Heartstrings

Dear Aaron,

There's a book I often read with kids called "The Invisible String." I've now read it enough that it doesn't (usually) choke me up, but I had to prepare myself initially. 

Jeremy and Liza are trying to figure out how far the invisible string reaches. It goes from school to home, between best friends, all the way to the jungle, France, even outer space, and then... 

Then Jeremy quietly asked, "Can my String reach all the way to Uncle Brian in Heaven?" 

"Yes . . . . Even there."  

Even there, all the way to you in Heaven.

I know my string reaches there because it hurts when it gets tugged. 

Last night I looked at the night sky, the full moon sailing among very light, whispy clouds, bright enough that it could be seen, but overcast enough that I saw no stars. And I wondered...

Do you see it, too? 

I felt the tug of another heartstring yesterday when I got the mail. Inside I found a package from a dear friend I've never actually met in person. From the other side of the world, she thought of me. The two gifts she sent were what my aching heart needed: an acknowledgement that I will always talk to you and miss you, but I know you are at peace; and a reminder that strength comes through battle. She fights her own battles and knows just how debilitating loss can be. 

Your smiling face greeted me today. I have no idea why I posted this one a year ago. I mean, it was taken in July at Joseph and Sarah's wedding, and you were in the hospital in pretty rough shape. In the PICU, having survived hemorrhaging from your lungs and working through newly discovered pockets of infection on your spleen. We were working towards home, having been there for a month, but still not quite ready. But somehow, I put this picture up, and today it brought a smile to my heart, along with tears to my eyes. 

Forty-seven weeks, 47 and so many, many more to go. 

I'm trying to get ready for Christmas. I hope to put up outside lights tomorrow, and maybe the inside decorations next week. I'm ordering presents and making plans. And I wonder if part of me is also just trying to stay busy to avoid the hollow ache of you not being here. It still sometimes seems surreal. I watch the 19 second video I made a couple weeks ago about your room transformation . . . Or I squint in there, hoping to see your shadow, your ghost. But you're not here. 

Does my string pull so hard because you're tugging on it?

Do you miss me as much as I miss you? 

Do you watch over us?

I pray that you do.

I miss you.

I love you.

Love,
Mama

“People who love each other are always connected by a very special String, made of love. Even though you can't see it with your eyes, you can feel it deep in your heart, and know that you are always connected to the ones you love.”

- Patrice Karst