Where do I start? Yesterday was Felix’s “birthday” – if that’s what you call it. We took the kids to the cemetery and placed some baby white tulips on his grave. Chloe proceeded to tell Dylan to stop “standing on his brother” because he was walking where the grass is trying grow. I had to laugh, which was nice to be able to do on that day. I thanked God for the beautiful weather, it really helped. We decided to invite the family over and we grilled out, played some Wii and enjoyed the company.

The 2-3 days before were really the hardest – all of the memories are still so vivid. I mean, I want to be able to remember everything – no matter how unpleasant – because those are the only memories I have. It’s still hard, though.

I think that over the past 3-4 months my feelings have improved. Brian said to me the other day that I seem happier than I have in a long time. I’d like to think that I have made some good progress. I don’t feel angry anymore. I still get sad sometimes but I don’t feel as bad as I had. I don’t want to presume that I have worked through it completely. God will have to let me know when that has happened. Still, overall, I can see the improvement, too.

I have finally decided what I want to put on Felix’s monument – now I need to get the design and get it ordered. Shouldn’t be too much longer now, I hope. Of course, I’ve been saying that about selling the house, too and you see how far we’ve gotten. (pretty much nowhere!) Oh well, if I’ve learned only 1 thing over the past year it’s that you can’t force things and you can’t make plans (on your own).

So, onto year 2. While I’ll never forget, I pray I keep improving as I continue to weave his loss into my life.

Look at what my 4 year old has been singing the past few days…

Come to the Father, come to the deeper well.
Drink of the water and come to live a tale to tell.
The pages are turning now, this is abundant life.
The joy in the journey is enough to make a grown man cry.

It’s from an Andrew Peterson song, Little Boy Heart Alive. I’m so glad she’s been listening.

I have been sitting in front of my computer for over an hour trying to get motivated to buy Christmas presents. It’s not working.

The last couple of days have been hard. I am watching my friend struggle through the most unthinkable nightmare. I was able to spend a few hours with her last night and that was good. I know I already said this, but I really hope that I can be of some comfort and help to her.

One thing that has surprised me is how emotional I’ve been and how my sleep has been interrupted. It’s more than just worrying about my friend… it’s stirring up some of the thoughts and feelings from those first few days after Felix died. Not that those are hard to find; actually, the tears still come quite easily. It’s just that, even though our losses are different they are still the same. We are mothers who lost a son. Both were sudden and unexpected and shocking. Both left us wondering how we’ll make it through this. [Read more…]

I’m writing this tonight as I think of one of my dearest friends. She called today to let me know that her son died this morning.

It’s odd… just 2 weeks ago we were talking about how when you lose your spouse you are a widow, when you lose your parents you’re an orphan, but there’s no name for someone who has lost a child. Maybe we’ll come up with one now.

I pray that she can sleep tonight. I pray for a clear mind as she faces the plans and decisions that must be made. I pray that she will feel God’s arms around her even when she’s screaming at Him.

I hope that I can be of some help and comfort to her in the rough times ahead.

Ephesians 3: 14-21

For this reason I kneel before the Father, from whom his whole family in heaven and on earth derives its name. I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.

Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever!

Amen.

It knocked me down, it dragged me out, it left me there for dead.
It took all the freedom I wanted and gave me something else instead.
It blew my mind, it bled me dry, it hit me like a long goodbye,
and nobody here knows better than I that it’s a good thing.
Love is a good thing.

It can hurt like a blast from a hand grenade when all that used to matter is blown away.
There in the middle of the mess it made you’ll find a good thing.
Yes, it’s worth every penny of the price you paid. It’s a good thing.
Love is a good thing.
Do not fear.

Words and Music by Andrew Peterson
Matthew 10:39 Daniel 2:22

I began reading The Good Grief Club by Monica Novak a few days ago. 10 chapters in it’s like reading my story. (except the part where she has a support group and friends who’ve dealt with the same type of loss) SO GOOD. I’m going to ask hubby to read it when I’m done.

Tomorrow, October 15th, is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. I wanted to get a ribbon pin to wear but I couldn’t seem to get a website that worked well enough to order one. So again I will (most likely) walk around silent tomorrow. What can I say, anyway? “Today is PAIL Day. Don’t forget, my baby died.” No need to make people uncomfortable. Although I live with that knowledge every minute and it’s not comfortable for me, either. Maybe as I get farther into this I’ll figure out how to be an activist.

6 months ago today my life changed forever. 6 months ago tomorrow I did the second hardest thing I’ve ever done. 6 months from next week I did the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

It isn’t any easier. I don’t feel any better. I am still angry, hurt, confused and tired. The nightmares have stopped at least. I am still asking why. I still look at his pictures. I still weep. I still ache. I still don’t understand.

Still, still, still, still… I still wish we could have kept him.

I love you, Felix.