Moments with Marri

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 ha...

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 ...

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....

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 setting...

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....

My knees are healing.   CPR wounded me, in more ways than one.  I feel guilty and sad that they are healing.   Those abrasions and bruises connect me to my boy.   Those moments, forcing Haddy's heart to beat as I knelt over him on the concrete, were part of my fight to keep him here.   My prayers were too, but God in His sovereignty said no.   I can reason that it does no good to feel guilty.   I still do.   My muscles are no longer sore and my skin is nearly healed.   It has been eight days since I pulled his lifeless body from the pool.   Those images linger in my mind.   Sleep evades me.   My chest is always aching and it feels difficult to breathe.   I am weak. I want to share a sweet truth God whispered into my soul back in 2015 while He was forming Haddy in my womb.   This is tender and true.   I don't feel all of the implications of this truth just yet, but I cling.   I cling to the One who e...