When you have to bury your children, it doesn’t matter how long they’ve been gone, you never stop missing them. My husband, Myles, and I lost both our daughters. Linda’s alcoholism brought her life to a tragic end at age 45. Renee passed away at 48 after a long fight with breast cancer.
It’s been more than eight years since our girls died, but some days grief still hits me so hard, it’s as if I just kissed them goodbye for the last time.
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Like the other day. When Myles saw me staring at our girls’ pictures on our mantel, he could tell what was troubling me. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, taking me in his arms. “We’re going to Bible study tonight. That always makes you feel better.”
That evening our pastor, his wife and their son greeted us in the fellowship hall. I hid my sadness behind a smile and returned their hugs.
Just as everyone took their seats, who should jump up on the table but the littlest member of the pastor’s family, their black cat, Blueberry (I have no idea why he wasn’t named Blackberry). He’s so friendly, he’s more like a puppy than a cat.
He went around the table and greeted the students one by one, nuzzling them to be petted. Each obliged, as usual. Then Blueberry came to me. I stroked his fur absently. Normally he would jump off the table with a swish of his tail and take his leave of our class once everyone had petted him. But that night he stretched out and lay down right in front of me.
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He stayed there for the entire hour of Bible study, lying still except for the occasional searching glance at me. His eyes would look deeply into mine as if he could see the sadness in my soul. Then his gaze would intensify, as if he had some message he wanted to impart.
Finally it came to me. “Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.” It wasn’t the verse we were studying that night, but it was the one I needed.
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