This Is My Story: Christina + Austin

I always knew I wanted to be a mom. What I didn’t know, though, was just how much this was going to require. When my husband and I first married, we talked about having “a quiver full” of children. We wanted as many as God would give us!  Just a couple of months after we were married, we found out we were expecting our first child. Sadly, this pregnancy ended in a miscarriage. Just one year later, though, we did have a beautiful baby girl. A couple of years after that, we had another beautiful girl. She was followed just 15 months later by our chubby, full-of-life, baby boy. I was ecstatic! My heart was full caring for my children.

James Austin Mathis was born on Wednesday, December 1, 1999. He was the perfect little caboose for our perfect little family. Just after Austin’s first birthday, my husband made the decision to leave our family. It was now up to me to be both mother and father – sole provider, comforter, and spiritual guide. The burden of caring and providing for three children was great. Thankfully, I had the love and support of my family, friends, and church. God made Himself evident in more ways than I can count. As trying as this time was, these are the times my children and I look back on fondly. We had very little in material possessions, but we made the best memories during this time. Friday night movie nights and sleepovers in the living room. Saturdays at the library and park. And lots and lots of laughter.

Austin embraced his part in the family as the youngest the same way he did everything else – with gusto. He was jovial and fearless. He kept us laughing and kept me on my toes. He loved deeply, and he was deeply loved. He and my dad were best friends. Any time my dad took time off, Austin was with him. After Austin’s beloved sitter moved, my mom watched him while I worked. He loved playing in the yard while she gardened but hated going to Lowe’s to buy plants. He sang everywhere he went and fully expected everyone around him to sing as well – even in public.

He loved all things superhero. On Sunday nights, he would sit with me in church making the Spiderman sign to my dad with his little hand as Dad was preaching. Dad would slyly return the sign, and Austin would get almost uncontrollably excited. It was nothing for him to walk on stage to the piano during the church service if he had to tell me something. And you know it was a dire emergency.  He could quote every line from Toy Story 2 and watched the movie at least 4 or 5 times a week. To this day, my daughters and I collect anything with Woody or Buzz Lightyear.

Occasionally, my dad would come by my classroom to pick up Austin and take him to his Nana. Those were special days because Austin and I would eat breakfast together in the school cafeteria. His favorite breakfast was “angry muffins” (English muffins).

To know Austin was to love him.

When he was a newborn, I distinctly remember holding him in the hospital and sensing something in my spirit telling me that my sweet boy wouldn’t live long. I thought I was going crazy, and I tried to dismiss the thought by blaming it on post-partum delusion. But it didn’t go away. After he passed, I thought of this and realized it was Holy Spirit preparing me.

Austin seemed to be a healthy baby; but in reality, he wasn’t. He was born with a pilocytic astrocytoma in the core of his brain. It grew until it couldn’t grow anymore; then when he was just 4 years old, it took his life. There were no outward symptoms until right before he died. Even then, his doctor didn’t suspect a tumor. It wasn’t until after Austin had passed away that the tumor was discovered. Looking back, I can see this was God’s grace. Because of its placement, the tumor was inoperable. But instead of watching him suffer through his final days, we have only good memories. Easter of 2004 was the last time we would all be together. I remember laughing at his silliness as the kids hunted Easter eggs at my parents’ house, watching him sit on my dad’s lap and help him open birthday presents, taking what would be our last family picture.

The next Tuesday, I dropped Austin off with my dad, kissed my girls goodbye, and left for a trip with my high school choir. A couple of the groups I worked with had made it to Nationals. I was going to be gone just one night, but I couldn’t shake this feeling that had been growing in my spirit for months – the feeling that something life-changing was about to happen and I needed to be prepared.

It was during that night that the tumor that had been growing in Austin’s brain hemorrhaged and took his life. It started as what appeared to be a stomach bug. Austin had been having some strange headaches, but again, even his pediatrician related that to allergies and when I asked if it could be a brain tumor, he noted that there would be more obvious symptoms like trouble walking or running, running into doorways, etc. He didn’t have any of that, so we didn’t believe there was a need to be concerned.

As Austin became more ill during the night, my parents tried to comfort him. When he finally started to calm down, he settled into bed with them and seemed to go to sleep. My mom would tell me later that he stirred a little, then began talking in his sleep. He seemed to be talking to children, calling them by name. She didn’t recognize any of the names, but she didn’t think anything of that. Then he sang a song. She said she remembered it was a beautiful song that she had never heard before. And then he went to sleep.

Remembering this story, even twenty years later, brings me to tears. My sweet boy didn’t die alone. He was carried into heaven by the spirits of other children, and they were all singing together.

The date was Wednesday, April 14, 2004, and the time was about 4:45 am. Almost the exact same time and on the same day of the week as Austin entered this earth, he left.

A few hundred miles away, about the same time that the coroner later determined that Austin passed, I woke up with an overwhelming sense of needing to pray. And so I did. I prayed for my children. I prayed for my parents. I prayed for my students as they competed that day. And I prayed that God would give me the grace and the strength to face whatever this was that was coming into my life.

As soon as my students were done competing, the group I had ridden with loaded up the car and headed home. I called my dad when we were about an hour from home to let him know what time we’d be arriving. His response caught me off guard: “I’ll see you there. And, Christy...I love you.” I remember asking him if he was bringing the kids. I really wanted to see them – I missed them immensely even though I’d been away for just one night. He replied, “I’ll meet you at the church.” Something was wrong.

I will never forget the tears in my dad’s eyes as he knelt before me and told me that my son was gone. I thought he was joking at first, and it made me angry. When I realized that he wasn’t joking and that Austin really had died in the one night I’d been away, I think I screamed. I know I began punching my dad as he held me in his arms. How could this have happened? I was in shock and had no idea how in the world I would continue.

Yet, somehow I did. I have vague memories of the days that followed. Planning my four-year-old’s funeral wasn’t something I ever dreamed I’d have to do. The one thing that stands out to me the most about those early days was my community. My two childhood best friends were there beside me every step of the way. They held my hand as I made the difficult decisions regarding Austin’s funeral. They cleaned my house and decorated the church for his service. I stayed with my parents for about a week after Austin’s death, and there were more people in and out than I could keep track of. People bringing meals, people bringing money, people stopping to give us a hug and pray with us. There were the church members who helped with the girls, who were only 5 and 7 at the time. There was the friend who sat with me for over two hours on the first night and never said a word, just let me cry then hugged me as he left and came back the next day to help however was needed. There were the missionaries my church supported who sent cards from their entire church, the friend who took me to get a mani-pedi for the funeral (something I couldn’t even fathom!) and made sure the girls had new dresses. The endless meals. The heartfelt gifts. We were loved and cared for so well.

After Austin’s death, keeping my little family together became even more of a priority. It was now just me and my girls, and over time we became inseparable. The next few years brought many tears as we worked through our grief, much laughter as we told stories about Austin’s antics, and plenty of reflection and thanksgiving on God’s faithfulness through it all. Please don’t misunderstand – this is something I never believed until I experienced it in my own life. It is entirely possible to be overwhelmed with grief and still find reasons to smile.

I did the best I could to focus on the positives – my daughters, my family, my students, my church. But I did nothing to work through the grief. I stuffed it away, making excuses for why I couldn’t deal with it – my girls needed me, I had too many responsibilities to allow myself to fall apart, and the one that now makes me shake my head in disbelief the most – Austin was in heaven now. Why should I be sad?

Anniversaries were difficult in the early days after his death. Mother’s Day was about a month after he’d died, and I wanted anything but to celebrate that year. I remember doing my best to focus on the girls while trying to ignore the huge hole in my heart. Austin’s 5th birthday was difficult. So was our first Christmas without him. And then came the first anniversary of his passing. I remember stuffing my feelings and sadness to the point that even my young daughters didn’t feel free to express their grief. And then one began having trouble in school, and I knew I couldn’t hide from the grief anymore. In fact, my dad sat me down and had a firm talk with me about just how it was affecting our little family and suggested we all get help.

So, back to therapy we went. A dear friend had introduced me to the wonderful therapists at Alabama Baptist Children’s Homes when one of my girls was struggling with nightmares after their father left, so we weren’t strangers to therapy. It was this same group of therapists that I called again to help the girls work through the grief of losing their brother. The center requested a meeting with me to give them an overview of what was going on so they would know who the best therapists for my girls would be. After that initial meeting, they all looked at me and said, “You have been through a lot as well. It might be beneficial for you to talk to someone.” I insisted that I was fine but agreed to meet with a therapist. You all can probably guess what I’m going to say next. I was not okay. I didn’t realize how not okay I was until I started talking to someone.

Over the years, therapy played a huge role in the life of my little family. It is because of therapy that we are all still alive and doing well today.

What I didn’t realize at the time, though, was how much deeper my pain went than I was able to work through in a few sessions and how easy it was to go back to my familiar ways of stuffing my feelings. I thought I had dealt with all the pain, but I hadn’t; and it would be several more years – almost two whole decades – before I would finally be completely healed.

In fact, it took my body, mind, and spirit quite literally shutting down to force me to heal. I had no choice but to deal with the trauma and grief that I had been keeping bottled up for so long. I nervously made a call to my doctor who talked me through the process of beginning anti-depressants and recommended therapists. I had no idea how much pain I had been carrying until I really began the process of healing! And, yes, it is a process. Some days were fantastic, many were not. Opening old wounds and getting to the root is painful. And every time I thought I was healed, another wound would open, and I would begin the process all over again. The more I have healed, the more I have been able to recognize God’s hand throughout my life. Even during the times I was blinded by grief and pain, He has been faithful. I am so grateful for medication and therapy and the resources we now have. One of my life’s goals is to help end the stigma surrounding meds and therapy in Christian circles. Yes, I deeply love my Lord; and it is because of my anti-depressants and quality therapy that I am still here to serve Him and able to more fully appreciate all He has done for me.

As I worked through the years of trauma and grief, I began seeing God’s hand in the details. He had allowed me to continue functioning and to be successful despite being unhealed. I have had to make many apologies to those I hurt in my pain, and I am so grateful for God’s forgiveness and for theirs as well. At the time of my breakdown, I was living alone. It was the first time in my adult life I had not been responsible for anyone but myself. This was a gift. God had granted me the physical and emotional space to do this work of healing. I had a job I loved in which I was surrounded by people who supported me through my work and were my family during this time. So many little gifts that I couldn’t dismiss as sheer coincidence. I know they were from God.

Just after my divorce, I began claiming Joel 2:25 over my family - “I will repay you for the years the locusts have eaten.” Over the years, I have prayed this verse many times and claimed God’s promises to Israel over my own family; but it wasn’t until this past year that I realized the ending of the verse. After listing all the types of locusts that had swarmed the Israelites, God says: “...my great army that I sent among you.” Just as God had sent the armies of locusts to invade the Israelites, so He had sent “locusts” into my life – surviving an abusive marriage, burying a child, single parenting, health issues... God had allowed these trials to purge me and to refine me. Patrick Weaver, pastor of Faithhill Church in Oakland, California has wisely stated:

“Your calling is going to crush you. If you’re called to mend the brokenhearted, you’re going to wrestle with broken heartedness. If you’re called to prophesy, you’re going to struggle to control your mouth. If you’re called lay hands, you will battle spiritual viruses. If you are called to preach and to teach the gospel, you will be sifted for the wisdom that anoints your message. If you are called to empower, your self-esteem will be attacked, your successes will be hard fought. Your calling will come with cups, thorns, and sifting that are necessary for your mantle to be authentic, humble, and powerful. Your crushing won’t be easy because your assignment is not easy. Your oil is not cheap.”

My calling has most definitely crushed me. I am not the same person I was two decades ago; and for that, I am incredibly grateful. If I am blessed to live another twenty years, I know there will without a doubt be trying times. I know there will be more crushing. Life is growth, and growing is often challenging. But with the growth comes beauty.

My life is completely different now than I thought it would be. It is far more beautiful, far more fulfilling, far more abundant than anything I could have planned for myself. I often feel like Job in the Old Testament, who, after years of indescribable trials, was blessed with twice as much as he had before. My daughters are now grown and living their dream lives. They are beautiful, gracious women, and we are still just as close as ever. They are both married to wonderful men and have their own families. And y’all... I have 3 grandsons! THREE!!! Each of them embodies some aspect of Austin’s personality. What a precious gift! I love being part of my grandsons’ lives and look forward to seeing them grow up.

If I had to summarize the lessons I have learned over the last twenty years, I would say this:

·      You don’t get to choose everything that happens to you in life, but you can choose how to react. You can choose to become more empathetic instead of bitter. You can choose to let your trials soften you rather than harden your spirit. You can choose to look for the good even if there doesn’t seem to be any.

·      Brokenness can be turned to beauty. Now, I am not at all advocating for living with a victim mentality. That isn’t admirable at all. I am saying that just because things may be tough right now, don’t give up. If you keep going and keep fighting through the challenges, you will get to the other side; and there you will see how those trials created a beautiful life.

·      Lastly, I would say that I have learned the importance of living in the moment. I spent years living in survival mode, afraid to really live in the present because I was terrified that it would be too much. That is one of my biggest regrets. There are whole blocks of time from my children’s lives that I don’t remember because I was just trying to survive. One of the biggest lessons I have learned from healing is how to live fully in the present. There will always be work to do. There will always be dishes to wash or laundry to fold, toys to put away or a bathroom to clean. But the people around us? There is no guarantee they will always be there, and those beautiful souls are more valuable and more deserving of our time than anything on a to-do list.

To anyone reading this who is walking this valley of grief, please know you are not alone. You are surrounded by other moms who know what you are enduring. We know the pain you are feeling. We know the guilt, the grief, the unanswered questions, and the anger. Let yourself feel it all. And please remember, there are better days to come. One day at a time. One moment at a time if needed. You will make it through. We are here for you. Please reach out if you need a friend.

Much love, my friends.