I drove home in the dark Sunday night.

I wasn’t tired or particularly bored, and the time alone was welcome. My trusty daschund was in the passenger seat, complete with seat warmer turned up high, snuggled up under my down coat in hopes she would sleep instead of begging for the coveted spot on my lap. Her exhaustion mostly won, even though she would occasionally rest her head on the console and look up at me imploringly with those deep liquid eyes.

No.

The thought came to me again, as I know it will until I write it down and send it out and make it permanent. I process through it and roll it around and the knowledge that it will sound like madness to many doesn’t make it any less true or any less complete as it fills my heart and overwhelms me again.

It’s ok that Joel died.

God knows better than me, and I wouldn’t change a thing he puts into place. I know that somehow, in some way so incredibly imperceivable to me, that this is a better plan than any I could dream up. I dare not fathom the ripple effect of his death and wonder what would have happened if he’d lived. Sometimes I try but the possibilities are too endless, I know that whatever I imagine, the truth is not mine to know. Somehow, some way, my son was not meant for this world. And if the God of the universe knows this, then who am I to question?

People have commented on the strength of my faith since Joel lived and died. I found this odd. The only faith I thought had evidenced was that God was in control, there was a heaven, my son was there, and I would be too. Salvation is so seemingly simple; believe that Christ died for your sins and heaven is yours. Those of us living the walk know that things can become complicated as we struggle to live the life of the redeemed, but salvation truly is simple. To believe in the salvation of my son and myself has always seemed so straightforward to me, never a test of faith. Always a reassurance.

But this thought, this realization, this was the test of my faith. If you could have him back, would you? My hand does not rest on that button, and I dare say my answer might be different if it did. But tonight, and many nights recently I can safely tell you no. I cannot believe that I know better than God. I cannot believe that I love Joel more than him. I cannot believe that I love me more than God does. He loves me completely, if it were best that Joel were here, he would be here.

I am incredulous as I type. I have been every single time the thought has entered my mind and I’ve run it through from beginning to end. But I just cannot know the consequences of that choice. Would my sister’s children die if my son were to live? Would my husband develop cancer if Joel were here? Would some terrible act injure my son, or worse, would he inflict pain on another? I’m aware I am being dramatic. I know that his life would not necessarily mean pain for another. But that’s the point. And that is where I’ve had to shore up my faith and painstakingly build it and nurture it endlessly. Because if I truly believe, than I have to accept this fact. It hasn’t been easy, and it didn’t happen right away.

But it is happening. I believe that God knows an infinite number of things that I do not, and one of them is why my son would live on this earth less than five days. He knows why Joel was breech and why we chose to birth him naturally instead of surgically. He knows why even when the risk is minimal, things still go wrong. He knows why Joel died.

I never will, and that’s why I can’t question the wisdom in it. It doesn’t change how much I miss him, how sad I am that we don’t get to raise our son, and how incredibly broken I feel every day when I wake up and remember I have a baby – just not here. I think I am rambling on trying to describe the indescribable; it is the intersection of grief and peace, a place reserved for those who mourn and rejoice simultaneously. It is the blessing within the curse, and the joy that comes in the morning. It is what I praise God for every minute, and anxiously seek to recover in the moments when it is lost.

It is faith.