Surviving the Death of a Child, Part Four

Part Four: Public Pain

Heaven was far from my mind.

All I could think about was earth—soil, dirt, and clay. Soon, part of us would be buried in the ground. Emily’s body had mixed with mine to make a new life. Joseph Bayly said it well: “In a way that is different from any other human relationship, a child is bone of his parents’ bone, flesh of their flesh.” This idea disturbed me. I would toss a handful of dirt on Nicaea’s casket, and then they would pile on pounds of clay. It felt like I was locking my little girl up. Part of us was trapped under the earth. Of course, this wasn’t true, but feelings often overwhelm facts. And this felt true.

We were running late for the funeral. I pushed my feelings of horror deep down and locked them away. Someone had to be strong, right? I gathered all the strength I had and got us on the road. It had only been 48 hours since we couldn’t find the heartbeat.

Things had moved quickly. We decided to fast-track the funeral since many family members were already in town. My wife had crafted a tiny floral arrangement from her garden to put on the casket. I watched it bounce around in her lap as we followed the hearse to Presbyterian Cemetery. Its simple beauty was a welcome relief on a gloomy day.

The graveside sermon was good. I don’t recall any of the points, but I remember it being helpful. What happened after the sermon left an indelible impression on my heart.

After the service, each attendee, one after another, came up to offer condolences to my family. It was a long line of teary-eyed friends, family, and church members. Some of them we knew well; others not so much. Regardless, I resolved to hug each one, and that I did—but with some unexpected results. Those locked-up emotions? They kicked down the door and busted their way out. So much for being strong.

Rarely do I allow people to see me cry. My own wife had only seen me cry three or four times in thirteen years (things have changed since then). What caused me to show weakness? It took a while to figure out, but I finally connected the dots. I felt free to cry when I hugged Christian brothers who had publicly gone through something painful.

One guy had confessed and repented of a heinous sin. He dealt with it according to Scripture. It was beautiful. The moment his arms wrapped around me, my heart unlocked. This man knew pain, and he knew his hope was in the church and in Christ. It couldn’t be found elsewhere. I wept. He, like so many others I hugged that day, had allowed their pain to become public property. Their weakness had become my strength.

Broken. Devastated. Needy. In the midst of that graveyard, I was being reinitiated into the community of the weak. Isn’t that what the church is meant to be? The strong aren’t welcomed in the church of the living God—not the strong as defined by this world. Paul says, “God has chosen the weak things of the world to shame the things which are strong.” Even he needed to learn this lesson.

Scripture isn’t demeaning physical strength or strength of character. It’s highlighting the kind of weakness that brings you to your limits and forces you to depend on God. Remember what God told the struggling Apostle? “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.”

Funerals are a stark display of mankind’s ultimate weakness: we die. Though this last enemy has been conquered by Christ, it will not be fully vanquished until the end of this age. None of us possess the strength to prevent our loved ones from being claimed by death. He is an unstoppable thief, deserving only hatred and revulsion.

When I was 18, I attended my grandfather’s “Celebration of Life.” There was no casket. As I recall, he had been cremated. There may have been an urn, but if so, it was off to the side. There were some teary eyes, but I don’t remember any weeping or obvious displays of grief. Instead, there were finger foods, laughter, and lots of pictures of my dad’s dad. To me, it all felt dishonest.

I never knew my grandfather, and now, in this life, I never would. I had lost him forever. So had my father, uncles, aunts, and cousins who did know him. It made sense to find joy in remembering the good times, but those times were over. This was a public loss, and public loss deserves public tears and grieving. After all, you’re not supposed to cry at celebrations.

There is such a temptation to escape pain, especially when it is public. I had selfishly decided to have a closed casket. There was no good reason for it. Nicaea wasn’t disfigured—she was perfect. I just knew that an open casket would make me cry, though I cried anyway. My boys, however, never got to see their sister’s body. There’s something about seeing the lifeless body of a loved one that allows you to fully grieve. My desire to avoid pain likely prolonged theirs.

You can only avoid pain and grief for so long. It will catch up with you one way or another. You can’t outrun it—you must face it. Grief is both a public and private journey. As the saying goes, when you’re going through hell, keep going.

Nicaea’s spirit was with God, and her body was laid in the ground. We thought this would be the hardest part of the journey. We were wrong. Funerals, like all public events, have beginnings and ends. Life, however, goes on. That’s the hard part.

I had to return to work. Emily had to care for the boys and manage the home. We still had a church, a small group, and friends. Their lives remained the same. Ours was overshadowed by a cloud and haunted by a great absence. We had a long way to go to climb out of this valley. But the Lord is a strong shepherd, and we believe He’d lead us through.