Twenty-three years ago today was the best day of my life. On July 28, 1988, I gave my life to Christ. I didn't know what all that meant. What all it entailed. Still don't. But I knew then as I know now that I loved Him. That He was my SAVIOR. That He died on a cross in order to pay for my sin. The sin that separated me from Him. He provided the way for me to live eternally with Him. That it was by His grace and His grace alone. And I knew that I wanted to serve Him and to trust Him for my future.
Twenty years ago today was the worst day of my life. It's a day that I will never forget.
This is what it means to be held.
This is what it means to be a child of the King. It means that He goes before you. When you have no idea what the future holds, He gives you all you need before you even know what to ask for. Because of Him, I had all I needed on this day twenty-three years ago to handle what would occur exactly three years later. I have always loved knowing that. Always felt so secure knowing that nothing happens by accident. Knowing that the date of my salvation would also be the date I would need Him the most.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life...
Twenty years ago and yet I can still so vividly remember my brother telling me to spend a little extra time with Mom... that the end was near. I remember being in my room playing Nintendo when he came in and said she was gone. I remember the fog as I went into the living room. The paramedics. My brother's voice crying out for them to at least cover her face as they moved her from the hospital bed in our living room onto the stretcher. I remember my dad. I remember the tears. The instant grief. The loneliness. The fear. Even knowing it was coming, it still felt as though she had been torn from us.
And you survive.
I once read that you never really become an adult until your mom dies. The sentiment being that until she does you will always have someone who wants to "baby" you... who wants to take care of you and who sits up worrying about you.
Twenty years ago, I became an adult... which means I've been an adult far too long. It means that I know how to survive, but it also means that there is no way that I could have without Him.
This is what it is to be loved.
He is my sustainer when I'm on empty. He counts my tears when I am blinded by them. He grieves with me when I keep everything inside hidden from the outside world. He handles my bitterness, anger, loneliness, and despair when no one else can or wants to. He remembers the special anniversaries and dates. He knows the songs and random things that take me immediately back to her. He remembers when I forget. Yes, this is what it is to be loved.
And to know that the promise was when everything fell...
He knows how different life would be with her here. He knows how I struggle to make her real to my children. They will never know her hugs or tickles, never know the taste of her Chex Mix, cheesecake, or koolaid, never see her perfect left-handed writing in their birthday cards, or hear her voice on the other end of the telephone. They will never hear her read them stories, feel her push them in a swing, have her kiss their boo-boos or say a prayer over them. He KNOWS how difficult it is to watch them and wonder what I was like at "that" age. He knows how much I struggle with insecurity in my parenting skills because I don't remember what it's like to actually have a mom or what this job is actually supposed to look like. He knows how envious I am of those who have moms they are close to.
He knows the bitter line I walk when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and think "Hmm... I look like someone today... who is it? Oh, yeah... I look like exactly like her today." or when I catch Finley smiling just like her or when Finley grabs my necklace and says "Mommy's special necklace... Grandma Pam"... the bitter line between collapsing on the floor with grief and the happiness that comes with knowing that her legacy lives on. The bitter line of praising Him for giving me these reminders of her and wanting to curse Him for it all at the same time.
We'd be held.
To be held. That's where I am. I am held by Him because I am too weak to hold on to Him. For twenty years, He has held me. Firmly in His hand. Never letting go. He has carried me because I haven't been able to carry myself. I never expected for it to hurt this much twenty years later, but grief has no timetable. It comes and goes and has the power to crush me at a moment's notice.
This is what it means to be His. It means not having to live this grief out alone. See the promise wasn't that this life would be easy. We aren't saved to be spared heartache. We don't get to bypass sorrow simply because we devote ourselves to the Suffering Servant. Being saved means knowing that everything (EVERYTHING) works together for the good of those who love Him (Romans 8:28).
He did not desire this pain for me, but how grateful I am that He can turn it into good.
How grateful I am to be held.
I miss you, Mom.
