There's an elephant on Hanover Street
Where is my Lucy Sweet?
She was right here beside my feet.
Oh, there she is, high on an elephant seat.
There's a kangaroo in Central Park you know.
Now where did my little Lucy go?
I wish her bouncy curls would show.
Oh, there she is, jumping to and fro.
There's a monkey in that Redwood Tree.
But my lovely Lucy I can't see.
Where could my little sunshine be?
Oh, there she is, way up high and swinging free.
There's a butterfly perched on my ear.
Why isn't my Lucy here?
She might miss the world, I fear.
Oh, there she is, she's always near.
by Jen Jackson Robinson (Vic's sister)
Have you heard of Orson Scott Card? He is one of Vic's favorite authors. Through mutual friends (I am assuming) he found our blog and left the following comment and poem. If you've ever read Ender's Game, or any of his other fantastic books, you know his genius mind. Oh, the power of words.
"My wife and I have been down this road twice, once with our seventeen-year-old son who was relieved of the burden of cerebral palsy after a life of love and generosity and patience, and once with a baby we only held for six hours. My older brother and his wife lost a beautiful 18-year-old daughter to complications from anesthesia; dear friends lost their firstborn daughter when she was at college. We find we all tell the same story: The grief never ends. You miss the missing child all your life, and even after you learn to set aside the raw emotion so you can get on with life (especially meeting the needs of the children still with you), it can flood back with all its force at moments when it is least expected.
Do you measure your loss by the years of life you don't get to be part of? Or do you measure your joy by how much of this beloved child you got to have? We never got to see our seventeen-year-old son take a step, or run, or speak in a torrent of words; but we had him for seventeen years. Our little girl we barely had at all; are we blessed not to know what we missed by never getting to know her? or should we be disappointed? The answer is: you feel what you feel."
Here is the poem I wrote for our little girl, the first Christmas when we would have had her, but didn't:
A Poem for Erin’s First Christmas
This is the season of the invisible.
By the gravesides now poinsettias bloom,
Garlands drape along each fence,
Starlight shines from every wire,
And at every manger, shepherds kneel.
Of public symbols I am quite insensible —
These are the icons that to me are real:
The grieving parents of the innocents,
The babies that the Savior did not heal,
And Tiny Tim’s crutch
Leaning useless by the slackening fire.
Delicate fingers that I cannot touch
Hold my hand and guide me through the gloom.
I bow my head for flesh made word
And sing the carol of the voice unheard.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
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