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.

Word!

My sister signed me up for Words with Friends a few days ago. You would think I’d be decent at it—after all, I love words and I love friends. Nope. I kind of stink.

Last night I was thinking about what my problem is, and it’s the same one I had when trying to play Scrabble as a kid. I get caught up in the words I “almost” have. “Hatchet” – if I just had the final “t.” “Media” but nowhere to place it on the board, “Surfeit,” just without the pesky “u”. I get so enamored with these “almost” words, it makes it hard for me to see what I really can use to make a smart play.

So I end up playing a measly word like “EAT.” Sometimes the game shuffles the letters around for me to jolt my brain with a different perspective and hopefully help me recognize a great word. But that doesn’t seem to help. I hang onto the letters I have, hoping the final letter will appear, because it’s such a great “almost” word, but when it’s my turn to play again, the board has changed, due to my opponent’s move, and I’ve still got nothing.

I think I relate to grief in a similar way. Right now I am caught up in what “almost” was the future for our family. So very, very close, but now with one key element missing. I cling to the way I wanted things to be—stable and good and meaningful, with maybe a bit of pizazz or a triple word score thrown in every now and then, but nothing too dramatic, and certainly not tragic.

The problem is, just as I can’t play a word that is not completely there, will never be completely there, I know I need to function within the family as it IS, not as it could have been. So by functioning, although hurting and half-hearted, I manage to go to work, get dinner on the table and give the impression of giving ½ a shit about what’s going on around me. To me, that’s the equivalent of playing “RAT” or “SET.”And that’s all I’ve got in me right now.

But the hours of daylight are getting longer, and many days I am filled with peace, the peace that passes all understanding, that I know comes from your prayers on our behalf. And when I remember Jack, which is all day, every day, it is with a smile, because that kid brought great joy to us. He was creative, smart, loving, and deep. He made us proud. He made us laugh with his silly quirkiness. With his strong moral code, he made us strive to be better, more faithful people. And now, somehow, he is still doing those things, but on a grander scale, far beyond just our family and our little cul de sac.

And while deep in my heart I wanted to play the words “COMFORTABLE,” “LINEAR”, and “STABLE”, I love this family and I’m guessing someday in the future I’ll be able to play “RESIGNED” , “THRIVING”, and maybe even "BEAUTY" "FROM" "ASHES".

Some Christmas Thoughts, With Gobs of Photos from Last Christmas

I’m guessing you may be worried. It has been more than a week and you haven’t really heard from me. I know I’d be worried about you if the tables were turned. The truth is, I just don’t know where to start in describing Christmas. And now it’s New Year’s, and the symbolism of leaving Jack in one year, yet moving on to the next weighs heavy on us, even as we stayed up to watch the ball drop and hang out with friends. While I’m just not sure what to write, there is a great deal to share, of that I am certain.

First and foremost, I want you to know we made it through Christmas! I hope you are proud of us; I know I sure am. There was a lot of laughter in our home. Rituals and traditions including “It’s a Wonderful Life” and Christmas Eve church. We made it fun for Margaret. Our niece flew in to keep her company, and the house sounded like it used to, with running up and down the stairs, the Wii turned on for the first time since August, and rooms being used again.

In the days leading up to Christmas we felt surrounded by love: through this blog, Facebook, and throughout our town. People stopped by in person and checked in virtually to let us know we were not alone. People sent letters and packages. I must say I am learning so much from you about how to reach out to others in difficult times and how to acknowledge pain.

In trying to train Jack and Margaret, but especially Tim, I have always said, “People just need to be acknowledged.” Never in a cheap, “I’m sorry you feel that way” kind of way, but in an “I’m sorry. This sucks. What you are dealing with is very hard” kind of way. I’ve been working on this with Tim for almost 20 years. He comes from the “If I mention a problem it will draw attention to it, but if I ignore it, perhaps it will go away” school of wishful thinking. Over the years he has learned that a little acknowledgment goes a long way.

With our current situation, we have been blessed to be able to experience your acknowledgment of our loss, and even the world’s loss, in relationship to Jack’s death. This does not take away the sting, the anger, or the disappointment we feel at our son being gone, but it helps. It makes us feel connected to others rather than separated from them. Even as I feel like a broken, alien species, out of sync with the person I was a few short months ago, I have never felt more connected to the world’s suffering and to the world than I do today.

A Christmas tree lovingly placed by unseen hands beside the bridge/drainage ditch where they found my little boy says, “Something happened here. Something changed for a family, and for a town.” That is an acknowledgement, a connection from person to person, family to family. As lights, ornaments and even presents appeared at that tree, day after day, the message we got was, “Jack is not forgotten. Jack counts.”

Seeing blue ribbons pop up around town and in the blogworld says, “This Christmas is different from last year.”

An evening drinking wine, way too much wine, with neighborhood friends and sharing stories of that horrible day, trying to make sense of what happened and talking about how God has been at work through this situation says, “This is not small. We need to talk. Jack’s life and death are not small matters.”

Spending time with my sister, someone who knew Jack better than almost anyone else, and who was able to sum up so much about his character, even in the brutal, crazed days immediately following the accident, was a needed time of acknowledgment for both of us.

Time with Auntie was well spent—ranging from being upbeat when the kids were around, to finding quiet moments together when we could just look at each other and say, “What the hell is going on here?” except we said a word other than hell. We were able to acknowledge that if there could ever be a poster child for “Kid least likely to get swept away by a frickin’ neighborhood creek” that boy would be Jack. Acknowledgment of the sheer lunacy of this situation.

We veered from pigging out on chocolate and discussing the year-end double issue of People Magazine to weeping for what her son lost, in losing his best friend Jack. We shared that while Jack will never be faced with heartbreak or drugs or depression, and how we can see God drawing people closer as a result of Jack’s death, we would trade it all in a second if we could.

We were able to acknowledge our regret of not spending enough time together in the past while also acknowledging that spending time together now is ridiculously hard for all of us.

In all, Christmas was okay. It was survivable. We made it. We felt your love and fervent prayers the entire time. Thank you for walking beside us.

Some things, however, remained unspoken, unacknowledged. Like the way my sister was able to loan me her son for a few minutes, his head in my lap as we snuggled on the couch. These moments meant I could pray for him as he tries to figure out how to go on without his cousin. But I could also close my eyes and pretend, just for a few seconds, that the boy I held, and probably squeezed a little too tightly, was my boy, not hers.

It's Gonna Be A Good Life?

Many of you watching the AMA’s with us probably gasped when The Band Perry played, “If I Die Young.” Ouch. That was a hard one, but much harder still for me was “Good Life” by One Republic. All I could think when they sang, “It’s gonna be a good life…” was, "Really? I thought so too, but now I’m not so sure.”

I saw two of my dearest friends the day after the trip. Because they were in town visiting their parents for Thanksgiving, we had the chance to spend significant time together for the first time since Jack’s memorial service. Sitting in a booth at one of our old high school haunts, we looked at each other, eyes filled with tears, shell-shocked and still in disbelief at what has happened. Like other friends, they shared that they wake up each morning and must realize, once again, that Jack is dead.

We discussed the utter improbability that such a thing could have happened to Jack. We went through all of the events that led from having my kids safe and dry in our house, to their looking at a stupid playhouse in a neighbor’s fenced-in backyard, to standing in that yard beside a raging creek. We questioned how Jack, our Jack, was the only child who died in our area during that crazy storm.

Being together, crying together, was draining and wonderful and helpful because these friends, like so many others, love us and realize HOW MUCH we have lost in losing Jack.

These same friends walked beside me many years ago when one minute I had the mom everybody loved and admired, and the next I did not. As they recounted how they found out about Jack’s accident, we were reminded, without saying a word, of those other, dreadful phone calls I made to them when we were all 18 years old.

Over the years, these and other friends have felt the bittersweet tension of sharing life’s joys with me, while at the same time remembering my loss. As they benefited from adult relationships with their mothers-- through college, dating, marriage, babies, baptisms, and birthdays-- they were sometimes unsure of how much to say, knowing that even as I had moved forward and flourished, I would always mourn the loss of what could have been.

I never wanted them to feel uncomfortable or temper their joy, but I appreciated their unspoken acknowledgement-- usually just a caring look-- that showed they knew I was thriving and content despite significant loss. Their news included holiday gatherings, family reunions, multi-generational beach trips, and their children’s special times with grandma. I wanted them to share their news with me even if it hurt, because they were my friends, and I cared.

After my mom died, I was unsure of exactly how to move forward, but I decided early on that a positive life for me would be a testament to her as a mother. I respected myself, made good choices, and tried to live an optimistic, drama-free existence focused on what was important. And, when I was blessed to become Jack and Margaret’s mom, though I keenly missed my mother’s support every step of the way, I knew I would try to parent well, having been so well-parented.

I was sad that my mother and children didn’t get to enjoy each other. And I missed the adult relationship she and I could have had, the one that I saw my cousins and friends experiencing. Even in the poop-riddled, sleep-deprived, whiny throes of parenting babies and toddlers, I already looked forward to being a grandma. Not too soon, as in “My 14 year old just made me a grandma,” but all in good time, to give my adult "kids" the PRESENCE of relationship where I had felt so much absence.

I yearned for the chance to enjoy and support Jack and Margaret in their adulthood, our relationship unfettered by the stress and pressure one experiences while in the trenches of childrearing. I imagined holiday celebrations. Beach trips. Cruises. Enjoying the amazing people my kids had become. Even though Tim and I pinched every penny, I was determined someday to travel with family, as one of my most painful memories is the knowledge that my mom had registered for her first passport in her early forties and never got the chance to use it.

As I sat with these two dear friends Tuesday, I realized that now we had another gulf separating us. A huge, gaping gulf. Not only can they enjoy their dear moms right now, but they will be able to see all (DEAR GOD PLEASE!) of their children reach adulthood. Their children will grow and flourish. Jack will be forever 12. Spunky, spirited Margaret’s young life will be tinged with loss.

My feeble attempt at redeeming early loss by living life well and supporting my children into their adulthood now hangs in tatters.

All those years I tried to put one foot in front of the other and choose JOY because I knew that would honor my mother and God. I smiled. I laughed. I loved. I thrived! And over the years I learned there are many, many things one can and will get through without the help of a mom.

But a child? The precious child who first taught me how to really love?

Now I get up every day and choose LIFE in an attempt to honor this wise, deep-thinking, brown-eyed boy who loved us, loved God, and whose physical absence is like a cannon blast through our little world.

But in the getting up, in the living, sometimes I have to ask, “How much, oh God, how much?”

And Jack’s passport? Sits upstairs in Tim’s office. Not a frickin’ stamp in it.

Margaret's Excellent Adventure

I bet you would love to hear about Margaret’s Excellent Adventure, made possible by… YOU!

The fruit of your tweeting, Facebooking, emails, blogging, calling, begging, and of course praying really started bubbling up a few days ago. Friends of friends (and a sorority sister!) who work for People Magazine in NY woke up before dawn on Halloween, dressed as Princesses Eugenie and Beatrice to try to win tickets for Margaret. Oh yes they did. Hats and all! They got plucked out of the audience and got to go back stage to plead Margaret’s case to anyone who would listen. Incredible!

Others reached out to a friend, an amazing woman and exec at NBC, who generously gave Margaret 2 VIP tickets for the Nov 23 Bieber Today show concert!

We even had phone messages from our local news station wanting to know what was up with all of those tweets! Your campaign certainly got noticed.

So while I was processing this exciting info, and LOVING how you were loving on my little girl, I got another call. The best friend of the sister of a woman who lived in our town until a year ago (are you following?) and who grew up a few streets away from our house, spent the weekend arranging THIS:

Tickets for the 3 of us to attend the American Music Awards in LA where Justin Bieber will be performing! Oh yes. Airfare and hotel, too! And if possible, a meet and greet —all courtesy of Coca-Cola, who puts on the show. Wow.

So I went from “Will I shower before work today?” to having the words: “Today Show, People Magazine, Dick Clark, AMA’s and Justin Bieber” spinning in my head. Oh my.

I decided it was time to clue Margaret in on all of this, for I do not believe that a complete surprise is the right approach given the shock she has endured losing Jack so suddenly.

She, of course, was THRILLED THRILLED THRILLED, and when I told her the two awesome opportunities-- the Today Show and the AMA's-- she said, “Can I do both?” Yeah, it took her about a millisecond to get used the idea of traveling the country and seeing Justin, her main man, perform not once but twice! However, we made her choose and she chose the AMA’s because she’s never been to CA before. In fact, she hasn’t been on a plane since she was 3 years old.

YOU did this.

Your phone calls, your tweets, your prayers, your willingness to reach out on Facebook and through your blogs to a family you may only have heard about in the “virtual” world…every little bit made a difference. Whether or not your phone call or email was the one that secured these awesome opportunities, you extended yourself to try to bring some excitement, some distraction, and some pleasure at a time of deep mourning.

And you know what? Margaret was not surprised. Sure, she was VERY surprised that her heartfelt shopping list would lead to her getting to hear JB perform. But when I told her everything YOU had done to make it happen, she was happy, but not surprised. Living in a world where people care about and help each other did not surprise her one bit, and for that I am even more grateful. YOU did that.

It was a generous outpouring of love from people who, to a large extent, have probably felt pretty helpless in regards to our little family, especially since no one can give us what we truly want and need-- Jack back here with us. I will never be able to know every detail of what each person has done for us or be able to thank you adequately, but please know what you have done has touched us deeply.

When I’m going through hell, and unfortunately that it what it feels like most days, I’m so glad you are on my side.

...

So in a few weeks, look for us on the red carpet! I’ll be the dazed one with gray roots on my head and gratefulness in my heart for people I may or may not ever meet. Margaret will be the one flashing her tin grin, with purple braces for JB, of course.

Thank you.

Rare Bird, Part 2

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

I am amazed and grateful at how gifts of comfort come at just the right time. While this post may come across as long and convoluted, I hope you’ll hang on for the ride.

First of all, I feel as if the poem I posted on Friday was divinely inspired. While my friend’s son and Jack hadn’t played together since preschool, and she and I had only seen each other a handful of times in recent years, she chose a bird as her primary image to beautifully convey Jack in the poem. It could not have been a more perfect gift to us. We treasure it.

I had already written the “Rare Bird” post but was unable to publish it Thursday night because the electricity went out, shutting down my computer. As you know, Jack died on a Thursday evening during a terrible storm, and the lack of electricity was a big factor in his death.

So here I was on another shitty Thursday, shortly after 6 pm (the exact time Jack disappeared), alone in my dark house, a crazy storm raging outside my window. I asked God, “Seriously????” but was filled with a sense of calm, knowing that many, many people were praying for me at that instant. Instead of replaying the horror of that night in my mind, as would be my nature, I was able to sit calmly for hours until Tom and Margaret got home. One of the reasons I could be so calm was a little bird.

As had happened in another part of the house one week before, I heard a bird singing, so loudly and beautifully that it seemed to be inside the house. The first time it happened, I was in the family room. It was sunny and calm outside, so I didn’t think much of it except, to note, “That is one LOUD bird.”

But how a bird could sing during such a storm was beyond me. I just cherished it as I sat on the living room couch in the dark, a little smile on my face, knowing that when the electricity came on I already had a post ready to share with you about my boy entitled, “Rare Bird.” I loved that.

What could have been a horrible night was the opposite, because of many prayers and the visit of a little songbird. Margaret and Tim eventually came home and the three of us tucked ourselves into our queen-sized bed, the electricity still out. We were able to laugh and talk before falling asleep, which was far different from the moaning sobs that stormy night 5 weeks ago.

The next morning I told them about the bird and as I did, the loud singing began again. We looked around and found a cute brown songbird sitting contentedly in a flowerpot on our screened porch. He must have gotten trapped inside and ridden out the storm there. We let him out, and I smiled again. Bird.

What I hadn’t told you yet was that a different friend, whom I have not seen in 20 years and who, therefore, had never met Jack, had been lifting us up via loving emails each day. Several of her emails over these past few weeks, in addition to prayers and hugs, mentioned sending a little blue jay my way. Well, umm, okay. Not sure what that meant. And I’ve never really liked blue jays, but I decided I’d take all the love I could get.

It wasn’t until she read Friday’s blog post, that this friend let me know what she meant in those previous emails. She had seen a particular bird often since the accident, and each time she saw it was filled with a sense that my Jack was MORE THAN OKAY. When she would look at the blue jay, the words, “Rare Bird” came to her, again and again, which she found odd, because blue jays are not rare. After reading the poem on Friday, and seeing the title, "Rare Bird," she immediately KNEW that the “rare bird” she had been thinking of was not a bird, but was Jack.

She was able to pass along to me many comforting assurances about Jack, and because of the beautiful poem, and the bird that had sung to me Thursday night, I was able to hear her and be comforted. Wow.

Well, there’s more:

So yesterday, while we were getting ready to go to go to a school picnic, something we dreaded because Jack wouldn’t be there with his friends, my cell phone started playing music. I say cell phone, because even though it’s an iPhone, I am not a music-girl, and I didn’t even know it had music on it. Turns out, Tim loaded some songs when I first got the phone, but I had no idea.

The song playing, “The Solace of You,” was one of our favorites when were dating many years ago in our Mix-tape days. Tim and I were able to smile, hug, take solace, get in the car, and do something hard.

The music would not have touched me if all of these other things hadn’t happened to help me be open to the idea of COMFORT coming to us through varied ways. I would have just thought-- “Wow, my cell phone is jacked up!”

So, I realize I’ve been being eased into accepting this comfort, from the Bible verse showing up on my phone that first terrible night, friends telling me they sensed Jack was reunited with my mother in heaven, and the prescient Bible verse Margaret found last summer. It goes on and on.

Just as God has used numbness and shock to NOT let me feel the weight of this grief all at once, he seems to be giving comfort in just the right doses, lots and lots of doses, to bring me solace.

So later last night, when I heard music playing on my phone inside my purse, I wasn’t all that surprised. It was another song from our dating years. When I asked Tim what it was called, he said:

“’Song Bird’ by Fleetwood Mac.”

Of course it was.

Thanks, God! Thanks, Jack!

I'm a Belieber!

Okay, I need to admit I will have very little understanding of some of what you are about to read in this post, but the lowdown is that thanks to your comments and enthusiasm after reading Margaret's sweet, poignant "grocery list" last week, I'm now starting to believe there will be a chance my little girl will get to meet Justin Bieber!

Why? Well, you have emailed Ellen, you have called in favors to your brother's ex-girlfriend's college roommate's mom. You have tweeted. No stone is left unturned!

You have pulled together to put a smile on Margaret's face, and I have to believe that something great will come of it.

Here's the thing. I don't tweet. I don't even understand it. I tried to understand it for about 5 seconds before doing what I usually do-- throw up my hands and ask my sister to figure it out for me. I may only be 18 months younger, but I know how to be the youngest child.

Then, I asked her to try to explain it in simple terms for me (and anyone else out there who might be a tad technologically challenged).

Those who are seasoned tweeters can laugh at my cluelessness-- laugh away as long as your tweeting fingers are moving! If you have any tweeting advice, like about hash tags (?) and key words (?) please let us know in the comments.

So, without further adieu, here's my sister:

How to Tweet:
Go to www.twitter.com and create an account. You do not have to use your real name. If you have a business account and want to create another just for this fun project, that is also easy to do.

Once you have created your account, use the search button (like a magnifying glass) to find the following people to follow. Click the person, then “follow.” You can also start from one of my tweets and click on the other names to follow from there. Easy peasy.

@JBLiftMargaret (our semi-official, Go Margaret identity)
@justinbieber (the real person!)
@scooterbraun (his manager)
@studiomama (his mom)
@bieberarmy (huge fan club)
@theellenshow (Ellen does lots of fun things like this to help people)
@tumblegrom (family friend)
@tumblegrommom (the brains behind this operation)

Unless you have followers, no one will see your tweets. SOOOO, tweet directly to the people above by starting your tweet with “@justinbieber” or whoever you want to have see the message. Please also include “@JBLiftMargaret” in your tweet to tie them all together (see Heather’s tweet below). You only get 140 characters so sometimes it is a challenge to get the size down. I have tinyurls for some links to the blog (Yes, I found out how to do that, too! See above) and the Fairfax Times article (Thanks, Heather! See below) that you can copy, or you can just re-tweet (RT) our posts. To do that, click the little thing that looks like recycle arrows. Except square. And only two arrows.

Heather's sample tweet: @justinbieber please hlp ease Margarets pain, her bro Jack was killed in a flood last month tinyurl.com/3gkdc2 She<3s U! @JBLiftMargaret

I included the link to Margaret’s shopping list in most of my tweets. Every time I read it I long with all my heart to give her what she really wants, Jack.

Since we can’t do that, let’s try to do this. Justin Bieber gets tons of requests on his time, so it will really take an OVERWHELMING amount of attention for this to happen. I think we can do it.

In the meantime, I am just thankful for something to do.-- Auntie

Rare Bird

Jack did not nap until he was 14 months old. That was not fun. But he made up for his crabby, exhausted babyhood with early development in a few areas that amazed and delighted us. For example, he used baby sign language from a ridiculously young age.

Above his changing table was a mobile made of origami cranes. Every time I changed his diaper, I would give the mobile a swing, and the paper cranes would swoop and swirl above his head. Jack made up a sign for “bird” that let me know he wanted to see his birds, or any bird for that matter. It was a little wave of the wrist, hand held high, and he did it OFTEN.

On that same changing table, at 7 or 8 months, he spoke his first word, “bird.” I videotaped it for daddy at work so he would believe me. No worries there, because once Jack started talking, he never stopped. And spelling, and rearranging the letters of the alphabet forward and backward, and sounding things out—like the word “semaphore” in 3-year-old preschool. At the time, I had no idea what a semaphore was. Jack filled me in.

Thus started the circus act of “Mommy and Jack,” as I proudly showed people all the amazing things he could do. He seemed so mature for his age, doing intricate puzzles and mazes, and building things. It wasn’t until later that I realized that while those things came so easily to him, other things didn’t, such as transitioning from one activity to another, handling disappointment, or staying quiet in class.

The realization that my beloved wonder-child was not perfect rocked my world. It helped me to quit being so smug and judgmental of other people’s parenting, to consider that other people struggle in ways we cannot see, and to be more accepting when baby #2 came around with her own distinct personality.

My inward celebration that I had hit the jackpot (the jackpot!!!) with my 2 particular kids never once slackened, but my heart did grow bigger, and I’m thankful to Jack for that. And so grateful that time and perseverance helped Jack grow into himself-- a smart, funny, caring, likeable 12 year old boy who loved God, his family, and his friends.

In those early years, we spent a lot of time bonding with babies and mommies in our home and at the park. This daily time together kept everyone sane. One of those dear mom-friends, in setting out to write our family a sympathy letter, instead wrote us an incredibly beautiful poem, and I’m honored to share it with you here:

Rara Avis
for Jack

“Bird” he signed,
Pudgy fingers fluttering.
We marvel and clap.

“Bird” he spoke,
“Starts with B”. So smart, so young.
We wonder and smile.

”Bird!” he yelled.
Too loud for the classroom rules.
We correct and sigh.

“Bird”, he imagined,
In stories, games, and colored bricks.
We admire and dream.

“Bird”, he joked
With apt and joyful humor.
We recall and laugh.

“Bird!”, he declaimed,
Confident upon the stage.
We bravo and beam.

“Bird” he became.
Why must he fly home so soon?
We call out and grieve.

“Bird” we weep,
“Come back here! You’ve flown too high.
We cannot see you!”

“bird”, he whispers,
“Let my wings enfold your heart.
We will meet again.”

How to Contribute in Jack's Name

Thank you so much for your love and support. I am almost, almost but-not-quite-yet ready to get back on here and write and rant and process and share and cry with you, my friends.

But first, I know a lot of you have been asking for ways to make the world a better place in Jack’s name. In addition to one of Jack’s favorite charities, Operation Christmas Child at Samaritan’s Purse –- (there is a button on the second page of the donation process to select a memorial card), there will be a scholarship set up in Jack’s memory at Dominion Christian School. If you would like to contribute to this fund, please send a donation to:

Dominion Christian School
10922 Vale Road
Oakton, VA 22124

There is an additional fund that our family will be able to use for future projects in memory of Jack. We are excited to include Margaret in these decisions. Any contributions to this fund may be sent to:

Jack Harris Donaldson Memorial Fund
Apple Federal Credit Union
PO Box 1200
Fairfax, VA 22038-1200

Thank you for your loving support during this heartbreaking time. Above all else, we are grateful and dependent upon your prayers as we figure out how to live and breathe. Your outpouring of love has been amazing, and we are thankful that so many of you have been touched by Jack’s life.

Our Beloved Son

His Life Verse: "Nothing is Impossible with God." Luke 1:37