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Grief is not something I have spent much of my young adult life thinking about. Although distant relatives have passed, I’ve only had one close friend leave this earth to meet Jesus. At least, until a couple of weeks ago, when another close family friend passed away suddenly. Once my shock subsided, the sting of her death really hit me; tears would come and go as I spoke with the family, and as little things would remind me of her. The more I have processed her death, the more I have been moved to action.
“My name is Mitchell,” he said gently, locking eyes with mine, his hands grasping the small paper plate we had brought. My daughter waited nearby under a drooping tree branch, unsure if she should come any closer. My face registered surprise at his lucid state and the warmth in his eyes, although I tried to hide it.
Winter’s grey light began to sneak through the window as I sat by her crib holding the thermometer in my hand that read 100.2. My husband was preparing to lead worship next door at our church and wasn’t able to help. I’d barely slept, I hadn’t showered or eaten yet, another child was sick in the next room, and now I was worried about my youngest with medical needs. Hot tears welled up because it all felt like more than I could handle.
As I listened to a message from a friend, my heart grew heavy. I could feel the sadness in her words as she talked about a difficult situation she was walking through, and though I knew I couldn’t make her pain go away, I longed to offer comfort. So, doing the best I could, I replied and let her know I was thinking of her and praying for her.