I remember your image of the "sticky sticky mud" you talked about in your first e-mail to our moms' group. With that e-mail, you announced that Julie,* the daughter you'd named and would carry full-term, couldn't live outside your womb.
As , Christ's body, we all sit around a table of community, of communion. And in that first e-mail, you invited us, your sisters, to sit with you at that table, seeing what you saw, an empty chair that would never be filled. You were also clear: You didn't and wouldn't talk with us about the medical prognosis but invited us to talk with you about anything else.
Over the two years since you shared your news, you've sent us more e-mails. You've thanked us for keeping you company at that table. You've called us to keep sitting at the table and to mark Julie's passing with you and your family: decorations for three "wee trees" that you'd have planted by now in Julie's name; a nine-month gathering around the fireplace in our church's sanctuary; a drop-in on the one-year anniversary of her death. More than that, though, you've reminded us that you grieve deeply.
I didn't know what to say when I read that first e-mail. Even now, two years later, I still don't know. Maybe the sticky mud of shock, and my own feelings of grief and loss, kept my feet planted to the ground underneath my chair, unable to lift them so I could run around to your chair and hug you. Maybe I shut down after one-too-many directives and thoughts about your grieving process that you embedded in that first e-mail and all your e-mails since. You thought your grief, however much shared by your sisters, was yours alone and could only be felt by you. You gave instructions about what to talk about, who could come to Julie's funeral, how to mourn, how to greet you if you'd been absent from church for a while … how to sit with you at that table.1