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.