The other night, I drove to the cemetery, intending just to stay in my car and look at Tyler’s bench as I sometimes do. But the March night was already pitch black, and I couldn’t even make out the outline of his memorial. So I walked over and sat down, grateful that I couldn’t see the grime or bird droppings I knew must be there. I’d never been there after dark before. The wind whipped through my hair and I let the tears fall.
I had just left a women’s bible study at my church. When I signed up for this particular group, I knew its 9-week schedule would mirror the nine weeks we’d walked five years prior, along Tyler’s final journey to death. The first session fell on the same night we’d waited for his donor bone marrow cells to arrive from Europe; the last session would fall the week before he died. I had looked forward to the idea of the weekly study, thinking it could perhaps be a welcome distraction during what are the most painful weeks of the year for me.
The study was great, the fellowship an added bonus. We were studying the Old Testament story of Gideon. Much of Gideon’s story resonated with me.
But that particular night, I left overwhelmed. That week’s reading had been about God’s patience as we tend to focus on fears, prefer our comfort zones, and squelch the gifts God gave us to use.
I need to back up a bit to explain why this topic, and God’s patience, would hit a chord deep within me. When I lost Tyler five years ago, that loss extended to my purpose and my ministry. My ministry was raising my son. I’d parented him virtually as an only child since his big sister first left our nest when Tyler was almost five. From the time I’d first discovered I was pregnant, I couldn’t wait to invest in this new little human being. Who would he be? How would he change the world? And from the time I first held him in my arms to the time I last stroked his dying face, my sense of who I am was wrapped in Tyler.
So when Tyler disappeared irrevocably from my world, I didn’t just lose a son. I lost me. Every day that passed was a day closer to being reunited with him. That’s how I marked time – one day closer to being with him again. Because being without him was untenable, incomprehensible, wrong. All I had to do was survive each day for the rest of my life. Wake up, go about the day, fall asleep.
God comforted me in every way. He patiently loved me, understood me, and wrapped me tight in His sustaining arms. God wasn’t rushing me to figure this out. He seemed content to let this mother grieve the joy I’d found in raising my son. He knew, even if I didn’t, that it wouldn’t always be about survival.
I am convinced that no one other than my heavenly Father fully comprehends how Tyler filled my life… my days… my thoughts… for fifteen years and five months. I am convinced of this, because my heavenly Father was the one who gifted me with the connection I had with my son. Raising him, loving him, parenting him, I felt fully centered in God’s will.
I was repeatedly captivated by my little boy. It simply never got old. There were always new discoveries around the corner as he grew and developed. While parenting wasn’t easy, he was easy. I was ever aware that this was rare. How especially blessed was I to be mother to this special son?
I never tired of spending time with him, never tired of talking with him, never tired of learning more about the way his mind worked, the way his heart loved, the way his spirit was deeply connected with the Lord. We rarely had altercations, but when we did, apologies and forgiveness came easily to us.
And in the midst of these layers of delight, God gifted me with one additional joy – Tyler made me laugh. Endlessly. He was as comical as he was profound. Daily we tried to outdo the other with silliness. How I reveled in his laugh.
This son of mine, he was simply enchanting. I knew I had done nothing to deserve him. But I was ever so grateful to be the one entrusted with him.
I was living out my quiet, joyful calling to raise this boy to manhood. So that he in turn could live out his own calling.
But then he was gone.
And with him, died my purpose.
But now nearly five years had passed. God had been ever so patient with this daughter of His, who was so confused about how to invest my time, my energy, my focus, on anything other than parenting my son. Who no longer knew how I was supposed to use my gifts when I could no longer bestow them on this amazing human being.
As the five-year mark of Tyler’s death approached, I joined the Gideon study.
For a few weeks I’d immersed myself in reading about how God loves to use those who are weak, inexperienced, limited. And that He’s patient despite our arguments and justifications that we’re too insignificant to be used. My heart was ready and open, finally, after years in limbo, to consider what gifts God has given me, and how He may want to “repurpose” them after Tyler’s death.
On this particular night, I listened to other women in the group who were mothers with children still at home. They shared a similar sense of purpose to the one I had felt as I parented. Everything spoken resonated deeply within me. And everything spoken stabbed my soul.
Sometimes, the profundity of my loss slams into me when I least expect it, when I’m least prepared. That night was one of those times. I’d started the session eager to share how I felt God was working in my heart. But as I listened to their hearts, full of love and purpose in being moms, the fellowship I’d been enjoying with a wonderful group of women morphed into loneliness and isolation. I was starkly different. In a way I didn’t want to be.
After the study, my restless heart and mind pulled me in the direction of the cemetery rather than home. So I sat on my son’s memorial bench and tilted my face toward night sky. My eyes slowly adjusted to the dark. Thick clouds skipped across the moon, hurried along by the March breeze. I gave my loneliness to God. I’ve become familiar with the way loss of a child naturally separates me from others. The feeling rarely lasts and I don’t choose to wallow in it.
Once my tears dried, I got down to the business of talking to God about us. While the unanticipated sting of isolation had distracted me from sharing my heart with the larger group, the welcome isolation of the deserted graveyard brought comfort, its cloak of darkness enveloping me.
And I shared my heart with Him. I acknowledged the struggle I’d had with knowing my purpose since the day my son ceased to be. I thanked God for His patience with me. I offered Him my fears, my inadequacies, my insistence on staying in my comfort zone. Tears again fell unchecked, this time a release as I surrendered my will to whatever God wanted.
As I wake up this March 29th, five years after I woke up to my final morning with my son, I still don’t know exactly what my purpose will be for whatever days and years I have left. But I’m carrying the promise of my loving Father, the One who gave me the delight of my heart when he gave me Tyler. The One who waited patiently and lovingly for me to take five years to grasp that life after loss isn’t just surviving each day.
A scripture verse from Isaiah 58 has been reverberating in my mind since it was read in church this past Sunday. I felt like it was meant just for me that morning as the anniversary of Tyler’s death drew near. The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail.
Not survival, life. A life with purpose.