. She was an adult who would need to be making adult decisions even though she was still living in our house. For example, one of our rules was that we wanted her to text us when she got in the car and started home at night. When Andy was out of town, she wouldn’t do that no matter how much he emphasized that this requirement didn’t wane just because he wasn’t home. Her lack of compliance irritated Andy, because he still saw her as his teenage daughter. In my mind she’d transitioned into adult, and—after my chat with God—I decided to start letting things like this go.
That night we heard many stories. One young man said, “I just have to let you know that Ann was such a light in my life.”
Listening to these words made me realize that life isn’t about getting good grades, coming home on time, and following all the rules. Though those things are important, it was much more gratifying to hear that she was a young woman with friends she really loved.
“Helpful.”
“Compassionate.”
Being able to see my daughter through the eyes of her friends was truly an honor. And so, I quit trying to hold so tightly to the moment and let their words—their ephemeral words—apply a much needed balm to my broken heart.
“Kind,” a student said as she lit a candle and smiled at us.
“Generous,” said another.
“Love.”
CHAPTER 10
One heart. One mind. One body.
That’s the best way to describe how Andy and I related to each other during this tragedy. Our reactions and decisions were in sync, even though we were rarely alone amid the whirlwind of people and advisors and consultants and friends and church members and doctors and surgeons. Remarkably, every morning we would wake up at the same time—five o’clock—as though God knew it was necessary for us to be united even in wakefulness to face the day. During this tragedy, there was never a point where we disagreed on anything—small or big. We agreed on the details of the service, we agreed on the fact that we always needed smoothies, and we agreed on our response to the McBrides.
When Andy brought Michael into the room the evening of the shooting, I didn’t stand up and yell: “Get that man out of here!” I’d already been trying to live a life of forgiveness, so I was spiritually prepared to embrace him as Andy had. That’s God working through a marriage, as we navigated a very treacherous new terrain. I was proud of the way we stuck together as a team.
We came home after the funeral, boosted by the prayers of our friends and loved ones. We had food everywhere. Casseroles, hams, chocolate chip cookies, potpies, hams. Did I mention hams? People’s desire to “do” for us didn’t fade once the service was over. And so, we ate as much as we could, we said prayers of thankfulness over each meal, and basked in the love of our congregation.
Yet, when we were at home, in the quiet of the night without visitors or spiritual challenges or a teenager rushing through the kitchen in search of food, things were different. We sat on the couch, where we’d sat a million times before, and it felt as though we were sitting in other people’s lives. Our context had changed. We’d changed.
One evening Andy reached out and placed his hand on my knee, and something happened that was a good indication of how far our lives had drifted from normal.
I recoiled.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I’m just not ready,” I said. And it was true. Though I wasn’t sure why, I wasn’t interested in being romantic, in connecting with my husband the way that spouses are supposed to connect. I could tell it hurt Andy, who was reeling from the greatest tragedy we’d ever experienced. Sex is supposed to unite a couple in a way that transcends the troubles of the day, but I couldn’t even let his hand rest on my knee.
“Did you know that 80 to 90 percent of marriages won’t survive a child’s death?” our friend Kay said to me.
“Really?” I asked in disbelief. In actuality, there are no reliable statistics on the phenomenon, but it’s obvious that the added stress of a child’s death is maritally challenging. I began to hear this sentiment so frequently that divorce seemed unavoidable.
And we hadn’t buried just one child. We’d buried three. I’m not sure why we suffered through two stillbirths—Caitlin and Lucien—and then the death of Ann. But I knew our marriage had already been forced to weather some storms. I grieved over the babies in ways different from Andy. I’d carried them in my body, and felt a tremendous loss over their deaths. Andy, on the other hand, struggled to feel connected to these little people. It was hard to attach feelings to them because they didn’t seem “real” to him.
When we attended The Compassionate Friend
s, things changed. Andy began to understand my grieving process, how it had affected me. I began to see that there was life after a death in the family. I didn’t think I could live after Caitlin died, until I saw other people in the same circumstance living and even thriving. One of our new friends from the support group—after a very emotional session—summed it up pretty nicely: “I always think there are questions I’m going to ask God when I see him,” she said. “But I have a feeling that when I see God none of those questions are going to matter anymore.”
When Lucien died, I was more prepared for the experience. I knew I’d live through it, I knew Andy would grieve differently, and I knew how to process my feelings. But after Ann’s death, I couldn’t quite predict or mitigate the various ways loss reared its head.
After having gone through so much tragedy with grace and peace, we suddenly had problems connecting. Because we’ve had difficult places in our marriage before, we recognized when we were getting close to that precarious place of serious marriage issues. Ann died on April 2. By mid-April, we were no longer “close.” We were in “that place.”
One day I was going through the mail and dropped all the cards into a cardboard box, our receptacle for the letters and cards of sympathy that kept pouring in. We would open them, quickly read through them, and promise ourselves to go back later and soak in the love.
My leave time from work was running out. I had scheduled myself to return on a Friday for just a few hours so I would then have the weekend off again. As the date approached, I suggested to Andy we leave town for a few days.
“What do you think about a midweek trip to Callaway Gardens?” I suggested. This retreat center is located in the southernmost foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, a quiet place for solitude and reconnecting. Our friends Joe and Cindy had gone up there for their anniversary, and they’d had a great time.
“Sure. We can take the cards and letters and take all the time we need to read them while we’re there,” he said.
We packed up the car, headed to the mountains, and breathed in the fresh air. I loved being away from our home and away from Tallahassee. We went to a Birds of Prey program, which was meaningful because Ann loved these big birds so much. In fact, every time I see a hawk, I think of her. There, falcons, eagles, and hawks—which couldn’t be released into the wild due to injury—gave us a show, swooping right over our heads, dazzling us with their plumage, their quickness. The birds’ caretakers, who wore large, protective gloves, would hold out their arms for the birds to land on them. I could totally imagine Ann, with her love of animals, being a caretaker for these damaged birds. Occasionally I’d have to look away from the show and gather myself.
Each day there, we sat in one of the garden areas with our box of cards in front of us. The gardens were an explosion of color with daffodils, tulips, and azaleas. God’s love for the planet—with the vibrant, lively colors dotting the landscape—was obvious. But just as obvious was our church’s love for us. There were hundreds and hundreds of kind, handwritten letters or cards with notes written lovingly in the margins. Once again, we were enveloped by the affection of our community.
We spent most of our time outside enjoying God’s creation at Callaway Gardens. One afternoon I was sitting at the top of a hill looking down onto some of the formal gardens, soaking in the warm sun. When my phone rang, it jolted me back to reality.
“Kate?” It was Bob Blythe, the director of my handbell choir. “Do you have a minute?”
It was as if my community in Tallahassee was reaching across the miles to me even in that secluded place. He didn’t realize we were out of town, but I didn’t consider it an intrusion. It reminded me of the passage in the epistle to the Romans that says, “Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Rom. 8:38–39).
“The bell choir has been talking among ourselves, and we want to do something for Ann,” he said. “We wanted to surprise you by having a song written for her. We thought of Valerie Stephenson, since she was just here for our workshop, but then she insisted she talk to you first about Ann, her personality, her life. So . . . surprise!”
Many handbell songs are dedicated to someone—a previous director of the choir, or someone who passed away. This gesture was such an honor.
I would also add that nothing can separate us from the love of the good folks at Good Shepherd. When I ended the call, I sat on the hill and felt—honestly, deeply—loved. But while I was feeling loved by the church, Andy and I still were having problems.
On the last night of the trip, when it was time to go to bed, I started feeling anxious. Under normal conditions, it would’ve been a perfect setting for a loving connection between spouses. I’m sure Andy couldn’t help but wonder if getting me away from our now empty home would allow me to be more receptive to intimacy. This was our main area of struggle since Ann’s death. Ever since, the very thought of intimacy made me brace myself, stiffen . . . not exactly the most romantic posture. That night I tried. I really did. We kissed. We touched. We got close. But then, at the moment of connection, I burst into tears.
“What’s wrong with you?” Andy asked, watching me absolutely sob. “With us?”
Intimate moments are not the best time to have a discussion about intimacy. Both of us were so raw, so deeply vulnerable that it really felt more like a lament. We were already so bruised, so broken. Andy felt rejection; I felt pressure. Adding insecurity to what we’d been through was simply unbearable.
“We need to talk to somebody about this,” Andy said. “We need to see someone.”
As soon as we got back to Tallahassee, I made an appointment with Kay, a friend and marriage counselor who knew Ann, knew Andy and me, and knew what we’d been going through. She’s an honest, wise woman, which made Andy agree to this selection. Deep down, however, I figured she’d understand my feelings because she was a woman. I was counting on her siding with me.
“I’m here to preserve your marriage,” she began. “I’m here to help you keep your marriage intact as you go through this challenging time. All right. Who’d like to explain to me what’s going on?”
“It’s actually very, very basic,” I said, in my attempt to explain the underlying issues. “Sex is tied to reproduction.” She looked at me, encouraging me to go on. “I know other people want to separate the two. Sex and babies aren’t tied together in their minds or experience.”
Even though I had two amazing daughters, I felt as though the title of “mother” should be stripped from me. I didn’t deserve it any longer because moms protect their children. With Ann’s death I felt my motherhood was taken away.
“Of course, sex is so much more than reproduction,” I admitted. But in that moment, when Andy and I tried to connect, it was so tightly tied to maternity that I couldn’t shake the thought: This is how we got babies. This is how this whole saga began.
It was really that basic.
Kissing. Touching. Love. Sex. Pregnancy. Babies. Death. Failure.
Anguish is not a powerful aphrodisiac. In those moments, those unguarded moments of vulnerability, I couldn’t stop it from creeping in. “It has nothing to do with Andy or my love for him.”
As she listened to me explain my feelings, she nodded with compassion and understanding.
Andy explained his side as well, expressing his frustration over not being able to connect with me at a time when intimacy was of the utmost importance. “I love you,” he said to me. “I just want to be with you . . . and I want you to want to be with me. I don’t want you just to comply. I don’t want reluctant cooperation.”
“Andy, whatever it is,” Kay said, “you have to accept what Kate is willing to give you. She’ll come back. Just respect her during this time. You have to understand how personal this is for Kate, and give her space to recover.”
I kn
ew Kay—as a woman—would understand. In fact, her anticipated sympathy with my point of view was one of the reasons I suggested we use her.
“But Kate, you have to make the effort to be there for Andy,” she said pointedly. “No matter what you feel.” It took me aback a bit. She was assigning responsibility to me? “You have to work through it. You can’t let yourself stay in this place. You have to realize that this is important for Andy, and it’s important for your marriage.”
I sat silently as she spoke directly to me.
“Andy has made the commitment to be faithful to you,” she said. “To you and you alone. That’s a big responsibility for him and you. You need to respect his commitment to you and honor that. As much as possible, be present for him and work toward building this very important part of your relationship back up.
“Your sex life isn’t about you, and it’s not about Andy,” she said. “It’s about your marriage and your life together.”
We left counseling very sobered. After that day, Andy became more accepting of my emotional situation. Somehow, that acceptance took the pressure off and gave me the chance to open up more to Andy.
Kay had told us from the beginning that she was trying to preserve our marriage, and that’s exactly what she did. Had she said what I thought she would say—something like, “Andy, you’ve just got to let her work through this and don’t bother her and let her come back when it’s time for her to come back”—who knows what would have happened?
I may have never come back.
I picked up my two handbells—F and G—and positioned myself in the choir.
I love the moments right before we start practice, when people rush into the room and pick up their handbells, possibly a little frazzled by the activities of the day. No matter how frenzied life is, however, we soon find ourselves involved in an intricate mix of sound. There’s something powerful about chiming in on cue, and it’s easy to get wrapped up in the heavenly sounds. The harmonies twist from major to minor chords, and the songs change from one emotion to another. I love wrapping my note into the final chord. Even if I don’t play the final note, I often “fake ring” by making the motion without the sound in order to participate in the experience. Sometimes I catch myself holding my breath as the final sounds dissipate into the room, which always feels a little different than when we found it.
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