life is messy and imperfect and sometimes hurts

                                                                Photo Credit: Aubrey Stout

Minnie died the other day. My husband said the playroom smelled funny. He inspects and finds our daughters pet hamster breathless and still.

My husband's first instinct was to protect the kids. Protect them from the sadness they would surely feel. Protect from the emptiness they would feel when they realized she wouldn't be coming back. Maybe a part of him was protecting himself from seeing their pain. He knows death all to well. He lost his dad at the ripe age of 5 years old, and recently had to say good-bye to his grandfather. Death for him has a sting, a painful one that is so much easier if swept under the rug.

He whispered and motioned for me to lock the playroom door while he emptied her cage before they could see her limp body.

We only had a minute at the most before they would start wondering what mommy and daddy were whispering about. Only a moment to decide how we should approach the sting they would feel from death for the first time and the questions they would inevitably have no matter the approach.

I paused in that quick moment and thought that this could be an opportunity to teach our children just how fragile life is and how we must cherish the time we had with Minnie and {have} with each other. Life is messy and imperfect and sometimes hurts.

Mark took my lead. I turned and called out to the kids to come talk to me, I had something to tell them.With not a care in the world they sang and skipped their way into the kitchen. I tried to be delicate, but in the end you just sort of have to blurt it out,

"Minnie is no longer with us, she has died."

And for the first time death stung their heart, and the gravity of a life lost was felt.

My daughter immediately tensed up and shook with grief, and was trying to fight off her tears of sadness. Her pain was visual from head to toe, she wasn't saying anything, she didn't have to.

My son needed a moment to really let the news sink in. You could not see his pain, unless you looked closely to a stream of tears running from his eyes.

My husband and I embraced them, and tried to tell them all the right things, all the good things about our pet, and that they don't have a long lifespan, and that she'll always be in our hearts. That's she's gone to heaven. We were grasping for any words that would somehow lighten the burden of that sting.

The grasping for words turned into a conversation that I never imagined having with my 9 and 6 year old children. I really wanted them to feel and understand the sting. I wanted them to appreciate life and the time we have with each other. I wanted them to understand what daddy felt when he had to say good-bye to his daddy, and more recently his grandpa, their great grandpa. And for the first time I think they really got it.

In the dark of the night, we took to the light of the moon, and with a few flashlights in hand we made our way to the yard where we would give Minnie a funeral and bury her. With a rock as her grave marker we said our good-byes and prayed for her. I got to peer into the hearts of my children, when we asked if they wanted to pray out loud. Each of them struggling and grieving in their own way.

My daughter usually quiet, shy, and reserved was eager to send her words to heaven for her beloved pet. I honestly don't remember the words she said, but I know that they came from her heart, the best way a 6 year old can do, in the midst of a stinging heart. I pray that she'll remain transparent from her head to her toe and that I'll never have to guess how she's feeling as she grows into a teenager. That even if she's not saying any words her body will continue to do the talking and that I'll know exactly what she needs.

My boisterous, never silent, always has something to say son, refused to publicly say anything. I'm not sure what he was afraid of saying out loud. Did he think he would say the wrong things, did he think he wouldn't pray right, or was he just afraid, or too sad to say anything? This makes me wonder how I'll ever get him to tell me anything as he gets older. Those days are coming. He's on the cusp of becoming a young man. My impression on him has an expiration date. Nonetheless, his pain and sadness were evident despite him being speechless. He told me exactly how he was feeling with his head down, and even in how adamantly he refused to speak. I know that his words went to heaven too.

I pray that no matter where life leads them that I'll always be able to find ways to peer into their heart. That even in the moments they can't find words to speak that they'll always show me from head to toe. In a quiet stream of tears, a trembling body, a refusal to speak, a stomping of feet, a slammed door, a loving or spiteful note. I suspect this list will forever be ongoing. Because life is messy and imperfect and sometimes hurts.