Grieving the Future that Never Was
Birthdays can be some of the hardest days after a loss because they remind us not only of who someone was, but of everything that never got to be.
My son would be forty-eight today. He died twenty-four years ago. Naturally, I find myself wondering what he would’ve looked like, what work he might’ve been doing, whether he would’ve been married, whether he'd have children running around calling me Grandma.
The calendar keeps moving, but a mother's love doesn't measure time the same way.
There are still days when I miss hearing Jason's voice. I miss his bear hugs. I miss buying birthday cards and wondering what gift would make him smile. The ache has changed over the years. It’s not nearly as overwhelming as it was during the first decade, but there are still moments when the tears come without warning.
Of course, not every loss involves death. Sometimes the grief comes through estrangement, divorce, widowhood after a long marriage, or the painful separation that distance can create. We grieve not only people, but the future we imagined with them.
Over the years, the Lord has taught me something that’s brought unexpected peace.
Scripture reminds us that God knows the number of our days before one of them comes to be. He knows every hair on our heads, and none of us has the power to add even one day to the life God has appointed for us.
When grief is fresh, those truths may not feel comforting. They certainly didn't to me.
But if I truly believe what I profess to believe, then I also must accept that God already knew Jason's earthly life would end when it did. The daughter-in-law I imagined, the grandchildren I dreamed about, and the family gatherings I pictured around our table were dreams I treasured, but they were never part of the life God, in His wisdom, allowed to unfold.
That’s an enormous truth to accept. It feels like swallowing a dry pill too large to get down.
Yet as I slowly released those dreams back into God's hands, something unexpected happened. The weight I’d been carrying began to lighten. I finally released the future I’d been mourning.
That didn’t erase my grief.
It simply made room for healing.
I no longer measure Jason's life only by what might’ve been. His life continues to bear fruit in ways I never expected. He is woven throughout my books, my Wednesday Letters, my speaking, and my compassion for parents carrying deep loss. Every conversation I have with another grieving parent carries a little piece of Jason's legacy with it.
Each of us is grieving a future that doesn’t look the way we imagined.
So, let’s give ourselves permission to remember.
Pull out old photographs. Tell a funny story. Light a candle. Visit a place that holds precious memories. Say their name aloud. Those small acts are not signs that we are stuck. They’re reminders that love doesn’t end simply because someone is gone.
Today, on what would’ve been Jason's forty-eighth birthday, I choose gratitude alongside grief.
Happy Birthday, son.
He’s still loved. He’s missed. And he’s remembered through my worship of God and the love I give others.
Father God,
Give us joy as we remember. Your gifts to us may be for a shorter season than we imagined. Please, help us loosen the grip on what we're meant to release.
Amen
