2 years

Everyone experiences grief differently, not a right way or a wrong way, but differently. I suppose we all have ideas of what grief should look like, or will look like, but the truth is, we don't know how we will respond until it happens.

Two years ago on this day, my first grandson died. We lived our worst nightmare that first month. The first year continued to be hard, all the firsts without Harper- Christmas and birthdays and Mother's Day and vacations. But I guess that maybe I thought after that first year it would get easier.

I didn't anticipate that, really, it doesn't get easier. Not really. There will always and forever be a hole in our family. Last month, I sent Advent calendars to my grands, and I had to rip up a card, and then an envelope, when without even thinking, I wrote Harper's name on both. I do that all the time when naming my grands. I never really know what to say when asked how many grandkids I have. I have four, but not everyone knows how to respond when you mention, "but my oldest died." This year, my second grandson turned the same age of his brother, and all of the sudden I realized, "He's going to start doing things that Harper never did..." And such begins a different season of grief.

On this day, I'm a little bit short of breath, remembering my guy. But I want to make sure, I do not grieve as those without hope.  In response to a grieving mother, John Piper wrote about honoring God even in our sorrow, that "at every moment of the lengthening grief, we turn to him, not away from him. And therefore, the length of it is a way of showing him to be ever present, enduringly sufficient."
This I know to be true. 

I think that perhaps, most of all, we want to believe that the loss of our dear one was not in vain. Harper died of a heart condition that was not discovered. But his death gave opportunity for all the kids of the family to be checked for the same abnormality. And so, although we mourn, we were also comforted when Harper's younger cousin was found to have the same heart condition, and had it corrected by surgery. In a strange way, our loss perhaps saved a little one and for that, we rejoice.

But more than anything else, I trust the sovereign God, and respond with the saints of old who when asked "What is thy only comfort in life and in death?" respond, 

"That I, with body and soul, both in life and in death, am not my own, but belong to my faithful Savior Jesus Christ, who with His precious blood has fully satisfied for all my sins, and redeemed me from all the power of the devil; and so preserves me, that without the will of my Father in heaven not a hair can fall from my head; yea, that all things must work together for my salvation. Wherefore, by His Holy Spirit, He also assures me of eternal life, and makes me heartily willing and ready henceforth to live unto Him."

Even still, miss you much, Harper buddy.

 

"Hey! Unto you a child is born!"

“The Herdmans were absolutely the worst kids in the history of the world. They lied and stole and smoked cigars (even the girls) and talked dirty and hit little kids and cussed their teachers and took the name of the Lord in vain and set fire to Fred Shoemaker’s old broken-down toolhouse.”
Barbara Robinson, The Best Christmas Pageant Ever

No one with the name Herdman will be found in our Mexican neighborhood, but I'm pretty sure that we know their primos. I'm pretty sure that Herdman cousins show up to our community outreach activities every week. I mean, there was Monday night...

There were the big boys, the teens, who come to practice guitar and hang out and then play soccer and torment be with the rest of us. They roam in a pack, rarely still, never quiet. In the two hours they were with us, they managed to crush one ping-pong ball, accidentally pound my teammate in the face with a soccer ball, escape and return, again and again, and again, to bible class, and marginally participate in art class. One boy, who we always think should know better, finished the evening by de-pants-ing (is that a word for anyone except those who work with boys?) another one of their crowd,  and then the whole herd found themselves kicked out dismissed early. 

There were the littles, the under 5 crowd, who come in full of smiles and hugs, who need the sticky candy and hot Cheeto residue washed off their hands before they touch anyone or anything. They take a try at ping-pong and manage to hit the ball everywhere but on the table. They work puzzles on the floor and force grooves that don't fit together and sling the giant pieces across the room when they don't match. One girl tries to build a tower and yells in frustration when the boy plays Godzilla, stomping through the block city and destroying her skyscraper in progress. They color Christmas tree pages in bright primary colors, branches of orange and yellow and red, and look up at us and ask, "Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it pretty? Do you like it?" Yes, yes we do, you little Picasso Modernists.

There were the girls. There is the one who has been with us since the beginning, who as she walks through the gate looks at me and shouts, "WHY? Kristy! Why did you cut your hair?!," obviously not impressed with my new do. There is the young teen who comes in with a hood over her head and when greeted offers a hug and a shy smile but who obviously is hurting. She won't talk; she won't answer why. She nods at a "headache?" but we're pretty sure that wasn't it. She won't stay seated in class to save her life. She leaves the room, multiple times, silently asking us to find her. And then when class is over and she finally has permission to leave, she comes back. There's the elementary student who comes in late and when everyone else has left, tells my teammate that she hates school, that the teacher doesn't like her, that the kids don't like her, that it's not worth it to go.

In The Best Christmas Pageant Ever, the Herdman kids learn the Christmas story and help the rest of the community to see it with brand new eyes. I think we are much the same. In this neighborhood, Christmas isn't about Santa, though in bright lights he is flying high over the carnecería next door. Only a few of these kids will have a tree in their house. They aren't making lists and checking them twice. In the book, Imogene Herdman plays Mary in the church play, and burps baby Jesus because, “That’s the whole point of Jesus — that he didn’t come down on a cloud like something out of “Amazing Comics,’ but that he was born and lived … a real person.”  The Christmas story doesn't change these messy stories, doesn't change our chaotic evening at the community center, at least not today. But it does change eternity. Jesus was born and lived, a real person!, and he also died for us and lives again for us- that's the hope that is our consolation and our assurance and the motivation that propels us forward, even on the most challenging of days.  The Herdman kid who plays the Angel of the Lord in the play yells out, “Hey! Unto you a child is born" and his sister responds with "Shazaaaam!" 
So do we. 

DPP 1- It's not yet time

(December Photo Project day 1)

The first of December seems like a good day to decorate for Christmas. I pull out the box of last year's decorations from the bottom shelf. I take the tree off the top of the refrigerator, its home for the last 11 months, and dust it off. I remove the string of lights from my headboard. The Pumpkin Vanilla candle and orange plaid runner and "Give Thanks" sign move to the back of the wardrobe. Evergreen moves in. Well, plastic evergreen; truly, ever green.

I spread out the festive red runner and slide  together the balsa reindeer. I wind the lights around the branches of the little tree. I hang the tiny bulbs with care. I set out the miniature tin nativity scene. I even hang up a few red and green prints over the couch. I turn on the star lights that have been dangling since last year. It all takes about 5 minutes. It looks like we are ready.

But today is but the first day of December. It's not yet time. Advent reminds us of the waiting. John writes at the beginning of his gospel, "The Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth... For from his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace."  (John 1:14, 16 ESV) And I believe those truths with all my heart. But I am prone to distraction, prone to forget. My prayer this Advent season is to look again, to remember and to experience that fullness, to recognize that grace upon grace.

(also- this is my ninth year to participate in the December Photo Project, a picture a day until Christmas! Join the fun?)