Here's Looking at You, Kid

I'm working on our yearly photo album. I've always enjoyed getting a whole year's pictures bound in one slim volume-- a family yearbook that we look at again and again. Last year's was tough, but at least we had Jack for 8 of the 12 months represented. That yearbook looked pretty normal, until it didn't.This year's is a struggle that I'm just trying to power through before my online coupon expires.

My heart is heavy.

It has made me think of baby books. As the third child in four years, I took great offense upon discovering that my own baby book was nearly empty. I took it upon myself in first grade to rectify the situation by gluing in random pictures and filling in the blanks to describe myself. For "HAIR" I wrote: "Pretty" instead of brown; and for "EYES" I wrote "Nice" instead of blue. My mom got a huge kick out of this. I  drew, in ink, a portrait of my family, including our dog, cat, and guppies. I also drew fart bubbles coming out of my sister's rear end, so I guess my love for potty humor and my jealousy toward my older sister started young.

For Jack's baby book, however, I was on the case! As the first child, he had my undivided attention and resources. We also had no cable tv, blogs, smart phones or high speed internet to lure me away from my glue sticks, or Pinterest to intimidate me into creative paralysis.

So page after page is filled with lists, cute anecdotes, ticket stubs, folded paper party hats, class photos, and certificates. I hoped that someday Jack, or at least an interested wife or child, would pore over his well-documented cuteness.

And now it sits here, to what purpose?

To mock us about what should have been? While his friends get facial hair and all we get are memories?

I've spent some time this morning crying and looking over his book. I know that if it has been a while and I need a good cry, looking at pictures helps me get there fast. Videos are still almost too painful to watch. I wondered whether Jack had even seen his baby book, but I was pretty sure he had, because he loved things like that.

I smile through tears when I see he has indeed read it, like mother like son, taken it upon himself to pencil in a few additions.

He must have been 8 years old because where I had left off writing down Halloween costumes at age 6, Jack had added in sloppy cursive:
"Age 7: Darth Vader
Age 8: Zombie Doctor"

On the page about the origin of his name, I had left a blank:
Your name means:___________________

Jack added: "Successor, Given by God."

Given by God?
Given by God.
Given by God!


"You give and take away
You give and take away
My heart will choose to say
Lord, blessed be Your name"

It's a choice. Every. Single. Day.

Is That How it Works?

So I'm doing what I've been doing a lot of lately, drinking hot tea and staring at a blank computer screen. I type a few words, and my wonky computer sees fit to delete them at random, or insert what I'm typing right in the middle of my previous sentences. This is annoying and unsettling.

My braces keep getting snagged on the inside of my cheek, but I'm too lazy to go get my wax. Did I tell you I now have braces on my lower teeth? Oh yes I do, and coupled with the Target reading glasses I got on Saturday, I'm now able to rock both sides of the age spectrum on one face!

There's so much I want to write about, but I'm not sure if I have the wherewithal to battle the annoying typing gods to do so.

Today I'm thinking about how our family seems so out of balance these days, and how that makes coping with the big and small news of life difficult. Margaret is living the life of an only child, but it's so different than a typical only child's experience because of our circumstances. She's more lonely child than only child, because she knows what's missing. Not the idea of a sibling, but a real big brother. Hers.

Not only is the safe rhythm of give and take and compromise of her first 9+ years absent, there also seems to be a great sense of responsibility on her shoulders for wanting to hold this family together. I don't want that burden for her.

Before, when Tim and I would bicker, which was fairly often, Jack and Margaret could roll their eyes at one another, knowing that while neither of them liked it, everything would be okay. They knew they were on firm ground. Sure, Jack said it would be fun if we got a divorce because then we'd spoil them by buying them lots of presents-- smart boy-- but he truly felt our family and our future was solid . 

Now, I can tell that our bickering stresses Margaret out. I think it's just one more way she doesn't feel anything's certain anymore. A simple cough could be whooping cough. One beer could be the path to alcoholism. And if mom starts to cry, what if she can't stop? In the past few weeks she has seen families we admire breaking up, Tim's and my peers get diagnosed with cancer, and, hell, she had the reality of  her brother going out to play with her in the warm rain and never coming back.

Jack and Margaret used to worry that I'd die young, as my mother did, and I'd convince them that there was simply no way that would happen. Nope. Been there, done that. It would not happen again.

So, basically, it comes down to credibility, and mine's shot. I didn't manage to keep my kids safe, I am not able to keep cancer at bay. Tim and I have a strong marriage, and breaking up has never been on the table, but who am I to say Margaret is crazy to be stressed by such things?

Impossible things happen.

Prior pain is no protection against future pain.

Life is not fair, for good or for ill.

A few months ago Margaret asked  me,
 "Mom, did you have a good childhood?"
"Yes, it was wonderful," I replied. "Why?"
 "Because you're having a pretty bad adulthood."

She went on:
"I'm having a pretty bad childhood, but I hope that means I'll have a pretty good adulthood."

Wow.

Oh, Sweetie, me too.

Grave Matters

I got a letter today from the cemetery. It pointed out that we are approaching the one year mark of the burial but have yet to erect a gravestone for Jack. If we do not have one by the year mark, the cemetery will place a plain flat marker there for us, for a fee.

Margaret, too, has noted that we haven't yet taken care of this detail. I'm sure to her it seems as if we just can't get our crap together to mark where Jack's ashes are buried. And getting our crap together has been difficult. I have much less energy and gumption than before. Tim is plodding along doing what he needs to do and has also been picking up my slack-- paying the bills I used to pay, cooking dinner, and making runs to he store.

But something "extra" like trying to figure out how to capture what Jack was like on a slab of granite? Has seemed like far too much for either of us. I've been telling people we are following the Jewish tradition of waiting one year, not because we are Jewish, but because I haven't been able to face it yet.

Of course I think deep down I am just morally opposed to any parent having to commemorate the spot where her child is buried, because I don't think moms should have to bury their children. Ever. So Jack's blank grave is, in a way, my silent protest.

Not that mothers haven't been doing this since the beginning of time, placing rocks or crude wooden crosses on top of tiny mounds of dirt all around the world-- if they were fortunate enough to know their chidrens' resting places. In fact, many bereaved mothers have not had the opportunity that I have. They've had to leave their children behind on a wagon trail, in a concentration camp, a jungle, or a desert, with no chance to mark or revisit the spot. I am fortunate that the cemetery is in my town, and that the small, wooden box of ashes, along with 3 tiny lego pieces, is buried right next to my mom.

When, as a teen, I used to drive her old minivan to the cemetery in the dying light, startling the deer in my headlights, I would walk over to her grave. Sometimes I would cry. Other times I would just pat the stone, look around a little, get back in her/my car, and drive away. But even at dusk, I could see that some graves were unmarked, save the little tin and plastic nameplates from the funeral parlors. Many were several years old. This must have been long before the 1-year rule was adopted. I felt sorry for those people. They seemed so neglected. I figured their families were too poor to buy a stone or had forgotten about their loved ones completely.

Now I realize that cemeteries are different for different people. My grandparents take great solace in visiting my uncle, their beloved son, at the cemetery where he is buried. They have planted lovely flowers there and made it a special place to visit.

I went to my mom's cemetery, infrequently and always alone, speaking into my soul about how hard it was to be without her.

And Jack's grave? Will eventually have some sort of stone. I want to have a place people can go to pay their respects. Where it can be what it needs to be for them. I'm thinking of seeing if a stone bench will fit, instead of a headstone, so I can continue my protest (in a small way) yet provide a place for people to sit, pray, laugh, or cry.

I'll update you when (and if) we make any progress.

But the whole process seems paralyzing and leaves me with questions:

How do you capture the sparkle in an eye? A contagious laugh? Wit? Wisdom? A pat on a sister's back? How do you show a love of logic and math coupled with words, words, and more words? An introvert? A leader? The world's softest cheek?

Can we truly convey the essence of someone who touched so many lives in 12 years, but should have had about 71 more to do it in?

No. Of course not.

I guess sometimes those little tin and plastic markers really say a lot.

Prodigal Ponderings

I've never liked the parable of The Prodigal Son (Luke 15). I know it gives so many people hope and assurance of the abundant love and forgiveness of God as the father races to welcome home his dissolute son who had spurned him and thrown his life away. Problem is, I've always identified with the older brother in the story, the one who stayed home and was loyal and obedient, and that son doesn't come off looking very good.

It's clear in the Bible that the older son doesn't recognize the father's true character and wants to organize the world according to what he thinks is fair and what's not. He feels hurt and disappointed to see his father lavish love on the younger son when he returns from his life of debauchery. There's a "What about me?" quality in the older brother's response that resonates in my life.

As a kid, I wanted to be my parents' favorite, and I thought I deserved to be because I was a rule follower. When my siblings, especially my sister, did anything wrong, I'd be quick to point it out, thinking this would win me brownie points. Yes, once I even rang the neighbors' door bell to inform them, an older couple, that, "My sister picks her boogers and eats them!" For some reason, they gave me strange looks, and I walked home perturbed.

I tried to help around the house, not so much to ease my mother's burden, but to look good. A glance at an Easter picture of the three siblings from around this time will show you two kids smiling at the camera, and another looking at her siblings' baskets to see if there's been an equitable chocolate distribution.

I didn't understand at the time that we love our children differently, because they are unique, but that it wasn't some big contest.

Whatever I did could not make my parents love me more or love my siblings less. I wss keeping score in an exhausting game of tallying, but my parents weren't. This irked me, because I wanted to live in a world that made sense to me, with neat lines and graphs and deposits and withdrawals. I helped around the house. I could find my shoes. My homework sheets were uncrumpled. I did not want to live in a world where good things happened to "bad people", and in my protected suburban life as a 10 year old with an unfortunate Dorothy Hamill haircut and a year older sister who looked like Farrah Fawcett, I thought I knew who should land squarely in the "bad" category. Life was so unfair!

I learned that my parents were showing me what God's love was like. No amount of striving on my part made a difference, and it was, in fact, embittering and exhausting.

My way left no room for grace and forgiveness. My way put God in a little legalistic box of my making.

And even though I grew and changed (and my sister became my best friend!) I stayed pretty much on this course, wanting to be good and be obedient. It fit with my personality. A life on the wild side just seemed too stressful and out of character to me. When I'd hear about the younger son sowing his wild oats in the parable, well, actually being reduced to eating food out of a pig's trough, my heart would race and I felt like I would get a rash.

Now, after Jack's death, I wonder if deep down inside, I thought that following rules and being a "good girl" would/could/should protect my family and me from heartache. It seems so simplistic, so ridiculous, but I think my righteous indignation that good things happened to bad people (the younger son in the Bible) was really a desire to keep bad things from happening to good people (me, of course!)

So stupid, so flawed. So untrue.

I know that's not the way of this world. Horrible things happen to good people. Children in Africa being preyed upon by warlords. Kids with cancer. Sex slavery. Chronic illness. And on and on and on.

But in my little suburban world, where Dorothy Hamill and Farrah Fawcett may have given way foil highlights and Brazilian blowouts, but where much has stayed the same, I wonder if in trying to be good, or hoping to keep life "fair" I was grasping for control over something I never had any control over in the first place.

Love Handles Can=More to Love

At lunch today one of my best friends said I looked "frail." I assured her that I have been sleeping pretty well and eating a ton, but I did admit I've lost some weight since the accident. I thought again how much I obsessed over my weight last summer, and subjected you to it, wishing there was a way I could lose a few pounds without even trying. Ugh.

Now, not only do I see my fretting about my weight as stupid and pointless, I can't really enjoy the fact that my clothes fit better. I am too focused on making it through the days right now. And the fact that the weight loss is just a byproduct of losing something far, far greater-- my 70 lb boy, my Jack-- makes me more de-pressed than im-pressed with any number on the scale.

It reminded me of how I felt about my "chestal area" shortly after giving birth. Oh my! No one had warned me that overnight I would be blessed with porn star boobs. I mean not quite like Ice-T's wife CoCo, during our New York City Celebrity sighting, but ever so close. I couldn't even see my feet.

I remember showing my friend Kathy pictures taken in the hospital of baby Jack. "He's adorable!" she gushed. Then, pointing to the melon-sized something next to his tiny head, continued, "But what's that thing? ...Oh...Ewwww...Sorry."

Instead of reveling in my bodacious new body parts, I was too busy trying to keep the sweet and scrawny baby alive. The altered physique was wasted on me. And when Tim, eyes as big as saucers, did a double-take, I was like: "Dude, back off. These are WORKING boobs."

So today, with a little spare room in my jeans, while I am slightly more comfortable with my waistband not digging into my midsection, I am not yet comfortable with the situation that got me here.

My Theme Song

A friend gave me this amazing song a few weeks after the accident. It has been my theme song, constantly playing in my car, even though some days I believe what it says and other days I don't. I love how the chorus is Jack's favorite verse:

Healer by Kari Jobe



My thought for today is Mark 9:24 "...I do believe, help my unbelief!"

And in a stellar parenting moment, I kept Margaret home from a field trip to the KENNEDY CENTER this morning and now she's watching "Toddlers and Tiaras." Classy.

What's the Plan, Stan?

I've heard from others, and maybe even said to people before: "God knows just how you feel because he had to experience the death of his own beloved son."

Here's the thing: I do believe God knows exactly how I feel because, well, he's God. He knows everything and He cares deeply. But acknowledging that He suffered when Jesus died just doesn't do it for me. I mean, God is GOD. I am a 42 year old mortal woman. He breathed life into the Universe. I just breathe.

God willingly sacrificed His son to save us from our sins. I just let my 12 year old go outside and play under very questionable circumstances. God had a plan with the death of Jesus. God knew the plan, and Jesus did too.

I am not privy to what the plan is here. It certainly doesn't mesh with my simple, possibly mundane life goals of raising 2 kids to love God, love others, have decent taste, and hopefully not turn out to be big jerks. As a family-- to know each other and be known. Oh, and to eventually get at least a few grand kids out of the deal.

In the loss of His son, God had the big picture in mind. I have a limited, dim picture, and what I can see is too hard and unsatisfying.

Just as we have more than amply ascertained that I am NOT God, Jack is NOT Jesus. He is just a kid. A special, soulful kid who got caught up in a bad situation. And besides, Jesus got to come back after 3 days and hang out with his friends and family.

I don't think that's asking too much.

At Which Point We Call Our Son a "Trunk Tool"

The night of December 23rd, Tim was in despair.

He prayed that he, too, would see a sign letting him know Jack was okay.

The morning of the 24th, while Margaret and I slept, Tim decided to do a
crossword puzzle. He pulled out one of the spare Washington Post puzzles he
keeps in his bag. Geek-ish, I know. The puzzle was from Valentine’s Day 2011. Yeah, a 10 month old puzzle.

And the answer to 1 Across?

JACK

Do I understand this? No, but I sure do love my puzzle boy.

Christmas Card Outtakes

Today we venture to the dark underbelly of those perfect family Christmas card photos. I give to you the Donaldson family, circa 2005:

Come on people, the clock is ticking!

Uh-oh, Mom put on her crazy eyes!
Focus, people, focus!

Maybe, maybe... Oh crap, Jack, what are you looking at?

Trying to keep my eyes open enough for ALL of us. Is Hillary Clinton in this family?

We're losing the women-folk!

Maybe? Not terrible?

Really? How hard is this supposed to be?

Hmmm...

Are those smiles or tears? Not sure. I can't see past Mom's pointy nose.

Could we just photoshop Margaret's face on?

I'm thinking there's no turning back at this point.

A winner??? Nope. Unless boogies, tears, and Mom's double chin=Christmas cheer.

Forget those little people. How 'bout just Mom and Dad?

Better yet? Or is that a wee bit self-centered?

We ended up giving up that day, and going with just the cute kids:

Merry Christmas! Much love to you. Please keep praying for us.

Jack's Lanterns

My sister, Jack's Auntie, has started a group called Jack's Lanterns as way for runners/walkers/riders of any level to join together and dedicate some of their races to Jack's memory. Money raised goes to Jack's favorite charity, Samaritan's Purse. I love how friends and strangers, scattered around the globe, can join this team together to help spread some of the light that Jack brought into this world. Non-athletes (like, uh, me) can contribute in his name on the secure website. Consider adding yourself to the team!

Here's what Auntie had to say:

We are a group of runners, riders and walkers who want to give meaning to our efforts.

We are inspired by Jack Donaldson, our beloved son, nephew, and friend. We will never forget him. His patience and good humor inspire us to keep moving when the going gets tough. His intelligence and attention to detail inspire us to do our best and to notice the needs in the world around us. His kindness and love for others inspire us to support a ministry he loved: Samaritan's Purse.

The name "Jack's Lanterns" is borrowed from the back of a relay team shirt at a recent race. It reminds us that Jack's light is still with us. Through Samaritan's Purse, we share Jack's light and help others in the name of the Light of the World.

A few of us are running our first full marathon in March. Others are running for the first time in a long time, or choosing new distances and events in honor of Jack. Please lace up your shoes and join us! If you would like to join our team, just let us know. We would love to have a virtual team in a variety of events throughout the year.

Donating through this website is simple, fast and totally secure. It is also the most efficient way to support our fundraising efforts.

Many thanks for your support.

Luke 1:37 "Nothing is impossible with God."

Check out Jack's Lanterns Page!

Twelve Weeks

Twelve weeks. In pregnancy, 12 weeks signals the ability to breathe easier. You can start to tell your friends and family the good news. If you have miscarried in the past, or had trouble getting pregnant, 12 weeks is a reason for hope in what has been a scary, don’t-dare-to-hope time. Although a full-term baby is never, ever a certainty, 12 weeks is significant. It means something.

What does 12 weeks mean in grieving the loss of a child? 12 horrible weeks—one for each of 12 wonderful years with our son here on earth? There is a certain symmetry about it, but where does that leave us in a few days when we reach 13 weeks, yet our son will never be thirteen?

In the Woods

So Tim asked me to go on a walk this morning. I was thinking we'd go on the bike path or out in a neighborhood. Instead, he took me to some parkland in our town consisting of deep woods and a creek. We got further and further into the woods, so far that I figured he either wanted to make out with me or murder me and hide the evidence. Turns out he wanted to walk and talk.

As you may know, the past few days have been rough. Thanksgiving? Oh my goodness. That's really all I can say about that.

The bottom line is that while I KNOW Jack is in a better place, and I believe he wants me to share the TRUTH with you, that life does not end when the body does, I want him alive and well and eating tacos in THIS place. MY place. Right now.

One of the things that has sustained us over these weeks as we drive through our town are the royal blue ribbons on trees, schools, mailboxes, cars, and fence posts telling us that our community cares and has not forgotten Jack. The blue ribbons feel like a hug to me each time I see them.

As we walked deeper into the dense woods today I thought, "I hate this so much! What a freakin' waste! Everyone is going to go on with life and forget about Jack. I wish there was a blue ribbon out here." Less than 2 minutes later, I saw this: a deflated royal blue balloon and a ribbon dangling from a tree, right in front of our faces.

Wow. Wow. Wow. Thank you, God. I needed that sign. That love. That hug. Maybe you, sweet friend, need it too. Because this is all so hard.

Harder still because as we twisted and turned this way and that in the woods, we ended up having to cross over the stupid creek no fewer than 4 times. The creek that somehow connects with our shitty neighborhood creek. I was just not ready for that yet.

In a Mars/Venus situation that would seem comical if there were anything funny about seeing a 42 year old woman sobbing through the brambles and underbrush, the very setting that Tim hoped would be peaceful for us was torture for me. Torture. Each twist and bend in the deep, dry creek bed brought horrible images to my mind. I couldn't quit sobbing.

When we had almost stumbled back to civilization, we found the swing Jack and Margaret used to play on when we would take them geocaching down there. The swing, the spooky tunnel with dirty words written inside, and finally, the bike path were all within reach.

I tell you about the ribbon in the middle of the woods to encourage you, just as you have encouraged me by sharing the signs you have seen. The dreams, visions, songs on the radio-- the rainbows and incredible sunsets on numerous Thursday nights at the exact time of the accident.

And we won't feel greedy asking for more signs, more assurance, more comfort will we? No. Because we are sad. And we are slow learners. And God is patient. And so is Jack.

It's Gonna Be A Good Life?

Many of you watching the AMA’s with us probably gasped when The Band Perry played, “If I Die Young.” Ouch. That was a hard one, but much harder still for me was “Good Life” by One Republic. All I could think when they sang, “It’s gonna be a good life…” was, "Really? I thought so too, but now I’m not so sure.”

I saw two of my dearest friends the day after the trip. Because they were in town visiting their parents for Thanksgiving, we had the chance to spend significant time together for the first time since Jack’s memorial service. Sitting in a booth at one of our old high school haunts, we looked at each other, eyes filled with tears, shell-shocked and still in disbelief at what has happened. Like other friends, they shared that they wake up each morning and must realize, once again, that Jack is dead.

We discussed the utter improbability that such a thing could have happened to Jack. We went through all of the events that led from having my kids safe and dry in our house, to their looking at a stupid playhouse in a neighbor’s fenced-in backyard, to standing in that yard beside a raging creek. We questioned how Jack, our Jack, was the only child who died in our area during that crazy storm.

Being together, crying together, was draining and wonderful and helpful because these friends, like so many others, love us and realize HOW MUCH we have lost in losing Jack.

These same friends walked beside me many years ago when one minute I had the mom everybody loved and admired, and the next I did not. As they recounted how they found out about Jack’s accident, we were reminded, without saying a word, of those other, dreadful phone calls I made to them when we were all 18 years old.

Over the years, these and other friends have felt the bittersweet tension of sharing life’s joys with me, while at the same time remembering my loss. As they benefited from adult relationships with their mothers-- through college, dating, marriage, babies, baptisms, and birthdays-- they were sometimes unsure of how much to say, knowing that even as I had moved forward and flourished, I would always mourn the loss of what could have been.

I never wanted them to feel uncomfortable or temper their joy, but I appreciated their unspoken acknowledgement-- usually just a caring look-- that showed they knew I was thriving and content despite significant loss. Their news included holiday gatherings, family reunions, multi-generational beach trips, and their children’s special times with grandma. I wanted them to share their news with me even if it hurt, because they were my friends, and I cared.

After my mom died, I was unsure of exactly how to move forward, but I decided early on that a positive life for me would be a testament to her as a mother. I respected myself, made good choices, and tried to live an optimistic, drama-free existence focused on what was important. And, when I was blessed to become Jack and Margaret’s mom, though I keenly missed my mother’s support every step of the way, I knew I would try to parent well, having been so well-parented.

I was sad that my mother and children didn’t get to enjoy each other. And I missed the adult relationship she and I could have had, the one that I saw my cousins and friends experiencing. Even in the poop-riddled, sleep-deprived, whiny throes of parenting babies and toddlers, I already looked forward to being a grandma. Not too soon, as in “My 14 year old just made me a grandma,” but all in good time, to give my adult "kids" the PRESENCE of relationship where I had felt so much absence.

I yearned for the chance to enjoy and support Jack and Margaret in their adulthood, our relationship unfettered by the stress and pressure one experiences while in the trenches of childrearing. I imagined holiday celebrations. Beach trips. Cruises. Enjoying the amazing people my kids had become. Even though Tim and I pinched every penny, I was determined someday to travel with family, as one of my most painful memories is the knowledge that my mom had registered for her first passport in her early forties and never got the chance to use it.

As I sat with these two dear friends Tuesday, I realized that now we had another gulf separating us. A huge, gaping gulf. Not only can they enjoy their dear moms right now, but they will be able to see all (DEAR GOD PLEASE!) of their children reach adulthood. Their children will grow and flourish. Jack will be forever 12. Spunky, spirited Margaret’s young life will be tinged with loss.

My feeble attempt at redeeming early loss by living life well and supporting my children into their adulthood now hangs in tatters.

All those years I tried to put one foot in front of the other and choose JOY because I knew that would honor my mother and God. I smiled. I laughed. I loved. I thrived! And over the years I learned there are many, many things one can and will get through without the help of a mom.

But a child? The precious child who first taught me how to really love?

Now I get up every day and choose LIFE in an attempt to honor this wise, deep-thinking, brown-eyed boy who loved us, loved God, and whose physical absence is like a cannon blast through our little world.

But in the getting up, in the living, sometimes I have to ask, “How much, oh God, how much?”

And Jack’s passport? Sits upstairs in Tim’s office. Not a frickin’ stamp in it.

Time after Time

When a baby is born, you count his age in moments. You can’t believe that in such a short time, life could change so dramatically. You wonder how just a few hours before, life had seemed one way, but now you recognize a permanent, monumental shift. You had always know what love was, but now you experience a CAPACITY to love that makes what came before seem tepid and two dimensional.

At first you count your baby’s age in hours, then days. Eventually, just as you counted your pregnancy in weeks, you shift to weeks. It feels precise. 6 weeks, 8 weeks, 12 weeks old. It mirrors your baby books about what milestones to expect. This eventually grows impractical and unwieldy, and you switch to months. You can hardly believe that one day, sooner than you think, you’ll be thinking in terms of YEARS in relation to this child’s age. In fact, one day, you’ll probably take his age and use it to figure out how old YOU are.

With a child’s death, this sense of timing, of pace, feels similar. How could Jack have been alive and well mere seconds before I reached the water’s edge? They have been looking for him for hours. Jack has been gone a day! It has been one week since our world fell apart. Two weeks. Three. Could it be a month? Do we switch to months now? But his clothes are still here. His new school shoes he never got to wear sit by the door to his room. He still gets mail for goodness sake!

When we remember in weeks, we think of a Thursday, at 6 pm. When we think in terms of months, we will think of the 8th. Double whammy of pain. Will there really come a time when we mark the passage of time solely in terms of YEARS? What about decades? I believe so. And Jack won’t age, but we will. He will forever be not quite 12 ½.

When your child was young you marked milestones, and although you wished the particularly challenging days away, you somehow hoped to slow the years down, to savor his childhood. And now, with the death of a child, you grieve as the gap between the before/after of your family's history grows ever wider, but at the same time you beg for the years to speed up, because decades without him seem like too, too much.

Jack-ed Up Phone

I was planning to write yet another post about my "Jack-ed Up" cellphone and title it "Jack's Thrift Store Playlist," because a few weeks ago, inside my purse at the thrift store, the phone started playing music again. I just let it go and kept track of the songs as they played in random order. This is music my husband put on my phone when I got it last year, but I do not listen to because to me my phone is...a phone.

This is what I heard in the thrift store:
1. Nobody Loves Me Like You
2. The Solace of You
3. We Live
4. Don’t You Know I’ve Always Loved You
5. Good Thing
6. Life is a Highway
7. Just the Way I Am
8. Let us Pray
9. Angel’s Heap
10. Don’t Stop Believing
11. Fields of Grace
12. This Day
13. Baba O’Reilly
14. Come Monday
15. Rock the Casbah
16. The Lost Get Found
17. All Star

I searched for meaning in the songs as I wandered the aisles of a place that once provided me with so much pleasure, but now felt empty and annoying. Many meant something to me, especially "Nobody Knows Me Like You," "Don't You Know I've Always Loved You?" and "Just the Way I Am." These songs are about God, but I imagined them as a conversation with Jack.

I laughed when I got to Angel's Heap because the title sounded so spiritual at first, but I think it's about having sex in a car. I turned the music off after the 17th song because, well, should I have just let it go until my battery died? What if only the first few songs meant anything, if any of them meant anything at all?

Anyway, this past Friday morning I walked down to the Bridge for only the second time since the accident. It's just too hard seeing how very, very far the bridge where they found Jack is from where he fell in the water in our neighborhood. I mean really, really far. It's too outrageous seeing a mere trickle of water, even after days of rain, in the shitty little creek bed, yet to know that on that one horrible night it was a raging wall of water that reached over the banks, the bridge, the road.

I took a picture of the cross that friends erected on the roadside. I wanted it for myself, and to share with you on the "Jack's Thrift Store Playlist" post.

So that night, on our way to pack shoe boxes in Jack's memory for Operation Christmas Child, Tim, Margaret and I ducked into a pizza place to get Margaret a slice. It was loud and crowded. I felt trapped. I was angry at all the families having a care-free Friday night.

I went to stand outside on the stoop and heard music coming from my coat pocket. Again? It was one of the very songs that had popped up in the thrift shop weeks earlier.

Which one? Check it out. Believe me, it's worth it.

Isn't it Ironic?

...that Jack always wanted us to have a neighborhood Bible Study, but I blew it off. I figured that with the kid dynamics in our ‘hood everyone would end up fighting and that would be most unpleasant for the parents. The whole thing just seemed so…tiring.

But now, as a result of Jack’s death, a group of neighborhood dads is getting together every week with a pastor friend to talk about major life and faith issues?

…that we wouldn’t let Jack play violent video games or watch anything as racy as “Dancing With the Stars” on TV.

Yet, as a result of his death, we’ll be taking his 10 year old little sister to CA to the AMA’s? I have an inkling that some of the outfits and the lyrics will be a tad racier than DWTS. Any inside scoop on what Lady Gaga will be wearing this year?

…that even though I grew up in a family bed kind of household, I can count on one hand how many nights each kid got to spend in our bed over the past few years.

Yet now the three of us say our prayers, end with, “Jack, we love you. We miss you. We’ll never forget you” and tuck ourselves into one queen-sized bed?

…that when Jack was alive we severely limited our kids’ tv and computer use.

Yet in his absence Margaret is turning more and more to the TV to try to kill time in a house with no playmate and we are letting it slide?

…that a little over 2 months ago if you had asked me what I wanted, I would have said: “1)lose weight 2) less laundry 3) less running around”

And how I got all three of these things? But they suck. They really, really suck.

…that Jack never wanted to meet a celebrity because he thought it would be too awkward,

And now we are about to be wined and dined (or Coked!) by celebs thanks to the lavish generosity of Coca Cola, blog readers, and friends and strangers around the globe…possibly even getting to meet Margaret’s idol, Justin Bieber!?

And speaking of the Biebs….

[Don’t even get me started on the irony that our beloved squeaky clean celeb is embroiled in a Baby Daddy scandal (Innocent! Innocent!) right when we are heading out to see him.]

Isn’t it ironic:

…that this summer, two weeks before his death, when Jack walked by Margaret and me ooohing and ahhing over the sweetness of JB as we watched “Never Say Never,” Jack's response was, “Come on! You could show cute baby pictures of anybody and people would fall in love with him and say he was wonderful!"

And now, because of an impossible, improbable, senseless accident people all around the globe have seen you in your bee costume, Jack, and may have fallen a little bit in love with you too? Oh my goodness.
…
So Jack, what was up is down what was in is out. Our lives are weird and ill-fitting and and off-kilter and strange. You were a wise and observant boy, so I know the irony of all of this is not lost on you.

I guess I’ll close this post with a gratuitous baby picture of you, with love for your cuteness and oh so much more.

non-Monumental Issues

One of Margaret’s shoes is missing. They are just thrift store flats, but they're cute, comfy, and they go with her dress for the big night.

The prime suspect is our dog Shadow, because although she does not chew shoes, she does have a weird habit of carrying a shoe in her mouth each time she goes out to pee. The leaves have fallen and the chances of finding a little shoe in the yard are nil, so I hope it’s in the house somewhere. Now you may wonder why I’m concerned that Margaret have this particular shoe for her adventure. Let’s just say you do not want her to be unhappy with her footwear or to get a blister on the big trip. Nope.

Reminds me of our trip to the Washington Monument this past August. I suggested Margaret wear sneakers and socks, an idea that was met with much scorn. She wore flip flops. After a pleasant trip to the top of the monument, Tim had the audacity to think that at ages 10 and 12, our kids (or I) could handle more than one landmark per DC outing. Silly man.

Against my better judgment, we started walking to the World War II Memorial which was right down the hill, and Margaret started freaking out about the heat, her aching legs, her feet, her… BLISTER! I got pissed, not at her, but at Tim for breaking my “one landmark” rule, and because I’d promised all of us Rocket Popsicles, which were clearly in the opposite direction.

Tim’s neck started to bulge and he yelled at Margaret and me, “Aaaargh! You’re both such... such…” The kids, wide-eyed, implored him to tell them what the next word was going to be, but Tim did not divulge. We were pretty sure it wasn’t a good one.

We hobbled to the memorial, the women-folk definitely not showing the reverence it was due, unless glaring and whining were proper protocol. Tim and Jack ended up walking all the way back to the car on the other side of the mall and picking us up, after Margaret and I had cooled off by the water’s edge.

Tim later told me Jack was great at talking him off the ledge on their long walk to the car. It was a good bonding experience for them as they commiserated, whether with or without words, about the lunacy of their female counterparts. Now lest the boys get off scot-free, I could mention Jack's "My coke is too small mania" in Jamestown last year or Tim's "You are such...such..." outburst in Washington, D.C. Oh yeah, I already did.

Margaret's problem that day was a blister on her foot. My issues are usually the heat, the cold, the humidity level, my bladder, or perhaps blood sugar. Margaret and I liked to think we were doing our part to help prepare Jack for the world of women. The car pulled up, we got in, and all was right in the world. Sans the Rocket Pops, of course. Good times.

Man, I really hope we find that shoe.

Oh Shirt.

As I wrote before, Jack’s sheets had been changed the morning of the accident. His dirty sheets were downstairs by the washer and accidentally got washed by friends before I had the mental capacity to consider saving them. All of his clothes were clean and folded.

So, for weeks one of my best friends has been praying fervently that we would find something, anything that smelled like Jack. A week ago I went into his room and spotted a gray long-sleeved Ski Utah tee crumpled on the floor. I hadn’t seen it there before. I picked it up, nervous yet hopeful.

It smelled like Jack.

Margaret and I shoved our faces in it, inhaling deeply. Thank you God, for this gift!

So yesterday I was folding laundry and picked up… a Ski Utah shirt.

Crap. I’d washed it.

Heaven

Heaven had better be:

Better than any stinkin' Youth Group costume party…


And being trapped inside a Lego Factory over a long weekend with plenty of Cheez-its and Dr. Pepper.

And the buzzy feeling you get when the person you have a crush on crushes on you back.

And sledding down a huge hill with your best friends until it’s cocoa time.

And a wonderful, fumbly first kiss.

And skiing black diamonds with your dad in Colorado.

And a high school debate trip to New York City with fun but slightly lax chaperones.

And praising God at a retreat and finally getting how much He loves you.

And sitting around with your friends at college laughing until your stomach hurts.

And falling in love.

And watching in person as the Yankees win the World Series…again!

And surprising your little sister by flying in for her college graduation.

And doing work that fulfills you and honors God.

And dancing with your mom at your wedding.

And holding your newborn baby-- staring at your wife thinking, “We made this?”

And giving that baby a bath and zipping him up in footy pajamas.

Oh yeah, and sex.

Heaven had better be more wonderful than sex.

Okay, God? Good.

Halloween