Grieving: Dreams Can Bring Closure

I belong to a particular club that no parent wants to belong to. The one titled “I lost a child.”  It really doesn’t matter whether it was a miscarriage, an infant, a toddler, a teen, or an adult. The manner of death doesn’t matter. It all goes into that one melting-pot from which we parents wail in anguish – ‘My child is dead.

The strangest things can trigger long suppressed, even forgotten memories.

In the faraway country of my birth, my brother’s granddaughter got married. I’ve never met the young woman, probably never will. I asked for photos, lots of them, to share the moment.

As I look at photo after photo, the tiny video her mother sent, the harsh reality set in. I will never see my daughter walk down the aisle. I’ll never see the father-daughter dance or see her new husband fold her in his arms. The cutting of the cake, the joy on her face as she enters this latest part of her life.

I won’t share wisdom from a long-married life to smooth over the rough patches when they come. The phone won’t ring five times a day as she tries out some complicated recipe that won’t cooperate. I won’t get an ecstatic scream – “I’m pregnant” in my ear as I answer the phone, and I won’t get to hold a tiny bundle and hear a tired voice saying, “I’m naming her after you.”

It Simply Was Not Meant to Be

The sadness and the pain never leave. It lurks in a unique place. You learn to live with it. Eventually, the memories become a treasure. You take a favorite photo and set it down in front of you. You talk to her, reminding her of times past. Cry a little, laugh a little, then pack it away until the next time.

You may even dream of your child, and those are the best. And that is why I consider myself blessed that the wedding of my young relative triggered a dream visit from my daughter. It hasn’t happened in quite a while.

Dreams of my Daughter

It’s eighteen years now that she passed away, leaving behind all the pain and mental anguish this earthly life had held. She was only eighteen.

I watched her from a distance. Shoulders slumped and chewing on a pen, she was in her own little world, comfortable in her reading spot on the lawn. One leg folded under her, the other stretched sideways. A big toe digs into the grass, grinding round and round in a habit retained from childhood. Chicken Little and the sky would fall, and she would not notice. Such has always been the power of books.

Behind me, voices rose and fell as chattering students lined up to register for something. Or maybe they were lining up at the cafeteria, it being pizza lunch and all.

She was caught up in her own little world, where she felt safe. Alone. As usual. But we had to talk. It was important. A light rain started, and I got up and went over to her.

You really must decide where you want to go to university,” I said. “Dad has been asking whether you’ve decided and applied.”

She shook her head. Got up, folded her mat, and followed me to the small pagoda where I’d sat reading. I turned, my arms opening to envelope that tiny girl-woman, smothering her with kisses and cuddles.

And then I woke. My arms are empty. My pillow was wet.

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me (2 Corinthians 12:9).