The Anchor Holds

Especially over these past few months, I am just so grateful that I am not an overly emotional person. You know the kind: the ones that tear up at a commercial, get overly excited and then overly sad just a few minutes later? Ugh. So glad that's not me. Could you even imagine?

 

Ha. That paragraph? Yeah. That's all a lie.

 

I am soooo very emotional. And the fact that I'm 23 weeks pregnant doesn't really help. If anything, it only justifies it.

 

Being emotional doesn't mean that I'm crying a lot. I'm surprised that that's not the case. But I do feel my emotions running the gambit all through the day.

 

Every morning, I wake up and realize that Ben is still in heaven. He won't be downstairs already on his favorite couch watching an episode of Curious George. And my heart sinks. But I get out of bed anyway. And I go to the bathroom, brush my teeth, and grab some clothes for the kids. Megan is the first to greet me coming down the stairs in her footy pajamas and ringlet curls. "Hi, Mom! You're back!" Andy has let me sleep in ever since we found out I was pregnant - a true gift - and so coming downstairs after they have been awake for an hour already really makes for quite an entrance. And that welcome makes my heart feel full. Until I remember, once again, that Ben is not in my family room. And I feel sad again.

 

Emotional. Rollercoaster.

 

I fumble for some socks for Jack and find a pair of blue ones. They're Ben's. Jack doesn't have a problem putting them on, but knowing the cute little boy whose feet occupied them makes me miss him. As we get ready to leave the house, it feels awkward with only two kids in tow. Ben helped with these transitions a great deal. He was always the first to listen, the first to help herd the pack into the van. It feels like we are even slower these days without him.

 

I don't particularly feel like leaving the house. I don't particularly feel like going on play dates, visiting all of our old stomping grounds. It makes me sad to not have Ben with us. But I do. Because Jack asks for a playmate every single day. He's always had an active and willing playmate. Since birth. One that never hesitated doing whatever he wanted to do. Jack led, Ben followed. Megan is a great stand-in and can do a whole lot more than your average two-year-old. But she's not five (even if she'll tell you otherwise) and my firstborn desires that comradery. And so we venture out. Almost every day.

 

Jack is a talker. A doer. And he makes friends easily. He's so gentle, playing with another boy for twenty minutes before even having an inkling of his name. I suppose there are aspects of him that we are still learning. I'm not sure if I'm just noticing who he is more now that Ben's gone or the fact that he is still changing, still deciding who he wants to be.

 

I believe that Ben has rubbed off on his brother a great deal, even throughout his transition, months before he passed away. He's become more sensitive. More patient. More self-sacrificial. His current favorite activities are picking me a plethora of dandelions and getting us all cold drinks of water. He brings them in and Andy and I fuss over what a thoughtful gesture that was. He smiles his toothy grin and his dimples sparkle. "Well, I just thought you'd really like that." Ben always covered that role. Now that he's not with us, Jack seems to have taken over qualities that had traditionally belonged to his brother.

 

That touches me deeply. And yet makes me miss Ben even more.

 

Do you see what I mean?

 

There's a part of me that would rather just stay home. Grieve the loss of our son. Go through his old stuff, organize his old paintings, and visualize him running in the backyard. Read books about grief in the sunshine, think about how much more comfortable my son is now, and take small naps. Except I've got two kids (and another in-utero) who don't really make that schedule very possible. I have to get up. I have to get out of the house. Because life goes on.

 

But even that makes me feel guilty. I should be showing more sadness. Shouldn't I? I shouldn't allow myself to smile, to laugh, to move on? I feel guilty for leaving Ben out of my prayers at night when I pray with my kids. I've always asked God to bless each of our family members, mentioning them by name. It feels wrong to leave Ben out. But it doesn't feel right to put him in. He doesn't need our prayers. God has already blessed him more than we could even dream. I justify it by thanking God each night for caring for Ben in heaven. That seems to feel better. But it still doesn't feel completely right.

 

That's my son. Even though he's currently in heaven, he'll always be my son.

 

Andy feels it too. Today was his first full day back at work in months. The past few days, he only started a few hours at a time. But this is his busy season. And there is much to be done. In many ways, it feels good for him to be back. But there are parts of him that doesn't want to be there either. It's comforting to be with other people again. To be productive. As much as we want to move on, to celebrate Ben's life and legacy in our daily lives, it just doesn't feel right.

 

Perhaps other parents who have lost their children feel similar. I know - without a doubt - where Ben is. It's difficult to be sad when you know the kind of life he is currently enjoying, especially when you remember his condition before God called him home. And that confidence truly makes all the difference. But then there's his physical absence. And I feel the pain from that all the time.

 

As much as my emotions vacillate through the day, I refuse to allow them to control me. Influence, but not control. A song has been coming to mind for weeks now. It's by Ray Boltz, a Christian singer with a talent for story-telling through song. I've always loved his music, first discovering him when I was a high schooler. "The Anchor Holds." I listened to it again tonight and I felt comforted by the truths he sang about. I'd encourage you to listen, too.

 

It was the second verse that really resonated with me tonight. Nine days after Ben's homegoing.

 

"I've had visions
I've had dreams
I've even held them in my hand
But I never knew
They would slip right through
Like they were only grains of sand

 

Chorus:

The anchor holds
Though the ship is battered
The anchor holds
Though the sails are torn
I have fallen on my knees
As I faced the raging seas
The anchor holds
In spite of the storm."

 

It strengthened me, to be reminded of Whom I've chosen to put my trust. Where I've chosen to anchor my sail. It's a strong anchor, one that had first been set as a five-year-old in Sunday school. Through the years, I've been tossed and my sails have been torn. Most violently over the past few months. But through it all, the anchor has held... in spite of the storm.

 

I don't know how people get through these big life transitions without being connected to the only Life Source that can sustain. That can comfort you during the dark times and remind you of the higher purpose. I honestly don't know how they do it. I, personally, would have crumbled months ago if I hadn't been connected to a Strong Anchor. To be able to talk with, receive comfort from, and give me purpose for the future. Life without my son? Oh, God, please take me too. I can't see any other purpose for wanting to go on.

 

But... God.

 

Emotions will continue to vacillate. Emotions will continue to soar. But I choose to be reminded of my Anchor.

 

Because He has always proved Himself to be capable. To be trusted. And more than able.

 

So I will continue to sail. Knowing that my Anchor holds.