sometimes there are no words
In one of my previous blog posts, I wrote about my wife’s and my journey with infertility and what God was teaching us about waiting and hope. After that post we waited several months before receiving the amazing news that my wife was pregnant. A few weeks later we went for our first ultrasound and learned, to our surprise and delight, that we were having twins. A few more weeks passed before we found out we were having identical twin boys. We gathered with family and bit into some blue cupcakes to make the exciting announcement. The next few months were filled with regular doctor’s visits, check-ups, and scans to see how the boys were growing. Each time we got a positive report that everything was right on track. With every ultrasound we got to see more of their developing bodies, hear their heartbeats, and smile at their precious little faces. Awe and wonder came over us as God was forming and bringing to life the family we had prayed about for years. Everything felt like it was falling into place.
And then the unimaginable happened.
While on vacation, my wife went into preterm labor and delivered our boys, Everett and Lewis, at 22 weeks. Before the delivery my body was filled with fear and shock over what was happening. After our sons were born, I was overcome by anxiety about what would happen next. Immediately doctors and nurses rushed in to sustain our boys in their first few moments of life and get them transferred to the NICU. Eventually the four of us were reunited as my wife and I watched our sons lying in incubators, hooked up to lines, and fighting to live. The whole time we held out hope for a miracle. But a day after they were born that hope vanished. The doctors told us they’d done everything they could do, but their bodies were too underdeveloped to keep going. We spent the next few hours holding Everett and Lewis against our chests before they each passed into the arms of Jesus. I have never felt pain like that before in my entire life. I didn’t even know pain like that existed.
Sometimes there are no words.
The remainder of that day was spent making memories with our sons. The following day we left the hospital without our children. As we made the drive home my mind and heart were completely numb, but I knew at that moment that our lives would never be the same. Loss had permanently changed us. In the days and weeks that followed the grief hit like a tidal wave of confusion and unanswered questions, as well as sadness and anger. Loss had created a barren present that felt empty of meaning. Memories of the past only reminded us of our loss, and hope for the future seemed too far out of reach to even imagine. I simultaneously wanted to forget and not forget at the same time. It took time for the memories to comfort rather than torment.
It’s now been six months since we’ve lost our boys, and the grief is very much still here. But I’m ok with that. I don’t think I’ll ever get over losing Everett and Lewis. I don’t believe there is such a thing as closure for something like this. Rather, I’m learning that grief is not about moving on but moving with. I’m not trying to get past my loss, instead I’m learning to integrate the loss into my life. I’m learning that grief is less about what happens to you and more about what happens in you. Grief is about allowing loss to enlarge my heart and increase my capacity to hold both joy and sorrow. Grief is teaching me that my boys live on in me and will always be a part of me. Grief is instructing me to cry out to God in complaint and lament long enough to hear him whisper, “I know what it’s like to lose a son.” Grief is increasing my longing for heaven and the renewal of all things. Grief is daring me to believe that, despite our loss, God is still writing a good story. Grief is consistently inviting me to choose life in the face of death.
I’m a different person than I was six months ago. But as a friend who knows what it’s like to lose a child has told me, “I want my child back, but I don’t want the old me back.” I think I’m just starting to believe him. So, it is though grief that I echo the words of Nicholas Wolterstorff in his book Lament for a Son: “I shall look at the world through tears. Perhaps I shall see things that dry-eyed I could not see.”
I love you, Everett and Lewis. I miss you every day and can’t wait to see you soon.
Emmett Richardson joined Barnabas Triad in 2021. He earned is MA in counseling from Covenant Theological Seminary and his undergraduate degree from Presbyterian College. Prior to counseling, Emmett spent 5 years working in college ministry. Emmett is married to Molly, and they live in Greensboro with their dog Sophie. Outside of counseling, Emmett enjoys CrossFit, exploring local restaurants and coffee shops and spending time with friends and family.
