Today was my son’s 44th birthday. In all those years we never missed a chance to gather around the table, to eat favorite foods and to celebrate the gift of another year together. But this year was different, because he’s gone, forever. No new memories. No new adventures. His voice has been stilled. His laughter has been silenced. All we have left are memories.
I miss him terribly. A part of me hasn’t accepted the fact that he’s gone. I even thought I saw him walking down the street a few days back, but I knew it wasn’t really him. I wanted it to be him. I wanted it to all be some sort of terrible dream.
It’s difficult to accept the reality that he’s dead, that we have buried his remains beneath the ground and I will never again hug him or tell him how much I love him. The heart refuses to accept what the mind cannot deny. I thought his birthdays would go on and on and on.
I know he is now in the care of his heavenly father. In truth, he always has been. I won’t let myself give in to despair. I’ll cry tears, I’ll ache, I’ll lament, but I’ll keep walking (trudging) through life day by day looking for God’s goodness, his presence, because I know he has given me yet a few more years to enjoy the gift of life and the love of his people.
I keep walking, sometimes shuffling, but I won’t let sorrow turn me away from Jesus, the author of life, the giver of grace, the man of sorrows who has become a wellspring of hope. I miss my son. I’m sad today. I’m sad because the gift God gave me in that child, that young man, was so wonderful, so life-changing, and I just wasn’t ready to let him go.
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