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Twelve years ago, when my son was a week short of turning two, my mother had been living with us for a few months. She slept on the floor above where my son slept, where my wife's and my bedroom was, as well. Mom had had multiple strokes, and had been in therapy for several months before we brought her to live with us. It was clear she loved my son and he returned that, sharing in her appreciation of him.

At roughly 4:30 on the morning of December 18th, I heard my son get out of his crib (a first, ever) and move quickly past our open bedroom door. I got out of bed to follow him, wherever he was headed, but I heard that he was making his way up the carpeted stairs.

At the top of those stairs I caught up with him. He'd never done that before, in the night or in the day, but he was quick, moving with apparent purpose. If he'd've gone another six feet, he would've been at my mother's door, could've opened it and possibly awakened her, I thought. Better to let her sleep. Ha! I brought the lad back to his crib, admonished him to go back to sleep and did likewise.

When the home health care worker arrived about 7:30am, she found my mother had already passed, though not too long before, maybe a few hours.

I think my son and mother shared something, perhaps particularly that morning, but perhaps more than can be captured with words. I don't know how that works, but he never again made such a trek.

What a touching story. I bet they did share something indescribable.

When my daughter died in my womb as we prepared to induce labor my body shook and I knew she had died. Almost like my soul was cut in two and one half had to go on without the other. A friend of mine later said she had experienced the same thing when her child was stillborn.

Our daughter died on Jan 12, 1993. That Christmas had been spent preparing for her birth so Christmas and Januaries have always been bittersweet for me since then. Even when I’m not consciously thinking about it, the melancholy sinks in and I remember why I’m sad. It’s like my body remembers, always.

A sword pierced Mary’s heart, as she lost her Son so my longings to be with my daughter and yours to be with your mother (and all our other loved ones) can be fulfilled through His death. It’s all bitter and sweet, all together. As the Christmas carol says, “The hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee (Bethlehem) tonight.” Life and death is all kind of rolled into one, with both joy and sorrow tied into all of it.

I don’t know if that makes sense.