What we experience in this life naturally connects us to others. Perhaps for a season. Perhaps for a lifetime. Shared history, shared circumstances, shared emotions.
Like the women with whom I have ran trails and peed in the woods. Yep, hard to explain, but something about that connects me to them. And the families who gutted out Sundays with us when River Ridge church was just a handful of people in an elementary school, trying to share Jesus with a community. We built a bond during that time which still holds. If you have ever spent time in a third world country with a team of people, you probably still feel a connection to them. I know one couple who got married because of that shared experience. So today I ponder the unspoken connections I have to other grieving moms. Unfortunately, I know several moms who have also lost children. Either recently or years ago, the grieving continues and moms know it. As school started this week, my neighbor texted me to say, "The first day of a new school year is always hard." She knows. My college roommate sent a similar message just a few days prior. She knows. One of her former teachers never fails to call when she thinks about Katie's reaction to an event at school. She realizes how important it is to hear Katie's name and that someone else is remembering her. Because she knows. It isn't that other people don't grieve for our children, but no one grieves like a mother. And sometimes, even though it hurts my heart, I am just grateful that I have those friends who understand in a way no one else does. Who else thinks about the sadness hidden in the excitement of the first day of school? Who else understands the pain of filing your daughter's death certificate right next to her birth certificate? Who else can fathom the emotions attached to a cemetery plot? Katie's headstone was placed yesterday. I love it. And I hate it. It is perfect. And utterly terrible. I am so happy to see it in place and to feel the closure it brings. Yet I am so very sad that instead of vacuuming her room or making her bed or fluffing her pillows, all I can do is rub the dirt off the slab of concrete that identifies her broken body. No one can fully understand that except another mom who has lost a child. So at the end of the month, Chad and I are going to a retreat to spend a weekend with a few other couples who have also lost a child. It will be led by David and Nancy Guthrie, a couple who understands and have written several books out of their own pain. We will meet our friends there - James and Laura - whose teenage son also died of cancer just a few weeks before Katie. The opportunity to connect with these other parents will be hard - and healing - because we are made to mourn together. We are made for relationships. Whether those connections are born out of struggling through nursing school together or working night shifts side by side or running trails on Sundays or burying children, God ordains the connections and I simply receive them. These friends know a part of me and understand something that others don't. I know that I am not alone in this world and that there are people who will pick me up when I fall because they walk the same road, whatever that road is. Because of this, I walk with confidence, accepting and inviting the connections made along the way. A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity. Proverbs 17:17 Blessings, Sarah
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There is this picture frame at Hobby Lobby that has been haunting me. Several months ago, Annie and I were looking for a frame to display a picture of her and Katie when I saw it. It was a cute little frame for a 4x6 photo. Wooden with twine. Simple. With the word "blessed." I froze in the store when I saw it. Can I buy that frame? I thought. Can I buy that frame to hold a picture of my daughters? Can I look at Katie's face, wishing I could touch it, and say that I am blessed? Does a picture of my dead child indicate any kind of blessing in my life? What does it mean to be blessed anyhow? In the Bible, several different Hebrew and Greek words are translated into blessed. The idea of happiness and favor is present in the word blessed, as is that of a good word, respect, praise, and the act of giving a gift. When God created the world, he spoke a good word over it. He intended for all people to live in a world of blessing - happiness, peace, fulfillment. So when God speaks a word of blessing, in essence, he is saying, "My desire is for you to experience the fullness of what I originally intended, the extravagance of my favor." Because of the brokenness of this world, that blessing can only be truly known in light of eternity and through a new life in Christ. So on an everyday basis in a broken world, can we experience blessings? Sure. But they are temporary. And not the real thing. Think about the last time you said you were blessed. What were you referring to? As Westerners, somewhere along the way, we have adopted the mindset that blessings only come in the form of health, wealth, and prosperity. Blessings can refer to these things, but it can't only mean that, can it? What do we do with the words of Jesus in Matthew: Blessed are the poor in spirit . . . Blessed are those who mourn . . . Blessed are the meek . . . Blessed are those who are persecuted. What about believers who live in the slums of Haiti? Can they experience blessings just as much as you and me? God wants to define blessing in our lives around an eternal perspective. Spiritual blessings may be experienced in material means - or immaterial ones. In healing - or pain. In the brokenness of this world - or in the shalom of Heaven. When I offer a blessing to you, I am asking for God to favor you in a way that lasts for eternity. Perhaps that means restoring your health so your impact for his kingdom can continue for years to come. Perhaps that means giving you the promotion so you can encourage that one person who will come along next year who really needs to hear Jesus in the way you speak to him. Perhaps it means building perseverance in you; and with perseverance, character; and with character, hope. I want your life to be blessed - but not just in a material, temporary way. When I say that I am blessed, I mean the same thing: God has declared his inherent goodness on my life. I know this because of my faith in his son, Jesus Christ. This goodness, which may or may not be evident in this world, will most certainly be audaciously visible in the next. So I went back last week and bought the frame. I am blessed. Blessings, Sarah and Forever Cobb 7 A dog is a girl's best friend. At least, Chevy was Katie's best friend for a season. Someone who showed up when life was at its worst. When I had not seen her smile in weeks, Chevy brought her smile back. At their first meeting, he peed in the hallway. She walked out of her hospital room on weak and unsteady legs to sit in a chair and throw a ball to him. Katie's eyes got as big as her smile and we all just laughed when he hiked that leg up! (Please note - he doesn't normally do that, but Chevy works 40 hours each week and it had been a long day for the pup!) He introduced her to the outdoor playground on the 5th floor because best friends share secrets. She taught him tricks and gave him treats because, well, friends do that, too. He visited the ICU when he wasn't supposed to. On hard days when there really were no words to share, Chevy just laid there, because sometimes friends don't have to talk. He also showed up on days when life was good - like the day she was discharged from the hospital. With his naturally crimped ears and snazzy bowtie, he is quite the charmer. I swear that dog can even smile! He sent encouraging notes when she was going through outpatient radiation. What Chevy was not able to do with his own two paws, his handler managed for him. His handler is a child life therapist at Cincinnati, also named Katie, who loved on our family in ways that went well beyond whatever paycheck she receives. She knew our Katie's personality, what she liked, what would upset her, how to help her through procedures, her favorite foods, what staff she related to best and who she enjoyed the least. You may hear me occasionally refer to graces so quiet that very few people even notice them. I have learned to look for these. To listen for them. To find them hidden in really ugly places. Chevy spent time with Katie on her last day. He was sitting beside my kids in the little conference room when Chad and I told them their sister was going to die. Having him there was nothing less than God's quiet, beautiful grace. So last Friday, Chad and I went to Cincinnati to hand deliver a donation to Chevy and to give him a really good belly rub. Our local little league in Winfield, through a baseball/softball tournament in Katie's memory, raised a significant amount of money which they wanted to give toward something Katie believed in. Some of the money went to the WV Kids Cancer Crusaders.
Some of the money went to build a picnic shelter at the fields where Katie would have sat and drank a LOT of slushees. And some of the money went to the Animal Assisted Therapy with the Department of Child Life at Cincinnati Children's Hospital. I knew pet therapy existed before we went there, but I honestly had no idea how valuable it could be in a child's healing. It was wonderful to see all of Katie's team on Friday. Dr. Norris, Dr. Ben, Molly (our social worker), and Meg (one of our favorite nurses). They all hugged us as family. But Chevy and Katie were the reason we went. Because when no doctor, no nurse, no radiation, no modern medicine could heal her, Chevy could do what no one else could. He could just be with her. I have decided to write something to make you smile today. I started to write another post on Tuesday. All about how nine months of pregnancy, waiting for a child, can feel like such a long time, but it doesn't even compare to nine months without a child. How sending your kid to camp pulls at your heart because you want them to have a fabulous time, yet you miss waking them up each morning. And how sending your kid to heaven is similar to sending them away to camp but, when Saturday arrives, they don't come home. And they don't come home. And they don't come home. That is what I was wrestling with a couple days ago as I reflected on Katie's absence for the past 9 months. But sometimes I tire of writing hard things. Many times the processing is just difficult and painful, and, since I desire to be honest and raw, my writing reflects that. I want you to know, however, that even though every day may be difficult, every minute is not. We can still laugh. And we have really good memories. And we often think of Katie with big smiles. We still enjoy her - even though she is not physically present with us. So can I share a few things that make us smile in hopes that you will, too? Daniel recently had a birthday. He is at a great age to really enjoy cards with music so it is actually worth the overpriced cost just to see him open them. Annie bought him a card with singing Minions this year, but it reminded me of last year. For Katie's birthday, I took Daniel to find a special card from him. Of course, he kept picking cards that were not really appropriate for a 14 year old girl from her (then) 4 year old brother. Of course. But I finally gave him a few choices and he decided on one that played The Chicken Dance. Katie and Daniel had a special relationship and loved each other immensely. Here are some pictures of him giving her that birthday card last August. Chad and Katie had the same sense of humor. They laughed at the same corny jokes and puns and would often start into a belly laugh that was unrelenting. As the rest of us stood around with puzzled looks about what was so funny, the two of them would sit on the couch, barely able to catch their breath, as they threw their heads back in hilarity. Their giggles would begin to calm until one looked at the other, sending them into fits all over again. When Katie was first in the hospital, awaiting her initial diagnosis, I was preparing to go home for a bit with the other kids while Chad stayed there with her. As I was leaving the room, something got them started, and I smiled as I quipped to Chad, "Don't make her laugh too hard! She needs to breathe!" Katie began to cackle as she said, "Oh Daddy, not too much, my chest tube hurts!" Recently, for Father's Day, some of the staff at River Ridge made a video of corny Dad jokes. It is hilarious to watch! As I hear Chad laugh, it makes me smile, both as I enjoy him and as I remember how Katie enjoyed him. Do yourself a favor and check this out. Enjoy your kids. Enjoy your husband. Enjoy your friends. Enjoy your life. Enjoy your day today. Blessings, Sarah and Forever Cobb 7 As I sat recently with my sister-in-law, we began discussing the sovereignty of God which led to a discussion regarding the will of God in various situations in this life. What do you do with the phrase, "I guess this is God's will"? How about when someone says, "I will pray that God's will be done." That's great - if I like God's will in this circumstance. But what if I don't? Sometimes this phrase can feel like giving up. The tone implies submission but sounds like forced surrender. Acquiescence even when I would prefer to dissent. What does it mean to say, "God's will be done"?
Was it God's will that Katie develop cancer and die? Was that his plan? Was it a suffering he allowed to happen? Is there a difference between any of those? The short answer is I don't know. What I do know - and what helps me a little as I wrestle with this - is that God's desire for this world is shalom. His original creation was for shalom and his ultimate plan is for shalom. Shalom is a beautiful Hebrew word that, while often defined as peace, has a much richer meaning than that. Shalom is better understood as "the way it was meant to be." I love that. Ultimately, God's desire is to restore all of his creation to shalom. Peace, harmony, completeness. The way it was meant to be. The world that we know is the antithesis of shalom. Everything about this world is broken, from my frustrations with whining children to my grief over my dead child. From murder to addictions to earthquakes to cancer. Car accidents. Congenital defects. Divorce. Back-talking teenagers. Abuse. Poverty. Selfishness. Total brokenness. All of it. Not what God intended. Not shalom. So I know that God's overarching desire is to restore all of it. And I know that his all-embracing will is redemption. In all things, both big and little. I know this because of the cross of Jesus which tells me that God loves me and is for me. Sometimes in his sovereignty, redemption looks different to God than it does to me. Does that bother me? Yup. Absolutely. I wish I was sovereign. I wish I could fix it. Control it. Redeem the brokenness by myself in my way. But I cannot and, because I cannot, I have to trust someone else to do it. Who would I trust other than the one who has already established the depth of his love for me? Who else would I trust other than the one who desires shalom and has the ability to make it happen? So, as I face the brokenness around me and discuss it with God through prayer, I can beg that his will be fully accomplished because I know his ultimate plan is restoration. Perhaps his way of restoration is the same as my way - healing, recovery, fertility, acquittal, employment. But perhaps his plan for redemption is different from mine. Sometimes my discussions with God get heated, but my prayers don't sound like a pathetic concession of "may God's will be done." For me, it sounds like a battle cry: "Redeem that, God!" Louder and louder my voice grows as I reach out in prayer for God to restore whatever brokenness I struggle against. "Redeem that, God!" As I fight against the pain of cancer, bitterness, sadness, and this void I feel every day. As I lose tears and sleep. "Redeem that, God!" And sometimes I add in a strong, "Go to hell, Satan!" voicing it loud enough to assure he hears me. This is not concession. This is me joining God in a battle for victory, as we fight together for redemption. For shalom. I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us. . . For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of him who subjected it, in hope that creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God. (Romans 8:18, 20-21) I hope I never give the impression that any of this is easy for me or that my faith allows me to simply rise above my questions and doubt. It isn't. It doesn't. But I have never let go of God, and he has never let go of me. Blessings, Sarah I have 3 brothers who are all into extreme sports as hobbies. It started many years ago with skateboarding, then wake boarding, snow boarding, and mountain biking. Now they do rock climbing and wake surfing - with their preschoolers in tow. My youngest brother recently climbed Yosemite's El Capitan in a 19 hour time frame. Crazy. On occasion, I don't mind a little adrenaline rush myself, but I prefer it to be accompanied by some semblance of control. For instance, I love white water rafting and have been down the New and Gauley Rivers many times - in a boat, with a guide, wearing a life jacket. I never gained enough mastery over those other extreme activities to convince myself that I was not completely and utterly out of control, so I never learned to enjoy them.
Truth is, I like to be in control. I like it when life ensues the way I plan. And most days, that's how it rolls. I put it on the calendar and it happens. I am the alarm clock. I say when we stay, when we go, and when we eat. I manage the menu, the store list, the schedules, the chore list, the routines, some facilities, many of the purchases and parts of the budget. I refer to my role in the Cobb 7 as Chief Operations Officer. So it was very difficult when that was taken from me last year. Very difficult. When Katie was flown to Cincinnati, I could not think clearly. I hate to not be able to think clearly. A friend asked if she could help with the kids, so I gave her contact numbers for a few close friends and family and she took over. I looked at another friend and said, "I need to be in Cincinnati when Katie arrives. Chad needs to stay in Charleston until she leaves. We only want to have one of our vehicles there. Figure that out and make it happen." He did, and I just followed what he suggested. For the following months, not only did I watch helplessly as Katie fought this horrid disease, but I also listened helplessly to the needs of my kids at home. Friends signed permission slips and sent in field trip money. Neighbors mowed our grass. Family tucked my kids in at night. Dinner just showed up most days of the week at my house. There was almost nothing I could do about any of it from the position I was in. One of the ways people blessed us during that time was through grocery shopping. My standard mode of operation is to keep a running store list on the refrigerator at home, so my kids continued that practice and each weekend the list would be collected and the groceries delivered. As she unloaded boxes of sugar-laden breakfast foods and Little Debbie snack cakes, one friend told me, "I got everything on the list although I'm pretty sure it is not what you would normally buy." Whatever. As long as they ate, I did not care at that point, and I was super grateful for the way others cared for my family in my absence. One particular weekend, however, I broke. The significance of my lack of control struck me as I opened the refrigerator and saw a tub of butter. A great big tub of Blue Bonnet butter. All I could think was . . . that's not even the butter I buy. As I collapsed into a heap of tears on my kitchen floor, I realized I had lost complete control of my life. I couldn't protect my kids, sleep in my own bed, manage my house, pursue my career, encourage my husband, mow my grass, or even buy my own butter. I may say I believe that God is sovereign. But do I? Did I? God, you be sovereign over the "big things," and I'll be sovereign over everything else. That's not what I say, but sometimes that's how I live. At least, that's how I lived until I couldn't. Until I physically, emotionally, mentally could not control anything any longer. Until I picked my ugly-crying, can't-hold-it-together-anymore, exhausted self up off the floor and tapped out. That's it, God. I'm done. I can't do it. I won't fight you for the position anymore. I'll let go. You be God. I'm out. How do I really feel about the sovereignty of God? And how does that affect my every day? In Isaiah 46, God says, "I am God, and there is no other; I am God, and there is none like me. I make known the end from the beginning, from ancient times, what is still to come. I say, ‘My purpose will stand, and I will do all that I please.' " For now, I am back to managing my household almost the same as before. But with a little less arrogance and a little softer grip on all of it. Because all that control I had before - it was just an illusion. Turns out I'm not God. Not even in the little things. Blessings, Sarah This may be long, but it is two stories interwoven. I hope you'll read to the end for the connection.
After Katie died last October, I wondered . . . how do I do this? How do I get up each morning and fix breakfast for my other kids? How do I fill my day instead of just wandering around my house? How do I take steps forward? How do I heal? Yes, I am regularly seeing a counselor. Yes, I know exactly who to call and whose door to knock on when I cannot speak through sobs. Yes, some days I did (and still do) just sit in nothingness. But I know me. I know I function better when I am active -not avoiding, but active. I don't know how to deal with the death of a child, but I know I deal better with other life stressors when I run. So I decided that when I could not do anything else, I would make myself run. The cemetery is one mile from my house. One mile there, one mile back. I could do that. I had not ran much over the past year of Katie's illness, so that's all I would ask of myself. And so it began. When grief threatened to take me under, I would run the mile to the cemetery, sometimes sitting there for a long time before the return trip. After some time, I found that occasionally I wanted to run but didn't need to visit the cemetery, so I would take a different loop. My neighbor knew that if she saw me go left out of the neighborhood, it was a rough day. If I went right, it was a better day. Maybe not great, but better. Then one day, my friend convinced me to train for a race. Now keep in mind that I don't race to win, I race to train. It's the training that is good for the body, the mind, the emotions, even the will. It is the discipline of training that can provide focus and purpose when the rest of life has very little. Running clears my head. It is a reset button. Sure, sometimes I pray. But mostly I think about nothing. Or everything. Some runs are sweet little getaways. Some days I pound the pavement as if every step is a fist being thrown at cancer or God or Satan or whoever happens to be the adversary du jour. Somehow, running has become part of my healing. Well, running and boxing - like I said, sometimes it just feels really good to hit something. At some point during a long run, I decided that I needed a TeamKatie race shirt to go with all of this training. The shirt should be similar, but not the same. We are still all about Katie's story, but the story is different now. After a lot of thought and discussion, the shirt was printed for the race. Now, for the second story. Early June 2017. Katie was very ill. She had just a CT scan showing worsening of the cancer in her lungs and the mass in her chest continuing to grow to the point of putting pressure on her great vessels. Tylenol was given around the clock with fevers returning before the next dose was due. Multiple times throughout the day and night, she would have coughing fits that were only relieved with vomiting. She had went back on oxygen continuously and had also begun IV nutrition because of her poor intake and electrolyte imbalances. Chemo had recently been aborted as it had proven to be completely ineffective against her Hodgkins. Immunotherapy infusions had just begun and full lung radiation treatments were getting ready to start. She would be back in the ICU within a few days. It was during this time that I had a thought. A dream? A vision? It didn't feel like any of those. I even wrote in my journal that it was not strong enough to describe it as being from God, and yet, looking back, I would definitely say it was the quiet voice of God. My impression consisted of a very clear sense of Katie speaking to me from Heaven and saying: "It's okay, Mommy. It was worth it. It was worth it." Honestly, in the week following, it was absolutely the only thing that brought me comfort. The only thing I held onto. Every day, as I asked God some really hard questions with no answers that made sense to me, I heard her voice saying those words. And for the following months, even as the new treatments brought improvement, the same words played on repeat in my head. Circle back to this past fall, to my running and feeble attempts to process my life at this point. As I am perusing Katie's journals one day, I find the words: the prize is JESUS it's WORTH it!! don't give up, trust God The reference she connected to these words is I Corinthians 9:24. Don't you realize that in a race everyone runs, but only one person gets the prize? So run to win! All athletes are disciplined in their training. They do it to win a prize that will fade away, but we do it for an eternal prize. So I run with purpose in every step. (I Corinthians 9:24-26) Can you see that? Can you even believe that? I refuse to label that as coincidence. Just as I wrote in my last post, I claim that and allow it to build my faith. Can I look back at Katie's struggles and death and say it was worth it? Hell no. But she can. She can. From her current viewpoint, I honestly believe that she would say to me, "It's okay, Mommy. It was worth it!" So last weekend, I ran the half marathon for which I had been training. It was a challenging race. 13.1 miles in the rain through grassy fields, rutted gravel roads, single track trails, mile long asphalt hills, mud and standing water. I did not win any prize other than a piece of pizza and a foam roller to my calves. But I ran to win that prize. I was disciplined. I ran with purpose in every step. I passed people in the last half mile. I met my time goal. And you know what, in the end, it was worth it. All the training. All the soreness. All the long runs and the squats and the sweaty clothes. I don't regret it. And while it's a poor comparison, one day I will stand with my arm around Katie as I smile and say, "Yep, you're right, girl. It was worth it." Philipians 3:14. I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus. Blessings, Sarah What do you fear most?
Several years ago I was working my way through a bible study and that question was presented. A recent sermon at church reminded me again of one particular lesson. As I pull out my tattered book, it falls open to the pages that discuss fear (I guess I have revisited that teaching a few times). The question at the top of the page says: What do you fear most? I look at my answers and right at the top are the words "if my children die." When Katie was initially diagnosed with cancer in October 2016, I spun that thing like DJ Jazzy Jeff. "Yes," I said, "Hodgkins is cancer, but it is one of the most treatable kinds! It has a short chemotherapy run with high success rates and lots of research behind it. If we have to fight cancer, Katie, this is the one we want to fight because we can win! Six hard months and then we can put this behind us! It will just be a part of your past." I said those words. Those exact words. Katie tucked that ball and ran with it. It was game time. She sailed through 5 months of chemotherapy without a single complaint. She was winning big time. But through it all . . . what she feared the most . . . was relapse. Then in April, only a few weeks after a clean PET scan, her worst fear was realized. The surgeon who had removed her port less than 2 weeks prior had to peel off the dressing that was still covering the wound in order to place the new port. What we said wouldn't happen, happened. Fear became reality. Most of our fears will never come true. They are like these big ugly monsters that parade in front of us, ever taunting but never touching, incessantly distracting us from Jesus and life. So we fight back by telling ourselves that fear is a lie from Satan. Which is true. It isn't real, we say. Just don't look at it. Don't think about it. Don't live in fear. We try to defeat irrational thoughts with rational thinking. But . . . what if that doesn't work? What if that isn't the solution? What if one day our worst fears come true? Then what? Then God. That's what I learned in my study so many years ago. That's what I have returned to so many times. That's what I wrote. If my children die, then God. In each of our lives, the blanks are there. If ______________, then _____________. We have to do something with those blanks. Satan will continue to parade those monsters in front of us over and over again until we can say . . . then God. If we refuse to complete the first blank or, instead, try to write God's name in there, we are simply trusting him to not let our worst fears happen. Our trust is conditional. In that case, what happens to our faith when our fears are realized? It crumbles. We're done. So we look back at the times in our lives when God has been faithful. All the little moments that others said were coincidence but we knew were something more. We listen to others share their stories of faith and how God stayed close in hard days. We read the book. We write the verses. We remind ourselves that God is good. We learn to hear his voice when the days are sweet and life feels easy. The building and preparing and learning to trust part doesn't happen in the midst of our greatest fear. It happens before. In the off-season. Because when your game face goes on, your faith muscle better be ready. I don't trust God to let me avoid what I fear most. I am determined to trust him no matter what. For deep inside my soul, I truly believe that what I suffer now is nothing compared to what will be revealed to me later, so I wait in eager expectation for that day when everything sad will come untrue, when everything wrong will be made right, when everything broken will be redeemed (Romans 8:18-19). If I relapse, then God. If my children die, then God. If I have to cry every day for the rest of my life because this is not okay, then I can still get up in the morning because there is still hope. If ____________, then God. Blessings, Sarah *Kudos to Beth Moore for the Bible study on Esther which strengthened my faith muscle in the off-season. Katie was discharged from the hospital on June 21st last year but was not released to return to WV right away. During that time, my brother and sister-in-law were in Cincinnati for an outdoor concert featuring O.A.R. and Train, and Katie and I were invited to join them when they ended up with two extra tickets. They had introduced Katie to O.A.R. previously and she already had a few favorite songs. She was so excited! After being stuck in a hospital, often confined to one room, for over 10 weeks, she was more than ready for a little adventure. We went shopping that day so she could buy an outfit to wear; she then spent a long time on her makeup for the evening. We did not realize quite how far the walk would be from the car to the amphitheater and, although Katie's flip-flops looked really cute with her outfit, they were quite impractical. With nearly all the muscle in her legs atrophied, she was having difficulty not tripping on those flops with every step. She ended up needing carried, piggy-back style, by my brother as I carried our blankets and bags.
She had an incredible time at the concert - laughing, singing, and people-watching! I heard a new song that evening that plays on repeat in my head sometimes. Drink up by Train. It makes me think of that summer. Now, some of the verses would not really pertain to the memories that I have attached to the song, but, like Katie told me occasionally, "Mom, you don't have to analyze everything for a deeper meaning." Can't let this moment, this moment slip away 'Cause things like this don't happen to us every day So take this moment and put it in a glass If you want a sip, I got memories on tap Drink up, drink up Write your name on a cup Drink up, drink up Write your name on a cup One evening in early July, just a few weeks later, Katie was finally home and Chad and I were walking through our neighborhood after dinner. We were talking about how to parent in this season of cancer when he said, "What if our goal isn't to raise a responsible adult for the future? What if our goal becomes to enjoy our children as a gift for today?" This probably does not seem like a profound statement, yet for two people who tend to plan and set goals and not always live in the moment, this was a huge realization. That one thought changed the way we parented that summer (and maybe forever). We really enjoyed our kids in the following months. We said yes a lot more. We ate a lot more Dairy Queen. We laughed and talked. We slacked on the chore list and dropped the nagging. I'm not saying we didn't discipline or expect them to participate in the household, but we became less concerned with teaching responsibility and raising adults and more focused on enjoying the now and being present. When we received the last minute opportunity to vacation in Florida, we did not do so under the weight of our normal vacation budget. We ate out, rented kayaks, drove go-karts and bought lots of ice cream! I told Chad, "We can't always spend like this on vacation." He responded, "Maybe not, but we are going to this time." A comment that was so out of character for Chad, but so in line with what God had impressed on him. Oh to always be able to listen to the Spirit like that! I am so glad we lived like that for those months. We wrote our name on a cup and drank up every moment. I truly believe that because of that one statement and conscious decision on our part, Katie did everything she wanted last summer. She had no "should have's;" nor do I. Since then, we haven't given up on our family budget or let our kids live without responsibility, but we have let some of that approach carry over into our lives going forward. The laundry and dishes still need washed, homework still needs completed, bad behavior still requires consequences. But I can't let this moment - this moment - slip away, 'cause things like this don't happen to us everyday. Drink up. I remember when my kids were babies and their ages were counted in months because each month represented such a large portion of their life. Somewhere around 2 1/2 -3 years old, life became counted in years. Well, we are back to counting in months. 6 months. Katie has been dead for 6 months. My insides wrench with simply typing that sentence.
So I would like to speak to what we need at this point. This point when life moves faster for others than it does for me. When people sometimes think that grieving should be finished and life should move on. Sometimes I even think that. I chide myself for not making forward progress. I told Chad just the other day, "I do all the things I have learned to do to help myself. I run, I cry, I talk, I write. Yet there is no equation. Some days I feel better, but some days I still feel worse than I did before." I hate that, but it is the un-linear process of grief, traumatic in itself as if the first trauma was not enough. Here is what we need (and the books I have read indicate these are fairly common so may apply to others who are grieving as well): - Say her name. Katie. Say what happened. Katie died. We all know it. We don't have to talk it about it all the time, but there is no reason to intentionally avoid the conversations. Avoidance can be a lot more painful than talking about someone I love so much. - Share your memories. If you think of Katie spontaneously one day, send a text or email or (even better) give us a call. All we have now are memories and we love hearing that you have them too. They are so precious to us. We even have a book in our kitchen that you can write your memory in when you stop by because we don't want to forget. - Don't be afraid of emotion. Mine or yours. When you talk to me, sometimes you may cry and I may not (tears are fairy unpredictable) or I may well up with emotion just in gratitude that you are willing to be present for us. The tears are almost always close to the surface and perhaps your conversation just allows for their release. Of course, there are other emotions as well. We may laugh together as we remember or you may see me suddenly become really angry. It has taken a good deal of counseling, but I am learning to be okay with these things called human emotions. - Be genuine. Ask. Listen. Encourage. We have a long way to go before we feel "normal" again. So many things are both really hard yet really good at the same time. I am learning to allow for these two seemingly opposing feelings to co-exist because, honestly, I believe the rest of my life may be both really hard yet really good. For those interested, we have uploaded Katie's service to youtube (see link below). Be forewarned that it is neither quick nor easy, and it took place in a packed gymnasium with poor acoustics. But it is awesome. Every time I hear the song "Glorious Day," I hear the sound of everyone in that gym shouting. Because that is how you celebrate a life. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Zh6LklnP6I&t=5s Blessings, Sarah and Chad and Forever Cobb 7 |
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