I am a father of five children here on Earth. And three more who, with God’s mercy, I hope to meet in Heaven someday. I think about those children sometimes (often). It’s not something I talk about often (ever?) but I mourn them.
You don’t know when grief from something like that will hit. Sometimes it’s when someone tells me they’re shocked that I have five children. I say, “Yes I have five children.” And I secretly think of the three.
Sometimes it’s random moments when the kids are getting into the van and I think of the seats that aren’t filled with laughing messy children. It stops me for a second and I have to accept it all over again and go on. I have to remind myself to breathe. Remind myself to step. And step again. And I do.
But sometimes…a lot of times…it just hits at night when it’s quiet and dark. And I think and wonder if there’s something I could’ve done. Maybe called the doctor sooner or maybe called for another opinion. Something. Anything. And I think of the times I put my hand on my wife’s womb and perhaps didn’t know that at that moment my son or daughter was dying in the womb and I didn’t know. It makes me feel small. And powerless.
I tell you this because…