Grief is a strange animal. Sometimes it comes right on schedule, showing up promptly as expected on holidays, anniversaries, and other significant dates. Sometimes it sneaks in just a little, brought momentarily to the forefront by an off-hand comment or a situation that triggers a memory or longing. Sometimes it comes crashing down when least expected without any apparent connection, knocking me over by surprise. Sometimes it takes a backseat to joyous moments, making its presence felt subtly while allowing joy centerstage. And sometimes it hides, not arriving at all when anticipated to be there. It lies in wait, perhaps to show up tardy or maybe even to be completely absent for an event and choosing another time to appear instead. I don't believe it ever vanishes completely, but it certainly changes with time... or rather changes AT times (as sometimes it feels exactly like it has before). It is a strange beast, indeed.
Often, I recognize grief, my own and that of those close to me. I feel it creep up on me when I hear their names (usually mixed with appreciation of the connection and a feeling of a special closeness). I recognize it in my husband's eyes when someone asks if he wishes he had a daughter to go along with his sons. I see it in my boys' faces when asked how many siblings they have. I feel it in their continued wishes for another baby, for a sister especially. I hear it in the unspoken names when my parents tell others about their grandchildren. I usually even recognize it when it is far more subtle.
I missed it yesterday, though. I didn't recognize that one of my boys was feeling the grief deep in his soul. I was feeling it too, but differently; it pounced hard on my sweet boy yesterday. At first I was surprised by his strong emotions, but then I was surprised in myself, that I had failed to recognize his grief on my own.
Yesterday was confirmation Sunday at church. One of the boys was fairly grouchy all morning, seemingly angry at everyone in the family and agitated by everything. I shrugged it off as an unpleasant attitude about things not going the way he wanted. On the way home, he muttered something I did not understand, and when I asked him to speak more clearly, he just crossed his arms over his chest and was silent the rest of the drive. Finally, as we exited the car at home, he came up to me, started crying, and said the reason he was so sad was because he has always wanted a sister, and Elena would have been confirmed in church that morning. I did not realize that he had made that connection. I had not mentioned to anyone that Elena would have been celebrating her confirmation. I knew it, but honestly, I had not spent much time ruminating on that. For me, it was one of those times where I expected grief to hit me much harder than it actually did; instead, the fact that she was not celebrating her confirmation was more of an observation than an aching (maybe because I already am dealing with the anticipatory grief of her upcoming 13th birthday). But for my sweet boy, grief was a relentless monster that gnawed at him all morning. And I did not see it until he confided in me. Oh, the tears we shared then! I am so thankful for my sweet boy and his tender heart. I am so thankful for all three of my sweet boys. And I am so thankful for my sweet Elena and sweet baby Quinn, even if I have to know grief to have had them. "Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, the fruit of the womb a reward." Psalm 127:3.
