Is Your Steadfast love declared in the grave?

Last night I noticed the first leaf sprouting on one of the giant trees in our front yard. I groaned. Because that leaf and all of its friends will wither, die, then fall to the ground and I’m going to have to rake and bag them.


Lately I feel as though I can’t even catch my breath from the effects of death surrounding me. I recently finished reading Mary Beth Chapman’s Choosing to See. I think you should read it. Now. It will break you in ways you need to be broken. In the book she chronicles her family’s journeys into both adoption and grief. It will make you a) want to adopt a Chinese special needs child, and b) cause tightness in your chest.

This past weekend, Henry was lethargic and without appetite all Saturday. To the point of asking to leave his girlfriend’s bounce house birthday party early. When we got home, he immediately snuggled up with a blanket on our living room couch. The living room is NOT the room with a TV in it. He said his legs hurt and he just couldn’t walk anymore. He looked flush, so I took his temperature and he had a low grade fever. Instantly, fear gripped me. It seemed random to me that his legs hurt. I asked if he meant his tummy. Sometimes he’d say yes his tummy hurt; sometimes he would just whimper and show me that his legs hurt. I’d try to massage his legs and he told me this felt good. So, of course, I Googled his symptoms. And, of course, as all medical Google searches end, I diagnosed my son with cancer.

I told Sloan I thought Henry might have Leukemia and I was going to take him to the doctor on Monday. Sloan said, “I’m sorry, was it before or after you streaked down North Street that you went to medical school?” I was not amused.

As I brushed my teeth, my chest tightened. I could not even allow the thoughts of what this would mean to fully form in my head. I began to barter with God. “Jesus, I’m a rape survivor, infertile, and adoption advocate. How many freaking crosses do I have to bear? For God’s sake, even you only had to carry one.”

I thought of how Jesus prayed for the cup to pass him, but that in the end, He perfectly prayed “But not my will but yours be done.” Again I prayed. “God, you need to listen to me. I will not pray for your will to be done if your will is for Henry to die. So just know that. You can find someone else to pray that for me, but I. Will. Not."

I couldn’t fall asleep that night. I just lie in bed, marinating in fear based on my Google diagnosis. Every hour or so, Henry would come into our room to remind me he didn’t feel well and that he needed cuddles. Around 2, I gave in and just went into his room, thankful the boy has a Queen size bed. Around 5am, Henry got up, staggered to his train table, and threw up.

I asked him if he still felt sick and if his legs still hurt. He looked at me as though he had no idea what I was talking about. “My legs don’t hurt, Mommy. I have a tummy ache. I need to go watch TV.” Immiediately I recanted my threats to Jesus, as it was obvious the boy did not have Cancer, just the pukes. I’m not crazy about pukes. But pukes I can handle. Pukes do not make my hands shake or my breathing labored.

Add to this, a close friend of my sister’s family just lost their 19 year old son in a tragic accident. Tomorrow, my nephews will bury T, who was like a brother to them. We are all in a state of shock as this family buried a young cousin just several years ago who also died in a tragic drowning accident.

And because I have the inexplicable talent of making all things really about me, their loss has brought forth the feelings of grief I still feel over my beloved friend from high school, C. I didn’t even have a chance to attend his funeral just 4 years ago. Henry had just been born premature and was in the NICU, so my parents chose not to tell me until we were out of the hospital. I have a picture of C attached to the visor mirror of my Suburban. This creeps Sloan out both because I keep a picture of another man around but also because C is dead.

I keep the photo to remind me to pray for C’s mom. I was always one of S’s favorites. She would write to me in college. I still write her letters from time to time when I think of a memory of C—the dorky thick glasses he wore in elementary school, the cowboy boots he wore in high school, the weeks I pretended to be his sister so I could visit him in the ICU after a bad car accident he had, the limp he turned into a swagger, the fact that even when he was relearning to walk he could still kill me in pool.

It is unnatural for a parent to bury their child.

Grief is hard wherever it comes from, but the loss of a child just sticks. We all take for granted that we will bury our parents, our friends, even our spouses, but not our children. Even as I type this, my chest is tightening. I can’t even let my thoughts of “what ifs” fully form for they scare me too much. I remember when I learned that Emma Sloan was not my daughter. How I fell to the floor, hyperventilating. And yet, even with that, I was and continue to be comforted that she is still alive.

And as a Christian, I can take comfort that I will see C again. That perhaps T will take the chubby toddler hand of J and they will together run into the arms of Jesus.

But the death of a child still sucks. Big time. I’d like to find a more profound way to express this, but I cannot. So where do I turn? What do I grab hold of when I find myself crying out “God, where the hell are you?”

My only comfort is that God knows this chest tightening well. That not only has he lost a child, but orchestrated that death for my sake. It was not a tragic accident nor an act of desperation. It was calculated, brutal, torturous. We like to think of Jesus as a victim to an extreme injustice. He is no victim. He willingly offered himself up on behalf of his friends who napped when he told them he was sorrowful to the point of death, on behalf of his friend who betrayed him, on behalf of his murderers. On behalf of us.

So I take comfort in knowing that through his death and resurrection, He is making all things new. That the day will come when God himself will again dwell amongst His people. And he will wipe every tear from our eyes for there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain.