Bryan here. It's been about 5 months since our last posting. The cloud of the whole ordeal continues to slowly lift. We so much miss our David and are anxious to see him again someday. As time passes, the acuteness of the pain lessens. We are saddened that for now all we have of him are just memories from Heather's previous pregnancy. For those of you going through something similar, know that the sun will rise again some day. It may not seem like it will, but it will.
We look out the window at the valley where we live and are encouraged to see that it, like the figurative valley that we just crossed in our journey with David, is surrounded by mountains. Life is a lot like this. Some mountains are pretty high, and some valleys are pretty low. We are grateful to be heading up hill as we climb the next mountain...which evidently involves a new baby coming to our family in the near future.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
It has been three months and 8 days since you flew away. Your basinette still sits empty of you, but full of all of your big sister's baby blankets that she wanted to wrap you in. How I wish I could hold you again. I don't know why you had to go, but know that I miss you so. I loved you from the moment I knew you were inside me. I will never stop loving you. You are irreplaceable. You are loved and missed, achingly so.
The moment I packed you in the little blue infant carrier and handed your earthly body over, never to see you again in this life, was the most painful and sorrowful thing I have ever experienced...I never knew life could be full of such unending pain. I am glad you will never know such pain. You must have asked Jesus to send me an angel to hold me up.
Love,
Mommy
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Thursday, April 5, 2012
through Rebecca's eyes
A childhood friend had a baby this week. A beautiful, healthy baby girl. I was showing Rebecca pictures of the baby, genuinely rejoicing over my friend's newest addition with joy from across the miles.
I asked, "Isn't she pretty?"
Rebecca quietly looked at the photos of the baby for a moment. Then her words came unexpectedly and stung: "Is she dead?"
It was like a punch to the gut. I was taking in all the perfectness that was this living, breathing, healthy baby girl. And because of our own family's loss(es), Rebecca saw the baby through the lens of her own experience. From her experience, babies don't live, at least the two that we have hoped to welcome and lost.
I answered her without thinking, not meaning to be cynical and sarcastic, but from that raw, painful place that I thought had recently softened.
"No, honey, that baby isn't dead. She's alive. Only our babies die..."
And then as soon as I said it, I knew that it wasn't true. I didn't lose Jonathan. I didn't "lose" Rebecca, whom God moved Heaven and earth to save. The handful of other mothers who have shared their stories of baby loss with me--their babies died, too, not just mine.
So I backpedaled, and fumbled through some softer, more honest response and then went and made dinner.
I'm looking forward to Easter this weekend, and the promise of new life, eternal life. It is real and its meaning is very personal this year. My son is alive and is whole, and one day, I will go to him. I wonder if he has touched the nail marks in Jesus' hands? I wonder if Jesus has told him that because of those nail marks, one day, we will hold him again? Is every day in Heaven an Easter celebration? Probably so.
We're planting a tree in honor of David in the next couple weeks--either a cherry or peach tree. And in the years ahead, beautiful but short-lived blossoms will emerge from David's tree, flourish for a time, and then vanish to bear fruit. I will always remember that the loss of the blossoms means that something better is coming.
So glad that spring is coming...
I asked, "Isn't she pretty?"
Rebecca quietly looked at the photos of the baby for a moment. Then her words came unexpectedly and stung: "Is she dead?"
It was like a punch to the gut. I was taking in all the perfectness that was this living, breathing, healthy baby girl. And because of our own family's loss(es), Rebecca saw the baby through the lens of her own experience. From her experience, babies don't live, at least the two that we have hoped to welcome and lost.
I answered her without thinking, not meaning to be cynical and sarcastic, but from that raw, painful place that I thought had recently softened.
"No, honey, that baby isn't dead. She's alive. Only our babies die..."
And then as soon as I said it, I knew that it wasn't true. I didn't lose Jonathan. I didn't "lose" Rebecca, whom God moved Heaven and earth to save. The handful of other mothers who have shared their stories of baby loss with me--their babies died, too, not just mine.
So I backpedaled, and fumbled through some softer, more honest response and then went and made dinner.
I'm looking forward to Easter this weekend, and the promise of new life, eternal life. It is real and its meaning is very personal this year. My son is alive and is whole, and one day, I will go to him. I wonder if he has touched the nail marks in Jesus' hands? I wonder if Jesus has told him that because of those nail marks, one day, we will hold him again? Is every day in Heaven an Easter celebration? Probably so.
We're planting a tree in honor of David in the next couple weeks--either a cherry or peach tree. And in the years ahead, beautiful but short-lived blossoms will emerge from David's tree, flourish for a time, and then vanish to bear fruit. I will always remember that the loss of the blossoms means that something better is coming.
So glad that spring is coming...
Tuesday, March 13, 2012
tears
It
hurts
so
badly
to
grieve
the loss of David...
No, "hurts" is too soft a word.
It feels like what I imagine a soldier would look like after being hit by a round
of mortar,
leaving a gaping whole in his abdomen...
like walking
around
with a whole piece of you missing.
I push away the grief, shove it away because it wears me out, wears me down, drains me.
Yet, like a geyser, it comes suddenly spewing with all the ferocity and power from having been pent up. I cannot fight it. Like the ocean, I must not fight the waves that pound me, but roll with them.
And
the
tears
roll
too..
I like what Nancy Guthrie, a woman who buried two of her children at the age of six months due to Zellweger Syndrome said in her book, Holding Onto Hope:
"The day after we buried Hope, my husband said to me, '...Our faith gave us an incredible amount of strength and encouragement while we had Hope, and we are comforted by the knowledge that she is in heaven. Our faith keeps us from being swallowed by despair. But I don't think it makes our less hurt any less.'" She goes on to say, "...I lost someone I loved dearly, and I'm sad. Ours is not a culture that is comfortable with sadness. Sadness is awkward. It is unsettling. It ebbs and flows and takes its own shape. It beckons to be shared. It comes out in tears, and we don't quite know what to do with those. So many people are afraid to bring up my loss. They don't want to upset me. But my tears are the only way I have to release the deep sorrow I feel."
So don't be afraid to bring up David for fear of making me cry. Thoughts of him are always just under the surface anyway. In fact, it hurts more to ignore that he ever existed. My tears show, as Nancy Guthrie describes, "that you've touched me in a place that is meaningful to me--and I will never forget your willingness to share my grief."
hurts
so
badly
to
grieve
the loss of David...
No, "hurts" is too soft a word.
It feels like what I imagine a soldier would look like after being hit by a round
of mortar,
leaving a gaping whole in his abdomen...
like walking
around
with a whole piece of you missing.
I push away the grief, shove it away because it wears me out, wears me down, drains me.
Yet, like a geyser, it comes suddenly spewing with all the ferocity and power from having been pent up. I cannot fight it. Like the ocean, I must not fight the waves that pound me, but roll with them.
And
the
tears
roll
too..
I like what Nancy Guthrie, a woman who buried two of her children at the age of six months due to Zellweger Syndrome said in her book, Holding Onto Hope:
"The day after we buried Hope, my husband said to me, '...Our faith gave us an incredible amount of strength and encouragement while we had Hope, and we are comforted by the knowledge that she is in heaven. Our faith keeps us from being swallowed by despair. But I don't think it makes our less hurt any less.'" She goes on to say, "...I lost someone I loved dearly, and I'm sad. Ours is not a culture that is comfortable with sadness. Sadness is awkward. It is unsettling. It ebbs and flows and takes its own shape. It beckons to be shared. It comes out in tears, and we don't quite know what to do with those. So many people are afraid to bring up my loss. They don't want to upset me. But my tears are the only way I have to release the deep sorrow I feel."
So don't be afraid to bring up David for fear of making me cry. Thoughts of him are always just under the surface anyway. In fact, it hurts more to ignore that he ever existed. My tears show, as Nancy Guthrie describes, "that you've touched me in a place that is meaningful to me--and I will never forget your willingness to share my grief."
Friday, March 9, 2012
two months today
I guess I'll be living life for the next year in terms of months...months since our gift, David, was born and died. Two months ago today that I let go of my beautiful dream. And the bubble burst. And I stopped feeling beautiful and the radiancy of pregnancy faded with the setting sun. I felt like a part of me died (because it did). That my youth and my long-held hopes and dreams were snuffed out in this life. And so begins a new chapter of life, one with one hand firmly embracing the life I have here while the other reaches for heaven.
For 10 uninterrupted days I have not only felt joy, as I described in my previous post, but I have actually been happy. It seems that the one sure way to quickly shatter the feelings of happiness (but not joy) is to go to Walmart. Every baby and pregnant woman in Missoula must be drawn there. Most of my down days have started as soon as I've entered the doors. Honestly, it is torture. The first time I noticed that Walmart was probably not the best place for me to go was when I saw the preemie outfit I already mentioned in a previous post, that was in a place it shouldn't have been.
This past week at Walmart, everywhere I turned there were crying babies and pregnant ladies. It's not that I'm not happy for these various people (far from it), it's just that it withers me. Because, although I carry David in my heart, I have no way of sharing him apart from the celebration of life video we made. He is invisible to everyone except the four of us in our family and our Moms, who held him in their arms the night he was born.
Life moves on. And that hurts. And from those deep hurts, arise deep and profound questions that can either make people uncomfortable or can shatter the sanctity of other people's worlds. Like when my pregnant friend from Asia felt uncomfortable hearing David's story of death, (as if somehow hearing David's story might magically rub off and happen to her?) How does God decide who is worthy of a happy ending and whose worst nightmares come true...twice. How does He bless some parts of life, provide amazing miracles, interventions, and provisions at certain moments of life but not others?
Angie Smith, who lost her baby the day she was born and was aware during her pregnancy that her baby would not live, grapples with these questions as she studied one of the stories in the Bible. It the story of Jesus, who was asleep on the boat, while his disciples were rocked by the waves and their doubts as a storm grew on the sea. She shares, "How do you trust that He is watching and in control when you have to fold the tiny clothes of a baby that didn't live to wear them? Who is this God Who sleeps while the waves threaten the boat?...In some sense, I felt like He had taken His hands off the wheel and all of life was fair game for disaster. Even then I knew this was the voice of the enemy but it was incredibly difficult to move past."
The paradox is that I still stand in awe of this mysterious God who doesn't always seem to make sense according to my sense of the way things should be. His paths are beyond tracing out... He demonstrated His own love for us in this, while we were still sinners Christ died for us.... He took the bullet, was thrown under the bus, took the fatal blow for us all...and so I choose to follow him, my faith still in tact. I now know that one's wost nightmare can come true and you can come out stronger. That His mysterious grace can sustain me with joy even on days when I'm not feeling momentary happiness.
But I'm not afraid of rocking the boat. You'll forgive me if I ask some questions that might make you uncomfortable because maybe like me, until two years ago, life mostly went according to plan....but that was before my worst fears came true. Before my happy ending was torn from the script on the book that I thought I had some say in writing...And so I probe, along with a few select others who have walked the valley of darkness and death. I have nothing to lose. I know that asking the questions doesn't somehow make those scary things come true. And so I'm seeking and asking...and missing David like crazy.
For 10 uninterrupted days I have not only felt joy, as I described in my previous post, but I have actually been happy. It seems that the one sure way to quickly shatter the feelings of happiness (but not joy) is to go to Walmart. Every baby and pregnant woman in Missoula must be drawn there. Most of my down days have started as soon as I've entered the doors. Honestly, it is torture. The first time I noticed that Walmart was probably not the best place for me to go was when I saw the preemie outfit I already mentioned in a previous post, that was in a place it shouldn't have been.
This past week at Walmart, everywhere I turned there were crying babies and pregnant ladies. It's not that I'm not happy for these various people (far from it), it's just that it withers me. Because, although I carry David in my heart, I have no way of sharing him apart from the celebration of life video we made. He is invisible to everyone except the four of us in our family and our Moms, who held him in their arms the night he was born.
Life moves on. And that hurts. And from those deep hurts, arise deep and profound questions that can either make people uncomfortable or can shatter the sanctity of other people's worlds. Like when my pregnant friend from Asia felt uncomfortable hearing David's story of death, (as if somehow hearing David's story might magically rub off and happen to her?) How does God decide who is worthy of a happy ending and whose worst nightmares come true...twice. How does He bless some parts of life, provide amazing miracles, interventions, and provisions at certain moments of life but not others?
Angie Smith, who lost her baby the day she was born and was aware during her pregnancy that her baby would not live, grapples with these questions as she studied one of the stories in the Bible. It the story of Jesus, who was asleep on the boat, while his disciples were rocked by the waves and their doubts as a storm grew on the sea. She shares, "How do you trust that He is watching and in control when you have to fold the tiny clothes of a baby that didn't live to wear them? Who is this God Who sleeps while the waves threaten the boat?...In some sense, I felt like He had taken His hands off the wheel and all of life was fair game for disaster. Even then I knew this was the voice of the enemy but it was incredibly difficult to move past."
The paradox is that I still stand in awe of this mysterious God who doesn't always seem to make sense according to my sense of the way things should be. His paths are beyond tracing out... He demonstrated His own love for us in this, while we were still sinners Christ died for us.... He took the bullet, was thrown under the bus, took the fatal blow for us all...and so I choose to follow him, my faith still in tact. I now know that one's wost nightmare can come true and you can come out stronger. That His mysterious grace can sustain me with joy even on days when I'm not feeling momentary happiness.
But I'm not afraid of rocking the boat. You'll forgive me if I ask some questions that might make you uncomfortable because maybe like me, until two years ago, life mostly went according to plan....but that was before my worst fears came true. Before my happy ending was torn from the script on the book that I thought I had some say in writing...And so I probe, along with a few select others who have walked the valley of darkness and death. I have nothing to lose. I know that asking the questions doesn't somehow make those scary things come true. And so I'm seeking and asking...and missing David like crazy.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Boomerang
I haven't written in almost two weeks. My silence is reflective of time spent digging deep--in my heart, as I reflect on all that has happened; and in plunging into the balm of comfort that God sends me each day in his living, speaking Word, the Bible.
My hands can't keep up with all the page flipping, note taking, and scribbling the musings of my heart on paper. I have dug deep into the very personal journeys of those who have walked the same valley of the shadow of death. In their blogs and books, these fellow travelers share how they are standing stronger in their weakness and loss than they did before their sacred journeys. Angie Smith. Nancy Guthrie. Shauna Niequist. The countless mothers of Trisomy babies who pour out their stories on their many blogs. Job. They inspire me. I am getting to know other moms in the area whose children also carried a piece of their hearts to heaven--sharing hearts over Kleenex, over tea at the coffee house, and over the tear-drenched pages of the book of Job. I am not alone.
And yet, when I stumble into moments when I feel the emptiness of the place that David carved in my heart and took with him, I am learning to cry out to the One who was "a man of sorrows...familiar with suffering" (Isaiah 53:3) and whose own suffering left Him "overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death" (Matt. 26:38). This same Jesus saw the loss that his friends experienced when their loved one died, and was "deeply moved in spirit and troubled...and wept." (John 11:33,35). In other words, the Maker of ears and crying mouths sees mine, and from a place of empathy, hurts with me. You see, Jesus knew that He was about to raise his friends' loved one from the dead...and yet He wept because of how death cut his friends to the core. He saw their tears and broken hearts and wept because He loved them. He could have said, "Don't cry, in just a moment you are going to see your brother walking out of the tomb where he's buried." But in that moment, their tears caused Him to weep with compassion...before they saw the rest of the story.
And do you know what? He is giving me joy. In between the tears and grief, He is healing my broken heart. I have to say that most winters, I feel somewhat depressed from the endless gray skies, snow, and lack of sunshine. How can it be that this year, the saddest of all, I have felt the most joy? Because the promises of healing broken hearts that God gives is real. Quite ironic, huh?
There are low spots, like in Walmart when a preemie outfit sits untouched on the end of a clearance rack in the men's department that would have fit my little David on the day he was born. But so far, I haven't found a spot so low that God can't outdo with his comfort and joy. It's like a boomerang. I throw out my tears and sorrow, and for a moment there is silence. And then, out of somewhere my eyes cannot see, overflowing joy and the peace that passes all understanding come flying in, hitting me over the head and filling my heart. Amazing! And so I "fix (my) eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." (2 Cor. 4:18).
My hands can't keep up with all the page flipping, note taking, and scribbling the musings of my heart on paper. I have dug deep into the very personal journeys of those who have walked the same valley of the shadow of death. In their blogs and books, these fellow travelers share how they are standing stronger in their weakness and loss than they did before their sacred journeys. Angie Smith. Nancy Guthrie. Shauna Niequist. The countless mothers of Trisomy babies who pour out their stories on their many blogs. Job. They inspire me. I am getting to know other moms in the area whose children also carried a piece of their hearts to heaven--sharing hearts over Kleenex, over tea at the coffee house, and over the tear-drenched pages of the book of Job. I am not alone.
And yet, when I stumble into moments when I feel the emptiness of the place that David carved in my heart and took with him, I am learning to cry out to the One who was "a man of sorrows...familiar with suffering" (Isaiah 53:3) and whose own suffering left Him "overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death" (Matt. 26:38). This same Jesus saw the loss that his friends experienced when their loved one died, and was "deeply moved in spirit and troubled...and wept." (John 11:33,35). In other words, the Maker of ears and crying mouths sees mine, and from a place of empathy, hurts with me. You see, Jesus knew that He was about to raise his friends' loved one from the dead...and yet He wept because of how death cut his friends to the core. He saw their tears and broken hearts and wept because He loved them. He could have said, "Don't cry, in just a moment you are going to see your brother walking out of the tomb where he's buried." But in that moment, their tears caused Him to weep with compassion...before they saw the rest of the story.
And do you know what? He is giving me joy. In between the tears and grief, He is healing my broken heart. I have to say that most winters, I feel somewhat depressed from the endless gray skies, snow, and lack of sunshine. How can it be that this year, the saddest of all, I have felt the most joy? Because the promises of healing broken hearts that God gives is real. Quite ironic, huh?
There are low spots, like in Walmart when a preemie outfit sits untouched on the end of a clearance rack in the men's department that would have fit my little David on the day he was born. But so far, I haven't found a spot so low that God can't outdo with his comfort and joy. It's like a boomerang. I throw out my tears and sorrow, and for a moment there is silence. And then, out of somewhere my eyes cannot see, overflowing joy and the peace that passes all understanding come flying in, hitting me over the head and filling my heart. Amazing! And so I "fix (my) eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." (2 Cor. 4:18).
Thursday, February 16, 2012
One month behind us...
It's been a month since we laid David's body to rest. It has been a long month, especially the first couple weeks when my tears were more like sobs that opened in me a flood of grief I've never felt before. No snuggling, no cuddling, no tiny hands to hold. No peachy-soft cheek to kiss. His skin was so soft. His hands and fingers were long and elegant like my Dad's and my sister's. His feet were just like Bryan's and his proud big brother's feet. He was our son and oh how we loved him while he was with us. And you know what? Death does nothing to diminish the love we have for him now. If anything, it grows stronger. He's like a little northern star pointing me toward my true home.
Separation has ripped my earthly heart in two but has created a heavenly longing that is unlike any longing I have ever known. Nothing in this world has any lure for me. And yet, each moment here with my husband and children is a treasure that I feel humbly grateful to unwrap every day. Each new day and the opportunities to see God at work in our lives and the people He has brought into our lives strike wonder, awe, and expectancy in my heart. And slowly, we see signs of spring coming in our lives again. Two or three good days overtake the heavy, dark, sad days.
On the day we laid David to rest, I couldn't imagine that God would send us such comfort and curious hope and peace so soon. In fact, when so many good days pile up in a row, I'm caught off guard again by the truly heavy days. But they must be felt and lived and processed with the only one who knows suffering greater than I have experienced--my Savior. What an irony that the one who knows such depths of suffering and sends the "peace that passeth understanding" is the one who hold my son in his arms.
It was so hard, so unnatural to walk away and leave David's precious earthly body in the cold, hard earth after the graveside service on January 16. The sun was shining but the wind whipped us and chilled us to the core. Maybe it was God's way of moving us on from that place where David does not really lie at rest. Physically and emotionally I could not bear to stand there long. My boy is not coming back. No amount of tears spilled on the upturned earth that covers his tiny grave will bring him back. But as King David said after the death of his infant son, I will go to him. One day, I will go. And for me, death has lost its sting and fear.
On a lighter note, it's strange to even think of the term, "laid to rest." Given how active David was in my womb, I laugh and think that he is surely not "resting" in Heaven now. He is enjoying being free of those extra 13th chromosomes that took his life from us. He is free to run and play and sit in Jesus' lap. But there is something under the surface, if I let myself feel it, that is unnerved by not being the one "taking care" of my baby boy. He is in better hands than mine, but in an earthly sense, not being able to pour your maternal care and love into your child that you know is out there--but can't see--leaves me without words.
But life ebbs and flows, and when the words return, after moments of tears and looking at David's pictures for the millionth time for the little slice of time we were given to hold him, I smile and remind myself that I will hold him again. And, honestly, I really cannot wait for that day. But for now, I'll just have to wait, and live, holding onto the edge of my seat in expectation of that wonderful day when we'll all be together again.
Below, are the words to Steven Curtis Chapman's song, "I'll Just Have to Wait," written after he lost his five-year old daughter Maria in a tragic accident in May 2008. The songs he wrote on the CD that shares his grief and struggles after losing Maria really resonate with me. Before, I simply sympathized with his loss; now I feel the raw emotion behind each word. May I share the lyrics with you? Below the lyrics is the song, as featured on Youtube.
"Well, I can't wait to see your smile again
The one when your eyes disappear along with all my troubles
And I can't wait to hear you sing a song
Maybe Jesus loves me or a song you learned up there
But I, oh, I'll just have to wait
'Cause I know that day is coming
So I, oh, I'll just have to wait
I can't wait to hear your mama laugh
The way that only you can make her laugh when you get silly
And I can't wait to see you in her arms
I know the wound so deep inside her heart is healed for good
But I, oh, I'll just have to wait
'Cause I know that day is coming
So I, oh, I'll just have to wait, oh, ohh
And I can't wait to dance with you again
Knowing that this time we dance
We'll never have to end
Oh, I, oh, I'll just have to wait
'Cause I know that day is coming
So I, oh, I'll just have to wait
And I can't wait to see your sisters play
The way they do when all of you are playing all together
I can't wait to watch your brother's face
When he can finally see with his own eyes everything's okay
And I just have to wait
'Cause I know that day is coming
And I just have to wait."
Separation has ripped my earthly heart in two but has created a heavenly longing that is unlike any longing I have ever known. Nothing in this world has any lure for me. And yet, each moment here with my husband and children is a treasure that I feel humbly grateful to unwrap every day. Each new day and the opportunities to see God at work in our lives and the people He has brought into our lives strike wonder, awe, and expectancy in my heart. And slowly, we see signs of spring coming in our lives again. Two or three good days overtake the heavy, dark, sad days.
On the day we laid David to rest, I couldn't imagine that God would send us such comfort and curious hope and peace so soon. In fact, when so many good days pile up in a row, I'm caught off guard again by the truly heavy days. But they must be felt and lived and processed with the only one who knows suffering greater than I have experienced--my Savior. What an irony that the one who knows such depths of suffering and sends the "peace that passeth understanding" is the one who hold my son in his arms.
It was so hard, so unnatural to walk away and leave David's precious earthly body in the cold, hard earth after the graveside service on January 16. The sun was shining but the wind whipped us and chilled us to the core. Maybe it was God's way of moving us on from that place where David does not really lie at rest. Physically and emotionally I could not bear to stand there long. My boy is not coming back. No amount of tears spilled on the upturned earth that covers his tiny grave will bring him back. But as King David said after the death of his infant son, I will go to him. One day, I will go. And for me, death has lost its sting and fear.
On a lighter note, it's strange to even think of the term, "laid to rest." Given how active David was in my womb, I laugh and think that he is surely not "resting" in Heaven now. He is enjoying being free of those extra 13th chromosomes that took his life from us. He is free to run and play and sit in Jesus' lap. But there is something under the surface, if I let myself feel it, that is unnerved by not being the one "taking care" of my baby boy. He is in better hands than mine, but in an earthly sense, not being able to pour your maternal care and love into your child that you know is out there--but can't see--leaves me without words.
But life ebbs and flows, and when the words return, after moments of tears and looking at David's pictures for the millionth time for the little slice of time we were given to hold him, I smile and remind myself that I will hold him again. And, honestly, I really cannot wait for that day. But for now, I'll just have to wait, and live, holding onto the edge of my seat in expectation of that wonderful day when we'll all be together again.
Below, are the words to Steven Curtis Chapman's song, "I'll Just Have to Wait," written after he lost his five-year old daughter Maria in a tragic accident in May 2008. The songs he wrote on the CD that shares his grief and struggles after losing Maria really resonate with me. Before, I simply sympathized with his loss; now I feel the raw emotion behind each word. May I share the lyrics with you? Below the lyrics is the song, as featured on Youtube.
"Well, I can't wait to see your smile again
The one when your eyes disappear along with all my troubles
And I can't wait to hear you sing a song
Maybe Jesus loves me or a song you learned up there
But I, oh, I'll just have to wait
'Cause I know that day is coming
So I, oh, I'll just have to wait
I can't wait to hear your mama laugh
The way that only you can make her laugh when you get silly
And I can't wait to see you in her arms
I know the wound so deep inside her heart is healed for good
But I, oh, I'll just have to wait
'Cause I know that day is coming
So I, oh, I'll just have to wait, oh, ohh
And I can't wait to dance with you again
Knowing that this time we dance
We'll never have to end
Oh, I, oh, I'll just have to wait
'Cause I know that day is coming
So I, oh, I'll just have to wait
And I can't wait to see your sisters play
The way they do when all of you are playing all together
I can't wait to watch your brother's face
When he can finally see with his own eyes everything's okay
And I just have to wait
'Cause I know that day is coming
And I just have to wait."
Friday, February 3, 2012
what it looks like to say goodbye
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Friday, January 27, 2012
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