A Mother’s Journey Through Grief and Healing

July 6, 2019. One month since my husband, Granger, and I had lost our three-year-old son, River, to a drowning in our backyard pool. It was the first time I had been alone since Riv’s funeral. Granger and our other two children—seven-year-old daugh­ter, London, and five-year-old son, Lincoln—were at my mother-in-law’s for the weekend. I had been with them but came home early. I just needed to be by myself.

I walked into River’s bedroom. He’d never spent much time in here, except to sleep. He’d always been running, climbing, exploring. Or racing around in his go-kart, his red hair swooping wildly. Full speed ahead with the big­gest smile on his face, that was Riv.

I stared at his empty crib, at the places he’d chewed on the wood while he was teething. I ran my fingers over those little teeth marks, and every emo­tion I had held in for the past month came pouring out. “I don’t want any more sympathy cards!” I screamed. “I don’t want to hear that God needed an­other angel! I just want my son!”

I clutched the crib rail, sobbing. I had been drawing near to Jesus for the first time in my life. Why, God? I won­dered. Why would you let this happen? I just couldn’t make sense of any of it.

Before this, our lives had been hap­py. Truly happy. Granger and I had met in 2009. He was a country singer-songwriter living in College Station, Texas, and I was a part-time actor liv­ing in Fort Worth. I showed up in his “People you may know” section on Facebook, and he thought I’d be per­fect for his new music video. We spent a day together shooting the video, pre­tending to be in love. I knew shortly after that it was more than just acting for me. I had to see him again. We fell in love quickly and married the follow­ing year.

One area where our backgrounds differed was faith. My parents took me to church when I was a kid, but back then God had felt like a distant figure, not a part of our everyday life. Granger wasn’t fully walking with the Lord, but he was raised in a home rooted in faith, with parents who were ded­icated to instilling Christian values. Granger and his brothers had been involved in church and Christian youth groups.

We had three children in five years, and a time came when we decided we wanted to give our children a foundation in faith. I took them to church alone on Sundays because Granger was on tour. I began attend­ing Bible studies and read­ing devotionals, praying often. I still had so much to learn, but I was finally growing closer to the Lord, and it felt good.

Then one night in June, everything came crashing down. Granger was leaving early the next morning for the CMT (Country Music Television) Music awards, and the kids wanted some extra time playing with him outside. I went to take a quick shower and sat on the bed afterward.

That’s when I heard the screams. All I could make out were “River” and “pool.” We had an iron fence around the pool. The gate was always locked. River was signed up for his first swim class the following week. But some­how Riv had breached the gate and fallen into the pool without a sound. From there it was a blur. Granger and I traded off CPR attempts until EMTs arrived. River was rushed to the hos­pital, but his brain had gone too long without oxygen, and he was unable to survive.

I blamed myself for not putting River to bed, not signing him up for swim lessons sooner. Grang­er thought it was all his fault. By the grace of God, we never blamed each other.

Family and friends rallied around us—bringing us food, praying for us, helping with the kids. Granger and I took turns comforting each other, and Linc and London. But once the kids were in bed, I would curl up on the bathroom floor, the awful visions of that night and all the questions on a loop in my brain. Why did God let this happen? How would we ever survive this pain?

Two weeks after River died, Grang­er was set to go back on tour. He had people on salary relying on touring to support their families.

“I think you guys should come with me,” he said.

I agreed. “We all need to be together right now,” I told him. “And it’ll be good for the kids to get away.”

We needed to get away from the scene of our worst night. For the next week, we hit the road for three shows. In between, I tried to find some sense of normalcy for the kids and help them in their grieving process. We explored new cities and towns, checked out parks and museums. But the rest of the tour dates were spread out over the summer when the kids had activities, so we all came home for the Fourth of July weekend. Granger and I decided that the kids and I would stay home while he finished the tour.

Now, here I was, staring at my little boy’s empty crib and crying out to God, wondering how I would be able to go on without my son.

Granger and the kids came home from his mom’s. “Babe, how’s your heart today?” he asked. That was something we asked each other in­stead of “How are you?” because we knew how we were doing…terribly.

“I was really angry today,” I told him. I didn’t get into my breakdown, but one look at his face and I knew he understood.

“I think we need to move,” Granger said. “I don’t think I can stay here in this house.”

I realized he was right. We couldn’t be the parents London and Lincoln needed if we were here. All of our good memories were overshadowed by the awful one we couldn’t escape.

Once we got settled in our new place, Granger went back on tour. It was really difficult yet somehow heal­ing for him. But healing wasn’t coming for me.

I tried so hard to be the mom Linc and London needed. But I was so bro­ken, I was a shell of myself. Nothing made sense, and everything seemed trivial after River’s loss. Still, I knew I couldn’t stay in this dark place forever. My family needed me.

I got back to reading devotionals the way I did before losing Riv. I’d hang on to bits and pieces of scripture and encouragement, anything that would give me a little hope.

Granger came home one day, looked at all my devotionals, then up at me. “Babe, I think we need to put these away and open God’s Word,” he said.

We’d never done that before. But right then and there, we grabbed our Bible and opened to the first chapter of Matthew. I soaked up every word.

From there, we each read at our own pace every day. Sometimes I didn’t understand what I was reading, but I would ask God to reveal himself to me. Please, Lord, show me who you are, I prayed. I know you are good, but this doesn’t feel good. Show me there is purpose in this. Give me strength to be a good wife and mom.

Little by little, God began to trans­form my heart and my faith grew. It was about this time that a friend called.

“There’s a grief support group that I think might help you,” she said. “It’s run by a woman named Suzanne out of her home.”

I didn’t know if I was ready to show up to a group of strangers and talk about my pain. But I knew isolating myself wasn’t healthy. “Thank you,” I told her. “I’ll try to go.”

Which was how I found myself sit­ting in Suzanne’s living room a few days later, with 10 people I didn’t know. Suzanne led the group in prayer. Then we went around the room, with everyone telling their story.

I didn’t know how to share that my son had drowned. There is an unspoken judgment that comes with a child’s death by drowning, that the parents should have done something to prevent it.

All too soon, it was my turn to speak. “I’m Amber,” I managed to say. “And my three-year-old son, River, drowned in June.”

“Oh, honey, I am so sorry,” a woman said. “I can imagine the pain that you are feeling right now. I lost my son to suicide.”

“My husband died of a heart attack,” another lady said.

Everyone was grieving their own loss. No one was judging me. I felt something in me ease a little.

The next week, I went back. And I kept going back. The group became a lifeline for me. Suzanne and the rest of the people made me feel that I wasn’t alone. That there was a path forward and I didn’t have to stay stuck in grief forever.

Leaning on Granger, reading God’s Word, connecting with others in pain. Those were unexpected blessings in the midst of my grief.

So much of life remains a mystery. I don’t know why River’s time here was only three short years. But I’ve learned to trust the God of scripture—the One who holds our lives in his hands and ordains each of our days. After all, faith means trusting in what we can­not see. And it means being vulnerable with God. He knows we are human and meets us right where we are. Even when we don’t understand, even when we are angry, even when he feels dis­tant. He is there, his goodness closer than we think.

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