Rose

I wish I could remember the name of this rose bush. Matt bought it for me and neither of us wrote it down :( It has a lovely fragrance and it's bloomed wonderfully. The way its canes arch leads me to think it might be a climbing rose. It blooms on new wood so that's not helpful (well, actually, it at least rules out "Pearly Gates"). Right now, I'm thinking "Aloha". It has more purple undertones than a pure pastel pink like "New Dawn".  Sigh. Maybe one day, I'll know for sure. I asked my husband for another rose bush and he said, "Will you ever have enough?". I responded immediately with "No!" and then offered an offended observation, "I only have three!". Seriously, dear, three is not very much at all. :) Well, technically, I inherited some knock-out roses on the north side of the house, but I think knock-outs are ugly, they have no heritage and no scent!, and I barely give them the courtesy of calling them a rose much less including them in my tally.

 

My son is so serious some times. He gets that from his father. But I love that side of him. This picture was taken at a birthday party. I think he was longing for cake. :)

Motherhood and Grieving

Shortly after I gave birth to Z, I joined a group on facebook made up of roughly 2,000 mothers. In between posts about car seats and smash cakes and sleep regressions were unforgettable sober pleas from mothers who had lost their children. Please learn to properly buckle a car seat. Please learn the signs of daycare abuse. Please don't put blankets in the crib. Accidents. Suffocation. Abuse. Death.

 

I'm no stranger to death. I've been to the burial plot many times. Years ago, I acquired an acute sense of my own mortality and I doubt it will ever go away.

 

But now I carry something more weighty. I don't bear it as easily or as naturally as my own: an acute sense of my son's mortality. Even as I type, I realize that to struggle with this is, in itself, a privilege. How many of my dear friends, coworkers, family, have lost their child before even bearing them?

 

I often read notes and memes challenging me to cherish every moment. I don't need this reminder. Almost every night for the past 15 months, as I nuzzle his face, swaying him in my arms, I've drank in the smell, the feel, the weight of his body, insisting the sensations imprint on my soul like concrete. I'm overwhelmed with gratitude and love for him. My heart soars with the joy of all that he is to me.

 

And then come the prayers: begging, pleading prayers to let him live. To let me see him graduate high school and get married and even if I'm not here to see it, to let him live it. I never have a good reason why God should do so. I'm not worried about reasoning. Who knows how God orders the world? So I just beg. And often cry. I'm not afraid. I'm aware. Aware that every moment with him could be my last. I grieve that possibility.

Am I grieving a truth or a lie? Am I grieving unnecessarily?

Truth that death is the ultimate and constant culmination of our inherently fallen world...
Lie that there is no rest or peace for a good future or a God loves us and gives...

I think about a woman who lost her son at 7:45am this morning and how every April 1st, she'll say to herself, "he would be this old today" and how, 20, 50 years from now she'll still be thinking of him and longing to hold him and her arms will ache. And that ache will be imprinted with concrete so heavy that her soul will buckle for the rest of her life. And I grieve.

I've been grieving since the moment I first held him in my arms. Since the moment I joined the ranks of women whose body has brought forth life no matter how temporary. Since the moment I first understood. There is no choice here.

To be a mother is to grieve.