I hope so too

It’s been an odd couple of days.  I am still floating on that disorienting current of grief and gratitude and guilt that I mentioned yesterday.  I’m experiencing Grace and Whit in high definition, and my awareness of their every detail of is at an all-time high; I’m dazzled, and overcome, by the physicality of their bodies, their presence in a room, their noise, their sheer being-ness.  I look at them and think, again, they are tenaciously sturdy and incomprehensibly fragile at the same time.

Since our conversation on Sunday about what happened, there have been very few references to it in our house.  Grace asked me at bedtime yesterday if the sick and angry man was really dead, and I said yes.  She asked me how many children had died and I told her.  She asked me how old they were and I told her.  She was quiet then, for a long minute, and then opened her book, curled closer to me on the couch so that she was flush against my side, and started reading.

Tonight, as I tucked her in, she said her usual prayers (“thank you for this amazing world” being the line that always slays me).  I kissed her on the forehead and began to stand up.  “Wait,” she whispered.  “I want to say another prayer for those kids.”  I sat back down on the edge of her bed and nodded in the nightlight-lit dimness of her room.

“I hope those kids know they are loved, and know how much their families miss them,” she looked at me, her mahogany eyes huge, shining.  “I hope they are settling into their new lives in heaven.  I really hope they are with Pops and Helen.  Maybe they are going swimming with Helen and talking about airplanes with Pops.”  I swallowed hard, struck by her conflation of her late-summer loss with the deaths of these children.  The deaths are of course as different as you can imagine, but I think that conceptually, they each feel both near and far to Grace.  Her great-grandfather, beloved, but old, in a stage of life so foreign as to be a different country.  These children, strangers, but her close contemporaries, the girls and boys she sits next to at assemblies and walks by in halls.   I love that she imagines them drawing comfort from each other.

I leaned down to kiss her again, and felt her arms clasp my neck and pull me tight.  “I hope so too, Grace.” I whispered against her ear, feeling my tears trickle into her hair.  I hope so too.


Get Lindsey's thoughts on mindful living and parenting in your inbox

9 Comments

  1. Posted December 18, 2012 at 9:24 pm | Permalink

    I hope so too. Have been on the verge of tears all night, exhaustion and grief catching up to me and overtaking me between Christmas songs on the radio. Love to you and your Grace.

  2. Posted December 18, 2012 at 9:32 pm | Permalink

    Oh, this one killed me, Lindsey. I cried a little bit tonight while talking to my 11 and 9 year olds about the tragedy in CT.

    You are raising her beautifully.

  3. Posted December 18, 2012 at 9:36 pm | Permalink

    Deep breath (for me). What a soul that one.

  4. Posted December 18, 2012 at 10:56 pm | Permalink

    what amazing empathy your Grace has. She is so aptly named and clearly has seen it modeled and given freely.

  5. Posted December 18, 2012 at 11:12 pm | Permalink

    Kids sometimes have it all figured out. I wish I could’ve had a smidge of that kind of compassion and empathy when I was her age. She has a beautiful soul, dear Lindsey.

  6. Posted December 19, 2012 at 5:56 am | Permalink

    I hope so too… Crying all over again. I hope you read these comments to Grace so she knows what an amazing little being she is.

  7. Margaret
    Posted December 19, 2012 at 8:56 am | Permalink

    This just makes me weep. What special sensitivity, maturity, intelligence and thoughtfulness Grace exudes. I’m sure the love pouring out of her is felt by all those she is sending it to…

  8. Beth Perez
    Posted December 19, 2012 at 1:06 pm | Permalink

    This is so beautiful and I am floored by Grace’s eloquence and depth.

  9. Kim
    Posted December 29, 2012 at 1:42 pm | Permalink

    Thank you for sharing this beautiful moment. The children who physically died had those beautiful moments with their parents, I am sure. It must be impossible to recover one’s footing following the loss of a child. I think our feet would be placed in a new plane. I hope I remember to pray for these parents the rest of my life.