Grief. When I think of the last three months, that is the
overwhelming thought in my mind. Unending, ever-new, constant, raw grief. It started
in August when we lost our third child, Eden Desi Goggans. We won’t know until
heaven whether Eden was a boy or girl, but we found the meaning of the names—“delight
longed for”— fitting.
Since that point, we have lost three grandmothers between the
two of us. Just this past week, my 6 month old in-utero nephew went to meet his
cousin Eden. Like Eden, Judah Avishai Christofi—meaning “One who praises God”
and “Gift of my Father”— never drew breath outside of the womb, but he already
made his niche in the hearts of his family.
Some days I feel like I am barely holding my head above the
dark and quickly-whirling waters of heartache. The pain of losing a child—both physically and
emotionally—and in quick succession three women who have loved us so well,
followed by the unexpected death of a nephew has left me reeling. How to
process? How to grieve? I am trying to walk the fine line between wallowing in
sorrow and pushing the pain away without dealing with it. I do not want to give grief its own life, but nor do I want to ignore the pain that these deaths have caused—only to let the
hurt fester below the surface, unattended.
I’ve felt the tension that Ecclesiastes mentions—a time to weep
and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance. From some people I have felt pushed to not be
sad. After all, as a believer, I have a hope to see these fellow believers
again in heaven. Death is not to be feared, for Christ conquered death to give
us eternal life through Him. How can a truly Godly girl be deeply sad over the
death of a mother in Christ? Yet I am sad. I’m not ready to laugh or dance. I’m not
ready to move past the tears and the mourning.
On the other hand, though, I do hold onto the knowledge that
they are in a better place, and that
I will see them again. How then do I
reconcile the grief I feel over losing them and allow myself time to mourn
while recognizing that there is hope in Christ for life after death?
Tonight, driving home from Andrew’s grandmother’s funeral in
West Virginia, I was thinking about these last weeks and how bombarded by
constant loss I’ve felt. In my mind, I was going back and forth over how to
move on from here—how to grieve well, and where do I go now? How do these
deaths affect and change me for the future? My chest tightened and my throat
tensed and I could feel the backslide of grief from this weekend threatening to
overtake me as I drove. Before it could, though, the phrase, “His mercies are
new every morning” popped into my head.
Turning the thought over in my mind, I realized how true
that is—even in, and perhaps especially in, the face of these last weeks. When
we looked at things this summer, we decided we just couldn’t afford a trip up
north to see extended family this fall. Somehow—I’m still not sure how—we have
managed six 16 hour+ trips in the time since that decision—each trip to either
say goodbye to someone or go to their funeral. When I look at how little sleep
Andrew and I have gotten this fall and how constantly it seems we have been
bombarded by new sorrow, unexpected trips, the need to push to finish school,
and fitting work in around it all, I am amazed at how our relationship has not
suffered, but has rather flourished. Looking at the fact that we live with
family (or, in Andrew’s case, in-laws) in a tiny three-bedroom apartment, and
considering how much has been going on, it blows my mind how easy it has been
to just be. To sit in silence and
know that we are one. To love and be loved. To talk. To cry together. To stay
united in parenting our children. I think how easily this could be a hellish
experience for a marriage—inlaws, miscarriage, loss. Yet it has brought us
closer together, and for that I am so thankful.
I am thankful for this time of being with my family. For
their help in watching the kids as we work and finish school, for their
shouldering some of our grief in mourning loved ones. For weeping with us.
I am thankful for the way, when our car died and threatened
to turn our life upside down, friends generously stepped in and shared their
car with us.
I am thankful for mercy of having kids who travel well. We’ve
certainly covered enough miles in the last few weeks, and it is only now that
they are starting to struggle with the time in the car. It could have been so
much worse.
I am thankful for having such a wonderful support team of
good friends here in Cary—friends who regularly lift us up in prayer and who
have been by us throughout this whole saga of grief.
I am thankful for the mercy of seeing extended family come
together in unity and love, mourning together for the loss of a dear family
member. I’m thankful to be a part of such wonderful families.
I’m thankful that Meredith, our formerly stranger-shy and
fussy little baby, has transformed into a happy, laughing, mischievous and
mostly out-going toddler just in time to meet dozens of family members for
weeks on end.
I hurt right now. I ache and miss and remember and hurt some
more. I might not be ready to dance, but I can see God’s mercies to us in the
family we have, the friends we’re surrounded with, the prayer warriors who cry to
God for us as we weep, and the ever-better road Andrew and I traverse as a
couple. Life is rocky and full of hurt, but God is with us. He is faithful, He
is loving, and He is merciful. We mourn for our children, but each of us--my sister and her husband, Andrew and I-- gave
our unborn child back to God, trusting in God’s love, mercy, justice, and
knowledge. We rest assured that our God is a God of justice and love and that
before Eden and Judah were formed, God knew them. He knit them together in our
wombs, and He knew them. For our grandmothers,
I mourn, but I look to the future when I will see them again in Glory. I weep,
but I am thankful for their lives. I grieve, but I have hope.
In the end, “He has shown [me], O mortal, what is good. And
what does the Lord require of [me]? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk
humbly with [my] God.”
