Our family took a trip down to Indianapolis a few weekends ago. It was a wonderful trip full of fun for our family. It was refreshing to be just the 5 of us, especially when our lives seem to be overtaken by children who aren't ours during the week.
But being down there, going to the places that we spent two months of our lives, smelling, seeing, hearing, touching the things that are distantly familiar and remnants of Joshua, sent me into a tail spin.
I didn't let it ruin our weekend. I held back the tears. I put on my happy face. I kissed my husband and children and I clung to Lukey. (The Lord knew how much I needed that baby.) We finished out our weekend and made it home safely. I hid my grief. I could not bring myself to tell Shane that I was struggling.
But the grief didn't end.
Those memories. They seem so distant, but they seem to close. They are wonderfully horrible memories that I just can't quite grasp. The beauty that came out of those ashes is hard for me to comprehend.
When we came home from that weekend, I hid myself in the shower. I let the hot water run over me. I just wanted the water to take away the dull ache that was growing in my heart. I made sure no one was around, and I sobbed.
It seems that since the Sunday Shower Sob Fest, I haven't been able to shake the grief. But what's worse is that I don't allow myself to cry in front of others anymore. (At least not tears of grief and mourning.) I cannot allow others to see my pain anymore. I am embarrassed by it.
Where once, I grieved so openly, I turn my head and hold back the tears. Where once I wailed, now I refuse to speak until the lump in my throat is gone. Where once I openly cried as I blogged, now I hide behind my computer screen and pray that no one sees me cry.
Yet something inside me tells me it's ok. Something inside tells me to not be ashamed because my tears, my pain, my grief are beautifully and wonderfully created from a love of my child. Something inside me tells me to reach out. But I can't. All I can do is hide.
So here I am. Sharing with you, that even 3 years later, I'm still crying. I miss my baby. I miss my baby.
I. MISS. MY. BABY.
God, give me the strength. The strength to keep ministering. The strength to keep crying. The strength to keep healing.
So here I am. Putting it all out there. Being vulnerable and being honest.
Stepping out to say that I continue to cry over the loss of my son.
And I cannot be embarrassed by it.
Because it is and there is nothing I can do to change it.