Today was Emily's last baseball game of the season.
When she was in the bathtub this morning, she said in a sad voice, "Ethan never got to see me play baseball at all."
I told her maybe she and Ethan will play baseball together in Heaven one day... and about how when she gets to Heaven she will say, "Ethan, here I am!" and he will say, "That's my Big Sissy!"
In the car on the way to her game, I told her if she wanted we could get a baseball and take it out to Ethan's grave... that even though he isn't really there, things we take there are still really special. She liked the idea of taking him a ball, and I told her she would have to sign it since she was the player.
Josh was driving, and silent tears streamed down his face when she told us exactly what she wanted written on the baseball:
"Dear Ethan,
I played baseball. I hope you are playing baseball in Heaven.
Love,
Emily, to Ethan"
Oh, Jesus, be near us now...
I haven't written for a week, because I haven't really known what to say. Words have felt meaningless. There is simply no way to adequately describe the pain. Being separated from Ethan, though it is only temporary, is horrific.
Josh and I are just taking it one day at a time... doing our best to take care of each other and our sweet Emily, and depending on God for every breath.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
Dear Ethan
My Sweet, Sweet Baby Boy,
Saying we miss you doesn't even begin to explain it.
You are unforgettable, irreplacable, and precious beyond words... our perfect baby boy.
Our love for you cannot be measured, just as it is impossible to measure the hurt of being without you.
I long to see you again, to hold you and kiss you, to tell you just how much you have changed (and will continue to change) our lives... and how you have made us, and are making us, better people...
Daddy says he pictures us sitting around the dinner table one day in Heaven as a family--- all seven of us--- and I can't wait! It is making it until that day that is so, so hard...
It is getting more and more difficult to get out of bed every morning... to face a world that keeps going when mine is standing completely still... to function as if I'm not dying inside when I feel like I am...
Daddy told me last night that a large part of him was buried with you that day, and I feel the same way... but we also know another large part of us remains--- your Sissy. He said it is for her that we have no choice, that we must get out of bed every day... she deserves her parents, too. And he is right.
She adores you, Ethan... and has from the time she found out you were in my tummy. She blew raspberries on you (my belly) every day (we called it "farting"!) and talked to you constantly. She couldn't wait for you to get here. And when you did?
She was smitten! She drove us crazy trying to love on you! She wanted to help constantly, kiss you constantly, and get in your face constantly! Sometimes it could be annoying! And always, it was beautiful...
One day about a week ago, she started lining up pennies on her little school table and announced that each penny stood for one of the days you were alive. She can't count high enough, so I helped her. She had layed out 80 pennies... I told her that it was a little short, because you lived 84 days. She had some extra pennies, so I started to count those, but she said, "No, no, no! Those pennies are for the days he isn't here". She had 17 pennies. I said, "Oh, Baby, he will be in Heaven a lot longer than that... there aren't enough pennies to show that..."
Just another reminder of how long we will be without you... how long it will be before we see you again.
But it is also a reminder that you will never die again... God will never stop counting your pennies...
And Ethan, 84 pennies doesn't even begin to explain your life here on Earth... or the impact it will have for eternity.
I love you--- beyond measure, my sweet, sweet baby boy.
Mama
Saying we miss you doesn't even begin to explain it.
You are unforgettable, irreplacable, and precious beyond words... our perfect baby boy.
Our love for you cannot be measured, just as it is impossible to measure the hurt of being without you.
I long to see you again, to hold you and kiss you, to tell you just how much you have changed (and will continue to change) our lives... and how you have made us, and are making us, better people...
Daddy says he pictures us sitting around the dinner table one day in Heaven as a family--- all seven of us--- and I can't wait! It is making it until that day that is so, so hard...
It is getting more and more difficult to get out of bed every morning... to face a world that keeps going when mine is standing completely still... to function as if I'm not dying inside when I feel like I am...
Daddy told me last night that a large part of him was buried with you that day, and I feel the same way... but we also know another large part of us remains--- your Sissy. He said it is for her that we have no choice, that we must get out of bed every day... she deserves her parents, too. And he is right.
She adores you, Ethan... and has from the time she found out you were in my tummy. She blew raspberries on you (my belly) every day (we called it "farting"!) and talked to you constantly. She couldn't wait for you to get here. And when you did?
She was smitten! She drove us crazy trying to love on you! She wanted to help constantly, kiss you constantly, and get in your face constantly! Sometimes it could be annoying! And always, it was beautiful...
One day about a week ago, she started lining up pennies on her little school table and announced that each penny stood for one of the days you were alive. She can't count high enough, so I helped her. She had layed out 80 pennies... I told her that it was a little short, because you lived 84 days. She had some extra pennies, so I started to count those, but she said, "No, no, no! Those pennies are for the days he isn't here". She had 17 pennies. I said, "Oh, Baby, he will be in Heaven a lot longer than that... there aren't enough pennies to show that..."
Just another reminder of how long we will be without you... how long it will be before we see you again.
But it is also a reminder that you will never die again... God will never stop counting your pennies...
And Ethan, 84 pennies doesn't even begin to explain your life here on Earth... or the impact it will have for eternity.
I love you--- beyond measure, my sweet, sweet baby boy.
Mama
Monday, July 19, 2010
On Anger...
Ethan trying to roll over less than a week and a half before he met Jesus
Ethan would be four months and one week old now.
Wow. How much we've missed already.
He would have finished learning how to laugh by now (he was just starting!)... he would be squealing with delight... he would probably be rolling over (he was already so close!)...
His time here on Earth has stopped, yet all the babies around us keep growing older. We love them so, so much, yet it is hard to watch as they reach ages our son never will.
We know Ethan's time as a whole hasn't stopped, that he lives forever in Heaven... but it is amazing how little comfort that brings. I know that probably sounds terrible, and not very "pastor's wife-y" (I just made up that word!) but I'm just being honest.
The truth is, death isn't pretty. It's horrific. God never intended it. It goes back to that thing where God didn't create us to stand over graves--- we were created to live forever without dying first. We're not supposed to feel good about death, and it isn't supposed to be easy. God didn't "get over" losing His Son, and He doesn't expect me to get over losing mine.
I'm so grateful He understands where I'm at.
So far, I can honestly say I haven't been angry at God. Will that anger come at some point? Maybe. But, so far, it hasn't.
At first, I was just too heartbroken to be angry. Now, in addition to that, I have a few reasons not to be. One of the biggest?
"Mama, don't be mad at Him."
The words I believe Ethan would say if he could speak to me today... in the sweet, sweet voice I know he has.
Deep in my soul, I know that is exactly what he would say to me.
It takes my breath away.
And so I say:
"Baby, I'm not."
Saturday, July 17, 2010
8:13am
These are the last pictures we took of Ethan before he met Jesus face to face.
According to my camera, they were taken at 8:13am that morning... about an hour before he left our arms and entered the Cath Lab.
We had just realized he was cutting a tooth the afternoon before, and Daddy had bought him Orajel and a teether. The teether was way too big for his little mouth, so here I am giving him a clean finger to bite down on.
Less than three months old and cutting a tooth! Seriously, the top of it had already broken through his gum! Ever since he went to Heaven, I've felt like God let him get it so early so we could have the gift of seeing him cut his first tooth. Yet another precious, precious memory...
I look at these pictures (as well as the others from that morning) and it is so unreal--- as it always is--- that less than two and a half hours later, he would be in Heaven.
According to my camera, they were taken at 8:13am that morning... about an hour before he left our arms and entered the Cath Lab.
We had just realized he was cutting a tooth the afternoon before, and Daddy had bought him Orajel and a teether. The teether was way too big for his little mouth, so here I am giving him a clean finger to bite down on.
Less than three months old and cutting a tooth! Seriously, the top of it had already broken through his gum! Ever since he went to Heaven, I've felt like God let him get it so early so we could have the gift of seeing him cut his first tooth. Yet another precious, precious memory...
I look at these pictures (as well as the others from that morning) and it is so unreal--- as it always is--- that less than two and a half hours later, he would be in Heaven.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Sacred
On Wednesday, Josh and I drove to UAB and met with Ethan's Cardiologist, Dr. McMahon, to discuss the details of Ethan's death.
The meeting was three hours long, and I cannot explain how difficult it was to hear exactly how our son died.
We are so, so broken.
Yet, the Presence of God was there in such a powerful way. I cannot explain it, either... not adequately.
Dr. McMahon told us he has been at UAB for 15 years, and does 400-500 cardiac caths each year...
and Ethan is only the second patient he has lost.
Are you serious, Lord??
The last hour of our son's life here on Earth is so incredibly sacred to us. We will hold it and ponder it in our hearts forever... just as we do his entire 12 weeks--- and the nine months I carried him in my womb.
For three hours, we sat with Dr. McMahon...
The same man who tried so desperately to save our son's life... the same man who, with tears streaming down his face, had to tell us Ethan was in Heaven... the same man who cradled Ethan in his arms as if he were his own son when he brought him to us...
and the same man who cries and grieves with us still.
He is part of a sacred story...
The story of our son.
The meeting was three hours long, and I cannot explain how difficult it was to hear exactly how our son died.
We are so, so broken.
Yet, the Presence of God was there in such a powerful way. I cannot explain it, either... not adequately.
Dr. McMahon told us he has been at UAB for 15 years, and does 400-500 cardiac caths each year...
and Ethan is only the second patient he has lost.
Are you serious, Lord??
The last hour of our son's life here on Earth is so incredibly sacred to us. We will hold it and ponder it in our hearts forever... just as we do his entire 12 weeks--- and the nine months I carried him in my womb.
For three hours, we sat with Dr. McMahon...
The same man who tried so desperately to save our son's life... the same man who, with tears streaming down his face, had to tell us Ethan was in Heaven... the same man who cradled Ethan in his arms as if he were his own son when he brought him to us...
and the same man who cries and grieves with us still.
He is part of a sacred story...
The story of our son.
Monday, July 12, 2010
One Year Ago Today
(Ethan was seven weeks old in this picture.)
Today is July 12th. It was this day last year I found out I was pregnant with Ethan.
And today we ordered the marker for his grave.
Two days ago, I celebrated my 31st Birthday. As I stood over my son's grave with my family, I couldn't help but think how the past year was both the best and worst year of my life.
The best because I had my husband and my two children.
The worst because I then buried one of them.
I told my mom tonight that my whole life is now divided into two categories: "Before" and "After".
Before my son died, and After my son died.
Last July 12th was before my son died. I took a pregnancy test after evening church and Josh and I were downright giddy at the results. We felt pure joy that God had blessed us with another life. And we certainly never took it for granted.
Still, we had no idea just how wonderful that life would be! What a beautiful, extraordinary son we would have.
We also had no idea we would stand over his grave less than a year later... that the same baby who grew in my womb would now be in the ground.
Ethan was a special, special little boy.
I choose to remember July 12th not as the day we ordered the marker for his grave, but as the day we found out he was going to be ours.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Bumpers of Faith
My husband preached a sermon today entitled "Bumpers of Faith". He used an analogy from a father/daughter date he had with Emily a few months ago to describe how the pillars of our faith work in our lives.
When bowling with a five year-old, you use bumpers. The ball may roll from one side of the lane to the other, bang every which way, or spin out of control... but the bumpers keep it in the lane.
This is how the pillars of our faith (pillars of truth) work. Our life may spin out of control, things may get horrible, the pain may feel unbearable... but the things we know to be true hold us securely in the boundaries of God's love.
At the end of the service, Josh had us write down some of the pillars of faith we cling to in our own lives (which are, of course, true for us all) and attach them to the sides of "bumpers" he had created down the center aisle of the church. Then we walked down the aisle, stopping to read the pillars of faith that hold us securely, even in the midst of the storms of life.
My pillars?
He is the God of Restoration.
He will wipe every tear from my eyes.
He is big enough to handle my questions.
Babies live forever with Him.
I know no greater pain than the loss of my son. I cannot explain the agony of knowing this is my new life... that I have joined a club I never asked to or dreamed I would join--- one made up of parents who have buried their children.
But, I also know no greater love than that of the One Who is the Only Reason I am still breathing.
You see, He is a member of the club, too--- only He joined willingly.
He gave His Son so mine could live forever.
That is the ultimate pillar of truth.
When bowling with a five year-old, you use bumpers. The ball may roll from one side of the lane to the other, bang every which way, or spin out of control... but the bumpers keep it in the lane.
This is how the pillars of our faith (pillars of truth) work. Our life may spin out of control, things may get horrible, the pain may feel unbearable... but the things we know to be true hold us securely in the boundaries of God's love.
At the end of the service, Josh had us write down some of the pillars of faith we cling to in our own lives (which are, of course, true for us all) and attach them to the sides of "bumpers" he had created down the center aisle of the church. Then we walked down the aisle, stopping to read the pillars of faith that hold us securely, even in the midst of the storms of life.
My pillars?
He is the God of Restoration.
He will wipe every tear from my eyes.
He is big enough to handle my questions.
Babies live forever with Him.
I know no greater pain than the loss of my son. I cannot explain the agony of knowing this is my new life... that I have joined a club I never asked to or dreamed I would join--- one made up of parents who have buried their children.
But, I also know no greater love than that of the One Who is the Only Reason I am still breathing.
You see, He is a member of the club, too--- only He joined willingly.
He gave His Son so mine could live forever.
That is the ultimate pillar of truth.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Another Day Closer
I pulled up to a green light today and stopped as if it were a red light... and then sat there for a couple of minutes before I realized it.
Sometimes I can't remember where I'm going or how to get there. I struggled for a long time to remember how to get to our local Walmart yesterday... the same one we go to several times a week.
I forget to do important things such as pay bills... even when I have just talked about needing to do them moments before.
As the days tick by without my son, I struggle to keep functioning.
We were going to take down Ethan's pack-n-play today. Although we are leaving almost all of Ethan's things intact/untouched, such as his nursery, Josh and I thought it made sense to get the pack-n-play out of the kitchen/family room and put it away to keep it nice.
But then Emily started bawling and begging us to keep it up--- forever.
She said it reminds her of Ethan and that it is where he used to lay, and that she misses him so bad.
I told Josh that just as we want Ethan's nursery and other things kept the same, we need to let her have things she needs kept the same.
I know some would encourage us not to do this (thinking it will increase our pain or that it "isn't healthy"), but all I can say is we can't imagine doing anything else. His nursery is his nursery... and it would cause us more pain to put his things away as if it isn't.
We are obviously still finding our way on this path of grief, and know we will be for the rest of our lives. I am learning you do what you need to do just to make it through the day. And each day I make it through is another day closer to seeing my son again.
Come quickly, Lord Jesus.
Sometimes I can't remember where I'm going or how to get there. I struggled for a long time to remember how to get to our local Walmart yesterday... the same one we go to several times a week.
I forget to do important things such as pay bills... even when I have just talked about needing to do them moments before.
As the days tick by without my son, I struggle to keep functioning.
We were going to take down Ethan's pack-n-play today. Although we are leaving almost all of Ethan's things intact/untouched, such as his nursery, Josh and I thought it made sense to get the pack-n-play out of the kitchen/family room and put it away to keep it nice.
But then Emily started bawling and begging us to keep it up--- forever.
She said it reminds her of Ethan and that it is where he used to lay, and that she misses him so bad.
I told Josh that just as we want Ethan's nursery and other things kept the same, we need to let her have things she needs kept the same.
I know some would encourage us not to do this (thinking it will increase our pain or that it "isn't healthy"), but all I can say is we can't imagine doing anything else. His nursery is his nursery... and it would cause us more pain to put his things away as if it isn't.
We are obviously still finding our way on this path of grief, and know we will be for the rest of our lives. I am learning you do what you need to do just to make it through the day. And each day I make it through is another day closer to seeing my son again.
Come quickly, Lord Jesus.
Monday, July 5, 2010
A Letter to My Son
My Sweet, Sweet Ethan,
Your Sissy is fast asleep, and your Daddy is in bed, too.
I close my eyes and all I can see is your face... your big, beautiful, trusting eyes looking up at me the way they did every day of your life.
When I handed you over to the nurses outside the Cath Lab, you trusted me.
After you passed away, I felt like I had handed you over to your death.
I still feel that way.
I wonder constantly what your Daddy and I and the doctors could have done differently.
Knowing God allowed your death does not change my need to question.
And I think He understands that.
Your Sissy had her first swimming lesson today. She has always been a "water baby", and you made it clear the two times you got to go in the pool you were going to be one, too.
Her first baseball game of the season is tomorrow night, and we can tell she is going to do more than just sit in the grass and pick her nose this year (like she did when she was three!). She and her coach's daughter are the only two girls on the team, and we think it's really cute. Daddy was going to coach your team one day. All those baseball outfits you wore were his idea!
Oh, Ethan, there are so many things I want to tell you...
But, most of all, I want to tell you what I told you as Daddy, Sissy and I walked you to the Cath Lab that morning--- the last thing I said to you, and I repeated it over and over again:
I love you and it is a privilege to be your Mama.
Your Sissy is fast asleep, and your Daddy is in bed, too.
I close my eyes and all I can see is your face... your big, beautiful, trusting eyes looking up at me the way they did every day of your life.
When I handed you over to the nurses outside the Cath Lab, you trusted me.
After you passed away, I felt like I had handed you over to your death.
I still feel that way.
I wonder constantly what your Daddy and I and the doctors could have done differently.
Knowing God allowed your death does not change my need to question.
And I think He understands that.
Your Sissy had her first swimming lesson today. She has always been a "water baby", and you made it clear the two times you got to go in the pool you were going to be one, too.
Her first baseball game of the season is tomorrow night, and we can tell she is going to do more than just sit in the grass and pick her nose this year (like she did when she was three!). She and her coach's daughter are the only two girls on the team, and we think it's really cute. Daddy was going to coach your team one day. All those baseball outfits you wore were his idea!
Oh, Ethan, there are so many things I want to tell you...
But, most of all, I want to tell you what I told you as Daddy, Sissy and I walked you to the Cath Lab that morning--- the last thing I said to you, and I repeated it over and over again:
I love you and it is a privilege to be your Mama.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
I Should Be...
As I told a sweet friend recently, one of the hardest things I do is wake up and get out of bed every morning, knowing it is another day without my son.
Today was no exception.
I assume the 4th of every month will carry even more pain than some other days do (although it doesn't feel like any day is ever any "easier"), just as every Friday does.
But, today is Independence Day...
I should be dressing my children in cooridinating red, white and blue outfits for the city's celebration tonight... Ethan should be being bounced on the laps of his church family, smiling that smile that melts us... he should be enjoying the sun on his face as Mama frets about keeping him under the shade... Daddy and I should be cuddling with him and his sister under a beautiful sky of exploding light... covering Ethan's ears and worrying the fireworks might scare him as his sister revels in each one...
But, today will unfold far differently than this... and I need God's peace...
I need His peace so I can dress Emily in red, white and blue... so I can watch her delight in our church family... so I can appreciate her smile that melts us... so I can see her enjoy the sun on her face while I fret about her getting sunburned... so Daddy and I can cuddle with her under a beautiful sky of exploding light... so I can watch her revel in each firework...
God, help me enjoy my daughter today as my heart aches inconsolably for my son.
Today was no exception.
I assume the 4th of every month will carry even more pain than some other days do (although it doesn't feel like any day is ever any "easier"), just as every Friday does.
But, today is Independence Day...
I should be dressing my children in cooridinating red, white and blue outfits for the city's celebration tonight... Ethan should be being bounced on the laps of his church family, smiling that smile that melts us... he should be enjoying the sun on his face as Mama frets about keeping him under the shade... Daddy and I should be cuddling with him and his sister under a beautiful sky of exploding light... covering Ethan's ears and worrying the fireworks might scare him as his sister revels in each one...
But, today will unfold far differently than this... and I need God's peace...
I need His peace so I can dress Emily in red, white and blue... so I can watch her delight in our church family... so I can appreciate her smile that melts us... so I can see her enjoy the sun on her face while I fret about her getting sunburned... so Daddy and I can cuddle with her under a beautiful sky of exploding light... so I can watch her revel in each firework...
God, help me enjoy my daughter today as my heart aches inconsolably for my son.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Precious Memories... Ethan on June 3, 2010, PART 1
Ethan's last full day with us was Thursday, June 3, 2010.
It was a day of precious memories... memories that will (and must) last for the rest of our lives...
We made the trip to Birmingham (his surgery would be at UAB the next morning), stopping for a late, leisurely lunch at the Olive Garden--- the same restaurant chain my husband and I went to on our first date, and the same one we have celebrated so many family occasions at... including this year's Mother's Day, less than a month before.
It was a special lunch... it felt right. Here Josh and I were with our two kids, taking turns holding "Baby 2" while giving "Baby 1" peaches from our tea, helping her with the kids' menu word search, and reminding her not to crawl under the table and to eat her mac-and-cheese, because "There will not be any more food for a while, so don't tell us you're hungry as soon as we get in the car..." It was family life, and we were grateful.
The servers cooed over our two children, and we ate it up, proud to be their parents. Ethan accidentally dipped his uncoordinated hand into my pasta as his head bobbed around, causing us to laugh. He wanted to be held, not put in his car seat beside the table, and we were perfectly happy to do the holding... and to give him lots and lots of kisses. As always, Mama wanted pictures... and thankfully, had Daddy take some.
We lingered at the table, just enjoying being a family. We would have stayed even longer, but we were anxious to get to the hotel so we could enjoy some family time at the pool before tucking our babies in at a decent hour (we would be up a lot of the night to let Ethan eat since he would not be allowed to after 4:00am, and we also had to be at UAB at 6:00am).
Here we are, just happy to be together (Emily's pout is a fake one, by the way!):
It was a day of precious memories... memories that will (and must) last for the rest of our lives...
We made the trip to Birmingham (his surgery would be at UAB the next morning), stopping for a late, leisurely lunch at the Olive Garden--- the same restaurant chain my husband and I went to on our first date, and the same one we have celebrated so many family occasions at... including this year's Mother's Day, less than a month before.
It was a special lunch... it felt right. Here Josh and I were with our two kids, taking turns holding "Baby 2" while giving "Baby 1" peaches from our tea, helping her with the kids' menu word search, and reminding her not to crawl under the table and to eat her mac-and-cheese, because "There will not be any more food for a while, so don't tell us you're hungry as soon as we get in the car..." It was family life, and we were grateful.
The servers cooed over our two children, and we ate it up, proud to be their parents. Ethan accidentally dipped his uncoordinated hand into my pasta as his head bobbed around, causing us to laugh. He wanted to be held, not put in his car seat beside the table, and we were perfectly happy to do the holding... and to give him lots and lots of kisses. As always, Mama wanted pictures... and thankfully, had Daddy take some.
We lingered at the table, just enjoying being a family. We would have stayed even longer, but we were anxious to get to the hotel so we could enjoy some family time at the pool before tucking our babies in at a decent hour (we would be up a lot of the night to let Ethan eat since he would not be allowed to after 4:00am, and we also had to be at UAB at 6:00am).
Here we are, just happy to be together (Emily's pout is a fake one, by the way!):
Friday, July 2, 2010
A Month of Fridays
It was four weeks ago today our sweet Ethan went to be with Jesus. Honestly, I can't believe we've made it this far.
Every day, we stand at his grave and hold each other, asking God to help us make it through another one. The fact that we are still breathing proves He is faithful.
This has been, without a doubt, the longest four weeks of our lives... it feels like we have already had to live without our son for so, so long. It is impossible to explain how much we miss him.
Yet at the same time, it really does seem like just yesterday that Ethan was still in our arms... that we were living life as a grateful family of four.
I know that will be the case until we see him again in Heaven... the wait will seem unbearably long, while the memories will remain incredibly fresh and tender.
He is one special little boy.
Every day, we stand at his grave and hold each other, asking God to help us make it through another one. The fact that we are still breathing proves He is faithful.
This has been, without a doubt, the longest four weeks of our lives... it feels like we have already had to live without our son for so, so long. It is impossible to explain how much we miss him.
Yet at the same time, it really does seem like just yesterday that Ethan was still in our arms... that we were living life as a grateful family of four.
I know that will be the case until we see him again in Heaven... the wait will seem unbearably long, while the memories will remain incredibly fresh and tender.
He is one special little boy.
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