To lose a child
Last night, Cayden was sleeping away upstairs when my phone burst into its upbeat ringtone “Dance on the Stage.” For a split second, I smiled and looked around for her little pumping fists and gap-toothed smile – she loves it when my phone rings. When I realized she wasn’t there, my heart dropped for a second and I breathed a prayer of thanks that my daughter was only asleep, and, Lord willing, I would get the chance to witness her little dance party the next time my phone rang. Maybe that’s how it feels. When your child is gone. It’s the song on the radio that your kid used to dance to. It’s the thing they would have ordered at McDonald's. It’s driving over a bump and instinctively looking in the rear view mirror to only see an empty backseat. Lately, I have been struggling to find the words to say in a world full of grief. Miscarriages, still births, strange diseases and school shootings. A couple of weeks ago, my grandmother offered me this advice: “Wit