“Occasionally weep deeply…

 “Occasionally weep deeply over the life you hoped would be. Grieve the losses. Then wash your face. Trust God. And embrace the life you have.”

—John Piper

Traveling through the streets, rows of lost loved ones fill the fields. Flowers abound, veterans’s memorial, memorial benches, statues pay homage to their memories. A feeling of unease. Get back to the front. Find the front and then go from there. Find your north and then you will know where to go. But I’m his mother. I should just know. I should know where to go. I should know exactly where he lies. Find the tree. Find the chimes. Look for his face. An unease. A sense of failure. Good Lord, how do I not just know?  It’s been almost 15 years. I’ve been here countless times. I am his mother. 

The morning is crisp. A heavy fog lingers about the ground. I look down and his face can’t be seen. His tiny body, his sweet expression, his father’s hand, no longer seen.   “I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.”  The words expelled before I even have a chance to think about what I’m saying. The feelings that simmer. The feelings that sit in the back and wait to be picked at, unearthed, to be sprung free. The feelings that whether subconsciously or consciously guide our decisions of today. I let you down. I wasn’t there for you. I should have been there. How are you 15?  What would you be like?  What would you look like?  I’m so sorry I didn’t do better. I am your mother. I should have been better. You deserved all of me. I should have been better. 

Composure. It takes some time. Clean it up. Maybe it’s just dirty. Wipe it down. There he is. There’s my beautiful boy. But it seems faded. Will his face still shine in another year, in five years?  Is this a depiction of his memory fading over time? His name being said less and less. Life playing out on a stone. The bronze etched baby on the surrounding stone seems untouched. Great, something else I failed at. You deserved better. You deserved more. I should have been better. I am your mother. 

Wipe your face. Tell him happy birthday and then on with the day. The work continues. He has siblings. Be the thing for them that you couldn’t for him. Fierce protector. Caregiver. Number one fan. Cultivator and curator of great experiences, memory making, traditions, great expectations.  Give them the life he never got to see. Give them that mother. 

Wipe your face and find your north. Look for Him now. Wipe away the dirt. Wash away the despair and self loathing. Look for Jesus. The Good News still remains. Find it. Remember it. You will see him again. You are forgiven. Forgiven. Forgiven. You will see him. Look for Jesus and remember you will see him. 

Happy birthday, buddy. I love you and miss you so deeply that that love and loss is woven tightly into the fiber of my being. 

Lord, I thank you for the promises you give. I thank you for the moments to remember, to grieve, to feel the raw sting of loss. I thank you for not letting me live there. I thank you that when I wash the despair and self loathing away with the tears fueled by that loss, you are there. I just have to seek you. You are the prince of peace and your peace will fill me and you alone give me hope.

 

When the meals stop coming…

What do you do when the meal trains run out? What do you do when the condolences and the comforting visits and check ins cease? What do you do when the world seems to move on, but you are still scarred and bruised? The loneliest time of losing a loved one is the day after a funeral. The funeral, seen as a bookend, as a time of closure, marks to others an end. But to the grieved, it marks a time for a life completely flipped on its end. It marks a harsh realization that life as known before, a life hoped for, has slipped away. Memories of Gideon, things hoped for for Gideon, sneak into our daily lives at random times. Emotions hit hard randomly throughout the year and there is always an un-eased ache that rests within me. And while we don’t live in the depression, in the depth of hopelessness, we could easily slip in despair. So how do we do it? How do you continue to move forward? How do you not become consumed with loss, especially the loss of a child? Jesus. Jesus has been my mainstay from that fretful, breathless, first call. Jesus has been my light in the darkest of days. Jesus has been my therapy, my redeemer, my support, my life. Jesus gave me Lance. We have relied on Jesus for strength and we have leaned in on one another. In the middle of our life living in the camper, I felt like such a failure. We had sold our home in hopes of being debt free, made a purchase that only meant rebuilding. The weather was awful, water lines were freezing, conditions were tight and I had little will to go on. My husband was cramped, overworked, no real place of solace to retreat to. My kids were sharing a bunk room, Their bedrooms now gone. Their space to play and create a thing of yesterday. What had I done? One night, I just broke as we were sitting together. I began to cry. I had been trying to carry the weight on my own. I sobbed as I apologized and poured my heart out to Lance. I felt like such a failure. My desire to stay home had brought us to this place. Lance comforted me, reassured me, and held me. We prayed. We leaned in on Jesus and each other. This reliance has been how we’ve gotten through everything. One study notes that 80% of marriages end in divorce after the loss of a child. We were determined to not become another statistic. But that power and covering only comes from Jesus. It’s not our own will or our own ability. We fail each other. Unlike those well wishes and social support in those first few days of child loss, Jesus remains and remembers. He sustains us. He is gracious. He is patient. He keeps us. Without the love of Christ, we would be babbling, bumbling, babies stuck in the depths of suffering. Glory to God that He holds our son. Glory to God that He has given us two more children. Glory to God that He has given me Lance. Glory to God that he heals. Glory to God that he comforts. Glory to God that we will see Gideon again. Glory to God that he knows grief and he knows my grief. Glory to God that he knows me. Glory to God that he knows my name. Friend, if you are stuck in grief and you feel no one knows or understands your struggle, cry out to Jesus. Let Jesus take your burden. Let Jesus hear your cries. Rely on Jesus. There are no 10 step plans to overcome grief. There are no self-help books that will get you through. There is only Jesus. I pray for you. Succumb to Him. Let Him consume you. He is Holy and He loves you. If you need a friend who knows your grief, knows your cries, that friend is Jesus. im not even a close second, but I am also here Mama, my heart cries for you. I want comfort for you. I want you to know that I have not forgotten you or your child. But most if all, I want you to know that Jesus has not forgotten. Submit to Him and he will give you rest.