It’s early morning in Wyoming. The kids are still sleeping. Anthony left to take the tire to have a recently discovered nail removed. (One of my biggest travel anxieties is the trailer having a flat somewhere on a steep mountain highway. Or a busy interstate through a congested city. Or… well, basically anywhere at all. My mind can come up with multiple disastrous scenarios. Thankful he found that nail before any of them played out.)
But back to Wyoming. It’s beautiful here. I’m sitting on the couch with my coffee and soft blanket enjoying the views of the perfection around me. The bright green mountains out my window still have tiny tips of white snow, offering equal promises of cool mornings but warm summer afternoons. The dark clouds sneaking over them whisper of a possible morning shower and I’m all for that. Few things make me happier than a good rain.
This quiet time in the morning is sacred. When my kids were little, it was the quiet after bedtime that was so wonderful. Then I had teenagers who stay up later than me and then we travel far north in the summer and find the sky still light when it’s pushing 10 pm and everyone is up far too late and well, basically the early mornings are my time. Time with the Lord. Time when things are quiet and I can hear what he’s teaching me.
I use pictures as bookmarks in my Bible. Some for where my current reading spots are, these days in Deuteronomy and 2 Peter. Some for significant life verses that I pray over my kids or ones that have carried me through difficult times.
Today, I found myself staring at this one for a long time.
So many emotions right here.
It was the first day of school. My 4th year of homeschooling. It was those early years for all the kids, when learning is still so fun and exciting and nature walks and good books filled our afternoons.
I long for these days so much. For more obvious reasons than my homeschooling memories.
I still had all these faces. All these little people filled my small home to the brim with laughter and chaos, messy forts and piles of laundry. Each of these warm bodies with their stinky morning breath snuggled with me in that big chair by the window. Each of them had a place at my kitchen table and a seat in the car. I miss it so much it physically hurts.
I miss the simple days. The days before grief and tragedy stole that laughter from my home for a season. And even when grief’s clutches slowly returned it, that one voice is still missing.
When I grieve losing Mason, I grieve losing a life. Not just his life. Our life. A family unit. A picture I thought would always be complete.
The rearview mirror over here is full of all kinds of longing. There is missing and happy memories and wonderful remember whens… but there is also a whole lot of longing. A lot of letting grief punch me in the gut over and over. A lot of anxiety bubbling up in me when those wretched days of death and my little children suffering through their own horrific loss replay over and over in my head. A lot of shock that still slaps me in the face that one of these innocent faces in these sweet pictures never made it to his 7th birthday. Never lost a tooth. Never scored a soccer goal or learned to ski.
Sometimes, I can look at pictures and remember the overall emotion of a time. An overall happiness and contentment. But even in those memories of happiness, my rearview mirror has a tint of grief. It clouds much of what I view in the past. It gives so many if only’s to happy memories. Ominous emotions are lightly painted over blissfully innocent days.
This can often make rearview mirrors something to avoid. Sometimes, it’s just too painful. Too hard to live it all again. It makes me sick to my stomach. A little shaky. I can feel the stress course through my body in obviously unhealthy ways.
Interestingly enough, this picture that sent me down memory lane this morning just so happens to be holding my place in Deuteronomy, a book with a theme about remembering.
Remember Egypt. Remember suffering. Remember hunger and desperation in the wilderness.
Remember God’s faithfulness. Remember God’s judgement. Remember God’s power. Remember truth. Remember all you have gone through. Remember how God has fought for you. Remember these blessings. Remember these promises.
In Deuteronomy, Moses is repeatedly telling the Israelites not to forget. They carry a legacy. A incredibly significant one.
“Only take care, and keep your soul diligently, lest you forget the things that your eyes have seen, and lest they depart from your heart all the days of your life. Make them known to your children and your children’s children.” Deuteronomy 4:9
“Behold, the Lord our God has shown us his glory and greatness and we have heard his voice out of the midst of the fire.” Deuteronomy 5:24
“And you shall remember the whole way that the Lord your God has led you these forty years in the wilderness, that he might humble you, testing you to know what was in your heart.” Deuteronomy 8:2
Remember is used 15 times in this book. The Israelites had been through a lot. Slavery in Egypt, beatings, and hard work. They watched their baby boys thrown in the river by Pharaoh’s guards. In the wilderness they suffered hunger and thirst. Poisonous snakes and scorpions.
And God says, don’t forget. Not because it was miserable, but because I was there. You went through fire, but I was there. You were hungry, and I provided. You were scared, and I delivered you.
They didn’t learn about God’s power from reading old scrolls. They lived it. They are the testimony of God’s deliverance. They experienced plagues and witnessed the sea part. They were daily protected by a cloud above them and guided by a fire in the sky at night. Food literally appeared out of nowhere and water gushed from solid rock. And over 40 years time their clothes never wore out. (Little boys never got holes in their pants or rips in their shirts and their shoes never broke? For 40 years!? If you don’t yet believe God is a God of miracles this right here should convince you.)
God is a God who says, “Look in that rearview mirror. Look what you have been through. Look at the pain and the suffering but don’t dwell there. Look past that. See the faithfulness. See the provision. See the power. And then look ahead with hope.”
“Take care lest you forget…” Deuteronomy 8:11
My rearview looks different when I take away that filter of self-pity and apply the filter of redemption. When I can stop dwelling so much on what might have been and instead see what will be.
Truth is, the reason I remember with such an ache is because I was so richly blessed. I look back with longing because my heart was so filled with the great things God was doing. The amazing reality he gave me. The happy little corner of life where I was living.
But I have also learned to choose to look back to see his hand preparing me, protecting me, holding me. His faithfulness to my family. His guidance. His provision. His redemption. His truth and wisdom. And most importantly, His certain and unfaltering hope.
The more I do this, the more I realize the view from my rearview mirror is quite limited. Just like in a car, it’s such a small portion of the space in front of me. And I’m reminded that even though it doesn’t feel like it, all that pain is actually a light and momentary affliction. Because it’s so restricted in light of eternity. And what it’s preparing for me is a glory beyond anything else I can compare it to. A glory that far exceeds my partial and limited view in this world. The reality is, I can’t actually see that much here anyway. And that’s ok. Because the things that are seen are transient. But the things that are unseen are eternal.
So I’ll keep looking in the rearview mirror. The memories there are good ones. The story there is a redemptive one. But that looking will be only mere glances. My longing is forward. Greater things are yet to come.
