That’s the Deal

As C.S. Lewis’ wife came near the end of her life, she told him one day that their joy would soon end; that she was close to dying.   When he replied that he didn’t want to think about it, she said, “The pain is part of the happiness; That’s the deal.”

We spent this weekend as a little family, playing at home and going on small, fun  outings.   Kenny, my sweet boy, knows nothing of the baby (or babies) we have lost this week.      Casey and I  are doing our best not to let our grief permeate our days, and instead find the quiet times to cry and wrap ourselves in each other’s arms.     The other times are filled with tickle-fests and made-from-scratch chocolate cakes and endless readings of Kenny’s current favorite, Everybody Poops.   I think that he knows that something has happened, though; I think that little kids are much more perceptive than we give them credit for.

Today at church we were ten minutes late picking him up from his  Sunday school class, and there was a tiny panic in his eyes as the last nursery worker held him in the coffee area, looking for us.   We had gone to our pastor’s office to pray with him and his wife after the service, and though we are usually among the first parents there to retrieve a little one, we were, by yards, the last today.   I looked him sincerely in the eyes and said, “Mommy and Daddy are really sorry we were late to get you; we will always be there to get you, ok?   We will never leave you.”   He was quiet for a few minutes, but was quick to forgive and move on.   He seemed to understand that whatever it was that made us late was necessary.   He’s been extra-generous with the hugs this weekend too.

I find myself wrestling with things when I think about all that has happened.   I have wept and clenched my fists and cried all the usual cries.     I have also shaken in fear with the thoughts that something worse might happen.   I think of so many others who have lost so much more, of children taken from their parents by cancer or illness or accident; of whole  families dying of famine or disease.   I weep, then wonder what right I have to weep when there are tragedies beyond my comprehension occurring right beyond my sight-line.   I struggle with getting through this, and moving on, yet not wanting to forget or failing to honor the lives I have carried, even for such a short time,  and lost.   I find myself praying, then running a grocery list through my head – or  anything mundane that can distract me from the pain I’m feeling.

I am so grateful for Casey.   And Kenny.   Traipsing through an over-sized LL Bean store this afternoon, chasing Kenny through the rows of Crocs and camouflage,  hounding Casey to buy us another kayak (ours was stolen a few summers back), and all settling for moutains of Chinese food was enough for today, just to feel ok for a few hours.   Tonight, Casey and I sat in our “chair and a half” and read A Promise Kept, by Robertson McQuilkin together, and we remembered what it means to love each other through the wonderful and the horrible, and everything in between.   He is my best friend, that man, and the best man God could have ever created for me.   Kenny is so sweet it makes my heart ache sometimes, with his earnest bedtime kisses and his facination with anything to do with poop.   Even Dudley has sought to comfort, in his own canine way.     He sighes and leans on me with such weight it nearly knocks me over when he sees me crying.

I am so grateful to those of you who have commented on the last post,  and for those who have emailed.   Thank you for the support, the stories and the prayers.   Please keep them coming.