ALL CAPS!

My CAPS key got stuck today while I was trying to write. It made me think of one of my favorite books, A Prayer for Owen Meany, because Owen's words are always represented by ALL CAPS due to his very unusual voice.

It was the first book Tim ever gave me, way back in 1992, and we both really liked it. I was surprised because Tim wasn't that into God back then, and the book has a strong spiritual focus. He and I had no idea then that we would marry and one day be raising an unusual little boy of our own. One who would surprise us with his wisdom and his steadfast love of God. We didn't know that it would take us a long time to learn to appreciate his gifts. Or that we'd too be dealing with a freak accident and grappling with God's role in all of it, the way the narrator must with the death of his mother.

The narrator, Owen's best friend, looks back over a lifetime of memories and pieces together the important, sacrificial plan God had for Owen's short life.

I do not claim to know what the plan was for Jack's life. I have hints here and there, glimpses of lives changed, faith strengthened, a longing for heaven, and relationships restored. I also see the other side: dreams shattered, faith in crisis, and broken relationships. It's all very interesting.

What got me thinking about Owen a little more today, after my computer started behaving normally again, was the idea that all of these strange disjointed parts of Owen led up to one critical moment of fulfilling his divine purpose.

My thoughts were not so lofty. In fact, I started thinking of just one single aspect of Jack's personality. You see, I recently re-read a letter from his Cub Scout den leader, in which she wrote of Jack's quiet, calm demeanor, his wisdom, maturity, and his thoughtfulness. She wrote of the respectful way he served as a good influence on his peers. This is similar to our own experiences with Jack and those echoed by Sunday School teachers, camp counselors, etc.

Here's the thing. His school teachers would NOT say the same. Uh-uh. No way. Their words are: smart, creative, clever, and humble. But never quiet or calm!

Let's just say Jack and the principal were not strangers.

When we hear of Jack's classroom antics, we wonder about this side of his personality. Tim and I would get so mad at him, because we knew he could focus and be diligent, so why why why would he choose to stir up his classmates with his crazy games, weird noises, and make them laugh at all the worst moments? Why did he get up once during math class and start eating his lunch? Why?

But then I think of Jack's classmates, who were his closest friends...

I know it's a stretch, but could any of this have served a purpose? Even a small one? So that when these young kids experienced the first big loss of their lives they could look back at Jack Donaldson and remember him with laughter, the kind of laughter that makes your stomach hurt and tears stream down your face? Yes, they would have cared about a quiet, obedient kid in the corner, but would they have had the stories to tell? Would they have  been able to say with confidence that they KNEW him and he was a big part of their lives?

The handful of kids had been together since they were 6 years old, so I'm sure they remember the other parts of Jack too:  artistic, smart, tearful, easily frustrated, kind.

But I think it's the laughter they'll remember most.

Lean in or Cut and Run?

 

Friday, Tim and I climbed into the car after an ugly argument. Margaret was already at the campground  a few hours away with my sister's family. This trip was starting so differently from those in the past: big fight, no Jack, no Margaret, no Shadow. Just two angry grown ups wondering why we were even bothering. On those other trips, I'd pray out loud as we sat in our driveway "Please God keep our family safe and bless our time together."  We'd pull onto our street, and right after we'd round the first corner, Tim would pat the top of his head, then his pocket, and we'd turn around to get his glasses that sat on the tray next to the TV remotes. The kids and I would laugh. The rhythm of those trips was predictable. Now, nothing is.

I thought of the mother of the murdered girl in "The Lovely Bones" who cut and ran. She ditched her family and went out west to work in a vineyard. I did not respect her decision, although I could see why she'd made it. It felt tempting as Tim and I began our drive. But I'm more of a stay-er, a sifter, a sorter, than someone who runs away. Usually.

We could have bagged this trip again, the way we did last summer, but we really, really wanted to try it. The tension between us diffused and was gone by the time we hit the curvy mountain roads and pulled up to our camping spot. A handful of teenage boys, including Jack's favorite cousin, tossed a ball around and grabbed cheese balls by the handful out of a huge plastic barrel. Ouch.

Margaret and the rest of the crew were about to go tubing on the river. I hadn't seen her in almost a week, so I said I'd go too, even though I was nervous. I wanted to reconnect and be brave. Margaret and her cousin pulled out ahead of us with the teenagers and adults, and I didn't see them again.

Before I knew it, I was sharing a raft with three very chatty elementary aged kids we'd known for years but only saw on these trips. Once we started down the river, there would be no getting out for the next two hours; we just had to float where the river took us. No cutting and running here. Our first camping trip without Jack, at our same familiar campsite. Surrounded by beautiful, suntanned teen aged boys. Floating on a river of.....WATER....and being charged with keeping three kids alive. It was a lot. 

In some ways it couldn't have been better. I had to stay focused on the children, so I was less focused on missing Jack. Also, little kids have no filters, so our conversations ranged from the joys of peeing in a river to "I'm just so sorry Jack died." "We miss Jack." "What happened to Jack?" "Does a body keep growing once it's buried in the ground?" I explained that Jack's body was cremated, which means it was burned up not buried. "I'd hate to have to watch that," said one of my little buddies and I agreed that I would too. We talked a little about God and a lot about their classmates at school and spiders. It felt good to just get it all out there. How many times have I wanted to say to someone, "I'm sorry so and so died" but have held back?

On the raft, I had to be the responsible adult, the cheerleader, the motivator, not just the broken one, and it felt good.

A huge bald eagle swooped down and sailed right over us then on up the river. We whooped and hollered. Nature was beautiful. Yes, it was dangerous, and unpredictable, but it was also good.

At one point our raft got hung up on a tree stump in the water. This had never happened to me before. I couldn't dislodge it for some time, and I became afraid. The wide, peaceful river was NOTHING like the raging creek that took Jack's life. Nothing. But I was still scared. It had started to rain. We decided we were: cold, tired, scared, hungry, and we all had to pee. During our stuck time, as the water rushed around me and I stood on slippery rocks in the river trying to dislodge the raft, I told the kids that this would be a great time for us all to pee, so we did, and we laughed, our teeth chattering and lips turning blue.

A few minutes later, we were safely ashore again, ready for campfires, fried food, and lightning bugs.

Last year this trip would have been too much. This year it was do-able.

This whole spring and summer has been about making decisions about our family's future. It has been a mix of discerning when to revisit the traditions of the past and when to cut and run. There is not one right way.

But we are glad we choose to camp.

p.s.
When we got off the rafts, the rain stopped and we had a rainbow!

Then, when we glanced at this photo my nephew took of the fire, we thought the guy on the right looked a wee bit familiar. What do YOU think?

We  now have a Facebook page! Would you "like" An Inch of Gray on Facebook?

Sifting and Sorting

We have been doing house stuff-- purging and rearranging rooms-- as we strategize the next steps for our family.

I took it upon myself to take apart Jack's room. It was my choice, yet it was still unbelievably difficult. I do not recommend doing this before it's absolutely necessary. And for some, it could be fine to leave things exactly where they are forever. When my mom died, I took 10 years before I was ready, and I resented anyone telling me I should do it sooner. It was their problem, trying to control my actions and responses, not mine.

As you know, our family motto is, "The best things in life aren't things," and as I moved Jack's things and boxed many of them up, I wept, not over the objects, but over the hands that had arranged them just so. A Lego creation is just a Lego creation when I've moved it to a box, whereas when it's set up on a shelf, in a funny little tableau that tells a story, it's part of Jack.

I moved the new school shoes that had been waiting by his bedroom door, yet never got worn. They look so small now, even though they were slightly too large for him when I bought them. His friend Cortland came over to help me carry boxes. He knew how much Jack treasured his Legos, and he handled them with reverence and care. When I looked down and saw Cortland's enormous man-feet I bit the inside of my cheek to try to keep from crying. It didn't work.

I packed scout and baseball uniforms and butter-soft t-shirts, rubbing the fabric between my fingers, lifting them to my face in a futile attempt to catch a scent now long gone.

I found all his baby clothes and the baby calendar where I'd proudly written down when he said his first word, "Bird," at barely 7 months old. And I sifted through school work, which he'd kept neatly in a plastic tub, every single stitch of it, preschool through 6th grade. Every paper, every project, every doodle.

There was a lot of yearning, remembering, and loving as I did this. As I allowed myself many trips to the recycling bin for the things I didn't end up saving. I leaned over the trashcan-- full of notebooks, and binders and papers and things my son no longer needed-- and  the heavy lid came crashing down on my cheek. Tears sprang up again as a pink welt formed. Really? Really?

I made a ton of progress last Thursday, due mainly to the fact that my friend Cindy showed up unannounced and with boxes. We matched each Lego set to its instructions and original box (thanks for being a saver, Jack!) and we cried. It was Margaret's last day of school and I wanted to do the hardest part, the Legos, while she was gone. "Did you take pictures of the order everything was in?" she asked when she got home and surveyed the empty shelves. "Yes." "Good."

After she was in bed, I did what any mentally and physically exhausted mom does, vacuumed the shit out of the family room rug. I ran the vacuum roughly back and forth, jerking it this way and that in  frustration. But the stupid vacuum wasn't working and was dropping stuff right back out again. I took it to the kitchen to empty it over the trash can and investigate. When I pulled the bottom off, a square piece of paper blocked the suction. Three words in my messy handwriting, that I must have jotted down at some point when pondering Jack, my book, this life:

Love never ends.

I do believe this. With my whole heart. You can too.

Time Machine

Jack's best friend in the world was his cousin. I've shared before a little bit about their relationship.

As you can imagine, Jack's cousin was devastated to lose him, especially in such a sudden and horrifying way. He misses him so much, and we miss the relationship they would have had as teens and adults.

A mere two weeks after the accident, Jack's cousin had to write an essay in English class entitled, "If I could bring anyone back for a day..." Wow. That must have been really hard to do.

Here it is:

If I had a time machine I would bring back my cousin Jack. Jack was my best friend, and he drowned on September 8th, 2011. If I had one day to spend with him I would warn him, and if that didn't work I would spend the day with him. I would also get a last goodbye and tell him about the impact he has had on the lives of the people around him.

First, I would try to reverse the events that happened. I'd tell him about that day and to avoid the river. If he didn't, we would go see his family in the present. We would still go see them even if he did believe me, though.

If that wouldn't work, I would spend the day doing things we wanted to do. We would watch the Red Sox play the Yankees, and play catch out on the field. Then, we'd take my sister and his sister Margaret and play the "River Game" at Smokehole campgrounds.

At night, we would stay up late talking about random things like we used to do. We'd also play "The Game," that Jack made up, an RPG style game with a character given obstacles by the narrator. Finally, he'd tell me stories about Kevin Youkolis and mess with my dreams while I was dozing.

Lastly, I would get the goodbye I never had. My last goodbye I got from him was an awkward one armed hug and "see you in a couple months." I can't tell you how much it hurts me to think that was my final goodbye to Jack. I would give up everything to see him again, even if it was just for a day. I would tell him how much he meant and still means to me and all of his family. I would tell him the impact he has had and how he has changed our lives before and after he died.

I can't describe how much I love and miss Jack. It pains me to kmow that I won't see him for a long time. If I had another day with Jack Donaldson, that is how I would spend it.

*****
I love you boys.

Long-ish Recap of the Crapiversary Weekend With Photos to Hold Your Attention?

Last Thursday night was the worst. Even though Thursday, the second day of school, wasn’t the actual DATE of the crapiversary this year, it felt like it was. It was like one big flashback from hell.

Every moment of that day took us right back to that Thursday a year ago, but we were helpless to change the outcome. A rainy morning. A day of work. Conversations with colleagues. The drive to the school carpool line. The humid air was heavy, as were our spirits. As five pm turned to six, I thought, “Why couldn’t we have been eating dinner like we usually were? Like we are now? Why did the electricity have to be out? Jack wanted to upload his Lego projects from the camera! Didn’t the other kids have homework that day?”

We went to bed remembering how it felt to climb into bed a year before, little Margaret in between us, hoping that sleep would erase the horror of the previous hours and bring our kid back to us.

Friday was hard, but not as brutal.

When Saturday and the actual date of September 8 arrived, we felt much better. Peace surrounded us. I’ve learned not to question this, but just to appreciate and accept pockets of peace when we get them.

Cards, flowers, new blue ribbons all over town and even on our local boys’ football helmets, emails, and many acts of love like Jack’s dear friend Courtland coming to mow the grass let us know that no one was forgetting what day it was.

When I stepped outside to get the paper, I saw hundreds of origami birds in the tree in front of our house. Our bird feeder tree. Our Easter egg tree. Cranes, geese, and many other birds swung in the breeze, celebrating our own Rare Bird and taking us back to his first word—uttered at a freakishly young age--when he saw the origami birds above his changing table.

The day felt covered in prayer, and indeed, so many of you were praying for us. My lovely Monkee sisters at Momastery wrote Jack’s name on their hands as a reminder to pray all day long. Photo after photo of “Jack” on hands of all ages and colors lifted us up all day long. I wanted to grab the tiny chubby ones and give them kisses and squeezes. It felt like the burden was spread out and shared all day long.

I’ve thought so much about this communal aspect of suffering.

If we—Tim, Anna and Margaret-- have to suffer no matter what, being separated from Jack, does it make sense to have others suffer with us? Would it be better to spare them? Saturday we experienced what it feels like to have a part of this burden carried by someone else and someone else and someone else all over the world. And although it may have felt a little like we were asking too much of others, it also felt right and holy.

We went to the cemetery to see the newly installed bench. Which turned out as well as something so crappy could. We laughed, we talked, we said a prayer. After that we made a run for the border to sit in “our booth” at Taco Bell. And yes, I tasted my first Doritos Locos Taco in Jack’s honor.

If you saw us, joined by my sister and her kids, you would have noticed a lot of laughter and silliness and fun. His name came easily. We remembered him with love, not pain, which has been an inexplicable blessing since day one of this nightmare.

We headed home right before a Tornado warning kicked in. Yep. Seriously. Out of nowhere, the sunny day turned dark and windy and violent rain poured down. And even with that, our shitty neighborhood creek remained empty, just as it has been all summer. Well.

Hunkered in the basement playing Apples to Apples, of course we kept thinking of that storm exactly one year before, but still we laughed and played. We did a puzzle in Jack’s honor.

Afterward, we started an early movie. While we were inside watching “The Hunger Games,” our neighbors were preparing a stunning surprise for us. Luminaria lined the long driveway. Each paper bag had a note about Jack on it. His teachers, friends, and neighbors shared memories, and it was beautiful to read that others could see what we saw in him.

We walked up and down the driveway reading, enjoy the now crisp, cool weather and feeling the LOVE. The love of so many people. The love of God. Jack’s love. And then, our neighbors showed us photos they had taken while setting up our surprise. Photos of a beautiful sunset -—pinks, purples and blues--right over the creek.

In the other direction, directly over our house, was an enormous double rainbow.

Yes, while we were inside watching a movie about kids competing in a match to the death, our dear friends were being lifted up and encouraged by God. We don’t get a lot of rainbows in our town. I’ve rarely if ever seen one here in my 40 plus years. Photos flooded in from friends across the country, of amazing sunsets and rainbows. Reminders of God’s faithfulness. Reminders that life does not end. And we felt grateful.

A Life's Design

We did it! We made it through the first year. You were praying like crazy for us over the weekend, weren't you? We could tell. THANK YOU! Still processing the hardness and the goodness of the weekend, but I have something special to share with you today.

Here's what Tim had to say on September 8th, the one year Crap-iversary of losing our Jack:

When Jack was in first grade, his teacher asked the kids draw a picture of one of their favorite things. I did not see Jack's drawing until his sweet teacher gave it to Anna and me last year. She said that all of the drawings were what you would expect from first graders: puppies, flowers, candy. And then she showed us Jack's drawing, neatly labeled "Designs." Looking at the picture filled my heart and broke it in the same instant. That's my Jack. A six-year old who dreams of designs and is thrilled by their arrangement and patterns. That's the boy who captured my heart with a fierce love that will never die.

As I have been cherishing this memory during the past week, the idea of "designs" reminded me of the imagery of the Tapestry of Life, reproduced here from a daily devotional:

The sages teach that our world is like a tapestry. Every tapestry has two
sides; the front where everything is neat and orderly, and the backside
where threads are cut and tied. Even though both sides are made with exactly
the same threads, the pictures they produce are completely different.
On the front side, there is a beautiful design. The other side, however, is a mess.

All of history is producing one enormous and gorgeous tapestry. However, at
this time, we are only able to see the backside. Nothing makes sense, and
everything seems chaotic. The picture is ugly, and we wonder, "What in the
world is the artist thinking?"

But there is another side to the tapestry, yet to be revealed. On that side,
nothing is out of place and every thread is where it ought to be. The
picture is clear and perfect. If we were to see it, we would stand in awe at
its beauty and brilliance. We would understand the artist's intention all
along.

Jack, I don't understand why you were taken from us at such a young age, leaving a permanent, gaping hole in our lives and in the plans we had for our family. But now I wait, impatiently at times, to see the other side of the tapestry. To see God's beautiful design and your smiling face.

We love you, we miss you, and we'll never forget you.

Dad.

Weird? Well, Life is Weird.

When it comes to An Inch of Gray, several good friends have asked, although not using these exact words, if it feels weird “getting popular” on the back of my dead son. I, too, have thought about that, but my answer is, um, NO.

Not at all.

There are several reasons I don't find it weird:

1. With my healthy (and perhaps delusional) sense of self-esteem, I believe that if any of my amazing readers and I had run into each other, say, at the Dollar Store or in Target before the accident happened-- blog or no blog-- we would have hit it off.

The circumstances through which many of us were brought together are not ideal (!) but the community we’ve formed is real and significant and important. I also know that while one year ago I wasn’t looking for "popularity,” true friendships have been born out of this tragedy, even among people so far flung we won’t get to meet until, well, you know.

2. Jack would love it! He was proud of me and proud of my writing, even though he didn’t think I was very funny, and he didn’t want me to write anything personal or embarrassing about him on the blog. As a preschooler, he also thought I should run for president someday. He changed his mind about that.

Remember how my sister’s eulogy of Jack said one of the things she learned from him was to “Share Others’ Joy?” Well, while I’m not experiencing gobs of joy right now, it's clear I do gain something very significant from writing this blog, interacting with readers, and seeing something special at work here. I think Jack would be very happy about that as well as getting to see the list of readers in the sidebar grow.

Through writing, I’m able to process important feelings, which helps keep me from having too many meltdowns like the one I had at McDonalds on Saturday. Picture a crying woman waiting for her chicken sandwich. She takes a step forward, at which time her Large Diet Coke flies through the air, spews over the feet and legs of 5-6 customers and crashes to the floor. Follow this with frantic mopping with one measly napkin, copious amounts of weeping, and finally an ungraceful stagger to the car. What kid wouldn't want his/her mom to have a positive outlet to keep the wailing at bay?

3. I felt called to grow through writing and blogging long before the accident, but I wasn’t sure what form that would take. Last August, I shared with Jack at the kitchen table that, out of fear, I had turned down the chance to sell my painted furniture in a friend's store on a permanent basis. I was pretty bummed. I lamented that the woman who had accepted the job had surpassed me in blog readers in 2 short weeks when I’d been blogging for 4 years! Not really sharing others’ joy? I know.

“Aww, Mom, why are you telling me this? That’s really kind of depressing,” he said. I told him I didn’t want him to let fear of failure, or even fear of success, make his decisions for him. I wanted him to learn from my (many) mistakes. So one year ago, I was hoping to accept new challenges and grow through writing almost exclusively about chalk paint, dumpster diving, and decorating, and that would have been lovely. Oh so lovely. I was convinced that was the next step.

But that is not the direction life, or this blog, has headed.

So now, instead of letting fear make my decisions about my writing, or worrying that there’s something odd or unseemly about the way it has spread, I embrace it with a grateful heart.

Grateful that this blog was already in place because I can’t fathom having had the energy or gumption to start one after the accident, and grateful that I had already witnessed first-hand how love and support could flow through the blog world.

Grateful that through Twitter and Facebook and blogs, news of our loss and Jack's impact has spread far beyond our little town.

Grateful for friends, new and old, met and unmet, praying for us and rooting for us as a family, even though it might be painful to do at times.

Grateful that so many people have been willing to open themselves up to what they read here and ponder the hard questions in life and delight in the mysteries too.

Grateful and humbled that somehow through a mom's simple words on a screen, our story-- our most unwelcome, shitty, yet ultimately hopeful story-- could somehow help someone else, even just a little bit, even while it is helping us.

Grateful.

Thank you!

THANK YOU for your willingness to be in this with us.

Rare Bird God Wink

One of my closest friends and her husband founded a Christian school in New Jersey a few years ago. To illustrate just how close I mean when I say "closest friends," let's just say we were together during our Junior High youth group days a la mullets and short OP shorts, ardent bordering on obsessive devotion to the 1984 men's Olympic gymnastics team (Bart Conner!), were college roommates in the late 80's, and served as bridesmaids in each other's weddings.

After Jack's accident, my friend asked if she could share his story in a school chapel service. I said of course, as long as she wasn't trying to present Jack as perfect, but just a special kid who loved God and others. This spring she did just that. You could have heard a pin drop as shared about Jack's life and death. She read a Prayer of Thanksgiving he wrote, and many, many people were touched by what they heard.

But the neatest thing happened on her way into the service. She was praying and listening to Christian radio as she arrived at the school. A Chris Tomlin song called "I Will Rise" was playing. It deals with death and victory over the grave. Pretty fitting since she was going to talk about Jack's new life in heaven.

Here's the chorus:

And I will rise when He calls my name
No more sorrow, no more pain
I will rise on eagle's wings
Before my God fall on my knees
And rise, I will rise

Listen to the entire song here


As she pulled into the lot, she saw a sight she had never seen at the school before, even though she was there every day:

Yep, an eagle. A bald eagle. It was still there when she left.

Rare bird. Rare bird. Rare bird.

Love my kid. Love God's creativity in sending us comfort. Love you for caring about us.

Jack and...Jewelry?

Thank you for all of the kind words and encouragement after yesterday's post. I am dealing with just plain old missing Jack, as well as being patient with God right now.

Breaking News:

Not only has Jack's life and death touched so many hearts, he is also making a tangible difference for suffering people around the world through his favorite charity, Samaritan's Purse. Thank you for all you have done to help with this by running races in his honor with Jack's Lanterns, packing shoe boxes through Operation Christmas Child, and making monetary donations. Thaknk you. Thank you.

My dear friend and fellow blogger, Jill, has generously come up with another great way to raise money in Jack's name for Samaritan's Purse... through an online Stella and Dot Jewelry party!

What will this look like?

Well, we will force ourselves to look through the gorgeous baubles and bling and see if any (ha!) pieces call our name. Items will be shipped directly to buyers' homes.

A SIGNIFICANT (like, VERY significant) portion of every sale will go to Samaritan's Purse in Jack's name, most likely earmarked for Emergency Relief. Our local congressman (and friend) recently visited refugee camps in Sudan where Samaritan's Purse was at work feeding and caring for needy and hurting people and shared his report with us. The needs! Oh the needs!. You can read more about this humanitarian work here.

Soooooo, please do not feel as if you have to buy something. No pressure! But if, like me, you might like a few pieces of lovely jewelry and you love the idea of not only helping others but thinking of Jack while you do so, please check out the invitation and start browsing.

A few of my faves:

Thanks and Love!

The Border

Soooo, I've mentioned a time or five that our family loves Taco Bell. The winning combination of cheese and thrift is impossible for us to resist. The fact that Jack refused to eat french fries, chicken nuggets, or ketchup sealed the deal years ago.

Since Jack's death, Margaret has noticed a few interesting menu developments at Taco Bell, all of which she attributes to her big brother.

First there was the Doritos Loco Taco, a regular hard taco with a Dorito shell. Tacos coupled with Doritoes? He loved them both! Add a Dr. Pepper and Jack would have died and gone to heaven. Okay, you know what I mean.

There's also the Beefy Nacho Burrito-- a burrito stuffed with NACHOS!. Can you say salty orange processed cheese food goodness? Making nachos and popcorn are the only two reasons I even own a microwave.

And now? There's the Cheesy Gordita Crunch, which is basically a hard taco INSIDE a soft tortilla. This is Jack's own invention he ate at home and at Taco Day at school. When we saw that one, we knew something was afoot. Oh, it also comes with "zesty pepper JACK" sauce!

Margaret figures Jack must be infiltrating a Taco Bell exec's dreams and leading to the invention of these yummy delights. I'm with her on this one. I wonder if his next invention will have something to do with Dill Pickles.

Sooo, on the last day of school we were going through the Taco Bell drive through and she was pointing all this out to me. We were laughing about it, and I decided to take a picture of the menu board with my phone. Oh how much we all missed before I finally got a camera phone! I took a couple of shots and then pulled forward.

When I got to the pick-up the window, I discovered I had forgotten to order! Ooops.

Laughing, I apologized to the worker. He replied, "That's okay. I saw you guys taking pictures back there. I told the others this must be your first drive through experience."

As if.

More laughter.

Loving, laughing and missing you, Jack! Wonder what you'll do next!

Transitory Joy

When Jack was 6, in first grade, I saw him standing by the window, a distraught look on his face. As you remember, Jack felt things deeply. I figured he was having friend trouble, perhaps being made fun of because of some of his quirky behaviors.

"What's going on?" I asked.



"I'm just so sad people choose transitory joy over what's important," he said.

Whoah...WHAT???? Insert screetchy needle being lifted from a record player sound here unless you are too young to remember what I'm talking about.

What did my little six year old know about transitory joy? What did I know about it? And why was it getting him down?

Turns out his class had memorized this (not uplifting but timelessly apt) poem:

The Flies and the Honey Pot
by Aesop

A jar of honey chanced to spill
Its contents on the windowsill
In many a viscous pool and rill.

The flies, attracted by the sweet,
Began so greedily to eat,
They smeared their fragile wings and feet.

With many a twitch and pull in vain
They gasped to get away again,
And died in aromatic pain.

Moral:

O foolish creatures that destroy
Themselves for transitory joy.

Even at 6, Jack was a patient person. He was not given to greed or excess in his desires or appetites. He could understood this poem and could already recognize how many people could be drawn in by what appeared to be seemingly sweet, but was in truth harmful.

Fortunately for us, this was about the time Lindsay Lohan started going off the rails post "Parent Trap" so we always had a tangible example on hand.

I tell you this story not because Jack didn't himself enjoy the transitory joy of a cold Dr. Pepper, a great joke, getting to one more level on a video game, or staying out extra late on a warm summer night. He enjoyed all of those things and more, and that was good.

But Jack also saw the appeal of boundaries and restraint. And even as a six year old, it appears he was beginning to understand that real joy comes from the eternal, not the transitory.

Wow.

Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey, I mean Jack and Margaret's Mom

I was spending time with a friend last week and we were talking about Jack's accident. I asked her why people think I have so much faith when I feel as if I have far less than I've ever had in my life. She responded, "It pours out of you, Anna. It's just there." Hmmm. Anger? I can see that pouring out of me right now. Disappointment? Got it. But faith? I'm not so sure.

I've been thinking about this a lot, because it is undeniable that Jack's death is having a profound spiritual effect on people by challenging them to look outside the comforts and conflicts of middle class suburban life and ask questions like, "Why did this happen?" "What does this mean to ME?" "When the body dies, is that IT?" "How does a family get through this?" "Why do bad things happen to good people?" and even, "Why do GOOD things happen to BAD people?" It is having this effect on me, too, just with a few more curse words thrown in.

Through this blog I've been honored to share many of the amazing signs of comfort from God that have followed Jack's death. Blog readers have graciously shared their own. These strange occurrences have again and again shown us that love does not die. That Jack's soul lives on. That what I said I believed...wow...is really true!

When I think of Jack's impact, and its spiritual emphasis, I think of prayer after prayer uttered in love and despair on our behalf since September, many from folks who wouldn't consider themselves to be "pray-ers" at all. Babies baptized. Young people looking for more than just transitory joy. Parents looking at their kids as gifts, not just as "gifted." People returning to church, or even going for the first time. Hurt, disillusioned souls being willing to open their hearts, just a little bit more, to a God they felt had let them down or deserted them. People receiving comfort at their own loved one's deaths with the promise of "something more." People wanting "what we have" even when we have lost so much.

When asked by someone why she had started attending church and reading the Bible, a dear friend of mine answered, "Why, Jack, of course!"

So... many, many people have felt drawn closer to God because of Jack, a boy who believed that, "Nothing is Impossible with God." For that I'm awestruck and grateful.

On the other hand, there are a lot of folks who have been thrust into a spiritual CRISIS over Jack's death. I get this too. It may sound so crazy, since terribly tragic and unfair things happen every second of every day and on a much larger scale, but "Why, God? Why Jack?" has been a common refrain.

My favorite Bible verse since I was a preteen has been, "I believe. Help my unbelief," and that is the tension or balance I have lived with every single day, although much more so since September 8th.

I think about how hard it is for me to take communion or to worship at church right now. For me, there's just one broken body I think about these days. Oh how broken. And not even broken to save the world.

So while there is hope and comfort and mystery and a peace that passes all understanding, there's also a profound sense of confusion, disappointment, and a need to realign what what we thought we believed, to what we believe. To hang in there in a life of faith, despite a lack of understanding and acceptance. Despite the trauma of going to a Memorial Day festival surrounded by every 7th and 8th grade boy in the tri-state area.

Closer to God/farther than ever. "I believe/ Help my unbelief." Comfort/despair.

Then thing is, I guess I CAN see what my friend sees, that even in this disappointment, there is some faith. My profound disappointment has an OBJECT-- an object big enough to handle my questions and my disappointment. A God who graciously gives me comfort even while withholding the answer to,"Why Jack?"

And here's the thing. I know I'm his mom saying this, but Jack matters. Not more than someone else. Not less. I am very fortunate for this blog, this forum, which not every bereaved parent has, in order to see the difference Jack makes, that each life makes.

And if in that mattering, or counting for something, we are driven to our knees in seeking God, or even driven to shaking our fists at him in anger, then that is an act of faith. And I think Jack would like that.

Mariano Rivera

I thought you might like to hear from Tim again, and judging by how much Mariano Rivera of the Yankees has been in the news the past week or so, I'd like to share a letter Tim wrote to him last fall.

But first, a little background. A woman named Heather, the mom of one of Margaret's friends, attended Jack's funeral along with more than 1600 other people. In the front of the church, on the communion table, sat a photo of Jack. Next to the photo was Jack's Yankees hat. Heather didn't know Jack, but she did know a Yankee, and she wondered if he could bring a little comfort to our hurting family. On her next business trip to see one of her business associates, the Yankee, she asked if he could sign a ball for us.

What Heather didn't know was that her client, Mariano Rivera, was Jack's favorite baseball player! She didn't know the Yankees jersey Jack wore had Rivera's name and number on it, or that Tim and Jack had been following Rivera's amazing progress in setting a new record in baseball at the time of Jack's accident. She didn't know that Tim had been contemplating writing Mariano-- a talented, humble, man of faith-- a letter of appreciation for being such a good role model for our son.

Here's Tim's letter as well as pictures taken from a Yankees/Orioles game one week before our lives changed forever:

Dear Mariano,

Thank you for sending an autographed baseball to my daughter, Margaret, following the death of her brother, Jack. I was so surprised when Heather brought the ball to Margaret because Jack loved the Yankees and was a big fan of yours, as am I.

As a life-long Yankees fan, I was excited, but not surprised, that my son shared my passion for baseball and the Yankees. My favorite part of the day was having a catch with him in the yard, such a peaceful time to share together, just the two of us. Sometimes we talked and other times we just enjoyed the sound of the ball popping in our gloves and the rhythm of the catch, back and forth, back and forth.

I remember at the beginning of the 2011 season, Jack asked me if I thought you would break the save record in 2011. I told him that I thought it would probably take two years, perhaps early in the 2012 season. But you had another remarkable year and by the end of August it was becoming clear that you would break the record this year. On August 29, Jack and I went to Baltimore to watch the Yankees play the Orioles. The Yankees won 3-2, and you got the save. Jack wore his Mariano Rivera shirt that night, and we basked in the Yankees victory and the opportunity to witness history as you closed in on the record. After the game, Jack and I talked about what a remarkable player you are—not just in terms of talent and what you have accomplished on the field—but also in terms of how you play the game. We talked about your interviews, and how you always acknowledge God and your teammates. You are a picture of humility in a profession that often promotes just the opposite. I thank you for that.

As you neared the record, Jack and I would check the sports page every morning to see if you recorded another save. We were both looking forward with great anticipation to the day you would break the record.

On September 8, Jack went out in the neighborhood to play in the rain with some friends and his sister. He got too close to a swollen creek, fell in, and drowned. The loss has been devastating. We miss our Jack so much—every day. But we are comforted by our faith. Jack trusted Jesus Christ as his Lord and savior and so do we. He had even told us before the accident that he was not afraid to die because heaven is such an awesome place.

I remember the day you broke Trevor Hoffman's record, I came home early from work to watch the end of the game on TV. It was an afternoon game, and if Jack were alive he would have been home from school watching with me. Watching you record the final three outs was bittersweet. I watched with tears in my eyes as you struck out the last batter—happy for your accomplishment but filled with sadness that Jack was not there to share the moment with me.

After Jack passed away, many friends and acquaintances from school, scouts, little league, and church came to visit and share with me special memories and stories about Jack. I enjoyed hearing every one. But it struck me that it should not have taken a tragedy for people to share these stories and remembrances of Jack. I would have preferred to hear them while he was still alive. I could have shared them with Jack to encourage him and let him know the impact he was making on others.

And so I thought of people that I would like to share memories and stories with, to encourage them, to thank them, and to let them know that they are making a difference in my life or my family's life. This list of people was exclusively family and friends, except for you. I thought about writing a letter to let you know that you are impacting the lives of Yankee fans, old and young alike. You are an exemplary role model—choosing to carrying yourself with class and dignity both on the field and off and, above all, choosing to put God first in all circumstances. That is how I want to live my life and raise my children.

I thought about writing you a letter for several weeks but never did anything about it, resigning myself to the fact that even if I wrote you a letter and tried to submit it as fan mail, you would never get to read it. And then Heather visited us with the baseball you signed for Margaret. Unbelievable! It was totally unexpected and delivered with perfect timing. Given the emotions your milestone save had evoked in me, receiving your autographed ball was like receiving a sign from God and a wink from Jack in heaven. I asked Heather if she could deliver a letter to you. She graciously said she would. I could not believe I had the opportunity to have my letter hand delivered to you. But then I remembered Jack's favorite bible verse: For nothing is impossible with God. Luke 1:37. Thanks Jack. And thank you Mariano for all you do, both on the field and off.

God Bless,



Tim Donaldson

Friendship Friday

Jack was so stinkin' smart, but he was also wise. He was humble, and he was funny. He did not rail about how unfair life was, even when he experienced that first-hand.

It's hard for me to believe the world didn't need to keep around the rare 12 year old boy who knew how to use a semi-colon and thought that it mattered. The boy who made people laugh by creating strange nicknames for them, drawing them into his made-up games and alternate worlds.

I made photocopies of Jack's pages and pages of doodles to give to his sweet classmates. They told me they were afraid they had all been thrown away. I will not forget their excited voices as they instantly recognized drawing after drawing, none of which made any sense to me but put huge smiles on their faces:

"Bread Ninja!"
"The Beer Mobile!"
"The Snatching Claw!"
"Wiki Tikis!"
"Damian's Histogram!"
"The Secret Chair!"

HUH???????

They talked about the words Jack made up. The imaginary characters. The expressions they still use today. There are so many, they wrote them down for us.

I am grateful that when they remember Jack it is with a smile. I am grateful that in that small private school environment, which sometimes could seem a bit TOO small, he was loved and supported, right up to the end.

But the end? The END? The inconceivable, asinine, violent END?

I am grappling today with how a few stupid seconds were the difference between life and death. Between the future we envisioned for Jack, versus the future we got.

His friends are having a car wash today. They "hang out" at each other's houses. They had a dance. Next week they go to Philly for a field trip. The boys' voices are getting deeper.

What will I do when I see stubble on their chins?

These are the friends I wanted him to grow up with. And though they carry a piece of him in their hearts, they can't control the march of time that separates them from the boy who will always be twelve.

A Little Birdie Told Me

Remember when my dear college friend told me during the weeks after the accident she kept seeing blue jays and having the overwhelming sense that Jack was okay? I thought it was neat because although she did not know it, Jack had always been associated with birds in our minds.

My friend did not know that Jack's first word was bird.

She didn't know he made up his very own baby sign language sign for "bird."

She didn't know we had a special group of birds that came to our kitchen window every winter that we lovingly called "our flock."

She didn't know that I got the kids a special Christmas ornament each year and that Jack's last one was a bird.

She didn't know Tim and I had used bird imagery when we spoke to Jack at his 6th grade dinner 3 months before.

She didn't know another friend would write an amazing poem about Jack, describing him as a "Rare Bird" or in Latin, the language he took at school, "Rara Avis."

...and she didn't know WHY this message of comfort for us would come through a BLUE JAY, of all birds.

What she did know was that when she would see these certain blue jays in her yard, she would get the overwhelming sense that Jack was thriving. She would hear the words "Rare Bird" over and over in her mind. And she got a playful sense from Jack that there was a puzzle behind WHY it was a blue jay, rather than another bird. The boy did love puzzles.

I was kind of "huh?" when she told me about the blue jays beause I'd always considered them big, loud, and mean, not like Jack at all. I mean, how about a cute little songbird, even though Jack couldn't carry a tune? Or a tufted titmouse or downy woodpecker-- plain "Downys" we called them-- from our kitchen window flock? Or maybe a powerful hawk? I haven't told you that the morning after the accident, Tim, Margaret and I (separately) saw a HUGE hawklike creature that must have been at least 3 feet across, swooping down and around our house for hours in the maddeningly beautiful sunshine. "Did you see that huge bird?" I said. Yes, they had. We didn't think of it as a sign for anything except perhaps that our world had been turned to shit,o who the heck cared if huge birds were swooping around us? I mean, if one of the world's most careful kids could get swept away in a creek, I wouldn't have been surprised to see a Pterydactyl land on our carport at that point.

But back to the blue jay.

My friend puzzled and pondered...

Was it BLUE because vibrant blue ribbons and bows were soon associated with Jack? Maybe.

Jay as in "J" for Jack?? Perhaps.

Or was it for the baseball team the Blue Jays? NO...Jack was a Yankees fan.

Well, what about the traditional symbolism of the blue jay?

Talkative, able to mimic (acting!?),
Determination,
Faithfulness,
Loyalty,
Intelligence,
Curiosity,
Vibrancy,
Clarity,
Energy.

Oh my yes. Sounds like someone I know and love.

Here's some additional info:

"Blue jay animal symbolism resonates truth, faithfulness, and solidarity because they are vigilant in their tasks. They also keep the same mate for life, which is symbolic of endurance, patience and loyalty. The jay is an excellent symbol for those wishing to honor their long-lasting bond between friends, family and lovers.

In the spiritual realm, the blue jay speaks of clarity and vision. In Native American symbolism (namely the Sioux Nation) the azure of the jay against the blue sky indicated a “double vision” or double clarity. This visual/spiritual “blue on blue” concept speaks of purity of the soul, truth of the heart, and clarity of thought."

I've also learned that the gradual color change on a a blue jay's feathers sometimes represents a link or bridge between Earth and Heaven. I definitely feel that Jack's life and death are linking a lot of us here to a there that it not so very far away. His death is showing us thin places between heaven and earth.

All of this symbolism resonates with me and helps me believe the blue jay (like the rainbows and sunsets and other birds!) is a generous and creative sign from God that our Rare Bird is thriving.

But my sister, who has seen numerous blue jays on her runs since the accident, pointed out another aspect of the bird that should not be overlooked --the cute little crest on its head.

Kind of like a "Jack hair floop," I suppose.

From Tim

A year ago, Jack and I took a trip to San Diego for Spring Break, headed for the Legoland, the Mecca for Lego fans young and old. The trip was a late brithday present. I remember Jack asking why we were taking this big trip for his 12th birthday. "Shouldn't we wait until next year when I turn 13? That's a big birthday." I don't know why we decided to go last year. Maybe we were concerned that Legoland would not sound as cool to a 13-year old boy about to complete this first year of middle school. In any event, we made the trip, and I am so grateful that we did. We stayed with Anna's cousin Mark while in San Diego, and he was a great host. Jack and I drove to LA to watch the Dodgers, Jack's little league team last year. The game ended in dramatic fashion with a walk-off home run and high fives and fist pumps all around. But the next day was the big event: a day at Legoland. And it did not disappoint. Jack (and I) were in awe of the hundreds of Lego creations. While other kids sped by each display, Jack methodically examined each one, from every angle possible. I felt an urge to hurry him along, concerned that we would not be able to see everything in the park. But I backed off and let him enjoy the day at HIS pace. This day was for him. Jack made me take pictures of everything. At first I insisted that he get in each picture, learning from Anna that photos are much more fun to look at later when they have people in them. But after awhile I got tired of making Jack pose, so I just kept clicking away at the hundreds of Lego diplays, until the battery on my phone died. Recalling our trip a year later, I am so thankful that we shared that time together. It is one of my favorite memories of Jack and is special for me because it was just the two of us spending time doing the things that we liked to do the most. But at the same time, as I reflect on our trip a year later, I am so disappointed and angry that Jack and I won't have another opportunity to get away, just the two of us, and seize the day like we did in San Diego--at least not in this life. I love you, Jack.

P.S. From Anna-- As I drove the kids home from school that rainy Thursday in September, Jack asked again why we had given him his "big trip" when he was 12. I can't remember what I answered. Margaret then said she would be more than happy to wait until she was 13 if it meant we would let her go somewhere "really good" like the Bahamas!

Home Run

Tim told me our local little league would like to name a sportsmanship award for Jack. Right after I spit out my tea, I paused to think about whether this would be an appropriate way to honor our son. You see, sportsmanship did not come naturally for Jack.

But really, I cannot think of a more fitting tribute.

A lot of things came very easily for Jack--talking at a ridiculously young age, reading, math, Latin, logic, art, acting, and earning stellar grades.

But when Jack was young, we wondered if he would EVER be able to play a team sport. Sure, he had intense, laser-like focus, but the happy-go-lucky camaraderie of being on a team? Not in evidence. You could see this at his cub scout meetings where he would sit quietly while the other boys, who knew each other from school, would be squirming and giving each other wedgies. I blamed some of this on Tim, also an introverted, “mild mannered reporter” who hasn’t so much as once (voluntarily) farted in front of me in the past 20 years! I mean, if a dad doesn’t teach a son about lugees and farts, how is he ever supposed to fit in as a guys’-guy? “You and Margaret are good at being around people,” Jack would say. “Dad and I don’t really know what to do.”

And there were other issues.

You know the kid who might have fun at a party, or might leave wailing at the injustice of it all? Well I do. He lived in our house for a time.

Or the one who walked around by himself for a few years during recess because he didn’t know how to integrate himself into games?

The one who cried easily and bitterly when things weren’t “just so?”

Uh huh.

But around second grade, after I had decided Jack would be relegated to staying home doing origami with me, his love of baseball took off, fueled by sharing an obsession with his dad.
Jack did well in baseball, and was blessed to have warm, compassionate coaches he admired --the coarse, tough as nails types didn’t appeal to him.

But who can EVER forget that 4 month period (unfortunately spanning part of both a basketball and a baseball season) when Jack would go crazy about close losses. I’ve told you my guy was quirky, right?

Close wins, great.

Big losses, fine.

Close losses?

Oh dear.

My laid-back friend and mother of four said as she watched Jack freak the freak out after one close loss, “Don’t worry, gifted kids are just more sensitive, Anna.” Love you, Jen. Margaret said, “Mom, I feel kind of sorry for him and kind of embarrassed for us.” Amen, Sister. A sportsmanship award seemed as likely as being given a free trip to Fiji.

But here’s the thing: Jack grew and changed. Birthday parties became a pleasure. Recess found Jack not only playing games, but commentating them like a sportscaster, using crazy nicknames he made up for all his classmates, who loved and accepted him. He was a leader and inventor of neighborhood games which they still play today. Jack became more flexible and more forgiving of himself and others. All of this seemed like an impossibility to us in earlier years.

My point is, while it may seem ironic to name a sportsmanship award after someone who didn’t always exhibit it, the fact that Jack’s sportsmanship was so hard fought makes it all the more precious.

Jack’s final season of baseball illustrated this.

Here’s what he faced in a more competitive environment than before: Reduced playing time. An adjustment to a different sized field. A slew of kids who were bigger, stronger, faster , more talented and in many cases YOUNGER than he was. Practices every day, when often Jack would rather be home playing with friends or practicing for the school play.

The protective mom in me wanted him to play down a level.

No way. He was so stinking excited, and he chose the harder path.

And then, after several years of doing well in baseball, he found himself struggling to make a hit, to make plays in the field. But his shoulders didn’t sag, game after game. He did not complain about going to practice every day, as he might have in year’s past. He never railed against the injustice of it all--why could Joe and Kevin hit home runs, when Jack couldn’t even connect with the ball anymore? He calmly talked about his progress, or lack thereof, during our bedtime chats, and I silently prayed that his season would turn around. Didn’t happen. But he didn’t let it ruin his attitude, his season, or his love of the game.

I know I’m not writing about anything extraordinary. Kids play on teams all the time. They make sacrifices. They suck it up. But for Jack, an intense and sensitive kid, all of this was hard fought and notable. It was just ONE more way that we saw this amazing kid growing through struggle and growing into the best person he could be.

Here’s what we saw all season: a great attitude. Someone who threw himself into practice. Someone who helped carry the ball bucket. Someone who held his head high, even as the people on the bench and in the stands may have been thinking, “Oh, boy. Jack’s up again.”

After the season ended, he signed up for baseball camp, so that he could improve his game for fall baseball—a team he got to play with in only one scrimmage before the accident. I don’t know what, if anything, the other boys remember about Jack from that one measly game. Was it the fact, as one of his old coaches said, that “Jack was the only player who looked like he could fit inside his bat bag”? It surely wasn’t powerhouse hitting, but perhaps a big smile, a quiet nature, and, we hope, good sportsmanship.

Be Kind
Pay Attention
Think
Never Give Up
Play
Share Others’ Joy

Yikes

So I was with a few other bereaved mothers last night, all who have lost sons.

They concurred with something I've read a lot lately-- that the SECOND year of grief is harder than the first.

Oh shit.

This is not something a lot of people realize. I know I never even considered it. We think about the first Thanksgiving, first Christmas, first birthday. We absolutely know those are going to be brutal.

And they are.

But the second? Why would the second be worse? Apparently, the shock wears off and that coincides perfectly (!) with those around us needing to move on with their lives.

Yikes.

I get it. The shock thing.

I am still in shock that 3 boys went down to the creek and only 2 came back. It's like, as one of Jack's classmates said to me, "Maybe he's just hiding in a bathroom somewhere." I keep thinking somehow, some way, Margaret will not have to grow up without Jack by her side.

I try to dig deep and examine my flawed belief systems.

I never, ever would have admitted it to myself or anyone else, but I think down deep inside me there was always kernel of, "If I live a good life, make good choices, love God and my neighbor, I will be spared heartache." Not the regular-grade heartache of waking up in your forties and wondering what the hell happened to your dreams and aspirations, but the gut-wrenching heartache of losing a perfectly healthy child to a violent, senseless death.

Flawed belief, for sure.

And now, if I examine my belief systems again, perhaps way down deep you would find a kernel that says, "Maybe if I try really, really hard to lean on God and others and live out this first year without Jack in a dignified way, I'll reap some reward." Not that I think God would just plop Jack right back down here on earth right in time to go on our annual family camping trip, but NOTHING less is acceptable to me.

While I don't consider the SECOND year meltdown a sure thing, everyone I've talked to and everything I've read has backed it up.

Just thought I should let you know.