When Perspective Is Elusive . . .

Would you like a double-cheeseburger or a $100 bill?  Seriously, which one would you prefer?  It's your choice.  You can have either one and all you have to do is make the decision.  It sounds like a simple choice, doesn't it?  Of course you take the $100 bill.  If you want the cheeseburger that bad you just take the $100 and go buy one and then you have a cheeseburger and about $98 left (depending on where you get the cheeseburger).  But what if you were stranded alone on a desserted island?  There are no restaurants.  There are no banks.  There's nowhere to spend the money.  You're hungry, alone and unsure of when or if rescue is coming.  Which choice is more valuable now?

Perspective is powerful.  Perspective is what we see through our own point of view.  Sometimes we get so caught up in ourselves we forget that everyone else has their own perspective as well.  An unknown author said, "When you only look at the world through a keyhole you think the whole world is shaped like a keyhole."  Who would do that?  Who would only try to look at the world through a keyhole and then have the audacity to think that they're seeing everything the way it was meant to be seen?  Don't we all do that everyday?  We may not look through a keyhole but in our humanness we certainly have a limited perspective.

A bride is devastated because it's raining on her wedding day, while a farmer rejoices at the drought-breaking moisture that just might save his season.  Perspective.

We boycott buying gasoline from companies who purchase their oil from "terrorist-harboring" nations, while honest-working employees of those companies lose jobs that support their families.  Perspective.

Searching for Osama Bin-Laden is a waste of time and money . . . until it's "your party" who captures him.  Perspective.

Gun restrictions seem like a terrible idea . . . until it's your loved ones on the wrong end of the barrel.  Perspective. 

This is not a political rant.  Can we all just look at the erroneous ways in which we view the world?  Can we please just gain a little perspective?

Perspective is gained in many ways.  Sometimes you unintentionally experience something from another's point of view and you gain perspective.  At other times you you have to be intentional about seeing things from another point of view in order to gain that perspective.  Because as human beings we are naturally self-centered, we have to make the conscious effort to realize the way we see things may not be the way they were meant to be seen.

We think we're tall . . . until you look up.
The swimming pool seems warm . . . until you get in the hot tub.
The mountain-top looks desireable from the ground . . . until you get on the mountain and see how beautiful the ground looks.
The things of this world seem really important . . . until you lose something that means the world to you.

One of the most difficult aspects of losing Thomas and dealing with the aftermath has been making sense of the command in Scripture to "rejoice in our suffering," . . . to "be thankful in all things" . . . and to "consider it pure joy when we face trials of many kinds."  How do you find joy and thankfulness in the midst of life's most painful suffering?  Even the thought of being joyful brings on those feelings of guilt; that somehow by rejoicing and being thankful we will be making light of the fact that Thomas died.  Or even worse, that we will be glad he died. 

Isn't joy in the midst of suffering all about gaining a little perspective?

I think so much of gaining perspective is making the choice to gain perspective.  If there's anything I can say I'm thankful for and rejoicing in, it's that God has given us a new perspective.  From this point forward everything we experience will be viewed through the lense of losing our precious son.  When you look at things through that perspective the things we thought were "important" before just don't seem so now. 

Spending time with my family is more important than any meeting, to-do list, tv show, home project, guys-night-out, game on tv . . . and way more important than satisfying my own laziness. 

Sure, life must go on, and there are certain things you still have to accomplish, but a little perspective to help get priorities back in order is something I'm thankful for.  Life can change in an instant.  It's better to get them in order now than wish you did when it's too late.  Trust me. 

When My Foe's Unseen . . .

I'm backed into a corner.  There's no choice of "fight or flight" because flight just isn't an option.  I suppose I could simply cower into the fetal position, cover my head with my arms and hope it will just go away, but I'm convinced it's not going away.  I could start throwing punches but I feel like I'd just be beating at the air.  When you do that the air always wins.  But I have to fight.  I have no other option. 

The problem is I have no idea who or what my foe is. 

How do you fight when you don't know who or what you're up against?  How can you make a gameplan when there's no game film on the opponent?  How do you guage the weeknesses to exploit when you don't really know who your adversary is?  How can I counter-attack when I don't have a clue who my foe is, let alone what his tactics are?  I'm on edge.  I'm paranoid.  I don't have answers.  I don't even know what questions to ask.  I feel helpless.  I feel so inadequately prepared for this fight.  There's no manual, no blueprint and no battle plan.  I simply stand in my corner and stare into the darkness.  My fists are clinched and my eyes bounce back and forth--as if I could see in this darkness--but at least I feel like I'm looking . . . for something. 

Who is my foe? 

Is it fear?  Am I so fearful of what the future holds that it's just easier to stand in the corner and wait on it to attack first?

Is it helplessness?  Am I so uneasy about this feeling of helplessness that it just makes me feel better if I can stand up with my fists clinched and my eyes peeled;  Where at least I feel like I'm doing something?

Is it pain?  Has my family and I experienced enough to last a lifetime already and I just fear that we can't take anymore?

Is it inadequacy?  Will I be unable to navigate this darkness on my own, let alone help my wife and kids through it?

Is it satan?  Can he really have that much control?  Am I giving him that much control?

I think I fear myself.

Think about it, we only fear our "foe" when we question ourselves.  Fear comes from within.  A foe fills us with fear only when our own ability to conquer that foe is in question.  Most of the time it's us questioning ourselves.  In the Bible, Goliath was formidable to the Israelites because they feared their own abilities.  Goliath--in and of himself--was not scary.  The Israelites feared because they knew that their own deficiencies wouldn't hold up against this giant.  David, on the other hand, knew WHO he had in his own corner.  David was not fearful of Goliath.  David knew what he lacked on his own, but he knew the Strength he had in his corner with him. 

I think my corner is getting a little too comfortable.  Maybe "comfortable" isn't the right word.  Perhaps "safe" is a better word.  Of course it's safer just to stand here with my fists clinched and my eyes peeled.  To venture out into this fog even further is terrifying, but I want to fight.  I fear my foes, but I fear the unknown even more. 

Wait . . . the unknown . . . that's it!

When the Water Seems Deep . . .

He took his time as he carefully attempted to calculate the risk in his mind.  I could see the debate going on in his head and I could see the fear mounting with each step.  He scanned the crowd who had gathered to see if he could find someone--anyone--who might convince him to stop and turn around.  He wanted so bad to go through with it.  At the same time he wanted so bad to be rescued.  I could see the fear.  His legs were shaking.  He was wide-eyed.  Each step was so deliberate and so much more difficult than the previous.  With each step he gained a little bit of confidence.  Yet, at the same time, inching closer to the unknown made him even more uncertain . . . even more fearful.

The unknown.

That's really what we fear, isn't it?  We fear what "might happen" or what "could happen."  Think about what you fear.  Fear always deals with the future.  The word "fear"at it's most basic level always deals with the future.  We fear storms because of their potential.  We fear a snake because it is unpredictable.  We fear a shot at the doctor's office because its "going to hurt."  We fear that our kids "might not" turn out the way we hope they will.  Think about it; what we fear has nothing to do with the here and now.  We can't even fear the past . . . only that it will catch up with us . . . in the future.

The object of our fear can't touch us in the present moment.  However, fear itself can paralyze us.  At his inauguration Franklin D. Roosevelt said, "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself."  I think he was on to something.  As America was facing perhaps it's most formidable obstacle--The Great Depression--FDR knew the greatest hurdle wasn't overcoming the economic crisis, but helping the country overcome its fear.

Fear itself can grip us and entangle us to the point that it's much more debilitating than the object of our fear.

He finally made it to the end of the board.  His toes rested just on the edge while the board teetered up and down ever so slightly just a couple of feet above the water.  Most of the people around us had no idea what was taking place, let alone the magnitude of this moment.  Samuel had never gone off the diving board before.  He didn't even know how to swim.  Yet, for some reason he wanted to do it.  I could see in his eyes that he was scared.  He wanted to turn around and walk back to the safety of solid ground.  The uncertainty was telling him not to do it.  The fear was telling him it wasn't worth it.

I was already in the water.  In fact, I was right beneath him with my arms extended and ready to catch him.  I knew I could catch him.  I knew I could hold him up.  I knew I could cradle him in the water and maneuver both he and I over to the ladder and back to safe ground.

"I'll catch you," I said.  "I'm right here.  I won't let anything happen to you."

"What if I go under water?" he said shakily.

"You might," I said, "But I'll go under with you and I'll keep 'hold of you.  I promise you that I won't let go."

He surveyed the water one more time.  Then in that moment he jumped.  I wouldn't even call it a jump. It was more like a fall.  He bent his knees and let his feet slip reluctantly off the end of the board.  He lunged for me as I reached up as far as I could.  When I caught him under his arms I began to sink with the extra weight, but I extended my arms as far as I could in order to keep him above the water.  When I came up he gripped me around my neck with his arms and around my waist with his legs.  In that moment I could truly feel his fear.  We bobbed up and down a couple of times until we settled with both of our heads above water.  I kept kicking my legs under water to stay afloat as I felt his grip on me loosen.  He smiled as we calmly made our way over to the ladder.  He was so excited because he had finally done it.  He had faced his fear head on.  It no longer had a grip on him.  He was elated.

I was elated too.  Not because my son had faced his fear, but because he trusted me enough to jump.

I've been struggling mightily in the past few days.  Fear has gripped me in ways I've not experienced at any point in my life.  I don't know what the future looks like.  I don't know how to fix our situation.  I can't bring Thomas back, but I want to fix my family's pain.  I want to take their fear away.  I fear that I won't be able to do that.  I fear what life might look like.  I fear that we will hurt like this forever.

I stand on the edge and all I can see is how deep the water is.  I see how far away solid ground is.

But I also see the Father.

"What if I go under?!!!" I scream.

"You might," He says.  "But I'll go with you and I'll keep 'hold of you.  I promise that I won't let you go."

So I jump.  I wouldn't even call it a jump.  It's more like a fall . . .

When The Pieces Don't Fit . . .

Sometimes I wonder about odd things.  I like to know and understand where things come from, which is why I've always loved history.  The other day this thought crossed my mind:  "Was the term 'Puzzled' a word that was in use before puzzles came out or did jigsaw puzzles come out and then the term 'puzzled' became associated with anything that required solving?"  I told you I wonder about odd things. 

Instead of being "puzzled" by this thought I decided to do a little research.  So I googled "Where did the term puzzle come from?"  It turns out that the word "puzzle" definitely was in use before the actual jigsaw puzzle was invented.  In fact, as a side note, the jigsaw puzzle was invented by some teacher in the early 1800's.  He was trying to help his students learn the geography of certain continents so he made a wooden map and cut out the various countries so students could piece them back together.  Apparently the kids enjoyed this enough that the idea caught on and it led to our present-day cardboard puzzles.  They came to be known as "puzzles" because they created a problem, which required persistence in order to be solved. 

Life can be puzzling.  For those of you who are curious, here's the definition of "puzzle":

puz·zle

v. puz·zled, puz·zling, puz·zles

v.tr.

1. To baffle or confuse mentally by presenting or being a difficult problem or matter.

2. To clarify or solve (something confusing) by reasoning or study: He puzzled out the significance of the statement.

v.intr.

1. To be perplexed.

2. To ponder over a problem in an effort to solve or understand it.

n.

1. Something, such as a game, toy, or problem, that requires ingenuity and often persistence in solving or assembling.

2. Something that baffles or confuses.

3. The condition of being perplexed; bewilderment.

 

                                                   (http://www.thefreedictionary.com/puzzle)

 

The synonyms for "puzzle" are so descriptive and so appropriate.  Perplexed.  Bewildered.  Baffled.  Confused.  When you have a problem that "requires ingenuity and persistence to solve," those descriptives fit.  Life's puzzles are perplexing, baffling, confusing and incredibly frustrating.

 

I mentioned in my previous post just how vivid my memory is of the few days before Thomas died.  One of the details I left out was a Sunday School lesson I taught the Sunday before.  It was December 9th and we had a few of our teachers call in sick that morning.  In order to have the classes covered I combined our teens and our upper elementary classes.  I already had a lesson I was doing and I thought it would fit for just about any age group. 

 

I had several puzzles spread out on the floor around the room.  I then had the students partner up and sit down by a puzzle.  They were simple kid puzzles made out of wood, with only 8 to 10 pieces each, but none of the puzzles were put together.  They all needed solving.  The kicker was, I had one of the partners put a blindfold on while the other was required to talk them through solving the puzzle without touching the puzzle or their blindfolded partner.  It was frustrating for both.  The individual who was blindfolded could only feel the various pieces and was relying totally on the person who could see how the puzzle was supposed to go together.  The other person could see how the puzzle was to go together, but they couldn't do anything more than verbally lead their partner; hoping that person would trust that they were supplying trustworthy information. 

 

The point was that we can't see the big picture of what God is doing in our lives.  God reveals his will to us but he tends to do it one piece at a time.  So often we try to put the puzzle together and we want it done right now.  We want to see the picture on the outside of the box so we can see how the pieces go together.  But only God sees the picture.  God created the picture.  Do we trust Him enough to listen as He shows us little by little how the pieces go together?

 

I hate it when the lessons I do end up teaching me as well. 

 

That was three days before I would find Thomas dead in his crib.  The moment I picked him up I knew he was gone.  In that moment I knew life would never be the same.  The pieces of my puzzle that had been pieced together for 34 years seemed to come crashing off the table.  I thought I knew what the puzzle looked like, but this piece wasn't in my puzzle.  This piece just doesn't fit with the picture I thought was coming together.  Is it possible that in helping me prepare my Sunday School lesson that day God was really preparing me for the events to come?  I don't know.

 

What I do know is that God knows what the picture looks like.  He's got the box top.  He created the picture.  He knows how the pieces fit together.  We can try as hard as we can to cram in a piece that doesn't fit, or we can do our best to leave a piece out that doesn't fit with what WE want the picture to look like, but God knows what it's supposed to look like.  Will be have enough faith to trust the One who knows how the pieces fit together?

 

The Apostle Paul's words to the Corinthians have been bringing hope to me in the past few days, may they bring hope to you as you face the perplexing situations life throws your way:

 

"So we’re not giving up. How could we! Even though on the outside it often looks like things are falling apart on us, on the inside, where God is making new life, not a day goes by without his unfolding grace. These hard times are small potatoes compared to the coming good times, the lavish celebration prepared for us. There’s far more here than meets the eye. The things we see now are here today, gone tomorrow. But the things we can’t see now will last forever."

                                                   -  2 Corinthians 4:16-18 (MSG)

 

When Memories Must Suffice . . .

Memory is a funny thing.  What is it about our brain that causes some memories to stick like a dart on cork board, yet others we reach for and they slither through our fingers like we're grasping for a cloud? In the 33 days since our precious Thomas died unexpectedly in his sleep, I've often been perplexed at my inability to recall certain things, which no doubt would have stuck previously.  At the same time, there are particular details of the past month that are so vivid it's almost like I shot video that continues to loop in my mind.  There's no stop button . . . not even a pause.  It just keeps playing.  I'm not sure I even want to stop it.  It demands my attention.  It steals my focus.  I'm constantly distracted.

I don't know much about how memory works, but I know memory is most often tied to the senses and to emotion.  Smells, tastes, sounds and emotions can all elicit memories which would otherwise be vague or even nonexistent.  How many of us can hear a song that reminds us of a Jr. High dance or a smell, which reminds us of a Jr. High locker room!  Just being in certain locations can bring back memories--both good and bad--that happened in that particular place.

Memory is a funny thing, and I'm not sure how much control we have over it, especially when certain ones are eternally linked to emotion.  Who doesn't remember where they were when they watched the World Trade Center towers crumble, the Challenger shuttle explode, or heard the news about Kennedy being shot.  At the same time, I remember vividly the details surrounding my marriage proposal to Amy, each one of my kids being born, and when the Jayhawks won the National Championship (at least the two times they did it in my lifetime).

Fear, embarrassment, humiliation, exhilaration, love, accomplishment, pain, suffering . . . all emotions that cut to our core and seem to etch memories on the tablets of our soul.  These emotions are so powerful they distract us from everything else and our memories can't help but focus on them.  They have made us who we are and will continue to shape us as we forge ahead.

I have lots of memories of the past 33 days.  But what's even more intriguing to me is the clarity with which I can recall the days and moments leading up to the morning of December 12th, 2012.  Perhaps my brain has worked hard to hold on to them.  Maybe God has allowed me to remember more vividly.  More likely, the memories are more clear when you can look back through the lens of losing your own child.  Either way, the images are incredibly vivid.  They are so real.

I remember driving to my kids' basketball practice on Monday evening, December 10th.  I help coach the team and I received a text from one of the parents warning me that their son may lack some focus because they had just revealed to him the news that one of his grandparents had passed away.  I remember telling Amy, "Our kids have never had to deal with someone close to them dying.  It must be tough giving your own kids news like that."  No kidding.  I really said it.

On Tuesday, December 11th I worked most of the day before going to my chiropractor, followed by a deep tissue massage.  After the massage I was getting in my car to go home when Amy called and asked if I would stop by the store to get some dog food.  When I got home we ate dinner.  Following dinner we built and decorated a ginger bread house as a family.  We then got the kids ready for bed, read a story, prayed together, and then put them to bed.  I decided to go to the gym for the first time in several months.  I ran on the treadmill for 32 minutes.  When I got home I took a shower and then made a pitcher of sweet tea.  I finished just in time for Thomas to wake up crying.  He and I cuddled in the recliner until he asked for a snack.  Amy brought him some Whales (WalMart's cheap version of Goldfish) and Thomas took turns feeding himself and feeding me--and laughing the entire time! Finally he fell asleep on me and I put him back to bed.

At some point earlier that evening I looked at my phone and realized that the next day was December 12th, 2012.  I told my kids, "Tomorrow is 12/12/12.  I wonder if something memorable will happen to help us remember 12/12/12?"  No kidding.  I really said it.

Nothing that happened those few days leading up to December 12th would be remembered if not for the events on December 12th.  When you look at it through the lens of December 12th, everything has new meaning.  I'll never forget the last time I held him as he put whales in my mouth.  I'll never forget building that ginger bread house while he ate the candy.  Every time I've run on the treadmill since that night, every time I make sweet tea, every time I go to the chiropractor, and each time I sit down in the recliner (where I sit now as I write this), I think about our last day with him.

It was about this time of night (9:57pm Central time) that I sat with him for the last time.  It was the last time he laid his head on my chest while cuddling his "baby."  It was the last time I heard him laugh.  It was the last time I heard him say "'nack," the last time I heard him say, "Night, night," and the final time I heard him cry for "Da Da."  Man, it hurts . . . bad.  

But it's not the last time I'll remember those things.  As much as it hurts to long for one more hug, one more cuddle, one more Whale, one more "night, night," and one more "Da Da," I thank God that we have the memories and that we don't have to reach too far for them.  He was a special little guy.  He was so special and so unique that the images of him are always within reach.  They are forever etched on my soul. Although the painful memories loop in my head, there's also a second monitor where the good memories loop.

When memories are all you have, all you can do is hold on to them for dear life.  Please excuse me if I seem a bit distracted.

When Words Aren't Enough . . .

"I'm sorry, I just couldn't find the right words at the time," Brandon said in a text.  "What I was trying to say was . . . I really don't know what to say, because obviously I can't identify with what you're going through . . ."

Earlier that day Brandon had walked up to me following the church service.  It was four days after our precious Thomas passed away unexpectedly.  The news shocked everyone.  We were nervous about going to church so soon.  We were afraid of what people might say.  We were afraid people would be awkward.  We were afraid people might even ignore us.  We were afraid people might be afraid to talk to us.  We were afraid all the attention would be on us.  The service was awkward.  Being around people was awkward.  Even "well-seasoned" adults can get weird at times like this.  But Brandon didn't.

He stood back as others greeted us.  When his turn came I reached out to shake his hand as I'd done hundreds of times before.  He has a very firm handshake for a college student.  As we stood there he looked me right in the eye.  We just kept shaking hands.  I could see that he wanted to say something.  He kept looking me in the eye as his eyes welled up with tears and his cheek began to quiver.  Then the  tears began streaming down his face.  He kept shaking hands.  "I . . . uh . . ."  He couldn't do it.  We embraced and he left.

Why do we feel pressure to find words?  What is it about our interactions with others that compels us to describe or commentate nearly every situation?  Why is it so important that our feelings be expressed with words?  Why are we so uncomfortable when we simply can't find the right words?  We have a hard time being silent, let alone allowing that silence to speak for us.

I think a lot of it is our society.  Network television halts all programming just so we can hear a presidential debate.  Athletes respond to a passionate halftime speech made by a coach.  We leave a church service "feeling good" about what we've heard in a sermon.  Billions of dollars are spent each year by companies to bring in motivational speakers.  We've been taught that words matter.  Words might be enough to motivate a work force to better productivity, but they are insufficient for addressing life's deepest pain.

Now don't get me wrong, words do matter.  Who among us hasn't been uplifted by the encouraging words of another?  And who among us hasn't been severely damaged by the words of another person?  Words can move us emotionally.  Words can motivate us.  Words matter, but sometimes words just simply aren't enough.  In fact, in most situations words will only go so far.

"I can't even find the words . . ."

We've heard that a great deal over the past four weeks.  Sometimes it's said in various other ways, but the tenor is the same; people have found it impossible to find the perfect words that will make us feel better, make the pain go away, and make everything right again.   The fact is words simply don't exist that are sufficient to make any of those things happen.  We can't even find words to describe the pain so how will anyone be able to find words to address the pain?  There simply aren't words.  I implore you to stop searching for words.  Words, in and of themselves, do not help.  Words are pretty empty right now.  I'm just being honest.  We're having a difficult time even finding strength in God's Word (since I'm being honest),  and human words can't compare to His.

Brandon's text continued, "But I just want you and your family to know that I love you guys, and that I have been and will continue to pray for you."

Brandon felt bad because the words wouldn't come out.  But what Brandon didn't realize is that his tears said it all.  On his face I could see the pain.  It was gut-wrenching.  He was hurting deeply for my family and I.  I could see it.  I could feel it in his handshake.  I sensed it in his embrace.  Brandon was joining me in my suffering and it was more comforting than any words he could have conjured up.*

Many of you have joined us in our suffering.  It's not the words that mean the most; it's the hugs, the tears, the pain in your eyes, the "what can I do for you," and the time spent on your knees before God on our behalf.

Words have their place in life.  But, if you truly want to help someone who is suffering then join them in their suffering.  Be there for them.  Walk beside them.  Hold their hand.  You might even have to carry them.  It can be ugly.  It can be messy.  It can be draining.  It's not pretty.  Words are a lot prettier sometimes, but they aren't enough.  When you share in the suffering you are a catalyst for the healing process.  Trust me.  

I texted Brandon back:  "Your tears said it all . . . nothing else needs to be said.  Love you, man."


*There have been so many people who have walked this journey with us, and so many who will continue to do so.  I included my interaction with Brandon because it was so raw and real and because I was so moved by the fact that someone has figured it out at such a young age.  I could fill pages and pages with stories of many of you who have carried us through this time by sharing in our suffering.  Thank you for joining us.   

When the Answers are Tough . . .

"Is Thomas okay?"  Her voice cracked as if she was afraid of what the answer might be.  I'm not sure if it was the look of utter shock on my face that gave it away or the long pause that followed her question.  Perhaps it was the combination of both.  Or maybe she had begun piecing the puzzle together long before that moment.  She heard Amy make the 911 call.  She witnessed the police cars, fire truck and ambulance park in front of our house.  She was in the living room as police officers, firefighters and EMTs began pouring into our house.  She heard her parent's helpless cries.  She's 6, but she's not ignorant.

As parents we want to protect our kids.  Oftentimes I struggle with when to protect them and when to allow them to be exposed to . . . well . . . life.

The moment I picked up Thomas and saw his face I knew he was gone.  Amy and the kids were in the kitchen.  Samuel 8, Lucy 6, and Eli 4, were at the table for breakfast as they were every other morning when school's in session.  Amy was at the stove.  I can't even begin to explain the terror of that moment when you know your child is gone.  I've tried to forget what his face looked like.  I can't.  That image and the resulting terror will be a part of me and will shape who I am for the rest of my life.  But, somehow in the midst of those feelings I was able to think.  My first reaction was to scream.  But I knew if I screamed then the kids would come running back to his room.  They would see him.  For the rest of their lives they would remember the terror of that scream and they would remember the terror of seeing their baby brother the way he was.  So I picked him up and carried him down the hallway to where I could get Amy's attention but not be seen by the other kids.  I told her to get her phone and motioned her to follow me back to Thomas' room.  She called 911 while I did CPR.  The kids never saw him.  For their sake I'm thankful for that.

But at some moment they must have begun putting the pieces of the puzzle together.  They knew something wasn't right.  If there's one aspect of that morning I'd do over again, it would be not sending our older two to school.  We sent them with our neighbor, who took them to school, and she agreed to hang on to Eli as well.  They left before the ambulance did.  We didn't know what else to do.  Who sends their kids to school with so much on their shoulders?

After driving Amy and I to the hospital--and subsequently getting the devastating news we knew was coming--my dad agreed to go pick up our kids and bring them to the hospital.  I haven't asked him what the ride to the hospital was like with our kids.  I'm not sure I want to know.  My dad knew and they didn't.  He didn't tell them.  I think he knew that news like this had to come from their parents.

The chaplain came into the hospital room and told us that our kids had arrived and were waiting in the lobby.  "How am I going to do this?" I asked Amy.  "I don't know," she said.

How do you give news like this?  I love giving them good news.  What's more exciting than telling your kids news that will make them excited?  They love surprises.  I still remember getting to tell them that Thomas was coming home from the NICU.  They were so happy!  They had only seen pictures because they weren't allowed up there because it was flu season.  Good news is fun to share with the people you love most.  But how in the world do you tell your own kids that their little brother is dead?  How do you protect your kids in a moment like this?

Amy and I decided long ago that we would protect our kids as best we could, but that there are some things the whole family must share together.  In this case, what would we be protecting them from?  Hurt?  Pain?  Disappointment?  Fear?  Those are all things that simply are a part of life.  It can be ugly, but there's just no getting around it.  We simply had to be honest with them.  We had to share this moment with them.  They are kids, but they aren't ignorant.

I heard her question as we walked toward the hospital room.  I knew she was concerned.  I knew she knew more than anyone would give her credit for.  The fact is I didn't want to share this moment with anyone else.  This was an intimate moment that should only be shared with family, because for the rest of our lives we will be sharing this.  I sat the kids down.

"Guys, Thomas isn't ok.  Thomas is dead."

Eli wasn't sure how to respond.  He's four.  His parents are in their 30's and we don't know how to react.  How's a four-year-old supposed to react?  He just sat there.  In fact, he even laughed a little.  I think the crying and whaling made him uncomfortable.

Samuel and Lucy were crushed.  They were devastated.  The tears began pouring out.  They were inconsolable.  Thomas was their baby too.  They were his "Bubba" and "Sissy."  They would do anything for him.  I can't imagine anything more special for a parent than seeing their kids love each other the way our kids love their littlest brother.  Thomas would light up like a Christmas tree whenever any of them came into the room.  He imitated them all the time because he looked up to them so much.  Each of them had their special ways they interacted with him.  Eli would make him laugh harder than anyone else could.  Lucy could get him to snuggle like no one else.  Samuel could get him to throw a ball back and forth longer than anyone else could.  They all had a special bond with him.  They all miss him so much.

Amidst uncontrollable sobbing, Lucy referred to the funeral as "The worst day of my life."  She's 6.  I sure hope she's right.

I'm proud of my kids.  I miss Thomas.  We all miss Thomas.  The most difficult aspect of all of this is seeing my kids hurt.  Kids their age shouldn't have to deal with pain like this.  I would do anything to be able to take their pain and heap it on top of my own.  I'd do anything to take it away for them.  But in the midst of this pain they are teaching me a lot about hope.  They are teaching me a lot about life.  They are teaching me a lot about how to see in the fog.

As an 8-year-old, how do you respond to the most devastating news of your life?  Immediately after hearing the news and gathering his composure Samuel began asking for a piece of paper and a pen.  He draws when he gets bored.  How could he want to draw at a time like this?  The chaplain got him a pen and a piece of paper and he wrote this:

If you can't make it out, the note reads "Dear Thomas I hope you have a good time in heaven."

I thought I was supposed to teach him about hope.

Darkness . . .

"You can see it better if you don't look right at it."

I'll never forget that night.  I was laying on my back in a driveway in New Sharon, Iowa with my hands behind my head, protecting it from the hard concrete, and my feet stretched out so my calves and heels rested comfortably on the cold pavement.  It was like a scene from a movie.  I was captivated.  I was mesmerized.  I felt so incredibly small, yet that smallness was exhilarating.  I was looking at the night sky.  I was gazing at the stars.  

I had never really seen the stars before.  I thought I had.  But as I laid there and gazed into the endless abyss that is the Iowa night sky, it became apparent to me that what I thought I had seen before was actually only a micro chasm of what was really there.   You see, that night the stars looked as if they were falling on me.  They were so close that I felt I could reach out and touch them.  I felt like the stars were no longer so far away, but that I was a part of their setting.  It was truly amazing.  For the first time I saw that the night sky had layers.  There were clusters of stars that I literally had never seen before.  It was like sitting directly under billions of large fireworks on the 4th of July, which had all exploded at the same time, and were falling down around me.  I was trying to make sense of it.  Why could I see so clearly this particular night?

My good friend, Michael, wasn't so impressed.  This was his parent's house and growing up on a farm in this particular part of Iowa he was accustomed to seeing the sky in this fashion.  In fact, although he'll probably remember me being home with him for a week following the end of my sophomore year in college, he may not even remember this night because he had seen this before.  "It's the lights," he said.  "There's no big city lights drowning out the darkness.  You can see the light better because the sky is so dark.  This is how it always looks on a clear night here."  

If that's how it always looks then I may retire in Iowa.  

I began pointing out clusters of stars to him that I remember studying about in science, but had never seen so clearly in real life.  One of those constellations is called "Seven Sisters."  There may be a more technical name for it, but it's a cluster of seven stars that are fairly close together.  I could see that cluster of stars, but I was having a hard time seeing each star individually.  

"You can see better if you don't look right at it," Michael said.  

It made zero sense.  How could you see something better if you don't look at it.  But I tried it anyway.  I fixed my gaze in the darkness just to the right of that cluster of stars.  Sure enough, as I looked into the darkness and away from the stars, they somehow came into focus.  Instead of seeing the Seven Sisters as one cluster I could now see them as seven individual stars.  Now, I don't know the physiology or anatomy involved with vision to know why it works that way, I just know that it worked.  

I'll never forget the feeling of seeing something so clearly for the first time.  That night was brought back to my memory recently.  It's been over three weeks now since Thomas passed away unexpectedly.  During those few weeks there have been many memories that have come to mind.  It's been an incredibly dark time.  Some of the darkest times have been those moments when I simply am unable to look away from the darkness.  The memories etched in my mind are oftentimes more than I can bear . . .  

Finding him unresponsive, signaling for Amy to come, trying to keep the other kids from seeing, calling 911, doing CPR, being unsuccessful, being relieved by the paramedics, riding to the hospital, being ushered into a room, being told "I'm sorry," holding his lifeless body, telling our kids, leaving him at the hospital, planning a funeral, choosing a plot for his burial, choosing a casket, saying good-bye following the funeral, riding to the gravesite, leaving him again, choosing a head stone, visiting his grave and trying to make sense of it all.  

I could write a book on each one of these experiences in the dark.  Each aspect is full of so many emotions.  Each moment is horrible.  Put them all together and it's almost too much to comprehend.  It would be easier to simply look away from the darkness.

Yet, by gazing into the darkness we have begun to see the light much more clearly.  We have experienced His abiding presence in ways we had never experienced before.  We thought God was with us before this, but we know now what it truly means to have God walking with us and carrying us through.  He is here in our midst.  He is the light in the darkness.  The light is becoming easier to see.  At a time when we could simply waste away and be lost in the darkness, God is giving us the strength and understanding to use the darkness in order to help us see the light more clearly.  

We're trying to see it.  Can you see it?

Learning to Walk Again . . .

I wish I could remember what it was like when I was learning how to walk.  Most of us have been on the other side of that process.  We've been the one encouraging, prodding, cheering and celebrating.  I can still remember very vividly each one of my kids' first steps.  But those first steps were preceded by weeks and months full of smaller milestones.  You start by holding your own head up, followed by rolling over, then sitting up on your own, continuing by getting on all fours, holding yourself upright on your knees, then pulling up to stand, cruising furniture, and finally some form of actually letting go and taking those first few steps.

Those first steps are awkward.  They are exhilarating.  They are terrifying--and that's from the parent's perspective.  Can you imagine being the child and truly understanding what was happening as you go for those first steps?  You have no concept of this whole process that's led up to this point.  You don't understand all the work that's gotten you to this point . . . but the parents do.  All you know is that you're tired of holding on to things and it's time to let go.  It's time to move the way everyone else around you is moving.  It's time to take that first step.  

You can see it on the child's face.  If you've ever had the privilege of being the one "catching" the child as they take their first steps, you know what I'm talking about.  It's that face that's so full of fear--yet at the same time full of uncontainable excitement--and those two emotions wrestle for dominance with every step.  But the one catching feels the same emotions.  With each step you just know he's going to lose it.  He's going to fall.  With one step he begins to sway, but then he catches himself.  The next step he completes as if he's been doing this for years.  Each step leaves you on the edge of your seat.  And then . . . that most incredible feeling of your child making it all the way into your outstretched arms.  He reaches for you and you swallow him up in your arms.  You both share the joy of this moment, which will be etched in your memory forever.   

In some ways I feel like I'm learning to walk again.  Just taking a step is terrifying at times.  Will my legs hold me?  Will I fall?  Can I let go and do this on my own?  Will anyone be there to catch me?  Is it worth it?  Maybe I'll just keep crawling.  That's pretty safe.  But maybe I'll miss out on something.  

The fog can be debilitating.  At times it paralyzing.  I feel so numb most of the time.  I'm not really sure how I feel or even how I should feel.  I find myself doing odd things and thinking odd things.  I catch myself daydreaming a lot.  I'll be driving down the road and then can't remember anything about the last couple of miles.  I don't want it to hurt so bad, but when I laugh or smile I feel guilty.  His memory is constantly there, but when I go a few minutes without really thinking about him I feel guilty.  

My memory has been terrible.  I'll see someone I've known for years and suddenly can't remember their name.  I'll try to recall the details of a conversation I had earlier in the day and they are completely elusive.  I think about him constantly.  The details of finding him that morning replay in my mind continuously.  I see people throughout the day and wonder how in the world their life can just go on like nothing ever happened.  We still tiptoe past his room when the door is closed so we don't wake him up from his nap.  I can hear him scooting down the hallway and calling "Da Da."  I can see him throwing a ball to me and laughing as I fall to the floor to humor him.  And I still keep thinking that at any point I'm going to wake up.  

We are trying to walk again.  We want to walk again.  It's terrifying.  

With each potential step we are overcome with fear.  But with each step we are experiencing the peace, joy, humility, and exhilaration which can only come from a walk with the Creator.  HE is walking with us.  HE is there to catch us.  HE is bigger than this.  HE can see the whole process.  We don't understand it.  But we don't have to.  We just have to trust HIM.  We just have to take one step at a time.

Thank you for walking with us.