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.