Faithful Paradox

Today marks two years since Ezra left this earth and entered heaven. Two years. It’s rare for an hour to go by that I still do not think of him. He is so deeply embedded in my heart, so much a part of who I am that when he left this life, a piece of my heart left with him. They say that when a mom has children, it’s not that her heart of love is divided between the children, but rather, it’s that her heart grows in capacity to love. I wonder how this analogy translates to when a mom loses a child? My heart is still full for my other children, and yet it’s also broken at the same time. Full yet shattered.

Ezra taught me to be a mom. He was my first born and in many ways, I grew up with him. He taught my boys how to be brothers. Vince learned to be a dad through Ezra. We learned so much from him in his faithful endurance through suffering. We learned so much from his fight for joy in the midst of hardship. Even in his absence, there are still things I am learning from him as I remember who he was.

Most days still feel strange to me. It’s that feeling that you know something is off, but you can’t place your finger on it. It’s like when the couch was moved the tiniest bit and is no longer centered under the window. It just seems off, but it takes a while to figure out why it feels wrong. I feel it deeply still. Every night, when I pull out plates for dinner, I count and remind myself I no longer need 7 plates. It’s a daily reminder for my heart. There’s a hundred little things like that every day that creates an unidentifiable strangeness that accompanies most days. It’s there. It’s noticeable. And yet I also can never quite name it.

There’s an emptiness that fills our home that most would never notice. But I do. It’s an echoing ache that is always there, like a quiet background noise that is hardly noticeable, and yet it is. It’s like a fan running quietly; white noise and yet without the soothing comfort of white noise. It’s hard to explain and yet if you’ve felt it, experienced it, you know exactly what it is.

Grief is not quite as hard these days as it was two years ago. I’m thankful for that. It’s fall, my favorite time of year. And yet as fall is prone to do here in the mountain west, it’s often slow in coming. There are cool days that I adore that pop in every now and again, but many days are still very, very warm. I’ve never loved the heat, always struggled with the summer, so fall always feels like a welcome relief from the oppressive heat. As I think about grief, when we first lost Ezra, every day felt like the oppressive heat of summer. It was unescapable. Relentless. Every day felt hard.

Today, at two years of life without Ezra, grief feels more like these late summer, early autumn days of heat. A 90 degree day in late September simply does not feel as hot as a 90 degree day in July. There is a coolness to the air in September that does not exist in July. Grief feels much like this. Just like I still feel the 90 degree days of September, it’s not the oppressive 90 degrees of July. Likewise, I still feel the pain and trauma of grief, but it’s not quite as oppressive, relentless, painful as it was last year. There’s a cooling to it; a softening that comes with time. It’s still very much there, but it’s not quite so hard to sit under as it was a year or two ago.

I’ve heard many say that grief is like a ball in a jar and when loss or trauma first happens, the jar is totally filled with the ball. There is no margin or space for anything other than the ball in the jar. As time goes on, it’s not that the ball gets smaller, but rather, it’s that the jar increases in size. The grief is just as big, just as present. It’s simply that the jar has gotten larger. There’s more margin, more space to hold more than just the grief. I feel that deeply. The grief is still just as large and will always be present. But my jar has increased. I can hold more than just the grief. I am thankful for this.

I still have so many questions, but many of those questions have changed. I still wrestle with why… why God allowed Ezra to suffer so terribly? Why he took him at such a young age? Why? But I have also settled into knowing that I will likely never get those answers here and asking them only causes more pain and triggers discontent. They are questions I have to lay down and walk away from lest they begin to wreak havoc on my faith.

My questions now are more ones of what. What would Ezra have been like at 20? What would he have been studying in college? How would God have used him to impact others? What would Ezra have done with the musical gifts God gave him? Would he look the same or how would he have changed? I am also curious about what he does in heaven? What do his days look like? Is he still 20 years old or does time work differently in heaven? I’m so curious about what his life is like now.

I recently heard someone say that when Ezra left us, it’s not that he ceases to exist, but rather, he ceases to be seen. He is still alive; more alive now than ever before. I long to see him in this new aliveness that he’s experiencing; even a small glimpse. I still pray for it often. I ask the Lord to give me a dream or vision of Ezra in heaven. I hope God will answer this. I know when Jesus was on the cross, one of the last things he did was make sure his mom was taken care of. I know God has a tender spot in his heart for moms.

We still struggle a lot with sadness. When there are six people left in a family, grief hits differently for each person. I think we probably have more good days than bad now, but there are still a lot of days that are just hard. Most of life feels like one giant reminder. I can never see a morning bun and not think of Ezra; they were his favorite. I see his friends from high school around town and it causes my heart to ache. His brothers drive his car and it reminds me of him every time the car zips around the corner into our cul-de-sac. Every rainy morning I am reminded that we both loved the rain and I miss him deeply. There are songs I hear that leave me longing to share them with Ezra and others that he shared with me that remind me so intensely of him. Every time I see his brothers wearing socks with holes, I think of him, as this was a speciality of his. The list could go on and on, but there is rarely a day that I am not reminded of so much about Ezra and with these reminders, my heart aches.

I am hopeful that stepping into this third year without Ezra will bring more healing. I am hopeful that all the memories that still bring so much pain and sorrow will begin to soften; much like the heat of the summer softens as it melds into fall. I am hopeful that God will give me a glimpse of my son living his fullest life. I am hopeful that the pain of loss will begin to soften more; that the sharp edges of pain will be worn down with the sanding of time and that what is left is softer and less razor like.

It feels hard to sit under the heat of grief for another season. I long for the cool days of fall; the cooling of grief. I am weary of the sadness, even though I do feel it lifting. I am thankful to be through the first two years. I know I only have a lifetime left to go, but I can see how God has sustained us and walked so tenderly with us for the last two years of immense suffering. I am thankful for the hope of Jesus. I know that every day here is a day closer to seeing Ezra again. Every day is a day closer to having answers to all my questions. Every day is one day closer to that glorious reunion. I’m thankful for this. Death is not the end.