I am afraid. I have been writing my heart’s struggle since the early days after my son Dylan died suddenly, out of the blue on an ordinary day. Pouring my soul out onto the page has been a relief, a sort of redemption for the agony I face on the regular. It would be enough, for me, to use this as my outlet. A conversation with myself; sometimes with Dylan, often with God. I’d like to keep these words tucked safely in my password protected google drive account where the world cannot see them. To protect my raw vulnerability. To protect my heart from rejection or ridicule. Writing for me can be such a sacred space. But I have a calling on my heart to share it. A calling that is getting harder to ignore.
I’ve never hidden my faith. I believe wholeheartedly in God. I believe Jesus is his son and came to earth and lived and died for my sins and that his resurrection means I have a savior. I’ve shared bits and pieces of my heartbreak through online platforms, just the tip of an iceberg that I fear might shipwreck my life if it was available to anyone to read. And yet, I am compelled to share it all.
My story is one of deep pain, the struggle of the day to day in grief. It’s also the story of hope and of incredible love. Love I have for my son. Love the community has had for my family. Love that God has for all of us. If you already know the summary of my story you know that hearts found in unexpected places are special to me. Ever since Dylan’s little chubby hand placed a heart rock in mine it has been a symbol of our relationship. He’d find them along his life and hand them over to me, they live now in a Mason jar on a windowsill in my bedroom. That jar will not ever fill to the top. His strong, would now be man hands will not place another one in mine. But my friends have, his friends have. Our family has. New rocks adorn his resting place. New rocks scatter around my house. Photos of hearts in all shapes and sizes from all different places still arrive in my messages, even from people who were only acquaintances before our world was rocked (pun intended.) I have a whole collection of hearts that have been hunted and shared to encourage me.
Dylan hunted for hearts for me. In his absence our people have continued the hunt. My heart does its own hunting. Not only for tangible symbols of our connection but my heart hunts for healing, for grace, for relationships. My heart hunts for a deeper relationship with God through this pain. God promises that pain has purpose. We all have a purpose, that’s why we are even here. Dylan lived out his purpose in 15 years, 10 months and 15 days. I’ve often thought how incredible it is that he finished his so quickly. I don’t know what it was, but I know it was done before he left for heaven. That brings my heart some measure of peace.
I’m still here. My purpose still lingers out there for me to complete. Dylan’s death has inspired things inside of my heart that I could never have expected. It has stirred up kindness in a community that I could not have imagined if I tried. This pain and joy living side by side in my life has me desperately trying to make sense of it all. So I write. God blesses me with words that somehow come out and create some understanding of this chaos of grief. And now I’m here to share it with you.
I’m going out on a real limb here. I am afraid. But my purpose I believe is to hunt for hearts, to help the hurting heal. To give some understanding to others how faith can create a peace that passes all understanding. I cannot reverse the loss of my son. But I can use the pain of it for good. I can step outside of the fear, out of my sheltered space.
Here’s to hunting hearts,
Jess