I have had many people ask me why I have stopped blogging.  I have definitely NOT stopped blogging!!!  My blog has moved...

Yesterday was our small, private tree and bench dedication at Wilson Park in honor of Jud.

We moved into our home, that sits on the park, at the end of May 2006 and it became our backyard. Our lives included daily jaunts to the playground and surrounding areas, with sometimes multiple visits in a day. And in the evenings, just before bedtime, when Drake would ask Jud what he was thankful for, Judson's response almost always included "our park."

Judson loved Wilson Park. In fact, in his short life, I believe it was his favorite place on earth (though the strawberry farm ranked up there too).

Some of my favorite memories of Judson at the park included having him say "wheeeee" when I would push him on the swing, hunting for roly-polys, pointing out all the helicopters, airplanes, and buses that would pass by, and the way he would stop dead in his tracks to watch and study other kids as they played. Furthermore, right before the onset of Krabbe, Judson had begun climbing the spiral ladder that lead to the largest slide at the park and I remember the smile that would beam across his face each time he reached the top, showing great pride in his accomplishment.

One specific memory came when we were playing at the "store window" in the sand and he was "selling" me various food items like waffles, bananas, pancakes, yogurt, etc. He then indicated that I should buy his cereal. When I asked him what was in it, he responded, "Brewer's yeast, kelp, flax seed oil, and wheat germ,"—all the additives that I would put in his cereal each morning. I couldn't slip anything by him!!!

Judson's affliction with Krabbe began at the end of May 2007…giving him almost exactly one year of joy at the park.

I grieve deeply that Jud and Jessie never had the opportunity to play together at the park, that Jud never got to ride scooters with his buddy Evan, that he never was big enough to use the "big boy" swing, and that he never had the chance to play soccer at the park with his cousins.

But, I am so grateful to have the tree and bench to honor his memory.

We were so thankful to be surrounded by the family and friends who have journeyed very closely with us this last year.

Dear Readers...

For those of you who maybe wondering if I have fallen off the face of the earth, I am still here.  Due to some recent crazinees in life (unrelated to my grief), I have not had the time to write.

I will also be out of town for the next couples weeks (with one brief day at home in between two trips).  I expect to be writing and blogging during this time, but do not know whether or not I will have access to the internet to post.  So, if I don't post for awhile, please know that I will return in a couple weeks.

Thanks for faithfully following my journey.  It means more to me than you can even begin to imagine!!!

Christina

My dear, sweet, beautiful boy,

You would be 3 ½ today if you were still living here on this earth.  This is the day your dad and I had set aside to celebrate your life each year.  But now you are no longer with us, and though we continue to celebrate your life, rejoicing greatly in who you are, it is coupled with mourning your death.

My grief over your absence continues to be so severe as I sense that I am just starting to come to grips with the reality that you are truly gone from this life forever.  No amount of pleading or begging can afford me the opportunity to look into your sweet face again here on earth.  In all my desperation, nothing puts you back in my arms, not even for a moment.  We could memorialize you in every way imaginable, but we still won't have YOU.

I long for YOU Judson.

I cannot help but wonder what gifts you might have wanted on your birthday today, what new interests you might have developed in the last year, how tall you might be, what new song you would be singing, who would be your friends, and the list goes on and on.

But instead, all these things have been frozen in time.

As other little boys move from a love of matchbox cars to a love of Legos, or sports, or board games, your interests will never change and grow.  You remain…the same.  You are fixed in our memories as a little boy who loves McQueen, was around 40 inches tall, enjoyed signing the Itsy Bitsy Spider and B-I-B-L-E, and found Sophia and Jake to be the most delightful friends at church.   

And though I grieve not being able to watch you now grow and change, I praise God you are no longer trapped in the pain of this world.  Having been touched so severely by evil, I can only imagine how incredible it is to be in the presence of the pure goodness of your Heavenly Father.  I am so glad you are set free Judson, for it is only in your freedom that I find great hope.

I, too, long to be set free from the pain and suffering of this world, delivered unto abundance of life in heaven with our Creator.  I imagine being able to enjoy you Judson, unhindered by my frailties and brokenness—whole, because of what Jesus has done for me/us.  We can proclaim his glory together!

I know you must be singing regularly to your Savior, just as you did here on earth, but I hope today, that maybe He has been singing to you, lavishing you with the richness of His love, while expressing to you how proud we, your earthly parents, are of you too.

You are loved more deeply than I can express in words.  I miss you somethin' awful!!!

Mommy

When we gathered with family and friends for the tree and bench dedication yesterday, we also had a ½ birthday memorial celebration for Jud.  He would be turning 3 ½ tomorrow—June 24^th.

We had the same Lightening McQueen ice cream cake that was given to him at his Make-a-Wish party and after singing "Happy Birthday," we released balloons as a gift to him.

 

All the festivites sweetly honored our boy, but as I watched those balloons climb high into the sky, it brought another level of deep recognition that my boy is gone forever from this life.  Nothing we do, nothing we say, no memorial...absolutely nothing can bring back my boy.

Jud is gone, and part of me is gone with him!

Tomorrow marks a year from the Sunday we dedicated Judson and Jessie at our church. We had planned the occasion weeks before the onset of Jud's Krabbe, but the disease was well underway when we stood before the members of Grace that pivotal Sunday morning. Though we did not know what was happening in Judson's body, we knew there was neurological damage.

Drake and I had only been at our church for less than a year (after moving to Costa Mesa); we were still trying to find our niche and knew only a handful of people. However, we had firmly decided this was the community in which we wanted to dedicate and raise our kids.

As we stood before the church body professing our commitment to honor the Lord in our parenting of Jud and Jessie, the community also committed to supporting us in our endeavors to faithfully raise our kids…

Yet, we had no idea that our gift of raising Jud would end less than five months later.

In those five subsequent months of suffering, and now in our tremendous grief, we have received more support than imaginable. Our church family took their commitment seriously, and we could not have walked this path without them. In the most wretched of circumstances, they helped us love and care for our boy to completion.

Whereas a year ago we did not know many of the faces at our church, we look around the room now and see true family—partners in our joy and suffering. We may have dedicated our kids last year, but the people of Grace have certainly shown their dedication to us.

We would trade anything to have our boy back, but as Jud's story unfolded, one of our greatest gifts has been GFC. We are so grateful!

I vividly remember a phone conversation I had with my friend Tracy precisely one year ago.  At the time, Drake and I had to wait a full weekend before we would be able to meet with the neurologist to discuss the results of Jud's first MRI, but we also knew that our boy did not have a brain tumor.

Tracy asked me how I was doing with the waiting and all the uncertainty. 

My response has haunted me ever since…

"I feel so helpless and powerless having to wait, and I greatly fear what this could mean for Jud long-term, but at least I will have my boy!  I don't think this is threatening his life.  At least I will have my boy!"

I recall saying those words to her and thinking to myself, "What could be worse than cancer?  If Jud doesn't have a brain tumor, then surely his life is not in jeopardy!  But what if I am wrong?  Are there other diseases that can kill him?  Not likely.  At least I will have my boy!"

As I discussed my feelings with Tracy, I remember consciously trying to find the positive side in the midst of being petrified that Jud was going to be disabled for the rest of his life.

This is one of those moments when hindsight feels torturous. 

I no longer have my boy.  I thought I would still have my boy.  I no longer have my boy!

Oh, how it hurts!

Singing used to flow easily and sometimes unconsciously from my lips whenever I was listening to a song that had familiar lyrics or even in a time of community worship.  However, my journey over the last year has made me much more mindful of the words that glide off my tongue in song.  I want each chorus sung out of a genuine understanding of the words, while truly expressing the convictions of my soul.

Old, familiar songs now stop me cold with the sentiments expressed therein. 

And I ask myself…Do I really think this?  Do I actually live out of this truth?  Do these words resonate with the true longings of my heart?  If I sincerely believe these words, what will it cost me?

One such song that used to regularly and mindlessly stream from my mouth is on a Margaret Becker album from 1999.  I happened to randomly put this old CD in my car stereo the other day.  As I listened to the lyrics of "All That's Left," I found myself marveling that I used to effortlessly sing the words to this song.  Now they carry such significant weight and power. 

I'm not so strong, not so brave
Tripping along this life unpaved
And losing myself all the way
Yeah this is tough, yet still a gift
To be held here in Your grip
And so I go now
Through Your changes

And I'll break down
If that is what it takes
I'll be weak if it shows Your strength
And I'll be glad at the end of all the change
If You are all that's left in me
If You are all that's left in me

With Your grace
Make me less
Fill me with Your brokenness
'til I raise these hands
To Your lovely face

Ah, these changes
In the chaos You've ordained
Changes 'til I am fully claimed
Changes 'til only You remain

This song talks about being stripped of EVERYTHING until all that remains in me is Jesus Christ.  It depicts fellowship with the brokenness of our Lord and describes being weak so God can be made strong.

I used to sing these words??!!???  

Did I think about them and what it might cost me?!!!??! 

Now I do.

Since rediscovering this song in the last week, I have found it difficult to sing.  But yesterday, I was moved to belt it out with greater reverence, greater intentionality, greater awe, and hopefully greater devotion than ever before.

Though music may no longer flow easily from my lips, when I do sing, it surges out of the depths of my soul.

Just a couple hours after Judson died, I crumbled on my bed and wept, and wept, and wept.  The book "Morning by Morning" by Charles Spurgeon happened to be sitting on my nightstand staring me in the face, so I decided to pick it up and read the entry for that day, November 7^th (previous blog Engraved).  What I read has remained emblazoned in my mind and continues to be one of my greatest sources of comfort as I have grieved the loss of my boy.

…

In the book of Isaiah, Zion is feeling abandoned by God and declares, "The Lord hath forsaken me, and my God hath forgotten me." 

There having been many moments in the last year where I have been tempted toward unbelief and feelings of being deserted by God, but the Lord's loving word of admonition offered to the disbelieving people of Zion keeps ringing in my mind…

 "Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands." (Isaiah 49:16)

He is declaring His constant faithfulness and the impossibility for Him to forget His beloved; He has even gone so far as to etch them into His own skin.

…

So I took a bold step today, on the anniversary when our souls began to cry out in brokenness for the life of our boy—the day marking the subsequent slow and painful death of our precious Judson along with the dying that has occurred in our hearts...

I have inscribed Jud's name on my wrist.

Each painful stroke as Judson was memorialized in my flesh felt like an appropriate reflection of the blistering sorrow in my soul, but as the emotion of the occasion apprehended my heart, I meditated over and over on this verse from Isaiah.

"Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands." (Isaiah 49:16)

Just as I have etched Judson on my wrist as a symbol that he can never be forgotten, so also has my Father carved me into His hand.  He cannot and will not forsake me.  He is faithful and He is good.  I am never to be forgotten by the One who created me.

This life-long decision to have Jud's name written on my body in such a prominent location carries great weight: possible stigma, possible change in first impressions, a possible mischaracterization of intentions, but the symbolism far outweighs the costs for me…

I have an indelible reminder of God's promise of faithfulness and my promise to never forget Jud.

In our journey of grief and sorrow, we have regularly been "warned" that anniversaries can be far more difficult than the average day of loss.  I have frequently wondered what makes these days more challenging, seeing as the loss itself remains unchanged.  Why would these particular days be harder?

I am beginning to understand.

What has been happening as an anniversary approaches, is the memories from that day flood my mind.  They replay over and over.  In turn, my new emotions of grief and sorrow are forced to mix with the emotions that were present on the day being remembered.  It is a double whammy!  And I view the anniversary with a profoundly new understanding from the hindsight I now walk in each day.

Tomorrow, Friday, June 13^th, is the anniversary of the date in time that marks, in our minds the start of Judson's journey as a boy plagued by wretched disease.  It begins the season of multiple disabling memories.

Oh God, grant us comfort!

A year ago today marks my first day of skyrocketing fear for Judson's well-being (see Altered Forever).

Strangely, at the time, I did not fear for Judson's life—that thought didn't really even cross my mind; it was devastating enough just to imagine Jud might have a long-term disability.

Here is my journal entry from June 11, 2007, exactly one year ago:

Dear Father,

I am so concerned about Jud…he is almost to the point where he can hardly walk and there might be something wrong with his eyesight.  I don't want my mind to go crazy, but it is hard to keep from worrying about potentially chronic ailments.  It breaks my heart to think of him dealing with a disability all his life.  I can hardly bear it!!

Please, please, please God heal him.  Please enable him to be even more physically adept after going through this, whatever it may be.

In the meantime, please grant me patience and wisdom.  I ask You to show me how I can best meet Jud's needs right now.

Jesus, will you also expand my faith and love for you during this time?

My recollection of this day brings an intense ache, particularly as I now know what was coming around the bend.  I have some very specific memories, but the overarching feeling on June 11th last year was one of panic. 

Panic is, in and of itself awful, but it is beyond excruciating when that which is feared turns out to be worse than you even imagined!

We recently popped a new music CD in the car for Jessie.  It is a bunch of old-fashioned, poorly recorded, gospel music for kids...What can I say?!!!?  It was really cheap and Jessie's not too picky!

Our little "buggy" has a couple favorites on the album, but I found it curious that the song she keeps requesting over and over again is "Heaven is a Place for Kids:"

This song, "Hard to Get," by Rich Mullins, is one I had heard many times before Jud got ill and died, but since Sarah recently reminded me of it, I have listened with new ears…ears that relate to the lyrics with a deep, gut-wrenching solidarity.

This is a gritty song of raw, vulnerable, genuine, honest, heartfelt reflection. It expresses the hurt and challenge of life, along with the hope and surrender.

I find it ironic this song was written and sung by a man who is now with Jesus; I imagine, for Rich, that the One who lives in eternity is no longer "hard to get."

Yet, for me, who still lives in time, I find He is still very much hard to get!

Jesus, I know You bore my sorrows, I know you feel my pain, and I know it would not hurt any less even if it could be explained. But I can't see what's ahead and I'm broken by what's behind…I trust You've led me here, and I know You've been with me all along, but Your ways are just plain hard to get!

Last night, Drake and I attended our first wedding since Jud died.

For the most part, I was able to focus on the newly married couple and rejoice in all the rejoicing.

What I did not anticipate was the monsoon of grief that overtook my body as the groom's mom stepped onto the hardwood floor to enjoy a solo dance with her son.  It was as though I was transported into a galaxy of intense pain while the numerous people around me were smiling, laughing, clapping, and delighting in the festivities.  My face contorted in an effort to hold back my sobs, but tears gushed out of my eyes as I tried to hide my sorrowful countenance behind Drake's shoulder.

The world around me began to flow in slow motion while my mind conjured up pictures of Judson in young adulthood, flinging me across the dance floor on his wedding day…but I could not see his face.  I saw a tall, lanky body topped with soft blonde hair, but I could not see Jud's face.  Oh, how I wanted to see his face, his smile, his eyes.

I will never know what Judson might have looked like in adulthood.  I will not have the privilege of watching him fall in love and get married.  I will never have a mother/son dance with my boy.

But, I will cherish every memory I do have!