the weight of witness

I've just gotten through Kate's most recent post in which she talks about being a witness to our children's lives, in any kind of weather, no matter what, because that's just what we do as parents:

Our purpose is to bear witness for our children. Graceful or clumsy we walk beside them, hold their hands as far as we’re able. Even when we despair in futility at their path, it is our soul’s contract to accompany them.

Liam died last week, after a laborious month of tubes and tests and hoping and doubting and believing and hoping and finally surrendering.

I cannot imagine losing my child and yet I think about the possibility almost daily. What if? What if? What if? I suppose there should be some solace in the fact that so much is, in truth, out of our control, no matter how much we want and yearn and strive to control. This is the weight of witnessing -- joy, for however long we have it in our grasp, and for seeing pain for what it is and has to be.

It's the scales of justice, always lousily lopsided.

:::

The status quo seems to suit us well these days, and we are spending lots of times indoors to avoid the B.L.A.Z.I.N.G sun, which makes for *interesting* times with a toddler. More of that coming soon, as well as tales from my body pump class. O cruelty, thy name is squat.