#9

I keep starting and stopping and re-starting this entry because no matter what I write, it doesn't work.

Logan's ninth birthday is tomorrow.

For most parents, birthdays are happy occasions filled with cake and ice cream and the birthday song and giggles and pictures and fun. November 3 and June 15 and December 14 are all like that for me.

But July 31st is different. It's a day of remembrance. It's a day to look back on and really internalize the profound impact he had on all of our lives.

It's a day for the cracks in my heart to re-break and ooze.

It's a feeling you don't get unless you've been where I am. It's a lonely place. It's a deeply painful place.

But we'll do what we did in 2012 and 2013 and 2014, and celebrate him as best we can. We'll make the day about him and what he liked. And we'll get through it, together. And if we're extra specially blessed, we'll feel him hanging around, in whatever way it's possible.

Happy almost-birthday, my Sunshine. I so wish you were here.

Endings and Beginnings

Logan's best friend finished elementary school today.

In the hallows of my mind, I can still hear them laughing together; they were, after all, a mere 20 months apart. Although 20-month old Abby wasn't immediately taken with her tiny baby brother back in the summer of 2006, it didn't take her to long to start asking to "hoooooooold baby Yogan." And I was more than happy to comply. I'd always hoped my children would be great friends, and the never-ending "morning" sickness I endured while shepherding both of them into this world in quick succession seemed to handily transform that simple hope into reality. They played together. They danced together. They told silly stories and splashed in the rain and collected rocks and dug in the sand beside the ocean. And they laughed, sweetly and with so much heart that it filled mine with a joy I never knew existed.

And then the brokenness that pierces the planned sweetness of God's creation intervened, and everything changed.

I'm sure that Abby still hears her best friend's laugh sometimes. At least, I hope she does. There's the cliche that says that those we love never truly leave us, and I think there's a degree of truth in that. I see shades of him in her. I see it in the way she smiles when she doesn't know anyone is watching and in the moments when she allow her inner goofball to bubble to the surface.

And today, I know he was so, so proud of her. I know that if he could've been there in human form, he would've clapped and whooped and hollered when her name was called and she walked across the stage. And he would've been the very first person she'd have hugged after the ceremony was complete. He loved her so, so much, and she loved him right back with the same intensity.

Abby really is my hero is some ways. I get upset sometimes because I feel like there are people out there who have no conception of what a true survivor she really is. Her best friend in this entire world died when she was just seven years old. Seven. She came into the room right before he slipped away and tearfully told him good-bye. At seven. People tell me I'm strong, but to have that kind of fortitude as a child is mind-boggling. She has a unique perspective on life that many adults would be challenged to fully understand, and I am so proud of the young lady she's become.

And I'm sure Logan is proud, too.

I just spent an hour scouring my hard drive for the perfect picture to sum up their relationship before finally coming to the conclusion that no such image actually exists. So I'm settling on the one right there to the left, because in the end, it's really all about love. Nothing more, nothing less. I am so thankful that Logan was here and that he poured such pure love into her life. And I'm thankful that some day, we'll all be together once again.

Mother's Day

Part of me --the part I shove down deep so I can keep functioning in this world-- hates Mother's Day. There. I said it. Part of me hates Mother's Day.

There are so many ways to criticize that statement, I know. I'm sure you thought of one just now. You might've blurted out but it's such a blessing to be able to have babies. So many women can't. And you would be right. Perhaps you felt a compulsion to remind me that I'm fortunate to have produced not just one but four babies. Not everyone is so fortunate. And you'd be right about that, too. You may've wanted to tell me that I'm just so lucky that I have three healthy kids here with me. Also true.

But nothing takes away the sting of not having my Sunshine here. Like the shepherd, my heart still looks for him and laments his absence.

Most days, I can keep going because I have to. I have places to go. Tasks to accomplish. Most days, I can smile and tell you --with great genuineness in my heart-- that I keep going because I need to keep living for everyone else. It's not as if me being sad will help anyone, after all.

But not on Mother's Day, the 24 hours devoted to motherhood. I can't hide from my pain on Mother's Day. Despite my best efforts, it comes bubbling to the surface to remind me of what I've lost. There are no hugs, no kisses, no handmade cards, no affectionate notes from Logan. If I close my eyes and block out the sounds of the world, I can still hear him. Feel him. Smell him. But it's not the same. It'll never be the same.

It just hurts. There's no poetic way to say it.

Truth be told, all I want to do on Mother's Day is hide away at home. I just want to be away from other people, alone with my compact little family. Because for me, it's not just a day of celebration: it's a day of remembering. And grieving an amazing thing that I once had.

I don't think I'm alone in feeling that way.

It's not that it can't or won't be a good day. It's just a different kind of day for me. A day when I want space that I probably won't be given to reflect on something I wish to the good Lord I didn't have to think about at all. Of course, it's just a day. And then it'll be over.

156 weeks

It's raining today.

It was raining 156 weeks ago, too.

There's something about this particular Saturday that needs to be rainy and gloomy and overcast.

I'm betting most people can't name their least favorite Saturday of the entire year, but I can. It's today.

It's a reminder that the date is drawing near; that in short time, the flashbacks that I work hard to push to the back of my mind most days will force their way out and wash over me, throwing me to the ground over and over again like the fiercest waves the ocean can muster.

It's hard. I can't sugar coat it. I'm dreading Wednesday. But I know that Thursday will follow, and the sun will come out again, and the waves will abate.

This time of year just sucks. There's no way to sugar coat it because there's not enough sugar in the world to sweeten this particular brand of bitter.

But I'm thankful that this isn't our final destination and that one day, we'll all be truly whole. Until then, this particular Saturday will come and go, and my heart will re-break and mend a bit each time it does.

Try

It's been a while. Sometimes I swear I do little more than blink and bam, another three or four months pass and I'm left thinking wait... what?!.

But at any rate, I'm still here, still going through the motions. Still getting older and hopefully a little wiser with each day that passes. Still having good days and then bad days and then more good days. I think that's just how my life will play out now; I think I'll have a spate of those really good days when I can feel the sunshine on my face and really embrace the good things --the worthwhile things-- in life. But I know I'll have other days when I just want to hide; when the emotion will surface regardless of whether or not I want it to. And I know sometimes it will get the best of me and I'll wind up embarrassed over objecting to some well-meaning person's words. But that's all okay. I don't think I'd be fully human if I "got over it," because that's not a fully human thing to do. You don't get over it. You learn to live with it. And you learn to extend grace to those around you who simply don't get it. And I'm working on mastering all of that. It's a deeply painful and challenging process.

If nothing else, I think I'm trying. That's kind of vague, I suppose, but my thinking is muddled these days. I mean that I'm moving forward. 2014 saw me trying (and liking, as much as it shocked me) skinny jeans. It saw me taking more interest is my health and dropping a few extra pounds that I didn't need. It saw me conducting a slew of interviews with celebs, some better known than others, but all interesting in their own distinctive ways. It saw me running a full-fledged 5K from start to finish, carried only by the miraculous strength of God. It saw me accepting an invitation to become a deacon at our church. It saw me dressing up like a neon rainbow on crack to dance an '80s themed routine in front of a theater full of people. It saw me continuing to parent Abby, Isaac, and Brady while continuing to keep Logan alive in their minds and hearts. It saw me trying to figure out how marriage works after you've lost a child (because it truly isn't the same). It saw me beginning to realize that growing and changing isn't the mark of disloyalty to someone special who's moved on; rather it's a sign that you're looking forward to seeing him again, whenever it is that Someday arrives. It's a sign of life taking root and beginning to flourish once again.

It also saw me unearthing other issues from my past; other hurts that I'd successfully buried for so long that I audibly gasped when I finally opened that chest, pulled them out, and looked them in the eye. But those things... they don't own me. And before I bury them for good, I'm going to make peace with them, even if it's hard.

So that's where I am. Still here. Still learning every single day. Still trying to be humble and kind and patient, and often failing. But I'm trying. And sometimes, that's all I can ask of myself.