Los Peterson

I've been debating all day about whether or not to write about this. Don't read it if you're feeling sensitive today. I won't be offended. It's just that sometimes we have wonderful days and sometimes we have sad, hard, difficult days. There's a reason we have both.

Today was the funeral of baby Beatrice. She's the daughter of two of our dearest friends out here in NYC. She lived 8 weeks and died in her mother's arms last Tuesday night. It was only the third time she'd ever gotten to hold her. Beatrice was born with a genetic disorder called Schwachman-Diamond Syndrome.

And now that I'm a parent I wonder is there any greater loss than the loss of a child? No. I don't think there is. It's not that I don't love my husband or my parents or my siblings or any of my other relatives or friends. It's just that there is no greater love than the love a parent has for a child. There just isn't. It's more than biological - it's spiritual. Looking squarely at what would without a doubt be my absolute greatest fear and nightmare, my first desire is to turn away and rationalize the many ways that we are safe from this unthinkable catastrophe. I don't want to look. I don't want to know. But I want to be there for our friends, so I have to.

Her funeral was beautiful. In her short life Beatrice inspired incredible acts of love and charity: friends, family, nurses, doctors, complete strangers all were changed and effected by her. It's amazing how someone so tiny and new can have such a tremendous impact on the world and leave such an expansive void in her absence. We love our friends so much. I can't tell you how much I wish they didn't have to endure this. I wish Bea had lived and been healthy. I wish for them all of that I am having with Gunnar. They are hurting so much right now.

Knowing what to say is the hardest thing. And the religious clichés of "she's in a better place now" or "this is part of God's plan," are sweet and true but completely wrong to say to anyone going through a loss so profound. Most of the time we say those things to make ourselves feel better not realizing that they don't help and sometimes even hurt the one we're trying to comfort. It's easier to say those things. It's harder to listen and listen and let them lean and be present with them in their pain. It's harder to endure with them through the weeks and months and years that they will mourn her death.

Losing a child must be one of the greatest tests of faith. It's one thing to believe in God and another thing to have faith in Him, but it's an entirely different thing to live that faith in the midst of tragedy. In my religion we believe that through the Savior, families can be together forever. Not just for this life, but for eternity. I can't tell you what a comfort that is to me and what it must be to our friends. Faith in this doesn't necessarily dull the pain of death. It doesn't lessen the sting it or make it easier. It only gives the hope of reprieve. It lets them know that someday the deep, inconsolable pain they bear will be gone and that someday will be when they get to hold their sweet Beatrice again.

I hugged and kissed Gunnar probably too much today. By evening he was pushing my arms away and dodging and wriggling to escape my smooching lips. I couldn't help it though. Today was one of those sad, hard, difficult days.