We had a birthday today in our house and I had a started to write a blog about how much I loved our kid, but it just wasn’t coming out right.  So, this is what I wrote on Facebook, which just describes him to a “T”.

“the B-Man is 3 today. he’s the cutest 3 year old i know. he’s funny. he’s sweet. he has a great belly laugh. he loves sword fighting and can take down his older brother. he loves his sisters. he loves monster trucks and chee-chow (aka lightening mcqueen) and mater. he loves pizza, hot dogs, chips, apples, pears, carrots and pasta. this little guy was the best surprise in the world! we thank Jesus for 3 great years with him.”

It’s not that I don’t want to talk about Boston.  I do.  He’s the coolest three year old I know, but something else has been on my heart.  Over the last week and it has to do with all children.

A little over a week ago, a friend and I were instant messaging back and forth and she shared with me that her friends’ son, who was 13, had suffered from a headache and then seizure,s which had left him with very little brain activity.  It was very sudden for their family and friends.  When the family decided to take him off life support, my friend contacted me again to let us know.  We had been praying for them.  Then we started talking about grief.  Loss. Suffering. Jesus in it all. Good conversation.  Hard conversation.

I came home from an evening of writing, and told my  husband what we had been talking about.  I said to him, “It’s hard to lose a child at any age, but it seems harder when they’re older.  You know them.  Know their laugh.”  He said, “No.  You’re comparing.  The pain and grief is the same.  No matter how little your child is or how old they are, we should never bury children.  Ever.  Their age doesn’t make it easier or harder.  It’s always hard.”

I’ve been thinking about that.  For the last week or so.  Pondering it.  Mulling it over.  It’s true.  We should never bury children.  Ever.  But we do.  It’s the sad, hard, sinful world that we live in.  We’ll be burying children until Jesus returns.  It doesn’t make it any easier, but it makes us long for Home even more.  I’ve been longing for Home this week.  Home.  Where my son is.  Where a bunch of friends’ children are.  Away from their parents, but with the best Father ever.

I’ve been thinking about how today is my son’s birthday. I am so so so so so grateful for the 3 years we’ve had with him.  He has lite up our home with his laughter, smiles and sweet prayers at dinner.  I’ve learned (again) that I have to cherish each day as it’s their last.  Cherish them.  Jesus knows the number of their days.  I don’t.  Jesus has a sweet plan for their life.

My husband said something to me the night we talked, “We had 19 hours with Eli.  No one can take that away.  19 sweet wonderful hours.”  I need to remember that everyday.  I’ve had 10 wonderful years.  I’ve had 8 learning and amazing years.  I’ve had 19 sweet hours.  I’ve had 6 exciting, passionate years.  I’ve had 3 laughter filled years.  With each child, I’ve had years or I’ve had hours.  Those are to be treasured.

Jesus knows the number of our days.  He gives us grace, mercy, compassion, comfort and groanings to make it through our grief for the remainder of our days if our children beat us Home.  For the moments and years and for knowing where my hope lies, I’m grateful.  I’m grateful for Jesus, because there’s no way to get through the years without Him.