Today marks the close of four years. Four years of life without Ezra. Four years of learning to live after devastating loss. I know the Bible says that, “with the Lord, one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day,” but for this mom who still walks the earth, I have felt every day since his death (2 Peter 3:8).
One of my sons asked me, “Mom, what are we going to do on Tuesday?” I didn’t really know how to answer him. There’s a strangeness that comes with a date like this. Some say it’s a day worthy of celebrating – Ezra finished his race well and is with Jesus – but for me, it all still feels too tender and raw to feel any sense of celebration. While many days come now with a sense of normalcy, there are weeks like these where the sorrow comes roaring back once again.
Most days I find grief has stepped back into quiet shadows. While the loss is always there, the pain of the loss is not as sharp as it once was. There are certainly days and weeks like this one where the pain gets loud again; when the sorrow screams its presence. But the truth is, those days come with less frequency now.
Despite being four years past the loss, I find there is still a dullness to my heart. It’s a dullness that comes from the tender ache of life with scars. When I was young, I had two major ankle surgeries and have large scars just below my ankle bones. I have had enough time to heal from these surgeries that I do not often think about the scars. Yet the skin is puckered and tender, even decades past healing. There are times I hit the scar in such a way that it sends excruciating pain that shoots up my leg and into my foot. In many ways, that is what the pain of grief feels like now. There was a deep wound which, in many ways, has healed, but left tender scars. The scars are such that they are delicate, sensitive and certain moments trigger intense pain.
Despite these moments of intense pain, I find I can once again laugh. I can engage in delight and step forward without it feeling like it’s simply going through the motions of living. I also find, however, that it is often filtered through a protective layer which has wrapped itself around my heart. Although there is healing, there is also a guardedness now which did not exist before.
As a family we are moving forward, but there are still some really hard days. There are times my boys still struggle with the loss; times when tears come and hearts still ache deeply. There are still times we misunderstand one another in grief; ways we navigate our pain that seem to be incompatible with one another. There are times I long to be understood in my own grief and I feel missed by those in my family, and there are times I miss others in their pain. It’s not for lack of trying, but simply because as a family, we all hold the sorrow so differently. We love one another deeply and also just don’t always know how to meet others in their sadness. Grief itself is a messy journey.
I can see God’s faithfulness through the good he has produced despite the loss, although the good I can see is not big, obvious movements, but rather tiny, almost imperceptible changes. I find I desire to measure good according to whether the pain and suffering seemed “worth it;” was the loss and the good it produced worth the anguish? I recognize I will likely not get to this place on this side of eternity. Although I am confident God has good that I do not know and I cannot begin to understand, this confidence does not often satisfy a sorrow-weary heart.
I see Ezra’s friends around town and it brings up mixed emotions. While I am always glad to see them, it also stings. They are a picture of what I thought his life would be and that bit hurts. As I watch from afar, I see them working, marrying, graduating, and wonder what life would have looked like for him. I know that for Ezra, being with Christ has more than made up for any loss he may have experienced here in this life, but as his mom who is still here, this piece holds pain.
I find if I allow it, my heart still easily bends to the question of why. I have to push against this. The depth of pain still existing in this space can tend to be overwhelming and I know it’s an answer I will likely never receive this side of eternity. It’s better for my heart to avoid engaging this space very often and choosing to submit to the mystery of the unknown; to the goodness of God, even when it doesn’t feel good.
I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect four years after the loss. I think I hoped I would feel a greater sense of redemption, but that is not the case. I think I hoped the pain wouldn’t still hurt as much as it does but the truth is, it still stings deeply, especially when I create the quiet space to really sit with all that has been lost. I think I assumed I would have been back to who I was before, but now realize that there are parts of me that died with my son and will never again return.
Perhaps the biggest difference four years past loss is that when I pause and step into the space of grief, the heavy sadness is still there, but it’s no longer the only thing I can see or experience. Life has moved forward and in many ways, I have also pressed onward. It has become easier to visit with the grief and then gently step back into other areas of life that hold joy. I am grateful for this mark of healing. It’s easier to hold the grief of loss in one hand and the joy of life in the other. I better understand these contrary experiences and see how they have become so intertwined that they now compliment one another as they live side-by-side.
I really miss Ezra. Life still feels disjointed without him. I imagine that may be the case until I die. After all, death is always unnatural; we were made to be eternal beings and mothers were never supposed to bury their children. I long to see him again, hug him, learn about what his life looks like now. I wish I could sit down over a cup of coffee and just hear from him. I’m thankful that one day, because of Jesus, I get to see him again. I’m thankful to have this hope, but I also recognize hope does not remove the sorrow of today. Hope simply reminds me that one day, the sorrow will be gone.
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