Things Missionary Grandparents are not Told

I lay on my pillow, my throat constricting in pain 

as I tried in vain to stop the tears trickling into my pillow.

I was not sure why this particular disappointment was so hard and

 I don't think anyone could really know, because sometimes it's just the way feelings go.

The thing is, 

I knew they would not be at the family table on Thanksgiving Day. 

I knew the beautiful Christmas chaos of unwrapping gifts would be less so 

and that we would not be attending Easter service together. 

I knew I'd miss their birthdays . . .
or days in between with unknown challenges and dangers . . .

and I can say I've hardly lost tears, at these.

I've learnt that skype calls will be blurry, delayed and disrupted,

 not helpful in conversations where it's hard to be on the same page,

when we are not even on the same day, 

 with no familiar context to feel and share . . .

such as looking out of the window to see their friends playing outside, 

or wondering if the mosquito that just flew in carries malaria.

I can't see the scrape on the knee to ask about it.

The funny thing is . . . most of this was expected . . . 

but the thing that has broken me is the unexpected . . . 

the parcels we can't track.  

Gifts I sought out months in advance, carefully considering each item, 

folding them several times and laying them out 

before finally wrapping them  and sending them off, 

waiting for them to be touched and felt  and enjoyed!

This is the joy stolen, 

by a mail service that cuts open parcels and lets them sit as long as they like . . . 

and I am left angry, hurt and disappointed . . .

 robbed of such a simple joy.

No one, not even I, can understand why this one is so hard.

Empty handed, I wish them a Happy Birthday on the phone
and  find comfort in being told it's okay.
Waiting for a gift they know is coming is still fun.
I hope the wait pays off.