How Losing My Daughter Changed My Faith

[cbayer]

http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2014/06/15/how-losing-my-daughter-changed-my-faith.html

06.15.14
Kyle Cupp

After Vivian died, I could no longer say what God meant to me. Instead, I had to learn to live with questions that defy answer.

On special occasions or whenever the mood takes us, my wife, two children, and I drive down a gravel road north of our church and turn into a flat square drive that surrounds a cemetery. We park the car on the south side, before a sidewalk that leads to a section of grave markers much smaller than the others. Our children usually run ahead of us—they know the way—while my wife and I process solemnly, hand-in-hand, to the ground where our daughter Vivian rests.

Some days we come just to visit, to say a few words or to stand still and silent. Other days we bring replacement flowers and a new stuffed animal, which my wife ties to the vase to keep it in place. Sometimes, when the sun is warm and the wind is relatively calm, we set a blanket down for a picnic. Our children sit for a time and eat, but they’re usually quick to rise and run about the place.

We seldom meet other mourners when we come here, but we know they come. Signs of their own family rituals remain after them: assorted flowers, toy cars lined along the grass, baby dolls dressed in blue or pink, cuddly bunnies with only the wind and stone to cuddle. Most of the graves in Babyland have a marker, made of bronze and marble, naming the deceased and telling, in too few words, something of their brief lives. We do not grieve alone.

I have my own ritual in these moments of quiet routine. Holding my wife and listening to our children play, I try to remember the day we shared with Vivian or to picture her close by, standing with us or running about, laughing with her siblings. I try to make her present, with memory or imagination, hopeful that our little remembrance will be for her a little resurrection. I don’t always succeed, but even when my daughter remains distant, the smell of the air, the caress of the wind, and the song of the birds usually leave me refreshed.

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[roguevalley]

1. she knows they are there. Everyone's grief is their own. I wish them peace.