Fragile

I went to a funeral this morning for a three-year-old boy who ran between the tires of a tractor. My heart is broken. Not mine, not mine, not mine, it thuds hollowly.

Not my child, but my grief. Every mother's grief.

Three weeks ago he was at my house, driving toy tractors across the living room floor with my boys and serving pretend birthday cake in the little kitchen. He didn't want to go home, and his mother told him they could come back to play soon. Last week, he wasn't with his mom and she said he was with his dad; "He would spend every moment in the tractor if he could." On Saturday, in the midst of getting ready for a mini-campout in the pasture, I got the phone call.

The boys were so excited about camping. "We's not seep in ours beds? We seep in ours tent?" Evan kept asking as though it were too good too be possible. As much as I wanted to curl up in a ball in my room, we pressed on with our adventure. After the boys had eaten their weight in marshmallows, they went to sleep while Matt and I sat by the fire. The stars were shining. How can it be that we have had such a lovely evening, while Jacob's family is devasted? I wondered. Matt kissed my forehead and whispered, this happens every night. Every night. Every mother's grief. Every mother's prayers.