A Child’s Death is Never Expected, Even When it is

A had to endure the stupidest conversation ever the other day.  This lady told me I was lucky, that I had it easier in some ways because we knew that Xander was sick, and that it should make it (his death) easier for me because it was “expected”.  Let me tell you some of the things I expected as Xander’s mother.  First I expected to be pregnant for 40 weeks, to once again gain a lot more weight then I ever wanted to, to be tired and achy. I expected to get to May and have only one pair of pants to wear until the middle of June.   I expected June to come very slowly, for it sometimes to feel like it would never get here.   I expected to daydream about him, wonder what he would look like, or be like, & when he would arrive.  I expected one day in June to go to the hospital and have our third son, and our sixth child.  I expected to experience the pain of labor literally overcome by the joy of birth.  I expected to have him placed on my chest as I relished in the miracle of him, to wipe clean his face as I gazed into his eyes for the first time.  I expected to hold him to my breast, to nurse him to create that bond that only is between a mother and her baby. I expected to bring him home. I expected to introduce him to his brothers and sisters.  I expected late nights, with little sleep. I expected to hold him very late at night when everyone else in the house was asleep, hold him in my arms in that quiet moment and just be, me and him.   I expected two more years of diapers. I expected to watch mesmerized by all of his firsts, first roll over, first crawl, first sit-up, first food, first walk, first word.  It never gets old by the way, just because I have done it five times before him.  I expected to hold him when he fell and hurt his knee, to wipe away his tears.  I expected birthday cakes and parties.  I expected to cry as I dropped him off for his fist day of kindergarten. I expected to be proud when he scored his first goal, or read his first book.  I expected to teach him to be a good person, to love others, to treat people with respect. I expected to watch him grow from a baby, to a little boy, to a boy, to a teen, to a man.  I expected to watch him get baptized, do Boy Scouts, have his first crush, first love, heartbreak, go on a mission.  I expected one day to watch him get married and have his own family.  I expected to be his mom.

I really truly know, I’m still his mom. But my arms ache from the want of holding him, and it makes no difference that it was “expected”.  The only thing that makes it easier is the knowledge that Christ truly did overcome the grave and that one day my arms will ache no more.