Faithful Paradox

I am one of those people whose mind is like a computer screen with 47 tabs open. My brain is always going. I tend to think in pictures. I am certain it’s easy to discern that I am also a verbal processor through reading the things I write.

I started writing as a way to process. My hope is that God may use some of the things with which I struggle to help others. Regardless of how it is received, writing is a good outlet for me. When I started this blog, it was not intended to be only about grief, and I imagine that one day, it will shift to include more than just my thoughts and experiences about grief. For the time being, however, it seems that grief is often where I find myself and so it is where my processing seems to go.

When we lost Ezra, the first thing I felt I needed to understand was more about heaven. I think every mom wants to know and understand where her child is; what his life looks like from day to day. When we dropped my son off at college, it was helpful for me to see his room, see the campus, meet his roommates, get a picture of what his new space encompasses. I think that same longing is there for Ezra. When we first lost him, I read about heaven a lot. I longed to have a concrete understanding of where he was. This longing, however, is not something provided in Scripture. What we can know is just a small shadow of what is to come.

The front room of my house has a southeast facing window. In the morning the rays of sunlight shine through the solitary window for a few hours before the sun marches on. The bright streaks of light seem momentary and then the remainder of the day, the front room has a bit of natural light, but no direct light. There is also a tree right outside the front window.

I was sitting in our family room the other day and noticed a very faint shadow, high up on the wall at the back of the house. It was in a place I had never before noticed a shadow. As I tried to figure out where the faint shadow was coming from, I realized it was from the front window. The shadow was only there for a few minutes and then it was gone. It was the outline of the window and you could see the shadow of the leaves on the tree outside the window dancing in the wind.

I sat for a bit, thinking about the shadow. It was faint. It was momentary. I had never seen this particular one before. I could see that there was the silhouette of a tree in the shadow, but outside of that, it was relatively unremarkable. And then just as quickly as it came, it disappeared. The silhouette of the dancing leaves was just that; a faint outline that let me know something was there, but had I never seen the tree out front, I would have no idea of what the tree truly was.

I am not much of an arborist, but I think the tree out front is a chokecherry tree. The branches are so thick and the leaves so abundant that it provides dense shade for the front of the house. Birds and squirrels love the tree as it provides them endless tasty snacks throughout the summer. In the fall, the leaves turn to brilliant oranges and pinks, reds, burgundy and gold. I love this tree. It brings me so much joy to sit under its cool shade on warm summer days, to watch the birds and squirrels enjoy its bounty, to see its summer foliage transform to its radiant fall gown.

As I thought of the tree out front compared to the shadow of its leaves I saw faintly on the wall, I thought about the fact that had I not known about the tree and all its beauty, I would have had no idea what the shadow truly represented. The shadow was a faint outline, a momentary snapshot, a faint image; and then it was gone. It didn’t show the tree’s shade, its fruit, its brilliant fall colors. It didn’t show its thick branches or sturdy trunk. The shadow was just a light silhouette of the reality of the tree.

This led me to think of Hebrews 10:1, “The law has but a shadow of the good things to come instead of the true form of these realities.” As I sat and thought about the shadow, I thought about life in this world. God, in his kindness, gave us his word. His word, from the very beginning, pointed to Christ. The law was a shadow of the good things to come. The Old Testament gives hints of the Savior that was to come, but it was only a shadow; a passing silhouette of the goodness that was to come.

Now that Christ has come and will come again, I was thinking about how much of the good in this life is simply a shadow of what is to come. When Paul talks about how for him, “to live is Christ and to die is gain,” he is not comparing the good and the bad. He is comparing the good and the better. This life is good; has good, but it is a shadow, a very small silhouette of what is to come. What is to come is far better than the good we currently experience.

What we can see and understand in this life is a passing shadow. It shows up quickly on the back wall of the house and disappears as quickly as it appeared. It is a tiny silhouette of something much larger. The shadow points to the reality of what is there.

I pray often that the Lord would give me a small glimpse of where my boy is. I don’t know if he will answer this prayer, but I keep asking. I still long to know, long to see Ezra in heaven. And as I wait, I think that the things that are good and beautiful and right here are just a shadow of what is to come. As I sit on my back patio and see the hundred shades of green in the trees and grass and bushes, I must recognize that these shades of green are only a shadow of the brilliance of what is to come; a brilliance Ezra now sees and understands. As I enjoy the sweetness of friendship, friendship that is still tainted by the brokenness of this world in which we live, it is a small shadow of the intimacy we will one day have; an intimacy Ezra now knows and understands. As I feel the coolness of the morning and the warmth of the sun, I imagine it is only a small shadow of the perfection we will one day experience because of Christ; a perfection that Ezra now knows and understands.

This life is but a shadow. It is a faint outline on the far wall that is there one moment and gone the next. It shows us ever so briefly an outline of the glory that is to come, but we cannot fully know or understand the glory that is to come. Much like I could not know the beauty of the tree that is out front through simply seeing its shadow, I cannot fully know what is to come; even though I long to know. So I wait. I wait for the time when God answers my prayer and gives me a glimpse or for the day he takes me home and I will know fully what, for now, is a dim shadow.