I’ve been walking around all day with a lump in my throat that’ll undoubtedly burst at the first “how are you?”
Our first son was born and died in October. Tomorrow (today, by the time I post this on the blog) is his 10th birthday.
There’s something about this double digit milestone, a decade, that feels unbelievable. Meaning, I actually cannot believe this much time has passed, and even more, I cannot believe I have continued to find my way in the world.
There is so much to say. So much I could fill a book.
So I did. I wrote a book.
This book has been pursuing me patiently and quietly, mostly standing at a distance “pssst”-ing me every once in awhile. It was pretty easy to shrug off, what with a business to run, and a family, and a ministry, and saving a marriage, and then having a new baby. It listened to my excuses and respectfully retreated a few paces, leaving me to my life and all the pursuits that captivate my attention.
Within the past six months, however, it crept closer and closer until it finally wrapped its arms around me and whispered in my ear, “it’s time.”
So I soaked in the summer sunshine in a beautiful resort pool on my birthday and cried into my cocktail. I had run out of excuses. And truthfully, I had run out of steam.
It is exhausting to keep running away from something you know you are supposed to be doing. Whether it’s God, or a ministry, or mending a relationship, at some point you will collapse from the sheer weariness of stubborn disobedience and surrender to its persistent voice.
This book is a ten-year reflection of grief, love, faith, and every real and raw step of the path my life has taken since the birth and death of our son. I did not hold anything back. Once I started writing, it tumbled out head over heels. It felt easy and impossible to write all at the same time. It stretched me to articulate some thoughts that until now have lived in my body as wordless feelings – actual physical feelings – that twinge my sides and hurt my throat and sting my eyes. I had to give them words, which gave them life, and that was scary. Once they’re real you have to reckon with them.
I wrote the book I wish I had when LJ died - the voice I needed in the darkest abysses of grief. I needed to know what to expect, how to get through it, and how to begin to really live again.
Through the past 10 years, I have learned what to expect because we experienced it all in real life. I have learned how to get through it because we did, bruised but breathing. And I have learned how to live again because, by the grace of God and the love of our amazing village, I just put one clumsy foot in front of the other until that stumble turned into a walk. Eventually the walk became familiar enough that I could lift my eyes and see the incredible world around me again.
I can’t wait to share the whole book and its story with you. It releases December 1 everywhere you like to buy books and I promise you’ll be the first to know the updates, announcements, and special surprises in store as we send this little book into the world.
In the meantime, please say a little prayer today for LJ, and wish him a happy birthday. Can you imagine the celebration lavished upon us in heaven? Down here today, we’re taking the kids for cupcakes in Grace Garden, and then meeting as a family simply to be together after all the kids’ nighttime ball games. I’m surprising them with a bound copy of the manuscript each. They have absolutely no idea I wrote the book, and I can’t wait to give them this gift. I didn’t tell anyone, actually, for some very intentional reasons, but that’s a different story for a different day.
I’ve found healing through writing, that’s not news to anyone here. But this stuff is still so hard sometimes. I feel sad, and angry, and cheated, that our 10th birthday party is missing the guest of honor. I can be faithful and hopeful and trusting and gratefully honor God with my life and still want to stomp my foot and cry “foul.”
Grief never really gets easier. It just gets different. Thanks for loving me, supporting our family, and choosing to lean into the hard stuff. It doesn’t feel quite so lonely when we face it together.