July number four

Wednesday

As I write this, it's July 1st. I don't even have words to describe what July means to me. I hate July. I hate that it will forever be the month that my son died. And yet, this month I am thankful I am not where I was almost four years ago. This year, I am no longer in a grief fog. This year, I can smile and find joy. This year, I will make beautiful memories despite grief.

This weekend we will celebrate the 4th of July holiday as we always do, in our usual spot, our favorite spot. It will have it's moments of sadness, to be sure, but this year I will recognize the joyful moments as well. I will fight for joy, and I will miss my son. I will cherish what I have, and I will grieve what I don't. And that is o.k. because I have learned that neither joy nor grief is exclusive. Jesus said, "...In this world you will have trouble. But take heart!.." (John 16:33)

Jesus lived with sorrow, and He lived with joy. He knew what it was to suffer, and He knew what it was to rejoice. More and more, I think about how incredible it was for Christ to leave perfection, to voluntarily inhabit an earthly body with all it's limitations and finiteness, and to live on earth with sin and brokenness. He didn't have to do that, yet He chose to so that we could ultimately be coheirs with Him. It just stuns me. When my grief overwhelms, there is great comfort when I remember His sacrifice.


Monday, July 6th


God knows how much this month makes me feel broken, busted wide open again. And, try as I might to find joy like Ann Voskamp entreats, I am bruised and sore. The child loss scar throbs and rubs raw this month. Yet I grasp for the one thing that sustains me: the truth of God's word. And how beautiful it is when played on repeat with the music of MercyMe (Flawless), Colton Dixon (Through All Of It), and Morgan Harper Nichols (Storyteller). The strains of the music are like salve on the wound. I keep applying their lyrics and they keep my heart still, my spirit from being troubled. I am humbled at how God ministers to and comforts His children. When I think I can no longer bear the sorrow, His grace pours over me.

This month, as I am reminded daily of God's grace, I am compelled to make July overflow with joy. Grief is a given. It doesn't take any effort to experience it. But joy? Joy is a choice. Joy is hard won. Joy steps over grief and plants her feet firmly in the dust. She doesn't wait for permission. She doesn't wait to "feel" it. Joy believes God's word even if it doesn't make sense because she trusts in Him.
 
I want to choose joy and, while joy is a choice, it's not easy. Choosing joy sometimes takes all the strength I have. But it's always the right choice. I rarely (if ever) look at photos of Matt because it's just too painful. But I decided I would try to "redeem" this month by posting photos of Matt daily on my Facebook wall. I'll be honest and admit that it's tough. Really tough. Going through photos daily is emotionally draining. I'm struggling with falling into that grief pit.  Yet I am encouraged by the joy it brings to those who see the pictures. I had forgotten how much Matthew smiled. (Not that he wasn't happy when he was a teenager, but there's a reason he had the nickname "Mr. Stoic.") ;)

As I try to redeem this month of grief, I hope to grow in grace and joy. (Do you sense a recurring theme?) I hope that instead of seeing what I have lost, I will instead see how much I have gained. My God is great. He is my Redeemer, my healer, my comforter, and my hope. He is good...no matter what.

It's just a shoe

It started out innocently enough. Matt's younger brother needed some bigger clothes to wear. (How is it that my 12 year old is wearing the same size clothing his older brother wore at age 16?!?) So I went to the bedroom to look through the tub of Matt's clothes. I lifted the lid and saw a plastic bag. I didn't recall why a bag would be in there, or what it could even have in it, as I knew the tub held only Matt's shirts and pants. I unrolled the bag and saw Matt's shoe. In one glance, I was ambushed by grief, and it threw me down. My heart crumpled.

It was Matt's tennis shoe. The one from the accident. The shoe he was wearing the day he died. I don't have the other one. We think it was left on the Life Flight helicopter. Oh, how the sight of a simple shoe can throw one's world out of whack. I saw red spots and dried mud on the shoe, and my mind immediately went to the accident, to where it shouldn't go. No, I wasn't going to go there. I've fought too hard to survive to get sucked into the futility of that thinking, of imagining the accident. It is not productive, and I refuse to go there.

I quickly wrapped the bag back up and allowed myself a few minutes to cry. That shoe, hated as it is for the reminder it brings of a horrific day, is also a bittersweet reminder of my son, one of the precious few reminders I have of him. I can't throw it out, either, as it is a beautiful keepsake of how big Matt was. He was a solid, manly sixteen year old who wore an 11 1/2 size shoe, and I need that reminder, for I think every bereaved parent fears forgetting. That shoe is a curse and a blessing.

I dried my tears and then continued digging through the clothes. Matt's brother came in and tried some on and was able to find several that fit. As he tried on a pair of pants, he stuck his hands in the pockets, and a look of utter surprise and shock came across his face. He pulled out his hand and, lo and behold, he had found money in one of the pockets. A whole $3.00. The look on his face was priceless. It was also, unfortunately, short-lived, as he quickly realized he owed me exactly $3.00. We both laughed, and he handed over the money. I silently thought, "Yeah, Mateo. That's just like you."

That $3.00 was my "God-nod" for the day. It was God telling me it's o.k., reminding me that Matt is alive and well. I think of that $3.00, and I am thankful. I am thankful for the memories and thankful for God's provision. The "missing moments" are tough, but God is greater.

3 years ago today

Three years ago today, we somehow lived through the worst day of our lives, the day our son died. There is still, three years later, a feeling of disbelief. At particular moments, there is still a part of me that wants to curl up in the fetal position and die. It was such a "normal" morning July 29, 2011. It began with no hint of the silent tsunami that was about to hit, shattering our world, our lives, our hearts into a billion broken pieces. It is so very true that life changes in an instant. But until it happens to you, you remain blissfully ignorant of the reality of it.

As the anniversary date of Matt's death drew closer and closer, I found myself struggling more and more, feeling myself slipping in the miry clay of grief. I couldn't get a foothold. But God, who is El Roi, the God who sees (everything!), saw my weakness, my hurt, my pain. And He answered me through Ann Voskamp's weekend post. Right at the end of her post, just before I was about to click on the "X" to exit the browser page, I read the last paragraph.

Hey soul? Come close here-- It's going to be okay...
That Mount Everest you're climbing today? God is greater.
Those obstacles you're facing right now? God is greater.
This storm you're weathering through? God is greater.
Today, just hold on to these three words, your refrain for the climbing, the overcoming, the pressing through wind: God. is. Greater.
#PreachingGospeltoMyself —Ann Voskamp 




God is greater. God is greater than my grief. He is greater than anything this world throws at us. He is greater than our doubts, greater than our biggest fear. He is greater than all of it. Greater is He who is in us than he who is in the world. This is the refrain I have kept on repeat as we approached today.



Because He is greater, we can do great things. Great things like this:

Grief is a cancer

It's the 25th. Matt's younger sister's birthday is today. And I'm struggling to focus. I couldn't sleep last night and finally made it to bed at 1:30am, only to be woken at 5am by a coughing child who needed a nebulizer treatment. Birthday party plans are bursting at the seam, and the cake is finished. (It's family tradition to make our own cut up cakes, though we've gotten quite competitive with ourselves the last several years! It's fun to see how our skill level has increased from the earlier years.)

The battle to "take every thought captive to the obedience of Christ" is strenuous. When I think back to three years ago, I don't remember this day at all. Instead, what I remember vividly is the 28th. The 28th is the day I took Matt's sister out for a birthday lunch with her best friend. And what stands forever etched in my memory is that that is the last day our lives were untouched by the cancer of grief.

Grief is a cancer. Once discovered, daily life becomes a continual battle to kill it. Life becomes consumed by it. It takes every ounce of one's strength to fight it. It is relentless and cares about nothing but destroying the one it attacks.

But thanks be to GOD, there is an effective treatment for the cancer of grief. It is God's word, God's strength, and God's perspective. The truth of God's word concerning death and disease is the "pill" we take to fight this cancer. Grief leaves one exhausted, but leaning hard on God one finds the strength to get through, to make it to the next day and the day after that and the day after that. Choosing to see the affliction of grief through His eyes is the course of treatment most effective for fighting off the relentless killer of joy. God's perspective on our sorrow and loss is the key to overcoming this cancer. It is fought with hope and thankfulness. Joy is preserved through thanksgiving and the cancer of grief is rendered powerless by it.

As we approach the 29th, I am thankful that there is a plan in place for commemorating it. I don't have to wallow in self-pity or focus on what we have lost or will never have on this side of heaven. I am thankful for the many who have come alongside us in our battle against grief. I am thankful for the outpouring of generosity for Matt's Gofundme 3 Year Remembrance Event. (A new goal has been set, and I hope you'll check it out!)

I am thankful for a God who knows what I am going through, who walks beside me through it, and who gives me the strength and hope to fight this cancer of grief. I live with grief, but greater is He who is in me, than he who is in the world.

The day I buried my son

Dear Matt,

Having our three best family friends here Monday night was God's provision for getting us through the 29th of July. It was so good to see the kids laughing and having fun. They wore blue shirts since it was your favorite color. It was even their idea, too. I wish you were here (or that we were all there). I saw how much your best friends have grown and my throat closed up with longing. The guys had a great time playing hacky sack, Halo, and throwing eggs. We had a bonfire and made S'mores. I saw your sister playing with a stick in the fire, and I remembered how often you would do the same thing. You always liked the bonfires in the backyard, and it was fitting for us to have one on Monday. Seeing everyone together was like holding a dim photograph of the past, examining it and straining to pick you out of the photo. Only I couldn't fool myself and I knew the truth. 

It's been such a horrible roller coaster of emotions this week. I have wanted to "check out," but as the LORD wills, it turns out it's an incredibly busy week. Two years later I can't believe how different grief is and yet how familiar. I am still amazed when I try to remember the first year. It is nothing but a blur. I don't recall hardly anything, yet I think that's a good thing. I think God does that for a reason. I'm much stronger this year than last, though the grief remains as deep as ever.

In one of the bad moments of this week, with panicked thoughts rolling and crashing in my head, I sent a message to a friend. Over ten years ago they lost their daughter at nine days of age. I wrote: I guess I had been hoping it wasn't going to be this way. How on earth have you made it this long? In so many ways, it seems like my faith was easier in the beginning. As time has gone on, it actually feels like it's gotten harder. Harder to believe that Heaven is really out there, that God's promises are really going to come true. I think about going another 20 years or 40 years without Matt and I simply can't fathom living that long without him. I don't know how you guys have done it. We have incredible, great support, but loss and grief are such a daily thing. I really struggle because the "good" days are when I'm not so much thinking of Matt. Yet what mother wants to go the rest of their life not thinking about their child? Such a horrible place to be. Where do you find the balance? And when does it get easier? I still can't look at photo albums. It's just too painful. I tried watching a video tonight of when child #3 was a baby and Matt was in it, and now I'm a mess. Ugh. I know God is good, and daily life is certainly not like it was even a year ago, but is this heaviness in my heart ever going to go away? I don't want to just get used to living with grief. Does that make any sense? I just feel so much like an amputee some days. Well - I've cried on your unsuspecting shoulder long enough....hope you don't mind a bit of honest sharing. I just needed to talk to someone who's a little farther down this road, hoping you'll shed some light my way. Thanks for listening.

Two years ago today is the day I buried my 16yo. son, my firstborn. Naturally, my mind seeks to relive the events of the day, but I need to take captive those thoughts and do as Philippians 3:13 says and forget what lies behind. I will not think through the moments of that day or try to remember it bit by bit. I will not torture myself by thinking of every detail of the funeral or memory of the cemetery ceremony. Instead, I will think of my son and remember who he was. I will remember that our separation is temporary! I will remember that whatever memories I have of him are a gift and a blessing. I will pray for the grieving mothers (and fathers) I know whose memories are much, much fewer. I will remember that GOD's grace is sufficient, that my strength comes from the LORD. I will remember that He has been good to me. (Psalm 13) I will trust in His name, for He is Jehovah Rapha, the God who heals.