Tag Archives: loss

12 days: It’s a Wonderful Life

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One of the classes I taught on my recent blog hiatus was Anthropology. Since I am a chemistry and mathematics teacher, social studies was a stretch because outside of required courses for liberal arts I had not really studied these areas in detail for quite a while. I am well read and a lover of history which helped, but I still spent hours in the evening reading all sorts of material that I thought would benefit the students in my classroom. The final unit for the Anthropology class was a cultural anthropology project where the scholars would study their own families and traditions. As I was outlining the expectations for the unit, the students asked for examples for each one.

When we got to favorite family memory, I honestly choked up a little bit. I explained that I had many as a child, but my most favorite memory as an adult occurred on the day my youngest child was born. I told them about the magical moment our family shared that first night together, but my storytelling didn’t include the background of why it is my most precious memory.

Our family lost two babies between our two daughters, and one of those babies is the twin to the little girl celebrating her tenth birthday. Our daughter Erin’s birth was so traumatic that we weren’t sure if we wanted to have more children, but God certainly had other plans. Yet losing two babies within 6 months of each other was more than all of our hearts could take. Following the second loss, I became very ill at school and passed out. When I was at the doctor, they asked if I could be pregnant. Reminding them that 6 weeks previous we had a miscarriage, there was no way I could be pregnant. Imagine my shock when I learned that indeed I was still pregnant with a second baby.

We waited to tell our children because of their brave, but tender hearts. When we finally did, they were excited, but after we put everyone to bed that night, Reed came with tears in his eyes asking us the question heaviest on his heart. “Mom and Dad, are we going to lose this baby too? Because if we do, I just don’t think my heart can handle it.” There was nothing we could do beside hug our redheaded boy and cry and pray with him.

Five people held their breath until that beautiful December day when on her own terms she came into the world. But if there is one thing true about the members of Team Stevens, we live life. We celebrate the big things, but we specialize in the little stuff. Because the big kids were in school at the moment their baby arrived, we decided to get some sleep ourselves (having been up through the night) and our meet-n-greet would occur as soon as school was out.

The moment was joyous. We all breathed a collective gasp of relief, as we prepared to be a family of six here on earth. My sweetie and I had a plan long in the works for how we wanted to spend the evening. The big kids were ecstatic when they learned the details. In addition to the hospital bag with necessities for momma and baby, we sneakily had a bag packed with favorite Christmas movies.

Although it took some coordination with hospital staff, we requested no visitors so we could simply bask in the glow of happiness and joy at receiving one of God’s most beautiful blessings. We had food brought in; shut the door, and all four kids snuggled into the hospital bed with me, daddy tucked in the rocking chair bedside. Our first team huddle was under blankets while watching Christmas favorites on the OB floor; all six of us snuggled so close because we didn’t want to forget one moment.

When I was little, I only wished for two things when I grew up – to be a momma and a teacher. I never imagined the journey either of those dreams would take me. Nestled under cotton blankets, I breathed in every moment of the way God made that happen (once again) at our baby’s very first movie night.

My biggest accomplishment!

My biggest accomplishment!

No greater love . . .

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This past Monday, Memorial Day, was spent the way it typically is for our family – albeit in a different location.

This day is one we hold dear.

Normally our remembrances occur at the place where two special people (my father-in-law and our son) are laid. There the deer really do roam free as the geese and ducks fly overhead. It is a beautiful place where the wind whispers comfort to our hearts that creation knows our greatest sadness rests in her rich, dark soil.

On this day, our feet usually trod in the cold, dewy grass, before we journey through breath-taking, sun-dappled lands to a program and fellowship at VFW Hall (long ago also serving as the indoor basketball court) in almost forgotten North Dakota town.

Every year, we remember and we give thanks.

My heart always stirs driving by the cemeteries on what was erstwhile Decoration Day to espy a treed lane, green, yet bedecked in red, white, and blue splendor.   Out here in small town America, we do it up right – almost reverently.

memorial day

Old Glory waves exuberantly over the verdant grasses of the prairie as families make the somber pilgrimage to honor the lives of the ones held now only in their hearts.

For this day, we remember.

Silently and contemplatively, we remember our loved ones that have gone on to their eternal rest.

More so, we remember the sacrifices, a cost so high we dare not utter it aloud, made by others on our behalf.

Our usual sojourn for son delayed, we knew exactly the place he would want us to go this year.

Nothing hits a small town harder than the loss of one of their own children, our greatest legacy. When that loss is the result of a war, we can never erase the pain.

It is a sadness that lingers because it is a constant reminder at how precious life truly is. Our thoughts are cloaked by a thin veil of mourning; evoking such a strong soul response . . . our worst nightmares can and do come true.

For this day, we remember.

We want to shout to the heavens that we will not forget your sons and your daughters, but protocol is silence.

We were not alone as we walked silently up the car-lined dirt road to the cemetery on the prairie.

We went to honor a soldier our son revered. We are not alone; more people are in the cemetery than live in the nearby town. A grieving parent’s  greatest horror is that their child’s name will not be recalled.  Today is not that day.

The soldier’s parents are there. We hug them tight, whispering, “Your son will never be forgotten.”

They echo the same whisper to us.

For this day, we remember.

We remember that freedom has never been free, and we know that liberty come at a cost.

A stone surrounded by patriotic flowers and ribbons is our evidence.  One of our own paid that ultimate price.  He was taken much too soon.

For this day, we remember.

We remember gold star flags are bought at a thieves ransom, a price higher than anyone should ever have pay.

Tears overwhelm our wearied lids as we know that sometimes daddies, brothers, husbands, sons, cousins, wives, daughters, mothers and friends do not return.

For this day, we remember.

We grieve and yet simultaneously, we stand next to our own soldiers, quietly whispering prayers of thanksgiving – they made it home.

Later, we gather at park aptly named Liberty to hear the order of the day and reflect upon its meaning.

We watch as a generation of men and women, the ones who helped make this country great, lay wreaths, humbly recollect the stories of the lost, and cry tears for friends and loved ones that didn’t make it home.

We realize that this generation, remembering all who have taken up the America’s call, is aging before our eyes.  Will this continue without them?

For this day, we remember.

We remember that those who are serving today work in conditions far worse than this drizzling rain, and we stand, wet, as if our small sacrifice honors what they do every day.

Watching them in their starched white and black American Legion attire, we know the salute is coming, and yet, collectively the entire crowd of souls jumps after the explosive first round fires away.

My children don’t know a world where this is a day of celebration.

For this, we are proud they don’t because for this day, we remember.

Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. John 15:13 

 

 

 

 

Seeing clearly after the fog

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fog

Although he brings sorrow, he also has mercy and great love. Lamentations 3:32

This morning I started my day as usual with devotions.  Technology was not my friend as my Bible app would not open.  Not to be deterred, I grabbed my Devotional Bible – edited by Max Lucado – from my nightstand.  As I was heading to Ezekiel, my trusty book fell open to Lamentations.  Not just anywhere in Lamentations – nope – at a page that I had dog-eared and worn.  The highlighted words were a mirror reflection of where I was at last week – in a fog.

Thankfully, I had friends and family members praying for me and guiding me through what was quite possibly the hardest day of my life since the bus crash.  I did make it through, and miraculously with God’s help the fog lifted almost immediately.

I don’t believe in coincidences.  I needed that reminder this morning that God was not absent last week, nor was He when my son died.

I’m a prayer vigil person.  If I cannot sleep, it is usually because God has someone in mind that I should be praying for.  Last night was no different.  I have several friends, their kids, and communities facing a fog of their own.  So, I prayed . . .

While I personally cannot do much other than that to help ease the storm for each of them right now, I can remind them that there is one who can lift the fog.  My life story is a testament to that fact. Cling to him and He will guide you to new found peace.

The devotional below is from “No Wonder They Call Him the Savior” by Max Lucado.

The fog of the broken heart.

It’s a dark fog that slyly imprisons the soul and refuses easy escape.  It’s a silent mist that eclipses the sun and beckons the darkness.  It’s a heavy cloud that honors no hour and respects no person. Depression, discouragement, disappointment, doubt . . . all are companions of this dreaded presence.

The fog the broken heart disorients our life.  It makes it hard to see the road.  Dim your lights.  Wipe off the windshield.  Slow down.  Do what you wish, nothing helps.  When this fog encircles us, our vision is blocked and tomorrow is a forever away.  When this billowy blackness envelops, the most earnest words of help and hope are but vacant phrases.

If you have ever been betrayed by a friend, you know what I mean. If you have ever been dumped by a spouse or abandoned by a parent, you have seen this fog.  If you have ever placed a spade of dirt on a loved one’s casket or kept vigil at a dear one’s beside, you, too, recognize this cloud.

If you have been in this fog, or are in it now, you can be sure of one thing – you are not alone.  Even the saltiest of sea captains have their bearings because of the appearance of this unwanted cloud.  . .

Think back over the last two or three months.  How many broken hearts did you encounter? How many wounded spirits did you witness? How many stories of tragedy did you read about? . . .

The list goes on and on, doesn’t it?  Foggy tragedies. How they blind our vision and destroy our dreams.  Forget any great hopes of reaching the world.  Forget any plans of changing society. Forget any aspirations of moving mountains. Forget all that. Just help me make it through the night!

The suffering of the broken heart . . .

Seeing God . . .does wonders for our own suffering.  God was never more human than at this hour.  God was never nearer to us than when he hurt.  The Incarnation was never so fulfilled as in the garden. 

As a result, time spent in the fog of pain could be the God’s greatest gift.  It could be the hour that we finally see our Maker . . . Maybe in our suffering we can see God like never before.

The next time you are called to suffer, pay attention.  It may the closest you ever get to God.  Watch closely.  It could very well be that the hand that extends itself to lead you out of the fog is a pierced one. 

I know the story behind this song, but sometimes I believe that it was written just for me.  I think music is often a reflection of my soul and story.

A joyful noise . . . the last Reed’s Run

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I will sing to the LORD, for he has been good to me. Psalm 13:6 (NIV)

About this time last year, the first graders at Lakeview were learning to sing the National Anthem.  I don’t recall, but it might have had to do with curriculum on President’s Day.  One day, Clo came home and told us she could sing it.  All of us big people were more than skeptical.  Yet we entertained the possibility and listened.  She could do it.  Some of the words were wrong, but the tune was spot on.

As the months and weeks moved along in the countdown to the final run, we started to check off the preparations completed.  One box left open was the singing of the National Anthem for the opening ceremonies.  As we were preparing for the first team meeting, that conversation came up.  In the past, we have had friends including one of Reed’s best friends sing our country’s song.  We were considering asking a former classmate who has stayed in contact with our family.  When somewhat like the mouse that roared, our little Clo chimed in.  “I thought I was going to sing the National Anthem!”

You could have heard a pin drop.  Our thoughts: there would likely be a large crowd. Would nerves get the best of her? That is a hard song to sing.  Would she be able to do it well?  What about her hearing impairment?  What if she isn’t hearing well again in September? But quickly, we all realized that the hang-ups were ours, not hers, and since the run is about her big brother, it would probably be a forgiving audience.

cloie (3)For those that don’t know the background story, our littlest girl was born deaf.  She went an entire year of life before she heard a sound.  Thankfully, she has mechanical deafness caused by Eustachian tube defect.  She started having surgeries at the age of one to restore/correct her hearing loss.  To be able to sing is one thing.  To have excellent pitch is entirely another.

To ensure success, we enlisted the help of our neighbor (who Clo adores AND who happens to be a vocal music teacher).  From there, we just let her sing and sing and sing.  My ears will never get tired of it, because I remember the days of walking into her room in the morning.  She sat in her crib and didn’t have any idea I was there.  I remember the days of holding her and having her little hand on my throat because she somehow realized that there was a connection to my mouth moving and the vibrations she felt. I remember her not making sounds; so if she wanted to sing, we were going to let her.

She practiced.  She sang, and she sang some more.  Finally, came the big day! If she was nervous, she never let it show.  With a microphone held steady by me, she belted out the National Anthem as if her voice was strengthened by choirs of angels.  She nailed it.  It was so moving that many had tears in their eyes as a little 7-year-old girl sang to honor her country at an event to remember her biggest brother.

When she sang, it was more than a joyful noise . . . it was a healing balm to my soul.

Note: Unfortunately, her performance was not recorded in its entirety at Reed’s Run.  We do have her performance from Our Journey of Hope night (the annual remembrance of the anniversary) at our school.

A cross-country love . . . the last Reed’s Run

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amy1I will be the first to admit that social networking has its pitfalls.  I will stipulate that Facebook, Pinterest, and Twitter can be huge time drainers.  However, with eyes open wide to the pitfalls (of which I am prone) I also believe that my life has been enriched by the somewhat instantaneous connections with friends and family flung far and wide.  I love relationships and that feeling of connection.  I know it isn’t face to face conversation, and I agree cyber hugs pale in comparison to real embraces.  Yet, I love that in the past few years I have reconnected with family and friends that I haven’t seen in person in many, many years.

Several of those relationships have evolved over the years to being some of my sweetest friendships.  One of those sweet blessings is the deep friendship and adoration with our cousins in Washington.  Long distance, we cheer each other on through all of life’s ups and downs. Our relationship has gotten so close that we have even started our own language, recently coining the term “Pray-paring” in relation to how we should get ready for anything life.

When we first announced registration for Reed’s Run 2012, these same cousins became the first to register, albeit with a twist.  They were going to run the race remotely.  We were open to the idea, and we happily mailed them their t-shirts.  One of our cousins was so proud of her t-shirt; she immediately wore it to school the next day. (Again thankful for Facebook because that is where I saw the evidence.) They inspired a few more cousins and friends to do the same.  Their willingness to participate (in whatever fashion) made our hearts soar.

The night of the run, my sweet Amy, penned us the following letter to tell of how they had spent the day and how the remote run went.  She included all the pictures here.

Kandy

                It is with joy that I write to you to share about our Reed’s Run here in Washington.

                It was like waiting for Christmas morning.  The countdown began & quickly, day by day, it got closer.  The questions began. “Where should we run?” “When should we leave?” “What do we wear?”  Then the preparation began.  We got our light sabers first.  (We had to have them to bring the boy in Reed, the playfulness into our home.)  We got Gatorade ~ like it would somehow fuel our feet.  I think it was then that I realized I had “pray-pared” a lot more than I had prepared.  My heart was ready – the love overflowing – the joy and excitement contagious, but preparing physically – not so much.  Kayla hurt a tendon earlier in the week at drill practice & Sam came down with strep.  We wanted to do it as a group so we walked most of it & I was glad we did.

                I woke up Saturday morning to a grey sky & wet pavement.  Evidence of rain.  We have not had rain in about 2 months which, in Washington, is unheard of.  That is when I knew it was going to be a great day.  Courtney (Sam’s girlfriend) came early with donuts.  You need carbs to run you know. J I asked the children to help me with our “numbers”.  Because we weren’t in Minnesota, we decided to use the names of Reed, Emilee, Hunter, Jesse, and our flag as our race numbers.

                We drove to Ruston Way. A beautiful and most important flat road next to Puget Sound. J It was 67 F and sunny.  We prayed by Kelly’s truck as a group and started on our way.  I was surprised by the number of people who stopped & asked us what we were walking for.  (So I thank you with all my heart for the shirts).  It was an honor to share about Reed’s Run with them & everyone was touched by Reed’s life & his story.  We finished with tired feet but joy filled hearts.  What a gift it is do something nice for someone else.

Kelly & I took a few pictures & are sending them to you and your family.  We want you to have an idea where we were.  We wanted to bring a part of us to you. 

                I know that this is the last Reed’s Run, but I hope that you realize because you allowed us to be a part of this – we are forever changed.  We will now look for simple ways to bring God into others’ lives by showing others His love.  And every time we pick up our light sabers we will remember Reed. 

                Memories are beautiful part of God’s love & we have a beautiful memory of our special Reed’s Run day.

Love,

Kelly, Amy, Sam, Courtney & Kayla

amy2

Those that know me know I was a puddle of tears after reading this letter.  I still choke up reading it.  Of the multitude of reasons is the fact that our cousins love us and Reed enough to want to be a part (even their own special way) of our day.  But more so, they were an embodiment that Reed’s story (which is ultimately God’s story) has a far and reaching effect.  From what seems so senseless this side of heaven, God is using in ways that we can only imagine.

This time He used our cousins to help us see His bigger picture.

 

Note – the emphasized words in Amy’s letter are mine.  However, I truly believe that is the heart of healing.  Realizing that God has a purpose for us and often that purpose is to serve others may just be the secret to healing broken hearts.

 

sawyer's flagWhen we first envisioned doing something to fund the Reed Stevens Memorial Scholarship, we never saw an event as big as what Reed’s Run became.  The four runs produced many different results: some expected and others pleasant surprises.  The obvious by-products were a successful fundraising venture and a community event enjoyed by many. Among the unexpected were the blossoming of friendships and the renewal of friendships from long ago.

One of those friendships was rekindled in those early days in the hospital when Sawyer was still in the Intensive Care.  It was something akin to the proverbial blessings that those who have walked through tragedy really have eyes and hearts open enough to see.  The connection was with one of Sawyer’s godmothers.

As the days drew closer to the final run, we realized that we were going to have a house filled with loved ones as well as a few hotel rooms with other loved ones.  For those travelling from far away, we decided to send out an agenda of what we would be offering in the way of entertainment.  After working set-up all day Friday, a break would take place to cheer on Sawyer and the Lakers with a September/October birthday party at the fire pit in Reed’s garden afterwards.

To be honest, we didn’t think many would take us up on the offer for the football game.  To our surprise, there were 15 people that comprised the cheering section for number 74.  One among our group was Sawyer’s little god-brother, S, proudly clad in Laker blue and waving homemade flags emblazoned with Sawyer’s name and school “mascot”. S cheered on the team, and more than once he wondered aloud why the team or coaches weren’t listening to his flag as the score did not reflect his impassioned cheering. Sadly, Sawyer didn’t play for three fourths of the game, and for a while I felt like we had asked these loved ones from Georgia, California, western North Dakota, and Florida to come for nothing.  Then in the final few minutes, Sawyer and the other Junior Varsity guys went in.

All of a sudden an amazing tackle happens, and over the loudspeaker we hear, “Tackle made by Sawyer Stevens.” (This, of course, reads better if you do the loudspeaker echoing voice out loud.)  The Sawyer Stevens entourage cheered exuberantly, but none compared to little S.  He jumped up and down, declaring for all who would listen, “Sawyer listened to my flag. I knew it would work!”  I don’t really care what others would call the play of that game.  For one sophomore player, that was definitely it.

For the trip to the birthday bash, Sawyer rode with his god-family the 30 miles back to Marshall.  Even though I wasn’t there, the story told by his godmother about the trip home was priceless.  Huddled together in the back of the car with their heads touching were two brothers (one in high school and one in elementary) deep in conversation and game playing.

For the one who misses his big brother every day, it was a model example of brotherly love and what used to be.  For the rest of us, it was a reminder that even though the circumstances aren’t what we had planned, God’s vision of family is BIGGER than we could ever imagine.

Just the other night at the hometown football game . . . the last Reed’s Run

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lakeview football

The Garth Brooks song, “Unanswered Prayers” has always been a perennial favorite of mine.  It didn’t hit me until the night before the last Reed’s Run that I was living out a line of the song at a Lakeview football game.  Different from the lyrics, it wasn’t a long-lost love with whom I reconnected that evening.  I am sure if anyone paid attention to what happened on the sidelines, there would have been rumors flying in the small towns that night.

It really all unfolded much earlier.  About two years ago, I found my high school best friend on the internet.  We connected very briefly through an email and later on Facebook.  Then one day, I started noticing all the posts of remembrance.  I knew my friend Matt had only one son (and several stepchildren).  I literally shook as my hands did a quick Google search.  When my husband found me crumpled on the floor sobbing a little while later, he knew something was terribly wrong.  My worst fears regarding those messages were confirmed when I found the obituary of one sweet, Big A.

I cried.  I felt crushed in spirit.  “Oh, dear Lord, NO!” I cried out over and over. How could this be?  Why was this cup not passed from not only my son, but my friend’s son as well?  I just didn’t understand.

I wanted our bond to be shared memories of the past – the glory years so to say – but not THIS!  Not a shared bond of grief and loss and of despair and heartbreak.

I did the only thing I could. I reached out electronically and shared about Reed.  In the end, I told of Reed’s Run and asked if we could remember Alex at our final run.  I was expecting an affirmative response because I know that lingering fear (of no one remembering their child) all grieving parents share.  What I didn’t expect was the news that my high school best buddy and his wife were going to come and run the last run.

Back to that football game. When I received the text message that they had arrived, I bolted out of my seat to greet them.  I ran and literally jumped into Matthew’s arms. What I haven’t shared previously is we hadn’t seen each other in twenty-three years.  It was a wonderful (and long over-due) embrace.

My heart leapt with joy at finally being in arms reach of him, and my heart soared to finally meet his beautiful bride.  We watched the game and cheered on one number 74.  Since 74’s fan section was huge, we had three cars in convoy on the way home.  I rode with Matt & Kimberly, and we shared the stories of our boys.

Sadly, neither of us ever had the opportunity to meet the other’s child.  Back at home, we sat in the rental car, talked and cried, and cried and talked.  With each story they told of one amazing young man, I began to feel like I was being handed the equivalent of a newborn baby swaddled in love and care of sweet memories.

In high school our heartstrings were tied as two kids who loved to laugh and who loved a good adventure, especially in historic Pensacola.  But now on a crisp Minnesota fall night, we were inexplicably bound by the loss that no parents should ever have to feel.

However it wasn’t unanswered prayers like that old song, it was the unshakeable faith of two dear friends that our children’s deaths were not in vain.  It was the prayers that we prayed during their lives that sustained us in their deaths.  It was the same faith that compels both families to give back in the way that would be most honoring to each boy.

But the biggest bond each family shared was the sustaining power of prayer, amazing love, and extravagant grace that over the years and across the miles both of us were held right in the palm of God’s hand.  It is the confidence of knowing that neither family said good-bye, because someday I am going to get to meet that sweet boy and Matthew’s going to meet mine.

To infinity and beyond

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from nasa.gov

from nasa.gov

When I moved away from my college town, I took one afternoon to go around to visit my professors and to tell them how much their teaching meant to me.  I personally went to each one and thanked them for their dedication to shaping my future.  I wasn’t just a gesture for me.  The Doctors Lockwood, Johanssen, Lyng, and Landwehr are people that I truly admired, and still do, even though only one is still with us.  They taught me much about chemistry, mathematics, and literature/Latin, but more so about life.  Along with my family, they truly played a role in the person I am today.

I have reached that age where loss of that generation of individuals is becoming unavoidable.  I have been blessed to know all of my grandparents as an adult (along with many great-grandparents and even a great-great grandmother into my teen years).  Sadly, only one of my grandmothers is still journeying with me today.

When I hear of another loss of someone I admire (even though I’ve never met them), I really give pause to think about the influence that person had on my life.  One such loss occurred on August 25, 2012 with the death of Astronaut Neil Armstrong.  I was “present” at his and Astronauts Collins and Aldrins historic moon landing.  In actuality, I was in utero, but hearing all the stories passed through the years, I feel as if I had been sitting there riveted to Aldrin’s reading of the Bible while waiting breathless to see Armstrong take those historic steps.

What occurred on that 20th of July in 1969 allowed for a greater push in science and mathematics that allowed a little girl born at Bethesda Naval Hospital in November that year to grow up and believe that she too could be a part of that world.  Although my ultimate footsteps followed that of Christa McAuliffe in the world of teaching, the entire Apollo program was a catalyst for my future.  Because of that achievement, a whole new world was open to those of us who came after them.

Even though my faith differs from that of Mr. Armstrong, I do still admire his accomplishments and achievements. Similarly, I don’t really care about whether his famous quote was rehearsed or spontaneous. What impresses me is the way he lived his life.  By all accounts I have read, his humility and humble nature as a reluctant hero dotted his illustrious career.  He simply did his job without wanting the accolades while giving back to the community as often as he was able.  In a world full of instant celebrity, those character traits are rare to find these days.

I loved the classy statement given by his family following his death.  The words were humble and embodied what we as a nation will always remember about him. Armstrong’s family said, “For those who may ask what they can do to honor Neil, we have a simple request. Honor his example of service, accomplishment and modesty, and the next time you walk outside on a clear night and see the moon smiling down at you, think of Neil Armstrong and give him a wink.” —  (Central Press/Getty Images) .

So, Mr. Armstrong, thanks for going to the moon and helping me reach for the stars.

The thing about grief . . . Part 6

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from brandeating.com

from brandeating.com

I hate chicken nuggets and mashed potatoes.  I mean hate, hate, HATE, them. The reason for my extreme distaste is that meal was served to me over and over and over in the ICU following the bus crash.  In the hospital’s defense, it wasn’t their fault.  It was purely my own.  In the aftermath of our darkest hour as we were dealing with one son’s death and the other son fighting to hang on, I didn’t even notice the menu that came each and every day for me to fill out.  So for 8 days, every lunch and supper meal was chicken nuggets and mashed potatoes with chicken gravy.  Yuck!

I really couldn’t even think about eating. (Again it wasn’t the chicken nuggets fault.)  I just was so overwhelmed that I couldn’t even remember how to chew food.  Southern to the core, I eventually called my dad at the hotel and asked if he could pick me up a jug of sweet tea.  And so, it was that I existed mostly on ice and sweet tea for probably 8 days.

I remember was everyone hovering around asking me to eat, all knowing that I really needed to do so, but also realizing that under the circumstances I was doing okay.  Oh, I got offers to leave the hospital or even to go down to the cafeteria, but everything I held precious was in that children’s wing in the ICU (including my sweet little girls).  And I WASN’T leaving – even if it meant I was sentenced to a life of chicken nuggets and mashed potatoes.

The game changer came on a Saturday afternoon a few days following Sawyer’s discharge from ICU to the rehabilitation children’s wing.  On that Saturday, friends who are teachers at our school came down for the day.  While they were visiting with Sawyer, they asked him if there was anything they could get him.  His response floored us all because he too hadn’t eaten much since Tuesday either. “Mr. and Mrs. (Teacher), do you really mean anything? If so, I would really love a foot-long chili dog from Sonic.” Without batting an eyelash, those sweet people drove across town to get my boy his request.

Their willingness (along with all the other sweet and kind things people did for us) helped me to be okay with finally saying yes to get out of the hospital for a few hours that same evening.  My parents agreed to stay if we (Daniel and I) would go out to eat with my siblings and their significant others.  We drove around from restaurant to restaurant seeing long lines.  I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bear to watch people be happy and enjoy themselves. Finally after driving around for an hour, we ended up at Sonic (despite the frigid temperatures).  We ordered, we listened to Christian radio, but mostly we sat in a vehicle with windows frosting over while we waited for the food to arrive. When it did, I really was ravenous, but I took one bite and broke down.

I cried over and over for a boy who would never eat cheeseburgers and drink limeade again.  He wouldn’t enjoy those moments with his family, but more importantly we would NEVER enjoy them with him. I felt guilty for being there without him. I felt like I was cheating him.  All I got down was that first bite.

When we returned home the first day, there packaged in the sweetest man I have ever met was a home-cooked meal.  He came, donning his apron under his coat, with his bundle of delicious food.  He didn’t want to stay because he knew the funeral director was coming any moment.  Yet what he brought was so much more than a meal, he helped bring us HOME to where the memories we held most dear lived – not mention many of the people who loved us as well.  His tenderly prepared meal gave us HOPE.

It was at that moment that I realized that even though I wouldn’t be sharing any more meals with Reed – I would be sharing meals for the rest of my life with people who carried him in their hearts.  While I ate here on earth, Reed was probably enjoying the best cheeseburgers (ketchup only) that Heaven had to offer. With that thought in mind, how sweet was that first bite.

 

The thing about grief . . . Part 5

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from contentrules.com

from contentrules.com

The amazing thing about grief is the realization that not all of what you valued is really that important. It strips away all pretenses to the core of who you really are, and it helps you to eventually see more clearly who really loves you.

Simply put: grief changes you.

Before Reed’s death, I had lost my way valuing busyness, promotion, achievement, and even material possessions.  My faith was still there, but too much value had been placed in things that were temporal and not hope-filled.  All of those non-important things did not make me a better person nor did they bring me comfort when I needed it. I didn’t care about any of it, and I would have traded it all to change a moment in time.
If grief changes you (which it does); so,  too do your relationships change. Sadly, we have lost friends since Reed’s death. This isn’t a judgment. The loss was just more than the friendship could withstand. This is one of those by-products of loss about which no one really talks.  In some ways, I think they did us a favor. Just as we read in Ecclesiastes, maybe they were just to be our friends for a season.
But the friends we’ve gained . . . oh, the relationships that have sweetened. All along our journey I could feel the prayers said for our family. Those prayers carried us when we didn’t have one ounce of energy left. The outpouring of love was overwhelming. Our friends and family are our greatest assets, this side of heaven. I would give anything to have Reed back, but I wouldn’t give up one single relationship to do so.
There were also the acts of kindness and the gestures that were tokens of love and remembrances of Reed. Our favorites being the time that someone shared a small piece of Reed’s life through a story that we didn’t know. Even though they made us cry (happy tears), they brought us such joy. Each time was a remembrance that it was people and relationships that we value more than anything else.
Every thought, card, gift, hug, or act is something that I will never forget, because the giver is giving more than they might even know. What message they are really sending is “I haven’t forgotten him”. They squash the greatest fear held by bereaved parents – that no one will remember their child. Their stay on earth is so short that long lasting legacies seem impossible.
For those changed by grief and for those supporting the grievers, we know that really isn’t true. Because the nature of the change resulted from that loss, and thus, a legacy was born.
So here I sit, reminded of one of the greatest acts of love given to me recently. It will come as no surprise to learn I am dreading graduation. Reed had such big dreams – proclaiming that he was going to Yale in the 6th grade. I am proud of his friends/cousins and excited for them, but as a teacher who loves learning about as much as Reed did, this leaves an enormous hole in my heart.
The gift came out of nowhere, which really is the best kind of surprise. I wasn’t expecting it at all, but there wrapped in the love of my nephew came the first gift of hope for commencement day. I don’t want to speak to his reason for asking, because I really don’t know why. The request was “Auntie, can you bring your camera so I can take a graduation picture with Reed?” The request came at my other nephew’s wedding and caught me completely off-guard. I just sat with tears streaming down my face.
We did a little planning, and after a while, we agreed on what we wanted. Now, trust me, he has much better senior pictures, but in my heart the gift he gave to me that day will be the one that I remember forever. Once again, my heart was changed because now I have one tiny little hopeful slice for graduation – the love of sweet young man (whose heart knew exactly what I needed). For bringing me joy to fill in the sadness, I love you for being a reminder of what really matters. LOVE!

Kevin & Reed 2