The Hope of Easter

Yesterday was Easter. I very significant holiday for a Christian, but truthfully, not one filled with a lot of family memories that made it a difficult "first" since Christopher's death.

But I must say that I considered Easter much more somberly this year. What if Jesus hadn't risen on that first Easter morning? There would be no hope - our sins would have been paid for (through His death; a sacrifice on our behalf), but I don't think that eternity would have been the same.

Now, I am certainly no theologian, so don't look at this that way. I guess I look at the Christ-followers of that day and can only imagine how they felt between Friday when Jesus died and Sunday when appeared again. It had to be a terrible few days! If they understood why Jesus had to die, they might have understood forgiveness, but I am not sure that was a great comfort. Our salvation is secured in the crucifixion, but our joy is secured in the resurrection. The real comfort comes in life, not death.

As a believer, Christopher was forgiven, but because of the resurrection, I know he lives. That is what gives me hope; and in that hope, I can find joy.

The Choice of Words

This weekend marked the three month "anniversary" of Christopher's accident. That is how I usually refer to it. I rarely say, "his death". Odd, I know.

Today, Monday, March 10, it dawned on me that it was three months ago today that I "buried my son". Wow. That is almost more harsh than "his death." Words are interesting. One expression that is used is that "I lost my son". At the time of the accident I would tell the story of the accident and then say, "Christoper didn't make it."

When I refer to the service that we had on December 10th at the church, I say, "Christopher's service." I never refer to it as his funeral. Technically, it was a memorial service because his body was not there, but I can assure you that I am not being so precise, I am being selective. There is no way to soften, "I buried my son."

Why do I want to soften it anyways? It is not as if the reality is any different if I use "nicer" words. My house and heart aren't any emptier because "I lost my son" or "he didn't make it" than it is that he died. December 10 was a difficult day - whether it was a service or a funeral. And I did bury my son that day.

It is a hard reality and different words aren't going to make is less so. It is my reality and I hate it (I almost said, "I don't like it", but that is too polite for the circumstances.) I hate it.

Grief - A Strange Process

By all accounts, I have been doing very well lately. I took a brief trip out of town last week and came back all refreshed and optimistic. It has been a really good week. Many around me warn me, however, that while this is wonderful that I need to realize that it won't last, uninterrupted. That is, I will have low times again.

Today/tomorrow mark 3 months since all this happened. This is an odd "anniversary" because it is a Friday/Saturday just like it was in December. I can feel myself slipping, although not dilberately, into kind of a melancholy mood. I don't want to, but I don't seem to have control. I don't like not having control.

Grief seems to me to be a process that just happens; you can mange it, perhaps, but you can not control it.