"Time and place forever"

“I don't believe that grief passes away. It has its time and place forever. More time is added to it; it becomes a story within a story. But grief and griever alike endure.”

― Wendell Berry, Jayber Crow

A year ago almost right now, a piece of Harper's heart stopped working, and a piece of our hearts stopped working too. Even 365 days later, thinking about that morning and the days that followed feels much like a kick in the gut. The initial impact knocks you over for certain, but even after you dust off and stand up, the ache remains, surprising you down the road, even when you start to think that maybe you are healed.

In my mind, Harper will always be a blond blue-eyed sprite with a cowlick on top. His hand will always fit into mine. His teeth will always be baby-teeth with a gap in front. He will always kindly side up for one more selfie. He will always be suspended in a moment in time. He will never know that I probably couldn't catch him in a footrace any longer. 

12 months later, I still don't really know how to answer when asked how many grandkids I have. My answer is three. But not every one asking polite questions wants to hear the explanation that could follow the seemingly simple reply. I want to tell folks about my first grandson, but that takes extra words and sometimes a bit of time. Death is so much a part of our lives, and yet, death is awkward sometimes, isn't it?

I took my grandkids to the playground this summer, and out of the blue, my three year old beauty unexpectedly blurted out to the kid in front of her, "My brother died." The kid looked at me, eyes a little bit wide and questioning, and shrugged. I kind of had to laugh. Because, waiting in line at the swing, what is a kid to do or say in reply? I can't tell you how many times I've said Harper's name when meaning to say one of the others. My mind just can't really re-program that piece. Harper will always be at the top of the order. 

By early summer, we learned why Harper died, at least, the physical reason. That was good news in a sense, because we all want resolution to unanswered questions. That was good news, because at least we could be sure that the other kids didn't share the same problem. But, the bigger questions, why the defect, why was the defect never detected, why did Harper have to die now, those queries will never know a good response. 

I have been asked by well-meaning people, "are they over his death?" No. We will never be "over" Harper. As Berry wrote, "grief and griever alike endure." The sudden loss of this precious one from our world has caused us to experience this life differently. The piece that Harper leaves empty will never be replaced. Our family now knows first-hand how unpredictable and even short this life may be. We can not take for granted our time together. And yes, we are more inclined to anxiety over things we never considered worrying about before that day last year. Yet, even knowing the pain of loss, I would never trade the joy of the time that we have together.

This anniversary of Harper leaving us will always come during the Advent season. And yet, surprisingly perhaps, the message of Advent, the waiting, comes as a great comfort to me. I turn those familiar words from O Come O Come Emmanuel over in my head, "Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel, shall come to thee, O Israel." I can rejoice because I believe the words of Isaiah that were later repeated at the beginning of Matthew: 

All this took place to fulfill what the Lord had spoken by the prophet: 

“Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son,

    and they shall call his name Immanuel”

(which means, God with us).  

(Matthew 1:22-23)

"God with us."
God with us in rejoicing; God with us in mourning.
God with us in darkness; God with us in light.

And in time and place and memories sweet, Harper remains with us too.