This day will take more strength than I thought, sweet boy. I pray it doesn’t take more than I have.
Today is Mother’s Day and you aren’t here. Thankfully, your brothers and Grandma are, so we will celebrate.
There is now a split in my Mother’s Day. I will celebrate with two children while grieving one. It is an impossible situation yet somehow, I must persevere.
I am no less a mother.
Sweet boy, one of the most challenging parts of grieving you is learning to hold the both / ands.
Grief and gratitude.
Joy and sorrow.
Hope and despair.
Comfort and suffering.
Today is surviving them all simultaneously. It is smiling for what remains and crying for what is gone. Often at the same time.
I cried harder this morning than I have in a few days. I was able to wait until the house was quiet. I am not sure if that means I am getting stronger or learning to carry grief better. Perhaps it is both.
Over the last ten weeks, I have tried untangling the both / ands of loss. I am beginning to realize it is impossible. So now I sit with them. I accept them. I will, eventually, learn to understand their contradictions and, rather than wrestle with them, relent.
Do you remember the song you loved that went…
Do you like lasagna? Yes I do! Do you like popsicles? Yes I do! Do you like lasagna popsicles? No I don’t!
That is what both / ands are, sweet boy. Two things that don’t go together. Except I don’t have a choice whether or not I like them. It just is.
Mother’s Day is all about celebrating mothers. But to mothers, it is about the children who made us moms.
Thank you, sweet boy, for letting me be your mom for 24 glorious years. I am both destroyed and exceedingly grateful for that time.
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, today is our first holiday without you. It is one of those days I fiercely fight the tears because if they begin, they will not end. And that isn’t fair to your baby brother Nathan. Holidays can be tinged with grief and not tainted.
We went to church this morning. I did cry during worship. It was such a strange mixture of tears.
Sadness.
Rejoicing.
Awe.
Sorrow.
Hope.
Gratitude.
Celebration.
All of those coalesced into tears I struggled to control. Crying during worship isn’t unusual for me, but today was different. With a still tender heart, I raised my hand in praise. Steve grasped my other hand and Nathan put his arm around me. I was held on all sides.
Dead things come alive….
Where, oh death, is your sting?
The last one got me…
“Right here,” I thought.
Something comes out of the grave every time I call You, Jesus…
“Come out of the grave,” my soul whispered.
I am the dead thing that needs to come alive.
Sweet boy, you are alive where it is eternally Easter Sunday. There is never-ending joyful celebration, and it is never hopeful. Hope needs no existence where you are. It is already perfect beyond imagination.
If God were to, in all His power, allow me to decide – if you stay with Him or come back to me – what would I choose?
For me, I would want you back. I miss my buddy and my entire soul craves your smile, your hug, your laugh. You were my ever-present companion and reason for living. Being your mom was my highest honor. It always will be. Caring for you felt like my Divine purpose.
And it was, for a while.
But having you here with me would be entirely selfish. Your ‘here’ included doctors’ appointments and surgeries and medical complexities. It had pain and discomfort. Your body worked so hard. Even though there was so much love, I humbly know it is nothing compared to the tangible, faultless love you now have. Your ‘there’ is glorious. Your body no longer struggles to compensate. Everyone understands you and there is no need for words. There is no sickness. You are with the Great Healer.
Dead things come alive.
Something comes out of the grave.
I will, sweet boy. It will not be as dramatic as standing up and walking out. It will be more like when you got sick three and a half years ago. Critical illness followed by two surgeries including open-heart left you lying in an ICU bed for a month. Your muscles became weak. When you finally came home you couldn’t sit up by yourself. So we started by trying to get you to move your legs in bed. Do you remember we would put on the Wii Fit Dance and stomp our feet? We just wanted you to move even if only a little.
Once you could move your legs, we dangled them off the side of the bed and tried to get you to sit without support. The first time you flopped right over as if you never sat up before. It took weeks. Just sitting was our victory. I would transfer you from the bed to your wheelchair. You needed my complete support and trusted me to not let go. Eventually, strength returned enough to stand and you only needed me for balance. Months later you learned to walk again with support. Your muscles needed time to recover, strengthen, and to remember. We didn’t listen when the experts said you probably wouldn’t walk again. You were so resilient and persistent. It wasn’t the same as before you got sick, but it was functional and you were proud. I was too. We found a new normal.
I miss you.
When you left, sweet boy, my heart got sick.
My soul was hurt.
The best parts of me disappeared. They are still here. I will find them again.
I am weak. But just in the last few days I have started to move my legs. I need some time to recover, strengthen, and to remember. You taught me how to never give up. I still need so much support but eventually I will walk again.
The hurt is constant but heavier today, sweet boy. Tomorrow is Easter and I will only make one basket. This will be our first family holiday in the after.
I am hunting for the good.
Every morning I wake up and my first thought is, “He is gone.” My second thought is a prayer. For peace. For comfort. For direction. For the gigantic space to abate even if just a little. For His Presence and Mercy.
Six weeks later and grief is still intense, but I can breathe a little between the attacks. The truth hasn’t settled completely in my mind, but it is almost there. I still hear you sometimes. I fight the reality I no longer have to make sure you are all right. We went to a movie yesterday and there were no arrangements needed for your care. It did not matter it was a long movie because I didn’t have to be home in time to catheterize you. It was detested and unwelcomed. But it is here. I have no choice.
Today marks the day in our faith, sweet boy, that was silent. This is the in between. Death seemed to have won. Resurrection was still to come. We have no rituals to celebrate today – only to call it “Holy”. Was it hopeful? Frightening? Quiet? Wondering? Doubting? Wrestling?
Grief lives most violently in the silence of Saturday. The ripping from this world is done. The victory is yet to be. It only took Jesus three days. How I wish Grief worked that quickly.
But she is stubborn. She is relentless. She is powerful. She likes to take her time.
So, I sit in Saturday. Six of them since you left, sweet boy. I will be stuck here in the violent silence of Saturday with a broken heart for all that was you, my whole world.
Resurrection is coming. I hold to hope. The stone will roll away. Darkness will be swallowed by light. I see the slightest glimmer even as I accept grief will reside with me until I join you, sweet boy, on a beautiful Sunday.
