Heavy

This past weekend was spent with friends and their amazing family in the mountains of North Carolina.  For several days my mind danced with green moss, good conversation, tall trees, adorable kids, charming mountain streams, fellowship with food and a nice change of pace.  I thank God for such amazing people in the world.

While we were there I realized that the grief travels with me.  Although, it was lightened and made easier by comforting friends and scenery, it is a weight I will bear forever.  How heavy it feels depends on so much (or maybe it's nothing at all?) at any given moment.


  

Today is Monday and we just got back to our house from picking up our son from the Cremation Society.  When Ben handed the little wooden box to me to hold on our ride home he said, "It's a lot heavier than I thought it would be."  I agreed.

A few moments later in the car he touched my leg because I had gotten quiet.  I told him I was just thinking about Wolfie.  A few more minutes later I choked up and through the lump in my throat I was barely able to utter, "I hate death so much."  "What's that honey?" Ben asked.  I took a deep breath.  "I just hate death so much.  I hate everything about it.  There's nothing there to make me feel better.  I don't want to picture our baby rotting in a casket and I don't want to picture him in a pile of ashes."

Sometimes on these little rants I feel like such a whiner.  There's a little old lady in my brain (like a little old lady from the Great Depression who's been through much more than me) who yells back at me, "Quit yer bitchin'.  You're so blessed.  There are so many others in the world who suffer more than you."  But it just makes me feel so much better to complain.  Thank God my husband is so good at giving me a sense of validation and helping me to feel like it's OK and everything I do is totally normal.

We turned onto our street and as the car moved me I felt the weight of Wolfie's little wooden urn in my hands again.  We had never actually picked up or held this box we chose while it was empty, but I assume that most of what I felt must be his weight and not the wood.  I dropped a few more tears because the weight felt good.  A bittersweet good because although I wanted to hold him, I desperately wanted to hold him the regular way... the normal way... both of us alive.

After a few seconds Ben said, "But his heart isn't in there... or his eyes."  This unexpectedly brought a little smile to my face.  The thought which brought on the smile was like some weird camera shot going from an extreme micro-close-up of a tiny human heart pumping blood, zooming out to show a little baby's chest rising and falling, zooming out to show a little girl being held by a loving mommy and daddy, zooming out to show the hospital building they were in, zooming out to show the neighborhood, the city, the world... and then dropping back down suddenly in one swooping quick zoom to the top of our car bouncing into the driveway... me balancing the box in my two hands and barely breaking one tiny smile.  It made me feel better.

With heavy hearts... heavy hearts...

As we pulled up to the house and Ben put the car in park, I took another deep breath.  Every moment feels like an important one.