Moments with Marri

Haddy was more comfortable with singing than speaking in the beginning.  It was really sweet.  One of his favorites was this Spider-Man song.  He would say, “A, O, Dough!” (Think...Hey! Ho!  Let’s Go!)  He would jump off the couch or jump off the edge of the pool into the water.  Some time ago, I couldn’t figure out where this little diddy came from so I asked the kids.  They immediately informed me it was from Spider-Man and that Haddy loved it!  They delighted in it just as much as I did.  Haddy would do it over and over just to relish in all of our delight!  I am telling you what, it was cute! This afternoon we took the kids to see the new Spider-Man.  We were all hoping for some delight and togetherness.  Today, though, was a day blanketed with heavy grief for all of us.  (Pretty sure the movie only furthered these feelings.) It was palpable, yet we all were trying to endure and find joy.  We all wanted the joyous family fun days of old.  We were longing for it.  I suppose wha

Today was gloomy, rainy, and heavy.  Today was also the first day we could place our holiday floral arrangements at Haddy’s grave.  I had to leave his vase empty a few weeks ago because the flowers needed to be brought home instead of thrown away.  They were just a few weeks old.  I need to do this grave tending.  It is a thing in my grieving that I didn’t expect.  I NEED to tend to Haddy’s grave.  It is a comfort and it is incredibly painful.  Juxtaposition...again.   Do you want to know something?  Grief leaves an emptiness, a loneliness that sits down in your soul.  I can’t shake it.  Leaving that vase empty a few weeks ago for the grounds to be cleaned left my heart reeling.  As if the cold, hard stone that screams his name wasn’t enough for my aching heart, that empty vase was the proclamation of the state of my heart.  I wept there laying on his grave.  In fact, I wailed.  My own wailing haunts me, to be honest.  My teeth chatter and these inescapable groans pour out.  My mi

There is this thing in grief, that those who carry heavy loads hear.  We hear, ‘Be thankful,’ and ‘Count your blessings!’   I don’t disagree that both are a good word to those who can quickly feel consumed by darkness in their grieving, but I suppose I hear something underlying the admonishing that I wrestle with.  I hear that in some mysterious exchange that my gratitude should diminish or rid me of grief.  This concept just simply isn’t true.   These commands are, in a sense, shutting down the aching hearts for a cheery perspective change.  Real gratitude doesn’t always look like cupcakes and rainbows.  This idea roams around in Christian circles and it is isolating to those who suffer.  My gratefulness doesn’t diminish my grief.  My grief doesn’t have to diminish my gratitude.  Unfortunately, it sometimes feels as if the imperative spoken is one that feels more like, ‘Hey, your sorrow is cramping my mood.’  The truth is that I am....cramping your vibe and thankful.  Very thankf

A week or so ago, I laid on the grave of my son and wept alone.  With my body curled against the cool fall earth, I wailed for the longing within me unanswered, unquenched.  As my head rested on his stone, I watched my tears fall on his name.  My son’s name is carved in stone, and my mind and heart still just want to scream ‘No!’  He went Home in my arms, his brain was giving way where his breath life was already gone.  Never was there any sign of life in his small body after those moments he postured for the last time.  Despite my effort, despite my pleading in faith for a miracle, my Lord said ‘He’s mine’ and took him Home.  Final destination.  My heart hurts so much that it physically aches within me.  Four months have passed.  I had hoped that would lessen with a little time.  Most days I don’t know how I will go on like this, aching, longing, and so weary from the pain of losing him. For Haddon; Haddon James Hampton.  My son, I wasn’t done yet.  Kissing your cheeks or running

Haddy had stinky feet.  We played a game where I would smell his feet with dramatic disgust and he would belly laugh, repeating, “A’den!”  He loved to laugh so much.  He also loved a good, rough tickle.  He would belly laugh until he was out of breath and still ask for more.  His laughter was always music to my ears.  He and Knox both require laughter.  We call it a 'giggle quota' around here.  It was woven into them by an immensely majestic Creator.  Haddy's laughter could tear down anxious toil in the hearts of those who loved him in a way that left you feeling bound to him.  How could a person so small know how much you needed the release of uninhibited laughter?  He was used by God fiercely in a season of uncertainty and change.  We all rejoiced over that boy.  He knew the delight of our entire brood from the moment he was born.  The baby we didn’t expect.  The biggest surprise of our lives. Three months have passed since Haddy’s musical laughter has filled our home.

788 days.  I know Mommas who would have loved to have that many.  I am thankful that I got 788 days to see his face.  Still, it just wasn't enough.  The truth is I really don't want this to be my lot, my life.  I am still feeling restless, anxious, and uncertain.  I can't shake it.  Oh, how I wish all of those emotions would pack up and leave.  I can accept sad, even full of sorrow.  I expect that.  Tragedy has done something to me though.  It has me completely gripped with pain, but the anxiety and uncertainty feel like intruders. They make me angry, frustrated, and impatient.  No doubt, I have PTSD.  I mean, unfortunately, that's not shocking.  The triggers though, they always are.  I gave Selah a bottle of ice water a week or so ago.  She loves lemon in her water like her Momma.  So, I did just that.  I found the bottle days later, gave a mom sigh, and took it to the sink to clean.  I couldn't get the lemon out.  It was full of water.  Full of water... Full of wa

I've been wrestling.  My son died 6 weeks ago.  Days have already turned into weeks.  Soon, weeks will turn into months, and months will turn into years.  So many people ask me, "How are you?"  I understand that the question is more like saying 'hello' to most.  It is simply a greeting.  It's just that this question forces me to confront my reality.  The answers I have rehearsed for years upon years don't suit me anymore.  My honest answers are too raw, too painful to expose in a simple greeting.  I see the kindness in the eyes of many who ask and I don't assume the worst.  Instead, I worry.  I worry that people may want my 'tour of grief' to end before it will.  I am not even certain that I have entirely accepted that my boy isn't coming home to me.  I mean, all of his clothes are folded and placed in his dresser and they don't appear in the laundry basket covered in spaghetti sauce, dirt, or peanut butter anymore.  Man, he loved peanu

A few days after Haddon died, I was sitting on the couch with Calvin by my side.  In an instant, I remembered that I had prayed the identical prayer that I had prayed over Haddon when Calvin was born.   "God, please spare my son.  If he lives or if he dies, I will worship You, but please Lord, please spare my son." You see, when I got pregnant with Calvin, I was astounded.  We had waited years for him, quietly.  We did not pursue fertility doctors, but we prayed and waited on the Lord for years.  When he was born, he was quickly rushed to the NICU.  He weighed 10 lbs 1 oz and was 2.5 weeks early.  Our doctors couldn't figure out if he had underdeveloped lungs from gestational diabetes or if he had aspirated meconium during birth.  Nonetheless, he was quickly intubated and instead of improving, he kept requiring more of the ventilator.  I remember the NICU attending coming to sit with Jason and me to explain that the vent settings were maxed out and that he couldn'

This grief is unfolding, layer after mysterious layer.  I am in a foreign land.  I am undone, in agony.  I don’t have the equipment or the fortitude to face what lies before me.  My baby is dead.  He is not coming home.  Somewhere in the recesses of my heart, I wanted to believe that he was on a vacation for little people.  Each day that passes reminds me, I don’t get to raise my son.  I am in anguish.  I feel a sense of longing that will never be quenched this side of heaven.  I ache for him.  How will I endure a life without him?  I am sick with grief.  I cannot even seem to find a break from this grief when my body finally gives in to sleep.  My chest feels heavy and my heart literally hurts.  I cannot escape this pain.   Somewhere in the mysterious space where God’s sovereign plan meets our free will, Haddon went home to be with Jesus.  In that very moment, we entered the furnace of affliction.  I have known grief.  I have endured hardships and trials.  This.  This is agony.