The Missing Place...and Another Place You Won't Often Find Me...

I woke up a few hours ago, suddenly overcome with the heaviness of grief. Overcome with the "missing", as I often refer to it in real life. You see, I am not in the fresh throws of grief over the losses in my life, like so many are (so many that are on my heart daily). I have written about the beauty that comes from the ashes of our sorrow...the sufficient grace we are blessed with daily. Of the hope we have in Jesus. And, the truth is that we do have hope...and that when He makes the beauty in our lives the ugliness of the ashes for the most part fades away. When He does a new thing, He does a new thing...the old passes away. I cried many tears, oceans of tears in the thick of my grief, but God has restored my joy. Completely, abundantly restored my joy. I say that so that you will have hope. The same God who carried me through the storms of grief will carry you too, if you cry out to Him. And He will restore your joy, as well.

In saying that, I hope what I am about to say does not take away from the steadfast truth that our joy is restored. There is still something that we will always carry, until we are in Heaven's glory. Something that will not be fully restored until that sweet day of redemption. There is a place that most of the time is masked as I walk through my days. I call it the place of "missing". Something can sweep past me and unmask the covering over that tender spot in my heart...the spot of missing. And the ache will wash over me anew...the ache of missing the one who is lost. The spot is tender and raw and the ache is deep. It could be a memory that suddenly appears. It could be the sorrow of seeing someone else walking in the valley of shadow of death. It could be the changing of seasons as the winds blow in, reminding us of the passing of time, and days gone by.

Although I spend a lot of time with those who grieve...praying for them...walking with them...seeking ways to support them...remembering my own days of great sorrow so that I can have compassion and understanding...I do not consider myself one to wallow in my grief. Those who know me probably wouldn't describe me as melancholy or a woman of sorrows. Probably, a better description (one I like better, anyway) is my friend Dinah's mother, Ruth who always referred to me as the "girl who laughs".
But there are days...moments when the "missing" comes, and it will...as long as I walk this Earth.

Mother's Day is this weekend, and the "missing" is so strong this morning...the missing of the generations surrounding me. I am so grateful for the gift of being a mother. So thankful to see my boys live life with such zeal...the kind of zeal that only boys can display! So grateful that that I am called "mom". I'm also thankful for the short time I was allowed to mother Faith and Grace...for the tender moments I carried them within me and learned their personalities...for the gift of briefly holding them in my arms...and that I was allowed to see them wearing pink lace and ribbons, if only for their funeral. I'm so grateful for the time I was given with sweet Thomas...for all the lessons his life taught us about faith, and believing without seeing...for the moments I held him in my arms...for the moment he opened his eyes and looked up at his mama...for the immense privilege of singing to him as he went straight from my arms to the arms of Jesus. I'm thankful that I have been allowed to tell their story, and that others have been comforted through our ministry because of their brief lives...lives that hold precious value. And I am thankful that I am my mother's daughter...that God redeemed the years the moth had eaten and restored the broken places in our relationship before she passed. Thankful that He showed her His great love for her and that she received it. I am thankful that she no longer feels the physical pain that wreaked havoc on her body the last ten years of her life. Thankful that her arms no longer ache for her grand babies, and her heart no longer aches to be loved perfectly. I'm thankful for her grace and beauty and all the gifts she gave me in this life.

I am thankful...but aching...and missing...missing them.

After Mother's Day, comes Memorial Day. And, with a Marine as my step dad and also a Marine brother-in-law, Memorial Day is not something that means just a day off school (although we are always happy to have a day off school!). Attending the Memorial Day Parade and Ceremony is not negotiable. And we have come to love it...to cherish it...to instill in our children the importance of honoring and remembering those who have sacrificed their lives for our freedom...to honor the memory of those who have gone before us. I expect my boys to wave their flag with pride and put their hand over their hearts when the flag passes by and keep it there until every last veteran parades past.

Why am I talking about Memorial Day in the middle of my post about the "missing place"? Well, because it's also a day where all the cemetery plots are decorated nicely because many will be visiting on that day to pay their respects. The cemetery is on my mind this morning. I've had a little tugging on my heart to take out some flowers and to check on the graves of my babies and my mother. I don't want them to look sloppy when everyone else's look cared for and loved. (Although my step dad religiously visits my mother's grave and cares for it...as do others in our family.)The thing is...I am not a very good grave caretaker or visitor of graves...at all. Sometimes years have passed without me visiting. I know this is a tender subject. I see so many of you visiting and caring for the graves of your children. I know that in a way, it is an act of mothering for many. And that some find great peace and comfort in such a beautiful serene place. And, I can understand that and there is
beauty in it...in that act of love. In the early days of my grief when my arms ached so desperately to hold my babies, I did visit more...needing to perform some act of mothering...even if it just meant putting flowers on a grave. I hope you won't judge me for struggling with it, myself.

Many feel close to their child or loved one at the cemetery. I do not. I do not wish to remember that day of raw grief. I do not wish to think of them there. The ache is smothering for me in that place. And the finality that I don't believe to be true. It just doesn't bring me comfort. And sometimes, I feel guilty that I don't visit. I have even tried a couple times. And, I will say, it is easier for me to visit the grave of my children than my mother's. I will pull in sometimes and start to walk toward it...and then back away. I just cannot. I take comfort from thinking of them alive and in heaven with Jesus...where I know that they are. And, I know those of you who visit the grave...many of you take comfort in heaven's promise as well. But for me, I do not even wish to look upon the grave.

This year, I am going though. I may not stay. I may quickly put the stakes of my floral arrangement in the ground and back away from the smothering ache. But, I will go. And I will leave pretty flowers in a place that seems dull and gray to me. A picture of beauty from ashes. And when I leave and the ache comes like it has come this morning, I will take some time to weep in my Father's lap...for the daughters and son my arms still ache for and for the mother's voice I long to hear. He will wipe my tears and remind me that I will hold them again and I will hear her voice. And...when that sweet, sweet day comes it will take away, forever, the ache of the missing place. And, I'll never have to visit the grave of someone I love...ever again.