In the almost year and a half since my son died, I have been deeply acquainted with loss and grief and all that they carry. I think the hardest part about a child being called home to heaven is that it seems to go against the natural order. Whether that little one was still in the womb, or lived months or years beyond it, we hope that they will have a full life span and it is shattering when that does not happen.
We love that little life from when we first find out about it. Then we quickly start thinking and planning. We wonder which family member they will resemble the most, or what their temperament might be like. We start thinking about names and making plans. As they grow we focus on how best to keep them comfortable, stimulate their brains and help them develop to their full potential.
My son Joey, my second child, was my kindred spirit. We could happily while away hours basking in each other’s presence. He loved to play with my hair and nibble my nose. I loved nuzzling him and kissing his pillowy cheeks. We loved to read piles of books, dance to classical music by the fireplace and go for walks beneath ancient trees. At exactly 10 months old, Joey passed away peacefully in his sleep. He was born with a rare disorder and the specialists realized how fatal it was only weeks before he passed. They told us what was happening and that there was no possible cure or treatment or clinical trial anywhere in the world. It was completely out of our hands and we knew it.
Joey lived his full life, just as God had planned for him. After he passed, I felt an excruciating physical withdrawal from not holding him or being with him. Yet, in this empty and desolate space something unexpected happened. Bit by bit, God moved in and became an increasingly important part of my life on every level. For the first time I felt that I really could not figure things out alone and I desperately needed him. I searched tirelessly for some understanding and peace, reading countless books and searching out experts in health, psychology, grief and faith. But I only started to find some of that elusive peace when I surrendered fully to him.
I learned for the first time what it means that Jesus said, “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you” (John 14:27). The peace he gives us truly can carry us through the absolute worst of times. In his peace there can be great stillness, calmness, acceptance and whatever else we might need.
The Surrender Novena that Jesus gave to Father Dolindo Ruotolo has been a lifeline to me. The unconditional love I felt in Joey’s presence, a reflection of the unfathomable depth of God’s love, has been my beacon. The months I carried Joey in my womb and then the months in my arms held more treasures than all my decades pre-motherhood.
Mementos of Joey.
Even when we have to say goodbye earlier than we want, it doesn’t impact the magnanimity of the gift. Each life is nothing short of a profound miracle, with more lovingly created details and nuances than we can comprehend. Yes, that gift may no longer be here on earth, but it WAS here. We got to love them and have our hearts expanded and our lives changed. One life lost can create a ripple of suffering, but it can also create shockingly strong ripples of inspiration, opened hearts and monumental deepening of faith.
We may no longer have their physical presence to relish or their smiles to warm us or their hands to hold, but we are still their family and they are still ours. Though they may be small, their prayers from heaven are mighty. If we let God hold us and guide us, and we let our children’s love lead us, there is no barrier to the joy and peace we can come to. Nor to the good we can do in their names.
Oct.15 is International Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. Gardens of Gethsemani Catholic Cemetery will hold a Pregnancy and Infant Loss Mass. The family event is from 2:30 p.m. to 4:30 p.m. and includes the Surrender Novena, candle lighting, and refreshments.
Brittany Garisto is a parishioner at Star of the Sea in Surrey.
