Sunrise

From my kitchen I can look towards the neighborhood dock.  This time of year, with all the leaves gone from the trees I can see towards the water a bigger patch of sky.  Like life itself, the seasons expose different beauty, particular and special.  I look at the sky, the sun just risen and take in the pink, the beautiful beginning of day.  Each rising of the sun catches my breath since that morning last year, the day after Phoebe died.  My husband and I watched the sky lighten and wondered at how the sun could rise again when such a girl was no longer here.  We were stunned by that fact, and yet so grateful.  For me, the sunrise is a great message of hope, starting new and fresh ...every day.  No day, or moment for that matter, is ever the same.  And God of a trillion chances, gives us an undeniable new beginning with each rising of the sun, each lightening of the sky after dark.
I'm learning, and relearning, this new life, the one that leaves me wanting Phoebe so badly.  And each morning, I am reminded to begin again.  At first, it took so much to do that without her.  Now, I do it for her and with her in a very different way.  I consult with her on so many things, and though she doesn't answer me, I believe she is right here.
When I look at the mother so new to this loss, my heart breaks again, not for me, but for her.  I listen to her words, the greatest missing of all.  We've all been there, those of us in this room ...we know the relentless, stabbing, biting, burning pain that takes over every cell in your body.  She will forget him she is certain, she will forget his hands, the way they move ...she can't go on if it means forgetting him.  We know.  But what we also know now too, is that even in the horror, the nightmare which holds captive that initial phase of grieving (which can be as long as two years for a parent) you will never, ever forget.  I tell her about Phoebe's hairline, the touch of her cheeks under my fingertips, her smell, the way she wiggles her hand while directing me.  I tell her the burst of laughter, the shaking of her head in such a way, her toes in my hand as I shake her awake. I hear her, see her, smell her, feel her ....still.  It doesn't take away the missing, but it holds the memory, keeps them close and remembered in a vibrant way, far different than remembering a child still alive.  I tell her she will never forget her son, and each head nods, and she smiles for a shadow of a second.  The tissues get passed as we cry for our own, but more in this moment, tears spill for the one so new in this place, this group no one wants to be part of.  Words come out garbled, erratic ...and we know, we understand.  Grief is not linear, tidy, composed.  Someone is here she knows, worked side by side with through their own loss.  She is reminded how she helped by being kind, not judging, staying...speaking his name, the child gone.  She thought she knew she says, thought she understood, but now knows ...she had no idea the pain of this.  Neither did we, no matter how we thought we could imagine, until we walked this path. Whether we realize it or not, God's grace, pulls us along, shapes us and molds us into the person who can carry it.  Through prayers and offerings of all kinds God builds the bridge.  We watch people come, people leave, people stay ...all as it should be, all as people can.  Some can stay with us, but some have to leave ...and in each coming, each staying and even each leaving you see the sunrise, the gift, the tapestry of your life.  You see the struggle, the pain, the losing, the losing again and again as a treasure that will form us into the person, the people our children now know we were meant to be all along.  Sadly, their passing is part of that.  We had to lose them ...to become, to rise with the sun.

Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her.  May she rest in peace.  Amen.