At the end of this very long day, I’m praying I’ll rest with a grateful heart. With thanksgiving for a day well spent with my people. With praise and honor for The One who provides the peace I so desperately seek. And with a spirit determined to press on, despite the burning desire that fills my soul every. day. to fold in, to give up and quietly fade into the background.
A dear friend, my brother in Christ, messaged me this morning. This one, with whom I share the bond of child loss that is simply like no other. And while our friendship spans over 2 decades, our bond of child loss feels infinite. The news he shared gave my heart a much needed boost- for the first time in six. very. long. years, he’s finding small measures of joy in how he is serving each and every day. He’s using gifts he never expected to share Christ with others, vicariously living through their smiles and laughter for a few hours each time and to slowly, but surely begin again to fill his own heart.
I wish I could open a window into the hearts of grieving mamas and dads, of broken sisters and brothers. I used to think that writing would somehow show the world the depth the of the pain and agony of separation from your child or your children. But the one certain truth I’ve learned in the past 4 1/2 years is this.
Unless your child has died before you, there is nothing you can do to possibly understand. And the longer the time passes from the day they left us, the more they fade into the background. WE fade into the background. Another tragedy from another time, and all of a sudden, everyone looks at us and doesn’t see what’s missing-
they see only what remains.
Yet I never see only what’s left, I’m always and forever aware of the holes, the absence, the silence and the sorrow.
I sat at my table today and listened to my son make up memories when we were sharing about Sam and Mercy. He made them up because he. can’t. remember.
Because in June, Sammy will be gone as long as he was here and in January, Max will have lived without his twin almost as long as he lived with her. And he is only 10. He will spend his life desperately trying to remember, because that’s who he is. And I will spend mine trying to keep him sane and safe and loved.
I told someone recently that I’m jealous. SO jealous. Of anyone whose child lived longer than mine did. Whose memories span more time and whose imprint was bigger. Who would be remembered longer, better, more.
Well, that feels like shit.
Because, really, who wants to be jealous of someone else with a dead kid? or kids?
Not me.
But. I. am.
Because, as I’ve said before and I’ll shout it again. I would set myself on fire and burn to my bones to spend just one more minute with them. I’m not going to apologize for being jealous, because it’s just truth. I just want more time!! And I can’t have it!
But tonight, I’m going to try so hard. SO FREAKING HARD, to rest well in gratitude for this day, these moments and each one of my 5 beloved children. Because just before my son had to make up his memories, he spent at least 5 minutes sharing all of the things he was grateful for. His humility and grace brought me to tears.
Tonight I rest knowing that what remains is this-
Hope.
Hope Remains.
Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, 4 who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.
2 Cor 1:3-4
all my love,
clan mac mama