Foreigner

A few weeks after Eli died, a dear friend showed up at my door.  She knew I needed a compassionate friend in that moment.  I opened the door, trepidatiously.  There were so few people that I could talk to in those moments with where my mind and heart were...even if they were good friends.  She said something to me that penetrated my heart. Her exact wording and analogy she used were something that could only be understood by me and God (and now her, it seemed...).  She tells me that my eyes lit up...like I could UNDERSTAND what she was saying.  I grabbed her and brought her inside.

She later asked me if I had ever been to a place where I didn't understand the language and really needed to.  I hadn't.  She shared an experience with me where she had been in that situation.  I believe her distress came because of a passport issue and no one around her spoke English.  Allof the sudden she heard some words she understood and saw someone a little ways away speaking English.  If I remember the story right, she made eye contact with this person and they immediately knew her need.  Someone was speaking her language and she could hear those familiar words out of crowd of people.  This person understood and could help her even though, up until then, this person was a stranger.  When she came to my door and started talking, she said I had that same look in my eye.

"You understand me.  You speak my language."

And that's why I pulled her inside. I desperately needed someone to know where I was and how to communicate with me.

When I talk about someone "understanding" me or "speaking my language,"  I think it's obvious that I'm not talking about a literal language barrier.  When your child dies...or is going to die, you suddenly become immersed in this new language.  The words may not sound different, but everything means something different.  The way you see life is different.  The way you respond to people is different.   The things that matter are different.  And it isn't just a theoretical exercise.  It is reality.

 When you meet someone that has lost a child, there is a new language that is spoken.  There is bond that is instantly and deeply formed even if the words you speak are inadequate....because your words are always inadequate, but somehow your heart isn't and this is conveyed in a way that words never can. You know them and their pain in a way that most people can't.  It simply isn't a language that can be learned unless you've lived it.  You can learn about it...you can read and observe and study about it, but it doesn't penentrate your heart.  The language isn't really yours.  When you meet someone that knows your language, it is so comforting and healing and immediately obvious.  There is someone you can talk to.  They understand what you are really saying.

I am in the midst of conversations at times and just hope someone will understand what I'm saying.  It is kind of like explaining to someone who doesn't have children how you love yours.  Love for a child can't be explained with just the words we have.  When you experience the birth of your first child, you are changed.  You use your language and clumsily string together words for how you feel about them... you would do anything for them...they are your world....you would sacrifice anything for them including yourself,  everything about your world changes....etc, but it really isn't sufficicnet to convey how deeply you feel for them...how much you really love them...how they are forever connected to you.  We just do the best with the words we have, but when someone else has also experienced this love, they understand what you are talking about and an instant, additional bond is formed.  The same comes with loss.  My words are inadequate to explain my feelings of sorrow and pain upon losing Eli, but when someone speaks my language, they understand what I am saying even though my words are clumsy and inadequate.  Of course, no two losses are the same...but there is a commonality that comes along with such a loss.

I think this language barrier that is so painfully obvious to me, eludes most people on the "outside."  This has made many interactions very difficult; especially when my grief was very fresh and or feels raw.  I  need to communicate and people think that's what they are doing, but the words seem to have no meaning.  There are times when I feel perfectly capable of being bilinguaul and using the language more common to the masses, but there are times when I can't speak that old language, try as I might.  I probably appear unresponsive and confused.  I am.  It's like I am a foreigner and I can't communicate with those around me.  I am so thankful for those angel friends that I have that do understand my language.  And, in time, I will learn how to be more proficient with my biligual skills.