Happy Birthday My Love

Today is Daniel’s 14th birthday.

Since almost the day of the accident, my children have asked, “what will we do on Dan’s birthday?” My standard answer has been, “cry all day.” Although tears have already been shed before the sun was fully up, I have determined in my mind that I will not mourn the day of his birth. June 3rd will be a day of annual mourning; the day of his death—but not the day of his birth.

My mind and my will have given orders to my heart. We will rejoice in all things good today. I don’t expect my heart to accept these orders without question, or carry them out without a fight. But that is the battle to be won today.

Well meaning people say, “You never get over it.” I’m really not sure what that means. Does that mean I will go on living, trying to find my way through this fog of pain and sadness with no hope of happiness? We were not created to live in continuous sorrow. God created joy and sadness, mountains and valleys, each to be traveled in its season. There is a mountain top hiding behind the clouds that one can’t see from the lowest crevice in the valley beneath. Even the deepest ocean has an end below, and a sky above.

“Getting over it” what is the “it”? The simple and trite phrase does not define “it” enough to be of any comfort; in fact it is most depressing. Like calling out to a drowning man, “you will never come out, just keep treading water.”

I have no intentions of “getting over Dan.” But who do I grieve? Do I grieve for Dan, because he is not here to be a part of our lives? No. Without a doubt he has the better lot. I don’t question that Dan is with his Savior. A place I hope to be one day. I believe he is complete. The glimpses of his spirit I was allowed to see are fully known now, and he is living in the way Adam was intended; to commune with God. If I could, would I take that away from him now. If I truly love him, I must say no.

Do I grieve for my lost motherhood?

Yes.

My sorrow comes from the same depth of love a mother has for her child. There is a mutual need for one another from the time of birth, each needing the other almost as if they are one. In fact, they start out two in the form of one; two very separate beings, living in one body.

Moments after birth, a cord is cut. But that is only physically. The mother and child feel the need for one another as strong as the will of survival itself.

Only after years of slow growing together, in the normal course of nature, does a mother trade her need for the child into the pleasure of watching him grow into a unique person.

While there is a certain amount of sadness that comes with an empty nest, it is not the same as the sorrow over a nest that has been robbed.

Daniel was just beginning to blossom into the person God had so carefully designed. He was such a delight to have in our home.

How blessed am I?

To have been given a son, a teenager, that was a joy in our home. We loved to watch him delight in boyish things. We joked that is was so good for Dan that Jami and her family (four little boys under eight) came to live with us, because now he had someone to play with.

Like his mother, he pondered questions and got lost in his own thoughts, then cornered some unsuspecting soul and talked endlessly about what he had been thinking. He was always so grateful when someone would have enough patience to listen to him without cutting him short (as I often did). He made up jokes, inventions, stories, and contraptions.

He loved playing chess, dreaming about airplanes and pretty girls, building trains, and considered a homely retriever among his closest friends. He still kissed his mother good morning, and wasn’t embarrassed about loving her.

We still enjoyed each other’s company. He would bring me coffee to say I love you; he heard me say it when I would watch Lord of the Rings with him—again.

The sorrow comes with the flood of things not done. I didn’t learn to play chess with him. He never got to ride on an airplane, or a train. I didn’t get to hear his whole story he was formulating in his mind, that was to be his novel. I know he would have told me more, if he had not perceived me as too busy to listen. I’m always busy; usually too busy. If he only knew how much I loved his story, and loved to read what he wrote. I wish he had written more. I had planned to put him in a writing class this fall, my spirit told me to have him write through the summer—I didn’t listen.

The severing of the invisible cord between mother and child has pain no nerve endings could produce. And yet, the one, becoming two is the way of creation. He was created as an eternal soul for intimate communion with a Father that loves him more than I. I can accept that. I will not grieve that end.

For now, please forgive my tears; don’t let them grieve your spirit. My soul rejoices that you are living in my Father’s house. And I am thankful for the gift of you.

So, Happy Birthday my love. For you it must be the most glorious, as you celebrate your birthday in your Father’s house, and enjoy the room Christ has prepared for you.