Caleb is 18

Mr. Caleb

Our "Peter Pan".  

 In some ways he'll never grow up.  And there's so much good and so much hard mixed in to that statement.  I'll never limit him, but I'll also never lie about who he is and what life is here on a broken earth. 

He is such a gift to us.  He always will be. And the journey of really embracing that is one that stretches us and fills us. 

We are making decisions with his safety and future in mind currently and I pray that each parental decision is one that has his best interest at heart and shows our love. Oh I pray this  - on the daily.  So many decisions and hoops and phone calls. 

We have big love for our buddy.  And so much we are still just learning and trying to figure out.  I know some days he gets the brunt of the unknowns and the frustrations and the distance between expectation and reality.  I'm so thankful he is patient with us. 

Caleb's intuition is the sweetest.  Bringing me my water "You need this mom". Bringing me my blanket when I have a minute to rest on the couch "want your soft blanket mom?". Pulling me super close and holding on tight for long hugs. He has always sensed when my emotions are off, even when I try to pretend everything is fine.  He just knows. 

And he knows he is an adult, by our cultures standards. We strive to give him the dignity of acknowledging that; nurturing his independence, while still protecting him. My eyes get all misty just thinking of this delicate balance now. He is so important. So worthy of love and respect. Made in the image of God and for a purpose! I pray he always feels these truths.

Sometimes I hear people talk of "My kid is so grown, I didn't give them permission for that! I wish they'd stay little forever." 

- I mean, I've even made these comments from time to time! 

But then there's this little part of me that thinks - "But you really don't want them to stay little forever". 

Because this is the rhythm of life. They hit milestones and they become more and more independent. Slowly they need us less and less, and eventually they are on their own.  

Now that I am within a different parental reality, where this isn't the case, my perspective is different.  

Our Caleb boy will need us for all of his life. There's something very affirming and motivating about being needed in this way. To think that God hand picked Dave and I to have this ministry - it's a big deal! But I would be lying if I said there was no grieving in it too.  Every milestone brings a fresh beauty and a fresh grief.  It just does.

We have to decide if we will love fully who he is, or try to put our square peg into a round hole. 

So we let him pick out his special things for his birthday.  -The toy train and the baby Einstein puppet.  Things he truly loves. We will let him shine and not put the weight of the world on him.  He is too precious for that. 

I had the privilege this year of schooling him at home. It's something I've never done because to reach his full potential, I always wanted him surrounded by special ed teachers, therapists, and those who are educated in teaching him. And to be honest? - I didn't think I could do it.  I thought with his processing and learning, it was beyond what I could do. 

So, when I did it, I felt the greatest satisfaction.  To be fair - the most amazing teachers and school personnel have given him an amazing foundation and gave me all the tools to teach him. But what a gift to be able to see him learn and see how quick he was in mental math and reading and proofreading things. It was a sweet time.  Not devoid of frustration, especially in the beginning when I had no clue how to navigate the electronic learning platforms, but we made it to a really comfortable place of learning together! 

There was again a real joy and grief in this.  Seeing how smart and quick he is, when he actually puts his mind to it, is thrilling. 

 It really is.  

And then there is also the reality for me to see "second grade" and "third grade" notated on some of that work. 

He follows his own growth curve and it has always moved forward.  But I am not immune to those "cultural norms" and expectations that want to sneak in and steal some of that joy.  The joy of my 11th grader who is unique and beautiful and will never fit in to a box of normal.  {Also, none of my children will}

So it is in vulnerability and truth, with a heart overflowing with love, that I submit this birthday post.  In a little bit of a different tone and format than my usual birthday letters. 

Processing my oldest turning 18.  What a ride it's been. I asked God - begged him really, for a year. 

We got 18  - and move towards many more. 

Thank you Jesus. 

And then 18 years passed

 I can't believe I made it.  

I made it through your entire childhood.

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. 

The grief brick

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.