One Year

One year ago today, we watched helplessly as our son slipped away.

I do not know where the time has gone, or how I have managed to live 365 days without my sunny little boy. Most days now I can say that I find glimmers of hope. I can find things to smile about and be thankful for. But it is still so very difficult to find true joy in this new life. My mind is no longer focused on the things of this world, but instead, my soul aches as it never has before, for something more...something beyond this life. I cling to the hope of life beyond the grave and I wait impatiently for the day when I will see my Noah.


This is not at all how
We thought it was supposed to be
We had so many plans for you
We had so many dreams
And now you've gone away
And left us with the memories of your smile
And nothing we can say
And nothing we can do
Can take away the pain
The pain of losing you, but ...

We can cry with hope
We can say goodbye with hope
'Cause we know our goodbye is not the end, oh no
And we can grieve with hope
'Cause we believe with hope
There's a place where we'll see your face again
We'll see your face again

And never have I known
Anything so hard to understand
And never have I questioned more
The wisdom of God's plan
But through the cloud of tears
I see the Father smile and say "well done"
And I imagine you
Where you wanted most to be
Seeing all your dreams come true
'Cause now you're home
And now you're free, and ...

We have this hope as an anchor
'Cause we believe that everything
God promised us is true, so ...

We wait with hope
And we ache with hope
We hold on with hope
We let go with hope

~With Hope~

Stephen Curtis Chapman

(written after the tragic death of his daughter)

Our little Noah, you touched our lives in a way that words could never express. You were such an incredible, courageous little boy who could somehow capture the hearts of everyone you met. We were so blessed to hold you in our arms, even for such a short time. We will forever treasure those beautiful years.

Missing your bright smile. Missing your precious laugh. Missing hearing "mama" repeated over and over again. Missing how our lives revolved around your needs.

Missing you today and everyday...

Last

It's been a tough month...

My mind can't help but relive "this time last year..." over and over again. Those days and weeks leading up to the end...had I only known then...had I only stolen more hugs and kisses, or taken more pictures...had I only taken the time to treasure all the mundane moments.



One year ago today, we headed to the hospital...never believing that this time would be our last.

The Myth of Getting Over It

When our first child is born, a loud voice says, "Runners, take your marks!"

We hear the starting gun and the race begins. It's a race we must win at all cost. We have to win. The competition is called "I'll race you to the grave."

I really want to win.

Not everyone wins...

I'm soon going on stage to speak before a crowd of parents and loved ones impacted by the death of a child. My address is titled, "The Myth of Getting Over It." It's my attempt to answer the driving questions of grieving parents: When will I get over this? How do I get over this?

You don't get over it. Getting over it is an inappropriate goal, an unreasonable hope. The loss of a child changes you. It changes your marriage. It changes the way birds sing. It changes the way the sun rises and sets. You are forever different.

You don't want to get over it. Don't act surprised. As awful a burden as grief is, you know intuitively that it matters, that it is profoundly important to be grieving. Your grief plays a crucial part in staying connected to your child's life. To give up your grief would mean losing your child yet again. If I had the power to take your grief away, you'd fight me to keep it. Your grief is awful, but it is also holy, and somewhere inside you, you know that. The goal is not to get over it. The goal is to get on with it.

Profound grief is like being in a stage play wherein suddenly the stagehands push a huge grand piano into the middle of the set. The piano paralyzes the play. It dominates the stage. No matter where you move it impedes your sight lines, your ability to interact with the other players. You keep banging into it, surprised each time that it's still there. It takes all your concentration to work around it, this at a time when you have little ability or desire to concentrate on anything.

The piano changes everything. The play must be rewritten around it. But over time the piano is pushed to stage left. Then to upper stage left. You are the playwright, and slowly, surely, you begin to find the impetus and wherewithal to stop reacting to the intrusive piano. Instead, you engage it. Instead of writing every scene around the piano, you begin to write the piano into each scene, into the story. You learn to play that piano. You're surprised to find that you want to play it, that it's meaningful, even peaceful to play it.

Steven Kalas
ForMomsOnly's Journal January 31, 2010

I`m still trying to figure out what to do with that piano...