Grief from a Rocking Chair

Not my best day.

I’m sitting in my daughter’s rocking chair, right now, lulling her to sleep, typing on my phone. I suppose it would be much easier and quicker to lay her down and use a computer, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.

She woke up tonight about an hour after we put her down for the night. Which is a little unusual for her and would normally have been an inconvenience for me.

But not tonight. Tonight it’s as if she knew I needed to be her Dad and rock her. She even looked me square in the eye as I picked her up to my shoulder, with a tender gaze that seemed to say, “You need this tonight more than I do.”

And she’s right, I do.

Tonight my friend, Jenna, died. Sadly, she isn’t by far the only friend I have seen die. But she is the first 5-year-old friend.

And I don’t know what to do with that. I’m sad. I’m angry. I’m so disappointed. I’m even a little relieved because she was in so much pain.

I’m heart-broken for a family that loved her so dearly.

And in the tail-spin of my thoughts, I find myself here. A dad. Rocking my daughter to sleep. I might sit here all night. Her hair wet with my tears.

It hasn’t been my best day.

God, thank you for Jenna. Thank you for her life. Thank you that she’s dancing with you now. Take care of her, we will have lots of swinging to do soon.

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