Faithful Paradox

The end of this month, September 29, will mark the close of four years now without Ezra. In many ways, four years feels accurate. In other ways, it feels surreal, like it’s been half that time. I wrote last week about what healing has looked like for me; that although it has no metric, there are signs of healing despite it being difficult to measure.

Simultaneously, as healing has occurred and continues, there are pieces of me that feel very disjointed; parts of me that still feel quite fragile, maybe even broken. Despite the healing that has occurred, there remain parts which feel difficult to navigate; aspects of my heart and faith that still require a great deal of discipline and gentleness.

While healing has certainly occurred, it is also in process. Despite so much forward movement, there are still significant struggles.

Hope still feels difficult

If I’m totally honest, hope is still hard for me. It’s hard for me to anticipate that things will turn out for the good; or at least according to my understanding of good. While I deeply believe God works all things for good, it’s still hard for me to pray with expectation that God gives good gifts that also feel good.

There is a guardedness to my heart now that persists, despite the healing that has occurred. The reality is, losing a child is so painful and disorienting, a natural instinct that can grow out of that loss is self-protection. The heart naturally defers to “how can I protect myself from this level of pain again?” While in some ways, the loss has led me to love and pour myself out with greater abandon, in other ways, it has created a guardedness around hope that I cannot yet seem to fully move past.

Praying with faith for healing is still hard

When we first lost Ezra, I could not pray. It felt like words got caught in my throat and no matter how hard I tried, I could not talk to God. This piece has gotten easier for me and prayer, while still challenging at times, has come more naturally again.

I still find, however, that praying with hope and expectation that God would bring healing is incredibly difficult. I can pray for his presence, for his nearness, for help in endurance. I find I can pray for God’s faithfulness to be shown, for his compassion, and mercy. But praying for something like healing? I find the hurt and cynicism that still linger in my heart have the louder voice. In many ways, it’s easier to pray for things that are promised than pray for things that require faith.

There is value in praying what God has promised; it builds faith and confidence in what he has said and who he is. Yet there is also a tender grief that comes with this struggle to hope beyond what God has said he will do. It’s a tension of knowing that God is able to do “far more abundantly than all that we ask or think” (Ephesians 4:20) yet deep within my heart I battle the cynical voice of, “but he probably won’t” born out of my own pain and loss. It’s been difficult to know how to move past this space that still feels cautious and bruised.

I’m still hesitant to have expectations

I had hoped and expected God’s loving kindness would be shown in healing my son. I had hoped and expected I would see God’s goodness through the restoration of health. I recognize now that my hopes and expectations did not align with God’s plans and that caused a great deal of sorrow for me.

I find I am still often in a place in which having expectations of how I would like to see God move is difficult. In many ways, my heart feels cautious. The good in this is that I have a greater understanding and confidence that these things will all be true one day in eternity. Yet I struggle to know how to allow my heart to engage these hopes now, here on earth. In many ways, it feels easier to remain indifferent or cautious than to really have deep faith-filled expectations.

In many ways, joy still feels like a discipline

Sadness still walks with me every day. It is rare a day goes by in which I do not, in some way, think of Ezra or of the void his absence has left. I still struggle to talk about losing him without tears. I still ache deeply. While healing has certainly come, the depth of sorrow I hold is tangible; visceral at times.

In many ways joy feels like a discipline. It is something I have to choose to hold on to; choose to engage. It’s a discipline of learning to practice joy, even as sorrow persists. And there is tension with joy in that I want desperately to both see the faithfulness of God’s work in healing and endurance, yet also in some ways, hold the sorrow as an Ebenezer; a memorial stone of remembrance.

Sorrow still feels weighty

I assumed sorrow would dissipate over time, and in many ways it has. Yet the truth is it never truly resolves; it just comes in and out of quiet shadows. What I am realizing is that the load of sorrow never truly gets lighter, rather I have gotten used to carrying the weight of it. I have become conditioned to carrying it and I have gotten stronger under its burden.

Despite feeling stronger under the load, in many ways, the weight of sorrow still feels heavy. It is like carrying a loaded backpack; my body becomes stronger carrying its weight, yet I feel the burden as I move. Holding it still feels like a strain and at times, it causes me to grow weary.

My capacity and margin still feel stunted

I wrote last week about how loss has changed me and a piece of healing has been learning to accept who God is shaping me to be in the midst of loss. As I wrestle with this new piece of who I am, the reality is, I also grieve what has been lost. I still struggle to know how much I can engage and endure. I still struggle with feeling like I am easily exhausted, easily overwhelmed. My capacity feels stunted and I feel like the margin I have to endure hard things is much smaller than it ever was before.

I am trying to settle into the reality that this is the “new normal,” yet with that comes grief. It’s also hard that depending on what grief is doing within my heart on any given day, my margin and capacity can shift and bend. It’s been a difficult piece of learning to move forward; the uncertainty of how much I can endure on a day to day basis.

My body is still recovering physically

I never understood the toll that caretaking and loss has on the body. Studies show that bereaved parents report statistically significant increases in overall health issues, pain, and sleep disruptions. Both my husband and I have experienced this. In the last four years, we have seen medical professionals in holistic, western, and functional medicine, trying to address ongoing and lingering issues like unexplainable pain, fatigue, sleep struggles, and other issues.

The reality is, our bodies hold onto the stress, pain, and trauma in a way that affects the entire system. I never understood that loss does not simply happen and one moves forward. Rather, it impacts the entire body and the way it functions, showing up in mysterious symptoms that linger years past the point of loss. This is a piece of healing that is still in process.

In many ways, accepting these limitations has been a discipline of learning to be more gentle and gracious with myself; extending patient kindness to my own heart. There are still pieces of this journey of loss that feel very difficult; are still very much in process. These are ongoing struggles that still linger even as I move toward healing. I imagine many of these things will likely endure until Christ returns or calls me home, yet I am also confident that God will extend the grace needed to persevere. That, “he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ” (Philippians 1:6).