I’ve been quiet, I know. Those of you who have children know the adage that if your toddler is quiet, then you know they’re into something they shouldn’t be. Similarly, I write and post regularly, and if I’m not, then something is up. The “up” is a myriad of things: birthdays, graduations, holiday celebrations, the summer calendar, etc. Life in general is busy. But busy, while challenging, doesn’t typically keep me away from the keyboard.
What keeps me away from the keyboard is the processing of emotions. I’ve felt, in fact, a bit like a toddler lately: happy, with a cheerful disposition one minute, but contrary and disposed to throwing a tantrum the next. Bearing down like a fast-moving locomotive, the impending “crapiversary” date barrels along the grief track. I admit I’ve been burying my head like an ostrich, pretending July 29th doesn’t exist, keeping myself busy, hoping that doing so will somehow “bypass” the date. Like riding a Tilt-A-Whirl at the fair, I’ve been filling my days with non-stop activity, hoping the dizziness of the grief ride will somehow make the 29th spin by. Only child loss grief isn’t an amusing carnival ride.
Over the 4th of July holiday weekend, I finally stopped the busyness. I stood still with the pile of perplexing toddler-like emotions and realized what feeling I had failed to identify. I was sad. I am sad that we are, again, marking another year without our son. It still sucks. It will always suck. And I am sad. I miss my boy. My husband misses his son. My children miss their brother.
For whatever reason, sadness wasn’t an emotion I easily identified. Anger, yes. Sadness, no. I suppose it’s because the ache is always there, the loss always present. Grief is a constant, though not as cutting or as fresh as it was in the beginning. I’m used to grief. But sadness is different. It’s hard to explain. However, for as much as there is sadness, there is grace. Grace for every day, grace for every moment.
Once I acknowledged the feeling of sadness, things shifted. Peace came, and I spent the rest of the holiday weekend with feelings of joy and sadness coexisting. Acknowledging the sadness allowed joy into the space, as it is in validation that feelings become manageable, for it is in bringing them to God that we are held in His arms and He bears our burdens. Some, indeed, bury their grief, but we are not designed to bury it. We were designed to lament, to pour out our hearts before the Lord, both in praise and in pain. When we bury feelings, we bury love, and to love is to live.
Instead of hiding my feelings, I want to hide myself in Him. Our God is a God of comfort. He is tender and compassionate. He is abounding in love and His grace is enough. He is bigger than our grief, His love greater and deeper than our loss. Yes, grief remains and there is sadness. But there is also a deeply settled joy, a sure and certain hope, and a peace that passes understanding. There is laughter and happy moments, and a vibrant love that lives on. I am secure because I am covered by the love of God, sheltered beneath His wings. He is my hiding place.