Five years

Five years. Before I opened my eyes this morning this thought ran through my brain. Five years. Five years ago this morning I woke up and started my day with not a care in the world. I ate my breakfast while reading the paper, dressed and went to my moms. I worked around her house doing those things she wasn't able to do. Around noon I began trying to fix her cable. At 12:30 my phone ran and I almost didn't answer because of frustration with her remote. I wish I never had. That phone call changed our lives. Five years ago today I ran into the emergency room and saw the chaplain walking towards me and I knew. I knew my son was dead. Five years. I sit here this morning and think how can it have been that long since I felt your all embracing hugs and heard your laughter throughout the house? How can it have been five years. It still feels like yesterday. Yes, we have "moved" on. Yes, I continued breathing and living. Something five years ago today I saw as impossible. Yes, the world kept spinning even when I didn't understand how it could. Yes, we have felt joy and happiness when I thought I would never feel anything ever again. How? Through God's grace and mercy. I remember telling God while I waited for Bart and Kyler to arrive that my faith was not big enough to handle this. I told him I was going to fail. I told him I wanted to die right then. I begged Him to take me not Jacob. And while my faith was not big enough and still isn't, my God is. The only reason I am still sitting here this morning and able to take another breath is because of the prayers of others and God. People tell me how strong I am and I am not. I look strong on the outside. I talk about Jacob's death and how we celebrate where he is, not where he isn't. But know that myself and I think I speak for every other mother whose child has died that one never "moves on" or gets over it. I have done as my friend, Theo, told me back five years ago. I have taken that part of me that died that day and tucked it very carefully away in my heart. I closed the door on it and locked it tightly. It weighs my heart down heavily. I know it is always there but I keep it closed tightly. But on days like today when I am alone and no one is around to see me I go to that place and carefully unlock that door. Just the turning of the key brings me to my knees and I weep. I weep as if I was walking that hallway again. I weep as I remember having to face Bart and Kyler and tell them Jacob was dead. I weep as I walk into that ER room and see my child lying on the bed with life drained from him. I weep as I sit, once again, in the room with my family, not able to even hold my head up as we plan his funeral. I weep as I see his precious beautiful body lying in the casket. I weep as we lower his body into the cold dark ground. I weep for the hours of sitting in my living room, alone, waiting for him to come home. I weep for the loss. I miss him more today than I did that day five years ago. How is that possible? How is it possible to grieve even more today for the what will never be? I sit motionless while the tears flow then the racking sobs take over. But after my body is entirely spent, a peace comes over me. One I have felt so many times before. God's loving arms wrap around me and I am reminded of where Jacob is not where he isn't. Jacob's last entry in his prayer journal, "God I want to be focused on you 24/7 and rid of my demons." has been answered. And while my cry from that day five years ago is still true, my faith isn't big enough, my God is. So I wipe the tears, take the key and lock that room back up and tuck it quietly back into my heart. I know I will visit it again, sometimes when I least expect it. And while I know what the cost of visiting is, I will go back there. But I also know that when I am finished and all the tears have been shed and my body lies still, God will pick me up and carry me back to the peaceful moments when He assures me I don't have to be strong, He is. Jacob, I love and miss you. But I rest knowing that I will see you again my precious baby boy.