I've never in my life been without them before. Typically, I can talk the bark off a tree. I've always been an external processor, easily able to share my feelings and regurgitate exactly what's going on in my heart and head. Maybe that's why writing has always come easy to me. I've got a lot to say.
But not for the past 7 weeks. I've been speechless.
Experts say there's a process to this thing called "grief." I have no clue what that is because our emotions and thoughts have literally been all over the place. There has been no rhyme or reason to this. We've never, in our lives, known this kind of crushing sadness and pain.
For the first two weeks after Joel's death, I felt like I couldn't take the next breath. I wondered how I was going to make it through each night to the next morning. You wouldn't have recognized me from how swollen my face was from the endless weeping. It didn't seem like his death was real, but the pain was oh so real.
Just days after he passed away, I can't tell you the number of times I heard my husband cry out, "I want my son back!" I can't tell you how many times he had to hold me tight because I told him my insides were going to burst from the overwhelming grief. My arms ached to hold him again—they still do.
When we finally left the hospital, I had my first coherent thoughts:
This is real, but it's not right.
I should be leaving here with my baby in the car seat behind me.
He shouldn't be dead in a wooden coffin in our trunk.
He shouldn't be dead in a wooden coffin in our trunk.
I should be sore and barely able to walk, but full of joy knowing I'll get to feed my baby soon.
I shouldn't be leaving here in such physical pain with nothing to show for it.
I shouldn't be leaving here in such physical pain with nothing to show for it.
I should be going home to recover and hold my sweet boy as much as I want.
I shouldn't have to leave and go directly to his funeral service this afternoon.
I shouldn't have to leave and go directly to his funeral service this afternoon.
This is real, but it's not right.
I honestly don't know how I even made it through the funeral, much less that I showed up to it after just having had major surgery three days earlier.
Nathan tried to have Joel buried in Natchez where his infant sister, Esther, had been buried 25 years earlier—a special tribute to both aunt and nephew—but it didn't pan out. So we took his body back with us to Columbus and buried him in historic Friendship Cemetery.
Our family came to the small service—four parents, one grandparent, two brothers, a sister-in-love, a niece and a nephew. Our dads spoke. I can't remember everything that was said, but I do remember my dad assuring us that Joel was no longer in pain and that we'd see him again one day in heaven. It gave me an ounce of comfort in those moments.
In the weeks leading up to Joel's birth and death, I made some pretty bold statements on behalf of our family. I called God good, faithful, and for us. I said that, come what may, whatever God chose for our son, our faith wouldn't be shaken.
I believed it then and I truly do believe it now—deep down in the depths of my soul.
But I'd be lying if I told you my faith—our faith—has been rock solid since he took his last breath in my arms on February 15. It hasn't. I've doubted and questioned. We've both dealt with anger, guilt, regret, and depression. I've felt betrayed and forsaken by God. I've wondered if he can be trusted again. And ultimately, I've felt like a complete fraud because of my weak faith.
Nathan has been the stronger one. He's helped me take the next step when I haven't had the energy to move an inch forward. He's filled my ears with God's Word when I've felt my emptiest. He's injected Christ's hope back into my heart when I've felt numb.
I've hesitated to tell anyone about these real, raw struggles.
What I really want is to be able to tell you that I have pure joy in my grief. But I'm not joyful. I want you to see me and be inspired by my strength in these dark moments. But I'm not strong. I want you to be awed by my faith in the midst of tragedy. But my faith stinks right now.
Instead, I'd rather you see the real me. I'd rather let you in on my brokenness. I'd rather be honest with you.
Nothing could've prepared us for this. NOTHING. We said we were ready. We'd suited up with what we thought was the appropriate armor. But grief pierced through our every defense and it crushed us. It blinded us and it has suffocated me. It's not just an emotional pain, it's also physical.
But just because I'm weak doesn't mean God isn't still who he says he is.
At the end of the day, I know there's no reason to be ashamed of how we've responded. We're guilty of being human and responding exactly as we should. Until you've experienced this kind of loss (which experts say between this and the loss of a spouse are the two most difficult tragedies to recover from), you can't know how you'll think or feel in this kind of situation.
But please hear me say, we don't "grieve as people who have no hope" (1 Thessalonians 4:13). I may be a hot mess right now and it may seem like I've crumbled under the weight of this thing, but Christ is near. We've been shaken to the core, but...
- God is good—even though we don't understand him or his ways.
- God is faithful—even though he didn't answer the way we thought he would.
- God is for us—even though there are days when we don't feel his presence.
- Joel is no longer sick. He's healed and whole with Jesus at this very moment.
- We'll get to see Joel again in heaven one day.
