Faithful Paradox

As I continue to walk this unexpected, undesired road of loss, there continue to be things I simply did not understand or expect. I have written previously about things I thought I knew that I simply did not know; or at least I did not understand it to the depth that I do now. Some of this post has some overlap from my previous post, but much of it is also new.

It’s easy to assume you understand grief because being human requires us to face grief. To a certain extent, to be human is to experience loss. Grief does not play favorites; everyone gets a share. However, the type of grief we experience matters and until we walk this painful road of loss, we don’t actually know as much as we think.

I believe expressing these things can do two things. First, I think it can help normalize what those who are grieving are experiencing. Grief from loss can feel incredibly lonely, isolating and confusing. To hear that others have experienced the same can help one feel seen and a bit more understood.

Secondly, I think sharing these things can help those who are walking with others in grief. It can bring light to the fact that this journey can be arduous and disorienting. It can highlight areas that may not be seen, or at least areas that are misunderstood. I hope by sharing these things, it gives some insight to both sides of the story.

Here are 10 things that are different than what I expected as I consider the road of loss and grief.

1. I thought there was a timeline

Even though I am embarrassed to admit it, if I’m totally honest, I believed there was a timeline to grief. Maybe you have too? Have you ever felt confused why someone keeps commemorating a date; remembers a person every year on their birthday or anniversary? Have you secretly thought, “Man, it’s been 12 years. Surely they should have moved past this by now?” I have and what I realize now is that even though I would have never said it, I looked at loss and the grief that follows as having a timeline. While I understood when someone loses a loved one they would certainly miss them for the rest of their lives, I did not realize there is actually no timeline. Grief is certainly different for each person and for some, loss comes with a lifetime of remembering. I simply did not understand that I was imposing my own expectations on what their grief should look like. I did not understand the depth of their love nor the depth of their loss.

2. I thought I would go back to who I used to be

I used to have a very high capacity. I used to thrive in social settings. I used to be a strong leader. I used to be drawn to positions of leadership in order to use the gifts God has given me. I used to desire to walk with those who were suffering. I had capacity to engage deeply with those who were hurting.

These days I find my capacity is still very, very small. I find social settings that require me to engage with others are often exhausting, and at times, overwhelming. I feel confused about leadership many days and the gifts that I know are still there but I do not have the capacity to use. If I’m honest, I thought with time, my capacity would return to what it was. I am finding, however, that my capacity seems to actually be decreasing. This feels confusing.

I don’t know if I will ever “get back” to who I used to be. There are pieces of me that are gone and some of those are good things. There are also parts of me that I miss and I am unsure they will ever return. I have changed. Some of it is good and beautiful and some of it feels like another layer of loss. This is likely the same for those in your life who have faced loss. The loss we face changes us. We are naive to believe that the same person will emerge from the fire unchanged. I may never get back the capacity I used to have. I may never again thrive in social settings. With time, I will learn how to adapt and function as I need, but the truth it, I thought this would be different.

3. I thought grief was an event

I used to view grief as an event; something that happened. I realize now that it’s not just an event that happened, but it becomes a piece of who you are. It shapes you. As I said previously, I am a radically different person because of the road we walked and are walking. It is not just the event that happened, but it is also who you become because of it. This is the same for others as well. When we endure loss, we must come face to face with realities we often assumed were for others or falsely held beliefs. There are pieces of us that are softened and pieces that become hardened. I read once that with loss, either you become better or you become bitter, but it will not leave you unchanged. I didn’t realize how life-altering loss can be. It is not simply something that happened, but it shapes who you become.

4. I thought eventually, everyone would see eye-to-eye

We often hear that the road of loss and grief is different for each person. It’s easy to acknowledge this, but the reality is that it’s really hard and exhausting to walk it side-by-side with another.

As a family, we have had days of conflict because some wanted to delight in the moment we were in and some wanted to reflect and remember Ezra in the midst of that moment. Moments that were intended to create core memories turned into conflict as we bumped heads about how to engage in the moment. I believed that yes, the road is different for everyone, but certainly we will eventually meet at a crossroads. Certainly we will one day see eye to eye. This is simply not true.

When you grieve, especially in a family unit, grief looks really different for each person and the overflow of that grief is different. The roads often go different directions. As the roads of grief wind further and further apart, it can create a sense of deeper separation, despite the fact that you have the same genesis of pain. In many ways, this creates more pain and feelings of isolation. It’s a discipline to learn to walk the roads of grief with others. It’s a battle of humility; a willingness to lovingly walk with one foot on your road and one foot on the other’s road.

5. I thought healing would bring joy

I tend to be rather clumsy. Last year I was on a walk, stepped on a rock, badly rolled my ankle and spent the next 8 weeks nursing a my sprained ankle back to health. With every week that my ankle healed and the swelling and bruising diminished, I rejoiced. Healing was bringing joy.

I thought it would be the same with grief. I assumed that as you heal from loss, it would bring with it a new sense of joy. However, I have found that as I think less and less about Ezra, it comes with a tremendous amount of sadness. Healing brings confusion. How can I have loved Ezra so much and yet think of him less and less? It’s a bewildering process to know that part of healing is letting go; letting go of the person, but also letting go of memories and thoughts.

We recently celebrated my birthday and I realized it was the first birthday, celebration, or holiday that no one in my family has cried on in 2.5 years. This, in some ways, felt like a victory; like a measure of healing. In other ways, it brought tremendous grief to my heart as I felt the weight of celebrating without pausing to recognize my son. That was painful. I didn’t understand that grief and sadness come side by side with healing.

6. I thought life feeling a bit more normal would feel different than it does

As life begins to feel normal again in a new way, it also has a strangeness to it. When you lose someone that you love, I imagine it is much like what an amputee might experience. An amputee learns to walk again, but their gate is never quite the same. It is the same with loss.

You learn to live again. You learn there are new normals and new rhythms, and yet there is also a strangeness to it. You learn, like the amputee, to walk again, but it’s never quite the same. It reaches a point that the amputee may no longer notice their unusual gate; it becomes such a regular piece of who they are. Yet it will never be as it was. It does not mean that it cannot be good. It’s not even that the new normal is bad, but it’s different and sometimes different is hard.

With the new normal, I have to push against the thought continually that my best days, my most full days, are behind me. It is a discipline to believe that there is still good ahead; good that is just as good, maybe even better, than what was. I cannot yet fully integrate this belief into my heart. I long for it to be true, but it’s still hard to believe that a new normal could feel just as good.

7. I thought faith would make it easier

I am learning that simply because I have a deep and abiding faith in God, it does not lessen the pain and suffering I endure. Knowing that God has a purpose in my pain does not always cause joy to rise or hope to abound. I used to think that the promises of God would make the pain of the moment seem “light and momentary” (2 Cor. 4:17). The truth is, however, that I am learning that the promises that we have from God certainly give us hope for what will one day be, but it does not necessarily lift the sorrow of today. I have had to learn that joy is not a feeling or emotion. It is not a lightness of soul. Rather, joy is a steadfast trust in the promises of God. I have learned that one can be both depressed and joyful. One can be both sorrowful and joyful. One can be despondent and joyful because joy is believing in what God has promised, even if the present moment is overwhelmingly sorrowful. I thought that if I would just “choose joy” it would make my sorrow lift, it would at least soften my countenance, but that is simply not the case. Choosing joy is choosing to believe what God has promised, even though I am overcome with sorrow and grief. Faith does not always lighten the moment. Sorrow and joy coexist side by side. Joy does not lessen the sorrow. I thought it would be different than it is.

8. I thought being unknown would help

For almost 2 years, there was a huge part of me that wanted to leave Fort Collins. I wanted to sell our house, leave our community, leave everything here and start over. Grief is, at times, so overwhelming, that there is this thought that certainly, if we were to pick up and start over, we would not have the constant triggers. Certainly a new place would allow us the freedom of being anonymous. We would not be the “family whose son died.”

I think I realize, however, that leaving would bring its own type of pain. Being in a space where no one knew our story, no one knew our son, would bring its own type of sorrow.

We have people in our lives now who did not know Ezra. We have new friends, there are new people at the church, there are kids at the boys’ school who never knew Ezra. There is deep pain when the people in our lives now never knew Ezra. They can hear about him, but they never knew him and that is incredibly hard. I thought a measure of anonymity would heal, but really, it actually only magnifies the pain.

9. I thought clarity would come

Life still feels really confusing, even now 2.5 years past losing Ezra. I have felt a loss of direction, a loss of purpose, confusion about God’s calling on my life. I think losing a child is so disorienting that everything feels confusing. Things that used to feel settling, clear, life-giving and motivating are now just muddy waters. I thought once the fog lifted, it would feel different, but it doesn’t yet. I didn’t realize how long this road is and how incredibly disorienting it is.

10. I thought the hard days would subside

We still have some really, really hard days where grief feels overwhelming. There has not been a week yet that at least one of my boys has not expressed a deep sadness. I thought that 2.5 years out it would be different. As I express that, I realize that it’s likely that as I have walked this path with others, I was able to move on and they were not. I recognize that I was able to escape from the pain others endured every day.

I recently listened to a podcast with a man named Jerry Sittser. He lost his wife and several children in a horrific car accident more than 30 years ago. Since then he has remarried, written several books, become a grandfather, and seems, for all intents and purposes, to have carried on with life. Yet, when he was asked to tell the story of the accident, he shared it through weeping and tears. There are pieces of our stories, pieces of sorrow we will carry with us for the rest of our lives.

While the painful days do not come as often as they did 2 years ago, and while they are not as frequent or deep, it’s still much more present than I realized it would be. It’s still rare that I can talk about losing Ezra and not be moved to tears. I imagine it may always be this way. I thought this would be different than it is.