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.

What I'm Learning . . .

I guess I thought it would clear by now . . . the fog, that is.  Of course, I really didn't know what to expect, but I hoped things would be easier to see at this point.  They say things get better with time.  I'm not sure who "they" are or what their definition of "better" is, but the death of our son, Thomas, 5 months ago today is still very real.

Are things better 151 days later?  Maybe.  I guess I'm not really sure how to answer that question.  For me, better would be us having Thomas back so he could have been watching through the chain link fence and yelling "Bubba" at Samuel's first baseball game last night.  Better would be Thomas tossing balls onto the filed at Eli's soccer game today.  Better would be Thomas helping his big sister blow out her candles for her 7th birthday next Saturday.  Better would be Amy getting a homemade gift from all four of her kids on Mother's Day.  Better would be me . . . I don't know . . . I'd just really like to have him back.  We all would.

Are we doing better?  Yes, we are doing better than we were even several weeks ago.  Time does have a way of helping things get better.  However, I'm not sure about that whole "time heals all wounds" thing, because I'm pretty sure they forget to mention the scars.  The scars will always be there.  I guess that's why they call them scars.  And I'm starting to come to terms with the fact that the fog will always be here as well.

I've wanted it to go away.  I've prayed so hard that the fog would go away.  It's hard to see through this stuff.  What's really there just doesn't look the same when the fog is so thick.  But it's not going away . . . and I don't think it ever will.  Understanding and coming to grips with this fact is what has helped things get a little bit better for us.  The fog is still there.  It set in at 7:31am on Wednesday, December 12, 2012 and it has remained.

So what has changed?  Below are some things we have learned in the past 151 days.  There's not a whole lot of rhyme or reason and I won't explain them in much detail, but perhaps you can learn something . . . or at least ponder the possibility.

Things I'm Learning . . .

I'm learning that "easy" isn't always "best."  We live in a world where it seems everyone wants "easy."  Oftentimes we find "best" at the end of our most difficult roads.  More on this at another date.

Things I used to think were important just don't seem as important . . . no matter who says they should be.

You can learn a lot from your kids if you just listen.

I've learned that you don't have to see through the fog to get where you're going.  You just have to go slower and rely on what's right in front of you.

I'm learning how difficult it can be to watch your kids hurt.

I'm learning not to take time for granted.  You just never know how much of it you have left.

I'm learning that we have some really good friends.  Not just the kind you like to hang out with, but the kind who will carry you through your darkest of times.

I'm learning to be thankful.  A really smart guy who came to our church several weeks back said this:  "If you woke up this morning and only had the things you thanked God for yesterday, what would you have?"

I'm learning that having faith isn't easy.  If it were easy it wouldn't be faith.

I'm learning that fear is more powerful than I had ever given it credit for.

I'm learning that planning is way overrated.  I always had a hunch, but nothing to really back it up.  It kind of goes hand-in-hand with that whole "things just not seeming as important."  It will be hard to convince people that planning is overrated, and I don't think I'll waste my time.  I'm just learning it's good to live in the moment.  Why worry about tomorrow, when today has enough things to worry about.  That's in the Bible.

Everyone has a perspective.  Too many arguments happen because we think everyone should have the same perspective we have.  We should learn to get over ourselves every once in a while.  Trying to understand someone else's perspective is a worthy endeavor, even if you still disagree in the end.

It's good to laugh.

This world is full of pain.  I don't know why, but it is.  We spend a lot of time trying to get rid of that pain instead of embracing it and learning from it.

This world is not our ultimate destination.  In the grand scheme of things our time here on earth is like a mist that is here today and gone tomorrow.  That's in the Bible.  Our time here on earth is like a fart in the wind.  That's what my grandpa would say.  Like I said, it's good to laugh.

Finally, I'm learning more and more that God can be trusted.  I can put my faith in Him.  "Better" is a relative term for us humans, but not for God.  The fact is God knows what's best.  There is nothing better than what He desires for my life . . . even if I don't like it.  On this foggy road we travel, God is the One who painted the white lines.  We can trust those lines even in the times when seeing is most difficult.

When There's No One to "Drive Around"

"I wish I had someone to drive around," he said.  We knew exactly what he was talking about.  He sat in the driver's seat of his battery-powered, kid-sized car.  He rested his chin on his arms, which were draped over the plastic steering wheel, and stared longingly down the street.  We knew what he was thinking.  The look on his face said it all. It's a look Amy and I recognized immediately because it's come across our own faces so many times in the past 116 days. 

I pride myself on my ingenuity.  Most often that ingenuity surfaces in order to feed my own laziness. 

About this time last year I was sitting outside in our driveway with Thomas while Eli (our then 3-year-old) was driving up and down our dead-end street in his battery-powered car.  Thomas, meanwhile, was driving me crazy.  I was doing my best to capitalize on this opportunity to enjoy a beautiful day and Thomas was doing his best to interrupt it.  The wagon was next to me and Thomas wanted so badly to ride in the wagon and he let it be known what his desires were.  I finally gave in.  I put him in the wagon and began pulling him up and down the street.  He was happy.  He enjoyed his wagon. 

As I pulled Thomas up and down the street, Eli continued to drive his car.  Finally my ingenuity kicked in.  I had one of those "light bulb" moments.  I pulled the wagon into the garage and tied a rope through the handle.  I then waved Eli over and tied the other end of the rope to the back of his batter-powered car.  It was a match made in heaven.  Eli pulled Thomas around until the battery in the car went dead.  I sat in my chair and watched them go up and down the street.  Eli in his car, Thomas in his wagon and I in my chair. 

This scenario went on for months.  Every nice day of the Spring, Summer and Fall you could drive down Acorn Drive and see Eli pulling Thomas.  Eventually Thomas got old enough to realize that he could ride in the car with Eli.  Soon they were like two peas in a pod.  Eli would drive and Thomas would ride.  They were both in heaven!  Eli loved driving his little brother around and Thomas was always so thrilled to ride along with his big brother. 

As Eli gazed off down the road, we knew exactly what he was thinking about.  It was last week and it was the first nice day of the Spring.  We were outside enjoying the beautiful weather.  It was the first time Eli had his car out since Thomas died on December 12.  It was the first time we were all outside enjoying the weather since we lost Thomas unexpectedly.  Thomas loved being outside.  He lived to play outside.  He would be in the yard playing in the dirt, in the street playing in the rocks, riding in the wagon, riding in the car, throwing a ball to one of his siblings, riding his tricycle . . . you name it, he wanted to be outside. 

It was the first time we had experienced a beautiful day without him.  Amy and I could feel it.  We missed him dearly that day last week.  It just wasn't the same.  Eli missed him too.  He wished he had someone to drive around.  We knew what he meant, because we wished he had someone to drive around too.  I'm not sure how much time passed that day.  I'm pretty sure the three of us spent most of the afternoon staring longingly off into the distance.  It just wasn't the same without Thomas.  He should have been there and he wasn't. 

I dread the "firsts." 

Our first Christmas without him was horrible.  His 2nd birthday--without him--was devastating.  Celebrating the Resurrection at Easter was conflicting.  The first beautiful day without him was empty.  Samuel's first baseball practice this past week without Thomas yelling "Bubba" and "Da Da" from behind the fence was bothersome.  There are many more "firsts" to come.  I dread every one of them.  Even Eli gets it, and he's four.  I sure wish he had someone to drive around. 

When We Must Choose . . .

Have you ever noticed the amount of choices we each make on a daily basis?  Think back through your day, your week or even this past year and try to reflect on the multitude of choices you make in life.  We are inundated with choices.  Sometimes that's a good thing and other times it's just overwhelming.  Sometimes it's empowering to realize how much control you have and other times it's intimidating to realize how much responsibility rests on your choices.  Either way, the fact is we all make choices, whether we realize it or not.  Even when we feel we "have no choice," oftentimes we really do have a choice, it's just that the consequences of one of the options might seem to leave us "no other option." 

Amy and I see this play out everyday with our 4-year-old, Eli.  We try really hard to parent with "Love and Logic."  The basis of this parenting philosophy is to empower your kids to make decisions now when the consequences aren't so monumental so they learn to make the right decisions later on.  For instance, when disciplining our kids we give them a choice:  "You're welcome to throw a fit if you want to, but if you choose to throw a fit you need to do it in your room."  So Eli's been given a choice.  Can you see what the choice is?  He can choose to throw his fit or he can choose to not throw his fit.  But, the consequences of throwing that fit include the parameters of him doing so in his room.  It's his choice.  It doesn't matter to us either way.  There's a lot more to it, but that's just one example. 

What about us adults?

There are very few things we do where we don't have a choice.  This time of year you might say, "Well we have to pay taxes."  No, we don't.  We don't have to pay taxes.  No one is going to hold a gun to your head and force you to pay your taxes.  You can choose to pay or not pay.  But, if you don't there are consequences of not paying.  You still have a choice.  You can choose to do your duty as a citizen or you can choose to face possible consequences.  Most choose to pay in order to avoid the consequences, but you still have a choice. 

"I have to go to work today."  No, you don't.  You can choose not to, but there are consequences.  You might lose your job if you don't go.  You might not get done what you have to get done.  You might upset your boss.  Your business might start to fail.  Those are the consequences.  When you choose to go to work you're not saying "I have to go to work," what you're really doing is making the choice to go because the consequences of not going to work outweigh the benefits. 

"I just don't have time for that."  No, you are choosing to spend your time on something else you've decided is more important. 

"We can't afford that right now."  No, you've decided you'd rather spend your money on something else. 

None of these are bad.  They just are what they are.  You decide how to spend your time and your money.  You have a choice.  What I'm referring to here is what we value.  We make decisions based on what we value most.  Our behavior is determined by what we value most.  It's not that you don't have enough time to spend with your kids, it's that you've decided spending time doing something else (work, facebook, poker night, golf) is more important than spending time with your kids.  It's not that you can't afford to give to charity, it's that you've decided something else (eating out, going on vacation, a new vehicle, your coffee) is more valuable to you than giving to charity.  Again, none of these are "bad," they just are what they are.  Let's just call it what it is. 

When we say "I have no choice," or "I don't have time," or "I don't have the money for that," what we are really doing is trying to deflect responsibility for our own choices.  If we have no choice then there's nothing we can do about it . . . the responsibility rests somewhere else.  If we say we don't have time then we are really placing blame on the clock instead of taking responsibility for our own decisions.  It's not our wallet's fault that there's no money left. 

We're really good at placing blame and not so good at taking responsibility.  Everything seems to be someone or something else's fault. 

"He makes me so mad!"  No, you chose to be angry over what he did.

We may not have much of a choice in what happens to us in life but we certainly have control over how we respond to it.  Tuesday marked three months since we lost Thomas.  We've made a lot of choices since that morning we found him dead.  Some choices are ones we never thought we'd have to make for one of our kids (what funeral home to use, where to bury him, when the funeral would be, what to put on the head stone), but they were choices nonetheless. 

We also had to make a choice on how we would respond to this storm.  Do we crawl in a hole and die?  Do we shut ourselves off from the rest of the world because it's just easier?  Do we curse God and blame Him for taking our son early?  Do we search for someone to blame?  Should our doctor have seen something?  Did the paramedics do enough?  Did they do everything they could have done in the ER?  Should we have seen something?  Surely someone is to blame, right?  Maybe not.  We decided to stop looking for blame and chose to focus on what we could control. 

We have a choice. 

Amy and I decided to trust.  We chose to trust that God knows what he's doing.  We decided to trust that God knows and sees much more than we do.  We chose to put our faith in the fact that God will take this and use it for good . . . somehow. 

We are not super-human.  We don't have some sort of "extraordinary faith."  If anything we are more humbled and broken than we've ever been before.  It still hurts--really bad.  We still have a hard time getting through some days.  It will never be easy, but we still have a choice to make.  You just can't avoid some choices. 

So . . . We choose hope.  We choose to trust.  We choose joy.  We choose faith.  We choose peace.  

Those are choices we can live with. 

When the Load is Large . . .

Why are we surprised when God answers our prayers?  And why are we even more surprised when He answers them His way instead of the way we had envisioned?  I prayed a simple prayer on that snowy Olathe, Kansas morning in February 2000.  I simply asked God to give me the strength to be more selfless and to provide an opportunity to put that selflessness into action.  God answered that prayer, just not the way I had in mind.

I was driving home from dropping Amy off at the school where she taught when I saw the answer to my prayer.

I had my whole day planned out.  I had one class that day and was off from work.  My plan was to go home to our apartment, skip class, sit on the couch all day, doze off here and there and not worry about a thing.  I was going to eat lunch at my favorite Mexican restaurant and drink Dr. Pepper.  Those were my only plans.  My dad calls these "veg" days.  You know, days when all you do is sit around and do nothing.  I remembered the prayer I had prayed that morning and I had planned on God answering that prayer the next day or even possibly in the coming weeks.  But God had other plans.  

I didn't see it immediately.  I was driving on the snowy road which ran perpendicular to our apartment complex entrance.  It was a really wet snow that had been falling for a couple of hours, with about 3 or 4 inches on the ground already.  As I pulled in I saw a lady pushing a shopping cart on the snowy sidewalk.  

"Man, that stinks," I thought.  "Why would you be pushing a shopping cart in the snow?"  

Like I said, I didn't see it immediately.  I pulled into our parking spot and glanced back at the lady pushing the cart one more time as I got out of the car.  As I unlocked the door and carried the Dr. Pepper into the apartment it finally hit me.  Why would anyone be pushing a shopping cart in the snow . . . unless they had no other choice?  

"No way, God.  I have my day all planned out.  I don't have time for this today.  I have things to do . . . you know, couch, doze, Chili Rellenos, Dr. Pepper . . .!!"  

I opened the front door so I could peek outside.  She was still walking.  Still pushing the shopping cart. But now it was apparent that she was struggling.  It was probably apparent before, but this time I decided to actually "see" instead of just look.  She was an older woman and she walked with a slight limp.  It would have been hard for her to walk through the snow without pushing a shopping cart.  I knew I had to act.  This certainly wasn't the "selflessness" I had planned.  There was no crowd to witness it.  There was no visible reward for this.   But I knew I had to act.  

I walked slowly toward her for fear that I would freak her out by approaching.  As I got closer I spoke to her.  

"Ma'am?  Can I help you?"  

She reached for her purse and tucked it under her arm to protect it as she turned to look at me.  I stopped in order to keep a safe distance . . . for her sake.  I was quite confident that she would probably just refuse my help and I would be off the hook this time.  I could then get right back to my important day . . . you know, couch, doze, chili rellenos, Dr. Pepper . . . 

"Well I'm just trying to get back home," she said.  She reminded me of my grandma.  It turns out she had run to the store to grab some essentials before the snow that morning and when she got back in her car in the store parking lot it wouldn't start.  

"I didn't know who to call," she said, "so I just started walking."  

Now the store wasn't too far, but it turns out she was quite a ways from home.  In fact, she had lost her bearings and wasn't even sure where she was.  It didn't take long for me to help her get her directions straight and she agreed to let me help her by pushing the cart.  It was tough.  The wheels had gotten to the point where they weren't spinning any longer because they had become so packed with snow.  It was more like pushing a sled that didn't slide very well.  The walk was fairly quiet.  I tried making small talk but it was apparent she wasn't too interested in talking.  I think she was probably wondering if I had in mind to run off with her cart.  Instead, I wrestled that cart through the snow almost a mile to her apartment complex and then up to her door.  I helped her unload her groceries and then turned around to walk back home.  As I began walking away, she stopped me with her voice.  

"Sir," she said.  "I don't know how I would have done that without you.  In fact, I began wondering if I was ever going to make it home.  That was a big load for a little old lady," she said with a laugh. 

"It's no problem," I replied.  "I'm happy to be able to help."  

Dealing with the death of Thomas has been a big load to carry.  As I look back on the past 85 days there are some things that are becoming a little more clear.  The load is getting a little lighter.  It all changed for me on the evening of January 21st.  I was in such a fog that I seriously didn't know if I'd ever find my way out.  I was trying with all my might to push this load home.  The problem was the load was too big for me, and I wasn't quite sure where home was.  

On that night I finally quit trying to push it myself.  I wanted to carry it myself.  I thought I was capable.  I thought I could "fix" everything.  I sat in my recliner late into the night and I wept.  I wept uncontrollably because I felt such a sense of helplessness.  I was lost.  I couldn't even see through the fog, let alone carry this load home.  

I've heard people talk about "giving our problems to God."  I know that the Bible talks about "casting our anxiety upon him," but I didn't know how to do that.  What does that look like.  All I knew to do was pray.  So I prayed this prayer:

"Lord, I can't do this.  I'm trying to carry this myself and it ain't working.  I don't know what else to do but ask you to carry it for me.  I can't do it.  Help me."

I must have prayed that prayer a hundred different ways that night.  As I sat in that chair and continued to pour my heart out to God I began to feel the weight being lifted.  I began to see the fog being melted away ever so slowly.  I began to see that there really exists a "peace that surpasses understanding."  

That's a big load for little guy like me to carry.  I'm happy to have the help.  We have a God who's happy to help.  What's weighing on you?  

When It's Hard to Know . . .

Thomas would have been two today.  It's hard talking about him in the past tense.  Sure, he's gone and we've accepted the fact that we will never see him again this side of heaven, but it's hard to know sometimes how to talk about him.  There's no manual for this.  In the English language there are certain rules to follow when it comes to using a past or present tense, but there are no guidelines about how to keep the memory of our baby boy alive.  Do we talk about him as if he's still with us or as if he's not here?

It's just hard to know.

"How many kids do you have?"

"How old are your kids?"

"So Eli (our 4-year-old) is the youngest?"

"You have two boys and one girl?"

How do we answer these questions?  We've answered them so many different ways in the past 81 days (yes, I'm still counting and probably will keep track for awhile).  Sometimes we just say we have three kids.  Is that wrong of us?  Sometimes we say we have four kids, but then you risk having to explain yourself, or worse--having to make the questioner feel bad because they "brought up a bad memory."  I don't know.

It's just hard to know.

Today we faced the dilemma of how to best remember Thomas on his 2nd birthday.  He's not here with us.  Do we still have cake?  Do we have a birthday party for him even though he can't make it?  Do we sing happy birthday to his empty chair at the table?  Do we celebrate?  Should we be happy?  Will remembering him just make us more sad?

It's just hard to know.

It's been a tough day.  It's been tough because of the emptiness.  This was supposed to be a day where we celebrate.  All day I could just see him blowing out his candles, opening his presents, us singing to him as he smiled so big, diving into his cake and just being the center of attention like he always was.  All these memories are conspicuous reminders of what might have been . . . what should have been . . . and what will not be.

We went to lunch as a family to celebrate, and his absence was so obvious.  After visiting his grave we went to the Sea Aquarium at Crown Center in downtown Kansas City.  He would have loved seeing the fish, the water and especially the rocks.  I spent most of the day being reminded of how his face would light up and he would say "ooooohhhhh" and point to whatever had just grabbed his attention.  He would have done that a lot today.  He was constantly on my mind.

We had a cake with two little candles.  We sang happy birthday to Thomas.  We ate the cake.  We celebrated, but he couldn't make it.  His absence was conspicuous.  It was a tough day.

It was tough because this was the first "milestone" day we've experienced since losing him.  Yeah, we went through Christmas without him but we were still so numb that I don't really remember much about Christmas anyway.  There will be many more days like today where it's just going to be hard to celebrate without him.  Easter, Mother's Day, Father's Day, family vacations, the anniversary of his passing, his first day of kindergarten, his high school graduation . . . all will be so difficult because he won't be here.  There will be many more tough days like today.  

But it's also been a good day.  It's been good because so many people remembered it was his birthday.  So many people knew this would be a tough day for us.  It was a good day because even though his absence was so obvious, it was also good to do something fun as a family in his honor.  Today was about him.  Today was about doing something that he would have enjoyed and the thoughts of him being happy made us happy.  In the midst of our emptiness we have found ourselves filled.

We are still amazed at the memories that can be made in 21 months.  Even though it's hard to think about him being gone, we are so blessed to have had the time with him that we had.

We have a son that some will never know.  Samuel, Lucy and Eli have a brother who is only in their memory.  Today IS his birthday.  We have four kids . . . three are still with us and one is having a birthday party in heaven today.  

Happy Birthday, Tommy.  We love you so much and I don't know if words exist to adequately portray how much we miss you.  I don't know.  It's just hard to know.

When the Heart is Broken . . .

Why is the heart the symbol of love?  Have you ever seen a human heart?  It's disgusting.  It just looks like a blob of muscle and mush.  Although the heart we learn to draw and cut out as a child somewhat resembles the organ inside of our chest that pumps blood to our extremities, it does no justice when it comes to representing it.  The hearts we draw and cut out are too pretty.  The heart-shaped box that holds the chocolates around Valentine's Day is way too perfect.  It's just not an accurate representation of the real heart.  But we continue to use the "pretty" heart as a representation of our love.  The "pretty" heart continues to be the image most commonly associated with love.

"I love you with all my heart."

"He has my heart."

"She showed so much heart."

"His heart just wasn't in it."

"I gave my heart away."

"He broke my heart."

"I <3 you."

"She took a piece of my heart with her."

"My heart goes out to them."

So where did this image of the heart come from?  Long ago in primitive times it was believed that the heart was the epicenter of all human emotion.  The heart is found in the center of a person--the torso.  People believed that emotions and feelings were so strong that they must come from the very center of our being.  With the heart being the center of all emotion it only made sense that the strongest of all emotions--love--simply must come from the heart.  Loving another person was viewed as such an act of giving that the idea developed that one could "give their heart away" to another person.  That other person, therefor, had a piece of the other's heart.  When love came to an end you were left with two broken hearts.

I also wonder if the term "broken heart" may have originated from that feeling you get when love ceases?  We've all had that feeling.  It's a deep pain in our chest.  It cuts through us like a knife and we're left wondering if we'll ever be able to love again the way we did previously.  Amy and I have had that pain for the past 70 days.  Something does feel broken inside my chest.  It just doesn't feel right.  We still wonder if it will ever feel "normal" again.

Although we now know that emotions originate in our brain, the symbolism of the heart as the center of all love has remained prevalent.  Even though we know the heart does not "house" our emotions we do know that our very lives are dependent on our hearts.  I don't know all the anatomy and physiology involved, but that one muscle pumps life-giving blood throughout our body.  It is our very source of life.  If it's working properly that person still has life in them.  When it's not working life stops altogether.

Last Friday we finally received the autopsy results after 9 weeks.  There's a lot of medical jargon, but essentially there was a virus present in Thomas which contributed to his life ceasing.  Although not completely conclusive, the coroner's conclusion was that the virus most likely made its way to Thomas' heart very quickly and caused sudden cardiac arrest.  It was a very normal virus, in which 1 in 100,000 cases lead to death.  That's .001%.  It's possible there was some sort of undetectable heart defect that had been preexistent and it's possible that his being born two months premature contributed to it somehow.

We may never know precisely what killed our baby boy.  What we do know is his heart stopped on December 12, 2012.  His body, which had been so full of life for 21 months, didn't have the necessary mechanisms to fight back and decided it was time to shut down.  Our hearts broke that day along with his, and there are pieces of my heart all over the place.  I guess that's what happens when you give it away.

Thomas took pieces of my heart with him.  There's a piece of my heart buried several feet underground.  There's a piece my heart at the park, the swimming pool, the football field, the church, the nursery, the basketball court, our front yard and all over our house.  It's impossible for us to miss the pieces of him he left behind along with the pieces of our hearts he captured.

Our hearts will never be the same.  There will always be a "Thomas-shaped" void in our hearts.  He seemed to take a piece of everyone--or more likely we gave it to him.  However, we are blessed to have pieces of his heart still with us.  He made such an impact on those he came in contact with that pieces of his heart are all over the place.

In fact, we had the privilege of donating pieces of his heart to other small children and we received confirmation that they were able to use two of his heart valves as donor organs.  There literally is a piece of Thomas' heart in two small children somewhere in the world.  Two other children were able to continue living because our Thomas died.  That warms my heart.

When The Pieces Fit . . . Sort of . . .

I despise Valentine's Day.  In fact, I just cringed a little bit after deciding to go ahead and capitalize those two words in order to maintain "proper" grammar.  "Despise" might be a little strong, but the fact is holidays like today annoy me a little bit.  Now don't get me wrong, I'm all about celebrating love in our lives.  I'm all for recognizing moms on Mother's Day and dads on Father's Day, and I'm even ok with celebrating birthdays . . .  although I still think that being recognized because you were born is a bit over the top.  Congratulations, you were . . . uh . . . born on this day?  So you didn't do anything but come into the world?  Perhaps we should recognize the moms who went through all the pain just to bring you into this world on this particular day.  In fact, maybe Mother's Day should be celebrated on each anniversary of the day they brought each child into this world.  Moms?  I should talk to Hallmark. I might be on to something other than my own soapbox.  Anyway . . .

The fact is these "holidays" just bug me.  Is recognizing the love my life really best set aside for just one day per year?  Or is it just that Hallmark, jewelry stores, flower shops and other retail establishments have done a phenomenal job of marketing this day in such a way that we've arrived to a point where if one doesn't recognize these days then the non-recipient feels jaded, forgotten and rejected?  No wonder they are multi-billion-dollar companies!

I say a lot of this tongue-and-cheek.  I do think it's important to recognize those in your life who are meaningful to you.  I guess I just feel like it's more important to recognize those people throughout the year and on a regular basis.  Seriously, would you rather your loved ones remember you on a specific day when they are "supposed" to remember you or would you rather know that they remember you all the time?  Anyone can look at a calendar and be reminded to send out a birthday card, but is a birthday card more meaningful than a random note on a random day?

Don't even get me started on Christmas cards.

So I'm going to go against my own will here.  On this Valentine's Day (cringe) I'm going to spend a few moments recognizing the love of my life.  I've written extensively about my four kids, but haven't used a lot of space talking about my wife, Amy.

Back in college (when I didn't know any better and was still trying to impress her) I wrote the following poem for her and had her roommate place it in her dorm room with a dozen roses.  She's not really the rose type, so I decided I needed to do a little bit more.  Here's what I wrote:

The dark and dreary clouds drifted away.  
The chills and bitter cold that had befallen me for the longest time were instantly extinguished by the sun's rays that fell gently on my flesh, and this warm and soothing feeling came over my entire body.
Where before I had been shivering and chattering teeth, I now had an overwhelming warmth that I had never experienced.  
And at that instant I knew I would never be cold again.

I felt a raindrop.
I could smell the rain in the air and it smelled sweeter than anything I had ever smelled before.
Then, the dry and barren desert that had dominated my life turned into plush, green rolling hills with streams of cool, fresh spring water inhabiting them.  
The hard grains of sand that once pierced my dry, cracked feet were now replaced with luscious fields of soft green grass that slithered in between my toes.
The sticks and reeds that before had been punished and pummeled by the dust were now sunflowers, roses and trees--reaching for the same sun that had satisfied me.  
The dry air was replaced with a gentle, soothing breeze that massaged my skin and made the grass sway back and forth so as to say everything was perfect--and it was.

All of this happened on the same day. 
The day when my life was changed forever, when all of my worries and fears vanished. 
It was the day when my one dream, my only wish came true; 
It was the day we fell in love.
You are my gentle warming sunshine . . .
My cool, satisfying rain . . .
My soft, soothing breeze . . .
And I love you, Amy.  

I gave this to Amy 15 years ago today.  I share this not to bring attention to my writing, but to bring attention to the fact that my wife, Amy, has continued to be the sunshine amidst the cold, the rain in my barren desert, and the soothing breeze when I find myself in the fire of life.

This poem takes on new meaning for me in light of the passing of our youngest son, Thomas.  Everything takes on new meaning when viewed through that lens.  When Amy and I stood in that small church in Topeka, Kansas on December 18th, 1999 we said that we would stay by each other "for better or for worse."  I always envisioned "worse" being disagreements, financial problems or a sickness that would hit one of us while the other stuck close through it.  I never imagined that "worse" would be something we would experience together.  I never imagined that in one moment both of our hearts would lay shattered, together, and that the same piece of our hearts would be lost for the remainder of our time on earth.

But what I'm seeing is that the pieces of our broken hearts are spread out together.  I can't tell the difference between the pieces of my heart and the pieces of Amy's heart . . . and I don't think it matters. The pieces of my heart fit pretty well with the pieces of her heart.  It's like a mosaic coming together.  God is taking the broken pieces and--although still broken--He is putting them back together in such a way that we're starting to see that there just might be a beautiful masterpiece come from all of these broken pieces.  God has a way of doing that--you know, making a masterpiece out of our brokenness.  

Amy, I remember telling you several years ago that I didn't believe in the notion that there was one person out there who was the "perfect" match for me.  You didn't like that too much.  I probably shouldn't have said it.  Not because I didn't really believe it, but because I was wrong.  Our pieces fit together perfectly.

Maybe this whole Valentine's Day thing isn't so bad after all.  I guess if it reminds us to spend a little extra time contemplating and showing our love for each other, then that can't be a bad thing.

Perhaps I'll run out and get a card . . .

When Real is Surreal . . .

Have you ever been in a situation or an environment where it just seemed surreal?  It's such an odd feeling.  You almost want to pinch yourself just to make sure it's really you who is experiencing it.  Or you wonder if it's just a dream you're about to wake up from.  It can happen in various situations and it can accompany a host of different emotions.

Sometimes it comes with excitement.

I remember the feeling when I held my oldest son, Samuel, for the first time.  I just could not believe we had come to the hospital as a couple and would leave as a family.  I remember holding him for the first time in the nursery.  I was in my operation room garb and was rocking him in the rocking chair.  I remember looking down at him in amazement.  So many emotions flooded my heart all at once.  I was joyful, humbled, full of love and terrified all at the same time.  I felt the same sort of feeling the day I got engaged to Amy.  I also felt it on our wedding day.
It was surreal.  I wanted to pinch myself just to make sure I was really there.

Although not as powerful, I felt that surreal feeling the first time I saw the Grand Canyon as a teenager. It was so big and so incredible.  I was in awe.  It just didn't feel real.  I remember being in Busch Stadium to watch the St. Louis Cardinals in the National League Championship Series on the way to winning the World Series.  I remember sitting there and thinking, "I can't believe I'm actually here!"

Sometimes that feeling comes with pain.

It can come when you break a bone, sprain a ligament or get a gash in your skin.  We can all remember with great vividness our most significant physical injury.  You feel like the injured area isn't even part of your body anymore.  It's an odd feeling.  It's surreal.  But it's the emotional injuries that really make us want to pinch ourselves.

It comes when the "love of your life" tells you it's over.  It can come when your parents inform you that their marriage isn't going to make it.  It can come when you learn that your best friend has stabbed you in the back.  It can come when you hear the word "cancer."  It can come when you learn of the death of a close friend or family member.  It comes when you experience something so painful that it just doesn't seem real.  "This just can't be happening to me.  This happens to other people, not me."

Every time I make my way to Thomas' grave I get that feeling.  It's so surreal.

"I'm heading up to the grave," I'll say.  I'll never get used to uttering those words.  I get in the car and the entire way to the cemetery (about 3 minutes in total) I find myself in disbelief.  My heart is pounding the whole way.  I'll never get used to that drive.  It will never become "normal" to me.  I want to pinch myself just to see if it's real.  I pull up to the cemetery and spot his grave.  My heart is still pounding.  Seeing his grave will never make sense to me, let alone become normal.  I still sit there and stare in disbelief.  I really don't know what else to do.  Sometimes I pray.  Sometimes I ask God, "Why?"  Sometimes I thank God for seeing us through these dark times.  Sometimes I talk to Thomas. I feel weird doing it, but I really don't know what to do when I'm there.

In some ways his grave site has become like another room in our home, but in some ways it feels like it's a million miles from nowhere.  Some days I want to stay there, read a book and hang out . . . because it's the closest we'll get to him this side of heaven.  Some days I can't stay more than a few seconds . . . because my son's lifeless body is just a few feet underground.  Some days I'm so at peace when I'm there.  Other days it's devastatingly painful.

I could visit his grave everyday for the rest of my life and it will never become routine.  It's just surreal.  There's no other way to put it.  I'm still waiting to wake up and find out it's all a dream. I'm waiting on someone to pinch me.

When The Ride Is Rough . . .

"Amy, you have to come out here and see this.  She's doing it!  I knew she could do it!"  I yelled at my wife from the driveway as Lucy's smile was so big it lit up the neighborhood while dusk set in.  I could see her confidence growing with each passing moment.  I could see on her face that she was so proud of herself.  I could see that she knew how proud we were of her, and I think maybe that was the main source of her unending smile.

It was a long and arduous journey to get to this point.  It was a journey littered with small victories as well as set backs which almost ended the journey altogether.  But now, the sense of accomplishment in overcoming the adversity and the exhilaration we were now experiencing made the journey worth it.  Time wise it was a short journey--perhaps an hour in duration--but in terms of testing my patience as well as Lucy's mental endurance, it was a marathon.   However, now we were able to celebrate the victory.

The journey began about 6pm on a late fall afternoon.  It was a beautiful day with the sun shining and we feared it may be one of the last truly nice days of the fall.  Earlier that day Lucy's younger brother, Eli, decided he was ready to learn to ride his bike on his own.  He'd been really close to doing it before, but he decided that today was the day.  For him it was as simple as me helping him get started and then letting go.  He caught on in the blink of an eye.  It took no time at all and he was zipping up and down our street on his little bike.  Lucy was a completely different story.

Lucy had training wheels on her bike and up to this point had shown zero interest in learning to ride without them.  In fact, she rarely attempted to ride even with the training wheels.  She's always had an aversion to doing anything that required much physical exertion.  Riding a bike just wasn't worth it to her . . . until little brother learned before her.  Lucy's stubborn.  It was on.  She was ready to learn.

The only problem was that Lucy lacks a few things that are essential to learning to ride a bike:  balance, coordination, patience and trust.  Lacking one of those makes for a difficult task.  Lacking all four leads to near-disaster.

It didn't start off well.  I began by holding on to the back of her seat as she got used to peddling a little.  It wasn't long before her lack of balance and coordination coupled with my high expectations led to a mini crash.  It was in the grass, but it was a crash nonetheless.  After a few moments of her chastising me for not catching her and I imploring her to give it another shot, she finally agreed to try again.  This time I held on to the back of the seat with one hand and to the handlebars with the other.  All the while I was absorbing the weight of her and the bike as I shuffled my feet side-to-side trying to keep up with her so I could be there to catch her when (not if) she began to fall.  After about twenty minutes of this she began to catch on.  Soon she was riding the bike while I shuffled next to her, just in case she began to fall.  She caught on pretty fast and things were going smooth until I decided she needed to learn to get started on her own.  Once you get the balance thing figured out it's easy to just ride the momentum of the bike once it's moving.  It's a whole different story when it comes to getting started without help from a standstill position.  This is when near-disaster ensued.

Lucy was convinced that she could do it on her own.  She was convinced she knew exactly what to do.  I tried to show her how to do it, but it only led to an escalating argument.  She absolutely would not listen to me.  I knew how to do it but she thought she knew better.  I've done this before yet she didn't trust that I knew what I was doing (remember the whole trust thing that she lacks).  After several feeble attempts ended with painful crashes she decided she had enough.  It ended with her throwing down her bike in frustration and plopping down to cry in the grass.  I tried to reason with her but it was to no avail.  So I gave her space.  It has to be her idea.

For several minutes I stood back and watched her toil in defeat.  She was crying because she was in physical pain from falling so many times, but I also knew that she was feeling defeated because she felt like this was a challenge she simply could not overcome.  I wanted to so badly to go over to her and try to talk her into trying again.  I wanted so badly to tell her to just give up so I didn't have to watch her hurt herself anymore.  I wanted so badly to pick her up and plop her down on the seat of the bike and force her to do it my way.  But, as I said, it has to be her idea.  So I simply decided to whisper.

"Lucy . . . sweetheart . . . I want to help you.  I'm willing to help you.  I know we can do this but you've got to let me show you how to do it," I pleaded.  "Let me help you do this."

"It's too hard," she said, pausing between each word to make room for the crying breaths.  "I don't wanna' fall anymore.  It hurts."  

She kept staring ahead and wouldn't look at me.  Did I mention she's stubborn?  After several moments she stood up.  I thought she was quitting.  It was getting close to dark and I thought she was going to mail it in.  She picked up her bike and walked it over to me.

"Ok, daddy," she said through her tears, "Show me how to do it."

It only took a few tries before she was zipping around the street with both of her brothers.  Amy came running out of the house to watch and Lucy rode that bike with her head held high and smiling from ear to ear.

I never boasted that I was right.  It wasn't about being right for me.  In fact, in that moment it was about the joy of seeing the daughter I love learn to trust me a little bit more.  It was about sharing that moment with her.  It was about loving my daughter enough to give her space to fall, while at the same time staying around close enough to catch her and be there when she was ready to run to me.

That pavement is hard and it hurts when you fall.  Life is full of skinned knees, bumps on the head, broken bones and shattered lives.  Sometimes it's easier just to throw down the bike and toil in defeat.  Oftentimes it's tempting to sit there and accept defeat when the challenges look so insurmountable.  Sometimes it's easier to just never ride again.

"I want to help you," God whispers.  "I'm willing to help you.  I know we can do this but you've got to let me show you how to do it," He pleads.  "I'll be there beside you.  Sure, you might fall.  It might even hurt.  I'm not promising you it will be easy, but I promise I'll be there with you."

I'm thinking about riding again.  What about you?

When The Moments Live On . . .

"We do not remember the days, we remember the moments."  - Cesare Pavese

It's part of our humanity to do our best to hold on to good memories.  We will go to great lengths to hold tightly to the memories we want etched on our souls.  We acquire souvenirs from an event or location where great memories are made in hopes that it will help remind us of those moments.  We collect artifacts from an important event in hopes that we can prove to others that we were there for that moment.  Billions of dollars are spent every year on memorabilia; objects valued for their connection to historical events.  All throughout our homes we see photographs of moments caught through a lens.  On my phone alone I have the capability of taking video, photos and even voice recordings.  The phone companies know what society wants and they've made it a priority to provide us with the capability of capturing moments--and they know we will pay big bucks for those capabilities.  Have you seen how much it costs to have moments captured at a wedding?  We pay it because we don't want to risk forgetting those moments.  It's worth it to us.  We value the moments and will do anything we can to capture them so we can return to those moments at our convenience. 

We value the moments because they are a part of who we are.  They have shaped us into the people we are today.  It's not the days which determine who we are, it's the experiences we have in life.  It's the moments. 

We're willing to go to great lengths to remember the moments because it's impossible to recreate those moments.  Moments happen only once.  To capture a moment on video or through a still lens will never be an adequate "capture" of the real moment.  Moments are only truly lived when you are fully "in" the moment.  Everything else is a sort-of counterfeit.

Don't get me wrong, I use my camera and I take video because I want to be reminded of those moments.  I want to be able to go back to those moments, but I can never fully relive those moments through a screen.  I even sometimes wonder if we miss the moments because we are trying too hard to capture them.  I don't know.  It's just a "wonder" I've had. 

I'm glad I have moments with Thomas to reflect on.  Yes, we have an incredible amount of photographs and videos of Thomas--and they are priceless to us--but we thank God for the moments with him that are etched on our souls. 

Moments like . . .

When Amy or I would walk in the front door and his eyes would light up while saying "Da Da" or "Ma Ma."  He would quickly scoot across the floor to us and raise his arms up when he made it to our feet.  We would reach down and lift him up into our arms.  You could sense that he was so content in our arms and we were so content to be holding him. 

Moments like . . .

When Amy or I would be up with him late at night because he was sick or just scared to be in his room.  We would sit together in the recliner or on the couch in the silent darkness.  He would lay his head on our chest as we rocked him and kissed him on top of his head.  Just when you thought he we was asleep he would look up and point to the kitchen and say "nack."  He always got his "nack" because we were so caught up in the moment. 

Moments like . . .

When we would watch our other kids love on him.  When Lucy would carry him around, give him hugs and kisses and he would call her "seesy."  When Samuel would play ball with him and Thomas would get so excited to do anything with his oldest "Bubba."  When Eli would put a pair of pants on his head and run toward Thomas, stopping just before crashing into him.  Thomas would belly laugh so hard over and over that we feared he might throw up.  When all three of them would give him hugs before he went to bed and he would smile and say "night, night." 

Moments like . . .

When he would swing on the swings, dance to the music, scoot onto the soccer field in the middle of the game, go down the slide, play in the pool, ride in the wagon, drive the trike backwards, shoot baskets in his basketball goal, make a scooting trail through baseball field, play wii with a remote he thought was working, switch channels on the tv, play with my iphone, play with the dogs, cuddle his "baaaybeee," make holes in the seat of his pants from scooting, throw dirt, plop on top of me while wrestling, look longingly out the window, color on the floor, play in the fire pit, blow kisses, throw things off the deck, refuse to admit he pooped his pants, beg for a "nack," looking for him in church, begging for two rocks to hold, riding on my shoulders, going up and down the stairs, playing "peek-a-boo" with Amy, playing with Amy's hair . . .

All moments can be captured synthetically, but you can only truly "capture" them by living them in real time.  Don't forget to enjoy the moments you have in life.  Take pictures and shoot video--you'll be glad you did--but don't forget to live the moments.  It's only by living the moments that you truly get to enjoy them. 

We thank God for the moments we had with Thomas.  He's a special little guy and we're jealous that God is getting to have these moments with him now.  I bet God is loving it as much as we did.