2 years since we buried you.

2 years and 6 days since you breathed your last, since I heard your voice, since I kissed the tiny scar on your cheek, since I saw the mirth in your cheeky, blue eyes…

2 years and 6 days of grief - a whole new language.

A dark language that eviscerates every time we learn a new dimension, yet despite its torment and opacity, it’s really hard to make grief obvious to the unsuspecting eye. It’s like that thin veneer of ice quivering over an abyss of inky black, troubled, frigid waters. One can only see the smooth expanse of formed ice. Grief can sink our souls.

But grief can only be borne of love. There can be no grief where there is no love. So I guess the depth of ours bears testament to just how profoundly we loved you, Ned.

“Children who lose parents are orphans; bereaved spouses are widows. But what do you call parents who lose children? It seems telling to me there is no word in our language for our situation. It is unspeakable, and by extension, we are not supposed to exist.” (Jayson Greene, 2016)

Into our darkness now, we have a new tiny light, your littlest sister, Beatrice Jean. Your gentle soul would’ve loved her - you always loved babies. She looks like you. ‘Bringer of joy’, ‘God is gracious’ - a perfect description of her presence for us. Know that we’ll teach her all about you; your presence is evident in this house – the photos, the way your siblings and we talk about you... Even Gilbert looks at your pictures and tells us “Ned is here”.

Stay close to her, ok? There are many things about life and faith that only you can teach her, and Gilbert, Eleanor and Lucy. They all need you.

Oh Ned.

All the others are growing up, but you’re still 6. With all your baby teeth. You’d be in grade 3 this year, 9 years old in May. Eleanor’s 6 years old now. You would’ve loved seeing her at school. She sits on the Ned Isham buddy bench often – she makes sure she has her back resting on your name plaque. She claims her favourite colour is red because it was yours, and still cries for you at night. Lucy turned 12 last week. She’s loving high school, is of course keeping herself busy with all the extra activities, and has found some lovely friends. She wishes she could introduce them to her brother, Ned, but instead shows them your photos. She doesn’t like to talk about it all though. Gilbert is typical busy 3-year-old, loves setting up trains just like you, and plays with Eleanor just like you played with her.

Into that bleakness of your absence, we cling to our faith and hope for reunification one day. How apt that your ‘burial day’, April 4th, falls on Easter’s Resurrection Day this year.

2 years on, my heart still doesn’t want to accept that you are no longer with us. But the numbness is starting to thaw, leaving exposed a tangle of pain.

If I’d only I’d known there was only 5 weeks left. If only I’d sat with you longer, told you again how much I loved you, cuddled you more, read you another story, caught more of your uniqueness on camera, asked you more questions and listened longer to your thoughts… If only I remembered more, because my sleep deprivation and stress through the last few years was so severe that my failing brain has wiped many memories.

For your Dad and me now, there’s sorrow and bitterness seesawing with melancholic peace. The former, for all you endured and the missed normalcy of your childhood; the latter because you are no longer in pain, and you left this earth knowing you were deeply loved - by us and by Jesus.

You are desperately missed. May you keep teaching us, though you are not here with us. May it not take retrospect for us to treasure the moments, show grace and love. May we always, always remember you, your courage and your faith, through the years to come, and use those memories to inspire further kindness and compassion. We will look for you in every moment - may there be innumerable moments full of you.

“Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die; and whoever lives by believing in me will never die.” John 11:25-26

Edward Isham