I’ve heard this phrase more than any other in the last
several months after our precious son, Hudson went to heaven. My reply is often,
“And I hope you never do.” I truly mean that. I pray that you may never know
this loss.
I do want...
To be heard.
To be understood.
To be normal.
To be held.
For someone else to cry with me.
I read a quote recently that could help explain agonizing grief of losing a child to my
caring friends who say to me, “I can’t even imagine.” Basically the author said
something like burying your child makes you hear sounds you’ve never heard,
taste what you’ve never tasted, see colors you’ve never seen. That language of
using the senses to describe devastating grief helps me put my own grief into explainable
terms to those who love me.
I feel as though each of my senses are affected.
Everything is affected. To put into words how my heart feels is an impossible
task but some words I can use are shattered, destroyed, agony, tears,
loneliness. I feel a million miles from everyone around me. I’m in a fog and only
grasp about half of what is said to me. I think that is survival.
If I’m nothing else through this process, I want to be
honest and real. I’m not a hero or a spiritual giant. I’m just a mama whose
arms are empty at 3am when I should be holding my baby boy.
I love Jesus.
My heart is broken.
That’s the truth.
I’m seeing colors…ones I pray you never know exist.
