I don’t know how to say this.
I don’t want to offend.
Christians, I think we’re missing it a little.
For every one of you who has found yourself saying to me what I’m about to discuss, don’t knock yourself. You didn’t know and I haven’t taken offense. Intentions are good and that’s where I’m letting it go.
Today, I held my Tanner-Man’s hand for the last time.
Again.
His cremation had been pushed back and I couldn’t handle it. The thought of him lying there one city away and missing the chance to kiss his face and hold his hand even just one more time tore at me.
I couldn’t chance regret. So I went.
Sure, I tried to rationalize with myself. I had already said my goodbyes. He’s not there anymore. It’s just his Earthly shell. His spirit is in Heaven….
But I realized that wasn’t my mom-voice talking; I was reciting the talking points of every good Christian. “His soul is with Jesus now. That’s not him anymore. Let it go.”
Take it from a mom who can’t let go of her baby’s hand: you’re missing the point.
I’m not dumb. I know his spirit isn’t there.
Herein lies my question to you:
When is the last time you kissed your child’s spirit? When is the last time you tickled their spirit? When is the last time you brushed the hair of their spirit? When is the last time your child’s spirit ran and jumped to you and wrapped it’s arms and legs around you?
Yes, it’s the spirit who makes them who they are and that shines through their smiles or the twinkle in their eye. But it’s their bodies we touch, we kiss, we hold, we hug, we crave to connect with.
How many times have we had a kid away at camp who called home? It’s wonderful to hear the stories, but it doesn’t substitute for the moment they step off the bus and you can wrap your arms around them.
I’ve come to find that we, as Christians, are so quick to diminish the roll the Earthly body plays in the grieving process. Having walked this road, I would caution against it. We moms (and grandmas and siblings and friends) need to know its okay to love their body even if the spirit is gone. There is so much healing and love that comes from holding a hand, even when there’s no return.
Did you know it takes about eight minutes for the cold hand of a deceased child to warm to his mother’s? It’s a horrific piece of trivia I never wished to know, but on my second visit I found myself cradling his hand in mine and just counting down the moments and patiently waiting as the cold began to wear off. And then, when that moment came, it felt like the warm little hand I’ve held for thirteen years.
On April 11th, I began the treacherous road of mourning the loss of my baby’s spirit. But there’s been an ounce of comfort in knowing his body — precious forehead, nose, lips, cheek, chin, hands, chest and feet — were just a short 20-minute drive away. If I was desperate to touch him, to kiss him, I knew I could.
Now, as we await his turn for cremation, I find myself mourning the loss of him all over again. This is where it ends. The clock feels like it’s starting all over. I find myself holding my breath. The bartering is beginning again. Denial is more than a river in Egypt. This is where the part of him that I held, hugged, kissed, poked, tickled and cuddled leaves me.
On Monday, as I was holding Tanner’s hand I began to feel another nudging. The phrase “Let go of the hand of the dead and hold the hand of the living” began to play in my mind.
I ignored it.
So it repeated itself.
So I ignored it again.
And again, the Holy Spirit repeated: “Let go of the hand of the dead and hold the hand of the living.”
I don’t think for a moment God was critical of my moments with Tanner. I know He understands the love I have for my son and even forgives me for indulging my grief and going back a second time. I truly believe God used my time with Tanner’s precious body to bring me peace, to minister to me, and to help me prepare for my lifetime ahead without my baby.
The part of Tanner I held is leaving me, but I am so grateful for every extra moment I was allowed to hold him. There is so much peace and healing in the quiet moments I spent with my baby.
Now, it’s time to hold the hand of the living. 
*Pictured is me holding the hand of my surviving son, Travis, the night after I returned from the mortuary.
