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.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Thursday, February 14, 2013
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 . . .
Monday, February 11, 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
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?
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?
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
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.
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.
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