Saturday, March 3, 2012
Boomerang
I haven't written in almost two weeks. My silence is reflective of time spent digging deep--in my heart, as I reflect on all that has happened; and in plunging into the balm of comfort that God sends me each day in his living, speaking Word, the Bible.
My hands can't keep up with all the page flipping, note taking, and scribbling the musings of my heart on paper. I have dug deep into the very personal journeys of those who have walked the same valley of the shadow of death. In their blogs and books, these fellow travelers share how they are standing stronger in their weakness and loss than they did before their sacred journeys. Angie Smith. Nancy Guthrie. Shauna Niequist. The countless mothers of Trisomy babies who pour out their stories on their many blogs. Job. They inspire me. I am getting to know other moms in the area whose children also carried a piece of their hearts to heaven--sharing hearts over Kleenex, over tea at the coffee house, and over the tear-drenched pages of the book of Job. I am not alone.
And yet, when I stumble into moments when I feel the emptiness of the place that David carved in my heart and took with him, I am learning to cry out to the One who was "a man of sorrows...familiar with suffering" (Isaiah 53:3) and whose own suffering left Him "overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death" (Matt. 26:38). This same Jesus saw the loss that his friends experienced when their loved one died, and was "deeply moved in spirit and troubled...and wept." (John 11:33,35). In other words, the Maker of ears and crying mouths sees mine, and from a place of empathy, hurts with me. You see, Jesus knew that He was about to raise his friends' loved one from the dead...and yet He wept because of how death cut his friends to the core. He saw their tears and broken hearts and wept because He loved them. He could have said, "Don't cry, in just a moment you are going to see your brother walking out of the tomb where he's buried." But in that moment, their tears caused Him to weep with compassion...before they saw the rest of the story.
And do you know what? He is giving me joy. In between the tears and grief, He is healing my broken heart. I have to say that most winters, I feel somewhat depressed from the endless gray skies, snow, and lack of sunshine. How can it be that this year, the saddest of all, I have felt the most joy? Because the promises of healing broken hearts that God gives is real. Quite ironic, huh?
There are low spots, like in Walmart when a preemie outfit sits untouched on the end of a clearance rack in the men's department that would have fit my little David on the day he was born. But so far, I haven't found a spot so low that God can't outdo with his comfort and joy. It's like a boomerang. I throw out my tears and sorrow, and for a moment there is silence. And then, out of somewhere my eyes cannot see, overflowing joy and the peace that passes all understanding come flying in, hitting me over the head and filling my heart. Amazing! And so I "fix (my) eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." (2 Cor. 4:18).
My hands can't keep up with all the page flipping, note taking, and scribbling the musings of my heart on paper. I have dug deep into the very personal journeys of those who have walked the same valley of the shadow of death. In their blogs and books, these fellow travelers share how they are standing stronger in their weakness and loss than they did before their sacred journeys. Angie Smith. Nancy Guthrie. Shauna Niequist. The countless mothers of Trisomy babies who pour out their stories on their many blogs. Job. They inspire me. I am getting to know other moms in the area whose children also carried a piece of their hearts to heaven--sharing hearts over Kleenex, over tea at the coffee house, and over the tear-drenched pages of the book of Job. I am not alone.
And yet, when I stumble into moments when I feel the emptiness of the place that David carved in my heart and took with him, I am learning to cry out to the One who was "a man of sorrows...familiar with suffering" (Isaiah 53:3) and whose own suffering left Him "overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death" (Matt. 26:38). This same Jesus saw the loss that his friends experienced when their loved one died, and was "deeply moved in spirit and troubled...and wept." (John 11:33,35). In other words, the Maker of ears and crying mouths sees mine, and from a place of empathy, hurts with me. You see, Jesus knew that He was about to raise his friends' loved one from the dead...and yet He wept because of how death cut his friends to the core. He saw their tears and broken hearts and wept because He loved them. He could have said, "Don't cry, in just a moment you are going to see your brother walking out of the tomb where he's buried." But in that moment, their tears caused Him to weep with compassion...before they saw the rest of the story.
And do you know what? He is giving me joy. In between the tears and grief, He is healing my broken heart. I have to say that most winters, I feel somewhat depressed from the endless gray skies, snow, and lack of sunshine. How can it be that this year, the saddest of all, I have felt the most joy? Because the promises of healing broken hearts that God gives is real. Quite ironic, huh?
There are low spots, like in Walmart when a preemie outfit sits untouched on the end of a clearance rack in the men's department that would have fit my little David on the day he was born. But so far, I haven't found a spot so low that God can't outdo with his comfort and joy. It's like a boomerang. I throw out my tears and sorrow, and for a moment there is silence. And then, out of somewhere my eyes cannot see, overflowing joy and the peace that passes all understanding come flying in, hitting me over the head and filling my heart. Amazing! And so I "fix (my) eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." (2 Cor. 4:18).
Thursday, February 16, 2012
One month behind us...
It's been a month since we laid David's body to rest. It has been a long month, especially the first couple weeks when my tears were more like sobs that opened in me a flood of grief I've never felt before. No snuggling, no cuddling, no tiny hands to hold. No peachy-soft cheek to kiss. His skin was so soft. His hands and fingers were long and elegant like my Dad's and my sister's. His feet were just like Bryan's and his proud big brother's feet. He was our son and oh how we loved him while he was with us. And you know what? Death does nothing to diminish the love we have for him now. If anything, it grows stronger. He's like a little northern star pointing me toward my true home.
Separation has ripped my earthly heart in two but has created a heavenly longing that is unlike any longing I have ever known. Nothing in this world has any lure for me. And yet, each moment here with my husband and children is a treasure that I feel humbly grateful to unwrap every day. Each new day and the opportunities to see God at work in our lives and the people He has brought into our lives strike wonder, awe, and expectancy in my heart. And slowly, we see signs of spring coming in our lives again. Two or three good days overtake the heavy, dark, sad days.
On the day we laid David to rest, I couldn't imagine that God would send us such comfort and curious hope and peace so soon. In fact, when so many good days pile up in a row, I'm caught off guard again by the truly heavy days. But they must be felt and lived and processed with the only one who knows suffering greater than I have experienced--my Savior. What an irony that the one who knows such depths of suffering and sends the "peace that passeth understanding" is the one who hold my son in his arms.
It was so hard, so unnatural to walk away and leave David's precious earthly body in the cold, hard earth after the graveside service on January 16. The sun was shining but the wind whipped us and chilled us to the core. Maybe it was God's way of moving us on from that place where David does not really lie at rest. Physically and emotionally I could not bear to stand there long. My boy is not coming back. No amount of tears spilled on the upturned earth that covers his tiny grave will bring him back. But as King David said after the death of his infant son, I will go to him. One day, I will go. And for me, death has lost its sting and fear.
On a lighter note, it's strange to even think of the term, "laid to rest." Given how active David was in my womb, I laugh and think that he is surely not "resting" in Heaven now. He is enjoying being free of those extra 13th chromosomes that took his life from us. He is free to run and play and sit in Jesus' lap. But there is something under the surface, if I let myself feel it, that is unnerved by not being the one "taking care" of my baby boy. He is in better hands than mine, but in an earthly sense, not being able to pour your maternal care and love into your child that you know is out there--but can't see--leaves me without words.
But life ebbs and flows, and when the words return, after moments of tears and looking at David's pictures for the millionth time for the little slice of time we were given to hold him, I smile and remind myself that I will hold him again. And, honestly, I really cannot wait for that day. But for now, I'll just have to wait, and live, holding onto the edge of my seat in expectation of that wonderful day when we'll all be together again.
Below, are the words to Steven Curtis Chapman's song, "I'll Just Have to Wait," written after he lost his five-year old daughter Maria in a tragic accident in May 2008. The songs he wrote on the CD that shares his grief and struggles after losing Maria really resonate with me. Before, I simply sympathized with his loss; now I feel the raw emotion behind each word. May I share the lyrics with you? Below the lyrics is the song, as featured on Youtube.
"Well, I can't wait to see your smile again
The one when your eyes disappear along with all my troubles
And I can't wait to hear you sing a song
Maybe Jesus loves me or a song you learned up there
But I, oh, I'll just have to wait
'Cause I know that day is coming
So I, oh, I'll just have to wait
I can't wait to hear your mama laugh
The way that only you can make her laugh when you get silly
And I can't wait to see you in her arms
I know the wound so deep inside her heart is healed for good
But I, oh, I'll just have to wait
'Cause I know that day is coming
So I, oh, I'll just have to wait, oh, ohh
And I can't wait to dance with you again
Knowing that this time we dance
We'll never have to end
Oh, I, oh, I'll just have to wait
'Cause I know that day is coming
So I, oh, I'll just have to wait
And I can't wait to see your sisters play
The way they do when all of you are playing all together
I can't wait to watch your brother's face
When he can finally see with his own eyes everything's okay
And I just have to wait
'Cause I know that day is coming
And I just have to wait."
Separation has ripped my earthly heart in two but has created a heavenly longing that is unlike any longing I have ever known. Nothing in this world has any lure for me. And yet, each moment here with my husband and children is a treasure that I feel humbly grateful to unwrap every day. Each new day and the opportunities to see God at work in our lives and the people He has brought into our lives strike wonder, awe, and expectancy in my heart. And slowly, we see signs of spring coming in our lives again. Two or three good days overtake the heavy, dark, sad days.
On the day we laid David to rest, I couldn't imagine that God would send us such comfort and curious hope and peace so soon. In fact, when so many good days pile up in a row, I'm caught off guard again by the truly heavy days. But they must be felt and lived and processed with the only one who knows suffering greater than I have experienced--my Savior. What an irony that the one who knows such depths of suffering and sends the "peace that passeth understanding" is the one who hold my son in his arms.
It was so hard, so unnatural to walk away and leave David's precious earthly body in the cold, hard earth after the graveside service on January 16. The sun was shining but the wind whipped us and chilled us to the core. Maybe it was God's way of moving us on from that place where David does not really lie at rest. Physically and emotionally I could not bear to stand there long. My boy is not coming back. No amount of tears spilled on the upturned earth that covers his tiny grave will bring him back. But as King David said after the death of his infant son, I will go to him. One day, I will go. And for me, death has lost its sting and fear.
On a lighter note, it's strange to even think of the term, "laid to rest." Given how active David was in my womb, I laugh and think that he is surely not "resting" in Heaven now. He is enjoying being free of those extra 13th chromosomes that took his life from us. He is free to run and play and sit in Jesus' lap. But there is something under the surface, if I let myself feel it, that is unnerved by not being the one "taking care" of my baby boy. He is in better hands than mine, but in an earthly sense, not being able to pour your maternal care and love into your child that you know is out there--but can't see--leaves me without words.
But life ebbs and flows, and when the words return, after moments of tears and looking at David's pictures for the millionth time for the little slice of time we were given to hold him, I smile and remind myself that I will hold him again. And, honestly, I really cannot wait for that day. But for now, I'll just have to wait, and live, holding onto the edge of my seat in expectation of that wonderful day when we'll all be together again.
Below, are the words to Steven Curtis Chapman's song, "I'll Just Have to Wait," written after he lost his five-year old daughter Maria in a tragic accident in May 2008. The songs he wrote on the CD that shares his grief and struggles after losing Maria really resonate with me. Before, I simply sympathized with his loss; now I feel the raw emotion behind each word. May I share the lyrics with you? Below the lyrics is the song, as featured on Youtube.
"Well, I can't wait to see your smile again
The one when your eyes disappear along with all my troubles
And I can't wait to hear you sing a song
Maybe Jesus loves me or a song you learned up there
But I, oh, I'll just have to wait
'Cause I know that day is coming
So I, oh, I'll just have to wait
I can't wait to hear your mama laugh
The way that only you can make her laugh when you get silly
And I can't wait to see you in her arms
I know the wound so deep inside her heart is healed for good
But I, oh, I'll just have to wait
'Cause I know that day is coming
So I, oh, I'll just have to wait, oh, ohh
And I can't wait to dance with you again
Knowing that this time we dance
We'll never have to end
Oh, I, oh, I'll just have to wait
'Cause I know that day is coming
So I, oh, I'll just have to wait
And I can't wait to see your sisters play
The way they do when all of you are playing all together
I can't wait to watch your brother's face
When he can finally see with his own eyes everything's okay
And I just have to wait
'Cause I know that day is coming
And I just have to wait."
Friday, February 3, 2012
what it looks like to say goodbye
 |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)