“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.
~ C.S. Lewis, "A Grief Observed"
How do you ever completely capture the feeling, the reality, the rawness of loss?
What is the appropriate way to grieve the loss of someone whom you have never even met, but love beyond all understanding?
Is this what faith is? This intangible presence of something unseen, and yet seen in the lives of those we love?
I can honestly tell you that I am wrestling with all of this, especially this Lent, as I grieve the loss of our 4th child. The loss of the dream of raising and nurturing and loving another child due to miscarriage...
And that word...miscarriage? It literally sends a shiver down my spine. What a distasteful, misleading word that does nothing to convey the deep sense of loss of a human being. The loss of a loved-beyond-all-measure child of God. It says nothing of the connectedness and then rift between mother, father, and child, and then the grief that overwhelms. If you think about it, as a culture, we squash it down, hide it away, don't talk about it. It makes people uncomfortable. But I believe that the logic is clear: There was a heartbeat. There was a life. Therefore, there was a death. The rhetoric commonly used is misleading, too: Loss of a pregnancy or fetal tissue.....
Well. I lost a child. No...wait....
Four. Of. Them.
Just because I was unable to hold them in my arms does not make them any less real or human or alive. No. (And telling us that we are lucky and to just be happy that we have two children? Yeah. That, too, makes our pain seem petty or unreal.) My heart is breaking wide open and this child-sized hole? It pretty much makes me feel like I'm drowning....
Ah. But then that visible presence of the invisible God comes fluttering in on soft wings like the kiss of the Holy Spirit. It comes in the form of human beings who grace my life with their heart, their love, and their care. It came from my sisters who truly grieve the loss of another cousin for their children to love. It came from my friend Colleen, who reminded me that it is alright to grieve the loss of the dream of what could be, not just of what was....
And it came from my beautiful cousin, Julie, who knew that I was suffering the loss of this baby with a such a heavy heart....gifted me with beautiful words of encouragement and faith... and this:
This beautiful handmade rosary from Heartfelt Rosaries, along with the Chaplet of Hannah's Tears. What a tangible way to allow grief to be expressed...through the comforting ritual of caressing rosary beads and saying the beloved prayers that have allayed my fears since childhood. Sometimes saying a prayer over and over and over again when you feel as if you cannot move forward can begin to unwind the knots in your heart.
And you know who else has helped me on this journey? My sensitive 11-year old, Joe. As he prayed with me, he said, "Well Mommy. Just know that I love you. And so does Max. And I know that daddy does. And now you have 4 more who love you. They are just not here." So that's it. They are just not here. Just like my loved ones that I have physically known, who are now with the rest of the Communion of Saints. Ah. Thanks, Joe. As much as I wanted to scream and yell and say, "But I WANT them here....", you helped me to see God. One day, you will know how very much you have helped your mama survive this life...
And so as I sit at the foot of the cross this Holy Week, with my beloved, suffering Tom by my side, you can believe that my heart and soul will be crying out for mercy, for understanding, for peace. Wrapping my hands around my rosary as I reach for the presence of my God, I will sit with Mary and grieve with her....Searching and trusting and believing that this journey is a blessing. Because of the Cross.
And grief is good.
