A friend offered her congratulations for our anniversary. Her well wishes were sincere, and yet there was a wistfulness there too. Her marriage ended before she expected. She seemed uncertain about whether she had tried hard enough. Together they have wonderful children, and for a ribbon of years things were sunny. Not perfect, mind you, though she never expected as much. But the ribbon began to unravel until there was a heap of pain and no clear path to reconciliation. 

 

I thought about mothers whose children have died too soon. By which I mean before their mothers. Does the heartache of death obliterate what once was alive? Does the shadow of loss have the power to negate the gift that is a child? A marriage? 

 

I once read a book by a woman whose son died in a car crash. She was visited by anger, and despair, and remorse, though they did not stay past their time. Then she heard a small voice in her head. 

 

"If I had offered you this child on the condition that he only be yours for twenty years, would you have said 'yes'?"

 

She knew. Yes. YES! Having this effervescent young boy for two decades had enriched her life in immeasurable ways. His laughter, his soft heart, his easy candor, his habit of singing around the house had been her joy. It was just that she expected to have earned the right to keep him for longer. Much longer. 

 

She wondered if she could have soaked up his presence more deeply, had she known the clock was ticking. In the depth of her soul she knew the answer. 

 

No. 

 

She had cherished him, worried over him, been annoyed by him, hugged him, served his favorite foods, held him in her arms. Now he was gone. 

 

So was my friend's marriage. 

 

I do not "deserve" to have my marriage last more than someone else's. It it not somehow a measure of my worthiness, that we have made it to the forty year mile marker. Neither can I take credit somehow that my children are still breathing. 

 

Years ago John did a memorial service for a baby. He was born with congenital heart problems that kept him in the hospital for most of his two years on this planet. Once a nurse took him outside in a wagon, so that he could feel the sunshine. His mother became incredibly well educated on the workings of the circulatory system, and was his advocate at every step. But in the end a nurse made a simple mistake and the baby that had endured multiple surgeries died. 

 

The head of pediatrics at one of the most prestigious hospitals in the nation came to the service. His accent was thick, but that did not matter. Every ear was poised to listen. 

 

"I thought I knew medicine, and then I met Eric. He should have died, so many times, the odds were against him. But he didn't." He paused to compose himself. "There is a saying. The life in the lily that blooms for just a day is the same as what lives in a redwood for a hundred years."