Sometimes on Sunday morning a little boy sits with us at church. With his tousled blond hair and little boy exuberance he delights my girls. And sometimes, watching, my heart hurts. Not a lot...just a little. Because he fits perfectly in the GAP. The gap between Diva and the baby. A five year gap born of loss. All those years that everyone else sees as simply empty.
So right now, right this minute...I fight grief. Even though I know better.
I want to push and shove and beat it back, to say that it cannot have any more of my heart or my life. That it cannot sneak into my heart and hurt me that way.
I've become caught up in the world's view that feeling grief is somehow bad. There must be something wrong for me to feel grief so keenly still. Maybe you are broken, that little voice whispers. If you were a stronger person, Christian, mother....then you would not still hurt.
But then I remember that I have been here before. And survived. That I will again. And that grief is not all about despair, but equally about LOVE. For you cannot truly grieve the loss of what you do not love.
And I loved my children. With every bit of me. Wholeheartedly. Completely. There are, quite literally, not enough words for how wholly they held my heart. Grieving that empty space in my arms and my lap is not wrong. It doesn't end or go away. It...comes and goes.
Rushing in sometimes, taking over a moment or memory. Or stealing
in like a shadow, hanging on the edges of something joyous. It is better to let it come. Then let it slip away.