And So It Happened

Grief is so weird. And it gets weirder the more that time goes by.

It doesn’t get worse, though. The weeks and months tethered closest to the loss are so excruciating there just isn’t another level once that finally wanes.

Yesterday marked 7 years since the morning our guy, Kane, went to heaven. I still think about him most days. And feel a misappropriated shame on those rare days that I don’t.

Dates on the calendar seem to have the ability to unearth emotions that you can often ignore otherwise. His birthday. His “gotcha” day (adoption families, IYKYK). So, there is an unspoken dread for my wife and me every time the calendar turns to August as we count the 25 days that will remind us of that Friday morning in 2017.

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It has been seven times now that we have trudged through that day. The first one goes straight to the top of the suck list. Like, bad suck. Like, reliving the day all over suck. So, let’s just take that one out of the equation immediately. Then the next five had varying levels of grieving, celebrating, or even one or two, “hey, that almost felt like a normal day.”

Then came number seven. Being all weird and wanting attention.

For me, it was actually the 24th.

I was sitting in my house feeling rather productive. I had finished cleaning and organizing my little work and tool area in our barn, hauled off some rotten posts and wood, and successfully changed out a flood light on our house that hadn’t even flickered in years. It was late afternoon and I was planning on preparing supper (that’s “dinner” for the more cultured) in an hour or two. Jaclyn was busy re-painting Kara’s old bedroom, Gabe was busy upstairs, and JP wasn’t home.

Then something hit me. Hit me right in the gut. Memories flooded. Regrets re-surfaced.

It was enough that I got up and went on a walk. I didn’t even change out of the blue jeans I had worked in all day (poor decision). I grabbed my headphones and Bible and walked the three miles to Kane’s grave (realizing later, that it was also three miles back). I sat there in front of it, knowing he’s not there, and just wept. Big time. Thankfully, the only witnesses were a few stray birds bouncing around in the woods behind the cemetery.

Grief.

Then, I felt the nudge of God to open the small New Testament I had stuck in my back pocket and knew where I was turning. Not something I had read lately just for familiarity. And not even a favorite that might could use for comfort. Instead, I started at Matthew 27:32, where Jesus is being crucified. And I read all the way through 28:7, when the angel sitting on the stone that was designed to seal his tomb told the women that He was no longer there. I can’t adequately describe the warmth I felt by the time I had finished.

It hadn’t solved my issue or instantaneously eliminated my grief. I still was sad sitting in front of Kane’s headstone. I often picture him where he would be now. How tall he might be. How smart he is. How funny and mischievous. Talking about his 4th grade teacher. Playing soccer or baseball or whatever made him happy. Deciding about what he might want for his 10th birthday coming up in October. Those things make me smile and tear up simultaneously, even typing them in now.

But, God had provided me with what I needed in that moment of grief. As He often does and always desires to do. They are to make a sanctuary for Me so that I may dwell among them. (Exodus 25:8)

He provided me with the reassurance in serving a God that knows what it’s like to lose His son.

He gave me a reminder of the brotherhood bond with Jesus – fully God, yet still fully man – when He cries out in Matthew 27:46, feeling like God has abandoned him.

He reminded me of the celebration on the day that I will see Joshua Kane Scott again on the other side of this life.

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For Jaclyn, the grief hit yesterday. Driving away from our family of five enjoying our annual “Kane’s favorite” meal together. And again, as we prepared to go to bed knowing that the sun had gone down on another Aug. 25th.

And while yesterday was another reminder of the searing impression left by that date on our lives it was coupled with the realization that it is just another day on the calendar to everyone else. Together, they give us the opportunity to lean into the safe place that is the Lord’s presence.

God is our refuge and strength, a helper who is always found in times of trouble.
-Psalm 46:1

So, keep it weird, grief – you’re in charge.

For now.