A Letter to My Son About Grief

Dear Oldest Child,

I know we have already asked a lot from you.  We moved you across the globe.  You said goodbye to all you had known.  You entered into a place that never quite felt like home.  The dust on your feet, falling asleep under the heaviness of a mosquito net, forced to be in spaces and places that felt uncomfortable for so many reasons.  I know you have dreams too.  You wish you could be a soccer star, but you haven’t had the chance to be on a real team.  You wish you could ski down mountains, but there is no snow where we moved.  You wish so many things and we have kept you from them as we’ve embarked on a journey towards our own choices and calling, with you along for the ride.  And you have grieved. Often silently, sometimes loudly, and we have felt the weight of it.  We have grieved family gatherings and playgrounds.  We have grieved easy outings and libraries and oh so many things.  You have been so patient.  We have counted down days to come back to your home and native land.  You have made the lists, stated the hopes, and built your expectations for this special short time, this one gap where you could enjoy all the things you remember and long for.  This time when you could take off the foreign face and be familiar.  A place where you could play with your childhood friends in our cul-de-sac, and enjoy all the things your hearts have longed for.  We had made oh so many plans in those 2 years for this time now.  Just as you got comfortable in this new place, we had to bring you suddenly back to where all your hoped lay.

But nothing is as you hoped.  You couldn’t stay in the house of your earliest memories.  

And now here we are.  I had hoped this day wouldn’t come, but here it is:

You don’t get to go to summer camp.  I know this is your only chance in maybe 5 years.  I know I have told you it will change your life as it changed mine.  I know I told you it would be one of the best things in your childhood, and now you cannot go.  I know that’s the last thing that you were hoping for, after everything else has fallen through.  Now it’s not happening either.

You have grieved more than most kids.  It’s not really fair, you’re right.  How could it be- that we could be so close to all that you had missed, and just when we needed a break from all that was unfamiliar, all that was difficult and uncomfortable, you are thrown back into the fire of uncertainty and confusion.  This isn’t the home you left.  This isn’t the childhood of your dreams.  It has changed.

But dear one, it’s not over yet.  God hasn’t changed.  Not even a little bit.  My childhood will not be your childhood.  My experiences will not be your experiences.  I know this feels like too much to ask of a 10 year old, but I promise this will build in you a resilience that is real and will steer you well in the days ahead.  I know your hopes are crushed, and I feel your pain, but your childhood will be richer than you think because of our extravagant, loving Father, who will give you all the experiences you need to become the person He is shaping you to be.   

This is hard.  It’s another loss on a mountain of them.  I am crying my eyes out because it pains me so badly to see your pain. And He counts all of our tears mixed together, every one.  He has a bright future for you and He won’t let you down, and our faith will just have to grow stronger together.

I’m sorry.  We love you, we see your pain, and we’re here with you.

-Mom