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!
