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Whatever God was doing in Jim’s heart became even more evident to me in those moments. We had both wanted to adopt and had thoroughly researched our options, but we eventually realized that our motives were rooted in selfishness. Jim had wanted a healthy son. So did I. Though adoption would have been great, it would not have healed our hearts. We both needed to come to a place where we were content with what was. We needed to know that adopting a boy would never fill the tremendous void that Hunter left. Only God could help us to surrender our desires so that we could learn to be thankful that our son, Hunter… would be our one and only son.

I slowed my pace so I could walk right next to my husband. “Jim, do you see how God has worked this all out for good? It’s incredible.”

“Yeah, we wouldn’t even be here right now. Everything would be different. But here we are, exactly where Hunter would want his mommy and daddy to be, together and in love.”

We were also exactly where we wanted to be. Yet like the writer of Ecclesiastes, we also recognized that we were living in a time in between. A time in between saying good-bye to Hunter and seeing his beautiful face again. The period when everything rides on hope as we trust and cling to the Keeper of the unseen.

When we finished our walk that day and returned home, I thought some more about the question, “What about the time in between?” And I’ve thought about it a lot since that summer day. I understand that there is a tender balance in living with one foot here on Earth while the other desperately longs to step from time into eternity.

I know I’m not home yet. There is life all around me and I am still alive. I’m a wife and a mother… I have so much to live for, and yet my heart longs for heaven—for my forever home. I am still torn between living with the loss of a beloved child and surrendering to the Father’s will. It’s a daily struggle to trust that everything will be okay in this time in between.

I also understand that my time in between ultimately depends on the reality of the unseen. It was during my darkest moments of smothering despair that the faith and hope I clung to proved to be a mighty, impenetrable fortress. And the absolute certainty of what I do not see, sustained by the promises kept for me through my salvation, are carrying me through the in-between time, and will sustain me until time is no more. Although I don’t know what the future holds, it is clear to me who holds the future.

Knowing that changes how I live and love.

It changes how I celebrate.

And how I grieve…

Yes, I’ve had to acknowledge to myself that even after four years, I am still grieving. I have discovered that while there are some things in life you can find a way around, grief is not one of them. I have found no way around it, only a way through.

My journey of grief has been unique in many ways, but one event in my life while Hunter was still alive is proving particularly significant in allowing me to further work through it.

When Hunter was six years old, I had a very vivid dream about him. There were four people in my dream: Hunter, Jim, my girlfriend Mary, and me. Hunter and I were in a large room that was unfamiliar to me. After finishing Hunter’s chest therapy, I got up and walked out of the room and down a hall. As I turned around and started to make my way back toward the room where I’d left Hunter, there he was down the hall, walking toward me. He was walking, and he looked right at me, but didn’t say anything.

Typical of a dream, everything was in slow motion. As soon as I saw Hunter, I ran toward him and scooped him into my arms. I was crying and calling out to Jim, “Jim, Hunter’s healed! You have to come here right away! Hunter’s healed! He’s healed!” I looked down at Hunter, and he just looked up at me and didn’t say a word. I yelled down the hall for Jim again. “Jim, Hunter can walk! He can walk!”

Jim finally heard me and yelled back, “That’s great, Jill. I’ve got to get going or I’ll be late for my appearance. I’ll talk to you later.”

I was shocked and bothered