Tuesday, 24 July 2012

• Grief

  I am grieving, tonight, for little ones I've never met.  For little ones whose short lives touched so many others.  And for mothers and fathers whose hearts will always have a place for their little ones even though the dinner table will not.

  I grieve for parents who will never see this child's first steps, hear the first word, feel his arms in a choke-hold around their necks.  For the "I love you, Mommy" and "I love you, Daddy" that they will not hear here on earth.  The skinned knees and sobs and kisses and joys, the stories and prayers and swinging at the playground, all the toys on the floor and the food on the walls and the sweet please and thank you that never grow old . . . can never grow old now.

  Two of my friends who were carrying their babies in their wombs at the same time I carried Eli have birthed their son and seen him die. One died the same day, the other six far-too-short-for-a-lifetime weeks.  And I hold my not-so-little-any-longer baby and marvel at his growth and wish that time would stand still so I could capture the essence of the days even as tears for my friends drip down my cheeks.  I know that for me, unless I purpose to remember, their birth days and death days will soon fade into the joyful monotony of daily life.  But it won't for those mamas and daddies.

  I don't want to forget.  I want to remember, and in remembering, hug my little ones close a little longer.  I want to remember, and be thankful for the things that seem so mundane.  I want to remember, and in remembering be thankful for life.  Life isn't really a given, just because it has been given to me and my sons.  I want to remember, because I do know what they are missing, and I don't want to miss it too while I have the opportunity to be here for it.

  But tonight, with my living babies sleeping, I grieve with my friends for the babies who are sleeping a different kind of sleep.  I grieve for the hopes and dreams that are buried, not in the ground, but in human hearts.  I grieve with words that are inadequate, as a photograph cannot capture the beauty of a sunset, and with tears that fall as drops in an ocean.  My heart wants to argue with God, but I cannot dare.  Instead, I will simply cry out the sorrow and grief and pain that is my small portion of their loss.  And I pray they will be comforted, somehow, someway.  It is more than I can do.

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