I bet I've heard the phrase, "You're so strong," and all its variants thousands and thousands of times since Ariana died. I hear that we're amazing, that we're brave, that we're invincible, that people just don't know how we do it.
It used to bother me. I'm not strong, I'm not brave, and I have, once again, NO CLUE WHAT I'M DOING. There is no rule book for surviving the death of a child, just like there's no rule book for grief in general. Just like there's no rule book for raising children, or navigating a marriage, or any of the really important stuff in life. Some days, even now, three and a half years later, I'm blindly putting one foot in front of the other and hoping I don't screw anything or anyone up too badly. The weeks after the funeral, Tanner was lucky if he got all his food groups in a day, let alone in a single meal. It's amazing I didn't completely tank at my job in those first few months. Nothing made sense. Everything felt foggy. Conversations literally slipped from one ear right out the other.
I'm so weak. I can go from on top of the world, and then one insignificant trigger later (the smell of flowers, a ladybug on the wall, unanticipated Bob Marley), I'm on my knees, praying that I'll be able to stand again. There's no bravery in continuing life after a child dies. There is. no. choice. ...I suppose there was, and still is, the choice to give up. To give in. To stop caring about everyone else I still value. To refuse to get out of bed and watch the sun shine and the rain fall. Maybe it was easier for us not to give in because we had Tanner to care for; we owed him answers and security and comfort, what little we could give. It's easy to talk about Heaven and how we'll all be together there someday before your family is torn apart. Maybe if we hadn't had Tanner, we would have surrendered.
So if you think that I am brave, if you think that Ryan is brave, if you think that T is brave...look a little deeper. We're not strong, we're not brave, we don't have any special knowledge of how not to run aground on the grief reef (I just thought of that...it's amazingly punny and terrible). We're lifted up in others' prayers, and God has given us just enough wisdom to not destroy all of our relationships, and we've been covered in the terrible, awesome grace of the crucifixion - the horror of death swallowed up by the resurrection. We grieve, and we flounder, and we hope we do more good than harm, but what you see, as we struggle with the wall of mortality, is the splendid and radiant truth that someday, we will live wholly in Jesus. That's the strength and the bravery. It's totally not us. Because I don't feel those things. But I hope that the way we live can show others the path to salvation that is the hope and the conviction of our family.
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