There are moments in life that divide everything into before and after.
This is one of them.
It has been a little over three years now.
Three years since my oldest son ran ahead to heaven.
That is the phrase I chose in those early days. Not because I was trying to make it sound softer than it was… but because I needed something that was true. Something I could hold on to when everything else felt like it was slipping.
There has never been a doubt in my mind where he is. Not for a second. He ran ahead. He is in heaven.
And in those first days, I made a decision.
I decided that our family would show our faith. That we would stand firm. That we would dig down deep into what we know about grit and perseverance and live it out in front of everyone watching. And let’s be honest… people were watching.
So we stood.
We spoke truth.
We said the words.
We leaned into what we knew to be true.
And we meant it.
Every bit of it.
But something happens as time passes that no one really prepares you for.
The shock wears off.
The casseroles stop coming.
The world moves forward.
And the absence… settles in.
Not that we doubt where he is.
Not that we question heaven.
But the space he once filled… has now been empty for far too long.
I am still the mom of three boys.
That hasn’t changed.
But now I live in a reality where one of them is not sitting at the table, not walking through the door, not laughing in the next room. And after three years… that absence doesn’t get easier in the way people think it will.
In some ways… it gets harder.
Because in the beginning, you are running on something.
Adrenaline.
Support.
Purpose.
You are carrying the weight, but you are also being carried.
Now… it is quieter.
And in that quiet, the reality settles in deeper than it did before.
This is where faith looks different.
In those early days, faith was bold.
It was spoken out loud.
It was something we showed.
Now… faith is quieter.
It looks like getting up on a normal Tuesday. It looks like hearing a song that reminds you of him and choosing not to fall apart in that moment. It looks like holding on to truth when your feelings don’t always match it.
Because here is the honest part…
You can fully believe he is in heaven… and still wish he was here.
You can trust God completely… and still feel the weight of missing him every single day.
Those things are not in conflict. They live side by side.
Scripture makes space for that kind of grief.
In Ecclesiastes 3:4, it says there is “a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.”
It doesn’t say one replaces the other.
It says there is a time for both.
And sometimes… that time is the same day.
There is another promise that has become more meaningful as the years have passed.
In Psalms 147:3, “He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”
Notice it doesn’t say the wound disappears.
It says He binds it.
There is a difference.
Binding takes time.
It takes care.
It takes attention.
And even then… there are days when it aches.
Three years in, I have learned this:
Faith is not proven in the moment everyone is watching.
Faith is proven in the quiet.
In the ordinary days.
In the long stretches of time where nothing feels dramatic… just heavy.
We did what we set out to do in those early days.
We showed our faith.
But now… we live it.
And living it is harder.
It is slower.
It is less visible.
It is more honest.
So if you find yourself in a season like this… where the world thinks you should be “past it,” where your faith is no longer on display but is being worked out in the quiet places…
Hear this.
You are not doing it wrong.
You are walking it out.
You are learning what it means to carry both truth and longing at the same time.
So today, I still say it.
My son ran ahead to heaven.
I believe it.
I stand on it.
I will not let go of it.
But I will also say this…
It has been a long time without him.
And some days, that reality feels heavier than I ever expected.
And in those moments, I go back to the simplest truth I know.
God is still God
.
He is still good.
He is still holding my son… and He is still holding me.
And for today…
That is enough.
Beth Shumate