I’m sitting here struggling to know how to start this update. I don’t really want to write another heavy, dark update. But, if I’m not honest this blog won’t be serving its purpose.

I had a really sad, dark day. I didn’t even realize we were at the 2 month mark since Everett passed away until partway through the morning, but it seemed like my heart already knew. Today was a day where I just chose to wallow in my grief the entire work day. I broke down in the safety of the work washroom a couple times. I say I chose to warrow in my grief because I have found that typically a day does present opportunities to smile, to laugh, to chat, and doing these things can help brighten my day. Today however, I didn’t really feel like giving optimism much of a chance. At the close of my work day I rushed to my vehicle and broke down again, and headed straight for the cemetery where Everett’s body lays. I haven’t been there often, to be honest. I hate that place, but I think the more I go it will help give me a sense of closeness to my son. There’s no tombstone there yet, that will be there eventually. The thought of seeing my boy’s name etched in stone with a death date is horrific. For now, I can still see the bare ground, the size of a small coffin. I’m not sure which is worse – a tombstone or the bare dirt. They are both awful choices. Memories of family and friends gathering in the corner of that cemetery as we lay Everett’s body to rest come flooding back and I know for certain that this is real, it’s not just a bad dream.

I pretend Everett can hear, and I kneel by the dirt and read out loud the beautiful facebook post Mommy wrote for Everett today. I use my own words to tell Everett what a great son he was, and how much I loved him. I talk. I cry. I sob. I pray a bit, begging God for help. I scream at God a bit when I am back in my vehicle. For the most part, I don’t think I often feel angry at God – at least so far. I know in my heart that He is good. But I feel so hurt by what He has allowed to happen.

When I get back home my mood improves. It’s good to be back with my family.

I assume a lot of you reading this are wondering if my grief has improved since the first month. I don’t really know how to answer that question, but looking back I can see that things have changed. I plan to write more about ‘the 5 stages of grief’ another time, but the first month I spent a lot of time in the bargaining stage. Basically for me it meant I spent a lot of time thinking of things I could have done to prevent Everett’s death or things I could do to make his death untrue. Now, I feel like the bargaining has lessoned and reality is setting in, bringing with it a heavy grief and sorrow for the future that has been taken away.

Now, I don’t expect to see Everett playing in the yard when I get home, even though I always think of him on my short commute home, thinking about how joyful it would be to go home to my complete family once again.

The first several weeks, sitting around the table as a family of 4 was very hard for me. We had a photo of Everett on the windowsill directly in my line of sight. Whether it was a coincidence or not I’m not sure, but once we moved that photo meals became easier for me.

There are perhaps brief moments where I feel like I might have some acceptance that Everett is gone, but I can be in tears just seconds after thinking that. Overall, I think my mind is able to wander a bit more and think of things other then Everett’s being gone then the first month, but it depends on the day. There is so much truth to the saying that grief comes in waves. For moments I feel like I am ok, and then sometimes I almost have a panic attack at the realization of my thoughts: Everett is gone, and in this life I will never see him again. How can I ever accept that? There are still so many moments where this all feels surreal but in my heart I always know that this is real.

In short, I think the answer to how things have changed is that some of the shock and disbelief is wearing off and reality is setting in.

Thinking about going to see Everett’s gravesite made me think of how in the past I have heard people talking about things they think a mourning person should do to help ‘get closure’. Now, I wonder what ‘getting closure’ really means? I feel like people who use that phrase have probably never suffered a deep loss. Do you really want to just close the chapter on someone’s life and never open it again? Maybe I am overthinking it. I digress.

I read today a comment that said something like this:
“When you lose a parent you lose your past.
When you lose a spouse you lose your present.
When you lose a child you lose your future.”
I’m not sure how true that all plays out, but the part about losing a child certainly resonates with me.

I’m signing off with what I read today from Tim Challies, who wrote this after losing his 20 year old son. It both terrifies me and encourages me. You can read the entire article here.

“I am confident I can carry a great weight for a short distance, but far less confident that I can carry it for many miles or many years. I just don’t know how I will bear up under this sorrow if I have to carry it all the way to the end.

My father, a landscaper, used to take me to work with him from time to time. I remember one day when he brought me with him to be an unskilled but cost-effective source of manual labor. He showed me a skid of brick that had been delivered to the end of a client’s driveway and then a walkway that he was building to the front door. My job was to get the brick from the first spot to the second. I remember gazing at that giant pile with despair. How could I, at all of 12 or 14 years of age, possibly move what was quite literally a ton of bricks? I realized I would have to do it in the only way I could. And so piece by piece, brick by brick, step by step, I carried each one of those bricks to my father. He laid them as quickly as I could bring them, until a perfect path led to the entrance of that beautiful home.

And just so, while God has called me to bear my grief for a lifetime, and to do so faithfully, he has not called me to bear the entire weight of it all at once. As that pile was made up of many bricks, a lifetime is made up of many days. The burden of a whole lifetime’s grief would be far too heavy to bear and the challenge of a whole lifetime’s faithfulness far too daunting to consider. But the God who knows my frailty has broken that assignment into little parts, little days, and has promised grace sufficient for each one of them. My challenge for today is not to bear the grief of a lifetime or to be faithful to the end, but only to carry today’s grief and only to be faithful on this one little day that he has spread out before me.

And I am confident that, by his grace, I can carry out today’s assignment. I am confident that I can bear the burden of this day’s sorrow until night falls and my eyes close in rest. I am confident that I can be faithful in today’s calling for as long as the day lasts. I don’t need to think about tomorrow or next week or next year. I don’t need the strength to carry the burdens of any other day and don’t need the resolve to remain faithful through any other circumstance. My God-given task began this morning and extends only until tonight. Then, when I awaken with the dawning of a new day, I will awaken to new blessings, new strength, and new grace that will allow me to be strong and faithful through that day as well.”
– Tim Challies, I Miss My Son Today