Ground Only God Can Make Holy
All five boys were together for the first time—but never where I had imagined. They ran around in circles on the cemetery grass, dashing in and out of headstones, their footprints sinking into the damp earth. The youngest two drove Matchbox cars along the top of the marker bearing their brother’s name.
For a moment, I wondered whether we were being disrespectful, letting our boys play amidst the burial ground, but surely we had earned the right. We had a son there, after all. And our boys had come to be with their brother, to do what brothers do.
Ben and I stood and watched them.
“So many boys. . .” Ben mused, almost as if he were counting heads for the very first time.
“Indeed,” I responded with laughter. What a weirdly wonderful sense of humor God has. Having five boys—which at first felt like a cosmic joke—had become a gift. I loved those boys and all their boy-ness desperately.
But as I watched them play, my heart was both full and fractured, acutely aware of the one we were without, the son we barely knew.
In 2010, everything had changed. Two days before Christmas, roughly two-thirds through the pregnancy of our second son Carter, we discovered that our baby boy had never developed kidneys. His birth defect was rare and without cause or cure. In an instant, all our deepest fears came rushing in. While Carter could wiggle and hiccup and live normally inside the womb, he could not sustain life after birth. In fact, we were given no guarantees that he would even be born alive. While doctors presented other options, we chose to continue carrying him. That was our time with our son.
Although resolute in continuing the pregnancy, we had no idea how to live knowing that our son would die. Over and over I told God, “I cannot do this.” I had no capacity, no framework for understanding how I was to give birth to a son who I wouldn’t take home.
In my misery and desperation, I threw myself at God. I told Him every fear, every shame. Sometimes I’d just lie on the floor and cry, weeping until I’d fall asleep with tears matted to my face. Other times, I’d emerge from the floor numb, feeble, and weary. Never had my conversations with God been so gritty, but so full of grace. Because no matter how much I wept and wailed and recoiled in anger, He met me there.
I carried Carter for seven weeks, both anticipating and dreading his arrival. That first hello and the final goodbye. I tried to prepare myself mentally for what to expect, for how to make the most of our time with our son. But never did I anticipate that the labor and delivery room would transform into holy ground.
In the midst of a fierce Indiana snowstorm, Carter Benjamin Westfall arrived on February 2, 2011. He lived for an hour—and that hour became sacred. God’s presence was palpable, so close at times I expected to see Him standing among the family and friends who had gathered. While my pain was always nearby, God was closer still, filling me with peace I could have never conjured.
Being at Carter’s grave put me right back in that hospital room, right back in the smoky swirl of bitter and sweet. As I watched our four boys play, laughing and inspecting dirt and rocks, I was overcome by the good things that had emerged out of our grief:
my dismantled misconceptions about God
the tangible nearness of God’s presence
the daily invitation to know and to be known, just as I am
relationships made stronger, despite the odds
Grief had become my deepest grace, moving me closer into the arms of the Savior. Because isn’t that what grace is all about? It is an undeserved gift that cultivates our hearts, strips us of our pride, and helps us see ourselves and God more clearly. It invites us into more of Jesus again and again, finding Him faithful. All grace—even grace wrapped in grief—is a gift.
These thoughts swirled through my head, a cacophony of joy and longing. The strange dance of grief and joy.
I was quickly jolted back to the present as Ben began to gather up boys who had turned squirrely. It was time to leave. As he buckled them in one by one into our black minivan, I stayed behind. I knelt beside the headstone and, in true mom fashion, began to pick off the green moss that had begun to grow on the marker.
Our oldest son Cohen approached me from behind. Although only a toddler when Carter died, Cohen had lived through that raw season of loss with us. Growing up with grieving parents had taken its toll on him. For years after Carter died, emotions were difficult for Cohen to navigate, the tension often manifesting in misbehavior or anger.
Little did I know, Ben captured these sacred moments.
But as he stood beside me that day, both of us looking down at the headstone, God’s grace was evident. My boy-becoming-man inched closer to me and asked, “Are you just getting some alone time?”
“Yeah. I needed a minute.” I rose to stand next to him.
He paused, and then softly spoke, “I bet this is pretty hard for you.”
All my feelings gathered in my throat, making it nearly impossible to breathe. I looked at him, overwhelmed by his compassion and empathy. Tears flooded my face, but I managed to squeak out, “Yeah, it is. I miss him.”
“Mom, don’t cry. You’ll make me cry.”
I half-smiled and put my arm around his shoulders, “Buddy, crying is good. Crying is part of healing. I cry because Carter means a lot to me, and I miss him—and that’s a good thing.” I pulled my oldest son closer, kissing his forehead and realizing how dangerously close he was to eye level.
We stood together quietly a few more moments, our eyes naturally falling on the words etched in stone:
Carter Benjamin Westfall
February 2, 2011
“…your works are wonderful.” Psalm 139:14
As we turned to walk back to the van through the spongy grass, I breathed deep. The cold Indiana air filled my lungs, and peace settled in my shoulders. I hated to leave, but I knew I couldn’t stay. After one last glance at the gravestone, we drove away in silence—too afraid to cheapen the moment with words. For only God could make this ground holy.
Happy Birthday to our Carter Benjamin. You are forever loved.
To learn more about Carter’s story:
Blog Posts:
Podcast Episodes:
Ep. 1 of Not My Story (hear our story from the perspective of my husband Ben)
“I Wish I Would Have Asked for Longer” (featured on the Momnesia podcast)