In two weeks we will celebrate 18 years since you and your brother's untimely entrance into the world. You two would very likely be completely hilarious together. We will forever think of you as we celebrate Caleb's milestones. Eighteen whole years!
Of course, at the time I could not even begin to imagine making it through 18 entire years.
I didn't even think I would be able to open my eyes again, let alone breathe.
The light felt like it would shatter my eyes.
I couldn't imagine feeling anything but numb at first. I didn't think it would ever end.
I willed the tears to come, and they just would not.
Until they did. At the most inopportune times. And then they wouldn't stop.
And then I couldn't imagine a time that seeing other people laugh wouldn't cause an immediate anger reaction.
One foot in front of the other - seemed the only thing I could do.
I felt the hardness in my heart. One of the strongest temptations towards cowardice.
Let it harden you.
Death and shock and disappointment in my life. It would've been too easy to let this thick darkness slither its way around my heart. I felt it in a tangible way.
This is how I know there is a God and He loves me.
He gave me a way out.
I had to take it - reaching out a limp and shaking hand to take hold of real living.
I could never forget the horror of what it feels like to hold a body without a soul. It's engrained on me in a way that can not be removed. You branded me and scarred me with love.
And now I live softer. 18 years of choosing soft. Not a weak soft, although often it sure can feel that way, but a soft open heart. Open hands.
I'm not whole, but I know I will be - someday. I can still feel poison swirling around me and within me. I am a broken human. But the prominent presence surging within me is not me at all, but the presence of God. He indwells me with everything that is good. I feel shrapnel residing in my heart. But it shares space with hope.
I'm honored to have space in my heart just for you. I have spent every bit of this 18 years loving you intensely. And letting that love compel me to be better. I fought for that.
I never thought I would find the seeds of creativity within me again.
I never thought I would feel delight in anything.
I never thought a sweet fresh from heaven baby would completely claim my love again.
I never thought I would see beauty in the mundane.
I never thought I would find great satisfaction in a hundred other things in life.
I never thought the sunset would set my heart on fire again.
I never thought the sacredness of music would move me.
I never thought the loveliness of holidays and milestones would bring surges of joy.
But those are things God placed within me when he created me. They don't go away unless my soul leaves my body. They may have been dormant for a while. But in choosing life, I choose to nurture them again. Warm winds of change blew across my soul. Deep waters of staying close to God and his Living and Active Word poured into the trenches of disappointment. And the things that I love bloomed every year - a little more and more.
By the grace of God I am not at a place where I deeply grieve the fact that I missed all but 10 days of your childhood. I see you as a true stepping stone in my life. In these 18 years the fear, distrust, trauma, and anxiety poured in. That is some of the shrapnel. These elements still remain, somewhat. They will show their ugliness, from time to time in greater measure than others. But the growth came when I looked them square in the eye, named them, and told them they didn't have control of me.
No, they're not gone. But I choose love. I choose God. I choose joy. I choose believing in all the good I sometimes can not see.
I choose to love you with every bit of my mama heart and not let losing you make me hard.
Grief is so weird.
I should know its intricate oddities by now - but life is so busy and I haven't taken decent notes.
On January first I woke up with this heavy feeling on my chest, kind of like a brick had been placed right above the region of my heart. I tried to reposition myself to make it go away. It held steady. I got up and started in on my post vacation tasks. They were many.
I functioned,
fed,
laundered,
even laughed a few times. All the while feeling this crazy weight pressing in.
I tried to shrug it off,
mentally explain it away,
and even deny it.
Weird. Am I sad? Did something happen? Did I eat something strange? What, what, what?
And then - like I was finally fully waking, it just hit me.
January. Hello.
And so it is. //January//
The second day of January wasn't much different.
I continued going through odds and ends from traveling and wiped tears away. I caught Dave's concerned eye and tried a half hearted explanation, "Sorry. I'm not sad. Really...." "I mean - I don't know. It's just this brick on my chest. Thing. Kind of like a weight....." "And it's Caleb's birthday, so it's good...."
Wiped more tears.
And he just put his arm around me and said, "And one of your kids isn't here. It's ok."
He's tender and matter of fact and just what I need.
By the second day I had a pretty good idea of what the brick on my chest meant and I, naturally, began to think of ways to remove the weight. Hmmm. Maybe I need to go to the cemetery. Release a blue balloon or something. Maybe I should look at his baby book and make myself cry. Maybe then it would go away.
I would slowly exhale - trying to ease the weight by a sigh. Deep breaths. Change my breathing. Drink some water.
But see, it doesn't go away. And how true of human nature to desperately try to remove the weightiness around my heart. Because we have this pain phobia. When my kids are sick, what is the first thing they say to me? "MOM, can you give me something, do something. maybe some medicine, SOMETHING to make it go away?!"
I understand addictions and numbing the pain. How easy. And how destructive.
Instead, I begrudgingly acknowledge my old friend.
"Hi there, Brick-on-my-chest. I guess it's January, huh? Weird way to start a new year. But I guess we've been starting one this way for over a decade now....
so - it's ok."
Sometimes you can lean into pain a bit and be ok. Sometimes acknowledging it and slowing down to go eye to eye with it offers a sliver of comfort.
Because it means he happened. And I will take all the bricks on my chest to feel him. If I numb that then it takes some of him away. I won't do that.
A thirteen year grief is way different than a brand new grief. Way different. The weight isn't sharp. It doesn't make me bleed. It's just..... heavy. And sometimes it makes me cry.
And it slows me down significantly. That frustrates me. January is a fast paced month. Things need to get filled out and filed and finished up and started. Slow doesn't work well with January. But I have to.
I was elbow deep in dishwater and bubbles. "You need to go lay on the couch and be still."
Ha! That's silly. I don't do that. That's not a part of my life. It's not a thing. What a strange thought.
"You need to go lay on the couch and be still."
Insert eye roll.
"You need to go lay on the couch and be still."
It was like a Jedi mind trick.
"Why yes. Yes - I DO need to go lay on the couch and be still for a while!"
Grief slows me down. And it should. If I were counseling someone else through a younger grief I would admonish them to please, please slow down. To rest. To allow great big margins in the time period when grief hits the hardest. And I guess God is trying to teach me to offer that same grace to myself.
I might still take some deep breaths, and try to reposition the weight away. -Much of it is on a subconscious level and human nature does it's thing. But this January I will place my hand gently on the place where the brick is on my chest. I whisper his name and remember his feathery hair nuzzled against my cheek. If I'm going to have Big Feelings - then I will choose to go both ends of the spectrum. I won't numb the pain away. And in so choosing, I will feel the ecstasy of those January moments too.
See, that brick on my chest can't take anything away from me. And honestly - I think it's giving me more than I may ever know.
Can I just tell you that God cares, so much, about the details of your life?
-That he still speaks, and cares, and orchestrates, and pursues?
That's a place I just want to camp out at. I want to be there and stay there - on that truth.
Through all of the ups and downs in life;
the disappointments, and dry times.
The phases of life when I feel alone and directionless.
And the good.
The spectacular, mountain top, breathless moments.
I want to always be at this place of knowing, knowing, that God is good all the time and He is beyond worthy of my worship.
Sometimes worship takes a shape we don't recognize. And we need, we just so need, to see it for what it is. The root of worship is worthy {worth-ship}. Any time we acknowledge His worth, that He, Jesus, is worthy- we are worshiping.
I worshipped this week when I took little man to the doctor and we acknowledged that miracles do happen.
I worshipped when God answered a prayer for us. You know those prayers? - "A red light or a green light, God - could you give one?" And it came in the form of a closed door. Worship? Yes. God is speaking. He is moving. He finds us worthy of his intimate hand in the details of our lives. Wow.
Worship.
I worshipped when we were given a gift this week that really took our breath away. It spoke grace to us. I watched my husband worship and I watched that worship transform a weary heart to a heart drenched in grace. That Grace multiplied all over our family, and that - well that leads to more worship.
I worshipped in the presence of two very special friends, who lifted my heart and encouraged me.
I worshipped in the finally-arrived-spring-time-weather, when I got to get out there with my camera again, and jump back into the job that I love.
I worshipped when sleep was eluding both Dave and I in the wee hours of the morning - and we talked and prayed and talked some more.
About what God is doing and how He moves.
About His crazy love.
About our little family, and our purposes.
I worshipped on my bike this week. 5.5 miles with a tandem behind me. Dave in front with a lil' tator in front of him and K in the cart behind him. Beauty all around us as spring struggles to make its presence known. Too much not to acknowledge that He is worthy.
And then this morning.
I was scheduled to be on the worship team at our church this morning. Apt, right? All this talk about worship, passion for it, spilling over to our church family. Good. I practiced from 8:30 - 9:30 with the other vocalists and musicians. On my way to Sunday school I had the prompting to check my voicemail. - Not something I usually do on the way to Sunday school. No one leaves me voice mails on Sunday mornings. But there it was.
The hospital I had 3 of my babies in. The birthing center calling me because my name is on the Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep registry {Providing the gift of remembrance photography for parents suffering the loss of a baby}. I signed up for it a year ago, but never really became active with it. The photographer who usually takes the photos for them on vacation…. and they wondered, could I do it?
Well, there was Sunday school,
and boys,
and one vehicle,
I didn't have my camera, and I was tired,
I was on worship team….
As I drove into the parking garage at the hospital I sent a text to Dave, "This is my worship"
And it was.
I went from shaky and unsure of my capability to do what I was being asked to do, to confident, ready, and completely calm.
Hugging and praying with the sweet little mama. Little fingers and toes seen through my macro lens.
None of it was coincidence, and down to the smallest detail, God was in all of it. I later told Dave that God did it, and I was just along for the ride. That's how it happened.
Even in his name; the sweet baby boy, now in the arms of Jesus - even in that detail it was this clear sign from God.
"Here it is - here's right where you are supposed to be right now. I haven't forgotten what your heart trudged through. I haven't forgotten, and this multiplies your purpose."
His name was Joshua.
And I got right back to church at noon on the dot.
Today I googled the neonatologist who signed Joshua's death certificate. It has been 10 years, so I wasn't sure where she would be. It turns out she is on the west coast now. She has been for the last 8 years. No reason to find her, or see her face, or figure out what she is doing now. Just one of those strange emotional impulses. I'm really not a stalker (much).
She is in a specialty medical group helping critically ill newborns and researching respiratory support for sick little babies. I'm so thankful for those who are investing their lives into this field. It amazes me. Really, I can't imagine…
I am thankful for Dr. N, and her soft spoken and straight forward ways. We were in contact with her for 3 short (but oh-so-long) months, but of course she will have a lasting impact on us. There were 7 neonatologists that we worked with. It could have been any of them on duty that night, but I believe that it was her for a reason. There was a lot of compassion, and it was needed. She was kind and gentle, but she did not sugar coat anything. I am grateful for that because, believe me, if anyone would have thrown out any manner of false hope, heaven knows I would have clung to it stubbornly with all that I had.
So, she told us that there was some hope of possibly keeping him alive for maybe a few more days. Maybe. With intense medical intervention. And then she laid out the facts. His kidneys were non functioning. He was on a high frequency ventilator getting an absurd amount of breaths per minute. He was on a constant morphine drip. He was in pain. His little body was swollen to twice its previous size. *shudder* That was hard.
She let us break all kinds of rules that day; letting family and friends filter in and out throughout the whole day. Letting anyone and everyone hold him.
Oh, holding him was hard. I wish I would have felt something that day - just let all of the raw emotions flow through my arms, and feel his warmth and his softness. I felt nothing. I held him and put him back in Dave's arms, and would eventually hold him again. And feel nothing. Sometimes my cheeks were wet, but it felt strange - like some one else's tears were falling down my face.
I guess I could do numb. I couldn't do what January 12th 2003 was demanding me to do, but I could do numb.
She came on duty later in the day, I think. She would just be there, doing little tasks here and there. Then she would be gone when we needed privacy. Her intuition was greatly appreciated.
I don't think she knew that we had finally made the choice she had been inquiring about, until all of our family was gone. The doctors needed to know… They wouldn't push or demand, but we had been asked what our wishes were. He was too small for a kidney transplant or dialysis, or anything like that. They laid it out plainly a few times… and they waited.
I remember insisting that he have a blanket. Weird stuff becomes of heightened importance during times of intense grief. I wanted to keep the blanket that he had been wrapped in all day, but the thought of Joshua being without a blanket… even as he slipped away from this earth and into his heavenly home, was horrific to me. What silly, earthly, tangible things our minds want to cling to when they don't know where to land. Pretty sure heaven will be warm enough… But nonetheless, the way she brought me that super soft yellow and blue blanket, and sweet light blue flannel gown for him is something I am still grateful for.
I wrapped him so carefully, and she slowly removed each tube and wire form his little shell of a body. She smiled and I saw glistening moisture in the corners of her eyes. I'm sure this had happened, in her line of work, over and over and over again. We found out later that she had slipped out of NICU room #2 and went into a private spot in NICU room #3 and sobbed. I don't know what kind of thoughts she was processing that night. Her authentic emotions were comforting to me though, and I think they helped begin to thaw mine.
The flannel gown that she brought Joshua had a butterfly on it. I still have it, because our dear friend, Chris made a custom designed gown for Joshua to be buried in. So the flannel one that he had on while we held him and said our final goodbyes is now folded neatly as a keepsake. The butterfly on the front is made out of medium blue ribbon. It makes me think about spring and new life and growth.
It makes me think about where we are at now.
It makes me think about beauty bursting forth from a pile of ashes.
It makes me think about Jesus,
and transformation,
and passion,
and redemption.
Right now it is winter here in mid Michigan, and when I look out my window I see two colors; brown and white. All of the bright green vegetation, and vibrant flowers are not necessarily dead. Much of it is waiting. In a state of dormancy. Expectation. Sometimes everything has to die, or appear dead, before it can truly live and thrive and burst forth with beauty. Like a butterfly.
My heart is full of thankfulness for the fact that God gave us Joshua, and one of the main reasons I can say I am thankful to have experienced his life and death is that he has rearranged my heart, changed my priorities, and showed me Jesus. Would I care so much about heaven? Would it be so real to me? Would that veil which separates where we are now from our final destination be so thin? I think not.
The winter of my heart has most definitely turned to spring. The thawing process and the Beginning to Feelwas excruciating. Yes.
But I would not trade it for anything. I neither believe that it was God's plan for Joshua to die nor do I think he said, "Wendi needs a more eternal perspective, I will give her a baby and then take him back after 10 days in order for her to learn, for her eyes to be opened, for her heart to feel more, to show her myself."
-But instead I think that as his heart wept for me, and as he allowed the ripple effect of the sins of human kind to touch one of his beloved, he cradled my heart in comfort and said, "This will not go in vain. What was meant to harm you will be used in a million ways to strengthen you, and most importantly - to shine my light in this tainted world. Your spring will come."
And although it should be an established reality for me by now {hello, nine years!}, it continues to feel very divergent to experience a joy that is real while being very aware of that corner of my heart that just aches.
It aches for you.
My son.
We had the celebratory day that K absolutely deserved.
We tucked him in bed, a very happy boy.
Dave and I smiled at each other. No doubt many of the same memories playing out in our minds.
What a joy it is to see your twin grow and thrive.
I think you know.
My heart was so full as I cocooned under my blankets and into your daddy's arms.
So when I cried...and cried...
it wasn't at all for a lack of contentment... or lack of joy.... or unhappiness.
No, not at all.
It was just - you.
Today, nine year ago, I had two babies.
And the heart's memory? - Well, I do believe that it can sometimes retain more than the brain.
Believe it or not {smile} my brain is capable of some logic.
And that logic sees how far we have come.
It recognizes the absence of raw, unfiltered pain.
It sees all the good.
What God has been able to do with the darkest of our days is really beautiful.
We are grateful.
But my heart remembers so much more.
And it just seemed to beat with this rhythm last night,
"I had two babies today, I had two babies today, I had two babies today."
So, to our "baby A", our beautiful Joshua David,
Happy birthday.
You represent growth and goodness and God's faithfulness too. In very different ways than K does, but undeniably, you are a big part of much positive change in our lives.
The sound of the phone ringing never fails to makes my pulse quicken these days. I always wonder if it will be the hospital. We are there most of the time, but we do come home to sleep and get a little bit of respite from all of the hospital time.
When the phone rang this morning we were getting ready for church. We hadn’t gone since the babies were born, but we thought it would be really good for us to go.
The phone call put a stop to those plans.
It was the neonatologist. He said we should come up to the hospital right away. I started crying immediately when Dave told me that. The doctor told us that both boys had suffered brain bleeds, Caleb’s being much more severe.
I was convinced that they were telling us Caleb was going to die. I wondered if we would get there in time. I couldn’t stop crying the entire drive to the hospital. Dave said the doctor had sounded very serious on the phone.
Dave had the foresight to call our family and friends so that they could be praying their hearts out.
When we arrived we immediately searched for the doctor we had talked to on the phone. There are 6 neonatologists on staff in our NICU. They are often quite hard to track down. It took us a while to find him. We were so anxious!
When we finally found him, the doctor very soberly began talking about the brain bleed and how drastically it had affected Caleb. I began to cry again. His words all blended together. I heard things about brain activity, cerebral palsy, low expectations, etc. Dave stopped him mid sentence. “You keep talking about how this will affect his quality of life. When we got the phone call this morning we were under the impression that his life was in jeopardy. Please clear this up for us. Could this take his life or just affect what you deem his “quality” of life?”
When the doctor spoke again his words pierced through the fog of grief that I had taken onto myself. “Oh no, this isn’t life threatening, if treated quickly and correctly. That’s not what we are trying to convey. It’s just that a bleed this severe will reduce him to little more than a vegetable.”
As his words sank in, I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Dave and I turned and grabbed each other tightly. I felt like I could just fall right to the floor.
It was funny to see the look on the doctor’s face. I’m guessing he doesn’t often get that kind of a relieved reaction from parent’s whom he has just told that their child may be a completely non functioning person.
But all I felt at that moment was the fear leaving my body. Dread that I would have to say good bye to my son that day, like I had feared the second I heard the phone ring.
I don't think he really registered our reaction at first, because he continued talking to us in a very sympathetic, and I guess in what he thought was an understanding, way. "I know this must be very hard news to hear. I wish I didn't have to tell you how very damaged your child's brain is. He is very dependent on life support right now, and you both need to know that no one here would fault you if you want us to turn it off and just make him comfortable..."
I couldn't believe it! The implications of what he was saying were not lost on us. Basically - your kid isn't going to amount to anything according to our vast medical knowledge, and if you want to quietly let him die we would stand behind you.
Even now - as I sit here recalling this crazy day, I can not fathom this being offered to us.
He was assured that this was not an option we would be taking. I was so proud of Dave, because he made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that we never wanted that "option" to be spoken of to us again.
I felt like taking a long nap after that, but instead went over to Joshua's isolette. He is looking so good. What a balm to my weary soul! As I was standing there talking softly to him his nurse asked me if I wanted to hold him.
Hold him! I was so surprised. I didn't think that would happen for some time. Of course I wanted to.
I was scared and excited all at the same time as they unhooked his ventilator and heart monitor leads. It was a long process. Getting him situated in my lap took a while as well. They had to clip his ventilator tubing on to my purple sweater and keep it level. I felt like I couldn’t move any part of my body or I would turn alarms on.
But then I just focused on him. Oh that precious face! His eyes are still fused shut. They won’t open for another 2 weeks or so. Still, he is such a completely formed beautiful child!
It kind of felt like I was just holding a blanket. He’s only about 1 lb. 6 oz right now. He had the normal initial weight loss those first couple of days, but is holding his own quite nicely now that he is getting my breast milk.
Feather light. I took his little hat off for a few seconds and stroked his light brown hair. He has quite a bit of it. I quickly put his hat back on when one of his nurses gave me that disapproving and stern look... I know I have to be so careful. He can’t keep his own body temperature up and the hat is important.
I was so nervous at first that I didn't allow myself to enjoy the moment. I didn't want to do any thing to cause him to have breathing or heart problems, so I sat there - really tense and cautious. I don't know what I expected. I guess maybe to feel like a mom. I didn't.
And then he squirmed a little bit and it looked like he was trying to open his eyes. I felt some small stirrings in my heart. Like - maybe this is going to be okay. Maybe I can do this. Maybe, just maybe, I can just enjoy holding my son. So, I just sat their and breathed him in. He smells like beauty. Sweet, sweet baby smell. Even past all of the smells of the hospital and medicines, I could breathe in the wonderful scent that is newness just sent form God himself.
And for a moment I was a mother. Not a nervous onlooker watching the nurses rush around. Not a frightened woman who can barely look into the future for fear of what might be there.
It was just me and him. In a rocking chair.
Oh my baby! How I have longed for this tender moment with you. You made my heart overflow with joy. A joy I haven’t known for weeks.
How good to see him start to thrive.
So, another day done. Another prayer of thanks. Another night of restless sleep.
I never saw your reflection in a Christmas ball, and for some reason today that made me so sad.
There have been alot of things in the past 7 years that have made me pause, close my eyes tight and wish you were here. With me. Experiencing our silly insignificant traditions and special times. Me, your brothers, your daddy.
We miss you.
I have gone months with only momentary, and pleasant, thoughts of you. But today I held Kai up to show him a pretty silver Christmas ball and he was in awe of the small, and slightly distorted, reflection that he saw there. His chubby little hand grabbed for it and his eyes were so big.
"I never got to do this with you" - it was all I could think about and it took my breath away.
Why this? {really, -a reflection in a Christmas ball?!} Why now?
- I've stopped asking those things a long time ago, because there is no "expected" and "planned" of grief.
I've learned to take it as it comes.
So I sat Mr. Kai down and I let it come. I lowered myself to the floor beside him and I cried for you. Kai crawled all over me and giggled and pulled my hair.
It seems kind of silly to me now.
I can't believe it has been 8 years. Amazing. Eight years since you were alive and kicking up a storm inside of me.
Part of me feels panicked by the way that each year has separated me further and further from you. I want to grasp at memories and slow down the clock, but I know that facing the truth is something that continually teaches me where to place my security, what really matters, and to treasure each day with your brothers.
The truth is hard for me. Because the truth is that my memories are becoming a little bit more dim.
I am getting older.
You are not here.
Some days you seem like a dream. It hurts to even type that, because you were, you are, my son. So very real. Soft, little, and so miraculous.
Yet, what I have left of you seems kind of like that distorted reflection in the Christmas ball. Faint and illusive.
My heart knows all of the wonderful facts. Like how beautiful your world is. So beyond anything my imagination could conjure up.
But today I just miss you. I really, really miss you.
I don't write about him that much anymore. When I first started my blog- preserving the memory of our son JD was a great motivator for it. And I had a deep need to write about him. Remember him. Make him known.
My needs are different now, but he is still very much a part of each moment of my life.
He's in my dreams more than anyone knows. He fills my heart in paces that are dear to me.
And the pain of his passing form our life will not be in vain.
It was one of my greatest fears in the early days after losing him. That everything we went through would lack purpose and seem pointless.
But I know that God doesn't waste pain. I know that he uses everything for his glory.
And Joshua is part of that.
I am amazed at the way that God has already used this experience. I could never have known how many hurting women would be in my life or whom my life would touch in some way.
It's already here. It's already happening. This multiplying of peace and being used by God because of what happened.
Some of you know that I have been working on writing a book dealing with our experiences of Joshua and Caleb's birth and Joshua's death.
Some days the book seems like a dream. I have briefly looked into what it takes to get published and I became intimidated. And yet, I feel a great pull to get this thing done. So I have been contemplating simply getting some printed and having them available to a few hospitals in the area to give out to women who are facing loss. I have already talked to the nurses in my birthing center about it and they are eager for the moment I finish.
I know the pain of loss.
I know the deep and unrelenting torture that goes on in a mommy's heart when she must say good bye to her baby.
I also know the beauty of hope. And it is this hope that drives my desire to get my experiences written down and in the hands of women who need to read it.
Will you pray with me as I pursue this desire?
Alot of what I have written actually comes straight from my journal. Here is an excerpt:
January 15, 2003
It was so cold. In the single digits outside. Even colder inside of me.
We stood at the tiny grave and for the first time a thought went through my mind that I didn’t know I was capable of thinking.
“I want to be with him. Don’t put dirt over him until I can climb in too. I don’t want this pain. Let me go with him!! Please don't make me stay here, living in this agony!”
The intensity of that desire took my breath away. I didn’t really want to go on. This charade of doing life was too exhausting, when the moment he died something died inside of me as well.
And then a vivid picture entered my mind. A tiny hand reaching out. A miniature little body. A boy who was lying in a small enclosed bed an hour away. Mine. My hope. And at that point, my reason to go on.
Every one had walked away from the graveside by then. It was far too cold to spend much time out there at all. Dave and I stood there and prayed, holding one another a few minutes longer.
I took a deep breath then, conjured up a mental picture of Caleb again, and walked away.
I had to see him. We went up to the hospital as soon as we had hugged and thanked the last person who had come to support us.
And there he was. Still looking very frail, but still fighting.
He has to live. He just has to. Do I dare hope? Should I pray? Would it do any good?
The confusion that I had begun feeling spiritually continued to work its way into my life, causing me to feel further and further away from God. Some how I knew that it was me, not God causing this chasm, but in my grief and sometimes even anger, I pushed that knowledge aside and tricked myself into thinking that God had some how changed. That he didn’t really care. That he hadn’t heard, listened, or cared about the hours I had spent pleading with him for the life of my baby.
I started an almost manic search for why this had happened. I had to make sense of it. The questions tumbled into my mind in droves. They trampled most all other logical thoughts. I had to know.
Why had God granted my request for twins if he knew one would die?
If He is who He said He was, all knowing, all powerful God, then he could have stopped this. Why didn’t he?
Was there a greater purpose? What was it?
Was some one going to come to know him through it? Who? And wasn’t there a better way? A way that was not at my expense?
Where was He?
Why couldn’t I feel Him?
Why did I feel like I was drowning?
When would the suffering end?
Why was Caleb still so sick?
My quest for answers only multiplied the questions and the frustration resulting from that was tearing me apart inside. Slowly. Painfully.
A few weeks after Joshua’s funeral I sat in church singing mindlessly to a God whom I was learning to block out of my life.
My lips sang “At all times I will sing of your greatness. At all times I will sing of your love. At all times I will sing of your faithfulness. For your goodness remains and your love is the same at all times.”
Some thing broke deep with in me. Because although I was denying his nearness, He had not changed. He had not moved. It was I who had moved away from Him. And he was right there, speaking truth into my heart. As my lips sang the words my heart was yearning to once again have sweet fellowship with the one who created my inmost being and loved me beyond comprehension.
I collapsed into the pew sobbing. I gasped for breath. I couldn’t stay there. Not with that song playing and every one around me singing those horrible lyrics! It wasn’t true. He couldn’t be trusted and He wasn’t the same at all times. At least I couldn’t sing of His faithfulness at all times. I couldn’t right then.
I grabbed my purse and ran for the door. I went into the first room I got to; the pastor’s office. It wasn’t long before the pastor’s wife and my friend Rachel quietly came in and closed the door behind them.
They let me cry, and then they lovingly asked me what was going on.
I know my words sounded bitter. I also know I wasn’t judged in that moment.
“I can’t sing…that…song!”
More crying.
“He isn’t loving and faithful all the time. Sometimes he lets us go through awful stuff. Stuff that hurts so bad I just want to crawl out of my skin! Where is He? Where was He when I cried out to Him asking Him to heal Joshua?!”
God was using this song, this moment, these questions to move me into a phase of grief I had to enter into. I couldn’t by pass it. I had to reach this breaking point to move past it.
The two lovely women with me let me talk. They shared some scripture with me. They told me it was okay. Honestly I don’t remember much of what they said or did. I just remember that when I left that room some thing had changed for me. It wasn’t a big step and most, if not all, of my questions still remained, but a small crack was forming in the wall I had built between myself and God.
I didn’t run to him and allow His comfort to envelope me like I wish I had at that time, but I began speaking to him again. Little by little. Here and there. It wasn’t complete unburdening, but it was a step in the right direction.
Then one night I demolished the wall and boldly approached Him in a way I had never in my life done.
We got a call from our dear friends who worked in the youth group at church with us. They were informing us that one of the young teen girls who attended our youth group was pregnant.
I had been living each day in state of numbness. I would put one foot in front of the other. I would visit Caleb. He was making little progress. I would eat, so that I could make milk for him. Emotions came, still mainly when I was alone. Some thing big felt like it was always just below the surface. I couldn’t allow it to come out. If I did I may never stop crying. I had to keep it at bay.
The night we received that phone call I lost the control that I had been so carefully putting in place daily. The situation with the girl in our church started my complete unraveling. It started out as a quiet crying. I look at Dave in disbelief. “I bet her baby will be perfect.” I whispered the words and immediately felt guilt. I would never wish ill on any one’s child, and I wasn’t wishing this one any harm. I was just struck with some of the ironies of this world. The tainted realities that cut so deep.
My crying became louder, insistent, desperate. I had never cried like that in my life. I was screaming and yelling, pounding my pillow. And I finally talked to God. Openly, freely, with no reservation. I yelled at Him. I told Him I was angry, I asked Him why. I screamed at Him. “He was my baby! And you took him!!”
And then, in a whimpering state of exhaustion, as I was being rocked in the arms of my dear husband, I finally surrendered to the comfort that God had been offering me all along.
The comfort, the love, and the peace that entered into my being right then stunned me. It rushed in like a torrential downpour of sweet goodness. And that is when I realized it had been there all the time. God was longing to soothe the hurts of my heart. But he had created with in me a free will. A will to run to Him or go my own way. The hurt, the disappointment, the grief, the confusion – it had turned my focus from Him. But He was waiting. Always waiting.
I got it then, that it hurt Him so much to see one He loved crying alone. So close to comfort, but denying it. Oh how He loved me. He even loved me when I screamed at Him. I felt as if he were telling me “Go ahead, tell me daughter! Tell me where it hurts. Tell me how you feel. Oh how I have been waiting for this moment.”
I felt no guilt in expressing my feelings to my God. And it was the turning point of my loneliness.
It still hurt. I still struggled, but I was not alone. Not for a minute.
{J.D.}
It's not for you that I write this - because I know that you don't need my love. You don't need my grief. You don't need my mothering. You don't need to know how we are doing seven years after you briefly graced our lives.
You don't need any of it.
It's for me.
Because every year around this time I think of you more. And I feel a need to get some of those emotions out. It's an outlet for me.
So it is that time of year again. The time where memories are more vivid. Where milestones of your short life begin to make an entrance into our days.
During the past seven years when mid to late December would roll around I would consciously, and subconsciously, begin to feel emotions of a deep and unpredictable manner. I would often feel sick to my stomach on a daily basis. Some times "unexplainable" tears would roll down my face - that upon later analyzation, were not unexplainable at all.
They were for you.
They were for the days in December that you were so whole and healthy inside of my body. And then the days in January where we watched your life fade.
It was on December 20th that we first found out that you and K would likely be born much sooner than you were supposed to be. And we began the fight to keep you safe inside.
So each year I remember.
But this year is different. There are still strong emotions. But, so far this year my body feels no sorrow on a physical level for you. My heart remembers - and there is a slight ache. But I have to say that the joy with in me leaves little room for sorrow.
And there is a slight measure of guilt over that. I know - It's rather ridiculous to feel guilty over not being sad. But this is me isn't it? Very typical thrives-on-guilt me.
Every where I look I see the tangible evidence of God's grace and blessings in my life. It feels redemptive. No, your life could never be redeemed by any other lives. You could never be replaced. Ever. But I would have to be insane not to notice the way that God has answered our prayers and multiplied the desires of our hearts since you went to be with him.
J.D. - you were my first baby. My first experience with that all consuming love. Nothing and no one can take that special spot in my life and heart. It will always be reserved for you.
But this year - well, this year the lights on our tree sparkle down on four smiling faces. One looks just like you. One has many question about you. One can't quite grasp the concept of every thing you were and are to us. One shares your name as his middle name.
And in those moments where I expect the sorrow of losing you to weigh me down - those four faces look up into mine and it's just not there. The heavy feeling of loss. The questions of how God could've let this happen... they aren't there this year. To say I am surprised would be an understatement. I hardly remember a December with out these feelings.
The healer called time has something to do with it I am sure. Although it seems impossible that 7 years have passed, it is true and with each one of those years the sharpness has dissipated somewhat.
The healer called Christ has every thing to do with it. In those early days, weeks, months, and even years, I never could have imagined facing this time of year with gladness. Peace. Joy.
But here it is.
This year I am smiling when I think of you.
Right now he is one month old.
His world revolves around eating,
sleeping,
being cuddled.
Right now he doesn't understand the enormity of our love.
He knows that when he needs something we are always there,
but he can't grasp the depth of how he has blessed this family.
There is so much that I look forward to telling him and showing him.
So many, many things.
Like how happy we were when we found out he was on the way.
How fun it was to tell his brothers about him.
How amazed we were at the generosity of friends in providing so many nice new things for him so that he didn't have to use all kinds of hand me downs.
And we will tell him about his name.
How mommy always goes for these kind of eccentric, imaginative names and daddy prefers classics.
How we chose Biblical (all old testament too...) names for the other guys, so we felt like we should continue in that with him.
We'll tell him how we both really loved Malachi, because it goes well with the other boys' names - but also fulfills mommy's love for something different.
And some day, when he can understand so much more, we will tell him why we chose his middle name and how very, very close to our hearts it is.
We will tell him about an incredibly special little boy who first stole our hearts 6 1/2 years ago. We will tell him how his forehead, eyes, and nose look strikingly similar to the features of this little guy.
His older brother.
Some one who is so closely related to him.
Who's presence shaped so much of who his mommy and daddy are.
And yet, some one whom he will not ever meet while he is here on this earth.
We will tell him how God's blessings poured out on us the night this special little boy became ours.
And we will also have to tell him how our hearts broke the day we realized that this special little boy was not ours to keep.
Forever we remember him, and now have a little piece of heaven who carries his name.
It makes my heart weep and rejoice all at the same time.
