As I stepped out of the church to the lovely garden courtyard, I had no idea my life would be forever altered within the hour. I was warmed by the sun as I chatted with a beloved couple.
Suddenly, Heather said to her husband, “Eb, is that your chaplain’s pager ringing?”
After his check-in phone call, Eb returned to us and exclaimed, “I must get to the hospital to comfort a couple whose child has died!”
While I offered up prayers for Eb’s difficult ministry, Ben, my 11-year-old son, grabbed my hand and led us to the parking lot.
My husband, Mike, had stayed home with our two other children, Laura, age 15, and Christopher, age 10. Christopher was fighting a sinus infection, so we chose to let him sleep-in rather than roust him for Sunday routines.
Turning on my phone, I saw voicemails from Mike. Though happy to hear his voice, I listened to only his first message which said, “Call me, it’s about Christopher.” Typically, such calls were to announce that Chris was having one of his seizures requiring an EMT ride to the hospital. Hearing no mention of this made me wonder what was different. Not listening to his additional messages, reporting Christopher’s worsening condition, left me absolutely unprepared for his startling news.
When I phoned Mike, He simply said “I’m at the hospital. Christopher didn’t make it.”
“What are you talking about?” I yelped. Silence. For my son’s sake I subdued my voice, “Ben is here with me, what would you like us to do?”
Mike replied, “Come to the hospital.”
My mind reeling, I longed to scream “NO” to this unfathomable news, yet the instinct to protect Ben didn’t allow me. For that trembling 10-minute drive I appeared stable, and Ben remained uniformed, though, I’m sure, intuitively concerned.
Squealing into the emergency room parking lot, my brother-in-law greeted Ben as I ran indoors. There stood Eb, who received me with tears and open arms.
I muttered, “Oh, my God, Eb, we are those parents you were meeting. How can this be?” My hug shifted from Eb to my sweet hubby, who had sorrowfully approached. Our arms then dropped to handholding as he led me behind the curtain.
There laid our boy, whose cherub-like face suggested he was primed to be an angel all along. He had died from pneumonia. Battling disbelief was excruciating. Time stood still and all was frozen save for my gazing down upon him. It seemed only moments lapsed before Eb, Mike, and I were holding hands with five other dear friends who encircled the gurney, praying for our comfort.
“How did these folks know to come?” I wondered. My aching heart answered my silent question. “Who cares, I’m just thankful they’re here!”
No one offered trite platitudes. There were no attempts to find reason for the unreasonable. There was simply a supportive, humble realization that we are not in control of such things.
The support of loved ones who asked few questions and sat quietly with the shock, cushioned our heartache. Their presence proved invaluable when our pain and outrage swelled from a trickle to a tsunami as numbness wore thin and reality set in.
The following days brought a flow of friends, family, and floral deliveries. The blessings of love and peace brought by countless visitors from every station of our lives seemed to linger in the scent of stargazer lilies.
One day, amid the muddled week between death and funeral, visitors were wedged into our home’s limited but cozy seating. Their reminders of our son’s character, good-nature, and signature favorite things brought gentle tears and unexpected joy. The ebb and flow of chatter would lapse into occasional, appropriate silence. Amid one of these meditative moments, “chime, ding, ding, chime!” pierced the hush.
Heads perked up with furrowed brows questioning, “What was that?”
A few said, “Someone just got their angel’s wings!”
Mike and I both stammered, interrupting each other to explain, “You don’t understand, that clock hasn’t worked for decades!”
Other blessings came as a friend drove me to emerald-green pasturelands spotted with the mooing cows Christopher treasured and the lakeside park with the tire swing that thrilled him time and again. Further down the country road was the pond where our darling son, who had autistic qualities, would endlessly toss bread to the mallards and geese, surprising them with occasional pebbles! These memories of life with Christopher were bittersweet, yet, as I encountered them, there was a freeing realization that tender moments could reside alongside the anguish. This created a healing foundation on which I could inch forward with life.
Mike and I made efforts to consider each other’s uniquely individual grief journeys. “Mike,” I began as we attempted another night’s sleep. “I know it’s tough for you when I break down crying. But even worse, I’m so scared that if I do, it will overtake me with no way back.”
A gentle touch from him spoke a silent “it’s OK,” and that was all I needed. The tears began to seep then flow, followed by wrenching, guttural moans and sobbing.
Some moments later I was comforted to know that I had survived this dark tunnel of release and came out to find light. It had not consumed me. I was one step further on my journey of healing. I recalled the belief that it may be healthier to go through, not around, our struggles.
One year and two weeks later, the most amazing person I’ve ever known, our daughter Laura, died at age 16 from a bowel obstruction. This part of our life story is so difficult to comprehend in light of our initial loss of Christopher. Taking a deep breath allows one to acclimate. Both of these angels were born with cerebral palsy and a myriad of disabilities. Their grave plaque reads:
Your presence on earth taught us how to live
Your place in Heaven gives us a vision with hope
What more could we ask for
Yet we miss you so!
I do not embrace the cliché that God doesn’t give us more than we can handle. I find instead that grace is doled out in accordance to our needs, and will always prove greater than the trials we’ll encounter. God’s assurance of this measured grace even brings serenity to everyday life.
During my first years of recovery from my children’s deaths, I attended support groups for bereaved parents. Reassurances from others that they endured similar symptoms of grief provided solace. There were pressing questions and painful passages that I endured with a deeper peace because of hearing from like-kind souls.
After a few years of healing, I began facilitating these meetings. It was such a privilege to create a space of tender warmth where both tears and laughter were welcomed.
Later, my husband and I founded a non-profit organization. Our memorial LaChris Connection served families of kids with special needs. It equipped them to enjoy adaptive family adventures and respite for parents. If not for our special needs children and their moving on too soon, we may not have experienced such fulfilling opportunities and purpose.
Truly, wonder can arise from sorrow. For this, I am grateful.
