Goodness in Dark Places

September is not my favorite. I see it looming on the calendar and my chest gets tight. It is bookended by Mason’s birthday and Mason’s death. (I don’t know… maybe God was gracious to put these in the same month for me? Just one nauseating month out of 12?)

Anniversaries of death and birthdays without the birthday boy will never get easier. September will always make my heart hurt and eyes burn. The memories of my 6-year-old boy are always fresh. The laughter still rings in my ears. The conversations, the moments, the way he’d growl under his breath when he was asked to do something he didn’t want to do and then would very innocently look at me and say, “Oh I was just practicing to be like a bear” when called on it. His humor. His uniqueness. His sweetness. His spunk. His naughtiness. It’s all there. So tangible I could almost touch it. 

Almost. 

But yet, I can’t. Never again on this earth.

Those first days and weeks and months after Mason died are sometimes a blur that is clouded with so much pain I just want to close my eyes and pretend it isn’t there, seared into my soul. The beginning of existing without a child.

But in other ways, those days have such extreme clarity. So crisp and distinct. The Lord’s presence had never been so real in my life until my circumstances became so desperately awful. 

Mason’s death highlighted the profound goodness of God toward me. 

I always knew it was there. My life has been full of great blessing.

But when life shatters and the ground falls out beneath you, that lifeline becomes a little more powerful. A lot more obvious. 

It’s easy to say God is good when everything is good. It’s quite another to live the goodness of God when life is falling apart. To see his goodness in contrast to the hardship. God as the antidote, not the cause. The hope, not the pain. The helper, not the inflictor. 

Grief does not define me. 

It’s a theme woven through my life, touching all the parts of my story line. 

But it doesn’t define me.

God’s goodness is what defines me. It is the ultimate theme of my grief. Of my life. It is the plot. The purpose. 

His presence was tangible in that hospital room. He spoke to me through the kindness of Mason’s doctor after he took his last breath. He went before me when we drove home and had to tell our kids their brother was gone. His goodness came in tangible ways. The gifts left on my doorstep literally every morning… breakfast pastries, fresh fruit, Kleenex, snacks, distractions for my kids, seemingly random things I had only thought about needing yet hadn’t mentioned to anyone (like a scented candle and avocado and coffee filters). The friends who brought me clothes so I wouldn’t have to shop for my child’s funeral. The meals, the financial gifts. The cards that came weekly for the next year.

And mostly, the prayers. God moved on the hearts of people who had never met me and never met Mason to pray. Earnest, committed prayers that no doubt kept my family from unraveling.

Someday in heaven I believe I will get to see the impact of these prayers. The faithfulness of the people near and far that surrounded us and protected us through life’s most vicious blow. 

What a beautiful image that will be. 

These prayers carried us. They sustained us. They gave us the ability to take our next breath. To take our next step. Navigate a life of loss. Navigate pain. Survive through sorrow. See hope instead of despair. Beauty instead of ashes. Perspective. Redemption. 

Those prayers cleared the lens to eternity. Brought about reverence for God’s sovereignty. 

God was present in our loss. Holding us up in supernatural ways. Leading us through the valley of the shadow of death. Protecting us from unreliable emotions and raw, life-altering pain.

All the confusion, the shock, the fear that assaulted when my child was so quickly ripped from my arms was buffered and filtered through the love of a compassionate and holy God.

The “why’s?” of losing a child aren’t the questions to ask. 

It’s “who?”

God’s promises. God’s goodness. God’s redemption. 

Hope. Peace. Even joy. Things impossible in a dark world of pain, are possible in the presence of a loving God.

If it were up to me I obviously never would have chosen this. But I’m thankful that my life story has been given such a powerful theme of hope and redemption. 

And that is it still being written. Living with grief gives me clarity.

Now, as we motorhome for Mason and live life with purpose, September gives a new reminder. A new perspective. Grief can be rich with goodness. Loss can be filled with redemption. 

Pain and hope coexist. 

This month, I am longing for eternity. And knowing with confidence that the goodness of God is real and abundant. And felt even more powerfully in the dark places. 

“When you bear the cross, God gives special comforts that he never gives to the healthy. Dark caverns do not keep miners from searching for diamonds. You need never fear suffering if you remember it will richly bless your soul. The nightingale only sings at night, and there are promises that only sing when we are in trouble. It is in the cellar of affliction that the fine wine of the Kingdom is stored.”

Charles Spurgeon