the ache of April

I’m beginning to feel the distraction and quiet heartache that goes with April for me. 

This is the sixth year since our son, Matt,  died . . . so hard to take that in.   How could it have been six years since I’ve seen his smile or heard his voice ?  How could I have lived six years without him when he is so much a part of me ? 

Every year about this time, I begin to feel different.  I feel a little fragile, just generally sad and like something is just out of sync within me.  I know what it is, so now I expect it - knowing why it comes and knowing it will be compassionately balanced by my intentional focus on the gift of his life in mine.  Still, knowing doesn’t eliminate the heartache – it simply clothes it in tenderness. 

It is the journey of losing a child.  It is my journey. . . . unbelievable as that still seems.

So, I take deep breaths of honesty, of patience with my “reality”, of compassion for all the other families whose hearts break for whatever reason.  I watch the sun come up and marvel in the way it makes the trees in our backyard sparkle.  I listen to the quiet birdsongs and watch spring open its color for all to see.  I cry that life has to include pain like this. 

And once again, I am grateful for knowing so clearly what matters . . .

          that it is all about how we love. . . . 

                   just that  . . .

                             how we love . . .