When Children Grieve

I had the sad occasion yesterday to observe children in mourning.  Our community lost a teenager; he was a friend to many, a real character, and it is to him I dedicate this blog.  Many teens rode to the funeral together, visited the casket together, wept softly in each others' arms.  A lot left tender mementos and notes in the coffin.  Some were driven by parents, but we were not able to offer the necessary comfort.  Our kids didn't need us--they needed each other, so many of us drifted to the perimeter to reflect and to grieve in our own ways.  I think it was important for our children, whose boo-boos we've kissed with our magic lips, whose foes we've met head on with our teeth bared, to know we were there should they need us. 

Way back when I was in college, a friend was killed by a drunk driver.  Her name was Maryann and she was the oldest daughter in a family of ten.  To the younger children, she was a second mother.  It was the first time I had ever experienced such a senseless, such a devastating loss. Her younger sisters' grief was agonizing to witness.  Their cries were high-pitched, full of something without a name, something even deeper than despair.  They clung to each other; they did not seek solace in the arms of an adult.

It is important for us, as mothers, to accept that some boo-boos are not ours to kiss.  I am learning through this terrible experience, to listen instead of soothe--unless soothing is requested.  I am learning not to initiate because my well-meaning words could scrape open a wound beginning to heal.  I am learning to walk that fine line between saying too much and not saying enough. 

I stood at Kalob's coffin and longed to fix the terrible trouble--so many years were stretched out before him.  But, there is no fixing.  So, in honor of this one boy, I pledge to listen better and to say less, to love more and to fear less, to be who my children need me to be as they swim new waters, both dark and sweet.