Sam has seen me cry more this week than he has his entire life (and I spent 5 of those days away from him in Seattle). My college roommate and her husband (who happens to be a childhood friend) experienced a kind of tragedy I can't even wrap my mind around. Kari was 38 weeks pregnant and suffered a fall which led to their little Margot June being born still due to a ruptured placenta. Kari herself was fighting for life and while she's now stable, she's still in the hospital on dialysis hoping her kidneys will regain full function. You can read more about their story here and find ways to support them here.
Sam has been frustrated and confused by my tears. He was with me when I first heard the news and kept asking, "Why does your voice sound like that, Mommy?" Just yesterday I was crying...again... "Why did you make this noise, Mommy?" He asked, copying my obnoxious sniffle.
I've answered him honestly, "I'm crying because I'm so sad, Sam." Inevitably he gets mad and says, "No! Mommys don't cry."
"They do. Daddys cry, too." I've explained, but he won't have any of it.
When Sam cries, the first words out of his mouth are normally, "Wipe my tears!" Which is both sweet and pathetic. And it's not just that he wants his tears wiped, he wants his tears wiped with the blankie that he sleeps with. It's the ultimate soothing technique.
Last night I was reminded of Psalm 56:8 "You keep track of all my sorrows. You have collected all my tears in your bottle. You have recorded each one in your book." I was eager to share this with Sam the next morning. I thought he would appreciate the concrete imagery. Nope. The bottle didn't hold a candle to his blankie. I am grateful, however, for the one who has taken time to pull out the extra bottles needed for this past week.
I seldom blog about things that are personal in the vulnerable sense of the word. I normally stick to the silly. But this afternoon I would invite you to join me in prayer for the Jacksons. It's going to be a long road ahead of them with many, many bottles.