Those years were the hardest of my life by far, but not because of where he was or the people we met while he was there. In fact, the people were what made the whole process --and the reality of what was happening-- bearable. I'm sure it's hard on them to watch the little people they care for suffer, and I'm sure it's hard on them to watch some of them die. But I'm thankful that they were given hearts that are big enough and bright enough to rebound from the sad moments as they come.
The end of each school year is always bittersweet. On one hand, it's a huge blessing to watch Abby, Isaac, and Brady grow and change and mature over time. On the other, it's always painful to be reminded that Logan isn't growing and changing and maturing. Not that I can ever really escape that truth, but the reality of it --the finality of it-- is sharper this time of year. And it's especially sharp this year, since if he'd never had cancer and life had progressed as we'd expected, he would be finishing fifth grade on Friday and moving on to join Abby in middle school this fall. That truth didn't occur to me until this morning, but I think that's why his name has been everywhere lately. My heart and my soul remembered even though my mind lagged a few faces behind.
But to get around to my original point here, I'm thankful for these books, because they so beautifully mark each chapter in (most of) my children's lives.
Brady, who looked a bit like he'd gone paintballing, giggled like a madman each time more paint splattered in his direction.
I laughed, too: I can totally imagine myself freaking out over the mess 10 years ago, but not now, both because a little washable paint really isn't a big deal, and because kids deserve to be kids. It should be okay for them to get dirty and make messes without their moms having fits, because Heaven knows that Jesus doesn't start yelling every time adults --who should know better-- get a little dirty.
And finally, there was the picture of the Loganberry Fairy that a dear old friend left on my Facebook wall tonight.
I have no clue why his name kept appearing to me, but I'm glad it did. He's always on my mind in one way or another, but the repeated --and plentiful-- visual prompts were like a little hug from Heaven.
It made me smile to see the bigger brother carefully guiding the little brother along our route because it's a perfect image of how human life is supposed to operate: we're supposed to help and love one another as we navigate our respective paths.
It's beautiful, really. And simple.
This morning, as Brady and I left for school, he grabbed his Orioles hat --which, rather oddly, he got from the school's former receptionist before she retired-- and plunked it down on his head. He smiled and told me that he plans to wear it when we go to the A's/O's game in August.
I grinned back and my heart grew a few sizes. I love that though my kids have never lived in Maryland, they feel an attachment to it. I love that they ask when we can visit and want to know what's going on with my family and friends there. Their questions and comments make home feel a little closer than it is geographically, and for that, I'm thankful.
I don't think anyone enjoys feeling sad, but in a way I was glad to see his emotion bubble over. Those little drops showed how much he enjoyed his teammates and how much fun he had playing this spring. And as his mom, I'm so thankful that he can make those connections and feel so much joy just by playing ball.
Brady's class submitted the most Box Tops for Education this school year, so they won a popsicle party. Since I'm the program coordinator, I got to deliver the reward, and I stuck around while they indulged.
Kindergartners are just so sweet. (Well, most of them are.) They were genuinely pleased as punch to do something as simple as eating a popsicle and having a few minutes of extra play time. That kind of innocence is priceless, and their little lights are a blessing to the world-weary who surround them.
I met a friend for coffee this morning. She ordered first, and when I got to the table, I found this:
We had a brief text exchange about devotionals about a month ago, so though it wasn't entirely random, it was surprising because of what she didn't know.
What she didn't know was that that very brief exchange stuck with me, too. So much so that yesterday, I had plans to head over to the bookstore to pick up a daily devotional for her --one for chronically busy people-- but between dance, a t-ball party, and baseball practice, I wound up running out of time. (The irony is not lost on me.) So I was more than a little stunned to see that book on the table. I was so stunned, in fact, that I didn't say a word about my own plans (until now, of course).
It probably shouldn't, I know, but that kind of thing just amazes me. I am so thankful to have friends who make the extra effort to really point me toward God and a faith-driven life.
That's a smile born of a sense of accomplishment, and I love seeing it on his little face. Life isn't, of course, all about success or being the best, but there's something to be said for feeling like you've done something positive.
He called Abby awesome a few times and noted that she'd played Mary in the Nativity play last year, and that she'd been part of a skit that some members of the Youth Group performed during the service a few months back. Then he explained that he'd told her he'd hold up a sign for her in the back of the room during the play to offer her some in-the-moment encouragement, but she asked him not to so he didn't. But then, of course, after all was said and done she asked why he hadn't done it despite her protestations. So today, he finally held up that sign for everyone to see. (In case you can't quite make out the wording, I'll help: it says 'ABBY WIGHT IS MY HERO.')
Now I'll be clear on one point: I have no idea why it says what it does. She didn't really know when I asked, and he didn't go into details, but my heart made a connection of its own: at age 12, Abby has already suffered through an excruciating season of life. Despite that loss, she's retained her sense of humor, her intellect, her dedication to family and friends, and her ability to love. I don't know if he had any of that in mind --and I think perhaps he did, since he too has had to weather the storm of losing a brother way too soon-- but it's what came to mind for me.
So yeah. I guess she's kind of my hero, too. And for the strength that I see every day in that little heroine of mine, I'm so very thankful.
Brady ended his TBall tenure with a few solid coach pitch-enabled hits --including a towering fly ball-- and emerged with the Game Ball. Isaac's team lost, but he had some great defensive plays at short and then pitched two innings, during which he threw a runner out at the plate and struck out a batter with the bases loaded to snuff out a scoring bid. He even recovered after a hard grounder bounced off his chin; he cried for a few seconds, but stayed in the game and got the last batters out. He impressed me; he always impresses me, but the resilience he showed was pretty remarkable. I don't think I would want to stay in the game after a baseball bounced off my face.
So it seemed appropriate to celebrate with some ice cream after lunch. I don't have the participation trophy mentality, but I like to reward my kids when their behavior embodies good character; when they work through challenging circumstances and don't give up (as Isaac did), or when they put their best effort into play and find success (as was the case for Brady).
So what's my point here? The usual: I feel blessed to be their mom. One of Isaac's teachers said to me yesterday that I'd done a great job with him because he's (using her actual words) "like, the best kid ever", but it's not really me. It's God blessing me --blessing us-- with some pretty terrific children. And that's something I'm mindful of every single day.
And what I saw was him running up to a group of kids --some he knew, some were strangers-- and instigating a game. They ran and laughed and had a grand old time for 50 minutes, until I told him that we needed to go.
Given that I was pretty shy as a kid, it's remarkable to see my children interacting so freely with their peers. That fearless, unabashed comfort with others... it's a beautiful thing.
Tonight was the Little Boys' Open House at school.
It's always fun to see how much they enjoy showing us around their classrooms, and tonight was no different from previous experiences. Both boys flitted from one bulletin board to the next, proudly showing off their work and explaining each project.
I know I say this a lot, but one of my great joys as a mom is watching them grow and learn and change.
I love these things: the crunchy, sugary shell with delicious Cadbury chocolate nestled inside is one of my favorite sweet treats.
So since I found the bag on that out-of-the-way shelf, I've been enjoying the indulgence. And though it's certainly just that --an indulgence through and through-- it's been a blessing because sometimes, it's just nice to enjoy a simple pleasure.
So it was nice when I happened to glance down this afternoon at a random moment and saw that his name was peeking out at me. I don't make a big show of it, but I still wear my Logan-bracelet every day, just like I wear my name necklace and a pendant Logan picked out for me and my wedding rings.
Those reminders don't change the reality, but they do make him feel a little closer to my heart.
Her friend Gracie's dad was a little late picking her up from dance this evening, so we stood outside the studio and waited, and while we did, these two twittered and giggled and tried (in vain) to avoid my camera.
I love just watching my girl interact with her friends. I love seeing her sharp wit and goofy sense of humor shine.
And of course, I love seeing that genuine smile.
There may be a lot of wrong in this world we live in, but there's a lot of right in these girls.
On the other side of that same coin is the crushing reality that my family will never again be fully complete on this side of Heaven. It's a truth with which I've grappled for the past five years. It's not a truth that gets easier to accept over time; it's just one with which I have no choice but to live.
So today, as we brunched and I napped and we ate pizza while watching Brave, I was thankful for the times that were, and are, and will be in the days and months and years to come. And though I can't say that my heart ever truly felt light, I had happy moments. And given that holidays can be hard, that's good enough for me.
She hasn't had much experience in the kitchen and she's been eager for some freedom, so I was happy to let her do this one little thing on her own. So she found the ingredients, the pan, the cupcake liners, preheated the stove, and got to work. All on her own. She brought me the pan when the timer went off so I could check to see if they were done, but otherwise, the hot cocoa cupcakes with marshmallow frosting were entirely her own, and I think she was pretty proud of herself for pulling it off without any major disasters (or any disasters at all).
It's a blessing to be her mom (even when she's mouthy and I want to smack her).
As I watched Brady and the kindergartners singing, it occurred to me that my time as an elementary school parent is more than halfway over. He still has several years to go, of course, but in that moment, I was stunned by how quickly the time has passed.
I'm not always good at doing the right things, but I like to think I always try to prioritize what really matters. And I'm thankful to have the freedom to help with my kiddos when the opportunities arise.
Brady didn't really get the chance to know his biggest brother, but I'm often struck by how much they have in common. The cars, the dancing, the laughter, the silly faces. There's so much of Logan in Brady that it sometimes takes my breath away. And though I will miss my Sunshine until we meet again, I'm deeply thankful that I can see so much of him in the baby brother he was so excited to welcome to the fold back in 2010.
My baby and his buddy, all cuddled up as they explored dreamland.
I could watch any of my babies sleep for hours. There's something calming and even therapeutic about watching their little chests rise and fall. Sometimes I even sit and count their eyelashes (while I wonder how they all managed to get such beautiful sets while mine are so lackluster). As I note over and over (and over) again, I know they won't be little for long, so I'm going to drink in the everyday moments whenever I can.
After Isaac reached base at one point (he went 2 for 2 with a walk, so not a bad outing for him at all in spite of it all), he started waving his arms around. It took me a few seconds to realize that he was trying to get my attention from afar. I mouthed "what?" at him, and between pitches, he mouthed something back at me that I couldn't decipher. A few more "what"s followed until I finally figured out what he meant: he was trying to tell me that his friend Max was pitching for the other team. Once I finally nodded and gave the thumbs up sign, he grinned.
It stinks to lose as often as his team loses. But I love that, in that moment, he brought me back to the reality that playing with friends --and having fun playing with friends-- is what really matters when you're a kid playing ball.
Him: Mom, how old are you?
Me: Why?
Him: I did an interview about you for Mother's Day and it was one of the questions.
Me: Oh. 39.
Him: Oh. I was way off.
Me: Why? What did you guess?
Him: 80.
Me (after a pause): You must think I'm very wise!
Him: You are!
So that's one of them. I laughed just now recounting it to Adam.
But I like this one better. As I strolled (and he rolled) along, he looked up at me and said You know what I like best about kindergarten? and I said No, what?. And he responded with the sweetest words: I get to spend extra time with you.
I know these days are few and that he'll be grown before I can blink, so I'm trying to stay mindful of those truths. And if spending those extra minutes with him means I don't get the house cleaned or I take a little longer with a work assignment, then so be it. Because he and his siblings and our family and my friends? They're what matter the most to me in the long run.
Once upon a time (in the early 2000s), right after we finished college and were thrust into the Real World as full-fledged adults, Adam and I went to a lot of A's games. It helped that we had time on our hands plus a friend who was an employee who occasionally hooked us up with some pretty sweet seats, but honestly, we both shared a love of the game and probably would've sprung for tickets anyway. We followed the team closely, watching on TV when we could and listening via radio when we couldn't (and honestly, sometimes we watched TV on mute while listening to Bill King and Ken Kourach call the games). We got married in August of 2002 when they were in the middle of their historic 20-game win streak, and were at the Coliseum for some pretty incredible moments, including Game 18 of The Streak and Jason Giambi's boo-filled return to Oakland. (That last one was some of the most fun I've ever had, ever. The volume and the intensity and and the way the entire stadium seemed single-mindedly united in the quest to boo the former star A's slugger was little short of euphoric.) Anyway, that's just some background.
Over time, it became harder to go to games, but I have fond memories of sitting in the stands with my hunny, taking in the sun's rays and watching the A's pull out some pretty magical moments on the field. Today, as the crowd thinned, Adam --who had been sitting several seats away next to Abby-- moved to sit next to me. For a few moments, it felt like 15 years ago. And the game continued on.
Entering the bottom of the 9th, the A's trailed Detroit by two runs. And, just like they used to do, they pulled out a win with some last-minute heroics. We jumped and cheered and whooped and hollered. And Brady danced (like I'm sure Logan would have if he were here) and Isaac shouted and jumped up and down. Even Abby, who complained about going to the game, was into it.
My heart felt so full. I know: it's just a baseball game. They're literally played (almost) every single day from April through September. But Adam and I have roots in baseball, and I needed to remember those roots. So for the ability to introduce the next generation to the thrill of the game and the blessing of remembering what once was (and still is), I'm thankful.
She half-broke her phone last weekend --the camera stopped working after she dropped it into a not-empty-sink-- so she begged me to let her take a selfie on my phone. After pleading a few times, I let her do it as we drove over to the studio. (If you look closely, you can see that my eyes were on the road!)
It's amazing (and a little scary) to see how much she's grown in recent months. As I've noted multiple times over the years, it's a huge blessing to see her --and Isaac and Brady-- grow and change, even when it feels like it's all happening too quickly.
The kiddos recited poems and sang several songs, including the one they're pictured singing here: "You Are My Sunshine." I've probably mentioned it before, but that was my special Logan-song. It was the one I sang for him every night as I nursed him to sleep as an infant and it the one I was singing to him as he slipped into eternity. I haven't sung it to anyone else since he passed, and honestly, I may never sing it again (on this side of Heaven, anyway).
But it was still sweet to hear Brady --who just happened to be wearing his sunshine-emblazoned Shining Light Preschool shirt-- and all of his friends bring it to life because it's never bad to be reminded of my Sunshine.
She's one of those people I can talk with --totally comfortably-- for hours. And we've logged quite a lot of time chatting about everything from school to politics to TV to movies to coping with fledgling teenagers and their drama.
It's easy to take friendship for granted, but it's a huge blessing.
I stopped, smiled at him, and told him that he was right. Then he bounced off and I went back to opening tickets and thinking about my baby's wise words.
Our exchange may have, on the surface, been about Monopoly, but there's more to it than that. It's not really about winning and losing. It's about having hope and faith and living an expectant life in spite of one's immediate circumstances and feelings. And that's what I'm trying to do.
Then my friend Nikki brought me this tonight.
This lovely concoction of cream and sugar and all things tasty didn't solve my problems or heal my heart, but it did make me feel loved. And that's a very good thing indeed.
Anyhow, while I was at Starbucks (don't laugh) this morning, I was half-drinking coffee, half-working, and half-fretting over whether I really should've held my tongue a few specific times in recent history. (And yes, I know that equals three halves. Stay with me, k?) I'd just come to the conclusion that I'd be better off keeping my thoughts to myself in the future when Chuck walked in with his little dog. Chuck is a regular at Starbucks, and we've spent some time chatting over the past few months. He took the next seat over and struck up a conversation. I can't remember exactly how the subject came up, but we were talking about putting off time with family when he suddenly said 'don't put off doing things or talking to people, because you never know what's coming tomorrow.' (That's a paraphrase. He was far more eloquent.) I felt a chill and instantly knew that I was supposed to get something significant from the remark.
So here's what I got. Obviously, I should make sure the little gatekeeper who guards my tongue in on duty at all times. But I should also not be afraid to speak the truth --the productive, kind truth-- even when I fear judgment. And when I screw up (as I know I will now and then), I should interpret whatever criticism I receive as a blessing since in the long run, it'll make me a better person.
I know this is long and ramble-y, but I wanted you all to know how much I appreciate you for sticking with me over the past four-plus years (and beyond). I hope my sometimes weakly written words and poorly structured thoughts are a blessing to you now and then.
