Hey, all...
Check out Jack's blog for his latest post.
What a great kid :-)
Jack's Blog
October 30, 2008
October 3, 2008
The Missing Indy
The Indy 500 Race Car game is gone.
It used to be in the left corner as you exited out of our Walmart... right beside the big crane game. I noticed the other day as I was leaving that it's gone.
I froze right there at the exit, shopping cart and all, and stared at that empty spot. How many times did Paul crawl up in that seat? I used to hate that thing because I knew it would take every negotiating skill I had to get past it without stopping. "Pleeeeeeeeze, Mommy," he would say, "Just one minute?" I almost always gave in (he was hard to resist), and the ritual would begin: first, he'd stick his hand in the coin dispenser to see if there were any abandoned quarters there. Then, he circle the entire machine, looking under it for any run-away coins that might have found a place to hide. Finally, he'd end up in the seat and watch the display. He never actually played the game, he just watched the "promo" part and pretended to drive.
It was one of those big arcade games, so I'm sure that moving it was no small task. I wonder if the people who hauled it off had any idea the memories they were taking with them...
As I crossed the Walmart parking lot, the reality hit me that in little ways and big ways, life is changing. And that makes me sad.
Right now, our family dynamic is pretty unchanged since Paul's death. There are still so many memories of him. But as little things change - like the Indy 500 Race Car game at Walmart - it seems that Paul gets farther and farther away. I have this fear that his memory is somehow slipping away. Irrational? Maybe. Maybe not.
Whit is now 6, and very soon, he's going to hit that milestone that I've been dreading since the day Paul died: on March 19, 2009, he'll be older than Paul.... older than his older brother.
Jack was a baby 10 years ago. At the time, it was the most unforgetable and amazing thing that had ever happened to me. Now, however, it's hard to remember him as a baby.
So... what happens to my memories of Paul 10 years from now? Jack will be 20 - probably a junior in college. Whit will be 16 (and, hopefully, doing his best to stay out of trouble). The Legos will long be put away and the swords and nerf guns will find their way to the attic. Where does a 6 year old boy fit into that family? Will my memories of Paul still be so vivid? Will Jack and Whit still see a toy or hear a song and be prompted to tell a funny story about Paul?
And what about this house?... this is where Paul lived his whole life. He died in our bedroom, for crying out loud. How do I sell this house to strangers who have no idea the things that have happened within these walls? Moving would mean leaving behind so many, many memories. And yet, do we stay here forever? Maybe. Maybe not.
And what about when I'm 60?...70?...80? They'll no longer be playing songs on the radio that remind me of Paul, Jeff Gordon won't be driving the 24 car, and no one will have heard of Zathura or Nacho Libre.
Life goes on. I hate that saying. I hate it with everything in me. I hate it because it means things will change. I hate it because it means leaving behind a precious 6 year old boy.
But mostly, I hate it because it's true.
It used to be in the left corner as you exited out of our Walmart... right beside the big crane game. I noticed the other day as I was leaving that it's gone.
I froze right there at the exit, shopping cart and all, and stared at that empty spot. How many times did Paul crawl up in that seat? I used to hate that thing because I knew it would take every negotiating skill I had to get past it without stopping. "Pleeeeeeeeze, Mommy," he would say, "Just one minute?" I almost always gave in (he was hard to resist), and the ritual would begin: first, he'd stick his hand in the coin dispenser to see if there were any abandoned quarters there. Then, he circle the entire machine, looking under it for any run-away coins that might have found a place to hide. Finally, he'd end up in the seat and watch the display. He never actually played the game, he just watched the "promo" part and pretended to drive.
It was one of those big arcade games, so I'm sure that moving it was no small task. I wonder if the people who hauled it off had any idea the memories they were taking with them...
As I crossed the Walmart parking lot, the reality hit me that in little ways and big ways, life is changing. And that makes me sad.
Right now, our family dynamic is pretty unchanged since Paul's death. There are still so many memories of him. But as little things change - like the Indy 500 Race Car game at Walmart - it seems that Paul gets farther and farther away. I have this fear that his memory is somehow slipping away. Irrational? Maybe. Maybe not.
Whit is now 6, and very soon, he's going to hit that milestone that I've been dreading since the day Paul died: on March 19, 2009, he'll be older than Paul.... older than his older brother.
Jack was a baby 10 years ago. At the time, it was the most unforgetable and amazing thing that had ever happened to me. Now, however, it's hard to remember him as a baby.
So... what happens to my memories of Paul 10 years from now? Jack will be 20 - probably a junior in college. Whit will be 16 (and, hopefully, doing his best to stay out of trouble). The Legos will long be put away and the swords and nerf guns will find their way to the attic. Where does a 6 year old boy fit into that family? Will my memories of Paul still be so vivid? Will Jack and Whit still see a toy or hear a song and be prompted to tell a funny story about Paul?
And what about this house?... this is where Paul lived his whole life. He died in our bedroom, for crying out loud. How do I sell this house to strangers who have no idea the things that have happened within these walls? Moving would mean leaving behind so many, many memories. And yet, do we stay here forever? Maybe. Maybe not.
And what about when I'm 60?...70?...80? They'll no longer be playing songs on the radio that remind me of Paul, Jeff Gordon won't be driving the 24 car, and no one will have heard of Zathura or Nacho Libre.
Life goes on. I hate that saying. I hate it with everything in me. I hate it because it means things will change. I hate it because it means leaving behind a precious 6 year old boy.
But mostly, I hate it because it's true.
September 10, 2008
Questions and Answers
Four score and twenty years ago in a galaxy far, far way, Whit did not talk. Then the Baylor Speech and Laguage therapists entered his life, and things are quite different currently. Today, he talks. And talks. And talks.
Currently, he's asking a lot of questions. Some of them are easy to answer: Can I have some more gum? Can I stay up later? Can I ride the dog like a horse? Others take a little more effort: Why do we have skin? How fast do clouds move? How far is space? Why are butterflies nice?
There was a time when he was working through questions about Paul: Why did Paul die? Why was Paul sick? Will I die if I get sick? Where is heaven? Where is God? There's nothing quite like a 5-year-old to force you to answer the really tough ones.
I think he's worked through all of that (or maybe he's just figured out that I don't know any more than he does) because he isn't asking those questions anymore. He still talks about Paul, but these days, it's not questions that he's asking, but memories that he's vocalizing.
His question-asking can be incessant at times and, I must admit, really tries my patience. I try hard not to let my frustration be heard in my voice, but I'm rarely successful. However, the other night, he asked a question that really got my attention. I was tucking him in bed, and he looked up at me and asked, "Mommy, why are we still alive?" I asked him to repeat the question, partly to make sure I heard him correctly, and partly to buy some time to think of my answer.
It took me a minute, but then I realized his angle. Whenever he would ask me why Paul died, I would tell him that the Lord was ready to have Paul with Him and to make Paul completely well by giving him a new body. I told him that God created Paul, loved him even more than we did, and had made a special place in heaven for him. Once he had grasped that concept, his next question was naturally, "Then why are we still here?"
And then I realized that I'm still stuck. Even though I'm giving my son all the answers, I'm still asking the same question: "Why did Paul die?" I haven't moved on to the next place yet: "Why am I still alive? What purpose does God have for me still here on earth?" What an extraordinary place of faith! To move past the "Why is Paul dead?" and to land on "Why am I NOT?"
I told Whit exactly what I believe: that he is still alive because God has a reason for him to be here... a purpose for him on this earth, and that God would not leave him here on earth, apart from Himself, for one minute longer than He absolutely has to.
I don't know if my answer helped Whit any, but his question did a lot for me. It's one I'm going to ask myself everyday until I have an answer.
Currently, he's asking a lot of questions. Some of them are easy to answer: Can I have some more gum? Can I stay up later? Can I ride the dog like a horse? Others take a little more effort: Why do we have skin? How fast do clouds move? How far is space? Why are butterflies nice?
There was a time when he was working through questions about Paul: Why did Paul die? Why was Paul sick? Will I die if I get sick? Where is heaven? Where is God? There's nothing quite like a 5-year-old to force you to answer the really tough ones.
I think he's worked through all of that (or maybe he's just figured out that I don't know any more than he does) because he isn't asking those questions anymore. He still talks about Paul, but these days, it's not questions that he's asking, but memories that he's vocalizing.
His question-asking can be incessant at times and, I must admit, really tries my patience. I try hard not to let my frustration be heard in my voice, but I'm rarely successful. However, the other night, he asked a question that really got my attention. I was tucking him in bed, and he looked up at me and asked, "Mommy, why are we still alive?" I asked him to repeat the question, partly to make sure I heard him correctly, and partly to buy some time to think of my answer.
It took me a minute, but then I realized his angle. Whenever he would ask me why Paul died, I would tell him that the Lord was ready to have Paul with Him and to make Paul completely well by giving him a new body. I told him that God created Paul, loved him even more than we did, and had made a special place in heaven for him. Once he had grasped that concept, his next question was naturally, "Then why are we still here?"
And then I realized that I'm still stuck. Even though I'm giving my son all the answers, I'm still asking the same question: "Why did Paul die?" I haven't moved on to the next place yet: "Why am I still alive? What purpose does God have for me still here on earth?" What an extraordinary place of faith! To move past the "Why is Paul dead?" and to land on "Why am I NOT?"
I told Whit exactly what I believe: that he is still alive because God has a reason for him to be here... a purpose for him on this earth, and that God would not leave him here on earth, apart from Himself, for one minute longer than He absolutely has to.
I don't know if my answer helped Whit any, but his question did a lot for me. It's one I'm going to ask myself everyday until I have an answer.
September 3, 2008
Quote of the Week
From Jack:
"I guess I'll have to fix my own breakfast. Mom's too busy playing Guitar Hero."
"I guess I'll have to fix my own breakfast. Mom's too busy playing Guitar Hero."
August 31, 2008
Blue Skies
I haven't always been weird. It's something that's happened to me in the past 10 years or so. Because I haven't always been weird, I have to remind myself that I am. Actually, I get reminders from other people's reaction to the things I think are great ideas and that other folks think are stupid.
Like jumping out of an airplane... something I've "always" wanted to do. Terrill's heard me say this many times, and so, for my 40th birthday, he planned a skydive trip for me. When he told me, I was THRILLED! When I called friends to tell them, they were horrified.
But we did it.... yesterday!! And let me tell you that it was every stitch as much fun as I thought it would be!! It was the most thrilling thing I've ever done. And Terrill did it with me. (Thanks, Honey!) He wasn't crazy about the idea, but he realized the importance of sharing this experience. I mean, how much fun is watching a really good movie alone and then having no one to discuss it with?
Terrill and I have talked about it a lot, but we haven't really found words that explain the experience. Thrilling, exciting and fun just don't seem to do it justice. There were a few things that I didn't expect - like when the airplane door opened. That was an incredible sight... as I sat perched on the edge of the airplane looking down. It's a long way down - especially when you know how you're getting to the ground! Another thing I didn't expect was the wind. I mean, I knew it'd be windy, but I just didn't realize the power of wind against the human body falling at 128 miles an hour. Yeah - that's some wind.
And here's the strangest thing that surprised me: I never really felt like I was falling - it was more like I was flying. Vertically. Down. Fast.
My only complaint was that it was just too short. From airplane to ground was probably only about a 3 or 4 minute trip. I jumped at 10,000 feet (about 2 miles) and did a 30-second free fall. After that, the parachute part was just a walk in the park!
So... Thank you, Terrill for a WONDERFUL birthday and thank you, Higgs and Grahams, for hanging out with us and being there for moral support (and camera crew and video crew and refreshment crew and babysitting crew)!
The sad part is that I think my birthday celebrations finally have to cease. I milked it for all I could with dinners out, girls' weekend, skydiving... Now I've got to think about how to clean the top of the living room fan blades and what to fix for dinner this week.
Blue Skies....
p.s. as a follow up to my previous post, i want to let you know that i finally figured how to pray... i simply asked the Lord to do for the mikulaks exactly what He did for us: surround them with incredible people who love and support them, lead their son away from them gently and tenderly, and remind them of His faithful promise to never leave them or forsake them.
Like jumping out of an airplane... something I've "always" wanted to do. Terrill's heard me say this many times, and so, for my 40th birthday, he planned a skydive trip for me. When he told me, I was THRILLED! When I called friends to tell them, they were horrified.
But we did it.... yesterday!! And let me tell you that it was every stitch as much fun as I thought it would be!! It was the most thrilling thing I've ever done. And Terrill did it with me. (Thanks, Honey!) He wasn't crazy about the idea, but he realized the importance of sharing this experience. I mean, how much fun is watching a really good movie alone and then having no one to discuss it with?
Terrill and I have talked about it a lot, but we haven't really found words that explain the experience. Thrilling, exciting and fun just don't seem to do it justice. There were a few things that I didn't expect - like when the airplane door opened. That was an incredible sight... as I sat perched on the edge of the airplane looking down. It's a long way down - especially when you know how you're getting to the ground! Another thing I didn't expect was the wind. I mean, I knew it'd be windy, but I just didn't realize the power of wind against the human body falling at 128 miles an hour. Yeah - that's some wind.
And here's the strangest thing that surprised me: I never really felt like I was falling - it was more like I was flying. Vertically. Down. Fast.
My only complaint was that it was just too short. From airplane to ground was probably only about a 3 or 4 minute trip. I jumped at 10,000 feet (about 2 miles) and did a 30-second free fall. After that, the parachute part was just a walk in the park!
So... Thank you, Terrill for a WONDERFUL birthday and thank you, Higgs and Grahams, for hanging out with us and being there for moral support (and camera crew and video crew and refreshment crew and babysitting crew)!
The sad part is that I think my birthday celebrations finally have to cease. I milked it for all I could with dinners out, girls' weekend, skydiving... Now I've got to think about how to clean the top of the living room fan blades and what to fix for dinner this week.
Blue Skies....
p.s. as a follow up to my previous post, i want to let you know that i finally figured how to pray... i simply asked the Lord to do for the mikulaks exactly what He did for us: surround them with incredible people who love and support them, lead their son away from them gently and tenderly, and remind them of His faithful promise to never leave them or forsake them.
August 29, 2008
Venting
Can I do a little venting here? If you want to hear something uplifting and encouraging, then stop reading right now. If you don't mind a little cussing and kicking of the dog, then please proceed.
I keep up with some Neuroblastoma kids. There are some spans of time when I check on them daily and other times when I go for a few weeks without checking in. Sometimes it's just hard... on several levels. If they are relapsed or refractory kids, then I know what lies ahead, and it's sometimes difficult to walk with them and hope with them when I actually have no hope for them. And then, it's also difficult to read about their lives... their family vacations that they squeeze in between hospital and clinic visits, their elation or disappointment that is governed by test results, the amazing ways they are being loved on and carried by their community of support... all so reminiscent of our lives when Paul was alive. I am happy for them... and jealous, too. Thrilled that they are still enjoying their child, and mad as hell that I am not.
I have been checking the website of Max Mikulak as regularly as I can lately. Max is dying. And he's in pain. A lot of pain. I was reading his website tonight and crying. I wanted to pray for his parents, but I couldn't think of what to say to God. So, instead I just yelled at Him... because what the hell does it matter what I say anyway? He knows what they need - they need the pain to end - they need their son to be healed - and yet that's not happening. My prayer's not going to change that. I couldn't pray for peace for them because I know that's ridiculous right now. Their son is IN PAIN. There's no peace there. So, the only other thing I could think to pray for was for Max to die sooner rather than later. That's it. That's all I could pray for? That SUCKS and it made me pissed off at God.... Mad because I know the heartache his parents are experiencing now, and I know the heartache they'll be experiencing a year from now when - as crappy as things are right now - they'll be wishing for these days back.... longing for those brief moments of joy with their son.
So there you have it. Midnight ravings from a mad mom. In the past, many people have left comments on this blog saying, "Thank you for being so honest" so here's a great big dose of honesty from me. If you like it, great. If you don't, fine with me. It still won't change reality.
It's late. I gotta go to bed.
I keep up with some Neuroblastoma kids. There are some spans of time when I check on them daily and other times when I go for a few weeks without checking in. Sometimes it's just hard... on several levels. If they are relapsed or refractory kids, then I know what lies ahead, and it's sometimes difficult to walk with them and hope with them when I actually have no hope for them. And then, it's also difficult to read about their lives... their family vacations that they squeeze in between hospital and clinic visits, their elation or disappointment that is governed by test results, the amazing ways they are being loved on and carried by their community of support... all so reminiscent of our lives when Paul was alive. I am happy for them... and jealous, too. Thrilled that they are still enjoying their child, and mad as hell that I am not.
I have been checking the website of Max Mikulak as regularly as I can lately. Max is dying. And he's in pain. A lot of pain. I was reading his website tonight and crying. I wanted to pray for his parents, but I couldn't think of what to say to God. So, instead I just yelled at Him... because what the hell does it matter what I say anyway? He knows what they need - they need the pain to end - they need their son to be healed - and yet that's not happening. My prayer's not going to change that. I couldn't pray for peace for them because I know that's ridiculous right now. Their son is IN PAIN. There's no peace there. So, the only other thing I could think to pray for was for Max to die sooner rather than later. That's it. That's all I could pray for? That SUCKS and it made me pissed off at God.... Mad because I know the heartache his parents are experiencing now, and I know the heartache they'll be experiencing a year from now when - as crappy as things are right now - they'll be wishing for these days back.... longing for those brief moments of joy with their son.
So there you have it. Midnight ravings from a mad mom. In the past, many people have left comments on this blog saying, "Thank you for being so honest" so here's a great big dose of honesty from me. If you like it, great. If you don't, fine with me. It still won't change reality.
It's late. I gotta go to bed.
August 28, 2008
A Fact of Life
It happens everytime. It's an undeniable fact of life. There aren't too many sure things in this world, but this is one of them: the first day of kindergarten causes tears. Now, to the less experienced person, it would be logical to assume that it's the kids doing the crying (or perhaps, even the teachers), but the strange and surprising truth is that it's the MOMS.
Tuesday of this week was my third and final first day of kindergarten. It was met with the usual first-day excitement: everyone in the house is up early, breakfast is substantial, clothes are carefully laid out from the night before, and everyone seems to be watching the clock in anticipation. (Now if your home is like mine, then you already know that next week will be a sharp contrast: I'll have to roll the kids out of bed, throw a pop-tart at them, dig through the dirty clothes to find a "cleanish" pair of socks, and we'll all be watching the clock in desperation!)
The first day of kindergarten is definitely special. It is a once-in-a-lifetime milestone that must be captured on film in some capacity. It is the beginning of growing up for our children and letting go for us moms. I read somewhere that some women don't do it at all, and few women do it well, but that letting go of our children is the most delicate and important thing we can do. I can say that it's completely unnatural, it tears open a mom's heart, and it requires more discipline and self-control than I will ever have without the intervention of the Holy Spirit.
But Whit did fine. He strolled right into the classroom, found his seat, and began cutting and glueing like a pro. As I squatted down next to him to tell him what a big boy he was, I realized he wasn't listening, and I was just an intrusion now. It was time to go.
As I left the school, I was crying for many reasons: sadness that my "baby" was no longer a baby, gratefulness that I knew I was leaving him with a godly woman and teacher who is truly called to this agegroup, and fear of what awaits him that I can no longer protect him from.
I was crying because Whit was growing up. And I was also crying for Paul... who won't.
Tuesday of this week was my third and final first day of kindergarten. It was met with the usual first-day excitement: everyone in the house is up early, breakfast is substantial, clothes are carefully laid out from the night before, and everyone seems to be watching the clock in anticipation. (Now if your home is like mine, then you already know that next week will be a sharp contrast: I'll have to roll the kids out of bed, throw a pop-tart at them, dig through the dirty clothes to find a "cleanish" pair of socks, and we'll all be watching the clock in desperation!)
The first day of kindergarten is definitely special. It is a once-in-a-lifetime milestone that must be captured on film in some capacity. It is the beginning of growing up for our children and letting go for us moms. I read somewhere that some women don't do it at all, and few women do it well, but that letting go of our children is the most delicate and important thing we can do. I can say that it's completely unnatural, it tears open a mom's heart, and it requires more discipline and self-control than I will ever have without the intervention of the Holy Spirit.
But Whit did fine. He strolled right into the classroom, found his seat, and began cutting and glueing like a pro. As I squatted down next to him to tell him what a big boy he was, I realized he wasn't listening, and I was just an intrusion now. It was time to go.
As I left the school, I was crying for many reasons: sadness that my "baby" was no longer a baby, gratefulness that I knew I was leaving him with a godly woman and teacher who is truly called to this agegroup, and fear of what awaits him that I can no longer protect him from.
I was crying because Whit was growing up. And I was also crying for Paul... who won't.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)