Time Heals Wounds, Not Hunger

In the year since Jacob’s death, I have been offended on several occasions (and astounded on others) at the things that people have said to my wife and me regarding Jacob’s passing.  At the top of the list was a comment implying that our lives might be easier now that we no longer need to care for our son.  I’ve come to realize that most of these comments are well-meaning and that they stem from a lack of understanding.  Fortunately, most people haven’t experienced the death of their child and they lack the ability to accurately imagine what such a soul-wrenching experience might be like.

One of the biggest misconceptions that people seem to have is that our longing for our son will somehow dissipate with time.  Just a few short months after Jacob’s passing, most people seemed to believe that Jennifer and I should be “getting over it” and “moving on”.  I believe that this sentiment found its source in the old adage that “time heals all wounds”.  While it may be true that time heals wounds, it does little to help with hunger—and losing a child is more like a soul-gnawing hunger than a simple wound.

Don’t get me wrong.  There are aspects of losing a child that create deep wounds in your spirit.  Holding our son as he took his last breath, closing his casket, and burying him six days before Christmas was blunt-force trauma.  It created deep, horrible gnashes in my psyche—gaping wounds.  Those wounds have, to some degree, begun to heal over time.  The nightmares have become a little less constant and the anxiety attacks have become fewer and further between.

However, the insatiable longing to be with Jacob only seems to become more pronounced over time.  As with being denied food, it is difficult to think about anything else other than the emptiness he has left within me.  In the first few weeks after losing our sweet Jacob I was traumatized by the reality that he was gone.  Now, however, I am living that reality.  I am not just anticipating holidays and special days passing by without him—I am experiencing those days and every hour that passes by without him here. The hunger to hold him hasn’t lessened with time; if anything it has increased as the time since I last held him grows longer.  It is that hunger that makes it difficult to concentrate, difficult to sleep, and difficult to remember even simple things.

When Jennifer and I decided to create this journal, we did so for the purpose of ensuring that Jacob’s light would continue to be shared with the world even after he had left it.  He glowed so brightly and had so much to give; he was and is so much bigger than the short life that he lived. It seemed imperative that we record the lessons he had taught us so that we would never forget them.

Today, however, marks one year since I last squeezed Jacob’s little hand and listened to him breathe.  Today marks one year since his death, and today I am not feeling so strong.  Next week, I will try to once again focus on the insights and inspiration that God blessed us with through Jacob’s example.  But today, I hope that God and Jacob will forgive me for failing to focus on my blessings.  Today, I am just a father desperately missing my son.

I miss how excited he got about absolutely everything.

I miss the face that he would make when he turned in his bed to kiss me goodnight.

I miss how he would race to the door shouting my name when I came home at night.

I miss the sound of his voice and the amazing sound of his laughter.

I miss how he would dance.

I miss seeing him on his Big Wheel and playing with him on the trampoline.

I miss how he would get everyone’s attention to show off his gymnastics and eating skills.

I miss how much he adored Thomas the Train, Phineas & Ferb, and Lighting McQueen.

I miss how much he loved everyone.

I miss his ability to light up a room and the darkest of days.

I miss his hugs and his kisses.

I miss my sweet, innocent, beautiful, strong, wonderful son.



Yes, next week, I will try to focus on the blessings in my life—the gift of my son, my wonderful wife, our other beautiful children, and perhaps most especially the gift of God’s only Begotten Son who made it possible for me to be with my sweet Jacob again someday.  But today, I am succumbing to the pangs of hunger—hunger to hold my boy.  Today, I am famished for his laughter.  Today, I am starving to see my son.