Faithful Paradox

We have had people in our lives tell us that we simply need to get over losing Ezra. This has been a painful word spoken, but as I consider the words, I think it comes from a place of lacking understanding; lacking the emotional compassion to realize that when one loses someone they love so deeply, they never get over it. Getting over something implies forgetting about it. You might get over losing a game or losing an opportunity. You might get over losing money or losing your favorite pair of shoes. But you never get over losing a loved one. Never.

While I may never “get over” losing Ezra, I have found myself at the crossroads of holding on to pain or moving forward. There is this very confusing piece of grief that tells me that somehow, if I let go, I am saying that what Ezra endured was okay. If I let go, it’s somehow saying that I am okay with his suffering, with losing him. It’s hard because I know that this is not a rational thought, and yet the reality is that when I hold on to my pain, the way it translates into my brain and into my heart is that I am holding on to my son. Letting go of the pain means letting go of my son. Letting go feels hard because it feels like I might forget the person. It feels like a betrayal of him, of the pain he experienced. It’s letting go of the life I had hoped for him and with him. It’s realizing that my expectations of the life I had hoped were wrong, and that is hard.

I recently talked with a friend who has been given a terminal diagnosis. Her words were a beautiful expression of the faith she possesses. She said, “my number of days have not changed with this diagnosis.” Psalm 139:16 says, “all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” All her days, all of Ezra’s days, were determined by God before they were even conceived in the womb. Ezra’s number of days did not change. What changed was my understanding of God’s plan; and herein lies so much pain.

There is a painful reality that death comes for every person. Romans 6:23 says that, “the wages of sin is death.” Every person will face death. It is a reality that no one denies. When death comes, however, it can feel disorienting. While there is certainly pain when an older person dies, there is also this sense that there is a proper order of things. Children should bury their parents; not the other way around. It is painful and disorienting when death comes at a time and in a way that was unexpected and out of the understood order of things.

The true question, however, is when is it a good time to die? Is it good to die when one is old and frail, and yet has lived with their spouse for 70 years, leaving behind a partnership that has endured for over a half century? Is it good to die when one is an infant and has a whole life ahead of them? Is it good to die when one is in mid-life and is still raising children? Is it good to die when one was young, like Ezra, and was full of life and faith and would have been a world changer? The truth is, there is never a good time to die because we were created for eternity. Our bodies were not created for death, so enduring death always feels difficult. We have simply been able to rationalize that when one has lived a full life, while we would never choose death, it is far less tragic than when someone younger dies.

Therein lies the rub. Death is the end for all. God has numbered all our days. Grief comes when we had hopes and expectations that the number of days would be different than what they are. The number of days for Ezra did not change. God ordained that Ezra should live 6,715 days. Not one more. Not one less. I had hoped and expected he would have close to 30,000 days. The reality is that it was my hope and expectation that was wrong, and this is painful.

Last Christmas we were in Liverpool, living out Ezra’s dream of seeing Liverpool play at Anfield Stadium. I wept and cried out to the Lord, asking him why. Why did you take Ezra? Why was your answer no? Pleading for God to comfort and answer me. As I sat and listened, Isaiah 57 popped into my head. As I opened God’s Word, I knew that the Spirit had whispered to me. Isaiah 57:1-2 says, “The righteous man perishes… devout men are taken away, while no one understands. For the righteous man is taken away from calamity; he enters into peace.” Ezra was taken away from calamity. Because he knew Jesus, he entered into peace. While I still felt deep grief and pain, I also realized that God was assuring me that Ezra’s days allowed him freedom from more calamity. He was “swallowed up by life” (2 Cor. 5:4). I ache because all I see and experience is the death of my son this side of eternity. On the other side, a thing I cannot see, is life and joy and peace. It’s as if I’m in a dark room and while I know there is light once the door opens, all I can see and experience is the small sliver of light that shines through the crack of the doorframe. It’s there, and yet the darkness is far more real and tangible that the light that will come.

As I consider what it is to sit at the crossroads of letting go and holding on, I think I have to realize that holding on does not actually bring any healing. There is no healing in holding on to pain, to grief, to bitterness, to disappointment. The truth is, Ezra was never mine in the first place. And while I know this in my head, I also realize that he was a part of me. Letting go is an act of faith; an act of worship. It’s placing what was never truly mine in the first place, into the hands of Christ, who held Ezra’s soul. God’s “eyes saw [his] unformed body” (Psalm 139:16). He knew him and loved him before he even created him.

Letting go is an act of faith, a handing off. It’s moving forward. It’s not getting over it, but rather choosing to relinquish the pain and confusion, the loss and the grief, into the mighty hands of a loving God who has compassion for me. He knows that I never knew or understood that Ezra’s days would have been 6,715. He knows that I had false expectations of that number. He knows that when day 6,716 came I would be washed in pain and anger, confusion and grief. He knew. And he has compassion for me as I struggle to hand all of the pain and confusion into his hands, trusting that he knew all along. And now he holds my son even closer than before. Ezra’s race is finished. He has entered into peace. He no longer has days to count, but an eternity to enjoy the fullness of God in all his glory. So I fight to move forward and walk a path of surrender, knowing that Ezra’s days never changed. I must hand my broken heart and unfulfilled expectations into the hands of Jesus and he will help me move forward. He knows that I will never get over losing Ezra, but he will help me continue walking towards wholeness until one day I will see him again. What a glorious day this will be.