She would have smiled at the thought, and maybe it would have driven her to give thanks for the idea that passed through her mind, but at this moment on this stretch of lonely road, she was preoccupied by other things. Memories flashed. Events of the past that led them to the hard ground ahead.

It was frightening how easy it was to be back there again. All it took was a sound, a scent, an image, and her heart was right there in the hospital hallway with the family gathered around the large nursery windows, standing on tiptoe for a better look. She’d been ecstatic about her firstborn. It had been a difficult pregnancy, but since it was her first, she could only compare it to those of other moms who shared their experience.

She closed her eyes as the tires hummed on the pavement. She saw the doctor’s face, the ashen look he gave her. The way he walked into the room, tentative, and crossed his arms. She heard the way he said her name, like he was a judge about to read a sentence handed down by a jury.

“Susan, there’s something wrong.”

Michael was born on the ninth of November and died on the nineteenth, and she had poured out as much love in those ten days as she could, speaking comfort to him and herself at the same time. She read from the Psalms, particularly the twenty-third, and though it was the darkest valley she had ever walked through, it was also the most peaceful. So still and quiet she could hear each breath he took, every heartbeat. Somehow she had felt God’s presence through that crucible like never before.

Michael looked perfect. He was perfect. Except that he wasn’t. But she believed enough in the goodness of God that even a brief life, one that crushed her with grief, had a purpose. And as his body grew frail and his heartbeat faint, she comforted herself with the thought that her son had drawn her closer to her heavenly Father. What more could a mother ask of a son?

In the midst of her lament came questions. A life lived fully always came with questions. And as she watched Jimmy hold Michael for the last time before the nurse came for his little body, through tears she prayed something she felt incapable of praying on her own.

I choose to thank You for ten days rather than question why You didn’t give ten months or ten years. I don’t understand, Lord. Hold on to me.