Koen was born 11 years ago today on Memorial Day in 2013 and we buried him four days later.

Yesterday we spent the day as a family and it was perfect, but today I am spending a lot of time alone. I woke up at four in the morning and my first coherent thought was of Koen. How do I fall back asleep after that? This day is filled with so much.

When I greeted Tobin this morning he said “Do you know what today is? It’s Memorial Day!” And I replied, “it’s also Koen’s 11th birthday.” Tobin met that with a cheer of happiness and delight to be celebrating his brother. Tonight we said our common dinner prayer and T stopped us, saying “wait I want to pray a special prayer. Dear God, I thank you for the soldiers who died defending our freedom. Help the soldiers and Koen have a good time in heaven today.”

We quietly celebrate our curly topped 11-year-old boy today. His presence is forever missed in our home, but I am sure he is having a good day in heaven.

Ten years ago I was admitted to the hospital while I was pregnant with Tobin.  Without warning or preparation they sent me to labor and delivery at just 21 weeks pregnant.  My first 24 hours there it was a parade of doctors all preparing me for Tobin's very early arrival and all the risks that would accompany that. Just a short ten months prior to this I was 27 weeks pregnant with Koen and I was in labor and delivery without warning too.  We never left the hospital with Koen.  

I am still unpacking the trauma of that heart wrenching year and the impact it had on so many facets of my life.  I am forever changed.

Last week Tobin had a really difficult week at school.  His heart is huge, he fiercely fights for injustice; he sees the world differently; his brain is loaded with so much, so many words, and so many feelings. I cannot even begin to imagine what God has in store for his life, but his kid journey to get to that place may be a bumpy and difficult ride at times.  I worry and ache for his little heart that is so big. I am reminded to trust the God who carried him to safety 10 years ago.  In that first 24 hours at the hospital they told me "if he makes it to term it will be a miracle".  He is our miracle. God carried him then and he is carrying him still. Shaping him, growing his passions and imagination, strengthening his empathy, and filling that little brain with more knowledge than I can comprehend.  

After T's hard week we reminded him of his miracle status, that he is never alone even when it feels like it.  And then Tobin talked about Koen being with him.  I believe they are always together.  What will God do with my miracle who has his very own angel at his side in this life?  What an honor to be a mom to them both.

The biggest blessing walked into our house in October and hasn’t left since, our exchange student.  He is leaving us in just over a week, and none of us are ready to say goodbye.  We love him like our own.  In this year he has become our family.  It felt so natural when he moved in.  Within a few weeks it was like he had always been here, so it is hard for me to now imagine my house without him in it.  This special human of a guy and his sweet spirit and fun personality made an impact on our little community, he is so loved.  Watching him form bonds with each of us in our family has been the most precious thing to witness.  Watching him walk out of our home for the last time and into the airport is going to be so difficult for our little family, but we would not trade our time with him for anything.  Knowing him and loving him was more than worth it.
 
I was talking with some friends this past week about our growing boys and how different sons are from daughters.  If I do this mom thing right, my boys will leave me.  Their wives will become their sole confidants, their sounding boards, their cheerleaders.  It doesn’t mean that I won’t be there for them, that they won’t ever share, but me being the person they run to first, will end.  Their happiness and fulfillment in their grown-up lives, the bond they will share with their wives someday, depends on me letting go.  And it’s starting.  I am starting to let go, to trust that we have equipped our oldest with the tools he needs to face hard and adversity, and more importantly how to love well.  And he is doing just that, all of it, without us, and it is humbling to watch.  The emotions of it all are overwhelming.  The grief for me, knowing that this part of my role is slowing coming to a close with him.  But man, the unbelievable pride for who he is and what is to come for him trumps all. 
 
Hosting this year wasn’t in our plans, not even on our radar.  He was the gift we didn’t know we needed, and one Kevin and I said yes to immediately without even knowing how it would all work.  Having him here has given me a glimpse of what life would have been like with 3 sons in our house.  He blessed my life with so much, and he is so much more to us than that, but getting to experience a fuller house is something I will forever cherish.  I have said goodbye to one son, it was a very abrupt and final this side of heaven.  Now I prepare to say goodbye to my host son, but it’s not sudden this time, we knew it was coming all year.  So I have been busy cherishing and savoring my time with him, so that I will forever remember this most precious special year.  And it’s not forever this time, he will forever have a home in the US and we will forever have family in Spain.  Visits won’t ever be quite the same, but we have those planned in our heads already and I am looking forward to seeing him again.
 
I have two years left with our oldest in our home.  The series of tiny goodbyes, and letting go has been happening for years.  I had him when I was 26, and I was so naïve.  Life seemed to take forever when I was that age.  I thought his time with us would go so slow.  Eighteen years sounded like an eternity, like I would never have to let go or when I did, it would be so far away, that I would be ready.  No matter the age or the circumstance, I don’t think a mom heart is ever really ready.  With each year it seems to go faster than the last, and it feels like high school is happening in the express lane.  My greatest joy will come from watching him grow and become who he is meant to be the next two years, and with each passing milestone and “last” I will be saying small goodbyes.
 

It's been 10 years since Koen was born, and died.  And my heart is still shattered.  I am still sad.  So. Sad.  It won't ever stop being awful.  My arms still ache to hold him, and my eyes long to see his face.  I still see him in everything.  I still miss him.  I still wonder what life would be like with him in it.  

I no longer wake up and start crying, but I still cry.  I am no longer sad every day, but I am still sad.  I no longer find it hard to be around happy, but some days others happiness is too loud.  I no longer live in a surreal state, feeling like I am watching the world go by and I am just watching it, but sometimes I do feel like I am floating again for moment when without warning or knowing.  A moment sweeps be back to that surreal place.  Last night at the boys baseball game, a player on the opposing team was named Koen.  He pitched the first game and his teammates cheered his name often during those innings.  That's all it takes, and in a moment my grief is so heavy, yet I float away.  

I slept awful last night and woke up with a lump in my throat and tightness in my chest.  Yesterday tears came easy.  I easily escape into the wheel of busy, grinding through life, and not slowing down to feel my feelings, but this morning I knew my body was screaming for quiet.  When I took time to slow down, I realized that my body knew what my brain had not yet allowed me to think about.  My body remembers, it knows.  It knows what is coming.  Memorial Day.  May 27th.  It knows that my heart is still broken.  That I need to honor that broken piece of myself.  Honor Koen.  But its painful, because my only memories with him are traumatic and heartbreaking.  And sacred.  And beautiful.  A loss of baby that never lived outside of your womb, is a special kind of grief.  There are no purely happy memories to cling to, they are all laden and mixed heart wrenching ones.  

Today Kevin came home at lunch.  The hardness of life written all over his face.  We are not the same people we were 10 years.  Grief has taken a toll, innocence has been lost.  The love for Koen is never ending, and so the grief has no end either.  Ten years later I am still sad.  So sad.  So I find hope today in lamenting for my baby boy.  My baby boy who would be 10 years old this Saturday.

"The thought of my suffering and homelessness is bitter beyond words.  I will never forget this awful time, as I grieve over my loss.  Yet I still dare to hope when I remember this:  The faithfulness of the Lord never ends!  His mercies never cease.  Great is his faithfulness; his mercies being afresh each morning."  Lamentations 3:19-23

Being a mom can be a daunting job, the list of things to be done constantly cycling in my head, the actual work of maintaining a household, the taxi services — but those are the easy parts. The part that weighs heaviest on my soul is that I so desperately want to get it right. I know well what it is like to enter adulthood feeling broken with deep wounds on my spirit and heart. Those wounds put there by those who should have been my safe place and protected me, but in their own brokenness weren't able. I want it to stop with me. I don't want the transfer of pain to keep perpetuating. The enormity of this responsibility is too much to be consciously aware of each day, but I know it is my driving force for so much of what I do and who I am. What an exhausting expectation I have laid out for myself, to somehow get everything right while simultaneously healing.

This week I have been so hard on myself for errors made as a young mom. I read so many books in my 20s, gathering as many resources as I could, gleaning from different perspectives, so I could land on a way to parent that felt comfortable, healthy, loving, and safe for our little family. At the time I was still picking up my own broken pieces, and learning what all the cracks and fractures on my heart meant and how they were caused. How could I get it all right at the beginning? Here I am still healing old worn cracks, expecting myself to never misstep, because mistakes mean I am not safe. In my effort to get it all right, I am getting it wrong. I need to show my boys you can step off the path, without falling off a cliff. You can make mistakes and grow from them. They have watched me try to get it right so desperately, that they hold themselves to the same impossible standard. I have never understood why they have this view of themselves, when our words and actions are so gentle with expectations, never wanting them to have the weight of perfect. But they are watching me, their broken and imperfect mom, demanding myself to be perfect for them. I need to fall more, fail more. I need to not get it right. They need to see that getting it wrong is safe for me, and in turn them. They need to see exploring and adventuring is every bit as safe, and even more beautiful, than marching safely down the path. I have to allow myself to fully experience the things I have hoped to foster for their lives, because they are watching and seeing what I can't even see in myself. They can see the light through my cracks, my broken. I can't try to perfectly cover it up, its what makes me beautiful, that my love can shine through my broken parts. That I can love and be a safe place in spite of my broken, that's what makes me the best mom to them. That is how we will all heal and stop the cycle.

As the school year comes to a close this week, the flood of emotions are upon me. ALL THE FEELS. I can't even seem to make sense or unscramble them all. The excitement and pride of what the boys are becoming, and the joy it brings me to watch their lives unfold is indescribable. I have had a little boy in my house for 15 years straight, just has Hackett was transitioning to a big 2nd grader, Tobin arrived. I got to start it all over, which at the time seemed daunting, but now I see what a gift it was for me. I have had 15 years of sweet snuggles and little boy hands in mine. 15 years of pretend play noises and wanting to be near mom.

Now Tobin has two giant front teeth, and we see him transitioning to this more grown up boy stage right before our eyes. His pretend play still exists, but with his door closed, less animals, and more Star Wars. He now spends hours reading and writing with his imagination. He will be ready for second grade next year, more independence, and all that comes with it. I'm letting go little by little.

And Hackett. One year of high school just days from being done. It's hard to believe he once was little. Now six feet tall with broad shoulders, muscular legs, and deep voice, he could pass for 18. He has come into his own this year. He has overcome trials and celebrated victories and it has been an honor to watch it all from afar.  The texts for rides will end in six months when he gets his license. He is starting to look at colleges, and is asking how to make some of his favorites foods, as he prepares in small ways to leave our home. I'm letting go little by little.

This is what motherhood is, isn't it?  We watch them sleep on our chests and then let them go when we lay them in their cribs.  We watch them toddle while hanging on to our fingers and then we let them go to take steps on their own.  We watch them walk in to school for the first time and then let them go to learn and make new friends.  Our grasp just keeps loosening with each year and each stage.  When we went to the park when the boys were toddlers I would hover, always ready to grab a hand or be ready to catch as they climbed.  They would gain confidence, and I in them, and I would step back.  No longer hoovering and holding, but watching from further and further away.  Little by little.  I'm outside the fence now of Hackett's life, just watching his adventures and confidence grow.  He's leaving the park soon and he will be ready.  I'll let him go and just watch with tears in my eyes, the biggest smile on my face, and pride in my heart.  

Nine years ago today our precious Koen was born.  Last night Kevin and I were talking about Koen, how it felt like it was so long ago and just like yesterday all at the same time.  The years go by without milestones for us to mark the passing time.  No baseball games or field trips or morning snuggles.  I ache for the little simple moments that we never had with him.  But what a gift he was.  I would want to rewrite his story so that he is still here with me, but I never wish that Koen never was, he was a gift.   All three of them are.  What an honor to be their safe place, the one they turn to in their joy and sorrows, where unconditional love flows freely.  I don't take their lives, no matter how short, and my role in them for granted.  They are my greatest gifts.  

I breathed a sigh of relief  today as I drove home from receiving my vaccination.  Anxiety has ebbed and flowed my entire life.  When it is triggered the mental exhaustion of it is so heavy.   Health issues have become my kryptonite since Koen's death.  This year, the weight of my fears has been heavy.  My body has failed our family in the cruelest way.  Koen's cause of death was not because his body was imperfect, but because mine was.  After some digging in therapy I was able to pinpoint that any small issue makes me fear that my body will fail again, with only little warning.  So I am hyperaware of every imperfection and internal feeling trying to cut death off at the pass, for fear of leaving my boys.  I was given the gift of relief today.  Such relief.  

This week, these past few months, this last year, it's been a lot. It seems with every turn it has been constant waves of emotions that we have all had to process, sort through, understand, and grieve, all while attempting to survive and press forward. Our lives seemed to slow down, while simultaneously speeding up in other ways depending on your situation, with new or increased demands. We were forced out of our predictable routines that provide many of us with comfort. The rug was pulled out from under us, and a deck of cards tossed in to the air. We found ourselves lying on the floor trying to make sense of these shuffled cards we have been dealt. Just when we thought we could get the deck in order, more cards were tossed in our face. Over and over. Again and again.

While thinking and praying this week, these thoughts keep being brought to my mind. Sharing for myself, as I need these reminders, and with the hope of sharing these lessons with my boys when the time is right.

​We don't deal well with feeling uncomfortable in our society. We don't deal well with disarray. We don't allow our minds the quiet space they need to sort through our thoughts. We seem to be so uneasy with our own feelings that we fill the quiet with noise, and drown our thoughts in any distraction we can find. We avoid the tears, swallow them down, and stop the necessary process of allowing our minds to work through, to learn, to grow, to get a handle on what we are feeling. We just keep swallowing and pressing onward, but eventually that pile buried in our stomachs turns to anger and frustration. This year I have witnessed the displacement of sadness and ache and fear, as it twists and morphs to the spewing of anger. Rage is tossed like confetti in online forems. Violence from those who feel that is their last resort and only answer.

You have to sit with the grief, sadness, and fear - and there is so much of all those things this year. You have to feel it, experience it, cry it out, journal it, civilly talk through it with those close, and process it. Escaping it is only temporary.

Differences of opinions and experiences is beautiful. Differences is what our country has been shaped by, the balance of it needs to be embraced. We have to be grounded in our own deep feelings to not feel enraged by someone else having a differing opinion or belief. That unstable footing at our core is what so quickly tosses so many in to fight or flight.

I am intimately accainted with grief, it cannot be escaped, it will continue to pop up until you slowly work your way through it. To process it, you need to sit with it. Feel it wash over you. It doesn't even have to be a long period of time all at once, that is exhausting and why we tend to run from it altogether, but allow yourself to make time for it.

I am reminded this week that I am called to love God, and to love people. I don't know what the answers are for this year, but feel like healing can only begin to come when we chose to invite God in and to love people. If we all did that in our homes and communities imagine the restoration we would see. And that healing starts within our own hearts, our own lives.

We need to be like Daniel and continue to trust God and stay the course, even in the fire, and he will be with us. As I was sitting with my grief this morning, I walked down to water and saw this freighter. The enormous ship in the distance was staying the course even in the cold and waves and wind.