And Life Comes Back: A Wife's Story of Love, Loss, and Hope Reclaimed (9 page)

“Everything will be different now, kid. Harder. Everything. Harder.

“The world won’t stay in this with you. Some of them will … a few of them. But most of them won’t. The world can’t deal with it. They don’t want to stay in this place. News has a three-day cycle; tragedies that happened four days ago aren’t on the news anymore. There’s another one around the bend, and the world is waiting for that one. They can’t stay where you are, kid.

“It’s sad but true.

“They’ll move on. You gotta learn how to do this, whether they stay in it with you or not.”

I wrote his words on Post-it notes, these vague instructions I would cling to: “Learn how to do this.”

At bedtime the boys chose
Oh, the Places You’ll Go!,
one of our favorites from Dr. Seuss. I leaned into the delicious nonsense of his made-up words. We read about heads full of brains and shoes full of feet, about ways to steer clear of the not-so-good streets. We read about the best of the best and the top of the rest, about bang-ups and hang-ups, prickly perches and lurches, and the very, very good chance of something that will scare you right out of your pants. It’s a story about adventure and finding yourself, but there are some dark and scary pages in that book. Tyler lingered on those pages. When we closed the book, his mind stayed on the purple pages of the roads between hither and yon, the ones that can scare you so much you won’t want to go on.

I whispered to him the seeds he and I have been sewing into his heart, “Be strong and courageous, kiddo. The Lord your God is with you wherever you go. Lie down and sleep in peace. God will keep you safe.”

“Good night, Mommy.”

“Good night, sweet boy.”

Moments into my own night’s sleep, Tyler was struck with fear and fled to my bedroom. I really enjoy sleeping through the night. I really, really do. But on occasion it’s nice to sleep next to my little boy, to listen to his breathing, to see the lines I remember of his baby face that only emerge when he’s deep in sleep. This business of sharing a bed is okay with me for now. As with all compromises with my children, I’m okay as long as it’s a choice I’m allowing—not something that is now out of my control, something to which I must give in. As
soon as it appears that we have stepped over the line from concession to demand, well, he and I will need a new plan. But when a little Linus with his blue blanket arrives in my doorway, whimpering only loud enough to awaken Mama Bear, I simply can’t send him back to bed with a verbal cue. And it’s nice to share the bed. Mostly. Sometimes it gets a little lumpy and crowded with pointy elbows, bony knees, and wandering feet.

“Tyler, could you lie on your side when you sleep with me? Your feet are pressing against my back.”

“But, Mommy, my feet were afraid. They needed to know where you were.”

My poetic child. I give him time to remember he is safe, to remember he is loved, to remember. Then I get my sleepy self up and onto two feet, I scoop him up, and I carry him back to his bottom bunk. I lay him down, ready to go back to my slumber before the sheets can cool, and then he says, “Mommy, I wish you would rock me.”

Well, surely I can’t say no to that request since I have always loved rocking him, and now he has the verbal skills to tell me he loves it too. I hold him in my arms, with his legs around my waist, and his soft, downy head nestled right beneath my chin. As I start to think about laying him on his pillow, just as I begin to count the hours until morning and weigh the cost of sleepy parenting, I think about the truth that someday his head won’t fit quite so perfectly underneath my chin. I can’t bring myself to let go of him quite yet.

As I look at the lines and planes of his sweet, young face, I see the scar underneath his left eye. Stitches after a picture frame fell off the wall and gashed his cheekbone. Robb and I had raced to the
pediatrician’s office. I sat on the floorboard next to him the entire way, and my sweet child never, ever broke eye contact with me. There are times when eye contact is more important than a mom’s seat belt. It’s an entirely separate form of safety.

After I nearly fainted twice, first over the doctor’s mere mention of stitches, and second when they inserted the needle to numb the wound, I laid my baby down on the table, determined to keep my mind, pulse, nausea, and emotions under control. Everything was happening right under his eye, which meant he had to watch everything coming at him.
Well, not on my watch, kiddo.
I positioned my face directly over his and kept his eyes on me.
A stare down, kiddo. You can do this.
By letting him watch me, I had to watch them put five stitches in his sweet, freckled face. I know how that procedure is done now. I know all too well. And every once in a while, I felt the heat rushing up my neck, the dizziness sweeping in, and my breath getting faster. So I would stop, look away, focus on the picture of a clown on the wall, and find my maternal strength again. All the while I leaned hard against my husband. Physically I leaned. Team parenting. Team us.

Five stitches later there’s a story to tell, a scar to prove it, and another notch on the belt of boyhood. Like a whisper I touch the small pink line that tells the story of the day Robb carried my heart as I carried our son through the trauma. My touch rouses Tyler a bit. He crawls out of my lap and onto his pillow, into his snuggly spot, all by himself. I cover him once more with his beloved blanket, tucking it around his body and under his chin. I reach up to the top bunk and cover Tucker, snug as a bug in a rug. Comfy, cozy. After all, they
might get cold during the night, and I can prevent that in a silent, unobserved way. They don’t even know I was there.

I kiss them once more before I leave, and I wonder as I smooth a blanket under Tucker’s chin, how has God done this same thing for me? Quieted me before I could spin out of control? Tucked a blanket quietly around me before coldness could set in? Silently, unobservably offered himself in ways I might never notice? My mind was flooded with a dozen gifts … an encouraging conversation with a trusted friend, a timely card in the mail, a song lyric that seems to speak directly to me, a gift card to Starbucks from a friend who says, “I think you could use some time for you,” a kiss from my son, a hug from his brother, a knowing glance from my mom, a laugh from my dad, a text from my brother, a verse on my mind. Perhaps God sent them my way so I wouldn’t feel cold.

I go back to my empty bed, cool sheets, and a ticking clock, and I chase my mind around that tender scene with my little boy.

Stan on the phone again, pouring encouragement into my heart.

“People are watching you, but you can’t give them all a voice. You know what I say? I say don’t defend yourself to anyone. You do your best. You do it your way, the way you know how. And don’t defend yourself. They’ll have advice; they’ll have criticism. You can’t let it shape you. Make the best decision you can every single day. And don’t defend it. Just do your best. You know your best.”

He referred to his experience as a public speaker. “You can get a standing ovation, but you know if you deserved it. You know. You
know if you had your head in the game or if you just stood up there and read your notes. You know, kid. You gotta do your best. And don’t defend it. Just do your best.”

I backed out of the driveway, taking the boys to school with a smattering of mismatched mittens and overdue library books. “Who is going to pray for our day today?”

“I will!”

“No! I will!”

“Guys, you both can.”

“Okay, but I’m going first.”

“No, I’m going first!”

“Tyler, you can go first.”

“Dear God, thank you for our food, and help us to have a really bad day. Amen.”

“Why would you pray for a bad day?”

“Tucker told me to.”

“No, I didn’t!”

“That doesn’t really sound like something Tucker would ask you to do. And you’re in charge of yourself anyway.”

“Can I try again?”

“Yes.”

“But it’s my turn now. He already prayed.” A strong point.

“Tyler, let’s let Tucker pray now. Then you can pray again.”

“Dear Jesus, please let us have a really great day, and thank you for
my mommy and my brother and my daddy and the snow, and please die on the cross again and again. Amen.”

(Mental note: When time allows, teach boys that the Crucifixion was a one-time gig.)

“Tyler, do you have anything else to add?”

“Yes. Dear God, thank you for today. And please let the joy come out all day long.”

Now that is a great thing to add, and this explains a lot about my sweet celebration of a second born, as this is his morning prayer. I prayed next, closing the morning commute with prayers on behalf of the many teachers who need heaps of patience and wisdom to make a day like today come together with any positive outcomes. I thanked God for smart boys and good friends and healthy lunches and good choices. Amen.

“Thanks for praying, guys. I like when we start the day that way.”

“Mommy, next time will Daddy be alive?” Tyler asked. Terms of chronology are vague at our house. “Next time” means any time to come, and “lasterday” means any time previous to this moment.

I spoke to him over my shoulder as I drove. “No, lovey. He’s in heaven. He gets to stay there.”

“So do you mean he really died? He really got sick? And he really died?”

“He really did, buddy. Really, really.”

His face crumpled with sadness, and he began to cry. “But, Mommy, I can’t remember him. I can’t remember what he looks like.”

A knife through my heart, these words. My sweet child’s realization that his memories are fading. I turned to look at him, our teary faces mirroring one another.

“Oh, Tyler, I’ll help you, buddy. We have so many pictures. I’ll show you, honey. I’ll show you.”

“No. No. I don’t want pictures. I want all of him. I want his whole body—with bones in him. I want him with bones!” He cried and cried.

Me, too, Tyler. I do too. I want all of him, with bones in him.

Pruning initially makes the tree … more unsightly.

It makes a dead thing look deader, if that’s possible.

—Mark Buchanan,
Spiritual Rhythm