When Hope Breaks Through . . .

Today marks one year.  It doesn't seem possible that an entire year has passed.  I remember as a kid thinking that an entire school year--barely 9 months long--was an eternity.  Waiting on my next birthday consisted of painstakingly counting down the months until I would hit that next age.  The Christmas season would creep by at a snail's pace leading up to that morning I'd been looking so forward to.  I've written about this previously, but it still blows my mind how our perception of time works, and I can't believe how fast this past year has flown by for us.

As I look back on the past 365 days I'm reminded of so many gut-wrenching moments.  It's not necessary to rehash those moments here.  Those moments have been documented in previous entries and if I've learned anything in the past year it's that those moments don't go away . . .  so there are sure to be more documented moments in the future.  What is necessary for me to do on this one year anniversary of the passing of our youngest son, is to reflect the good which has come in the midst of these most awful of circumstances.

Sometimes I think we try way too hard to find the good in things.  I know that may sound a little negative, but I think we are often taught that in order to cope it is necessary to find the "silver lining."  Why can't a cloud just be a cloud?  Why do I have to look for the silver lining?  Why not just accept the fact that the cloud is there and it just might rain?

We Christians are the worst at this.  We tend to think that "wallowing" in our pain and disappointment is somehow a sign that we don't have enough faith or that we lack hope.  Suffering is a real thing.  Clouds are real too.  Is it possible that instead of "looking" for the silver lining or "finding" the hope in our suffering--as if it's some prerequisite for handling pain the "right" way--that the hope may come BECAUSE of the suffering or because of the pain?

We need rain.  The rain comes because of the cloud.  If we need the rain why is it necessary to find the silver lining?  The silver lining isn't necessary but the rain is.  Finding the silver lining only makes us "feel" better, it doesn't produce the life-giving rain.

We need hope.  Hope is life-giving.  I'm not sure hope is something we "find" or "look for."  Hope comes as the result pain and suffering.  I'm pretty sure the Bible says something about that in Romans 5:2-4.  I'm not sure you can manufacture hope on your own.  I don't know if you can wish for hope and then somehow wait for it to magically appear.  I don't know.  I'll have to think on that one--not that I have the final determination--but you know how I like to wonder about these things.

In the midst of our pain we are learning what hope is.

Hope is seeing that we don't walk this journey alone.  We have family and friends--many of you--who have walked this journey with us; sometimes even carrying us when we couldn't walk on our own.

Hope is seeing that this thing will not ruin our family and, in fact, has brought us closer together.  

Hope is seeing that it's not entirely up to Amy and I to help our own kids through the unimaginable pain and life questions that come with losing their brother.

Hope is knowing that others are holding their own kids tighter, spending more quality time and loving them more because our story.

Hope is seeing that a 21-month old child can leave a lasting legacy and can touch so many lives in such a short time.

Hope is knowing that Thomas is happier now than we could ever have made him here on earth.  That's humbling, but it's true.

Hope is experiencing when our faith becomes sight.  Lots of people think that only happens when you get to heaven because you can finally see God face to face.  Sometimes we have faith that God is near.  Other times God shows up and confirms that faith by being so close that there's no doubt He is present.  God tends to draw nearest when the pain is at its worst.  Perhaps that pain is necessary for life-giving hope to thrive.

I thought I knew what hope was 366 days ago.  I think I'm beginning to see what hope is now.

When Floating Persists . . .

I still often feel as though I'm floating.  I'm not really sure how else to explain it, but it's that feeling you get when you're living something but it doesn't quite feel real.  It's like you're there physically but mentally you're someplace else.  That floating feeling can come when something good happens.  I experienced it on my wedding day and on each day my kids were born.  Sometimes it's referred to as "being on cloud 9."  I'm not sure why it feels that way.  Maybe it's because you look forward to something for so long that once you actually experience it it just doesn't seem real . . . it can't really be happening!

Sometimes you float the opposite reason.  Sometimes you get that floating feeling when life's biggest trials and unexpected  disappointments come your way.  You experience something that completely knocks you off your feet and leaves you wondering if "this is really happening."  It just doesn't seem real.  It feels like a dream you're in and at some point very soon you're going to wake up and things will be the way they were before.

Maybe you feel it because you wish you weren't really there.  You're present physically, but mentally you're wishing things could be different . . . or the same as they were.

Either way, that floating feeling is real.  I wonder if that's why people people tell you to sit down before they share really good or really bad news with you.

Tomorrow marks one year since I began floating.  I'm not sure I've landed yet, and I'm beginning to think that even if I do land I'll never quite have the solid footing I had before.  I remember vividly the last day I felt like myself.  I can remember nearly every moment of December 11th.  Not because of what happened that day, but because it became significant due to what happened the next day.   December 11th, 2012 was the last day where everything was the way it was supposed to be.  It was one year ago today.

What if you could know just how significant certain moments are while they're happening?

What if I knew putting that ginger bread house together last December 11th would be the last thing we would do together as a family of six?  What if we knew that picture Thomas colored on the floor earlier in the day with his big brother, Samuel, would be the last picture he would color?  What if we knew that trip to the grocery store that morning would be the last for he and his mommy?  So many things we can look back on.  They are so significant now.

It was one year ago I was sitting in this same chair at this exact time with him.  Thomas had awaken after sleeping for a couple of hours and was having a hard time getting back to sleep.  I went and got him out of his crib and we snuggled in this very chair.  I had no idea it would be the last time we would snuggle.

I can still feel the weight of his body on my lap and his arms and legs wrapped around me.  I can smell his hair and feel it tickle my chin as he lays his head on my chest.  I can hear his breathing and see him look up at me periodically as he dozes in and out--making sure it's still me he's laying on and not his mattress--before nestling his had back under my chin.  I can't begin imagine what I'd give to experience that one more time . . . just once.  Sometimes it's just too much to even think about.

I still hear him say, "Da Da" now and then.  I know it's not really him, but it sounds so real.  I still walk out to the kitchen in the mornings and am surprised when he's not at the table eating breakfast.  Everything is still so vivid.  Even a full year later it's like he's right here.  It's all within memory's reach, but memories are all we have, and memories just can't compete with the real thing.

So I'll just keep floating . . . and wondering . . .  because sometimes I'm not sure what else to do.

Sometimes I Wonder . . .

It was one of the happiest days of my life . . . but I wish I didn't have to be there.  Hundreds of family and friends gathered to honor and support.  They came for us . . . but I wish I didn't have to be there.  I'm not sure we have ever experienced as much love as we did that day . . . but I wish we didn't have to be there.  People we didn't even know came out.  Some traveled across the country to be there.  Others took precious time out of their schedules and routines just to be there.  It was an amazingly uplifting, encouraging, healing and meaningful day for our family.  I don't mean to sound selfish or ungrateful . . . but I wish it had never happened.

If we still had our son this day would have never taken place.  The first annual TJ5K--in memory of our son, Thomas--took place on November 16th.  It was an incredible event.  It included a 5K run, a 1-mile fun run/walk and a fun run for kids.  Our family was blown away and humbled by everything that went into that day.  We will always remember those of you who came out to support the events of that day.  All the planning and preparation took months.  Many people worked tirelessly to make it happen.  Over 50 volunteers helped out.  Over 300 people participated.  Several thousand dollars were raised for a wonderful non-profit agency who worked with Thomas prior to his death.  Anyone who has so much time, effort, attention and money given on their behalf should be honored.  We are honored . . . but we wish it never happened.

I'm not ungrateful.  I'm overwhelmed by everything that took place on November 16th, but if we had our son the things that took place that day would have never happened.

I often wonder what we would be doing on certain days or in particular moments had we not experienced what we did almost a year ago now.  As I ran along the course with my oldest son during the race, I kept wondering what we would be doing at that moment had Thomas not died.  What would the hundreds of other people been doing that day?  Maybe it's my way of dwelling on "what might have been."  Perhaps it's something to help distract me from the pain.  Possibly, it's just my own propensity to wonder.  More likely, it's simply my never-ending longing to have things be the way they "should" be.  Either way it makes me wonder.

I wonder which day he would have walked for the first time, or which day he would have said his first sentence.  I wonder what we'll be doing on the day that "should" have been his first day of kindergarten, the day he would have learned to ride his bike, get his driver's licence and graduate from high school.  Which day "should" have been his wedding day or the day he became a dad?  They "should" have been days full of excitement and celebration, but now they'll just be regular days.  I wonder what we'll be doing on those days, which "should" have been so significant in his life and ours.

What would we have been doing a week from now on the anniversary of his death?  What would I have been doing right now instead of typing these random and unorganized thoughts?

It's hard not to dwell on what "should" have been.  It's hard not to wonder.

The fact is we can dwell and we can wonder all we want and it doesn't change reality.  Reality is something we simply cannot change.  So what do we do with reality?  To me that's the critical question.  We'll still wonder about the "what-ifs" and the "should haves," but if we dwell on those too much we can miss the moments that will shape us and carry us through the reality we now face.

Reality is we don't have our son.  All we have is our memories of him.  November 16th was a day put together by some dear friends of ours who were willing to say, "If we could we would bring your son back.  We can't do that, so we will do what we can do:  We will keep his memory alive by celebrating his life."

Things in life may not be the way we think they "should" be and oftentimes we can't get them to be the way they "should" be.  Sometimes things are just broken and they simply cannot be fixed.  That doesn't mean you can't do anything about it.  Those of you who were involved in the TJ5K reminded me that we can't always fix things to the way they "should" be, but we can do something.  Some of you ran.  Others of you planned.  Some volunteered.  A few simply gave.  Many just showed up.  You can't bring our son back, but you did what you could do and for that we are forever grateful . . . more than you will ever know.

I wonder where we'd be if November 16th had never happened?  Thanks for helping our family see through the fog a little more clearly.

When Time Makes Little Sense . . .

It intrigues me how time passes.  There are instances when you look back on life and time just seems to fly by. There are other moments when time just seems to stand still.  I guess technically time continues in the same increments, it's just that our perception of time can make those increments of time seem to pass at different speeds, depending on the situation.  If you're given a month to prepare for your wedding it will fly by.  Given a month to get a huge project done or plan for a big event and a month isn't even close to enough time . . . it will come so fast you don't even have time to blink.  But, given a month to wait for your next paycheck or the arrival of your first child, and a month will seem like an eternity.

Nine months seems like a really long time to me.  You wait on the birth of your child for nine months (I know, it's technically longer than that).  A school year usually lasts about nine months--an entire school year!  If you're a sports fan, an entire season doesn't even last nine months.

Nine months can seem like a really long time, unless you're looking back at a significant and life-changing event.

Why do these life-changing events seem so much closer in our memories than they really are?  Was anyone else blown away by the fact that it's been 12 years since those planes crashed into the World Trade Center and Pentagon? It's been 18 years since the Oklahoma City bombing.  Hurricane Katrina made landfall over 8 years ago.  Osama Bin Laden was killed well over 2 years ago.  I can't imagine what it's like for those of you who experienced events such as the assassination of President Kennedy (50 years ago, this November), the first lunar landing (over 40 years ago), and the Vietnam War (over 50 years ago).  These events get etched into the stone tablets of our minds--never to be forgotten.  We can remember where we were and what we were doing when we heard the news or saw the footage on television.  We remember who we were with and the circumstances surrounding those situations.  We can remember the thoughts and feelings which accompanied these occurrences.  They seem like they happened "just yesterday" because for some reason we can go "back there" in our minds.  Those events are so entangled with our emotions that our minds somehow are able to hold on to them in a way that allows us to experience them again and again . . . making it feel like we were "just there."  If we were "just there," then there's "no way that happened only 12 years ago!"  But it did.

Today marks 9 months since our 21-month-old son, Thomas, passed away in his sleep.  There's no way it's been that long.  The emotions and feelings are still there like it happened this morning.  The people and circumstances which made up those moments are so real I can fully experience them again and again and again . . . and I do.

But it's not all bad.  There must be a reason why God made us this way.  He made us to feel these things.  He made us so that these memories of events such as these would feel very real for the rest of our lives.  Time moves forward but for some reason it doesn't erase those memories.  Why not?

Some of you remember when your spouse told you it was over.  Others of you remember when your parents told you their marriage was over.  Perhaps it was a diagnosis you weren't ready for, someone who took advantage of you and hurt you big time, or maybe you experienced that phone call you never thought you would get--news that turned your world upside down.  Whatever it is, it's there and it's not going away.  Why?

I don't have those answers, but I wonder . . .

I wonder if God made us this way so we could fully appreciate what we do have.  What if our mind's ability to keep those tragic events so near is actually a way of helping us remember that this world is a broken place and oftentimes makes very little sense?  What if it's God's way of keeping us focused on the right things?

I don't know, I just wonder . . .

When I think of that morning on December 12, 2012 it reminds me to make more time for my kids.  It reminds me of the love and support of family and friends.  It reminds me that I'm married to the strongest, yet most gentle and loving woman.  It reminds me not to take most things in life too seriously.  It reminds me to enjoy and take advantage of the moments we do have.  

Most importantly, it reminds me that God does not abandon us in these days.  He walks with us through our darkest of times, and sometimes He even carries us.  In those moments when the fog sets in He's still the One who painted those white lines and knows exactly where the road leads . . . even when we can't see.

When The Moments Are Shared . . .

Grief can feel so selfish sometimes.  I spend a lot of time focusing on my own situation and a lot of energy trying to figure out how "I" can feel better.  It's even been difficult to have empathy for others who are hurting because I tend to compare those situations with my own.  Yes, we have the kids to worry about, but even then I get overwhelmed at times because Amy and I shoulder the responsibility of seeing them through all of this . . . thus making it about me and how much burden "I" carry.  I write these entries because it's helpful for me.  I guess that's okay.  I don't know.  I'm still working through all of that.  I just know that grief can feel very self-centered sometimes.

Tonight I caught myself in one of those moments of selfishness.  I had just begun getting changed into my jogging clothes to go for a run this evening when my oldest son, Samuel, asked if he could go running with me.  

"No way," I said.  "I need to get a good workout in so I can get ready for this half-marathon I'm going to try to run in October.  My knee's been hurting me and this is the first time in a few days that I've been able to get out.  If you run with me I'll have to go really slow, walk here and there, go a lot shorter distance, and it will be a complete waste of time!  Not only that, but don't you know that this is my time to think and reflect?"   

Luckily I said all that in my head.  But honestly, that's what I was thinking.  

I was hesitant but I decided to let him come with me.  He's been talking about joining me on my runs and for the first time he was the one who initiated the idea.  As much as I was looking forward to having some time to myself, I thought it would be good to just get it out of the way.  He would realize how boring it was, how much energy it took, and he'd never ask again.  Plus, if I really wanted to I could bring him back when he tired and then go out later for my "real run."  

We began jogging down our street and slowly made our way through downtown Eudora.  He was doing a pretty good job and I was pleasantly surprised that he had run those entire 7 or 8 blocks.  As we came upon 7th street I could hear him breathing heavy and noticed that his running had turned into more of a plodding as his shoes began stomping the pavement with each stride.  

"Daddy, can we walk a little?"  He asked . . . or more like a gasp.    

We slowed down and began walking down 7th street.  By this time it was starting to get dark.  I hadn't planned on going much further, and even opened my mouth to say, "Let's turn around here," when he asked, "Where's the grave from here?"

Now Samuel is a pretty smart kid.  When he was 3 years old he could tell us how to get around town.  While riding in the car he could point the way to every park in town.  All we had to do was tell him which park we were going to and he could literally give us turn by turn directions.  

He knew where the grave was.  He knew it was just a few blocks down 7th street.  

Not only is Samuel pretty smart, but he's a thinker.  If he does talk it's pretty well thought out.  When he's not talking we know he's thinking.  In fact, during these months since his little brother died we've wondered a lot just what he's thought about this whole process.  He'll talk about Thomas here and there, but we've just had a hard time getting a read on how he's really doing.  

At first I wondered if he knew I jogged there last week and was just curious if we were going to try to go that far tonight.  I was fairly certain he had no idea, but I just left it alone.  I also wondered if going further was just a ploy to stay out later and avoid the dreaded bedtime, but I also left that alone.  So we headed toward the grave.  

By the  time we arrived it was dark.  We came upon the hill and could see the light near his little brother's grave marker.  

"Can we go over and see it," he asked.  Of course I was in agreement.  By this time I knew he had something on his mind.  We walked just a short distance from the gravel over to the front of the grave.  We both stood there for several minutes.  I wasn't sure what to say or if I should even say anything at all.  Knowing the gears in his head were turning, I took the opportunity to try to get a little insight on how an 8-year-old is dealing with the sudden death of his little brother--a brother who meant the world to him.  This whole thing has rocked our world and we're supposed to be "seasoned veterans of life."  He's eight.  

"Do you think about Thomas a lot?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said.

"What do you think about when he's on your mind?" I inquired.

"I don't know.  I've had some dreams about him."  He offered.

Now, I've been waiting over 8 months to have a dream about Thomas.  Every nightwhen  I lay my head on the pillow I'm thinking about him, but I've yet to dream about him.  I want to, but I haven't.  At this point I was very curious.

"What are the dreams about?" I questioned.  

His tone perked up a bit.  "My favorite one is the one when I'm walking up the stairs and Thomas is at the top of the stairs and throws a ball to me and laughs his silly laugh like he's really happy.  There's another one where Thomas is walking and talking [something he hadn't done prior to his untimely death] and comes over while I'm sitting on the couch and sits next to me.  We are watching a football game and he's asking me about all the players . . . and he even knows some of them."  

"Does thinking about Thomas make you happy or sad?" I asked.

"Both," he said, as he changed to more of a somber tone.    

"What makes you happy when you think about Thomas?"  By this time I'm just savoring these moments, and trying as hard as I can to get into his world, yet not push too hard.    

He replied, "I'm happy for him because I know he's in heaven."

Then I asked him what makes him sad when he thinks about Thomas.  His response:  "Because he's not here."  

His voice cracked when he said that.  It took him a few short pauses just to get those four words out. 

Samuel and Thomas had a very special bond . . . they still do.  It was a bond that was so special that only a parent could understand.  That little boy meant the world to Samuel and I'd give anything for them to have the opportunity to play together again. Samuel meant the world to Thomas too.  I can still see that look in his eyes when his "Bubba" would walk into the room.  He would immediately look for a ball so he and Samuel could play.  Samuel was such an incredible big brother to him.  Man, that's tough to think about . . . 

It was dark in that cemetery so I couldn't see the tears.  He couldn't see mine either.  But it was one of those moments standing out in that open field surrounded by grave markers, that I will never forget.  My son and I were sharing a moment when words were not necessary because we knew exactly what each other was feeling and thinking.  We were both happy and sad for the exact same reasons.  I don't know how much longer we stood there, but we didn't talk anymore.  My mind wandered to a memory of Thomas and Samuel throwing the ball together on the floor.  I could tell Samuel's mind was wandering too.  Perhaps it was the same memory.  I don't know.  I broke the silence by telling Samuel that Thomas was so lucky to have such an awesome big brother.  He remained silent.  

I needed tonight way more than I needed a workout.  I almost missed it.  I almost told him "no."  

Eventually we decided to jog back (well, mostly) home.  Come to find out, Samuel had no idea I had run to the grave last week.  He just simply wanted to be there.  I can relate. 

The run/walk home was mostly full of conversations about sports and school, while the conversation about Thomas seemed a distant memory to Samuel.  It wasn't to me.  I thought about it the entire way home.  

As we approached our driveway I said, "Buddy, I'm so proud of you."  

"You mean because you didn't think I could jog that far?"

Well . . . that too.  

When The Pavement Turns to Gravel

Why is it that our past can be so paralyzing?  Sometimes it's something we've done that's so bad--a mistake, a lapse in judgement or outright rebellion--something so "bad" we just don't think there's anyway way we can be "good" again. Other times it's something we've experienced, that when we go back to that moment in our minds, we remember the agony, the helplessness, the fear and the hopelessness.  Those feelings are so vivid in our memory that they can paralyze us even now.

Maybe you've experienced those emotionally paralyzing moment or events.  They are the times in life where we feel like all we can do is just sit there.  Taking a step seems impossible.  Moving forward isn't even on the radar.  Living can seem hopeless, let alone living life to its fullest.  It's easiest just to sit there because nothing else is even plausible.

I go there often.  It's hard not to.  I try not to, but I find myself there.

Tonight I decided to go for a jog.  Now I've never been a dedicated runner.  I go through spurts where I run regularly, but those spurts seem to come between significant lulls where I don't jog for several weeks and sometimes months.  Tonight was the first time I jogged in 251 days.  The last time I ran on the road was December 11th, 2012.  I haven't really wanted to run since then.  I don't know if I associated jogging with those paralyzing events of the next day, or if it's just been a good excuse not to run.  Either way I just haven't done it.  Jogging is also a time that allows me to just think.  When I have time to think I tend to go to that paralyzing place.  It's hard to avoid thinking, but I've done my best for the past 8 months.  I don't like going to "that place."

Tonight I decided to run again.

I also haven't visited Thomas' grave in awhile.  The day we buried him I had in mind that I wouldn't go another day the rest of my life without visiting.  I think I've made some sort of similar declaration when it came to jogging too.  But visiting the grave is tough.  It's peaceful and somewhat comforting at times, but it always seems to take me to that paralyzing place.  I don't forget that my son is gone, in fact it's on my mind constantly even 8 months later, but his grave often takes me to "that place."  Why?  What happened?  Is this seriously real?  Am I really looking at my son's grave?  When will I wake up from this nightmare?  How will everything turn out?

I go there often.  It's hard not to.  I try not to, but I find myself there.

So tonight I decided to run to Thomas' grave. If I know I'm going to "that place," I might as well go all out, right?  It's only about a mile or so from the house.  I left at dusk and arrived at the cemetery as it was just getting dark.  As I ascended the hill--slowly plodding along--I could make out the outline of his grave marker.  We chose his particular location for a couple of reasons.  First, it is the Eastern-most plot in the cemetery and was located by itself, and away from some of the more crowded areas.  Second, it is also the Northern-most plot in the cemetery and is located closest to where the road next to the cemetery turns from pavement to gravel.  Thomas loved to hold rocks.  He would rarely throw them.  There was just something about holding them that made him happy.  It made us happy to bury him as close to the rocks as we could.

As I approached his grave from the road, I decided to go ahead and run to where the pavement turns to gravel.  I like to have certain points to run to when I jog.  This just seemed like a logical stopping place.  When I reached the gravel I had every intention of then stepping off into the grass and making my way to the front of his grave marker.  But, there was something about that gravel tonight.  Being in the rocks reminded me of him being happy, and I wanted to stay there.  I couldn't get out of the gravel.  My mind went to "that place," and I just stood there in the middle of the gravel road looking at his grave.  I stood there for several minutes.  As my mind replayed the events of December 12th, and the ensuing days after, I all-of-a-sudden realized that at some point, I had to go home.  Standing on the gravel, I knew that my only way home was to get back on the pavement and go home.

I stood there for several moments staring at the pavement in front of me.  A couple of times I actually lifted my foot, only to place it back down in the gravel.  It's like this when I drive to the cemetery too.  It's hard to be there, but it's even more difficult to leave.  When I'm in "that place," sometimes it's easier just to stay there.  In some ways I want to experience the pain.  I want to think those paralyzing thoughts.  I want my heart to break again.  For some reason I feel like it honors the memory of our precious boy.  I don't want to leave him.

But I can't stay there.  I have to go home.  As much as it hurt, I finally got the courage to get back on the pavement and jog home.  It was like jumping into a cold swimming pool.  You want to do it, but you know it's not going to be pleasant, and at some point you just have to jump.  When I got home tonight I went to each of my other kid's rooms and prayed for them, thanking God for three incredible reasons to come home tonight, and to face the day each morning.  I also thanked him for Amy and the incredible wife and mom she is.  I love coming home.

Staying in the gravel is tempting.  Continuing to allow yourself to be paralyzed by your past is a choice, but so is deciding to get back on the pavement again to head home.  Try getting back on the pavement again.  Look for reasons to head home again . . . I guarantee you'll find them.

 

When The Light Creeps In . . .

Have you ever noticed how things seem so far away in the dark?  If you're reading this at night, just look out your window and take notice of the objects you can see in the darkness.  You may be able to see the outline of a tree in the distance or some other familiar object.  Look at those same objects in the morning and notice how much closer they seem.  I went camping recently and was reminded of this phenomenon.  Sitting around the fire, I found myself gazing off into the distance at a row of trees barely visible by the light of the moon.  In the darkness those trees seemed to be hundreds of yards away.  When the sun shown on that same row of trees the next morning it became apparent that the darkness had hindered my ability to calculate distance, as that same tree line, in reality, was only about half as far away as it seemed in the dark.

Things in the dark just seem so much further away than they do when revealed by the light.  Darkness has a way of almost tricking us into thinking things are further away than they really are.  Even lights seem further away when it's dark.  Look down your street at night and find a light.  It might be a neighbor's porch light or a street sign that's lit up.  Look at it again in the daylight and it will seem so much closer.

Notice I keep using the word "seems."  The distance doesn't change.  The distance only "seems" to change.  The "seems" is my own perspective.

Today is August 12th, 2013, and it marks 8 months since our world was turned upside down and inside out.  It's been 243 days filled with uneasiness, accompanied by moments of excruciating and unbearable pain.  To be honest, there have been days when the darkness sets in with so much intensity that there doesn't seem to be light anywhere.  Forget trying to make out objects in the distance, it seems so dark sometimes that even the possibility of there being objects in the distance doesn't even cross my mind.  Trying to live life day by day is sometimes so overwhelming . . . so . . . dark.

The darkness is unsettling.  In fact, it's been months since I've written anything here because when I have time to sit and dwell on it I feel like I'm almost ushering in or giving the darkness permission to settle in.

But then the light comes.  It's like the rising of the sun each morning.  When the sun rises it doesn't all-of-a-sudden turn from complete darkness to full light in an instant.  Slowly but surely, moment by moment, the sun begins to rise and darkness fades.  But darkness doesn't really fade, it's really that the light appears . . . again . . . just like it did the day before.

I share about the darkness because it's hard to appreciate the light without experiencing the darkness.  Yes, the past 8 months have been difficult, but I'm telling you the sun rises every morning.  Darkness has its way of making things seem far away.  They "seem" far away because the darkness is only my perspective.  Things seem far away because all I can see is the darkness.  The Bible tells us that God is Light and that in Him there is no darkness.

From my perspective Thomas is lost to us for the remainder of our time on earth (darkness).  From God's perspective Thomas has found Him for eternity and has avoided all the hurt and pain of this life (light).

From my perspective it's sad that Thomas is somewhere without his parents (darkness).  From God's perspective Thomas couldn't be happier (light).

From my perspective this pain is unbearable (darkness).  From God's perspective . . . well . . . I don't know . . . but I know God knows what He's doing and sees way more than we do (light).

The darkness limits our view and makes things seem further away than they really are.  God is light.  He sees more than we do and  is so much closer to us than we can ever hope or imagine.