The Boom
The boom happened a week and a half before Thanksgiving, 2020.
“I’m sorry, but your daughter has died.” The tired-looking blonde nurse spoke those words calmly, in a direct fashion, to me, my husband, and my daughter.
I listened to her words. I did. But really, what I felt and heard was a boom. A sudden crack came from the base of my brain. Not like a short bang but more like rumbling thunder.
Boom. This is not a test.
Boom. Your daughter is gone.
Boom. Welcome to the night. Hope you brought a flashlight.
After phone calls and prayer from a chaplain, all we were left with was the boom.
And no one wanted to enter the hospital room to be with my deceased daughter. My husband said he couldn’t. My little daughter begged to stay with her father. My son remained hours away, alone with his tears and grief, heeding our words, telling him not to drive up I-95 to meet us until daytime.
I had no flashlight, but I crept toward the hospital room and approached her bed anyway. A young nurse stood in the corner, nodding at me tentatively, holding back tears. Bedside, I transformed into a brave mama for the last time for my middle girl—warrior mama to the broken sparrow. I ran my fingers through her short dry hair. I rubbed the tips of her delicate fingers and memorized the feeling of blood still running warm through her veins. I massaged her nut-brown feet and surveyed the chipped purple nail polish on her toenails. And I babbled. And I apologized to her. Sorry that she’d miss the next trip to Universal Studios, but I’d never forgotten when I took her there at age nine, and we rode Pteranodon Flyers together. She’d never see BTS live. On her eighteenth birthday, we wouldn’t get to stay at The Plaza in New York and talk about Eloise, the children’s book we’d loved reading together. I wouldn’t get to be in the room to zip up her wedding dress or help her squat to give birth. I’d miss all that, and I’d miss her. That’s what I told her.
The nurse in the corner nodded to me again, “Sounds like you were a real good mama.”
I watched my tears wet the speckled floor tiles. “I tried,” I said.
The Darkness.
The boom gave birth to abrupt midnight with a missing moon. My daughter’s death day and the accompanying grief, pain, and vicious feelings of loss catapulted me right onto a darkened road without a guide. To stumble home into a new reality was a journey like none other I’d ever experienced, and sometimes I felt like family members walked right beside me. Still, most times, my relationship with my teenage daughter was so precious and personal, no one else, not even my husband, could understand that death had ripped out a piece of my heart.
I’d never felt pain like that before. Not when Nana died or when Daddy died. Not even when the doctors told me I nearly hemorrhaged to death after giving birth to my third child.
This was different.
It was open, yawning, silent but screaming dark that swallowed me whole and pantomimed to me, telling me I had to remain in agony. That type of darkness didn’t go away when I woke up and slid open the curtains in the morning. No. It breathed and lived and changed my brain chemistry, erasing my ability to think positively. It permanently changed my personality in the three days immediately following my child’s death. I learned to smile outwardly. I play-acted talking, hugging, and consoling my husband, son, and daughter.
Alone, seven days after the boom, lying in bed, inside the darkness with my heart slaughtered, I reasoned with myself and the Lord. Whispered to Him with ragged, tear-filled breaths: If you want me to stay…give me another day. If there’s no reason for me to be here, cut my oxygen tonight and bring me home to you.
I woke the following day, and it dawned on me that I had to decide how to move forward. Me. No one would choose for me. I could wallow in torment for the rest of my life, reliving those midnight moments until sanity ceased.
Or I could make a different decision.
I could behave as though Jesus truly is the light of my life and focus all my thoughts and actions on the only thing giving my world illumination.
The Decision.
I figured, if all I had were God, then He would have to be all I needed to get through the good, bad, or indifferent moments for however long He allows me to remain on earth. I decided to double down on Him.
When I got up out of bed after asking God to take me home, I looked to Him for everything. Not out of drudgery but because I genuinely needed Him to survive. Morning devotions took on a different depth. Prayer times had new meaning. At night, I used my phone to play scripture or prayers while I slept. During the day, I listened to encouraging Gospel songs and Christian instrumentals. I’d wrap my arms around my husband every evening and pray with my head resting on his shoulders. I went to the Lord for comfort. I went to the Lord for insight. I even went to Lord and asked him to send light through laughter — and I’m sure he forgives me for listening to crazy Kevin Hart a few times.
The Lord heard my prayers and sent earthly angels. Friends and friends of friends who prayed on my behalf. A dear friend sent me several excellent books by author Nancy Guthrie. Guthrie’s Holding On To Hope never left my nightstand. I filled the book with multi-colored Post-It notes and highlighted every helpful scripture in it. Her writings helped me understand the boom, the darkness, and God’s ultimate invitation: to walk with him during agony and sorrow to experience his healing presence fully.
Still Here.
Though I didn’t know it at the time, my decision to hold fast to the Lord during suffering was a decision to have a closer walk with Him. The more I walked, the easier it became to endure the darkness. Holding onto God and my mind after my child passed away wasn’t easy. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I’m still here.
Still. Here.
Because He wants me to be here, in June 2021, still here were the first words I wrote on my Facebook story after abandoning social media for months.
Still. Here.
Even when I walk through the dark valley of death, I will not be afraid, for you are close beside me. Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me. (Psalm 23:4)
Still. Here.
In his kindness, God called you to his eternal glory by means of Jesus Christ. After you have suffered a little while, he will restore, support, and strengthen you, and he will place you on a firm foundation. (1 Peter 5:10)
Still. Here.
Draw close to God, and God will draw close to you. (James 4:8)
For whoever reads this, wherever you are, read my testimony and understand that no matter what you have been through or what you’re currently going through, there is a God who will walk with you through pain and utter madness. If you don’t know Him, get to know Him. He is the light that holds steady in the darkness, and He will meet all your needs.
Just trust Him. He will be there for you.
