Today marks one year. It doesn't seem possible that an entire year has passed. I remember as a kid thinking that an entire school year--barely 9 months long--was an eternity. Waiting on my next birthday consisted of painstakingly counting down the months until I would hit that next age. The Christmas season would creep by at a snail's pace leading up to that morning I'd been looking so forward to. I've written about this previously, but it still blows my mind how our perception of time works, and I can't believe how fast this past year has flown by for us.
As I look back on the past 365 days I'm reminded of so many gut-wrenching moments. It's not necessary to rehash those moments here. Those moments have been documented in previous entries and if I've learned anything in the past year it's that those moments don't go away . . . so there are sure to be more documented moments in the future. What is necessary for me to do on this one year anniversary of the passing of our youngest son, is to reflect the good which has come in the midst of these most awful of circumstances.
Sometimes I think we try way too hard to find the good in things. I know that may sound a little negative, but I think we are often taught that in order to cope it is necessary to find the "silver lining." Why can't a cloud just be a cloud? Why do I have to look for the silver lining? Why not just accept the fact that the cloud is there and it just might rain?
We Christians are the worst at this. We tend to think that "wallowing" in our pain and disappointment is somehow a sign that we don't have enough faith or that we lack hope. Suffering is a real thing. Clouds are real too. Is it possible that instead of "looking" for the silver lining or "finding" the hope in our suffering--as if it's some prerequisite for handling pain the "right" way--that the hope may come BECAUSE of the suffering or because of the pain?
We need rain. The rain comes because of the cloud. If we need the rain why is it necessary to find the silver lining? The silver lining isn't necessary but the rain is. Finding the silver lining only makes us "feel" better, it doesn't produce the life-giving rain.
We need hope. Hope is life-giving. I'm not sure hope is something we "find" or "look for." Hope comes as the result pain and suffering. I'm pretty sure the Bible says something about that in Romans 5:2-4. I'm not sure you can manufacture hope on your own. I don't know if you can wish for hope and then somehow wait for it to magically appear. I don't know. I'll have to think on that one--not that I have the final determination--but you know how I like to wonder about these things.
In the midst of our pain we are learning what hope is.
Hope is seeing that we don't walk this journey alone. We have family and friends--many of you--who have walked this journey with us; sometimes even carrying us when we couldn't walk on our own.
Hope is seeing that this thing will not ruin our family and, in fact, has brought us closer together.
Hope is seeing that it's not entirely up to Amy and I to help our own kids through the unimaginable pain and life questions that come with losing their brother.
Hope is knowing that others are holding their own kids tighter, spending more quality time and loving them more because our story.
Hope is seeing that a 21-month old child can leave a lasting legacy and can touch so many lives in such a short time.
Hope is knowing that Thomas is happier now than we could ever have made him here on earth. That's humbling, but it's true.
Hope is experiencing when our faith becomes sight. Lots of people think that only happens when you get to heaven because you can finally see God face to face. Sometimes we have faith that God is near. Other times God shows up and confirms that faith by being so close that there's no doubt He is present. God tends to draw nearest when the pain is at its worst. Perhaps that pain is necessary for life-giving hope to thrive.
I thought I knew what hope was 366 days ago. I think I'm beginning to see what hope is now.
Thursday, December 12, 2013
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
When Floating Persists . . .
I still often feel as though I'm floating. I'm not really sure how else to explain it, but it's that feeling you get when you're living something but it doesn't quite feel real. It's like you're there physically but mentally you're someplace else. That floating feeling can come when something good happens. I experienced it on my wedding day and on each day my kids were born. Sometimes it's referred to as "being on cloud 9." I'm not sure why it feels that way. Maybe it's because you look forward to something for so long that once you actually experience it it just doesn't seem real . . . it can't really be happening!
Sometimes you float the opposite reason. Sometimes you get that floating feeling when life's biggest trials and unexpected disappointments come your way. You experience something that completely knocks you off your feet and leaves you wondering if "this is really happening." It just doesn't seem real. It feels like a dream you're in and at some point very soon you're going to wake up and things will be the way they were before.
Maybe you feel it because you wish you weren't really there. You're present physically, but mentally you're wishing things could be different . . . or the same as they were.
Either way, that floating feeling is real. I wonder if that's why people people tell you to sit down before they share really good or really bad news with you.
Tomorrow marks one year since I began floating. I'm not sure I've landed yet, and I'm beginning to think that even if I do land I'll never quite have the solid footing I had before. I remember vividly the last day I felt like myself. I can remember nearly every moment of December 11th. Not because of what happened that day, but because it became significant due to what happened the next day. December 11th, 2012 was the last day where everything was the way it was supposed to be. It was one year ago today.
What if you could know just how significant certain moments are while they're happening?
What if I knew putting that ginger bread house together last December 11th would be the last thing we would do together as a family of six? What if we knew that picture Thomas colored on the floor earlier in the day with his big brother, Samuel, would be the last picture he would color? What if we knew that trip to the grocery store that morning would be the last for he and his mommy? So many things we can look back on. They are so significant now.
It was one year ago I was sitting in this same chair at this exact time with him. Thomas had awaken after sleeping for a couple of hours and was having a hard time getting back to sleep. I went and got him out of his crib and we snuggled in this very chair. I had no idea it would be the last time we would snuggle.
I can still feel the weight of his body on my lap and his arms and legs wrapped around me. I can smell his hair and feel it tickle my chin as he lays his head on my chest. I can hear his breathing and see him look up at me periodically as he dozes in and out--making sure it's still me he's laying on and not his mattress--before nestling his had back under my chin. I can't begin imagine what I'd give to experience that one more time . . . just once. Sometimes it's just too much to even think about.
I still hear him say, "Da Da" now and then. I know it's not really him, but it sounds so real. I still walk out to the kitchen in the mornings and am surprised when he's not at the table eating breakfast. Everything is still so vivid. Even a full year later it's like he's right here. It's all within memory's reach, but memories are all we have, and memories just can't compete with the real thing.
So I'll just keep floating . . . and wondering . . . because sometimes I'm not sure what else to do.
Sometimes you float the opposite reason. Sometimes you get that floating feeling when life's biggest trials and unexpected disappointments come your way. You experience something that completely knocks you off your feet and leaves you wondering if "this is really happening." It just doesn't seem real. It feels like a dream you're in and at some point very soon you're going to wake up and things will be the way they were before.
Maybe you feel it because you wish you weren't really there. You're present physically, but mentally you're wishing things could be different . . . or the same as they were.
Either way, that floating feeling is real. I wonder if that's why people people tell you to sit down before they share really good or really bad news with you.
Tomorrow marks one year since I began floating. I'm not sure I've landed yet, and I'm beginning to think that even if I do land I'll never quite have the solid footing I had before. I remember vividly the last day I felt like myself. I can remember nearly every moment of December 11th. Not because of what happened that day, but because it became significant due to what happened the next day. December 11th, 2012 was the last day where everything was the way it was supposed to be. It was one year ago today.
What if you could know just how significant certain moments are while they're happening?
What if I knew putting that ginger bread house together last December 11th would be the last thing we would do together as a family of six? What if we knew that picture Thomas colored on the floor earlier in the day with his big brother, Samuel, would be the last picture he would color? What if we knew that trip to the grocery store that morning would be the last for he and his mommy? So many things we can look back on. They are so significant now.
It was one year ago I was sitting in this same chair at this exact time with him. Thomas had awaken after sleeping for a couple of hours and was having a hard time getting back to sleep. I went and got him out of his crib and we snuggled in this very chair. I had no idea it would be the last time we would snuggle.
I can still feel the weight of his body on my lap and his arms and legs wrapped around me. I can smell his hair and feel it tickle my chin as he lays his head on my chest. I can hear his breathing and see him look up at me periodically as he dozes in and out--making sure it's still me he's laying on and not his mattress--before nestling his had back under my chin. I can't begin imagine what I'd give to experience that one more time . . . just once. Sometimes it's just too much to even think about.
I still hear him say, "Da Da" now and then. I know it's not really him, but it sounds so real. I still walk out to the kitchen in the mornings and am surprised when he's not at the table eating breakfast. Everything is still so vivid. Even a full year later it's like he's right here. It's all within memory's reach, but memories are all we have, and memories just can't compete with the real thing.
So I'll just keep floating . . . and wondering . . . because sometimes I'm not sure what else to do.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Sometimes I Wonder . . .
It was one of the happiest days of my life . . . but I wish I didn't have to be there. Hundreds of family and friends gathered to honor and support. They came for us . . . but I wish I didn't have to be there. I'm not sure we have ever experienced as much love as we did that day . . . but I wish we didn't have to be there. People we didn't even know came out. Some traveled across the country to be there. Others took precious time out of their schedules and routines just to be there. It was an amazingly uplifting, encouraging, healing and meaningful day for our family. I don't mean to sound selfish or ungrateful . . . but I wish it had never happened.
If we still had our son this day would have never taken place. The first annual TJ5K--in memory of our son, Thomas--took place on November 16th. It was an incredible event. It included a 5K run, a 1-mile fun run/walk and a fun run for kids. Our family was blown away and humbled by everything that went into that day. We will always remember those of you who came out to support the events of that day. All the planning and preparation took months. Many people worked tirelessly to make it happen. Over 50 volunteers helped out. Over 300 people participated. Several thousand dollars were raised for a wonderful non-profit agency who worked with Thomas prior to his death. Anyone who has so much time, effort, attention and money given on their behalf should be honored. We are honored . . . but we wish it never happened.
I'm not ungrateful. I'm overwhelmed by everything that took place on November 16th, but if we had our son the things that took place that day would have never happened.
I often wonder what we would be doing on certain days or in particular moments had we not experienced what we did almost a year ago now. As I ran along the course with my oldest son during the race, I kept wondering what we would be doing at that moment had Thomas not died. What would the hundreds of other people been doing that day? Maybe it's my way of dwelling on "what might have been." Perhaps it's something to help distract me from the pain. Possibly, it's just my own propensity to wonder. More likely, it's simply my never-ending longing to have things be the way they "should" be. Either way it makes me wonder.
I wonder which day he would have walked for the first time, or which day he would have said his first sentence. I wonder what we'll be doing on the day that "should" have been his first day of kindergarten, the day he would have learned to ride his bike, get his driver's licence and graduate from high school. Which day "should" have been his wedding day or the day he became a dad? They "should" have been days full of excitement and celebration, but now they'll just be regular days. I wonder what we'll be doing on those days, which "should" have been so significant in his life and ours.
What would we have been doing a week from now on the anniversary of his death? What would I have been doing right now instead of typing these random and unorganized thoughts?
It's hard not to dwell on what "should" have been. It's hard not to wonder.
The fact is we can dwell and we can wonder all we want and it doesn't change reality. Reality is something we simply cannot change. So what do we do with reality? To me that's the critical question. We'll still wonder about the "what-ifs" and the "should haves," but if we dwell on those too much we can miss the moments that will shape us and carry us through the reality we now face.
Reality is we don't have our son. All we have is our memories of him. November 16th was a day put together by some dear friends of ours who were willing to say, "If we could we would bring your son back. We can't do that, so we will do what we can do: We will keep his memory alive by celebrating his life."
Things in life may not be the way we think they "should" be and oftentimes we can't get them to be the way they "should" be. Sometimes things are just broken and they simply cannot be fixed. That doesn't mean you can't do anything about it. Those of you who were involved in the TJ5K reminded me that we can't always fix things to the way they "should" be, but we can do something. Some of you ran. Others of you planned. Some volunteered. A few simply gave. Many just showed up. You can't bring our son back, but you did what you could do and for that we are forever grateful . . . more than you will ever know.
I wonder where we'd be if November 16th had never happened? Thanks for helping our family see through the fog a little more clearly.
If we still had our son this day would have never taken place. The first annual TJ5K--in memory of our son, Thomas--took place on November 16th. It was an incredible event. It included a 5K run, a 1-mile fun run/walk and a fun run for kids. Our family was blown away and humbled by everything that went into that day. We will always remember those of you who came out to support the events of that day. All the planning and preparation took months. Many people worked tirelessly to make it happen. Over 50 volunteers helped out. Over 300 people participated. Several thousand dollars were raised for a wonderful non-profit agency who worked with Thomas prior to his death. Anyone who has so much time, effort, attention and money given on their behalf should be honored. We are honored . . . but we wish it never happened.
I'm not ungrateful. I'm overwhelmed by everything that took place on November 16th, but if we had our son the things that took place that day would have never happened.
I often wonder what we would be doing on certain days or in particular moments had we not experienced what we did almost a year ago now. As I ran along the course with my oldest son during the race, I kept wondering what we would be doing at that moment had Thomas not died. What would the hundreds of other people been doing that day? Maybe it's my way of dwelling on "what might have been." Perhaps it's something to help distract me from the pain. Possibly, it's just my own propensity to wonder. More likely, it's simply my never-ending longing to have things be the way they "should" be. Either way it makes me wonder.
I wonder which day he would have walked for the first time, or which day he would have said his first sentence. I wonder what we'll be doing on the day that "should" have been his first day of kindergarten, the day he would have learned to ride his bike, get his driver's licence and graduate from high school. Which day "should" have been his wedding day or the day he became a dad? They "should" have been days full of excitement and celebration, but now they'll just be regular days. I wonder what we'll be doing on those days, which "should" have been so significant in his life and ours.
What would we have been doing a week from now on the anniversary of his death? What would I have been doing right now instead of typing these random and unorganized thoughts?
It's hard not to dwell on what "should" have been. It's hard not to wonder.
The fact is we can dwell and we can wonder all we want and it doesn't change reality. Reality is something we simply cannot change. So what do we do with reality? To me that's the critical question. We'll still wonder about the "what-ifs" and the "should haves," but if we dwell on those too much we can miss the moments that will shape us and carry us through the reality we now face.
Reality is we don't have our son. All we have is our memories of him. November 16th was a day put together by some dear friends of ours who were willing to say, "If we could we would bring your son back. We can't do that, so we will do what we can do: We will keep his memory alive by celebrating his life."
Things in life may not be the way we think they "should" be and oftentimes we can't get them to be the way they "should" be. Sometimes things are just broken and they simply cannot be fixed. That doesn't mean you can't do anything about it. Those of you who were involved in the TJ5K reminded me that we can't always fix things to the way they "should" be, but we can do something. Some of you ran. Others of you planned. Some volunteered. A few simply gave. Many just showed up. You can't bring our son back, but you did what you could do and for that we are forever grateful . . . more than you will ever know.
I wonder where we'd be if November 16th had never happened? Thanks for helping our family see through the fog a little more clearly.
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