I'm not very wordy right now...

I don't have many words right now... have just been reading and taking in... so take a look at a couple blog posts that touched me... and maybe they'll touch you too...

from: Mrs. Spit's Blog

Changed

If I had to describe what it is like to be the parent of a dead child, I would say this – it is to look at the world slightly differently. Some years ago, Mr. Spit was at an optometrist’s appointment, and he asked the optometrist about contacts for an astigmatism. The optometrist allowed there were such things, and held test lenses in front of his eyes. As long as the lenses were correctly orientated, Mr. Spit could see just fine. As soon as they twisted 25 degrees, everything was blurry.

The parent of a dead child weighs the world, understands the world, interacts the world just slightly differently. Some things have virtually unlimited power, can leave you gasping on the floor, and some have absolutely no power at all. And perhaps if learning to cope with grief is anything, it is learning the difference between the two.

We were leaving the movie theatre tonight, where we’d been to see Sherlock Holmes. The movie was quite good, and the cinematography, the visuals of Victorian England were astonishing. It was however, very violent. Very, very, very violent. Violent enough that my enjoyment of the movie was limited by the near constant beating of one character or another. It was gruesomely violent. The movie starts out with an almost sucessful human sacrifice.

And as we were leaving, a woman was carrying out her 18 month old little girl.

Try as I might: to be reasonable, to be rational, to be anything other than the mother of a dead child, I shake my fist at the heaven’s and ask why those sorts of people get to have children. Oh, I try to be sane and sensible. The world does not work that way. One child does not die so that another may live. The sun shines on the just and the unjust, life isn’t always fair, and, well you get the point. I try to be objective, calm.

And some times, I must admit, when I see thing that make me want to scream and tear my hair out, I have no sensible answers. All reasonableness, all rationalization, all attempts to place myself with God’s world are simply not possible. I am reduced to shaking my fist against the sky and muttering under my breath. My heart literally hurts, that I who wants my child with me so much I can feel an ache must stand and watch a parent who cares not for theirs.

To be the parent of a dead child is this – to look at the world, with all of its complexity, with all of its ability to startle, to bewilder, to frighten and overwhelm and to know, this world is not a sane, sensible, rational or reasonable place.

from: In Hannah's Honor

Moving On

Today I realized something. The world has moved on. Everyone I know, in their own ways, has moved on. Some are affected, and maybe even changed, by my daughter's life. Some seem to forget that dark day that left me barren. Seem to forget that I do have a daughter. Forget I am not just a mother of 1.

I don't think I have moved on at all. I have just moved forward. Time has been ushering me forward as I drag my feet in objection. I guess the farther away from that day I get, though, the closer I get too. Closer to holding Hannah again; this time never having to let her go. What a wonderful day that will be-- running to my beautiful daughter awaiting me in Heaven. That thought gives me such peace.

And I know she has changed me. I am not the same person I was before I lost her, though sometimes I really wish I could be. But I know I am a better person now, because of her. I know I will survive this, by the grace of God. I know someday it won't hurt as bad.

I know that short time God blessed me with her is going to mean a lifetime to someone else. Her sweet soul is all around me, teaching me to love. Teaching me to comfort. Teaching me to reach into places I never would have otherwise. She will bless so many people, as she has blessed me.

So those that move on I pray would take a little piece of her with them, too. She could teach us all something.

I love you, Hanni. I miss you so much.

Two beautiful women with beautiful words to share... Thank you.