The Memories I Hold

I had a moment a few weeks ago where I realized that there are always going to be some moments, some significant things about Jacob's life, or the exact dates of anniversaries or memories I hold that only I hold.Upon realizing that, my heart ached, feeling hollow, empty, that dreaded essence of grief -- alone.As tears began to fall down my face, I became enveloped in the overwhelming reality of smallness.  In some ways, the smallness was surprising - how could something that seems so glaringly memorable to me somehow not be remembered by somebody else?  And yet, in this smallness, I realized that although that familiar loneliness crept up quicker and more devastating than I imagined, it gave me an odd sense of peace.  The smallness of it all made it seem big.I can tell you every single person who met, who held, who touched Jacob for his entire life. Small.But as long as he lived - the most of what he experienced, the longest thing he ever did - he was growing in and being held by me. Big.There is a sacredness to some of the memories that only a handful of people hold.  There are things about Jacob that only a few other people besides John-Mark and I know.  There are moments and memories and conversations and questions and laughter and tears that only John-Mark and I share.  And there are things that are so unique, so special, so very much wrapped up in being his mom, that were only experienced... and remembered... by me.I don't know when it became the norm for me, but I tend to find myself on the bathroom floor in the depths of my grief.  Often, what starts in one room must lead me to tissues or a trash can, or simply some alone time, behind the locked door of our bathroom.  The bathroom floor has become one of the most significantly vulnerable and holy-ground-type sanctuaries of my grief.Behind the locked door is where I somehow have found the courage to say out loud the questions that I've had rumbling deep down in my heart, where I've let out the deepest of sobs, where I've fallen apart, most completely.  On that bathroom floor is where I've been quieted in my soul, reminded of truth, heard, seen... not by anyone else in the world, but met solely by God in that space.There are some things that simply no one else will understand.But curled up on the floor, weeping... in our bathroom - that's where Jesus has met me most intimately and whispered to me that he cares.  That he sees.  That there's no where else to turn, and so I'm turning to the only place I can.My personal experience as a mother, which includes losing my oldest son, as an infant, at seven hours old, and now carrying our baby girl, about to become a new-but-not-new mom again, is an experience that only I will know.  Even in the beauty of our marriage and our shared parenting of our children, John-Mark has experienced Jacob's life and death differently, been affected differently, remembered details I never knew, and carried aches that I cannot fix.  In the most intimate of relationships that two people can have, even we do not fully understand each other.  He cannot know my unique experience. And yet, God has met me there.Slowly, as time has gone on, I have found myself drawn deeper, once again, into the pages of Scripture. And in perfect complement to each other, I've found the whispers of God meeting me on that bathroom floor - this is what resting in Grace looks like and I see you, and I'm with you - come alive off of pages of my Bible.  As if it's written entirely for me, for this moment.  As if the Word and the Spirit are the same.  (And the best part -- they are.)And so, I've been drawn to passages like Revelation 21:3 that says, "Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be His people, and God Himself will be with them as their God." Or Isaiah 43:2, which says, "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overcome you... For I am the Lord, your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior." And John 1:16 - "For from his fullness we have received grace upon grace."And then there's Colossians 3:4.  "For you have died, and your life is hidden with Christ in God. When Christ, who is your life, appears..."Hidden with Christ.In God.Christ, who is your life.I've been able to cling to and begin to rest and truly hide myself in Christ.  He is my life.  He is my life and He is over life and He holds the keys to death itself.Somehow, in the alone-ness that is grief, there's glimpses of the depths of true intimacy and nearness where I realize that all of those moments where I'm most vulnerable have been the most significant of them all.  Just as childbirth brought me into the most vulnerable and exposed places of myself, and at the same time the strongest and most empowering, this grief over my sweet son has exposed my heart to the Lord, and to those most closely around me.  So vulnerable.  At times, cringe-worthy.But even in the moments where I'm the most raw, the most broken, the most on display in all of my not-perfect-at-all glory, I'm drawn in, and loved, the deepest.  Strengthened.  Empowered.  Made much of, as only God can do.In Sara Hagerty's latest book, Unseen, she writes, "I have similar feelings about the dozens of places where I've surrendered to the vulnerability of love with God. Tender times when He cupped His hands around my story and hid me.  My words to Him were raw, unfiltered, awkward.  But He was tender and responsive. These were the ripest conditions for love to grow.  When I was uncharacteristically vulnerable, He hid me in His love and drew me near."As I read these words - and the many others tucked in between the soft navy covers, carrying a message that so closely hit home - I remembered that these small-yet-big moments with Jacob are not - and never were - wasted.  They're not forgotten.  He isn't insignificant, and his life is far from meaningless.  Those memories I have, the bond that he and I carried, it's beautiful.  It's shared.  And it's seen.  Not by many people, not on display for the world in videos and captured in picture-perfect frames dancing across the walls of my home.  But by God, the One who created both of us, the one who sees us, the one who knows us, and who loves us anyway.I almost long for those moments in the bathroom.  Behind the locked door.The depth of the pain that is expressed - it's daily carried, just silently.  Behind doors of its own.But curled up on the bathroom floor, weeping, and saying aloud all of those true words that are in my heart, releasing the realities of grief itself... that, for me, is holy ground.  They're memories that only I hold. But I've never been there alone.