WELP....I THOUGHT I HAD IT...NOPE MY SOUL IS TIRED!!!!

The Levees Broke: I Finally Cried for Jaxon

P.S. before I even begin:

I don't know what version of me is writing this.

Yesterday, I thought I did.

Lately, I have had a few mornings where I woke up and thought, Oh. I recognize this girl. She was here yesterday.

That might not sound like much to somebody who has never had grief rearrange their identity every twenty-four hours, but to me, that was progress.

Because for a while, every morning has felt like meeting another version of myself.

Some days I am faithful.

Some days I am furious.

Some days I am peaceful.

Some days I am anxious.

Some days I am laughing so hard I almost forget.

Some days I remember before my feet hit the floor.

Sometimes devastation, destruction, and deliverance all happen before dinner.

Welcome to grief.

Welcome to faith.

Welcome to being human.

And if you need your testimony wrapped neatly with a bow before somebody tells it, this probably isn't for you.

Because I don't think testimony belongs only to the version of us standing on the other side saying, Look what God did.

Sometimes testimony sounds like:

God, what the hell is happening?

And today, that is where mine begins.

Today, the levees broke.

I went to Jaxon's columbarium today.

I had been there before. I went when everything was being set up. I went afterward. And I went back for his first Heavenly birthday.

People had left cards for him.

Beautiful cards.

Prayers.

Love.

Evidence that my baby had been remembered.

And when his birthday was over, I couldn't take them down.

I said:

They can stay until Leo season is over.

Well.

Leo season is over.

So today I went back.

I walked around that corner—

and lost it.

Not cried.

Not got emotional.

Not shed a few tears.

I wailed.

The kind of cry that doesn't ask your permission before it comes out of your body.

The kind where your body knows something your brain has spent months negotiating around.

And standing there, I finally understood:

I have not cried for Jaxon.

Oh, I've cried.

I have cried for damn near everybody.

I've cried for myself.

I've cried for my marriage.

I've cried for friendships.

I've cried for family.

I've cried for my mama.

I've cried for my daddy.

I've cried for people who showed up wrong.

I've cried for people who didn't show up at all.

I've cried for relationships that don't look anything like what I thought they were.

I've cried for suffering.

I've cried for humanity.

I've cried for peace.

I've cried because morning keeps coming and some mornings I don't understand why I have to keep getting up with it.

I've cried because I'm tired.

I've cried because I'm angry.

I've cried because sometimes anxiety is real.

Panic attacks are real.

Depression is real.

And somehow, in the middle of all of that, joy is real too.

Kindness is real.

Meekness is real.

Love is real.

God is real.

All these things can apparently be true at the same damn time.

But today I realized something that stopped me cold:

I had not cried for my baby.

I had not cried because Jaxon died.

Because if I cried for Jaxon—

then it happened.

Really happened.

Not medically.

Not administratively.

Not the way I had to understand it to plan his service.

Not the way I understood it when I stood up and gave my own child's eulogy.

Not the way Mama Lion understood it when there were things to handle.

I mean:

My baby died.

Jaxon is gone from where I can touch him.

And apparently my heart knew I wasn't ready to know that yet.

Until today.

Nine months later, I turned a corner at a columbarium and there was nowhere left for the truth to hide.

And the levees broke.

JAXON WAS MY STABILIZER.

That's what I finally understood.

Jaxon was my stabilizer.

And maybe somebody hears that and thinks that wasn't healthy.

Maybe somebody thinks I put all my eggs in one basket.

Someone said something to me that, whether they meant it this way or not, landed in my spirit like:

You put everything into him. You shouldn't have done that.

And I need to address that.

Because I have carried it.

No.

Absolutely not.

I was his mother.

What was I supposed to do?

Diversify my motherhood?

Save twenty percent of myself somewhere else just in case my child died?

No.

I went all in.

I loved Jaxon to infinity and beyond.

To the moon and back.

And if God rewound my life and told me exactly how the story would end, I would love that boy all the way again.

Every appointment.

Every medication.

Every piece of equipment.

Every teammate.

Every relationship I built.

Every question.

Every fight.

Every prayer.

Every hospital.

Every routine.

Every phone call.

Every decision.

Every time something got out of order and I figured out how to put it back in order.

I learned what Jaxon needed.

Then I became it.

Not because I didn't have a life.

Because I was his mama.

And love does that.

Jesus said:

“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends.”John 15:13

I laid pieces of mine down every day for my son.

Gladly.

Jaxon needed consistency.

And if you know anything about me, you know consistency is my love language with life.

I need things to feel familiar.

I like knowing where the ground is.

Jaxon gave my life rhythm.

There was a schedule.

There were people.

There were responsibilities.

There were systems.

There was always something that needed Mama.

And I knew how to do that.

If something went sideways?

I handled it.

If something got out of order?

I put it back in order.

And then Jaxon died.

And suddenly the thing that had organized so much of my life disappeared.

So maybe part of what I have been calling instability isn't me losing my mind.

Maybe somebody removed the floor and I've been trying to learn how to stand without it.

That's different.

And Shantrael deserves some fucking grace for that.

AND THERE IT IS: GRACE.

Today, in the middle of my own version of Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, I had another revelation.

I thought:

If I gave myself a fraction of the grace I give everybody else, I might actually be okay.

Whew.

Because I can give everybody grace.

I can understand your childhood.

Your trauma.

Your fear.

Your limitations.

Your grief.

Your intentions.

Your capacity.

Your lack of capacity.

I can understand why you did what you did while simultaneously bleeding from what you did.

I will find context for everybody.

And then I turn toward myself and say:

Get your ass up.

No.

Why?

Why is everybody else allowed to be human except me?

Why do I expect myself to experience catastrophic loss and somehow remain untouched by catastrophe?

Today I looked like what I've been through.

And that bothered me.

Because I pride myself on not looking like what I've been through.

Today?

Baby, I looked like it.

Because today I felt it.

And maybe that's not regression.

Maybe that's grief finally feeling safe enough to come out.

BUT THEN CAME THE QUESTION I DIDN'T WANT TO SAY OUT LOUD.

Do I think I deserved this?

Is there some part of me that thinks Jaxon died because I did something wrong?

Because I loved too hard?

Because I made motherhood too central?

Because I put all my eggs in one basket?

Is some part of me carrying punishment that God never gave me?

My brain likes equations.

Things should reconcile.

Cause.

Effect.

Debit.

Credit.

If something this catastrophic happened, my mind wants to know what caused it.

And when there is no explanation big enough, grief sometimes turns around and accuses the person who survived.

Maybe it was me.

But that theology doesn't survive Scripture.

In John 9, Jesus and His disciples encountered a man who had been blind from birth.

Immediately, the disciples wanted somebody to blame:

“Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents...?”John 9:2

Jesus rejected the premise.

And in Luke 13, Jesus again challenged the belief that people who experienced terrible tragedy must somehow have been worse than everybody else.

So I need this written somewhere I can come back and read it when grief starts prosecuting me again:

JAXON WAS NOT A PAYMENT.

Jaxon wasn't God's invoice.

His death wasn't God collecting a debt.

My grief isn't proof that I deserved punishment.

And loving my child completely wasn't a mistake.

PeriodT.

NOW, GOD, WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT HEAVEN.

Because today apparently wasn't complicated enough.

I started thinking about something I've heard and something Scripture actually says.

The Bible repeatedly describes death as sleep.

When Lazarus died, Jesus said:

“Our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep; but I am going there to wake him up.”John 11:11

Paul writes about believers who have “fallen asleep” and says that when Christ returns, the dead in Christ will rise.

1 Thessalonians 4:13–17.

And 1 Corinthians 15 centers our hope on something Christianity sometimes doesn't talk about nearly enough:

resurrection.

So wait.

Is Jaxon sleeping?

Is he waiting for resurrection?

Because if he is, God, I have questions.

Where have I been trying to go?

Where have I been hoping to meet him?

And why haven't I seen him?

Because I have asked.

Lord, You know I have asked.

I have prayed.

Other people have prayed.

People I know can pray have been praying.

We've been praying in numbers like we're trying to bust heaven's door down.

Just let Mama see him.

Once.

Let me see him whole.

Let me see him running.

Let me hear him.

Let me know.

And I still haven't dreamed about Jaxon.

Not once.

So today my mind went:

Is that why?

Is my baby asleep?

Did I misunderstand heaven?

Did I inherit somebody else's interpretation and mistake it for Scripture?

And here's where I have to be careful, because faith doesn't mean pretending the Bible says something it doesn't.

Scripture uses the language of sleep and future resurrection.

But Scripture also gives us this:

Jesus told the thief on the cross:

“Today you will be with me in paradise.”Luke 23:43

Paul says his desire is to “depart and be with Christ.”

Philippians 1:23.

And he writes about being away from the body and at home with the Lord.

2 Corinthians 5:8.

Christians have wrestled for centuries over exactly what consciousness looks like between death and resurrection.

I don't know that Scripture gives me every mechanical detail I desperately want as Jaxon's mama.

But Scripture gives me something bigger:

Death does not get the final word.

Resurrection does.

And Jesus said:

“Let the little children come to me... for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”Matthew 19:14

So whether I completely understand the space between death and resurrection or not—

I know who holds my baby.

And I have to be careful not to turn the absence of a dream into evidence of the absence of God.

The Bible never promised me that if I prayed hard enough, my child would visit my dreams.

That hurts to write.

Because God—

I still want it.

I'm his mama.

I want to see my baby.

I want that dream.

And I am going to keep being honest enough to tell You that.

Jacob wrestled with God and said:

“I will not let you go unless you bless me.”Genesis 32:26

Well.

Hello.

It's me.

I have questions.

And I'm still holding on.

Those things can coexist.

BECAUSE THAT'S THE PART PEOPLE DON'T TALK ABOUT.

I can have faith and questions.

I can experience joy and depression.

Peace and panic.

Deliverance and devastation.

I can love God and ask Him:

What the hell is happening?

Every time I think we have reached some kind of resolution, another storm comes.

Tsunami.

Earthquake.

Hurricane.

Category Five.

Tornado.

Except this tornado doesn't destroy the whole neighborhood.

It comes down my street, finds my address and says:

That house.

And here's the wild part.

Standing in the destruction of my own house, I still don't want anybody else's house destroyed.

I don't want anybody else to feel this.

I don't need somebody else to hurt because I hurt.

And maybe that's evidence of something I need to remember about myself:

My heart is still good.

My life may look wrecked.

My face may look wrecked today.

My theology may have question marks.

My identity may be shifting.

My soul may be exhausted.

But suffering did not make me want suffering for somebody else.

That's worth noticing.

MY SOUL IS TIRED, GOD.

Not sleepy.

Tired.

There's a difference.

I know the Scripture.

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.”Psalm 30:5

And God...

I know “night” ain't necessarily eight hours.

I understand that.

You are Alpha and Omega.

Beginning and End.

You operate in eternity.

My entire lifetime is basically 0.0000000000001 on Your clock.

Cool.

But respectfully:

WHEN IS MORNING?

When is the joy coming?

And what am I supposed to do until then?

Is joy something You're bringing?

Something I create?

Something already inside me?

Do I release something?

Forgive something?

Forgive myself?

Stand?

Sit?

Fight?

Surrender?

What?

Because I'm thirsty.

You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink.

Well, God—

lead me.

I'm thirsty.

If You put the water in front of me, I will drink it.

I'll take a gulp right now.

And maybe—

just maybe—

today You showed me where some of the water is.

Grace.

For me.

MAYBE MORNING DOESN'T MEAN I STOP CRYING.

Maybe morning means I finally can.

Maybe healing isn't becoming the woman who doesn't hurt anymore.

Maybe healing is becoming a woman who doesn't punish herself for hurting.

Elijah once reached a place where he had simply had enough.

He sat beneath a tree and told God:

“I have had enough, LORD.”1 Kings 19:4

And I love what God did next.

He didn't lecture him.

He didn't tell Elijah he needed stronger faith.

He didn't hand him a purpose statement.

Elijah slept.

God fed him.

Elijah slept again.

God fed him again.

1 Kings 19:5–8.

Sometimes God answers spiritual exhaustion with spiritual revelation.

And apparently sometimes the answer is:

Baby, eat something and go to sleep.

I receive that ministry.

Because I'm tired.

AND I THINK I FINALLY UNDERSTAND WHAT HAPPENED AT THAT COLUMBARIUM.

I didn't fail today.

I didn't lose progress.

I didn't fall apart because I'm getting worse.

I finally grieved Jaxon.

Not everything surrounding his death.

Not everybody affected by his death.

Not what his death did to my marriage.

Not what his death did to relationships.

Not what his death did to my identity.

Not what God might someday do with his story.

Him.

Jaxon.

My baby.

And before anybody—including me—turns that into a lesson:

Jaxon does not have to become a metaphor for his life to matter.

He wasn't born so I could become a speaker.

He wasn't here merely to create Mama Lion.

He wasn't an assignment designed to produce a ministry.

He wasn't preparation.

He wasn't a lesson.

He wasn't a chapter.

He was Jaxon.

A little boy.

My little boy.

He was here.

He had a mama who learned him.

I knew him without needing words.

I learned what he needed because loving him required me to pay attention.

I organized worlds around making sure he was okay.

And I loved doing it because I loved him.

Maybe that's why today was so violent.

Because for nine months there has been so much to grieve about everything that happened because Jaxon died.

Today there was nothing between me and the simplest, most unbearable sentence:

My son died.

And his mama misses him.

That's it.

No lesson.

No revelation.

No bow.

No ministry.

No testimony required.

Just:

I miss my baby.

And God—

You were there.

Because Your Word says:

“The LORD is close to the brokenhearted.”Psalm 34:18

So if that Scripture is true, You were close today.

Not waiting for me to stop crying.

Close while I wailed.

You heard that sound come out of my body.

You saw me finally look exactly like what I have been through.

And You didn't leave.

Maybe I don't need to know who Shantrael is tonight.

Maybe I don't need another transformation.

Maybe Mama Lion doesn't need to get up.

Maybe Corporate Diva doesn't need to solve anything.

Maybe Hope Dealer doesn't have to hand anybody hope tonight.

Maybe the woman with the testimony doesn't need to make today's pain useful.

Maybe I can just be somebody's daughter.

Your daughter.

And maybe tonight my entire prayer gets to be:

Daddy, I miss my baby.

That's it.

No church language.

No closing argument.

No explanation.

Daddy, I miss Jaxon.

And I believe You can handle the rest.

Today, the levees broke.

So I'm not cleaning up the water tonight.

I'm not apologizing for it.

I'm not calling it weakness.

I'm not forcing joy because morning is promised.

I'm going to let myself be the woman who walked around that corner and finally understood that the child who stabilized her entire world isn't physically here anymore.

And I'm going to give that woman the same grace she would give everybody else.

Because she deserves some too.

Tomorrow can be tomorrow.

TODAY?

I cried for Jaxon.

My Jaxon.

I loved him to infinity and beyond.

I loved him to the moon and back.

I was all in.

I would be all in again.

I am his mama.

Death does not get to take that from me.

And before I close my eyes tonight, I need to say his name one more time.

Jaxon.

He was here.

He was loved completely.

He changed the rhythm of my entire existence simply by being mine.

He does not have to teach us anything tonight.

He does not have to represent anything tonight.

He does not have to become anything tonight.

Tonight,

he gets to simply be Jaxon.

And I get to simply be his mama.

The levees broke today.

Let the water run.

I'll clean up another day.

~ I DON'T KNOW WHO I AM TA'DAY......BUT I AM STILL STANDING (BARELY)