I stayed far from the computer this weekend, just immersing myself in the treasured time spent with my family as newscasts broke across our screen. We made a gingerbread house with Scarlette. Jeff and I stole glances at one another over her head as she chattered excitedly and stole candies from it’s rooftop, sharing an unspoken recognition of the blessing that is icing smeared across your kitchen table and sprinkles littered across the floor from little hands.
We are parents who know the grief of almost losing and this makes us the lucky ones.
We can not fathom the grief of loss.
We are parents whose babies heartbeats faltered and failed within the womb and I wept as they slipped away from us.
We can not imagine the anguish of being parents whose children were stolen from them in a senseless act of violence.
I thought about writing but there is a weight to every word and none I could find held enough gravity. Who am I to add to this conversation?
And besides, I’ve held the hands of too many mothers who have buried their babies and I know that despite my deep desire to offer some measure of comfort, it only provides the very smallest portion of peace in the midst of the grief that grabs hold in tragedy. And with an aching heart I repeat the only thing that may not pierce too deeply,
I am so sorry for your loss.
We will don our green and white today and return to work, meeting deadlines and answering emails and sending quick text messages that offer an extra assurance of our love.
And in Connecticut, too many families will lay their loved ones to rest.
They won’t be reading words on the internet.
But if they did, I’d want to tell them that we read their names and we grieved for their loss.
