I have one granddaughter. A namesake of my mother. And when she smiles at me, my heart is reduced to a puddle.
Last night, however, the puddle was filled with tears.
This tiny seven month old bundle and we had a two hour date, so mommy could have a break. The first hour went very well, wreathed in smiles, eating and playing, and snuggling.
And then it hit her. She wanted her mommy.
And the crying began. And the rocking, and jiggling, and singing, and pacing and many whispers of reassurance that yes, really, mommy would return.
But consolation was not so easily received. Distracted for moments, and then a fresh resurgence of grief. How can one reason with a seven month old?
And her cries moved me. And in my feelings of helplessness, I joined her briefly. Two of us crying together; my hubby just shaking his head.
In this burst of deeply felt emotion, I knew that I was crying for my own mom. Grieving again, remembering how we walked with her a year ago as spring sprung at hospice house, celebrating her last Easter together in the hospice gardens.
And like my little granddaughter, there are times I cannot be consoled.
Even though I know, I believe I will see her again, at times it seems unreal. I cannot call her, or see her. I pruned my roses alone, wishing for her advice, thinking of all the times we worked in the garden together. I wrap myself in the quilts she made, thinking of how she wrapped so many with her love.
And as I wrapped my arms around little S my tears mingling with hers, I am thankful for this gift. And when mommy returned, all was again right in her world.
And that is the promise of hope. Of things unseen that will come to pass. And that those who mourn will be comforted.