Till We Are Home

Christmas in Texas rarely finds itself on the cold end of the thermometer. Not too cold but cool enough for longer sleeves, we stepped out of our gray SUV. The mid-day sun hit my eyes when I stepped onto the white gravel roadway, squinting and opening the door for my oldest daughter. We walked around the back of the car and onto the grass. My son carried the bag with the small Christmas tree and ornaments, my wife brought with her a garbage bag and cleaning supplies.

One of our new traditions at Christmas is to bring Izzy her own Christmas tree and decorate it together as a family.

A sweet and tender time together to make her gravesite a little more festive, to take care of her place, but also as hard and incredibly painful as it sounds. The parallel streams of joy and sorrow. 

We walked staggered up to her grave. My darling bride starts by cleaning Izzy’s headstone, tenderly looking after even the crevices of the words etched in the marble. A mama’s love and care for her kiddos does not end when they go home. My son and I stand around a bit awkwardly at first not entirely sure what to do, while my oldest daughter talks to her mama as she cleans, helping her with the supplies.

We take away the old spray of flowers – seasonably colored for the fall – then set up the Christmas tree. My wife and daughter work on getting the limbs just right while my son and I open the ornaments. We take turns putting different ornaments on the tree until all of them are hung. Some are not turned the right way, but today I just don’t have the heart to fix them.

I stand over the grave, watching my loved ones engage in this precious family activity and my heart just sinks. Fresh waves hit me from time-to-time with the reality we find ourselves in. This is one of those days.

I don’t know what to do in those moments. I’m talking to the Lord through it all, mostly in disbelief and sadness, just asking Him to be near. The wind blows, the leaves rumble by in front of her gravestone…my daughter’s white…marble…gravestone. 

Before we leave, though, we take a picture. We gather around like we always do; we know our spots in a selfie. I snap the picture, and it hits me. It hits me hard…for years, we took family pictures, we took selfies of us doing so many different things. And, like I said, we all know what to do. One thing I’ve always adjusted the camera for was the height difference of our family. I’m 6’1” (my son taller now than me), but my bookend Izzy was always my short stack. 

Now, though, instead of that precious shorty, my camera adjusted to include Izzy’s grave. The camera angle adjusted more dramatically than in the past. Our family photo did not have her in the middle…but her headstone stood in her place. 

The picture was taken. And it hit me hard. What kind of family photo is this? What are those smiles on our faces in this place? 

That moment was tough, and it stayed with me a bit longer than normal. Not all sadness dissipates into hope so easily, sometimes it lingers a little while longer. And, thankfully, this reality is not absent in Scripture. We do see sorrow and pain and hard emotions throughout the Bible like in Psalm 88.

Psalm 88 does not end on a high note. It doesn’t end in hope. Verse 13 does tell us the psalmist cries out to God and that’s a good thing, but he doesn’t sugarcoat what He’s experiencing. He doesn’t treat his situation flippantly. He doesn’t just give out trite condolences or platitudes. Sometimes life is just hard. Sometimes moments of sorrow and pain just need to be what they are. 

There are days that come with very hard moments, very hard seasons. And that was this moment for me. That was a tough experience. I just miss my little girl. 

We grab the things coming home with us and began to say our goodbyes to Isabel. My oldest two walked away and back to the car. My wife bent down to say her goodbye. I’m the last. “Bye sweet girl,” as I kiss my fingers and touched them to the top of the cold, marble stone. Then I walk away.

Oh, Lord, have mercy.