How can I doubt?

How can I doubt God's love when he paints the sky for me to see while I'm doing my dishes?

 Heavenly Father winks at us in the most beautiful ways.

Timpanogos Caves

 Dallan and I recently took our boys on a hiking adventure to Timpanogos caves! If you look carefully you can see Matthew and I flashing a secret "W" for wink!

A Wink in the Marathon

My sweet friend Heidi recently sent me an e mail about a sister in her ward who was running her first marathon. She wanted to run with and for angels- to honor them. Heidi wrote to me saying :

  So, as you can see by the pictures, I asked her to add a "Wink" for Caleb... She conquers this goal tomorrow, and Caleb's Wink will be running with her. I love the message Caleb came to earth to give. I try to live it, and this is just one way I've shared it. Heidi

Thank you for sending a wink to the marathon, Heidi!  We were truly touched!

A Doctor's Wink

After Caleb was born I asked the attending NICU doctor who he would recommend as a pediatrician for such a medically fragile child.  He suggested Dr. David Johnson with Alpine pediatrics in Pleasant Grove.  

Dr. Johnson wasn't accepting new patients at the time, but he graciously agreed to care for Caleb and my other boys as well.  Not only did he care for them, but he loved them.   He came to our home for an entire year for Caleb's visits so we wouldn't have to bring him in to the office.  The first time Dr. Johnson met Caleb, he called him Elder Caleb.  I knew right away that he recognized the gift that we had been given. Dr. Johnson called Caleb his missionary, his Israelite Prince and his VIP.  Up to this point every doctor involved with Caleb told us to prepare to say good bye in a matter of weeks.  Dr. Johnson said, "I bet we can get Caleb to his first birthday!"  Words will never adequately express the gratitude I feel in my heart for a doctor who had a hopeful heart and made time to care for our family.    

Dr. Johnson often brought others with him on his visits.  He even brought his wife over to meet Caleb.  He brought wonderful nurses and he occasionally brought  Physicians Assistant, Jeff Abram.  Jeff immediately picked up Caleb and I could see he also understood how blessed we were.  I was so touched that I took a picture.

After that first year we started bringing Caleb into the office.  Doctor Johnson wasn't always available so we started seeing Jeff more frequently.  He took us under his wing and cared for us in such a tender way. He always had a surprise for Mitchell and a compliment to build me up.  He loved Caleb.  When I was worried, he worried.  When I cried, he shared tears with me.  When I was concerned  about exposing Caleb to more illnesses, he would come out to my car to check on him.  When I expressed my fears about saying good bye to Caleb, he always knew just what to say.  He was such a blessing to our whole family.  He kept that picture of him and Caleb on his desk, and I saw it every time I visited. 

After we moved to to Spanish Fork I commuted to Pleasant Grove for almost a year and a half because I just couldn't imagine going any where else.  In the fall I went in for an appointment;  Dr. Johnson and Jeff were both full that day so I saw another doctor.  With tears in my eyes I told him, I thought it might be time for me to find a doctor closer to home.  I didn't want to leave, I just felt like it would be in Caleb's best interest to have a doctor closer in case of an emergency.  He recommended a wonderful doctor in Spanish Fork and I prepared to leave.  I walked by Jeff's desk hoping to say good bye and caught him in between appointments.  I couldn't contain my tears as I told him we were going to switch to someone closer.  He found Dr. Johnson and as we shared our tears, another doctor and several nurses joined us as well.  They had all become a special part of our family. I am forever thankful for each one of them for being there during a sacred and tender time.  

Jeff came to Caleb's funeral and occasionally checks up on us to see how we're doing. 

Today I received this little note in my e mail:

...I just wanted to send you a "Wink" that we took with us on a recent vacation (Disney Cruise)...and I thought of you and sweet Caleb and your great family so wanted to share this with you...
"Wink!"
Jeff

My most heart felt thanks to doctors who truly understand the meaning of medical care.  

We are forever thankful.

Memorial Day

 It was a beautiful morning to visit the cemetery.  There were visors and flowers everywhere, yet memorial Day was unexpectedly hard for me. We left some flowers at Caleb's grave, and the boys let some balloons go with notes for Caleb tied to them. Usually our little traditions bring comfort to my heart, but that day I felt a  bit self conscious doing the things we usually do in more private moments.

As a child, memorial for me was a day when we stopped at the cemetery to see our more distant relatives before we spent the day barbecuing and playing with cousins. As a young adult the day became more tender as I now had grandparents to visit and remember. Now, as a mother, memorial day is a day for me to visit my son. 

As I walked through the cemetery my heart hurt as I walked by the grave of another child where the father was pulling the weeds and placing new flowers. My heart ached as I walked by rows and rows of flags and thought of mothers and fathers whose children went to war and never came home.   I was so tender as I suddenly saw how many people were longing for someone. 

 I saw them because I was one. 

 

Later that day we went to our family cabin. I watched my family barbecue and the cousins play while my heart was aching for Caleb to be there with us.

After lunch many of my family members decided to hike to the "big tree."  I didn't want to go. They kept insisting that I had to go because I had never been there before not realizing that inside my heart was crying " I've never hiked to it before because I always stayed behind to hold Caleb.  The fact that I can go is breaking my heart."

I did hike to the big tree.  

It was a beautiful hike to a tree that is the oldest of it's kind this side of the Mississippi.  

I was amazed by it's beauty and strength. As  I rounded the bend a bit further up the trail, my breath was taken away by the beauty of the view.

Sometimes it's hard for me to leave the cabin and those places that are so tender to my heart

yet I know when I do I'll find strength and perspective as a larger view unfolds before me.

(Pictures taken by my sister Arianne)

I'll always be with you...

"If ever there is tomorrow when we're not together...there is something you must always remember.  You are braver than you believe, stronger that you seem, and smarter than you think.  But the most important thing is, even if we're apart...I'll always be with you."

Winnie the Pooh

May your hearts be filled with love this memorial day...

Caleb's Pets

Last summer our little pet rabbit "Lu Lu" died. Oh we were so tender. It was my children's first experience seeing something they dearly loved die. My sweet boys carved Lu Lu's name onto a little headstone they made for her so she would always have a special place. In a quiet part of my heart I wondered if this experience was preparing them to lose their brother... Seven months later Caleb passed away.  One of the first things Mitchell asked after Caleb died was, "Do you think Caleb gets to have Lu Lu for a pet in heaven?" 

For Easter Caleb got a little brown rabbit to share with his brothers so they could know he was taking good care of Lu Lu for them.  

This past weekend our little special goldfish died.  Our boys were so tender about it.  They didn't want to flush him, so we we buried him next to Lu Lu.   

The first thing Mitchell said was, "Now Caleb gets to have a pet gold fish too!"

Mitchell's Way

The other Day I walked into Caleb's room and saw Mitchell sitting in Caleb's bed with all of Caleb's special things around him. He was being so quiet and gentle that I just stood in the doorway and watched for a while.

When he crawled crawled out of bed, he took all of those things with them and lined them up at the computer so they could watch PBS kids together. 

He had found a sweet little way to feel close to Caleb that day

With Caleb's treasures:

The mouse that Aunt Alisa made

 Winkie bear from his primary teacher

 Lu Lu the bunny

and Nibbles, the Lizard Matthew would put in his hand every morning.

On the Calendar

This morning as I looked at my calendar I saw the last appointment I had for Caleb written down for today.  I couldn't bring my myself to erase it.  I loved seeing him listed with the rest of the days events.  With a tender heart, I've been thinking about what appointments Caleb had today instead. 

I'm sure he was doing something wonderful.

Wink Day, May 10th

For Wink Day this month I taught our boys how to play Tiddly "Winks".  I have sweet memories of my Grandpa teaching me how to play when I was a little girl.

Each time it was our turn, we'd say something we loved about Caleb then take our shot.

When we finished the game, we wrote in our wink journals about how we would share a wink this month then went to the cemetery for a few minutes.

When we got to the cemetary it was empty except for one man who was walking on the opposite side of the grounds- my Dad.   I waved at him and he ran across the grass and wrapped me in his arms.  I was surprised to see him there and asked how often he stopped by.  He said "Oh, a couple of times a week. I like to check on Caleb and my parents...   

I had no idea. 

 I was touched to tears to know that my dad was quietly watching over the people he loves. 

Thanks Dad. 

 Our chance meeting touched me more than you will ever know.

A Wink at Arches!

We recently took a day trip to Arches National Park and had a wonderful adventure together!

It tugs at our hearts that it is so easy to pack up and go. We miss the time it took to pack the wheel chair, feeding pumps, oxygen tanks, and suction supplies.  Going on a trip that simply wouldn't have worked with Caleb is such a tender reminder that he isn't here. However we want to continue to make happy memories together,  so we take a "Wink" with us whenever we go! It's our way to keep Caleb in our family pictures and feel his spirit with us!  

I know Caleb will always be close to us...

And I know that no matter where we go, we'll always find a way to share a wink!

A Wink on a Cruise

One of Caleb's sweet nurses, Hailey, recently went on a cruise with her friends. She really touched our hearts with the photos and letter she shared with us. (Thank you Hailey- we love you!)

Dear Caleb,
I recently had the opportunity to go on a cruise with my friends, it was so much fun and very relaxing! The cruise line that I went through, Royal Caribbean, is one of the biggest contributors to the Make a Wish Foundation. You can imagine my excitement when I learned that the ship was holding awalk for wishes and selling T-shirts in which all the proceeds go to the foundation. In my heart I knew that I wanted to share a wink for you in some way. My friends and I went down to the Make a Wish booth where I asked the lady running it to take our picture with our special “wink” sign. I was able to tell her your story and what it means to share a wink. It was the highlight of my vacation! Caleb, you are always on my mind but one particular night I was all alone looking over the big blue ocean. It was so peaceful and calming, for a moment I could feel heaven close to me. I immediately thought of you and your sweet spirit. I prayed that you would know how much you’ve changed and continue to change my life. Now every time I look at the beautiful serene ocean I will think of you. I am so blessed and grateful to my Heavenly Father for the time I got to spend with you here on earth, but also for the time now that I get to feel your spirit close to me. I cannot express how much you mean to me and how much I love you. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for knowing me. Thank you for changing me. Thank you for blessing me. I love you so much sweet boy!
Love always,
Hailey

Unexpected Tulips

Last Spring I dug up all of my tulips. We were hoping to get some bushes planted, and we didn't want to plant on top of the bulbs.
  We didn't end up getting our bushes in so this Spring our flower beds were bare- or so I thought.  One rainy morning I looked closely at our dirt and could see numerous tulips pushing their way through! They must have spread to places that I didn't realize! We had over 20 tulips pop up unexpectedly this spring, and they delight my heart every time I step outside. 

I love tulips; they are so brave.  They push their way through hard wintered soil.  They continue to grow through unexpected snow storms.  They are the first blooms we see after a long cold season. 

I know Heavenly Father is aware of the ache in our hearts.  He knew we needed Spring more than ever this year.   My heart is full of gratitude for a Father who delights to own and bless me in ways that only He could. 

The day the Lord created hope was probably the same day he created Spring. ~Bern Williams

A Rare Gift

Several nights ago I had a tender and teary conversation with Dallan about the resurrection. I've been taught that we are resurrected with a perfect body. In the past that has been such a reassurance to me, but now I find myself wishing that I could have Caleb back the same way he was when he died. I've never felt like Caleb was broken or needed to be fixed. I loved his little body just the way it was.

I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the privilege of caring for Caleb in his precious little mortal body.

I know the time we had with him on the earth was priceless.

I don't know if I'll ever feel like I had enough time with him here.

As I've reflected on our time together as a family on earth, I've realized I'll never have any of my boys back that same way I have them now. My contemplative 12 year old Josh, 10 year old passionate Matthew and 5 year old sparkly Mitchell will never be the same way I have them now.

It is a rare gift we are given to experience these precious souls as children in mortality.

I want to soak in every minute with my greatest gifts because I know they won't be little boys forever.

In the eternities I know I won't long to have my children back in a particular physical state. I believe I knew my children before our time together on the earth. I think our mortal experiences sweeten the relationship that has always existed.

But for now, I want to soak up these precious mortal moments with each child and tuck them in special place in my heart where they will stay with me for all eternity.

(Mitchell on a recent trip to feed the ducks)

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.