(Note: One of the most rewarding aspects of my job is the opportunity to interact with so many others. I’ve been especially blessed to meet and know many women of all ages and types. I don’t claim to understand the fairer sex. And the older I get, the less I seem to know or understand. But their stories – happy, troubled, sad, or otherwise - have added greatly to the scope of my life.)

This poem was given to me by a woman with whom I work, Marsha Moser. She says she found it “when going through old financial papers we needed to get rid of.” She told me that she found its discovery both surprising and touching. Surprising in that she had never thought of her Grandmother as being the sensitive poet type. And touching when she had read the inspiration for the poem.

She typed it out for me, and included this introduction: “Mike, this is a poem my Grandmother wrote after my mom miscarried her first child. I thought you’d appreciate it, and could perhaps use it to comfort others going through similar situations.”

I have met many women who carry the sorrow of miscarriage. Both young women, and those in their 80s. Most often, they do so privately. And throughout their lives. Those who give birth to other children still carry this silent grief as well. I’m always touched by the thought that motherhood, even when cut short, is so powerful a force. And I’m honored by the trust they’ve placed in their mailman.

Since this poem is about a subject that is so often keep silent, I’ll post in on the clan lists in hopes that its readers can share it in a more appropriate and timely manner than I ever could on my own.


--Mike)

When God calls little children
To dwell with Him above,
We mortals always question
The wisdom of His love.

For no heartache compares with
The death of one small child,
Who does so much to make this world
Seem wonderful and mild.

Perhaps God tires of calling
The aged to His fold,
And then He picks a rosebud
Before it can grow old.

God knows how much we need them
And so He takes but few,
To make the land of Heaven
More beautiful to view.

Belieing this is difficult
Still, somehow we must try.
The saddest word that mankind knows
Will always be “good-bye.”

And so when little ones depart
We who are left behind,
Must realize God loves children
Tiny angels are hard to find.

---Anna Sucharski (1958)