A Light for My Path

I’ve been thinking a lot, as most of us have been, about the people lost in the flood in Texas. Especially the young girls who were at the camp when the river level rose so quickly and swept children away. As a mother who has lost a child, I know the pain, abject grief, and disbelief those parents are feeling. What I can’t imagine is the cyclone of fear and hope that must be swirling through the minds of parents who have yet to know their child’s fate.

I do know that every parent who has lost a child wonders how she (or he) will be able to continue living her life without her child in this world. When I got the news that Rachel had died in a car accident, I couldn’t comprehend the finality that her death meant. She was only 30 years old. She was a newlywed. She had goals and ambition and plans. It was inconceivable that my life was still going on and hers was over.

I don’t mean that I was suicidal. I wouldn’t have wanted my family to have additional grief. It’s just that the understanding and vision I had for however long I have remaining to live always assumed that both of my children would always be in it. Parents don’t outlive their children. It’s not supposed to be that way.

A few months ago, I wrote a blog post titled “New Normal.” In the eight years since Rachel died, I’ve adapted to the fact that she isn’t in this world any longer. I don’t like it. I still miss her. But I’ve adapted. At first it was almost impossible to think about each year being that much farther away from the time I last saw her, spoke to her, hugged her. What if I live to be old enough that I’ve had more years on Earth without her than with her? I don’t want to die, but how do I cope with more and more time passing that she’s missed?

Two thoughts comfort me in this conundrum. One – every day is actually one day closer to seeing her again, not farther away. And two – however long that time is, once I get to Heaven time will be meaningless. Eternity will erase every second of that missing. Eternity stretches forwards and backwards. We will have no concept of past time or future time. All time will be “now.”

I don’t really know how it works. Our earthly, finite minds can’t comprehend eternity. I also don’t know in what manner we will know each other in Heaven. I have faith and trust that whatever it will be, will be more perfect than I can imagine.

I wish I could give every single one of those Texas parents this reassurance. But they’re not ready for it. They are walking wounded. Not even scarred yet. Raw. Bleeding. Numb one minute and bent over screaming in pain the next. I vividly remember, even after eight years.

I also remember wondering how other people were walking around like everything was normal. Even people I knew who had lost children. They were having coherent conversations. They remembered what they had for breakfast and to take a shower. They even laughed without feeling guilty. How was that possible?

Honestly, it wasn’t at first. Maybe not even for a couple of years. It happens gradually. And you backslide. But eventually you do experience joy. You look forward to a new season, a new year. And yes, you also still look forward to the day when you will see your child again in Heaven.

But you’re willing to live while you wait. Knowing it will be worth it.

---

Laura

Note: as of publication of this post, the bodies of the remaining missing children have been recovered.