Two drifters off to see the world...

Three years later

2011-02-03T21:32:00.003-05:00

Tomorrow marks Sully's third birthday. I stopped at his playground tonight on my way home from rehearsal. I let my hand brush over the rosemary that shot up over his sign, "sully's playground". I breathed in deeply that pungent scent and placed a kiss on my fingers and then on the little etched bird. Rosemary for remembrance. I remember you baby boy. I can feel the weeping mother opening up the door and walking through my heart, my emotions, my memory. I sat on the bench and sobbed.

Everyone has pain. Everyone has some ache that their heart hides. But why this ache in my life? Why a dead child? I still am asking that, three years later.

Tomorrow we are taking a reprieve from the world. Brad is off work, the kids will not have school. We aren't planning on interacting with anyone, just us, just a day to be together as a family and celebrate and mourn our Sully. We've planned eating and cake making, family presents, board games and movies. We'll look through his pictures and watch our home films. We'll take balloons to the playground and play together there. We want to go to Edmarc and touch his name plate placed there with so many other children who left broken hearted families. We are not alone in our grief.

I was once told that we are what we celebrate, that our children learn from what we celebrate. I want to celebrate my boy. I want my other children to remember that we celebrated his life every year. Maybe, as we all grow older and eventually live apart, his birthday will always be a reason for us to gather back together again. I would like that. So, even if it is through tears, I've put up my Sully flag and I've made hearts bloom out of all our windows. I will hold my little ones a bit tighter and breath a deep breath. I want to embrace and celebrate all that Sully taught me, embrace the beauty of the smallest of lives, the joy and pain of six days, of being in the moment and no where else. I love you, Sully, my forever Valentine.

Brand New Day

2009-07-13T12:30:00.005-04:00

Brad put this song by Joshua Radin on the last cd he made for me and the kids. I listen to it over and over and smile because I feel like it's a song for me and our family. A Brand New Day...

Some kind of magic
Happens late at night
When the moon smiles down on me
And bathes me in it’s light

I fell asleep beneath you
In the tall blades of grass
When I woke the world was new
I never had to ask

It’s a brand new day
The sun is shinning
It’s a brand new day
For the first time
In such a long long time
I know
I’ll be ok

Most kind of stories
Save the best part for last
Most stories have a hero who finds
You make your past your past
Ya you make your past your past

It’s a brand new day
The sun is shinning
It’s a brand new day
For the first time
In such a long long time
I know
I’ll be ok

This cycle never ends
Gotta fall in order to mend

And it’s a brand new day
It’s a brand new day
For the first time
In such a long long time
I know
I’ll be ok

A special day, Jasper's baptism

2009-07-09T21:12:00.004-04:00

The fourth trimester

2009-06-17T09:37:00.004-04:00

Jasper turned 12 weeks old yesterday. We have officially finished our fourth trimester. Brad and I first heard this term after having Zane, our first son, and we have hung on to it because it makes so much sense of the chaos and sleeplessness and lack of life pattern that follows the weeks after a baby is born. It has helped us to not try and think of those weeks as if they should be normal but rather like we are still in the "pregnant" phase, giving ourselves grace to just fall apart instead of trying to get it together.

And, true to 12 week old form, Jasper is finally starting to sleep longer stretches through the night. Last night he only woke me up once! I guess it goes to show that babies do what babies need to do. I worried so much with my first that if I held her to much she wouldn't sleep. But, this round, there has never been a baby that was held more in his first three months of life and here he is sleeping in his crib at night just like the first. As wonderful as it is to have him, there truly is relief in finally sleeping a bit more! I am feeling once again more like myself and not quite as hormonal. And having Jasper truly is like a balm to my wounded heart.

Ah, my heart, it does still ache and I am coming to accept that it may never go away. I mostly live each day pushing my mind away from very focused thoughts of last year. But then it will hit me and knock me down again. As I sorted through my clothes, shedding the maternity and larger items, I fumbled across the white sweater I wore to Sully's service and it all flooded back to me. The tears blurred my vision and made me stop my project. A million times I will walk by Sully's little hand and foot prints on our wall. Then, for some reason, I stop one time and just stare and them and think that his flesh once made those impressions. I feel my breath catch and I'm paralyzed again by the tears. On vacation, I heard Oh Heavenly Day come up on our ipod, and I just sobbed as I held Jasper even tighter to me. What I realize is that I hope these moments always catch me through out the rest of my life. Even if it hurts, it still is a connection to my son, a reminder of the love that changed me immeasurably.

Lake Jocassee, Devil's Fork State Park, South Carolina

What's in a name?

2009-05-15T08:26:00.003-04:00

Jasper Keats. I waffled on his name after he was born wondering if he should have been given his brother's name in honor of him. After much consideration, Brad and I decided that this little guy should have his own name and that we could always honor and remember Sully in other ways. As the days carry on I see more clearly how Japser's name and it's meaning is the right one for him.

Jasper means guardian or treasurer. Keats can mean poetic or also it can mean melancholy. I questioned using a name that could mean sadness but it's the two names together that take on significance for me. This little wonder in my arms I have named the guardian of the sadness, the treasurer or keeper of the poetry. As I talk to him and hold him against my chest I feel how much he is keeping the sadness at bay, how much his arrival has begun to heal my wounded heart. The gift of Jasper to our family is like a salve for us all. I often wonder where I would have ended up had this little guy not also been a part of our story. The bitterness and angst is still inside but would it have festered uncontrollably had my arms always been left empty? I don't know. Having Jasper without a doubt has helped me to once again see the beauty of life, it's poetry. And, strangely enough, even though so much pain came along with Sully, he also brought such a depth of feeling and "poetry" if you will. Sully's story will always be a part of Jasper's and so, he is rightly named the "keeper of the poetic". He is such a dear little baby, so hearty, so happy. He gives us so much joy, my Jasper Keats.

Easter Sunday

2009-04-14T11:07:00.002-04:00

We made it to church this week. It took a great amount of effort but we both knew we wanted to make it there for Easter. I knew I probably wouldn't be able to pay attention to the majority of the service with tending to a newborn or walking out with him when I needed, but, still, there was something to just sitting in that back pew. It, of course, brought back so many memories of the Sunday we took Sully to church. Now, a year and a few months later we were back in that same spot, sitting with the same dear friends, with an infant in a car seat. Yet how much has changed. As the service ended and the congregation sang Amazing Grace I felt the tears well up in my eyes and stream down my cheeks. There is such joy in holding Jasper and yet still such a rawness inside of me, a wounded faith as I described it to a friend the other day. I recognize that I still have so many questions and yet, in those moments of singing that old hymn, I knew that despite my faith being shaken to its bare bones, it is, in deed, still in tact. I do still believe that one day I will know my Sully again. This Sunday is such a celebratory one because I do believe in the resurrection and all that it means for me and for my son and for my family.

I think about him everyday

2009-04-01T11:00:00.002-04:00

Sully is never far from my mind. In fact, I can't think of a single day since his presence entered our lives that I haven't thought about him. I wonder if as time goes on there will ever be a day where my mind doesn't go to him. I hope not.

I wondered if Jasper would look like Sully. I don't really see Sully in him. I might catch glimpses of Zane in a profile or see Ella in his nose and eyes but Jasper really looks like his own unique self to me. But, all of us have called him Sully at least once. It makes me wonder if perhaps we should have given Jasper his brother's name for a middle name.

Today is day 8. My Jasper has been with us for over a week now! On day 6 I don't think I could put him down at all. Day Six. The day Sully left us. It made it all the sweeter to hold Jasper and see him begin to open his eyes to the world and become more awake and aware. But it also made Day Six a year and a month ago that much more terrible. How did I live through that? How did I ever hold my child as he died? I can hardly believe that was me or my son.

And then day 7 came with our Jasper. And everywhere I turned I could see our house on the day after Sully died. I remembered the way Ella's tree looked outside and how cold the weather had turned. I remembered the closest of friends coming into our house, warming an incredible meal that I put into my mouth but couldn't even really taste. I remember a sense of relief but also a great numbness. I sat at this computer and chose pictures of my beautiful Sully for what would be his funeral. How different this day 7. Instead of the sounds of silence and an empty crib I heard a hearty cry and held close to me the warmth of my fourth child. All of these things came crashing down on me last night. I stepped into a hot shower and just sobbed for all that has been and all that is now. I cried out of sadness and joy, bitterness and hope all at the same time.

And then I slept a sweet sleep, a much needed sleep. Brad tended to our Jasper all night and would bring him to me when he was hungry. And here I am, this morning, on day 8. What a gift each day seems to me.

just some photos

2009-03-30T17:23:00.004-04:00

The cousins

Family all around to hold our newest bundle

Our babysitter and family friend Jordan who just loves newborns

Jasper's buddy, Graham, and Aunt Mandy and Uncle Kyle

Grandpa helped Brad put up the crib. It felt wonderful to be ready for the crib to go up. I just love looking in the room and seeing it (even though Jasper probably won't sleep there for a while still).

Grandma and Grandpa

Big brother Zane

Big sister Ella

Letting go...

2009-03-30T15:00:00.003-04:00

I have been trying to explain this "shifting" to friends as they ask how I am. I have been sorting through and trying to figure out exactly what it is. I know I am a jumble of emotions and many of the things we are experiencing now and over the past year will take a lifetime to sort out. But, I think part of this "shifting" has been described so very clearly by a recitation instructor of mine from a course I took at the beginning of this pregnancy. She describes it this way:

"There is this tension that is inside that you have from the moment you know you are pregnant until the next baby is actually born. Until the baby is born you can’t relax or let go completely even though you are trusting God all the way. You know deep inside that bad things do happen and that there is real pain in this broken world. I get it and I think what happened is the letting go of that tension- it isn’t necessarily worry or fear but a somewhat tense “can I hope?” anticipatory waiting to see the outcome. Now you can relax and enjoy the fruit of your labors!"

She goes on to speak of the pain experienced that causes the blessings to be enjoyed even more. And this is so true. I have never felt so grateful and blessed to hold a healthy baby as I do now. I have never found such joy and contentment in being up in the night just holding my baby. I am so thankful and my heart feels such a sense of fullness and gratitude. This past year has held so many struggles that it felt like the only truth hitting home was the reality of the pain and suffering of this life. But, as my former instructor and holding my strong and healthy Jasper reminds me, "not all of life on earth is hard and sad. God does grace us with glimpses of the world being recreated in His image - heaven." These are days of great joy and relief for me, days of enjoying a sweetness on this earth, of basking in the sunshine of restoration, of relishing a taste of what heaven must be like.

A shifting world

2009-03-27T08:15:00.002-04:00

Brad and I were up and down all night for our first night home with Jasper. He is most content in our arms, and I have no problem at all giving in to his demands. He did manage to find himself in the bassinet a few times and it didn't take him long to fuss about it. His lusty cry sounded like music in my ears. I may find myself tired for many weeks to come but I don't think I could ever complain about it. My heart is just so thankful.

The moment Jasper was born and I held him on my chest, the world shifted. It was so subtle and yet so monumental all at the same time. The images in my head are of a knocked over plant being set upright again, a spilled glass set back in place so it can be filled up once again, or a crooked painting carefully shifted back just so. Nothing is perfect. The story we have been given is still the same. I still lost my Sully. There is no replacement for a lost child. But, somehow, in ways I don't even think I know how to explain just yet, everything does feel so very different.

A long awaited baby

2009-03-26T17:13:00.009-04:00

He's here, he's finally here! Jasper Keats Anderson was born on Tuesday, March 24th, 2009 at 10:47 p.m. He weighed 9lbs and 1/2oz and was 21 1/2 inches long! He is healthy and strong and feels so good in our arms! Here are some pictures and a video that Brad made is at the very bottom.

Squeaky Shoes

2009-03-07T15:25:00.004-05:00

A very dear group of women gathered together this past week to celebrate the impending arrival of this little one I’m carrying now. It was such a lovely evening down to the very last detail: a beautiful home filled with fresh flowers, a delicious and savory dinner, choices of wine, decadent desserts and best of all, the dearest of friends each of whom over this past year have loved me in their own special way through one of the hardest seasons of my life.

And they brought gifts, oh so many sweet little gifts for this baby boy! Out of one pastel blue bag I pulled a pair of shoes that will squeak when walked on. My friend shouted out that they would fit him next summer. Next summer. We will have a next summer with this baby. All the way home her words played through my head. Do I dare believe we will really have a next summer? And the oh so fun bright green Christmas overalls, will he really be with us this next Christmas to wear them? Hope is pressing forward, pushing me onward and I want to embrace it, and yet it feels so very dangerous still. But I can’t help but fall into it, to want to embrace it. How compelling hope is.

I have been regularly meeting with a couple of my friends for a few years and lately we have been reading the Francis Schaeffer book, Affliction, together. We discussed this past week the topic she brings up of our asking the “why” questions. My friend gave the example of her 11 year old daughter asking her father (a highly intelligent surgeon) a question and then doubting his answer as if she really knew more than him. It is so easy to see how she doesn’t even have the fundamental knowledge to be able to grasp the true answer which her father could try to explain to her. How very like her I am to demand an answer and think that I am capable enough to judge whether it is the right answer or not.
I forget or don’t want to accept that I am the created being, not the Creator. Then I think on how very patient this father is with his daughter, how caring, and how bright and delightful this little girl truly is, and it makes me wonder if despite my questioning and doubting that perhaps I could be loved in that way by a “father”, too.

I see that I will never understand the why of what has happened in our lives. I see that as this little boy comes to us I will always think of Sully as well. They are so connected. I don’t know why this little boy has the hope of staying with us for a lifetime and our last didn’t. It’s very strange to think that if all had been normal last time this little life wouldn’t even be here growing in my belly. And yet, this is our story. As Brad keeps reminding me lately, we each have to live our own story. Everyone has suffering and heartache. No one can escape it in this life. But then there is the hope that pushes above it all in the gift of squeaky shoes, there are the friends who gather around you to cushion your fall and to pick you back up and help you celebrate life despite the loss and the tears. This, too, is part of my story.

A New Season

2009-02-22T06:36:00.003-05:00

The first half of this month was hard emotionally. I was prepared for some of it and other times, as always, it would just surprise me. I think that's when it was the hardest. This past week has felt different. On Friday I woke up and went through our normal morning routine but somehow, I felt something different. I felt hopeful. I felt like a new season was beginning for us. I felt joyful and excited about our next child coming to us and really thought for one of the first times that all would be well. Not perfect but that, like I just wrote, a new season was upon us, a season of joy and new hope.

A friend sent us this scripture recently as her prayer for herself and for us. I think about it all the time: "And now, God, do it again - bring rains to our drought-stricken lives. So those who planted crops in despair will shout hurrahs at the harvest. So those who went off with heavy hearts will come home laughing..." Psalm 126:4-6.

The weeping mother

2009-02-04T19:47:00.003-05:00

I cried more today than I expected. Everything just hit me in that way, and maybe because it is the one year anniversary of his birth I allowed myself the liberty to feel it all and weep, no keeping it together or carrying on with normal life, just stop and cry. I kept thinking of an image another mother who lost her son gave to me, the image of how we build a room onto our emotional house and in that room is the weeping mother. Over time, we go in that room less often but she will always be a part of who we are. Today it felt like I opened the door for her and she walked all through my house.

Tonight, I found myself sorting laundry in a desperate attempt to ground myself in something very mundane and ordinary, something necessary and functional, something non-emotional. I am very tired and emotionally drained. I thought I would want to relive each day of Sully's six days but I told Brad tonight that I don't know if I have it in me to take myself there each day. We relived so much today, so many memories. It has been good but very hard. We are grateful to the dear friends in our lives who have shown us particular tenderness today with cards and calls and beautiful tulips. You have been Love surrounding us once again...

Surround Me

2009-02-04T06:49:00.002-05:00

Brad put on the music that he made Sully's memorial movie to last year. This was the second song and it fit so well then and seemed to even more now. As I heard the gentle guitar and then these words I just lost it. Everything came rushing back so vividly, with the same force of the ache that I felt then, that I feel now...

Surround Me
Ben Taylor

Love surround me with all your reach, now while we're here alone
Now our bodies our ocean our beach, blessings of waves and stone
Floating a lonely sound you found me
Now that the tide is finally down

Surround me, surround me
Surround me

Love, move for me, roll beneath the sky
Shadows and silver cross your face, pools of moonlit night
Weak from standing on sandy ground, you found me
Now that I'm finally fallen down

Surround me, surround me
Surround me

Love surround me while you can till these waves get cold
Gone too deep I can not stand, I burned before I froze
Running to save my life and leaving you
And now in the heat of this dreadful dry
I'm needing you

Surround me, surround me
Surround me

The gift of Sully

2009-02-03T17:40:00.003-05:00

One year. I feel like I'm in a time warp. It seems like a life time ago that Sully was with us. Other times I can hardly believe that it has been an entire year that he came and went. I told a friend the other day how disappointed I am in myself sometimes. So much fell away while I carried Sully and in the days surrounding his life, all of the meaningless struggles, the stupid cares that sometimes could cloud my vision. I thought that I would forever be changed after Sully, that I would never again struggle with some of the things I had before he came to me. But, a year later, I am still just walking through daily existence with the same tendencies and proclivities towards sin that I once had. I still lose my temper at times with my children, I still struggle in certain relationships, I still feel overwhelmed by dishes and laundry. A year later, I still am just like everyone else. But Brad reminds me that while we haven't been made perfect, we have been forever changed.
We will celebrate Sully's life tomorrow. In the morning on our way to school, we will take six heart balloons to his playground and tie them on his swing. Ella and Zane want to take their Sully picture books to school to share with their friends. After dropping them off, Brad and I will go together to find our Sully tulips, this the final journey finishing a year of my monthly quest. Then, we will head to the beach where we last said good bye to our boy. I think I am looking forward to the solitude of the beach at this time of year, to the magnificence of the ocean reminding me that Sully is a part of something so much larger than I can comprehend. We've promised the kids a celebratory lunch and so we will pick them both up at noon and head somewhere fun (they have voted for either McDonald's or Moe's - kid's are so easy to please - me 8 months pregnant not so much). Zane and I picked out a rainbow cupcake mix and Diego cupcake liners the other day for us to make on Sully's birthday afternoon. After dinner, we'll take out his candle holders and light them in honor of his life and dive into the sweet treats. At some point during the day, we hope to look through our special book of Sully's photos and remember our favorite moments with him.
I think it will be a good day mixed with tearful moments, but even those will be good to have. These seem like small activities that we have chosen for the day but the quietness and simplicity of it all feels right for our family. What I want most is to celebrate the gift he was to us and the ways that he did change us for the better.

It's coming

2009-01-13T14:36:00.003-05:00

I sense it with everything in me. It is now less than a month for the year marker. As I drove to get my 11 month Sully tulips I thought about how next time it would be an entire year since he was born and died. I talked with a friend whose little one shares the same birthday as my Sully. I wanted to know the details of what she was doing, how she was growing all though I can imagine everything. We couldn't talk long because her little one began screaming in the background and needed her - a pretty good indicator of the 11 month stage. So, I went on their blog and checked out the daily details that way. It's so strange. All I want to do is see every detail, to see that sweet face and imagine my Sully but at the same time it just hurts so much to do that. What an odd push and pull I feel within me.

I imagine what I would have been doing at this point in preparation for our third turning one had everything been different, had he been well. In just three weeks we would have had a birthday cake and presents. Ella and Zane would have been so excited. I wonder how to mark the year instead. I know I want to light his candles for each of his days, the sterling circus shaped holders I bought for him when I first learned of my pregnancy should parade candles somewhere, somehow. Should I give a gift to each of my children since presents should always be at a birthday celebration? What about the day he died? What do you do on that day?

I feel my anxiety about this pregnancy growing immensely. I know it has a reason and it's place but I also wonder if it is connected to the fact that this year anniversary is slowly coming upon us, a year since I gave birth to a child destined to die. I find myself worried about things in this pregnancy fearing that somehow I will end up with empty arms again. I don't want empty arms again...

A New Year

2009-01-03T09:40:00.003-05:00

I am ready for it. I want it, all things new. I want the hope and possibility of days being brighter and full of happier times. I feel myself embracing it as I eagerly return all of the Christmas decorations to the attic, as I clean out old toys and boxes full of things not used in years, as we empty out Zane's room and wash it from top to bottom in preparation for the kid's bunk beds. There is something very cathartic about it all to me. Underneath the bustle of all this cleaning and sorting activity is what can only be hope that 2009 will be very different from this past year.

There is also the nagging thought that something else can happen. I don't know if that will ever go away. As we create a new room for Ella and Zane to share in preparation for a new baby, I see that we still hold back. Ella's old room is now the "play room" because even though we are hopeful, that hope does not move us to the certainty of setting up the crib yet. In time that will come, I hope...

Ella has asked me three times now if this baby will die like Sully. Then, on New Year's day, she happily sat on her top bunk and said that she just loved the new room and she wanted it to stay the same even after this baby died. My heart sank. I've tried to explain before as best I can how Sully was made differently so that he just couldn't stay here very long but that this baby is made more like her and Zane and that we hope he will be with us for a very long time. But her uncertainty is my own uncertainty. I can't say to her without a doubt that everything will be fine from here on out. Yes, this baby is genetically well but more than ever I know the fragility of life. We heard of a family who lost their 20 year old son in a car wreck New Year's Eve, and I thought, we could lose them at any point, 6 days or 20 years, we have no guarantees. I try to be as hopeful as possible with her, but I think it will take this baby actually being with us, actually becoming an annoying little brother, for her to know he is here to be a part of her life for a long time. I think it will take the same for me, too.

I read parts of Job today. It has been the book that has been in my mind most often. Growing up, the book of Job didn't quite fit with the "health and wealth" gospel espoused in our church so it was just blown off as an exemption to the rule. But in these past months how glad I am that the book of Job is there - right in the middle of the Bible - there for me to see Job's angst and frustration - for me to see him not understanding why tragedy had come to him - for me to see his friends give him terrible explanations and accuse him of it being his fault. At one place, Job says of God, "how faint the whisper we hear of him!" How that resonates with me. It seems as if my understanding of God is so very dim. Yet, as I struggle with God and wrestle with my faith, I see the beauty of the very end of Job. God does show himself to Job and make him see how understanding God is not even in his reach. And, then, I would expect God to say, you little peon, how dare you question me and accuse me, go back to the tragedy that your life has become and stay there forever, you don't deserve anything good. But he doesn't. I weep as I read that the "Lord blessed the latter part of Job's life more than the first". It must have been so different for Job. Surely the blessings were sweet, but it seems that his greatest comfort must have been having seen the Lord and living with those blessings given with such humility. Perhaps that is my hope for 2009 and for whatever days are ahead.

It's been a long time

2008-12-14T16:17:00.003-05:00

I've pushed writing aside for quite some time. I hear the voice longing to express itself in my head but then shut it out. There are so many reasons for this and I've expressed some of them before. But the turmoil in my head has been so great these past few months. I have wrestled with my faith and really feel myself searching for a redefinition of what it is I truly believe. This is unsettling to many people in my life and so on top of my own struggle I think I've wanted to avoid dealing with some of those unhelpful opinions and voices. I don't know if things will ever fully shake out. I know I am forever changed and can never see the world the way I once did. If anything, my ignorance is gone and with it a certain amount of bliss. I told Brad the other day that it's not that I don't believe anymore. In fact, I long more for Truth than ever before. I think I realize now how skewed we all perceive it. If anything, I think I am glimpsing more of Truth than before, and it is a bit more daunting, more frightening than I ever thought. So, Truth hasn't changed but I have.

I think Brad and I realize that we may never have answers to some of our toughest questions. But one day, we hope that we will be able to come to a little more peace about it all, a bit more acceptance than we've felt over these past few months. Maybe we will finally settle into and figure out how to live with the not knowing or understanding why.

So where does that leave us with Christmas before us. I thought I'd be able to handle it all, at least put on the good face for my kids. But the weekend we pulled out all the decorations I just wasn't feeling any Christmas cheer. As I went to put the first wreath up over the mantle, I fell apart. I thought of the ten month old that should be crawling around my feet, that should be getting into things and mesmerized by all of these new sights. It all felt so empty and not the way it should have been.

We took the kids to the Polar Express at the Botanical Gardens to see the lights. I watched families with their bundled up babies and thought about the little one I should have had bundled up on my lap. As we rode through, we enjoyed the lights but I just felt dull inside. It's like the anger has melted into dullness. Everything I do seems to have a film over it making every experience not quite as cheery as I once thought it was.

Until today...

Edmarc offered to have carolers and Santa Claus come with presents to visit us in this first year after losing Sully. At first I hesitated. How would the kids react? How would I react? Finally, Brad and I decided that it might be fun and an opportunity not to be missed. After all, how many kids get a day visit from Santa to their house? We heard the singing coming up our driveway this afternoon and raced to the front door. And, there, following them was Santa Claus, and, no kidding, he was the real Santa Claus! Brad said he looked like they took him right out of Miracle on 34th Street. The kids were mesmerized watching him walk up to our house and I teared up as the carolers sang. It was such a good moment, a moment of joy and excitement and Christmas cheer for all of us, and I felt the hope that maybe the dullness wouldn't last forever.

A Happy Halloween

2008-11-01T11:21:00.003-04:00

Moments

2008-10-27T06:07:00.005-04:00

While Sully was with us, we made his hand print and foot print that now hang on our living room wall. I look at them all the time. Not a stop and stare look but always here and there out of the corner of my eye as I go about my day. From where I sit at our family table they are in my direct line of vision. A while back the double sided tape gave way to the weight of the clay and his hand print came off the mat and fell an inch or so to the bottom of the shadow box frame. I noticed it right away. I didn't fix it right away. I wondered if other people noticed when they came in and out of our house. Does anyone see his hand print has fallen? Do they wonder that I haven't repaired it? Do they wonder if I've even noticed? Strange things go through your head. Last night, in a fit of orderliness, I finally pulled it down and super glued the clay back to the foam tape. As I pulled the cold clay out of the box frame, I traced his sweet little hand. How small it was. I remember the day we made the impression. It all comes rushing back to me as I feel the little crevices of his fingers and wrinkly skin. I can't believe what has happened. I break down and cry and realize, this is why I couldn't fix it for so long. Maybe somewhere inside me I knew how hard it would be and so I let myself stare at the fallen hand print instead of facing the weeping mother in my heart.

It happened again one afternoon as I looked at a photo of Ella and Zane holding Sully. I noticed the white headband in Ella's hair and wondered where it was. She doesn't like to fuss much with her hair, but that was one of the headbands she rarely would choose to wear on her own. A while back, I gave most of her headbands away, and suddenly I panicked that I had given that one away. I raced to her room and went through her draw of random stuff and hair things. I couldn't find it and hated myself for giving it away. I just wanted to hold it. Weird, I know. But it felt like a piece of that moment that Sully was with us, and somehow in the irrationality of grief, I believed holding that headband would give me that moment back. Despite fearing looking stupid, I asked for the white headband back, and when I saw it again and held it, I cried.

Saying it out loud

2008-10-26T18:44:00.000-04:00

Today I had a chance to talk with a friend who I find very dear but don't get to spend a lot of time with. She is good at asking deeper questions, real questions and actually seeming like she's interested in my rambling answers. I love that about her. As I spoke with her, I found myself sorting out some things in my heart, saying some things out loud that I haven't said out loud before. And when I said them, I could finally hear for myself how silly they sounded. Yet why is it as they are going around in your brain they seem much more threatening? My friend was gracious with me and encouraging. She eased my silly fears with her kind words and assurance. I am thankful that when the thoughts creep back in as threatening, I can replay in my mind her response and be comforted.

Disillusionment

2008-10-23T04:39:00.002-04:00

I'm up early or in the middle of the night whichever you want to call it. I guess if I can get myself back to sleep it will be the middle of the night - otherwise just up early. I always think of Sully when this happens. I was awake so many times at odd hours through my pregnancy with him. The beautiful thing about these hours is the intense stillness and quiet. My thoughts seem so much clearer, like I have the space and time to let them work themselves out without any of the distractions of the normal waking hours.

I had been thinking about the title of an entry - perhaps "Retreat into Normalcy" or something of the sort. As I get comments from people or clips of my writing mentioned through others so often there is misinterpretation or just the strangeness of people knowing more about me than I might tell them on my own. I suppose that is the nature of writing in a public space. I've often thought about making a private blog. But then, I hear of someone facing a similar situation who was able to read through those Sully days of ours and find some comfort even in knowing they are not the only ones to walk through such difficulty, and for that reason I know I can't close down this space. And then, there are those dear souls who read and do get it, and do offer such encouragement and beautiful insight and for them I am so thankful. I suppose a blog is just like life, full of the ups and downs, those who get you and those who don't, full of the great moments and also the moments of disillusionment.

That is where I have been lately with relationships in general, maybe with life in general thus making for the relational difficulty. Disillusioned. There are certain gifts of friendship in my life that have stood the test of time, been through struggle and still come through as solid, beautiful relationships. I think for most these types of friendships are fewer and thus all the more valuable. Yes, we do things in those relationships to foster their growth but there seems to be a certain naturalness to them that can't just be recreated in two people who might not "click" quite as well. Yet that's not always the case. In one of my dearest friendships there was never an initial click but more of a gradual growing together. Or maybe there is an initial "click" but time reveals that the connection lacks depth and so you both move on. In the dearest relationships, is there less expectation and thus the opportunity for relational freedom and growth? No, I think my friends and I expect certain things from one another. Perhaps, because of the connection and the longevity there is a large well of love to draw from, offering one another forgiveness or a willingness to overlook certain things. Or that could also be part of the "click" - that your personality doesn't rub that other person quite as raw as it might someone else. So it seems you have to have both connection and depth for the making of a true friend.

But why is it that in the people you hope most for closeness and deepness there seems to always be disappointment? After years of tensions and in the middle of grief and now carrying a new child, I just find myself too tired to want to try anymore. I feel so disillusioned. Life has not turned out as I would have hoped, people are not who I hoped they would be, I am not able to respond as I would have once hoped I could. All "illusions" are shattered.

And then I read by Dietrich Bonhoeffer that if I am ever to have knowledge of genuine fellowship, "so surely must we be overwhelmed by a great disillusionment with others, with Christians in general, and, if we are fortunate, with ourselves...Only that fellowship which faces such disillusionment, with all its unhappy and ugly aspects, begins to be what it should be in God's sight, begins to grasp in faith the promise that is given to it."

So maybe this is right where I'm supposed to be. Maybe in this disillusioned state I can recognize the limits of certain relationships and just allow them to be what God intended them to be (instead of all I had intended them to be). How foolish of me to believe I could have or expect to have with everyone the depth of closeness and friendship I have with a handful of cherished souls. But this does not mean that I cannot love in those relationships; in fact, I feel like it gives me a freedom to love by letting go of the expectations and false hopes to which I once clung. And it gives me freedom to just be where I am and who I am. Maybe this is all a part of Sully's gift to me, part of learning to live in the wake of his absence, part of accepting the brokenness in us all.

Portraits

2008-10-18T20:00:00.000-04:00

Every year I take the kid's portraits. This year, there wasn't ever a question as to where I would take them. I knew I wanted to photograph them on their brother's playground. It just seemed right. I took Zane's a few weeks back when he turned three and Ella's last weekend.

Ella is Five!

2008-10-18T19:55:00.004-04:00

Ella turned five October 9. We had lots of fun turning her and her girlfriends into princess ponies.

Stupid Hope

2008-10-12T19:41:00.003-04:00

It has been such a relief to not feel the need to hide a pregnancy, to stop trying to pretend in my head that it wasn't happening, to let myself emotionally embrace this fourth child of ours. People have been so kind in their joy and excitement for us. Sometimes it is quite draining to try and explain why we withheld our news from practically everyone but then, I think most people probably understand. Our news is good and joyous but of course quite different from that first time I found out we were expecting. I do not feel so naive and light hearted. I feel quite guarded in my happiness realizing that life is fragile, that I am still not guaranteed anything, even a healthy baby in my arms.

But friends have been so dear and kind to us. One girlfriend insisted on a baby boy buying spree at Babies R' Us. When I walked through those doors I couldn't help but think of the last time I was there, to buy but a few very tiny things for my Sully. Those sweet things now find themselves on Ella's dolls, and a few I could not give up are tucked away in Sully's box. I think about some of Sully's things and wonder which ones I will pass on to this boy. It seems only right that Sully should be able to pass on something as all big brothers do, that this little brother of his would know the story behind the blanket, the hand-knit booties that Sully's feet were just too small for. But I think Sully's hats will always remain his. I can't pass those on. His image is so closely connected to those blue hats made with such tenderness for him. And I think those tiny clothes will stay with Ella's collection. If this baby is as healthy as we hope, he will never fit in those tiny things. What a strange thought.

Even stranger still to me is the fact that only five months before this little life came into being, Sully lived where he now does. Sometimes I think we are absolutely crazy to do this again. I think about how tired my body is of being pregnant. Brad and I have termed it "stupid hope" that caused us to even attempt to walk down this road again. But somehow, it seems right. Despite the fatigue, I am grateful that I am able to carry a child again.

Sully's little brother

2008-10-07T16:44:00.003-04:00

Good News!

2008-10-01T17:55:00.002-04:00

A phone call came today - and on the other end was a voice saying, "I have good news!" Our test results finally came back and this baby is well! This child I am carrying is genetically whole and healthy - genetically perfect! I want to live in this good moment, in this hope. I'm pushing away the sadness. Just for a moment I don't want to let it in. I don't want to listen to the voices of reality reminding me that we aren't promised anything, that even healthy babies have things go wrong. So I do. I push it all aside and believe, if just for this moment, that life will be good again, that I will know the sweetness and yes, even the sleepless misery of a newborn. Yet the ache is inescapable; I see it in Brad's eyes. I know we can never change our story. I know that this is our fourth child, not our third. But I want to hope that this little life will bring with it healing for all of us.

Two Blankets

2008-09-29T17:32:00.003-04:00

I am waiting. I have been in this state of waiting much of this past year. First, we waited to see if tell-tale blood work was accurate with an ultrasound of our third child. That was one year ago this past week. We were devastated but then had more conclusive testing done to be sure. We waited some more. No good news came after we waited. So, then we waited for this child to possibly die in my wound or be born, whichever came first. And he was born and lived for six days filled with love and light but also with the waiting, the knowing that the days would end before they ever should for a child.

I sit on my bed and look at Sully's beautifully crafted box, the one made by his grandfather. On top of it is the blanket I made for him, the blanket that held and touched his sweet skin for those brief days of his life here on earth. And now, folded even smaller on top of it is another blanket. I found it years ago but just recently rediscovered it tucked away in a closet. It is so soft, a warm creamy color with intricate blue crochet work added to the edges. I bought it as a possible gift for someone having a baby boy but today I pulled it out and gave it to myself. I look at the two blankets as I am once again waiting.

We had genetic testing done two weeks ago and have anxiously waited for our results. But it seems our test cells are growing slowly and the results are taking a bit longer than we hoped. I broke down today when they didn't come in yet again. How long will I live waiting? I just want to hear something good, something hopeful. I want to hear that the child I have carried these past three months is healthy and whole. That this baby will stay with us, and yes, make us miserable with lack of sleep! That this baby will grow up to love and annoy his older brother and sister. That yes, living here, this child will know suffering and pain but that still, it will be here for my arms to hold. So, I wait and wonder if this blanket will hold a new life, a healthy life. Could I feel joy in carrying a child again? Could this new life bring healing, bring a sense of restoration? Will the waiting ever end?

Found!

2008-09-25T09:17:00.001-04:00

For our anniversary present Brad and I gave ourselves the gift of a special house cleaning - what a treat! I loved not having to scrub toilets! But, the best part of it all was walking back into our (lovely smelling) house to find my camera sitting on the table! I was so excited and so relieved. All of those pictures placed back on my table, just like that. I called to try and found out where it had been - still don't know - but I don't really care. I'm just glad it has been found!

So here is my Zane - my big three year old Zane! I am so absolutely smitten with him! Happy Birthday big boy!

Lost

2008-09-21T14:56:00.003-04:00

I've lost the camera I used last night to capture Zane blowing out his three candles for his third birthday. I've lost the image of him bursting through the streamers hung over his door and his excited smile over the balloons covering his floor. Brad insists that it will show up but I feel like I'm losing my mind. I feel like I've lost something forever. I know the camera can be replaced but none of those moments will.

I've searched our house high and low. I've gone through our trash twice now. I've gone through pine straw by hand, walked the yard at least five times. I've looked under couches and cushions, behind and below furniture, everywhere I could have put it and everywhere I know I absolutely wouldn't have put it. I can find it nowhere.

That's what I was doing this morning as I was supposed to getting ready for church. When we should have been leaving I just cried on my bed. I told Brad that rationally I should let it go and accept it for lost. But I was paralyzed. I couldn't get ready. I couldn't do anything. The world stops for me when something is lost.

I remember as a child my father's incredible rages he would enter when something of his was lost. Everyone had to stop what they were doing and at least pretend to look as he yelled and demanded of us to find what had been done with his lost item. I know I have a trigger for lost things because of this. In fact, I remember Brad asking me the first time after we were married where something was and totally flying into a defense of how I wasn't responsible for whatever he had lost. He was totally taken back and caught off guard by my "baggage".

I hate it when something is lost. In fact, when things are lost I feel unsafe. That makes total sense given the conditioning of my childhood. But on my hands and knees as I scoured the pine straw I realized that's part of what is going on in my heart right now. I have been questioning the "safety" of God, whether he really protects us, what his promises really are. He obviously didn't protect me and my family from the pain of losing a child. So, what does he protect us from? Is it just hell-insurance? What about right now? I see that I feel very unsafe right now because I will forever have to live with the fact that my third child is lost to me. Something great has been lost and I do not feel safe.

Seattle and an Orcas Island wedding

2008-09-16T03:51:00.003-04:00

A moment alone

2008-09-03T13:30:00.003-04:00

I had a moment alone today. I realized I don't often have them when I found myself in it. I've finished all the packing and preparation for our trip, Ella is at school and Zane is asleep. And now it's me, alone. I just sat down and cried. And then I cried some more and it just kept going. I'd try to stop but it feels like there is a never ending flood of tears that has been waiting to unleash itself. I'm anxious for Zane to wake up so I can step back into my role as mother, as needed care taker and tender of tasks. I see clearly how I'm operating like this with almost everyone in my life. I'm back in life, I see people, I answer questions, I fulfill my obligations but all from behind this thin wall that is just barely holding the tears in. I'll see a friend and feel the pressure behind my eyes increase as I fight for a sense of composure. In a phone call recently someone asked me simple but sincere questions and I found myself a complete mess. And for some reason it always surprises me. I always feel unguarded, like I'm never safe from the blow of raw emotion.

I just finished a book a friend gave me called Comfort by Ann Hood. I appreciated the raw honesty of this mother who lost her healthy five year old little girl. I appreciated her struggle and that she didn't try to give any of those silly answers that people try to give you thinking they are helping. In fact, the prologue of her book is an essay she wrote on all the lies she heard when it happened and probably the most comfort I have felt in these recent days:
"There are no words for the size of this grief. There are only lies.
You will see. Time heals.
In time you will sleep again and dream of beautiful things.
In time you will not miss her.
You will see.
Time heals."

Further on in the book I tagged this because it felt so very true: "Time passes and I am still not through it. Grief isn't something you get over. You live with it. You go on with it lodged in you. Sometimes I feel like I have swallowed a pile of stones. Grief makes me heavy. It makes me slow. Even on days when I laugh a lot, or dance, or finish a project, or meet a deadline, or celebrate, or make love, it is there. Lodged deep inside of me. Time has passed and I am living a life again, back in the world."

Vacation Pictures

2008-08-31T07:50:00.004-04:00

First Day of School

2008-08-29T15:22:00.003-04:00

Ella had her first day of school this morning. She seemed so grown up as she gave me a big hug, said "bye mom", and hopped out of the car. When I picked her up she said it had been a great day and that she and her best friend even helped out a new three year old in their class. She said, "that's what I do now since I'm one of the older kids in the class." And that is part of what I love about a Montessori Children's House. With the mixed ages Ella has been the child who was helped and now she gets to do the helping and teaching. What an incredible sense of self satisfatction that comes from mastering something and then helping someone else with the task. What a beautiful sense of community and care. I am so proud of her.

Summer's final hurrah

2008-08-22T07:26:00.003-04:00

The past few days the air has held a certain scent and feel to it, a crispness and a coolness that flood me with memories. Hotter days are sure to return but those first hints of Autumn coming always pull so much up inside of me. That scent and feel signal that school will begin soon and with it the certainty of routine and the onset of Fall. As a child I would have both a mixture of excitement to return to school and also the sadness of ending the free for all days of summer. Most mothers I know are glad to see school and the routine return. I must say, I'm a bit sad to send Ella off for her last year of Montessori Children's House. She will be gone all day since it is the equivalent of Kindergarten. I'm really going to miss her. Zane could have begun this fall but I'm so glad I chose to wait. The emptiness would have been too much for me.

This morning I have opened all of the windows and turned on the fans to let that wonderfully cool air inside. Ella is up early and is ready to hit the road for vacation. We leave today for a week at the lake and then after that Brad and I travel to Seattle together. So, this really has been our last week of summer at home. Brad and Zane are still asleep and while Ella busily packs for her little pony, I decided to rest my head on her pillow. A flood of memories comes back as I view from her open window a world of green illuminated by the morning sun. As a child I loved sleeping with my window open and waking up to the sound of the birds and bugs and that coolness that came with the ending of summer. I loved the morning light and still do. For a moment, I feel young and hopeful again. I remember loving the thought of my own birthday ahead. Now it is the excitement of planning and preparing for Ella and Zane's birthdays. Brad and I married in the fall as well. There is so much celebration awaiting us in the days ahead.

But now there is even more depth to these memories. Before it was just one happy thing after the next. Now, there is the memory of a year ago. Now mixed in with birthdays and our anniversary is the revelation that our third child would not live. I think about how at this point last year we still had no idea that anything was wrong. We still lived in that easy, expectant innocence, in the naivete that life would always be good to us. But the ending of summer has always had a certain sadness to it anyway. It is the marking of the entrance of death, of winter. As glorious as Autumn splendor is to me it really is just a beautiful goodbye. So, perhaps now I grasp more fully what has always characterized this season, both joy and pain.

"Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in
the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your
life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have
always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief."

The Prophet
Kahlil Gibran

Why believe?

2008-08-18T15:42:00.005-04:00

A friend of mine who lost her son a year ago just miscarried her baby of 16 weeks. The more I think about it, the angrier I get. It seems so unfair to me, and it makes me wonder where God is in it all.

Another friend asked me the other day if I ever felt like I deserved to have things go right after openly offering up our journey with Sully and building his playground. The truth is, no. In fact, I feel quite the opposite. I feel completely unsafe. I feel like there are no guarantees anymore. I guess there never really were, but I once found security in falsely believing I had some kind of protection from calamity.

Everything feels so fragile, from the paycheck that pays our mortgage and bills to the hopes that the children we do have left will live long healthy lives. Sometimes this makes me so angry and bitter. It makes me question why in the world I am even hanging on to any kind of faith. I mean, why? If believing in God and Christ doesn't offer me any protection then what good is it? What happened to the "health, wealth and prosperity" gospel of my youth? It doesn't seem to hold up at all. And sometimes I think we believe that being a good person will give you some kind of immunity. But the scales are out of balance. Terrible things happen to "good" and "bad" people alike. So, why be good?

I look around but I can't find anywhere else to go. I'm just left with this broken faith that doesn't make very much sense. I can't make sense out of my friend losing another baby or out my overwhelming fear of a capricious god. Why do I now live waiting for terrible things to happen, waiting for what is good in my life to also be taken away from me?

All I keep hearing in my head is a song and I can picture my friend singing it:
"I'll remember the deeds of the Lord,
I'll remember all your works,
With your mighty arm you have redeemed,
You are Holy, Holy, Holy"

So I try to remember. I try to remember that even in the hardest days of carrying Sully there were people around us to love us and care for us. I remember my friends bringing us groceries when I thought I would never be able to walk into a store or do anything normal again. I remember how so many people responded with such generosity towards our plea for a playground and how in just four short months after its first mention, it was complete! I remember just a few weeks ago the gift of the feast brought to our door. I am remembering, and I am weeping. Is this who God is in truth? How beautiful he is and yet how hard it still is for me to reconcile the truth of him with who I want him to be. I want him to tell me I will never hurt again. I want him to tell me I will never suffer a loss like this again. I wanted him to make my third child perfect and whole and give him to me for this lifetime. How do I reconcile that he is not who I want him to be but that he is still good?

There is so much shifting and sifting and changing in my heart and mind...

Camp Magic

2008-08-11T17:26:00.007-04:00

This past weekend we attended a camp hosted by Edmarc, the children's hospice group that walked with us through our days with Sully, called Camp Magic. Ella asked me why it was called Camp Magic. I didn't really have a good answer except that it gave us a time as a famiy to be together and honor and remember Sully(later I learned it stood for My Active Grieving Instills Courage). I think Ella had hoped more for flying ponies and fairy dust. Despite that disappointment, I do think she had a good time.

The weekend was full of activities. We spent part of our time making a quilt square to be a part of the annual camp magic quilt. Ella loved the paints and the freedom to create. We played games, swam and took walks. We roasted marshmallows around a camp fire and made smores. We talked with other families who were walking simmilar paths; Ella and Zane played with children who also had lost siblings. We participated in a memorial service where we each lit a candle in memory of Sully and set it afloat on the water.

I think I was most moved by one of our symbolic craft activites. Ella painted a pot that represented our family. Then, we went outside and broke the pot symbolizing how our family was broken by the tragedy of losing a child. Brad then worked on gluing it back together. Of course, pieces were missing just as we as a family are forever changed and will always be missing a piece of us. The thing that got to me
most was watching Brad try and glue the pot back together. After he had figured out where the main pieces went and put the glue on them, he had to just sit there and hold the pot together. He couldn't do anything else. If he took his hands off, it would fall apart. And that's when I realized that that is exactly where we are. These past months I have purposely steered myself away from activity and responsibility, and I see how wise that has been. I, we, need this time to just be still, to just hold our family together and let the glue dry. As I feel pressure to return to who I was before I know I can and must turn it away. I know I won't ever be who I was before, our family will never be what it was before. But maybe, when the glue dries, we can fill our pot with fresh soil and something beautiful will grow in it.

Six months

2008-08-04T08:11:00.002-04:00

My third child would have been six months old today had he not been broken. My dear friend sent me these words this morning. They seem so very fitting to me.

"Where's the funny girl?
Are you ready to believe it's true
That everything we love we lose?
Only in your mind can you choose
Not to live again
And you could find your smile tomorrow
Remember what was beautiful
Not the dark inventions of your burning sorrow"
Polichinelle

"Each time members of the tribe die, the self we were with them dies too, which is to say that the kind of words we spoke only to them- were only to them- and the kind they spoke only to us are spoken no longer. But if outwardly our language is thus impoverished, inwardly it is enriched because when members of the tribe die, the words they were are added to the vocabulary of the heart, where we have more than just ears for hearing them. And each time a member of the tribe is born, a new word comes into being, and nothing is ever the same again."
The Eyes of the Heart, Buechner

Extravagance

2008-07-29T20:05:00.003-04:00

I just feasted on the most extravagant meal. From the most perfectly seasoned and grilled steak and shrimp to fresh corn shaved off the cob. There were juicy tomatoes with mozzarella and fresh basil, a huge pan of baked macaroni and cheese, bread with basil butter, and a delicious blueberry cobbler (reminiscent of my grandmother's) to finish off the feast. It is some of the best food I have tasted in months, perhaps the best meal I have eaten all year! I sat at the table and just smiled and savored. I didn't really worry with my kids goofing off at the dinner table because I was so absorbed in the display of love in front of me, love in the delightfulness of each morsel, love in the sheer extravagance of the number of dishes brought and the enormous quantities of each. I felt so indulged in, so delighted in, so loved.

I guess I'm just so in awe because of the way it all happened. A person (unaware of my last blog entry in which I wished for God to show up for me as that big black woman and cook me a meal) came up to me and just said, I want to cook for you this week. Out of nowhere. Just like that. Tears filled my eyes. Really? Okay. And then more tears. I told her my story from the shack and how I'd been feeling and she just laughed. This sweet, petite little white lady told me about her family teasing her that she was really a big black woman deep down in her soul. Coincidental? I think not. It gives me chills to think that God really cares about the tiniest detail of my life. That he knows how much I have been hurting, how crazy things are in our life right now, how many uncertainties, and how I just longed to be loved in a very tangible way. So he goes and whispers into this lovely woman's heart and she acted on it. And there it is. Love made visible. Love revealing itself in relationship, in people caring for one another and reaching out to one another. Love made visible in the extravagance of a feast.

The Shack

2008-07-20T22:20:00.003-04:00

So, I must admit that as I'm writing this I have had one drink too many. But, I am a much nicer person under the influence - definitely not an angry drunk. Today has been a hard day and a few gin and tonics have helped to take the edge off. I called one of my closest and dearest friends to just go do Target retail therapy with me and ended up by the end of the evening laughing and fully avoiding the pain in my heart.

Today, all those really prego mommies just got to me. And, a friend just birthed her third child, a son. While I thought all along I was good with it, today it just tore me apart. The problem is that she has a girl Ella's age, a boy almost Zane's age, and now another son - exactly the portrait of what our family should have been. I want to never speak to her again. It just isn't fair. Why did our family get ripped apart the way it did? Why do I have to live with the image of this family in front of me for as long as I can possibly forsee into the future?

Not helping is the fact that I just read The Shack. Those images and thoughts are stirring up so much in my soul. Today, I needed that big black woman of a God to hold me, to cook me food to satiate my soul, to love me in my pain. But, as the best hugging friend I have held me in the hallway between church nurseries, I realized that I was being embraced by God. That she was telling me how much She knew I hurt, how much She loved me.

I wish sometimes I could live all of life with the cloudy haze of intoxication...

Time wasted

2008-07-18T16:30:00.002-04:00

I have made a new friend since I lost Sully. She found me through a friend of hers who read this blog and so she learned of me. She lost her own little boy, a vibrant toddler, 11 months ago. It is tragedy and grief that has brought us together. I am thankful that she is willing to walk alongside me in the most understanding and compassionate way. We are thankful for the friendship between us but agree that if we had the choice we would rather not know each other because that would mean that we had our boys.

We spent some time together this week at the beach and having lunch and just talking. We talked about how different we feel after walking through the death of our children, how different it makes us to carry every day the weight of such a great sadness. We both have situations in our lives that before our tragedies would have brought much worry to our hearts. While these situations deserve much prayer and wisdom, we ask ourselves what can be worse than what we've already been through? What can not be survived after surviving losing a child?

That got me thinking about all the ways Sully has made me see the world differently. I know I'm not immune to more bad things happening, but, I know that, come what may, goodness and mercy really do follow me. I know that I will be OK even though OK looks very different from what I might have once expected.

I find myself more willing to enter into lives that are truly suffering and broken. My compassion has grown in leaps and bounds. But, on the flip side of that, I find myself quite intolerant of the stupidity of vanity, ego, pride, selfishness, materialism, etc. Granted, those are all things I also still find in myself. But then, I hear that voice asking me, "what does any of this matter after losing your baby?" and the eternal comes back into view.

And what else do I find changed? I find I am much more willing to waste time on those I hold dearest. The other night Ella sat in my lap at the computer hours past her bedtime while we played with her webkinz. That is so not me. But I realized as I just enjoyed her and gave myself over to playing in this world she loves that it was exactly this time wasted that built the bond between us. I could have been doing a million other things and she, of course, should have been sleeping. But, instead, I gave her myself, my time, my attention. And she was worth it. So, I stop what I am doing more often these days to read a book to them or pick them up when they stretch out their arms to me. In wasting time I sense healing for this broken heart.

(and - just as a side note -I believe in a God who could have taught me all of these things without the loss of my son. It irks me when people put that twist on it - you know - that 'God must have had to teach you something' twist. That's a crock to me. I want to honor my son by learning and growing from my experience with him. God's gift to me is his redemption of the brokenness and the goodness he brings out of the tragedy. I don't buy into the kind of a god who would bring tragedy just to teach me a lesson.)

The extra vest

2008-07-05T09:09:00.009-04:00

Yesterday, the 4th of July, was a great day. Brad's parents are in town for the weekend and it's so nice to have them here. The kids just adore them. We started off our day by participating in our neighborhood parade - always a treat for the kids. Then we headed to Waterside for one of our favorite outings, a ride on the ferry and a walk through Old Town Portsmouth.
After lunch and naps, we drove to Aunt Kay and Uncle Dave's house in Virginia Beach for a boat ride and fireworks. As we pulled the life jackets out for the kids, my brother-in-law noted there were plenty for the kids, five, even one extra. It hit me so hard that the extra jacket would have been Sully's. It was the infant jacket I remember buying for Ella when she was only 7 or 8 month old. Now, it's just the extra life vest, needed for no one. He would have been 5 months old yesterday. It's thoughts like this that enter even in the midst of the happiest moments. I guess it will always be this way.

I made my monthly trek to the wholesale florist for my Sully tulips this morning. Zane was up early so he tagged along with me and helped me search for our flowers. At first I couldn't find any tulips and thought I would leave empty handed. But then, there they were, three bunches of purple tulips. I bought them all. What I love about arranging them each time is how focused my thoughts are on my boy. How I smile as I place each stem. How I try and create significance out of the color I found this time, or the number of flowers and so forth. This morning I counted thirty tulips. I muddled through the numbers of five months and how many weeks and days but couldn't come up with any correlation. Then, I knew. These weren't just Sully tulips, but they were mine, too. Thirty tulips for my thirty years. They feel like a gift from my baby boy, like a hopeful gift for good things to come.

My place in this world

2008-07-01T09:50:00.005-04:00

I had such a great trip to Seattle to see my friend Nicola. It was so good to be away, to have time to just be, to see beautiful sights, to eat good food, to talk for hours with a dear and long time friend. I find myself refreshed. And, I find myself thankful for my little niche in the world, the place I have carved out for me. I missed my family, my Ella and Zane, I missed Brad. I think that's why we must leave from time to time. We need to step outside of what has become so ordinary and everyday and be able to view it from afar. From across the country I could see how happy I am. I could see how dear my children are, how good my husband is to me and what a great fit we are for each other. Distance lends perspective. I have loved being away and now I am glad to be home, grateful for my home filled with love.

Nikki was a good sport about being a tourist with me. We peddled all about the city and also went a bit further to explore some of Washington's wineries.

Our friends Rob and Claudia Wootton now live in Seattle and are starting a church plant. It was great to see them and have dinner together while enjoying their incredible view!

Just minutes from Nikki's home in Lincoln Park. It was soooo beautiful there!

This was the best sight of all. I couldn't wait to get my arms around Ella and Zane!

Two drifters drafting

2008-06-23T09:09:00.006-04:00

I have written a few posts that I have kept just as drafts. I needed a place to process but also needed a sense of privacy. We've talked about creating a new blog, a private blog but then have decided against that. This is our space, two drifters off to see the world. Sully is part of our journey and so is all that is facing us after Sully. But, I've been so angry and hesitant to post those feelings. And yet, that is where we are, where we have been. So, I'd like to write again for myself, for my family. I'd like to write for us as we move into life again. I hope my posts will become dull and ordinary - full of the everyday life moments of my children and friends - full of thoughts on random things - not just the ache of losing a child although I know that will always be a part of the threads that weave together and form the fabric of our future.

So, what has been happening in our world. It has been a whirlwind of travel. Sadly though expected, Brad's grandfather passed away. We traveled to Savannah, Georgia twice in June, once to say our goodbyes and the last time for the funeral. I wasn't prepared for how much would resurface for me about Sully. All of the death talk is the same no matter when it happens. At the visitation I had to just walk out, find a solitary spot and cry. It's all still in there, the ache and pain of losing my baby and I cried all over again for Sully. Brad's dad found me and loved and comforted me as his own daughter. Here he was having lost his father but willing to comfort me and indulge me my grief over losing my son.

We decided after the funeral to make the trek to Pensacola, Fl to visit my brother, Jason and sister-in-law Kristi. We hesitated because of the hours of extra driving it would mean but a wonderful visit with them was our reward. We miss them so much.

On our way back to Virginia we stopped in Madison, Georgia for lunch with my family and dear friend Clare. Her baby girl, Esme, was born the same day as Sully. I wasn't sure how I would react but I knew I wanted to hold her, to feel the weight of her almost as if I could feel the weight of what could have been. I just held her and cried. It made me feel even more certain that I do want to have another baby. But, as I swing closer to yes Brad seems to have moved away from it. He is growing angrier. It seems to him that getting pregnant again would really mean Sully is never coming back. Of course, we know Sully is never going to be ours in this life. But I understand what he means. I understand his anger and know he needs time to be angry over losing his son. I have to let go, too. I am content with our family the way it is. I can accept staying the way we are or possibly growing. I am open to either way.

I leave today for Seattle to visit another dear friend from college, Nicola. I can't wait to see her and just enjoy hanging out together. I'm looking forward to no responsibility, to just being like the girls we were in college. I'm hesitant to leave Brad but know it will be a good and needed trip for myself.

The downward spiral and the uncertain yes

2008-06-11T07:43:00.003-04:00

The past month has been awful. Just now I feel us coming back up for air but for almost two, three weeks we have been sinking. I didn't understand why, but it dawned on me that these hard weeks have been the ones in which Sully's life began a year ago. These have been the weeks when we said "yes" to another little life with no idea of what was about to hit us.

The anger inside of me hasn't helped anything. But I've let myself go there and I've needed to go there. I am allowing myself freedom to be exactly where I am - angry, questioning, disappointed, doubtful, fearful, sad. Ultimately, I know I can't live here. It is too heavy, it is too much. So, I find myself today with a sort of resignation. I lift my eyes and sigh.

I have dreamed of a little girl twice now. Is she coming to me? At times I am eager to have her. At others I can't muster up an ounce of excitement for another pregnancy. Brad and I had a long talk this weekend about it all. Do we want to live the rest of our lives with the uncertain "no"? We can possibly regret not having another but could we really ever regret a sweet little life once she is with us? Even with all the heartache of Sully, I do not regret him. So, we can live in that uncertain "no" or choose instead the uncertain "yes". Uncertain - yes - that is where we are. No longer are we those naive kids thinking that nothing could possibly go wrong for us. Everything did go wrong. But we must choose now who we will be. And so we tentatively step into the "yes". There is peace here.

Tending my own soul

2008-05-27T15:06:00.003-04:00

It has been a month since I last wrote here. I have written elsewhere but I've missed the ease of the keyboard, the familiarity of this place, this safe space to hold my thoughts. So here I am again, privately. Perhaps this all will be just saved as "draft", yes, in fact, I know it will for now. I needed to end my days of such public chronicling, I needed privacy.

I have found myself on many days doing well, moving back into life, thinking I'm doing just fine. But lately, I have been walking through the valley. Yes, I can see the high mountain peak of the playground and how ever since I have been descending to this place. I am so sad. I am overwhelmingly sad. I've grown angry, angrier than I've been throughout any of this. I am questioning and redefining. I think over and over again about what a friend said about loss, that it is like having your arm amputated and you never get it back, that you must learn to live life with out that limb. It made a lot of sense the first time I heard it. Now, I'm yelling back at God, "Why did you cut off my arm?!"

I'm angry with some who I believed to be friends who have expected too much of me. I'm angry over losing friends but then I don't care. I don't care that I've lost them. The world seems selfish and unkind to me. I want to say leave me alone and I do by not caring. I curse more than I ever have with fuck being the favored expletive. It seems the most appropriate - the most shocking and raw - it is a word I have never had as part of my vocabulary. I feel I deserve to indulge in something wrong. After all, what has being good done for me? All my years of caring and doing what was "right" did nothing for me. My son still fucking died.

So, I'm trying to hear myself, trying to listen for what I need. I am drinking wine at three o'clock and cooking myself a pizza because it is the most distinct thing I can hear myself wanting at this very moment. I realize that nobody else is going to tend to me, I am all I have. Everyone else will gladly accept that this whole ordeal is over and I am fine. But I am so not fine. I am not OK. I am not OK.

"Our Family" by Ella Anderson

2008-04-23T09:51:00.001-04:00

Zane, Daddy holding baby Sully, Mommy and Ella wearing crowns
April, 2008

A final post

2008-04-22T22:06:00.004-04:00

I have packed for my trip. I fly to meet Brad tomorrow for our retreat from the world. I have done the last load of laundry, run the dishwasher, put everything the kids will need by the door. And then, for my last child, Sully, I went through all of the things that have been at the foot of my bed since he died and I packed them, too. I needed to do this before I left. I needed to come home to them placed carefully in the lovingly hand-crafted vessel made just for this purpose by Sully's grandfather. I knew it would be hard. I purposely turned on Dancing with the Stars just to have the life and the energy of all that dancing in the room with me as I walked through my memories of Sully and touched the sweet little things that once touched him. Even with all that country and river and ballroom dancing, I still cried. It will be the same with the playground. Even with all the laughter, I know I will still be caught by tears.

I went there today, to the playground. I wanted to clear out the falling balloons and soaking ribbons. I have been sick since the day the playground opened. But I had to go because I feel like the personal keeper of this sacred space. I saved the ribbon we cut for Sully's box as well as one of the deflated balloons. They are tucked away with that first handful of dirt I took away with me when construction finally began. As I left, a robin perched right up on the fence in my direct line of vision. I just watched him and smiled and ached all at the same time.

A friend wrote me to assure me that no one expects the playground to be the nice clean bow to happily tie off this story. She recognized that my grief would continue, that it would always be a part of my story - forever. I told her how I had been sick and almost glad for it because it somehow gave me the excuse to just be miserable in my bed. I so rarely allow myself that. But maybe God knew that I just needed to lay there, miserable as I was, and physically feel as terrible as my heart sometimes does.

It rained on Sunday, just as we cut the ribbon. As the kids poured in the rain poured down. They didn't seem to mind. In fact, I think it even made the slides faster and more appealing to them. I loved that they didn't care and that parents didn't seem to either. This one time they allowed them to play in the rain because it was right. I didn't mind the rain either. It seemed fitting and symbolic of the bittersweet cup we have been given to drink.

I think more on that tidy red bow idea and remember something written by Anne Lamott in that book of hers I just read (Traveling Mercies). She talks of a woman who was always cheerful until "she started going blind. She had a great deal of religious faith, and everyone assumed that she would adjust and find meaning in her loss - meaning and then acceptance and then joy - and we all wanted this because, let's face it, it's so inspiring and such a relief when people find a way to bear the unbearable, when you can organize things in such a way that a tiny miracle appears to have taken place and that love has once again turned out to be bigger than fear and death and blindness. But this woman would have none of it. She went into a deep depression...the elders took communion to her...but she wouldn't be a part of our community anymore. It must have been too annoying for everyone to be trying to manipulate her into being a better sport than she was capable of being. I always thought that was heroic of her, that it spoke of such integrity to refuse to pretend that you're doing well just to help other people deal with the fact that sometimes we face an impossible loss."

I've gone back and read that so many times. It is true, the playground has made it easier for people to face us, to engage with us. I could have gone the way this woman did, I still may, who can say? I find that everything that has happened has come from hands of grace, hands that have molded each event just so, that have made us able to even fathom doing what has been done. And, if those hands take me down a road like this blind woman, will they still not be the same capable, steady hands?
I hope in those hands I will also have this blind woman's "integrity to refuse to pretend."

I received an informational letter the other day from the state of Virginia informing me of the care that was available to us for our son. Obviously, the state of Virginia does not know much about our son. I suppose it is a letter they are required to send out. But, I did learn that each year, in this great state of Virginia, there are about 7 babies born with Trisomy 18. Seven. That's it. So, we are one of those families this year. We are the statistic. I wonder about the other six families who live in this state with us. I wonder if any of those families have found out in the past month or two they are pregnant and don't know yet that they will be joining us in the tragic class of 2008. It makes me ache for them. But it also makes me want to know them, to meet them and tell them that I am so sorry, that I wish things could be different.

I have one more thing to do before I go to bed. I want to write my son, Sully, a note to place in his special box. Perhaps it is another part of saying goodbye. I want to write to him how much I still love him, how I do still miss him. I want to thank him for giving himself to us for six days, for letting us bask in his sunshine for those tenuous hours and days. I want to tell him how he will always stay my valentine, a love that I will shelter in my heart forever. I will tell him that he has changed me more than anything else in my life, that he has given me softness and illumination. I suppose he knows all of this already, but I think he would still like me to write.

Sully's poem

2008-04-22T21:30:00.000-04:00

by Beth Dye

I see him swinging first.
For a child who was rocked so sweetly
Would remember the gentle feel of back and forth.
Those are his favorite
So close to his mother's gentle rocking.
Leaning back, arms outstretched, and then kicking out his legs
Pushing forward and landing on strong legs
Crouching, balancing, with arms steady
Taking his time looking down at the ground.

Next would be the slide
Because nothing invites a child more.
But he would take his time.
Climbing up to survey,
Then sitting, inching forward to get just to the edge
(A little nervousness before the plunge)
And down he goes, feet landing with a hard
Plunk in the mulch.
Perfect heart now beating fast.

And why not the rest?
Running to each piece
Climbing up and climbing down
And doing it all over again.
Sitting on the ride-ons and feeling as though
They could take him anywhere.
Grabbing in the mulch, throwing it up
Letting it land all around him and in his hair.
Shaking it off and running again.

This boy is real though I only know him in dreams
But the place is now becoming real.
And the same Spirit lives in me
Who abides with him and with this place.
The same Spirit who never left, will never leave,
Encircling, covering, surrounding
Breathing joy and contentment
To all who run and climb and jump.

Could it be that He made another first?
Perhaps it was waiting when he arrived
And ours is merely a reflection
Of a heavenly place built for children
Taken too soon?
Surely the children know it,
They feel the beauty and joy of His presence.
And a weary world where our Sully could not stay,
Is blessed by a tabernacle where children can play.

A new total

2008-04-22T17:30:00.000-04:00

Our new total for funds raised for the playground is just over $61,000! I am amazed! Thank you for opening up your hearts to us and all of the children who will enjoy this place. Your generosity has created this beautiful, beautiful playground!

A Celebration!

2008-04-20T14:08:00.006-04:00

Just a few snapshots of ours...

You can see Paula Burgoon's professional slideshow by visiting www.prbphotography.com clicking on Clients and then typing the password Sully.

Today

2008-04-20T06:27:00.003-04:00

This is the day where it all comes together. This is the day we cut the ribbon and officially open what was once just a thought. I hear the birds singing this morning and that always makes me smile. I tell Sully how excited everyone is to open his special place.

I have been thinking this morning and the past several days on William Blake's words: "We are here to endure the beams of love." I wonder if that is what these past months have been all about. I think today certainly is. Is not everything about this playground full of love? But in the height of this love and joy there is the depth of the sorrow of losing a baby. Is that what it might mean to learn to endure the beams of love.

I would never wish what has happened in our lives onto anyone. But, I would not trade you my days with Sully, even the hardest, most agonizing moments, for anything. I am proud of my boy. Honestly, I am proud of myself. Is not carrying this special soul the greatest thing I have ever done? I am grateful for the willing spirit God has given me which has surely sustained me. I know I could have chosen a different path and God’s love would have been there down that road with me, too. But I prayed the psalms, begging for a willing spirit, and he gave it and gave us the grace to walk a very difficult path. And in walking it, crawling it, lying down and crying in it, there was the tenderness of love, of a grace in my weakness that I have never known before the way I knew it then. God was near. I did nothing. I could not do anything that I normally thought could win his nearness. Yet there He was. He was in your cooking, your phone calls, your e-mails, and your letters. He was in the idea of a playground and a Christmas wish. He was in the bird song and the early mornings and late nights of writing. He was with me as I cried in my bed, cried in the shower, cried in the car and cried in your arms. And He continues to carry us, to be with us in our joy and sorrow.

Today, we will dedicate a playground that is so much more than just a playground. It is a reminder that God is with us in our brokenness. Would I rather have my little boy healthy and whole? I am human and a mother. You know that answer. But this space will always remind me of God’s great love for me, for my family, for this community and for my boy, our boy, Sully.

I just walked outside and there is a rainbow stretching from one end of the sky to the other. It takes rain and sunshine to make such a beautiful sight. Yes, it is going to be a very good day.

Planting day

2008-04-19T17:09:00.007-04:00

Today a host of volunteers gathered to put the finishing touches on Sully's playground. They worked fast and diligently and before we knew it every plant was in the ground, the mulch was spread and the concrete cleaned for tomorrow's grand opening. Thank you to everyone!

A private cutting

2008-04-18T21:57:00.003-04:00

I took the kids back up to the playground this afternoon. I wanted to check out how everything looked now that the fence was finished. It is beautiful. There is so much room now for the kids to play but with the safety of secure boundaries.

With the alotted days having passed for the concrete to dry and make the playground thoroughly safe, we had our own private cutting of the caution tape. The kids loved pulling it off and having the freedom to climb all over their baby brother's gift to them. I am in awe of what is before me, of a God who cared enough about me to give me this place, enough to move in so many hearts to create it so quickly. It truly is beautiful, just like my boy Sully.

Brad's songs

2008-04-18T15:42:00.003-04:00

Brad has always had a thing for music. He loves to lay in our only carpeted room with his head close to the speakers and just absorb the words and sounds. I've come to learn that when he says he has a new song to fully enter into it with him, to lay down beside him on the carpet and just be still and listen. The other night this was his song he shared with me. It is called "Doubting Thomas" by Nickel Creek.

What will be left when I've drawn my last breath,
Besides the folks I've met and the folks who know me,
Will I discover a soul saving love,
Or just the dirt above and below me,

I'm a doubting thomas,
I took a promise,
But I do not feel safe,
Oh me of little faith,

Sometimes I pray for a slap in the face,
Then I beg to be spared 'cause I'm a coward,
If there's a master of death I'll bet he's holding his breath,
As I show the blind and tell the deaf about his power,
I'm a doubting thomas,
I can't keep my promises,
'Cause i don't know what's safe,
oh me of little faith

Can I be used to help others find truth,
When I'm scared I'll find proof that its a lie,
Can I be lead down a trail dropping bread crumbs,
That prove I'm not ready to die,

Please give me time to decipher the signs,
Please forgive me for time that I've wasted,

I'm a doubting thomas,
I'll take your promise,
Though I know nothin's safe,
Oh me of little faith

As always, Brad is right on. The words pierce me because they ring so true in my own life.

more progress

2008-04-18T15:33:00.003-04:00

The crew arrived this morning to install the gate. The helium for the balloons arrived. The benches are being put together. And, the beautifully designed signs for the playground arrived. It really is all coming together.

plotting the resurrection

2008-04-17T14:05:00.002-04:00

Yesterday, as spring was working it's way into warm, I took the daffodil bulbs from Sully's service, an easter lily given us in his honor by our babysitter, and all of the other plantable flowers given us by so many and began to "calmly plot the resurrection". That's what kept repeating over and over in my head as I dug up the earth and tucked each bulb and plant away in hopes that they would return next year. I can hear my friend's voice reading to me E.B. White's words about his dying wife: "There was something comical yet touching in her bedraggled appearance…the small hunched-over figure, her studied absorption in the implausible notion that there would be another spring, oblivious to the ending of her own days, which she knew perfectly well was at hand, sitting there with her detailed chart under those dark skies in dying October, calmly plotting the resurrection." I wonder what that next Spring was like for White without his wife. I wonder how he felt as he watched her garden resurrection.

My mind goes back to the Andrew poems, to another mother who, like me, planted her easter lilies and tulips with a certain madness in her method. There is comfort in thinking that there will be life again, to think that these bulbs and plants that bloomed while my Sully lived and breathed here on this earth will bloom again. Somehow that makes me feel like I will have a part of Sully again on this earth. Just a bloom, is that really all I'm hoping for? No, it surely is more. I am hoping for my very own garden resurrection and the reminder of what will one day be.

April 15th

2008-04-15T16:06:00.002-04:00

Yes, taxes are due and the playground is completely installed!

Circles of light

2008-04-14T23:08:00.002-04:00

I picked up Anne Lamott's Traveling Mercies the other day after a friend mentioned she was reading it. I've found a safe nook in Lamott's unconventional ways of explaining her faith. She writes at one point about not knowing what to do next, which way to go. Since God doesn't dole out the kind of answers we often want, she prays for direction and then "one spot of illumination always appears just beyond her feet, a circle of light into which she can step." From there, she steps into another, then another until bumbling along she ends up where she should be.

I think about that now that I have been asked a couple of times what I will do with myself in the fall. Already people have questions. Will Zane go to school? I guess Ella started at this age, but I am not ready to let him go. Perhaps in the new year. And then what will I do? Will you go back to work I am asked? What work? Why so many questions? Why do people expect an answer? Uncharacteristically, I say, I don't know. I seem to know less than I've ever known before. I have no plan. I don't see a big picture or a purpose for the days ahead. I didn't plan on being where I am finding myself this soon. I thought I would be caring for an infant this fall. Yes, if things had gone according to my plans, Zane very likely would have started preschool in the fall. But everything is different. And the pool of light I want to step into is to keep my living son close to me. Is everybody OK with that? Can I be spared questions about what my plans are for my life from here on out? I don't know my plans. I don't know what I will do when the playground is complete. I'll probably cry. And then I'll look for the next circle of light into which I can step.

Slide show of Tumbles

2008-04-14T21:18:00.002-04:00

You must see this. Jessica Riehl who photographed us with Sully came to the Tumbles event and put together this phenomenal slide show. It captures the day perfectly. The last image says it all for me. Thank you, Jessica.

http://www.jessicariehl.com/Tumble/

Jessica also has a blog where you can make comments if you'd like:

http://jessicariehl.typepad.com/jessica_riehl_photography/2008/04/tumble-for-sull.html

Monday

2008-04-14T19:09:00.004-04:00

This morning was chilly and drizzly but the installers pressed on. By lunch time we found a huge mountain of mulch and more equipment up.

When Brad got home we took another drive up to see what progress had been made with the arrival of afternoon sunshine. The mountain of mulch is now more of a small hill, and the play structures are almost complete!

a HUGE Success

2008-04-12T19:04:00.002-04:00

Wow - the tumbles event was absolutely incredible! I was stunned by all the people who turned out for the day to play and bid (thank you to all the donors of the wonderful auction items!) The grand total of funds raised and donations given is, drum roll please, five thousand, seven hundred ninety one dollars and fifty cents! Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who made this event such an incredible one!

A day's work

2008-04-11T21:06:00.005-04:00

When Brad got back in town we loaded up in the car with our neighbors (who just happen to be family) and met some friends up at the church to check out the day's work. We parked on the side opposite the playground, and I can't tell you how great it felt to see even just this first glimpse as we rounded the corner.

Can you believe all they've done in just one day?
The kids love it already!

Come Tumble for Sully

2008-04-11T15:31:00.002-04:00

Some incredible ladies have put together an awesome afternoon full of tumbling, silent auction bidding and a raffle with all proceeds going to Sully's Playground. Join us tomorrow from 3-6pm at JW Tumbles (330 W.22nd St. Norfolk) for a great afternoon! (You can check out the flyer and see a list of just a few of the many auction items at www.sullysplayground.com)

"It looks like a circus!"

2008-04-11T14:43:00.006-04:00

Look at this! See what brings an eager giddiness to my heart. I feel like a child, like Zane and June who clapped to see the colors of fun arrive to the prepared canvas.

I sat down to post these pictures and heard a knock at my door. I was surprised to see the gentle face of a stranger with a bag full of dinner delights. I learned that she is a mother who lost a dear one also. After she leaves I tear into the bread of her kindness and think on what one of her daughters said that morning. She saw the playground equipment being delivered and exclaimed, "Mommy, it looks like the circus!" She and her mom talked about how Sully was giving this playground to her and other children to enjoy. "Mommy, that is a very nice thing for him to do," she replied.

Yes, Sully, it is a very nice thing for you to do, a very nice thing for this community to lovingly create in your honor and memory. Yes, as a mother, I would rather have you whole and well for a lifetime and swing you on that old tire swing. But that is not what I have been given. I was given you with all your imperfections for a short time. But you proved that your heart really was big! Because of you, I have known such love and grace and care, such kindness from even strangers. You have shown me a side of life I may never have seen because I was too busy rushing into nothingness. Perhaps, in this beautiful space, I can always pause, take a deep breath, and remember what you brought to my life. I like that I will continue to hear your name said years after our story has faded. I imaging children and parents continuing to say "Sully's playground" just as your brother and sister do every time we drive by or walk up to look at the progress. Will it reach you in heaven, sweet boy? Will you hear all the mothers and fathers saying, "Let's meet at Sully's Playground." Will you hear all the happy children saying your name?

The Andrew Poems

2008-04-06T22:18:00.005-04:00

This week a business envelope showed up for me with my name scrawled in pencil and circled to draw attention to it. Inside I found a book. They are the poems of a woman, a mother who's five year old boy drowned. A friend told me of the book once and thoughts of finding it one day float in the back of my mind. Now, here it is in my hands. Knowing the content I have let the envelope be shuffled here and there around the house alighting on the ever changing stacks of this and that in my life.

But tonight I am sad. With the kids tucked in bed I pick up my stranger's gift who must understand more than most. I crack open the pages not knowing how much I can bear to read. The first poem opens the floodgate of tears touching the rawest place inside of me. I can physically feel how much it hurts. I want to close the book but I know I won't. I read every poem. To read them is agonizing, but it is the most honest place I can be.

When I finish, I shake with weeping. I hush my sobs not wanting my husband to hear. I do not want to be held by him. I just want to cry for Andrew who left too soon and for my own Sully and for the lost children of the heartbroken mothers who have written me. I catch a glimpse of the author's photograph in the back and stare at her face, the face of a mother who knows the deepest of pain. I read details of her life and find that we drive the same streets, probably pass each other on the same bridges in this city we both call home. I'm overwhelmed with the irrational desire to find her and throw myself in her arms.

Not forever but for real

2008-04-06T07:48:00.004-04:00

Yesterday, despite finding our perfect tulips, was not such a perfect day. Both Brad and I struggled all day with Ella, and Zane found himself quite needy and very vocal about it. I was frustrated and angry several times during the day with my children. At times it seems like life is returning back to normal more than I care for. Haven't I been changed? Haven't I seen how precious each day is with my children? Haven't I learned not to waste my energy and emotions on anger? Sadly, I don't appear to have been given immunity to my human nature.

Brad and I purchased hammered silver bands for each other before Sully was born. They arrived in the mail while he was here with us. On one of those warm afternoons the three of us sat in the backyard while the wind brushed across our faces, and we gave each other our rings, or rather, we said Sully gave us our rings. We wanted to have something to always keep before us to remind us of our days with him, to remind us of what was truly important, to remind us of the love and grace that was carrying us through the hardest time of our lives.

Not long after Sully died, Brad and I meandered through the woods behind our house and talked about what should be inscribed inside our rings. Brad, in his wisdom, said that even though at those moments we felt like we could never forget the lessons we had learned, could never get angry with our kids again, never be frustrated with one another or friends or what have you, that it wouldn't be long before we found ourselves there again. The current of life and taking it for granted quickly sweeps you back in. That's when we talked of the song "For Real" I posted a while back; "let's be kind to each other, not forever but for real." Isn't that the temptation for me, to say that I will be forever different? But what this hammered metal on my finger reminds me to do is to love for real, to love even when I am angry and frustrated, to look for that same grace to carry me through struggles with my children, my husband, my friends. We are hammered by life, but I believe in a God who makes all things beautiful.

"As some rare perfume in a vase of clay,
Pervades it with a fragrance not its own,
So, when Thou dwellest in a mortal soul,
All Heaven's own sweetness seems around it thrown."

"Abide in me; there have been moments blest
When I have heard Thy voice and felt Thy power;
Then evil lost its grasp; and passion, hushed,
Owned the divine enchantment of the hour."

"These were but seasons beautiful and rare;
Abide in me, and they shall ever be"

Harriet B. Stowe

April tulips

2008-04-05T15:20:00.004-04:00

I looked forward to a morning trip to the wholesale florist for the tulips I promised myself each month for Sully. My sister-in-law while staying with us the past few weeks kept my vase full of them. It is time for more, a fresh bright bunch to remember our Sully days. Sadly, all of the tulips have found other homes and purposes this Saturday morning. But then we spy one last bunch, a chipper orange arrangement with just six tulips; they have been waiting on us. On this gray day they bring a smile to my face sitting next to Sully's picture on our table. As I snap a few photos I notice Ella and Zane's play set peeking through the blooms. How symbolic and fitting.

Progress

2008-04-04T15:55:00.004-04:00

plural

2008-04-04T06:45:00.002-04:00

Two months ago today Sully was born. We have moved from the singular to the plural. From here on out months will never be singular again. It was the same with the first day, they became days. A week became weeks. Now a month has become months. I know "year" will eventually move into the plural as well just as "decade" will.

I dreamed of Sully again the night before last. He was a baby this time, probably close to what a two month old would be like. He happily laid on our bed while I talked and played with him the way mothers do with their infants. In my dream I knew he wouldn't be with me forever but I remember hoping that he could stay for a long time. When I woke, I had that moment where reality is still the dream. Slowly it came back to me that Sully had already gone, that he had lived only six days, that there was not a two month old baby in my house. But, I was OK. Thankfulness for the sweetness of the dream and the comfort in it lightened the sadness.

And now my dreams of Sully since he died have moved into the plural as well.

Sully's blue

2008-04-02T21:29:00.004-04:00

Today the kids and I went to meet a friend for lunch. As we walked into the mall, Ella commented on a painting in the doorway; "I thought that was a picture of Sully because the blue looked like his hat." Now, the painting had no human likeness - it was a rocky ocean scene, quite lovely I must admit. But she was right; the blue of the sky is Sully's blue - identical to his tiny knitted hat. We stopped and remembered how handsome he was in that color. And there he was for both of us, in the vibrant hues of an oil painting. I smiled to think that this is how we will hold him again and again, in the glimpses of beauty that surprise us in ordinary moments.

deleting e-mails

2008-04-01T08:18:00.016-04:00

It's warm and windy this morning. I look out the front door and smile to see Ella's cherry tree in full blossom and nestled underneath a little stone bird surrounded by the daffodils and budding tulips Ella and I planted on that warm day in December for Sully. I take a moment and sit on our front steps and look through a little book of photographs of him and our family. Sweet boy. I do tear up, but I do not weep as I trace my fingers over his tiny lips and remember how kissable they were.
I went through our overloaded e-mail inbox the other day. As I tried to clean it up I realized I couldn't get rid of anything about Sully. So, I have saved every e-mail, every word sent about Sully and our days with him. But then, I came to a newer e-mail, a friendly one about dinner with some friends of ours, and I was OK to delete it. For some reason, that felt really good. I recognized the moment as one where life was moving on, and it wasn't so frightening.

The work on the playground continues and it brings me great joy. I drive by probably two or three times a day and just sit and watch it all happen. Zane always emphatically calls out, "Sully's playground," and I laugh at how he shares with me the excitement over mounds of dirt and yellow machinery. This week we will watch concrete sidewalks and patios be poured, trees be planted, and possibly a fence erected. These are amazing things to me, amazing that a community has overwhelmingly supported us in this dream, amazing and humbling that so many would validate the life and the worth of my infant boy of a mere six days.

A beautiful mess!

2008-03-27T13:13:00.004-04:00

Yesterday was the official start of the building of Sully's playground. We met very unofficially with a few folks to say a prayer and an enthusiastic "let's begin". Today, I drove by and found this beautiful mess!
Everything is being torn out and dug up in preparation for the new landscaping, patio, and playground. I just sat there and watched these huge pieces of machinery rip up what must go. It's happening, Sully! It's really happening! I ran my fingers through the soil and grabbed a handful. I held him on this very ground. I want to keep it and put it with his sacred things. It seems right that a bit of the earth from this gift of a playground, his gift to so many, should be close to his tiny footprints. I'm so proud of you, Sully.

Different places

2008-03-25T15:12:00.003-04:00

Brad has a business trip to California in April. He has asked me to fly out at the end of it for us to have some time alone together. He booked our tickets for a ferry out to the Channel Islands for three days. I'm a bit nervous. This island isn't a luxury island, it's an isolated island, an island for camping and exploring, an island for stillness and calm. Brad asked me if I'd prefer the ferry tickets that would give us just one night on the island but, as intimidating as life with absolutely no distractions can be, it is what felt right. A place to retreat together from the world, to be alone together and perhaps find that we can be on the same page again.

It has been hard to be in different places in our grief. Brad wants to keep Sully's place free from anything that might seem to fill it, to preserve the emptiness and thus honor him. For me, I know nothing can fill his place but my tendency is to identify him with symbols, to bring things into my life, do things in my life that will be constant reminders of him. I want us to get a puppy, one born preferably in February, to grow up with our family just as Sully would have. And then, there is the idea of a tattoo - something permanent that will forever remind me of my boy. My reminders seem like fillers to Brad. Living with his longed for emptiness seems cruel to me.

So how do we love each other? This weekend, for me, it meant not going to see the puppy I had hoped we could bring home. Maybe it will mean we never have a dog, or tattoos together or another child. It is hard to lay down your own desires, the things you think that you want. But I do love Brad, and I want to love him more than getting my own way. So, I think it is important for us to try and find where we are in the same place, like the playground. It gives us both joy to honor our boy, to remember him, with this. And perhaps our retreat to an isolated island will help us to understand that even though we may be on different pages, we are still in the same book.

The Story

2008-03-23T07:28:00.004-04:00

Easter morning. The first morning light always so dear to me takes on even greater significance this morning. Ella is awake with me this morning and we listen for the first bird song, for Sully's song. I have snuggled into her bed with her and we read the Easter story in a new Bible book I've found for her basket(The Jesus Storybook Bible by Sally Lloyd-Jones). I've never been so moved by a children's book. The author uses language so relevant and vibrant. She speaks of the greatest fairytale of all because it is true, of the Great Rescue of the world, and both Ella and I can't help but be pulled into the pages.

"But this is how God will rescue the whole world. My life will break and God's broken world will mend. My heart will tear apart - and your hearts will heal. Just as the passover lamb died, so now I will die instead of you. My blood will wash away all of your sins. And you'll be clean on the inside - in your hearts."

"God was going to pour into Jesus' heart all of the sadness and brokenness in people's hearts. He was going to pour into Jesus' body all the sickness in people's bodies. God was going to have to blame his son for everything that had gone wrong. It would crush Jesus."

We read through the horrors of the story, the separation from his "Papa" that broke Jesus' heart into two, the darkness that covered the world "like a bruise". But, then, the hope, the light, the wonderful surprise comes and our hearts lift. Mary Magdalene's surprise and joy at seeing Jesus is our own. As she races to tell everyone what she has seen she thinks this and I think it with her: "Was God really making everything sad come untrue? Was he making even death come untrue?"

We finish our pages and the light is full upon us, many birds are singing but one in particular sings his crystal clear song right by Ella's window. I feel relief that this morning is here, relief that Easter happened, relief that through all of the pain God has not been far from me, that I have not been separated from Him as Jesus had to be, relief that the sad things are coming "untrue", relief and joy that I know where my Sully is and that there will come a time when I will be with him again.

O come and mourn

2008-03-21T20:22:00.000-04:00

O come and mourn with me awhile,
O come ye to the Savior’s side
O come, together let us mourn,
Jesus our Lord is crucified.

Seven times He spake seven words of love;
And all three hours His silence cried
For mercy on the souls of men;
Jesus our Lord is crucified.

Chorus: O love of God! O sin of man!
In this dread act Your strength is tried;
And victory remains with love;
Jesus our Lord is crucified!

O break, O break, hard heart of mine!
Thy weak self-love and guilty pride
His Pilate and His Judas were:
Jesus our Lord is crucified.

A broken heart, a fount of tears,
Ask, and they will not be denied;
A broken heart love’s cradle is:
Jesus our Lord is crucified.

Good Friday

2008-03-21T14:19:00.006-04:00

This morning Ella asked me why today is called Good Friday. I'm glad no one was around to hear me fumble my way through trying to explain it to her. Like always, her question makes me think. How interesting that we do call this day, this day we remember the humiliation, abandonment, torture and crucifixion of Christ, a "good" day. And I think for a while on the paradox of how terrible things can also be beautiful, good things.

I think about Sully and his condition and losing him. I have lived through many people's worst fear, losing a child. And yes, there is a horror to it but also beauty. I think about what I believe, my theology. If there was ever anything I cling to it is this. That even in the brokenness and horror, God has promised me himself, promised to redeem the brokenness, to bring beauty to the ashes. And, he has done that, is doing that. He is being faithful.

I went into the attic to pull down a few things I tucked away for the children’s Easter baskets and ran across my art history text book from college. I pulled it down to flip through. As I skimmed over the introduction I saw highlighted a definition of beauty: “a harmony of all the parts, in whatsoever subject it appears, fitted together with such proportion and connection, that nothing could be added, diminished, or altered but for the worse.” I think about Sully.

So much of the pain for me lies in the loss of what I had hoped this third child would be. But, when I accept that Sully’s life was what it was supposed to be, there is a peace, a stillness. Instead of thinking of all he wasn’t, I think of all that he was and is. Yes, his outward physical beauty did please my visual senses but his beauty went far beyond that. Part of his beauty is everything that was wrong with him. Somehow there was a harmony to all of it. If anything were “added, altered or diminished” then Sully wouldn’t have been the boy that he was. If he had been a healthy child then we wouldn’t have even called him Sully. I had discarded the name originally when I read that it could mean hushed or quiet. What vigorous newborn should have that name? But then, back it came to me after learning our baby was a boy and a very different boy. Sully was his name. Sully is who he was meant to be: broken and tragic but overwhelmingly beautiful and, yes, good.

six weeks out

2008-03-19T16:54:00.004-04:00

This is the 6th week since Sully was born. This is when most women normally go for the "six week check-up", go back to work, get back into normal life and activity. Sometimes it doesn't feel like I had a baby just six weeks ago. I'm pushing myself to get to where I can wear my normal clothes. I never would have even fathomed normal clothes at this point after my other pregnancies. What am I doing? I don't really know. I don't really know exactly what I should be doing with myself.

I am not as tired as I would be if we had a healthy six week old around here. But I am emotionally tired. I feel very little strength to pursue the things that I once would have tended to with gusto. I am feeble in my relationships, very much unable to be a good friend, to give what rightly should be expected in friendships. I heard someone say that loss such as this is like losing an arm. That arm will never grow back. So, I have to figue out how to rebuild my life, to function and exist in this life without that arm. I hate the thought that I have been made so weak. I hate that I will disappoint people because I am no longer the Heidi I once was. (And who I am I kidding, the Heidi I "once was" isn't so great, but in my head I believed I could give "equally" into relationships). But this is who I am now; this is where God would have me be.

I am eager for the play ground work to begin. I want to see it completed, and then I have a feeling I may retreat again. The work on the play ground has drawn me out, given me focus, something to care for, something to love and tend, something to nurture towards growth. It is an incredible gift to me. In some way the playground has helped to slightly anesthetize the wound for a short time. I worry that when it is complete I will feel a bit lost, that then I will have to embrace all over again and more fully the emptiness of my arms.

Pretending

2008-03-16T21:41:00.004-04:00

I have been bustling about the house this evening tidying up. Brad just gives me his knowing smile about my "busyness", and I continue on my way. It feels good to set the house aright, my little world aright. And then, with the children tucked in bed and every other room in order, I head to my bedroom to finish my work. I see Brad holding something in his hand, a small gray box. He hands it to me. Everything stops. I've known this was coming but it doesn't matter. I am brought back to reality, to the pain and the joy and the tragedy and the beauty of my boy Sully. My finger runs over the tiny (actual)imprint of Sully's foot on a small silver charm. I turn it over and see his name and his birthday. I weep all over again in that room where I held his tiny frame for the last time in this life. Brad holds me. I tell him how sometimes I want to pretend that none of it ever happened, that I was never pregnant, that we didn't lose our third child. Perhaps that was the bliss of my bustling, that for those moments I could make myself forget, make myself believe that I was my old self doing my old routine, that my heart had not been ripped from me and sent to heaven. Brad tells me that maybe it's OK to sometimes pretend, that maybe that's just what we have to do to get by sometimes.

Sharing Sully

2008-03-12T15:41:00.003-04:00

I still have many of Sully’s things at the foot of my bed in baskets. Sully’s grandfather is crafting him a special trunk to keep them in. I couldn’t put them in the attic as we wait for it to be made and so I keep an eye on them here in my bedroom. I keep my personal Sully treasures next to my bed or tucked under my pillow. The blanket I made him is one of these. Every morning I carefully retie the blue ribbon woven through it at each corner.

A week or two ago Ella and I went through Sully’s things together. I wanted her to have some of his outfits and blankets for her baby dolls. I knew I wanted to do this but I didn’t realize how hard it would be. I was fine helping her fold and place in a special basket the pieces Sully didn’t use as much. But then, Ella picked out one of the little outfits I can clearly picture him in, the cream with light blue polka dots one with a puppy on the backside. I had to resist the urge to snatch it out of her hands and hide it. It took me by surprise. I had to take a deep breath and remember that Sully was Ella’s little brother. I want her to have pieces of him, too. We talked about Sully wearing it and about how special it was to remember him in it. She then unzipped it and dressed her baby doll in it. I couldn’t believe how well it fit that tiny doll. Then, she asked me to help her wrap her doll in the soft blue blanket given to Sully by his grandma. I couldn’t help but tear up as we did that together. I go in Ella’s room quite often now to make sure that baby is wrapped just right.

Zane also has a blanket of Sully’s. He has the fuzzy blue one with Sully embroidered on the corner that Bessie gave to Sully. I cover him up with it each night as he goes to bed and he has quite taken to it. I tried to use a different blanket the other night and he protested, insisting upon “Sully’s blanket.” He bundled it up this morning and cupped his hands together and said “hold Sully” the way he used to do when Sully was here. I just smiled at him and gave him a big hug as I picked him up. Yes, we are all trying to hold Sully in our own way, somewhere in each of our hearts.

Ella's Sully
"Sully coming home in his gown"
drawn 2/24/08

Yesterday's tulips

2008-03-11T22:30:00.001-04:00

The fresh tulips and daffodils I indulged myself in yesterday sit as bright and cheerful as ever on my table. Tulips have become Sully’s flower to me, a new love he has given me. I decided yesterday that for the rest of the year I would have tulips on my table if possible or that at least I would allow myself to purchase them during the monthly anniversary of his six days with us. I picture myself doing this ritualistically and find comfort in it.

This morning, the 11th, a weight lifted. It was such a noticeable contrast that it made me very conscious of just how heavy the past six days have been for me. Remembering Sully brings joy but also the ache of losing him, the ache of all he could not be. But today, my mind felt the freedom to go other places. I could look at the tulips beginning to open and cheery daffodils and smile without tears. A bit of guilt snuck in, but I banished it, hearing the words of a dear friend who walked through grief of her own reminding me that I must “be” in each moment I am given whether tears or smiles.

One month ago today

2008-03-10T08:45:00.006-04:00

One month ago today, Sully died. I replay that day in my mind. I thought about it all day yesterday since it was a Sunday, the day of the week it happened. I think about how the morning played out, so unassuming. I look back at the pictures of us getting packed up for our trip to church and think about how we had no idea what that night would bring.

But that morning was lovely with its premature spring warmth. We snuggled Sully into the car seat and all five us packed into our car. It felt so good to take him somewhere, to all be in the car together. And at church, we sat on the very back pew. I held Sully the entire time and felt his warmth in my arms and the
softened sunshine through the stained glass wash over both of us. Afterwards, I showed off my beautiful boy, holding him and letting this family of faith admire how exquisite he was. Sully had been baptized in our hospital room the night he was born and this day felt like his introduction to God’s people as the “newest non-communing member” of our church.

There was a baptism yesterday at church as well. One month later, a dear friend’s little girl became the newest non-communing member. I felt joy as I shared in witnessing this baptism but how could I not also ache? Has it really been one month? Is he really gone forever? Of course, of course he is gone; of course time keeps marching on. I remember my Sully, child of the covenant, even as we recognize this sweet little girl as a child of that covenant.

Lately I have been wishing that we would turn up surprisingly pregnant. I think through this longing. I rationalize it away. It would be so foolish right now. I still carry the physical weight of my pregnancy with Sully. We still carry the emotional weight, too. I think through 9 long months of pregnancy and don’t really want to go through that again. So, why this irrational longing? I wonder if I believe somewhere that another baby could make the ache go away, could fill up the emptiness inside. I remind myself that no one will ever replace Sully. I see how what I’m really longing for is that Sully would have been well, that he would have taken his place in our family for a lifetime. So here I am. One month later. The six days come to an end, again. I am grieving. I am inconsistent and irrational. I am not the person I was before. I am undependable and don’t know how long that will last. I’m trying to be gentle with myself, to tend this gaping wound. I think at times I have changed for the better but then, even on this morning of all mornings, I have snapped at my daughter. Yes Sully has changed me but I do still appear to be human. In fact, maybe Sully has made me even more human. That sticks out to me from church yesterday, the Nicene Creed, that Jesus “was made man” and that “He suffered.” I don’t think I could love a Savior that did not know my grief right now.

Vows

2008-03-09T07:47:00.006-04:00

We went to a wedding last night, a young couple who we've come to know over the past couple of years. You know how the ceremony goes. You know the vows they are going to say.
But this time, this first time to a wedding since Sully, the vows really struck home. I pictured myself saying those same words, making those same promises to Brad 7 1/2 years ago. Our vows to each other before God, of course, meant so much to us then. But we were so young, so carefree. That's what strikes me most as I witness these two lovers promising their lives to each other, how carefree their love is. You say those words, about the good times and bad, about holding each other in joy and in sorrow, sickness and health, never knowing what is coming your way. Never would I have thought on my wedding day that Brad and I would have to hold each other through the death of a child. And so, true to Heidi form, my eyes began to tear up. Such sorrow we have known and yet, we walk in a love that has been tested, that has been through fire. And we are still here, still holding each other, living out the vows we declared when we, too, were young and carefree.

The 8th

2008-03-08T07:30:00.003-05:00

I'm up before everyone else like usual. I immediately head to the dryer to start folding the laundry and then I think of all the dirty dishes in the sink and then and then and then...I stop. I just sit on the couch. The light is lovely, not sunshiny at all but white gray and calming. Today is the 8th. One month ago I held my boy in my bed and mentally memorized everything about the morning. I remember how he felt in my arms, so small, so warm and bundled up. I remember how he smelled, how soft his skin was. I remember the light and the bird song and the calmness and the love. There is one bird that keeps repeating his song over and over this morning just outside the window. I tell him thank you. It's as if he's come to sing just to me and to tell me that Sully is well. Tell him I miss him, little bird. Tell him I miss him...

The Roller Coaster

2008-03-07T15:15:00.009-05:00

I've been reading more about grief. There are lots of books, booklets, pamphlets, newsletters and articles about it. I want to read. I want to know what in the world is going on with me. Perhaps I do want a clear outline to know that I'm going to be OK just as I wanted it clearly laid out for me exactly how Sully's days would play out. We are so afraid of the unknown.

So one article tells me about the roller coaster of grief, "full of ups and downs, highs and lows." Amen to that. And then how about this: "As a culture, we want everything to be quick and easy." True. It goes on to say how just as we hurry through the rest of life we want to also hurry through our pain. Is that what I'm doing as I try to step back into life? Am I hurrying myself in some way?

I guess I wonder how long it will take for those in my life to get frustrated with me. You're given a grace period but when does that end? If I make it out and seem happy one day then what will be the response when the next day I can't pull it off? Once again I find myself having to shake off what I think people expect of me, what I expect of myself.

I find myself remembering, telling the details of Sully's days over to myself, particularly now as we have come into the "one month ago" range. (Storytelling - it's actually the name of a chapter in one of the grief books. Guess I'm on the right track.) The 4th was hard just as it was one month ago. And yesterday, the 6th was very strange. One month ago, yesterday, we were photographed as a family of five. How ironic that we were photographed again exactly one month later to the day, this time with only the four of us, me holding a picture of Sully where he once was in my arms. Today, on the 7th, I find in my inbox snapshots from my sister-in-law from Sully's days with us. They take me back to the sunny days of my boy being here. I look at them over and over and cry and smile and remember even more. I imagine that for the rest of the year these 6 days of each month will hold much emotional turmoil. Maybe after that it will concentrate in February. I'm probably wrong. I'll expect it then but be surprised by it another time when I least expect it. That seems to be more the way of grief.

Retreating

2008-03-07T07:29:00.001-05:00

I’ve been coming out of my shell. I’ve shown my face places, even made a late night trip to the grocery store. I’m seeing more people in places other than my home. And I’m finding that I’m a muddle of emotions. I’m confused about how I’m feeling. At times I’m so ready to be back in the game. I’ll feel like myself and be just fine as I start to face the world. And then, like this morning, I just want to retreat again. Nothing feels safe. Even the kindest faces, the most well-intentioned people, are overwhelming to me.

The more conscious I am of people’s awareness of me and Sully, the more I want to retreat. But I’m caught here because I want people to know about my boy, to recognize his beauty and worth, to be a part of building his playground. I’m pulled in two different directions inside.

I’m struggling to write on the blog. Instead of it being an honest outlet I feel pressure for it to be good, well-written instead of just the outpouring of my heart. Can I be honest anymore? Can I say that I want to take back my Sully, that right now I want him to be all my own? Yes, I am glad his story resounds in so many hearts, but I would trade it all to have a boy that no one knew about, to have an anonymous, healthy, taken for granted baby boy.

A well boy

2008-03-01T10:01:00.004-05:00

When I woke this morning the sharp sorrow of last night had dulled and softened. Brad asked if I had dreamt. I tried to remember something specific but couldn't pinpoint anything. Yet, I had this wonderful sense of a well, happy little boy. It wasn't baby Sully but a little boy Sully, and he gave me such a sense of comfort. I don't really know what to call that, but I hope I wake to it again and again.

An extra day

2008-02-29T21:14:00.003-05:00

I signed the contract for Sully's playground today. I went to date it 3/1/08 and was reminded that it was still February. It's the 29th, Leap Year, an extra day to live in the month in which Sully was born. It has been a good day. How great it felt to sign the paper, to know that the playground equipment is being ordered and 5 or 6 weeks from now installed. Ella is feeling better and acting very much her normal, sassy, four year old self. A dear friend brought me dinner and we had a nice chat. See, a good day...
But then, it surprised me. The sadness welled up inside me and swallowed up the happiness of the day. I found tears falling down my cheeks amidst the most innocent family moments. I kept thinking about Sully's last night, and I could feel the weeping mother welling up within me. I still miss him. I still ache with the longing for all that I had hoped he would be. Yes, I am OK. But the chill of loss has not vanished. I'm sad that this is the last day of February. I'm sad to move out of his month, to move further away from my Sully days.

Vulnerable

2008-02-28T06:48:00.002-05:00

Ella is sick. Last night I was a wreck. I watched her all day but by 4:30 her fever went back up and she kept complaining of neck pain. I have never thought of myself as an over reactive parent, but I couldn't keep my mind from going terrible places. I would try and tell myself to calm down, to be rational, to stop over reacting, but it didn't help. Finally, we made an evening trip to the doctor who checked everything out and assured us that she would be just fine. Even as we waited in the room I would see glimpses of our normal Ella, and I knew everything was OK. I was glad to feel foolish for being there. I don't think I would have slept at all last night had I not had reassurance.

I wonder, will I always respond this way now when my children get sick? Before Sully, we lived in that youthful invincibility that makes you think that nothing bad could happen to you. Our odds were so low that we would ever have a child with Trisomy 18, yet we did. Last night I knew that my anxiety was coming from this realization that anything could happen to us and our family. No one has set a suffering quota and said ours was full. But I want it to work like that; I want to believe that nothing else so painful could happen to us. It's hard to accept that God's promise to me is that he will be with me, not that suffering won't happen. And so I'm left feeling so incredibly vulnerable, once again faced with the fragility of life, once again asked to loosen my grip on this life and all that is dear to me.

$32,000!

2008-02-26T19:17:00.003-05:00

Our church had a congregational meeting on Sunday to discuss many things, one of them being Sully's playground. At this meeting, the new total of funds raised by Sully's fund was announced and my mouth dropped open. I was floored to hear that $32,000 had been donated to help us build our boy's special place! I am overwhelmed with gratitude for such generosity and kindness.

In the days following Sully's death, our church came to us with a Memorandum of Understanding. They gave their full support to the playground offering to borrow quite a bit to make sure it could be started very soon. I was so touched by their commitment to making this playground happen even though the church has so many immediate and pressing needs since the acquisition of our building. While it feels good to have their safety net under us, I still hope to raise as much of the cost of the project as possible. And, wow, we are over halfway there!

Making it to this point so quickly allows us to mobilize the troops, get bids, and set dates for work to be done. Yesterday, I met with the other members of our church playground committee that have worked in helping us to make this playground a reality. We hope to begin clearing the space around the middle of March in preparation for the playground equipment to be installed around early April. Here's what you want to know - on Saturday, April 19th from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m (just one week after our fundraiser at JWTumbles)we are having a community planting day for all of those who want to come and help and get their hands dirty. Our incredible landscape architect, Ann Stokes, will be directing our efforts as we plant all of the shrubs and flowering plants around the patios and sidewalks of the play space. I can't tell you how excited I am about all of this! It's really happening! My little Sully's playground is not far from being a reality!

Sully's hands, my hands

2008-02-25T06:32:00.001-05:00

Yesterday was two weeks since my Sully flew. I think back on his six days with us and how glorious they have become in my mind. What stays with me most is the sunshine, our house filled with it, the cocoon feel of never leaving it. I know I cried, cried at knowing what was coming, but I could hold him in my arms and kiss his face and lips and stroke his little soft hands.

Oh his precious hands. They would curl up near his face, and even in his last moments his hands drew my notice, crossed up by his face, with his cheek resting on his forearm and my breast. So many times I would run my fingers over his fingers, his palm, the back of his hand, and marvel at the softness, the exquisite form and beauty in such tiny proportion.

Why did I marvel so much at them? In our last ultrasound they curled up so tightly by his face, almost folding in on themselves, that we were certain they were deformed. Even the technician made a comment about it, wanting us to be as prepared as possible. So much outwardly could have been deformed; yet, he was absolutely, exquisitely beautiful in form. And his hands were perfect.

Their image stays with me even now because, in the days since he has left, I realize they are my own hands. As I have curled up with his blanket in tears and sleep I notice how my own hands find their way to my face and curl inward as I try to find sleep. They curl so much so that when I wake sometimes they ache from how far inward they try and bend.

I cry the first time I realize that Sully and I have something so unique in common – somehow it is a connection even after he is gone. I have his hands, something of his to keep with me forever. And truly, he was of me, resembling me even in this small thing I must have done also since I was in my mother’s womb. Our hands curl inward and find our face, mine and Sully’s. How tender and sweet that is to me.

Things that make me smile

2008-02-23T00:56:00.003-05:00

I've just stumbled back over from my nieces six year old birthday sleepover where my daughter, truly my own, fell asleep at 9 and my niece, truly her mother's, is still awake. The night had a surreal quality to it as we did make up and hair and helped the girls into their princess nightgowns for runway walks. They were just so excited. They had so much fun I couldn't help but smile as I watched them and played with them. At one point, I caught a glimpse into the kitchen of a piece of my nieces art work, sweet and childlike and immortalized forever on the kitchen wall. My first thought, even in the midst of the fashion chaos, was of Sully and all of his artwork that our kitchen walls and refrigerator door would never know. It surprises me how grief can show up anywhere, at any time, even when I'm surrounded by so much happy energy. I look back to the girls wanting to be drawn back into their innocent fun.

My brother-in-law gave us a book for Sully. He had planned on giving it to him himself when he returned from a business trip but he didn't get a chance to. I read it this afternoon for the first time along with a letter to us from him. I love that Sully's name is in the title: Sully the Seal and Ally the Cat. Seeing his name makes me smile. The Seal is named after the bay he is found in, Sullivan Bay, and I wonder if that is a real place and if we could visit it. Perhaps we could make it one of our "Sully Adventures". Brad wants to have these with the kids for years to come in honor of our boy.

What else makes me smile these days? Polly Wolly Doodle sung by Zane. He is the one who gave us back our first real laughter just yesterday. Riding in the car the Burl Ives version of this song came on and Zane started singing it all crazy and with a funny voice, and I found myself laughing, and then Brad started, and then we were all three just really laughing. It felt so good to really laugh, not just courtesy laugh or smile because you know it's the appropriate response. What a gift from our boy Zane.

And the playground, that always makes me smile for real. Making calls and plans for it gives me something to do that is meaningful to me. I'm amazed that $20,000 has been given for Sully's place so far - what love and generosity! And it only continues. Friends have set into motion a fund raiser here in the community for the playground. On April 12th from 3-6 there will be an open gym at JWTumbles where all proceeds will go to help build the playground. What an amazing community that has rallied and continues to rally behind us with such incredible support! How could I not smile at that?

"It won't hurt so much always, Anne."
"The thought that it may stop hurting sometimes hurts me worse than all else, Marilla."
"Oh, everybody has been so dear and good and lovely to me, Marilla. I'm not ungrateful-and perhaps-when this horrible ache grows a little less-I'll find that I can go on living."
"Anne found that she could go on living; the day came when she even smiled again...But there was something in the smile that had never been in Anne's smile before and would never be absent from it again."

Anne's House of Dreams of the Anne of Green Gables Series
L.M. Montgomery

Empty

2008-02-21T07:26:00.003-05:00

I find it odd at times the things I am doing. I still can't help myself from doing them. This morning, emptiness felt like another presence among us. I went all throughout the house and turned on every light hoping to make it feel just a bit less. I make my bed and carefully tuck Sully's little outfit and hat back under the pillows. I smell it constantly. This morning, I kept trying to get his scent but it is growing fainter with the passing of days. I sleep with the blanket I made him, feeling like a child in need of comfort. Any flowers that came for him I can't just discard into the trash. All of them are decomposing in the shelter of our backyard azalea hedge. The water from the vases has been poured on his bulbs out front. It's as if I couldn't waste anything that was his. Perhaps I need to believe that even in their end, their death, they will spur on the new life of the azalea blooms and the sprouting tulips and daffodils.
These things I find myself doing seem almost superstitious to me. And yet, I think they must just be part of the grief, part of some kind of process. As I hugged Brad goodbye for his second morning back to work, I saw the frost on our front door and in it written the words, "We love you Sully." It was cold like this just one week ago on the morning of his service. Snow had quieted the world, all of nature honoring my sweet little boy, when I wrote those words. It's been just one week since his service, 11 days since he left, 17 since he was born. How long will I count?

Sully's cocoon

2008-02-19T06:35:00.002-05:00

After writing last night I went to check e-mail and found this letter waiting for me from a dear friend who always seems to know just how to comfort and love me. It made me feel hopeful in moments when hopelessness was creeping back in. Brad and I had taken another baby step and driven far away for a very quiet lunch together. Just a few hours together - calm and healing. We had talked about a night away but I can't imagine yet being away that long - away from Sully's cocoon as my friend calls it. I realize she has named it for me, the reason stepping back into life seems so hard. Sully has flown but I find myself more grounded, my roots cemented. I want to stay in my house forever, in the place where he lived for his months in my belly and six days in all of our arms. He did weave this beautiful cocoon and I feel lost when I try to feel my way outside of it. I have asked permission to share my friends words, words that are hopeful and life-giving to me...

"Today, on a day washed clean by the rain, a day as warm as those that Sully came to you and to us, today you turned another page. You did something together with your husband - a trip away from home - a trip to let you see that you can leave the cocoon woven by Sully's presence.
Your grief surely will be at the center of everything you do as the days and weeks and months pass. But as time marches it will be swaddled and wrapped in new days and new events - a sunny morning, the fragrance of toast, the embrace of Ella or Zane, the switching tail of a cat, the unfurling of a daffodil, the kiss and understanding of Brad.
And one day, the layers over your grief will have softened it until it doesn't surprise you anymore with a sudden, involuntary flood of tears. Finally, the layers will let themselves be tenderly opened for a look inside at a precious memory, the pain mercifully dulled by the anesthesia of time.
I'm so looking forward to that for you and for Brad. It will come. Each day brings you another step closer..."

Baby steps

2008-02-18T19:57:00.003-05:00

We tried to go out to dinner the other night. It seemed like such a good idea when it came up between us and Brad's brother and his wife. But when we walked into the restaurant I almost had to leave. I had pictured the place that had been so calm and quiet, such a haven to us in the past with its tall booths you could hide yourself in. I never thought about the fact that we had only gone on week nights and now, here it was a swinging Saturday night. What was I thinking? Why was I here? If Sully had been well, we never would have had the luxury of a night away this soon. Having this luxury, being out and around so many people enjoying a Saturday night, just hurt.

I realize I will have to step back into a life pattern before too long. Tomorrow, Ella will return to school for the first time in two weeks. I'm nervous about dropping her off, about making the trip that once was so ordinary but now seems monumental now that Sully is gone. And what about when I must go to the grocery store again or a Wal-mart or Target? I haven't run an errand since a few days before Sully's birth. Why does it seem overwhelming to me to have to do anything "normal" again? Is it because we have to wear a certain hard shell or numb ourselves to even be able to accomplish anything in the world? I feel like I'm so raw and vulnerable. The intensity and vividness of the past two and a half weeks have stripped me bare of the grayscale armor I once unconsciously used to conduct the everyday affairs of my life. How do I step back into the life of tasks and errands and necessary normalcy?

Brad and I talk through each day of this week. We try to plan for easing ourselves back into "life". We also talk a bit about future plans, this summer, and fun times for our family. And then I find myself in his arms crying. We can dream up wonderful plans but right now they all seem dull compared to if we could have our Sully and the monotonous, tiresome days of caring for a baby. Perhaps that's why each step forward seems so hard. Each step forward is a step away from what should have been but isn't, away from what we once hoped our family would be...

What now?

2008-02-16T13:55:00.003-05:00

The service is over. Family is leaving. Life moves on. But I find myself sitting on my front step still crying. It is the day after Valentine's. I watch my son, Zane, run around in our yard, laughing and full of life, and I mourn for him the loss of his brother and what he will never know with Sully. Brad puts his arm around me. I ask him, "Do you think we will always feel this hole, this ache inside"? I don't think life will ever seem normal again. How could I ever be who I was before Sully? As a mother who also lost her son once told me, I wouldn't want to be the person I was before Sully. She is so right.

But how will the days form themselves from here? I need manna just for today as I did so many of the days I carried Sully. Will I continue to write? And why? In the days since Sully's death I have written privately feeling some need for solitary grief. But as so many have walked with me in this journey I feel the days here are not yet over. I think of my boy's playground and I smile. I want for you to walk with me through the completion of that wonderful place and perhaps, I hope, that will mean walking with me through a beginning of healing.

We went this morning for the sunrise on a special stretch of beach we like to think of as ours. It is now two days after Valentine's, six days since Sully died, twelve days since he was born. There we had a private ceremony of our own, all bundled up on the shore, the kid's cheeks growing pink from the whipping wind. The simplicity of nature and its grandure gave us the most perfect sense of completion in saying a final earthly goodbye to our Sullivan. I wonder if the ache feels just a bit less today?

For Real

2008-02-15T21:05:00.002-05:00

Death took the husband of a neighbor of mine
On a highway with a drunk at the wheel
She told me keep your clean hands off the laundry he left
And don't tell me you know how I feel
She had a tape that he'd sent her from a Holiday Inn
That she never played much in the day
But when I heard him say I love you through the window at night
I just stayed the hell away

Chorus:
There's a hole in the middle of the prettiest life
So the lawyers and the prophets say
Not your father nor your mother nor your lover's ever gonna make it go away
Now there's too much darkness in an endless night
To be afraid of the way we feel
Let's be kind to each other
Not forever but for real

My father never put his parachute on
In the pacific back in World War II
He said he'd rather go down in familiar flame
Than get lost in that endless blue
Well some of that blue got into my eyes
And we never stopped fighting that war
Until I first understood about endlessness
And I loved him like never before

There's a hole in the middle of the prettiest life
So the lawyers and the prophets say
Not your father nor your mother nor your lover's ever gonna make it go away
Now there's too much darkness in an endless night
To be ashamed of the way we feel
Let's be kind to each other
Not forever but for real

Lucky my daughter got her mother's nose
And just a little of her father's eyes
And we've got just enough love
That when the longing takes me
It takes me by surprise
And I remember that longing from my highway days
When I never could give it a name
And it's lucky that I discovered in the nick of time
That the woman and the child aren't to blame

For the hole in the middle of a pretty good life
I only face it 'cause it's here to stay
Not my father nor my mother nor my daughter nor my lover
Nor the highway made it go away
But now there's too much darkness in an endless night
to be afraid of the way I feel
I'll be kind to my loved ones
Not forever but for real

Some say God is a lover, some say it's an endless void
And some say both, and some say she's angry
And some say just annoyed
But if God felt a hammer in the palm of his hand
Then God knows the way we feel
And then love lasts forever
Forever and for real

Bob Franke

Our Valentine

2008-02-11T22:20:00.001-05:00

A memorial service will be held to celebrate the life of Sullivan Gage Anderson at 1:00p.m. on Thursday, February 14, 2008 at Trinity Presbyterian Church, 1600 Colonial Avenue, Norfolk, Virginia, 23517. In helping us to celebrate our little Valentine, we kindly ask you to come dressed in colors of joy and hope.

In lieu of flowers, we request donations be made to Sully's playground fund in care of Trinity Presbyterian Church at the above address or at www.sullysplayground.com.

Ephemeral boy

2008-02-11T21:48:00.000-05:00

Journal excerpt, 2-11-08

This morning the bush and brush are full of birds, more than I've ever seen in a morning. I stand at my back door and watch each bit of movement. The sun casts a bright swath across the top of the trees off in the distance. My eye is drawn there by a solo bird soaring in the trajectory of the light.

I turn a way and out of our front window I catch a glimpse of my daughter's tree, a strong branch made crisp like a black and white picture by the cold February light. In my mind's eye I follow the branch down the trunk and think of the first sprouting bulb Ella and I noticed there yesterday morning, the bulbs we planted on another unusual spring like day in December.

It is cold now. Sully brought with him the spring and beautiful days to match his beautiful face...oh his beauty - I'm so glad I could proudly let so many eyes see his earthly glory yesterday. And that the five of us walked together to taste the body and the blood of Christ - that I held all of my children together within the community of faith into which they each have been baptized as covenant children.
And has that covenant ever meant so much to me?! My hope rests here in God's great love and care for my Sully. I know he is in greater hands.

But I ache - I miss him - his soft, sweet body, his kissable lips and face. Oh how I ache. I held him all day yesterday, longing to comfort his failing body and ease his transition out of this world. I begged for God's mercy when he struggled. Please God, make him not hurt, please, have mercy and ease his pain and suffering. He calmed into my chest, finally sleeping peacefully, the morphine relaxing him. As he took his last few breaths over a span of time, my mother's body let down her milk, longing to do all it could to save and comfort and nourish even as death became certain.

The children had gathered on our bed with us under the guise of watching a movie, Brad and Ella carefully selecting Lady and the Tramp. While Sully grew quiet on my chest we all were together, our family, our three children doing something so everyday and ordinary - a strikingly beautiful and calm picture.

A mother sang her baby boy a lullaby and I heard the words, "Let love be your keeper." I sang them again to my own baby boy. Ella and Zane each kissed Sully's head goodnight, and off they went to the warm safety of their own beds.

Brad returned to find me unmoved - I couldn't move from that sweet place of Sully so peaceful and calm on my breast, my arms holding him as if I could keep him forever. And together we wept - Brad and I wept and held our beautiful one. Every part of me wept for hours into that night...

I held him for hours after he was gone. I bathed his precious body. I dressed him in his most comfortable clothes and fuzzy socks and his signature blue hat. And I wrapped him to keep him warm although his body could not stay warm. So I held him even closer to me and kissed his face and head and lips and hands over and over again. But how can I ever fully explain the ache, the sheer pain of my breaking heart as I handed my boy to my husband, as I looked on him for the last time and kissed his face and told him I would see him again in a better place, and then watched him be carried away from me for the forever of this life. I could hear a broken heart sobbing uncontrollably - I felt my face bury itself in the bed - I felt myself hardly able to breath and not even caring - I would stay here forever, forever I would weep and wail for my dead son.

But I will not say my lost son - because my Sully is not lost. My Sully has been made whole. My Sully has been found by the arms of my Savior. I know he is well. I know he has been made perfect. I know that my Redeemer lives and that in his arms is my sweet, beautiful Sully.