This past Easter was a challenge for me. My husband had to work, my daughter and her family were visiting relatives out of state, and my local family all had plans. So I was going to church alone.
I still struggle with Easter because in 2012 it fell just days after Tyler died. So now I have a love-hate relationship with it. I’ll get to the love part in a bit. The “hate” part is typical grief stuff.
It’s another holiday that’s a stark reminder of Tyler’s absence and how memories of that particular holiday will forever be only that; we can never celebrate together again, can never make new memories with him.
Now for the “love” part.
Actually, let me first provide some background. When Tyler died, I was consumed with reading books on Heaven. My child was there; I had to know more. Being separated from Tyler, having him somewhere I couldn’t be and knowing he’d never, ever return to me: it tore at this mother’s heart.
He’d been away from me many times before – camp, missions trips, youth events – ranging from out of state to out of the country. But Heaven was his final trip away from me, with no expectation of a call, letter or Facebook post. No expectation of that big, enveloping hug when he came home.
Initially, because Tyler had suffered so intensely in his last weeks, I was joyous that Heaven marked the end of his suffering. The lyrics to Chris Rice’s Untitled Hymn painted an image that made my heart soar.
And with your final heartbeat,
Kiss the world goodbye
Then go in peace, and laugh on Glory’s side, and
Fly to Jesus, fly to Jesus, fly to Jesus, and live!
I had witnessed Tyler’s final heartbeat on his bedside monitor, so the notion of him being released at that moment in time to laugh on Glory’s shore… well, it was beautiful.
But as time passed, I struggled more and more with Heaven. I simultaneously found myself rejoicing for him being there and being resentful of the place. Yes, I’ll admit it. I was resentful. Heaven had my son, and I didn’t. Simple. But not so simple, because resenting Heaven provoked layers of knotty emotions, guilt being at the forefront.
Many folks, in an attempt at comfort, would mention how Tyler was now in a better place, that I should be happy for him. They could never guess at the complexities of emotions I was experiencing, that it was exactly the wrong thing to say. He was there and I was here, desperately wanting to connect with him yet unable to do so. Was this supposed to make me happy?
This past Easter, I had now struggled with Heaven for thirty-six months.
One of the books I had read shortly after Tyler’s death was 90 Minutes in Heaven, written by a pastor who was clinically dead for an hour and a half after a fatal car crash. My favorite part of his account of Heaven was his attempt to describe the music there. Music was essential to Tyler and is still essential to me. Here’s what the author had to say:
Sounds filled my mind and heart … the single, most vivid memory I have of my entire heavenly experience. I call it music, but it differed from anything I had ever heard on earth. Hundreds of songs were being sung at the same time. I heard them from every direction … I could clearly distinguish each song … I marveled at the glorious music. Even now, back on earth, sometimes I still hear faint echoes of that music [pp. 27, 28].
So this past Easter Sunday, I stood in our church’s gymnasium. My heart felt pinched, my lungs felt restricted by the tightness in my chest, my eyes felt gritty as I willed away the tears. There would be songs about Heaven today, songs that would hurt.
We sang. I was surrounded by hundreds who were also lifting their voices to Heaven. And then, across the big screens, these words:
Amen, Amen!
I’m alive, I’m alive, because He lives
Amen, Amen!
Let my song join the one that never ends,
Because He lives
Let my song join the one that never ends!
My pinched heart swelled, my restricted lungs took a deep, easy breath, and my gritty eyes were soothed by healing tears. This was joy! Unadulterated joy that because of Easter, my song of praise joined the very song my son was singing at that very moment in Heaven. We were connected.
Because of one powerful phrase tucked away in an earthly song of praise, thirty-six months of resentment that had complicated any joy I felt on Tyler’s behalf melted away.
I am still here, and he is still there.
But I can join with Tyler in Heaven simply by singing praises to my God. My God, with whom Tyler lives. My God, who loves us so much He made a way for us to live with Him forever. My God, who revealed to me that I am indeed connected to my son until the day I stand next to Tyler, singing praises to our Creator, side by side.
If you’d like to listen to the song whose message healed my struggle with Heaven, click here.