Suicide Birth

My dad is dead.


My first-born son smiles.


My dad is dead.


My first-born son coos.


My dad is dead.


My first-born son wakes.




Surreal paradox.




I can't fully express what it is like to give birth, to give life to another human being through amazing effort and triumphant labor. I can try, but in the end, it's something you can only know by experiencing it for yourself.


I can't fully express what it is like for someone you love to take their own life. To know that everything you gave and shared and loved is gone. And gone by their choice. Again, you pretty much need to experience it for yourself to know what it feels like.


To feel them both within six weeks of each other is... Well, it's even harder to put into words.




But here is my poor attempt.




On the evening of April 4th, there was a knock at the door. We were eating dinner with a friend, so I was caught even more off guard than normal by this unexpected visitor. I opened the door. I was asked, gently and kindly, by a police chaplain to either step outside or if they could come inside. I stepped out, trying to know what was more appropriate for our dinner guest. Honestly, at this point, all I saw was police. I thought I was in trouble for running a toll booth or some nonsense like that. The fact that I had three representatives of the police force, a police chaplain, a police officer, and a civilian, at my door hadn't fully hit me.


He confirmed that I indeed was Drew Arnold, daughter of Daniel Sebastian.


Then he told me that my dad committed suicide.


I felt myself fall, gasping for air and crying.


I kicked the air and the ground in anger.


I hid my face from the knowledge and the pain it brought.


Ben was holding Calvin when the visitors arrived, yet somehow he appeared by my side, Calvin-less, right as I bumped into the recycling bin on my way down. Some time in the midst of my emotion he excused our dinner guest, claimed our son from her helpful arms, and rejoined us outside. Shortly after our troop of grief-bringing visitors left, it was time to nurse Calvin. Push "pause" on grief.


I looked down at my suckling son, so precious in his ways, so vulnerable and dependent upon me. I couldn't help but experience happiness. I couldn't help but be grateful. I couldn't help but be humble... For ten to fifteen minutes.


And so began the stop and go pattern of emotional extremes. 


Throughout my grief, nursing Calvin to sleep have been the most cherished, precious parts of my day. My Comforter often visits me in this quiet, still time bringing tears of joy and worship to my eyes. Tears that fall on my son as he enters his dreamland. 


And I remember.


I remember that we are all depraved. That we all need and crave redemption. That I have a promise of that redemption. I need not fear loss. I need not fear pain. For the Redeemer brings life. The Redeemer brings rejoicing.