That longest of afternoons, evenings and that first morning

July 1 is no longer a dark memory, instead it is a fond memorial for a season of life we truly found God.  Not that we needed to “find” God, but we found a way through an impossible season of grief carried by our faith underpinned by the unknown and untold prayers of the hundreds and possibly thousands.

But it was that first day, when we were still dazed in considerable numbness, not knowing what to feel, that we found ourselves in that first afternoon, that first evening, and that first morning after.

It’s like the time you or a loved one had your or their cancer diagnosis—a prognosis that seemed or was terminal.  You reeled from numbness to disbelief to sheer despair all within a minute or so.

Our prognosis was terminal.  Though Nathanael was growing very well!

That first afternoon I recall a visit from a couple of family members and the main concern was for logistics because they knew that’s all that could be offered.  We weren’t in a position where we could be helped.  There was nothing that could help us that day.

We needed to be able to be together as a husband and wife with their 15-month-old son.  We needed to simply live out that first afternoon, that first eerily quiet evening, the vacuous din of a serene yet empty morning after the first day.

I recall posting our ultrasound scan photo as a slide with a few bullet points on it for people to pray.  I found it unconscionable to not reach out.  As a pastor within a church of 300+ people, we would either keep this private or we’d be bold in seeking prayer—we chose the latter.

Keeping it private neither served us nor did it serve that church because people wanted to support one another.  Besides, I was the pastor of pastoral care, and it made no sense to hold everyone out.

So I posted the photo and then wrote an article I titled, When Bad News Becomes Brokeness.

Part of that article were these words:

Leaving the ultrasound consulting rooms, having been waived of the fee, a meld of shock and watery eyes, the thing I noticed was how comparatively inconsiderate people were. But they didn’t know what we did. It wasn’t their fault. We had such special information. Suddenly we are positioned in the frustrating dilemma that the world is far behind; our friends and relatives have no idea and breaking the news brings all kinds of reactions – sadness, of course, guilt, silence, echoes of support, and even naivety.

As I look back now, my main interest is curiosity for what exactly we felt.  I want to be back there, connected to a time when I needed to be connected.  It feels as if a key wrestle of that moment was just how to break the news, not knowing how people would respond, and not wanting others’ responses to affect us—whether it was that we might be ignored, placated, or possibly worse, mollycoddled.

As I sat at the computer in the early 6AM time that following morning, I was perhaps the numbest I’d been, yet strangely raw, and still desperate to DO something.

I do like to connect with that time, and I think this is proof that the hardest times of loss we face will often be the making of us afterwards if only we can keep stepping in faith.

As I look back on that day eight years ago, I actually want to go back there and just sit with my former self.