I hold you carefully in my arms, your little 3 year old body resting across my lap. I sing your bedtime song. Your eyes are closed, a tube is hanging out of your mouth, you were pronounced dead just 10 minutes prior.
I keep singing, knowing this will be the last time I will hold you on this earth. I run my hands through your golden hair, admire your long eye lashes. I am devastated.
Nothing can prepare me for this moment. No words will help. It just is.
I stop singing, holding you for a little longer, confronted with your distended body from medication that kept you alive.
I am a vestige of myself, an empty shell of a man gutted by tragedy. I have so little, I am helpless, beaten.
I cannot stay in this place, I face the truth as I gently pass Judah’s body to Christi, her face frozen in agony and shock.
So begins my new, unwanted normal. I know pain. I know what it feels like to really be alone. It isn’t scary but devoid of care or concern for the usual rhythms of life.
I will rebuild, but never the same. I will always be broken, but held together by a gracious God who sees my pain and responds.