Perspective Perfected

I believe I have had a glimpse of perfect perspective, but just a glimpse.

Two boys, two CHILDREN, lost their lives this week in a cruel and gruesome accident. The families of these two boys have been an obsession of mine since I heard the news. My heart is broken in two for the mothers. As a mother of a boy the same age – I find myself thinking of some difficult questions. Not just the questions that seem to be the first to come to everyone’s mind, like… What was the last thing she said to him…How did she hear the news; but odd questions, like; how does a mother launder the clothes that her son has left on his bedroom floor? How do you even begin to set one less plate on the table at dinner? His sheets, does she take them off of his bed or does she curl up and lay in them trying to catch his scent? Will his toothbrush stay on the sink? If these questions are torture for me, what are they like to her?

I stood in a long line last night with my children and with what seemed like a whole city. Most of it was spent outside, in the humid-June-typical-Ohio weather. I had about an hour and a half to think of what I was going to say to a mother who just lost her child. The closer I got to the inside of the funeral home, the more nervous I became, the more I thought I really had no business being there. After all, I did not know this family. I was wearing the same clothes I had put on for work – 14 hours earlier. Sweat was dripping from my forehead and I think I even stunk a little bit. I decided I was just going to stand back while my children gave their condolences.

The slow line of mourners moved into the viewing room. I was immediately hit with a TV monitor displaying pictures of a little baby boy. He was in his high chair, he was playing on the floor and smiling for the camera, he was being held by his momma. Eventually, the monitor showed pictures of the same boy playing football and basketball on some of the very teams my Logan played on. I was fighting the tears, trying so hard to keep composure. As the line turned the corner around the monitor, my eyes fell on a baby blue and gray casket. There was a picture on top of this beautiful and horrific box, a picture of a 14 year old grinning freshman. Standing next to this was grief manifested in human form - his mother. She was so tiny and her boy looked just like her. Her face was a face shock. What was keeping this woman upright? What was keeping this woman from screaming to this room full of people “THIS IS MY BABY, MY SON, HOW COULD YOU POSSIBLY UNDERSTAND?” What was keeping her from pulling out every strand of her hair and climbing inside that lovely box with him forever?

This woman – this woman who seemed to have some supernatural power – greeted every mourner with such warm, quiet dignity. She greeted each person with a long embrace. I found myself wishing I was friends with this woman, so that I too can share in her warmth. I had memorized my short little condolence and in what seemed like just two seconds, I was face to face with her.

My memory failed me; I could not remember what I was going to say, I could not even remember to extend my hand. All I could get out was “You don’t know me….I brought my children here with me….” As I pointed to the two, tall, wide-eyed, solemn faced children that are my own. I was startled by this woman’s actions; she embraced me, she held me close and she put her lips to my ear that was covered by my sweaty hair. She started whispering, quickly and urgently and for a moment, I really thought that she had lost her sanity – until my mind was able to catch up to what she was saying. “Don’t ever stop. Take the time. Never worry about what they think. Tell them to wear their seatbelt. Tell them to be careful. Tell them you love them. Tell them they are not invincible. Tell them this world is temporary. Let them roll their eyes at you. Let them tell their friends that you are lame. Do it, do it, do it, do it. They need it…..” My sobs and the sobs of my daughter began to drown out her whispers. And I had perfect perspective for an ever so brief moment.

I wanted to hold this woman forever. I wanted to tell her that HE knows how hard it is, that HE promises to give peace that passes all human understanding. All I could do was nod my head while still in her grip and try to keep my nose from running.

When she let go, all I could manage was “I am so sorry, I am so sorry” and I walked away numb with two grieving children behind me. As I lay awake last night, I prayed that this “perfect perspective” would stay fresh in my heart and in the hearts of my children for the rest of our lives here on earth.

For Joyce, my favorite aunt
For GiGi, my sister in Christ
For Mary, my forever friend