Where was I when you left me? Was it the night we lay in bed listening to the neighbors set off fireworks? Was it in the indoor playground when the angry woman with brown hair elbowed me in the stomach? Was it while I showered, wondering why I had the audacity to have a third child?
Where was I when the atmosphere thinned with holy light? When the spiritual barrier that separates the colorless and mundane from the omniscient and phenomenal was so thin I could reach forward and smell my grandpa’s cologne?
Did God see me more clearly that night? Did He see my pain, my depression, my struggles, and my needs? My fears and failures? Is that why He took you? Or did He see my suicidal thoughts and know I needed saving more quickly than He had anticipated?
You saved me, did you know that? You thinned the veil and allowed God to see the parts I hide the most, and through that, He touched my heart and healed my soul.
I suspect it was in my bed when you left us. Because that is where I felt God wrap my prone, nearly lifeless body into his arms and felt warmth spread from my head to my toes. Where I saw Him in the most visceral way. Where I felt the enormous weight of glory bear down on me like a down comforter.
I miss you, so much. I wish I felt your breath on my neck as you’re curled in a ring sling tucked against me. How can I ever thank you for being the sacrifice that saved me? What an incomprehensible gift, what an inconsolable sorrow.
I know where the veil is the thinnest. It’s in my womb.
Until we meet again,