I teach for a university as an online English instructor. A few years ago, one of my students gave me a phrase for what we were both part of, the empty-arms club. We had both lost a child. We both knew we'd hold our babies again, but for now, our arms feel so empty, so cold, so lonely.
Periodically, I run into members of the unfortunate members of this club. I enjoy meeting them because we greet each other with an understanding that others don't share. You can hear all about what it is to lose a child. You can lose another type of family member or a pet and imagine you know what it is to be a member of this club. But until you've done it, you can only imagine.
Each kind of loss is different. They are all difficult in a variety of ways. I can only imagine what it is to lose a parent, but I can't know until it happens. I can express true empathy for someone who has lost a sibling or grandparent or uncle. I've passed through those experiences. Even those in the empty-arms club pass through grief differently, so I can't make any assumptions. I can't expect their experience to be the same as mine. But I can express empathy and receive empathy in return.
It's lovely to meet that kind of empathy one runs into when one meets a member of the empty-arms club, but I'd never wish it on anyone. The dues are far too high. When I do run into a member of the club, I can cry with them. I can mourn with those that mourn. I can mourn with those who pass through other kinds of loss, too, but there is a special kind of understanding that passes through those whose loss is in any way similar.
Yes, it's comforting to know our arms will be filled again. It's comforting to know our hearts can go through healing through time and through the help of the Lord. It's especially comforting to know I will hold my angle Alli again, as well as my other angels. In the meantime, my arms are still empty, and I look forward to the day I can hold her again.
