1,095 Days

Three years ago, we packed up the car for our first beach day as a family after having made the big move to Florida. I didn't know seven days after this photo was taken would be the last time I saw her.

Three years ago, we packed up the car for our first beach day as a family after having made the big move to Florida. What a joyous day. Perfect weather. Warm waters. We ate dinner right on the beach. We had so many plans and dreams in our hearts for our family.

7 short days later, the doctors told me the horrific sentence no one ever wants to hear.

“I’m so sorry, we did all that we could do.

I couldn’t even cry. I sat on the cold floor of the hospital, too afraid to even go into the room.

All around her were the EMT’s who fought for her life, along with doctors and nurses. When I walked in, they parted ways. And then it was just Ellie and I.

And I still couldn’t cry.

In those moments, I was more worried of how my husband and daughters were going to handle this news than I was with processing the news myself.

And that’s been the theme of my grief journey these past 3 years.

I’ve tried to fight for the strength to push past all the grief, all the pain, all the heartbreak. Fight for the strength to get out of bed most days and continue mothering as if nothing happened. Fight to seek joy anywhere I could pretend it existed.

And it’s left me utterly exhausted.

This mask we, especially as moms, put on for others pretending that “everything is fine.”

This, “if I just busy myself with work around the house then I don’t have time to think about the pain.”

“If I don’t think about it, maybe that means I’m healed.”

It’s all lies. And it’s why you’re exhausted.

Because the truth is, on our own, we aren’t strong enough for anything.

There’s a verse in Isaiah 65 where the Lord says, “because I called and you did not answer; I spoke and you did not hear me.” Essentially God is saying, “I had my arms open and you never came to me.”

That’s what grief has done for me. Stunted my intimacy with the Lord and with the people in my life. Because, what if I get too close and they leave too?

I’ve had this image burned into my mind for the past several years of Jesus holding my hand in the left and Ellie’s hand in the right about to embark on this journey. And when I would spend time with the Lord for 3 years I would see Jesus and Ellie hand in hand a few steps in front of me with Ellie looking over her shoulder stretching her hand back towards me as if she were saying, “come on mom, we’re waiting for you.”

And for 3 years I didn’t join their hands. I was frozen in this place of despair, of anger, of deeply rooted pain.

I distracted myself with works. Leading in our church. Homeschool my kids. Pouring myself into my blog with the mindset that I’m helping people walking through grief. This is good work. “I’m doing it for you, Lord.” 

You can be doing the work, and it’s good work, but the work isn’t doing anything in you.

And that’s where I found myself.

Last month I went to a church in Sarasota and heard Pastor Alex Seeley preach and during her message she said something that I’ve repeated every single day. “Jesus didn’t die on the cross for you to cope. He died for you to experience freedom.”

I’ve been on this constant loop of coping, which I thought since it wasn’t alcohol or drugs that it was healthy. But in reality, it’s all numbing the actual pain. The moment I physically surrendered it, the moment I laid it down at an altar, the moment I admitted I wasn’t strong enough to walk this grief journey alone, was the moment I finally locked arms with Jesus in that image I had in my head and my journey into freedom actually began.

This is the first year we’ve experienced joy on this dreadful day. We took the girls to Clearwater for a little 5 day vacation. And on March 26th, which we’ve now dedicated as our “Ellie Day,” we went to Busch Gardens. We laughed. We talked about funny memories of her. We missed her fiercely.

But most importantly, we experienced a sense of freedom. We experienced the bondage of grief and trauma breaking off of us. The joy doesn’t erase the ache we have deep in our souls to see her and hug her and hear her laugh again one day. But it does give us permission to continue living right now, for our girls, for each other, and for ourselves.

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