The M&M Story

This is a copy of a letter that I hope gets circulated to the masses. Thank you.... January 1, 2006 Dear Family and Friends, Happy New Year. A whole year of “new.” New friends, new experiences, new opportunities, new pains, new joys, and new moments to see God intimately a part of our lives. May I first begin by thanking you for the last nine months of support, love, care, encouragement, prayer, gifts (in all shapes and forms), and the walk alongside our family in the darkest valley we have faced thus far. It isn’t easy to watch a person you love suffer. But I can boldly say that in my limited, temporal mind, I think I get it now. Sort of. Suffering for the Kingdom is a blessed, beautiful, and humbling experience. And trusting, hoping, and believing in things unseen is the greatest investment ever made. As I approach this new era in my life, I’m overwhelmed by God’s love, grace, and provision for my family. As God unfolds His plan, though sometimes painful, I see His goodness, absolute...

Sunday morning. Brunch, communion, the buzz of children. I don't remember details; maybe someday I will, but I know it was a beautiful day. I remember frittata, cheese grits, music, coffee, kids outside, a smoky kitchen (bacon frying), a quiet Brian, and an angry self. Max had spent the night at my mother's house, his Nana, so he didn't spend this morning with his father. But how blessed we were to have the Parkers, the Belzes, and Lillian and Grayson all milling around my house. I remember feeling a bit anxious. Or maybe, more appropriately, alone. I was surrounded by friends and family, loving and serving in a terrifying time, but still, I felt incredibly alone. I'm sure Brian, in his quietness, would say the same thing, even more so. How I wish I could go back and slow down and just sit by his side and soak up his presence. Instead, I found myself making sure everyone had coffee and food and comfort. Not that I could fulfill all their wishes, but somehow that was saf...

I've thought many times over the last weeks about the privilege of saying good-bye to the man I love. Or more importantly, the opportunity to say, "Go Home. I'll see you soon." The last weekend of Brian's life compares to none. It was one of glorious beauty and precious grace. Our friends, Ben and Kim, were visiting from New York, and our house permeated of fabulous aromas (Ben is quite the cook) and buzzed of great insight and wisdom (Kim is, well, amazing). On Friday, the nurse came and was a bit alarmed that Brian had lost some weight, even though his TPN (IV nutrition) was pumping many calories into his system. After calls to doctors, she asked if we wanted Brian to go to the hospital. Argh! Hospitals. I looked at him, and I knew what the answer was. We both answered no, as weekends in hospitals are residents and often inept technicians (only from experience). Our thought was Monday. Ben had cooked all day, and a crowd of friends and family appeared by six tha...

I don't have it yet, but Brian's memorial service was taped and, I hope, will be edited at some point soon. If you would like a copy, please let me know. I should be able to make copies for family and friends. I also have a copy of his testimony last spring and prayer walk pictures. Please respond to this blog entry if you are interested. Include your address...even though I may have it. I can't promise when it will come, but I hope before Max graduates from high school.

B has begun to reveal his true talent. Today, he and I battled over where to put his smoothie. He wanted it on the couch. I wanted it on the table, away from the furniture. After several exchanges, I finally got him to put it on the table, and then he proceeded to dramatically throw himself on the floor and sob. I picked him up to console him and explain once more why the smoothie needed to stay on the table. He threw his head back in emotional sobs, laying his arms and legs all over me as I sat back down on the couch. But as we sat down, Piggy fell to the floor. B immediately stopped his crying monologue and looked on the floor and said, "thhhh??" (which is Piggy in B language). He slid off my lap, picked up Piggy, and went to play with his new megablocks. He's already working on that gold statue.

Last evening, M asked me to draw a picture of Tiger on his Etch-a-Sketch. Brian was the artist in the family and knew how to make most things actually look authentic. I, on the other hand, am all about interpretation. I took a deep breath and began to create something that looked more like an ink blot than Tiger. M: "That doesn't look like Tiger." S: "I know, buddy. I'm sorry. Daddy always does it better." M: "Maybe when we go to heaven, we could take this with us and have Daddy draw Tiger."

Since Brian's homecoming, M comes into my room early in the morning and tells me, "It's time for me to come in bed with you, Mommy." So he goes to get his pink pillow and Tiger and crawls up next to me. Some mornings he tells me he is sad and wants me to hold him. Other mornings he wants me to get up and play. This morning he said, "Mommy, I'm hungry. How about cereal?" A typical request for breakfast, with which I responded, "Sure, and how about a smoothie, too?" M happily agreed and then asked, "After that, can we have dessert?"