Saturday, March 16, 2019

5 Years of Making Space and Silver Linings

When my son Louie was born 5 years ago and drifted away shortly thereafter to the arms of God, there were a host of existential and spiritual questions that plagued me for the months and years to come.  Did this really just happen?  Why did God see fit to have my son live just long enough to be born?  Why was this happening to us?  Why did other people seem to have it much easier?  What was the purpose in all of this?  

From many well-intentioned friends and family there was a familiar refrain encouraging us to move on, focus on the positive, try to have the next child, and to trust God’s plan.  It was truly hard to listen to some of that at the time.

One of the challenges of having a child who is no longer here, is the utter invisibility of it. People commonly ask how many children we have and I still struggle with how to answer.  I wish there was a less awkward way to give my son enough space in the world which he left so quickly.  (Dead kids aren’t a whole lot of fun to talk about at dinner parties).


The reality is that despite my strong allergic reaction to talking about “silver linings” in difficult things, I must acknowledge that having Louie and then saying goodbye so soon produced incredibly precious things — a mysterious healing in my marriage, a level of gratitude for my daughters that I cannot explain otherwise, more grace for others.  It’s not an exaggeration to say I’m a better husband, father, and friend.

In addition, there is currently a deep well producing clean water for a village of people we may never meet with Louie’s name inscribed on it and a Peruvian boy who turned 5 today whom we sponsored because he shares the same birthday as Louie.  A whole community and a young boy will eat, learn, and live a bit easier for many years directly because of our desire to give our son some more space in the world.




No amount of growth and impact justifies the loss - those calculations don’t make sense in this life.  But I have spent the last five years doing my best to accept Louie’s precious place in my life — and by protecting and keeping space for him, I’ve been able to see good things grow from poisoned soil, beauty emerge from ashes, and life resurrected from death.  I will accept such gains as a small reminder that death does not have the final say in this life -- that love actually has the last word.  


Happy Birthday, my little guy.  I'll be seeing you soon.

Love,
Dad

Friday, March 15, 2019

It's a world of laughter, A world of tears

My dear Louie,
I write to you on what would have been your 5th birthday.  As March 16 approaches each year, I wonder what emotions the next year will bring as I reflect on yet another year without you.

I want to tell you about the story of how my longing for you recently bubbled to the surface in our first family trip to the "happiest place on earth".  There was so much irony to that moment as grief has often forced me to be in two places at once.

We were walking from the perfectly optimized parking lot of Mickey & Friends to the tram.  Once I heard the Disney music sing through air, this extraordinary ordinary family moment of walking from the parking lot suddenly made your absence so palpable that it brought me to tears.  Your little sister, L, skipped to the tram (no surprise as she's been practicing that skill) and your baby sister, E, insisted on using her 17-month old style of waddling/walking. Oh - how I wondered how you would have approached the entrance.  Would you have run towards the train?  Would you have been brave to meet the characters?  Would you have danced to some familiar and never-ending tunes?

These days, the pangs of sadness seem to come out of family experiences where the triggers have yet to be tripped.  They happen when we go to a place or try out an activity for the first time.

Our first ride at Disneyland was "It's a Small World".  While I've heard the song a million times, I never listened closely to the words.
It's a world of laughter
A world of tears
It's a world of hopes
And a world of fears
There's so much that we share
That it's time we're aware
It's a small world after all
Through the last 5 years, we've experienced all of those emotions and journeyed with so many along the way.

I recently became a facilitator for HAND (Helping After NeoNatal Death), which is the support group that we joined shortly after your death.  Each time I facilitate a meeting, I get to share the story of you and us.  It's lovely to have a place to share where you always belong.  I am awaiting the time when we get to create a family memory where we are all together.
There is just one moon
And one golden sun
And a smile means friendship
to everyone
Though the mountains divide
And the oceans are wide
It's a small world after all