I’m just not ready to let her go.
Today is the 12th anniversary of Emma Grace’s death. I want to be brave. I do. I want to put on that brave face and say, “I got this.” I want to tell you that I can hold it together on the hardest day of my life. I really, really do, but I would be lying to you if I said that the pain of my daughter’s death is over. There are parts of my story that the Lord still needs to heal. I know this because I still am triggered by those wounds.
I would be lying to all of you and not speaking the truth of how horrible death really is. It really is. There are just some things that I am not ready to do.
I am not ready to stop loving her.
I am not ready to stop missing her.
I am not ready to stop talking about her.
I am not ready to stop being a mother to her, on earth and in heaven.
I really would love nothing more than not to know this pain, but I do. I can’t stop crying at times because I am her mother. I am so familiar with loss that sometimes I don’t even realize how much it has become a part of my life, but when the dates roll around, I realize just how heavy that Cross is. I didn’t ask for this Cross, indeed not. No one goes to the Lord and willing searches for suffering, but this is the Cross that the Lord has asked our family to carry. It sucks. Really bad. I’ve tried to give it back to the Lord, but like St. Paul, the thorn remains in my side, and I truly realize how human I am to respond to the anniversary of my daughter’s death appropriately, with tears.
It has been 12 years since Emma Grace has gone to meet the Lord. I am fully aware that she is in heaven, and logically I should be so happy, and I am. It does bring me great joy as her mother to know I have three little saints in heaven. I wanted nothing more for her than to spend eternity with the Lord at some point in her life, but at 3, I just wasn’t ready. The reality of having a saint in heaven looks like this. |————->
I am sad for myself. I am sad for me because I have to live on earth without her in the wake that death exists in our world. JPII says that this is the culture of death. If we stop and take a look around, he is so right. But not in the intelligence of knowing more about death but a lack of the value of life. Death is no cakewalk. Death is not pull up your bootstraps and continue on. That sounds like an excellent idea when walking in ankle-deep stormy water, but most people struggle deeply with grief, even those who know the Lord.
The part of child loss that is the hardest is living every day without your precious child. If I’m frank with myself and with you, the reality of death is that it stings. It’s like putting your hand over your heart and gasping for dear life because it shocks you. But praise God, it doesn’t have the last word.
Anniversaries and birthdays come, and they go, just like the pain that tags along. We move forward like a constant drumbeat, soft and steady, always in the background like music that we do not want to acknowledge. The pain fills those moments with an emptiness that it feels like nothing can repair because nothing can bring the loved one back. Death, oh Death, where is your sting. As St. Paul proclaims to us so forcefully in 1 Corinthians, “O death where is your power? Death, where is your sting?” Jesus Christ is the only hope to be freed from death.
We try to move forward in our best attempts until the next wave comes crashing in on us, and for some of us, we waver and bow to the enemy who created death instead of rising up to lament to the Lord for grace, grace for that moment. He is pouring into you; have you stopped to notice. Crying out to the Lord for help has allowed me to remain honest with myself and in dialogue with God. I am not ashamed to say that I cried today off and on. I am honest with myself and with all of you. These days are not easy, and I do not claim to try and sell you the feel-goods. Faith is not about feelings. If so, I would have checked back out a long time ago. Crying is a part of healing, and so is the honesty with yourself and with God.
I have found an abundance of healing in my life from the Lord. He has healed my heart in more ways than I ever thought possible. I am genuinely grateful in so many ways. He has given me the grace of forgiveness to both myself and those who don’t understand the pain of child loss. That last one was hard because I wanted nothing more than for people to understand what I was going through truly. The reality is that their child would have had to die to understand the blueprint of what now was my heart and I do not wish that on anyone.
Faithfully God has allowed me to move forward in my grief unconscious of His help because I struggled with pride for so long and never would admit that I needed help. This healing was supernatural and beyond my ability. What makes my healing a true miracle is because I finally allowed the Lord into my sacred altar, you know, the one He created. I finally let him into the house He designed and built. I tried to do it alone and without God, but I was miserable. As a designer desperately trying to create without any inspiration, I slowly learned that it doesn’t work.
The one thing that was lying on my heart today to share with all of you struggling like me. I honestly believe people who say “let go” have nothing better to advise you with. I won’t say that to you because I don’t believe it. I believe we shouldn’t let go. Instead, we should let God. Let God take care of it. I can’t let go of this pain, I’ve tried, but I can let God into that space. I can’t let go of the tears, but I can worship while I mourn. I can’t let go of talking about my child’s death, but I can praise God for the miracle of healing. I can’t pretend that this cross is light or that I got it because clearly, I don’t. Instead, I offer everything back to God and ask for Him to take care of it.
Because if it’s up to me, I would still be navel-gazing and thinking I can do this by myself. Letting go still requires me to do something that I am not capable of.
The first reading today shares about the ministry of St. Paul. I love the second part where Paul talks about his ignorance in his unbelief and how the grace of the Lord has been abundant. The Lord in His mercy and love of us already knows how ill-equipped we are, and yet he provides grace, mercy, and peace to his child. Even if we treated the Lord miserably. Even though we blasphemed the Lord in our inability to accept our Cross, he comes with mercy. The Lord has us in the palm of His hand every day, even on the hardest days. All it takes for us to receive the grace He has in store is humility, allowing our hearts to be open to the grace that He has for us. Crack the door and let the Lord take care of you.
Reading I
Paul, an Apostle of Christ Jesus by command of God our savior
and of Christ Jesus our hope,
to Timothy, my true child in faith:
grace, mercy, and peace from God the Father
and Christ Jesus our Lord.
I am grateful to him who has strengthened me, Christ Jesus our Lord,
because he considered me trustworthy
in appointing me to the ministry.
I was once a blasphemer and a persecutor and an arrogant man,
but I have been mercifully treated
because I acted out of ignorance in my unbelief.
Indeed, the grace of our Lord has been abundant,
along with the faith and love that are in Christ Jesus.
