If things hadn't gone the way they did 12-plus years ago --if his eye had never turned inward during dinner on that fateful Sunday signaling the cancer that ultimately ended his life at the tender age of 5 1/2-- Logan would be graduating from high school tonight. Two years after his big sister. Two and five years prior to his little brothers.
Today. May 31, 2024. It's a date that I've seen looming and faced with trepidation for years.
Forgive the excessive detail and melodrama. In some ways, I'm still grappling with the jagged truth that no one will call out his name and that he won't stroll triumphantly across the stage to claim his diploma. That there is no cap and no gown for us today. The reality is cold and stark and unfriendly.
I've avoided dealing with these feelings, mostly because they're too hard. Too raw. Too personal. So personal that even though it's my reality, it's almost like I'm horning in on someone else's life. Some poor woman who lost her baby boy and isn't entirely sure how to cope with this latest milestone that won't happen. Or if she even can.
But no, she's me. Most of the time I'm at peace with what happened; after all, God is sovereign. He knows what He's doing. And He chose not to extend Logan's earthly life. That particular truth --that He didn't intervene and give him back to us to live a fruitful life on earth-- is the bitterest of pills to swallow. In fact, I refused to swallow it for a long while; I choked on its edges and spat it back up time and again until I finally clued in to the Voice of Truth that had always whispered "trust me. I know what I'm doing. Just rest in that."
And although it doesn't make any more sense now than it did 12 years ago, that's what I do. Most days, anyway.
But today hurts more than most nonetheless. And I know that's okay because I know God knows that it hurts, even now, 12 years later. It hurts to not be sitting in the bleachers during the endnotes of a stunningly lovely 85-degree day, watching my Sunshine and His peers in their sunglasses. (They'd have sunglasses partly because of the sun's rays but mostly to hide the feelings that would leak from their eyes at unexpected junctures reminding them that life will be different from now on. And that would be scary but exciting.)
And all of that will happen for the kids who were --and would've been--his peers. They'll have those moments and the cap and gown and the party and the sunglasses and the tears -- some private during introspective moments and some out in the open. And I don't begrudge them that happiness. I've seen photos and college destination announcements on Facebook and although I can't bring myself to comment for fear that I'll crack open and bleed, I've been happy for all of them. But I mourn for myself. I mourn that I can't have a party to celebrate him because his "graduation" party --when he graduated to Heaven-- happened when he was 5. I mourn the chaos that could've been. Part of me wants to stand up and shout "but my kid should be here too! Remember him? He was with you for a while! Please remember his grin and his strawberry blonde hair and the way he danced and loved cars."
So yes, it's a challenging day. But I'm breathing a lot and leaning heavily into the promise of Psalm 34:18, which says that God is close to the brokenhearted. Because that's the best thing I can do on a day like today.
