Without a Word_ How a Boy's Unspoken Love Changed Everything - Jill Kelly [80]
God knew I couldn’t handle watching my son slowly die. I was steeped in anguish, and everything in me apart from my mother’s heart wanted to run away and never come back. God knew I would feel helpless and hopeless living without my only son. Maybe that’s why He sent His Son—because He knew I couldn’t handle it. If I could, I wouldn’t need Jesus.
Here’s another cliché I’ve heard from time to time: “He’s in a better place.” Of course he’s in a better place: he’s in heaven. But I’m not there yet. I’m still here. All of Hunter’s things are still here. But he’s not. He’s gone and it seems like forever since I touched his precious face. Heaven seems so far away. Hunter seems so far away. As each day goes by, I have to remind myself that every day is one day closer to heaven, to Hunter, to home, to Jesus.
There’s no twelve-step program or secret healing remedy for mourning. It’s just not that easy, nor should it be. Grief spits in the face of routine and self-sufficiency. It makes a mockery of comfort and complacency and pierces your heart when you least expect it. At first it seems like a journey with a final destination, but then sometimes you find yourself back where you started, experiencing the loss again and again.
Grief is so unlike anything—almost as if it is unnatural and just doesn’t belong. And it’s such a lonely place. Strangers are not welcome there, and friends usually don’t stay very long.
Inevitably we all experience grief, and we all grieve differently. And it’s okay. It has been a hard lesson, but eventually I realized that Jim and I would always deal with the loss of our son very differently. More than four years after Hunter’s death, we are just now finally beginning to talk to each other about our grief.
We’ve been taking walks together in our neighborhood lately. I tease Jim that he’s getting old and can’t really keep up with me anymore, so I have to walk circles around him in order to get any sort of exercise. He insists that his labored stride is due to all those hits he endured while being the toughest quarterback in the NFL. But it’s okay that he can’t keep up because we talk during our walks, and that is huge. Honestly, I’ll drag him around our neighborhood in a little red wagon if I have to. Whatever it takes to continue having the conversations we’ve been having lately, I’ll do it.
For the first time in our marriage, we are talking about things never discussed before—out-of-comfort-zone topics, failures, and wounds of the past. You name it, we are bringing it up.
On one particular day in late summer 2009, Jim and I were walking and discussing possible subtitle ideas for this book.
“Let’s just think of words, simple words that describe Hunter and our story,” I suggested.
“Courage and bravery… how one child changed the world,” Jim offered.
“What about hope and love?” I responded as I circled Jim… again. “Our entire story and Hunter’s life is a love story. It’s all about love, don’t you think? So how does this sound… Without a Word: A Family’s Love Story?”
As we reached the end of the cul-de-sac on our street, Jim replied, “What about Without a Word: Our One and Only Son? How about that? That sounds sort of biblical because our one and only son brought us to God’s one and only Son. And you always say that, Jill, right?”
He’s right, I do. I’m amazed by the parallels between our love for Hunter and God’s love through Christ. It inspires me to press on every day.
Jim and I continued to walk and talk, and after a while I brought up a subject we’d prayed about and considered but up to that point had decided not to pursue: “So, have you thought any more about adopting?”
Without hesitation Jim responded, “Nope. HB’s my boy, and I’m glad he was chosen to be my one and only son. He’s my son, and he’s the