A sweet friend invited me over for lunch and dream sharing last week. I've known her for several years and we share a love of essential oils, healthy lifestyles, the prophetic, anything creative, and deep spiritual discussions that others often find "weird". I'm blessed to have several of these precious relationships and love and value time to connect with these treasures. There is a certain kind of comfort in knowing that you are not alone in your "weirdness" and a certain kind of safety in the accountability that comes from sharing it as well. The downside is that we often skip over the more normal discussions of husbands, children, and everyday life.
At one point in our conversation, Caitlin asked a question about my children. The way that she worded her question took me off guard for a moment. My "normal" response would have been less than completely honest and one of the things that makes our relationship special is our love of pursuing/loving the Truth, transparency and integrity in all that we do and say. There is no place for political correctness in this kind of relationship. There is the understanding that only with unconditional love, trust, and vulnerability can we experience the places of the deep together. So, I began with thoughtfulness and careful words, realizing that as I got around to talking about my second born child that I would be ripped wide open, revealing to her the secret sorrows that few have been privy to hear. "You should write about this.", she said with a tender firmness that I've come to respect. The thought both terrified and confounded me. How? What? Why? And then, today happened.
Today is my son's, my second born child's, birthday. Yet, there is no party, no gathering of the family and friends to celebrate his life, no special dinner or cake and ice cream, no candles to blow out, no presents or funny cards to read aloud, no laughter and sharing of stories about "remember the time when you...". No, today is the day when I go...sometimes alone and sometimes with my husband silently by my side, to the place where he lay "resting in peace"...my heart in pieces...still...even after thirty-four years. I clean away the tendrils of weeds that have grown around his headstone in the weeks since my last visit and watch with tear streaked cheeks as the last of the colorful helium balloons disappears into the heavenly clouds. It's quiet here. Here, I can let the tears loose and no one feels uncomfortable with a grief that lingers on...and on...and on. Here, I can whisper to him my longing to see him again, to hold him and kiss his cheek. Here, I can cry out to God with wailings that only He can handle. He alone can understand the secret sorrows that are a part of me, the REAL me, the me that makes others squirm or turn away because of a reality that causes them to be uncomfortable and unsure of what to say or do. Here is a place where the silence of the lambs becomes a place of sacred sorrow.
It wasn't always this quiet here. In the early years we used to come together as a family and have a "birthday party" at Justin's graveside. The kids would race to be the first to find his headstone among the rows of rectangular, marble slabs in the section of the cemetery that has been reserved for infants and young children who left this world too soon. We'd spread the blanket or sit in the grass, sing the Happy Birthday song, eat cupcakes, and release the balloons...one for each year, watching together until the last of them was gone. I like to think that somewhere along the way the busyness of life and conflicting schedules of five growing preteens and teenagers is what began to snuff out the flickering remembrance ceremony, but that wouldn't be the truth. The truth is that it began to become uncomfortable even in our own little intimate circle to talk about the one whose absence left such a void.
Grief is such a thief. It not only robs us of the joys that we long to share, but it also robs of the hope for a present reality that lines up with the goodness of God. Grief is a Lone Ranger as each one handles it in our own time and our own way. There is no "right" way to grieve, although there are common stages to progress through until we supposedly get to the other side of it. It's a lie that "Time heals all wounds." Learning to process our emotions in a healthy way helps us to "move on" and live again. There is life after death, but death leaves it's cruel mark. The loss is real and unretrievable on this side of heaven. Each one experiences the loss and carries their grief in a way that is unique to them. We all are aware of the reality that death is a part of life. There is an expectation that one day we will all die, but it is an ever future expectation that reels in the shock of a present realization of it. There is added expectation that the old will die first, that we will see our grandparents, aunts, uncles, parents, etc. pass on before us. The death of a child is a death that is out of sync with our expectations. Having your child die before you do does not line up with the natural laws of the universe. Losing a child, especially a newborn baby fresh from heaven, seems to be such a terrible injustice that mutes the words of comfort many long to offer. It leaves inexplicable wounds that cannot be healed, but only become less painful to the touch in time. These are the wounds that only another mother who has lost a child can truly know. These are the wounds that only another father who has lost a child can truly know. There is a comfort that can only be given by one who has received such comfort in their own place of sacred sorrow. And yet, even in this, each one suffers and deals with their pain in their own way and in their own time.
They say that the death of a child will either draw a husband and wife closer together or it will tear their marriage apart. We were fortunate to be the former, although we did not and still do not carry our sorrow in the same way. We've learned to acknowledge the different ways that we grieve, to respect each other's own way, and to try to support one another without dragging the other down. After the initial weeks of shock, months of numbness, and years of depression, I initially became more prone to remember, to want to talk about him, and to dream of the time when our whole family will be reunited for eternity. My husband is less reflective and emotional, quieter and more distanced from the reality of having another son who is...and isn't. There were years of "adjusting" my level of transparency, situationally at first and then more permanently, as I learned that even my other five children had their own ways of carrying the reality of their loss. None of them had ever met their brother since his death was unexpected and occurred only hours after his hospital birth. My oldest child and only daughter (who was twenty-two months at the time of his birth) only understood that we went to the hospital to have her baby brother and that he went to heaven instead of coming home with us. She wanted to talk about him all the time at first, but as she got older and felt my seasons of sadness she became quieter and more careful about her questions. I wasn't prepared for all of this. I was struggling to function, just getting through each day, trying to get clothes on the outside of each of us and food inside of us everyday was about all that I could manage for a long time...maybe too long...but, then, who is to say how long a mother "should" grieve?
We were told not to have any more children. We were told that it might happen again. We reached down deep to a place that we didn't know we had inside of us and dared to hope again...to believe that there really is a God who loves us, a God of redemption out there and that somewhere, sometime, somehow we would see His goodness again in the land of the living. And we did. Our four younger sons came along after the fact and only knew of Justin by reference as their sister would carefully let them know about their "other brother in heaven" or as I would answer truthfully the question of "How many children do you have?". I worry that my third born, who came to us as a gift just three days less than a year later, somehow felt like a "replacement" son. His "loss" seemed to be one of loss of "self" rather than loss of brother and yet, I saw him as a gift of God's gracious redemption. I found myself not wanting to mention Justin for fear of reenforcing the lie at the root of identity crisis in this gift of son. Who knows how these things are communicated or received, but they leave their own wounds on young and impressionable hearts and minds. Our fourth born had his own unique view of his "real" brother in heaven. He, like I, wanted the truth of his life to be our present reality. He honed in on my subtleties when asked "that" question in public. One time, when once again in our own little intimate circle and after having not mentioned Justin in response to "that" question, he looked at me with his big, brown, four year old eyes and asked with focused heart, "Mommy, when I die will you forget all about me, too?" I cried. I cried hard and loud in the depth of my being even as I tried to hide the piercing ache of his probing barb. I floundered (and still do) at that always asked question. How many children do I have...do I count Justin, acknowledging his short little life and death, thereby causing others to stumble around awkwardly for an appropriate response of condolence or do I count only the "living" children, thereby causing my little son to feel that a life only matters in the fleeting moments of feet to earth? My youngest two sons have always been the furthest removed from the reality of their brother's existence. They know he lived and died, they celebrated his remembrance with us in those cupcake and balloon ceremonies, and yet, they remember little of any of it as we've "moved on" with our lives.
And so, today as I move through my own reflections and remembrance of his gentle breath of baby life, I am once again alone in my place of sacred sorrow. Not that I am wallowing in self pity. I am not. Although, truth be told, there were years that I did exactly that very thing...for far too long. No, today I am experiencing the realities of a life that was and is of inestimable worth and value to a mother who is honored to have carried, born, and buried a gift of God, knowing that he lives on and waits for me on the other side of heaven. Life on earth can be such a fleeting breath and then it is gone. But, for now, I am thankful. I am thankful for the many gifts with which God has graciously and undeservedly blessed me. I am thankful for the honor of conceiving, carrying, and releasing these six precious God-gifts of life. I am thankful for coming to know the God of Redemption on deeper levels through each one of them. I am thankful for knowing the goodness of God in the land of the living...here on this side of heaven. I am thankful to know that the comfort that I have received and the comfort that I can give is that there is a hope of eternal life and...eternity is a long time to be together.
"Can a woman forget her nursing child, and not have compassion on the son of her womb?" (Isaiah 49:15)
