child’s death | Sweet Grace Blog

Dear Reed –

Today is the day I dread all year long. It seems as if the whole month of February is always a blur as I insulate myself from the pain of this day. But I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t tell you that some things are a little different this year.

Sometimes, I daydream that you aren’t really in heaven, but gone away to college instead. That is a problem though when you are as vivid a daydreamer as I am, because more than once I went to call you on the phone to ask how classes are going. There are few things in life that I will never regret passing on to you kids and a healthy imagination is one of them.

Remember the days of getting pixie-led in the forest and just how far those little buggers got us off the path. Can you still hear their siren-like call in heaven too? How about all the dragons that you kept away from our house with your countless battles? Is there a place for them there too? Do you and Nanny still have the dinosaur that lived at our house but only came after he decided that it was too hot in Pensacola? We don’t hear much out of him anymore; so, he must live with you. It was a good thing because I wasn’t sure “roof cave-in by dinosaur” was covered by our homeowners insurance.

All those boyhood things sandwiched into a life much too short.

When you left us, you were so much older in spirit if not in chronological years. And I think that is one of the things I miss the most, all the grown up experiences we didn’t and don’t get to share together.

I cannot believe that you went home to Jesus six years ago today. In some moments it seems like the blink of an eye, and then at other times as we deal with Sawyer’s and Erin’s injuries, it feels like an eternity ago.

Daddy is doing better – only not today. Today, he trudged along at work in a place where if people remember the day not many verbalized it. How sad and awful that has to be when I am sure he feels as if his heart is on display for all to see. Somehow people need to know that it is okay to talk about you (and J, H, and E) even if it makes us cry, it tells us they remember.

The Boy Wonder – you would be so proud of him! He is really an incredible young man. Last night as we were saying our goodnights, I broke down and cried. I asked him to name the number one thing he missed about you. His heartfelt reply was that he couldn’t answer that because he missed everything about you. The late night conversations, the giggles from the basement, the wrestling hijinks, and saving the day are hard to do when one of the dynamic duo is missing. He shares your love of the underdog, and you would have loved to see him coach his Special Olympics players to gold medals. Somehow it would be easy to picture the two of you coaching that team together. Just know that even though you were very different boys, you are carried everywhere in his heart.

And Sister! She isn’t quite as tall as Sawyer yet, but she definitely towers over me. You would be so proud of her. She carries your tenacity to get a job done. She set a goal to improve her basketball skills, and she spent most of her summer to make 20,000 made shots. She’s come a long way from the “Laura, Mary, Carrie” wind-up days of when you boys first taught her how to shoot baskets in the front yard before kindergarten. With your love of sports, I can only imagine you would be cheering the loudest in the stands when she makes an amazing rebound or banks an unimaginable three-pointer. Her face of pure joy rivals the time that you forced and recovered the fumble in Ivanhoe. She has your smile, and every time we see it in a game, I think of you!

Sally is the one missing you the most these days. She has had some really rough days. I wish that we could grant her desire to visit you all in heaven just one time. She says that if she could do so; she would be able to live the rest of her days contented. If David is a man after God’s own heart, she is a girl after yours. Every fiber of her being is just like you, even the words she uses. Looking in her hazel eyes is like a mirror to times long ago. She is another nine year old bundle of energy, who has a large vocabulary and who can’t learn about the world fast enough. Since it is a miracle we even have her, I think God made her as close to you as possible to bring us comfort. And she does. Now if only we could keep her little forever.

Your boy, Huck, is really starting to slow down. His beautiful red coat is starting to show more and more gray. I’m always sad that I don’t have any redheads in the house anymore, and then sweet Huck comes loping into my room. I have the redheaded boy’s red-haired dog still, and that does count for something. He still has some mischief in that big ol’ body because he can still sneak a sandwich or stick of butter off the counter. Just as you loved him every day of your life together, I am carrying love’s torch for our boy even if the hourglass is working against me. I am going to hold on to him as long as I possibly can before he comes to be with you again.

A few more loved ones have come to join you in the last year. Hug them all for me! Maybe one of those sneaky around the back hugs would be the perfect gift. Just know that I love you more than you can possibly imagine, and I know that you don’t want us to be sad forever. Some days, I wish my heart understood what my brain knows.

In the meantime, I want you to know that our friends have wrapped their arms of love around us in both BIG and small ways. They always have, but for some reason I see it more this year. I thank God that he whispered into their hearts that we needed them, even if they didn’t know how much. Just sharing the moments of this journey has been an immeasurable treasure.

Even through my tears, there is one more thing that I will never regret. Teaching all of you about Jesus! It is because of his love that my love for you has meaning. It is because of his sacrifice that I KNOW – not I hope or I wish – but I KNOW that I will see you again.

Just like I believe God whispered to my friends, today I felt a strong reminder to remember that even though the hole in my heart feels like that fateful Friday, Sunday’s coming. With a message that powerful, I can only believe that God blew it straight into my heart.

You will always be my sunshine!

Loving you every single day forever . . . until Sunday comes!

Momma

In the past few weeks, I have been revisiting the sad place. It is the place that I can only journey alone, in the earthly sense. I never really travel alone. There is always a heavenly presence. I don’t understand it, but often in the silent places of deep in the valley of the shadow, I feel closest to God. In the sad place, I find that I can be totally honest with myself about how I am feeling. No mask. No filter. Raw, but honest.

My littlest one asked the other day, “Momma, why are you crying so much.” I had to explain that I had to go to a sad place. She is eight; so, I likened the place to the “Slump” in Dr. Seuss’ “Oh the Places You Will Go”. She gets that because in her world she doesn’t want a sad mommy. But sometimes, you will come to a slump. That she understands.

These were the words swirling in my most raw moments when I soaked my pillow with my tears.

I cry . . .

in a single moment all was changed. Now all we have is memories and old photographs.

I cry . . .

silently not wanting to share my pain in front of my children, for fear of scaring them. Their pillar of strength is really human, after all. Secretly I know they know this, but I will give my dying breath to protect them.

I cry . . .

The hole in my heart leaves such a scar in my existence. Its caverns echo the beat of the sad song when the wind blows out of the valley.

I cry . . .

a melody reminds me of happier days when we sang and danced and laughed about our singing and dancing.

I cry . . .

Feeling that I have let my children down because there are days when I feel hopeless is winning.

I cry . . .

Jumping at the ringing of the phone, desperately wanting the answers I want to hear.

I cry . . . tragedy brings chaos. I detest swimming in chaos. No matter which way I paddle my strokes chaos’ rip current threatens to pull me under.

I cry . . .

My scars are invisible, but theirs are real. Pain is a daily visitor, and yet they hold their heads high.

I cry . . . perseverance might be one lesson while waiting. Wondering how long that lesson must take and why did we have to earn advanced degrees. For once in our lives, couldn’t we just be average?

I cry . . .

because everything he loved was taken away, and yet there are still people who say ridiculously stupid things.

I cry . . . wishing sometimes I was the kind of person who smacked people who say stupid things.

I cry . . . choking down the lump in my throat because platitudes and trite sayings, do not help. I want to scream, “Do you not see the hole?” But we’ll take your word scars, your thoughtless actions, AND we will continue turning our cheeks, knowing very few could walk in our shoes.

I cry . . . understanding the tortuous relationship with genetics. When your children hurt, a part of you is woven into them. Like tiny saucers sending a message to the mother ship, every fiber of my being is writhing in pain for them.

I cry . . . sadness has creeping tentacles grasping for all of my family. Mustering the strength to become a warrior to fight back its choking appendages, some days takes all my energy.

I cry . . . bearing burdens is grueling, heart-breaking work.

I cry . . . fervently hoping that my visit to the pit of sadness won’t be long enough for my card to be punched.

I cry . . . eternity seems so far away. Wanting to hear your giggle and wondering how you will look without glasses. My ears longing to hear, “Hey Mom. This is Jesus. You are going to love Him!” followed by one of those sneaky behind the back hugs.

I cry . . . knowing that in the light of eternity all of this seems small.

I cry . . . remembering that He is collecting every tear in his bottle.

I weep . . . embracing the promise that He will replace my cloak of despair with a garment of praise.

I sob . . . knowing His grace is sweet, yet powerful enough to cover it all.

The soul would have no rainbow had the eyes no tears. ~John Vance Cheney

Sweet Grace Blog

Just another WordPress site

Tag Archives: child’s death

A letter to heaven

I cry