Because it wasn't until college that I truly celebrated Good Friday.
I discovered for the first time that the trumpets and lilies and joy of Sunday morning don't really mean anything without the gut-wrenching sorrow of Friday night.
This truth was rattling around in my heart as I wrestled with the second anniversary of Noah's death.
You see, Noah died a day before his first birthday. So every year I am faced first with the anniversary of saying goodbye to him and, just a short 24 hours later, the anniversary of welcoming him into this world.
Part of me is thankful that these two hard days happen at the same time.
Part of me wishes that Noah's birthday wasn't tainted by the sorrow that we feel as we remember losing him.
But this year I had an epiphany of sorts. You see, to me, these two days are not unlike Good Friday and Easter.
Just like Good Friday, August 16th will always be a day of sorrow for me.
It is a day when Josh and I had to make the hardest decision of our lives... to take Noah off the ventilator. It will always make my heart ache and tears flow. It will always remind me of how much I miss my little boy.
But Easter follows Good Friday and joy follows sorrow. The tomb was empty.
I want August 17th to be a day of joy. Joy in remembering the wonderful year we had with our son. Joy in recognizing that Noah's grave is also empty. That he is romping around the fields of heaven perfectly healed and whole.
And that has to make you smile.
"Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning."
(Psalm 30:5b, ESV)