After reading multiple articles about the Cincinnati Zoo’s tragedy, I couldn’t stop crying—for the loss of a beautiful animal, but more so because of the public’s response. While I understand the all-too-common impulse to judge and smugly criticize, I also see a deeper reality that often prompts such choices.

 
I’ve been parenting for twenty-three years and I’m unfortunately familiar with how quickly parenting failures can take tragic turns. I think of my dear friends whose three year old drowned in their backyard pool. The fence was being replaced and despite clearly communicating to the workers that the pool needed to be completely enclosed, the men left a small gap—just large enough for their son to slip through and jump into the water. Less than five minutes after he wandered from the house, he was found face down and lifeless.

 
The event at the zoo reminded me of my own epic mistake. I decided to take all three of our sons to Washington, DC, for a day trip. Our final stop was Arlington National Cemetery. I timed our visit so the boys (then aged six, four, and almost two) could watch the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. We approached the tomb in lock step with dozens of high school students on a field trip. Nearly there, it became clear to me that our four-year-old’s pace would prohibit us from arriving on time.

 
Since the Tomb was in view, I foolishly encouraged my eldest to go on with the group and wait there for us. In the next thirty seconds, son number two literally collapsed, in tears, on the sidewalk. As I put my hand to his forehead, I realized he was ill and we were stuck. I could not carry his fifty pound brother and simultaneously push him in the stroller. By the time I realized I needed another set of hands, no one else was in sight. After several minutes of shouting for help, I found a ranger who offered to sit with our sick son while I sprinted across the grass, giving our toddler the stroller-ride of his life. When I turned the corner, there were no high school students and no six year old son. This was before everyone owned cell phones. I instantly descended into panic mode, flagging down random drivers and asking them to look for our son. It took what felt like an eternity to contact the cemetery staff and alert them of our dilemma. The following fifteen minutes felt like an eternity but they eventually found him walking alone in the opposite direction we had come. Even now, twenty-four years later, this still makes me feel sick to my stomach. It could have ended very differently.

 
Parenting is risky business. We find ourselves in charge of fragile, wildly beautiful yet untamed human beings with no owners’ manual or guidebook. Most of us perpetually ask older, more experienced parents for advice, read voraciously, and pray constantly—sometimes neurotically—that our children will survive our foolish failures. Thankfully, most of the time, they do survive—but more often than not, we find ourselves on the receiving end of scathing criticism for our missteps. Why do we so easily follow these default patterns?

 
Though I feel grieved that the response toward the parents of the child who fell into the gorilla’s enclosure has been so vicious, I’m not surprised by it. I had more than a few individuals shame me for my poor parenting that day in Washington. (Guilty as charged!) Given the choice between feeling grief/vulnerability or popping off in indignant outrage, it’s so much easier to choose the latter. We detest the out-of-controlness associated with grief and vulnerability and unconsciously resort to shaming behaviors to avoid them. By blaming the mother for not paying attention to her son—something we would never do—we feel better than her and haughtily distance ourselves from the horror of what if?

I’m embarrassed to admit, I have been guilty of this tactic more than once. Upon learning that yet another friend was diagnosed with cancer, I rationalized, Well, she smoked and drank a bit too much. Since I’m not guilty of those particular vices, I construct an imaginary buffer zone between me and the dreaded disease. But that choice is not without great cost. For in doing so, I create the false illusion that I am in control of my life and I miss a sacred opportunity to grieve with and comfort the ailing friend or the distraught stranger.

 
There’s something about inching past the middle of life that has helped me to learn a new way of responding in these circumstances. Maybe it’s the realization that sometimes, no amount of exercise, prayer, or eating organic food will spare me from disease or protect me from tragic mishaps. Maybe it’s realizing—finally—that rather than trying to control our lives, the truly wise person simply leans into God and surrenders to the sometimes terrifying whirlwind.

 
When Job’s friends sat with him in silence for seven days and nights, they offered him a great gift. (It was when they began to rationalize and blame Job that things turned sour.) What if, rather than reflexively blaming or judging, we discipline ourselves to sit in the discomfort of another’s pain or misfortune? What if, rather than expressing our moral outrage over the loss of a gorilla, we allow the tears to flow and permit grief to do its work in us? Perhaps, just perhaps, our hearts will slowly crack open and we’ll then be able to offer love and support to those who need holy comfort much more than they need a stinging rebuke.

Thanks for stopping by. I’d love to hear your thoughts on this topic.