Blown Away

I never thought I would use the above words to describe today, the first anniversary of Weston's death. Today was a day I was dreading more than any other, almost. On other anniversaries, we could at least think back a year and remember a time that we still had hope. But July 28, 2012 was the death of hope, the death of a future, the death of our son, the natural order of things turned completely upside down.

Yet, today I feel grateful. Profoundly sad. Blessed. Full. Peaceful. Empty. And, yes, blown away.

Surprisingly, I haven't really been reminiscing about "this time last year" for the last three weeks. It's surprising because it was the three weeks our son was with us, and I thought I'd relive every moment. I remember the big events during pregnancy. I remember when I was discharged from the hospital and had to leave without Weston (July 11, 2012). I remember the date that Weston was diagnosed with chronic lung disease (July 21, 2012). But I don't remember the date that I held him, although I remember everything about those wonderful fifteen minutes.

But I did start reminiscing about Weston's last weekend. I went to lunch with friends two days before he died. I don't feel guilty about it, but I do feel sad: those are a couple of hours I could and would have spent with Weston if I knew he would be dead less than 48 hours later. I remember his last full day on earth: the incredibly difficult day when he was facing so many challenges. My last nightly phone call to the NICU for a status report before I went to bed. My happiness at hearing how well he was doing at that time.

I remember Karen's steadfast presence. Things were in such upheaval, but we didn't have to worry about anything on the home front with her being here. I remember telling her the good news after that last phone call, about how his oxygen levels were the best they'd been in a couple of days: then I told her, "I don't want to get too excited about this. I don't want to get my hopes up."

I remember that our printer broke the night Weston died. I don't know why I wanted/needed to use it. But Karen was trying to fix it, and we couldn't figure it out. I sat there in the chair, doing everything in my power not to scream, grab the printer, and slam it into the wall. (We finally replaced that stupid printer about a month ago.)

There are so many other things I remember about that day that I will doubtlessly process in the next several days/weeks. I am still working through the events of our week in Colorado. There is a lot whirling around this heart of mine right now.

But, today. At least I can record the events and how I feel about them now. Strangely, everything about today makes sense, even as the entire course of our lives since 2012 will always remain a holy mystery.

First, I woke up to this:

Shannon had taken this picture down from our living room wall and set it up on the kitchen counter, along with a candle that he said he wanted to stay lit all day.

Shannon and I have known for a while that we wanted to send flowers to the NICU today. We also knew that we are not emotionally ready to go the NICU ourselves, so we asked for help. Several friends volunteered to drop off the flowers, and my friends D and P ended up doing it. I met them at AJ's this morning to give them the flowers and instructions. When we met up, the flowers looked like this:

We chatted for about half an hour, at which time the flowers looked like this:

We could literally see them transforming before our eyes. After seeing a rainbow from our back porch the night Weston died, I really wanted to see one today. These flowers are my desert rainbow. This is when I started feeling blown away.

As it turns out, D and P met C at the NICU today. C was one of Weston's nurses. We only met her the day before he died, but she ended up playing a huge role in Weston's story, and she holds a special place in my heart. I will never forget walking through the NICU doors that morning to see her standing there, compassionately taking me by the arm, and saying, "You need to come with me quickly. Don't scrub in." We knew then that it was the end.

How perfect that C was there today. Blown away again.

After I left AJ's, I checked Facebook. My wall was filled with pictures of Weston's name written in rocks, sticks, baby/kid toys, blocks, celery. Blown away again. These pictures continued popping up all day. Blown away.

I went to Starbucks and started to read St. John of the Cross' Dark Night of the Soul. Perfect timing. Much to ponder. Blown away.

After I saw all of these beautiful images on Facebook, I decided to go to church. I've hardly been this past year. But after seeing so many wonderful messages from church friends (and I know D and P through church too), I knew I needed to go. I was wearing shorts and a semi-backless shirt. Those of you who know me well know that I ALWAYS dress up for church. It's part of my Texas roots, I suppose. I don't think God minded the shorts (or the fact that I was over 30 minutes late), and Shannon was happy to see me there too. We cried through most of the service.

Scroll back up to the picture of Weston's photo with the candle. It looked like that when I got home from church. Yep, we forgot to blow out the candle when we left, and it burned unattended for over two hours. Our house is still standing. Blown away again (no pun intended there).

The pictures continued to pour in, text messages came, emails, special deliveries at our door, and on and on. Caroline had a hard time falling asleep, as I have lately, but she finally dropped off and took a good nap. I fell asleep for a while too.

After naps, we went to the hospital chapel where we spent many tense, desperate hours during Weston's life. It's also where our church organized a prayer event and where we went to celebrate the life of Baby R. (This time, we blew out the real candle and lit the LED candle to "burn" while we were gone.) There is a huge statue in the middle of the roundabout in front of the hospital's main entrance that, surprisingly, I had never noticed before. I pointed it out to my family, and Caroline asked, "Is that God?" We got closer and read that it's one of the saints holding the Christ child. But the plaque is wrong: it's actually Jesus holding Weston. Blown away again.

My sister is an incredibly gifted poet. She has written several poems over the last year about Weston and how his life and death has touched her and her children. She sent them to us a couple of days ago, and we opened and read them in the chapel today. I wish I could think of a more poetic phrase than "blown away" to express how the poems affected me, but that's the best I can do right now.

I read the first half of Lamentations 3 from the Bible there too. Verses 22 and 23 have really spoken to me since my days in the hospital before Weston was born last year:


Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.

But the first half of the chapter talks about the great distress and abandonment from God that the author was feeling. It's how I have felt this past year. The author talks about horrible things that God did to him. I don't know if God literally did those things, or if he just let them happen. On one level, it doesn't matter; however these things happen, they produce suffering of the greatest magnitude. But I'd like to believe that God isn't behind these horrible things. He didn't kill Weston.

What I appreciate about the first half of Lamentations 3 is that the feelings are real. The author wrote the book after the ugly fall of Jerusalem that resulted in unspeakable horror: widespread murder of children, hunger, poverty, cannibalism, etc. True accusations or not, God can handle such anger thrown at him, as I have felt for the last 365 days, and remains compassionate and faithful. This compassion and faithfulness was made evident over and over to me this month.


It didn't rain in Phoenix today, but there were rainbows in Ft. Collins, Flagstaff, and a double rainbow in Albuquerque. Thanks to D, J, and M for sharing. I "saw" my rainbows!

Many, many tears were shed today. We continue to be amazed at the outpouring of love we've felt today, but it doesn't fill the hole in our hearts. We miss Weston profoundly and always will. Like the pictures from today, his name is written on our hearts. I hope he feels our love up in heaven. What a difference a year makes. What a difference 21 days and 1.5 pounds make.

As today draws to an end, we are still receiving messages. The candle is still burning. And we are still blown away.

~

I am the [person] who has seen affliction
by the rod of the Lord's wrath.
He has driven me away and made me walk
in darkness rather than light;
indeed, he has turned his hand against me
again and again, all day long.

He has made my skin and my flesh grow old
and has broken my bones.
He has besieged me and surrounded me
with bitterness and hardship.
He has made me dwell in darkness like those long dead.

He has walled me in so I cannot escape;
he has weighed me down with chains.
Even when I call out or cry for help,
he shuts out my prayer.
He has barred my way with blocks of stone;
he has made my paths crooked.

Like a bear lying in wait, like a lion in hiding,
he dragged me from the path and mangled me and left me without help.
He drew his bow and made me the target for his arrows.

He pierced my heart with arrows from his quiver.
I became the laughingstock of all my people;
they mock me in song all day long.
He has filled me with bitter herbs and given me gall to drink.

He has broken my teeth with gravel;
he has trampled me in the dust.
I gave up on life altogether.
I've forgotten what the good life is like.
I said to myself, "This is it. I'm finished.
God is a lost cause."

I'll never forget the trouble, the utter lostness,
the taste of ashes, the poison I've swallowed.
I remember it all - oh, how well I remember-
the feeling of hitting the bottom.
But there's one other thing I remember,
and remembering, I keep a grip on hope:

Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, "The Lord is my portion.
therefore I will wait for him."

God proves to be good to the man who passionately waits,
to the woman who diligently seeks.
It's a good thing to quietly hope,
quietly hope for help from God.
It's a good thing when you're young
to stick it out through hard times.

Let him sit alone in silence,
for the Lord has laid it on him.
Let him bury his face in the dust-
there may yet be hope.
Let him offer his cheek to one who would strike him,
and let him be filled with disgrace.

For no one is case off by the Lord forever.
Though he brings grief, he will show compassion,
so great is his unfailing love.
For he does not willingly bring affliction or grief to anyone.

Lamentations 3:1-33 (New International Version and The Message)