The Window

In my heart, in my soul, I feel cheated, maybe a little more-so than others. I feel entitled to be bitter at times because what happened to me wasn't fair. I feel like nothing makes sense anymore. I've analyzed my belief in God up and down, left and right and still can't put together a "God" that I recognize or understand. I feel comfortable with the belief that death is a part of a life, and that mistakes are an unfortunate (but necessary) part of nature. But where God fits in, I don't know. And because of that, I feel a little bit lost.

In my heart, in my soul, I wish my circumstances had been different. If I was destined to lose a child, I wish that it didn't have to be my firstborn ~ my only. I wish I knew that I could at the very least, have healthy children, a question to which the answer might very well be no. I wish I was younger. I wish I had more child-bearing years ahead of me than I have behind me. I wish I had more hope that everything will be okay.

In my heart, in my soul, I hate that nobody can tell us what happened to Gabriel, not even from a medical perspective. I hate that I have to wonder why my child died. I hate that this had to happen to me and my family. I hate that I have only questions; no answers. I hate death.

In my heart, in my soul, I am angry at fate or the universe or God or the world in general. We're taught to believe that if we do everything right, things will turn out alright. That happy endings exist for those who work hard and follow a certain path. But I did everything right, and my baby died anyways. I'm angry that my life has fallen apart and now I have to start over again, slowly piecing broken fragments back together. I'm angry that abusive, unfit, negligent parents get to keep their children, and for inexplicable reasons, I did not.

In my heart, in my soul, I miss all that I will never ever have. I miss my baby boy. I miss watching him grow up. I miss hearing his cry. I miss holding his tiny hands. I miss feeling his warmth, his life. I am missing so much, too much, that there is no possible way to write down all that I am missing. And because of this, I feel sorrow and resentment.

In my heart, in my soul, I'm a swirling cloud of grief and healing, past and present, love and hate. I'm not who I was or who I will be, but stranded in a confusing state of limbo. I'm searching for balance, for peace, for truth, but feel lost in the midst of a storm. I'm both more alive and less. I'm looking both into and out of the same window.

And I realize that it's my hand that's keeping the window shut; it's been my choice to keep it locked all along. I'm holding on to pain, sealing it in my heart, my soul. It's been my prisoner, but somehow it has imprisoned me as well.

So I wonder, if I never let the pain go, can I ever be free? And if I'm unwilling or incapable of opening the window, will love and joy ever find a way to flow back in?

Nothing about the past will ever change. Sadly this is true. But the years ahead have not been written. This life, the unwritten one, can be spent inside a prison with sorrow and heartache, agonizing over what has been lost. Or it can be spent opening the window and finding the courage and strength to leave the pain behind and fly free.