My birthday weekend is coming to a close. I have made it through another year. For our family, the years will also be measured by Weston's life and death. So, although I am now thirty-six years old, I am also two: because it's my second birthday without Weston.
EVERYTHING is colored with his absence. The hole in my heart will never shrink or heal. But, for this birthday, I am trying to let gratitude coexist with the pain.
Bereaved parents say it all the time: the deaths of our children can bring beautiful gifts. They are gifts we would trade in a heartbeat to have our children back, but they are still gifts. The thing is, I CAN'T trade these gifts to have Weston back, and these most precious gifts are from him, which increases the importance of embracing and enjoying them.
I finally saw, with my own two eyes, a rainbow at dinner the other night. Before Weston, seeing a rainbow through the window would not have interrupted our dinner, but we excitedly rushed outside to look at this DOUBLE rainbow. That was a gift from Weston.
Speaking of rainbows, I lost count long ago of the pictures of rainbows my family and friends have sent me over the past year. I thought I had good friends before Weston. It turns out that I have many more good friends than I knew. And my pre-Weston friends have surprised me over and over with their kindnesses. Unfortunately, many bereaved parents have to mourn the loss of important relationships in addition to the loss of their children. While some relationships have been dramatically altered, I have not lost any important relationships. In fact, they have deepened and strengthened. My friends are gifts and have taught me how to be a better friend as well.
My immediate and extended family has held me up. They always have, when I have needed it, and always will. Their unconditional love and acceptance, thankfully, was not a surprise, at it has always been there, but I appreciate and cherish it beyond description.
My immediate and extended family has held me up. They always have, when I have needed it, and always will. Their unconditional love and acceptance, thankfully, was not a surprise, at it has always been there, but I appreciate and cherish it beyond description.
Shannon took me on a date for my birthday. Our relationship is one that has changed. Date night is a time to connect without distraction. So we talk about our son. We cry. In fact, at one point I knew a little birthday treat was coming out, so we had to change the subject so I wouldn't be crying when my sparkling dessert came out.
But, my husband doesn't mind when I cry. He doesn't mind when I talk about Weston. I know other bereaved parents are not so lucky. Over one year out, we are still married, and we still love each other. Spending time together is a gift, and Shannon is a gift. And that free pumpkin bread pudding was a gift too.
And, this little one:
Her cuteness is distracting, I know, but please keep reading. I thought I knew love when she was born, and it is absolutely true that the depths of my heart changed irrevocably then. But, for me, it does not compare to the love that comes after losing one of my children. I am now able to experience love I never thought possible from the worst experience imaginable for a parent. That, too, is a gift.
We adults complicate things. Caroline reminds me to keep it simple, like she did tonight when she asked me why I'm sad sometimes. Why was I sad at the French toast place? Because, there at her birthday breakfast, she remarked that there should be a fourth person at the table to fill the empty chair. Did Weston die at the hospital? In his crib? Did they hang him up and then he died? (Huh???) No, he started to die in his crib, but then Mommy got to hold him when he died. Is there is a ladder to heaven where we can all go back and forth?
No, there is no ladder. The visual image is easy enough for my mind to grasp, but not so much for my heart. For some reason, the ladder question prompted me to remind Caroline that she and Weston are equally loved.
I've mentioned that my grandparents lost their son, my uncle, at 18. We visited them today for an impromptu Labor Day/birthday dinner. We were looking through a photo album when my grandma casually asked me how old Weston would be now. Almost 14 months, ten months adjusted. She knows how my heart aches on birthdays now. Her understanding is a gift.
Here are representations of my biggest gifts:
Caroline made me the red card, all by herself. Shannon gave me "chalkboard art" of my favorite hymn (from To Such as These Designs on Etsy). And there is Weston on the right.
When I was a teenager, I told my mom that "It is Well with My Soul" was my favorite hymn. She remarked that it is a popular funeral hymn. I still remember playing it on the piano at church camp. A few months ago I learned that the author, a lawyer, lost all four of his children when their boat sank in the Atlantic in the 1870s. Then he and his wife had three more children, one of whom died at four.
God has been preparing me for losing Weston all my life. Just two months ago, I would have been too angry to care. But now I see God's preparation for the "sea billows" of losing Weston for what it is: another gift, and the best gift.
~
When peace like a river attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll,
Whatever my lot thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well with my soul.
...
Thou will whisper Thy peace to my soul.
~Horatio Spafford
We adults complicate things. Caroline reminds me to keep it simple, like she did tonight when she asked me why I'm sad sometimes. Why was I sad at the French toast place? Because, there at her birthday breakfast, she remarked that there should be a fourth person at the table to fill the empty chair. Did Weston die at the hospital? In his crib? Did they hang him up and then he died? (Huh???) No, he started to die in his crib, but then Mommy got to hold him when he died. Is there is a ladder to heaven where we can all go back and forth?
No, there is no ladder. The visual image is easy enough for my mind to grasp, but not so much for my heart. For some reason, the ladder question prompted me to remind Caroline that she and Weston are equally loved.
I've mentioned that my grandparents lost their son, my uncle, at 18. We visited them today for an impromptu Labor Day/birthday dinner. We were looking through a photo album when my grandma casually asked me how old Weston would be now. Almost 14 months, ten months adjusted. She knows how my heart aches on birthdays now. Her understanding is a gift.
Here are representations of my biggest gifts:
Caroline made me the red card, all by herself. Shannon gave me "chalkboard art" of my favorite hymn (from To Such as These Designs on Etsy). And there is Weston on the right.
When I was a teenager, I told my mom that "It is Well with My Soul" was my favorite hymn. She remarked that it is a popular funeral hymn. I still remember playing it on the piano at church camp. A few months ago I learned that the author, a lawyer, lost all four of his children when their boat sank in the Atlantic in the 1870s. Then he and his wife had three more children, one of whom died at four.
God has been preparing me for losing Weston all my life. Just two months ago, I would have been too angry to care. But now I see God's preparation for the "sea billows" of losing Weston for what it is: another gift, and the best gift.
~
When peace like a river attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll,
Whatever my lot thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well with my soul.
...
Thou will whisper Thy peace to my soul.
~Horatio Spafford
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