Outlier

 As time goes on it feels easier to share our story. I still get a little pit in my stomach when I meet new people - I know they will inevitably ask or find out about our Jack and our story and navigating that is hard. But it is getting easier to share as time goes on and our wounds heal into scars. 

Another piece to this season is that we often feel like the outlier. We are rare in a way that isn't desirable. It is not common in this country to meet a couple who has lost a child. Miscarriage is common, yes. But it is also not really talked about openly in most circles understandably because it is a source of real stinging pain and it often occurs without most people knowing. Our story is so public. Child loss is so public.  Often we feel excluded from conversations because of our unique situation. Of course not in an intentional way, it just happens. The conversation might start about pregnancy or child birth but shortly after our ability to relate to another new mom and dad halts. I don't have personal breastfeeding advice to share (other than what I learned helping moms in africa or the hours I spent pumping for 9 weeks) and I can't relate with other moms about bedtimes or sleep regression or daycare woahs. You are probably thinking - this is only a season, our time will come - and we pray that it does, of course. But this is where we are in life right now. And I believe it is by no accident and so I try to dig into what God has us in this season for. 

One why that keeps popping into my mind - one of those thoughts that doesn't move out of my brain but instead sticks in there - is how much our story has broken down barriers. In the last month I have had a few long interactions with refugees who are new to our area. Each time Jack's story comes up, it changes the conversation in a way that feels like barriers are removed. Child loss in hard parts of the world is common. Some might think that these refugees would look at me and shrug it off because "it happens all the time where I am from." No. Instead they look at me with eyes that know. They haven't lost a child themselves but they know people who have and they understand the pain. They often do this "tsk tsk" noise in a similar way that us Americans would say "that is such a shame" or a genuine "I am so sorry." They ask to see pictures, they "aww" at his precious hair and tell me they will pray for more babies. And to frame these interactions - there are huge language barriers here. Sometimes with an iphone translator app (not recommended) and sometimes with a 10 year old interpretor. There are cultural barriers. There are differences in resources and finances and understanding of "he had a heart problem." But the kind of grief that comes from child loss appears to break down walls - they just know and their face shows their sincerity and understanding.    And let's remember, they too are grieving. Grieving the uprooting of their lives that occured when they were transplanted to the US. The grief of starting over, without the family and security net they once had, in a place that speaks a language they aren't familiar with and not to mention a country that is very expensive to live in. And yet they can still sit and relate and show empathy with me - some white girl who they barely know with pics of a toehead baby on her iphone. 

And here is the beauty of it all: they make me feel like I am right there in the middle of the bell curve graph, amongst all the averages. Quite the opposite of an outlier. Talk about paradox... beauty in the midst of grief.