He Should Be 4 Today

Yesterday Bekah, Benji, and I went to Joshua Tree National Park. I was in awe of the beauty of the Mojave and Colorado deserts. They meet in the middle of the park, and the differences in the two is stunning. As we drove through the park marveling at the vistas, admiring the rock formations, and taking in the cholla cacti, I couldn’t contain my wonder. Until I thought what such a desert would be like without our comfortable, climate controlled car.

What about the indigenous who first lived in this desert? They respected and honored the land, but did they fear it? Or what about those first explorers; would they have marveled at its beauty or feared its destructiveness? Was my appreciation only brought about by my comfort, or could I appreciate it without air conditioning?

Four years ago today, Bekah gave birth to Silas. Four years ago we wept uncontrollably as we held his still body. Four years ago we learned that this world, with all its beauty and wonder, can also be a stifling, hellish desert, able to destroy the life and faith of anyone in its path.

The desert we entered four years ago is one of the most oppressive, life-squelching I’ve ever experienced, but if I’ve learned anything about deserts it’s that there are eventually signs of life. Not signs of life that bring Silas back, or make it somehow “worth it.” Instead, they are signs of life that show our resilience to move forward, to honor that which was lost, and push forward to what’s ahead.

All across the Western half of Joshua Tree National Park you’ll find hundreds of the park’s namesake: the Joshua tree. Its twisted frame is evidence of the harsh realities of its habitat. The unrelenting sun, steady winds, and sporadic rain cause the trees to bend and twist, growing in unique directions. Some even appear to be in pain.

Even so they continually reach upward. In spite of their extreme circumstances, or maybe in defiance of them, they grow taller toward the sky. They bear the marks of their suffering, and while hardship is visible on their frame, their beauty is not diminished by it.

Silas left his mark on us. Losing him before we ever got to hold him bent our frames and changed the way we were growing forever. We will forever hurt, and a part of us will never be whole without him here. But I pray we will continually reach upward, defying the death around us, honoring the life that was stolen from us, showing the rest of the world that our frame, though bent, is more beautiful for having known and having loved our dear son.