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 · 2 Comments

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.

Posted on by walkingintheshadowlands

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?

Posted on by walkingintheshadowlands · 2 Comments

Springtime in Ethan’s Garden

Ethan’s Mom: Happy Eastertide – here we are on the “other side” of the event that changes everything, Jesus’ death and resurrection. As expected, March was difficult, but again, I was surprised by the different manifestation it took this year. For some reason, I found myself really struggling to respond to the acknowledgements of friends and family when that hasn’t been an issue before. Sometimes the bereaved struggle to find words just as much as those who seek to comfort them. So if you are reading this, know that I read every text/email/card multiple times, and they each brought comfort to my heart. My precious sister-in-law expressed a desire to “take a little patch of the weeds and tear them down” in reference to the figurative language from my last post. Truly, knowing that people remembered Ethan, prayed for us, reached out to us, and said his name did keep the weeds from completely taking over. Thank you.

Yesterday, God lifted my gaze away from the weeds and onto the beauty of the garden. Our BSF study notes stated this week, “…if God takes away what we treasure, we can trust that His loving care and faithfulness will go with us into life with the loss…If something you once held dear is gone, how has God met your deepest needs?” I had to think about that one for a few days. One of our deepest needs as Ethan’s parents is to know that his life mattered. Another is reassurance of God’s love and design for us, which includes the consummation of His redemptive plan at Christ’s return. Both of these needs were met in a sweet experience at our kids’ preschool this week.

After Ethan died, family and friends who wanted to make a donation in his memory contributed to the preschool our children have attended, which is also a ministry of our church. In fact, many of the teachers have come to feel like extended family as they have cared for at least one of our children each year for the last decade. In 2017, our middle two children were in the crawler and 3K classrooms, and the school did so much in taking care of them (and us!) in special ways during that very difficult spring. Two years later, they welcomed Ethan’s twin brother to school and acknowledged our pain of not dropping off two boys to their first day of 2K.

It took a while to decide on something to do with the fund that would be both meaningful and useful. But eventually, both the preschool director and I came up with the same idea – a garden. The money was used to buy materials to rehab a small section of landscaping on the playground into Ethan’s Garden. Two master gardeners from our church (one of whom planted our backyard Ethan’s Garden) prepared the soil and planted a Japanese maple tree and a row of Lenten roses along the back. In the summer of 2019, Ethan’s Garden was dedicated in a small ceremony attended by preschool staff, church family, and other friends and family. Ethan’s dad made a beautiful speech, and I led everyone in “A Liturgy for the Planting of Flowers” from Every Moment Holy Volume I. We then planted flowers while a friend sang “Hymn of Promise.” It was a beautiful and bittersweet ceremony.

Yesterday we planted petunias with the 3K class that our boys should be in together. The children experienced God’s creation as they dug holes, scooped dirt, and watered the new plants. As we smelled the fresh leaves, felt the moist soil, and observed the delicate roots, we talked with the children about how God satisfies the needs of each flower with sun, rain, and nutrients from the soil. Some asked about the caboose bird feeder in the center, and we told them it was a reminder of our son. I think it was a special experience for the children; it certainly was for me.

After the children went back inside, Ethan’s dad and I read the same liturgy from the garden’s dedication. These words brought tears to my eyes:

“[These flowers] 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. They are heralds of a restoration that will forever mend all sorrow and comfort all grief.”

After the darkness and doubts of the past several weeks, I needed the testimony of these delicate witnesses. Through them, God met my need for a reminder of his faithfulness.

The liturgy then moves on to a request for God’s blessings on the newly planted flowers and closes with this benediction:

“Let these flowers, O Lord, bear witness in their deepest natures to eternal things. Let our lives also, O Lord, do the same. Amen.”

As Ethan’s dad said at the garden’s dedication, “it is our hope and prayer that a tiny mental seed will be planted of God speaking to [the children] about life and growth and how death is not the end of the story: that God gives new life to all who believe in Jesus.” These flowering witnesses were planted in a garden created because of Ethan. His short life bears witness in its deepest nature to eternal things — on the playground, in our home, and in my heart. God used this small garden to show me that Ethan’s life mattered and matters still as God uses him to bear witness to His love, just like the flowers in a springtime garden.

Springtime by Chris Renzema

You’re the resurrection
That we’ve waited for
You buried the night
And came with the morning
You’re the King of Heaven
The praise is Yours
The longer the quiet
The louder the chorus

We will sing a new song
‘Cause death is dead and gone with the winter
We will sing a new song
Let “Hallelujah’s” flow like a river
We’re coming back to life
Reaching toward the light
Your love is like springtime

You’re the living water
God, we thirst for You
The dry and the barren
Will flower and bloom
You’re the sun that’s shining
You restore my soul
The deeper You call us
Oh, the deeper we’ll go

We will sing a new song
‘Cause death is dead and gone with the winter
We will sing a new song
Let “Hallelujah’s” flow like a river
We’re coming back to life
Reaching toward the light
Your love is like springtime

Come tend the soil
Come tend the soil of my soul
And like a garden
And like a garden I will grow
I will grow

We will sing a new song
‘Cause death is dead and gone with the winter
We will sing a new song
Let “Hallelujah’s” flow like a river
We’re coming back to life
Reaching toward the light
Your love is like springtime