Bunk Beds & Empty Tombs

 

PC: @piecesofbluee

I finger combed his hair back and kissed his forehead goodnight. Tears welled up in his heavy eyes and pressed through his long lashes. His voice cracked, "I just wanted a normal childhood. I hate what I'm always afraid of."

That night, I stood at his top bunk for an hour and a half. My gaze never broke. Each of those passing minutes, I recognized the confused, scared toddler wondering why his dad was so sick and couldn't play with him. This looming shadow of death had rolled back around all these years later. Every difference in our growing up was under spotlight. Everything I couldn't give him was underlined. I echoed the same crushing ache as I stared at him knowing full well that I, too, wanted something that looked entirely different than what we would open our eyes to in the morning.

I couldn't help but wonder what this ever illusive "normal" actually was. We know just enough of it to want it. Yet, it brings nothing but resentment and discontent when it's just out of reach. When the grasping paused, all I could see was a pile of grave clothes at the door of an empty tomb. I whispered to our sleeping son, "But what if this is our normal? What if we have already won?"

Like the rest of mankind, I could say there are "unimaginable" things we face at times. The truth is, it absolutely is imaginable or we wouldn't crumble at the sight of it. It is at the foot of that pain and fear, that I find myself praying the oh-so-human prayer asking God to provide another sacrifice. Every time, just like that night with our son, He faithfully reminds me that He already did. 

We have, indeed, already won.

"If the Spirit of Him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, He who raised Christ Jesus from the dead will also give life to your mortal bodies through His Spirit who dwells in you...For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear..." Romans 8:11,15

Where we go in a day hasn't changed much in the twenty three years we have lived on the front range. We visit and see a lot of the same places where I share many fond memories and beginnings with Ryan. Yet, how we now walk among them can feel like gravel under foot. 

Parallel to places, there is a shudder of discomfort when stumbling across those that know Ryan, and there is equal discomfort trying to connect with those that don't. If we venture to where he is not known, only half of us is known.

We often straddle a boundary of familiarity and something far beyond anything we know how to manage; suspended over this crevasse of being treated like multifaceted human beings or like cracked pieces of china. Neither foot feels like it has landed where it should.

"If then you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God." Colossians 3:1

A common narrative I hear when I walk into church, specifically around a few select holidays, is that they "see my pain" or they "see my grief." Though well intended, I don't entirely understand why this falls so dreadfully flat and stops just short of my heart. However, clarity shone when I read through Jeremiah. Right at the beginning, in chapter one, God told him, "Before I formed you in the womb I KNEW you, and before you were born I consecrated you." 

Resurrected life has not been found in being seen, and it certainly hasn't been found in a message tailored to break stigmas or expertly cater to my pain. As our son said, that is "Cain's fruit salad sacrifice" to my hungry soul. Resurrection has been found in being known, purposefully set apart, and consecrated to God. Resurrection has been found in the immovable breadth of Truth, regardless of where it lands in the target of my shifting circumstances. 

I'm known as I face parenting roles alone next to a bunk bed. I'm known in the joys and aches of each milestone Ryan misses. I'm known in the wince of watching him hobble around on a cane. I'm known as I carry him up the stairs. I'm known as I sit on the floor and share my day as he sleeps. I'm known as I stare at the empty passenger seat.

Regardless of what I don't recognize in this valley, my treasures are storing up elsewhere and God is still showing my tired eyes an empty tomb.

Copyright 2023->Renee Sunberg