When someone dies and leaves this earth, we who are left behind have to learn to live without their physical presence. It’s unnatural. It’s also heartbreaking. God never intended it to be so. Death wasn’t in the original plan.
We grieve for the loss in our lives and nobody else is quite able to understand the pain we’re experiencing. Nobody has the same relationship that we did with the person we lost. Therefore, we all grieve in different ways, in different levels, with different intensities. That’s the truth of the matter.
I would say, like so many other moms out there, there is no loss comparable to the loss of a child - that which came from within your own body. The one you held close to your heart and nurtured day and night, the one who brought the greatest joy and maybe even times of great pain during the span of his or her lifetime. The one you gave yourself to and for on many various levels throughout each passing day and season of life. Even as an adult, your child will be and is forever your baby. The bond is forever etched in your heart - even after death.
For the last two years, we’ve marked the day as an anniversary of his death. There have been many ups and downs, tears and sorrowful moments along the grief journey, and I’m aware there will probably be many more throughout the remainder of our lives. Yet, as I learn to live anew, I’m trying a different approach this year by trying to look at it as Steffan’s heavenly birthday, the anniversary of the day he gained his wings. I hope it doesn’t look like that’s ignoring or covering up the pain, because the pain is still just as real and intense.
For me, it’s growth, proving some hard-pressed progress gained along this journey I never wanted to take.
It’s a new perspective to lean into. One I’ve felt gently called into. Yes, a new season.
I know he’s safe. He’s at peace. He’s got his race finished. I wouldn’t want to take that away from him even if the choice was mine to make, and I think it’s safe to say he wouldn’t want to come back either after a glimpse of Heaven.
It’s always those who have been left behind to experience the pain and waves of loss and grief who must learn to live again.
A mom must learn to appreciate the memories within her, for there will be no new memories to make. There will be no more holidays to spend together, no more birthdays to celebrate, no longer any hugs or kisses on the cheek, no advice to give or problems to solve, no more calls or laughter, etc. So there is much lost in death that we definitely miss, can never replace, and which we will long for when we’re the ones left behind.
What IS left is the love, memories and most importantly, a God who is close to the broken-hearted.
So, this September 27th, we’ll celebrate two birthdays:
our daughter’s 24th birthday here on earth and,
our firstborn’s 3rd heavenly birthday.
And, for once in a lifetime, all three of our children will be the same age for a short time - twenty four.
I’m not claiming it’s going to be an easy transition, but isn’t there such a phenomenon referred to as growing pains?
There will forever be a hole in my heart, unfulfilled dreams, motherly longings, and a flood of tears which could unexpectedly be triggered at any given moment. There will still be moments of sadness, some needed quietness, and the necessity to be still and allow myself to simply feel the emotions as they wash over me. There will forever be a piece of me missing and the fact that I am forever changed.
However, along with that, there is also a part of me which can now sit comfortably with you and weep with you in your pain and loss. There is a deep compassion and desire to listen to even the words which aren’t uttered. The longing to wrap my arms around you and let you know you’re not alone. Not to fix anything, to just simply be there. These are things you learn and gain from experiencing this road.
There are certainly things gained along this unwanted journey which God works together for good.
I wanted to give you a little heart to heart today.
This is my heart -
exposed,
vulnerable,
fragile,
tender,
and still aching.
This is a mother’s heart and a love that never dies.
This is real.
This is me - being brave, walking the journey no one chooses, doing the hard work of feeling and working through the grief waves...and continuing to trust a loving, faithful God who cares, weeps with me and knows every heartache, and is touched by every bit of pain I experience.
That’s how I continue to live, laugh and love...in the middle of the messy.
Remembering Steffan Russell Hardesty, “Runkle” - our firstborn, forever 24.
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