No protocol

I remember the last few days I wrote in my last blog.  Huddled in a cold room in my best friend's house, estranged from the father of my son and wondering if I would really make it through the pain that shot through every nerve in my soul, I took comfort in the words of strangers.

You will be OK.
You are not alone.
I understand.
I have been there.

Most comforting, maybe: I will light a candle for you, and hold you in my thoughts.

Today I received an email from a reader of this blog alerting me to the tragedy that has fallen on another reader, and frequent commenter.  Jen was one of the readers who propped me up when I was at the deepest depths of hopelessness, when I didn't know if light would ever again pierce through the black.  She sent me emails of encouragement, notes of wisdom and she shared her own experience in comforting, selfless emails.  My pain was nothing compared to what she must be feeling now.

There is no poetic way to say it: Jen's 6 week old daughter died after a rare and heartbreaking illness, and though I struggled with pointing you to her blog, I believe through my own experience in the power of the masses to comfort a grieving heart.  As a mother and a sister and a woman, I cannot fathom Jen's grief, and yet I know as a human that there is an inherent power in the knowledge that others share in your torment; that their knowledge of your suffering can maybe slightly carry a burden that can't be captured with text.

Please keep Jen and her family and her perfect daughter in your thoughts, your spirit, your candles. 
And so I point you to the life of my friend Jen, who lost her baby and her heart.  And if you feel compelled, let her know  that her daughter has a place in your soul, too. It's paltry, it's little, against her pain.  But it might be something, and for that reason I can't say nothing.