Clearly marked boundaries, categories and rules make things easier.
But life rarely fits in the tidy boxes I like to create.
And when it doesn’t I’m tempted to ignore the parts that don’t fit-tempted to pretend they don’t exist-so I can maintain the world I’ve created for myself. I would rather march on in ignorance than drag out my underlying assumptions to figure out if they are true or false.
That takes a lot of work.
Read the rest here: What if My Testimony is Endurance?
I’m a stickler for accurate theology.
While that might make for interesting and lively debate with fellow believers, force of habit limits my imagination when it comes to what I believe with certainty about Heaven.
So on the other side of sending my child ahead of me to live with Jesus, I find I wish I were more free to make up scenes of what he might be doing there. But I cannot, no matter how hard I try, create a movie-style narrative that includes him and the saints that have gone before.
And that leaves a gaping hole in addition to the unfillable abyss in my heart of where Dominic used to be.
I also do not believe my son sends me signs from heaven. I wrote about that here a few months ago. Although I do believe that God Himself can and does use the natural world to encourage my heart and give me hope.
And approaching the third anniversary of Dominic’s leaving, I need a little encouragement to hope.
So a few weeks ago I did something for myself that I probably should have done long before. I bought six beautiful sets of windchimes-different lengths, different tones-and hung them all around my house under the porch eaves where even the slightest breeze sets them swaying.
They help me remember what Jesus told Nicodemus, “The wind blows all around us as if it has a will of its own; we feel and hear it, but we do not understand where it has come from or where it will end up. Life in the Spirit is as if it were the wind of God.” ( John 3:8 VOICE)
They help me remember that God drew Dominic to Himself by His Spirit when he was a little boy in ways I can’t see or fully understand.
They help me remember that God was present and working on the day He called him Home.
They help me remember that God is working right now to hold my heart steady and help me rest firmly on His promise that we will be together one day for eternity.
God has not abandoned me.
Every tinkling sings hope to my heart.
It’s easy to justify bad behavior when I am hurting.
As the saying goes, “Hurt people, hurt people”.
But if I know Jesus, I don’t get a pass. I don’t get to act ugly or pretend I don’t know better or have His Spirit to help me BE better.
Sometimes I AM ugly. Sometimes I do act badly. I am ashamed that even though I am fully aware of my own desperate need for grace and mercy I sometimes withhold it from others.
I’m also ashamed that I can be judgmental and hateful and short-tempered and short-sighted. I can exclude others and run out of patience and choose to turn away when I should be tuning in.
And I’m really, really sorry.
I’m trying to lean more fully on the grace available to me through God’s Holy Spirit. I am trying to pause so that the first thing that springs to mind doesn’t always fly out of my mouth. I am learning to wait before returning phone calls, emails and text messages.
I try to take a walk when my heart is twisted ugly so that the ugly doesn’t spill out onto others and ruin THEIR day.
I don’t get to lay aside the calling to love because I’ve laid a child to rest.
I’m working hard to remember that.
Today is full of tears.
No real reason-other than the obvious one-but so many things coming together to remind me this life is hard, hard, hard.
I find on this side of burying Dominic that when two or three other stressful events pile one atop the other I crumble. Sometimes it’s other family members doing the best they can to muddle through and sometimes it’s physical pain or disappointment or the random “ya-ya” stuff of life in community with other people Whatever it is, the weight-in addition to grief-just absolutely overwhelms me.
I used to be stronger.
Or at least I thought I was stronger. But maybe the truth was the burden I was carrying wasn’t nearly as heavy as I thought it was and I just didn’t have anything to compare it to.
Now I do.
And I am oh, so weary! I want to curl up in a ball and wish for it all to be over. I want to hide in a hole and hope the world passes me by. I want to wait out my years unnoticed and unchallenged and pass peacefully to eternal rest and the joyful fullness of what has been promised.
Not an option.
So I hang in and hold on. I cling to hope and I climb the mountain. I crawl when I can’t walk. I beg for mercy when my mind grows dark and all I see is the long years stretching before me like a prison sentence.
And I cry.
I let the tears roll down my cheeks and fall into the corners of my mouth. I taste their salty sweetness and let them remind me that Dominic matters. That even when other folks have forgotten and moved on, he’s still part of my every day. My heart is still in pieces. My family circle has been torn apart.
Some days I can push it down and forget a little. But today I can’t.
It’s just plain hard.
Think back on the most awful thing that has ever happened to you.
Does it still hurt? Do you still carry scars from where it pierced your soul and broke your heart?
Can you forget it? Really, really forget it?
Read the rest here: When Will You Be Over This?
This week marks the beginning of a countdown no mama wants to observe.
It’s not the happy “days left ’til delivery” of a newborn bundle of joy. It’s not “days left ’til school’s out” or prom or a wedding or a college graduation.
Instead it’s a heart-wrenching countdown to all the “lasts” before the final “last time I saw his face”.
Today is the third anniversary of the last time I saw Dominic alive.
The last time I spoke to him in person, the last time I hugged his neck, the last time I hollered, “Be safe!” as he pulled down the long driveway on his way back to his apartment.
I wish I had said more,
hugged more,
studied his face more closely,
breathed in his scent more deeply,
done ANYTHING that would have made that moment more memorable.
But it was just one more ordinary moment in what I was certain would be many more ordinary moments.
Except it wasn’t.
I don’t know how many years it might take for my heart and mind and body and soul to stop marking these dates. I doubt I’ll live long enough for that to happen.
I’m thankful I will see him again. But I want to see him NOW.
My heart cries, “I want it back! Oh, how I want it back!”
My heart hurts.
And it is going to hurt-the countdown is only beginning.
I had no idea that the last time I spoke with Dominic would be the LAST time I spoke with him.
How could I?
He wasn’t hanging on to life by a thread, threatened with a deadly disease nor involved in risky behavior. So I wasn’t weighing my words like I might have if the last time I saw him was in a hospital bed or after springing him from rehab.
No, it was just another casual evening “check in”, another random exchange that ended with, “See you tomorrow. Love you.”
Except tomorrow never came for Dominic even though it surely came for me–with claws and fangs and growling horror.
For some bereaved parents the last words they exchanged with their missing child were awful. They may have been angry or dismissive. They may have been distracted and forgot to say, “I love you.”
And even for us whose words were kind, there is this nagging sense that if we had only known (but how could we?) we would have said something profound, something that would be worth hanging onto if they were hanging onto anything in those last moments before breath left their bodies.
But I honestly believe that our children-in the Presence of Jesus-are not reciting anything that happened before they reached their beautiful eternal Home.
ALL of my mistakes and sins were nailed to the cross.
That is why there is therefore NO condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. I know it doesn’t take away the feelings of condemnation or guilt, but if Christ’s sacrifice is sufficient (and it IS) then my feelings are lying.
My relationship with Dominic was filled with love, laughter, affirmation and acceptance.
He knew that then and he knows that now.
I have to remind my heart of the facts until it can hear and embrace them.
And when it forgets, I remind it again.
I’m gonna just tell you right now: If you let your mind wander to the days, months and possibly years ahead you will drown in sorrow.
The only way to make this journey is step by step.
This one moment, this one breath, this one memory bringing tears to my eyes. I don’t receive the strength for another moment until I live through this one.
But each moment bravely faced speaks courage to my heart for the next.
Some days I feel empty of hope. Some days it takes every ounce of will to get out of bed. Sometimes I lie there and think, “Can’t I skip today?”
It’s a genuine temptation.
And then a still, small Voice speaks to my heart and says, “I’m here. You don’t have to figure it all out, just make the first step.”
So I do.
I’ve studied it many times over a lifetime-beginning with fun “coat of many colors” crafts in preschool and ending with an emphasis on remaining faithful in trials.
Joseph’s story is typically told from his point of view.
But I’ve never considered it from Jacob’s perspective. Until now.
Because on Jacob’s side of the door, Joseph was gone, gone, gone-beyond reach, out of sight, nowhere to be found.
All the while Joseph was very much alive, God was working and Joseph would (ultimately) flourish and Jacob would (ultimately) be reunited with his son.
There was no way for Jacob to know this so, of course, he was heartbroken:
Then Jacob tore his clothes, put on sackcloth and mourned for his son many days. All his sons and daughters came to comfort him, but he refused to be comforted. “No,” he said, “I will continue to mourn until I join my son in the grave.” So his father wept for him. Genesis 37:34-35
Jacob’s grief was real. His loss was devastating. His heart was shattered and there was no substitute for the son he was missing.
I understand that now.
I glossed over these verses in the past-rushing to the “happy ending” promised a few chapters later.
But Jacob didn’t have that option.
He was living these years-one day after another, one foot in front of another, one sunrise, one sunset-never knowing he was making his way toward reunion with a living son.
I share Jacob’s heartbreak.
My son is out of reach, out of sight, unavailable to my arms and eyes.
But I have something Jacob didn’t have-I know the end of the story. I have the Bible and its promise that this life is not all there is, that while this body dies, the soul lives on eternally.
And for those who choose Jesus, the soul lives for ever and ever with Him.
Hallelujah!
While I too, mourn deeply for Dominic, there IS comfort.
I cannot ignore the pain of separation, but I will hold steadfast to the promise of reunion. I cry for what has been lost, but cry out for faith to cling to what will ever be.
This earthly journey is dark, but there is assurance that light will triumph.
Oh, how my heart hurts!
Deep down where no one can touch it-it aches for my missing child, the family I used to have, the lost opportunities, the missed moments.
And there is no cure.
Yes, there is a Balm in Gilead-there is hope in the Person of Jesus Christ.
And it soothes the pain, takes the edge off, makes it bearable.
But it does not take it away.
I’m sorry if that tosses grit in the works of your theology. I’m sorry if that makes you a little afraid that if this happened to you, the pain might last a lifetime.
I wish some of the books I’d read, the movies I’d seen, the sermons I’d heard had dealt more honestly and openly with the topic of loss, grief, heartache and unchangeable circumstance. Most of them minimized the crisis and moved straightaway to the victorious ending. That’s a convenience and device unavailable to us who are living with the reality day to day.
I can’t turn a page and get to the finale.
I can’t wrap up my experience in three points and a tidy tag line.
So as the ache began to settle in, I questioned my faith. I questioned my relationship with Jesus. I questioned my sanity and my strength and my sadness.
What was wrong with me????
Why can others move through and move on????
And then I reexamined the published stories and realized that the arc presented as going from devastation to declaration of God’s goodness was very selective.
If I wanted to, I could craft my narrative the same way.
I am definitely better than I was. Definitely more confident of God’s working in this Valley than I was. Definitely more convinced that God will redeem and restore than when I first faced the fact my son was dead.
But it is still a battle.
It is still a choice that I have to make every day. It is still something I hold onto IN SPITE of my hurting heart. My hope has not replaced the pain. It lives alongside it and sometimes overshadows it-but the pain is still there.
I can not pretend that “all is well” any more than I can claim I understand when Paul writes I am “seated in the heavenlies with Jesus”.
God sees it all in the “right now”.
I am trapped in time.
Yes, these things are true. But I do not experience them as true right now.
So in the meantime, I wait to see with my eyes what has been promised to my heart. And the distance between now and then leaves a gaping wound that hurts.
It’s simply the truth.
thelifeididntchoose 