Lighten the Load

It was really hard to come here.

Is that a confession I’m allowed to make?

Coming here means acknowledging that a mother can lose a child.

That this kind of thing really happens to people other than strangers on the news.

Coming here means admitting that it could just as easily have happened to me, instead of you.

I don’t have an answer for why it’s you and not me.

I don’t know.

I do know that there should never be a funeral for a child.



But then never turns to sometimes, and sometimes becomes your worst nightmare.

I didn’t have the privilege of knowing your baby, but you know mine.

And that means something to me.

For the better part of a year, you spent more hours of the day with her as her teacher than I did as her mother.

You were sweet, kind, stern, loving, and exactly what she needed you to be.

She came out better for having known you, for which I can never repay you.

Except maybe I can try today.

Today I come here to lift one brick off the load that has tumbled out of the heavens and buried you alive, somewhere between the Darkest Place on Earth and Hell, I imagine.

It’s all I can do to be here today, to lift just one brick off the pile of your suffering, I know.  It’s only one small piece of your pain and tears.

But I hope that the person before me will do likewise, as well as the person beside me and behind me, and together, with each person who passes through the door of the church, you will feel your load lightening.

And with each friend who reaches out to you with a card, a meal, or a remembrance, we will all together create a crack in the pile of bricks just large enough for a ray of light to shine through to your darkness.

A light that brings hope, peace, and love, even just for a moment in time.

We are all here, and we don’t know what to say or do, but we know we can do this for you today.

I am here today, as a fellow mother, holding space for your precious girl.

Carrying & absorbing whatever grief and pain I can manage and sending back love and prayers to surround you.

I’m sorry, and I wish I could do more.

In remembrance of Kobi Isabella Pickett (March 15, 1999 - January 11, 2015)


  1. What a loving tribute, thank you for sharing.

  2. What a beautiful notion, that of lifting bricks off of our friends in need. Such truth in the words that it is hard to admit that these horrible things happen to actual people.

  3. Oh no, I'm so sad at the thought of that poor mama. I'm glad you're there to spread your light.

    1. It is such a tragedy, but she is an amazing, strong woman, and I hope she is feeling the love.

  4. Such a completely tragic situation. I can't imagine how that mother must feel. So very sad.


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