For with much wisdom comes much sorrow; the more knowledge, the more grief.

Ecclesiastes 1:18

I count down the days. Usually, they fly. Less so now. A minor delay, a month's change. That is what I face. So small, quite insignificant, not unusual, highly common. Yet, there is a certain heaviness to my heart.

Then, my mind turns again to the place I can not escape for long.

To the mothers who said goodbye as they took their last breath. To the fathers who said goodbye as they relinquished care and parental rights. To the siblings, separated, detached.

I have a heavy heart?

I napped with my baby girl after church today. I Listened to her breathing, held her hand, looked into her peaceful face, still resting as I got up. I danced with her and sang as we worshipped God this morning. I played with my kids over the weekend and watched Christmas movies every night last week. My husband and I are alive, together, in love, in our home with our blessings, able to care for them, preparing for Christmas as a family. They are waiting for me now. We are going to play a game.

And I have a heavy heart. Because of minor delays in welcoming that mother's babies, that father's little ones into our family.

They have had extreme sorrow I can not fathom.

I have only plenty and opportunity.

I can not reconcile that reality it my mind.

It just won't sit right. No matter how I try to make some sense of it.

It's much easier when "suffering people" is a general notion of those in distant places. It becomes harder to deal with when you encounter them in an intimate way, your families merge to become one.

I have never, ever been grieved like this. About so many things at once.