Grief Sets You Apart

I miss my son. My special, strong boy. The missing will never leave me. The place where he belongs in our family only gets larger as he would be getting older. I missed him terribly at Graham's birthday party. His little brother was so clearly absent that I could feel it with each breath that I took. 

I think that I will look for him each day of my life. Every family photo I will notice where he would be. Every meal, every holiday, every moment of my life, I look to the place made just for Hudson. On Graham's wedding day, we will have a missing groomsman. On my deathbed, I will be looking and seeing where he should be standing, next to his big brother, Graham. This hole will never leave me. I will always see and feel it.

Grief is longing and loving and aching. It washes over like a tidal wave that nearly drowns you. Grief changes everything. Everything. It has changed my capacity (everything requires more energy now), the way I see the world, the way I see God and prayer and church and worship. It has changed me. My heart has aged a lifetime.

I feel everything more deeply now. The good and the hard emotions. Joy is more palpable and genuine, and sorrow is felt down in my bones.  

We all carry grief in our hearts. A lost love. A lost dream. A lost marriage. A lost child. A lost parent. A lost sibling. A lost career.  A loss of health. A loss of identity.

Our grief sets us apart. It marks us. We are persevering in a fallen and broken world with battle scars. The danger I am facing is that grief wants to separate me.

Being set apart as a veteran of grief and loss is something that God can use. 

But, grief wants to whisper often and consistently, "No one understands, nor can they understand. You are alone in your sorrow. You are alone in your loss. You don't manage your grief like you should. You should hide. You should be ashamed. You should have more faith. God doesn't even understand you anymore. You are different now. They don't want to know this new you. This hurting you. Just pull away. Just hide. Just manage the tidal wave alone."

I am in the war now. Everything in me wants to retreat and be separated by my grief. Separated from people, family, my own heart, and certainly from this big God who loves me but confuses me.

My new prayer is that God would allow my grief to set me apart, battle scars and all. But, that I won't believe the lies and run away alone and be swallowed by the grief. Because, oh will it swallow you! 

I was reminded of this beautiful song last week and I just realized (after naming this post!) it has the phrase, "set me apart" right there in the lyrics. Lord, chase me down when grief drags me to loneliness, hopelessness, and deep sorrow. Don't let me isolate my heart from those who love me. Don't let my hardened, bruised heart push you away. Mold me, Lord. Make me like clay in your hands. I've been there before but now, I'm so wounded that my heart is hardened in the survival of grief. Soften me, Lord, and then use me again.

The Potter's Hand

Beautiful Lord, wonderful savior

I know for sure, all of my days are held in Your hands

Crafted into Your perfect plan

You gently call me, into Your presence

Guiding me by, Your Holy Spirit

Teach me, dear Lord,

To live all of my life through Your eyes

I'm captured by, Your Holy calling

Set me apart

I know You're drawing me to Yourself

Lead me, Lord, I pray

Take me, Mold me

Use me, Fill me

I give my life to the Potter's hands

Hold me, Guide me

Lead me, Walk beside me

I give my life to the Potter's hand

Always Thinking for Our Boy

Several months ago I was cleaning out my inbox and I moved an email to Hudson’s folder. I had a quick thought, “I’ll show this to him one day.” I can’t explain why my brain does that. I am very clear that my son is in heaven. I miss him every second of every day. I’m consistently aware of his absence and where he would be sitting at the table, in the grocery cart, in the back seat, at church, etc. But, randomly I have these moments like the one with saving an email for later. I can’t explain why this happens but it does and it catches me off guard. I don’t think I had ever mentioned this happening to Corey and then yesterday it happened to him.

It was a hot, beautiful day to be outside so we took Graham to play in the water and to get ice cream. As we were leaving Corey took Graham to change out of his wet clothes and I went inside the store. We said we would meet at the car in a few minutes. When I came back Corey told me, “I just had a weird thought. I was getting Graham to the car and randomly said to myself that you must have Hudson.”

We both cried for the palpable absence of our sweet boy and then smiled a bit knowing that our hearts can’t help but still parent him and look out for him. We never forget he’s gone but there are moments we are still “mama and daddy.” We save things to show him and think to be sure he’s looked after as we walk to the car.

We’re still looking out for our boy. Always will. Our hearts won’t let us do otherwise even though our minds know he’s in good hands.

Missing you, Huddy Buddy!

A Grief Journey: The Gift of the Ordinary

"We often miss what is important on the quest for extraordinary." Brene Brown

I am a person of routine. I like making lists and checking off the things accomplished. I even write lists of things I’ve already done just to check them off. You too?

Well perhaps your day includes making breakfast, paying a bill online, getting an oil change, the drop off line and lists upon lists of to-dos. Ordinary life consists of things like grocery lists, school and church event calendars and family vacations.

Just last year I longed for the ordinary. The struggles of normal life of juggling work, home and ministry felt a million miles away. I was sitting in the cardiac intensive care unit day after day, hour after hour for months. Today I wouldn’t exchange a single second of that time with my son for anything spectacular much less something ordinary. But, some days sitting in that sterile, fluorescent-lite hospital room, I would dream of simple days of needing to mow the grass and run to the grocery store. These tasks don’t disappear when your child is hospitalized but they certainly don’t matter the way they once did.

Right after losing our son, the ordinary tasks of “adulting” were nearly impossible. Trying to write simple emails or texts took herculean mind power.  Yet I wanted the ordinary. I wanted to be normal and to be able to go to the grocery store without feeling out of body and in a fog.

I remember standing among strangers feeling as though I had come back from war and all my wounds were covered by my clothing. They didn’t know where I had been, what I had seen, what I had lost or that my wounds were so fresh that some were still bleeding through the hidden bandages. I wanted to run or scream or stop them and tell them, “Do you know where I’ve been? Do you know there’s a war? Do you know they are dying?” But, I just stood there observing the ordinary; life happening all around me.

Choosing fresh fruit

Checking the mail

Tying a shoe

Chasing after the bus

Scolding a child

Holding hands

Looking back over the months spent with our son, I realized there was a around a three month period where the only places I went were our apartment and the hospital. I stopped communication with everyone but my husband, my sons and the doctors/nurses. I only knew the war. All I could bear was the war; the war my son was fighting to stay alive. It was his fight but I was in the war with him. There was no ordinary.

It’s been around 400 days since we left the war. It’s not over and is still going on in that same hospital room. It’s a new child now because our son is done. Our son will no longer know the war and he will never know the ordinary.

I wish he got to know the ordinary for just a little while. Soccer games, Sunday school, crushes on little girls, playing with his big brother and bath time. But, really…are those memories ordinary?

The way I think is different now that I’m outside the war. When I’m observing every day, ordinary life I wonder things like,

“Are those her only two children or does she have more in heaven like I do?”

“Oh, she’s about 6 months pregnant. Oh Jesus, please knit that baby together with a full heart.”

“I can only imagine what it would be like with two wild toddler boys to running around this little town home! I might be crazy by now!”

I’ve realized that all the little things we do that make up this ordinary life really aren’t all that ordinary. Ordinary means commonplace, normal, standard. My special son taught me that at the end of the day nothing is truly ordinary. Doing laundry, going to work, caring for our homes, giving to the church, sharing our hearts, completing those to-do lists every week become extraordinary when we consider them as acts of love and ways to build lasting memories.

For example, a few weeks ago my son was playing in Chick Fil A with several little girls. Up the slide and down the slide. Squeals heard for miles. Seemingly so ordinary. No wounds visible to the outside. Yet, our big boy has lost his little brother and those little girls had lost their dad just a few days earlier. Simple playing. Hidden wounds. So extraordinary.

I can no longer do a task in and of itself without connecting it to the larger purpose of my life to love and serve others. Sometimes I still unload the dishwasher on autopilot but when I lay my head down at night, I think about the war. His war. My war wounds are still not visible to those around me. I’m sure your wounds are also hidden. So let’s remember together that life is not commonplace. There is always a bigger story going on in the lives of those around us. Let’s step into the ordinary of others’ lives to find the extraordinary; perhaps engaging deeply enough in hopes to stop the hidden bleeding. Let’s invest in others’ hearts by sharing our own wounds.

I’ve realized my strong son and the grief we have endured has exposed me to the gift of the ordinary and for that I am thankful.

“The most extraordinary thing in the world is an ordinary man and an ordinary woman and their ordinary children.” ― G.K. Chesterton

You Don't Know Her Name But She Mattered

It was a normal day. As normal as life in the intensive care unit can be.

I was holding my precious baby with half a heart and telling him stories about how I fell in love with his daddy walking the streets of Manhattan. We had been in the unit for months now. I lost track of time and I had to look outside to see if it were day or night. By this point I could speak the language of acronyms thrown around by doctors and confirm dosing on medications for my son like a seasoned pharmacist. I knew what every beep meant and which ones shouldn’t make me tremble and which called the cavalry.

I had so many days like this one watching his numbers rise and fall, conversations with the new fellow who knew less about my son medically than I did and hearing about life outside these walls from what the nurses did on their shifts away from the chaos. Those medical warriors could be saving a life and at the same time talking about their favorite restaurant. It was a normal day for them too.

Normal became unimaginable as I picked out phrases being
said across the room. The specialist and his fellow were with Baby Girl in bed one. We were bed four. We had come to know Baby Girl after months of rooming together. We didn’t know her specific heart challenges but we knew her cries and that she loved to sit in her swing.

Life in the hospital is really never normal but a routine is built. I learned that I would have to step out of the unit when certain alarms sounded, a child was being admitted or coming back from surgery. On this particular day, I was tucked away rocking our boy and no one asked me to step out. I could hear the doctor answer the parents’ questions, “We could operate but we know it won’t work. She will require the same surgery again and again for it simply not to work in the end. We shouldn't put her through that. Of course, you can seek a second opinion but they will say the same.” Baby Girl’s mom pleads, “But, I read something online. Can’t you try that?” The conversation continued for around twenty minutes and the questions became more desperate. A mama and a daddy’s heart pleading for solution.

The last thing I overheard was the doctor saying, “There is simply no more we can do but make sure she is as comfortable as possible.”

Her stunned daddy just stood there over Baby Girl’s bed. No outward emotion. Just stunned. Lost. Her mama kept tearfully asking unanswerable questions.

The best of the best had nothing to offer.

I don’t know what happened with Baby Girl after she left our unit. I think about her often. She was just under two years old. She was a foster child with a severe heart defect. She was loved by her birth parents and her foster parents. Her short life was more complicated than it should have been. She didn’t have hundreds following her story or t-shirts made in her honor. No 5k’s were run in her name. No newspaper articles printed celebrating her fight.

But, I’ll never forget her.

She mattered.

She fought.

She is loved.

For whoever touches you, touches the apple of His eye.
Zechariah 2:8b

Baby Girl, your hips don’t lie J. (A little inside joke between us girls.)

Is God Still Good When Your Child Dies?

As Christians we study the Bible to learn the character of the God we worship. We find that He is sovereign, holy, eternal while simultaneously being tender, loving and good.  Our entire purpose and existence is to glorify this good God and enjoy Him forever not just now in this world but for all eternity. These are the truths of Christianity that we hold dear.  As children we sing, "God is so good. God is so good. God is so good. He's so good to me."

But, is God still good when your child dies?

The last year and a half of my life has been excruciating as I watched my precious baby boy come into and leave this world after just eight months and three days.

So as a Christian I have been forced to my knees in a new way of surrender. To surrender my child to death has caused me to question even the deepest truths of my life and faith including the goodness of God.  It has been near impossible to walk in the depths of despair and say words like the ones of Psalm 106:1.

Say them with me:

"Praise the LORD! Oh give thanks to the LORD, for He is good; For His lovingkindness is everlasting."

Now let’s try saying them as your child breathes his last breath. Or as your spouse walks out the door. Or as the power is shut off. Or as you celebrate Christmas without your loved one. Or as you are huddled in a corner in Aleppo with your terrified family. But, we should say them at these most horrific times because these holy words are true.

I've doubted the goodness of God in my situation and perhaps you have too. When everything in me screams that there is no way God can be good, I must look to His Word and not let my faith be swayed by my emotions or my circumstances. Knowing that God is good doesn't diminish my pain or loss but it gives me firm, eternal ground to stand on. My circumstance is not good. But, He is good.

This I know is true: God's goodness is eternal. He was good when the people of Israel were enslaved. He was good when Jesus was on the cross. He was good during World War II and the Holocaust. He was good when my dad was at war in Vietnam and He is good today as I sit in my home looking at my son's Christmas stocking without him.

We intentionally (though a bit hesitantly) chose our Christmas card this year to remind ourselves that the goodness of God is eternal and not circumstantial. We chose this card because it is still true even in the year our son died.

This Christmas night I’m so thankful that God's goodness is forever. Somehow, in His sovereign will, He will work even the darkest, ugliest, most painful parts of our broken hearts into His good story of redemption alongside the story of the nativity. God doesn't explain Himself fully to us in this life but what we know dimly now, we will know fully when we see Him face to face in all His goodness.

Grieving in the Season of Merriment

December marks the “most wonderful time of the year” and we are reminded of this through song, decorations, sermons, gifts and even smells. As a person walking through deep grief, it feels far from merry most days and certainly not jolly. During a season marked for togetherness, grief can isolate once again even in a room of loved ones.

So how do we get through a season of celebration when our hearts are in tiny broken pieces? How do we take holiday family photos or buy gifts knowing our son is not going to be with us Christmas morning?

There are no simple answers. 

I can tell myself that Christmas is about our savior and the miracle of His birth. I can look forward to time with people I love and cherish. I can take intentional time to “pre-grieve” ahead of Christmas in preparation for moments of celebration.

But, at the end of the day, my heart misses my son terribly even if it is advent. I simply don’t feel merry & bright just because those are the lyrics I hear as I sit in traffic.

Even though I miss our son desperately, I want to be fully present for Christmas for his big brother. Picturing him on Christmas morning, I want the atmosphere of our home to be that of joy and celebration. But, how is that possible when we are missing ¼ of our little family?

I thought I’d share something that has seemed to help me in my grief during this sacred season. I keep thinking about the fact that I will only have a certain number of Christmas days.

My paternal grandfather got 96 Christmas days. My maternal grandmother got 72. My cousin got 37.

My precious son was given ONE Christmas day.

If I think of Christmas in terms of a special gift that you only receive a few times in your whole life versus a day to simply survive, it is somehow a bit easier for me to approach this holy day with less dread and even a bit of anticipation and dare I say...worship.

So, I will hang our Hudson’s stocking as a way to include him on this first Christmas without our boy. In his honor, I will donate to families who are hurting right this minute with children in the cardiac intensive care unit at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. 

If I count my Christmas days, it causes me to pause and makes me want to be fully present to make significant memories with those I love. I only get a few of these. Even with lots of traditions, each and every Christmas day is unique and special.

So my plan is to walk into my 38^th Christmas day, bringing Hudson along in my heart for his first Christmas day in heaven. 

There is no tension of merriment and grief in heaven. It is just joy there. No more tears. No more tensions.

Thanks be to God.

O Come, Let us Adore Him!

If your heart is breaking today as we enter the Christmas season, perhaps it might help you as well to take a minute and ask, 

“How many Christmas days will I get?”

"I Can't Even Imagine"

I’ve heard this phrase more than any other in the last several months after our precious son, Hudson went to heaven. My reply is often, “And I hope you never do.” I truly mean that. I pray that you may never know this loss.

I do want...

To be heard.

To be understood.

To be normal.

To be held.

For someone else to cry with me.

I read a quote recently that could help explain agonizing grief of losing a child to my caring friends who say to me, “I can’t even imagine.” Basically the author said something like burying your child makes you hear sounds you’ve never heard, taste what you’ve never tasted, see colors you’ve never seen. That language of using the senses to describe devastating grief helps me put my own grief into explainable terms to those who love me.

I feel as though each of my senses are affected. Everything is affected. To put into words how my heart feels is an impossible task but some words I can use are shattered, destroyed, agony, tears, loneliness. I feel a million miles from everyone around me. I’m in a fog and only grasp about half of what is said to me. I think that is survival.

If I’m nothing else through this process, I want to be honest and real. I’m not a hero or a spiritual giant. I’m just a mama whose arms are empty at 3am when I should be holding my baby boy.

I love Jesus.

My heart is broken.

That’s the truth.

I’m seeing colors…ones I pray you never know exist.

Ten Things To Do for Families with Children in the Hospital

After spending nine months at the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia with our precious Hudson, we wanted to share a few things that helped us along the way. Our friends and family did these things so well and we are forever grateful.

Hopefully this list will help you if you find yourself with friends in this horrible situation.

1. Pray: the family is exhausted, desperate and at the end of their rope. They have little to no energy to pray for themselves so pray for them often and let them know that you are praying. Add the family to prayer emails at your church. If possible, keep up to date with the current situation with their child and pray specifically.

2. Send Money: hospital life drains a bank account fast. Parking alone can cost $150-$200 a month plus if the family had to relocate, out of town housing immediately hits their budget. Many families lose jobs if care is longer term.

3. Send Food: Seamless Web or Grubhub will let you order, pay and tip from anywhere in the country and deliver it directly to the family. If you don't use those websites, you can easily find a pizza or sub place near the hospital to deliver.

4. Send notes of encouragement and truth. While incredibly hard to believe truth while in the dark, it is helpful to receive scripture and notes of truth.

5. Don't stop reaching out. Whether a text message, a voicemail or a note in the mail, don't stop contacting the parents. They are consumed with fear and dealing with doctors and specialists all day long so they may not reply but don't back away.

6. Take care of their home while they are away. Mowing the grass, checking the mail (and forwarding it), cleaning it before they return.

7. Go! I know this may be impossible depending on the family situation in the hospital and your situation. But, if you are close to the family and there is a way, go by and see them. If they are local, go even for a few minutes. It can feel like a war zone and like the rest of the world keeps spinning and doesn't know you are at war. People stepping inside the war zone makes you feel remembered and supported.

8. Send money (or gift cards). Saying it twice on purpose. While a homemade meal is wonderful, worrying about rent, house payments, medical bills and so on is salt in a very painful wound. If the family doesn't have a fund, create one and get friends to give. The only way our family survived was standing on the shoulders of people who love us.

9. Send something funny. I know this may seem a little strange and it might not work for some people, but getting a good belly laugh out of me in the last year of my life has been almost impossible. A few friends were good at this and believe it or not, that voicemail left in a crazy voice made me laugh out loud as I had tears in my eyes walking to the hospital AGAIN.

10. Share their emotions. If you are grieving with the family, let them know. If you are thinking of them, let them know. If you cry about their child's situation, let them know. It is so hard to step inside the pain of the situation but somehow it helps. It doesn't make sense really but it does help to know that others are feeling at least a portion of what you are feeling as the parent.

Bonus ideas: help with siblings, care packages, cleaning service, help with pets, send a book, buy a subscription to netflix or hulu, do laundry, do something special for holidays/birthdays


Posted in honor and memory of the strongest little man I've every met, our Hudson.

Dear Hudson: a letter to my baby boy in heaven

From Daddy & Mama

Written for our Hudson for his special service

May 20, 2016

Our Precious Hudson, our Huddy Buddy,

We often told you that you were the strongest person we had ever met. We sang Happy Birthday regularly. We would hold you for hours and sing to you and you would hold onto our finger for dear life. We talked about the seasons, what kindergarten is like, what middle and high school is like, prom, college, your amazing grandparents, fun uncles, aunts & cousins, The Alexander Farm and The Sylvestre farm and about tractors and helicopters. How we met and fell in love walking along the HUDSON River. About your big brother, Grahambo who learned the word, “brother” before he could say Hudson because that is how he knew you, his little brother. We told you about everything but most importantly about Jesus and heaven and how it was a real place where we will all be together.

We are so happy that you know the whole story now. You know what eternity is, what God looks like and you’ve touched the nail prints in Jesus’ hands. You’ve seen the golden streets and spent time with the Apostle Paul. There are no scars on your little body. You know the WHOLE story. THE WHOLE REDEMPTIVE STORY. You know your piece of the story and how much of an impact you’ve had on thousands of people, mostly on your mama and daddy’s hearts.

Forevermore, we will be Hudson’s mama and daddy. Though your home is in heaven, you will forever be our special boy who we would stare into your eyes and wished to bring to our house and show you the precious things of life, the mundane things and the most important things. We will miss your chubby cheeks, your squishy arms, your silly side burns and your little grunts telling us about your day.

We wanted to teach your ABC’s and how to count to five. We wanted to see you run and play and call your name across the house when it’s time for bed. We wanted to cuddle you and Graham on the bed just before it was time for “night, night”. We wanted to dance at your wedding and be your children’s grandparents but God’s plan was different.

God chose to call you home and to reveal to you, before us, His whole redemptive story. We don’t know exactly how heaven works. We know we will worship our amazing God but we do hope that God will allow you to welcome us there. To welcome us home, to be truly home and to finally see the whole story alongside you. What a glorious day it will be, to be with you again, our boy. Our precious Hudson. Our Huddy Buddy.

We miss you and wish we could have you back but sweet boy, enjoy our sweet Jesus. We are so glad you are whole.

We best buddies. Daddy, Mama, Graham & Hudson.

We best buddies…forevermore.

Second Born

Second Born

Many people reached out to us offering their love, support, prayers and their own grief, After losing our precious eight-month old son, Hudson to congenital heart disease in March. Many shared their stories or would say, “I can only imagine what this is like for your family.” My heart would whisper, “I hope you never know.”

But, as I walk this dark, deep valley I do want to share my heart and still be able to connect to others. Sharing my heart allows me to grieve with more authenticity and in a safe way through written words. I still hope you never know this sort of loss and if you have, God be near.

I’ve written the thoughts of my heart since I was a teenager keeping a journal about church camp, boys I had crushes on, begging for my husband, my walk with God and dreams for my future. But, since this unbearable season hit my life a year ago, I’ve not written a single page in my journal. Not one single page. I have written on this blog sporadically and kept up Hudson’s Heart facebook page but mostly out of desperation for prayer.

So here I find myself wanting to remember every aspect of my sweet Hudson and writing is the best way for me to do so.

Here’s where I am today….

Lately I have thought a lot about Hudson being our second born. He’s the little brother to Graham Drake. I often notice families with three children and the second child stands out to me. I see a family with a two-year-old and an almost one-year-old and I watch how the siblings react to one another. I’ve also realized so many of my friends are the second born in their families. In fact, I am the second child in my family.

I share these thoughts with you to try to explain a bit more what Corey and I are walking through as we face the future without our Hudson. Perhaps you are the second born in your family or you have two or more children or your close friend is the second born in their family. While horrific to dwell on this, thinking about not having that person in your family and the ripple effects of that person’s life may help you peer into our grief. Perhaps you already know this loss. I hope not.

I don’t know why I’ve focused on this whole “second born thing” the last few weeks but it has helped me realize why the pain is so intense. I’ve not just lost my eight-month precious son (that would be enough) but all of the community he would have had, his teachers, his neighborhood friends, his Sunday school classmates, his soccer or hockey team, his prom date, his college roommate, his future wife and my future grandchildren. That’s a lot to lose wrapped up in one sweet little life.

Of course the losses would be true no matter Hudson’s birth order but as I think about my family without me or Crystal’s family without her or Corey’s family without Tyanne or Carrie’s or Bethany’s family without them…it makes me not be as angry in my grief. I have let myself just be sad at what all we truly have lost. All those relationships I’ll never have. My Huddy and his whole little life ahead of him and the community he would have built. Lost.

The community he built in eight sort months was more than most in a lifetime.

Just think of what he would have done with 80 years!

We miss you our second born boy! We best buddies!

Love you, Huddy.