Thursday, December 8, 2011



It's this word that instills fear in us. The word causes us to flashback to some of the darkest moments we've ever experienced. Or, if we have somehow skirted its dark cloud, we have images of someone we know.

In my 28 years, I've experienced a lot of death. Great-grandmothers I cherished, a grandfather taken by Alzheimer's before I really had the chance to know him, friends taken much too soon by car accidents, a war hero who gave the ultimate sacrifice (his story can be read here), a cousin and friend who succumbed to the darkness, a co-worker and her daughter gone in the second it took to cross that median. All gone. All funerals I attended. All people taken before I was ready.

All instances where death was once removed. I cried, I grieved and then the world moved on.

Of course, this was all before. Before September 4th, when I said hello and goodbye to my son. Before I carried him home and had him baptized. Before I sat at that conference table picking out a casket while holding him. Before I handed him over for the last time. Before I said my final goodbye that Thursday night. Before his funeral. Before they buried my child. Before my world stopped spinning.

So, no. I'm not over it. No, I'm not going to return to normal. No, it's not easier because I didn't get to know him. Because all of the other people I have had to let go, left me thousands of memories to keep. Maybe its because he is my first. Maybe it is because he is my only. But, the fact that Aidan was gone so fast does not make any of this any easier on me.

My life is in pieces, never to be put back together.

Oh Lord Jesus, come to be near us. Hold us with Your unfailing love. We cannot sustain ourselves.

A simple prayer. The biggest request I'll ever ask.

There is a very special woman out there tonight who needs our prayers. So please, if you pray include "C" in them. She is battling the demon we call cancer. She is fighting to come home to a very spunky little girl who needs her Momma.

Angie Simon says it best, "I don't where you are tonight, or what hurts you are holding up to God, but I will promise you this. If you can just trust Him enough to bring it up to Him, He will rejoice in your masterpiece. And if you need to scream a little, know that you have a God who can take that too, as long as your face is tilted (even slightly) toward Him."

I serve a God who knows my suffering. His grace is in a jar we all carry. And his glory is seen in the shattering.

(I must confess, it has been a BAD week. Not just a rough week in this process of grief, but BAD. In five days we have been to the ER for stitches in Evan's hand, had an accident on Sunday that ruined all of my plans for A's three month celebration and today the engine blew in our other vehicle. Enough to drive a perfectly stable person off the edge. My brain just doesn't know its way around the sorrow. So, I've rambled. I've let out some steam. Now, I have to figure out how to convince Ev our world is not crashing down. :))

1 comment:

  1. I'm thinking of you, friend. I want so badly for you to have some peace. I hope you sleep well and that you smile a little more tomorrow than you did today. That's all anyone can ask for, right? Love you.


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