I tried, really tried to ignore the anniversary of our son Mark's death. Sometimes the anticipation of a holiday, birthday or anniversary of the loss is worse than the actual day. But this year fun family times filled the past two weeks as we welcomed Chuck's brother and children and grandchildren from Texas for a mini-family reunion. Then we celebrated July 4th with our children and grandchildren. Lots of laughter, noise and delicious food occupied the hours. When longing for Mark snuck up to remind me of that awful day sixteen years ago, I gave myself permission to privately cry for a few minutes but then chose to enjoy the many blessings God continues to send our way. Big hugs from little people and four-year-old Caleb's quiet words, "Grammy, I really do love you, you know!" kept grief at bay and I gladly opened my hands and heart to the genuine joy and contentment God sent my way.

Instead of licking my wounds on July 5 in preparation for this awful anniversary, I taught a women's Sunday School class. I worshipped with our covenant family. I took a long evening walk. I tried to see July 6 as just another day. I really tried. It's been sixteen years after all. So why did I wake this morning with a dark heart and fresh tears? Isn't it time to move on? To "get over IT?" Each tender message from friends via email and Facebook, quick hugs at church and whispered comfort touched the wound that never quite closes, the loving words acknowledging the never-ending grief that honors our son's life and legacy. Each word a treasure in the darkness reminding me of God's presence and comfort. But...

Sometimes the only way to "move on" is to give up trying...to stop smiling, to give yourself permission to grieve, to lean into the pain. So I let my mind race back sixteen years, another July 4th weekend filled with family and celebrations. A dry, hot summer weekend, soon forgotten if not for the terrible phone call...I hate this. I hate this...this awfulness...this upside down turn of events, a parent burying her child. No. This is not right. I stand on the edge of the abyss of grief and conclude that remembering that awful time is too hard, too much. I fear I will never recover if I go too far, if I take one more step into the deeper darkness.

And so instead I focus on Mark's ever-growing eternal legacy. God reminds me of treasures in the darkness, love notes from Him designed to help turn my heart toward His sovereign eternal purposes. I remember the many mothers who have contacted me since, the ones who long for help and hope as they try to process the deaths of their own children, those who are attempting to embrace a new level of normal. I think about the stories of horrific loss, terrible sorrow and grief that cannot be adequately described, only known and understood by another grieving mother. I remember how God has transformed our journey into one of hope and comfort for others. I am once more mystified by the supernatural work God has done in my heart, evidenced by each grieving mother who tells me that the cracks in my soul reveal Jesus. And I know their message is a reminder from God, giving me tangible proof that He is keeping His promise to bring beauty from ashes. Because I could never "work up" such strength.

Yet still, in the midst of remembering, of acknowledging God's faithfulness, today I am one of those mothers who longs for her child. Wishing for one more moment, one more day, one more lifetime. So I give myself permission to cry trusting that I do not cry alone, that my Heavenly Father is holding me tightly in His grip, and that He will give me faith and strength to thank Him for the treasures in the darkness that I have experienced. I remember that even in this moment, He is keeping the promise of His presence and that my weeping is a nighttime visitor that will someday leave as morning joy moves in.

But for this moment, with full confidence that God is sovereign and I can trust Him, I cry for my son.

In His Grip,
Sharon

Recommended resources:

Treasures in Darkness

Loss of a loved one