Grief Comes In Waves

This year, my son would’ve been 20 years old. I first wrote about him three years ago….

Since then, grief did lose the sting it used to carry…

But the pain was as strong as the year I lost him.

Something about milestones…

Grief is a funny thing…

I drive past where he is buried often. But for some reason, this year, as it got closer to his birthday, this year hit differently.

Christian John (CJ) would've been 20 years old this year. I had felt tears coming up as his birthday got closer and closer...

But with day to day responsibilities and life, I brushed it away so I could take care of what was in front of me. When I was praying with some women from our church the night before his birthday for other things, I asked them to keep me in prayer that weekend as it neared my CJ's 20th.

They asked me if I had let myself cry...

I told them no.

Each time I feel it coming up my throat or my eyes...I stopped it.

As we drove by the cemetery on the way home the next day, this song played…

And with my head turned toward the window, I let myself cry.

As I remembered holding my son…

As I remembered the nurses and hospital staff walking around the room knowing what was ahead…

As I remembered when they called time, I remembered hoping and praying they'd come back every hour telling me a miracle happened and he's now breathing...

And then remembering the grief and sharp pains to my heart feeling the "no" every time and that he really was gone...

It's the same grief and sharp pain that hit on that drive home...

And I cried more.

Alan was asking me questions of random things....

I tried my best to answer without him knowing I was crying...

And when he eventually knew what was happening without me saying anything...

He started rubbing me and comforting me and said nothing else. He knew.

And in that moment, I thanked God for this physical picture of His love and comfort from my husband, reminding me He knows...

Reminding me how He's always been there...

And as Alan held my hand, not saying anything, more tears came...

I don't know why I had to lose my first son then...

I don't know why Alan and I had a miscarriage after...

I don't know why it took 1.5 years to get pregnant with Aaron...

I don't know why it took 4 years to get pregnant with Annabelle...

I don't know if it's in God's will for us to have more....

I don't always understand everything else that's happened in my life...

But what I do know is this:

God is good...

He has my heart...

My WHOLE heart...

He always has.... even when I didn't feel it, or believe it, or would straight out doubt and deny it...

And the fact that I can even say that and doubt and deny a Holy God, the fact that you can sometimes think or say this too, in itself, shows how GOOD and GRACIOUS He is.

And with that, through the tears...

I praised my Father. I praised my Jesus. My King of Kings. 

Yes, grief is a funny thing.

Yes, it has no timelines…

It’s like the ocean and comes in waves:

Sometimes the waters are still…

Sometimes they’re small...

Sometimes the waves are big and crashing...

Sometimes the waves are so huge that it feels like they’re overtaking you and you are drowning and can’t breathe…

You can be grieving a loss of someone…

You can be grieving a loss of a relationship…

Or loss of a job…

Or grieving a loss of your identity… (even harmful parts are hard to let go when it’s time to…)

You can be grieving a loss of part of your health… 

Whatever it may be...grief can take many shapes and forms. 

When grief comes, allow it. 

Don’t push it away; it’s already hurting…

Don’t make it hurt more by telling it it’s not wanted or welcomed. 

Grief reminds you that you cared for something…

Grief reminds you that you had something good…

Grief points to the good you will have again, and the Good you have now while waiting…

Grief reminds you you’re human.

Grief reminds you that you love, and that you are loved…

And if you’re afraid the grief will overtake you to the point where you will drown and can’t breathe, remember the One who created the oceans, and can calm the storms with a single word... that He is near...that He saves those that are crushed, and not only does He wipe away every tear from your eyes now, but He cares for you so much that He knows how many tears you will cry in your lifetime and keeps them, and made a way so that one day, there will be no more mourning, crying or pain. 

When it feels too much, give it to Him…

 He will guide you what to do next and when, while He comforts you and carries you through it.

 When you learn to hold both grief and Hope at the same time...

 That’s when you can experience a taste of Heaven here on Earth, until we can experience Heaven fully when our time here on Earth is done on that glorious day...

 Until then, as you grieve, hang on to Hope...

Grief after 17 years...

It's been 17 years since my first baby was born. 

Grief can be a funny thing. Some years are harder than others, some are easier; you never know what each year will bring you. 

Grief brings joy: it reminds you of the beautiful memories you had. I remember feeling the very first kicks in my belly as a pregnant mom. I remember reading out loud so he'd hear my voice. I remember holding him in my arms for the first time.

It also brings a different kind of joy, where I am reminded of the blessings around me now- my two beautiful kids, a husband that loves me, family, friends, the list goes on and on. 

Grief brings heartache: it reminds you of the painful memories. I don't remember many parts of my labor. But I remember when he came out, I was so worried that he didn't cry and that he looked pale and a little blue. I don't remember how he smelled when I first held him. But I remember everyone crying around me, knowing the reality of my son's lifespan with a diagnosis of Trisomy 18. I wasn't crying though. Because I remember the HOPE I had while he was in my arms, that even when they called time, "2:45 pm," for his last heart beat, I still believed for a miracle. Even after they had to take him away after a few hours, I still believed they would come rushing back, yelling that a miracle did happen. 

And when no one came, and I was transferred to my postpartum room, with a white rose on my door as a symbol of my precious boy, I still didn't cry. That night was a blur to me. I don't remember if I felt numb, sad, or angry. But I do remember when I got home...to an empty crib... and brought in the empty car seat...the untouched clothes...that is when I finally broke down. 

I remember the sharp, stabbing pain in my heart like it was yesterday, as I wept in that room. It's the same pain I sometimes experience during this time of the year.

Some years have brought complete sadness. Some have given a little joy. Very few have given complete peace around this time. But one thing I know for sure, every year, it brings me closer to my Savior...and that is where the real miracle is. 

The comfort, healing, peace, and deep love that only comes from Him. Allowing Him into my heart and life and transforming this broken girl from the inside out...that is the miracle, all because of God.  

"O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?"

1 Corinthians 15:55 says, "O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?" A recent sermon at my church (Truly: Steadfast and Immovable), reminded me that because Jesus took every ounce of the poisonous sting upon himself, we don't have to fear death, or any pain that is associated with it. He gave His life, so I could have mine, so my son could have his eternally. 

And although I may not understand why my son only had 23 minutes to live on this earth, I know that because of what Jesus did, I will get to see him one day again in heaven, where his body will be complete, whole and without any illness.

Grief can bring joy. It can bring sadness. But the fact that it brings me closer to Jesus every year, as heart breaking as it can be sometimes, my soul is thankful.

For anything that brings me closer to Him is truly a gift.

Until we meet again, my precious CJ...