A good friend of mine has buried two of her babies. She has two healthy children, but those two babies she buried are still there, in her heart and on her mind.
In a recent conversation, this friend – let’s call her Sally – shared how someone she knows is always tossing out how she has four kids. Well, Sally has four kids too, but, as she told me so matter-of-factly that it brought tears to my eyes, she isn’t blessed with the burden of running all around because of them. She doesn’t have to bear the burden of them outgrowing shoes so fast, of them driving her up the wall, of them period. God needed them first. She’s accepted that, and the fair amount of courage she has in facing the world around her is not daunted by the lugs who complain about their kids (especially when said kids happen to be the same age as those two babies in heaven).
I try and remember this whenever I’m tempted to complain about my children. The burden really is a blessing. Sometimes, I’m just not smart enough to see it for myself.
