An invitation to tenderness

Sometimes it hits me unexpectedly. This emptiness deep inside. A moment of connection spurs me into a place of longing and tenderness.

My seven year old son asked me to come. He told me that the cat was really sad and that I needed to go and see her. I was busy, but I was compelled to go to her. When we found her she didn't come out to greet us. She just stayed where she was. Pacing, pleading, searching. We didn't know for sure but we thought that she had had kittens a few weeks earlier. In all of the busyness of moving, I had not been able to find them in the big barn, but in that moment I knew. I knew she had born kittens. She had nurtured them for a short time. I knew it now. But it was too late. They were gone. I will never know for sure what happened but it is likely that they fell prey to a nearby animal. I went to her and spoke words that felt hollow. I told her I was sorry and my heart swelled with compassion.

She eventually accepted my touch. I petted her softly and looked tenderly at her sad face. I knew that there was no comfort, but still there was love. I offered her the only thing I knew, my sadness and love.

As the day wore on, I could feel the sad places opening up inside of me. I could feel a stirring. An invitation to tenderness.

As I thought about the cat who lost her kittens, I remembered the tiny baby I had lost. It's and odd place of thanks and hurt when I remember her. I hardly even knew of her, yet she touched me heart. I carried her for only a short time, yet I treasured her. And even so, there are six treasures right before my eyes. These gifts that I shepherd over. I am humbled by this moment and I reach into this labor of letting go.

There is a reason for the hurts that enter into our lives. Invitations into his heart. His heart that sees all of the pain of the world and does not crumble. His strong heart that will one day make all things right. Right now it hurts my childish heart to remember the kitty, and the tiny one, and all of the broken places I see. I crumble. And I am thankful that he holds me strong.

I went to bed with a deep sadness last night. I kept telling Ryan that I was sorry. If I said sorry enough then maybe it would make it better. It didn't. I wish I had known that she had them. I wish I could have protected them.

But there are some things we cannot know, some things we cannot control, some things we cannot make right. And yet there is hope.

Hope in the letting go. And hope in what is to come.