It was about seven years ago when singer and song writer Eric Clapton announced he would no longer sing "Tears in Heaven." I was driving the family van with the radio on and couldn't believe the rational given for Clapton's decision. What did he mean? How could he convey that he was over the death of his young son? What kind of grief was that? What was he telling the world -- loss could be "gotten over?"

Later a friend who'd heard the whole story said it was not as it seemed -- Clapton was not stating he was over the death of his 4-year-old son. Rather, he did not want to go back to that raw ground zero place of his life. When he wrote "Tears in Heaven" in 1992, it'd been just months since his son Conner's death. Singing the song brought out the emotions from those raw days and now, years later, Clapton had made a move. He chose to no longer sing his Grammy-winning song in concert. He wasn't denying the magnitude of his loss; he didn't want those early emotions anymore. He'd spent a long season working past them.

I breathed relief. This rational I could understand. For as time goes on, I realize I've worked thorough a multitude of emotions of my own grief.

Recently, a couple in our church lost a 19-year-old daughter to an accident where a drunk driver crossed the median and hit Sarah's car. Sarah died instantly. When I visited the couple in their home, I felt their heavy heartache. I knew what they were going through for the early days of Daniel's death manifested themselves. I saw the potted plants and flowers from florists and remembered our house after Daniel died. Dozens of vases of flowers sent by family and friends crowded the dusty dining room table. Meals brought over by friends were wedged into the refrigerator. And my heart was breaking, more and more each moment. For what I really wanted to appear at my front door was not a potted plant or a casserole, but my son. How would I live now?

As I hugged this newly-bereaved couple in their living room, I wondered how they would cope. I knew their hearts too well and I wanted to take away the intense sorrow and agony. I wanted to bring Sarah home to them, not just a meal. But I couldn't to that. They had to learn how to survive each day without their daughter.

Like channel markers in the sea, I realized how much I have healed and grown stronger over the last nine years. The things I did to get me through the beginning of this rocky path are not all needed now. Some things like constant journal-writing, attending support meetings, and turning the car radio up so that I could listen to "Tears in Heaven" and cry, are no longer necessary. A number of "whatever gets you through the night" aspects of early grief can, like a security blanket, be removed. And when we find that tear-stained blanket in a drawer years later, we don't want to hold the fabric anymore. It was too painful then -- those gut-wrenching days --and now, the old pain might be brought back and that's much too great to handle. So we keep the blanket hidden, but all the while, we know it's there. We can't forget early anguish anymore than we can forget our cherished child. Also we know the human body and mind can't live forever in the dismal state, in order to cope we have to plod through day and night.

For like Clapton, it isn't time for us to be in Heaven with our child. We don't belong there yet. There is more living for us to do on Earth before we embrace our child in Heaven.