One of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me happened last week. It happened at a cemetery.
A dear friend of ours named Jon Goodwin went to a cemetery.
Our cemetery.
He visited a baby.
Our baby.
He went to visit Benji, in the Babyland area of the cemetery, right next to Maya Blanchfield, under the tree with the wind chimes.
I hate that place. I hate it because it’s where my baby’s body has to be, not in my arms like it’s supposed to. And I’m fond of it because it’s where my baby’s body is. And I’m scared of it because it’s where my baby’s body is. The Babyland center where the wind chimes create a false sense of peace and rest when the reality is there shouldn’t ever have to be a Babyland section of any cemetery, anywhere in the world. Ever. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. No amount of harsh words can ever contain my sorrow for having to have buried my baby. Is this real life?
Jon has a baby of his own. Brantley is a few months older than Benji, and they were supposed to be best friends.
Jon and Jenny are blessed with good health for Brantley, and from an objective stance, it would make sense to me if they kept their distance. Because when it comes to babies dying, death kind of feels like leprosy, something that can be caught, or at least something that one should turn and run from as fast as they can in the other direction. It makes sense to keep a sort of distance, because dying babies isn’t normal and isn’t right and is only uncomfortable.
But Jon and Jenny didn’t turn and run. They didn’t keep a safe distance.
I remember a time when Jenny and I were so pregnant, our bellies would bump into each other when we went for a hug. We talked at length about the future friendship of our boys and the play dates that would be had. We went for frozen yogurt with our husbands, because that’s what pregnant women are supposed to do, and when we returned back to our house, the four of us stood in the kitchen and held hands and prayed. We prayed for our baby boys, because Jenny was due in a few days and we were due to temporarily move to Philadelphia where Benji would be born about a month after. Our babies were safe in our tummies, and our tummies were full of frozen yogurt, and we were expectant, nervous, anxious, excited.
And Jenny had Brantley, and he’s beautiful in every way. And the last thing I think someone with a beautiful, healthy, baby would want to do is hang around with people whose baby died, because that’s sort of a buzzkill and sort of hits a little too close to home.
But Jon and Jenny aren’t typical people. They jumped right into our mess, almost uninvited, and I say that not because they weren’t welcome, but because they didn’t wait for us to pull them in. They stay here with us, keeping us company in the mud. Not trying to rescue us or hurry us out, but not letting us sink further, either.
They ask the hard questions. They say his name. I love to hear his name! They ask about memories, share what they’ve learned through Benji’s life, and listen while we ramble on about the good and the bad. And when we talk about the really awful days and the sobs won’t stop coming and things are getting really ugly and snotty and gross, they don’t try to cheer us up. They’re not concerned about saying the right or wrong things. They just sit…and ask…and listen…and remember.
They do things like read books on grief and child loss for the sole purpose of learning how to minister to us and understand our hearts. People with healthy babies should not be expected to read books on child loss! But they do it because that’s the sort of thing these friends do. And we have other friends that do these same sorts of things that we love just as much, but I wanted to highlight Jon and Jenny today. Because of the cemetery.
Because knowing that someone was willing to sacrifice time and comfort to visit the Babyland cemetery makes it just a little less horrifying of a place.
Lessons from Benji 