I hugged a grandmother last Wednesday morning.  No, it wasn’t either of mine.  They’re both in heaven.  And, it wasn’t the grandmas of my kids.  They weren’t in the vicinity.  Nor, was it the grandmother of my own seven grandchildren.  She’s huggable, all right, but it wasn’t her that I wrapped my arms around.

I hugged a young grandma in the presence of a lot of other folks in the foyer of a church chapel in which a tiny coffin containing her three month old grandson lay.  I hugged her as she brought tears from a reservoir that should have been dry by then.

“I don’t understand this,” she wept.  “It just doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know,” I whispered.  “I’m no more equipped to understand this than I was three years ago.”

And, I’m not.  Three years ago next month my oldest son’s anguished voice on the other end of the line told me that his 2 year old daughter was gone.  I didn’t want to believe it then, and sometimes I can hardly believe it now. 

I was unprepared for the raw emotions that stirred to the surface the other day as I watched the young parents come to that little open casket to say good-bye one last time.  I could only guess what it would be like to lose a child.  The tears I shed reflected once again how helpless I was to relieve their obvious pain.  The hurt I felt inside was because I couldn’t take theirs away.

It was the grief of that grandmother that I identified with.  That, and her statement of bewilderment. 

The death of a child doesn’t seem to make any sense at all.  The death of an old man – yes.  The passing of a person who’s abused her health through one means or another – okay.  A soldier falling in battle defending his country – understandable.  But, the death of a child?

So I hugged her and told her what I did understand – that neither God’s character nor his purpose had changed.  That he still loved her and somehow in and through this present circumstance he would be exalted. 

I just don’t know how.  I don’t understand.  I just hope the hug and those words helped.