This morning, as I sat on my couch and watched the world come awake out my front window, I felt the weight of 17 months of grief.
I saw, for the first time, these beautiful purple flowers blooming in my front yard and realized I must have missed them last year. I heard happy birds and saw the promising signs of spring in front of me.
But then, I just so happened to glance at the clock at the exact minute, 17 months ago today, that Mason left this earth.
And I am instantly back in that room. His tiny little body, so full of laughter and naughtiness just hours before, lifeless in front of me.
Seventeen months completely evaporates and it feels like it just happened this morning. That it was just yesterday that I touched him, heard his little voice, watched him running at soccer practice, read books with him in the rocking chair.
There simply are not words that really express the depth of the ongoing pain, the void left behind at the sudden loss of a child.
I just want Jesus to come back already. Is that too much to ask?
As I have navigated this valley these past months, I have seen God guiding me, protecting me, equipping me. And when I haven’t seen him, when it has been too dark and suffocating to see anything, I have felt him.
He has never left me.
Not for a second does this mean it has not been painful. It has indeed been a horrific journey. But it does mean there is hope, there is comfort.
It means, in some supernatural way, when my heart is breaking and life is crumbling, there is still overwhelming peace.
Peace that doesn’t say, “Hey, everything is all ok!” But rather, peace that says, “It is not ok. None of it. But I am here.”
And now, almost a year and a half after losing my child, I am facing other things I do not want to face. Admittedly, nothing as severe as the death and pain I have tasted, but unwelcome nonetheless. Things that come attached with deep sadness and require sacrifice and faith amidst the uncertainty.
Things that make me want, much like most every day of the last 17 months, to just lock myself in my room and pretend that surely, this is not really happening.
But while I would like to live in denial and seclusion, this life keeps going. And my kids need me. And seasons change, and well, this world has troubles.
This life cannot be a pity party. Eternity hangs in the balance and there just is not time for it.
And I remember that what I tell my own children is true for me too.
This life is not about you.
You have a purpose.
And it is not success, wealth or even comfort.
It is not your happiness or your accomplishments.
Your purpose is to glorify God.
He wants to use you for his kingdom.
And although this life feels impossibly long and the pain makes each day stretch into seemingly unending drudgery, in reality, in the scope of eternity, it is nothing.
It will not be that long before I find myself before the Almighty God. Where every moment of this life will be brought into focus… every choice, each sacrifice, the moments of deep pain and obedient perseverance.
And, as I tell my kids, the most important goal to have in this life is to hear in eternity, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
I want to see Mason. I long for an end to weariness and pain and tears. But the beautiful news is that it is coming. And I know I can hope for that with certainty.
But until that day, I persevere. Because in this life, trials and troubles will come. No matter the depth of present suffering, the pain of current circumstances, trials will continue to come.
What have I found persevering to mean practically?
It means I immerse myself in God’s word. Focus on truth. Pray constantly.
And then repeat.
In the words of Charles Spurgeon:
“Do not think that as you grow in grace your path will become smoother and the sky calmer and clearer. Quite the contrary. As God gives you greater skill as a soldier of the cross, He will send you on more difficult missions. As He more fully equips your ship to sail in storms, He will send you on longer voyages to more boisterous seas, so that you may honor Him and increase in holy confidence.
You would think that in Abraham’s old age – after he had come to the land of Beulah, after the birth of Isaac, and especially after the expulsion of Ishmael – he would have had a time of rest. But “it came to pass after these things that God tested Abraham” (Gen 22:1). Let Abraham’s story warn us to never plan on a rest from trials this side of the grave.
The trumpet still plays the notes of war. You cannot sit down and put the victory wreath on your head. You do not have a crown. You still must wear the helmet and carry the sword. You must watch, pray, and fight. Expect your last battle to be the most difficult, for the enemy’s fiercest charge is reserved for the end of the day.”
The trials of this life are weary. And at times, never-ending. But there is hope. And until that day, when Hope is ultimately victorious and all the tears have been dried… with God’s grace, I will persevere.
Read God’s word. Focus on truth. Pray constantly. And then repeat.
Wear the helmet. Carry the sword.
2 thoughts on “wear the helmet, carry the sword”
Thank you for sharing this, Stephanie. I love you, dear girl!
I have often said that I cannot wait for you to write a book. I think I can… Every single post rips my heart out. The raw emotion that you share touches a place we are all afraid to go. Your vulnerability gives us reason to be on our knees for you and allows us to see a grace that many have not experienced.