Ryan's gone.
Those aren't words I ever thought I would have to write.
The depth of this grief isn't something I ever imagined possible. I've read before about arms that ache for a lost loved one but it wasn't until now that I understood this truth: the ache is real. It isn't just a sentimental turn of phrase. It is a real and physical ache that I can feel deep in the bones of my arms.
In the midst of my own tears, my own questions, my own angers, my own deep desire to stay in bed until Christmas, I am left trying to help three small children understand and cope with the loss of a boy they considered to be their friend.
They loved him, too.
They didn't get much time to prepare for this. None of us did. But I had no sooner explained to them that Ryan was moving into hospice care and what they meant when Ryan's mother called me to tell me that he was gone.
There have been a lot of questions. The girls are 4 1/2. Their brother is 6. They are trying to understand what it means to live and what it means to die. I know a lot of adults trying to still figure that out.
We've talked about Ryan's soul...that this is the part of Ryan only God can create, that no matter what Ryan's body looked like or how it changed that his soul is what made him Ryan, his soul is what gave that body life. It challenges them that, like the wind, we cannot see a soul but only see and feel its effects.
After many questions about what a soul is and where Ryan's soul is now, it finally occurred to the Little Litigator to ask about Ryan's body. I had been dreading these questions, but I also was prepared. Ryan's parents included me in family-only events after he passed. I saw him in his casket before it was closed for the public visitation at the funeral home. I saw it lowered at the cemetery and covered with earth.
So when the questions came I was able to answer them. "What is he wearing?" His karate gi from "Kids Kicking Cancer", the Nike's that he custom designed online with his grandmother...they are bright red and yellow and have green stitching that reads "Ry Rocks". "Is he alone?" No, he has Banks (his blankie) and his two stuffed dogs with him. "What else does he have?" Oh, lots of things that he loved...like a baseball, his fishing pole and flies, his favorite book from when he was little, a hat from his school with his award on it... "So his special stuff, right?" Exactly.
Then came the questions about how burial happened. I explained how everything was done to keep Ryan's body safe because we already know Ryan's soul is safe in heaven, that the casket keeps him with his special stuff and keeps him dry and clean and safe. It's hard to explain burying a child, to a child.
"What's a cemetery look like?" Well, it kind of looks like a really big yard or park without a playground. "Can we go there? Maybe have a picnic?"
Well. *That* wasn't a question I expected.
I realize there are those who will think I was crazy to even consider the idea: A picnic, at a cemetery, with children. I apologize if the very thought of it offends you, but all I could think about was the little boy in front of me, grieving his friend, and telling me what he needed to try and cope with this ridiculously unfair loss. He needed to see where his friend's body was, he needed to say goodbye. The only other people whose opinions I cared about were Ryan's parents...and they thought the idea was wonderful.
And so, last week, I found myself packing a picnic lunch, bubbles, and water pistols for a day at the cemetery.
Shortly before we left, Little Litigator asked if he could change clothes. I told him he could, and he came back down in his church clothes. Please understand...usually, he fights and screams and protests at having to put on his church clothes. Yet, there he was, shyly proud in his khaki's and button down shirt.
He's 6. He doesn't necessarily know how to identify and verbalize "This day is a very big deal to me. It is an important day." Instead, he said such by putting on the clothes he knows he wears for important things, even though he prefers a sports jersey.
I feared, in that moment, that this might be too much for him.
Ryan's grave is not yet overgrown with grass. The headstone is not there yet, either. The large patch of dirt is what tells us "Someone much loved has been laid to rest here."
Little Litigator approached slowly, not at his usual run. His sisters danced and twirled around.
He stood, silently. "Ryan's under there?" I nodded, and reminded him that it was Ryan's body below, his soul in heaven. "Can we dig to see him?" No, honey, we aren't allowed to do that. He lay down in the grass then, alongside his friend, and whispered what he needed to say.
After we ate, he told his sisters that they needed to pray with Ryan. They sat, curled into each other, at the edge of the grass graveside. (see photo above) I stayed back and gave them their private time together.
Then, they remembered the water pistols. It probably isn't often that the solemn silence of a cemetery is shattered with shouts of laughter. That might be offensive to some, too, but it seemed appropriate to honor the life of a child with children dancing and playing and erupting into giggles.
When it was time to go, we stood together to say goodbye.
"I wuv you, Wyan. I hope you are havin' fun pwayin' wif Jesus and I'm gwad your body doesn't hurt anymore" (Twincess A)
"I miss you Ryan. I feel so sad and I love you." (Twincess E)
Little Litigator was quiet. Then he did something unexpected and extraordinarily, heartachingly sweet. "I want to kiss my friend," he said. Then he dropped to the ground and kissed the dirt that covers Ryan. This little boy who, over the past many months, has started to restrain his affection towards his male friends because "love is for girls", let go of the restraint he has somehow learned from the world and unabashedly poured out his affection for his friend. Over and over. His sisters enthusiastically followed suit.
It wasn't far off from what I had wanted to do myself just 6 days earlier...to lay down on that dirt and never leave. Children seem to have a way of expressing that which adults are often afraid to let loose.
It was a quiet ride home. Peaceful, but quiet.
I don't know how to ease their grief. I can hardly bear my own grief. I do not have satisfactory answers to everything they ask. I can't promise them much, other than that I will allow them to keep asking questions and to keep mourning and healing in whatever ways they need. I will hold them in my aching arms when they need to be held and I will give them their space when they need some time alone with the emotions they are struggling to process.
That's all I know to do for them and, for now, it will have to be enough.
