Bearing Witness

I'm sitting at my desk, the words swirling in my head and fighting to be let out. My head is pounding, my eyes are dry and itchy, and my heart. My heart aches.

A woman in my circle of friends lost her son suddenly and unexpectedly on Easter morning. He went to bed on Saturday night and he never woke up. Shock and grief have ripped through our little community and all week I've seen grace and generosity. Meals have been made. Their home was cleaned. The family was pampered and loved and taken care of in a way that makes me glad to be a part of this little place in the world.

I've been lucky in my life. I can count on one hand the number of people I've lost to death.

One hand.

All week I've struggled with my role. My friend is a new friend. Someone with whom I've shared too many bottles of wine and too many late night confessions. I had - still have - diaphanous plans of summer evening dinners and board games, of growing and nurturing our friendship. But I am not a part of her inner circle. Our history is too clean, too new. And right now she needs those who have seen the smudges of her soul and know how to bring light.

I've kept the amazing Ring Theory in mind. Comfort in, dump out. I wonder what comfort I can offer. What help I can give. I signed up for a meal. I checked in. I donated. I'm not one who knows the right thing to say in the right moment. Words do not magically come to my lips, but are drawn from my heart to my fingers where they can be edited and pruned. In their greatest sorrow, both she and her husband have assured me it's okay not to know what to say and for that I feel gratitude and shame that they are comforting me rather than the other way around.

Today, I went to the memorial services where I saw a hint of what might have been, a glimpse of little boy who will always stay a little boy in our memories. I think of the time I babysat him and had the stark understanding that I was a stone skipping across his life. There for an instant and never getting to truly understand what an amazing and funny little person he was.

I sat in the back row of a church filled with hundreds. I listened as his father spoke so eloquently and bravely. I watched as their pastor prayed over them, offering them peace. And still, I struggled over the role I played. My heart ached and tears soaked my tissue until I finally gave up and joined those sobbing around me. 

All week, I've looked at my children differently. I've seen the incredible, fragile gifts they are. I've said yes more often, snuggled them until they squirmed to be set free, inhaled their scent and imprinted their faces more deeply on my soul. In this way, death brought a gift; a small treasure in the wake of grief. 

While sunlight streamed through the stained glass window, in the middle of a detailed description of what happened less than a week ago, I suddenly came to a realization.

I am here to bear witness.

I am here to bear witness to their grief and pain, to stand sentinel at the outer edges. To sob for them and take, in some small way, a portion of that pain into myself and say yes, this happened. And yes, I grieve.