Grief.

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.”