Beautiful Suffering

I kneel next to her and ask if she has any questions.

She can’t look at me, but she nods her head ‘no’.

I ask if she’d like to hold his hand. Her eyes are wide. I can see her trying to make sense of this place.

She risks a sideways glance at me, wondering if I’m trustworthy, and nods a tentative ‘yes’.

I take her tiny hand in mine and guide it to her father’s.

My eyes fill with tears as I watch her little six-year-old body process the way it feels: cool. clammy. limp from paralytics.

I tell her it’s OK to squeeze it. “Even though he can’t squeeze back, he’ll know you’re here”, I say.

I wonder if that’s true.

I hope in the deepest part of my heart that it is.

In this moment, it feels as though this is the thing that will finally break my heart into a million irreparable pieces.

It’s too much.

But beauty and suffering are inseparable; eternally married.

I watch his family rally in support around each other as the reality of losing him looms closer.

They are kind. They are patient.

They are full of gratitude for us and each other.

They are compassionate and loving.

It is beautiful.

I ask them to share what he was like; the kind of person he was. We agree that listening to the stories reminds us of the way we can choose to live. We want to live a life that leaves people talking about us the way we’re talking about him.

It is beautiful.

I watch my kind and compassionate coworkers each bear a little of the burden.

It is beautiful.

From suffering, beauty is born. And from beauty is born suffering.

As I let the hot water soothe my tired body and retreat to the comfort of my bed, I let there be tears.

And I honor them.

As tears of suffering. Tears of beauty.

And as they fall gently down my cheeks, I remind myself again that they are inseparable - beauty and suffering - and equally valuable; and that only by experiencing the depth of them both can I engage fully in the experience of my humanity.