Family

Third Star To The Right

2018, Family, grief, loss, Toby

Today marks another month without our son. It marks more milestones and brings with it more triggers – second spring break trip; first trip with the kids to DC; laughing with cousins and pictures where Toby’s always missing.

Luke reminded us multiple times today that you are here with us and there have been little signs while we’ve been away that tell us you’re never far away.

I sat on the train on our ride back today, listening to Luke tell us his favorite parts of the day and I just kept thinking “Would you have liked that? Would Toby be sitting on my lap looking out the window? Or sitting next to Luke watching him battle super hero’s on his table?”

I don’t have many words today. Other than, the pain is horrible and I’m convinced the constant loneliness I feel cannot be filled or replaced. No matter how much time has passed or how many stars we wish upon.

We were at the Smithsonian’s Air & Space museum today and in the planet exhibit a photo of the solar system caught my eye, but it wasn’t the planets, it was the stars and how vivid they were on the wall that made me stop and look at it closer for a moment.

It made me think of Peter Pan and I walked away thinking “I wonder what star you are?”💫

Learning to Live

2018, faith, Family, grief, loss, Parenting, Toby

Life is hard. Grief is harder. It gets worse before it gets better. This makes everyday challenges & situations sharper and hard to not take directly to heart. I look around the world some days and then I look at Luke and think “Am I doing this right?” Honestly, some days I’m not sure.

My heart has been very heavy lately. Some days I feel like I’ve been pulled back into the first few weeks without Toby. It’s scary. It’s sad. It’s heartbreaking. There have been a few days that I’ve felt so consumed with grief that I questioned how I have made it for 18 months. I don’t know. I don’t know that I ever will.

I sat on the floor the other evening after folding a load of laundry, with Toby’s picture book in my lap, crying. Crying because I didn’t have laundry for him. Crying because in 18 months I haven’t opened the drawers in his room, except for once. And the one time that I did, the sight of clothes he never got to wear and the smell,his smell, made me so ill I shut it and haven’t dared open it since.

I cried for at least a half hour. I could physically feel pain inside my chest and the tears on my face. It hurt, but felt like my body was unloading emotion that I couldn’t hold anymore. I’ve had so many of those moments since this year started.

When this year started I promised myself I was going to try a few [different] things to try to manage my grief. I started to read the Bible. No specific book or part, just random, open up and start reading. Yes, of course, I am searching for something in what I’m reading; some sign of Toby; some direction for our family’s path; some sign that God has a plan for us. Something.

To be honest, I don’t always find that. But, on the mornings that have followed, there have been devotions in my prayers for things that are not among my daily thoughts or things weighing on my heart. I don’t have a sure sign of where they come from, but I am starting to think that maybe it’s God’s way of using my pain.

There is a spot in the events of the day that Toby died that causes me so much pain. This spot is a place, outside our home, that I have to see and face daily. And everyday I sit there, with the heartache, the pain, the death of my son, staring back at me. I’ve succumb to its presence in my daily routine. Some days I cry. Some days I stare. Some days I have to close my eyes and remind myself to breathe because PTSD kicks in and the sounds all come rushing back my head. Some days I stare, as I sit in my car by myself and say “Why?”

About a week ago I was near this spot and the one thing, the one physical thing that always brings the emotion back, had been blocked, by a pile of dirt. I looked at it and was genuinely surprised that the pain that I expected to feel, that I felt daily, wasn’t there. “Huh.” I heard myself say. “A break?” I was asking God.

We all have those moments. Those moments when we plead with God for a break. Or a sign. Or an answer. When we’re in the midst of frustration or disparity. When we haven’t had a day go right.

These moments are more devastating for a grieving parent. These moments are faced with unending questioning of how strong we are; how much we can handle; how misunderstood can we be; how rude and uncompassionate people can be; how quick to judge society is; how much more can our heart break; before enough is enough. It is a continual test, to which the answer and the Judge is not in this world.

I have a lot to learn in life. Some things, through the years. Some things, through experience. Some things, through prayer.

A lot of the weight I am physically carrying is because of fear.

Fear of no control.

Fear of the unknown.

Fear of my heart not having any more ways to break.

Fear of not being able to save those most important to me.

Fear that I may forget. Forget anything.

Fear of disappointing my parents, or worse, my children, because I’ve been so handicapped by grief that I can’t give it my all.

These are all worth fearing, but do you know the ultimate fear of a grieving parent?

Fear of what will never be.

Fear of having to carry that pain – every.single.day. – for the rest of my life.

There is no “getting over” the loss of our son. It pains me that anyone would even think that would be possible for a parent or family dealing with any kind of infant or child loss. There is no timetable for grief.

What I’m struggling with is learning to live with grief and without Toby.

All the Love

2017, faith, Family, Home, Parenting

To the new mom who is running on two hours of sleep; no shower in a few days; same clothes you slept in from the day before; three week old baby asleep on your shoulder and the living room in front of you a mess from toys your two-year old has been playing with – I’m praying for you.

To the new foster mom in line at the store. Your cart not only filled high with food, clothes, winter jackets, hats and gloves, diapers, formula, soap and juice, but the two little girls that you just opened your home and heart to – I’m praying for you.

To the women in line at the pharmacy, holding a pregnancy test, your stomach in knots because you don’t want to go through the heartbreak of yet another miscarriage but yet you want a positive test; to be able to carry a healthy baby full term; and finally hold your child in your arms – I’m praying for you.

To the grandmother who has raised a family, watched her children marry and now have families and children of their own. Who have silently grieved while being strong for your daughters and sons as they have endured miscarriages, deaths of children, infertility and continual longing – I am praying for you.

To the mother who is now caring for her own mother. A women who adored her family and yet today no longer remembers who they are or who is caring for her, but loves you anyway and smiles as you brush her hair or sing her a song – I’m praying for you.

To the women who has done everything possible to conceive; ate all the right things; taken every pill or shot they’ve prescribed; prayed 1,000 times over and yet nothing is working and you feel like you’re body is failing you; preventing you from being the mom you always wanted to be; from your husband becoming a father; your parents a grandparent – I’m praying for you. 

To the grandmother who is now raising her grandchildren, for whatever the circumstance may be. Who has opened her home to the laughter and tears, long nights and fights over what everyone wants for dinner, but goes to be each evening thanking God for these little blessings – I’m praying for you.

To the stay-at-home mom who would give anything for a night out, even if that just meant a trip to Target and a coffee on your own. Who was up before her family to finish laundry and pack lunches and who will have toys, books, craft supplies and dinner to clean up after bath time tonight – I am praying for you.

To the working mom whose alarm went off at 5am so you could get a workout in before the rest of your family was awake, worked a 8-5 day and only stopped to go to the bathroom once and whose lunch consisted of a pack of crackers and a diet coke. Who is on pick-up for daycare this week and would give anything for her email to stop while she’s watching just one episode of Mickey Mouse with her toddler before bedtime – I’m praying for you.

For the parents who have one child in the hospital and one, or more, child(en) at home. Who haven’t been in the same room with each other for weeks because they are focused on making sure each child is taken care of and feels like everything is going to be ok. Who take shifts sleeping and working, just to pay the medical bills and buy groceries, and sometimes don’t know what day of the week it is – I’m praying for you.

To the father holding the weight of the world on your shoulders so that your wife and children do not have to bear it. Finding all the right things to say when someone asks “how are you?”; defending and protecting your family with every ounce of strength you have that when you hit your knees to pray, all that comes are tears – I’m praying for you. 

To the women and men who teach and care for our children while their parents are at work each day. Who comfort them when they are sick or skinned their knee playing outside. Who discipline them, even when you don’t want to, and show them how to share and pray. Who high-five them when they ace their spelling or math test and say “wait till you tell Mom & Dad” – I’m praying for you.

To the mother and father who’s weekly routine involves multiple visits to the cemetery, either before or after work, because you’ve suffered the loss of one or more children. Who spend time each week telling your children about what you wish you were doing with them, here on Earth, instead of them watching you from Heaven – I’m praying for you.

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To anyone that reads this and can relate to any of these circumstances, I admire your ability to do it every day. I have seen each of you over the past few months and if it wasn’t for the death of my son, Toby, which caused me to look at life in a different way, I may not have seen you, or recognized how hard you are trying. I admire the patience you have, your ability to face each day and your dedication to those that depend on you. I wish you grace and peace for whatever road you are on. I know that you want the children in your lives to feel important and loved. And no matter what anyone says, they DO and that’s because of YOU. You do it best. You love them best and the exact way that they need to be loved.

I am praying for each of you this month because I have seen you and you’ve made an impact on my life, without knowing it, and how I look at every situation. Know that someone is praying for you and wishing that, if even for one moment of your day, you can see yourself and think “I am brave” or “I am doing my best.” 

You do not feel it at all, I know. I’m right there with you. But you are. You are brave, and you are wise, and I hope you feel loved.

I found this leaf on the ground yesterday morning as I dropped Luke off. A little sign from our angel, Toby.