As I have journeyed through this life, I have experienced hardship. I’m not alone—you’ve experienced hardship, too. I know that. We might call hardship suffering.

I’ve experienced hardship in my marriage, in my work, in my finances, in my faith, in my health, and in my relationships. As I have navigated these various hardships, it has always seemed to me there would be closure. I could see a light at the end of the tunnel. I had a sense that my stress, discomfort, and pain were temporary. Turns out, they were. I think this sense of “things are going to get better” is called hope.

As I have shared, I believe that hope is important, even more so than resilience. Even if it’s rugged, we have to start somewhere. 

I believe there are seasons in life. Some seasons are mountaintop highs, and some are narrow valley lows. It’s hard to know how long a season will last; it could be years. Hope is difficult when we don’t know how long a suffering valley will last. We pine for closure.

If you’re asking me, I want the mountaintop highs all the time. I was hiking with Cooper in the mountains, and it was a good day—a good season of life to be living in the mountains. On that day, we were, literally, on the mountaintop. Why would I not want this day, this season, every day?

But if I look back on my life, it’s the lows that formed me—made me a better, stronger man. Yes, I kicked ferociously against the goads in those valleys, in the crucible, and I have rarely, with contentment, accepted when God has set me in the valley. Sadly, my childish nature is never far from me. My neck is stiff, and my heart is hard in this way. However, I am maturing, and I do better in the narrow valleys than I used to. We might call this character.

Though we all have tough seasons of life, we have good seasons, too. Perhaps if we looked deeply enough, we might even notice the rhythm of these seasons. Maybe this rhythm, this ebb and flow, is meant to help us form hope and character.

My brother has twice now had dangerous kayaking mishaps. He was stuck in the river’s swift water, and there was no let-up. The water rushed by and kept rushing by—it was relentless. He almost drowned.

I had a different near-drowning experience. I was in Hawaii, on the North Shore. Body surfing seemed like an adventurous idea, until it wasn’t. I, too, nearly drowned. But the waves came in rhythm and briefly let up. I had a moment to recalibrate, take a breath, and steady myself before the next wave. Rhythm.

I am suggesting there is a rhythm to the valleys and mountaintop experiences of life.

Or what is it? Six days we labor, and one day we rest. Sabbath rhythm.

Or what is it? Sacrament of reconciliation followed by sacrament of holy communion. Sacramental rhythm.

Or what is it? We fast, and then we feast. Orthodox, eucharistic rhythm.

Two weeks ago, I attended my first bereavement/support group for those who have lost a child. It’s hosted through a local The Compassionate Friends group. The group is small, and I think that’s a good thing. It’s good if few have lost children, but it’s not good if parents are grieving alone.

The loss of a child is not a path you want to walk alone. In fact, I don’t think it’s possible to walk this path alone.

Our group, on this particular night, was small: three of us—myself and two mothers who have lost children.

We lit candles for our children, shared stories about them, and shared in our grief and our hopes. We had smiles and tears. It was very good for me to know I am not alone in the complexity of my feelings, in my pain, and also in my hope. This was the first time I have met with others who have lost a child, sat and talked to them, heart to heart. This was not trivial space; this is the place where we go to collect coins in the deep places, together.

I mentioned in a previous post that this is a tough gang to get beat into. And it is. What is surprising to me, what scares me, is that losing a child is not one of those hardships you get over. I don’t see closure or light at the end of the tunnel for this suffering. I am having difficulty discerning a rhythm.

I know I/we have been permanently impacted mentally, emotionally, physically, spiritually, and socially. Forever.

It’s not that I don’t have hope for a better future—I do—but there’s something. I know in my deep place that things are never going to be the same and that something very, very profound has happened. I can’t shake the largeness of this.

And by the way, God, if you’re reading, and I think you are, I still think you got it wrong.

I walk with a shadow now—it’s always there. Sometimes, my shadow is wide, long, and it can’t be missed; it’s twice the length of my body. At other times, it’s high noon, the sun is right above me, and I only see a tiny slice of my shadow. It’s barely there, but damn, it’s still there.

As a bereaved father, I am now a shadow caster. I walk around casting my shadow about, and most of the world does not notice. They’re not shadow noticers; they don’t know. My wife knows. The mothers know.

Shadow casting is paradoxical. On one side of the shadow casting coin, I want the world to know my son, Cooper, died. I want to scream in the world’s face, “Do you freaking know what’s happened?!” And on the other side of the shadow casting coin, I don’t want people to know. I want to hide my shadow, get in and get out, and get back to my cave to drink herbal tea with yak’s milk.

I’m a paradoxical shadow caster.

As I sat with my new friends, fellow shadow casters, in my child loss bereavement/support group, they both wept and were weary in their bones with grief and sorrow. How they longed for their children. No words necessary; I understood. Sacred space. A pocket full of coins.

I am touched by my new friends. I love them both, and I knew, in spending time with them, it’s not going to be okay, but it’s going to be okay.

I shared with my wife after the meeting, “I don’t think this—this empty void of pain, Melancholy Man—is going away.” She looked at me like, “Yeah, I know.” She already knew, of course. As usual, two steps ahead of me.

So what then?

I discuss with my wife that we must heal in some aspect, otherwise, what? For example, we are better today than on ground zero day. What’s happened then? I call it healing.

She disagrees. She says she’s never going to heal. But I wonder about this language, and I have questions. What my wife is saying, I think, is something along the lines of Robin Williams to Matt Damon in Good Will Hunting: “If you or anyone else ever even comes close to intimating that I will forget my son and my love for him, ‘I will end you. I will f***ing end you. Got that, Chief?’”

As a bereaved father, I get stuck in this place. How do I love and honor my son and heal without forgetting him?

So we reframe the conversation. I read about this in Bearing the Unbearable. Instead of discussing that our hurt and pain will go away—they probably won’t—we rather consider that our ability to cope rises to run parallel with the pain.

As parents, we don’t stop hurting, as it were. Rather, we get stronger, our resilience builds, steeling takes place. Maybe we find hope. I hope we find hope. Mostly, more than anything, I want Cooper’s siblings to have hope for their futures. There is so much to look forward to.

There will be suffering, sure, and there will be seasons spent in the narrow valleys, but this is not bad. This is life. Formation is taking place; hope and character are being formed.

I see this with my wife and my new friends, the mothers. Their hurt, pain, and grief—their longing for their child—is right there, barely underneath the surface, accessible in an instant. But also, they are strong and courageous.

I get out of bed every day and navigate life, and this feels like victory to me. Am I getting 1% better each day? Yes and no. It’s two steps forward and one step back. Am I winning the day? Most days, yes.

I’m a paradoxical shadow caster now, searching for a new rhythm in my life. I know my shadow is not leaving me, but I want to learn to dance with it, long shadow or tiny slice shadow. I am learning to stand together with my shadow, do spiritual edgework with it, form rugged hope with it.

I got beat into this gang, and they gave me a shadow. They told me to find my rhythm, and maybe some hope.

Miss you, Boy.

Dad