A Little Life Lost
No music today. No soft melody that brings me to happier times. I am simply tired and tearful and terrible. Memorial luncheons aren’t typically this difficult to prepare. Delivery is simple. Yet today I hesitated to get in the car. My stomach felt sick and my fear rose higher in my chest with each passing mile. I expect the elderly to pass away. My brain, although still deeply empathetic, is even accepting of a middle-aged man dying from cancer. But children. The lossof a child’s life is never easy to process. Twenty-three months is not a lifetime and yet for her, that was all she was given. Even now, as I silently write, my throat is tightening as though my brain wants to silence my voice.
Right place at the right time would be a questionable phrase. As I pulled upon the scene that day, the intensity in my soul grew. I found myself in the middle of the wet grass of a fall morning while my black flip flops collected grass clippings left behind from another day.
I went to her. The child’s father joining her in her grief. This broken mother surrounded by the vibration of her own wailing. Her child lying motionless, surrounded by strangers coming together with a life-saving purpose. Helpless. Mother lost in her loss. A million sparks of thought and emotion firing in her brain. Sacred pleadings intermingled with surges of adrenaline.
Without thought, I begin to rub her back, saying “ok” as if to give her permission to feel and experience everything coming at her at an overpowering speed. Longing to pull some hope for her from a place I could not find. The only hope I could give her was that love would carry her forward as she begins to grieve.
They take her with flashing lights and I try to return to my day. Just hours later, the same scene appearing as though nothing had happened. The greatest lie ever told.
I’m an intruder into these intimate spaces where grief is encouraged to come. Just days later, forced to enter the reality of memorializing this precious life. I push my cart filled with black trays of food with clear pop-top lids. Gently smiling, striving not to appear happy as their sorrow and loss screams for relief. And yet, there I am with my croissant sandwiches, mixed greens salad and fresh fruit. It is curious to me that potato chips feel inappropriate for a funeral - a food expected at 4th of July picnics and backyard barbecues. Perhaps the crunch feels too loud for hearts that do not want to be interrupted. Knowing food can bring comfort sometimes offers me courage. Today though, entering the church elevator and taking it down to the cold basement, I feel an empty ache.
And then the chatter. The talk of comfort. The talk of everyday life and schedules and plans. Focus diverted but loss not forgotten. We begin to cope, to learn, to breathe. But we are changed. Each life leaves an imprint. And sometimes death digs trenches in our heart that change us forever. Time is cruel that it does not stop for us to make peace and yet it’s continuance is a gift as it pushes us to move forward.
And ever so slowly, ebbing and flowing, the healing begins.
Lord, be with this family as they grieve the loss of this sweet girl. Provide strength and courage
in the days ahead. May remembrances of her laughter and joyfulness bring comfort and peace.