Dear Zoe

To my precious Zoe…and anyone else that might be peeking over my shoulder as I type,

In A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis wrote, “ Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything.” That seems to be as good of a description as anything I could come up with myself. As I struggled to think how I could do something fresh to remember you on this day…10 years since you went to be with Jesus, and our hearts split in two…I kept coming up empty. There are so many other things that threatened to distract me today…things that are reality because life here, kept moving forward. I had a new epidural injection in my neck yesterday, up in Iowa City (which derailed that entire day) that I’ll explain in a later post; we decided to head to IN earlier than planned for another grad party, so we could spend more time with Chris’ mom; so many things that should’ve be done inside and outside the house, including the science experiment we’ve got growing in our fridge…just to name a few.

My sweet friend, Amy, (who had oh-so-graciously agreed to be my designated driver after said injection) inquired about my plans to remember you today. In my mental fog, I struggled to even come up with a single option. So I was so grateful when she suggested that I simply write you a letter. You’d like her…and the rest of our secret club, better known as Ty Chickus…unless you ask your Baba, who refuses to acknowledge the name, in spite of its completely superior title. Regardless, they’re all so sweet and thoughtful, and your siblings basically wonder how we’re friends. Ok…moving on…

As I think about the past 10 years…a full DECADE of our lives…that C.S. Lewis quote really does capture my overall impression of what it’s been like. The absence of YOU…the absence of all that you were and all that you were to our family specifically…is spread over everything, just like the sky. Every tear shed has a trace of you in it. Every sweet smile recalls to mind how much you would’ve enjoyed those small moments. Every giggle, every heartache, every doctor appointment, every conversation with girls your age, every family meal shared…the memories of you are always there, along with the moments we will never be able to share.

If I’m being honest…and there’s no benefit to anyone if I’m not…much of the past decade for myself was not one of a spiritual giant. I’ve questioned and doubted, been discouraged and overwhelmed, and experienced hopelessness like I’ve never even known possible. I found myself silent when words failed but, more often than not, I tried to expose those dark places in some sort of attempt to add a spark of light into the hidden and desolate corners of grief and loss. In the midst of it all, I was still desperately trusting in the goodness of God. Having said all that, I recognize that my perception of how a “spiritual giant” might respond to intense grief may not be entirely consistent with Biblical principles. Much of my life, I’ve either directly been taught, or assumed from various comments made, that the faithful Christian does not do the things I just mentioned. And yet, when I recently read through the book of Job, for example, in its entirety, I could not escape that those were the exact feelings that Job poured out to God himself and anyone that would listen, in the midst of his outright despair. Job 13:15 was also the cry of my heart in its simple and straightforward take of Job’s heartbreaking situation, “Though He slay me, I will hope in Him.” In full disclosure, I definitely felt that Christ did, in fact, slay me when He took you from my arms to His…yet in my resigned desperation, I did my best to continue to hope in Him.

Speaking of hope…I even did what I said I’d never do and got a tattoo. The “never” part mostly came into play because I wanted no part of willingly jabbing a tiny needle into my body…I’ve had plenty of the unwilling, much bigger needles, and it just didn’t sound like a fun time to me. However, as I wrestled with your death…moment by moment, day by day…I became convinced that the hope in Christ was the only thing that would get me through, specifically the ability to grieve with hope. 1 Thessalonians 4:13 lays that foundation. We don’t grieve (for those that have already died) as those with no hope. At the end of that chapter, it goes on to say that we should encourage one another with those words. I realized that included myself. I personally needed to be constantly reminded and encouraged…hence the tat, because my memory is junk…with a simple word, “hope.” Your sibs also mock me about having a “half sleeve”…it’s not, I don’t, and they’re just big bullies. Just FYI.

I guess the main thing that has happened over the past couple years of this decade is that the Lord’s patient compassion has finally begun to shift my heart to be ok with telling him all these intense “negative” emotions/thoughts/struggles. It’s so foreign to me to “complain” or “lament” to God…and like the rule-follower I am (believe it or not), I also tried not to do so with anyone else either. That mostly left me feeling so much isolation and loneliness in my heartache…which, of course, was the opposite of what I really needed.

For the majority of my life, I believed that everyone else’s spiritual well-being depended on Eva’s spiritual well-being. Not because I was any too important, but because I was taught not to be a bad example to others that might lead them to do something that would be sinful. So when I was struggling so severely and so desperately, I felt that I was of no good whatsoever to myself or anyone else, and so I isolated emotionally and often physically. The majority of the past decade, I was discouraged in my silent suffering and filled with shame and guilt for not being able to suffer well for the sake of Christ.

These past couple years, however, I’ve had little nuggets of wisdom from a few places…from the Bible itself, from books on lament, and from conversations with godly friends. The result of which have begun to change my default to one of expressing all nature of heartache and grieving directly to the Lord, rather than avoidance and denial. This has also begun to part the clouds of despair and see some of the good things that have come to be since your death. I really, really struggled to see any good at all. So many people kept talking in lofty claims about how much good came from our time in the hospital with you…in truth, nothing compared to your death…nothing evened that out, in my mind. And while I’m still not joyful that you are gone, I am beginning to see how God has been faithful and held my hand…when you could no longer do so.

A month ago, I mentioned all the things in your birthday post that I imagine you’d be doing now, at age 13. All the singing, all the pink/purple, all the jewelry, all the friends…basically, all the diva. And, yes, I would take every last bit of it, if only you were here. I’d like to think that you’d be a cheerleader too…and I’d be coaching again…and also be going through the marriage counseling because of it. But I can confidently say that nothing on this earth can compare with the life you now have. It still hurts that it doesn’t include me because I so long to be your mom and hold you close. But I know that’s part of what unconditional loves looks like…desiring the best thing for your child, even if that best thing is not you…for the time-being.

I realize that this letter has turned into a bit of a pep talk for those of us that have been left behind. That wasn’t my intention, but that is what it has become. And maybe that’s for the best because we are the ones who are still processing, still grieving, still shedding many, many tears in your absence. The tears come and go now, which makes me realize that God is healing and growing me…even when it feels like there’s no progress whatsoever. I still remember the exact moment the docs told us there was nothing else they could do…and that was true…but they didn’t know what God could do. He healed your broken body, and He has continued to heal all of us too. It’s Heaven’s 10th Gotcha Day, sweet one. Give Papa and Jesus some big ol’ hugs from your Mama who can’t wait to see you all someday soon.