This morning I attended the funeral of a child, a 10 year old boy who died in a tragic accident. I am shaken, my own heart hurting in a way that leaves me entirely unable to fathom the pain of his mother. All day I’ve been reaching for something I can grasp that could possibly be a comfort to her. It was a Christian service, filled with the assurance that this child is in Heaven, that his life is eternal, that we will see him again. I believe, and I know his mother does too. But the graveside portion of the service was private and as I imagine her there I know in my heart, the heart of a mother, that her faith is frozen by the agony of her loss. I keep asking myself what could ever possibly warm her.
When I close my eyes though, what plays through my mind are images from the slide show at the service and I realize she may already have what she needs, if only she can see it shining through her tears. What she has is childhood. As adults, childhood is a collection of pictures in the mind, blurry around the edges, certain ones shimmering in full color, with scents and sounds woven around them. Sometimes one comes into focus and floods us with pure joy. This mother created childhood for her son, and it’s his forever gift right back to her.
Seashells and cowboy hats, Santa’s lap and Sunday clothes. School pictures, family portraits, snapshots of vacations and celebrations. Childhood created with infinite love and captured click by click was displayed for us today, and it was perfect in the way that only childhood can be. Each photo of an adventure, a milestone, an ordinary moment, a vibrant grin, was part of the complete picture, and the complete picture was Love. God gave this boy a mother, and with His love she crafted the picture piece by piece. In the midst of the messy, doubt-inducing, exhausting job of mothering, she couldn’t help but have felt the potent, life-affirming magic of the childhood she was giving to her son.
Childhood is life’s most forgiving time, when the mischief that tries a mother’s patience transforms in moments to the story that makes us laugh; when grass-stained knees and report card C’s are made all better by clean pajamas and a carefully printed “I love you Mommy;” when our home and our arms are the center of the world. It doesn’t last forever. I have a grown daughter and a teenage son quickly traveling towards independence. My youngest son just turned 12, that in-between age where childhood tugs as the teenage years beckon. Gone is my time to create childhood. As each new stage in the lives of my children unfolds, it becomes more difficult to call clearly to mind the stage before. The precious moments of their childhood mingle with memories of my own, sweet but elusive.
As this mother mourns for her son, with the heartbreaking knowledge that she will never see him grow up, what I see waiting to be polished into a glow that warms her is the gift of childhood. This dear child was her baby, the youngest of five sons. I trust the others will lead full lives, taking her on journeys she hasn’t yet imagined. She will become a trusted advisor, a proud supporter, a safe harbor, and each new experience will take center stage, placing the memories of their younger days in the wings. But her baby has given her eternal childhood, those memories not eclipsed. He is captured there in that perfect place she and God created for him, big blue eyes, silly endearing smile, warm little arms wrapped around her heart. If she can look at these gathered moments and feel his arms there, know the joy she gave him, I pray her faith will burn bright.
