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.

Do you believe in MOM?

One of my friends posted this little apologue on Facebook the other day and I wanted to share it with those of you who have never read it.

I've copied the original version for those of you who can read Italian, and I've also translated it in English below...

Nel ventre di una donna incinta si trovavano due bebè. Uno di loro chiese all'altro:
- Tu credi nella vita dopo il parto?
- Certo. Qualcosa deve esserci dopo il parto. Forse siamo qui per prepararci per quello saremo più tardi.
- Sciocchezze! Non c'è una vita dopo il parto. Come sarebbe quella vita?
- Non lo so, ma sicuramente... ci sarà più luce che qua. Magari cammineremo con le nostre
gambe e ci ciberemo dalla bocca.
- Ma è assurdo! Camminare è impossibile. E mangiare dalla bocca? Ridicolo! Il cordone ombelicale è la via d'alimentazione... Ti dico una cosa: la vita dopo il parto è da escludere. Il cordone ombelicale è troppo corto.
- Invece io credo che debba esserci qualcosa. E forse sarà diverso da quello cui siamo abituati ad avere qui.
- Però nessuno è tornato dall'aldilà, dopo il parto. Il parto è la fine della vita. E in fin dei conti, la vita non è altro che un'angosciante esistenza nel buio che ci porta al nulla.
- Beh, io non so esattamente come sarà dopo il parto, ma sicuramente vedremo la MAMMA e lei si prenderà cura di noi.
- MAMMA? Tu credi nella MAMMA? E dove credi che sia lei ora?
- Dove? Tutto intorno a noi! E' in lei e grazie a lei che viviamo. Senza di lei tutto questo mondo non esisterebbe.
- Eppure io non ci credo! Non ho mai visto la MAMMA, per cui, è logico che non esista.
- Ok, ma a volte, quando siamo in silenzio, si riesce a sentirla o percepire come accarezza il nostro mondo. Sai?... Io penso che ci sia una vita reale che ci aspetta e che ora soltanto stiamo preparandoci per essa...


In the belly of a pregnant woman, there were two babies. One of them asked the other:
-Do you believe in life after birth?
-Of course. Something must be after birth. Maybe we're here to prepare for what will occur later.
-Nonsense! There is no life after birth. What would that life be like?
-I don't know, but certainly, there will be more light than here. Maybe we will walk with our legs and will eat with our mouths.
-But that's absurd! Walking is impossible. And eating with our mouths? Ridiculous! The umbilical cord is the way to eat... I'll tell you one thing... life after birth is out of the question. The umbilical cord is too short.
-Instead I believe there has to be something. And maybe it will be different from what we're used to in here.
-But no one has ever returned from the afterlife, after being born. Birth is the end of life. And ultimately, life is nothing but a distressing existence in the dark that leads us nowhere.
-Well, I don't know exactly how it will be after birth, but surely we'll see MOM and she will take care of us.
-MOM? You believe in MOM? And where do you believe that she is now?
-Where? All around us! We're inside her and it's thanks to her that we're alive. Without her, this whole world would not exist.
-I still don't believe it! I've never seen MOM, so it only makes sense that she doesn't exist.
-Okay, but sometimes, when we're silent, you can hear her or feel that she is caressing our world. You know?... I think there is a real life that awaits us, and that we are only now preparing for it...

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This analogy of birth and death reminds me that even though we can't see God or even begin to understand what Heaven is like, that doesn't mean They don't exist. Of course nobody knows for sure, but I like to imagine that God is out there somewhere laughing to Himself when we say things like, "Where is God? I don't see Him so how can He exist?" and that are children are in Heaven patiently and joyfully awaiting our "births."

Twinkle of Light

A few days after Gabriel died, I came across a picture taken of outer space by a NASA satellite. It occurred to me that the majority of the stars in the universe are no longer alive, but in fact they burned out thousands or millions of years ago. What we see here on earth is a remnant of a bright star that no longer exists. That twinkle in the night sky is merely a reminder that a star once burned gloriously, evidence of a once radiant and energetic life. But because that star's life was once so bright, its light continues to shine millions of years later. 

And I realized, that is what Gabriel is to me now. He is a beautiful twinkle of light shining brightly amongst all the darkness. His light which I hold in my heart, is proof that he once existed here on earth, and that the brightness of his life will radiate long after his death. Though his star no longer burns, I can still see him, I can feel his presence, and enjoy his warm light. I can gaze into that shadow of darkness that represents his death, and find the twinkle of light he left behind. Gabriel is not just a memory, nor a figment of a life... he is a constant force here on earth, a stream of never-ending light.

I like to believe that every time a child dies, God adds another star to the night sky. And that somewhere among the billions of twinkles, lies a special flickering glow that represents Gabriel, and another one that represents your baby. Though logic and science don't agree with this theory, it's nice to imagine our babies somewhere out there, forever adding light to the darkness.