Posted on by walkingintheshadowlands

Entering In

Ethan’s Mom: “What is some of the deepest suffering you have experienced, and how did you cope through it?”

Those words have been staring me down this week.  The question is number 4 in this week’s BSF lesson, entitled “Perseverance in Suffering.”  There is about an inch of white space underneath in which to write an answer.  Who among us can describe their suffering and coping strategies in that much room?

After five days of sitting down to work on my lesson only to walk away after a few minutes of staring at it, I have finally come up with an answer:

“See blog.”  

Since the inception of this blog, it has been a safe place to process our thoughts about suffering, grief, and loss.  The loss of Ethan, primarily, but also the myriad of secondary losses we experience as a result.   I don’t know that anyone out there reads this consistently or anticipates hearing from us, but that’s OK.  We have viewed the blog first and foremost as an outlet for us.  It is a blessing, but not necessarily a goal, for others to benefit from our writings.  

All that to say, I’m not sure anyone has been sitting around thinking, “I wonder why Ethan’s parents don’t post as often as they used to?”  But in case you have, it is not because our hearts have healed.  That is one thing I don’t like about the wording of the above question – it is in the past tense.  How did you cope through it?  I cannot be the only one who would rather it use the present participle – how are you coping through it?  

I last held Ethan in my arms in the early hours of March 10, 2017.  If Jesus tarries, as the old Baptist preachers say, I will live the rest of my days longing to hold him again.  There is no earthly end to this suffering.

Of course, daily life does not look the same as it did this time seven years ago, coming up on the first anniversary of March 10th, for many reasons.  Seven years ago, I had to make an intentional effort to enter into joy, and even then it was for brief moments at a time.  Grief was a constant companion, always right in front of my eyes no matter what else I tried to look upon.  But life didn’t stop – specifically, the needs of my four living children continued.  We had help from friends and family, but I needed to care for them as much as they needed to be cared for by their mother.  In many ways, they were my gateway to the moments of joy my soul so desperately needed.  Jumping on the trampoline, making muffins, zoo outings, giving and receiving warm hugs – these were the means of grace that “brought my soul up from Sheol” and “restored me to life” (Psalm 30:3).  

Now, at times, I have to make an intentional effort to enter into sadness.  While the kids still bring me much joy,  we have moved into a season where their schedules dictate my schedule in a new way.  Instead of falling into place around a naptime, my day now centers around school and extracurricular activities.  Taking care of the four living kids seems more urgent than giving myself space to grieve.  Having a “sad day” here and there was a necessity then, but it seems like a luxury now.  Sometimes, it is easier to skirt around the edges as opposed to diving into the deep.   We have written on the blog about how difficult and costly it can be to sit with others in their darkest moments.  In some ways, I feel like it is also costly to sit with myself.  

I just can’t dash off a quick answer to the question in my BSF lesson in a few sentences or write an entire blog post in the carpool line.  Writing these posts requires quiet, time, and space to think – all things at a premium at this stage in the game.  I just counted, and I have 8 unfinished entries on my Google Drive. The phrase, “I should write a blog post about that…” rolls through my consciousness with regularity, but when I looked at the last few entries on the blog, I realized there wasn’t a single post between Ethan’s 7th birthday and his 8th birthday.  That breaks my heart a little.  

Speaking of his birthday, this year it fell on the first day back to school after winter break.  There aren’t many quiet moments for reflection in between making the magic of Christmas happen and cleaning up the aftermath.  Then Saturday before school started, we celebrated #4’s birthday with a party at a local rock climbing gym.  He deserves to celebrate with his friends, and I want to be able to give him that experience.  The only way that happens, though, is if I can compartmentalize my feelings about hosting a birthday party for him where none of the guests know he has a twin brother who should be here as well.  

Although I felt a little bad for thinking this, I was glad that I would have some quiet time while they were at school on the 7th.  I knew I needed to feel my feelings, but when the day arrived, I felt numb.  The temperatures were just above freezing, limiting our visit to his grave.  The house was in need of a thorough cleaning after two and a half weeks of everyone being home full time, and I couldn’t shake the compulsion to scrub all the bathrooms.  Then after school we ate birthday cake before all the regularly scheduled activities.  The day passed in a blur, and I hardly shed a tear.  

At my next monthly session, I related to my counselor how not crying on Ethan’s birthday really bothered me.  She put words to my feelings.  “You haven’t had a chance to enter in,” she said.  I am not used to thinking of grief that way.  For years, it crashed in like a tidal wave.  It still does at times.  A birth announcement, a conversation about the challenges of raising twins, an icy forecast – all of these and many more can bring strong waves of grief that knock me off balance a little, or a lot, depending on the exact circumstances.  The waves still come relentlessly, but not every wave knocks me down.  

I guess the world might look at this and call it healing, or closure.  I don’t think that’s quite it though.  I do need to enter into the darkness at times – if I try to ignore it through staying busy or just waiting until the “right time” comes, things do not go well for me and for those around me.  But I am not at the mercy of the darkness in the same way, either.  A sneaky voice whispers in the back of my mind: “Is this leaning too far into joy?  Am I leaving Ethan in the past?”

Love is eternal; pain is not.  One day, pain will be no more.  That is the real point of this week’s BSF lesson, but I had a hard time seeing that through all the attempts to rationalize and spiritualize our response to suffering.  As we move ever closer to the day when we see Ethan again, it is right to feel the balance tipping in favor of joy.  It is also right to fully enter into the sorrow.  Both are necessary; both are, in their own ways, good.  In the words of A Liturgy for Embracing Both Joy & Sorrow, “For joy that denies sorrow is neither hard-won, nor true, nor eternal.  It is not real joy at all.  And sorrow that refuses to make space for the return of joy and hope, in the end becomes nothing more than a temple for the worship of my own woundedness.”  It goes on to remind us that we have a role model in our practice of holding the tension:

For this is who we are:
a people of The Promise –
a people shaped in the image of God
whose very being generates all joy in the universe,
yet who also weeps and grieves its brokenness.
So we, your children, are also at liberty to lament our losses,
even as we simultaneously rejoice in the hope of their coming restoration.

Every moment holy, Volume II

Maybe that is where the confusion lies for some who hear our story.  People assume we are angry at God and need to work through those feelings to arrive at a place where we can continue to believe and to worship Him.  They think that to embrace joy necessitates leaving lament behind.  They presume that finding peace and purpose in our suffering requires that we wholeheartedly accept God’s sovereignty and abandon our unanswered questions.  But it’s both/and, not either/or.  We are at liberty to lament and rejoice. I don’t know if anyone else needed to hear that – I sure did.  

Anywhere
By: The Gray Havens
Eyes wide late night windowsill open
There’s a shadow at my back saying everything’s broken 
So I pointed to a star saying that’s where I’m going
Second to the right then straight til’ morning
Praying in the dark please if you’ve got a moment
There’s a shadow in my mind says you’re never gonna notice
That I been dying inside I been trying not to show it
But I never want to feel this way again 
So take me anywhere anywhere anywhere but here
Ah take me anywhere anywhere anywhere but here
I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care where 
Just take me anywhere
Anywhere but here 

I’ve been trying to keep the faith 
I’ve been trying to trust the process
But it just feels like pain, doesn’t feel like progress
And it seems like a waste if I’m really being honest 
I’ve been trying to fly away but I keep falling 
And Neverland keeps calling
So take me anywhere anywhere anywhere but here
Ah take me anywhere anywhere anywhere but here
I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care where 
Just take me anywhere
Anywhere but here 

I could spend my nights
Staring at the sky
Dream of ways to fly away
Chasing happy thoughts
Or a better plot
While I lose another day
And what a tragedy
To awake and see
That I’ve never learned to stay
So bring me to a place
Where I don’t chase escape
Somewhere I could finally say
Don’t take me anywhere anywhere anywhere but here 
Don’t take me anywhere anywhere anywhere but here 
Don’t take me anywhere anywhere anywhere but here 
Don’t take me anywhere, anywhere 
Eyes wide late night windowsill open
Posted on by walkingintheshadowlands · 1 Comment

A Great and Marvelous Gift

Ethan’s Dad: Our boy would have turned 8 yesterday. Of course, one boy did turn 8 — our Noah — and I certainly do not take that for granted. It is a joy to watch Noah be happy, to watch his face light up when he receives a gift he loves. But it also hurts because there should be a boy right beside him doing the same thing — lighting up our lives with his wonder at receiving new things. Ethan is not here to offer us that joy which comes from giving him presents as a celebration of being part of our lives for another year. It is the eighth year we have celebrated this day without him because he never made it even to the first birthday. I do not know how to quantify such a loss of joy, but the absence is very apparent with each smile or gasp from Noah. I usually do not feel it in that particular moment, which is a small blessing, because then I would miss the joy that is there. But later, in the silence — after the party, the laughter, the cake, and the toys — the absence is there. It is a gnawing deprivation, a robbery worse than the grandest of heists.

It is also at that moment — in the silence, amidst the darkness, surrounded by emptiness — that I am reminded that it could be worse. How? That joy could have not come in the first place. We were not trying to have twins. We were not expecting to have twins. Initially, we were just excited that we would be having another baby at all. And then that sonogram showed two heartbeats rather than one. It was colossal news. I remember Ethan’s mom, for a second, thinking it could not be true. Yet there he was, and everything changed. We already had three children. But five? Yes, five — it turns out we were delighted with that. It required a lot of scrambling, recalculating, reimagining . . . and every bit of it was worth it. (I would give absolutely anything to be living the chaos of five right now).

Even so, it still almost did not happen. There is no need here to retell the whole story in this post, but Ethan was not in the correct position around the time of birth, and then he and Noah decided to pick the rare event (for Alabama) of an ice storm, of all times, to join the world. That precipitated the elegant bravery and unflinching fortitude of their mother to will them into this world, with just a little help from an EMT in an ambulance traveling on an ice-skating rink of a road. Honestly, Ethan beat some long odds just by making it that far.

And there was still more to overcome because, a short time later, we learned of Ethan’s heart defect. Again, this post is not the place to delve into all that was involved there. However, I mention it just to illustrate the point that nothing says we were ever entitled to be graced with his presence. Ethan was a gracious, unmerited gift, a blessing bestowed despite immense obstacles. He and Noah together gave us overwhelming joy. I truly thought I was the most blessed father in the whole world.

And really, I was. That is the reason it hurts so much. To lose the double nature of that precious blessing is excruciating. I cannot hold him, hug him, tickle him, light-saber battle him, shoot hoops with him, laugh with him, correct him, watch him fall asleep, or see the light in his eyes when he opens a birthday gift. Why would such a unique gift be given and then taken away in such a brief time? This blog is full of posts exploring that inscrutable question, and the probing will continue.

But I would not know the immensity of Ethan’s absence if he was never with us in the first place. “God does great things, and unsearchable, marvelous things without number.” (Job 5:9). “Many, oh Lord, are Your wonderful works which You have done; and Your thoughts toward us cannot be recounted to You in order; if I would declare and speak of them, they are more than can be numbered.” (Psalm 40:5).

The Lord did a great and marvelous thing in giving us Ethan (and Noah) eight years ago. He was thinking about Ethan when we were not, and He gave us Ethan without our asking for such joy because the Lord “is able and willing to do more than we ask or imagine.” (Ephesians 3:20). And He continues to think about Ethan. “For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not evil, to give you a future and a hope.” (Jeremiah 29:11). That Scripture passage is usually quoted as if it is some kind of high school graduation slogan. I will save all the reasons I think that is a misreading for another time, but presently I will observe that Lord is not talking about the here and now: He is referring to eternity. As much as Ethan’s absence here and now hurts, Ethan is living in peace with the Lord right now, and we soon will be. In the meantime, the Lord says to both to us and to Ethan that He “is in our midst,” and that “He will rejoice over us with gladness, He will quiet us with His love, and He will exult over us with singing.” (Zephaniah 3:17). Amen. And Happy Birthday, Ethan.

Posted on by walkingintheshadowlands

Waiting on Glory: Year Seven

Ethan’s Dad: Last week our Bible Study Fellowship Group was studying John 17, which is the prayer of Jesus before he goes to the cross in which He petitions the Father concerning His disciples and then for all believers. John 17:24 says: “Father, I want those you have given me to be with me where I am, and to see my glory, the glory you have given me because you loved me before the creation of the world.”

When our teaching leader got to that verse, he told a story about a nurse friend who worked at a hospital and who was taking care of a man who was having a heart problem. At one point in the middle of the night, the man coded, and the nurse had to pump his chest. For a moment, he did not respond, and the nurse saw a look of complete peace come over the man’s face. The nurse and the code team were able to revive the man. The next morning, the man woke up and was recovering well. The nurse went to him as she was leaving her shift because she wanted to ask him about that moment in which she saw his face seem so peaceful in the midst of the emergency. The man told her that he had seen Jesus and that the sense of security, belonging, and especially joy that he felt was unlike anything he had ever experienced. The man said he wanted to stay with Jesus, but that Jesus had told him it was not his time yet.

Our teaching leader related that story as a way of attempting to convey a taste of what it will feel like for believers in the presence of Jesus — to see His glory and to be with Him in eternity. For most of the people sitting in that chapel listening to the story, I am sure it was a reassuring and inspiring vignette. But it made me sick, almost physically sick, to the point that I wondered if I would need to walk out of the room.

For anyone who has read snippets of our story about Ethan, you might guess why the story produced that effect. Ethan had a heart defect. Ethan coded, on this very day, seven years ago. His amazing Mom tried to revive him while I stood by in helpless disbelief. The EMTs tried to revive him on the way to the hospital. The emergency room doctor and his team did everything they could for 20 minutes. Nothing. There was no revival. There was no peace. There was no happy story to tell. Our baby was gone after two incredibly short, hard months, in an instant. It was separation: cold, stark, and ongoing. I have no words to adequately describe it, and honestly, that is probably a good thing because no one would want to read about such emptiness.

And I started reliving that moment the instant our teaching leader mentioned that man’s heart trouble. I do not blame the teaching leader at all. This happens to us at times, and we never quite know what might set it off. I am sure the fact that it was close to this day had something to do with it, because it does not happen as often as it once did, and sometimes I wonder about that. It is not that time heals the hurt, as some people are all too fond of saying, but that time makes it feel more distant — until there is a trigger. Because when it happens, it feels very real, all too real, being right back there on that March 10th, the day that changed everything.

So, I took some deep breaths; I zoned out from the lecture for a little bit. I felt the deep ache inside. I wondered for the millionth time why Ethan is not here with us. Why does his twin brother not have his sidekick? Why do we not have five children sitting at the table every night? Why does Ethan not get to experience our laughter, our fights, our Friday-night movies, our family road trips? Why do we not get to see his smile, hear his voice, watch him run, feel his hugs? The enormity of what we all have lost because his little heartbeat stopped is incalculable.

There are many entries in this blog filled with musings about that why. This one is not about that. It is, first, just meant as a lament, because I still mourn over losing him. The sadness deserves — demands — to be acknowledged. Time does not heal it; time just spreads out the anguish so that it is not felt as deeply all the time. My heart is still broken, Ethan, and it always will be, as long as I am here. I do not believe that there is anything wrong in admitting that.

But there is another part to the story. After I started to come out of my flashback, I started to think again about what Jesus had said. “Father, I want those you have given me to be with me where I am, and to see my glory, the glory you have given me because you loved me before the creation of the world.” Jesus wants us to be with Him where He is. He wants us to live in His glory. Just as the Father loved Jesus before the creation of the world, Jesus loved us before we were ever created. So, is that what Ethan saw when he closed his eyes that last time? Did he see Jesus in glory, holding out His arms to embrace our frail little boy? Jesus informs his disciples before His prayer that “in my Father’s house are many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? And if I go to prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.” (John 14:2-3). Jesus invited Ethan into His home. He said, “My child, you fought bravely, you gave all you could to stay with your family because you know how much they love you, but it is time now to rest with me. See how much I love you,” holding out His scarred hands, “and feel the glory that surrounds you,” a glory that is, somehow, more wonderful than the warmth he felt in his Mother’s arms.

Even more shortly before His prayer, Jesus tells his disciples: “So it is with you: Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy.” (John 16:22). Ethan arrived at our true home before I have, but I will join him one day. And when I do, no one will be able to steal that joy ever again. “He will wipe away every tear from our eyes. There will be no more death, or mourning, or crying, or pain.” (Revelation 21:4). There will just be joy: Joy in being with our Savior, and joy in seeing my son again! Jesus has promised, and it will be.

As Jesus said, though, before that time, there is grief. Jesus acknowledges that. He did not say there is anything wrong with that. For some, that time of grief is longer than it is for others. I do not know why that is because it certainly seems unfair. “God knows we ache, when He asks us to go on. How do we go on?” (Ellie Holcomb, Red Sea Road). He asks us to go on in the knowledge that comes from faith as to what lies ahead in the end. The end is Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith. Jesus was there for Ethan seven years ago on this day. And He will be there with me and Ethan’s Mom on our last days. He is waiting to show us His glory, the glory Ethan already has seen and is surrounded by right now.

I can say that because Jesus is also here, right now, even in this ever-present moment of grief. He is here just as He was on that cross, bearing all shame, pain, anguish, anger, wrath, blood, and broken hearts. Right there Jesus and the Father experienced separation, loneliness, despair, darkness, the emptiness of that loved one not being there — a separation even more painful than ours because they had been together forever. He knows what this grief is to us, even more than we know it ourselves. Then Jesus died and His heart stopped beating.

But three days later “His heart beats, His blood begins to flow, waking up what was dead a moment ago.” (Andrew Peterson, His Heart Beats). His death will end Death, once and for all. He returned to glory so that we can join Him in glory. Jesus is there, in glory, waiting. Ethan is there, in glory, waiting. I am here, for so long as He calls me to care for the precious ones that remain here, waiting. But for those of us in Christ, waiting is hoping because “we celebrate in the hope of the glory of God.” (Romans 5:2).

This I call to mind, and therefore I have hope:

Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail.

They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.

I say to myself, ‘The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for him [hope in Him].’

The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him [who wait on Him], to the one who seeks him;

it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord.

Lamentations 3:21-26

Posted on by walkingintheshadowlands

When Knowing is not the Answer

Ethan’s Dad:

HERE’S A STORY ABOUT UNCERTAINTY. In the early 20th Century, technology kept improving and the instruments kept improving and the instruments used for scientific measurements kept growing more precise. So did the clocks, to the extent that train schedules could finally be synchronized across Europe. That different trains in different places could leave their stations at the same time — well, that was very important to the patent office in Bern, Switzerland. But it was also very curious to a clerk who worked there.

‘Albert Einstein said, we used to think we knew what ‘at the same time’ meant,’ says Hans Halvorson, a professor of philosophy at Princeton. ‘It meant “simultaneous.” And the whole relativity revolution was Einstein saying, “Wait, when we have really precise measurements, what we thought of as being the same time breaks down.” We don’t really know what it means to say something happened in New Jersey at the same time as something happened in Sydney, Australia.’

It turns out to be the driving force of the breakthroughs that define modern physics. ‘What happened,’ Halvorson says, ‘was that experimental techniques kept getting better and better so they could pin down things more and more. But what they were finding was that as one thing was pinned down more and more precisely, it was making other questions harder and harder to answer.’

This seeming paradox — more knowledge leading to less certainty — pertains more to quantum physics than it does to relativity. But according to Halvorson, the underlying philosophical questions have never been settled, ‘because there are people who very much hope that this is a temporary thing and we’ll eventually figure out how to beat it and others who think it’s telling us something about how we’re embedded in our reality. We have to figure out what it is about human beings that makes us think we can without limit make our knowledge more precise. Because that turns out not to be true.’

Tom Junod: How the Dez Bryant no-catch call changed the NFL Forever

Why am I starting a post by quoting from a sports article that was all about the vagaries of instant replay in the NFL? Because it unexpectedly contained an exposition about the human thirst for knowledge and, conversely, how that thirst seems cursed because it is never satisfied. To be sure, the philosophy professor quoted in the article does not say humanity is cursed; he describes it in terms of a scientific conundrum because “educated” people are not supposed to invoke primordial ideas like a “curse.” After all, we have evolved beyond such thinking, haven’t we? That was what the scientific revolution was all about as far as the post-modern world is concerned: ridding the world of religious superstitions.

Unless, of course, the “curse” is describing something inherent in the human condition. In the very first book of the Bible, Genesis, there is a story about how the first humans, Adam and Eve — who were special creations made by God in his image and likeness — destroyed their relationship with their Maker. (See Genesis 3). It is a story that, even in our ever-increasing religiously pluralistic society, nearly everyone knows. God told Adam and Eve that they could eat from any tree in the Garden of Eden except the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. With some encouragement from Satan, who was disguised in the form of snake, Adam and Eve disobeyed God’s command and ate fruit from the Tree of Knowledge. Satan had told Eve that when she ate the fruit “your eyes will be opened and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” (Genesis 3:5, NIV). That was partially true: Adam and Eve did obtain knowledge they were previously unaware of, but they did not become “like God” because they did not become all-knowing — far from it. Of course, it was not the fruit that imparted knowledge; it was the act of disobedience, which deprived them of innocence and opened the door to forsaking the good that God intended for them.

It turned out that knowledge of evil was not a good thing. The knowledge Adam and Eve gained caused them to feel guilty, to cast blame rather than assume responsibility, to lie and thus become less trusting of each other, and to feel scared of God rather than feel enveloped by His love for them. Just as menacing, they passed this knowledge on to their offspring, and that knowledge led to anger and jealousy by one brother toward the other, who then conceived the idea of murder as a solution to the problem. (See Genesis 4). People have lived with the terrible consequences of this knowledge ever since.

Thus, one of the lessons of that story from the beginning of human history is that more knowledge is not necessarily the panacea we like to believe that it is. We like to believe that inevitably the more we know, the better off we are; that the answers to our problems are just around the next bend, if only we can see a little further ahead in order to gain more information; that if we seek knowledge, it will reward us with ever-increasing benefits. But deep within ourselves, or at least the more years we spend on this earth, we start to doubt this belief about knowledge.

I write all of that because for a while now I have been pondering how certain situations in my life have been characterized by a lack of knowledge. As Ethan’s Mom wrote in a recent post, I had an accident a little over six months ago that was caused by falling off a ladder. I sustained a severe concussion, I had to go the emergency room (which brings painful memories in itself — especially on this day), and apparently I had multiple seizures while I was unconscious, which was a completely new phenomenon for me. The concussion initially caused some unpleasant after-effects such as sensitivity to noise, extreme tiredness, and some confusion. The fact of the seizures meant I was put on preventative medication and was not permitted to drive at all for six months. On top of all of that, a neurologist showed me an MRI scan that seemed to indicate that there are some potential problems in my brain.

So, throughout this entire period after the accident I have been wondering why it even happened. I do not remember the fall itself, but I know it is likely that the ladder became unstable and I simply lost my balance. I then had the misfortune of hitting the back of my head on something very hard. But that is just the physical explanation for the accident. What I really want to know is why did I fall, on that particular day just before my birthday; why did I have to sustain a severe concussion? Why did I have seizures that prevented me from being able to drive members of my family anywhere for six months? Why did there need to be all those physical scans performed on my body that raised the specter of several things being wrong with me, including with the one instrument I use the most: my brain?

It has been more than six months and I still do not know the answers to those questions. It has felt like a metaphorical parallel to the “dream” I had of me falling backwards off a ladder into nothing but darkness: no ground, nothing visible, just a pit of darkness. There is nothing. No explanation. No clarity. No ah ha moment revealing a purpose for this drastic event that came out of nowhere.

Of course, that scenario has happened to me before, in the worst way imaginable, six years ago today. That event of March 10th, 2017, is one I could never forget. And when it happened, all I felt was agony, darkness, and confusion. It has been six years since Ethan slipped away, and there has been no genuine clarity, no ah ha moment, no revelation of why God allowed that to happen. Oh, our knowledge has increased. We know that Ethan’s heart condition was a factor in his death. We know he was weaker than the doctors thought. We know that something the night before was off with him even more than usual. But those are just bare physical facts. They are not real answers to why our precious boy would be robbed of his life and why we would be robbed of his presence for the rest of our earthly lives. I have no such answers despite immeasurable amounts of time spent pondering, praying, and wondering about it all.

It is not because of insufficient effort that I lack the knowledge. It is not because of a lack of reading or learning or listening that I do not have an answer beyond the fact that some tragedies occur because creation is torn and shattered by a scourge of evil. And because of that, I have been wondering if the notion that having that knowledge will make it better is simply not true. Maybe I do not have the answer because it is best I don’t.

So, maybe those philosophers who say that it is inherent in our existence that further knowledge breeds more uncertainty are right. Perhaps the fact that things become less clear the more we know does speak to the human condition. Every time we look further into space we find there is more there than we thought and less we understand about it than we theorized. The further we probe into the smallest particles of existence, the less predictable the behavior of matter seems to be and the less certain we are of how that unseen world operates. As Bono sings in the opening of U-2’s City of Blinding Lights “The more you see, the less you know, the less you find out as you go, I knew much more then, than I do now.” What if that uncertainty itself is purposeful?

To go back to Genesis 3, I believe it is possible that the reason God commanded Adam and Eve not to desire knowledge for its own sake (not to eat from the tree of knowledge of good and evil) was because knowledge is a false god. It tempts you into believing that all you need is to discover the right answer and everything will be okay when the reality is that further probing often just produces futility because there is always another permutation out there. I am not saying that exploration and discovery and learning are bad or pointless. I am talking about treating knowledge as an end, rather than as a means to the right end — as if the answers to life’s fundamental questions lie in obtaining more knowledge, or that if we can just be precise enough, work hard enough, study enough, the answer will reveal itself. I think God was trying to tell us that is not true: In essence, He was saying: “Do not seek knowledge, seek Me. I am the answer you are looking for because you are dependent upon Me.” Adam and Eve were tempted to “be like God.” (Genesis 3:5). In contrast, Paul tells us that Jesus, even though He was God, “did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men.” (Philippians 2:6-7, ESV). We do not need to be God; we need to be with God.

I ask why Ethan died because it is natural for me to pose the question. I know God does not condemn the inquiry. He expects it. But what He does not want me to do is to assume there is an answer that I should be able to find out or understand this side of Heaven. We look for answers because it is inherent in our nature to seek knowledge. We want to solve the problem. But what if we are not meant to know the answer, or even, what if there is no good answer beyond that evil exists and wreaks havoc upon this world? What if we are supposed to sit in that void of uncertainty where knowledge is forsaken because we are meant to be dependent upon the Lord?

That thought is why I despise the saying “don’t waste your suffering.” I certainly believe that God’s purpose in the grand scheme of our lives is to bring us closer to Him — to make us more like Jesus — and that suffering can move us in that direction. But not everything that happens to us occurs for that purpose. When a phrase like “don’t waste your suffering” is glibly thrown around — especially to those who are in the midst of tragedy — it not so subtly implies that there is some “higher purpose” for every kind of suffering a person endures, that we should be striving to ascertain that purpose, and that, if we do not discover that purpose, perhaps we are just not listening to God closely enough. However, God tells us:

‘For my thoughts are not your thoughts,
neither are your ways my ways,’ declares the Lord.
‘For as the heavens are higher than the earth,
so are my ways higher than your ways
and my thoughts than your thoughts.’

(Isaiah 55:8-9, ESV). Given that disparity, we do not — and dare I say cannot — know all of the answers for why some things happen as they do, and we put ourselves in God’s place, as Adam and Eve sought to do, when we persistently assume and seek such answers.

In fact, Ethan’s Mom pointed out to me earlier this week that the whole concept of “don’t waste your suffering” is a very American way of viewing this issue. It assumes that pain and suffering are some sort of self-help program that we are supposed to be availing ourselves of in order to improve our character. We Americans particularly view ourselves as problem-solvers. Every question has an answer if we just put our minds to it. There is nothing we cannot accomplish if we just keep trying. But that attitude is the exact opposite of what our spiritual lives are supposed to reflect. We are supposed to comes to grips with our constant need for dependence on God. We do not save ourselves: Jesus does. Isn’t that void of knowledge the place where faith resides?

And even if such mysteries bring us to that place of dependence because of unimaginable loss, it does not mean that God intended for that loss to happen. Just because we learn something does not mean that is why it occurs because correlation does not necessarily equal causation. We can thank God for blessings that come out of tragedies while still lamenting the awfulness of the events themselves. Being thankful in our troubles does not mean we must forget about them. After all, the Psalms of lament are just as much a part of Scripture as the Psalms of praise.

We always want this neat little bow on everything, to somehow make it “happily ever after” in the here and now even though God clearly says in both Isaiah (25:8-9) and Revelation (21:1-5) that such happiness will not come until the end of this age. It is the materialist, not the Christian, who desperately strives for and clings to happiness now because for him there is nothing else.

So, to me the proper spiritual response to real, heart-rending pain is not “don’t waste your suffering”; it is “don’t despair in your suffering” because God grieves about it with you and His Son experienced it, and precisely because of that, one day it will be made right. Hold fast in dependence upon Him until then. Do not buy the lie that all is lost because you do not see the good in your suffering. Because sometimes there is no good in an evil thing, which is why we need the One who not only redeems situations while we are here, but who also will restore situations when we are all at last with Him for eternity.

Later in that same U-2 song I referenced earlier, Bono sings: “And I miss you when you’re not around, I’m getting ready to leave the ground.” Every day, and especially on this day, I miss you not being around, Ethan. And through Jesus’ sanctifying work, I am “getting ready to leave the ground” of this physical world where, thankfully, I will see Ethan again. “Amen! Come, Lord Jesus!” (Revelation 22:20).

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Bitter & Sweet

Ethan’s Mom: I picked up my copy of Streams in the Desert after several months, turned to the current date’s devotional, August 19th, and found that I had previously circled it. The poem from that entry describes Joy and Sorrow as they are preparing to go their separate ways because they cannot travel the same path. Then they each gaze upon Jesus. Joy recognized him as the King of Sorrow and Sorrow recognized him as the King of Joy. The final verse says,

‘Then we are one in Him,’ they cried in gladness, ‘for none but He could unite Joy and Sorrow.’ Hand in hand they passed out into the world to follow Him through storm and sunshine, in the bleakness of winter cold and the warmth of summer gladness, ‘as sorrowful yet always rejoicing.’

That image stayed with me as I was starting to write this blog about our summer. It started with goodbyes and ended with a very unexpected turn of events but was sprinkled with fun, grace, and love throughout. Bitter and sweet. That is life in the shadowlands every day, but sometimes the tension is especially prominent. So, what have we been up to this summer?

After 10 years, we graduated our last child from our church’s preschool program. Our oldest finished elementary school. There were many special events to celebrate these transitions, but eventually, it became difficult to carry the weight of the grief alongside the joy. I was grieving a change in our family’s season, as we were exiting the stage of babies/preschoolers altogether and taking our first hesitant steps into middle school. I was grieving Ethan’s absence from the preschool graduation ceremony, the kindergarten tours, and the class lists while proudly cheering on our living children through parties, parades, recitals, and sporting events.

Our 15th wedding anniversary fell on the night of our daughter’s recital dress rehearsal. The weekend was full of activities, so there was no time to celebrate. My husband advocated for an anniversary trip right after school was dismissed for the summer. I thought he was crazy but actually it was the best idea he’s had in a long time (and he has good ideas frequently!). We spent time in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains, hiking to waterfalls and up mountains together. It was a sweet time to slow down and enjoy each other after passing in the night for weeks.

In June, we had Vacation Bible School, which is always a crazy week.  During VBS, my parents painted the room upstairs that had been the twins’ nursery so that #4 could change rooms with his sister, who needed a room of her own among all the brothers.  This was good and right, but also hard because it involved moving Ethan’s remaining possessions out of the room along with his brother’s stuff.  It is mostly still sitting stacked in my room, waiting for the tough job of sorting through and packing up into storage.   But #2 is enjoying life in her ballerina pink room, and #3 and #4 are having a blast as roommates.  

The next week, #1 complained of a stomachache. Not nausea, not intestinal problems, just an ache in his abdomen. We gave it a couple of days, but when he couldn’t walk upright without discomfort, I took him to the pediatrician. She was slightly suspicious, but not convinced, that he had appendicitis. Later that afternoon, an ultrasound technician took one look and confirmed he had a raging case of appendicitis and also a high pain tolerance. We ended up at the emergency room of the local children’s hospital, the place where five years earlier we had heard the words, “there is nothing else we can do” and the entire world shattered into a million pieces. I have prayed we would never have to return to that ER. I have alternate plans for where to go in the event of a broken arm, etc., but when your child’s appendix is about to rupture, there is no other option. Thankfully, the doctors and staff, particularly the Child Life Specialist, were so kind and patient with us as we tried to calm our anxious 11-year-old and hold it together ourselves. The surgery went smoothly, he stayed the night, and we all went home the next day. Upon arrival, we had to throw away the contents of our refrigerator, as our power had been out for 20 hours starting the night before all the action, but there is nothing like an emergency surgery to put food waste in perspective.

Aside from a few camps, we spent most of our time at the swimming pool. Three kids did swim team, one did dive team, and we all enjoyed playing together in the water. There are many things I miss about having a baby or toddler in tow but taking very little people to the pool is not one of them. #4 really grew into a solid swimmer early in the summer, so all four are now strong swimmers who do not have to be within arm’s reach at all times. They can swim off and enjoy playing with friends. This is the season for the pool (past swim diapers and not yet too-cool-for-the-pool), and we lived in it. No regrets there.

We also looked forward to our family reunion in Michigan. My in-laws plan and host one every other year at various locations. This year, we had two neighboring cabins on the shore of Lake Huron, and it was an absolutely wonderful trip. There are 15 cousins on that side of the family, ranging from 5 years old to young adult, and they were all there, except Ethan. It is amazing to watch that crew reunite and pick up like no time has passed, even though it is months or years between our gatherings due to geographic constraints. We enjoyed catching up and being together while boating, swimming, and playing games – everything from corn hole to ping pong to Uno. But even this very sweet time is touched by bitterness. My sister-in-law had a life-threatening stroke soon after our first reunion in 2015, and the effects of the stroke continue to fundamentally affect her daily life. Seeing her adapt to the challenges in person is both inspiring and heartbreaking. Every time we are together, I am struck anew by how much she has lost, how hard she has fought to rebuild her life, and how thankful I am that she is still with us.

Which leads me into the “grand finale” of our summer, and it is not easy to relate. My husband was out working on a ladder in the yard the weekend before school started and took a major fall, resulting in a loss of consciousness. I found him very disoriented and called 911. For the 3rd time in 5 years, the fire department rushed to our house in response to a medical emergency. He was admitted to the hospital, spent one night in the ICU, moved to a regular room, and was discharged with a long list of unanswered questions. The following weeks have been very difficult, and it is still too raw to write about most of the details.

However, I will end with this thought. Sometime in the early hours of the morning in ICU, I suddenly realized that if my husband spent more than a few days in the hospital, he would miss the first day of school and be completely devastated. Thank God, he was discharged in time to walk #4 to his first day of kindergarten and give him a big hug at the door. Then we watched one little kindergartener walk through into the “big school” when there should have been two. Ethan wasn’t there to walk in, but their Dad was there to hug his twin brother goodbye. That was the end of our summer in the shadowlands – bitter and sweet.  Sometimes it is just plain exhausting trying to hold them both.

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Death is Wrong

Ethan’s Mom:

Written September 2020:

“What is your most persistent thought about facing death?”

That was a question in our BSF study last week. Yep, it was.

The context was a discussion of the end of Jacob’s life in Genesis 49. After Jacob blesses and prophesies about his sons and their descendants, he reiterates his desire to be buried in Canaan, in the same cave as his father and grandfather. We have walked with this man through the last several chapters, watching him evolve from a deceiver who took what was going to be given to him to a father who played serious favorites with his family, to an old man who seems to have finally grown into the faith of his fathers. He has lived quite a life. Although there are some outstanding promises, He is “gathered to his people” in the best way possible — in his old age, surrounded by his family, confident in his God.

People in the leader meeting and my discussion group took the bait so carefully laid out by the question writers in the preceding questions. There was lots of talk about looking expectantly towards heaven, leaving the troubles of the world, and being with Jesus. One leader even threw her hands up and used a word like “ecstatic” or something similar in describing what her response to a fatal diagnosis would be.

Excuse me?

To be fair, the question was written about facing one’s own mortality, not death in general. It’s not that I haven’t thought about my own mortality. After all, I have my very own, paid-in-full cemetery plot. Sometimes I stand on it when visiting Ethan’s grave, but it can feel really weird to touch your final resting place when you’re only 40 and in good health. In contrast to my pre-2017 self, I actually think about death a lot. I talk about it more than I ever dreamed, especially with my children. Several times a week, Ethan’s twin will say how he wants to go visit Ethan in heaven or ask when Jesus is bringing Ethan back to earth. And yes, my persistent thought about facing my own death now is that I am following a path that Ethan has already traveled and at the end of that path comes a reunion that I long for every day.

But not until I was doing my exercise video of the day and kickboxing with unusual vigor that I realized something was seriously bothering me about all of this. I still couldn’t articulate exactly what until Greg asked me at lunch “how did the death question go in your group?” Then it hit me. The bigger question that I would have rather answered is “what is your most persistent thought about death?” And for that question, I definitely know my answer:

IT’S NOT RIGHT.

IT’S SO WRONG.

IT’S NOT FAIR.

March 9, 2022:

Recently, I read an article that made me revisit this post I started over a year ago and could not bring myself to finish. The author expresses what I was struggling to put into words that day as she considers the overwhelming death rate over the course of the pandemic (note: this article was written before the tragic events in the Ukraine started to unfold, which further underscores her point).

“I worry that, as people whose eternal fate is good news, we forget death is still bad news. God gave us life as a gift. Death isn’t our chance to level up into the presence of God; it’s the end of something God delights in and calls good on its own terms. Death is wrong.”

Death is wrong. Period. Whether a person lives a long and full life or a baby is stillborn or an anti-vaxxer dies of COVID, death is a separation, a punishment, a curse. We all deserve it, but we weren’t designed for it.

I feel this very keenly during the season between the twins’ birthday in January through the month of March. Conscious and subconscious manifestations of grief increase in frequency and intensity. Hurts that have scabbed over are raw again, and triggers seem to be everywhere. There is sadness but there is also anger. I find myself with a much shorter fuse with people around me, especially my kids.

What is the root of this anger? Why does it all seem so incredibly unfair when I know intellectually that my family isn’t exempt from tragedy? I think it’s because death is unfair. We were created for relationships, for eternal fellowship, for life. Whether those relationships are marred by sin in this world or severed by death, we know deep down in our core that things aren’t supposed to be like this.

A wise friend told me something on the first anniversary of Ethan’s death that I will always remember this time of year: “There is nothing good about a death day.” March 10th is a day for mourning, not celebration. There is nothing good about a death day – because there is nothing good about death.

But as hard as it is to remember this evening, five years removed from cradling my child for the final time, death doesn’t have the final word. Tomorrow, I will pray “A Liturgy for the Loss of a Child” from Every Moment Holy: Volume II at Ethan’s graveside. Included among the stanzas of lament are these strong words of resistance:

Do not let my love turn bitter. Let it turn fierce instead — fierce in its defiance of death, fierce in faith, fierce in its resolve to seek first the Kingdom of my God, tenacious in pursuit of that which is eternal, tender in compassion toward the suffering of others, invested in acts of kindness, mercy, creativity, reconciliation, and restoration — convinced that all lost joys mourned in this life are but pale preludes of the fullness to come.

I do not know how this can be true. If I listed all the lost joys that I mourn in this life, I would still be typing on March 10, 2023. How that pales in comparison to the fullness to come, I just cannot fathom. Even still, these words reverberate deep within my soul, in the place where I know Christus Victor is coming to vanquish my ultimate foe. He must.

Until then, “Let us linger in sorrow long after those around us deem it acceptable. Let us refuse to minimize the pain of losing our relative, our friend, our neighbor, our coworker. We may mourn for the rest of this life knowing that in the next, our God who conquered death will wipe away every tear.”

Come Lord Jesus.

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Counterfeit “Resurrection”

Ethan’s Mom: Tacky skeletons hanging out of windows or lounging in Adirondack chairs.  Kitschy faux tombstones in front yards.  A larger-than-life inflatable Grim Reaper on the corner.  A house just down from my parents actually has a full tableau that includes 4 skeleton pallbearers carrying a fake coffin into a full fake cemetery.

This is Halloween 2021, and I cannot wait for it to be over. Because the sooner it arrives, the sooner people can pack all that mess up for another year and I can go back to walking or driving around my neighborhood without Death mocking me.

For the past 4 years, I have tried to figure out the appeal of this decor and the overall fascination with the macabre.  Every year I remain completely flummoxed as to why I see even more skeletons waving from the yards in my perfectly nice neighborhood, why people who cannot even acknowledge death in its real context go all out to celebrate a cartoon version of it, and why the easy and fun neighborhood trick or treating of my childhood has turned into… this?   

The only new thought I had this year is that maybe this is all another example of Satan taking something that has a basis in truth and twisting it into something false, taking something that has real, eternal meaning and cheapening it to the point of casual “fun.”  In the process, he is able to desensitize and damage our very souls. 

Yes, the dead will rise again – but not as creepy skeletons or disgusting zombies.  

Our family recently planted fall pansies in Ethan’s garden at our preschool.  In the spring, we planted flowers with the students, but the garden needed a freshening up for fall after all the spring/summer annuals faded.  At the end, I read the Liturgy for the Planting of Flowers, just as I do every time we work in the garden.  I got choked up on this line, just like I do every time I read it aloud.

Though our eyes yet strain to see it so, these tiny seeds, bulbs, or velvet buds we have

planted are more substantial than all the collected evils of this groaning world.

They are like a banner planted on a hilltop,

proclaiming God’s right ownership of these lands

long unjustly claimed by tyrants and usurpers.

They are a warrant and a witness,

each blossom shouting from the earth

that death is a lie,

that beauty and immortality

are what we were made for.

Every Moment Holy by Douglas McKelvey

Death is a lie, not a joke.

The fake cemetery in the yard down the street may have headstones with funny inscriptions, but my baby’s name is inscribed on a real marker in a real (and actually quite beautiful) cemetery where his real body lies waiting for the resurrection of the saints.  And on that day, their creepy, bony arms won’t shoot out of the ground like those tacky skeletons.  They will be raised imperishable, fully embodying all that God designed for us to be.   Until then, it is a struggle to believe that His promise of resurrection is true, especially in October.  All the decorations make it hard to follow the command found in Phillippians 4:8.

Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable— if anything is excellent or praiseworthy— think on these things. 

Phillippians 4:8

I’m doing my best over here.  So can we just stick to pumpkins next year?  Please?

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Round Two

Ethan’s Mom: “Many people find that the second year is harder than the first.”

I remember hearing these words from a grief counselor at the Amelia Center after the first anniversary of Ethan’s death, and they knocked the wind out of me. How could anything be harder than the year we had just (barely) survived? How could anything be harder than the confusion upon waking, the fog throughout the day, and the extreme fatigue brought on by just doing the basic activities of living each day?

I am not sure that it was more difficult, but only because it is one of those apples vs. oranges comparisons. I can say with absolute certainty the second year was extremely difficult in different ways. I thought I was past being in shock a long, long time before I really was, and I had no idea how much it served as a protective barrier against the full weight of grief. The whole first year was a bad dream. Every “first” was horrible and surreal. At the end of all those firsts, I felt like we had earned a reprieve. Does the offseason start now?

No. No, it doesn’t.

Because as soon as you get past all the “firsts,” you immediately start in on the “seconds.” Then it hits you: the seconds are followed by thirds and fourths and you never cross the finish line. I had been so focused on getting through the milestones, not realizing that things weren’t going to feel any better on March 11, 2018. Nothing was going to be the same for the rest of my life. In the second year, our loss felt more permanent and even more profound than it had before.

I have been thinking about that a lot in the last few weeks as the news of the delta variant and its resulting surge in COVID-19 cases is at the forefront of everyone’s mind. It’s another facet of the pandemic that has seemed eerily familiar to me. Over the past 18 months, we have grieved individually and collectively, and while grief is wildly individual, it is also strangely universal.

Loss of control. Heightened anxiety. Confusion at how people don’t understand how completely the world has changed. Questions without answers. Worrying about how this will affect your children in the short and long term. Anger that their childhood is being affected by this thing at all. Anger in general. Chafing at the new restrictions you are living under. A deep desire that things would just go.back.to.normal. The crushing realization that they never will.

Does any of that sound familiar?

As we are looking at another surge, we are seeing all the “seconds” coming right on the heels of all the “unprecedented” events of 2020. All of the sudden everything seems more permanent and more profound to me, and I don’t think I am alone in that. We are all dealing with an unsettling awareness of the fragility of human life and our lack of control over ourselves, our environment, and other people. As my counselor says, “no one is the best version of themselves right now.”

Beyond that is where we start to see different reactions. I think part of all the conflict and craziness is that people are grieving our collective losses in very different ways. Reminders that everyone grieves differently show up in all the books, podcasts, and blogs related to this topic. Fathers and mothers can grieve very differently, even when they both lost the same child. Some can’t get out of bed, and others have excess nervous energy. Some want to return to work as soon as possible, and others don’t want to return at all. Some need to talk more, and some need to think more. I could make a long list of very different behaviors, all of which would be considered normal for grief, although almost none of them are normal behaviors in and of themselves.

I don’t really know what to do with this realization, but I felt better after having thought about all the craziness in these terms. I am not suggesting public policy should be shaped by emotions or science should be ignored. There may well be correct ways to proceed at this point, and we may need to do things we do not want to do. I think my point is that we are all doing things we don’t want to do. Again. So let’s all just be kind to ourselves, love our neighbors, and know that “many people find the second year is harder than the first.”

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Reflecting on Keller’s Catharsis

Ethan’s Dad: It surely is not a coincidence that on this day of days, I came across this article from pastor and author Timothy Keller. Even though I disagree with his Calvinism, I have always appreciated Keller’s work, which seamlessly conjoins spiritual insight with intellectual rigor. This article is no exception, offering deeply personal reflections on his diagnosis of pancreatic cancer interspersed with quotes and theories from a range of thinkers. Keller’s honesty on the subject of his seeming impending demise is refreshing and — as Walking in the Shadowlands shows — the thought process he shares and the realizations he has gained are very similar to those we have experienced in the days and years since that March 10th on which we lost Ethan. Keller’s ruminations boil down to the fact that there comes a time when you are so profoundly shaken by something that continuing to live requires more than just intellect or just emotion or just material things: it requires raw transparency, wallowing in the moment, resonating with Scripture, and aching for the reality we cannot see. When Ethan’s mother and I sit beside his grave on this day, we do not do it just to mark an event or to be morbid or to be pitied or to prevent a festering wound from healing. We do it because Ethan’s life and the loss of him matters to us in a way that shapes everything else, because his loss personally intertwines finality and eternity in a way that nothing short of Keller’s experience could. In short, we do it because of the one thing that outlasts everything else: love. The way we truly know that Jesus loves us is precisely because He died for us; therefore, death and love are forever linked, but we know that love is stronger than death because love endures after death, and Jesus’ resurrection is exclamation point of that truth. We love Ethan and we believe that God loves him even more (though it is difficult to imagine that “more”), which is why we believe we are going to see him again. That belief does not change the reality of Ethan’s present loss, of this awful pain, or of the abject darkness that accompanies our memories of this horrid day four years ago. But it does provide genuine hope because it is based on what remains when all else is torn away. We love you with all our hearts Ethan — catch you on the flip side!

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Four Years Ago This Day

Ethan’s Mom: I have been getting a lot of those “Remember this day __ years ago” notifications from my photo service in the last few weeks. I always hold my breath when I open those between January and March, both hoping and fearing that the memory will include pictures from 2017. What we didn’t know as February turned into March that year was that we didn’t have much longer to take pictures of Ethan. Four years ago in March, we were in the final days with our son.

Four years ago last week, I received the images from the twins’ newborn photo shoot. Those portraits popped up on my phone and brought me right back to that photography studio. The heat was turned up to keep the half-naked babies comfortable, and I was sweating through my clothes. Ethan was so fussy that day, but between me and my mom, we bounced and fed and burped enough to get some good pictures of him awake by himself and sleeping sweetly with his arm wrapped around his brother’s. I treasure those photos but mourn the fact that there will be no more portraits.

Four years ago this week, we attended an award ceremony for the local fire department at which the crew that delivered all four of us safely to a hospital in an ice storm were named “Firefighters of the Year”. The pictures of the ceremony and the decorated cookies I ordered as a small gift for each of them popped up yesterday. I remember the very parking spot we used at the library on that day. I remember the Fire Chief’s thick southern accent asking which one was Jefferson and which one was Shelby, referring to the fact that the boys were born in two different counties en route to the hospital.

Four years ago today, we were at the cardiologist’s office for a follow up visit. I remember holding his arms still during the EKG and then learning that our son may have an additional heart condition in addition to the ventral septal defect which would require open heart surgery. That was the day the cardiologist attempted to reassure us about the implications of this additional problem by saying that it was OK to let him sleep in his crib, he wasn’t going to die in the middle of the night.

But then there we were, in the emergency room exactly one week later when Ethan did, in fact, die in his sleep. Four years ago next Wednesday – March 10, 2017. I remember what pajamas he was wearing. I remember where I collapsed in the yard watching the ambulance drive away, another kind firefighter taking Ethan’s twin brother before I dropped him. I remember almost running into the sliding glass doors at the ER because they didn’t open fast enough. I remember splashing water on my face before we left and looking up at a person I did not recognize in the mirror.

Four years ago on March 15th, our family gathered around us as we laid Ethan’s body in the ground. I remember the extremely cold but sunny day, the fuzzy blue blankets provided by the funeral home, the train whistle at the perfect time during the eulogy, confirming that Ethan will forever be known as our little caboose. I remember going back to the church and eating mashed potatoes before taking my place in the receiving line, and I remember the faces of those who cried with us that day.

Our friend and minister once used the phrase “deep in the weeds” to describe my state of being that first year. It was true – at that time I could not see anything around me but sadness and confusion. Many of the paths I walk along now have weeds along the way, interspersed with the beautiful landscapes of life, but some days (holidays, birthday, anniversary of loss) those weeds shoot up and block my entire view again. I can think of little else, and there seems to be no means of escape. As one of my children’s favorite books says, “We can’t go over it, we can’t go under it, we have to go through it.” And here I am at the beginning of March, going through it again. I know in my head that it will pass – Easter is coming and that helps shift my mindset from 2017 back to the present and even to the future – but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like crazy in the meantime. So if you think of us in the next two weeks, pray for us and let us know you are thinking about us down here in the weeds. I’ll see you on the other side.