No Words
In the past few months, I've had few words to say. This blog has been such a part of my life for so long, and I have shared our family's joys and sorrows through the years. Yet, when Lacy passed away I was left with few words. At first the thoughts came quickly. Kenny and I were so grateful for the time we'd had with our son. We were grateful for God's mercy in a time of great suffering. We were thankful for the standing-room-only crowd at his memorial. We were thankful for the lifting of burdens and worries.
My child died, and part of me died with him. I didn't realize it right away. As Kenny and I have talked about Lacy and that terrible morning in May, we've come to realize that we suffered an amputation. I will never get that part of my very being back. I will never be completely whole again this side of glory.
The memories of holding our son for the last time, kissing his forehead and hands - already cool to the touch - and then our last glimpse at the funeral home don't invade my thoughts as often as they did at first. I remember the joyful times and the challenges. I remember the sadness and tears. I remember the sheer terror of not knowing what to do as parents. I relive the gut-wrenching pain of realizing our sweet boy was terminally ill.
This is the reality of the death of a child. The certain knowledge that he is with Jesus, and that we will see him again, does not diminish the pain. Faith does not mean that sorrow and mourning don't touch us. Faith means that I know that God is bigger than my pain. I know that He wants me to cling to Him and do His will. Even if His will is that I lay low a while and allow myself the time to grieve, I grieve with hope. I know where my son is right now.
In the months since Lacy's death, I've been keeping a journal of scriptures, quotes, and prayers. I've read Psalm 139 over and over - the one Psalm that has comforted me in many a dark time.
I've read Oswald Chambers' My Utmost for His Highest and kept note of the words that speak to me. On August 29, I wrote this in my journal:
Faith is unutterable trust in God, trust which never dreams that He will not stand by us. There is continual testing in the life of faith, and the last great test is death.
We are trusting even in this time of testing.
My child died, and part of me died with him. I didn't realize it right away. As Kenny and I have talked about Lacy and that terrible morning in May, we've come to realize that we suffered an amputation. I will never get that part of my very being back. I will never be completely whole again this side of glory.
The memories of holding our son for the last time, kissing his forehead and hands - already cool to the touch - and then our last glimpse at the funeral home don't invade my thoughts as often as they did at first. I remember the joyful times and the challenges. I remember the sadness and tears. I remember the sheer terror of not knowing what to do as parents. I relive the gut-wrenching pain of realizing our sweet boy was terminally ill.
This is the reality of the death of a child. The certain knowledge that he is with Jesus, and that we will see him again, does not diminish the pain. Faith does not mean that sorrow and mourning don't touch us. Faith means that I know that God is bigger than my pain. I know that He wants me to cling to Him and do His will. Even if His will is that I lay low a while and allow myself the time to grieve, I grieve with hope. I know where my son is right now.
In the months since Lacy's death, I've been keeping a journal of scriptures, quotes, and prayers. I've read Psalm 139 over and over - the one Psalm that has comforted me in many a dark time.
I've read Oswald Chambers' My Utmost for His Highest and kept note of the words that speak to me. On August 29, I wrote this in my journal:
Faith is unutterable trust in God, trust which never dreams that He will not stand by us. There is continual testing in the life of faith, and the last great test is death.
We are trusting even in this time of testing.
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| The sunlight reflected on Lacy's marker. |
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