A few weeks ago something very strange happened. I was sitting in our office, which is right next to Sophia’s room, when all of a sudden, I heard a loud crashing sound. I walked into the living and looked at Sarah and she didn’t seem to notice anything so I looked into our bedroom and Sophia’s room. When I walked into Sophia’s room, I saw a large chunk of a painted red glass flower. I had no idea where it came from, but I figured it must have fallen from somewhere to make such a large sound. I looked up at the light fixture and realized it was a part of it that had randomly broken off and fell to the floor. It took some time to clean it up because there were so many pieces that it shattered into. Some were fairly large shards and others were so small that you couldn’t see them until you stepped on it. I even cut myself on two of the small pieces as I was trying to pick them up.
Last night, while Sarah and I cleaned the floors of our apartment, she found more pieces of that glass, hidden underneath a miniature bench used to hold some of Sophia’s stuffed animals. Despite my best efforts a few weeks ago, there were still remnants of that random incident. When she told me about finding those pieces, I couldn’t help thinking that it’s so similar to how our lives have been these past few weeks. When Sophia passed away, something inside us was shattered. In the initial days, we were just trying to pick up enough of the big pieces of our lives in order to survive. But in the subsequent days, it was like finding small pieces left over that you never saw. Like the small sharp pieces, driving to work and crossing the same bridge we had gone over 3 times a day on route to the hospital, still hurts. Walking into my classroom and seeing the dates in my lesson plan book for the last Friday before Sophia passed away, still hurts. I used to always keep my phone on during class in case the hospital or Sarah called with news about Sophia. Now, I have to keep it silenced and in my book bag during class. Each time I turn it off, it hurts as a reminder that no one from the hospital will be calling me about my daughter. Sometimes, it’s a painful surprise when we come across something seemingly random that reminds us of our daughter.
There’s one song that I’ll sometimes wake up hearing my head. Hillsong – I Surrender. It’s a powerful song with lyrics speaking about surrendering to the will and power of our Savior Jesus Christ, despite some of our most trying times. This song has significant meaning in my life now because I remember hearing it when we were saying our second goodbye to Sophia. I remember thinking in my head that I didn’t want to surrender her to Jesus. I wasn’t ready. Even now, there are days when I put up a fight and say that I’m not ready to accept the fact that she’s really gone. But the beautiful thing about surrendering to Jesus is that, unlike surrendering during a war, you’re not really losing. You’re actually winning. This is because of who you are surrendering to. When you surrender to Jesus, you are letting him lead you out of those dark valleys. He binds you up when those random sharp pieces of memories cut you. He picks you up when you’re tired of trying to reassemble your life by yourself. And though the pain never really goes away, His love covers and fills the wounds in your heart. I’m not declaring that I’m over Sophia’s passing. The pain is still as fresh as it was that morning. But I’m sure thankful I don’t have to pick up the pieces by myself because of the hope found in Jesus Christ.