A Year of Morning Thanks
For grace I do not know
I never really saw the child. I remember seeing his face only dimly in a three-inch screen on a monitor, one of a pair, that his grandma, an old friend, watched attentively while we talked a floor beneath the bedroom. I'd never seen tv monitors for babies--my daughter had had an audio monitor, as I remember--but sitting there watching pictures of the kids--there were two monitors because there were two of them, twins--struck me as being, well, somewhat overly vigilant, typical of today's helicopter parents.
I didn't say that, because their grandma couldn't take her eyes off those monitors the whole time we visited--the three of us, grandpa and grandma and I, old friends sitting around the dining room table. Besides, I'm a grandpa myself, and I'm not sure whether grandparents have any more important role than vigilance--and a little fauning.
That was a year ago, just about 750 miles away. The twins weren't much more than babies, much loved babies. I know. I'm a grandpa.
A couple days ago, one of those twins had a seizure while he was playing at his grandparents' home. Nothing out of the ordinary was happening, but suddenly he simply went down. An ambulance was called, was there in four minutes, reports say, and the child was rushed to the hospital. The little boy never recovered. Yesterday, he died--the child whose face I barely remember in a monitor his grandma watched so scrupulously. Something went suddenly and tragically wrong inside him, and today he's gone.
Just Sunday, in a storm of horrors, a sign announcing the opening of Pumpkinland, made my day. The thought of putting my grandkids in the Tracker and taking them over there brought some joy and peace to a morning otherwise streaked in blood. The mere thought of my grandkids' smiles at Pumpkinland blew away the darkness.
Today, my friends, a grandpa and grandma who know that joy, put one of their precious, blessed grandkids to rest.
I know just about every worn line that can be offered at a time like this--that this was all in God's plan, that at least they had him for 18 months, that he's somewhere now in a better place. There are tons of those lines, dozens. I know 'em.
But what brings me comfort when I think of those vigilant grandparents sitting at the dining room table a year ago and watching those monitors, and when I try to imagine the depth of their grief today is that others have made it through the valley of the shadow of death, that others look back and find grace when it seemed that grace itself had left the building altogether. What gives me hope for those old friends in the midst of their grandparent grief is God almighty does, in fact, sit at his table with a billion monitors in front of him, and what he sees on the screens he somehow answers with love.
I've never been anywhere near to where my good friends are this morning. To imagine I could be is beyond my power. But I know--from those who have been--that there is grace. I don't know that grace, but others confess that it's real. I wish it for my friends today. I pray they feel it in their hearts and in their bones.
This morning I'm thankful for a grace I do not know.
And then there's this. My grandson is coming for lunch, for pancakes I'll mix up myself. This morning, when he comes, he'll make me cry.
That was a year ago, just about 750 miles away. The twins weren't much more than babies, much loved babies. I know. I'm a grandpa.
A couple days ago, one of those twins had a seizure while he was playing at his grandparents' home. Nothing out of the ordinary was happening, but suddenly he simply went down. An ambulance was called, was there in four minutes, reports say, and the child was rushed to the hospital. The little boy never recovered. Yesterday, he died--the child whose face I barely remember in a monitor his grandma watched so scrupulously. Something went suddenly and tragically wrong inside him, and today he's gone.
Just Sunday, in a storm of horrors, a sign announcing the opening of Pumpkinland, made my day. The thought of putting my grandkids in the Tracker and taking them over there brought some joy and peace to a morning otherwise streaked in blood. The mere thought of my grandkids' smiles at Pumpkinland blew away the darkness.
Today, my friends, a grandpa and grandma who know that joy, put one of their precious, blessed grandkids to rest.
I know just about every worn line that can be offered at a time like this--that this was all in God's plan, that at least they had him for 18 months, that he's somewhere now in a better place. There are tons of those lines, dozens. I know 'em.
But what brings me comfort when I think of those vigilant grandparents sitting at the dining room table a year ago and watching those monitors, and when I try to imagine the depth of their grief today is that others have made it through the valley of the shadow of death, that others look back and find grace when it seemed that grace itself had left the building altogether. What gives me hope for those old friends in the midst of their grandparent grief is God almighty does, in fact, sit at his table with a billion monitors in front of him, and what he sees on the screens he somehow answers with love.
I've never been anywhere near to where my good friends are this morning. To imagine I could be is beyond my power. But I know--from those who have been--that there is grace. I don't know that grace, but others confess that it's real. I wish it for my friends today. I pray they feel it in their hearts and in their bones.
This morning I'm thankful for a grace I do not know.
And then there's this. My grandson is coming for lunch, for pancakes I'll mix up myself. This morning, when he comes, he'll make me cry.
1 comment:
Thank you for this post, Dr. Schaap. I am in tears.
Yes, there is grace, but the sadness sure lingers...
Prayers for your friends.
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