My husband Andy’s wooden rosary beads are descending into the grave on top of the tiny white coffin. And I want to shout, “Stop!”
Grey clouds move in, turning off the weak November sun, and I shiver in my short-sleeved funeral dress that floats over my still bigger-than-normal middle.
I wonder: why didn’t I ask for the beads earlier? Should I rush forward, lean down and take them? Save them, not waste them. Why don’t I do the unexpected?
Andy and I grip hands, in our front row place next to the spade-sharp edge of the grave. The coffin descends slowly, lower and lower. It’s almost too late.
My hair lifts in the breeze. My skirt flutters around my knees. My feet remain still.
The beads disappear deep into the ground. Then a black-suited director invites us to step forward. Expects us to move. I take a handful of sandy soil and sprinkle. Earth falls on top of the beads. On top of the coffin. On top of my son.
Then I turn and see the sea of eyes watching me. Every move. Every tear. What are people thinking? What will they say to each other later? They were so brave!
I didn’t shout, “Stop!” The coffin didn’t halt. No one watched as I knelt at the edge of the grave and reached for the beads. I didn’t stand up and dust my knees before returning to my place.
We walk back to our car. It’s over. We were directed. We played our parts. We did what was expected. Although we’d never done it before, we did okay.
And I realise: those beads weren’t mine to take. They were a gift from a father to his son. Engraved with his love.
Thomas knows Andy’s beads are buried in his grave.
My friend was so brave too, when her tiny son was buried. I don’t know how she, her husband and children did it. I’m sure they didn’t know either. There was not a dry eye in the church, even Father’s voice was breaking during the homily. It was an incredible witness, my friend facing the greatest suffering a parent can face, so resigned. But I can’t imagine how she felt inside, how to face all the people who had come to fill the church, how to keep going to the bus stop, the school, the supermarket, the church and face people with that consuming grief inside.
That life just goes on around you seems so cruel.
How beautiful that Thomas is with his Heavenly Father and his other tiny siblings, waiting joyfully for you all. But what a sorrow for his parents who will never forget or move on from their beloved son.
Ange,
Attending the funeral of a child is a very difficult thing to do. Some time after Thomas’ funeral, a friend said I’d looked so calm. She told me about a mother who’d sobbed loudly and jumped into the grave onto the coffin of her child. I then wondered whether everyone had thought I was too restrained. Perhaps they didn’t think I was upset enough. But I was only brave on the outside. The day after the funeral, I returned to the cemetery by myself. I sat by Thomas’ grave and sobbed and sobbed for a long time. Only the cows over the fence heard me. It was hard to keep going, to do the ordinary things of life. Yes, I imagine your friend was hurting so very much inside even though she seemed resigned on the outside. Accepting what God allows doesn’t take away the pain.
Ange, thank you for your empathy and for reading my story. It’s good to talk about Thomas with a friend.
Thank you for sharing your stories of Thomas and your journey with him. My friend shared her photos of her tiny baby with me. It was a privilege.
Some of us deal with grief and pain by looking okay on the outside and dying horribly within and people who don’t deal with pain in the same way might think we are coping okay. And mostly people don’t know if they should say something or if they should say nothing. If they say something, it will probably be the wrong thing and if nothing, they might be abandoning you. We aren’t taught about grief and death in this day in age. Or how to be there for someone who is grieving without being in their way. It’s a sad thing. We might all grieve better if we felt it was an acceptable thing to do and people around us didn’t feel uncomfortable about however we had to do it.
They say that no parent should have to bury their child. It frightens me that an alarming amount do. And the more children you have, the more likely you are to be one of those.
How wonderful that when you depart this life, he and your other babies will be there to meet you and take you to the Heavenly Father.
Ange,
It’s so special sharing photos of our children with our friends.
You are so right about us not being taught about death and grief. People just don’t know what to say or do so they often say nothing. Yes, perhaps they hang back because they think nothing is better than the wrong thing. But it isn’t. One of friends came straight up to me after Thomas died and said, “I don’t know what the right thing to say is but I can’t say nothing.” Then she told me she was sorry and gave me a huge hug. That was perfect.
No parent should have to bury a child. I was thinking those exact words at the funeral of a friend’s baby. I was plunged back into the grief as we watched her baby being buried. Life changes when we experience the loss of a child. We realise how fragile life is. As you know, I lost a lot of children. It was difficult. But I’ve experienced a lot of joy as well. And I learnt so much. I wouldn’t change a thing!
I can understand so well, that you wanted to keep Andys rosary. In the moment when it seems like we loose everything, it can hurt so much to have to part with something else also, even if it is a very small thing compared to the big loss.
Like Ange said, in our culture we don`t learn to grieve and we don`t learn how to support the grieving. Your Thomas posts and your book about grief are so important. It has helped me a lot to understand grief better, my own and of other people in my life and to be better prepared for supporting grieving.
When my dear friend has died I was not afraid to go to the funeral with my children (which astonished quite a few people), because I remembered all your beautiful photos of your children on Thomas grave over the years. And I talked to some of her family members whom I have never met (I am introvert, so this is not natural for me). Thank you for bravely sharing.
Luana,
You understand!
I’m so glad my stories encouraged you to take your children to your friend’s funeral. Death shouldn’t be hidden away and not talked about or kept from children. There were a lot of children at Thomas’ funeral. Some of my friends were worried that their kids would remind me of our loss, but I liked having them there. Children are a sign of hope. I watched little girls dressed in pretty dresses, collecting flowers from the graves, and felt like a ray of sunshine had fallen on that very grey day.
It’s always so good to chat with you. May God bless you!
Thank you for sharing, Sue. There is such a sense of peace in reading about God’s grace in the midst of your very human emotions – beautiful.
Erin,
During my difficult times, God has felt so far way, but you are right: God is always there with His grace. Thank you for reading my story!