The Servant's Quarters

This afternoon has been something of a grim time for us. Rita and I left the kids to go up to church to attend a memorial service for a young man. He was a tortured soul with many problems who passed on far before his time. We're happy that his suffering is over, and he is in the presence of his Lord. However, it was a sad occasion as he was remembered by loving friends and a father who is right now living the worst nightmare that anyone possibly can - burying a child.

After leaving the church, we stopped by a local flower shop and bought a single white rose. The girl who waited on us was very concerned about our purchase. She fretted that it wasn't a fresh rose. That it had started to die. She was also very concerned about the cold affecting it, and she tried to wrap it appropriately to protect it from the weather. We were very nonchalant about the whole thing.

After all, we were heading to the cemetery to leave the rose on our son's grave.

Seven years ago today, our son, Jonathan, passed away on the day of his birth. He lived nine hours, and in the end, his little lungs just couldn't take in enough oxygen to keep his little body going. The doctors tried to keep him going, pushing the vent up to the highest level and forcing the needed air in. However, the pressure of the vent kept his heart from working correctly. It was a Catch-22, and Jonathan lost his battle for life.

We arrived at the cemetery in a snow storm. Since we had just come from the church, we were wearing dress shoes. Completely insufficient for trudging around in ankle deep drifts. But, this didn't bother us much. We made it to the grave site. The first thing I noticed that in the last seven years, the marker was starting to get a bit dingy. Rita unwrapped the rose and arranged it so that the stem was buried in the ground and the flower was laying on the marker. After standing over Jonathan for a few moments, I walked around to some of the surrounding graves that had been recently tended. Some of them were children who had died in the late 50's and early 60's.

The death of a child is a deep wound that never really heals.

We only stayed a few minutes. It was enough. We sometimes question ourselves - Are we making too much of this? Other parents bury children whom they've known, loved, raised. Jonathan was in our lives for nine hours. We didn't really get to know him. When we think of him, we don't have memories. We had dreams. And those dreams are what we grieve.

Making too much of it? No way. God provides the love that parents have their children. It doesn't matter how young or how old the child is. When that love gets interrupted by an untimely death, it results in lifelong pain.

After the memorial service, I was talking about Jonathan with a friend. I told him that since his death, my favorite prayer is, "Jesus, please kiss and hug Jonathan for me right now. Please tell him that I love him and miss him." My friend smiled and told me that I could at least be happy that Jonathan has excellent child care until I'm with him again.

Amen!