The daffodils bow under the snow. It's a pretty sight, an unexpected one. April snow is unusual, even in erratic New England.
Nineteen years ago, we brought Olivia home from a hospital stay. Respiratory issues plagued her as a baby. I was terrified then of what could happen. Practice maybe for what would come all those years later. We left the hospital April 1, heading home in a snow storm. The snow wouldn't last, nor will today's. Life's storms do that too, blow over ...only some stay, the damage hidden, but still there. Storms take their toll! Not everything destroyed in their wake can be rebuilt or restored.
Phoebe was glad to have her baby sister home, along with her mom! It was a joyful homecoming.
I've wondered about another homecoming when my days here come to an end. The thought both tears me up and settles me ...it's the waiting that's so hard.
We laugh and joke about the snow, how out of the blue it seems. We want sun and flowers; its what we expect. Life often delivers the unexpected. And that's God's invitation ...in the unexpected. T
I write less because I have less to say. We get a little shy, a lot more private, as time moves us through life after a child dies. In the beginning, those early years, we will tell anyone our story. It's the process of accepting ...making it real. Maybe we seem grounded, maybe we seem ok ...but inside there is turmoil, a raging storm wreaking havoc on our souls. I remember! That need to talk and talk, telling the story, asking the questions and answering over and over. It's as if all the talking is our breath. We gulp at the air, hoping for a chance to survive. Hoping we might talk our way out of our nightmare.
But now, its the opposite ...so personal and precious, I rarely speak of it now. There's a sense that only those who've lived it too will understand. We simply have to go it alone! Not because people don't care or aren't there for us, but because it is a single journey. Grief takes each of us by our own hand.
I met a woman recently, very fresh to grief, her loss sudden. She reminded me of what I may have looked like, composed, managing ...telling herself she was feeling much better, believing the worst was behind her. All her energy is going to keeping it together, staying strong for everyone else. An outsider might say she's doing so well, admiring her strength and acceptance. It's a private hell no words can explain or describe. One false move and we could lose our minds ...forever. With a few years behind us, our stride a bit more steady and stable, we listen knowing where she is. Why would we tell her the journey is so very long? Why would we tell her anything other than what she wants to hear? Why would we tell her many of her friends would leave, finding all sorts of reasons? Why would we tell her that the pain won't leave, but she'll learn to live with it?
We just do what others did for us, and listen ...for as long as it takes. My friend and I recall how each of us arrived looking for the six week manual. Worker bees by nature, we had tending to others to do, our own grief needed to be expedited! I'd had a couple of years on her when she arrived and sensed right away she was looking for that map. I stayed quiet a while, and then gently told her there was no manual, I'd searched long and hard. Today, together, we give others room to find out the same ...no short cuts.
No one ever prepares for snow in April in Boston. No one ever prepares to lose a child?
The snow will melt, the flowers will stand tall once again, restored! There color bright against the white. But each flower's glory is changed, imperceptible perhaps ...but still ...changed.
And yet, perhaps to me, the yellow hint peaking through the snow ...is more beautiful than its waver in the sun.
