Reflecting on Five Years

This time five years ago I was blissfully unaware that anything was wrong with the son I was carrying.  My biggest issue was dealing with people finding out my firstborn son was only 10 months old at the time, and warning me about how I would most certainly have my "hands full."  Then on April 29th, we received Gabe's fatal diagnosis.  And four months later, I was burying my son.  My arms never felt so empty...

Over the past five years, there have been both moments of intense sorrow, and hopeful joy.  I have missed my son so much that my heart physically ached, but (almost daily) I look at the children God has given me to treasure here on earth, and I become overwhelmed with tearful gratitude.  Since losing Gabe, I've been immensely blessed to have two more children - daughters, both so different in spirit, but the same in beauty.

Over the years, I've learned that his loss has allowed me the opportunity to minister to others who are hurting. And I've been amazed at how the Holy Spirit will literally give me the comforting words and beautiful phrases to share with other grieving mommas.  Words that pour out of me faster than I can think them.  I've been given the unique opportunity to walk alongside of people as they walk through their own loss.  I've described the sharpness of the pain and how it will become more dull over time.  Assured them they will never "get over it," but they will learn to move on.  Reminded them that our God is good, that joy will surely come in the morning, and prayed that God would give them a "peace that surpasses all understanding."

And for the most part, I have found that peace.  Over time, you begin having more good days than bad.  You go though every stage of grief and you find acceptance.

But then something triggers your grief, and because it's so unexpected it feels like a punch in the gut.  It's happened a few times recently.  First, just because it's April and I know that's when we got his diagnosis.  Then recently I was casually scrolling through Facebook (ugh, the love/hate relationship continues) and I happened to see children Gabe's exact age attending their kindergarten registration.  It broke my heart.  I had to take my own advice and just feel the feelings and cry the tears and let it all out.

Then a few weeks ago I was searching Pinterest for family portrait ideas and came across this photo:

via Indulgy.com

I stared at it for awhile, unable to continue scrolling.  Something about it was pulling me in.  Although I didn't think it was a realistic pose for my family and the photo shoot we had coming up, something about it reminded me of my family.  Then I started counting kids - two girls, two boys.  But, that one boy is above them all, with them, but not really.  And I just lost it.  It was my heartache personified.  Right in front of me.

So, while I can blog about how well I'm doing (how I'm finally past feeling like I need to explain to everyone that I have a son in Heaven) all the while using the right words and emotionally healthy phrases - sometimes my grief still kicks me in the ass.  And I know it always will, because even though I feel like our family is complete with the number of children we have, there is definitely someone missing.  Someone who could not be replaced.  A little boy who should be enrolling in kindergarten.  A brother for my son to wrestle with, another brother to protect the girls.  Another sweet face and another amazing personality to interact with on a daily basis.

I am the mother whose son is missing.  He is very much a part of me, and a part of my family, and will never (and could never) be forgotten. This fact isn't going away anytime soon.  Not in another five years, or fifty.  I look so forward to seeing him again in Heaven and am forever thankful that I will have eternity to catch up on lost time.