When the autumn winds blow fresh and cool, the maple leaves
ambling to the ground, a slow but pervasive sadness creeps up. It doesn’t take
long for me to know why.
And in the midst of this ache, a little light trickles in.
An idea. A glimmering grace to hold onto. A comfort to ease
the pain.
Gathering leaves, big and small, symmetrical or somewhat askew,
I hold them to my heart.
With broken crayons, sheets of blank paper and children
needing something to do, I demonstrate. Taking a single leaf, I cover it with
paper and rub it over and over again with a red crayon.
As if by magic, the leaf appears. First the stem, the veins
and the outline of the leaf’s three points.
My kids are in awe and my heart is at rest.
To turn death into a learning experience, a thing to grow from, gives me renewed focus and grace...
To look to the One who comforts me and love on the ones I
have here.
I have this little blue scrapbook. A book of remembrance.
Of a time of waiting for a sweet little baby. A son. His prognosis was grave. I
was his life support. When he was born, he would die. Back then, bilateral renal agenesis (BRA) had no treatment and still has no cure. I received the news the beginning
of autumn.
December came and he was wrapped up warm and comfortable in
my womb while I waited for his birth day. The day I’d have to say goodbye.
Another month before his due date, I spent half that windswept
day on a playground with my two-year-old Bright Girl. Pushing her in the swing.
Watching her joy as she raced around, her sneakers crunching on the fallen
leaves. Not knowing it would be the day before my son’s birth day.
Giving birth to a child born without the capacity to live
was incomprehensible. How can you prepare for it?
All I could do was breathe and pray.
When trying to savor each moment, time slows down. It would be one of the longest days of my life. And, I held
my little boy, my Luke, for as long as I could before he passed from here to
heaven.
I left the hospital, with empty womb and empty arms.
Trying to find some sort of normalcy, when my strength returned, I took my toddler to the playground. As I pushed her in
the swing, a shadow seemed to block the sun. It wasn’t a shadow others could
see, but it was felt. And only by me.
I don’t remember how long the shadow lasted, but it came and went
like the ebb and flow of the tides.
And it's been like that each and every autumn, when the cold winds begin to blow. For twelve years now. The shadow of grief comes. Sometimes for a day, sometimes a bit longer.
At this point, I don't know if I can call grief a friend, but I now see a pattern for when it settles in.
And, I don't mind it anymore.
Loving and losing someone hurts. The pain means they mattered. And, the latent grief that comes is a reminder to us to think of the ones we miss in heaven. The ones we're waiting to see again.
And when the shadow of grief seems to linger, just remember...
You will bloom again.
Like the sunflowers who turn to face the sun, may we turn to face our Savior and wait for His healing, comfort and grace.
A wise king once said,
“To every thing there is a season…a
time to be born and a time to die...a time to weep and a time to laugh…”
(Ecclesiastes 3:3-8)
And Jesus said,
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted (Matthew 5:4).”
Death has not won the victory, Christ has. His love is eternal. Death couldn't stop Him. He lives on
and by grace, our loved ones who are gone, live on.
Faith gives us hope.
Hope helps us bloom. To be open to joy.
Love is the source of that hope—the love of Christ, our gentle Savior who leads us on the path He has laid out for us.
For some of us, it is the path of grieving in hope. The hope that brings whispers of a joy to come. On falling leaves and in fingers making impressions for little hearts to learn.
