Unappointed

Dear lady in the row in front of us at church today,

Thank you for taking your baby out of his car seat exactly when you did.

During worship, I watched you and your husband diligently checking under the blanket covered car seat.

At an unappointed moment, you reached in and took him out of his cocoon. Holding him for a few minutes you swayed back and forth before wrapping him against you in a sling. He was safe. He was content. He was close to your heart. It was the most ordinary, beautiful thing a mother does.

We had just begun singing, “Even while I’m walking through the valley of death and dying,” when my tears percolated. At times, as any bereaved mother can attest, once the tears are unleashed, they become impossible to control until they are fully exhausted. Then, somehow, more are found.

See, I lost my precious son almost five months ago. I am in the valley of death and dying, though it doesn’t feel like walking. It is more a military crawl through mud for a few inches then curling into a ball, exhausted and overwhelmed.  Progress in grief isn’t linear. It is not always forward. It is up, down, backward, and inside out. It is chaos.

For the griever, the world is painful and unpredictable. A song, a scent, a favorite food, almost anything can be a trigger and cause an avalanche until, in unexpected places like church, I am holding on for dear life.

But then you took your baby out and held him to you.

His eyes grew bigger as he looked around and heard the singing. He was no longer in the dark, even if he was only sleeping. He was now awake and engaged in a welcoming world.

The singing continued and the next line in the song became an anchor.

“I will not fear cause you are with me. You’re always with me.”

At some unappointed moment, God will carefully take me out of this present darkness. He will restore me.  I will re-engage with the world.

Until then He holds me close, even here.