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I never dreamed there would be a time when I would dread Christmas, but here I am, sitting alone in a quiet house because I don’t have the emotional energy to join any of the festivities around me.  I’ve been craving this solitude, a small bit of time I don’t feel pressured to pretend in order to keep every else’s spirits at a level where we can all manage to make it through these festive days that somehow feel even heavier.  I’m grateful we have been able to stay cohesive and hold on to each other, respecting the fact that each of us is experiencing this loss in a different way, but feeling united because we all love and miss the same man. He was always crazy about Christmas, which makes this season even more bittersweet.  

  The thing about Christmas is despite the challenge of going through the motions while grieving, it’s the very thing we need.  I’m not against the decorations, parties and gifts- they are a fun attempt to acknowledge the gift God gave us when he came down from heaven to be with us.  But the fact is, he came to us in as simple a fashion as possible, and he came straight to the people who needed him most, the poor, sick, invisible, overwhelmed.  I can appreciate the simplicity of presence right now.  My heart is broken because I am missing my son’s presence, and it’s only the gentle presence of God that is holding it together.  

 I’m contemplating what pastor Ryan Rhodan reminds us of each Christmas; Jesus coming to earth was not a “rescue” mission, it was a redemption and restoration mission.  Just as the devoted religious of his day missed the fact that God was right there with them because they were looking for a different kind of messiah and king (the human preoccupation with power), they wanted a rescue from their present circumstances, I also could miss what God has for me if I choose to be embittered that God hasn’t shown up the way I expected. He didn’t keep my son from dying.  All those years of praying for safety over my children and my worst nightmare happens.  If I only understood God and his sovereignty through the human eyes of power and control, my faith would be devastated right now.  Of course I would prefer a rescue right now – for God to somehow undo what happened or to have stopped it in the first place.  I would love to walk away from this reality, the constant pain and the unknown future.  But God in his love offers something different. He gave Himself.  Immanuel, God WITH us. He is here with me in my sorrow.  He brought redemption and restoration of all things with his presence.  This gift is a process- my own personal restoration and the restoration of all creation.   We don’t get to snap our fingers and flee from the hardship and brokenness (I wish it was that way!)  But how would I ever come to know him or grow to reflect him if it were not a process, a journey, step by step?  

Besides the morning after you died, last Monday was the hardest Monday I’ve ever slogged through.  First, we managed to keep ourselves together and host Thanksgiving for a table full of heart broken people.  Then we spent the weekend helping your grieving widow put your entire home into boxes, take it to a cold, quiet storage unit and wipe all proof of your existence, even the coffee stains on the carpet.  I was doing my best to stay on task and not think about what I was actually doing, but I kept finding traces of you.  This I can assuredly promise, you will never be forgotten. You will always be with us. We just had to close this chapter so your beautiful wife, now widow, could take a step into the new life that’s been forced upon her.

 Believe me, none of us wanted to do this.  With every cell in my body I don’t want to live without you.  Maybe that’s why I ache from my head to my toes. My body remembers the flutters and kicks as you were growing, the sweet cuddles you often initiated, the smell of your hair and the sound of your (loud) peaceful breathing when you were little. I miss the tone of your grown up voice as you said “Hi Mom” whenever you walked into our home, the feel of your big biceps pulling me in for a hug, the reassurance and joy of your presence.  

Josiah was recently telling me about microchimerism-  a fantastical biological process where fetal cells become part of a mother’s body; fetal cells have been found in mother’s bones, skin, liver, spleen- they even cross the blood-brain barrier and become neurons in the mother’s brain.  I know you will always be with me in my heart and soul, but I’m finding special comfort in the thought that I still have some of your cells floating around, maybe even some neurons with your name on them.  Now when I crave Ben and Jerry’s or turn around to admire the noisy diesel truck that just drove by, I’ll know why!

 I don’t want to do this, living without you.  But it’s our only option.  We’re doing our best to be in sync with the land of the living, but sometimes our hearts feel buried with you.  Sometimes I even fool myself into thinking I’m ok- I can look so normal on the outside, pushing away the taunting ghost of my pain, rarely does anyone catch me talking to him, begging him to go away.  They don’t see how he always gets the last word, like a kick in the gut.  I think deep down there is a fear that if I allow myself to unravel just a little, I won’t be able to stop.  If I don’t keep a tight grip, I’ll get lost in the pain.  I don’t really know how to do this, none of us do. 

 We’re holding on tight to your memory, to each other, to Jesus. And we are living as fully as we can, while suffering the pain of your absence.  At times I worry that you are looking down and seeing us going about our lives, looking like we are back to “normal”, and maybe you feel sad about that.  This is probably irrational, but it’s often where my mind goes.  But if you look closely, you will see our sadness, our deep grief. Our smiles don’t reach our eyes.  But we are still smiling, because there are things here that still bring us joy, like our baby Selah James and the terrible music your wife has taught her to demand.  Like your big brother marrying his perfect match.  Like your little brother bravely moving forward despite your absence (but because of your support).   Like the love and affection that has grown deeper between all of us as we hold each other together.  I think you would be proud of us.   I pray you live in the knowledge of our love for you, forever.  

Friends have asked me to share my journey through writing.  This is a bit scattered and rough- just like my brain these days:) I am willing to share my thoughts and feelings if there is good to be gained from it.  If nothing else, you will know some of my personal process.  Grief is quite individualized as we are all thrown into it with different personalities, experiences, relationships and beliefs.  On the other-hand, grief is a universal experience.  We have all experienced loss (or will in the future).  I feel this process is making me more human, better able to connect with others who have also suffered similar pain.   I know the frustration our family and friends feel at not being able to “do anything” for our pain, as I have felt that same frustration many times as I witnessed the suffering of those I love and live amongst.  I want you to know that your presence does matter and your love does make a difference.  There is a soft cover of comfort just knowing you are there and grieving with/for us.  

 For nine weeks death has pinned me to the ground, taunting me night and day. I know he is not the true victor.  I know this is not the end of the story.   Redemption is coming.  But this hope feels weak and distant as I struggle to breathe against the crushing weight of his power.  Acknowledging the pain, finality and powerlessness in the choke hold of death does not mean I have lost faith.  I believe God is good and sovereign and is coming to renew all things, restoring all of creation to his original dream and purposes.  At the same time, death has stolen our child and we have absolutely no hope of bringing him back.  

   My body and soul are stretched tight, slowly recovering from shock, my mind struggling to grasp the fact that he is gone.  He is never coming back.  I  repeat it over and over, “My son is dead.”  My brain is gradually comprehending these four awful words.   This is our new reality, not a bad dream I’ll be relieved to wake from.  Worst of all, there is nothing I can do about it. All the other difficult situations I’ve experienced in life had options and some semblance of power; I could work harder, seek help, embrace the pain in exchange for growth, adapt, change my attitude.  But death- there is no changing it, and there is no “everything will be OK” blanket to throw over it.  I cannot press on and tell myself I will someday contentedly look back and be glad for the lessons learned and the growth in my life.  Yes- my prayer is that we will grow and experience more of God through this, but that will never make me at peace with losing my son.  

  I can waste precious energy thinking about all the “what ifs”, I can shake my fist at God, I can cry and lament, I can run away or make major life changes, but none of these will bring him back.  Sooner or later I have to accept it.  I have to live when he is not. 

 I never imagined life without him.  He grew inside me, kicking all times of day and night.  I pushed him out of my womb and into my arms.  Before that joyous moment he already inhabited my heart.  He always will. 

  Caleb, I never intended to live life without you smack in the middle of it.  I don’t know how to do this.  I don’t want to do this.  

 I find it strange that I’ve been counting time in weeks, just like pregnancy.  There have been other similarities: the waves of pain that come and go with no warning, my desire for quiet as I breathe my way through them, the unnerving realization that I cannot stop this process- I can only submit to it and pray there is life in the end.  As my heart begins to feel the pain of his absence, my mind runs to memories of his birth, the first weeks of holding him and breathing in his innocent baby smell and marveling that he was mine.  The way he always wanted me  within sight and was easily contented with a touch or a kiss.  As he grew his attachment remained and he wanted to “help” me with everything- sitting on the counter to stir bread dough, opening doors with handles he could barely reach and carrying bags of groceries that weighed more than he did.  His love and attention nourished and expanded my heart.  I know he didn’t intend to, but he smashed my love soaked heart to smithereens.  

 Week seven was from a chapter of the fairytale when the evil witch casts a spell on the land and it all turns into stone.  My daughter in law, husband and children each told me within a few days of each other that they were also feeling this way.  It started at my head, as I began to grasp what death has done,  and it’s working it’s way down.  My heart is numb, my arms are heavy, my legs are unsteady. I may look and act normal on the outside, but please don’t expect me to be “myself”.  That woman is gone.    I don’t yet know who will be replacing her.    I intend to make peace with her and carry on with life, but right now I am under the sleeping spell and I wish the bad dreams would go away.  

The hellish reality is slowly leaking out from my brain into my heart.  It is been a slow soak of pain, like a light rain on a dry landscape.   This last week I’ve begun to feel as if I’m moving in slow motion.  Everything takes so much effort. People are beginning to ask gentle leading questions, with the hope that my answer will be an affirmative “yes, I’m feeling better and getting on with life again”.  But this loss is not a typical injury.  When one breaks a bone or has a surgery,  we call the day of trauma “day zero”.  Day one is rough, day two is typically the hardest and by day three the swelling is starting to calm down.  All that pain is from inflammation which is your immune system efficiently bringing in the troops to clean up and heal whatever is wrong. The body begins to heal the very second the trauma is over.  As a nurse I’ve coached hundreds of people through pain and could always speak with hope and assurance that their body was created to heal and their injury was in that very moment, even in great pain, healing.  But death is a bullet that keeps on tearing through the heart doing damage.  The trauma goes on and on.  I don’t know how this one heals.  My heart will be facing fresh trauma the rest of my life.  Last night as I was falling asleep I realized we already had our last Christmas with Caleb and it felt like a razor blade smashing through my sternum.  Every time a diesel truck drives by my lungs automatically suck in air. Every cute little blonde boy I see brings tears to my eyes.  When I hold his precious little niece, I mourn the fact he doesn’t get to love on her and encourage the development of her “naughty side” (cause we all know that’s exactly what he’d be doing).  Every special event in our family will be laced with the pain of missing Caleb.  

The heart must have a special healing mode, somehow capable of working even while bleeding.  

No, I am not feeling better.  I am not adjusting or getting used to it. I am just beginning to feel it. My pain has just started to kick in.  Maybe for others the fact of his death soaked in, they cried and felt sad and then life goes on.  I understand- I’ve had that experience many times myself.  But this time is different.  I am fading.  Falling.  I don’t know when or if I will hit bottom, or what that even means.  I just know I’m free falling and there’s nothing to grab on my way down.  Maybe God will catch me before impact? I’ve asked my precious friends who have walked this dark valley what i should expect. When does the free fall end?  How does it end?  Does it end?  They have few answers.  This is an individual journey, different for each of us for many reasons.  All they can say is I am held and loved and somehow I will carry on.  i know they are telling me the truth, because they are still standing and I see their beauty. A beauty that came from  intense fire and pain that no one would ever choose.  Except God. 

I am in pain; my soul is crushed, my mind overwhelmed and my body exhausted, but I am not in hopeless despair.  I pray that will not be part of my story, but if it is, I trust God to rescue me. I am leaning into his presence and love and trusting him to lead us through the valley of the shadow of death into whatever is on the other side.  I look forward to getting there, someday.  In the meantime, I cherish the loved ones and faithful friends who are circling around us, making space for our pain and processing, holding memories of our beloved Caleb.  We don’t want to lose the past, it’s all we have of him now.  

I’ve no snappy or tidy way of wrapping up these random paragraphs from the last few weeks, so I’ll leave you with this.  My gratefulness for your presence, prayers and love.  

When I last lived in Kona I was grieving the loss of our South Carolina farm and all the hopes and dreams we planted there.  I ended up spending all my free hours sitting under a certain tree at Old Airport Beach. I had no words for my disappointment so I just sat there soaking in God’s beautiful creation and learning to be quiet in his presence.  I began to refer to it as my “office” and my friends knew they would find me there. A few days after the life altering phone call brought the news our precious son had just died in an accident, I began to long for my tree in Kona.  I knew I needed to sit under it’s shade again, the tree where I learned to grieve with God. 

We had one day.  In the midst of managing a tired team of people through yet another Covid surge and the depressing winter weather of continual clouds and rain, we packed our camper and ran away to the Oregon Coast to spend one heavenly day where the forecast called for sun and 65 degrees in January!  The thunderous sound of waves, the summery smell of salt water and the infinite blue horizon saturated my senses.  The ocean has a way of simultaneously quieting my mind and stimulating my soul.  The sensory overload felt like a weighted blanket and I reflexively relaxed as I felt the heavy presence and goodness of God.  

  After finishing the last chapter of an excellent and timely book, “The Divine Commodity” by Skye Jethani, I slowly ambled through the sand contemplating what i had just read, the fact I turn fifty in a few short weeks and what I want to accomplish with the rest of my life. (I may force my body to take a day off, but my brain refuses.)  I struggled with the fact I inhabit a world that is all about “Big”; power, influence, money, popularity.  It’s assumed that any talent, gift or ability should be magnified (and commodified) as much as possible.  Sadly, much of the church is held captive by these same standards. If you can lead then you should be aiming to lead as many people as possible; if you can preach or teach then of course the larger the crowd the better; if you can sing then why not produce an album; if you can write then better start on that best seller. It’s unspoken that true talent should be magnified, and a gift that is poured out locally and not multiplied is a gift that is wasted.  

 We are a world of influencers and leaders all scrambling to gather followers so we can prove we’re doing something important with our lives.   After almost fifty years of dizziness on this “bigger is better” merry-go-round, I’ve begun to question the assumption.  Am I just questioning because I’m disappointed in myself? Have I failed to muster the discipline and courage to be all I could be?  Have I foolishly spurned opportunities and therefore missed a chance to make a big difference with my one, short life?  Have I disappointed God?  I cried these questions out only to have them swallowed in the noise of crashing waves.  

As I reached the end of walkable beach I passed some craggy cliffs.  Surprised to hear the faint flow of water a few feet away from the roaring ocean,  I stopped in my tracks, consumed with curiosity.  Turning towards the sound, I saw a small spring of water trickling down the sharp, towering rocks. The realization that a few gallons of water somehow managed to steal my attention from the Pacific Ocean made me pause.  That small voice (it has never been audible, but it bubbles out of my heart- not my mind) asked me, “if you were stranded on this beach, which of these water sources would keep you alive?”  “The small, trickling stream” I whispered back.  This powerful, amazing, massive ocean holding one hundred and eighty seven quintillion gallons of water would only hasten my death by dehydration.

God is the ultimate “BIG”!  His kingdom is beyond our imagination.  His power, goodness and lovingkindness we will never fully comprehend.  He is a million times more than one hundred and eighty seven quintillion universes, yet over and over he shows preference for small.   Throughout history, when He was going about something big, He chose small means.  Moses, David, Gideon, Mary, Israel, the widow’s oil, the boy’s lunch, manna, a lamb, a pearl, a prodigal, his arrival as a baby, twelve confused dudes.   

A small stream

In the same manner, it appears God wired our lives and spirituality to subsist on tiny conduits of power.  While it is possible to amass large quantities of attendees or followers,  emotion and enthusiasm, money and power and fame (these often end up blowing a fuse and catching on fire) the truest and best gifts in life come in small packages.  Intimacy, obedience, hospitality, contemplation, authenticity, faithfulness, prayer, solitude- these are the trickling streams that sustain us while we walk beside the deafening roar and temptation of bigness.  

My burning bush

Bigness in and of itself isn’t bad, but it is often deceptive, regularly destructive and frequently a thief.  We have all witnessed many who grew  talents, businesses and ministries so large they were swallowed by them.  The very thing we give our lives to nurturing and building can grow up and go rouge, sucking the life out us.  For those who find themselves stewarding Big, it is vital to have the character and discipline to not be fooled by it’s shine, but to continually stay on their knees and drink from the small life giving streams.  I no longer envy these people.  Theirs is a heavy responsibility.  

Thankfully, the vast majority of us are blessed with smallness.  For most of us, our influence will end within a couple of miles from where it began- in our home, school, church, place of work, neighborhood.   Only so many chairs will fit at my table, only so many people I can live alongside and be available to and love well, only so many trees and plants I can maintain ( I wish it wasn’t so!) only so many patients I can care for,  only so much knowledge my average mind can contain, only so opportunities I can take.  This used to frustrate me, as I was convinced if I could somehow increase my capacity I would live a fuller, more important, more impactful life.  

In his kindness, God revealing a glimpse of himself

   Consider how Jesus chose to live his life- focusing his few years on earth to loving God and leading the small tribe of people who chose to walk with him into God’s kingdom.  He did not write books, travel the world preaching or create a brand. He didn’t even start a 501(c)(3).   He lived a small (geographically and number of people encountered), faithful life and trusted his Father to do with it what He wanted.  I am encouraged to do the same, and leave the impact/influence/importance in the hands of my Father who loves me as I am-small, ordinary and always excited to spend a day at the beach.  

Today we celebrate twenty nine years of marriage. There may be thousands of miles between us right now, but we remain one. Our beginning was like living a fairytale. Most people don’t know this about me, but I spent the first eight years of life in speech therapy as I struggled to make many of the basic sounds of English. It was a mystery as to why I couldn’t speak. With professional help I was able to overcome this hurdle, only to awaken one morning at the age of nine with a muting stutter. To this day I have only met one other person who stuttered as terribly as I did. (A few years ago I watched the movie “The King’s Speech” and became quite emotional hearing someone who sounded just like me. ) Looking back, we understand that my young mind had succumbed to the severe psychological stress of abuse that I had spent my entire childhood stuffing. The next ten years were spent in a humiliating prison as I fought for the freedom of every single word. Because of the exertion of speaking, I learned to measure my words and only speak when it was important, and I embraced the role of being a listener. ( Now I talk too much- even though I made up for those lost years a LONG time ago lol) At the age of nineteen, I met Mr Wonderful. Unable to translate my pitiful language, he asked me to write my name down ( I couldn’t say my own name for ten years) and he patiently listened as I painfully stuttered my way through a conversation. He admits now that he didn’t really get much of what I was trying to say, but he was determined to get to know me. Then the miracle happened. Just a couple months into our relationship I was chatting with my mom when she suddenly stopped me excitedly exclaiming, “Lalena, do you notice anything different?” I paused, not sure what she was so animated about. “You aren’t stuttering!” It was true. Just as mysteriously as it had appeared ten years earlier, it left. I believe it was the protective presence of a man who purely loved me- or what Huey Lewis called “The Power of Love”. Our first year of marriage was difficult as I came extremely close to an emotional breakdown when the memories began to surface and overwhelm me, but my bewildered husband stayed by my side and our pastors came to our rescue. This was the beginning of a very long healing process, but through all those challenging years Scott remained faithful and so many beautiful friends and my family loved me to wholeness. All good stories, including fairytales, have challenge, conflict and loss at the climax. It’s the pain that sets the stage for the beautiful overcoming and redemption. Each of us has such a story, and we all need saving. I am ever thankful that I met Jesus at an early age; He not only saved my soul, He healed my heart and carried me through the fire. Then He extravagantly blessed me with a wonderful man to walk this journey with. For twenty nine years Scott has selflessly carried my backpack, shared his water when mine ran out and gave me both sleeping bags when I was cold. I can’t imagine anyone better to adventure through life with. I love you, Babe!