Do you remember the weeks and months leading to the release of Peter Jackson’s The Return of the King? Do you remember the buzz and anticipation that reached its crescendo in December of 2003? We had already enjoyed The Fellowship of the Ring and The Two Towers, films that had transported us to Middle Earth and gotten us deeply engaged in Tolkien’s world, characters, and lore. We knew it had all been leading to this—to the journey into Mordor, to the ascent of Mount Doom, and to the culminating battles between the forces of good and the forces of evil. We were ready. We were waiting. We were excited.

What none of us felt in the lead-up to the final film was fear or dread. We did not fear or dread the film because we knew it was right that a story that had begun should come to its close. We may have felt an element of sorrow that the story was ending and we would need to bid farewell to characters we had come to love, but we knew that it was good for us to come to its final chapter. And we longed to see and experience it.
There are many people who live in fear of old age, many who live in dread of reaching their twilight years. And in many ways this is understandable, for age brings with it inevitable sorrows and challenges. Life’s later years are rarely life’s easiest years, nor its least problematic. They bring the diminishing of abilities, the loss of friends, the narrowing of life’s borders. The Sage spoke truly and universally when he said “the doors on the street are shut … terrors are in the way … the grasshopper drags itself along,” and so on (Ecclesiastes 12).
Yet these years are also precious in the eyes of God and are meant to be embraced rather than dreaded or denied. Old age is the final part of God’s plan for us before we depart earth for heaven. It is the closing chapter of a story. It is the culmination of a tale that has been told since birth. And why should we fear the ending of a story? Why should we despise the fact that a story begun must also end? Should we not anticipate it as the beautiful final act? Should we not determine to close the story in a way that is beautiful and admirable and honoring to God?
We will undoubtedly live out these years with less energy than we once had and with less of the old vim and vigor. We will perhaps have narrowing opportunities and diminishing abilities. Yet this in no way excuses neglect or indolence, for the Lord still has tasks for us to do, still has people for us to bless, still has graces for us to display. He still means for us to live for his glory and for the good of others—for those in our families, in our churches, in our lives. Our tasks are not complete until he has called us home.
As the Lord of the Rings trilogy drew to its close, we saw that the characters who had been naive at the beginning of the story had become wise. The characters who had been weak at the beginning of the story had become strong. Their qualities had grown and their character had been proven. When the credits had finally rolled and the curtain had finally dropped, we left behind characters we had come to know and love, characters who had shown themselves worthy.
And so too for us. It is in old age that the fruit that began to grow in the younger days finally comes to its ripeness. The seeds that were planted many years before are seen to have grown and multiplied. The investments that were made in youth and middle age—investments in character and godliness—are seen to have been wise and discerning. Old age is the crescendo, the climax, the denouement. It is the beautiful and powerful ending to something precious, something wondrous. It is no more to be dreaded than the final chapter of a great story, no more to be feared than the closing film of a trilogy. May God give us grace to live those days well—to live them with courage, to live them with conviction, to live them with hearts fixed firmly on his glory and eyes fixed firmly on his heaven.

There is no path through this life that does not involve hardship. There is no path through this life that does not involve sorrow and loss. One of the most common sorrows, the most common losses, is that of a child who dies through miscarriage or stillbirth. So many parents are familiar with the agony of losing a child they never truly got to know, yet loved with their whole heart. Writing specifically for mothers who have become members of a club that no one wants to join, Jackie Gibson’s message to them is this: You are still a mother.

Jackie and Jonny Gibson know the pain of losing a child. When their daughter was just a week away from reaching her due date, Jackie began to realize that little Leila was moving less than she had before. Though she called the hospital, she was told to stay home and rest. By the next morning she was certain something was wrong and, sadly, was soon told, “I’m sorry. There is no heartbeat.” “My heart cracked open,” she writes, “and a terrible grief spread through my whole body. I didn’t make a sound, but the tears increased and I started to shake. Jonny wept loudly, crying out ’No! No! No! It cannot be!’ But it was.”
This was the beginning of a time of deep grief and now, seven years later, Gibson has directed that grief into a sweet book meant to offer encouragement to mothers who have experienced the same sorrow. “This book is the story of the death of my daughter Leila. I’m sure as you read there will be parts that feel familiar, details that you recognize in your story, the ‘What? You too?’ moments. There will also be parts that are different from yours. As I have heard my husband say many times, ‘Each person’s valley is each person’s valley.’ But there is one character who is the same in all our stories. It is the God who made our precious children, and who called them home. This story is about him, and how he is always good, even in the darkness.”
And in the pages of this book she shows just how good God is even—or perhaps especially—in the darkness of loss. She begins by telling her own story and then turns to a series of brief chapters that celebrate the character of God, that express confidence in the acts of God, and that share the good news that God gives us through the gospel. She tells how God comforted her in her sorrow and how he taught her to trust him more. She tells of her confidence that her daughter is waiting for her in heaven. She tells of her joy in knowing that God is as active in times of pain as in times of joy. She offers hope—hope that will minister to other broken-hearted mothers.
You Are Still a Mother is a brief book but one that is full of godly wisdom and helpful insights. Weaving together Scripture, poetry, quotes, and her own insights, Gibson has written a book that is sure to bless and comfort mothers who know the pain of a stillbirth or the grief of a miscarriage. It would be hard to recommend it too highly.
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In the relatively early days following Nick’s death, I understood that I would face a number of temptations—the temptation to sink into unremitting despair, the temptation to descend into self-pity, or the temptation to charge God with wrong. I knew also that God was calling me to carry a deep sorrow for a long time and that I could grow weary of it and then act out in ungodly ways. For that reason I soon found myself writing a kind of manifesto, a declaration that I would read often and hold myself accountable to. I am sharing it today in case others may find it helpful as they are called upon to suffer in their own ways. Perhaps it can give you ideas or words that you can adopt as your own as you attempt to be faithful in even the most difficult of circumstances. (This manifesto is chapter 9 of Seasons of Sorrow.)

By faith I will accept Nick’s death as God’s will, and by faith accept that God’s will is always good. By faith I will be at peace with Providence, and by faith at peace with its every decree. By faith I will praise God in the taking as I did in the giving, and by faith receive from his hand this sorrow as I have so many joys. I will grieve but not grumble, mourn but not murmur, weep but not whine.
Though I will be scarred by Nick’s death, I will not be defined by it. Though it will always be part of my story, it will never become my identity. I will be forever thankful that God gave me a son and never resentful that he called him home. My joy in having loved Nick will be greater than my grief in having lost him. I will not waver in my faith, nor abandon my hope, nor revoke my love. I will not charge God with wrong.
I will receive this trial as a responsibility to steward, not a punishment to endure. I will look for God’s smile in it rather than his frown, listen for his words of blessing rather than his voice of rebuke. This sorrow will not make me angry or bitter, nor cause me to act out in rebellion or indignation. Rather, it will make me kinder and gentler, more patient and loving, more compassionate and sympathetic. It will loose my heart from the things of earth and fix it on the things of heaven. The loss of my son will make me more like God’s Son, my sorrow like the Man of Sorrows.
I will continue to love God and trust him, continue to pursue God and enjoy him, continue to worship God and boast of his many mercies. I will look with longing to the day of Christ’s return and with expectation to the day of resurrection. I will remain steadfast and immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord. I will forget what lies behind and strain forward to what lies ahead, always pressing on toward the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus. I will lay aside every weight and sin that clings so closely and run with endurance the race that is set before me, looking always to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of my faith. I will remain faithful until I have fought the good fight and finished the race and kept the faith. I will die as I have lived—a follower of Jesus Christ. Then, by grace, I will go to be with Jesus, and go to be with Nick.
This is my manifesto.