Amy carried our son around in her belly for nine months. We had talked all during that time about what it would be like once he arrived. Clothes had been purchased, a crib was standing ready, blankets were stacked high, pacifiers and baby bottles lined our countertops, toys were anxiously waiting to be played with, and everyone’s excitement was building.

When the delivery day finally arrived, we all piled into the delivery room with cameras and presents and big, goofy smiles on our faces. Amy wasn’t smiling quite as much at this point though. She kept saying something about labor pains (I don’t know what her problem was, I felt fine). Then, at long last, out came the baby and Amy’s face got real bright, peaceful, content.

It wasn’t until the next day that we got a visit from one of the doctors who told us something was wrong with our baby although she wasn’t sure what. They would have to run some tests. And they did. We waited. Nickel’s condition worsened. The doctor’s discovered the problem. It was irreversible. We saw our son in intensive care. The pastor came to visit. Prayers were said. Funeral arrangements were discussed. Tears flowed. . . . It was just past midnight. The nurse came in and said our son only had a few more hours to live. He was brought to our room. Amy held him in her arms as he breathed his last breath. Goodbye little Nickel.

We were a couple of kids who had a kid who died. At the funeral, several people commented on how strong we were. They didn’t know that what they saw as strength was actually numbness. I had just witnessed my first open-casket funeral and it was my son who was lying in it. Amy, her body still sore from the delivery, was literally in a state of shock. So there we sat, her and I, looking like a couple of stone statues with these blank, stoic expressions on our faces. For us, everything was happening in slow motion and it seemed as though we were witnessing some horrible scene played out in a dream which we just happened to be a part of. When were we going to wake up? Some friends sent us to Florida for a few days so we could “get away from it all” as if there were some escape to what had just occurred. Then, by the time we came back, our family had already cleared everything out of our apartment that had anything at all to do with baby Nicholas, and no one dared to mention him or what had happened. And so we somehow managed not to grieve. What a tragedy.

Our failure to grieve and everyone’s apparent denial was most unhealthy. Because of this, the grief which should have been let out at the time of his death seemed to simmer just beneath the surface and occasionally, for no particular reason, it would bubble up. The plethora of emotions we experienced at the time of his birth and subsequent death were buried deep within us, much the same as we saw our son buried deep within the ground. There these emotions festered and boiled and spread like a cancer.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 lets us know that there is a time for everything, including a time to grieve. Matthew 5:4 says, God blesses those who mourn for they will be comforted (NLT). When faced with the death of a loved one, the first thing we must do is grieve.

Years passed and God eventually brought Amy and I through a healthy grieving process. Now we can talk about Nicholas and show our friends the pictures which prove how incredibly cute he was (he had his father’s good looks, of course). We can make a birthday cake on his birthday and tell our other son all about the big brother he has waiting for him in heaven. For you see, that is the ultimate victory over death. Knowing that those who die are in a better place and that we will see them again someday . . .