Missing

I haven't been here in awhile, and to be perfectly honest, I feel like I am not okay. My head is swimming, and physically I am run down. I miss Cole so much, and it just hurts. I remind myself repeatedly that where he is now is wonderful, but as his momma I want Cole to be here. I miss his skin, his cheeks, and the blonde fuzz on his head. I miss giving him a bath and the funny little shimmy shake he would do when I tried to clean his neck. I was never sure if it tickled or if he was annoyed. Whatever it was, it was just one of the qualities that made Cole unique and so very special. I miss how he would pull his knees up tight when we would change his diaper. We even had to go up one size sooner than necessary to make changings easier. For a baby who wasn't supposed to have much awareness of his surroundings, he sure would let us know that he didn't like to be messed with!





I miss his fingers too. Two on each hand were fused. The fingers on Cole's left hand were contracted most of the time except for the pointer finger. We would laugh when it looked as if Cole was pointing at something or someone. It was just so cute! But those fingers were also a sad reminder of Cole's host of issues that would take him from us too soon. I miss Cole's physical presence, but if he was still here, his struggles would be too. I miss my baby, but he's okay now.



The holidays have come and gone, and they were tough for me, even more so than in 2011, the year that Cole died. I don't know. I was probably still in some kind of shock then. I am in the second year of grief now, and I have read and heard that the second year is harder. I'm beginning to think that it is true. Eric and I have six nieces and one nephew that we adore.They all live out of town, and were here with their parents for Christmas. We have been blessed and are so fortunate that since the beginning of our relationship, our families have gotten along very well, and we typically spend holidays all together even if it is just us and both sets of parents. While it was wonderful to see our three siblings and their families this past Christmas, it seemed to magnify the painful fact that Cole isn't here. My sister-in-law even said to me that when she first saw us, it didn't seem right that Cole wasn't with us. He was missing.

 

We miss you Cole,

but we know you are whole

and perfect in every way.

 

You brought us such joy

our sweet baby boy.

We want you here today.

 

We know you're just fine,

but we long for the time

to be with you in Heaven.

 

Until that day arrives

we'll cherish your life

and the memories we've been given.

photos courtesy of Keri Dummerth Photography



Comfort and Joy

Like the rest of our country, I am deeply heartbroken over the events of last Friday in Newtown, Connecticut. I keep thinking about all those precious little ones who died. I also keep thinking about the parents of those little ones. I know what it's like to lose a child, but I can't help but think that my grief would somehow be different if I had lost a child in such a sudden, horrific way.

 

Since Cole's death, I have felt a true sense of comfort and joy. One might wonder how that is possible. How do you lose a child and then feel that inner contentment? Eric and I know that our help has come from the Lord. Our faith and belief in Jesus Christ as our Lord and Savior has given us the assurance that Cole is having a glorious, perfect life now. He has more in Heaven than he would have ever had here on Earth; more than we could ever imagine. Our faith also gives us certainty that we will one day see Cole again. I heard someone this morning on television speaking about joy in the midst of grief, and it confirmed how I have felt since losing Cole. Joy is not the same as happiness. When I am hit with a wave of sadness, my joy is still there. It's an underlying, peaceful feeling that is hard to describe. I believe it's a gift.

 

In the spirit of the Christmas season, I pray the parents in Newtown will find comfort and joy as they deal with their sorrow. I pray the same for anyone who has lost a child or other loved ones. The pain may run deep, but joy is possible.

 

 



 

 

Safely Home

 

Let your grieving be not long,

for I'm home at last where I belong.

Understand - if I were given a choice,

I'd remain here where I now rejoice.

 

It would be unthinkable to return to earth

from this land of matchless beauty and worth.

Gazing at Christ's loving, majestic face,

I know deeper dimensions of grace.

 

Do not think I tasted death 'before my time',

rather it was precisely in God's wise design.

At the appointed moment He opened the door

to wonders and splendors undreamed before.

 

It's all true - never fear,

and soon you will join me here

Where there's no more crying, no more sorrow,

with Christ the Lord in every tomorrow.

 

- Mae Fortson

 

Weavings Retreat

Last weekend I attended a retreat for mothers who have lost children. It was local, but I was away from home for two nights. I had been feeling rather anxious about going, but when the day came to go, I felt ready. Nervously ready.

Going in, I didn't know anyone there except the social worker who planned it. As I approached the entrance, a couple of volunteers greeted me and immediately offered to carry my bags and lead me to the sign-in table. Overwhelming? You bet. I guess they wanted to make sure we didn't turn around and leave. I went to my room for the first time to find a basket of goodies on my bed. Then I headed down the hall to a lounge to meet some of the other moms and make my name tag for the weekend. I was told to take a photo of Cole to another room where I would find a table with candles and empty photo stands. I placed the photo on one of the stands and lit Cole's candle. So far so good, but I didn't know who my roommate was yet.

We had dinner, then it all really began. Twenty-two moms and all the volunteers gathered in yet another large room. The moms sat in a circle, and one by one, we shared our child's story. Before the retreat, we had all received a packet which included a long strip of white fabric and a sharpie. The instructions were to write our child's story on the sash, however we wanted. So that first night, our sashes were shown to the other moms as we told our stories, then they were woven together on a table.

 Cole's sash

 

It reads: God's SPECIAL creation , our BEAUTIFUL baby boy, mommy's SUNSHINE, a life of MIRACLES, little FIGHTER, incredibly LOVED always , He brought us JOY, a BLESSING to many , MISSED beyond measure

 

 

The emotion in the room that night as we shared about our children was heavy. We heard about illnesses, accidents, and drug overdoses; young children, teenagers, and adults. One mom had a stillborn son. Another mom lost two of her adult children within months of each other. I can honestly tell you that despite all of the differences in ages and circumstances, the group as a whole instantly connected, and it was wonderful.

 

We had small groups within the larger group, and mine was awesome. There were two other moms who lost babies, and one who lost her two year old. We had two very lovely group leaders who not only facilitated our discussions, but they really really listened, encouraged us, and even cried with us. Our small group met several times throughout the weekend.

Late Friday night, I finally met my roommate. She asked me if I was a believer, and I excitedly replied, "yes!". Something I had shared during the large group meeting led her to ask me that question. A bond quickly formed, and we stayed up chatting until about 1 am.

 

The rest of the weekend consisted of art projects, pampering (a much needed massage for me), and some rituals I had pretty mixed feelings about. I spent some time outside walking the labyrinth on the property. The colors of the trees had really begun to change that weekend, and they were gorgeous.

 

 

 



entrance to the labyrinth





the labyrinth and lovely trees





the tree in the center of the labyrinth where moms,
past and present, left tokens for their children



 

I thought this was nice

 

I went into this weekend skeptical and uncertain that I would get a whole lot out of it. What I did get, though, are new, beautiful friends that understand my loss and how I feel, and that is priceless. The stories of their children are now rooted in my heart. What I also got were more opportunities to share Cole's life with others, which I love to do. I tried to emphasize what a gift and blessing he was, and most importantly, to express the gratitude I feel for his life and the immense JOY I now am able to feel in the midst of my grief. If nothing else, that was truly my goal for the weekend: to show that it IS possible to feel joy. Our last circle time on Sunday allowed each of us to tell our wish for the others. I'll repeat it here because it truly is my wish, my prayer really, that anyone who has lost a child will be able to find some joy. Even just a little bit.

 

Here are a couple of sweet bonuses from the weekend: I was able to share about Cole's Gift to the whole group, and even had a new friend tell me she wants to make a donation.  And throughout the weekend, I bonded in particular with a gal who lost her precious, 8 week old baby girl ,Corey, just this past May to a rare genetic condition. Corey's momma and I like to think that Corey and Cole are now little friends in Heaven. Corey and Cole, I mean, how cute is that?

 

I'm thankful for Weavings and for the people that made it possible. And I'm thankful for the God-given strength to get there, enjoy it, and endure it.

 

 

 

 



 

 

 

The Battle

September is here, and it's been a hard month so far. I knew it would be. The first anniversary of Cole's death is less than 2 weeks away, and well, that just seems crazy. And I actually feel a bit crazy right now. I just cried and cried because I miss Cole so much. We have a busy month ahead, and all the things happening and coming up are good and positive, yet I feel like a crazy person emotionally. I'm overwhelmed by the busy-ness, and my heart is still broken. We just began a wonderful project to benefit others and to honor Cole's memory, and I am thankful for that opportunity. Our journey has brought new friends into my life and has re-connected me with old ones. This is all good, right? I know it is, yet none of it would have come about if Cole had been a normal, healthy baby. Cole struggled for 4 1/2 months, then he died. And now all these "good" things are happening. I don't know if I'm properly articulating the way I feel. It's just an emotional, spiritual battle.  I ask God "why" when I know full well I may never get the answer I want. I know He wants me to simply trust him. I need to trust that his plan for me is good. It is way better than anything I could dream up myself. Everything that happened last year and everything that has come to us as a result is part of that plan. Everything yet to come is part of that plan.

I will trust. It may be a battle, but I will trust.

It's Okay to Ask

It's okay to ask me about Cole.

I appreciate the thoughtfulness of friends and family who ask me about Cole's life, death, and how I am dealing with it. There are some who never ask, and well, it hurts. I try my best to give them the benefit of the doubt since I know that everyone deals with loss very differently. But really, if I'm face to face with someone, and I know that they know what happened last year, and they don't ask me about any of it, then I feel like there's a big elephant in the room. And then I feel disappointed, confused, and angry. Do they want to spare my feelings?  Do they want to just spare their own feelings? Have they forgotten about Cole? Is that even possible? I don't know the answer, and I surely never confront them. I guess at some point I won't expect to be asked all the time, and I pray that will happen sooner than later. Grief is a process though, and I don't know that I can change it or speed it up. So for now I want to be asked. Maybe I need to be asked. And if you've asked already, I really, truly am thankful.