The child who benefits from the van came yesterday to pick it up.
He's the same age you were when we got it. We'd gotten to the point where it was so hard to go out with you that we would actually have the dicussion about how important it was to go someplace as a family. And your van gave you (and us) the freedom to take you places. You would get giddy as I loaded you. One of the ways I knew you were struggling, declining, was that the last two years, you would sometimes fall asleep while I drove. Before you started neurostorming, you never slept in the car, regardless of how tired
you were.
I'm so glad he can use it, the freedom he will now enjoy. The smile on his face was one I knew well. He was so excited! It looked so much like yours that it both brought joy and broke my heart at the same time.
And then last night we went to "The Lamb of God", an amazing way to focus on the Savior. Touching, heartbreaking, and cathartic in so many ways. I am so grateful for His sacrifice, for the knowledge that I will see you again. It's hard, so hard, but there are others who have survived even worse.
I took flowers over to your grave this morning, and it occured to me in looking at all the stones (and many are of children) that every single one is loved by someone, probably several someones, who have survived their loss.
Vicarious resiliancy. I gather strength. I move forward.
And yet, well, I don't know...
Your "things" are gone, at least the big ones. The closet upstairs is full of your blankets, clothes, stuffed animals and several other items. I haven't touched your go bag or your clipboard yet. I'm not ready, and that's okay.
But while those are put away, and your big equipment is gone, your spirit lingers. It underlies pretty much everything. Where the hiss of the concentrator, the whoosh of the ventilator, and the beep of your pulse/ox used to sound, your room is now quiet. The candles turn on in the curio cabinet each night and your blanket is draped over the double rocker Grampa made for you. It's peaceful in there, neat, uncluttered.
I miss the way it was, but at the same time, the way it is now I can feel you but I don't see you still lying in your bed like I did when I'd look in there while your bed was still there. (Does that make sense?) I still feel your love and the lessons I learned from you, but it's not (quite always) the same soul crushing ache as before. It's healing, comforting, accepting (at least at the moment).
I miss you so much. As I held your nephew Barrett tonight I asked him if he knew you, if he remembered you, if you played together. I hope you had fun together. I hope you and he and Jonny and Avanlee's little one all spent time together. It hurts that you won't know them here. Do you remember when Linnaea was born and you told everyone at school about her?
Tonight we had everyone but Joseph and Sarah, and you, here for dinner to celebrate David's and Jonny's birthdays. It was loud, chaotic, and wonderful. Linnaea and Elend play with your toys, including the ones you were too weak to really use. It feeds my soul to see them loved.
Somehow, life goes on. Still doesn't quite make sense that it does, but I guess that's okay. The point is, you were here, you lived, we have been so blessed. Thank you for coming to our home, to our family.
I love you.
Another beautiful post Rebekah.
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