This is My Story

If you and I were to meet in person for coffee to talk about the events of our lives that have shaped us into who we are today, I would undoubtedly tell you about an event that occurred 20 years ago this month - the unexpected death of my 4-year-old son, James Austin.

This loss rocked me to my core, and I have not been the same since. It changed me. At the time of Austin’s death, I had just reached the point that life was feeling stable again following the end of my marriage. This loss catapulted me into a trajectory of questioning everything I knew & believed.

One of my unexpected “side effects” was that I lost all desire to play the piano. One of our routines in our little family was that I would practice as my children were going to sleep each night. After Austin’s passing, I couldn’t imagine ever playing again. I had all but walked away. Then one night at church, a last-minute special was needed & the pianist who had been filling in for me was not around. There was no one else who could play, so I reluctantly walked on stage & played my way through an extremely simple impromptu performance of “Down at the Cross.” When I finished, I was in tears, & so was the congregation. It was that experience that facilitated my return to my first love.

In processing my grief, I have written multiple hymn arrangements, original solo compositions, & a couple of vocal pieces. These works would not exist had I not experienced this loss. Now, I would of course rather have my son with me. But no amount of crying or grieving would bring him back. The best thing I could do at this point was to turn this grief into something meaningful. For me, that was music.

 On October 2, 1806, Beethoven wrote his famous Heiligenstadt Testament - a letter to his brothers in which he shared his deep concern over his continued hearing loss. He  confided that he had even thought of taking his own life, but that his art compelled him to continue.

“It was only my art that held me back. Oh, it seemed impossible to me to leave this world before I had produced all that I felt capable of producing, and so I prolonged this wretched existence — truly wretched for so susceptible a body that a sudden change can plunge me from the best into the worst of states.”

 It was during this year that Beethoven composed his Piano Sonata No. 17, Tempest, a piece that even in its name implies a deep challenge. It is an inspiration to musicians everywhere that many of his best works, such as his late string quartets and his most famous symphonies, were composed after he had struggled to even stay alive and had eventually lost his hearing.

One of our most beautiful hymns in the history of church music was written following tragedy. Horatio Spafford lost all four of his daughters in a shipwreck. “It Is Well with My Soul” was written out of this deep loss.

When peace like a river attendeth my way,

When sorrows like sea billows roll,

Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,

It is well, It is well with my soul.

I recently discovered a stanza to this hymn that I had never seen before. Spafford was unquestionably living by faith when he wrote these words:

For me, be it Christ, be it Christ hence to live;

If dark hours about me shall roll,

No pang shall be mine, for in death as in life

Thou wilt whisper Thy peace to my soul.

Music is, without a doubt, a tremendous catalyst for healing. It allows us to process our emotions and express our pain and our grief in a way nothing else does. It provides an outlet for questions and feelings that are often too intense to describe with words. The deepest losses have resulted in the most beautiful music.

 Author John Greene is quoted as saying: “Grief does not change you; it reveals you.”  

I think it does both. What is underneath is revealed. You become who you are at your core. But it also changes you in that those aspects of your being are heightened. Some people become more hardened, while others become more empathetic. Some wither away, while others find strength they didn’t know they possessed.

All who have walked this road of losing a child have stories to tell that they wish weren’t theirs. And all feel alone. This is a grief we don’t speak of. These are not the stories that we tell at a dinner party or when meeting a new friend. These are stories that we want to share – maybe as an explanation for why we cry so easily or why we love so deeply – but who else can relate? No one we know of.  

Until now.

Meeting others who have walked this same path has been pivotal in my healing. As I have healed, my desire to help others heal has intensified; and in honor of the 20th anniversary of Austin’s passing and, in his memory, I am paying it forward the best way I know how. This series of blogposts will share the stories of moms who have suffered the deepest grief imaginable. Many of these moms I have never even met in person, yet they have entrusted me with the stories of their children. I do not take this lightly. I am honored to share these stories with you and to introduce you to these amazingly strong women.

I know there are more of us out there who have experienced this loss, and I welcome their stories as well. If you or someone you know has lost a child and would like to share your story, please go to https://www.christinamathis.com/contact and leave me a message. And if you know someone who could benefit from reading these stories, please forward them.

My prayers are with everyone who reads these words. May you be surrounded by peace, love, grace, and strength. May you always know your child’s life mattered, and their light continues to shine through your life.

Much love to you all, my friends.