Faithful Paradox

As I wrote last week, this past Sunday would have been Ezra’s 21st birthday. I had hoped with it being the third birthday we have endured without him, it would have been a bit easier. In some ways, it was. In other ways, days of significance still have a raw, pain-filled nature to them. I am settling into the reality, however, that there are going to be stops along this journey of grief that simply hurt; days and weeks that still require endurance. Healing will not be defined by the absence of pain.

I see now with three birthdays passed, the sorrow itself has changed. When the loss first occurred, every breath felt like it required intentionality. Every step required monumental strength and perseverance. Every day felt like a grueling race of emotional agony. Now, the load is not quite so exhausting to carry. These days, every moment does not feel heavy. There are still heavy days and painful moments still come, but they are are now more mingled among lighter ones. While I don’t actually believe that time heals all wounds, I do believe that grief changes with time. It could be better stated that with time, you settle into the weight of grief. The longer you walk with the weight, the less you notice it. Time also offers perspective that could not be seen when the pain was so all encompassing.

As I sat down to think about what these three missed birthdays have been like, a number of lessons I have learned or am learning in this third year came to mind.

• I find that I am much more curious about heaven than I ever was before we lost Ezra. When one of my other sons moved out, I found great comfort in seeing his room, the house he was living in, his world. As I miss him, I can imagine him in his space and that brings comfort to me. We are not given much insight in Scripture about what heaven is like. We know it’s where God dwells, so it is full of joy and goodness, but the day-to-day realities remain hidden. When we first lost Ezra, I devoured books on heaven, trying to gain a better understanding of where my son was living. Even now, I still often pray that God would allow me to have a peek of Ezra in heaven. I long to see even the tiniest glimpse of the joy Ezra is experiencing in his new life; to have the comfort of seeing where my son is living today.
• I am learning that there are parts of Scripture that are not always definitive and in that, there can be comfort. I often wonder if Ezra is ever able to see what is going on here on earth. I think this is unclear in Scripture. There are passages like Ecclesiastes 9:5 that say that, “the dead know nothing.” There are also passages like Revelation 6:10 where the martyrs are aware of what is going on on earth. They even talk to God about it. I know this second passage is descriptive and not prescriptive, but it does leave me wondering, does God allow his departed saints to see small moments on earth? I don’t know the answer to this, but I do find comfort in hoping that maybe special moments like a graduation or celebration might be things Ezra is still a part of, even if we cannot see him. I know Ezra is alive and it’s simply that I cannot see his life right now. I do wonder if he is ever able to see our lives.
• I am learning that with new grief come new eyes to more deeply love and appreciate God’s word. The Bible says that when Ezra died, he was “swallowed up by life” (2 Cor. 5:4). I have read over that verse many times before and it never really hit me like it does now. Every time I read that verse, I feel a sense of joy bubble up in me. I wish I had a better understanding of what that was like for Ezra as I think about his last moments and what those were like for him. I like to imagine that being swallowed up by life was like being swallowed up in a huge bear hug from Jesus; an “I’m so proud of you, son, welcome home” kind of hug. I can only imagine that he was relieved to be finished with his fight against cancer. What joy there must have been to be swallowed up by life, leaving behind that cursed disease that brought so much suffering, pain, loss, and death.
• I am learning that Jesus’ comfort is uniquely given when we walk through loss. I don’t fully understand what it means when Scripture says that we are blessed when we mourn (Matthew 5:4), but I think there is a compassion given that we would not likely otherwise experience. I believe that I have experienced the compassion of Christ poured out on me in ways I would not have otherwise known had we not lost Ezra. I hope one day when I’m with Christ, he will show me what this meant in more depth in this season of life.
• I am learning that even though the comfort of Jesus is uniquely given when we mourn, grief is also a deeply lonely process. I am learning that it’s possible to be surrounded by a whole community of people who love you deeply and seek to be with you in your pain (which is an incredible gift from God), yet you can still feel very lonely in your pain. It has nothing to do with the depth of community or any lack therein, but rather has everything to do with the intimacy of the pain.
• I am learning more about surrender. I am comfortable surrendering to God’s sovereignty. I can surrender to the idea of his control. I can see he is good because he sent Jesus. I know the theology to navigate these truths. I have had to learn again, however, what it is to surrender to his kindness. As our loss continues to be painful, as my boys continue to struggle, it’s hard to understand how this was or ever could be kind. This has caused me to wrestle with God. I am learning that surrendering to who God says he is, especially the pieces that are difficult to understand, is vital for enduring faith.
• I am learning that questions, wrestling with doubt and sadness and all that comes with loss are not a sign of weakness of faith. They are a picture of what it means to fight for truth. With this wrestling also comes the assurance that God holds us as we struggle and there is nothing that can separate us from his love (Romans 8:31).
• I am learning that grief is not an enemy to overcome. I used to view grief as a foe. I think I saw it as such because it was so intense, so hard, so painful, so isolating, certainly it must be something to overcome. I am learning now, however, to view grief as a companion that I must gently tend rather than a foe that must be bridled. Grief is an ache we learn to carry with us that reminds us of what was lost even as we press on for the prize that lay ahead (Phil 3:14).
• I am learning that there are certainly more good days now than hard days, a reality I could not comprehend when we first lost Ezra. Even so, three birthdays passed, there are some days that my job is still simply to grieve. I am learning to give myself space for these days when they come and I am no longer surprised when they continue to arrive.
• I have realized that any healing miracle we could ever hope to see is only a temporary solution to a long-term problem: death is the end for everyone. Because Ezra died knowing Jesus, Scripture says he was taken away from calamity and actually entered peace (Isaiah 57:1-2). While his race finished much sooner than I would have hoped, his joy now is much greater than I could ever imagine. I often wonder if maybe he was the fortunate one? His shortened life was actually a glorious promotion for him, not a grievous ending despite the fact that “the day [his] misery ended, mine began” (C.S .Lewis).
• I am learning that before we lost Ezra, I assumed that ongoing grief implied that one may be stuck in grief (although I never would have said that out loud). I realize now that’s not always the case. I think “stuck” is what I believed because I didn’t understand and I was putting my own timeline and limitations on what grief should look like.
• I am learning that knowing and speaking what is true does not always bring comfort in the moment and yet it makes it no less true.
• I am learning that healing looks different than I thought it might. My framework for healing was akin to that of a broken bone; as the bone heals, the function of the limb is often restored. Once healed, the break is rarely considered. I used to think healing meant restoration. Healing has felt less like the healing of a break and more like recovering from an amputation. I’ve had to learn to function differently, like when one loses a limb. I am learning that healing does not mean that the life I had before is restored, nor does it mean that I am the same person I was before the loss. I thought healing would mean restoration and an absence of pain, when in all reality, healing is learning to move forward with the pain. It’s learning to walk again, but now I walk with a limp.