Dear Matt,

Your birthday is in just three weeks. You'd be 19yrs old. (Oh, how I want so desperately to say instead, "you'll be...") I've now missed three years of your life, three birthdays. My heart hurts so badly, the ache so intense. As is the way of grief, the anticipation of these "special" days stirs up the ashes of my sorrow, blowing upon the embers and causing them to reignite. Again, I just want to go away until it's over. *sigh* I hate grief. I hate death.

If it were not for God and His word, I would certainly despair. He has been good to me. I have much to be thankful for. I have much to live for. I have much to look forward to.

Psalm 119:89-94

Forever, O Lord,
Your word is settled in heaven. 

Your faithfulness continues throughout all generations;
You established the earth, and it stands. 

They stand this day according to Your ordinances, 

For all things are Your servants. 

If Your law had not been my delight,
Then I would have perished in my affliction. 

I will never forget Your precepts,
For by them You have revived me. 

I am Yours, save me;
For I have sought Your precepts.

I am so thankful for the promises of God, for His comfort, and for the hope that He gives. He continues to surround me with His love and truth. Of all things, Kay Arthur (on the video at my Precepts Bible study on the book of John this week) made a statement that really struck home. She said, "There is no choice; the wound must heal." I don't recall how it related to the study at all, but it really ministered to me. Only when I allow the Great Physician to work on my wound will healing happen. He is the healer. I must allow Him to do His work. I have to trust Him that He knows what He's doing, that His plan is best. 

I miss you, son. I miss your voice and the way you sauntered into a room. I miss cutting your hair. I miss seeing you with your friends. I miss your genius at the computer. I miss seeing you at the dinner table. I miss your quiet presence. For every "miss," however, I remind myself that God says it will be worth it, that there will be an eternal glory that far outweighs this excruciating, temporary separation. (2 Cor.4:17) I love you, Matt. 

Love, Mom 

The fluidness of grief

We celebrated child #6's birthday on the 29th. Though it was a "29th" (the day our 16yo. son died), the day was a good one. Of course, Mr. Stoic (Matt) came to our minds many times on Saturday, but grief wasn't at the forefront or the center of attention. It doesn't often overwhelm anymore. Instead, it has transformed into a dull ache. The raging tsunami of grief that characterized the beginning of the journey now lies quietly like a puddle.

I find myself often perplexed at this changing state of sorrow. It is a curious thing to witness while in the midst of it. It feels a bit disorienting, this life melded with death. As if somehow I'm supposed to figure out how the scales of joy and sorrow balance. Yet I am unequipped and feel very much like a bystander. I am not the one who weighs out the trials and blessings in this temporary life. It is God. He is the potter, and we are the clay. (Isaiah 64:8, 45:9, 29:16) I do, however, get to decide how I respond to these trials, to this shaping and molding. Maybe I'm not supposed to figure out how the scales work, but instead, to accurately reflect the weight of what has been deposited upon each.

I am thankful this week for weighing joy. The joy of memories, the joy of birthdays with little boys (two in one week!), and the joy of studying His word, precept upon precept.

 

In the silence

Monday was a good day as far as grief goes. I'm still chewing on the whole trusting God thing, and He's still reassuring me that He's here. This past week, I've come across the story of Lazarus no less than four times. I joined a Precepts Bible study on the book of John at our church last week, and the story of Mary and Martha and their brother Lazarus was the first reference. A day or so later, I downloaded, and started reading, a free Kindle book (through David C. Cook ebooks) titled When God Breaks Your Heart. Go figure...The author's premise happens to be from the story of Lazarus, also.

By the time I got to the third "coincidence," I knew the LORD was trying to tell me something. Or, as is usually the case, teach me something. The prayer I've prayed ever since becoming a Christian is that I would have a teachable spirit. *I* know how stubborn determined I can be, and I also know that without a teachable spirit there isn't going to be a lot of growth. I know when I'm not willing, so I've also prayed, "Lord, make me willing to be made willing." And one thing is for sure: There are lessons to be learned from grief, alright.

The thing about the story of Lazarus that keeps coming back to me are the words of Jesus. "...If you believe, you will see the glory of God."(John 11:40) I believe He is whispering to me, "Trust me. Just keep believing. Trust me in this and you will see My glory."

God's glory is hard to find, however, amid the cacophony of grief. Grief incessantly hurls insults and yells nasty, discouraging remarks, always quick to remind you of your loss. And when you feel, at the same time, as if God's being silent, Grief's taunts seem believable. You know what it's like to wait with Mary and Martha when you don't see God and wonder where he's at and you keep asking, "When's he going to show up?" "When He heard that he was sick, He stayed two more days in the place where He was." (John 11:6) But God makes it clear that His silence and His delay are not a sign of His absence or lack of love. John 11:4 is followed immediately by this: "Now Jesus loved Martha and her sister and Lazarus."

Jesus is the only One who can bring healing. Healing must happen. A wound has to heal. There is no middle ground with a wound. It either heals or it doesn't. Doesn't is not an option here, for several reasons. First, it does the rest of my children a HUGE disservice to them if I choose not to accept God's comfort and healing. Second, it, in no way, honors my son's memory. Third, it simply does not glorify God.

Unfortunately, however, I think there is the perception that healing means that we (the bereaved) will look like we did before and be the way we were before. But that's a lie. And the sooner it's recognized as a lie, the sooner real healing can start. Rebuilding life after child loss is way more involved than anyone, even those experiencing it, wants to admit. I am not the same person. That person died the day my child died. My child's death has redefined me, and I am still trying to figure out what that means and what it looks like.  

The story of Lazarus has reminded me that God knows, He cares, and He is working. I know that every parent who has lost a child has felt this: "...we were burdened excessively, beyond our strength, so that we despaired even of life;  indeed, we had the sentence of death within ourselves..." (2 Cor. 1:8-9a) Yet reassurance comes in knowing that He is good. "...so that we would not trust in ourselves, but in God who raises the dead; who delivered us from so great a peril of death, and will deliver us, He on whom we have set our hope. And He will yet deliver us,..." (2 Cor. 9b-10)

I need to again hope in Him. While grief screams at the top of his lungs, God whispers in a steady, calm voice. He is whispering to me with gentleness and love the same thing He said to Martha: "Believe and you will see My glory."

Speaking of glory  ̶  This was the sunrise this morning.

The buffeting winds of grief

I cried in the shower Monday morning. I had been thinking of Matt's birthday coming up. I was picturing having a conversation with no-one in particular, only to realize that I would never be able to say, "I have an 18 year old." *sigh* It never fails to amaze me at how quickly grief throws a punch. It managed to throw another jab, as well, when I did laundry. I had had to pull out the boxes of size 12-14 clothes for Army boy, Matt's brother. I mean, I know he's going to eventually wear them. I just didn't expect it to be quite so soon. It's made me really understand people from the older generations who lost children. Thirty years ago, losing a child was never talked about. Parents and families simply refused to talk about their loss, not ever mentioning their loved one again. I get it now.

And while we talk about Matt every day, seeing his pictures and seeing his younger brother wear his old clothes is painful. It is like having a schoolyard bully, megaphone in hand, blare tauntingly, "Hey, look, he's gone! Remember!?" The bully points out the obvious. It's not a fact that's ever been forgotten, but the bully grief just can't resist the jab. Stuffing one's grief is not healthy and only prolongs the healing process, but I understand more now why people do it.

So while these grief strikes are quick, I know I have "toughened" up a bit. I can take the blow now without being completely knocked out. (At least some of them.) I try to soak myself in the truth as quickly as I can. Truths like "This world is not our home" and "This life is short even if it feels long" and, most powerfully for me, "Matt is alive and I will see him again." There are many that have been my anchor throughout this journey. Since the beginning, one truth in particular that I have clung to is beautifully expressed in the following song by JJ Heller titled "Who You Are."




I have drawn indescribable comfort (and comfort does NOT mean the absence of pain) from knowing that the LORD GOD ALMIGHTY holds me, holds my world and everything in it. How can that be comforting? It's only comforting if you KNOW Him. Do you know Him? Do you know His character? Do you know He is good and all that He does is good? How can I say that? Because I know Him. I thank God every day that I spent the last 14 years studying His word. Really studying His word. It is that Word that has sustained me through one of the darkest times of my life. I may not understand what God is doing, but I know who He is.