I find it difficult to cry in front of people, and I’m not even sure why.(1) Even when I want to cry, I can’t. Behind closed doors I dissolve into a fountain of expression. But as I listened to Anna’s story, mutinous tears escapes my eyes, and I made no effort to wipe them away. I ached inside for this woman who had suffered one of the greatest kinds of loss in life. How was she still so graciously soft instead of hardened with bitterness?
She was his mother. She had carried him inside of her for nine months. She had felt the exhilaration of her child’s arrival into the world. She had held him, fed him, protected him, dreamed for him, cherished him. She would have given her very life for him.
As she held Jonathan’s tiny body in her arms sobs spilled from the depths of her soul. She carried him into the living room and looked desperately at her husband, pleading for him to fix what she knew could not be restored. Wordlessly, her husband gently took Jonathan from her arms. He looked at his son’s face, a face that resembled his own. He kissed the top of his head and then slowly, slowly raised his arms to lift the baby up to the heavens. Tears streamed down his face as he lifted his eyes upward in an act of submission to a fate that broke his heart.
Anna cried out in protest. No, no, no! She was not ready to give him back to God. He was an extension of her heart. She was not ready to part with him, not ready to accept what had been tragically forced on her.
For some time, she couldn’t bear to visit his grave. But in a sense, she visited it every day. There may have been a site where marble was engraved for everyone else to see, but his life and death were engraved on her heart. In that way, he stayed with her.
People tried to comfort her, but there is no comfort for such a loss. In an effort to console her, they said, “You’re young. You’ll have other children.” Perhaps, but she needed to grieve the loss of this child.
Over the years, Anna brought three more children into the world, but her family did not go to South America as missionaries as they planned. The call to South American had included Jonathan, and the idea of going without him brought with it enormous pain that was too much to bear. Twenty years passed before she returned to that calling and began to carefully unwrap it again. I want to believe that God understood this. Somehow, for me, it would seem to uphold the integrity of grief.