The Voice in the Tunnel

It's that month.

It's the spring.

It's the time of year when things are blooming and being born and being renewed and my heart always seems to go down into the basement of my memories, shuffles around for the emotions that are kept in a bag down there, and drags it up the stairs to the kitchen table. I rifle through my thoughts about loss and life and the rest of the story, and it always comes back to

Renewal.

Regeneration.

Rebirth.

Re. Re. Re. "Again" or "back" or "once more."

This year's spring is one of the most beautiful I can ever remember.

Don and I were talking about it the other day when we were driving out to my childhood friend's farm. We were wondering, is it always this gorgeous and we just miss it because we're so busy with distractions? Because we're stuck in our classrooms and come home at the end of the day and collapse on the couch in exhaustion? Because SPRING normally means testing and stress and students seem to lose their minds in the spring?

But this year, we are on a forced stop.

And he would be getting ready to turn eleven.

So, what do I want to tell you?

I want to tell you that life really does go on after loss and disappointment. I'm the voice at the other end of the tunnel from you, yelling "HEY!! There are people laughing at old episodes of Seinfeld down here!" but you can't really hear me clearly because you're weeping. I know you're weeping.

It's okay that you're weeping. You need to weep.

I'm the voice at the other end of the loss of a baby to stillbirth and then to miscarriage and then to miscarriage and then to just aging out of the system, yelling, "HEY!!! There are people who can hold people's babies and go to baby showers and talk about their pregnancy experiences down here with very little wincing!" but it's hard for you to hear because you still can't even walk into the nursery that you curated for that warm, squeaking bundle of all your hopes that won't ever sleep there.

I'm the voice at the other end of the tunnel that is writing down on a slip of paper and sending it like an airplane down the tunnel to you, with letters written in all caps and highlighted "Hang on tight to your husband! Don't let this death cause you to kill each other! You're both hurting-- it just looks different on him! Hold him close! Give him space! Take a walk! Never, ever blame each other! Let go of your guilt!!" and maybe you can read this note if you squeeze your eyes against the tears that seem to mostly want to get you when you're all alone at 3:22 in the morning.

I was talking to Caroline the other day, mentioning how this is the month that we spend time planting flowers in honor of baby Benjamin, except that I was distracted with the sheer number of people who had decided to break quarantine to go to Lowe's (look, I just wanted a fern!), so I told her, "Yeah, so I need to think about what big thing I want to plant for what's-his-name this year," and then we were both really quiet for a second...and then I burst out laughing.

He's so real still. So real that I could refer to him so casually, like he was just another person in my world.

Because he is.

He is not here-- he is some other where. But he is there.

It was another sign of healing. Like a tiny green sprig suddenly growing from the bark of a plant you thought was a goner.

And I will plant another hydrangea in the spot where the one I planted for him died because that's what plants do sometimes and it doesn't mean anything at all, it just means that the planet works and soil is real and some plants need more sun than others. The living or dying of my yard plants that all seem to shout his name does not mean that it was my fault that he died or that I would have been a terrible mother to him.

It's just that that type of hydrangea needed way more sun than it was getting on that side of the house.

I am the voice at the other end of the tunnel who knows that you can't hear me clearly, so let me just sing to you and maybe it'll encourage you that, even though you can't make out the words, you know that it's a song.

There's a song.

You can hum until you can sing.

He is worthy of it all.
He knows your every pain.
He knows why He created you.
You are not forgotten.
You are not alone.
Your arms ache, and He knows.
But He comes with healing in His wings.
He is the God who sees you.
He is El Roi.
He is worthy of it all.
He sees you.

You'll make it to this end of the tunnel. You will. There are so many sisters down here waiting-- we'll sing you through. You'll make it.