Battling Realities

There’s no way around it. September 28th will always come. Every year.

I sense its arrival building, lurking around some dark corner when September hits. Threatening to pounce all month. The sweet memories of Mason’s birthday early in the month have this constant tinge of sadness. Of emptiness. The missing birthday boy is just a reminder that the fateful day is coming.

Every September 28, I watch the sunrise. And suddenly I’m in that hospital room again. Where the sun rose over Los Angeles seven years ago while that team fought and fought to save my son. I’m in the ambulance again, watching cars pull over so we can rush through. All over again, I’m walking into the ER with a little boy who I figured just had the stomach flu.

Every September 28th I remember what it felt like to hold him that last time. I remember what it sounded like when that door to my innocent happy life slammed shut and I was forced to step into the reality of living with a loss too great to reconcile.

Every September 28th that familiar nauseating pit in my stomach returns, the one that lingered for weeks, the one that made me question whether or not I’d ever feel normal again. And while that queasy empty feeling did finally leave my stomach, it never fully left my heart.

Honestly, it doesn’t feel like seven years have passed. It feels like he was just here. Like I was just in that hospital room watching his heart beat for the last time. The pain and shock are still fresh and raw and September 28th doesn’t just scratch at an old scar but sinks its teeth into a still gaping wound. 

I’m still living a life I never signed up for. Still living this story I would never write on my own.

When your child dies, there isn’t some secret hallway where you get to exit the hospital. No private elevator where you can hide in the depths of your pain. No pathway to some magical place where you learn how to navigate this new nightmare. You still have to pass people getting their morning coffee, chatting on their cell phone, continuing on in their mundane world. You still have to search for your car in the parking garage and pay the attendant for those horrible hours you never wanted to be there for in the first place.

When I stepped out of that hospital room seven years ago, I stepped right into a world that doesn’t have Mason in it. I rode the elevator with people who still got to go on living the lives they expected to live when they woke up that morning and walked through brightly colored hallways meant to keep a rather depressing place as cheery as possible. 

I stepped out of that hospital room to a new reality. Where things don’t quite add up and nothing feels complete anymore. 

The truth is, when September 28th barges in, there are two realities I face. 

The first one is my reality. It presses down on my heart. It’s the reality I live with every day. The loss of my son on this earth will always suffocate me with pain. I want him here and that will never change.

But the other reality is Mason’s reality. When I left that hospital broken, he left that hospital complete and healed and entered the presence of God. His eternity began.

His is the constant and sure reality. The one that lasts beyond the end of time. It’s the solid truth that remains the same no matter how dark my reality becomes. These last seven years have taught me the discipline of knowing and meditating on this reality. On what is true. Taking thoughts captive and not getting pulled aside by what is painful, yet fleeting.

That first reality is a lot of swirling emotions. Feelings that, while valid, aren’t reliable. And when I step through my reality, I am reminded that it’s a vapor. This reality won’t last forever. Like a thick fog on a dark day, it obstructs my view and leaves me disoriented. And even though this suffocating fog may swirl around my feet and seem to block my steps, it doesn’t alter the secure foundation beneath my feet. 

And that’s the beauty of that second reality. The foundation is solid. The truth is secure. 

The true reality is that Mason is in heaven. When I had to walk out of that hospital without him, my little boy was grasping how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ in ways that greatly exceeded any expectations I ever had when I prayed this for my kids.

Death is defeated. The hope of eternity is waiting. The freshness of this truth is something I breathe in when the pain is suffocating.  

While September 28th continues to visit me, these two realities will continue to battle. And if the reality of hope is made more vivid by the reality of pain, then I will welcome this dreaded day with an open heart. 

And I will worship the Lord there.