26 October 2008

(Setting - I’m at the hospital where two good friends, D and L, have just lost their 4 month-old son.)

I spent part of Sunday afternoon waiting – waiting to see if I could be of any help to D and L.  And as I waited, I thought.  It's amazing how what one thinks about changes with death.

 After a while two sad people came slowly walking down the hall.  They were "composed" although there were plenty of signs of non-composure – swollen eyes, red noses, and wads of tissues at hand.   

 We hugged.

I asked if there was anything I could do.  They said it would be great if I could get one of their vehicles home.  They did not want to drive separate.  They wanted to be together. 

As I drove L's car (with the engine light on), I looked around at the changed landscape.  It's interesting how, at a time like this, the world changes before you.  Things I would have been interested in were not interesting.  Things I normally would not have noticed became fascinations.   And I thought of things I've never thought of.

As I drove, I looked back.  There in the backseat, strapped with a seat belt, was an empty car seat.  It was too small for their daughter.  It was their son’s. 

And it was empty. 

 I thought of how hard it would be for L to see that empty car seat.  I wondered if she would see it empty or with their son strapped in.  Either would be hard.  Just the simple act of removing the car seat from the car could overwhelm one with what doing so meant.   

I thought of D and L as they drove home without their son.  I thought of what it would be like to never bring your child inside your home again.

 I thought of what it would be like to walk into their son’s room – a room they would never see him in again.  I thought of the tears that will flow in the days to come in that room.

As I waited at a stop light, a man carrying a model plane crossed in front of me.  The plane was bright yellow.  Walking next to him was his young son carrying the controls.  I thought of D going to the park with his son to fly a bright yellow plane against the deep blue sky.  I thought of how it will never happen. 

At D and L's, after parking the car, I walked up to the front door to give them the key.  The flowers in the pots lining the entry steps were all wilted.  They looked to be in mourning. 

 I saw a hose in the bushes, turned on the water and watered the potted plants.  Then I watered the planter box.  As I looked around, all the flowers growing on this side of the house were wilted. It was a home in mourning.

Soon my ride showed up.  I got in, sat down, and glanced back.  "Wow," I said.  There were 4 young children strapped in behind my seat.  I couldn't help but compare the ride to D and L's with the ride back.  One was with an empty car seat.  This one filled with children.  I wondered how D and L would feel.    

As we turned into the sun, I saw a front windshield full of little fingerprints.  Normally I would wonder why they didn't clean their windshield more often.  Now I didn't.  The windshield wasn't dirty.  It simply had the marks of children.  It was a beautiful sight.   

D and L have a long road ahead of them - first a funeral, but then days and months of mourning.  Pray for them.  Pray for them as they take out the empty car seat, put away his toys, and take down the crib.  Pray for the huge hole they now have in their lives.  And pray for their daughter  – for the hard lessons of life she must learn so early in her life. 

And give thanks for fingerprints on the windshield.