Searching For the Beauty in the Tragedy...Welcome to Holland

Any deviation from the life we have envisioned for our future can be a source of grief. The loss of a job, an unplanned move, divorce, health challenges, or the loss of a loved one--grief creeps into life in myriad unexpected ways. And while it's true that hardship and grief will inevitably be part of each person's earthly journey, we don't expect that grief can sometimes feel so dark, and so deep that we feel trapped in its grasp. 

After my daughter's funeral, when normal life demanded our return, my husband went back to work, my kids went back to school, my mother went home, and I was left for the first time to face the full weight of my grief alone. Day after day I struggled to get out of bed, get my kids ready for school, remember to eat something myself, and then sit on the couch while my mind inventoried every mistake I'd ever made as a mother. Weeks went by with me spiraling deeper into darkness, until one day I realized that if I didn't find a way to start climbing out of the quicksand of my grief, there was a real chance I could get stuck there permanently. And I didn't want that for myself or my family. 

At first I didn't see a way out. I didn't know how to help myself, so I started to search for answers from people way smarter than me. And one of the things I found that really helped me was a simple little article by Emily Perl Kingsley called "Welcome to Holland". 

At first read, this article would seem to only apply to parents who are grieving the loss of the healthy child they had planned for, but when I was finished reading, I wondered if the message could help me, too. So, I read it again. And I decided that maybe the message could apply to anyone suffering any sort of loss. Maybe there was something to this idea that would help me crawl out of my despair. I decided to give it a try. 

In the beginning it was impossible for me to see how my daughter's death could have any "very special, very lovely things" about it. But as I prayed, and humbled my mind and heart to the possibility, God showed me a few things. Like the fact that I had gained an incredible empathy for other mothers who had lost a child. I looked at my living children differently, with more patience, love, and a desire not to regret a single minute of their lives in anger or waste. I had a newfound hunger to love completely, to see past disagreement, and to forgive more quickly. 

And the list grew. 

Losing my daughter is not something I'm thankful for. And it's not something I would have chosen to go through. But the things grief has taught me, the ways God has changed my heart, and the person I have become through this experience are precious to me, and I wouldn't give those things up for anything. 

With eyes that have reflected on this experience for twelve years now, I can honestly say that there are "very special, very lovely things" about my trip to Holland with Elora, and God has been the perfect tour guide. 

What are some things you've learned on your own trips to Holland? I'd love to hear. 

Elora

I am the mother of a daughter who will never grow up.

She was my fourth baby, my second daughter. Born with a mop of dark hair and an angel-kiss birth mark in the center of her forehead. Maybe I should have recognized it as a sign that the angels had marked her for themselves. 

She got sick. The flu, I thought.

But then the seizures started, and she wouldn't wake up. 

Travis, my husband, raced us to the hospital, while I held her in the backseat.

Her body convulsing, fingers tangled in my hair, moans like animal cries. 

The second we came through the doors at Primary Children's Medical Center, the ER doctor knew Elora was in trouble.

He ordered a CT scan of her head.

Sitting across from us in metal folding chairs, he unfolded a white piece of printer paper with a black and white printout of Elora's brain.

"It's a tumor."

But we found it too late. 

By early the next morning, she was gone.

It's a scar. Cut into the flesh of my heart.

A wound that will never leave me. 

And yet, I would never want it to.

Because that scar has come to symbolize not only the deep pain of losing a child, but it is the price I paid to know for myself that Christ is real, and His promises are sure. 

He promised each of us--

 

--and that is exactly what He did for me.

When I thought that I would be crushed by my grief, He helped me to carry it.

When I thought that my heart would break, He held it together.

When I knew I could not stand, or walk, He held me up.

I can look back and see His hand guiding me through the darkness.

He is the one who taught me how to survive. 

But even more, He taught me that there is hope, comfort, and peace even in the midst of grief.