One of the gifts grief has given me is that I just do not have the energy to keep my mask on straight. So I’ve decided to take it off. And I find that when I do, people aren’t horrified, they are relieved. Because that means they can take theirs off too.

I no longer feel betrayed.   I still don’t like this life. I would never have chosen this life.   But I will trust the One Who made me to carry me through it.

It was a long time before I wanted to believe that I received any gifts worth keeping from this life I didn’t choose. I knew I had tears, pain, agonizing sorrow, loss, heartache, dashed hopes, empty arms. If I could give those back and regain my son, I would do it in less than a heartbeat. I can’t, so I’m left here to ponder what else I’ve received from burying a child.

I’ve discovered that self-control is not a limitless commodity.   Now before my Bible believing friends remind me that it is part of the fruit of the Spirit, I want to say this:  it sure is!  And because the Spirit of Jesus lives inside me I can promise you I am more self-controlled than I would otherwise be. BUT… When every single word, action, thought and feeling has to be reined in every waking moment, there is not enough self-control this side of heaven to do THA

One thing burying my child is teaching me is this:  Every single person I meet is carrying a burden I know nothing about. And most are doing the very best they can to bear that load and still do life.

I've gotten so good at stuffing an immediate emotional response I hardly ever cry anymore. Except that sometimes-random moments-the heavy lid I keep screwed down tight on all those feelings comes undone.  And I am helpless as the sorrow, missing and horror of child loss creeps up my spine, raises my heart rate and settles as a silent scream at the back of my throat.   A sob escapes.  The tears flow.

I believe that grief becomes sin when I choose to turn my face away from God and only toward my sorrow. If I am holding it and dragging it with me toward the foot of the cross, that’s not sin. If I turn my heart and face toward the One Who made me and trust that even in this painful place He is carrying me and will care for me, that’s not sin.

I know that when a friend or family member is hurting we long to make them feel better and we convince ourselves that words are necessary. But the very best comfort is compassionate presence and perceptive practical help.

I don’t know your story but I can promise you this: God isn’t finished with you yet. I believe that each one of us is celebrated as a unique creation of our Father. That goes for our children, but also for us. I have no idea why God’s plan includes me outliving my child but He has a purpose that is yet unfulfilled for my life. What happens TO us doesn’t determine our worth-not even the awful and heart shattering experience of child loss.

Dear mama, dear daddy, give yourself permission not to try to figure out what a parent’s heart was never meant to calculate-how to live without the earthly companionship of the child you love-and just breathe.   One day at a time. One moment at a time. One breath at a time.

There is NO way to balance losing my son with any earthly blessing. I have my other children.  Yes, but I had them when I still had him.  I have my health (sort of).  Yes, but I had it when I still had him.  I have a home, freedom, food-yes, yes, yes.  But all that I had when I still had him. So you see, I can’t make it balance out.  No one can. But there is a kernel of truth in this hymn.  And it’s not in trying to pile up one side and weigh it against the other.

It seems unbearable to think ahead to the possible years of doing this hard thing.  And it is- UNBEARABLE.  If I look at the missing writ large across the rest of my life, I will crumble beneath the weight of it. Yet, I only have to live this moment, this breath, this day.

Those hours before I planted one last kiss on my son’s forehead, I held his hand.   I nodded at the people filing past to pay their respects with my arm tucked behind me, desperate to cling to my child. And I’m still clinging.   I will not let him go.   I don’t care how many days or months or years march on taking me further from the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand or the brightness of his smile-I refuse to release my grasp.

Because of Jesus, while this reality is harsh, hard and heartbreaking, I have an eternity of rest, renewal and redemption to look forward to

I long to be a burden bearer for my friends and family because I know what it is to carry a burden. So I ask the hard questions.

To understand the beauty of forgiveness and the blessing of redemption, we MUST acknowledge the sorrow of sin and the burden of brokenness.

I miss my child. I miss the family we used to be. I miss being blissfully ignorant of exactly how awful death is.

that’s what child loss does to a mama’s heart.  It shatters it into pieces so tiny and so fragile. And the pieces never make a whole.

I’m waiting for the day my tears will be redeemed.  Waiting for the restoration of what the enemy has stolen, for faith to become sight.

It’s different for every heart. But each of us who know child loss have a season of sorrow. It’s more than “just” the day our child left.