Moments with Marri

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...

This story is a hard one to tell.  I don't believe that I have to share it, but I also understand that many, many people have questions when a little one dies.  So, I will share it with the hope that your hearts will settle into the One who can lift up your soul.  I know that Haddy's death, whether you knew him or not, leaves a terribly unsettling feeling.  I want your heart to be nestled into the Father for such a time as this. July 4, 2018, my 38th birthday began with a plan.  Our dear friends, the Dickensons, asked us to go to the pool of a friend of theirs.  We love water.  We spend as much time as we can near or in it.  Both of our families had asked a few others to join us.  We got there around 1 p.m.  We played, we swam, we talked, we laughed.  It was incredibly tender and dear.  Our conversations were our normal.  We laugh, tease, play, but in an instant one of us may be talking about something deep and meaningfu...