Grief...From Pain to Peace

In the past month, I've heard of so many children dying. It started with the school shooting in Conneticut. I know they are in the arms of the heavenly Father and in a far better place than those left behind, but my heart aches for the parents who had to say good-bye to them. I hope they will soon find peace and repost this today to remind myself to pray for them.

 

GRIEF……..FROM PAIN TO PEACE 

            I woke that morning feeling as if there was a huge boulder sitting inside my chest. It was pressing down on my heart and lungs and I felt like I could not breathe. The feeling was familiar. It had been there every morning for months. Actually, it had been there twenty fours hours a day, every day, for months. I remember wondering whether it would ever go away, and wondering too, if I wanted it to. If it went away, would that mean I had forgotten the son I still loved, but had lost?

            On that particular day, the magnitude of my loss seemed to overwhelm me. I was desperate to find some relief from the boulder sitting on my lungs and crushing my heart. Maybe relief would come if I could get my mind focused on something else.

             I looked around my home for something to do that would take my mind off my son. But all I saw were the pictures of him. So many pictures, when you consider he only lived for five years and four months. They all showed him smiling and I remembered his last smile. It was the day before he died. His three sisters were acting silly, and as always, he smiled in adoration at them. That smile brought such joy to those of us who witnessed it. I wonder now, how did he find the energy to still smile after eighteen months of suffering from the symptoms and treatment for his leukemia? No, I would not be distracted from my pain at home, it was a reminder of him, a reminder that he had once lived here, but didn’t anymore.

            Perhaps getting away from my home would help. It had always been the safe refuge in my life, but it felt like the walls were closing in on me. Maybe the cool October breeze and the warm sunshine would make me feel better. I decided to take a walk in the park, perhaps I would find peace there.

            Sitting down on a bench, I closed my eyes. I savored the pungent smell of pine and wild flowers. The quietness and peacefulness of the park was soothing.

            Then the stillness was shattered by the sound of a child’s laughter. Was it my child? My eyes flew open and I saw him. He had blond hair blowing in the wind as he ran. He had his red sweatshirt on. He was running and laughing in the fallen leaves. I smiled at the sight of him. Then I noticed her.

            Laughing, she caught him up into her arms, hugged him and planted a kiss on his chubby cheek. Hand in hand they walked away; a mother and her son. I turned and left the park with no one to hold my hand.

            Minutes, or was it hours later, I found myself at the cemetery. It always felt like some magnetic force drew me there. I don’t know why, I knew he wasn’t there either. But just a few feet from where I stood was where we had left the little body in a blue sailor suit. But I knew he wasn’t there. He was gone forever. That spot and my empty heart were the proof.

            I decided to go back home. When I got there, I went to his room. Everything was still there. His cowboy boots were on the floor next to his bed. All of his play “friends” were sitting on his bed, looking as sad and lonely as I felt.

            I picked up the little terry cloth outfit he had worn that last day. I felt its nubby texture and I could almost feel his warm little body inside of it. I lifted it to my face, pressed it to my cheeks and thought I caught the faint scent of him; then I realized, my whole life, even my senses were wrapped up in my dead son.

             I sat down in the rocking chair beside his bed and remembered again the day before he died. He said, “rockee me, mom.’

            I sat in an empty room with empty arms, an empty heart and an empty life. My son was dead. And the tears came again.

            Then it was a different day, and a different year. He has been gone now for 5 years and 4 months. Gone as long as he lived.

            The only thing that remained of “his room” was the light switch plate that has his name on it. The sister who took over his room wanted to leave it there; a happy reminder to her, that he slept there before she did.

            Most of his clothes and toys were given away, put into a mission box for a little boy who had no clothes or toys. But I kept some of his things in a “treasure chest” deep in the hall closet. Every once in a while, I would pull it from it’s hiding spot, open the lid and  lift out that terry cloth outfit. Even then, I liked to think I could still smell the sweetness of him.

            And now it’s a different decade. My life has been full with so many amazing experiences and people. Our three daughters brought home three guys who are now our sons. They have given us eight amazing grandbabies. One of those grandbabies is a white haired, blue eyed five year old boy this year.

            We still live in the same house and the treasure chest is still in the hall closet. But today the boulder in my chest is gone and my heart is at peace.

             I sit in his room today because it’s the room where I write these words and many others. It’s now the place where I find the greatest peace and solitude. My arms, my heart and my life no longer feel empty. The tears I have shed for him over the years have washed away much of the pain. And when I think of him, I usually smile because I know I was honored to be his mother; even if it was only for a short time.

            And I am at peace today because I know his past twenty eight years have been amazing years.

            If he had been here, he would have gone to school and probably to college like his three sisters did. He might even have met a girl and fallen in love. Perhaps his dad and I would have been blessed with more grandchildren he would have given us.

            But he hasn’t been here with us, and its okay. For the past twenty eight years he’s been with Jesus, someone who loves him even more than his dad and I do.

            I like to think when he first got to heaven, as a five year old, he explored every corner of his new home and learned how use his wings by jumping off clouds.

             And now, he celebrates eternal life around the throne of God. And he waits for the day when he can take my hand, and show me what he’s been doing all these years… while he waited for me to join him.

© 2012 Brenda J. Young