Tag Archives: raising sons

And then this happened . . .

After the death of a child, life does go on.

But it will never be the same.

There will always be the BIG moments. Milestones, such as graduations and weddings, will always have a quiet undertow which pulls at our tsunamic joy as we wistfully imagine what Reed would be doing if he were here. Yet it is the quiet moments of everyday, ordinary life that often sneak up and seemingly choke the life out of us. The sweet aroma of our loved one’s life creates olfactory wisps in the simplest of situations. The inside jokes, the around the back hugs, the smile that could light up a room, the love of all things superhero, and just the passion for loving others are the ones missed most often. But then there are the silly things like when someone uses the wrong side of the Parmesan cheese that bring a smile to my face and a tear to my eyes simultaneously.

Life goes on, but there is always that nagging reminder that if Reed were here, he would love (or in some cases, detest) this.

Life does go on, but missing him never ends. So it was at a recent event for me.

For a period of time years ago, our children were enamored with the thought that we were once children ourselves. This epiphany popped into their collective consciousness about the time we explained that you only had one shot at the It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown annually. At the time, videotapes were the rage and our children could not fathom that we were not able to watch, rewind, and watch over and over our favorite shows. They were crestfallen when I explained that the airing of the beloved Schulz creation often corresponded with my Wednesday night church obligations. They wept for the little girl now grown up to be their Momma. How tender were their hearts!

When they discovered that, at first, neither parent’s families owned a VCR, but rather rented one from the movie store if they wanted to watch a movie, they were hooked on learning all things family lore. Every night at supper, our sweet kiddos would beg us to tell them a story about our growing up years. We would tell and retell stories of ourselves, our parents (their grandparents), and our siblings/aunts/uncles/cousins.

Travelling down yesteryear’s memories was a great time for all of us, but it was eye-opening to our children because we live so far away from our immediate families. This dinner table trend continued uninterrupted for many months – until the day the tables were turned. Getting into the spirit of swapping stories, Reed blurted out, “Sawyer, remember that time we parachuted off the bunk beds!” Even then, second son did not suffer fools lightly and shot his redheaded older brother a look of painstaking agony, across his plate of ravioli.

Of course as the parents of these two Wright brother wannabes, our ears were definitely perked. My calm response was, “No Reed. We don’t remember. Do tell.” Sawyer’s dramatic slap of his hand on his own curl-covered forehead did not give the storyteller the indication he should perhaps just move on to another subject. Eventually, we learned the truth. The boys sneaked grocery store plastic shopping bags into their room, proceeded to stick their arms through the holes, and promptly jumped off the bunk beds hoping to glide effortlessly to the floor.

Considering they only ever had junior style bunk beds, with the tallest being only four and half feet off the ground, they weren’t very successful with their adventure.

It was our first indication that our boys led a secret life to which we were not always privy.

Since that moment, I have never been able to look at a plastic shopping bag or a parachute without a small smile pursing my lips.

But how does this cherished memory have anything to do with grieving a boy gone much too soon?

One of the things he loved was Children’s Theatre – both watching and participating. Recently, his baby sister (who it pains me to admit is almost as old now as he was when he passed away) was involved in our local stage company’s production of Peter Pan, Jr. Sitting in the seats she had preselected, I felt the tug of grief spreading its icy tentacles up to my heart. Thoughts of “Reed would love this” swirled in my mind. I could feel the sadness begin to emerge from my eyes.

Suddenly a flash of white plastic took my breath away. A few rows below us was a little girl playing with her stuffed dog and yes, you guessed it – a store bag. I watched as over and over she fashioned a parachute for her stuffy and let it rip, gently falling to the ground next to her seat.

My tears of sadness quickly changed to lighthearted laughter as I could practically feel one of his signature hugs enveloping me in my theater seat. Much like Tinkerbell’s tiny voice, if I listened closely, I could almost hear my red-headed wonder whisper to my heart. I am right here Mom. I am right here.

Respect IntegrityCourage*Honor

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In a few weeks, our little town will have its annual Crazy Days (which is something akin to a city-wide sidewalk sale). I had never heard of this tradition until my family moved to the Midwest. While the sales are fun to participate in, my personal favorite has always been the kiddie parade. My kiddos have been participating in them since Reed was three years old. Our streak has been a fun one. One year, we had the boys, two neighborhood friends, another friend, and Sister who all wanted to join in the fun. Oh my goodness! Thoughts of “Oh my!” and “How am I ever going to put a theme together for five boys and one tiny girl?” swirled in my head for days.

Cleaning up the toy room one evening, I had an “AHA!” moment. Sitting in the dress up bin were my Papa’s police shirts. My Mama had let me have them because for ethical reasons they could not be donated to a thrift store, should someone have nefarious reasons for purchasing one. Our parade unit would be a tribute to 9/11. Some of the boys were police officers, some were soldiers (uniforms courtesy of my sweetie), and Sister was Lady Liberty!

I can tell you that even though my Papa enjoyed the festivities from heaven, he was extremely proud. Law enforcement runs deeps in my family. My Papa and both my uncles Gene and Donnie were LEO’s. Growing up with a scanner running in the house was just something that happened on the Noles side of my family.

As the granddaughter and niece of police officers and sheriff’s deputies, Sawyer’s invitation to the graduation of the 56^th Training Academy by the Chief of the Minnesota State Highway Patrol was a pinch-me moment. I know to him it was an incredible honor as well. We were escorted to and from the event by the lead investigator from our darkest day, and we have considered him our friend for a very long time. Our journey to the Mariucci Arena coming one day after our Sister’s major knee surgery; so, only Sawyer and I were able to travel to the ceremony.

Our lives first crossed paths in a meaningful way when Trooper L came to our home to interview our children about their accounts of the bus crash. I remember his quiet and understanding nature allowing them to tell their memories of the day. I could not imagine the pain he had to feel collecting the stories of the children whom he had worked to help. He offered his phone number and told us we could contact him anytime. His was the number we called when the friend of Reed had a vision of where Reed’s glasses could be found on the bus. And he was the one who reverently returned the small lens back to us.

Our travel time was filled with lots of stories, the kind of catching up old friends do when they haven’t seen each other in a while. It was a beautiful time, another healing moment ordained by God. There were many poignant moments at the ceremony, each causing tears to pool in my eyes. The first being when we were escorted to our seats. The seats were marked with papers saying “Reserved for Dignitaries”. The Boy Wonder and I exchanged glances. Are we really supposed to sit here? Oh, my goodness! Papa, are you seeing this? There were real dignitaries in attendance, but to the troopers we were more than a young man and his mom. Our neighbors in the next seats were a delegation from the Wisconsin State Troopers who were present on a mission of remembrance and appreciation to this class of graduates for honoring their fallen comrade. Their sorrow was palpable, beating in their hearts under their badges. Watching the families, often multi-generations be a part of the badge ceremony moved me to tears, especially the ones who were repurposing a badge that was once worn by a father, grandfather, or great-grandfather. Just like in my own family, the pride of the profession runs deep. The messages given by the speakers were touching, but each of them gave profound advice – use your training to come home safely. When the Chief gave his address, he ended with the words written by my son. He asked Sawyer to stand and shared who “these dignitaries were”, and said he had struggled with how to end this year’s speech . . . until a letter arrived from a young man from Marshall.

The Chief read these words as the closing of his commencement remarks. He began by saying the cadets had chosen a noble profession: one that truly makes a difference. If they ever doubt that, remember the words of Sawyer.

As the bus lay upside down on the highway, it wasn’t strangers that helped get every child off the bus; it was the heroes of my community. The paramedics, firemen, policemen, and state troopers that I had known as my neighbors and members of my community who came to help me and my class mates in our darkest hour. People, who, to this day, I encounter almost on a daily basis, are real heroes. The frigid Minnesota winter afternoon of the crash, these men and women left the warmth of their families and jobs to come and save many lives, including my own. They came expecting nothing in return from those who were on the bus. They simply saw the children they had always known who needed their assistance. Even to this day the humility possessed by these local heroes is astounding. Instead of taking pride in the many lives they saved that night, they take pride in how well I and the other children have been able to recover since the crash. I do not believe that you can become a hero by chance or by simply showing up. Heroes are the people who have a desire to help and make a difference and the compassion to truly be there for those in need. A hero is a person who does what it takes to help those in need regardless of the personal risk or cost.

I couldn’t hold the tears back. The pride bursting forth that we were blessed to have this young man in our lives. The joy barely contained because he had come so far and his life was impacting the lives of others. The honor of being invited to an amazing event left me humbled.

In the final oath of office, the newest troopers standing right before us, I bowed my head and asked God to please keep them safe as they work to serve and protect others. We took the time to congratulate each one, and even more tears accompanied by big smiles when several thanked Sawyer for the words of encouragement. I saved my commencement bulletin; so that it would be a visual reminder to pray for them throughout their careers.

As we were leaving swirling in my thoughts were the core values central to the mission of the Minnesota Highway Patrol: respect, integrity, courage, honor, all the things that we have tried to instill in our young man. The same values his Papa and Grandpa Earl lived by are what his Granpa Junior and Dad model every day. I was overcome with emotion. What a day! One I will never forget. Frankly, this was one of the coolest things I have ever done. If I thought that long ago parade would have made my Papa proud, this day would be the pinnacle of all he embodied. In the wind I could almost hear him whisper, “You done good, Gal. You done good.”

View from the top as we were entering the stadium.

The ripples of love

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I remember the day like it was yesterday, even though it happened almost sixteen years ago. We had a very new baby girl, and I had just returned home from my first appointment with an asthma/allergy specialist for the Boy Wonder. As a young momma I had never encountered a doctor quite like this one. He had to have been in his eighties, and he (not his nurse or staff) made personal phone calls to all his patients just to check in with them. Growing up Southern and a coach’s daughter, it was just assumed that any male offspring would be involved in sports. After the visit with Dr. Goldberg, we quickly learned those dreams might not be the reality for both of our sons. From birth, the Boy Wonder had breathing struggles which culminated in our once finding him completely purple and breathless in the backyard, which is what finally prompted the doctor’s visit. The diagnosis: pediatric intrinsic asthma. There was a slim (very slim) chance that he would outgrow it, but for that afternoon, I cried for all things my sweet boy might miss out on. I was heartbroken for him.

Looking back now, how I wish that was the worst news any of my children would ever encounter.

With a good management plan, those tears shed in my living room were for naught, because he was able to play sports and live a fairly normal life (with the help of a bunch of medications). I remember the first day in intensive care the morning after the bus crash. The medical team was very concerned about his labored breathing until I explained his asthma. He did have severely bruised lungs, but thankfully neither was collapsed. For several summers, he even attended a summer camp just for kids with asthma and allergies. Ironically after his last summer at Camp We-No-Wheeze which happened to be the same year as our darkest day, almost all of his symptoms simply vanished. He hasn’t had one struggle with breathing since.

Yet, through it all (and by all I mean everything that my children have dealt with to this point), I have never once lost sight of the fact there are millions of parents who receive diagnoses that aren’t going to magically disappear, aren’t going to have a surgery or three dozen that will make it better, or aren’t nearly as easily managed with some medications. For some, their family struggles will consume almost every aspect of life that many (including me) take for granted. I was grieving future milestones for my chubby-cheeked toddler, while they will embrace each milestone met.

Please do not misunderstand my message as some of the best advice I have ever been given was “don’t apologize for being your child’s momma.” It is okay to grieve the little stuff . . . period. I’m not going to ever judge you or tell you “that is a first world problem” or remind you to count your blessings when you are feeling low, and neither should anyone else.

My point is looking back and looking forward, I know there are much bigger problems that many endure, some publicly and just as many privately. These families daily face moments when they are reminded how precious life truly is, how much is out of their control, and how often times, raising a child with a difference (any difference) is just as isolating as it is exhausting. Many milestones for these families are bittersweet. Some are never achieved, but many are in amazing, spectacular, and inspirational ways as the children in these families stop the world with their awesomeness. It is for the missed milestones, the hearts of mommas and daddies grieve. For all my friends who experience these moments of dreams deferred, my heart aches.

Recently I realized the ache in a momma’s heart creates ripples that vacillate out in enduring ways. The moment caused a lump to be stuck in my throat the night of graduation. Our school has a tradition whereby the graduates deliver flowers to their mommas. It is a simple and sweet gesture. The ripple that washed over me with a tidal wave of love was not the one pictured in my most recent blog, although that is when my son gave me my flower. My heart echoed God’s joy when he and one of his best friends since birth decided to give flowers to the mom of a former classmate.

There were a lot of perplexed looks in the audience when the two of them grabbed a bouquet they had purchased and went looking through the crowd for this momma. I quickly scanned our entourage of over twenty strong, and there wasn’t a dry eye among us. We all knew that it was a milestone being reached in another way and on another day for her son, but that doesn’t mean his absence didn’t hurt and wasn’t noticed. Those two sweet boys wanted to acknowledge the gift she had been in their life, never missing a game or concert even when their childhood friend could no longer attend school with them. Sure he would be graduating a few weeks later, but the plans they all had back in junior high weren’t the ones that played out in real life, before autism and mental health were nothing more than words they had heard.

Watching the ripples of love from my heart pour out in action through the Boy Wonder and his lifelong buddy was one of the most precious moments of my life. Not for one second did I mind sharing my son with another mom, and I know the momma of the other amazing didn’t either. Our boys were truly men, gentlemen actually, filled with compassion and integrity. They understood the sting of crushed dreams, and for one small second, they hoped to wash away a hurt, if for just a moment. Waves of love and pride and gratitude washed over me as a tender reminder of the Father’s love for each of us, and in one tiny glimpse, all got to see the men He was shaping them to be. These are my boys (all three of them), and for that, I couldn’t be more proud.