Lament

My sister and I crawled into my bed. I can't remember how we got there or if we spoke about it beforehand - I only remember crawling under the covers after our mother died and holding each other tightly. I never really knew what the word lament was until that moment. I never really understood the depth of disbelief and despair that my own 48-year-old heart could witness. We lay there silently for a moment, and then Marna whispered to me, "I'm going to cry now." And she did. I don't know how long we huddled there, answering each other's grief. 

Kate rushed in from the kitchen, and I think of her now - standing in the doorway to my bedroom. We must have been quite a sight - clutching each other, sobbing, what a mess. But Kate did the only thing she knew to do. She crawled in beside us and held us and prayed over us, tears streaming down her pale cheeks. Somehow we didn't scare her.  Maybe because he had walked the road of grief and sorrow before.

She didn't tell us it was going to be okay - she knew it wasn't. She didn't shush us or quote scripture. She just wept and prayed. And stayed. In lament.