Things that aren't supposed to be hard are often excruciating.
Fourth grade math. It seems innocent enough. Last week my boys' math lesson dealt with fractions. The last assignment of the lesson was a gut punch to all of us. "Make a fraction showing all the people in your family under the age of 14."
3/5, they both wrote.
At that moment another piece of my heart silently died. Their sister made a completely different fraction. 4/6. Grief is experienced and processed so differently. My boys obviously miss their sister something fierce. But in their logical minds she was not physically present, hence the fraction changed; like now telling the hostess at a restaurant we need a table for five instead of six. Their sister explained her logic; which is much the same as mine. No one was wrong.
A conversation ensued about future questions they will get from people who do not know our family. "How many brothers and sisters do you have?" I told them how I wrestle with a similar question, "How many kids do you have?" Simple questions you never wrestle with: until you do.
I explained they may want to think how they are most comfortable answering. It may vary between the children or the setting. I shared with them my thought out response (still waiting to be executed). "I have four children. Three I still hold here, one is waiting for me in Heaven." Thus far, when asked such a question I just hit sheer panic and can't make any complete sentences. I squeak out "four" and run in the opposite direction.
My boys are not wrong. My daughter is not wrong. Each will cope with their grief in various ways. Some will be more comfortable letting others know their story and the story of their sister. Some may protectively guard their story and the memory of their sister. It may just be too painful to share at this stage. I get that. This mama's heart is pierced yet again knowing that with each developmental stage they reach they will experience new grief associated with that stage.
3/5. 4/6. Later that night I let the grief wash over me anew as I cried with my husband. Fractions shouldn't be this hard.
Two days later I went to check my children into a location we frequent often. The question asked as I approached the counter was, "Are all your children with you today?". I quietly responded, "yes" with my lips, but my heart violently screamed, "NO! No, they are not!".
One day they will be. One day he will wipe away every tear from our eyes. One day death will be no more. Mourning and grief will be a thing from the past. All remembrance of pain will be gone. (Rev 21:4). How I long for that day! It's human nature to shy from pain. There are days I want nothing more than to escape the pain of missing my child. I cry, "Lord, I cannot do this. Take me HOME." He hears my cries, my fears. He knows my heart even when I can't make sense of it. This I know. For now, we wait the hard wait. For now, he has given Adam and I three other blessings whose lives also still hold great value and purpose while also bringing us great joy.
In this hard wait the five of us are never alone. He promises he will never leave us. He hasn't. He will not. He is always here, always holding us.
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