Last Sunday evening we took Willa to a small playground that's right on the Grand River. While she and Jim were playing, I glanced west at the water. The sun was to set in an hour or so, and there was an incredible sense of peace that came over me. It was kind of strange and surreal: I didn't hear the playground chatter, or traffic, or music coming from the nearby church group. It was silent, and for the first time since my sister told me there was trouble with her pregnancy, I felt calm, centered, serene.
I like to think that that moment was something meaningful and something I should carry. But in the senseless loss of the immediate, that's hard to do, hard to process.
Lisa and Ken are home now. Their village will surround them and hug them and give them cookies. We will not be able to give them what they most ache for, but we will offer what we have.
Lisa tells me to hug our Willa and pat my belly. I urge you to do the same. Take a moment to be grateful for what challenges you, what feeds you, and what means the most to you. And if the "that" is a person, let them know.