Three Years Ago Today

Three years. The weight of unanswered prayers. Sit here with pain. Sit here in the rain, listening. Waiting. Remembering...

Three years ago today, everything changed.

It was the day my world cracked open — the day my beloved son, Kevin, who had just celebrated his thirteenth birthday, was diagnosed with osteosarcoma. That moment, so heavy and surreal, marked the beginning of a journey no parent should ever have to take. An unthinkable, unimaginable nightmare unfolded before us, one breath at a time.

For two and a half years, Kevin fought. We fought. With every ounce of strength we had, we battled the darkness of cancer together — armed with love, resilience, and an unwavering determination to hold onto hope. Kevin was brave in ways that are beyond words. He faced treatments, surgeries, and pain with a quiet courage and grace that often left me in awe.

And then… he was gone.

Now, in the silence that follows, I am left holding the echoes of a life too short and a love too deep to put into words. I am still trying — desperately — to make sense of this senselessness. People often say, "God won’t give you more than you can handle." They say, “God has a plan.” But what is that plan? And how am I supposed to carry this unbearable weight?

At this moment, as I am putting my thoughts into words and typing them down, the rain gently taps against my window. Ah, the rain. Kevin loved the rain. It spoke to him in a language only he seemed to understand. He found comfort in its rhythm, beauty in its stillness. On rainy days, he would sit at the piano or in front of his computer, composing music that captured the soul of the storm — soft, powerful, unpredictable. He believed that rain wasn’t just weather — it was a feeling, a story, a gift. And now, every drop that falls feels like his whisper.

Last Sunday, like so many others before it, I sat in church searching for peace and comfort, for something to anchor me in the storm of my grief. But instead, I felt pierced by words that were meant to soothe and heal. The pastor's voice was warm, steady and sincere, delivering a message about God's promises—about how He answers every prayer, about how even when God says "no", it's because something better is on the way. But all I could feel was a raw, deep, bitter ache rising inside me. These words pierced the tender parts of me that still cry out in desperation.

Because I prayed. Oh, how I prayed. We all did. We begged God with everything we had. We pleaded with every fiber of our being for Kevin’s healing. For his cancer to go. For his pain to end, yes — but for his life to continue. For one more summer, one more laugh, one more birthday cake with many candles. Even just one more moment.

But our prayers were not answered in the way we longed for. Kevin passed away.

And now I am left trying to reconcile the unbearable truth of his absence with the idea that "God gives what is better."

Better? What could possibly be better than a mother keeping her child alive? What could possibly be better than holding your child’s hand, watching him grow, celebrating who he is becoming? What is more sacred than watching your child chase his dreams, laugh uncontrollably, fall in love with life, with music, with rain?

There is nothing — nothing — in this world better than that. And there is nothing can fill the gaping hole left in his absence, and no promise can replace the hollow silence left behind by his laughter, his footsteps, his music.

Faith, right now, feels like a fragile thing. Some days I hold it gently, afraid it might break completely. Other days I shout at it, confused and angry. I want to believe that God sees me. I want to believe He weeps with me. But I can’t pretend that I understand the loss of my son makes sense, or that it fits into some neat, divine plan. It doesn’t. It feels cruel. It feels unjust. And it leaves me raw.

I don't know what to do with sermons about hope when I'm drowning in sorrow. I don’t know how to measure faith against the finality of death. All I know is that I loved my son more than life itself, and now he’s gone — and I am still here, trying to make sense of it all, one painful breath at a time.

So what can I do? What do I do with this pain?

I remember a dear friend of mine gave me this piece of advice: JUST SIT. SIT HERE. SIT WITH PAIN.

So I do. I follow. I sit here with the pain. I sit here in the rain, listening. Waiting. Remembering.

And in the hush of the storm, sometimes I think I can hear him. In every drop, in every note, in every quiet moment of grace — Kevin is here. Not in the way I long for, not in the way I prayed for. But he is here.

And so, I hold onto that.