Not Who I Once Was

At the time we became aware we were expecting each of our children I started a journal for them. These journals are full of letters and prayers from the moment of their known presence as well as sweet memories as they've grown. 

The calendar recently flipped to January 25, and it seemed to turn up the volume to an awful countdown to February 25. Twenty-three months my youngest child, my sweet Abigail, has been gone. There is a sick surrealness that comes with this, and for the second day in a row I'm up at 3 AM. I try to go back to sleep; sleep is the closest thing to an "escape" from the pain of living without one of my children. In twenty-three months I've recognized those sudden awakenings which result in intrusive, gut wrenching memories and thoughts that will not allow me a return to rest. Despite begging the Lord to remove them (sometimes I long for the Pensieve of Dumbledore) and bestow mind-numbing sleep for a few more hours He does not always grant such. 

I can't be upset; the Lord knows I need moments of release for my grief and tears. At 3AM I am guaranteed solitude and time when my tears will not frighten or weigh too heavily on any other. 

During yesterday's early morning hours I felt a tug to revisit the journal of prayers and letters I wrote for Abigail. This was a journal meant to be given to her when I was gone, not for me to revisit after her death. I chickened out yesterday and couldn't do it. Today the feeling would not shake, thus I opened the pages. Her journal cover includes the following verse. 

Trust in the Lord with all your heart. Lean not on your own understanding, but in all your ways acknowledge Him and He will direct your paths. Proverbs 3:5-6. 

As I opened that small journal with too few pages, fragments of my broken heart gushed forth from the tiny crevices of my eyes. How such volume of emotion manages to seep from such a small place never ceases to amaze me. Tears seem as unique and "miraculous" as snowflakes. 

Do you want to know the last line I wrote to Abigail in January 2024, just days after her third birthday and mere days before she left? Before she died? "I'm going to treasure this coming year with you." 

My breath stolen, as are those days. Death is a mocker, and that line cruelly seems to mock me. Little did I know how our lives would change, our hearts shatter, just a month later. Death is a mocker with a cruel sting this side of Heaven. My treasuring turned to lamenting. 

The death of one's child changes a person forever. Just as the birth of each of my children has changed me, so has death. I've never met a parent who wouldn't agree that the birth of their child forever changed them in some way: highlighted their own insufficiencies and selfishness, realigned priorities, increased tenderness and sensitivity, opened eyes to the wonder of the most miniscule of blessings, changed their pursuits, pushed their faith, altered their time management, hopes, dreams, and longings, or revealed new fears. Once that precious life enters our own, we are never the same. Rightfully so. The moment one holds their child or looks into their eyes for the first time is the very moment a parent starts becoming and ceases being who they once were.* 

How much more so the death of a child changes a parent! How could it not? The last time I ever looked into my Abigail's eyes painfully and permanently branded my heart. The last time I held her body with and without life has changed me, broken me. I am not the Heather I was before Abigail entered Heaven without me. 

I recently realized this change is often where so many relationships get really challenging after burying a child. People who have not lived this reality, even those with the most compassionate hearts, often expect bereaved parents to be who they once were. Because no matter how much one tries to imagine the anguish of losing a child, it just isn't possible unless you've lived it. We sometimes feel as though we are expected to have all the same conversations, celebrate as easily, or care about the same thigs in the same manner as before- before our hearts were ripped wide open by death. It might not be verbalized or even expected in the early days surrounding death, but it soon reveals itself in the day to day. The conversations. The expectations. The text messages, emails. The complaints. The silence. The noise. The frustrations. The looks. The avoidance of eye contact. I readily acknowledge the heaviness, the weariness, of walking closely with a grieving parent; it can be very hard to be our friends, coworkers, family, fellow church members, etc. I don't say this to be critical or harsh, but to simply acknowledge what seems to be one cause of relationship challenges. We too grieve who we once were.

I think, without realizing it, there is an expectation by some that a grieving parent will at some point be who they once were. One year? Two years?  For better or worse, that just isn't so. My responsibility as a grieving parent includes being honest with myself and willing to acknowledge the impossibility of such. Admittedly, not all the changes in me are necessarily positive, but would I really want to be the same person I was before? Of course, I envy my old self and her naivete. I'd most assuredly change the past that brought me here if I could. But what's done is done, and I cannot imagine the hardness required to avoid permanent change. 

Some of the more sanctifying changes are still being wrought in me by the mercy of God. They are hard-fought and tear-bought. To stare death in the face through the eyes of your child changes every part of you: physically, emotionally, spiritually, and relationally. 

Do you want to know the Bible verse printed at the top of the last page of the last entry in Abigail's journal while she was alive? 

But the plans of the Lord stand firm forever; the purposes of his heart through all generations. Psalm33:11 

Sorrow rightfully changes us, but the Lord is faithful and constant through it all. The purposes of His heart never waiver. His presence never falters. His love never fails. He lovingly binds up the shattered slivers of my broken heart, promising one day it will be fully restored, sorrows redeemed, and death's stinger removed. I'm not who I once was, nor am I who I will finally be.  

*I realize, tragically, for some, they never get to hold their child alive this side of Heaven. My heart aches for your unique pain as well.