Faith in the dark

BEAUTIFUL THINGS

by Gungor

All this pain
I wonder if I’ll ever find my way
I wonder if my life could really change at all
All this earth
Could all that is lost ever be found
Could a garden come up from this ground at all

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

All around
Hope is springing up from this old ground
Out of chaos life is being found in You

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

You make me new, You are making me new
You make me new, You are making me new

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

Grief will change you, there is no question of that. Grief throws you violently into a hole and quickly shovels the dirt on top of your stunned body. And there you are. In the dark. Struggling to breathe. Struggling to find your way out. Amazingly, you do. Eventually. You come out of the dirt blackened, bloodied, and gasping for air, but alive.

I remember those days when all was dark. I remember begging God to just let me die with my son, to somehow allow me and my whole family to be with Matt. I didn't want to be separated from my son. I didn't want to live the rest of my life without my child. I remember the desperation. I remember the pain. I remember when my faith was buried deep, and I questioned everything I had ever believed about God and the Christian life. I remember how easy it was to give thanks and praise God when life was good and blessings were falling as quickly as the leaves from the trees in October.

But now? Now I know that when faith is buried deep in the dark, it is not dead. It is placed in the dark like a seed planted in the ground, waiting for the right time to sprout. I know that when everything looks dead, it is only the quiet beginnings of life. The seed of faith is a promise of a new season. Buried deep, faith has to work to reach the light. It has to be watered with the truth of God's word. It must be buried, for it is only in the dark that change and growth occur. It is only in the straining toward the light that faith's seed matures and emerges from the dark, hard soil of this earth.

Unbelievably, God does make beautiful things out of the dust. It is beyond my comprehension how he can turn something as horrific as the loss of my child into anything good, but I know that this, redeeming, is His specialty. Since the beginning of time, redemption has been His plan. He is all about creating something out of nothing. He is the ultimate Artist and Creator. (Gen. 2:7 "Then the LORD God formed a man from the dust of the ground...") He is the Master of putting broken things back together. The broken will be made beautiful. Just as a seed planted in the dark which splits wide, cracks open, grows into something with purpose, my faith has grown large. It has grown while in the dark, and I dare suspect that He is, indeed, making beautiful things out of this. This. Child loss.

God knows

This journey of child loss continues to amaze and surprise me. I never imagined meeting the many incredible moms that I have the past four years. I never thought I would see light or color again. I couldn't fathom finding joy or laughter. I didn't think it was possible to live with joy and grief simultaneously. I failed to see how God could work anything good from the death of my child.

Yet I clung to Him because He is all I had. I knew in whom I believed and was convinced of His character. (See 2 Tim. 1:12.) He is faithful, all the while knowing that I am not. I have doubted greatly along this journey. I have been angry. I have wanted to die. I have questioned everything I ever believed. I have felt hopeless, and I have experienced pain that is beyond description. I have lost friendships and family relationships. I have offended and been offended.

But God never once left me. He never once told me to just "get over it" or "move on already." He is patient. He is kind. He is merciful, loving, and forgiving. He does not turn His children away. With every doubt, angry response, and hurt I threw at Him, He beckoned me closer. He whispers His word over me, gently reminding me of His great love. He continues to speak to me intimately, knowing exactly what it is that I need to hear.

Healing from child loss is a painstakingly slow process, agonizing and exhausting. It is rebuilding the billion pieces of your life and heart that shattered the day your child died. Our lives were blown to smithereens. We don't know what we're supposed to look like, and putting those pieces back together is like diligently figuring out each piece of a difficult, seemingly impossible, jigsaw puzzle. And some pieces are simply missing from the puzzle, so we have to figure out how to complete the puzzle without those pieces. The finished result of the puzzle? We don't even know, for there's no picture to go by. But I do know this. We'll get there. We'll get there if we keep trusting Him, 

Yesterday, I spent 30 minutes watching this video: Doorways, Hallways, and Gateways. I'm not sure how others viewed it, but for me, seeing everything through the lens of grief and loss, it was a powerful reflection of the grief journey. It was God speaking truth to me through this message. Then, not more than a few minutes later, I came across this post The Ultimate Trial from Christyn Taylor's blog. God knows the fickleness of our love. Yet He remains unconditional in His. I am simply blown away with gratitude.

And some day, this jigsaw puzzle life of ours will display an amazing scene. Even we will be surprised with joy by the beauty of it. Until then, I will work on putting the pieces into place, trusting that He has the picture. And every missing piece is, and will be, filled with His presence.

Dear Onlooker,

Dear Onlooker,
I was out with my children the other day at the store, and I saw you, like so many other people and times before, counting. Counting my kids as they walked by. Yes, I have a lot of children. But what you didn't know was that that wasn't all of them. I wanted to stop and tell you about each one of these precious gifts I have been given. I wanted to tell you how incredibly blessed I am for each and every one of them. I wanted to tell you that every disparaging comment I receive about the large number of children I have is worth it. I saw the look of bewilderment on your face, the unasked questions blinking in your eyes like a flashing billboard. But I didn't have time to stop and chat, and I've learned to just smile politely and keep moving. Much like I do when asked how many children I have.

The question doesn't torment me like it first did, when grief was fresh and the wound of child loss gaping and raw. For now, the question gives opportunity to speak about all of my kids, including the one who was made perfect in heaven at the age of 16. Like most parents, I love to talk about my kids, the ones with me and the one in heaven. I realize this makes people uncomfortable, and most don't know what to say. Many are simply too shocked to respond. How I wish I didn't have to shock you with the news that my child died, but Matt is a part of our family. And yes, I said is. He is no longer with us, but we were blessed with 16 years. The absence of my child does not erase his existence. Matt continues to be a part of our daily lives through the memories we cherish of him. We talk of him often, and that is yet another "hard" of grief, that as the years go by fewer and fewer people mention him.

Of course, this is reality. Life changes, people move on. Friends come and go. New friends have no history with Matt or memories of him, no clue of his personality or mannerisms. Longtime friends remember our history, but their lives, like ours, sail relentlessly forward in life's current. What was remains then, while what is drifts swiftly by. I want to tell you, dear Onlooker, that I, too, was once where you were. I, too, saw the "outside" of people. I thought I knew about them just by looking at them. I didn't know their stories. I had no clue of the invisible scars people bore. I gave no thought to the fact that scars are forever.

I never realized my child-loss scar would be forever. From day one of our son's death, I thought that healing meant complete, whole, that things would be the way they were before. And I thought that complete and whole meant unscarred, smooth, without blemish. I now know that healing means bearing a scar, a scar that isn't visible to most. It's a scar that will remain until I, too, am made perfect in heaven like Matt.

I wanted to tell you my story, dear Onlooker, because we too soon forget that this life is short. We take our days and time here for granted. Sharing my story is a chance to remind you that this life is a gift. Savor it, and make sure that the foundation of your life is built on Jesus Christ. Because some day, you will, if you haven't already, face situations that leave you scarred, as well. And I daresay that there are only two choices when your world crumbles: be bitter or better. A foundation built on the rock of Christ will stand, and what is rebuilt will be an even better abode. Bitterness destroys a foundation. It is a poison that permeates from the inside out, contaminating not only the container, but everyone it comes in contact with.

The scars we bear are not pretty. But to quote Chris Cleaves: "A scar means, 'I survived'." A scar means there's a story to tell. Yet not everyone desires to tell their story. Some hide their story behind the "fine" smile (Feelings I'm Not Expressing). Others grab a megaphone, blaring ripe for someone, anyone, to hear it. Some want their stories to just go away. But I'm betting we all just want our story to matter, to make sense, to count for something. We want to know that our scars are not in vain, that they serve a purpose.

Dear Onlooker, you didn't see my scar or know of the ache in my heart as I walked past you. For I, too, was counting my children, missing my firstborn. You only saw a mom of many with her hands full. But I know that my scar bears witness of God's faithfulness, of His unfailing love and goodness. This scar keeps me relying on Christ, turning to Him daily for grace and peace. The scar is permanent, but so is Jesus.