How Many Times Can I Break til I Shatter?

We have suffered another huge loss.  One that leaves us asking "Why, why, why?" all over again.  Of course, nothing will ever compare to the loss of Webb, so even a loss that one year ago would have been hugely monumental only pales in comparison.  But we have not yet entered our season of blessings.  Soon?

People say bad things happen in threes.  Ok, I think we reached that number a long time ago.  But as I sit here, crying and trembling over my keyboard, I still am not in despair.  When Webb died, I was drawn very close to God, right underneath his loving arms, and I did not once doubt his presence.  Lately, as that tangible connection started to fade, I am left asking all my questions over again.  Why do bad things happen to good people?  Why do multiple bad things happen to good people?  This just is not fair.  It isn't.  And I don't know another way to say that.  But I am not in despair.  His grace is sufficient.  As my precious grandmother used to say, "This too shall pass."

I know my latest posts have been heavy.  My heart has been heavy.  This grief is heavy.  It is hard to walk around with this weight I constantly carry.  We are being lifted up - I know it and I feel it.  This too shall pass.

She says she's tired of life - she must be tired of something....

I am tired of grieving. I am tired of walking by an empty crib every night and every morning. I am tired of reliving the hospital and the funeral and the weeks and months before Webb's diagnosis. I am still in disbelief. How did this happen? Why me? How will we go on - really? How? It is strange how grief comes in waves, some big, some small. Right now it feels like a tsunami for some reason. I guess it is my brain's way of taking in things bit by bit, piece by piece. But it hurts. And it's exausting. I often picture myself as bobbing along in the water, barely above the surface. It sounds a bit suicidal, I know, but it's nothing close to that. I still enjoy life and want to keep living it. I just can't believe this is my new life - it's very hard to articulate the feelings. It's hard to square the happy, carefree person with the person I am now. Still happy on many levels, but...different. I can't believe I ever thought I went through "hard times." It annoys me when people who have not lost a child think they have a rough life. I am sure many have faced horrific obstacles, but I am being 100% honest when I say I think ANYTHING would have been better than losing one of my babies. I would have endured absolutely anything and said, "At least I still have all my children." I know that for a fact. There just isn't anything worse. In a way, it's kind of liberating. The worst has already happened, so I fear little, except, of course, losing another child. But death no longer scares me. While I don't want to die or be away from my other children, I have so much waiting for me in heaven that it doesn't seem as terrible as it used to. I never imagined I'd be 30 and no longer scared of dying. I feel like I have aged 50 years in 6 months.

Do you ever hear songs you've loved for years and never really understood the meaning? Or have you ever found a new meaning in a familiar song? That happens to me constantly now. Especially with Counting Crows, who have always been a favorite of mine. In the car the other day, this part of "Round Here" was playing and I burst into tears. The meaning never was something I could relate to until now. Now it makes perfect sense:

She says It's only in my head
She says Shhh I know it's only in my head
But the girl in car in the parking lot
says "Man you should try to take a shot
can't you see my walls are crumbling?"
Then she looks up at the building
and says she's thinking of jumping
She says she's tired of life
she must be tired of something
Round here she's always on my mind
Round here hey man got lots of time
Round here we're never sent to bed early
And nobody makes us wait
Round here we stay up very, very, very, very late

Struggling....

I wonder if 6 months sounds like a long time to people. I wonder if people think: "Oh, Webb died 6 months ago - Zac and Ashley must be getting better, or over it..." I can assure you it's not the case. First of all, "better" is relative. Better than what? December 26? Well, I was in total shock then and had held my baby alive that day and seen him laughing and smiling 3 days before. Six months later, the shock is gone, and I have not seen him, heard him, smelled or felt him in what seems like an eternity. So "better" isn't the right word. "Over it?" Never.

In some ways, it is worse today than it was 3, 4, 5, even 6 months ago. The pain is more contained, the panic has subsided, and we can actually function through a day - but the reality that he is gone seems more....real. He is not just away for a while. He is not coming back. After 6 months, that truth sets in a little deeper. We knew in our minds he was never coming back, even when we were in shock. But after 6 months, we are actually starting to realize the impact of that. And it hurts. It is the dull, constant, horrific kind of hurt that will not go away. I imagine it is a bit like losing an arm or a leg. At first, you cannot do anything, and the physical pain is unbearable. After time, you start learning how to compensate and "live around" the missing appendage, but it is always there, always a reminder, never far from your thoughts. Just like a person who has to live without an appendage, we will never be the same. We will keep walking around this giant hole for the rest of our lives.

I have always been the kind of person who can put a "game face" on. It was partly how I was raised and partly what I have learned to do over the years. I am not necessarily a private person, but I can hide my strong emotions very carefully. I have gotten good at smiling on the outside, sheilding the world and my closest friends and family from how I am really feeling. It is not as much a protection for them as it is protection for me. I am not ready to lose it. Not today. I am not prepared for the aftermath of such an emotional outburst. Luckily, I have my God to pour it all out to. In the times of my deepest despair, I hit my knees and pray out every drop of pain, of fear, of frustration. It works. It centers me, balances me and helps me through my day. We are still so desperate for His guidance. He is the only way to get through a tragedy as great as this one, and I do not understand how anyone thinks their problems can be solved without God. What a miserable existence that must be. Even in the darkest days I face, I still have hope and the promise.

This past week, we spent some time in Vail. Vail is a special place as it is where Zac and I met and the spot our children have visited many times. Webb only got to go once. Yet as I sat in that familiar place that holds so many memories for me, he was all I thought about. Being in the mountains and seeing God's most beautiful creations has always impacted me, but this time, it hit me hard. I felt closer to Webb there. Maybe it was because I did not have the million distractions that I do in Atlanta. Maybe it was because we were 8,000 feet higher than we usually are. Maybe it was because I think my heaven must look a lot like Vail. Maybe it was all of that. And I don't think I was the only one feeling that way. When we got on the gondola to ride to the top of the mountain, Bo said, "We are going to see Webbie!!" He has never said that before, and he has ridden an airplane several times. I like to think his presence was there, as it always is. As we were flying over those mountains last night, back to our lives, I felt a strange sense of leaving something behind.

Grief

Let me tell you something about grief. It finds you. It tracks you down. It sneaks up on you when you least expect it. I will be going about my day, wading through the motions, and it will hit me like a ton of bricks. Reminding me I am still a mother who lost her child. Reminding me it will never be the same. Reminding me he's not coming back. I have times where I feel like I'm going to be ok. Moments when I look at Bo and Whit and see all I have instead of all I have lost. And then it pulls me under like a strong current: one child is missing.

Bo is still asking questions about Webb, which makes me happy because it means he has not forgotten. Last night, I was laying next to him before he went to sleep, and he said, "Mommy, do you ever get sad?" I said, "Sure I do." He replied, "When you think about Webbie?" and I told him, "Yes, that makes Mommy very sad." He thought for a second and then told me, "Mommy, people get sick. When Webbie is up in the sky with Jesus, he's happy and not sick. When he is down here, he is very sick." I agreed with him, interested in his perspective on things. And then he said, "Mommy, we are so sad Webbie is not here. But Webbie is happy!" You know, out of all the things I have read, all the things people have told me, Bo's words were some of the most reassuring words I have heard. Maybe because it's so obvious. Maybe because the simplicity of a three year old makes it seem like it's ok for babies to be in heaven and not with us. I don't know why. But he was right, Webb is happy even though we are sad. And last night, that didn't seem as strange as it sometimes does.

Survival = Peace, Friends, Grace

(1) We made it through the twins' birthday.  

And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.  Philippians 4:7

It was not without tears.  It was not without pain.  It was one of the worst days of my life.  And yet, it was also one of the best.  Whit is two.  He is all boy, all joy, all love, all ours.  And he is here.  

(2)  We have some amazing people in our lives.

Jesus said, "Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends."  John 15:13

You, our friends, are truly a gift from God.  I have told several of you before, when you wonder how in the world we have made it this far and make it through impossible days like June 5, look no farther than yourselves.  We have some angels walking with us, among us, for us - holding us up when we feel like we can't go on.  God gives us to our families, but the friends we have made are one of our most magnificent rewards.  I know I would do the same for my friends that they have done for me during this awful trial, but to have that unconditional love poured out from people who are not family, well, it is an amazing feeling.  We are not alone.

(3)  God is still the One carrying us.

My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.  2 Corinthians 12:9

We are still alive.  We are still married.  We smile every day.  We thank God for our blessings.  We feel blessed.  This is not some courageous act.  This is not some coincidence.  Some of you are under the concept that we are the strongest people on Earth.  We are not.  We are filled with the love of God, and He is carrying us through this, as He promises He will.  We have had the worst thing that can happen to a parent happen to us - and yet, we are still here.  This is what it means to be held by the Lord.  When all else fails, we can fall down at the foot of the cross and be comforted.  We are still in that place, and it is safe.  His grace is sufficient.  It is a miracle, and we have experienced it.

We are surviving.  We are grieving.  We are going to be okay.  We have peace, friends and grace - the most wonderful gifts from the Lord.  We have fallen, but He will help us up, again and again.

Those who know your name will trust in you, for you, Lord, have never forsaken those who seek you.  Psalm 9:10  

Traditions

Zac and I have a tradition for our children's birthday.  On that morning, we wait until we hear him stirring and then walk in, video camera in hand, singing Happy Birthday.  We have some priceless footage of these precious moments.  They smile, clap, laugh.  It is awesome.  Tomorrow we will do the same for Whit, but our hearts will not be completely filled with joy as they should be.  Tomorrow, we will have to walk past an empty crib while singing to our perfectly healthy two year old that we are still blessed to have with us.  His other half is not with us, and as we approach his birthday, that fact seems as unbelievable as ever.  We will not see his sweet two year old grin and hear him babble the words to "Happy Birthday."  Instead, we will sing to him and visit him in a place no parent should ever have to go to see their child - especially on his birthday.  We have our strong and weak moments like every grieving person does.  There are times when we are able to put on a happy face and go about our day, either for each other or for the boys.  Tomorrow will no doubt be faced with moments where we do not feel like doing this, but we will, because we have a birthday to celebrate.  And as much as it hurts, we have to move forward and rejoice with our sweet Whit.  Thanks to all of you who have emailed, called, sent flowers, cards, or just said a prayer for us this week.  It has been one of the most dreaded days since Webb died.  We will get through it, like we have each challenging moment.  We will get through by His grace, and by all the prayers of those who love us.  June 5, 2009 will not be the day we thought it would be, but we are still a family, we are still standing, and we are going to make it.  God told me so.

All that I Feel is the Realness I'm Faking

December 26.  Worst. Day. Ever.  May 26.  Not the worst day ever.  Progress?  Today has been 5 months.  5 looooooong, sad, unbearable months.  December to March alone took about 10 years.  We've come so far yet not far enough.  Everything has changed.  We are different.  Next Friday we should be celebrating the twins' second birthday.  I should be planning a party and buying two little "I'm 2!" birthday hats and shaking my head in disbelief that time has gone by so fast.  Instead, we are visiting one child in the cemetery taking the other 2 to the beach where we will try to "get through" what should be a joyous occasion.  I'll only buy one hat and one cake this year.  That's the part that is hard about losing a twin.  A day that means sadness that Webb is not there also means happiness that Whit is.  It will no doubt be a hard and wonderful day the rest of our lives.  I am looking forward to it and dreading it all at once.

Last week, I took the boys to San Antonio to visit my parents.  We went to my dad's baseball games and Sea World and had a wonderful time.  However, I could not help but see the one missing.  No matter how full the days were, the absence of Webb was at the forefront of my mind.  He should be running the bases and hitting off the tee.  He would have LOVED that.  He would have clapped when the dolphins swam by or Shamu jumped out of the water.  There was so much he never got to do.  On the plane ride home, a flight attendant looked at me by myself with the boys and said, "You've got your hands full!"  I smiled a bittersweet smile and agreed.  If she only knew how empty my hands felt.  I am still constantly looking around for the missing child.  I am still automatically trying to take inventory of 3 children, not 2.  These are the things that are ingrained in my brain, the things no amount of reality can change.  The things that make me the most sad.  The things I don't consciously think about.

When I get very upset, I try to remember that Webb only knew love his entire 18 and a half months on Earth.  He went on trips, was cuddled, kissed and hugged every day of his life.  He got to play with great toys and great friends and lived the best life a toddler could live.  Not all children can say the same.  He lived his life knowing nothing about lying, deceit or evil or the other horrible things in this world.  He went from a perfect life here to an even more perfect life in the arms of Jesus.  I know God is in control.  I know when I see Webb again, I will probably think he lived the most charmed life of all my children.  It will all be clear one day, when we see His glory.  So until then, we wait.  We love each other.  And we know while life will never be the way it was before Webb, we can still make the most of our time together.  For him.  Because of him.