Children Who Go Before Us

Another child, a young man of 32 years old, Phil, left this earth before his mother. In a short timespan of 24 hours he was gone. It started with her finding him in an unconscious state. He was taken to the hospital and gone before her very eyes. And yesterday, I sat with her at the funeral home as she made the arrangements, wrote his obituary and made decisions no mother should have to make, no father, no parent. Yet, we do, and more and more of us, must. It came back to me, as I sat there with her, with intensity and understanding, of just what she was going through. One never thinks of how to do this, so of course, you don't know what to say, what colors to choose, what urns or caskets. It's not in our realm of consciousness to believe that we will ever decide such things. Who cares about colors and symbols at a time like this? Who really cares and what difference does it matter. Yet, there we are, still making motherly decisions for our child, with his or her best interest at heart.

Spending more time with her was good, the learned one, and the one with the fresh tears and swollen eyes. The one who has done some walking down this path but still has a lifetime ahead, the one who had not lost her child even 24 hours yet. To bystanders or people passing us by in the restaurant perhaps we "looked" like two friends out for lunch. We were, and we weren't. We shed tears, we held hands across the table, we talked, we listened, we cared, and she expressed that she is now in a "club" she never wanted to be in, never dreamed in her wildest imagination, that there she would sit. Somehow my presence brought her strength and if that is to be part of my purpose now, then I thank God I can bring that to someone else, if even for a moment. We, the grieving mothers of the world, somehow draw strength from the ones who walk the walk, talk the talk, and still stand strong. Until called upon to do so, we think we could never do it, but we can. And my friend recognized that early on, that she will, too, and while it won't be easy, she will do it for her child.

She asked questions, she talked, I listened, I talked, and I spoke from an experience like no other. I pray that there was hope in the fact that we were there and life goes on, even when we wish it would all stop, for just a minute, pause and say, "I know, you are in pain, you are grieving, so why are we laughing, joking, and going on as though your world has not just been rocked". But as I have so painfully learned, nothing stops for me, for my family, for my world. The seconds turn to minutes to hours to days to weeks to months to years. And we live. We must.

As we reflected on the passing of one's child, it was unexplainable, really, but I tried to articulate how her life will change and Phil will reside now in her heart for eternity. He already did, but now, it will be different. His body is gone, but his soul not only lingers, but permeates. It spreads and it guides and it is a new way of living. Without the physical, we think we cannot go on, but we can, because we DO learn how, much like someone who has to relearn all the basics of life after a stroke, or an amputation, or one who is confined to a wheelchair after knowing a life of mobility. I don't claim to compare, all I can say is that grief has no sign, no outward appearance. You wouldn't know, if you didn't know. You wouldn't know unless you carried that child in your heart, or that sister, or spouse, or loved one. You wouldn't understand that now, they are even more present than had they lived out their days with us. They are more present and as we talked of Phil, and Allison, and Jessica and Scott, and CJ and David and Tyler and Chrissy, and Larry, and oh, so many, we spoke of how others know them now, even more so, than if they were still standing among us. I told my friend that there will never be another Valentine's Day when Phil doesn't come to my heart, another Sunday afternoon snow storm that dropped inches of snow in such a beautiful way that I won't know her son. I will know him better than had he lived. Just as there is never a time I don't look at art work and feel Jessica's spirit, or think of the hustle and bustle of a city I often visit without feeling the presence of Scott, or feel the winter hush without feeling close to David. There will never be a time I won't think of how much is being done for childhood cancers because of CJ and the smile he brought to this world. I will never know an ice or snow storm without knowing the blessing of my own daughter who was laid to rest on the midwest new england day! Those we knew briefly, or maybe not even at all, we know more profoundly once they are gone. Because they have left a legacy, a whole new world for us to know and explore, and in the process we learn more about ourselves.

Allison's passage has taught me much. I don't want to be the wise one. I don't want to know what it is like to sit at the end of a table making decisions for burial and arrangments. I don't want to know this pain. But I don't get to exchange it. So I trust in the God above who knows more than me, who arranges in whatever way He deems necessary that this circle keep going, and that we are there to make it more complete by being there, by lending our love and care and support, giving us others to turn to for hope and promise. And as my friend will discover, one day it will be her turn, she will be the one holding the hand of another, slipping that trinket into their hand, being there to hold another up through the brokenness of loss. Our children who go before us leave us much. Perhaps she doesn't know it now, but she will, and she will stay inspired by her son, his love, and his life. Our children who go before us...there are blessings in the brokenness if we keep our eyes and hearts open.