We are five days away from July 29th. It will mark four years since my son died. I've been posting pictures daily on my Facebook wall of Matt this month in an attempt to redeem a month that holds such incomprehensible grief. It is a grief complicated by the fact that it is sandwiched between two significant, joyful, dates. They are Matt's sisters' birthdays. Tomorrow is his youngest sister's birthday, followed by his oldest sister's birthday ten days later.
I don't understand why God would choose my son's homegoing date to be where it is, between his two sisters' birthdays. (As if there's a better day to lose one's child, right? *insert sarcasm*) Fighting for joy in the midst of grieving is beyond my ability. I don't have the strength for it. But I know who does. I know who gives me strength. I know the One who carries me. I know His strength. I know that everything He does is good.
Circumstances do not dictate God's character. Not understanding those
circumstances, too, does not negate His character. I am thankful I don't
need to understand in order to know that He is good. I have witnessed
His goodness all throughout this journey of grief. To be sure, there are
days I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to feel any more
pain. I am tired of it. I want to escape. And yet, the very thing
(grief) that causes so much pain is the very thing that catapults me
into the arms of my Father. The closer July 29th draws, the greater my pain. But the greater my pain, the more God carries me. His grace will carry me through.
His grace is greater still than all my sorrow, and His grace leads to so much more. Four years into this grief journey, and I can now see joy. I am thankful that there are things to celebrate. I am thankful for the distraction of birthdays. I am thankful for healing. I am thankful for God's patience and sovereignty. I know now that grief, though constant, is fluid. Grief waxes and wanes. I know that joy is not the antithesis of grief. Joy is not grief's competitor. Joy runs a race all her own. Joy is an expression of faith. Joy is Faith's daughter, and she is beautiful.
Still playing this on repeat. Finding joy. Finding faith. With God. Through all of it. Even when I don't want to do this anymore.
We went to one of our favorite places for Memorial weekend, Trout Lake Camps. Trout was one of Matt's favorite places, as well. We went for family camp, and it was great. I think, for once, the joy and the grief were equal partners. Grief no longer takes precedence, though it remains a constant. We had wonderful weather right up until the morning of our departure. However, even that wasn't so bad because, well, who doesn't love shooting off rockets in the rain?!
For the most part, it was a weekend of relaxation and fun with my family. It was a much needed time away, though it wasn't without its moments of testing. See, when grief shows up, it doesn't come alone. He brings a few friends along. Friends like Fear and Doubt, for instance. Fear, like grief, is good at the art of ambushing. It showed up strongly at one point during our weekend and then once again after we got back from vacation. I wrote the following on my Facebook wall last week after fear had attacked:
Me and Fear? We didn’t use to be friends. Not really. More like
occasional acquaintances that would run into each other on rare
instances. But after losing my son, fear likes to pretend to be my best
friend. Fear stalks me, constantly trying the door handle of my faith to
see if I’ve left a way in for him. Fear shows up at the most opportune
moments. Like today. Today I saw this headline: "More than 500 people
killed as heat wave bakes parts of India."
Oh, nice try, Fear. Nice
try. You know that tomorrow my husband leaves for India for two weeks.
You know that I trust God, but you take advantage anyway, always trying
to shake my footing and make me fall. You sure did a good job at that
last weekend, too, by the way, when my daughter went missing. Though she
really wasn’t missing, I just hadn’t gotten an account of where her
camp group had gone and then freaked out when they didn’t return at the
stated time. Nicely done, Fear. I’ll give you ten points for that one.
I won’t lie. You scare me, Fear. You do, because I know the reality of
actually having a parent’s worst nightmare come true. It happened, and I
lost a child. And there are no guarantees that I won’t lose another
child or my spouse. And now I’m left, like Eve in the garden, to choose.
Unfortunately, Eve made the wrong choice. I don’t want to make the same
mistake. I want to trust God. I want to live in faith. You
terrify me, Fear. But God? God laughs at you. He knows that you are
finite. He knows that you hold nothing on Him. He knows that the ropes
you throw around me and others are dissolvable. He knows we speak, Fear.
He is aware of our conversations, and He knows that I am weak. He is
patient and stands waiting for me, waiting for me to take my eyes off of
you and turn to Him, to look at Him. Him, whose motives are pure, who
does everything out of love. You wouldn’t know about that, though, would
you, Fear? Because you are not from Him. He is love and you are not. He
is love, and perfect love casts out all fear. I will choose to ignore
your scare tactics and lean on God, the Only One who has the power to
render you powerless. He is mighty to save. Goodbye, Fear. Rattle the
door if you must, but I’m not answering it this time.
I struggled Memorial weekend with fear, and I felt like a failure. Instead of trusting God, I freaked out. I listened to the voice of fear whispering in my ear. When my daughter didn't return at the time and place specified, all I could think was, "I don't ever want to experience that kind of pain again. Ever. Please, God, No." The pain of losing Matt was horrific. I don't wish that kind of pain on anyone. To this day, I still have moments where I am struck by the horror of it all over again. It takes an inordinate amount of strength not to "go there" with my thoughts. But I did go there at camp, and I'm not proud of it.
However, it did reveal something to me. It revealed there's still work to do, still some growing to do. But I realized something else, too. I realized that it's ok. My Father knows the pain I've endured. He knows my fears. He knows my anxiety and doubts. And He loves me through it all. He has been my God, and He will never leave me. My "God-nod" for the week has been this song:
