The Storm

It was Friday night. I was home alone with the girls. Brandon was at a baseball game with some friends. This was the first night since we lost Chance that I would be alone for a significant amount of time. Being alone is not something that has ever bothered me, and quite frankly I tend to be rather introverted, but right now, as I am grieving the loss of my son, I crave faces and people and bodies. So I knew going into Friday night that I was putting myself in a vulnerable situation, but kept telling myself it would be good for me and all would be ok.

 Our First Family (aka small group from church) surprised us at Chance's funeral with this tree, birdhouse, and sign. A tangible, heart felt gift, and something we can look at from our kitchen window every single day. Amazing. 

I got the girls in bed at the early hour of 6:30pm, ate a quick dinner, and then decided I would write some thank you notes, read a few blogs, and just relax for a little while.

And then the storm hit. Not just a little-bit-of-rain type of storm. But a storm so large I was scrambling for flashlights (and batteries because apparently we don't think to keep working batteries in said flashlights) and candles, and I huddled in the middle of my bed with my phone and (working) flashlight and no electricity. And the storm just kept raging. Flashes of lightening were evident as they lit up the sky outside my window. Thunder raged, over and over and over. And the rain just kept coming down. Because of course. . .  it is the first night that I am alone.

In that moment, I just started to let loose the tears that were inevitable.

Chance's itty bitty casket, flowers, cross, and bear.

The cross is now nestled inside the pot in the tree above. 

Home alone, storm raging outside my window and inside my heart, and tears flowing because goodness . . . I just want to hold my son again. I want to kiss his nose and stroke his little hat and just stare at his precious face. But I can't.

Yet in that moment of deep vulnerability, I felt the Lord wrapping me up tightly, taking hold and reminding me that while right now life feels scary and sad and overwhelming, it is only time before the storm will stop and the sun will shine again.

Because it will. God has proven this time and time again in my life and in yours. God promises we will not pass through this life without seasons of darkness. And God also promises the dawn after the dark. Every time.

Our entire family gathered together to pray in the hospital delivery room. 

Chance was born shortly after. 

So I laid there, with flashlight and phone, storm raging outside, and played a few of my favorite worship songs. I let myself cry and I let myself smile because I know God is faithful and regardless of my longing to hold my son again, His promises remain true, and His ways so very good.

From the balloon release at the end of the service. Love the visual reminder and as someone said "I think the balloons made it there just in time for his heaven welcome party."