I wrote the following as a feature story for the December 2019 edition of the AgapeCare Cradle Newsletter. I am re-sharing it with their permission. To read the full newsletter (and learn a little about this amazing organization), please read my accompanying post by clicking the link above.
New Reality: Finding Hope After Morgans Death
I sat on my sectional couch on a different cushion than my usual spot. It was stiff and firm, as if brand new, despite the couch being three years old. I’ve always been a creature of habit, yet here I was going out of my way to sit in a seat I never used before. It was foreign. It was uncomfortable. It was the same couch in the same room in the same house… but a different perspective of them all.
All I knew was I couldn’t sit in my usual spot – that soft and pliable cushion where I spent 38 weeks and 5 days with my baby boy before going into labor.
That was my spot from Before.
As I sat on the Now Cushion, I listened to a woman’s experience with child loss. She was from a group called AgapeCare Cradle and was there to talk to me and Andrew about grief following the loss of a child. My child. My Morgan. How could she be here? How did my world turn upside down in just a few days? How could my son really be gone when he was with me – right over there on the Before Cushion – just last week? This is absurd! This can’t be my reality…
But it was. It was very real. Morgan died in my arms just four days after he was born. His brain was swelling, and the doctors couldn’t stop it. They couldn’t even tell us what caused it.
It’s absurd. My mind can’t process this. But it’s reality. My son died. I knew for sure in that moment because this woman – this person I hadn’t met until a few minutes ago – was sitting on my couch saying, “me too.”
I was intrigued by the vibe she gave off – experienced and strong, yet soothing and compassionate. Like a battle-seasoned warrior wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. She softly shared pieces of the insight and wisdom she had learned about grief over the years – arming us with knowledge of the challenges ahead so that we might face them with awareness and confidence.
Even in my numb state of disbelief at my reality, I could feel the significance in her words of encouragement and compassion.
My mind began to wander, and I realized that I never knew that services like AgapeCare Cradle existed. I knew babies sometimes died. But I never put much thought into exactly what bereaved parents experienced in the aftermath. To be honest, I didn’t know what “bereaved” meant before that week. So I certainly didn’t realize that there were charitable groups who ministered to bereaved parents.
The thing that was standing out to me the most was how baffled I was by this woman sitting across from me. I didn’t know that people like this lady existed – brave, selfless, grace-filled people who willingly walk INTO the raw chaos of a stranger’s tragic nightmare. How could anyone DO this? Willingly? It’s horrific enough being forced to live this reality. I can think of a dozen easier ways to volunteer my time than walking alongside a newly-bereaved parent.
Then it hit me.
She also endured her worst nightmare. She was also dropped into a merciless ocean of grief and pain. She also wondered how it was possible to stay afloat. And here she is now…surviving. She’s made it this far. She’s bravely faced her pain and grief and, by God’s grace, she has experienced healing and comfort. She found a lifeline. Now, years later, she’s here tossing that lifeline to us. The comfort she was given gave her the strength and compassion to go comfort others.
This realization gave me something that I didn’t think was possible:
Hope that I can do it, too.
Hope that the pain and shock won’t always be as bad as it is right now. Hope that I will eventually experience healing and comfort. Hope that one day my memories of Morgan would bring me more smiles than tears. Hope that maybe one day I, too, could walk into a stranger’s nightmare and toss them a lifeline.
In the year since losing Morgan, I’ve spent many hours processing my grief on the Now Cushion. In fact, I am sitting on it even now as I write to you. This stiff and firm seat has been my haven, especially in those first few weeks. It was adjacent to my former reality, giving me much-needed separation from The Before. It was foreign and uncomfortable, uncannily similar to my newly-bereaved reality. It was unfamiliar territory.
Now, it’s soft and pliable.
May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.
Romans 15:13 NIV
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