I once heard it said that the first year after the death of a child is the most difficult. After Gavin's death I really believed this, and would count the months as they went by excited for that one year mark -- just maybe we would find a little more peace. I'm thinking who ever said this phrase, obviously does not think like me.
I find that this second year has been the most difficult. I miss my little boy more than ever. My desire to just go dig a path through the snow to his grave and curl up next to my baby is sometimes overwhelming. I hate that the rest of the world is moving on. It makes my heart and soul churn just thinking what this year would have brought. My baby would be turning five. He would have been able to meet his little sister.
These words sting beyond belief.
I remember feeling so much anxiety in that first year following Gavin's death -- fearing that one day I would simply forget. Lately I am strangely both comforted and tormented by the thought that I will surely never forget. The memories are not as fresh but the pain is still so very real and raw and still pierces just as deep as the day we watched him take his last breath.
I've slacked off a bit on totally surrendering to God. The stress of our new normal often puts me in a place where it is so easy to just take on the load and carry it all by myself. I need to give Him back so very much. The more I carry the harder it is to let it go -- the stress, the pain, the grief, the fear -- dare I say, the control.
Pain stinks. Death stinks even more. But this morning I'm reminding myself that out of these ashes beauty will rise -- but only if I let it.