The Graduate

If things hadn't gone the way they did 12-plus years ago --if his eye had never turned inward during dinner on that fateful Sunday signaling the cancer that ultimately ended his life at the tender age of 5 1/2-- Logan would be graduating from high school tonight. Two years after his big sister. Two and five years prior to his little brothers. 

Today. May 31, 2024. It's a date that I've seen looming and faced with trepidation for years.

Forgive the excessive detail and melodrama. In some ways, I'm still grappling with the jagged truth that no one will call out his name and that he won't stroll triumphantly across the stage to claim his diploma. That there is no cap and no gown for us today. The reality is cold and stark and unfriendly.

I've avoided dealing with these feelings, mostly because they're too hard. Too raw. Too personal. So personal that even though it's my reality, it's almost like I'm horning in on someone else's life. Some poor woman who lost her baby boy and isn't entirely sure how to cope with this latest milestone that won't happen. Or if she even can.

But no, she's me. Most of the time I'm at peace with what happened; after all, God is sovereign. He knows what He's doing. And He chose not to extend Logan's earthly life. That particular truth --that He didn't intervene and give him back to us to live a fruitful life on earth-- is the bitterest of pills to swallow. In fact, I refused to swallow it for a long while; I choked on its edges and spat it back up time and again until I finally clued in to the Voice of Truth that had always whispered "trust me. I know what I'm doing. Just rest in that."

And although it doesn't make any more sense now than it did 12 years ago, that's what I do. Most days, anyway.

But today hurts more than most nonetheless. And I know that's okay because I know God knows that it hurts, even now, 12 years later. It hurts to not be sitting in the bleachers during the endnotes of a stunningly lovely 85-degree day, watching my Sunshine and His peers in their sunglasses. (They'd have sunglasses partly because of the sun's rays but mostly to hide the feelings that would leak from their eyes at unexpected junctures reminding them that life will be different from now on. And that would be scary but exciting.) 

And all of that will happen for the kids who were --and would've been--his peers. They'll have those moments and the cap and gown and the party and the sunglasses and the tears -- some private during introspective moments and some out in the open. And I don't begrudge them that happiness. I've seen photos and college destination announcements on Facebook and although I can't bring myself to comment for fear that I'll crack open and bleed, I've been happy for all of them. But I mourn for myself. I mourn that I can't have a party to celebrate him because his "graduation" party --when he graduated to Heaven-- happened when he was 5. I mourn the chaos that could've been. Part of me wants to stand up and shout "but my kid should be here too! Remember him? He was with you for a while! Please remember his grin and his strawberry blonde hair and the way he danced and loved cars."

So yes, it's a challenging day. But I'm breathing a lot and leaning heavily into the promise of Psalm 34:18, which says that God is close to the brokenhearted. Because that's the best thing I can do on a day like today.

Ten Years Later

Logan died ten years ago today.

Ten years. A full decade. The irony is that it simultaneously feels like both yesterday and 100 years ago. It's funny how time works like that.

If you'd asked me 10 years ago how I'd be doing today, I have no idea what I would've said. Back then I'd just embarked on my long, painful, and oft-surprising journey with grief. Although I'd had traumatic experiences before, I was a fresh-faced 34. My faith was in a burgeoning, largely untested phase that mostly involved me telling God what I wanted and then asking Him to act on my will. And I knew little about the extreme ups and downs or about the way my own thoughts and worries and fears and anger that resulted from not getting what I so desperately wanted, what I begged for, could --and ultimately would-- rip and tear away at the very fabric of who I am, leaving me a tattered mess of a woman.

But the thing about being a tattered mess is that ripped fabric can be repaired. Holes can be patched, and missing panels can be replaced and sewn together in different places to make a brand new creation. It's hard to call anything that arises from the loss of a beloved child "good", but now, with the benefit of the clarity that the passage of ten years can bring, I can see the good.

I can see that my suffering has made me more compassionate. It's made me a devoted, dedicated friend who loves not just when it's convenient or easy or what my human flesh and heart and mind are inclined to do it, but when it's needed. It's made me long for deep connection and for reconciliation of broken relationships, since I'm convinced that we were created to love each other and to walk through this life together. It's made me more forgiving since I understand how it feels to hurt deeply and how that hurt will sometimes rub off on those who are closest to you, whether or not you want it to happen.

It's also made me dig in to the Word to understand how we're meant to live. And it's made me unafraid to talk about Jesus. It is, after all, quite easy to share my faith when I'm given a lead-in like "I don't know how you can keep living. How did you keep living with that grief?" My answer; the answer? Jesus. It always comes back to Jesus.

I still don't understand why Logan isn't here. I don't understand why he didn't get to stay with us when so many other parents (and certainly almost everyone I know) are given that gift. I don't understand why he's not here to turn 16 this coming July and I don't understand why he's not a white-knuckled teenage driver-to-be scaring me to death during behind-the-wheel practice sessions. I don't understand why he won't be there cheering like a lunatic when Abby graduates from high school in less than four months or sobbing when she heads off to college this fall. None of it makes sense. None of it is fair, and some days, my human heart cries out against the grievous injustice. I get angry and cry and punch my pillow as hard as I can and sulk in silent protest. But ultimately, I believe that God has a plan for all of us, and I believe that the plan is good, even if pieces of it break my heart and cause love to leak out. 

I believe that Redemption is real, and that Logan has already seen what glory --what resplendent perfection-- looks like. And for that truth, 44-year old me is grateful, even on the hardest of days. Even when it's been a full decade since I've seen my Sunshine's sweet face.

Seven Years

Seven years.

He's been out of my sight and my arms and my grip for seven years. Eighty-four months. Two-thousand, five-hundred and fifty-seven days.

But he's never been out of my heart or my mind or my memory. No, he's firmly, gently, irrevocably nestled in those special places, and though years ago I feared that the passage of time would dull our connection, it hasn't. It's true that some of the finer details have grown dim, but the essence of who he is -- that's still with me because I carry it around in the back pocket of my heart.

The connection has changed, of course, because although Logan will be frozen in time as that effervescent, car-loving, dancing little boy I adored when he was with me, I've changed. Because that --aside from the ever-present, ever-real, ever-existing love of God-- is life's biggest guarantee: regardless of whether we want to be different, we will change. Our experiences --good, bad, joyful, tragic-- will transform us over time. And although it's easy to allow the heartbreaking moments to define who we are and to let bitterness take root in our hearts, in my case, doing so would be a disservice to my Sunshine's memory, because "sadness" doesn't define him. No, Logan is joy and humor and silliness. And perseverance and patience and determination. And bravery and light, even in the midst of disaster.

And love. Definitely love.

And since he lived with such love, I must as well. I must live and love and forgive and press onward, even when life feels heavier than I'd like and it would be easier to just... stop.

So as I look back on the seven years that have passed since I held him into Life on that rainy Saturday, I'm keenly aware of that love and am thankful that it is and was --and will be again in a bigger, brighter, bolder way than I can even imagine-- whenever Someday arrives.

And until that day, I will live out his example by living this human life as fully as I can.

Inhale, Exhale

A friend who recently lost a child messaged me out of the blue yesterday. I'd been worried about her and was thankful that she reached out, but her question was like an arrow to my heart:

How do you learn to breathe again?

I cried while I typed a response. I cried because I was sad for her and because I know exactly where she is in the process and how she probably feels like she will never be happy again and can't imagine living with the pox of such a deep, dark, pervasive brand of pain and because there are no easy solutions and there is no fast forward button that lets you speed through the gut-wrenching parts. I remember screaming in the darkness and punching my pillow so hard that the stuffing came out and then doubling over in so much pain that I wasn't sure if I'd ever be able to get up and face the world again. I remember what those first few months are like, after the shock wears off and reality becomes stark and cold and unforgiving and far too real.

And I also cried because I wish I didn't have sage words to share with her. I wish that I didn't understand and couldn't relate and could sit with my fingers hovering over the keyboard, unable to formulate sentences that might bring an ounce of comfort or hope.

But I do understand and I do know the pain. And though I don't want to be in this position, I'm blessed if I can use this experience --this knowledge I so desperately wish I didn't have-- to bring even a moment of peace or a sense of hope for the future to someone who's suffering. Because though my life is far from perfect, I'm still here. And I'm still trying. And anyone can do what I'm doing because I, like everyone else on the planet, am merely mortal.

So my friend --you know who you are and I'm giving you every bit of the privacy you deserve-- know that I'm praying for you and willing you as much strength and fortitude as I can. And as for breathing? Inhale and exhale, inhale and exhale, inhale and exhale. I know you can do it.

On Love and Easter

I saw a meme on Facebook yesterday and couldn't stop thinking about it. The message was a simple one:

"How we walk with the broken speaks louder than how we sit with the great."

I'll be totally honest about something: it can be hard and frustrating and painful to love broken people. It's hard to care for someone who exudes negativity. It's challenging to deliberately pursue a person who pushes others away in the name of survival. It's painful to know that even when you do all you can to love a broken person, that person could still reject you.

And it breaks my heart and embarrasses me to write all of that because I've most definitely been the person who's excruciatingly hard to love. I've done the rejecting and the pushing away and the negativity. And I've wound up mostly alone, which, ironically, was the last thing I wanted. It's easy to wind up alone when you're broken, because sometimes it simply takes too much energy, too much heartache, too much everything to love someone who's hurting. I know that. I've been that difficult, difficult person.

But as the meme suggests --and as the message of Easter teaches-- love is always worth the risk.

So show up. Be present. Listen. Pray. And love, even when it's the last thing you want to do, and even when you think the recipient doesn't notice or care about what you're doing. (And if you're the one who's hurting, try really hard to let yourself be loved. I know that's far easier said than done.) What I remind myself when it feels like I'm spinning my wheels to no avail is that He sees all. And if He could die for ME, the least I can do is sacrifice a little of myself for someone else.

On 40

I turn 40 in four days.

I've been trying to figure out how I feel about it for a while now, which is funny because I'm not really one who's ever cared much about age. My friends range in age from twentysomething to fiftysomething, and age means absolutely nothing within the context of those relationships. So the rational part of me says "it's just a number. It's really no different than any other birthday and besides, most of your friends are already 40-plus so get over it. Boo yah, 40. Woohoo."

But... 40. It's hard to fully wrap my brain around that number.

Don't misunderstand me: my thirties have been hard. Actually, hard isn't a powerful enough word. A more appropriate one would be "torturous." I began the decade on bed rest with Isaac after suffering a potentially disastrous subchorionic bleed. (So you don't have to look it up, that means that a small corner of the placenta tore, which resulted in gushing blood and, eventually, a very large blood clot that could have killed him. Fortunately, of course, that did not happen, but I spent months agonizing over the possibility that it could.) After he was finally born, we had a calm expanse of months before I got pregnant with Brady at 32, and then 20 weeks later, well, you know what happened then. My life, my outlook, my everything was forever changed when I found out Logan could very well die.

Then there were the endless trips to and from the hospital, the loneliness, the exhaustion that goes along with having three very young children at home by myself and the ongoing fear that God would not respond the way I desperately wanted Him to respond to the biggest prayer I'd ever prayed.

And then, when I was 34, horror became my reality as my innocent, sweet, long-suffering little boy drifted from my arms and into God's on that rain-soaked February morning. At first I was numb, but then the sadness, the anger, the fury besieged my heart in a way I didn't see coming. It broke me into more pieces that I could ever count and I couldn't fathom ever feeling like myself ever again. And I wasn't sure I wanted to.

Fortunately, very slowly and with no small of resistance from me (because, well, anger), God knit the pieces back together again. I think sometimes those pieces were re-fused in different places, because when I think of my heart, I don't see it as a smooth piece of fabric, rather as a patchwork quilt comprised of numerous kinds of material and many converging threads of varying color and strength. Although it's been re-constructed with care, it has weak spots, and if those spots are pulled or pushed too aggressively, I can feel the stitches tear away all over again.

So given that history, you'd think I'd be eager to leave my thirties far behind me in the rearview mirror. But I'm not. The thing is, Logan won't exist in my forties. He won't be there to help blow out the candles or to tease me about my advancing age. Of course, none of that is new: he's been gone for nearly six years and his absence is a painful daily reality. And my birthdays are among the most acutely painful of those days.

But in my mind, when 39 melts into 40 on Thursday afternoon, I'll be leaving him behind. And I don't know what to do with that. I know that I can't stop aging; I'll turn 40 and then, God willing, 41 and 42 and 43. Time will keep passing and the wrinkles will keep forming and I'll keep missing him.

And no matter how fervent my prayers become, he'll keep not being here and I'll keep having to cope with the reality that one of my biggest fans is absent.

But you know something? I bet he'd want me to celebrate anyway. He'd want me to dance and talk and eat cake and smile. So though I so wish that he could be part of my forties memory bank in a tangible way, I know that he cannot. And I pray that though he won't be here for number 40, he'll be dancing with me anyway, in whatever way he can, and that though I won't be able to touch him with my fingertips, I'll feel him within my heart.

At lunch

I recognized her almost immediately: the peach fuzz hair, the paper mask, and the slightly too-puffy cheeks. She sat at a table across from a boy and a woman and next to a man and another boy. Her family. Her plate of food was virtually untouched; her mother urged her to take a bite with a gentle but vaguely pleading you have to eat something but she didn't. She just wanted to run her fingers through her brother's hair. I watched her. I watched her brothers. I couldn't see her father's face because his back was to me, but I watched her mother. I tried to search her eyes without letting her see me. I saw the tiredness and the sadness and the frustration and also the glimmer of hope. I tried to send a message straight from my mind to hers, but of course, it doesn't work that way.

Our food came. Everyone else dug in but I just looked down at mine, suddenly disintereted in the sandwich that had seemed so appealing before I saw her. More than once, I felt my eyes fill with tears and more than once, Adam asked if I was okay. I didn't really respond and I think he knew that I wasn't because he saw her, too. I was watching him the moment he saw the hair and the mask and the too-full plate and I saw his expression change. He and I, we're alike in that way. In the way that our expression changes when we see certain things.

After a minute or two, I realized Abby was looking at me, her eyes wide with concern and confusion. She saw her, I think, but somehow it didn't register. I patted her hand and I told her I was fine, though I think she knew I was lying. I ate my food and picked at my fries. And I watched the girl and her family; how her brother sat patiently as she smiled and skimmed her fingers through his shock of light brown hair. How they all pressed her to eat and how she held up her placemat to show off her crayon-aided handiwork.

They got up to go and I felt a sense of panic. A sense of urgency. I stood up as they passed by and spoke to the mother.

I've been where you are. I pray everything will go perfectly for you from here on out. God bless you, I said.

She looked startled. One of your kids had cancer? she probed. Then her gaze shifted to focus on the table behind me, where most of my family sat, still eating and talking and being together. She was looking for a survivor.

I knew I had to tell her and my heart lurched in my chest. I hate being the one who scares people; the one who represents the worst case scenario coming to pass. Yes, I replied. Then, rather than looking away as I so often do, I caught her gaze again. But he didn't make it. But you... for you, I'm praying for a very different outcome.

She stopped and just looked at me. And hugged me. And thanked me. And said she was so very sorry for my loss.

And then she was gone. And I sat down to once again pick at my fries while the others finished their meals.

It never goes away. Peach fuzz hair and a mask and a puffy face still take my breath away and make my heart race and I suspect they always will. They represent trauma and my body just... reacts. The cracks in my heart split open and bleed all over again. But if I can make a connection, offer up a word of hope, be a voice who understands in the midst of so many who simply don't --can't--, I'll take on the task.

The Anti-Graduations

Five years ago, Logan's little class graduated from preschool. Of course, he wasn't there with them because he'd died a few months earlier, but I went anyway. I remember sitting on a rickety bench outside the back door of the classroom, sobbing uncontrollably because he wasn't there and because I didn't have a little graduate to celebrate. I was so envious of the other proud parents and grandparents who, one by one, passed me by as they entered for the ceremony. One stopped to offer up a lingering hug. A few others sent pitying looks in my direction. Some seemed to pretend that I wasn't there at all, and truth be told, I felt like I didn't belong; like I was sullying their happy occasion with my presence. I never could muster the wherewithall to go inside, so eventually, as the little graduates collected their little diplomas, I slipped silenty away. It's not an easy day to remember and it's a memory that I tend to stuff when my heart summons it from the cobwebs of my mind.

But tonight I'm letting myself remember, because Friday will mark another milestone that's not happening: the completion of elementary school. It seems weird to think about him moving on to middle school since he never even got the chance to begin kindergarten. It breaks me to realize that though I will keenly feel his absence, almost none of his would've-been classmates will know a thing about him. They won't know how funny he was or how he danced or how he was obsessed with all-things automotive or how his big sister was his best friend in the world. I can say "well, it's their loss" but the reality is that it's my loss. It's our loss. No one else knows what they missed.

So I'll stay far away from that ceremony on Friday. I'll look away when I see the giggling girls in their dresses and the boys looking uncomfortable in their quasi-formal mom-made-me-wear-this-stuff finery. I won't cry where anyone can see me. That day will be hard. But like I got through the littlest graduation ceremony, I'll get through this one, too.

What it's like

"I can't even imagine."

"I don't think I'd be able to get up in the morning."

"I don't know how you do it."

"You're so much stronger than me."

I've heard a lot of things since Logan died, including the remarks listed above. I usually just smile and nod and shrug. What else am I supposed to do? They are, after all, perfectly acceptable responses to a difficult situation. But here's what I'd say if I felt free --truly, really, fully free-- to be honest.

No, you can't imagine. And you don't want to because it's horrific. And you know it's horrific. And since the human heart --and mind-- protect you from horror, you actually --physically-- cannot imagine it. And that's okay, because I don't want that for you.

Yes, you would, because you'd have to. Because you have other kids and a husband who need care. Because you can't quit life when something horrible happens to you. So yeah, you'd get up. And some days, you'd smile and genuinely feel happy. Other days, you'd smile and fake it even when you were falling apart inside. And after enough time passed, your friends wouldn't even be able to tell when you're really smiling and when you're merely eking, slogging through the day, your sights set on a good, cathartic cry by yourself at home. But yeah, you'd do it. Because it's what you'd have to do.

Me neither. But I'm pretty sure Jesus has a lot to do with it. I am not strong enough to withstand it on my own. I am not a superhero. It's okay if you think I am, but I promise you that I'm just a regular woman with regular temptations and loves and victories and failures.

Not really. It just looks like it because I keep getting up and I keep taking the other kids to school and smiling, even on the days when my heart is breaking all over again. If you were me, you'd do the same.

So yeah. I don't like oversimplification any more than the next perfectionist, but in a nutshell, that's what it's like.

Five Years in Heaven

Five years ago today, we had to say good-bye to Logan. I held his battered body in my arms and sang to him as he quietly slipped into eternity. It was, succinctly put, a brutally unfair conclusion to a brutally unfair journey. It was the stuff of nightmares and it broke my heart. It broke Adam's heart. It broke Abby's heart. It damaged us in ways that my then 34-year old, shell-shocked self couldn't even attempt to imagine and it shook my faith to a breaking point that I didn't realize existed.

But we are survivors.

We're still breathing. We're still walking. Some days, it feels like we're all strangers living in the same home, speaking different languages and yanking one another to and fro in our attempts to cope with this change that no one wanted, but we're still together. We're still trying to love one another as best we can, and we're still trying to figure out how to blend heartache and happiness in a way that honors Logan and still allows us to feel the warmth of the sun's rays on our faces. It's hard. It's painful. There are ups and downs and highs and lows that I can't even come close to describing. But we try. And we're getting there.

Ironically, I think that in many ways, I'm a better person for all of the struggles. I've learned that it's okay to cry in front of my friends and that the ones who matter won't judge me or walk away. I've also learned that those who choose to leave aren't bad people; they're just struggling with their own insecurities. I've learned that a broken heart can't render me useless; only bitterness can do that. I've learned that I can yell at God until I can't breathe and He still won't turn His back on me. I've learned that though we don't always get what we pray for, God will provide what we need to not just survive, but to thrive. I've learned that He loves me so much that he sends people to me to stand in the gap when I don't have the strength, energy, or desire to do it for myself. I've learned that I can see Him moving all around me if I don't forget to look, and that although human life is hard, we're given relationships that help us to grow and mature. I've learned that it's okay to be vulnerable and that my fragility isn't a weakness but a strength that I can use to help others. And I've learned that I'm never going to learn it all, and that's okay.

I miss him every single day and I mourn the future he didn't get to have, but I'm so thankful that he was here.

I love you, Logan.

Always my baby you'll be

June 26, 2016. Brady is 5 years, 6 months, and 12 days old, which means that he has officially lived longer than his biggest brother, whose earthly hours numbered 5 years, 6 months, and 11 days. In a way, from here on out, Logan will be my forever baby.

I've had my eye on this date for quite some time. Although we never discussed it, I know Adam had it in mind too; how could he not? How could you not be aware of the date that your youngest child is suddenly older than one of your older children?

And as it turns out, so did Abby. She brought it up to me yesterday as we meandered around the fair. "Mom... do you know... do you know what tomorrow is? What it means?" I just looked at her and nodded and she nodded back and kicked at the dirt with the toe of her sneaker. We didn't say much, but she knew, and she knew that I knew. And we were together in that moment of comfortably awkward silence, remembering who he was and still is and wishing with everything in us that he could still be here.

We're still getting by, as my dad used to say when I was a kid. I try to do more than go through the motions and for the most part, I think we're faring okay. It's hard to come to the realization that you're no longer the person you were and that there's a big part of you that will be jaded and broken and injured until all is made right in Heaven. But I'm still working to find joy in hidden places and to be a better person. And for now, at this point in my life, that has to be good enough.

Friends

I know it's been ages, but I'm still here. Still breathing. Still driving the mom-taxi and writing and missing my boy. And though life may continue to change and evolve, that third item will remain constant.

Abby started middle school in the fall. It's stunning to realize that she's on the verge of becoming a teenager. I worry about her; I listen carefully when she talks about new kids at school and then stealthily stalk their parents' Facebook pages to be sure they're nice girls. I'd be embarrassed to admit that, but I'm sure I'm not the only one. Middle school is hard, after all.

We had a conversation the other day, she and I. I asked if she'd told any of her new friends about Logan and she shrugged.

I'm not sure. I don't really remember.

I paused. Then I asked if she talked about family, and if she mentioned having two brothers or three.

Three, she said. Always three.

Then I paused and revisited my original question. Did they know? Had she told them that he'd passed away?

She shifted uncomfortably. I don't know. I don't remember.

I paused again, trying to choose my words with care. I wasn't entirely sure what she'd say, but I had an inkling and I cringed internally when I asked: Why didn't she want them to know when he was such an important person?

She sighed. Because I don't want them to just be my friend because they feel sorry for me.

It broke my heart to hear her say it. I figured that would be the explanation, but it still stung to her the words as they escaped her lips. She deserves better than that. So much better. She deserves to be able to speak freely about her best friend, just like her friends can speak freely about the special people in their lives. But at 11, she knows she can't. She sees where that kind of honesty can lead, and she doesn't want to venture down that road.

It's one of the heartbreaking lessons with which I've had to wrestle during Logan's saga and its aftermath: people are fickle and weird and unpredictable. Some long-time friends abandoned me when I needed them. Others came alongside me and held me up when I could no longer stand on my own. Some have gone on to become great friends and confidantes. Others have completely vanished from my life; it was as if the ambulance pulled away and they were gone, in search of another to chase.

I'm sorry. I know this is harsh and some won't like my words, but if you take anything away from this entry take this: be careful with others' hearts. If you're not ready to be a genuine friend, keep your distance. If you are, then dive on in, but realize that the ocean floor is lined with jagged rocks and that the waves can be fierce and overwhelming. But if you navigate the storms, you'll wind up seeing some pretty amazing things in the end.

#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.

'Cars' and Such

The Little Boys got up early this morning and rather than honoring Brady's request to watch "Paw Patrol," I turned on "Cars." I was planning to head back to bed to catch a few more zs, but I didn't. I was drawn into that big opening race scene... the music, the bright colors, the flashing lights, the Elvis car grunting "uh" at just the right moment. All of it.

I can remember Logan watching this movie. I can remember how he identified with those "cars with faces," as he called them; how he'd wiggle his bum with the music, bring the sass with his bottom lip, and then explode into a fit of giggles.

This movie was such a huge part of his life and who he was while he was here on this earth that it's as if it's an inextricable part of him; actually, it's almost like the movie is a part of him, and he is a part of the movie.

So when I watch it, it's almost like I'm seeing him again. Of course, I know I'm not. I know I'm just drawing on the past --squeezing my eyes shut and holding on to those memories for as long as I can-- but it's what I have. So I treasure it, even if as I watch, the tears come early and often.

My Talk-stimony

I'm still not entirely sure what to call it, but a few weeks ago, I was one of the speakers at my church's women's retreat. I had two months to prepare; it was a rather open-ended assignment that was supposed to focus on my experience with Logan's battle and being real with God. The morning of the event, I had a handful of bullet points outlining my takeaways from the experience, but no real... plan.

And this is what I wound up saying. I can't speak for how good or bad it may be, but I CAN say that it was pretty much entirely God giving me the words.

869th

I'm a fiercely competitive person. When I was a student, I hated earning anything less than a strong A. In fact, a B warranted a bitter round of mental self-flagellation. And a C... well, the horrors of that particular scenario are too upsetting to rehash.

Like all humans, I seek out activities that will allow me to shine. I know I'm a good writer so I write. When I was a kid, I knew I was a good dancer, so I danced.

But life isn't all about adhering to the straight and narrow and doing what we know we're good at doing. Sometimes, maybe more often than we'd like to think, conquering a challenge --a real, bona fide challenge-- is more meaningful than earning fifty As in a row.

When it comes to running, I will never win a race. I'm self-aware enough to realize that someone else on the road will always be faster than me --a whole lot faster!

But that doesn't mean I should torch my tennis shoes.

This morning, I ran my first-ever complete 5K. To this moment, I'm not sure how I did it, because I'm not in great shape and my knees are creaky and my lungs were burning by the time I crossed the finish line. But I finished. And I finished 869th out of 1855 participants, right smack in the middle of the pack. A solid 'C', if you will.

And I am so pleased.

So I got a C in 5K running. The me of my youth would probably be annoyed over the time and would be kicking me for not trying harder. But the truth is, I tried as hard as I could. When I crossed that finish line, I knew with 100% certainty that I had done my absolute best. I laid every bit of what I had to offer out on the table.

And it was good enough for 869th place.

Because here's the thing. If I'd said 'aw, naw, I'm not doing THAT because I suck at running,' I never would've been out on that road, utterly alone amid that pack of joggers. And I never would've had the morning to run and remember and focus on Logan and all he went through just to live a few extra months with us. And I never would've called out to God to ask for help when I wasn't sure I could make it. If I'd stayed in my comfort zone, I never would've been in the position to need help. And believe me, after not training at all for the past year, it's a miracle I managed to jog 3.1 miles straight without stopping! A true miracle. Had I remained tucked into my happy zone, I would've missed seeing that prayer for help be answered. The whole 'You are strong in my weakness' thing? Totally true.

So, open yourself up to miracles. Put yourself in uncomfortable situations. And then ask for help.

And you'll get it.