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Saturday, May 06, 2006
Our Sons Died Last Night
Aaaaaarrrrrggggghhhhh!
Last night, we saw that a helicopter went down in Afghanistan. Today, I read that ten U.S soldiers died. I am worried that Andy was on it. Then I thought of the man who cried when we talked about his son in Afghanistan. What if it is his son? Well, it was someone's son. They were the sons of at least ten people. And they were the fathers and brothers and husbands and friends and boyfriends of a lot of people.
When I think of what the loved ones go through after someone dies, or when I think of people suffering daily in war-ravaged countries or countries where people get to eat less in a day than I do in one meal, in my mind, I send them a blanket of love. I hope that at least they experience love, open-ness, and knowing that they are not alone. When my son's twin died right before I delivered, I felt alone and afraid, and I closed down. When I finally could open to loving my surviving son and could feel the pain openly, that is when love and the wonder of it all could pour in. It still hurts, but it's the hurt of human-kind; it's not personal anymore.
And I wonder why we seem to think that everyone we love should live to be old. We hold on tight to try to make that happen, and we think things went wrong if it doesn't happen.
Last night, we saw that a helicopter went down in Afghanistan. Today, I read that ten U.S soldiers died. I am worried that Andy was on it. Then I thought of the man who cried when we talked about his son in Afghanistan. What if it is his son? Well, it was someone's son. They were the sons of at least ten people. And they were the fathers and brothers and husbands and friends and boyfriends of a lot of people.
When I think of what the loved ones go through after someone dies, or when I think of people suffering daily in war-ravaged countries or countries where people get to eat less in a day than I do in one meal, in my mind, I send them a blanket of love. I hope that at least they experience love, open-ness, and knowing that they are not alone. When my son's twin died right before I delivered, I felt alone and afraid, and I closed down. When I finally could open to loving my surviving son and could feel the pain openly, that is when love and the wonder of it all could pour in. It still hurts, but it's the hurt of human-kind; it's not personal anymore.
And I wonder why we seem to think that everyone we love should live to be old. We hold on tight to try to make that happen, and we think things went wrong if it doesn't happen.
posted by Carol at 3:58 PM
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