My God, My Child

Its tough to write much these days. Not because we aren't "okay" (in the sense of the word that most people think about), but more because writing takes a mental focus and freedom that is difficult to find in our lives right now, for we continue to be weighted down by extraneous factors that take our attention away from what truly matters to our family unit. One day soon, we pray, we can just collapse into each other and grieve, forge a new life together - in peace, much needed peace.

That being said, I can't avoid writing. It builds up in my chest as rumblings of anxiety unless I allow it to flow out at least in little trickles for now. So, maybe I will try short blurbs each day. Nothing special, just tidbits of the immense emotions sweeping through our lives. 

I've been daily contemplating God, energy, and connections -- paths that are woven together, and coincidences which are not.

Last Monday, I was handed Emily Rapp's memoir, The Still Point of the Turning World, in which Rapp chronicles her journey through grief and "mortal love" after finding out her nine-month old son, Ronan, had Tay-Sachs disease, an untreatable genetic condition whose victims usually survive only one to three years. She lived through love, knowing she would lose the very pulse of her existence. 

I remember happening upon her blog when Ronan was still alive, February 5, 2012. A friend had sent me a link to Rapp's article at titled Transformation and Transcendence: The Power of Female Friendship. My friend told me "There is more, but its a tough read, knowing you have kids and all..." But, she continued to lead me to Little Seal: Ronan's Blog. Heart wrenching for any reader but, for some reason, it tore my heart apart. I felt a compulsion to write. So, I scribbled down the following in about 10 minutes, in February of 2012. I'm still mentally exploring the Why? And, it only perpetuates my exploration of "God," as I work through Ben's death. 


My God, My Child 


I question you, this child of me, as

your skin nuzzles against mine.

This God of which you speak has given,

yet taketh away.

But you speak of Him, with each hand


at my fingers, comfort for you. And

for me a reminder that

there will come a Day.


This God, he has spoken to me too,

and he has called himself a child.

You, dear,

and father, are my God – and you speak

so gently.


Through nightly whispers I hear Him,

touch you, caress your skin.

This God of Uncertainty,

forcing met to question what I have found

as Suffering.


But, this God gives Life,

through each warm breath I feel

against my skin, it is Life

for with this suffering, I find existence,

we breathe, together, cadence.

Speak to me dear child,

with your cries.

Mixing with mine.


For I embrace, tightly,

you, this Time,

through Him, we See

a meaning in this suffering,

and it is called

Living. Through you

my God, my Child.


- February 5, 2012