Saturday on the farm

It's so hard being here. The kids are doing the usual things like riding the four-wheeler and mini-bike. The older girls hunt for new kittens while the little boys search for frogs and toads. Army boy shoots off the BB gun and Miss T.T. rides bike. Yet while all that goes on, Dh and I walk around broken, shoulders shaking with sobs as we remember that the last time we were here, our son was alive. I look out at the quonset expecting him to have climbed it and see him sitting atop it as usual. I see the Bronco parked in the driveway and remember that he drove it just two months ago. I sit at the kitchen table with my laptop and note that his is not there next to mine. Dh walks the gravel road and remembers that Matt walked to town on the 4th. I know that life goes on, and I know that healing will come, but for now grief overwhelms in these moments.

I've heard that feeling of the loss of a loved one is similar to being an amputee. I never quite understood that analogy until now. There is an emptiness in my heart, a profound sadness such that I wonder it will ever be gone. A piece of my heart has been removed. I don't mean that God won't bring healing, but the loss of our teenager has left a scar that will forever remain. As the waves of grief come crashing in, I will cling to God's word. Psalm 30:5b “...weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.”