“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 have 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.
