The Soul Remains

If you have read the blog for a bit of time, there are a few things that you may have noticed:

*  I love my family fiercely.
*  My faith is very important to me.
*  I am {just a tad} emotional.
*  I use a lot of repetition in my posts.
*  I enjoy using metaphors {you can read one here or here}.

So, as we remember Luke Thomas on his 11th Angel Day, I have another metaphor I would like to share...

You don't need to be a Catholic, nor even faithful, to feel the heartache caused by the  devastating fire at Notre Dame.  

These images are so powerful:

                                                                   Source:  abcnews.com

There you see it:  the images of a church that was devastated.  A place where the roof caved in and walls fell down.  Where flames threatened to destroy the entire building.  

But amidst all of the burned wood and melted scaffolding, there is hope.  There is hope because the soul of the church is still standing.  It has survived.  Through the destruction and wreckage.  

The very soul of the church remains:  the cross and the altar are still intact.  

I feel like the loss of Luke is a lot like the fire in Notre Dame:  the church is still here and I am still here.  But Notre Dame is not the same as it was before the fire.  And I am not the same as I was before we lost Luke.  

But even though we are different now, we are still the same.  

Our souls remain.  

This was me before the devastation, five months pregnant with Luke:

I was oblivious to the destruction that would come to our family four months later.  I was blissfully unaware of the fact that the world as we knew it would come tumbling down in the very worst way.  I was excited, fresh, and full of life (literally and figuratively).

This is me now (with Tommy), a little over 11 years after the previous picture was taken:

I look older.  More tired.  There are more wrinkles and dark circles under my eyes.  There are gray hairs under the brown and I have {a few more} pounds than I did back then.  

Yes, my body is different.  It has changed drastically since we lost Luke.  In so many ways.

But my soul remains the same.

When you lose a loved one, the grief takes its toll.  Emotionally and physically.  You are fundamentally changed.

But your soul remains.

When we lost Luke, the grief was overwhelming.  It was physical:  my body was still recovering from pregnancy and birth.  I was released from the hospital within about 8 hours from having Luke.  My body never had a chance to fully rest.  I was still producing milk, with no baby to feed.  It was emotional:  I still had to be a mother to two little ones, but I was so devastated that it was almost impossible to be there for them.  I had a husband who was also grieving, but I was unable to be the wife he needed.  I couldn't understand why there were people who ignored his life and his death, people who should have been there, but who were absent.  The physical and emotional pain were unbearable at times.

But my soul remains.

I am still the woman who was created by God.  I am still Bob and Bernadette's daughter.  I am still Tommy's wife.  I am still Mom to Emily, Matthew, Luke, and James.  

My soul has a purpose, and that purpose has never changed.  Notre Dame has had a purpose for over 850 years.  And that purpose will never change.  

Even though we are broken.  Even though we have scars.  Even though people once believed that there was no way for us to survive...

We survived.  Our souls survived.

And, although we will always be different than we used to be, we are still the same.

********************************************************************************************************

Thank you for traveling this journey with our family.  We are continually amazed by the people who still talk about Luke, who ask about him, and who visit his site when we are unable to be there physically.  It means more to us than you could ever know.  

Thank you to Nana for visiting our boy and for bringing him a new wreath for Easter: 

Please remember our family tomorrow as we relive the final day spent with Luke.  He was the most beautiful, sweetest, and strongest person I have ever known.  And I am so thankful for the promise that we will see him again one day.  

Luke Thomas Haberman, 3/12/08-4/18/08.  This picture was taken the night before we lost him:

God bless you all and thank you for continuing to read my musings.  If you'd like to see what we do in Luke's name, please visit Luke's Legacy Boxes on Facebook.   

Protection

My parents are doing a major clean-out of their house, so I was over there the other day, grabbing some things that we have stored there.  One of those things was this box:

This is one of Luke's boxes.  One of the few boxes that hold everything pertaining to our boy's life.  A few boxes.  That is so very tragic.

Upon opening the box, the memories came flooding back:  the cards, the Ronald McDonald House donations, the stuffed animals:

But this...this was what stood out to me:

This.  A precious swaddler that surrounded our boy in his most vulnerable days.  A simple piece of cloth that protected our boy while he lived.  It hugged him to make him feel safe.  It kept him warm and snuggly when we couldn't hold him.  

It protected Luke.

The first thing I did was smell the swaddler.  I wanted so desperately to smell him.  To be able to remember what he smelled like.  Because I can't remember.  And it kills me. 

But there wasn't a "Luke" smell.  There was a smell, but not a sweet new baby smell.  Not a soft, freshly washed baby hair smell.  Not a "can't get enough of him" smell.  It was a "I am a piece of cloth and have been sitting in a box for almost 11 years" smell.  And that's not a very good smell. 

But the fact that I couldn't smell our baby boy didn't bother me as much as the fact that this little swaddler was empty.  It was put away after it's job was done.  Because there was no longer a baby for it to protect.

And that's kind of the way I sometimes feel:  now that he's no longer with us, I can no longer protect him.  But unlike the swaddler, my job is not done.  I am still his mother.  Tommy is still his father.  Yet there is no child here for us to protect.  Luke's job here is done.  It was completed almost 11 years ago.  But ours?  Our job will perpetually be unfinished.  Incomplete.  

Do you know the feeling when you have left a job undone?  All of the hopes, dreams, and expectations for that job...left undone?  It's frustrating.  It's stressful.  And in our case, it's heartbreaking.  

Our hopes, dreams, and expectations for Luke and his life were dashed.  Raising him was left undone.  

I'm still not sure how to handle that.  I constantly find myself thinking about who he would be...would he be reserved and observant like his father?  Would he be able to talk to a wall like his mother?  Would he be driven like his sister or a goofball like his big brother?  Would he and his little brother be best friends?  He would be in fifth grade now, preparing to leave elementary school for a new journey in middle school.  Would he be excited or nervous?  Would he need a new heart or would he have been living with a new one for years? 

The ugly truth is that we will never know the answer to any of these questions.  We will never get to see our baby boy grow.  Our job as his parents was cut short.  And we no longer had his precious life to protect.  

But that's ok.  Even through all of the heartbreak, and the grief, and the sadness.  Even though our arms have been empty for almost 11 years.  Even though the pain can be both emotional and physical at times.  Even through all of this, we are stronger and better because of this boy.  We have held more tightly to our faith and we have held more tightly to each other.  

Because of this tiny baby with a very broken heart, we have learned how important it is to protect each of our children and ourselves.  We are a lot like that little swaddler from the NICU:  we are doing our best to protect our little family.  To teach them to love others and to be kind.  That it's ok to walk away if it hurts too much to be present.  That not everything in life will be easy, but you must keep going and keep smiling.  That no matter what, God will be with you...even when you think He is not.  And that whenever you need Him, all you have to do is pray.

As our angel turns 11 years old, I ask that you do a little something to celebrate life.  To celebrate those living and also those who have left us.  Be like the NICU swaddler...protect others through kindness and love.  

And make sure that, if possible, you finish the job.

Here are some pictures that make my heart happy.  Luke in his swaddler, protecting him, doing the job it was designed to do:

Happy 11th Birthday, Luke Thomas!