The Moral of this Story

It is not uncommon for me to read something and ponder it for days, thinking about how it relates to my life, looking for connections and a bit of profound advise. I feel like there is always room to grow and perhaps see life through another lens, another vantage point, to actually walk a mile in someone else's shoes. I used to lie on the floor with Cooper as close as possible, our heads smooshed together trying to see the room, the lights, the fan as he saw it. Perspective intrigues me. There is no contesting life with a special needs child and the loss of a child are difficult roads. Our perspectivies and philosophies may differ, but we all grieve, we all search for understanding and we all celebrate the little things. Each in our own tidepool. 

"Shoes" 

Author Unknown

I am wearing a pair of shoes. They are ugly shoes. Uncomfortable shoes. I hate my shoes. Each day I wear them, and each day I wish I had another pair. Some days my shoes hurt so bad that I do not think I can take another step. Yet, I continue to wear them. I get funny looks wearing these shoes. They are looks of sympathy. I can tell in others eyes that they are glad they are my shoes and not theirs. They never talk about my shoes. To learn how awful my shoes are might make them uncomfortable. To truly understand these shoes you must walk in them. But, once you put them on, you can never take them off. I now realize that I am not the only one who wears these shoes. There are many pairs in this world. Some woman are like me and ache daily as they try and walk in them. Some have learned how to walk in them so they don't hurt quite as much. Some have worn the shoes so long that days will go by before they think about how much they hurt. No woman deserves to wear these shoes. Yet, because of these shoes I am a stronger woman. These shoes have given me the strength to face anything. They have made me who I am. I will forever walk in the shoes of a woman who has lost a child.

"God’s a Zebra Too!"

Rev. Ron Campbell

I noticed a zebra figurine sitting on my pantry door-frame this morning. It reminded me of the only time I’ve ever written a preface to a pastoral prayer. It was Easter Sunday, 1999. Although it’s not Easter now, this might be a helpful word of comfort for some of you.

     “I feel led to share with you the context of the formulation of this Easter Sunday pastoral prayer. On Thursday afternoon I was standing in the checkout line at Albertson’s. In my basket I had several containers of vitamins. The lady behind me asked me if I were a doctor.  I said, ‘No, I’m a pastor.’ After a brief exchange she said she hadn’t gone to church in over two years. I invited her to attend our Easter Service. She said she might come the Sunday after Easter, as it would be too difficult to be in church on Easter Sunday. She was still grieving her son’s death. Her son had died two years before from meningitis at 18 years of age. She was grateful for the six weeks they had together to say goodbye, but now church was too painful an experience for her to bear.

     Tears welled up behind her eyes. I told her that I couldn’t relate fully to her pain as I had not had to make a place in my heart for this kind of loss. My son was alive. But I knew people who did understand her pain. One of my friends, whose daughter was tragically killed when she was 20, told me that although we’re all in the horse family, those who loose a loved one tragically or outside the expected life span are a sub-group. They’re zebras, with strips that can only be recognized by other zebras.

     The lady behind the woman who’d lost her son had been listening in. She looked at us with tears in her eyes and said ‘I’m a zebra. I’ve lost two sons.’ We shared a moment of quiet empathy, and then I inadequately expressed my hope that this Easter God would comfort them with his assurance.

     Later in the parking lot it came to me what I could’ve said and wish I’d said; ‘Although I can’t fully relate to your loss, there is someone who can. God knows your pain. He also lost a son. He knows what that’s like. And God also knows what the joy of reunion is like. That’s what we celebrate at Easter. God’s a zebra too. He has the same kind of stripes as you.’

     Church should be a place where zebras can come and feel God’s comfort in their pain. I offer our prayer today with these two mothers in mind as we pray as Jesus instructed us, not for the well, but for those who truly need of a word of assurance and hope from God.”

Silent Night

This post was also shared as an article on Hello Grief

My mother gave me a ticket for tonight's Christmas Sing Along with the Symphony. This was her second year to sing with the choir and she was so excited. I was happy to go, excited about singing some old favorites and who knows, maybe it would help my Christmas spirit. The music was wonderful and the atmosphere inspiring. There were people of all ages singing, laughing. When the orchestra began to play "Frosty the Snowman" a person dressed as a Snowman came out into the audience. The kids went nuts, rushing down the isles to see him and parents were snapping pictures like crazy people, and then it hit me. It hit me that Cooper would be 3 1/2 years old at this very moment, just like the little ones clamoring to meet Frosty, just like the little boy sitting behind me saying "look mommy!" My throat started to get that hard to swallow feeling and the silent tears began to fall. I was never more thankful to move on to the next song, to see Frosty exit, and the children to return to their seats. During the next few numbers I was able to pull it together and enjoy the music - 12 Days of Christmas, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, a reading of The Night Before Christmas, Silent Night. Oh, Silent Night and here come the tears. I just can't control it. I have no control over my emotions and I fear I will not be able to sit through Silent Night anytime soon. It's not that I in any way compare my son to baby Jesus, it's just the soft, somber, reflective tone of the hymn and the first verse which stirs me up. Even as I type, my eyes well up. Again.

Silent night, holy night
All is calm and all is bright
Round yon virgin mother and child
Holy infant so tender and mild
Sleep in heavenly peace
Sleep in heavenly peace

At this moment, it reminds me of Cooper's passing and not the birth of Jesus. It scares me that I felt like I had pulled myself together for awhile and now, suddenly, it feels as if I'm falling apart all over again.

This would be the point where I reason with myself and try to balance my emotions with logic. The reality, yes, Cooper would have been 3 1/2, but not like the other children who were running around tonight. Cooper could not walk, or talk and he would not ever have had that ability. He had a progressive disease which does get worse over time, not better. Cooper died peacefully and I was ready to let him go, it was time, but that doesn't make me miss him any less. It's been one year, and I have to remind myself that it has ONLY been one year. There have been so many positive things that came from Cooper's life. I try so hard to focus on the good stuff and most of the time I feel like I do a pretty good job of it. Tonight is just one of those nights.

Last year my husband and I didn't "do" Christmas. We did put up the tree and our stockings, but we didn't go crazy with decorations. We didn't buy gifts or even go to either of our families homes. Instead, we both took some time off and put together a puzzle of the beach because it reminded us of our last trip with Cooper. I'm sure it sounds lame, but it was what worked for us. Christmas is a lot harder this year than I expected it to be. It's hard to be out there finding a way to be okay everyday. It's exhausting.

Sandscript

I love to write. It helps me release the adrenalin born with a new thought. I suppose writing in the sand has become my own variation of message in a bottle. I'm able to let it out and let it go.

The last trip we took with Cooper was to the beach in celebration of his second birthday. On the last day of our trip David, Cooper and I took pictures of our feet in the sand; our little family of three. We wrote Cooper's name in the sand and said goodbye to the beach. It was later that day when we arrived home, not yet unpacked, Cooper turned shades of blue all the way down to his belly button. He stopped breathing for five minutes. It was terrifying and we thought he had earned his wings at that very moment. I started to cry, holding him in the rocking chair with David kneeling beside us. Cooper took in a giant gasp and started to breathe again on his own. He stayed with us for eight more days. In a quiet moment of retreat, David, Cooper and I were swinging under the tree in our backyard. It was there that Cooper peacefully took his last breath.













Writing Cooper's name in the sand has stuck with me. Perhaps that day was a bridge connecting one chapter to another. Something we did only once together, yet a way to continue to remember. If I'm holding onto something, I feel like I can write it in the sand and let the waves literally wash it way. The waves, symbolic messengers that will carry my thoughts to the point where the water meets the sky.


I have been fortunate to visit the beach a few times since then, but never put the messages together until today.  By starting with Cooper's name it's much like the beginning of a letter, waiting to be written.