I hold back tears all morning. If only I can make it until naptime.
Your doctor is dead, children.
I can’t say it yet. I need more time.
Kids, please go play outside while I make lunch for you.
He was our pediatrician and we loved him.
He’s dead, and by his own hand.
A child came upstairs playing, smiling with a toy gun in his mouth. I yelled at him, irrationally upset telling him to never, ever, ever do that again.
“It’s just a toy mommy.” He said.
Would that I could protect you from all evil by banning such toys, son.
Come quickly for lunch, kids.
Our doctor is gone and it makes no sense.
Quit goofing around and eat your food already!
I want them to go to bed so I can grieve and wrestle in peace.
Two boys run down the hallway holding hands and they crash into me. I yell. “This is NOT getting ready for naps, is it boys? Now DO what I TOLD YOU!”
Creating chaos is not helping this house get quiet and my heart hurts so I need quiet NOW. So I think, and so my hurting heart hurts their little hearts. I found one under covers, not playing and teasing but laying there in tears. “I didn’t like it when you yelled at me mommy.”
Oh honey I am so sorry. And I was, and we cried quiet tears together.
“My heart hurts today, but that doesn’t mean I should hurt yours. While you nap I will pray that Jesus helps me be kind again ok? And I’ll wake you up with big hugs and kind words.” He nodded tears still streaming and he hugged me tight around the neck. I let my tears fall, tears of sadness over my sin and over death and evil in all places, in this home and in his home.
I left him to nap and went out to talk to the big kids. “Mommy’s ready to tell you why my heart hurts today. Our pediatrician has died.”
“But he was so nice!”
“But he was the smartest doctor ever!” said the biggest boy, remembering his help curing his ears last year. That healing elevated the good doctor to a place of respect even with or even above daddy, and ever since then he believed the smartest people in the world are doctors.
“Yes, he helped you with your ears, and he helped Aggie with her seizures, and he helped all of you kids grow healthy ever since we’ve lived here. It’s so sad.”
And then, because they will hear it from someone else if I don’t tell them, I tell them how it happened.
And it makes no sense to them.
And I agree.
It makes no sense.
I do not speculate in front of the children, but I do in my head. But my guesses and theories do not satisfy me.
It makes no sense.
I had not planned to talk about suicide with my children this month. But circumstances put it on the list, so talk we must, even when it makes no sense.
We talk a little, and then we sit in silence together with our sad hearts and our questions
We look to Christ together, and we pray.
And we wait.
Come Lord Jesus.
Have you had to talk about this subject with your children?
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