On Little Cat Feet

Carl Sandburg wrote that "The fog comes on little cat feet." I think the same could be said of grief. Not new grief that is messy and raw, but old grief that had gone so quiet you thought you were done with it. Silently, on little cat feet, it pads its way in, escaping all notice until, suddenly, there it is, looming large in front of you once more.

Photo by Daniel Tuttle on Unsplash

Mother's Day, Father's Day, baby showers, and birth announcements. They are everywhere I look these days, along with the people who talk about the blessing of children like it's some special favor God bestows upon the worthy. Like those of us with empty arms didn't make the cut. And this talk tempts me to believe that God loves me less than those others, because they got children and I got cancer. Because they have baby bottles and sippy cups rolling around on the floors of their cars and I have medication bottles half-full of chemo drugs that didn't work for me.

It hurts to be the one whose prayers are answered with "No" in a society that thinks getting what we want makes us winners. It hurts to be the one standing outside the circle, alone, silently clutching the ashes of her dreams. It hurts not to be able to share your sadness with your friends because their celebration is your lament.

I thought I was okay with not having children. I can list off reasons why that's a mercy. I know it isn't true that God loves me less or values me less because having children isn't part of His plan for me. I know His ways are mysterious and His intentions toward me are always good. I've written post after post about His faithfulness to me - and I believe it 100%. But no matter how many truths my head knows, my heart still weeps. 

Grief, like a cat, goes where it will.