As I lay my newborn grandson down on the changing table, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude to God for his perfect features, his soft newborn skin, and his incredible newborn smell, and the next second tears are flowing because I can’t share this joy with the love of my life, so I’m crying out to God that I don’t understand, and I’m angry that Ken isn’t here to see his namesake. Then a few seconds later I’m laughing at the stream of urine this tiny newborn just showered me with. And again I’m thanking God that he’s eating well and peeing and pooping exactly like he should. I get him all changed and kiss the top of his head and hand him to his daddy. I look at how my son is swooning over his firstborn, and I thank God that exactly twenty-nine years ago he was born. I’m so proud that he’s an amazing husband and father. These same thoughts make me think of the example set by his own dad and my eyes prickle and I have to look away. So I pick up my phone; it shows a notification from Google Photos. It’s a memory from two years ago and instantly tears spring to my eyes. I beg God, for what, I’m not even sure. I know I can’t have Ken back, so I dry the tears. 

Then it starts all over again. 

How can you hold a perfect brand new life in your arms and be angry with God?

How can you feel the softness of newborn skin and struggle to believe everything has a purpose?

How can you laugh when your world has crumbled and crashed around you?

How can you marvel at a newborn’s tiny features and question God’s motives?

I’m sad. I’m thankful. I’m also confused. I’m hurting. I do have moments of joy. But I’m also mad. 

I feel so discombobulated. 

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