The Sense of Loss

Our World is in mourning this weekend.  The tragic events that took place on Friday morning are  unimaginable.  It's feels like a horrendous nightmare but one from which I can't seem to wake up.    How could six staff members and twenty little children (6 and 7 year olds) be shot dead in their classrooms at an elementary school in such a bucolic, peaceful town?  Even the school's name makes it sound safe - Sandy Hook Elementary - grades K through 4.    Today, I stare more intently at my 7 year old grandson and hug him tighter and longer and my heart breaks for those parents and grandparents who can't do the same.
I'm feeling such pain and then I think of them and the unbearable, unspeakable, everlasting pain experienced by those who lose their own.

The following poem was written by Sister M. Rosina, IHM (The Sisters, Servants of the Immaculate Heart of Mary), great aunt of Rita Mary O'Donnell Fries. 
This poem was written after Sister M. Rosina observed the children of Margaret (Coleman) and TJ O'Donnell playfully reenacting their grandmother's funeral when one of Anna Rose's dolls lost its head.

 I know that Rita's dolls are well,

And each one dressed just like a belle;

Maureen informs me she has five,

And Dorothy has three alive.

But poor dear little Anna Rose!

Her heart is filled with grief and woes;

Her only dolly broke its head,

And Doctor Dot said it was dead. 

They called the undertaker in;

He brought a coffin lined with tin;

With cambric crepe and fair field flowers,

They mourned the doll for two straight hours.

Miss Rita sent the "Gates Ajar"

Maureen, an anchor: Dot a star;

But sympathetic Baby Joe

Cried more than all the rest, I know.

At half past three the bell was tolled

And in a grave both deep and cold

They placed the doll that fair June day,

Then gaily scampered back to play.

But one alone refused to leave

And lingered by the grave to grieve.

I vainly tried to tell her why

"Tis wrong to mourn when dollies die.

She raised her tear-stained face and sighed,

"I know but it was mine that died."

God comfort little Anna Rose.

Dear heart! She'll learn where'er she goes,

That lasting grief is seldom known

Except to those who lose their own.