Friday, September 28, 2018

Things to understand about grief...the 11th year chronicle

  I haven't written about grief in a long time or anything else for that matter, but grief has been on my mind a lot lately. I miss Knox; he'd be turning 13 this year and we'd again have 4 teenagers. Janey talks of him often these days. One of the kids has had a crisis of faith over the losses of their life which is understandable as it is no small thing. One is always convinced they could have a horrible illness and we don't know. A friend once told me that as the kids pass through the stages of development, they'd deal with grief all over again. They were right and when the kids  deal with it,  Jon and I deal with it as well.
  Here is the thing to understand about grief. It isn't singular. It isn't a single feeling at a single moment about a single event. It encompasses much more than "so and so died." Death is inevitable and we know this as we are all on the road to death ourselves. Here is the thing though...Death isn't how it should be. If things were right and we lived in Eden, there'd be no death. It should come with a sorrow that comes with things that aren't as they should be.  This is why it isn't singular. This is why we don't just way, "Yeah! Knox is in heaven! Praise be to God!" And then live happily every after. While heaven is certainly worth rejoicing, the way he got there wasn't how it should be and it leaves a aftermath not unlike aftershocks or even a tsunami after an earthquake. It isn't one single devastation.
    Here is what is ...that shouldn't be. Siblings grow up one short. Mom and Dad raise one less. There is always that feeling of one not here. The wondering, the curiosity, what would the dynamic be like. One less sibling to annoy. One less sibling to love. One less to play the game, to ride in the car, to sit around the table, to tuck into bed at night. One less groomsman in a sister's wedding. One less attending graduation. One less blowing out birthday candles, year after year. It isn't singular.
    I some times joke, though it certainly isn't funny, that grief is the gift that keeps on giving. Janey may never figure out how her brother drowned in a bathtub. She may never quit wondering how I didn't stop him or telling me we should have gated the stairs. Creed and she won't take a bath or a shower without a parent or sibling in the next room. They never get to feel like a part of the family that knew him, loved him, physically touched him.
    Jack was young. Don't underestimate the young. He was so angry for so so many years. We didn't just grieve the loss of Knox. We grieved the loss of joy for our son. There were many times we felt like we were going to lose two sons; one to death and one to anger. Every day, the possibility of thinking...He should be here. I should be towering(maybe) over two brothers and not one. Missing out on a soccer partner, a mowing partner, a fortnite partner.
   The Older girls from Emma to Anne Michal dealing with things like being afraid they'd die in their sleep. I think they all went through periods were they were terrified they'd quit breathing.  Elizabeth answered Knox's every beck and call, whether he actually made them or not. She always thought he needed her and wanted to always be with him. Then one day that gets stripped away. A month later she turns 8 without him by her side, her sidekick, her buddy. Emma had just gotten to that big sister stage of him sitting on her lap and I remember how proud she was when he'd want to be with her, but being so young at not yet 5 to have a storehouse of memories.  Anne Michal, the oldest of a clan, a ridiculously proud oldest sister of many. She took it seriously. You know what happens when you are the oldest, responsible, born old and wise and a younger sibling dies. You blame yourself and you get a heavy dose of guilt to carry around. Being told there was nothing you can do, doesn't really do much for that as it is inside. It too is not a singular moment. It isn't a flash of guilt any more than sorrow is a flash. we even need to talk about those?
    None of these things are how it should have been. The living out of our lives will never seem as it should have been. Does that seem dramatic? Maybe, but it is true. It doesn't mean we are constantly in depression or can't see the goodness of God or find joy in life.  It does mean that we are sometimes sad, struggle with unbelief, or confused at the works of God and His manner of doing things. It means there is always going to be one less person....until it is two less people. It means we are always going to grieve for what should have been. We do not need to hear, "Rejoice for he is in heaven."  We need to hear, "This is a hard pilgrimage for you. Let me travel with you for a bit and keep you company. Heaven is ahead."  We need people to let us lament for lament turns to rejoicing, but we need to get there ourselves even if we have to repeat the journey several times over.
    Lastly, there is an unknown to grief. That seems odd even for me to say for it has been a companion of mine for over 10 years now. Just as I think I have the hang of it and I know how it affects things, it changes course and brings something new. Who knows what the path of grief brings just around that corner up ahead....but beyond that heaven.

Wednesday, June 7, 2017

10 Years: A Narrative Poem

   One of my intentions for the 10th anniversary of Knox's death and accident was to write down what happened. I had never done that as it always seemed so daunting, but there is something to naming things and farther than naming them, telling the story. I don't have a strong explanation for it though I am sure there has been study on "story telling" but it is powerful and I'd imagine the story would vary the way in which it is powerful.  Telling the story can diffuse the power it has over you, offer comfort to other people, give people the chance to relate and empathize and perhaps feel less alone, to reduce speculation, etc.
   I tried writing it out several times. It just didn't work. I'd start writing and then think that needs explaining, and then that needs explaining , and then that. Choosing what to include and what not to include and just never feeling like it was complete or alive. Stories should feel alive and more than just some words on a page.
   One night last week, I was laying in bed with Janey while she went to sleep and it just started coming out in this form and I turned to the notes on my phone and typed it out. When it was done, it felt done and complete.  I am not a poet by any means and hesitate to even call it a poem(poim!), but I don't know what else it would be!

  Matthew Knox Anderson

Blue-eyed Knoxie standing by my side,
Giving my leg a tug begging for a bite.
Those blue eyes pleading; I can't say no,
A piece of pepperoni from my hand to his.

My attention returns to making pizza;
His attention gets drawn elsewhere.
I finish the pizza and in the oven it goes,
Where is Knox I ask; check outside.

There is water on the floor; why is that?
The sound of water running is heard;
It seems to come from above my head.
Oh- my toilet must be running again.

I head down the hall for the stairs.
I gasp! Running water is heard again,
Not a toilet running; way too loud!
Up the stairs I race knowing what I'll find.

Speeding up I round the corner,
Water gushing from the faucet; so loud!
His body face down; bobbing up and down,
A scream echoes through the house.

Frantically I scoop him from that tub;
The scream tapers to a whisper.
He is pale, cold, lifeless--
Desperate, I put my mouth to his.

My eyes meet my friends'; begging 
Please help me! what do I do?
One takes him from me; working 
One calls 911, "there is an emergency."

Kids starting coming up the stairs.
Please don't come closer; don't look!
Back outside they go; scared, confused--
CPR continues. He vomits; breathe Knox! 

My daughter phones her grandma
"Knox, I think he's dead."
I scream, I cry, I beg, I plead,
"Lord please, no, do not take him!"

Still no breath. CPR continues.
Where is the ambulance?
St. Joes is only two blocks away;
Up and down the stairs waiting--

I run out to meet them;
Standing on the lawn pleading still.
Feeling naked and exposed; helpless--
God, feels close and reassurin.

Next thing I know, I'm in the ambulance.
Up front with the driver; tears streaming,
Neighbors watching from their lawns.
Bitterly I cry - "Where are your kids?"

At the ER, Knox behind closed doors,
"Is their anyone we can call?" asks the nurse.
"Yes, please call my mom and my sister;
Call all my friends; ask them to pray."

Head on the counter, I sob and pray
I look up to see Jon come in 
His face one big question 
What has happened? Confusion.

How could we let this happen?
We love our children dearly;
We watch them and care for them.
We knew that drain didn't work well.

How could we not see? How?
This is all my fault. All my worry,
All my anxiousness in recent past,
All my need to hear .It was in vain.

They have him breathing they say.
But don't have hope. He won't make it.
I beg them- "Be merciful to him!
Please don't let him suffer."

We are led into the room.
This doesn't look my Knox.
I am so sorry. So very sorry.
He is only breathing by machine.

Friends come and peer in the window,
Beckoned in, they offer comfort.
This isn't your fault. I am so sorry.
You didn't know. I didn't know. 

He needs different equipment 
And needs to me moved; storms all around.
Helicopters can't fly; ambulance not right,
We wait and wait some more; hours pass.

Finally, an ambulance from Temple arrives.
They load him up; we are to follow.
Wrench in plans; CPS shows up,
"Ma'am! Ma'am! We must talk to you!"

I can't. My son. I must go with him. 
He cannot die without me there 
"Ma'am, you don't understand 
An accident happened in your home!"

I understand. An accident; a tragedy.
I don't need this explained to me.
I have to talk to your children;
I have to make sure they are safe.

It is midnight. They are asleep; safe.
A friend steps in, "Sir, they are asleep
Safe at my house. There is no need
Tomorrow; tomorrow is soon enough"

The tears which haven't stopped 
Continue the downward streams.
My son is going die and it is my fault.
They are going to take my other children, too.

How did we get here? Please help.
To Temple we race. I remember rain.
The backseat. Eyes closed; eyes staring.
Prayers, prayers pleading-- but knowing. 

We arrive to more CPS. I am so sorry.
"Ma'am I have no choice; I am sorry."
Can you please tell me what happened?
I relate what happens. I am so sorry.

He's in a room.  Tubes, wires, beeps.
Can you please tell us what happened? 
I relate what happens. I am so sorry. 
You need to understand his situation.

He isn't going to make it. 
If he does he won't be your Knox.
A vegetable if he makes it.
Lord be merciful to him, please. 

A drowning is a head injury;
The brain swells; there is damage.
Water needs to get out of his lungs,
This is part of the respirator's job 

So we wait for swelling to go down,
For water to leave the lungs.
People visit; take care of us,
They pray and hope; frightened 

Doctors and nurses come and go.
Can you please tell us what happened?
I relate what happened. I am so sorry. 
They pray for him; love him.

My parents come. Their faces pained.
I should have watched him bette.r
I apologize and feel ashamed!
No. No. We are so sorry. We love him. 

My kids at home with friends and family,
Questioned by CPS. Uncertain. Scared.
Where is our brother; will he return?
We should have watched out for him.

Church members praying together,
Disbelief that this could happen!
What can we do to help? 
Prayers all  around the world 

For the little boy in the big bed 
Or on the chair held by his mother.
His body so heavy and hard to hold,
A metaphor for the situation 

My friend rushes to the hospital,
Driving across states to be there.
By my side while I am by his side,
To weep, to question, to pray.

There is nothing anyone can do.
Beg for mercy-- however that can come,
Plead for peace and cry for comfort.
Sit with us; be with us; hope with us.

EEGs. Nothing. Nothing is there.
Confirmation of expectations.
Hard to hear, but already known.
But we wait some more; just in case.

Nurses care for him tenderly,
Speak to us with compassion.
Share their lives; are vulnerable,
Makes me feel safer; not so alone.

Sponge baths given tenderly,
Johnson's baby lotion rubbed in.
Much love in each and every touch,
So little time left; much to treasure.

We rock in the chair; head under my chin,
Or sleep in the bed curled up with him,
Stroking his soft blonde hair over and over.
Always a Joy, Never a burden.

Thank you Lord for this sweet boy,
The precious gift we didn't ask for.
But how we needed him; thankful!
He is loved so dearly by so many.

His siblings come to see him.
They climb in bed with him,
Hug him and love on him.
How do we tell them? It is not fair.

Have siblings ever loved each other
As well as these five have?
How will they say good-bye?
Their lives forever changed. It is not fair.

One final EEG. Still no signs of life.
Brain dead; a harsh reality. 
One final day; so little time.
On last tender bath, savoring each touch. 

Monday, April 23, 2007. 
The longest day I have ever known. 
Family all say goodbye. Head home.
Just Jon and I left-- to let him go.

7:00 P.M. It is time. No more tubes and wires. 
I hold him in my lap. We rock.
I stroke his soft blonde hair over and over.
Always a joy. Never a burden. 

I get so tired. I can hold him no more.
This makes me mad; I weep.
The nurse takes him; I climbed into bed.
She nestles him in my arms.

I drink him in. The smell, the feeling.
He is gasping for breath. Simply agony.
I stroke his soft blonde hair over and over. 
Always a joy. Never a burden. 

His breathing gets more labored.
He gets a shot for comfort.
His heart rate drops. Slower and slower.
His breath gets shorter. He is gone.

Three hours to die. It seems unfair;
I could have stroke his hair forever.
Always a joy, never a burden,
The precious gift; just what we needed.

We didn't linger; he was not there,
The body a mere shell; not a home.
Onward and upward heaven-bound,
Safe in the arms of Jesus now.

Barely able to walk, we left his room 
Into the waiting room full of elders.
Eye contact with a friend; horror there,
Like a mirror showing my distress.

So tired, spent. Held upright by others,
To the car, to the highway, to home.
Into the house, I am not ready.
I collapse in the couch near the door. 

Morning comes. Can this house be home?
Four kids now and empty as though none.
Signs of him everywhere; pacis... toys--
But no him. No him. Cannot be home.

Still God is good. We know He is.
We must believe it; proclaim it. 
Cling to it; know it, please God show us!
Always a joy; never a burden. Not now.

Go through the motions; hard things.
Caskets and cemetery plots; Babyland
All must be fair in babyland they say.
That's okay. This is not his home.

We worshiped; we wept. We sang.
We proclaimed God's goodness.
We put him in the ground. So cold.
We said our final goodbyes.

How do you do life when life departs?
I haven't the answer. God is good.
He gives grace and comfort;
He has patience and kindness.

Breathe in and breathe out.
The sun rises and the sun sets.
Time continues. You can't hold it back.
Life is still meant to be lived.

The phone rings. I hesitate. 
It is the police. I inhale.
Investigation over. Case closed. 
Ma'am, we want you to know,

We never thought anything but accident;
A tragic accident. We are so sorry.
I exhale. I sit. I weep. So sad.
Always a joy. Never a burden.

Sunday, January 22, 2017

When All Feels Lost -- the joy in a sad story

  * are raw and real if you don't want to read

    Something in this morning's sermon sparked this thought process. I listened to the sermon 3 times and couldn't find it so I can't really explain that other than it had to be in the part about the hard times often being good...along the lines of what Paul David Tripp calls Uncomfortable Grace. What I thought I heard was the idea of being completely exposed before God which sent my mind to the night of Knox's accident.
   I have never spoken of this publicly and I might change my mind later and delete; it is always hard to decide what to share and what not to share. The judgement house of people's minds is not a safe place and thus I tread carefully. The night Knox  died I was a bit hysterical, and in particular, the moments between when I found him and a later point of time, I felt completely exposed, naked so to speak in front of God and everyone else, but particularly God. Being exposed that way in front of God felt safe, and in front of everyone else it felt like"just punishment" and a unique kind of experience where something intensely private is known about you, but it is out of your control...a defeated feeling.
   I really only want to talk about the spiritual moments though. I walked down my stairs to the living room because my friend was doing CPR and my crying and vocal prayers were scaring her daughter and I wanted her to be able to concentrate. As I prayed out loud, in that moment, I knew that I had nothing but God. His presence was intensely real and I knew that He was with me while I begged and pleaded for Knox's life. That memory and the intensity of His presence along with His reassurance that regardless of what happened I would not  be abandoned and our family would come out the other side with some semblance of okayness is one of the things that helped me retain my faith through our ordeal.
   I felt so naked and exposed. I think being completely helpless makes one feel that way. But, I also felt very known. Though I begged and pleaded, I didn't need to; my heart was known. Though I felt His presence and reassurance, it was very uncomfortable. The word uncomfortable doesn't even begin to adequately express it. I didn't know for sure how it was going to pan out though I felt like He was saying "He isn't going to make it (which wasn't hard to imagine as the doctors pretty much gave us no hope), but this is passing through my hand, this is no surprise to me, and there will be much pain in the future but I am here." The pain, the horror, the intense sadness I can't begin to define was immeasurable, but so was God's presence. I am never going to be at a place where I am glad it happened(the idea seems absurd to me), but I am every grateful for the presence of God and the work He did in our family at the time. That feeling of closeness is hard to hold onto as time passes, not with the same intensity. I guess like in most situations, we  want the best of both worlds, right?
   Many people sent us prayers and scriptures while Knox was in the hospital and I have those saved; they all meant a great deal to us.  A lot of people sent the verse, Isaiah 43:2  "When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee." I remember a friend telling me that she felt like God had given her that verse and it meant He would live and would be okay. Every time I read that verse what I read was "Knox was not and is not alone" (which did mean he was okay). One of the worst parts about having a child die in an accident is feeling like you should have prevented it. You should have known. You should have been there 1 min earlier. Then as a mom, you cry and scream in your soul that when he needed you most, you were not there. You think how scared they must have been and how they must have wanted you, but you weren't there. Those thoughts were eating me alive. When Knox passed through those waters, God was with him. When he passed through the fire, God was with him. From the time he was first formed in my womb, God knew his inner most being and could know him, and love him, and care for him so much better than I. I can't express the relief when my thinking could shift out of the despair of not being his comfort to gratefulness for God's care.
   Maybe to a non-believer this all seems crazy; I imagine it would. There have been times it has rocked my faith to the core. Those times when the "remembering" hits and I think, "Did this really happen?" and I have to question, and rightly so, why God allowed it. The almighty God who can do all things could have saved him. He could have diverted his attention so he didn't go upstairs, he could have prompted me to go ahead and put him in his highchair for supper, he could have had him rescued, but that isn't what happened. That isn't all of the story though because part of the "remembering" is also remembering the intensity of His presence, His assurance of "the working for good" even if that good isn't something we can see before heaven, the community of both believers and non-believers who reached out to us and walked this road with us and continue to do so.
  Honestly, I hope I never have another experience where I feel so exposed again. I know, however, that if I do I won't be alone no matter how lonely it feels,and will continue to tell myself, "Whate'er My God Ordains is Right."

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Character "stuffs"

    Sometimes people have trivial dislikes and pet peeves. By sometimes people, I mean me. One of mine is clothing and shoes with characters on them. I have some weird hierarchy of dislike and peevishness in my mind. Disney princesses and children's cartoon characters are the worst. Disney characters like Mickey and Minnie and gang  are okay unless Minnie is being all sultry (what in the world is that all about????) Superheroes are best if I like the colors and designs(not that far off from picking sports teams based on color and design of uniform).
  I used have a hard fast rule of no character anything.  No clothes, no shoes, no backpacks. The only exception was unders and jammas. I still really don't care for them; I find most of them tacky, but something made me lighten up and relax over something so silly. A little boy named Knox had a certain fascination with the movie "Cars."

   In the "Cars" watching zone. Totally checked out on life and I am sure drooling as a bonus. 

   After he was gone, I'd see all sorts of Cars stuff, and I'd think about how much he'd love it and wish I could get it for him. As a result, I let it go (no pun intended and I still have not indulged JK in a princess shirt but it may never know).  Yesterday, we were scouring the town for a size 13 pair of cleats for Creed for soccer and finally found one loan pair at Payless Shoes. They were having a b1g1 half off sale and lo and behold they also had these and I actually kind of think they are cook. Shhhhhhhh......

And I just had to get memory of a little boy mesmerized by Cars that would probably now be infatuated with super heroes.

 Elizabeth picked out his outfit; superhero shirt and superhero shoes.  I apologize for all those whose pet peeve of mixing universes has now just been activated.

 The smile on his face says it all. :-)

Monday, September 22, 2014

Some Sunday Thoughts

  During communion today, Jon was talking about how important the Sabbath is as a rest from our weekly struggles and what a provision it is to be able to take a step back from our struggles to come together in worship and communion.(this is very paraphrased I am sure) I was thinking how grateful I was for a church where our whole family can partake in this sabbath rest together. I love having my family in the pew beside me, and I have often marveled at how being in church seems like such a rest. Yes, there have been lot of times of wrestling babies and toddlers, and there are still some rough weeks of parenting in the pew. That may not seem restful and sometimes I'd be the first to agree it wasn't a restful service for me in particular and whatever child is disrupting the rest, but overall there is a tone of rest in our pew. There are no distractions; nothing competing for attention. The kids "usually" seems extra loving. There is a sense of peace and relaxation as we come to worship. I love that.
    It hit me as I was thinking about his words and savoring my own thoughts of being with my family and partaking of worship and sabbath rest together how much we need to do this together. After all, if this is a rest from the struggle of the week, we most certainly struggle together all week. One of the upsides or downsides, depending on how you look at it, of homeschooling is that we are together a lot...a whole almost all day everyday. We get each other at our best and our worst. We get each other when we seem to misspell every other word, when we can't find our workbook, when we can't figure out why in the world the letter "x" is a star player in math, when we really just want to read a library book instead of the current history book, when people are being too noisy, when toys are all over the floor, when Mr. Nobody is the most popular offender of all things. You get the picture. ;-) Sure it isn't all a struggle but there is plenty there and we are all in it together. It truly is one of the best and worst things of homeschooling.
  Worship together as a part of our sabbath rest is just what we need.  We struggle together and we rest together. A truly glorious thing.

** I hate writing anything related to homeschoolers as there is always a fear too much will be read into it. I can only speak from my on personal circumstances. I can't imagine the weekly struggles of dropping off and picking up(right in the middle of nap time!!!!!!), making lunches, cleaning lunch boxes, dealing with homework when everyone is tired after a long day,  and have mercy looking for shoes and socks at 7am! Non-homeschoolers, please enjoy and cherish your much needed sabbath rest with your family!

Friday, April 18, 2014

Some Spring Photos

Elizabeth took the following pictures at the Antique Rose Emporium. Emma took the ones of Elizabeth.
 Demonstration of pecking order.
 Love his freckles.

 Just a swangin'!

 I'd love to live on a house on a hill. Can you imagine their view of fields of wildflowers?

 Working on his kite.

 Two of my lovely girls.

 They love this swing!

 And the last two are from this year's annual poppy photo shoot. They might be my favorite flowers.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Cuteness Only Gets You So Far

  I have a good friend that over the years has always told me that my kids are cute; my response has almost always been,"Cuteness will only get you so far!" Especially, when they were being cute, but it wasn't necessarily a good thing!!!  I titled this post this way because I am getting ready to tell you how cute Knox was and at least at first it might sound a tad shallow.
   I think most people think their kids are the cutest so I guess I am not really claiming anything much differently, but Knox was captivating. I am not sure exactly what it was. He probably looked  like a pretty ordinary kid but there was something about him that turned heads wherever we went. If he wasn't in my arms, or holding my hand, he was often right ahead of me. He'd walk that way or run if he was allowed just a little ahead and then turn and flash a grin at me while checking to see if I was still right there. Where the girls practiced softball, there was a drive through the park where there wasn't really a road but the coaches would drive their cars with the equipment to the field. He loved to run down that road, stop and look back to see if I was coming, and then break into giggles when I came running after him.
   Maybe it was his clear blue eyes coupled with his shock of blonde hair that had never been cut that made him especially cute. When it was humid outside, his hair would curl just around the edges. He didn't say much in words; I don't really remember any more just what words he did say though I am sure he said some. I know he hadn't said "I love you" yet but his hugs and kisses said it for him. I remember Anne Michal saying after he died that she missed his hugs because they were the best hugs ever and if you were ever feeling sad, he always made you feel better.
   He was always a bright spot, always a joy. It wasn't just Anne Michal that felt that way. He had a way of parting all dark clouds and the sunshine come flooding in. It isn't exaggeration to say that at least once almost every day and probably more many days, I  thanked God for giving him to us. I remember a friend once telling me after one of her sons were born that they had to adapt to him being a part of their family; he still felt like a newcomer. Knox seemed as though he had always been. He fit in seamlessly and was adored by everyone. He fit...just right.
    It wasn't necessarily easy the day in and day out life with 5 kids, the last 3 three and under. It was hectic, and busy teaching the oldest 2 school(and starting with Emma) and getting them to their few activities with the little people in tow.  There were always naps and baths and meals. The house was a wreck and cheerios were always on the floor. (For some reason, all the kids all the way down to Jack, loved to feed him cheerios and they'd pour enough on his high chair for an army) I'd be lying if I didn't say that some days it got to me. Truthfully, though, most days it didn't matter.  A glimpse of the group of them playing together and loving on each other made it all dull background noise.
    Someone made a comment to Jon not long ago that they didn't get it at first(but understand better now). They didn't get how we couldn't get past it. And I didn't "get" the comment. I asked what he meant. I thought we had done pretty well. We continued to function day in and day out. I didn't have PTSD; hadn't been committed to a mental institute(I am being serious for the most part!). We hadn't lost our faith and could proclaim the goodness of God. Perhaps though I understand what he meant;  I remember being in the hospital with him when we realized that we were headed to taking him off life-support and giving myself a pep-talk like I often did when I had to do something I didn't want to do. I told myself, "You can do this. You can live without him. You didn't use to have him. You have lived without him before, and you can do it again." I was giving myself a peptalk because I knew it was going to be hard and was trying to convince myself it was doable.
    However, I had no idea how hard it was going to be. I had no idea how hard it was going to be to go back home, let alone live there. To walk in and see all his things; it was like constantly having the wind knocked out of me. You can't just get used to have an integral part of your life, a dear love, a joy, and even a work suddenly disappear. It would be like saying you could suddenly lose an arm and just bounce right back. The ache, the loneliness while still surrounded by people, the silence even amidst the noisy voices of children was all pretty maddening.
   Now, most of those things have faded to the background. It has been 7 years. He'd be 8 1/2 on the 27th and we'd be making half birthday cupcakes, a traditional that left us with him. The pain is more in the not knowing than what was though sometimes my arms still ache even though I know he'd be too big to tote around! I can even still feel him in my arms and smell his slobbery, little boy self. I watch Jack and Creed with the huge difference in their height take off down the street one after the other headed to "the pit" to explore and wonder what the 8 yr old Knox would look like between them. After all, they older four have grown and matured and we've added two more to the mix. What would that dynamic be like if he were still here? I imagine he'd love dirt, bugs, bones, and grossness every bit as much as the other boys despite the "prettiness" I remember. What would be his bent? Academics? Sports? What sort of kid would he be? Would he still be a mama's boy that could melt my heart with the flash of a grin? Probably ;-) I look at his pictures and he is so familiar, yet a stranger. He looks so young and unfinished; yet, his life is done and as Jon referred to in communion this morning, his sorrow is over and his joy complete, fulfilled. His pilgrim days are done.

Haste thee on from grace to glory,Armed by faith, and winged by prayer.Heaven’s eternal days before thee,God’s own hand shall guide us there.Soon shall close thy earthly mission,Soon shall pass thy pilgrim days,Hope shall change to glad fruition,Faith to sight, and prayer to praise.