. nine weeks .

Miss him every single minute.

Not Missing the Teeth

Me: Crying

Daniel: Tears

Jacob: "I miss him."

Cambria: "Well, I don't miss him right now."

Me and Daniel (in unison) "Why don't you miss him?" {!!!!!}

Cambria: (totally matter-of fact) "Well, because he would bite me on mine finger!"

So, so glad we have the balance that the kids bring to an otherwise dark and scary road.

The Mercy of . . . Not Knowing

It's not every day that you receive your son's death certificate.

There weren't any surprises. . . {if you can shield your heart from being surprised still by the shortness of time between January 12 and May 19}

Initially we hoped there would be something obvious; something we could wrap our minds around. Maybe his heart had defects; some rare disease that would have caused him pain; a debilitating disorder that God spared him from. Not very rational. . . . but we haven't been too rational this summer.

One by one all of the test results came back -

his heart was perfect.

his brain was fine.

nothing wrong.

nothing

nothing

nothing

I knew there was nothing wrong.

He was happy

healthy

"two months ahead of schedule!" {pediatrician at last visit}

strong

totally breast-fed

two teeth

not even vaccinated yet (there goes that theory)

okay, so I didn't use cloth diapers, but. . . . he had a pretty natural, healthy babyhood.


So why?


The final word. . .

Sudden Unexplained Infant Death

What the physicians say when they don't know what to say.

When there isn't any reason.

When nothing is wrong except that everything is wrong.

When your son is just gone.

When you never got a chance to plead for his life.


But there is a cruel sort of mercy in the absence of any answers;

there isn't one thing that we could have done differently glaring at us from that document.

there aren't replays of a car accident and if only we wouldn't have been on that highway at that time.

there wasn't any time to cling. {we loved him until the last minute}

No answers to the why.

Just the knowledge that God gave him to us for 128 days. . . and then took him Home to Heaven.

To Kamie

So, Miss Kamie,

We waited a long time to meet you and we were so excited to see your cute little face.

You guys were going to be quite the cousins. . . Gabe was supposed to look out for you and teach you stuff since he was a couple weeks ahead of you.

He was pretty happy to meet you, don'tcha think he looks like it?

And then he got to go to Heaven before all of us

and you weren't the little almost twins cousins anymore

and your mommy and daddy didn't know if they should let us see you

or if your warm, chubby little self would make us too sad.

Oh, Kamie, I want to see you. You are still my first little niece and you are still just cuteness and I am still so happy that you're you and you're alive and all squishy and smiley.

You will always have a really special place in our hearts and we will always think of you and Gabe as little cousins even though you won't grow up together. . .

and he'll never bite you

or grab your toys

or tease you

or lord his drivers permit over you. . .

On Sunday, you were finally older than Gabe and I was so happy to realize that. It made your mommy's heart all sad, cuz she liked being able to have him ahead of you to test out the scary waters of orajel and rice cereal and stuff like that.

But my heart was so happy, cuz I want you to live and grow up and love Jesus and love your mommy and daddy and be Miss Cuteness and it's okay.

People watch us together when I hold you and I can see their little whispers and their doubting eyes, wondering if I'm pretending that you are someone else. . . or if I'm jealous that your mommy has you to squeeze. I think you and I both know that you aren't my own little baby, so I really don't have to explain to you, but I'll just tell you anyway, just in case you ever wonder. . .

I love you, Kamie, just for who you are.

Thank you, little Miss Kamie, for helping my mommy-heart heal.

Kamie and Aunt Hayley on May 19, 2010

Seven Weeks

Today I wonder. . . will I ever care again about the things that once brought so much joy?

Just putting one foot in front of the other this week.

undone

From Isaiah. . .

Last night I opened my Bible to Isaiah and this is what I read. . .

Behold, I will create new heavens and a new earth. . .

the former things will not be remembered,

nor will they come to mind.

But be glad and rejoice forever in what

I will create. . .

for I will create. . .delight. . .joy. . .

the sound of weeping and of crying

will be heard. . . no more.

Never again in it will there be an infant

who lives but a few days. . .

(from Isaiah 65:17-20)

gabe. . . and mommy

This is the last picture I took of Gabe. . . we were figuring out his moby wrap together and having a blast. He loved it. I think this is on Tuesday. . . we went for a walk with the kids and he trucked along, too, peeking out.

Then on Saturday, we spent the entire day together shopping for Lydia's wedding and he once again rode along in the wrap. I'm so glad I spent so much time with him so close to me that last week.

Pretend

I want to pretend he's still here.

Ignore the reality.

I want to grab sunscreen and a little hat and his bottle filled with water so he won't dehydrate and lug him along to swim lessons, too.

I want to cover his ears at the fireworks.

I want to hush the kids so they won't wake him when it's that time of day for naptime.

I want to mash up some banana and see what he thinks and watch him spit it out.

I want to carry him out to the waterslide and watch the kids go down and let him feel the sprinkles on his toes.

I want to feel his chubby little self against my skin and kiss his head and cuddle him close.

I want to lay out his clothes on Saturday night, too.

I want to interrupt Friday night pizza prep to get him up from his nap.

I want to go check on him at night and pat his little bottom and whisper . . .sleep tight. . . see you in the morning. . . Mommy loves you. . . one more time.

I want to tell the 2011 camp registration lady that I have another child when she asks, just two kids?

I want to scream noooo when someone says Is everybody here?

I want to tickle him and hear his little chuckle.

I want to buy his little outfit for the cousin pictures we've been planning.

I want to hear him say Daddy.

I want to pretend he is still here.

But he isn't.

And to ignore the reality means. . .

to ignore this whole process of grief

to falter and fall

to sink

to surrender to the darkness

to turn my face away from the other realities that I have never been more sure of:

that Heaven is a real place

that my littlest man is there

that death cannot, cannot be the end of life

that God carries us when we can't go on.

I'm so thankful that I do not have to pretend that Gabe is with Jesus.

I know.

Definition of Okay

How do you say you are "ok" when nothing is ok?

What okay means right now:

Survival

Tears

No tears

Distraction

Ability to meet social obligations

Putting one foot in front of the other

Not screaming in anguish

Not face down on the floor

Not pounding our fists against the wall {at the moment}

Taking care of our kids

Working

Doing laundry

Pretending to care

Going through the motions

Hanging on to the threads of hope that we have been given by God.

"I will go before you and level the mountains {to make the crooked places straight}. . . and I will give you the treasures of darkness, and hidden riches of secret places, that you may know that it is I, the Lord. . . Who calls you by your name." from Isaiah 45:2,3, Amplified

(Daddy)

Daddy, to us you are:

security

our teacher (we learn tons from you)

our only hope for sledding trips

protection

Winter Olympics (something Mommy totally doesn't care about)

someone we copy

there for us from the very, very beginning

We love you, Daddy.

You're the best daddy in the whole world.

Love,

Jacob Daniel & Cambria

(and Gabe says "hi, daddy" from Heaven)

the diapers that ended

Someday. . . maybe I'll have the never-ending diapers thing going on again.

Before May 19, I thought a lot about running out of diapers.

I had them stashed in the van, (just in case), in a drawer upstairs (just in case), in Gabe's dresser(just in case) . . . plus the normal diaper places. Daniel makes fun of me. . . he insinuates that I'm kinda like a disorganized squirrel.

So now I get to find my emergency stashes, gather them together. . . and put them away.

It's really, really hard.

Did I actually think I was spending my life changing diapers? {favorite phrase of sleep-deprived mommies}

Oh, I would give anything to change that little man again!

Anything.

Did I actually write the words "ruined-by-purple-crayon-day?"

Oh, please, I would love to have one of those. Purple crayon days are fun!

Did I complain about being so exhausted? About cutting 30 combined toes and fingernails?

I only have twenty to cut now.

Lock the keys in the car? Sounds pretty fixable.

Bad day at work? It'll be better tomorrow.

Not enough money, not enough time. . . oh, so temporal, so pointless when staring at the reality of death.

I am only human. I know that. The sharp perspective that grief brings will dull with time and I will once again struggle with my selfish nature and the normal frustrations of being a mom.

But right now. . .

. . .it's pretty sad to put these away.

Four Weeks

Why we have basements.

From here. Today.

Summer in the Midwest

Yeah, this is us, two hours ago, crouched in the basement.

It is so good to see in myself a desire

to live and be safe and protect my babies.

They were terrified.

(Well, I was scared too.)

It felt good to be scared.

It's good for me to realize that they aren't secure yet.

Their world is still so shaken, so much turned up side down, so much grief in the all the people they trust the most.

So then, something that should be normal childhood summer-time -- tornado warnings -- are terror for them.

It was good for me to see.

I am their mommy.

I will do everything in my power to keep them safe.

I did bring blankets, a radio, and the important stuff, Laffy Taffy, downstairs.

"Mommy, you haven't prayed yet."

And we did.

And I thought that no matter what happened, my littlest man was safe.

We're fine. . . just part of summer.

Tornado gone.

Rain over.

Blankets in the washer.

But each day, I learn another lesson in the school of grief.

Today:

I want to live.

I shall not die,

but live,

and declare

the works of the Lord

Psalm 118:17