A Life, Lived

A Life, in Photoboards

Nothing feels more gut-stabbing than sitting behind your great-grandmother at the memorial service for her daughter, your grandmother. Nothing twists the knife quite so deeply as she hugs you and says, “I never thought I’d outlive one of my children.”

Words of wisdom fail me tonight. Words of comfort or of peace, of solace or understanding get lost in the tears that streaked their way down my cheek during the memorial service and even now. As my youngest son sprawled his sleepy self across my lap making the universal sign for “scratch my back,” my fingernails rubbed up and down the back of his sweater vest and I thought, “But how? How does a parent sit in a pew and sing praises to God while simultaneously saying goodbye to a child?”

My faith seems weak this evening; I know now where it is or how to describe it or why, even in the midst of this hurt and anger and deep, deep sadness, I found enough voice to choke out the line, “Ten thousand years and then forever more.”

“Oh my soul, oh my soul…”

 

 

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8 Replies to “A Life, Lived”

  1. That’s how it was watching my grandmother sit through my mom’s funeral and burying her daughter. She made the same statement. I don’t have words of wisdom. I know the anger. I still have questions all these years later. What I can tell you, is the pain will ease. It won’t always be this hard. The grief mellows. The overwhelming sadness changes. It becomes bearable. I wish I had the words to comfort. I’m praying for you and your family. (Hug)

  2. I find it amazing the people who find comfort in their faith after losing a child. And while I never had a strong belief in God, I lost it all when my son died less than an hour before he was born full term twenty-one years ago.

    I am okay with not believing, and I’m okay with those that do believe.

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