Patience to Endure

Category: Healing Journey

  • Unappointed

    Unappointed

    Dear lady in the row in front of us at church today,

    Thank you for taking your baby out of his car seat exactly when you did.

    During worship, I watched you and your husband diligently checking under the blanket covered car seat.

    At an unappointed moment, you reached in and took him out of his cocoon. Holding him for a few minutes you swayed back and forth before wrapping him against you in a sling. He was safe. He was content. He was close to your heart. It was the most ordinary, beautiful thing a mother does.

    We had just begun singing, “Even while I’m walking through the valley of death and dying,” when my tears percolated. At times, as any bereaved mother can attest, once the tears are unleashed, they become impossible to control until they are fully exhausted. Then, somehow, more are found.

    See, I lost my precious son almost five months ago. I am in the valley of death and dying, though it doesn’t feel like walking. It is more a military crawl through mud for a few inches then curling into a ball, exhausted and overwhelmed.  Progress in grief isn’t linear. It is not always forward. It is up, down, backward, and inside out. It is chaos.

    For the griever, the world is painful and unpredictable. A song, a scent, a favorite food, almost anything can be a trigger and cause an avalanche until, in unexpected places like church, I am holding on for dear life.

    But then you took your baby out and held him to you.

    His eyes grew bigger as he looked around and heard the singing. He was no longer in the dark, even if he was only sleeping. He was now awake and engaged in a welcoming world.

    The singing continued and the next line in the song became an anchor.

    “I will not fear cause you are with me. You’re always with me.”

    At some unappointed moment, God will carefully take me out of this present darkness. He will restore me.  I will re-engage with the world.

    Until then He holds me close, even here.

  • Bed Rails

    Bed Rails

    Grief has a way of wrecking everything—including priorities. Apathy sneaks in just behind her. Nothing seems important.

    How can it be when you are gone?

    This morning Grandma said,

    Do I look like I care what the floor looks like?

    Sweet boy, the floors are not as clean as when you were here. Grandma kept them immaculate because she worried to no end about you crawling. She took her mission to keep you safe and clean seriously. We all did everything we could to protect you from outside harm—we couldn’t stop what happened inside. I am so sorry.

    When you did not come home with me from the hospital, sweet boy, my soul went to sleep.

    I hope one day I might crawl.

    I was so proud when you remembered how to crawl after losing the ability to walk for a while. Nothing ever stopped you. When no one was immediately available to help, you would gently slide out of your chair or off your bed and crawl.

    If you were in the bedroom and someone came to visit, as soon as you heard their voice, you would crawl to the kitchen. You reached the people you loved by any means necessary.

    That, sweet boy, is the tenacity I need.

    On the harder days—most days—I wonder if my story ends with me stuck in bed.

    I hear the people I love in the next room. Everything in me wants to slide off the bed and crawl to them.

    Grief has the bed rails high.

    But God will lower them—in His time.

    My soul is in deep anguish.
    How long, Lord, how long? Psalm 6:3

    Only He is more powerful than she is.

    Sometimes, Grief is louder. She is overbearing and chaotic, but I am hearing God’s whispers again, sweet boy.

    The final say is not hers.

    Bed rails restrict—but they also provide safety. Every night after you fell asleep, sweet boy, I would lift them up to keep you from falling out of bed. Then I would kiss your head and tell you,

    You’re my whole world.

    Every single night.

    My bed rails are not permanently fixed. For now, they keep me safe so I don’t fall while my soul is sleeping. Grief is strong but God can make even her work toward good.

    I am not ready, but I will become.

    Perhaps soon, I will slide out of the bed.

    I will crawl—and nothing will stop me from reaching Him—and those who love me.

    Sweet boy, you taught me and you taught me well.