A few nights ago, little A, Mr. L, and I went to my mom and dad's house for our Sunday family dinner. We go to their house every Sunday for a family dinner, and this was no exception. When we pulled into the driveway, and got out of the car, it was freezing outside. The sky was spitting a rain and snow mixture, and the wind was gusting fiercely.
When I was a kid, growing up in that same house, we were never allowed to use the front door. We were to go through the garage, leaving the front door and its clean appearance for guests. Now that we are the guests, we get to use the front door. And so, ever since we started Sunday family dinner, we always make our way up the walk to the front door and let ourselves in. It's not very guest-ish to let yourself in, but I suppose we're hybrids that way. Guests and family.
And every time we walk up the walk to the front door, we walk past the place where Romeo Gerard is buried, and where a stone cross marks his grave. Every time, I look over at his resting place and think of him, briefly, but I rarely stop there. His burial place is not really where I am truly with him, and to tell you the truth, I can barely look at it without getting upset. So usually I glance over, and think of him, and walk past quite quickly.
On this cold, dreary afternoon, we walked up the walk, passed RG's grave, and I glanced at it as usual. But this time, I was literally struck by the rain and wind as I glanced over at his grave, such that I felt my breath escape me and couldn't breathe for a few seconds while I thought of him. I thought, "How cold, how freezing cold you must be, my sweet boy!" and I imagined, over the course of two or three seconds, how different things would be if I could have him wrapped in a blanket and snuggled to my chest, only three months old.
I know, intellectually, that his body has no need for warmth, and that the love of Christ is what keeps him out of the cold now, but I couldn't control this thought as the rain flew at my face, the wind causing each drop to sting.
The thing is, it never goes away. The love I have for him. The knowledge that he is real. The sadness over the fact that he is gone. The regret that I couldn't have saved him from dying. The realization that my life will never be as it was. That I will never have another day pass without thinking of my dead son. The reality that I must trust the Lord with this, forever.
Most days I do not cry. Most days, now, I can feel our new son kicking. Most days I rejoice in the blessings the Lord has given, including the absolute compulsion to trust Him which I could have only gained through losing RG. Most days I am happy.
But it will never really go away. Realizing that is hard.