Posted on by walkingintheshadowlands

The Time Is Soon

Ethan’s Dad: Eight years. It has been eight years since we last saw Ethan — experienced him — alive. Eight years since I heard his cry: he would wail, scream, go on for quite a while, but also sigh. Eight years since I felt his breath. It could be halting and shaky, but it also could be very gentle. Eight years since I fed him those bottles of milk and formula. That was always difficult for me. I felt that I could never get him to drink enough. It was not for lack of effort — he tried very hard — but there was almost always some left. The best part of that was when he was finished and was tired. When he slept peacefully, he was like an angel. Eight years since I saw those eyes open: those dreamy, contemplative eyes that always gave the impression he was thinking about something interesting. I wish I knew those thoughts. Eight years since feeling his warmth. He liked to be held close. It was his love language because he could not yet really speak.

It has been eight years, but the time is relative — it both flies and crawls. It flies because in one sense it feels like an instant since that moment of loss happened; that time is frozen in our hearts. It crawls in the sense that each day without him aches, and we long to see him again. But the reality is that we live in this present time, each next moment, without him. God asks us to go on because our journeys in these earthen vessels are not finished. We have not spiritually matured to the point of being ready to see Him, which means we are not able to see him yet either. No matter how much we may wish it, we cannot change this reality.

It makes me think about the difference between how God experiences time versus how we do. Several of the stories I read to our kids revolve around altering time. Characters are able to jump back and forth — unwind, rewind, or see what is coming ahead. Of course, that is all fiction. God has made us to traverse time in one direction, always moving forward. But God does not experience time that way.

I recently finished reading C.S. Lewis’s Voyage of the Dawn Treader to our smaller kids. In it, there is a scene in which one of the main characters, Lucy Pevensie, interacts with Aslan the lion, who is (for those who may not know) an allegorical stand-in for Jesus in the Chronicles of Narnia series. At the end of the scene, Aslan tells Lucy that he must leave her, and he says:

“Do not look so sad. We shall meet soon again.”
“Please, Aslan,” said Lucy, “what do you call soon?”
“I call all times soon,” said Aslan.

That exchange is a not so veiled reference to Jesus’ words in Revelation 22:12-13 in which He says: “Behold, I am coming soon! My reward is with me, and I will give to everyone according to what he has done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End.”

“Soon” takes on an enlarged meaning because of what Jesus says about Himself being before and after all other things. In Revelation 1:8, Jesus similarly says, “I am the Alpha and the Omega, who is, and who was, and who is to come, the Almighty.” In the same chapter, verses 17-18, He says, “Do not be afraid. I am the First and the Last. I am the Living One; I was dead, and behold I am alive forever and ever! And I hold the keys of death and Hades.” Just before Jesus ascends into heaven at the end of His first coming, He gives the disciples the command to go tell everyone about Him, and He adds: “And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.” Matthew 28:20.
In the Old Testament, when God speaks to Moses from the burning bush, Moses asks God:

“Suppose I go to the Israelites and say to them, ‘The God of your fathers has sent me to you,’ and they ask me, ‘What is his name?’ Then what shall I tell them?”
“God said to Moses, ‘I AM WHO I AM. This is what you are to say to the Israelites: I AM has sent me to you.'” Exodus 3: 13-14

Unlike us, who experience time as one forward horizon, God is present everywhere, all at once. This is why He knows the future and can speak with certainty about it, and why He can speak to anyone at any time. Lest you think that God has it easy because He is not immersed in time as we are, think for a second about what it means to see everything and to be everywhere. Could you or I handle the immensity of that? I know that I sometimes feel an almost overwhelming sense of dread when I read the news about all the calamities that happen around the world every day. It is too much for us to digest. Even though we only experience remote harms second-hand, the sheer number of them burdens us. Think about if you were there for each and every catastrophe — for all-time, throughout history. In that light, the fact that we live in time and have no choice but to move on to the next moment is a blessing because we do not continually or infinitely live through any moment all the time.

But God also chose to willingly experience time as we do when Jesus was incarnated. In that earthly life, you could practically hear Jesus’ heart breaking when he lamented over Jerusalem: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing.” Matthew 23:37. When Jesus came to Lazarus’s tomb, He openly wept — twice. John 11:35 & 38. In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus tells His disciples: “My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.” He then prays earnestly: “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet, not as I will, but as you will.” Matthew 26:38,39. Jesus then goes to the Cross and experiences an agonizing and excruciating death that includes separation from God the Father. In all of those moments, Jesus knew the future, but He experienced time as it unfolded, just as we do, and so He felt as we do.

Likewise, when Jesus healed those in need, He made them well for their remaining time on earth; He did not rewind time such that those people never experienced the pain, harm, and loss they had known up until that time. He renewed and redeemed those individuals, as much on the inside as the outside, but they still carried with them what they had lived in their brokenness before they had met Him.

Why am I getting into all of this about time — for God and for us? Because in these past eight years there have been countless times that I have wished I could go back, or I have wished I could have known what was going to happen, so that somehow, some way, Ethan would still be with us. I particularly do this on each March 10th.

But we all do this for certain points in our lives, don’t we? Our fascination with time travel boils down to wanting to fix things, to make right what has gone wrong. We do not want to retrace our steps, but rather to redirect them. But we are not made that way or for that purpose.

In that same exchange between Aslan and Lucy in Voyage of the Dawn Treader, a little before the part I quoted above, Lucy asks Aslan if she has messed something up to the point that it can never be the same again, and whether it would have been different if she had not made the mistake. Aslan answers:

“Child, did I not explain to you once before that no one is ever told what would have happened?”

There is no “what if?” because there is no going back. For us, there is this moment, and the next, and the one after that. And what happens matters, for this earthly life and the heavenly one. This is why Jesus said, “Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me,” which paradoxically connects directly with His command “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth …, but store up for yourselves treasures in heaven.” Matthew 25:40; 6:19-20.

I cannot undo our loss of Ethan. I cannot unwind the pain and misery and missed opportunities of all we do not get to experience with Ethan for the rest of our days here. But because each moment in time matters — as do the losses that accumulate with each day that passes — Ethan’s presence here for even that brief two-month time eight years ago also matters. He matters and he cannot be erased because Ethan is a child of God. “How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!” 1 John 3:1

Yes, the knowledge that God is always present both hurts and helps. It hurts because it means He was there in that moment, and yet He did not stop it. He had the power to halt it or to unwind it, yet, for reasons we cannot know, He did not. But it also helps because it means God was there from the start.

“Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
“If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
“If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will guide me,
your right hand will hold me fast.
“If I say, ‘Surely the darkness will hide me
and the light become night around me,’
even the darkness will not be dark to you;
the night will shine like the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
“For you created my inmost being;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.
“My frame was not hidden from you
when I was made in the secret place,
when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.
“Your eyes saw my unformed body;
all the days ordained for me were written in your book
before one of them came to be.”
Psalm 139:7-16

God created Ethan. He created him with a purpose and a destiny. Part of that purpose was to be with us, even as exceedingly short as it was, and for us to love him and him to love us. We do not know what our lives would have been like if he had stayed with us, and we are not meant to know. But we are told where Ethan is and where, one day, we will be.

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, trust also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go, I will come back and take you to be with me that you may also be where I am.” John 14:1-3

So, when, exactly, is that? “He who testifies to these things says, ‘Yes, I am coming soon.'” Revelation 22:20. Yes, to Jesus all times are “soon.” It is not so with us, but we are meant to live as if that is the case — as if time is both present and imminent — happening soon. With the help of the Spirit, we are to become like Him as much as it is possible in our present, earthly, time-bound existence because then, one day, we will be like Him. “What we will be has not yet been made known. But we know that when [Jesus] appears, we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as he is.” 1 John 3:2. And we will see our Ethan too, at which point soon will be now. “Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.” Revelation 22:20.

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

Tracing the Rainbow Through the Rain

Ethan’s Mom: Each year, Bible Study Fellowship sets aside the last week of our class for “Share Day.” This is a week where all class members are invited to share what God has taught them over the course of the last eight months of intensive personal and small group Bible study. It provides a sense of celebration and of closure for the study. This year has been an intense one: People of the Promised Land: Kingdom Divided. This study has brought us through 15 different books of the Old Testament, as we studied the period of Israel’s history after King Solomon through the fall of Judah to the Babylonians in 587 BC.

The material was more intimidating, but the fellowship and bonding in our discussion group was the same as previous years. Saying goodbye to the group you have walked alongside since September is always difficult. This year, however, is even more of an ending than usual for me. Next year, I am going to transfer from the daytime women’s class to the nighttime women’s class. The daytime class has a program for babies and preschool children; the evening class has a program for school aged children and teenagers. Next year, I, my husband, and four big kids will all attend BSF together, in different small groups but meeting in the same host church. I am confident this is a transition that needs to be made, but goodbyes are always hard, even if they are right.

As I reflect on the ending of this study, my time with this class, and my role as a group leader, a verse from our study of Isaiah comes to mind. In Isaiah 25:1 the prophet says, “LORD, you are my God; I will exalt you and praise your name, for in perfect faithfulness you have done wonderful things, things planned long ago.” This post is my way of exalting God as I reflect and process through the ending of this study, my time with this BSF class, and my role as a group leader.

In a way, it is also a way of looking back and taking stock of my journey of healing this far. Saying goodbye to my BSF class feels very weighty because so much of my story as Ethan’s mom is all tangled up with my experience with BSF. I attended an orientation class in April 2016 to register myself, a 3 year old, and a 1 year old for the next year’s study. When I returned to the host church in August 2016, I brought my 3 year old, 1 year old, and a surprise set of twins in utero. BSF was one of the places I carried Ethan during our short time together.

The study in 2016-2017 was the book of John, and my group leader was Laurie. Our small group met in the Media Room of the church, surrounded by giant rolls of paper and baskets of craft supplies. After discussing the lesson, we would move to the sanctuary to hear the teaching leader’s lecture. That very first lecture included encouragement to remain faithful to studying God’s Word even when it didn’t make sense or left you with unanswered questions. Just act on what you do know and keep going. Those words have come back to me several times since that first lecture.

Studying John was a gift. The gospel of John has some distinctions from the three synoptic gospels, including the seven “I am” statements. That fall, I got to know Jesus in a deeper and more personal way by studying this particular book using the four step method of BSF. In the coming spring, I would need to draw on that knowledge more than I could have ever anticipated. I needed to know who He was in order to face the future that held unspeakable tragedy.

My group was also a blessing to me from day one. I was very nervous about the twins being born very prematurely, as I had issues with premature labor with all three preceding pregnancies. Laurie told me she was going to pray that the babies would make it to 36 weeks. I thought that was pretty optimistic but appreciated the sentiment. Just after the New Year, my boys were born at 36 weeks.

Two months later, Laurie and a couple of others showed up at our house with a huge basket of toys for the kids and gift cards to all manner of kid-friendly takeout or drive-through restaurants. I was so touched that they would see the kids’ needs as well as mine. Some ladies joined our meal train. Laurie watched #4 so that Ethan’s dad and I could visit the cemetery alone. One of the group members even took me out for a massage that summer, knowing from personal experience that grief is surprisingly physical in its manifestation.

Remember the teaching leader’s encouragement to just keep at it, even when you don’t understand? I returned to class much sooner than I think people expected. Just do what you know to do — well, by then what I knew and found value in was doing my lesson and attending class every Tuesday. The first week, our group was combined with another group due to Laurie being out. After the other ladies headed down to lecture, my group members circled up and prayed for me. I mean they prayed FOR me — I couldn’t even say “Dear God” much less speak any sort of coherent prayer, and they stepped in to offer prayers that I literally could not pray but wanted so badly to say.

The next week, our Scripture reading included the passage about Jesus’ burial. One of the questions was, “why do you think it was important that Jesus was buried?” I surprised myself by sharing my answer. “As a person who has recently spent a lot of time at a graveside, it is very important to me that he was buried.” As strange as it sounds, studying that passage of Jesus’ burial was the most meaningful thing I could have read soon after burying my son. I’m sure we went on to have meaningful discussions about the resurrection, but what stands out to me is that week we talked about how Jesus’ friends cared for his body and mourned the loss of his life.

The next study was Romans, from the fall of 2017 to the spring of 2018. To be honest, this is the year that is the fuzziest in my mind. I think that makes sense, as most of my physical, emotional, and spiritual energy was spent on survival. However, I think the gift of this study was a systematic, rational review of some of the basic doctrines of my faith. When I was questioning everything I thought I knew about God, I worked through a structured study of the New Testament’s longest book on Christian theology. It addressed my questions on a macro-level (Why do we deserve death? What is God’s plan for us?) so that I could begin to process through them on a micro-level (Why did this happen to my child? What is God’s plan for him? For me?).

In 2018-2019, I completed my first Old Testament study with BSF. This study was known at the time as People of the Promised Land I, and it covered the period from when Joshua led the people through the Jordan River to the Promised Land through the reign of King Solomon. This coincided with my experience at the inCompete Retreat, which I have referred to often on this blog because it was a definite turning point for me. I remember working on my BSF lesson while at the retreat, and it was about Joshua placing his foot on the neck of his enemies foreshadowing Jesus’ ultimate victory over death. God had promised the Israelites victory and possession of the Promised Land; however, they still had to fight the battle. That was analogous to my stage of healing — God had promised to bind up my wounds, but I had to participate in the healing process. God had promised to be with me in the battle to overcome the effects of trauma in my body, mind, and spirit, but I needed to start “doing the work.”

Part of that work was re-engaging with people and pushing back out of my comfort zone, which had shrunk substantially after Ethan died. So when I was asked to take on a leadership role in the next year’s study, I agreed with a good deal of hesitation. By this time, I was completely sold on the format and method of BSF and was really looking forward to facilitating a group discussion and participating in the weekly leaders’ meetings. I knew I wanted our group to be a safe place to share, but I didn’t know how much personally I should share about Ethan in a group of young mothers. That actually has been a concern each year I have served as a leader, but the first year was the most intimidating. This post details the circumstances surrounding the beginning of the year, and I found God to be faithful in equipping me to minister from within my “prison” throughout the entire year. I discovered that I really enjoyed being a GL and that, with God’s help, I actually did a pretty good job in that position.

The spring we studied Acts was the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic. After evaluating all the risks and necessary precautions, our BSF class went virtual for the 2020-2021 study of Genesis. My group that year was surprisingly close, given that we never met each other in person until the last day of class when I hosted a lunch to celebrate the end of the year. I remember telling one girl, “Wow! I had no idea you were so tall!” It’s hard to gauge height while people are in a tiny square on your computer. This was one of two years when I really felt like my experiences with grief and loss were directly helpful to some of my group members. Genesis was an interesting study, and I really learned a lot from my group members and their perspectives. As an example of my many “light bulb moments” was the realization that I had always read Genesis 3:13 with a punitive tone in God’s voice, like I sound when I discover permanent marker on my freshly painted living room walls. But during the discussion, one member said, “What is this you have done?” with hurt, not anger, in her voice. Since then, I have tried to be aware of the tone of voice I hear when I read Scripture, trying out different emotions as I read tricky passages to see what fits into the immediate context and what we know about God’s character. Throughout the year, we persevered through technical difficulties and toddler photobombers, and I saw God answer some big prayers and use his people to encourage each other in profound ways.

For our Matthew study in 2021-2022, we were back in person and back in the New Testament. If studying John grew my love for Jesus, studying Matthew grew my respect for him. Jesus was truly an amazing teacher; he always had the right words, illustrations, and posture in dealings with a wide range of people. Several lessons helped me wrestle with some hurtful events at my church — allowing me to see the sin in my heart that has played a role and reminders that deepest needs are met by Jesus even when his followers get it wrong.

Another overarching theme was the upside-down kingdom of God. My group experienced this reality in a tangible and unforgettable way. Just before our first class, the substitute teaching leader let me know that one of my group members had received the results of prenatal testing that morning and was carrying a baby with Down syndrome. Walking through this study while she was absorbing this reality and preparing for her baby’s arrival was a high privilege. And even as this friend was wrestling through some difficult feelings, she encouraged me that my story, Ethan’s story, mattered. My group even brought me a hydrangea to class on March 1st, which fell on a Tuesday. It is planted in our Ethan garden at home.

Ten days later, this precious baby entered the world at 12:01 a.m. on March 10th. That was too much of a coincidence to not mean something, but it was a lot to process, especially when she ended up with the same heart defect as well. Her birthday is a sign to me that God will one day fully redeem that day, and her story of healing reminds me that God will fully heal all his children in due time. Through BSF and our study of Matthew, Baby E. and Ethan’s lives will be intertwined with each other in God’s beautiful story of redemption until His Kingdom comes in full.

I will go into details about this year in a second post, as this entry is already too long and I need space to work through some complex thoughts related to the Kingdom Divided. Spoiler alert: I am going to revisit a recurring theme on this blog and dive into a paradox. For now, I want to conclude this post by stepping back to take a view over the whole landscape of the past seven years.

I am amazed by all that I have learned and experienced through BSF since 2016. Not to mention what a blessing it has been to my children, which would be a whole other post. It hasn’t always been easy. Sometimes a comment during a discussion was hurtful, sometimes people’s personalities clashed, and sometimes the topic for the week seemed like really bad timing. I have been forced to look straight into the face of my grief more times than I can count, whether at home completing my lesson, in the group discussion, or in lecture. But just like setting a broken bone, pain is part of the healing, too.

God has used it all in his relentless pursuit of my heart — both my idolatrous, selfish, sinful heart and my wounded, doubting, grieving heart. Just like the people of Israel, I am tempted to forget God’s past faithfulness, both because of my sin and my loss. But Love did not let me go. He prepared for me to encounter His Word and His people through my local BSF Day Women’s Class during this portion of my journey in the Shadowlands, and I will forever be grateful.

O Love that Wilt Not Let Me Go

O Love that will not let me go,

I rest my weary soul in thee.

I give thee back the life I owe,

that in thine ocean depths its flow

may richer, fuller be.

O Light that follows all my way,

I yield my flick’ring torch to thee.

My heart restores its borrowed ray,

that in thy sunshine’s blaze its day

may brighter, fairer be.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,

I cannot close my heart to thee.

I trace the rainbow through the rain,

and feel the promise is not vain,

that morn shall tearless be.

O Cross that liftest up my head,

I dare not ask to fly from thee.

I lay in dust, life’s glory dead,

and from the ground there blossoms red,

life that shall endless be.

George Matheson
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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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A Birthday with Bereavement

Ethan’s Dad: We have just concluded the Christmas season, pondering Christ’s coming to us as one of us, born as a baby in a stable. The very One who is above all things lowered himself to become a human infant, with all the confusion, helplessness, and utter dependence on others that entails. Five years ago today, our twins, Noah and Ethan, did the same thing, in a precarious way, no less, being born in an ambulance being driven to a hospital in an ice storm. Little did we know at that time how vulnerable Ethan actually was (though his mother always had an inkling that he was somehow different). Jesus did not have Ethan’s health issues when He was born, but the fact that He experienced the general vulnerability of infancy helps me when I think about Ethan on this day.

Identification is not everything: no matter how similar another person’s experiences may be to our own, everyone experiences life in a unique way, and it is good to keep that in mind whenever you think you know what someone else is going through. But shared experiences are integral to bonding and to persevering through difficult experiences. The Creator of us also became one of us, and so there is no corner of our being of which we can say He is unfamiliar or does not understand. I have always believed that the Lord was with us on that anxious (and for my wife, extremely painful) ambulance ride, just as the Lord was with Joseph and Mary in that stable on that cold night so long ago. But then He showed up in the flesh for them, and, in the ultimate reversal, He needed them just as much as they loved Him. My wife brought ours into the world on this cold day five years ago, we nurtured them the best we knew, and Jesus said, “whoever cares for the least of those among you has cared for Me.” (Matthew 25:40).

But the book of Matthew also recounted another event that occurred within a couple of years after Jesus’ birth that rarely receives notice. In modern Bible translations, it is referred to as the “Massacre of the Innocents,” and it comes to mind because, as hard as it is to think about, I also have always believed that the Lord was with me on another ambulance ride with Ethan that occurred two months after the twins’ birth, and that ride always also accompanies this day.

At the time of Jesus’ birth, King Herod ruled over the Jewish province for the Romans. Herod was, by any standard, an abjectly evil king who never hesitated to employ violence in order to preserve his grip on power. During his reign, he murdered his wife, three of his sons, his mother-in-law, his brother-in-law, and many others who he perceived were threats to his position. Matthew does not provide that background; instead, he relates the event in short order. The wise men had failed to return to Herod after finding Jesus — despite his request that they do so — because God had warned them in a dream not to go back to Herod. In Herod’s twisted mind, Jesus was a threat to his power because the wise men had told Herod that a messiah, the “king of the Jews,” had been born within the past two years in Bethlehem. “Then Herod, when he realized that he had been outwitted by the wise men, flew into a rage. He gave orders to massacre all the boys in and around Bethlehem who were two years old and under, in keeping with the time he had learned from the wise men.” (Matthew 2:16). Joseph and Mary fled with Jesus to Egypt before this massacre occurred because God warned Joseph about Herod’s plan.  But no such warning came to the rest of the families in Bethlehem, and Herod’s order of infanticide was carried out with precision.

The details of this event render it apparent why it is not often dwelt upon in churches or Bible studies. Matthew tells the story in passing to explain why Jesus ended up in Egypt, which fulfilled a messianic prophecy. But such a traumatic event deserves some pondering because, for the parents who remained in Bethlehem, it involved what is every parent’s worst fear: that one of their children would suddenly face death, and there would be nothing they could do about it. The Bible recognizes this by having Matthew pause to acknowledge the pain of those families who became collateral damage in this tale of the Christ, by quoting Jeremiah 31:15:

“This is what the Lord says:

‘A voice is heard in Ramah,
mourning and great weeping,
Rachel weeping for her children
and refusing to be comforted,
because they are no more.'”

There is more to that reference than just another fulfillment of Scripture. There is pain and suffering and senseless loss caused by the sinful desires of a cruel king whom God allowed to be on the throne. Many reasons can be produced as to why Herod was there, such as his grand building projects — one of which included the new Temple in Jerusalem — his interest in the Jewish king that helped the wise men find Jesus and spurred Joseph and Mary’s flight to Egypt, and, thinking ahead, so that Herod’s son could be involved in Jesus’s trial before the crucifixion. But the excruciating pain and loss caused by Herod’s rule also deserves notice. We may not be able to understand why God allowed this ugly abhorrence against innocent children, but we do a disservice to truth and faith if we just ignore that difficulty.

Unfortunately, the pain and loss described Jeremiah 31:15 is all too familiar to us. Our baby was not murdered, but he was taken from us suddenly and without explanation after he had been preserved through that perilous delivery and was to undergo surgery to repair his broken heart. The fact that God sees and acknowledges the pain of such losses is not an answer to why it happens, but it is worth something to know that God is not entirely aloof or detached from our personal tragedies that, in the larger scheme, seem to become mere footnotes in history. In fact, God’s identification goes well beyond acknowledgment, because He experienced the loss of His only Son in an excruciating and unjust manner.

The implication of fulfilled prophecy also offers some solace because such fulfillment means that God knows the future and arranges affairs to accomplish His grand design. The whole story of Jesus’s life is a testament to that truth, and while we cannot fully comprehend how the vagaries of evil come into that design, knowing that the evil does cannot derail God’s ultimate purposes is a lifeline for faith when our circumstances are dire.

A third, somewhat unexpected, balm comes from a further reading of Jeremiah 31. The chapter is actually relating a prophecy of joy, containing such lines from the Lord as “I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with unfailing kindness,” (v. 3) and “I will turn their mourning into gladness; I will give them comfort and joy instead of sorrow.” (v. 13). But most interesting to me is what comes immediately after verse 15:

“This is what the Lord says:

‘Restrain your voice from weeping
and your eyes from tears,
for your work will be rewarded,”
declares the Lord.
‘They will return from the land of the enemy.
So there is hope for your descendants,’ declares the Lord.
‘Your children will return to their own land.'”

In the immediate context, of course, the passage is talking about a return from exile for the Israelites, but the broader application is to the final promised land “the better country — a heavenly one.” (Hebrews 11:16). Thus, God does much more than just acknowledge the torturous agony that comes with losing a child; He promises that one day our children will return to us in the new place He has prepared for us (just as His Son returned to Him in glory). (John 14:2; Hebrews 11:16). And, of course, this is why Jesus came as that helpless baby: so that this seemingly relentless evil that haunts our days on this earth would not be the end of the story. The Massacre of the Innocents reminds us that great sadness and pain remained in the wake of the immense joy of Jesus’ birth, but it also proclaims to us of the hope of glory. (“Through Christ we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand, and so we boast in the hope of the glory of God.” Romans 5:2).

And so it is for me on this day. I rejoice in the joy of celebrating Noah’s birth and presence with us. He is adorable and maddening, brilliant and confounding, silly yet sometimes deeply serious, boundless with energy and appetite for dessert. Our lives our infinitely better because he joined us five years ago. Yet our hearts ache for his missing brother, who may have been like Noah in some ways, but undoubtedly would have contrasted in other respects. Like those parents in Bethlehem so long ago, we are left to celebrate this day of Ethan’s coming without him, while holding on to the truth that one day he will return to us because this is what the Lord says. It is an incomplete celebration that awaits that joyful morning of reunion made possible by Immanuel. Happy Fifth birthday, Ethan! We love you always and forever.

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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.

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Happy Birthday, Ethan

Happy 3rd Birthday, our precious Little Caboose. We can’t put a present at the end of your bed for you to open this morning. We can’t sing Happy Birthday to you and watch your smile. We won’t be wondering where to go for dinner because you and your twin brother picked different places.  We can’t see you try to blow out candles on a cake with Noah and then watch you stuff your face with it. We can’t watch you tear wrapping paper off of presents and then hear you giggle with glee when you see what is inside. We won’t be able to take you with us when we go off to Disney World next week to celebrate as we have done when each of our children has turned 3.

All we can do is continue to love you, remember you, and long for the day when we finally will get to celebrate with you. “For we know in whom we believe, and that He is able to keep you, our Ethan, who we have committed to Him, until the day Jesus returns.” (2 Timothy 1:12).

The day you were born was filled with trauma, and the too few days after that we had with you were hard on you and your little heart. But never, ever doubt, son, that each and every one of those days was a gift we will treasure forever. We miss you terribly every single day, dear Ethan, but especially so on this day which marks our introduction to your contemplative blue eyes and irresistibly adorable face.  We love you always and forever.  Celebrate a little with the Lord today, but be ready for the ultimate party filled with tears and cheers on that day we will be there to hug and hold you again.

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The Hills and Valleys

Ethan’s Mom: If you have ever read a book, pamphlet, or website about grief, you know that there are “stages of grief.” If you’ve read a few, you likely know that these are not linear stages. You don’t progress neatly through denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. I never liked the word “acceptance” but that’s probably a topic for another blog post…

So much of the last two years for me has been spent cycling back and forth from “Am I sad enough?” to “How can I survive if I am this sad forever?” It’s particularly frustrating when just a random day becomes heavy under the weight of unexpected grief.

The last few days I have felt anxiety swelling up inside. Sometimes I don’t know what part of that to attribute to my personality, my more generic “mom anxiety”, or to grief. I know sometimes when I am too busy, the emotions build up. Apparently you can put grief on hold but it will have it’s way eventually. It particularly doesn’t help when regular stress compounds the feelings. For instance, Ethan’s twin brother has in the past 10 days (over our spring break road trip, no less) chewed through his pacifier and climbed out of his crib. Thus, my youngest child at home is sleeping his second night in a toddler bed upstairs as I write this. The transition to a big bed is never smooth, and indeed last night there was a lot of crying and waking. That is stressful anyway, but then you add the layer of “how would we do this with 2 two-year olds? Would they be getting up to play or climbing into one bed?” and “These are just more milestones I’ll never experience with Ethan, everyone is just leaving him in the past.” It’s not an overt, stop-me-in-my-tracks pain but more of a generalized cloud over me.

As much as I have heard the stages of grief are not sequential, predictable, or linear, I have always thought of the imagery of the valley as talking about a period of time where the pain is intense and the grief is overwhelming. And certainly, the darkest valley of my life was the first two weeks of March two years ago. Nothing else comes close. Yet, these smaller dips in the pathway can be so challenging in their own right. The little valleys are all but invisible to outsiders and often completely unexpected. No one could have anticipated that the last few days would be tough for me when I had no idea myself.

On the way home from BSF I was pondering our discussion about the Proverbs 31 woman. Our leader encouraged us not to think about this passage as a to-do list or worse, a list of ways we don’t measure up. She reminded us that God sees us every time we serve our family, even if no one else does. She told us that El Roi, the God who Sees, is one of her favorite names of God. This brought to mind a book I am reading with a small group of women over six weeks this spring, Sensible Shoes. One of the characters has a tattoo of an eye on her wrist. The original meaning was to remind her of El Roi, the God who saw her when she was a young single mother in desperate circumstances. Over time, the eye turned from a loving gaze to a judgmental all-seeing eye watching her mess up over and over. The storyline for her character includes how she is learning how God really does see her and truly loves her both because of and in spite of who she is.

As I was pondering the idea of El Roi in my present circumstances, “Hills and Valleys” by Tauren Wells came on the car radio. It was such an encouraging reminder that I am not alone. When I was 14, I spent the summer at a far away camp where I didn’t know a soul. On a particularly lonely day, I received a note from my dear Grandmom that said, “Remember, we Christians are never alone.” On many, many occasions since then, I have recalled that note, written in her slightly messy handwriting and signed with her trademark phrase, “Don’t forget you’re loved.”

Instead of worrying about stages of grief or progress or setbacks, I am realizing I should be focused on climbing hills, trudging through valleys, and taking things a step at a time, always grateful for El Roi and the people he has placed in my life to walk alongside me on this journey. It’s not always easy to believe, but no matter where I am or how I feel, I am not alone and I am loved.

“I’ve walked among the shadows
You wiped my tears away
And I’ve felt the pain of heartbreak
And I’ve seen the brighter days
And I’ve prayed prayers to heaven from my lowest place
And I have held the blessings
God, you give and take away

“No matter what I have, Your grace is enough
No matter where I am, I’m standing in Your love

“On the mountains, I will bow my life
To the one who set me there
In the valley, I will lift my eyes to the one who sees me there
When I’m standing on the mountain aft, didn’t get there on my own
When I’m walking through the valley end, no I am not alone!

“You’re God of the hills and valleys
Hills and Valleys
God of the hills and valleys
And I am not alone”

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Two Years

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“There isn’t any good way to start writing about this. My son is dead. I can write that as a definitive statement but it doesn’t feel like that. It really feels like he is just staying somewhere else for a moment and we will go pick him up. But, of course, we would never do that with a two-month old. We would keep him close; watch his every move; hold him over and over. And then there is the fact that I saw him on that table in the hospital laying still. And then I saw him in that tiny coffin at the funeral home. Those are images I am certain I will never forget.

“….

“This was the worst day of my life. It will always be the worst day of my life. I will never forget it. I will never be whole from it. I will never understand it. My baby, my little caboose, my Ethan, is gone. And my single hope is that one day I will see him again. I will live the rest of my years waiting for that day.”

Ethan’s Dad: Those were the first and last paragraphs of my first written expression about Ethan that I wrote two years ago, soon after he died.  I will not share the rest of that writing because it is too personal, too raw — too much even for this space. But for me those first and last paragraphs are fitting on this day — this day that marks two years from the moment Ethan left us. They are fitting because no matter how much has changed over the past two years, those thoughts remain the same.

Much has changed. I no longer always feel cold or desolate or listless. I now see Ethan’s mom smile when his twin brother does something amusing. I still sit beside his grave, but not with the feeling that the whole world could be rushing past and I won’t care because there is nothing else of importance to do. That dagger in my heart pokes intermittently rather than slicing with incessant fury.

And yet . . . and yet every now and then it still seems to me as if Ethan is just staying somewhere else overnight and we will wake up and see him in the morning. I still long to hold him. I still remember him lying on that metal table, unmoving.  I still remember the awful coffin and a quiet that shattered our world. I still know it to be the absolute worst day of my life, even amidst the experiences of other days of profound fear and heaviness.

This is not a day of celebration. It is not a day of fond farewells and whimsical dreams. It is a day of darkness, a day of mourning, a day of counting an immeasurable loss. It is a day I would never wish upon anyone in all the world, no matter how otherwise evil a person may be, and yet I know all too well it is unfortunately shared by many who also have lost a child, perhaps by some reading these very words.

To you all I can say is that I also still have that single hope — actually stronger now than when I wrote those words two years ago — a hope that I will see Ethan again because of the One seated on the throne who says “Behold, I make all things new!” (Revelation 21:5)

I will not pretend that this hope makes it all better here and now. It does not. This day is still excruciating. This is a loss I still cannot fully fathom. My life, my entire family’s life, will always be different — be less — than what it was to be with Ethan among us. I cannot comprehend how God will rectify such an absence. All I know is that He promises that He will.  This is why Jesus came:

“To proclaim freedom for the captives,
to release prisoners from the darkness,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor
and the day of vengeance of our God.

To comfort all who mourn,
and provide for those who grieve in Zion—

“To bestow on them a crown of beauty
instead of ashes,
the oil of joy
instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise
instead of a spirit of despair.

“They will be called oaks of righteousness,
a planting of the Lord
for the display of his splendor.” (Isaiah 61:1-3)

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Visiting with a Shadow

Ethan’s Dad: I still visit regularly, usually three days a week. For the first full year, I visited nearly every single day. I know some people think it is strange that I would go to Ethan’s grave so often. I suppose in their minds it seems like it would be too painful to visit such a place over and over again. But it is extremely important to remember, when supporting friends, neighbors, or loved ones who have sustained losses, that people grieve in different ways and they need to be given the space to do so. What I do is no better or worse, no more normal or weirder than how my wife seeks to survive in the midst of her grief. She visits his grave as well, though not as often, but she journals, for instance, much more frequently than I have. We are each dealing with an unexpected absence, a weight that may tug on our hearts more heavily at some times than others, but that always remains with us wherever we go. Yet we are different people and so our methods of carrying the weight correspond with our own personalities. And so it is with all who carry burdens of loss.

At first when I visited, I mostly talked to Ethan. I should clarify in mentioning this that it isn’t that I believe Ethan is there — at least not the part of him that matters most. My wife recently wrote a post about some of the awful day that was Ethan’s funeral. And while there was much that was unspeakably difficult about that particular day, one revelation for me occurred when we saw his little body in the tiny casket. We cried rivers of tears. We read letters to him that we placed in the casket. We hugged a lot. But one thing that was very apparent to me was that Ethan was not really there. His precious, frail body was there . . . but it was cold and impassive. . . the light of life was gone from it.

This is a difficult idea to put into words because it honestly can only be experienced, not exactly described, and yet it is not an experience I would wish for anyone. But in that tragic moment when you see your still baby who was so vibrant only a few days before, there comes this clear sense that something is truly amiss: You come face to face with the truth that a person is much more than just flesh and blood. People have spirits which make them who they truly are. The contrast between our real Ethan and what was left of him in that casket was so stark that this spiritual reality was undeniable. Our Ethan — the curious, quiet, lovable, strong, immaculately precious boy — is with the Lord. He is laughing now, rather than hurting, and waiting for us (though the wait will seem like nothing to him because time is nonexistent in heaven).

Alas, time is all too real to us, and to me it seems to go by much more slowly now than before Ethan’s passing. And so I choose to pass some of that time by sitting next to his grave. It is not the most vital part of him, but it is all we have left here in this in-between place we call the Shadowlands. It is my tangible connection to him. It is a place-holder until the joyous reunion.

Over time, my conversations with Ethan morphed into talking to God more often than talking to Ethan because He is my spiritual connection to Ethan. God is the reason a reunion will happen, made possible by Jesus’ sacrifice on the Cross. Jesus said He is “the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End” — of all things. (Revelation 22:13). This means He is also the God of this off-kilter in-between time in which we find ourselves.

At times, walking in these shadows, it can seem as if He has abandoned us, left us to our own devices.

“I cried out to God for help;
I cried out to God to hear me.

“When I was in distress, I sought the Lord;
at night I stretched out untiring hands,
and I would not be comforted.

“I remembered you, God, and I groaned;
I meditated, and my spirit grew faint.”

(Psalm 77:1-3). In fact, that is one reason that at first I only talked to Ethan: Because I did not feel God there, all I felt was a black hole, a yawning abyss from which no light could emanate or escape.

But in the end, faith is not about feelings, it is about will, submission of the will really, but will nonetheless. And when you press on through the shadows you discover that there is light there after all.  (And how could it be otherwise?  For shadows are only seen because of the light that illuminates reality). The light is not a bolt that thunders, at least not for me, but a flicker that whispers your name and tells you to keep listening. And so the conversations become less and less audible and more and more reflections pouring over the Bible, His words that come alive because of His Spirit communing with our own when we seek Him.

I don’t mean for it to sound like magic. It is not. There is no trick and this is not fantasy land. I do not live in a state of Zen or blessedness or higher consciousness or whatever else some beliefs choose to call their willful blindness toward the tragedies of life. Nor do I mean to sound super-spiritual, for the contemplation is born from desperation, not holiness. I am weak. I am hurt. I still feel out of sorts. I still cry because of this inexplicable loss that neither Ethan nor we deserved to experience.

And so I sit next to the place where Ethan’s little body resides. I sit still in the quiet (there are few places quieter than a large cemetery).  And in that stillness I know that God is there (Psalm 46:10), and I dare to trust that Ethan is with Him, waiting. My heart yearns: Come quickly, Lord Jesus, Come. (Revelation 22:20).