2

2 years.

Has it really been two years since I held him?  Two years since we said hello and goodbye?  Two years that a piece of my heart has been in heaven?

If he were here, he would be walking, talking, probably throwing tantrums.  He would be wearing 2T clothes.  He would drive his big sister crazy.

In the last year, the sharpness of my grief has worn off.  It doesn’t overwhelm and engulf me.  Now it’s just a dull throb that stays with me some days.  Other times I don’t even think about it and then some circumstance slaps me across the face with a quick, harsh sting.  And it's always little things.

Like seeing all the little boys at church who are turning 2.  There were several of them born within a couple of months of each other that year, and Arthur was right in the middle.

Like my husband saying he’d like to have family pictures taken this year.  And me hesitating because I realized we’ll never have a complete family picture again.

Like introducing myself in my Bible study group and getting an adrenaline rush just to deal with the “how many kids do you have?” question.

Like when my 3-year-old asks if she is going to die.  Or if her baby sister is going to die.

Like seeing two little girls about 5 and 2 playing together in the line at the grocery store while their mother watched smilingly.  And wistfully thinking “I wish that could be me.” And then realizing that I’m assuming it won’t be.  Even though there are a 3-year-old girl and a 10 month-old girl at my house.

Like every single time we sing songs about heaven in church.  My husband and I wryly joke that we need trigger warnings for our worship music.

The refreshing crisp of fall has always been my favorite part of the year.  But now when I feel the cool air and the warm sun at the same time, visceral memories wash over me.  Of sitting in a wheelchair outside of the hospital, holding a plaster cast of my son's handprints and footprints, waiting for my husband to pull up in our car.  Of standing next to a tiny little coffin a few days later.  While this hurts, it is also gives me joy.  My memories of Arthur and the high and low points after his birth and death are still strong.  The long lonely winter that faded into unexpected morning sickness makes those next few months seem like a blur in my mind’s eye, but October 2014 is crystalline.  

For years, I have half-joked that those first cool days of fall are my favorite reminder that God always keeps His promises, because after the flood, He promised that the seasons would never cease as long as the earth endures.  So I’ll let the refreshing air remind me of my pain, because at the same time, it reminds me that this won’t be forever.  God is faithful, and one day He will put this world to rights.

I’ve been memorizing Romans 8 for the last 18 months (memorizing goes much more slowly now than it did when I was young).  The verses I am working on right now, nestled in between two much more “famous” sections of the chapter, say this perfectly.

For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory that is to be revealed to us. ¹⁹ For the anxious longing of the creation waits eagerly for the revealing of the sons of God. ²⁰ For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of Him who subjected it, in hope ²¹ that the creation itself also will be set free from its slavery to corruption into the freedom of the glory of the children of God. ²² For we know that the whole creation groans and suffers the pains of childbirth together until now. ²³ And not only this, but also we ourselves, having the first fruits of the Spirit, even we ourselves groan within ourselves, waiting eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our body. ²⁴ For in hope we have been saved, but hope that is seen is not hope; for who hopes for what he already sees? ²⁵ But if we hope for what we do not see, with perseverance we wait eagerly for it.