5 January 2004 - In the evening.
I just spoke to my daughter. She went back to work, following vacation with her mother and sister. She went in and her boss informed her that one of the children with whom she worked had been murdered by her mother. The kid was only four years old.
My daughter is a strong women. She is compassionate and intelligent. Death is a bitch, no way about that one. I was a clergyperson years ago. I was only 9 years older than she is now when I took over my first church. During that time I had to bury lots of people. The youngest being a child killed in an accident with farm equipment. I remember being torn between wanting to feel grief and being detached. This has remained an emotional dichotomy that has been part of my professional life since young-adulthood. I have always been involved in the helping professions. People die. It's part of the gig.
I could hear in her voice all of the confusion of how to feel that I felt: torn between wanting to cry and not understanding why it does not have as strong an effect as might have been expected. She called to tell me. She does not want to talk. I understand that. I left the door open to her to call back and will check in a day or two to see how she is doing.
Death is a bitch, with wings... and four is too damn young.
No comments:
Post a Comment