Standing at your child’s grave is surreal. Even after many years you wonder, did this really happen?
At the same time, you know it did.
I stare at the etched letters of his name. I look at the date of his birth and remember. I look at the date of his death and remember.
So much life has gone by.
I remember being afraid I would forget his voice. I haven’t.
I’m in two worlds with two different measures of time. He is not here, he is there. But where exactly? I know there is heaven. But I don’t know where it is or what it looks like.
I just know this: to be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord (2 Corinthians 5:8). And it gives me peace.
I clean the headstone since I can’t stand the little bits of green moss that settle in the crevices. I pull a couple of tiny weeds. I didn’t help him then – perhaps I can be of help now?
There are no tears. I’ve cried them all.
I leave that place under the pine tree with an empty place in my heart.
And I wait.
Photo credit: jenny downing / Foter / Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic (CC BY 2.0)