Patience to Endure

Tag: grief

It Isn’t Just Walmart

I ventured out for the first time in almost two weeks since my precious son passed away. We drove to a Walmart 30 minutes from our home, one he did not go to on our daily outings. I thought it might be easier. I thought wrong. Walmart is Walmart.

We walked in. Deep breath. Two more steps. Exhale. I can do this. I can grocery shop.

I glanced to my left and saw the bakery section. We used to pick out muffins and cakes to mix with his pudding. He loved lemon, red velvet, and chocolate. My heart sees him lying in bed. He increasingly and aggressively signs pudding as his patience waiting for it wore thin. The boy could yell at me in sign language. How he loved food.

Deep breath. Two more steps. Exhale.

The tears fill my eyes.

Steve, my husband, wraps his arms around me. “I am here,” he whispers.

The tears are almost uncontrollable now.

Grocery shopping felt like a violation, a betrayal, a foreign country. It has been years since I went without pushing him in his wheelchair. Almost a quarter of a century talking to him constantly and asking his opinion about choices. Decades of playing “Woah Wesley” when he was ready to go but I still needed to shop. He would from angry screaming to laughing without taking a breath. Only he could turn an ordinary trip to Walmart into a joy filled, love tossing extravaganza.

A woman came up to us not too long ago in a Walmart.

“Can I give him something?” she asked.

She must have seen the confusion on my face because she continued.

“I have been watching you and your son. I have never seen someone so full of love and so loved. I just want him to have something. I have this gift card. Will you buy him something?” she asked.

We hugged. That was the magic of Wesley. His presence, his joy, his love could leave two people hugging in Walmart, grateful to have crossed paths and being forever changed by it.

Wesley picked out a “Bluey” hooded sweatshirt with the gift card. It sits untouched now in a drawer I cannot open. Not yet.

The tears now are uncontrollable.

“We can go back to the car,” Steve tells me as I cry on his shoulder.

“I have to do this. I have to learn,” I tell him even though I wanted nothing more than to run to the car, cry, and never go to Walmart again.

The pain, I knew, would be there today, tomorrow, next month. Time would not make unentangling myself any easier had it been postponed.

The grief inside me was irrepressible. I quickly walked to the bathroom, closed the door, and collapsed sobbing.

It wasn’t the first time I cried in a bathroom over Wes…

When Wesley was three weeks old Gary, my (now deceased) first husband, and I along with Wesley and his older brother, Emerson, traveled to Omaha, Nebraska to see Dr. Bruce Buehler. He was board certified in pediatrics, pediatric genetics and pediatric endocrinology. If anyone could tell us what Wesley’s diagnosis was, we hoped, it was Dr. Buehler.

The nurse showed us to a very large room with a small table for the children to play, some books, and an exam table in the corner. I sat at the little table next to Emerson, then two and a half, as he watched Shrek on his portable DVD player. How I wished I could be as he was, oblivious to the gravity of the situation.

I could hear cowboy boots coming from down the hall. The sounds grew louder as he turned the corner, entered the room, and with a smile stuck out his hand to greet us.

“Dr. Buehler,” Gary said extending his hand.

“Call me Bruce. No one calls me Dr. Buehler except my wife and that is only when she wants me to take out the trash,” he said with a deep belly laugh.

He motioned to the table and we sat down as he opened Wesley’s thick chart. By the time we found our way to Omaha the list of abnormalities discovered within Wesley had grown. New doctors had been introduced and before he was even three weeks old Wesley already had a pediatric urologist, neurologist, cardiologist, and gastroenterologist. He had a social worker, a speech therapist, and an occupational therapist. I had to purchase an expandable accordion file to keep track of all his medical needs. The fuller the file became the emptier my heart felt realizing how much my tiny baby had already been through and was yet to face.

A colleague of Dr. Buehler’s joined us and they asked me to place Wesley on the exam table. As a mechanic inspects a car, they examined every inch of his little body.

“He has a high arch and cleft palate. Did you know that?” the other physician asked.

I shook my head somberly no. Another anomaly.

They excused themselves to confer. Shrek played. His father and I could not speak. We knew when they came back in through the door, our lives would forever be altered.

After roughly twenty minutes they returned with two textbooks in their hands. Dr. Buehler flipped open the gigantic, blue book. With delicacy he looked at each of us and said,

“We believe your son has Rubinstein-Taybi Syndrome.”

Syndrome.

The room began spinning. Words became incomprehensible even though we walked in that office suspecting he had a syndrome. Gary was a maternal fetal medicine specialist. They had a “rule of thumb” when it came to anomalies. One was probably nothing. Two might be something. Three was almost always a syndrome. Wes had more than three, but when it was confirmed by a triple board-certified physician my entire world collapsed. As if hope, no matter how small, was the only reason my world continued to spin in the only direction I had ever known.

Then he said it. Syndrome. An obscure, uncommon Syndrome.

The clinical definition is “a group of signs and symptoms that tend to occur together and characterize a particular condition.” The emotional definition in my heart was “unknown everything” and it was scary. It was world shattering.

I could not have known then that the words he spoke would actually be my greatest blessing. It would bring me immense heart ache but also extraordinary joy. It would shape me into a better mother, wife, daughter, friend and human being. Later I would pinpoint that one sentence as the moment in time I began to become who I was meant to be. As it was happening, however, the only thing I could feel was utterly and completely crushed.

I excused myself to the restroom just across the hall. Closing and locking the door behind me I collapsed to the ground sobbing. How could my life, I wondered, have changed so dramatically and drastically in the amount of time it takes to hear a single sentence? I stayed curled up on the cold, bathroom floor for a while weeping for all I lost. My dreams and my family’s future, I thought, were gone. I could not imagine I would dream new dreams and be given a future far more glorious than one I could have ever created for myself. But hope, you see, had not yet been born.

How I wish I could speak to that scared, heart broken mother there on the floor with all the wisdom I have found over the last twenty something years. I would say…

Hope is coming. Hold on. This child will be your greatest teacher without ever speaking a word. In his weakness you will find your strength. You will be his voice and fight for him with all you have. You will reach a new level of exhaustion. You will want to give up. But then you will persevere. You will become a better mother, daughter, and friend because he was born exactly as he is. This isn’t the worst day of your life. This is the day you become who you were meant to be. Grieve because you have lost a significant dream. But then get up. You’ve got work to do.

After a few minutes I gathered myself, wiped away the mascara that was running down my face, and returned to the exam room.

“Will he be mentally retarded?” I asked with a whisper. (That was the acceptable term back then).

“I don’t like to put labels on kids. It can become a self-fulfilling prophecy. But yes, he will be,” Dr. Buehler said gently.

“Does he have a normal life expectancy?” I asked. I knew at that moment I could handle anything required of me. The one thing I could not handle was losing him. Whatever challenge or syndrome my child had did not matter. I just wanted to keep him.

“It will be shortened. By how much we are not sure, honestly,” he said with compassion.

As I sat in the bathroom stall in Walmart 24 years later sobbing, I realized I have to learn everything all over again. I have to learn to drive our wheelchair van with no wheelchair and no sweet Wesley. I have to learn to grocery shop without my constant companion. I have to learn to drink an entire Starbucks coffee and not save half for him. I have to learn to not receive fifty of the best hugs each day. I have to learn who I am because who I was until February 21st was entirely wrapped up in caring for him. I would have joyfully done it as long as God allowed.

And the cold, hard, cruel, beautiful, merciful truth is that I did.

Twenty-four years from now what wisdom will I have that I wish I could speak to the scared, heart broken mother sobbing in a Walmart bathroom? I think it will be something like this…

Hope is coming. Hold on. This child was your greatest teacher without ever speaking a word and taught you what you need to survive his death. In your weakness He will give you strength. You will use the voice Wesley gave you and you will identify yourself once again and help others. God will give purpose to this pain and you will use it for His Glory. Right now, you are in a new level of pain unimaginable. Gravity feels more powerful than ever because the weight of your grief is physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual. Some days you can’t lift your chin but you must lift your arms in praise. You will want to give up. But then you will persevere. You will become a better mother, daughter, wife, and friend because Wesley was here. He was yours and you were his. This moment is when you begin to allow God to work this, even this, for good. For you love Him and you are called according to His Purpose. Grieve because you have lost significantly and it hurts to the very core of who you are. But then get up. You’ve got work to do.

When I got home from Walmart I cried some more. I then opened my computer and looked back on my writing from 2018 and found some of what I have edited and shared here now. These words were written 8 years ago to not only share my journey with others but as a roadmap to remind me now.

When an harmful agitator enters an oyster, it’s natural defense mechanism is to protect itself. If the oyster can’t remove the foreign object, it covers it. It secretes a fluid to coat the harm. Layer upon layer of the coating is deposited until a pearl is formed. It can take months or years but the oyster doesn’t relent. It takes something that didn’t belong and was harmful and creates beauty.

And once again, there it is, hope is born.

This isn’t a harmful agitator. This is the death of my beloved son. I know it will take God and time and often, it feels as if they move too slow. But they do move. Layer upon layer what could destroy will become beautiful. Right now it is nothing but destruction and nothing could ever match the cost of losing my child. But hope and solace reemerge remembering how hopeless it seemed all those years ago. Hope presents herself knowing what beautiful pearls came from all I didn’t know and all I feared.

Unlike the oyster, my natural defense mechanism is not to create something lustrous and valuable from adversity. It is not natural nor my truth. My truth is it takes incredible effort. It takes conscious decisions. I must choose to see the good even when it feels nothing but bad. I must choose to hold on to hope. On some days I choose to hope for hope. I must choose my focus and change it accordingly. I must choose to not allow bitterness and anger come close. I must choose to battle when they come. And they do. I must choose patience to endure. I must choose to hold to the promises of dreams unrealized. I must choose gratitude. I must choose resilience and perseverance. I must choose to be unconquerable. I must choose faith. I must choose the only way I, personally, know how to obtain all those things. I must choose God.

Each and every time.

Especially this time.

March 6, 2026
My Highest Honor and Deepest Heart Ache…A Eulogy

The silence stings.

Absence is all I hear…
Your laughter no longer reverberates through the house.
For now, it only whispers in my heart and I long with all my being
to hear more, louder, explosive you.
The chaos is gone.

Yet you remain

The beautiful fractals of excitement, impatience, joy, and love are flat and cold.
Normal is abnormal for us.
But love does not vanish.
It changes shape-
Becomes memory.
Becomes breath
Becomes the quiet strength that lets me stand here now.
What was real cannot be undone. It cannot be broken
The smile.
The soul-deep laugh
The hugs so intense your body shook.
Those are stitched into me now just as you were stitched in my womb.

I pack away the medical supplies…
The gauze…
The catheters…
The syringes and extension tubing…
The thermometer and pulse ox can go in a drawer.
There are no more emergency supplies
No more doctor appointments
No more labs to track
No more fear over every sniffle and every cough

I detest the letting go. I would have gladly done it for the rest of my days.
I spent every waking moment in the caring of you.
It was my honor and privilege. My purpose and calling.
I took pride in the way I cared for you not knowing, all this time
My sweet boy, it was you who was caring for me.
All I did for you could never match what you’ve done for me.
People would often say God knew what He was doing when He gave you to me.
God knew what He was doing when He gave me to you.

For you were the pillar. You were the strong one. You were the wise teacher. You were the hero. You were the unrelented soul with an infinite reserve of unconditional love. You were kindness and compassion. You were grace and you were mercy. You were the fierce voice in me that advocated for you and made me better.

You were my whole world and being your mom is, and always will be, my highest honor.

Thank you all for coming to celebrate the extraordinary life of Wesley Thomas Helmbrecht. He always loved a party.

I look around this room and see so many people who meant the world to our boy. You had such significance in his life. The only thing that mattered to him was love. Not money, not power, not status. Just love. And you graciously poured it into him. Words do not express my gratitude for all the laughter, lessons, songs, dances, and love you gave him. We all gave him the best life possible and he returned the favor

Wesley was born on October 26, 2001. We had no idea Wesley would have special needs despite multiple ultrasounds… Despite a father who was a physician specializing in diagnosing fetal anomalies and potential syndromes and despite ultrasounds by 4 other physicians`. God and Wesley held their secret until the moment he was born.

And from that moment he faced challenges. He was a fighter. He was the toughest kid I knew.

In the early days the doctors couldn’t tell me how long I would have him. “Shortened life expectancy” was all they really knew. Every day was a bonus. Every hug could have been the last. Every laugh might be silenced. Any moment could turn catastrophic and it often did. Yet it taught us to cherish things otherwise seen as miniscule. We had no small victories. Every accomplishment was magnificent and we celebrated it as such. It is a blessing and a curse to live each day as if it might be the last.

Wesley didn’t crawl until he was two and a half years old. But just around 14 months he figured out he could roll. He would get around the entire house by rolling, pivoting, and rolling even more. Nothing stopped our boy.

Every since he was little and throughout his life Wes would look to the sky and wave his arms. It would begin with a smile until his entire being bubbled with excitement. I used to ask him if he was talking to the angels again. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was. He had a direct connection. And now, for the rest of my life I will look to the sky, wave my arms, and talk to my sweet angel.

When Wes was eight years old we were walking through the mall and he approached a woman sitting on a bench. Before I knew what he was doing he threw his arms around her and hugged her. A complete stranger. I can still envision her face with tear filled eyes as she said, “you have no idea how much I needed that hug.”

But Wes did. We walked away and I asked Wes if God told him to do that even though I already knew the answer. I have countless of those stories. He was an angel among us.

Wesley attended Albemarle County Public Schools until finishing at Brownsville in 5th grade. He had special friends like Sydney Sherman who invited him to every single birthday party. The teachers wouldn’t put them together in the same class for fear of distraction. I will forever be grateful to that little red headed girl who was nice to our son.

He loved riding the school bus. As luck would have it, he had the same bus driver, Gary Miller, from kindergarten through graduating VIA all but two years. It wasn’t just a bus ride for Wes. It was a party and each and every day Gary delivered our child safely home to us.

Wesley went to the Virginia Institute of Autism in 2011 and graduated in 2023. He didn’t have instructors. He had best friends. He had people who genuinely loved him. And he had classmates who, I know, greeted him on the other side.

For the last 3 years he was home with us full time. From the moment I woke up until the moment I went to bed he was constantly by my side. I intensely cared for him including medications, catheterizations, dressing changes, and g-tube care. Mixed in all that was frequent pauses for hugs. We took care of each other in those moments. Our days were filled with one another.

He demanded his daily outings. Rain, sleet, snow or shine we went out every morning. For a boy who was non verbal he was bossy. He let us know what he wanted and when he wanted it. And if I ever said no his next sign was always, “Grandma”. If mom said no he was pretty sure grandma would say yes. Because she always did.

He spread so much love and joy in every Walmart, Bucees and mall within a 3 hour radius. People were instantly infected with his love just walking past him. He created ripples and changed lives in ways only God and now Wesley know.

Wesley loved music. It was his first word using American Sign Language It was at the very core of who he was – a way of expression that didn’t require words but everyone could understand. We took him to countless wineries, Fridays after Five, and concerts. For his 18th birthday Steve arranged for us to go to NYC to see the Laurie Berkner band. She invited him to a private room to meet the band afterward. It was a highlight of all of our lives. He met Andy Grammar with tickets compliments of the UVA Football Team. One of his favorite songs of all times was “Honey I’m Good.”

In 2011 Wesley’s father died by suicide. My mother left her life in Northern Virginia and moved in to help me. She cared for Wesley and for many years was my partner in raising the boys. She still is. She meticulously prepared his special diet and slept with him every night. She would roll him into breweries on Saturday nights. It was a sight to see. Inevitably, until last Tuesday, each and every night he ended up sleeping on her shoulder. They could not have been any closer.

Almost 7 years ago God brought Steve into Wesley’s life. I knew Steve was the one by Wesley’s reaction the very first time he saw him at the Trampoline park. Wesley screamed with excitement and reached for a hug. He was the best judge of character. He could not be manipulated or fooled. He saw the essence of who you are. I always knew if he loved someone especially, they were special.

Their bond was deep and strong. Their silliness filled the house with screams of excitement and breathtaking laughter. I knew it would take a special man to enter our world and God sent us the best of them.

My aunt Dolly moved in with us a year and a half ago. Wes always loved a house full and she was the only person who would sit for hours and hold his ipad. It could easily be on the table but Wesley loved when someone just sat with him. And she did.

Wesley was loved by his brothers and sisters, Some by birth, some by blood, some by marriage, and some by love. It breaks my heart that Emerson, Nathan, Leah, Aaron, Chrissy and Audrey, baby Chloe, Stevie, and Elayna carry the grief of losing a sibling especially one as special as Wesley. He impacted them and they are changed for having known his love.

Wesley entered UVA hospital on February 17th. At first it was thought to be manageable on a general medicine unit but that quickly changed as the gravity of the illness expressed itself. He fought so hard in the medical ICU with the best doctors and nurses. I knew he was in the right place. That exact unit saved his life 3 and a half years ago. Their care and compassion to my family will stay with us and for that, I am exceedingly grateful. I am at peace knowing it was, as simple and as complex it is to say, his time to go home.

Wesley made our family’s life unique. He allowed us to live in the world of special needs. It was a club I never knew I wanted to be part of but was so proud to be a member. Our fellow citizens are resilient and inspirational. There is an unmatched comradery among people here and you never feel alone. I have met parents who paved the and given me a road map of grieving the most significant loss possible. I have watched them come through the other side and live life again. It gives me hope that we will do the same with the help of our loving God.

Every single night I would kiss Wesley goodnight and tell him he is my world. He smiled every time because he knew that was the truth. My world is shattered yet my faith is strong and I know God will give us the strength, peace, and endurance we need for this unimaginable journey. He already has begun.

As a mother who gave birth to one of humanity’s most extraordinary human beings, I knew I would bury my son. It doesn’t make it easier. It doesn’t make it peaceful. It is raw. It is cruel.

I always knew our time was borrowed. In Christianity we hear words like “our children are on loan from God. They are His.” I think most parents who share our faith understand it is as a concept of spiritual trust but never actually live in that space. It was our reality. From the moment he was born I knew I wouldn’t keep him. I knew in the depths of my heart I would be standing here today. I would gladly bear the pain of losing him 1,000 times over than have him know the pain of losing me. God’s mercy needs untangling sometimes and it isn’t pretty to us, but it is there.

My faith has sustained me since childhood. I buried Wesley’s father 15 years ago. When I spoke at his eulogy I shared the two words I clung to. I find myself in another cruel February clinging to them once again.

But God…

Wesley is gone BUT God generously gave us 24 years…
My heart is broken BUT God has given Wesley a new heart, one that can not be infected or fail him…
We are devastated BUT God has promised blessed are those who mourn for they will be comforted. And He keeps every promise forever.
I don’t know who I am if not Wesley’s mom and caregiver BUT God will give purpose to this pain
My children mourn the loss of their brother BUT God has surrounded them with love and friends and one another…
I will never feel Wesley’s whole soul hug during this lifetime again BUT God had Wesley give me so many during his 24 to last the rest of mine…

God is good when He says “yes”. God is good when He says “no”. One of my frustrations as a Christian is when everyone declares His goodness because He answered the prayer in the way they wanted. They proclaim it when they see a miracle, the miracle as they thought it should be. A loved one is healed – God is good. A soul is saved – God is good. Catastrophe averted – God is good.

Our son died.

I tell you now…God is good. We still got miracles. They aren’t the ones we wanted but they are here and they are coming. There will be ripples of miracles I will never know. I am honored for the miracle of 24 years with Wesley when I didn’t know if I would get 24 hours, 24 days or 24 months. God didn’t take Wesley too soon according to His timeline. For this mother’s heart it absolutely feels too soon but also feels generous and merciful.

When Wes was a baby we would play a game. I would hold his arms and say, “Oh my where should I?” then I would pause. He would giggle with anticipation. After a few seconds I would exclaim, “tickle!” and tickle him somewhere with my chin. It was one of his favorite games. He waited with joyful anticipation because he knew the hands that held him. He knew they were loving and kind and only wanted to best for him. The empty space wasn’t frightening. It didn’t cause him anxiety. It made him joyful knowing something good was about to happen.

I sit in the stillness of a once beautifully chaotic life. The anticipation is there. Is it joyful? Only because I choose it to be. I choose joy. I know whose hands hold me. I know He is good. I know He is loving and kind and merciful, and generous. I know He will somehow, someway create good. If He could create the ultimate good from the death of His own son, He can and He will with mine.

We had 24 years of bright, unfiltered joy. It wasn’t small. And it is not unfinished. God did not silence that laughter, He opened the room. Now Wesley’s laughter is shared with the angels and saints in the presence of his grandfather and father and our Good, Good Father. His laughter is now joined in the songs of worship around the throne. He stands tall with no balance or strength issues. There are no wheelchairs in heaven. There are no doctor appointments or bad news. There are no challenges to overcome in heaven. Just love. Just unfiltered, untarnished, inexhaustible, exuberant, lavish love. Wesley was, no doubt, right at home there because that is how he loved us here.

I close with a verse, a hope, and an assurance. 2 Timothy 4:7-8

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day.

Our boy did fight the good fight. His race was harder than most and he never complained. He never felt sorry for himself. He carried what was given to him and just loved. I know his crown is spectacular. It is well earned. I will always remember the grace with which he carried his challenges and lavishly loved not in spite, but because of them.

I always said we spent so much time trying to make Wesley more like us when, really, we should be more like him. I urge you all to be more like him.
Laugh loud
Love hard
Hug Tight
Dance Silly
Leave the room better than when you came not because you were loved, but because you loved. And do it with all you have for as long as you have. Just like our sweet, sweet boy. In that his story in us is yet unfinished.

March 4, 2026
Hallelujah

February 10, 2019

Dear Gary,

It has been eight years. Eight years ago today you walked out of our basement door, into the woods, out of our lives and into eternity. Sometimes it feels like eight minutes and sometimes it feels like eight decades. Time is a strange thing when one is grieving. Like everything else, it makes little sense.

It took a very long time for the image of you on that day to leave my mind. For a while it was constant. Each time it appeared I would ask God to show me where He was and He did. Eventually, I was able to focus on the image of Him holding on to me as I screamed a sound I did not know could come from within me. The memory of you lying there became a voluntary one rather than unhibitated and relentless. It was torture.

I know you weren’t thinking clearly when you walked into the woods with your gun and probably didn’t consider that it was going to be me to find you. I went into shock. They put me in the ambulance that was meant for you. My dad’s pleading words, “The boys need you,” gave me something to hold on to instead of floating into that unknown territory called disassociation. They lost you on that day and I knew they could not lose us both.

Our friends, our church family, Community Bible Study, and the Covenant School enveloped us. They brought us food for months. They prayed for us and those prayers carried me. They helped take care of our boys. You would have been amazed by them. I never really knew how much they loved us until the evening of February 10th. We truly would not have made it without them.

Three days after you died I went to church and spoke. I confessed that Satan might have won a battle but he would not have this family. I was bloody and wounded but ready to battle in order to not let him have another victory. I promised God I would do my part to be sure He received every ounce of Glory from our story. It is a promise to which I cling even to this day.

We had to have your memorial at Covenant Church since there would be over 500 people there from every walk of life. It was a wonderful testimony to how you treated everyone equally whether an addict struggling with recovery or a wealthy businessman. It was one of the things I loved the most about you. You treated everyone with dignity and respect.

I delivered your eulogy. There was so much left unsaid and I felt strongly there were things you would have wanted me to say. I think you would have been proud of me. I refused to be the widow crumpled up and crying in the front row. As you knew, that just was not me. God empowered me to deliver your eulogy. My great need for Him compelled me to lift my hands in praise even though I could barely lift my head. There was no other way other than God’s Grace, mercy, and power.

I knew you would have wanted us to celebrate so I added a little humor. My concluding thoughts were:

As the person who knew Gary better than anyone I believe he would want me to tell you this: Hug your children a little tighter. Take time to be with God. Stop and be still. Fight for the things you believe in and never back down. To those who suffer depression and addiction, I believe he would remind you that your disease is relentless and to fight it with all you have. Tend to your recovery like a delicate garden watering it every day and rooting out the weeds immediately. He would tell you to not be ashamed of your disease. People with cancer and diabetes do not feel shame because of theirs nor should you. To his children he would say “I love you. Hold your head high, walk humbly with your God. Know who you are and what you were made for”. To everyone else, he would tell you to ALWAYS… ALWAYS vote republican.

Three weeks after you died an anonymous family stepped in and paid Emerson’s tuition to the Covenant School so that he could continue to attend. I was simply told a “family who loves our son wanted to be sure he could stay.” Of all the things I worried about, losing Covenant, the only school Emerson knew, was the one thing I did not want us to be without and God provided a way. They paid his tuition through graduation and now pay for his baby brother to attend.

I was able to stay in the house which was the best possible scenario for our boys. I would have preferred to move and not have to remember that day every single time I looked out the window or walked in the backyard but with Wesley’s autism it would not have been good for him. The boys needed stability. Their whole world changed on February tenth and I wanted some semblance of consistency for them.

Sometimes Wesley will look up to the sky and laugh and sign Daddy. It’s almost as if he’s talking to you and I honestly wonder sometimes if God allows you a moment to connect with Wesley. I hope He does because of everyone you left, I think I was most angry at you for leaving Wesley. He adored you and because of his profound cognitive impairment he just does not understand why you are not home with us. Sometimes he sees men in the store and will get excited, signing “Daddy” because he thinks it is you. He waits for you to come home still.

I did not get to grieve you the way I wish I could have. See, suicide leaves the us feeling betrayed and abandoned. I’ve spent the last eight years struggling with anger and abandonment and even “struggling” is too light of a word. It was a full blown war and each and every day I battled for my soul. I did not want to let bitterness overtake me though it tried. It is a formidable foe. But God…

To this day I find myself looking around the basement hoping to find a note. I desperately wanted one last goodbye. I wanted an explanation. I wanted to know why. I wanted anything other than nothing.

I have always found great solace that I left nothing unsaid. I am so grateful for the gift of our very last interaction. Perhaps part of your plan was to leave me with that last memory of us kneeling, holding hands, and praying together. I hope it was. We never truly know when the last thing we do or say will be the last thing. I certainly had no idea that saying “Amen” was the last thing we would do together and the last words I would hear you say. Thank you for that.

We had 17 years together, 42.5 percent of my life was with you. We saw time and time again God’s faithfulness and provision. We saw how allowing Him to work in our lives ultimately led to more glory for Him and a life for us that was more than we could have imagined.

Remember the time we closed on our home here? Your malpractice fell through the very next day and we were told you needed $20,000 in three days or you would not qualify. I remember you were in a panic because if we didn’t make the deadline it would be another year before you could get on a policy but we simply did not have that kind of money. We faced a year of no income and a brand new home. But then God showed up. The next day you checked the mail and found the letter from the hospital where Wesley had numerous stays. They received an insurance payment and were reimbursing us in the amount was $21,000. I remember we laughed and celebrated because not only did God provide what we needed, He gave us an extra grand. We trusted Him and believed He had a plan for us.

But not this time. I know with my whole heart that God was going to redeem our situation because that is His specialty. Instead of redeeming our lives He is redeeming mine.

When I married you in May of 1997 I meant the promise that we would grow old together. For a long time after you left I felt cheated. Being a widow at 40 was not what I signed up for and either was raising our boys without a father.

Every special event became bitter sweet. Emerson had some incredible achievements and at the recognition of each I looked at the chair beside me, either empty or someone else’s parent. I have had countless “you should have been here” moments and those moments do not get easier, not ever.

I had to make a conscious decision to forgive you. I would say the words but never really feel like I had forgiven you until now. For some reason this is the year that unforgiveness finally left me. I can’t be sure that I let it go. I never wanted it to accompany me so closely, breathing down my neck constantly. It just wouldn’t leave. I tried to chase it away. I tried to run from it. I laid it at the Cross but then would find it right at my side again. The process of praying constantly finally was made complete and unforgiveness along with anger quietly at some unknown moment left my side.

This is the year that my heart breaks to know that you were so hopeless that dying seemed like a better option than facing the next hour.

I remember when people would ask you how your wife was and you would always reply, “My wife? She is made of steel.” I think you knew that ultimately, I would be all right. You knew my steadfast faith and deep dependency on God. You knew that better than anyone. You were a witness to my life.

I’ve been helping with the Grief Share Ministry at my church. We come alongside those who have lost a loved one through death and hopefully minister and help them navigate this new world of grief. In the program they talk about ambush grief. It comes in the moments when out of nowhere and all of the sudden something triggers the grief and it comes pouring out. After 8 years I still am ambushed by grief, attacked just the other day. I was listening to Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”. You loved that song but only when it was sung by Leonard Cohen for some reason. I’ve heard it a million times but this time when he sang the line:

“And even though it all went wrong I stand before the Lord of song with nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah”

I became inconsolable crying.

Because even though it all went wrong

and even though our family and an entire community were devastated

and even though your children have been left with a scar that will never fade and never go away

and even though you still had work yet to be done on this Earth

and even though two of your addiction patients died within weeks of you because they could not get the help they needed

and even though terrible things happened to me in the year after you left

and even though the weight of grief crippled me and I still had to carry our children

and even though there were countless times I was sure I would never, ever laugh again

and even though my dreams died with you in the woods

and even though I would cry myself to sleep and wake up crying for a long time

and even though the grief was intractable and unbearable and all consuming

and even though my heart will never be the same

and even though there were days it took everything in me just to breathe

and even though our children have a lifetime of work in order to heal

and even though there were times I hated you

and even though it felt like I was swimming through mud

and even though I will always grieve you and I am not sure if healing will ever be completed

and even though your death caused me to feel a level of excruciating I never knew existed

Hallelujah.

God was and is faithful.

Sometimes the miracle we want or expect is not the miracle we receive but one nonetheless. The miracle is I survived. The miracle is the boys will be alright. The miracle is I now have a fortitude built from dust. The miracle is I discovered for myself that every word about the character of God in the Bible is true. He keeps every promise forever. He is close to the broken hearted. He is my refuge, my strong tower, and my shelter. He is the defender of the widows and father to the fatherless. The miracle is He yields the power to turn tragedy into triumph and He did. The miracle is that I know why Jesus said those who mourn are blessed. The miracle is He gave purpose to my pain. The miracle is I did laugh again. The miracle is even though I am not who I once was I am becoming who I was meant to be not in spite of the tragedy but because of it. The miracle is Hallelujah.

I used get so angry when people would say, “He is in a better place” because you were not supposed to be there yet and I was not supposed to be cleaning up the mess. I would think of you dancing in Heaven with the angels and get furious. You were supposed to be dancing with me and our children for years to come. You were supposed to walk Leah down the aisle. We were supposed to be grandparents together. A lifetime of supposed to’s would never happen.

Now, though, on this day this year I smile. You are at peace. You are home. You are missed and you are loved still.

We are healing. We are carrying on. We hold to the promise that God will work all things, even this, for our good. We have seen that promise bear fruit and rejoice knowing there is more to come.

And I have nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah.

February 11, 2019
It is in the letting go…

I had a good cry this morning. And this afternoon. And this evening. I am facing the reality that in two months my oldest son, Emerson, will graduate from high school. He will finally spread his wings and in August will fly straight to NYC.

Today I found myself wishing I could be more like eagles. When their young are ready to leave the nest the mother eagles will “stir up the nest” and make it uncomfortable for the babies to stay where they are. She will change the composition of the home from a safe, comfortable nest by scratching the soft layer away leaving only rocks and twigs exposed. The discomfort for the babies to stay where they are becomes greater than the fear of flying where they need to be. Something in the mother’s DNA knows when it is time for them to leave. She knows that only by testing their wings will they actually soar. It is instinctual for her to let them go for she knows the strength of those wings will allow her babies to fly even above the storm. They will know not to try to fly through it. They rise above.

There is absolutely nothing instinctual to me about having my child leave home. It goes against every way in which I have been created. Yet this mother’s heart knows Emerson is more than ready. I, however, am not. When he was little I knew that my time with him was fleeting. I savored every moment as if in doing so it would slow down time. It didn’t.

Wasn’t it only yesterday I rocked him to sleep in my arms while singing “someday we’ll find it, the rainbow connection…”? Surely it was last week he was pushing his little cart through the grocery store. He was my shadow and followed me everywhere, even to the bathroom. Wasn’t it only last month he would proudly collect dandelions from the yard and present me with the most beautiful bouquet ever?

He and I have weathered ferocious storms together. He stayed with me and hospitals several times while his brother laid in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. When his father died a little boy tried to become the man of the house. His self-imposed burden to do so and to be the child with no needs was and is exhausting and I am happy his load will be lightened. I am joyful in knowing that he will begin to become who he was meant to be absent of the every day trials our family faces. Only the pursuit of his dreams awaits my sweet son and this brings me solace even in the midst of grieving.

Unlike his father’s death, though, I see this loss coming. This time I see the mountain in the distance and don’t find myself suddenly at it’s base. We are heading there slowly and steadily and part of me wishes I could just hit the brakes and keep him little forever.

The hardest part of motherhood is not the runny noses and fevers. It is not the temper tantrums and eye rolls. It isn’t the sleepless nights, exhaustion, or endless “to do” lists.

It is in the letting go.

The process of breaking off a piece of my own heart so that my son may be whole is the biggest, most difficult challenge I have faced as a mother. It is necessary and I knew the end goal when I signed up for motherhood. Yet I did not think it would come so soon or so painfully.

Preparing for my son to leave the nest is somewhat like a death. As Christians we believe when our loved ones die they go not just to a better place, they are in Paradise. The sadness we feel, the grief, is for what we miss and for what we lost. We don’t grieve where they are, we grieve that we were left behind. Emerson will be exactly where he belongs. He will discover who he is and begin his quest toward his greatness, whatever that looks like. He will meet new friends and his mind will expand further than he ever imagined. But I will be in the same house and it will be quieter. I will no longer attend functions at the upper school and see the moms I have grown to love over the last 13 years. I will not tap on his door just to say “I love you.” I will not sit at the kitchen table every night dunking cookies in milk and solving the world’s problems with him. Surely, a piece of my heart will be gone.

Parenthood, when done well, is about sacrificial love. It is consistently putting our needs aside and attending to our children. I have eighteen years of learning and growing in sacrificial love. This, however, is the greatest and most painful sacrifice. It is accompanied by excitement in the promises yet to unfold for him but some days those just aren’t enough to keep grief at bay. Days like today it simply hurts. Days like today I feel the breaking of my own heart. Days like today I hate time for going so fast and my powerlessness to stop it. Days like today I can only mourn the letting go.

March 14, 2018
Then Hope Emerges

Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us. Romans 5:3-5

I love the above verse but at times it seems to befuddle me. I do not know anyone who rejoices in sufferings while they are suffering. This may just be semantics but I do know it is possible to rejoice WHILE suffering but not IN suffering.

When I add Romans 8:28 to the above verse it makes a little more sense.

“For we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him and have been called according to His purpose.”

Almost seven years ago my husband died and I was the one to find him. The following is an excerpt from my journal:

I lay on a stretcher wrapped in a blanket. I do not know how long I had been outside barefoot and no coat. I was shaking from cold and fear and death and uncertainty. I was shaking to the very core of me.

I could physically feel and spiritually sense the presence of all that was to come: as if grief, anger, despair, anxiety, loneliness, and regret, all at levels I had never encountered, were floating above but had not yet pounced. They were swirling, circling, waiting to attack viciously. Indeed, they were eager to devour me. I felt strangely peaceful that they would wait. Instead, I looked at the young woman who was part of the response team.

“Do you read the Bible?” I asked.

“Yes, I am a woman of faith,” she answered.

I whispered with my eyes closed, “How is God possibly going to bring good out of this? My husband is dead. The father of my children is dead.” When I finished my question I looked up at her as if saying “my husband is dead” was safer if said with my eyes closed.
Tears began to roll down her eyes.

“It is all right to be angry with God and tell Him you are angry,” she responded.

“I am not angry with Him,” I said, “I cannot face this without Him.”

My spirit made a decision when my mind could not. My brain and heart had suffered an injury of cataclysmic proportion yet my spirit knew that I would not survive except by clinging to my Father’s robe. I was the woman in the crowd. I was not pushing through people but I would push through anger, fear, doubt, loneliness, excruciating pain, to reach the hem of my Savior. I would stop at nothing to touch Him. I knew my faith would heal me.

Looking back on that moment, at times as if it was yesterday, and re-reading Romans 5, I can offer this: while there was absolutely no part of my being that rejoiced in that suffering I do understand how suffering can and will produce endurance. It is even written into the very definition of endurance given by Merriam Webster: 1. the ability to withstand hardship or adversity; especially : the ability to sustain a prolonged stressful effort or activity 2: the act or an instance of enduring or suffering

Suffering produces endurance because the only way to be released from it’s powerful grasp is to endure it. When we try to run from it we prolong the inevitable – that it will catch up with us and more than likely with gained momentum. When we try to divert from it, usually in unhealthy ways, we merely inflict a new layer of suffering.

I wonder if sometimes it takes the patience to endure and waiting in order for hope to appear apparent enough for us to recognize it. I know that during my time in the ambulance on that day and for a long time after, hope was only a momentary, fleeting notion. There was never enough of it to which I could hold. Grief and suffering can be so overwhelming that initially all one can do is attempt to survive.

Then hope emerges.

It may have been dormant and it may seem like it took an agonizingly long time to emerge but it comes. Because of my belief in a good God despite what was happening to me I could hold tightly to the promise that He would bring good out of the impossibly horrific. I could cling to the assurance that if I endured then hope would come. I also knew I would have to wait and during the waiting it was imperative for me to work harder than I ever have. I would fight for the patience to endure. I would battle anger, grief, abandonment, loneliness, and even doubt. I would wrestle with unanswered questions and the relentless “what ifs”. I would have to clear enough space in my heart so that hope and love and new dreams could grow. He faithfully gave me the tools I needed in order to be victorious. It was not easy yet I had hope. And it did not put me to shame.

He has and He will.

January 25, 2018
Shine Mightily

Our culture does not discuss grief. In fact, we do just about everything we can to avoid it. We don’t know what to say to someone experiencing it and few of us know what to do once we find ourselves in its powerful grasp. Grief is one of the great equalizers. We all must endure it.

I found out yesterday that a friend of mine passed away very suddenly. All grief is so very difficult but those unexpected loses do not give loved ones a chance to brace for impact. It blindsides you. It leaves you disoriented and reeling from the pain.

I met my friend last fall when she came to the Grief Share program at my church. She was drowning in grief but accompanied by her even keeled, ever doting husband. She was raw and honest about what she had endured. I instantly liked her and simultaneously felt great compassion for her situation. Even in the midst of her grief she was a person who filled the room. When she laughed you couldn’t help but light up inside. When she cried you couldn’t help but cry with her. She just drew you in. Her death comes as a great shock and my heart breaks for her husband and sons.

During the 13 weeks I had the privilege of getting to know her we shared very intimate details about our lives and our emotions. Our losses were different but the essence of our grief was the same. For a brief time we walked the same path on our journey. Her family now begins the walk all over after having already endured one other tragic, sudden, and unexpected loss. The grief they carry is too much to fathom.

One night during a Grief Share meeting I was able to share this with her and the group. It seems appropriate to share it again today. At the time of sharing it I wanted to lend hope to a room filled with people who had lost so much. Truly, when we lose that which matters the most often hope is the only thing keeping us afloat. It is all we have left but it is all we need to begin.

This morning when I left Charlottesville it was cloudy, windy, and raining but I was driving over the mountain to run some errands. I know that often when I get to the other side the weather is quite different. So, in spite of what it looked like where I was standing, I grabbed my sunglasses expectant to find something else entirely when I arrived. True to hope, as I reached the apex and started to descend the sun forced its way out and was shining mightily as if to show off its victory. If my life means anything, if I can impart anything to my children, if I can change my little corner may this picture be my deceleration.

There will be times in life when it is dark and cold where you stand. The mountain looms in the distance and you can’t be sure of what is on the other side. For a while you might pace at the bottom. You will stop and glance up overwhelmed by the task at hand. You may even lay down and wait for the strength for one more step. But you will stand back up. You scale the mountain and eventually joyful anticipation settles in with you. The journey will be challenging but there are streams and deer. There are flowers and birds. The sun will rise and the sun will set, sometimes with a glorious displays of hues and sometimes hidden. There will always be something for which to be grateful, even if it is that you draw breath. On the other side of the mountain is more than you could have ever imagined. Colors are more vibrant. Love is deeper. Your faith assured. You, like the sun, will shine magnificently in your glory.

Dearest Friend,

When I shared this with you I thought your mountain was like mine once was, grief. Re-reading this today I know you are on the other side and it is more than you ever imagined. Your smile and laughter will always accompany me. Shine on, dear friend. Shine on magnificently in His Glory.

January 23, 2018