Birthdays are hard. Well, let’s face it, every day is hard when your child dies before you do. But birthdays, the death date, holidays, and other milestone dates are extra hard. These dates loom like a dark cloud passing across the sun. Some months, like birthday months, the stormy clouds hang around for weeks, never allowing the sun so much as a peek through to offer a glimmer of hope. Sometimes the anticipation of the dates is harder than the actual day itself. Regardless, I’m never prepared for when grief is going to sneak in for an extra-vicious attack.
On March 30, 2024, my son, Will, should have been turning 20 years old. Making this milestone even more difficult was the fact that Easter was the day after Will’s birthday. Memories of balloons and cupcakes intermingled with reminiscences of Easter bunnies and egg hunts. So, yes, March was particularly hard for me this year. I’ll be flat out honest, I wasn’t sure if I could keep going. I never like to talk about how I contemplate ending my life, but it’s there. Always. Just like those dark clouds obscuring the calendar. I hate the drama of grief, knowing those who have not experienced a loss of this magnitude do not understand. Some wonder why we are “stuck” in our grief, why we just can’t “move on.” It is impossible to move on when your child is no longer by your side.
One night in mid-March, I noticed I’d missed a call from a dear friend of mine. Then I noticed she’d also sent a text, asking me to call when I had a minute. So, I did. She wasn’t sure how to tell me what she needed to say, and she was worried it would bother me, but she forged ahead. My friend’s husband is in the tree business. He prunes trees to help them grow; he removes trees when they cease to flourish. On that particular day, he was removing an especially stubborn tree from a cemetery, paying special attention to the graves nearby. He was concerned falling branches would hit these precious granite stones, so he took extra steps to ensure the branches fell in the appropriate areas, far from the gravestones. When he was all done, he mindfully picked up the fallen debris, leaving the area clearer than when he arrived. As he stepped around to the front of the grave he was most concerned with hitting, he discovered it was Will’s. He immediately knew this was significant, and when he sent word to his wife, she also knew it was significant, and she reached out to me.
I was stunned. Tears stung my eyes, and I shared I was struggling in a mighty way. Her words were the glimpse of sunshine I needed on that dark day.
In the deep dark winter months after Will died, we had to make decisions: Where do we bury our son? How do we bury him? What were his wishes? He did not want to be buried in the ground, but I could not bear to cremate him—my precious boy, a pile of dust? No. We decided to place his body above ground in a mausoleum. But part of the process in that kind of burial required the ground to be thawed. We waited, and we finally were able to lay him to rest in June. The cemetery we chose for him is the oldest in our city. His grave rests in part of the original cemetery, where giant trees stand guard. When we were choosing the area, the sexton at the cemetery told us that some of those trees would eventually be removed in order to foster the healthy growth of new trees.
I spent much time in the cemetery in those early days. I’d go and talk to him, running my fingertips along the etching of his name. Then I’d look to the trees swaying above me. Almost always, I said a prayer to God, first asking Him why, but then asking for reassurance that Will was safe in heaven. I still don’t have answers, but invariably, I would encounter a reassuring sign. One day, I saw a blue jay flitting back and forth among the tree branches. Blue jay sightings can be significant to those grieving the loss of a loved one, and I was reassured at the appearance of those bright, blue feathers, which, in fact, resembled Will’s sparkling blue eyes. As the blue jay flew from tree to tree, I tried to follow it but soon lost the trail. But there in the bright green grass lay a vivid blue feather. I picked it up and took it home, a memento of knowing my boy was safe in heaven. All along, I dreaded the day when some of those majestic trees would be removed, but when I got the message from my friend, I couldn’t imagine a more perfect sign from above.
Was the cutting down of that tree a miracle? No. But the urge my friends felt to share this experience with me may have been. Many people of faith (and almost certainly those without faith) often wonder how God can speak to us. Is it an audible voice booming down from the sky above? No, it is the still, small voice we may or may not recognize, instilling in us the urge to speak or act. These promptings may be unnoticeable. Or more likely, people are not sure what to do with that still, small voice whispering in their heads.
But if you hear a whisper, know it might just be the miracle someone else needs in that moment.
In the Forest of Granite by Melissa Godber was published in Gritty Faith: Rooted (c) 2024
A prairie girl at heart, Melissa Nachtigal Godber grew up on a farm in South Dakota. She currently lives in Tea, South Dakota, with her husband Mark and their children, Claire and Jesse. Her son, Will, died in November 2017, and she eagerly anticipates their heavenly reunion someday. Melissa enjoys exploring Sioux Falls history at her museum job. Her other passions include walking the dog, hiking, practicing taekwondo, and reading and reviewing books @msnightingaleshappyreadingyear on Instagram.