Long Time Coming

I can't tell you how many times I've composed this letter. And who knows if tonight will actually be the night that I actually give it wings and let it go.


We are blessed, so blessed, with three beautiful children. Children that we have the privilege of knowing, really knowing each and every day. Boys that yell and bleed and love and hug. Boys that will tear through the woods, bow and arrow in tow, limbs tearing through the trees with wild abandon. Children that will tell me their craziest fears, eyes pleading with me to reassure them that their fears will not destroy them, fingers fumbling, desperately trying to believe the things that their father and I believe for them, in them.


I get to be with them.

I get to be with them.

Here.

On earth.

Everyday.

I know their favorite cereal and which pants they want cleaned first. I can tell which one is coughing just by the sound, no matter how far away. I know where they hide their junk when they clean their room and I know the look in their eyes when they are tired.


On the other hand, I have also known the pain of loss. The pain of losing children.

Each one, we have held in our hands, their silent, fragile bodies cold and still.


It is never any easier to say that, nor is it ever any easier to remember. It sucks to relive those days of hoping and anticipation, nervous laughter and sickness, only to once again feel the pain of a body birthing a tiny baby whose life is already gone.


Two years ago, we were overwhelmed with support and love after a loss, upheld by a huge unseen force of friends throughout that time. It was then that we stumbled upon the realization that we were part of the club - the club of parents who had lost a child.

We were humbled, yet conflicted to be a part of this club. On one hand, we felt that we had no reason to be lonely and lost. After all, we had children. We weren't childless. We consoled ourselves with the knowledge that our arms weren't empty, that our homes weren't deathly silent.

That fact, however comforting it is, just does not take away the loss.

The loss.

I got stuck on the 'loss' factor and begin to feel my heart break with all the friends, acquaintances, even the stranger's story of loss. Sometimes the loss they faced wasn't a miscarriage.

Sometimes it was the isolation and waiting of infertility.
Sometimes it was the disappointment over a beloved child making horribly bad choices.

Sometimes it was the loss and shame of an abortion.
Sometimes it was the loss of a child to a tragic death.
Sometimes it was the loss of dreams for a child held captive by a mental illness.
Sometimes it was stillbirth or SIDS or a Trisomy.

Loss.

And as my mind began reeling from hearing everyone's story, processing everyone's loss, I began to feel a new kinship with these families. A kinship that we may never speak of, but it's there.

Often I will meet someone and immediately see something in their eyes, a missing piece, a place of loneliness. And I wonder if they know that it's okay to feel loss, to feel sadness, to feel lonely. To feel conflicted by the gratitude that we encounter in everyday life coupled against the pain of seeing three children play in a yard and realize that I am again, counting, knowing that others are missing.

So, if you are a member of the club, in whatever form, I am so sorry for your loss.
I am sorry for your pain.
Know that it is okay to give your loss a name and a place. To acknowledge that, yes, indeed, this loss is important. It matters. To me, to God. For some, it is quite freeing and healing.

And if you are a member of the club, if you ever want to talk, I am a card-carrying member and would be honored to listen.