This is not going to be as long as previous years, but it seems just as important this year to share something of our hearts at this time given that we have in previous years.
Have a look in the gorgeous eyes of my wife as she holds Nathanael. I see a mix of grief with bravery — the capacity to endure whatever “is” of the present circumstance, and that was pretty much how Sarah was throughout the entire season we had of losing Nathanael. Mothers know this, but not everyone does. Mothers do what needs to be done.
Sarah as a mother has always had the correct poise throughout the last 10 years of our journey. There were times early on where she struggled, but as soon as real church ministry opened up for me — 10 years ago tomorrow — she was the best asset any pastor could ask for. Sarah’s wisdom has been absolutely fundamental to the sustainability of my service for God.
But these matters are an aside.
Eight years on tomorrow marks the occasion of the stillbirth of our cherished son, Nathanael. Our remembering him is all we have left when there are other parents with eight-year-olds who watch them grow throughout their lifespan. Anyone who has lost a child knows; once they’re gone, they’re that age forever. There is no more growth to watch.
The eyes hold a lot of interest, and even though I’d selfishly like to keep the peering into my wife’s eyes to myself, there’s so much that can be pondered in simply wondering about what was going through Sarah’s mind and heart that early morning after Nathanael had been stillborn.
Heartfelt had previously agreed to send one of their pro-bono photographers to us because we knew that Nathanael would not survive. She took a whole bunch of candids and posed shots for us. They’re treasured possessions. All we have to remember Nathanael’s whole life is a large shoe box of things.
We remember taking Nathanael with us everywhere we could before he arrived, though the most common place we found ourselves was in hospital on the regular weekly appointments that would often last all day — especially the eight amnioreductions, but the amniocentesis, the appointments with geneticists, the palliative care team, the chaplain, additional scans, etc. It was never ending. The entire season was a breakneck pace. Even though we had the support of both sets of our parents, other family and close friends, we still had barely enough time to do everything we needed to do, and add to this, by about 22 weeks, Sarah didn’t have the energy or ability otherwise to do the physical things, so I had to become a house husband AND work as a pastor. It was easily the most stressful time of our lives. BUT we were unequivocally united throughout.
Having been a school chaplain for nearly five years subsequently, I was there when the kindergartners arrived in February 2019. Every time I went into one of those Kindergarten classes to read a book to students, or spend time one-on-one with a student, or simply engage in play with students, I was sombrely mindful that THIS was where Nathanael would be had circumstances been different.
One thing you never miss as a parent of a child who has died is you track those who continue on with their lives; those and their parents who would have no idea what they can only take for granted. Until you suffer loss you don’t understand what you’ve truly got. It’s the same for us all. There are losses we’ve not had that we can only endeavour to empathise with.
This year, we approach Nathanael’s heaven day knowing Mum is with him. We’re comforted that they’re both in Glory, with Debbie, Mum and Dad’s daughter and my sister who was stillborn on September 21, 1973.
We acknowledge that we’re humbled knowing that our God has us, and that from the vantage point of having been healed about as much as we can, that God is using what we’ve learned for his Kingdom purpose.
All this would not be if Nathanael had not come, if he had not existed. Thank you, son.
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