At the start of this week, well meaning people asked Kristi whether this has been a tough week. Every day is tough, and having to explain this at work only makes coping more difficult. The notion that we can confine this grief—to the day Emily was born, to the anniversary of her passing, and to holidays—is untenable.
Another mother, whose only son died of cancer, stopped by this morning to deliver presents. Pointing skyward, she remarked that “we have a lot of friends up there,” to which I replied, “We do.” She continued, “We’re going to need some help from them…” to which I replied that I don't count on any help from above, that I think it’s just a bill of goods.
The notion that we can gain by asking for help from above—from those who have gone before us, from Mother Mary, from Jesus, or from God “Almighty” Himself—is an illusion shattered since our prayers for Emily to continue living here, with us, went either unanswered or answered tacitly in the negative. How will knowingly lying to ourselves comfort us?
Today, the unexpected visit prompted tears. Time is too long for those who grieve.
Wherever you are, happy birthday, Emily Jane Nowels.
Love,
Daddy
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