Grief Sets You Apart

I miss my son. My special, strong boy. The missing will never leave me. The place where he belongs in our family only gets larger as he would be getting older. I missed him terribly at Graham's birthday party. His little brother was so clearly absent that I could feel it with each breath that I took. 

I think that I will look for him each day of my life. Every family photo I will notice where he would be. Every meal, every holiday, every moment of my life, I look to the place made just for Hudson. On Graham's wedding day, we will have a missing groomsman. On my deathbed, I will be looking and seeing where he should be standing, next to his big brother, Graham. This hole will never leave me. I will always see and feel it.

Grief is longing and loving and aching. It washes over like a tidal wave that nearly drowns you. Grief changes everything. Everything. It has changed my capacity (everything requires more energy now), the way I see the world, the way I see God and prayer and church and worship. It has changed me. My heart has aged a lifetime.

I feel everything more deeply now. The good and the hard emotions. Joy is more palpable and genuine, and sorrow is felt down in my bones.  

We all carry grief in our hearts. A lost love. A lost dream. A lost marriage. A lost child. A lost parent. A lost sibling. A lost career.  A loss of health. A loss of identity.

Our grief sets us apart. It marks us. We are persevering in a fallen and broken world with battle scars. The danger I am facing is that grief wants to separate me.

Being set apart as a veteran of grief and loss is something that God can use. 

But, grief wants to whisper often and consistently, "No one understands, nor can they understand. You are alone in your sorrow. You are alone in your loss. You don't manage your grief like you should. You should hide. You should be ashamed. You should have more faith. God doesn't even understand you anymore. You are different now. They don't want to know this new you. This hurting you. Just pull away. Just hide. Just manage the tidal wave alone."

I am in the war now. Everything in me wants to retreat and be separated by my grief. Separated from people, family, my own heart, and certainly from this big God who loves me but confuses me.

My new prayer is that God would allow my grief to set me apart, battle scars and all. But, that I won't believe the lies and run away alone and be swallowed by the grief. Because, oh will it swallow you! 

I was reminded of this beautiful song last week and I just realized (after naming this post!) it has the phrase, "set me apart" right there in the lyrics. Lord, chase me down when grief drags me to loneliness, hopelessness, and deep sorrow. Don't let me isolate my heart from those who love me. Don't let my hardened, bruised heart push you away. Mold me, Lord. Make me like clay in your hands. I've been there before but now, I'm so wounded that my heart is hardened in the survival of grief. Soften me, Lord, and then use me again.

The Potter's Hand

Beautiful Lord, wonderful savior

I know for sure, all of my days are held in Your hands

Crafted into Your perfect plan

You gently call me, into Your presence

Guiding me by, Your Holy Spirit

Teach me, dear Lord,

To live all of my life through Your eyes

I'm captured by, Your Holy calling

Set me apart

I know You're drawing me to Yourself

Lead me, Lord, I pray

Take me, Mold me

Use me, Fill me

I give my life to the Potter's hands

Hold me, Guide me

Lead me, Walk beside me

I give my life to the Potter's hand

He Should Be Two Years Old

Hudson Taylor Alexander Sylvestre

July 17, 2015-March 20, 2016

He should be two. He should be running. He should be saying, “Mama” and squealing with all his might. He should be having tantrums in Target and stealing his big brother’s toys. He should be wearing hand me downs from big brother. He should have been at the water park with us last weekend. He should be in every family photo. He should be slightly shorter than big brother with slightly darker, crazier hair. He should be growing taller and losing some of his baby rolls. He should be grinning ear to ear and running down the stairs when daddy gets home. He should be in the bathtub splashing his big brother. He should be promoted to the two year old class at church this Sunday. He should be friends with all those cuties. He should be sharing a room with his big brother. He should be hiding while we are seeking. He should be singing, “Wheels on the Bus” and learning his alphabet. He should be saying silly words and pronouncing words in his own way. He should be refusing to eat his dinner and getting gum in his hair. He should be mixing the playdough colors together to make them turn that yucky brown. He should be under my feet as I try to cook. He should be leaving his shoes in the hall so to trip to me and daddy.  He should be the little brother to his big brother. He should be at weddings and on the farm with grandparents. He should be asking for more “Daniel Tiger” and ice cream. He should be buckled in his seat at dinner time. He should be learning about God and singing, “Jesus loves Hudson, This I know.” He should be the youngest cousin to the big ones in the pool.  He should make us a family of four when we go out to eat. He should now get his own seat on the plane. He should be in my arms and not just my heart. He should be two.

Thanks so much to these sweet new friends who did a party in the park for our precious Hudson! That just meant the world to me!!!

Always Thinking for Our Boy

Several months ago I was cleaning out my inbox and I moved an email to Hudson’s folder. I had a quick thought, “I’ll show this to him one day.” I can’t explain why my brain does that. I am very clear that my son is in heaven. I miss him every second of every day. I’m consistently aware of his absence and where he would be sitting at the table, in the grocery cart, in the back seat, at church, etc. But, randomly I have these moments like the one with saving an email for later. I can’t explain why this happens but it does and it catches me off guard. I don’t think I had ever mentioned this happening to Corey and then yesterday it happened to him.

It was a hot, beautiful day to be outside so we took Graham to play in the water and to get ice cream. As we were leaving Corey took Graham to change out of his wet clothes and I went inside the store. We said we would meet at the car in a few minutes. When I came back Corey told me, “I just had a weird thought. I was getting Graham to the car and randomly said to myself that you must have Hudson.”

We both cried for the palpable absence of our sweet boy and then smiled a bit knowing that our hearts can’t help but still parent him and look out for him. We never forget he’s gone but there are moments we are still “mama and daddy.” We save things to show him and think to be sure he’s looked after as we walk to the car.

We’re still looking out for our boy. Always will. Our hearts won’t let us do otherwise even though our minds know he’s in good hands.

Missing you, Huddy Buddy!

A Grief Journey: The Gift of the Ordinary

"We often miss what is important on the quest for extraordinary." Brene Brown

I am a person of routine. I like making lists and checking off the things accomplished. I even write lists of things I’ve already done just to check them off. You too?

Well perhaps your day includes making breakfast, paying a bill online, getting an oil change, the drop off line and lists upon lists of to-dos. Ordinary life consists of things like grocery lists, school and church event calendars and family vacations.

Just last year I longed for the ordinary. The struggles of normal life of juggling work, home and ministry felt a million miles away. I was sitting in the cardiac intensive care unit day after day, hour after hour for months. Today I wouldn’t exchange a single second of that time with my son for anything spectacular much less something ordinary. But, some days sitting in that sterile, fluorescent-lite hospital room, I would dream of simple days of needing to mow the grass and run to the grocery store. These tasks don’t disappear when your child is hospitalized but they certainly don’t matter the way they once did.

Right after losing our son, the ordinary tasks of “adulting” were nearly impossible. Trying to write simple emails or texts took herculean mind power.  Yet I wanted the ordinary. I wanted to be normal and to be able to go to the grocery store without feeling out of body and in a fog.

I remember standing among strangers feeling as though I had come back from war and all my wounds were covered by my clothing. They didn’t know where I had been, what I had seen, what I had lost or that my wounds were so fresh that some were still bleeding through the hidden bandages. I wanted to run or scream or stop them and tell them, “Do you know where I’ve been? Do you know there’s a war? Do you know they are dying?” But, I just stood there observing the ordinary; life happening all around me.

Choosing fresh fruit

Checking the mail

Tying a shoe

Chasing after the bus

Scolding a child

Holding hands

Looking back over the months spent with our son, I realized there was a around a three month period where the only places I went were our apartment and the hospital. I stopped communication with everyone but my husband, my sons and the doctors/nurses. I only knew the war. All I could bear was the war; the war my son was fighting to stay alive. It was his fight but I was in the war with him. There was no ordinary.

It’s been around 400 days since we left the war. It’s not over and is still going on in that same hospital room. It’s a new child now because our son is done. Our son will no longer know the war and he will never know the ordinary.

I wish he got to know the ordinary for just a little while. Soccer games, Sunday school, crushes on little girls, playing with his big brother and bath time. But, really…are those memories ordinary?

The way I think is different now that I’m outside the war. When I’m observing every day, ordinary life I wonder things like,

“Are those her only two children or does she have more in heaven like I do?”

“Oh, she’s about 6 months pregnant. Oh Jesus, please knit that baby together with a full heart.”

“I can only imagine what it would be like with two wild toddler boys to running around this little town home! I might be crazy by now!”

I’ve realized that all the little things we do that make up this ordinary life really aren’t all that ordinary. Ordinary means commonplace, normal, standard. My special son taught me that at the end of the day nothing is truly ordinary. Doing laundry, going to work, caring for our homes, giving to the church, sharing our hearts, completing those to-do lists every week become extraordinary when we consider them as acts of love and ways to build lasting memories.

For example, a few weeks ago my son was playing in Chick Fil A with several little girls. Up the slide and down the slide. Squeals heard for miles. Seemingly so ordinary. No wounds visible to the outside. Yet, our big boy has lost his little brother and those little girls had lost their dad just a few days earlier. Simple playing. Hidden wounds. So extraordinary.

I can no longer do a task in and of itself without connecting it to the larger purpose of my life to love and serve others. Sometimes I still unload the dishwasher on autopilot but when I lay my head down at night, I think about the war. His war. My war wounds are still not visible to those around me. I’m sure your wounds are also hidden. So let’s remember together that life is not commonplace. There is always a bigger story going on in the lives of those around us. Let’s step into the ordinary of others’ lives to find the extraordinary; perhaps engaging deeply enough in hopes to stop the hidden bleeding. Let’s invest in others’ hearts by sharing our own wounds.

I’ve realized my strong son and the grief we have endured has exposed me to the gift of the ordinary and for that I am thankful.

“The most extraordinary thing in the world is an ordinary man and an ordinary woman and their ordinary children.” ― G.K. Chesterton

One Year in Heaven

One Year in Heaven. I know that there is no time there. No clocks, seconds, minutes, hours. No need for the sun to shine because our God is bright enough in Himself to be the light of all of heaven. There is no waiting. There is no crying. No tears. No sickness. No more dying. No separation. No confusion. There is worship. There is God. Jesus. The Holy Spirit. My grandparents, my anchors. My son, my heart.

One year in heaven might feel like one second or one million years. There is worship showing up in all different forms. Perhaps laying at the thrown of God in awe. Perhaps singing and dancing or building something beautiful or painting a masterpiece. Worship. Worship. Worship. No tears.

One year in heaven without pain. No surgery. No medication. No blood tests or needles. No beeping machines. No flat lines. No sin. No brokenness. No hospitals. There is joy unspeakable. Perfect peace. What we know in part, you know fully there. Glorified like your savior, knowing the whole story of redemption. What a beautiful story, indeed.

One year in heaven. So far, one year ahead of me. I don’t know how many years you will be there, my son, before I arrive. I imagine you whole. This isn’t a fairytale to hold in my grief. It is true. As I write through the tears, my broken heart knows that your heart is whole. I don’t understand it or like it. I can’t even fully appreciate it but it is true.

One year in heaven is one year away from this mama who loves you so much. I can still recall how you would jump in my womb and get the hiccups and the fear of your early delivery, not knowing if you would breathe. The first time we met face to face and you WERE breathing! All of our little talks about life and the world beyond hospital walls are still with me. Your cheeks are the best in the whole world. Your sideburns are legendary. Your big brother talks about you each time we see hand sanitizer. “Bubbles! We get those when we see Huddy!”  Your daddy is brave and works so hard and I catch him with tears rolling down his face as he remembers you, sweet boy. He wanted to teach you to fly a helicopter and take you to the farm. A dream lost. We miss you in the big things like Christmas morning but also in the little moments like bath time. I see your spot in our family at our table, in our car, in the grocery cart next to Graham. I see tired mamas with two little ones and I just stare at them to figure out if their kids are my kids’ ages. To see what it would look like if you were here with us. Just a glimpse of what it would be for us with two. With Huddy. Big Brother Grahambo and I have a game. We play, “If Huddy were here, what would we be doing?” Often his answers are things like hiding in the closet, dancing, playing with trains. My answer is kissing those awesome cheeks.

One year in heaven feels like forever for me. Part of me went with you. That’s okay, I’m your mama. The rest of me will arrive when God chooses. Sweet boy, worship has been so hard for this mama and done out of obedience and not delight. But, I’ve learned that is what we still have in common. You worship Him there and I’ll worship Him here (though it isn't always pretty). See, that’s what we’d do if Huddy were here or we were all in heaven, we would worship Jesus.

Let us worship...out of obedience and awe....

The Lord gives and the Lord takes away.

Blessed be the name of the Lord, in heaven and on earth.

Mama loves you, sweet boy.

You enjoy Jesus.

Sweet, sweet Jesus.

He surely is enough, even when your son has spent one year in heaven.

Is God Still Good When Your Child Dies?

As Christians we study the Bible to learn the character of the God we worship. We find that He is sovereign, holy, eternal while simultaneously being tender, loving and good.  Our entire purpose and existence is to glorify this good God and enjoy Him forever not just now in this world but for all eternity. These are the truths of Christianity that we hold dear.  As children we sing, "God is so good. God is so good. God is so good. He's so good to me."

But, is God still good when your child dies?

The last year and a half of my life has been excruciating as I watched my precious baby boy come into and leave this world after just eight months and three days.

So as a Christian I have been forced to my knees in a new way of surrender. To surrender my child to death has caused me to question even the deepest truths of my life and faith including the goodness of God.  It has been near impossible to walk in the depths of despair and say words like the ones of Psalm 106:1.

Say them with me:

"Praise the LORD! Oh give thanks to the LORD, for He is good; For His lovingkindness is everlasting."

Now let’s try saying them as your child breathes his last breath. Or as your spouse walks out the door. Or as the power is shut off. Or as you celebrate Christmas without your loved one. Or as you are huddled in a corner in Aleppo with your terrified family. But, we should say them at these most horrific times because these holy words are true.

I've doubted the goodness of God in my situation and perhaps you have too. When everything in me screams that there is no way God can be good, I must look to His Word and not let my faith be swayed by my emotions or my circumstances. Knowing that God is good doesn't diminish my pain or loss but it gives me firm, eternal ground to stand on. My circumstance is not good. But, He is good.

This I know is true: God's goodness is eternal. He was good when the people of Israel were enslaved. He was good when Jesus was on the cross. He was good during World War II and the Holocaust. He was good when my dad was at war in Vietnam and He is good today as I sit in my home looking at my son's Christmas stocking without him.

We intentionally (though a bit hesitantly) chose our Christmas card this year to remind ourselves that the goodness of God is eternal and not circumstantial. We chose this card because it is still true even in the year our son died.

This Christmas night I’m so thankful that God's goodness is forever. Somehow, in His sovereign will, He will work even the darkest, ugliest, most painful parts of our broken hearts into His good story of redemption alongside the story of the nativity. God doesn't explain Himself fully to us in this life but what we know dimly now, we will know fully when we see Him face to face in all His goodness.