I can’t stop thinking about a little, shiny pair of dress
shoes and a fancy, springy shirt and tie.
It was the perfect little boy outfit for an Easter celebration. I wondered if maybe his mom had bought them
planning to have him wear them next month for Easter. I wondered if his brother had matching
ones. Maybe his sisters’ dresses
coordinated too? However, the clothes I
can’t stop thinking about weren’t worn on Easter. The shoes that I keep thinking of were on my son’s
little, 6 year old classmate as he lay in his casket surrounded by mourning
family and friends.
Ben* was one of my son, Liam’s, very first friends. They met at school in Room 4, the early childhood special needs room. They were there together for 2 years and “graduated” from Room 4 together last spring.
Ben* was one of my son, Liam’s, very first friends. They met at school in Room 4, the early childhood special needs room. They were there together for 2 years and “graduated” from Room 4 together last spring.
As I stood looking at little Ben in his casket, I thought
about so many things. Each thought that
I had turned to my Liam and our future with him.
First, I prayed that God would comfort Ben’s parents. Then I wondered how a parent who buries his son can ever be comforted? In the next moment I remembered that my God knows this very pain and so surely He is a God who can soothe a parent’s ache. Although I expect that a parent’s heart will ache for the rest of his earthly life, we have a God who knows such heartache and who promises us a future free of all aches in heaven. That is the God we can lean on while we walk through the earthly valleys of shadows.
First, I prayed that God would comfort Ben’s parents. Then I wondered how a parent who buries his son can ever be comforted? In the next moment I remembered that my God knows this very pain and so surely He is a God who can soothe a parent’s ache. Although I expect that a parent’s heart will ache for the rest of his earthly life, we have a God who knows such heartache and who promises us a future free of all aches in heaven. That is the God we can lean on while we walk through the earthly valleys of shadows.
As little Ben’s older sister wept so hard that she was
shaking, I wondered how can a parent walk her child through such a grief? How does she process the emergent moments when
the ambulance was called and the paramedics arrived? What does her young mind make of those scary
moments? When the big sister comes home
after the funeral to a house without her brother and has to live new day after
new day without all the care that he required?
She gets to live without risk of him taking her toys or tearing her books,
but now it is a sad thing- how does the mother help her to adjust? How does a mother help her navigate this
loss? How does a mother help her
daughter to move on into a spring without her beloved brother, a summer without
him, and a new school year without him?
And as I watched his older sister and heard her weeping, I thought of my
dear Sophia and what such a loss would mean to her.
I watched Ben’s baby sister, age 3, just sitting there. She wasn’t overwhelmingly sad or even confused looking as she just sat and took things in. She watched as her grown-ups cried and her big sister wept. She watched her brother as he lay and didn’t move. I wondered what she thought. What will she remember? What won’t she remember? How much does a mother try to help her tiny daughter to remember? How much does she just let her forget? What does the tiny daughter think when she is at home and her playmate is gone? The brother she took care of, cooked pretend meals for, supplied with lots of toys so he wouldn’t have to get them himself, and gave kisses to isn’t there anymore. She wonders why? As I thought of this I was thinking of my dear 2 year old Miriam. I wondered how such a loss would be for her.
Then I wondered how this grief changes as our children age. How do we help them process this at different ages. I wondered if it happens when they are grown up – then will it be them helping us to grieve?
I watched Ben’s parents. I saw his mom crying and his dad with trails of tears on his face and his arms around his family. I wondered how after all these years of the family’s life revolving around the care of this little boy, they can go on. What do they do? How do they do it? So many minutes of every day are spent caring for a child with special needs, advocating, visiting doctors, therapists, etc. Now what? Now WHAT?? How does one move on? Do you get rid of the medical equipment in your house? The adaptive van? The wheelchair? Does the family just become a regular family and not a special needs family? And how do hurting parents lead their family through such a loss? This must bring them to their knees! Does knowing that your child is with the Lord and pain free calm the burning, aching, gutting pain? How do you live without his giggles and smiles? How do you function without his sweet noises, the feel of his soft skin, the twinkle in his sneaky eyes? Being there and imagining that this will be our future has been almost physically painful to me! Can we ever be prepared for such a thing? Again, the only confidence that I can have is that my God knows such pain and he promises to carry me!
And then I looked around and a realization hit me! BAM! They don’t just lose little Ben. They lose all of his team too. The nurses, the teachers and aides, the therapists, the carers of every sort -these people have become a part of their family. They are always present with a special needs family. They are an important integral part of special needs life. There were so very many of them at little Ben’s funeral. In fact, I’d say about 1/3 of the people there might’ve been his staff. Yet this family doesn’t need them anymore. What then? I thought of our house and the people we have loved who care for our Liam and teach us so much. What a different place it would be without the traffic of all these special friends. I thought of the amazing school staff that Liam has had and how hugely they have affected our lives and I wondered if any of them have an idea of how HUGELY they have affected our family’s life. My heart ached for little Ben’s staff who loved him and cheered him on and taught him so many things. My heart ached for myself as I thought of all the holes that such a little boy can leave on this earth.
All week I keep thinking of the little shiny shoes. I am haunted by them. They are on my trail this week. I am crying inside whenever I have time to think because shiny shoes pop into my head. I have decided, though, that I was reminded of something bigger because of those shoes. I was reminded that our kids with special needs are God’s instrument – kind of like the shiny shoes. I feel like I won’t ever see a pair of shiny boy’s dress shoes again without thinking of little Ben. BUT every time I see those dress shoes I will think of all those people who came to little Ben’s memorial service. I will think of all the lives he touched. He wasn’t eloquent. He wasn’t an awesome student. He walked with an odd gait. His language was difficult to understand. Despite all those difficulties and differences- actually BECAUSE of them – little Ben touched so many lives. And in our Liam’s case, I always pray that the gospel is proclaimed to every life that touches his. I will continue to pray that for every day that we have with our darling boy. I thank my God that he is a God who uses the broken to proclaim his majesty. I thank my God that he calms the hurting heart. And I thank my God that he is a God of love who can soothe every tear.
I watched Ben’s baby sister, age 3, just sitting there. She wasn’t overwhelmingly sad or even confused looking as she just sat and took things in. She watched as her grown-ups cried and her big sister wept. She watched her brother as he lay and didn’t move. I wondered what she thought. What will she remember? What won’t she remember? How much does a mother try to help her tiny daughter to remember? How much does she just let her forget? What does the tiny daughter think when she is at home and her playmate is gone? The brother she took care of, cooked pretend meals for, supplied with lots of toys so he wouldn’t have to get them himself, and gave kisses to isn’t there anymore. She wonders why? As I thought of this I was thinking of my dear 2 year old Miriam. I wondered how such a loss would be for her.
Then I wondered how this grief changes as our children age. How do we help them process this at different ages. I wondered if it happens when they are grown up – then will it be them helping us to grieve?
I watched Ben’s parents. I saw his mom crying and his dad with trails of tears on his face and his arms around his family. I wondered how after all these years of the family’s life revolving around the care of this little boy, they can go on. What do they do? How do they do it? So many minutes of every day are spent caring for a child with special needs, advocating, visiting doctors, therapists, etc. Now what? Now WHAT?? How does one move on? Do you get rid of the medical equipment in your house? The adaptive van? The wheelchair? Does the family just become a regular family and not a special needs family? And how do hurting parents lead their family through such a loss? This must bring them to their knees! Does knowing that your child is with the Lord and pain free calm the burning, aching, gutting pain? How do you live without his giggles and smiles? How do you function without his sweet noises, the feel of his soft skin, the twinkle in his sneaky eyes? Being there and imagining that this will be our future has been almost physically painful to me! Can we ever be prepared for such a thing? Again, the only confidence that I can have is that my God knows such pain and he promises to carry me!
And then I looked around and a realization hit me! BAM! They don’t just lose little Ben. They lose all of his team too. The nurses, the teachers and aides, the therapists, the carers of every sort -these people have become a part of their family. They are always present with a special needs family. They are an important integral part of special needs life. There were so very many of them at little Ben’s funeral. In fact, I’d say about 1/3 of the people there might’ve been his staff. Yet this family doesn’t need them anymore. What then? I thought of our house and the people we have loved who care for our Liam and teach us so much. What a different place it would be without the traffic of all these special friends. I thought of the amazing school staff that Liam has had and how hugely they have affected our lives and I wondered if any of them have an idea of how HUGELY they have affected our family’s life. My heart ached for little Ben’s staff who loved him and cheered him on and taught him so many things. My heart ached for myself as I thought of all the holes that such a little boy can leave on this earth.
All week I keep thinking of the little shiny shoes. I am haunted by them. They are on my trail this week. I am crying inside whenever I have time to think because shiny shoes pop into my head. I have decided, though, that I was reminded of something bigger because of those shoes. I was reminded that our kids with special needs are God’s instrument – kind of like the shiny shoes. I feel like I won’t ever see a pair of shiny boy’s dress shoes again without thinking of little Ben. BUT every time I see those dress shoes I will think of all those people who came to little Ben’s memorial service. I will think of all the lives he touched. He wasn’t eloquent. He wasn’t an awesome student. He walked with an odd gait. His language was difficult to understand. Despite all those difficulties and differences- actually BECAUSE of them – little Ben touched so many lives. And in our Liam’s case, I always pray that the gospel is proclaimed to every life that touches his. I will continue to pray that for every day that we have with our darling boy. I thank my God that he is a God who uses the broken to proclaim his majesty. I thank my God that he calms the hurting heart. And I thank my God that he is a God of love who can soothe every tear.
*Ben is not the student's real name
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