I am finding it difficult to write about this past week because I have nothing profound or meaningful to say about those things. There are no deep thoughts or exceptional emotions. No epiphanies or breakdowns or teachable moments. So much happened this week. But I feel separated from it. I feel infantile in my responses like I am waiting for my parents or my husband to tell me how to react. Honestly, I think I am ignoring myself.
I cling to the knowledge that God is sovereign. I am gripping it in my sweaty palms like a security blanket.
I have so many opportunities to remember Luna in pleasant ways. My Aunt Bim created for us an incredible painting of the moon and on Sunday at the Hollow, it glowed in the window of her artist’s studio like it was the moon itself. Even now as it hangs in our house, I can’t take my eyes off of it.
Her husband, my uncle Robert, used his carpenter’s hands and his artist’s heart to build for us the casket in which Luna was buried. He intentionally chose woods and patterns that were meaningful to him and put so much love into such a tiny box. He carved the moon in the lid as it shone on him from overhead. I cannot imagine a more love-soaked place for Luna’s body to await the resurrection.
We nestled Luna between my two brothers, Josh and Jake.
At the burial, Patrick poured out his heart, singing “It is Well” at the top of his lungs. It was like he cracked open his soul and showed everyone what was inside of him. The fleshy, pulsating innards and private places that no one gets to see were put on display. And as transparent as I appear to be in this blog, I haven’t let anyone see me like that. Maybe I am still waiting for that moment for me. He took some artistic liberty with the second verse.
Though Satan should buffet
And trials should come
Let this blessed assurance control
That Christ hath regarded
Luna’s helpless estate
And hath shed His own blood for her soul
Patrick went back to work on Tuesday. All of a sudden, I am reminded of the fact that life continues. There is this whole other part of my life that will come back into play before I know it. On the same day, my washer died. Yet another reminder that life does not stop when tragedy strikes. God does not intend for us to pause in that moment of pain and rest there. God intends for us to move forward and move ahead and carry that tragedy like a banner so that we can better serve Him.
My purpose is not to stop and stay cooped up in my house, ignoring the world and hoping that one day I will feel normal. My purpose is to carry the bleeding heart of Christ with me as I go into the world and share the magnitude of the sacrifice He made for us. We were talking to Bo about Christmas as we put up our nativity set and I was reminded that Christ humbled himself for our sake. He became man – and not even a rich or powerful or extraordinary man – and was tortured and killed for the glory of God the Father, so that we could come to know him intimately and ultimately spend eternity with him.
What God asks of me is so puny in comparison. In fact, it is our honor as Christians to share in the suffering of Christ so that we can glorify our Creator. We all have our burdens. Mine is losing a baby. Mine is losing my brother. Mine is struggling with a sinful, selfish attitude. But instead of focusing on those burdens, God calls me to hand them over to Him. They are opportunities for us to participate in the wonder of God’s plan. What is God going to ask of me in the future? What is God asking of you?