Every Child Matters

We went to the Indigenous children's memorial last night, an event held by the our town as part of Truth and Reconciliation week.  As we walked through the park, carrying lights in the darkness, I found myself looking around for our other children. It was so strange - I felt very close to our miscarried babies last night, and was surprised to find just four kids walking alongside us. Isn't that odd? I've never had more than four of my kids walking beside me, and yet every now and then I unconsciously expect the others to be there.

We held our lights as the darkness closed in and there was nothing to see, only words to hear. Trembling men and women shared their stories with us, stories of loneliness, abuse and horror and loss that they carried and continue to carry.  One man sang a prayer he has written for his children, and for all the stolen children and their suffering. It was beautiful and so simple.

Creator, see my children. Creator, watch over my children. Creator, save my children.  

He sang in the dark.

In the middle of the night, Pascal woke me up because he was having bad dreams. I took him back to his bed and cuddled in with him. "Mama," he whispered, "did you know that my second-favourite bird is a bluejay?" He squirmed and tossed and squirmed some more until I realized that his one-piece pyjamas were growing too small. I found comfy pjs and changed him into them, then he laid down and I smoothed his blankets over him again. "I'm the comfiest boy in the world," he sighed, and soon drifted off to sleep.

I lay next to him, heart cracked wide open.

Hundreds of thousands of Indigenous children tossed with discomfort in the night. Mothers and fathers never had the opportunity to soothe them back to sleep. Who noticed when their pyjamas grew too tight? To whom did they whisper about their second-favourite bird?  Who saw their eyelashes finally fan out in rest against soft cheeks, who heard their breathing grow slow as they slipped into dreamland?

Creator, see my children.

Two of my babies didn't make it into this world. I believe their faces and personalities and habits are known in heaven, seen and witnessed by God. They have not known pain or suffering and still my heart aches for them, longs to know them. Even after all this time, even though they never cuddled to sleep in my arms, their absence seems wrong and my heart keeps the tally.

Residential schools in Canada kept an official record of how many children died in their care: 51.

Over 6000 graves have been discovered this year, and we're still going. The bleeding wound of unresolved grief has kept the tally.

Creator, watch over my children.

The aching injustice, the pain and grief and sheer agony of parents whose children were ripped away - this is unimaginable.  And yet, it's the lived experience of every Indigenous family in our country. 

I don't think it's a coincidence that the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation is September 30, and October is Infant and Child Loss month. The history of settlers in our country is a history of genocide, infanticide. We can walk around holding lights in the darkness but precious people are missing. The voice of our brother's blood cries to us from the ground.

Creator, save our children. See our children. Watch over our children.