You write to me.

Your children have died,
before they were born,
before they could walk,
before they turned 12,
before their Prom,
before their babies were born,
before it was time,
before you were ready,
and who would ever be ready?

Your marriages have died.
He left. She left.
He gave up. She gave in.
It was over before it started.
She was gone before it ended.
You are widows with husbands,
married to fathers who aren’t dads,
and how did this ever happen to you?

Your parents have died.
Suddenly.
Unexpectedly.
At the end of a long battle.
She won the fight and went to heaven.
He lost the battle and went to heaven.
They are alive, but their minds are empty,
which is worse because they are here but not really here.

You’ve lost your jobs.
Your husband.
Your wife.
Your health.
Your hope.

You write to me. I read your words. And I am thankful you write to me, thankful you have found someone to tell, because sometimes saying it is the hardest part. To speak into the darkness is the first step toward light.

You write to me.
And I hold your words, as you hold mine.
And I pray for you, as you pray for me.
And I get you, as you get me.

And it’s real and true and beautiful.
And I thank you.

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