Painting Caleb

Arianne captured Caleb beautifully in a painting she recently gave to me that she started 7 years ago.

(This is her tender post about the process of capturing Caleb)

Seven years ago my sister April brought home her third baby, Caleb. The doctors told her it was a miracle he made it to birth. There was nothing more they could do for him. She should take him home and let him pass away.

My heart ached for April. I had just gone through the emergency delivery of my first a few months before and had stepped into that place where one has to face the thought, My child might die.

I was blessed to step out of that place without any loss. I knew April would not be so fortunate.

As I wondered what I could do for April, the only thing logical seemed to paint Caleb. I had been oil painting to heal from the emotional trauma of my own experiences. I knew it would help me deal with what was happening to April's family.

I started to paint. I didn't have a single photo I was following. I just tried to paint the essence I'd felt from Caleb himself. I thought of how I might have to display it at his funeral. I was already thinking of Caleb as having passed away.

After dabbling here and there for a couple weeks, I realized the painting was not working out. I set it aside, along with my oil paints.

I haven't touched a brush or canvas in the seven years since.

The day after I got the news about Caleb's death, I was in the basement trying to find the cord for our internet connection. The workers who were repairing the area after our sewer back up and flood had made a mess of all our personal belongings. Everything was covered in dust. As luck would have it, somebody found that painting of Caleb and tossed it right on my computer chair.

I picked it up, wondering how it survived five moves. It wasn't so bad, I told myself. Why had I given up on it?

Then I realized why. I had been painting Caleb as if he had already passed. And he hadn't. There was nothing about such a painting that would feel right. Caleb was meant to live.

Now that my perspective had changed, I decided to pick up the painting and try again. It didn't matter if I was a wee bit rusty as a painter (okay rusted solid). I wanted to try.

My bottle of turpentine was almost empty. My paints had to be opened with pliers. They were dried and neglected. But I picked up the brushes and started to dabble a little here and there anyway.

I finished the painting and stepped back, wondering why it had come out the way it did.

This painting was no longer about death, it seemed. The depiction in the painting was of a fleeting moment that couldn't be distinguished as coming or going. Like the bubbles and balloons I wrote about here, it was hard to tell which direction the light in the painting was traveling.

Here's what I hope April and Dallan feel when I give it to them--that  the light Caleb brought is still here. It's all around us. It's falling  and rising with each act of love Caleb sent out into the world. The  ripple effect of each wink will travel forever outward.

At the very least I hope they feel that I love them. That I don't understand, but that I care.

I express myself--through writing, photography, baking, sewing, crocheting and, yes, sometimes painting--because it's how I make sense of the world. This was me making sense of Caleb.

Consider the Lilies

A few days after Caleb passed away my little sister Ashley asked me if I would would be there when she delivered her first baby. I was honored. Caleb's funeral was a few days away and we hoped she would last until then. Later that evening she quietly handed me a letter she had written that I tucked away to read when I had some quiet time.

Ashley had reached her due date and was ready to have her little girl any time. The morning after Caleb's funeral she called early in the morning to tell me she was in the hospital. I rubbed the tears of goodbye out of my eyes and headed to the hospital. Ashley was so brave. I was so proud. My eyes were overflowing with tears of hello.

When I got home I opened the letter she handed me several days before.  In a part of it she wrote:

Dear Caleb,
...You remind me of the scripture that says "Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow, they toil not, neither do they spin, and the kingdoms of the world, in all their glory, are not arrayed like one of these."  I think lilies are a special symbol of you.  You ave grown and bloomed where you are planted, so much that even the "kingdoms of the world, in all their glory, are not arrayed like one of these.

...We have a little girl who is about to join our family any day now.  She's being a little slow and is going past her due date.  I think it's because she wanted to see you before she came down.  You two must be good friends.  You must be her escort down here into this life.  Thank you for helping give her the courage to come down to earth.  I think you two are planning to have her wait to come until we've been able to mourn over the loss of one life, and then we'll be able to joyfully welcome a new life into this world. 

I don't have a doubt in my mind that our little girl is going to come down here with that same little touch of heaven that you had, Caleb.  She'll be able to remind us of the joy of life, just like you did.  It's because of this sweet connection that you have had to us through our daughter that we have chosen to name her Lily, in honor of you. 

Lilies have always reminded me of Caleb. 

I listened to the song"Consider the Lilies" over and over again while I was expecting him. 

I sang that song to Caleb as we snuggled in the rocking chair.

Lilies arrived at the hospital after he was born.  

Lilies were delivered on his first birthday. 

Lilies were brought over the day after he passed away.
Lilies were covering his coffin.

Every time I see lilies, I think of Caleb. 
And now I have a little Lily to love who still has heaven rubbed all over her.

Thank you Ashley, for allowing me to be a part of Lily's hello.

"And He will heal those who trust him,
and guide them with His eye."

Delicate Things

This post was written by my dear sister Arianne. She quietly captured our most tender moments as we said good bye to Caleb. The day after Caleb's funeral she also quietly snapped pictures as our precious niece Lily was born...

It's Sunday and I'm breathing deeply. On Friday I helped one sister bury her child. A few hours later on Saturday morning I helped another birth hers.

It's no coincidence these things happened so close together. This I knew the moment my younger sister's water broke. But it all happened so fast it was only possible to focus on tasks at hand.There was simply too much to take in.

So I brought my camera along and used it like a butterfly net. I caught what I could of what was happening--bright and fluttering quickly by--so I could bring it home.

I've lined my collection of moments in jars on the window sill. And I'm examining them with open-mouthed awe.

While the lens of my soul takes time to process experiences like these--if it can at all--the lens of my camera is more capable. That lens isn't fogged by its own emotions or blurred by the everyday business of living. It simply lets in the light and records what is directly in front of it at that split second the shutter flashes.

These images are fluttering before me in one giant rabble, all mingled together on the same memory card.

If I hadn't been at these events in person, I'd be at a loss. Like an inexperienced entomologist encountering extremely similar species, I'd be hard pressed to identify what was going on here. It involves the same people. It looks so much the same. I'd hold up some specimens, unable to file them in folders labeled "birth" or "death."

Birth. Death. Before today I would have considered the two words as far from each other as human experiences can spread.

My camera has shown me what my eyes failed to see on their own. Birth and death are two delicate and tender twins, wings on either side of the same butterfly.

It's the same force I'm seeing here, raw yet sacred, beautiful yet excruciating. It's running through both experiences, but blowing in different directions. The images I've caught were flying in the same current, one out, the other in.

First touches. Last touches.

Pain so poignant you're left helpless to do anything but cling to the ones you love.

Saying hello. Saying goodbye. Arms empty, arms full. These things aren't very far apart. They are mirror images of each other.

I ache for Caleb in the same corner of my heart that I now love Lily. The sadness and the joy are flip sides of the same tender emotion.

We even use the same things to celebrate both birth and death. Delicate things--flowers, balloons, bubbles. Things that point to the children around us and the children within us for the simple understanding we need to process such profound things.

The balloons rise to heaven. The bubbles sink to earth. Both delicate, round, bright things, just traveling in opposite directions.

As I sat at the graveside with April, after everyone else had driven away, I understood she had stepped into a place where I could not follow.

As I rubbed Ashley's back as her contractions progressed, I was overcome with the knowledge I couldn't help her. Not really. She bravely stepped into the dark alone.

"Just sit here with me, Arianne," April said.

"Just tell me I can do it," Ashley said.

So I sat. So I spoke.

But really I was standing alone, with my camera around my neck, humbled by both of them as they sailed away from me.

They must have sensed my need to do something--anything. So they let me click.

I'll spend the next few days compiling these images. I hope they communicate what my words cannot. I hope they touch places my hands cannot reach. I hope the flutter of light and meaning I've seen in them won't grow cold between now and then. They are such delicate things.

Wink Day (April10th)

It has been two months since Caleb passed away. Two months seems like a life time sometimes.

We blew bubbles toward heaven and spent some sweet time together as a family.

I'm glad that my boys enjoy visiting cemetary.

It touches my heart when I see my children feel the reverence of this place.

We wrote in our wink journals about how we would share a wink this month,

And we blew kisses to Heaven with our cousins all the way from Maryland!

Oh how we miss you our sweet Caleb. You are in our thoughts every single day.

We love you with all of our hearts.

This I know

When Dallan and I were dating, he called to see if he could pick me up for a special date on Easter morning. He arrived early in the morning, and we and we drove to the Spanish Fork cemetery. We parked where we could see the sunrise and ate a cinnamon roll breakfast he had carefully packed. He told me there wasn't a better place to celebrate Easter because the cemetery would be the happiest place to be on resurrection day. 

Our time together in that cemetery over 13 years ago has been tender to my heart. This Easter we drove to that same cemetery, this time as the sun went down, to spend some time at Caleb's grave. This I know, even more than I did then; 
this tender place will  

 be the happiest place to be  

when we are reunited with our sweet Caleb

never to part again.

Thomas S Monson

“My beloved brothers and sisters, in our hour of deepest sorrow, we can receive profound peace from the words of the angel that first Easter morning: ‘He is not here: for he is risen.'

"...to all who have lost a dear one, he provides the courage to say, “… the Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” May your hearts burn with the knowledge that the bands of death have been broken and that members of your family, though now separated by death, will one day be reunited to share the blessings of eternal life.

With all my heart and the earnestness of my soul, I testify as a special witness that God does live. Jesus is his Son, the Only Begotten of the Father in the flesh. He is our Redeemer; he is our mediator with the Father. He it was who died on the cross to atone for our sins. He became the firstfruits of the resurrection. Oh, sweet the joy this sentence gives, “I know that my Redeemer lives!”

 

(We were also able to visit Caleb's precious cousin Adilyn that evening)

Our Lord and Savior is the living witness that life is everlasting. God does live. Jesus is His Son. Because He died, all shall live again. “Oh, sweet the joy this sentence gives: ‘I know that my Redeemer lives!"

An Easter Wish

HAPPY EASTER

From our little Moody Family and our great big Moody Family!

(Yes, Mitchell tries to cross his eyes in every picture just to be silly!) 

We are so blessed to know families are forever!

Wink!

Waves

  Grieving seems to come in waves.  Sometimes we brace our selves and face it head on.

Other times we see it coming and try to run away.

Sometimes it gently laps at our feet letting us know it's still there.

And other times it washes over us completely.

We're learning to take it one wave at a time. 

Sometimes the ocean feels too deep and the waves too overwhelming.

 However, it is usually after the biggest waves recede that treasures are revealed.

so we gather them up-

and tuck them in our hearts to help strengthen us for the next one.  We know that even in those moments when we feel like we drowning, if we remember to look look up, the Savior will buoy us up.  He will not leave us comfortless. 

 

He reminds us those waves are filled with love.   

The waves don't need to crush us, they can fill our hearts to overflowing-

Because when you love someone deeply you miss them deeply.  

And that's not something to be afraid of.  

(Please pause our play list at the bottom of the screen if you'd like to hear one of my favorite songs about the sea.  It reminds me so much of Caleb.)