When There Are No Words

There are two words I've come to loathe this past year when personally applied: bereaved and anniversary. 

Bereaved parent. It's so sterile, so tidy. There are words for children who've lost parents, words for people who've lost a spouse, yet there's no word for the horror of losing a child. Some argue there's no word strong enough. But I'm a person of words, and I need a word to at least try. Bereaved is generic and cheap. I've heard it applied to people regarding the loss of their pets. If one more person says their pets are their cihldren.... If bereaved can be used here I want nothing to do with it in the darkness of living life without my daughter. 

Anniversary: a word denoting celebrations, joy, something to look forward to, the more the merrier. Yet, I'm supposed to palate this word in regard to February 25? The date of the death of my three-year-old daughter, Abigail, to this world is a gruesome, tumultuous countdown triggering memories best forgotten, tears innumerable. The worst day of our lives is no cause for celebration or joy for us. I lament to God such a day even exists for some parents. Our world crumbled sending the rippling rage of waves into our lives from that day forward. Our hearts were joined in shattering sorrow instead of joyful love. The "anniversary" of her death is the best our English language can do? I'll look elsewhere because all the substitutes brought to me just seem to try making the pain more palatable. 

The Hebrew language, of which I am no expert (nor even a novice) seems to offer what mine cannot. Are these words beautiful? Absolutely not. Yet, if they sounded pleasant to our ears or were even easy to read it would seem a mockery. The only beauty is the fact they exist. God does not leave us without a word specific to such cutting pain. 

Shakula. This is the feminine form of one who has lost a child. All children's deaths are vile and assault the hearts of mommies and daddies of any language or culture. I am not a bereaved mother. I am shakula: one who has endured, is still enduring, the heart wrenching death of my little girl in this world. 

Yahrzeit. This is the annual commemoration or remembrance of the death of one much loved. Tomorrow is not the anniversary of Abigail's death. It is yahrzeit. I will not cover the ugly grave of her death with flowerful language to make it more palatable. (If you have referred to February 25th as such, please know I understand why and while I cringe, I bear no ill will. Our own language fails us.) 

There is a hope that makes all this "endurable". Hope has a name: Jesus. With him I find my home, the one to which I'm bound and where Abigail now resides. I do not lament for what Abigail has gained; I lament for all we've lost. I am shakula approaching yahrzeit. If you find it weighing heavy on your tongue, it weighs heavy in my heart. Words like this are not meant to settle well.