Faithful Paradox

We are people who live with anticipation. We are people who live with eyes open, searching for what our God has promised. We are people who know that Jesus has said, “Behold, I am coming soon!” and so we wait, eager for his return (Rev. 22:12). We are people who have been promised that our God, “will work all things together for good” and so we look in anticipation to see the good he may have for us (Romans 8:28). We are the ones who wait with hope, knowing what our God has promised.

As we wait in anticipation, we also groan with all creation, knowing that this world is not as it ought to be (Romans 8:22). We ask, “How long, O Lord?” (Jer. 12:4, Psalm 13). We live in the anguish of a broken world and have not yet reached the point in eternity when these pains will no longer be remembered; where these sorrows are redeemed (John 16:21, Isaiah 65:17). We live with the daily tension of the already and not yet; the “it is finished” but we’re not quite finished yet (John 19:28).

Despite knowing that we live as those who anticipate much, despite knowing that I am wired for anticipation, a piece of grief I did not expect is how much the anticipation of an upcoming date could bring with it so much pain; so much dread. I have understood the dread of particular events; a doctor’s appointment, a difficult meeting, or maybe a time of pain. Before losing Ezra, I knew that the date of loss could be difficult for those journeying through grief. I did not realize, however, that often the anticipation of a date can be as painful as the date itself.

Next Sunday, May 11, is Mother’s Day. It will also mark what would have been Ezra’s 21st birthday. This date has been on my radar now for weeks; maybe months if I’m honest. I have anticipated it with dread. It will be the third Mother’s Day and third birthday we have endured without Ezra, but this one feels like a one-two punch to the gut. It’s a day of double loss; double mourning. Even now, as I type, tears fill my eyes because the anticipation of the day feels so heavy.

There is a grief that leads up to days such as these. There is a sadness that begins to stir long before a significant date arrives. Most days, grief is near, singing his song of sorrow. Sometimes his tune is soft, almost melodic, with gentle minor undertones. I know he’s there, but his presence is often more muted these days. Other times, the strain begins to amplify. His song becomes more pronounced in the days and weeks leading up to a moment in time. As the day draws near, the melody of sorrow becomes louder and more tumultuous. His tune clamors for attention and demands my regard. I think this is the case because while life is lived in moments, each of those moments is so intimately connected to the next that one note cannot be lived disconnected from the others in the song of life.

Some will remember Ezra’s birthday on Sunday and most will realize that it is also Mothers’ Day. I know people will acknowledge the day for what it is and will remember and grieve with me. I know I will be met with compassion. The truth is, however, it’s not simply the day that marks the pain. It’s not simply that Ezra will not be here; both to celebrate him and for him to celebrate. It’s not just May 11. It is so much more than simply one day.

Months before a birthday arrives, I begin to carefully listen to my boys so I can learn about what might delight them. I begin to scheme about how to bring that to reality with an unexpected gift or food that may thrill them. I buy the ingredients to make a special meal and dessert. I block out time and budget to do these things. Our family writes notes to one another of love and appreciation for the one we celebrate. It requires time and attention; affections expressed in written scrawl. In our home, birthday celebrations begin long before the day arrives. It is a day of anticipation.

The loss this Sunday is not simply that we can no longer celebrate with Ezra on his birthday; while that is some of it. The loss is not that I can no longer receive love from Ezra; although that is some of it. There is the loss of being able to anticipate. There is the loss that I can no longer figure out ways to delight him; to pour out love on him in ways that were uniquely tailored to him. There is the loss that I still have all this love in my heart stored up for him and I have no way to express it to him. When he died, my love and affection for him did not die; even the tiniest bit. When he went to Jesus, I lost the ability to pour out that love on him and towards him.

I cannot make meals for him anymore. I cannot carefully listen and learn about his desires and buy a special gift so as to make him feel seen and loved. I can’t tell him how much I love him, how proud I am of him, how much I love being his mom. I cannot even pray for him anymore. It’s not simply that he will not be there on his birthday or on Mother’s Day, but it’s all that leads up to those days as well. The loss is so much more than simply the day; it’s all that the day encompassed. These days of significant moments do not stand in isolation. They cannot be siloed and checked off the calendar. There is no sense of accomplishment in enduring. It is simply a pitstop of deeper sorrow on the journey of grief.

The anticipation also brings with it a certain measure of dread because I know the pain that will come with the day. I know the sorrow that will threaten to overwhelm my heart. I know the grief that will accompany the day. I know the questions that begin to surface again; that require me to internally battle. They are questions that are still unresolved and likely will never be answered this side of heaven. “How could this ever be good? Where was the purpose in the suffering?”

These days stand as a reminder of all that was lost. They stir old memories of days that were sweeter, full of innocence and ignorance of what was to come. The last birthday celebrated together will be remembered. Questions swim around in my brain; “Had I known it was his last, would I have celebrated it differently?” I recall the photo from our last Mother’s Day together when all 5 sons were with me sitting in the backyard; 4/5 were piled close on the hammock as Ezra played his guitar nearby. I was surrounded with all my loves, delighted to be their mom, thankful for the gift of mothering. Ezra had just finished his bone marrow transplant. He was home and healthy and it felt like a season of new life; victory. A gift that was turned into weeping only a few months later.

These are the pieces of grief that can feel so isolating; that leave us feeling alone on our journey. These are the parts of grief that live in seclusion in our hearts. These are the pieces of loss that go unseen yet weigh so heavily. It’s not only that my son will not be there to celebrate his birthday. It’s not only that he is gone during the celebration of Mother’s Day. It’s all that leads up to these moments. Losing the gift of anticipation, wrestling with the questions and confusion all over again. Losing the love that Ezra extended to me. It also comes with feeling the weight of wondering how to mark this day once again.

Do we celebrate Ezra and the life he lived? Do we mourn that he is not here? Do we get a cake? Do we press on as if the day means nothing? Do we separate the two occasions? Do we set aside time; gather as a family? Do we go our separate ways? Do we talk about his life? Do we allow tears to flow? Even the anticipation of all these things is difficult. There is no clear path forward. Grief and all it entails is such a deeply personal journey and it’s deeply complicated within a family.

Some in my family would like to handle things differently than I would. Some would like to press forward and keep moving. Some feel so much pain in the pausing that it’s easier to carry on with life. Some want to stop and linger, remember, mourn, cry, acknowledge. Some have not even considered the date. As I think about a plan, as I consider how to best honor the life Ezra lived, as I continue to mourn it, continue to remember, I know that whatever way we choose to acknowledge it will miss hearts. It will cause some to step into spaces that still feel too painful to visit. It will cause others to be drawn out and these options seem incompatible. The anticipation of this is hard.

There is the anticipation of knowing that we will endure May 11. We will remember Ezra. We will somehow celebrate Mother’s Day and my boys will have the opportunity to celebrate the mom God has given them and for me, it will feel like whiplash. It will feel like a day of mourning married to gratitude. Mourning the son that is not there. Gratitude for the life he lived and continues to live with Christ. It will be a day of delight in the boys I still get to mother. It will stir the deep heart wrenching questions: “Am I still Ezra’s mom even though I no longer get to mother him? Will I still get to be his mom in heaven?” There will be the wonderings of, “Are birthdays celebrated in heaven? Does it even matter? Is he being celebrated today?” And so much more.

The reality is that this day is simply a day with a hundred more just like it yet to come. June reminds me of the day he relapsed. July comes with his initial diagnosis. September will bring the day that marks the day he stepped into eternity. And on and on and on. The anticipation can feel exhausting because it’s not simply the anticipation of a day. It’s anticipation of all that comes with each of those days. It’s remembering the loss each moment represents. It’s a recalling of how life took a dramatic and unwanted turn and now, three years later, we are still trying to figure out how to navigate a new normal that we never saw coming; that we never wanted. It can, at times, feel overwhelming. The truth is, however, that we, as anticipation-people, were made for hope. On this earth, we are given eyes that both weep and yet look through the tears for light we cannot yet see.

We live each day knowing that one day, all these things will be made right, but for now, they are not made right; at least not in a way that we can fully see or understand. We look out on the horizon and see moments of joy interspersed among the days of sorrow, trusting that there will be light on the journey. We believe that one day the joy will outweigh sorrow. We live in such a way that we know the darkness will not overcome so we pursue hope even in the midst of the sorrow. We hold to promises that are true, even when the joy of the promises is hard to feel in the moment.

We look to our Savior who also anticipated a day with great dread. In his anticipation, he sweat blood, he cried out to his father and he asked the Lord for a different plan (Luke 22:44). This same Savior, “who for the joy set before him, endured the cross” (Hebrews 12:2). We have a Savior who showed us what it is to both anticipate a painful day with dread, yet endure because he knew that the end would not be sorrow. He knew joy was on the horizon so he endured and we do the same. We know that for now, the groanings of this world can drown out the songs of hope and redemption, but we also know this will not always be the case. In a moment, there will be a last trumpet song and this will forever end the song of sorrow (1 Cor. 15:52).

The truth is, on weeks like this one, knowing what is true does not assuage a broken heart. While the truth meets me in my sorrow, it does not lessen my pain. I know the truth. I believe it. I also recognize that there are still days and weeks that simply hurt. There is an ache so deep that it leaves me wondering, once again, how I will endure. There are moments where there is little comfort. There are days where the groanings of creation drown out the song of the one-day-yet-to-come. There are times that we must simply endure, knowing what is true yet recognizing that the truth does not always bring comfort in the moment. It brings hope. It reminds me that it will not always be this hard. I am grateful for this hope and cling to it with my whole heart even while tears still fall.

The anticipation of important moments can be as painful as the date itself. I did not understand this prior to losing Ezra. For those who grieve, we know these days will come; we know we will endure. Sorrow will not consume us. Grief will not win. Dread does not have the final word, even if its voice is loud for the moment. For now, we wait in eager anticipation for that final day; the day when all our anticipation ends in joy. It will be the day when the last song of joy and triumph plays its forever tune.