In the Thick of Things...

Each year when his birthday rolls around, I pray and ask for guidance in what I should write on this blog.  It becomes increasingly difficult to find something new to write about.  I told Tommy the other day that I had no idea what I would write.  And I'm still not really sure. 
I tend to write in stream of consciousness...I guess I'll continue that trend. 
We are in the thick of things here at the Haberhouse.  I used to think that the toddler days were difficult.  And they were.  But these years.  These years are hard.  Perhaps more difficult than when the kids were little and dependent on us for everything. 
Don't get me wrong, I love this time in our lives.  I love the conversations that we share with the kids, the girls' days with Em, watching them play their sports, seeing them achieve goals.  But these years are hard.
And with that difficulty comes the constant reminder that we are missing one.  That beautiful boy with wise eyes and great hair.  That voice that I long to hear.  That hand that I wish to hold.  That face that I will never kiss again.  We are missing one.
And that makes these years even harder.  We won't see him play sports.  We won't see him drive.  We won't see him graduate from high school.  We won't see him grow up.
I don't think I will ever understand why Luke was taken at such a young age.  I can truly appreciate those who say that they don't ask "why?" after a tragedy.  But I still ask "why?".  I guess I am not strong enough to understand the whole picture.
Why?
Why Luke? 
In these times when we are in the thick of things, I can't help but wonder if God thought that I wasn't strong enough to mother four teenagers at once?  That I didn't have enough patience?  That I would not be able to handle the difficult times?
That I wasn't enough. 
Because y'all, sometimes I'm just not enough.  And I want to be enough because I would give anything to have that sweet soul back with us.  I want to be enough so that I would be able to see him play sports.  To see him drive.  To see him graduate.  To see him grow up. 
Oh, I miss him more than you could ever imagine.  It is such a deep hole.  A gaping hole.  A huge part of me is missing and each day, it hits me like a ton of bricks:  I wake up, oblivious to everything but my alarm clock.  Life is perfect.  And then I remember.  And the hole makes it's presence known.  It's a nasty cycle.
There are so many feelings that occur on Luke's birthday.  Feelings of thankfulness, sadness, joy, and despair.  Feelings of weakness and frustration.  Feelings of love.
Because...boy, did we love him. 
I pray that he knows this.  I hope that he can hear me when I ask him to pray for me.  When I ask him to pray for strength to get through a difficult time.  When I beg him for a sign that he is near. 
And although we are in the thick of things, and sometimes I feel that Em will never stop arguing.  That Matthew will never smile for a picture.  Or that James will never stop talking (seriously y'all, he talks incessantly 😂).  I know that I love them with the part of my heart that still exists.  I know that they are precious miracles.  Gifts from God.  And although I may not always be enough, I pray that they grow up to know that their mother loved them with every inch of her being and that she would do anything for them. 
I love you, beautiful Luke.  Happy 9th birthday, precious boy.  And please pray for me.  That I can be enough.  And that Daddy and I can guide your brothers and sister through the thick of things.

What is Left for me to Say When the Memories are so Few?

Really.  I am at a loss for words.  Tomorrow, it will be eight years since we last fed him.  Since we last held him.  Since we last heard him cry.  Since we last saw those eyes.  Those beautiful, wise eyes.

It's difficult.  I mean, how can I continue to write about him when I have literally rehashed every.single.memory that I have of our life with Luke?  I have told you how sweet he was.  What a good baby he was.  How strong he was.  What a gift he was in our lives.

The memories are finite.  We can't make any new memories with our Luke.  And it's horrible.  Really, really horrible.  This weekend, we made lots of memories (as mundane as they may have seemed at the time):  I watched Emily master a tumbling skill that she has been working on, I watched James play excellent defense during his soccer game, Tommy watched as Matthew's team suffered a tough loss at his baseball tournament.  Every little thing we do in life creates a memory.  But what if one's life is too short to make infinite memories?

Because of the lack of hundreds of memories, I am finding it very difficult to write for his Angel Day this year.  Honestly, I just want tomorrow to be over.  We will go to work, take the kids to various practices, and somehow fit dinner in to our plans.

We will stay busy.

Because the moment I sit down, I will look at the clock, and think about where we were at that exact moment eight years ago.  Were we at clinic with my dad, telling the cardiologist how sick I believed him to be?  Were we on our way home from TCH, still unnerved by the fact that the doctor sent us home without admitting Luke?

Or was it that moment?  That moment where the world stood still?  9-1-1.  Pulse-ox.  Ambulance.  CPR.  Yelling.  All of that.  From about 8:00 until about 11:00.  The world stood still. But at the same time, the world came crashing down. Our world came crashing down.

Why is this memory the one that is the most difficult to forget?  Why is it that I can't recall all of the wonderful things that Luke did throughout his life, but I can remember every. single. moment of that evening?  I can remember how I felt as I handed Luke to my mother so that I could put the pulse-ox monitor around his tiny toe {and how I felt as though I failed him as a mother at that very moment} because I knew that she would protect him.  I can remember how the paramedic dismissed our concerns.  I can remember the ambulance driving without its lights on.  I can remember the sound of her voice when Luke's pulse dropped.  I can remember pulling into St. Luke's and being sent to the waiting room.  I can remember crying as everyone in the waiting room stared.  I can remember the phone call that Tommy made to his mom, and what he said to her.  I can remember the prayer that we said, telling God that we would be ok if He took Luke.  I remember the looks on the faces of all of the professionals as they exited Luke's room.  And I remember the way my father wept as he stood over the crib of his (favorite) grandson after he had passed.  And I remember how it felt as we left the ER.  Without our son.

But I can't remember the sound of his voice.  I can't remember his smell.  I can't remember what he looked like when he smiled (only twice).  The memories are so few.

I just want to remember.

Tomorrow evening, will you please do me a favor?  If you have a chance, between 8:00 and 11:00 (CST), can you say a little prayer or think a good thought for our family?  That Tommy and I can remember only the happy memories?  That his siblings will remember his strength and will always strive to be just as strong?

It's difficult for each of us and none of us are immune to the pain that is life without Luke.  But we do hold on to the hope that we will see him again.  And that gives us peace.

My dear friend Amy went to visit Luke today.  She brought him a rosary since this is the year that Luke would have received his First Holy Communion.  He usually sends her rain, but today he sent her ants (the same thing that he sends my sister Katie).  Thank you, Amy.  From the bottom of my broken heart.

The most beautiful baby I have ever seen:

When Heaven Comes

Tomorrow, eight years have passed since we welcomed a 6-pound, 15 ounce baby Luke Thomas to the world.

Perfection.

He was perfection.

Perfection with a perfectly imperfect heart.

There were so many feelings that day:  joy and sadness.  Anticipation and fear.  Confidence and anxiety.

A few weeks ago, I experienced another emotion:  peace.

Tommy had a business trip in Houston at the end of February.  As a gift for my birthday as well as a way to visit Luke, he bought a ticket for me and arranged for my (awesome) sister Rita to watch the kids.

The trip to Houston was nothing short of amazing.  I truly didn't realize how much I missed my hometown.  Tommy worked most of the time, so I spent my days and nights visiting with family and friends.

We went to visit Luke shortly after we landed in Houston.  The day was beautiful and we were able to spend some time with our boy.  We even took a selfie with his stone:

We stopped to visit him again on the way back to the airport.  I prayed, asking him to send us a sign that he was near.  The wind was blowing and there were some pinwheels that were spinning at another grave.  As much as I wanted that to be the sign I had been praying for, I knew in my heart that it was simply the wind.  I had no idea that the sign I would receive would be so much more profound.

As I said, the trip was amazing.  But that's not what this post is about.  It's all about him.

Luke.

On his eighth birthday.

And about the peace that he gave me shortly after our trip.  

But this story actually began a few years ago...

Those who know my father are aware that my he is a very spiritual man.  He is a cradle Catholic attended Catholic school through high school and he is a devout member of the church.  When I have a question about faith, I usually ask my dad.  After Luke died, I had so many questions.  

One was major:  how old are we in heaven?  

Of course, this opens up the opportunity for even more questions:  Will Luke still be a baby?  Will he know me?  Who has been with him since we lost him?  Who has taken care of him?

I was once talking to a priest and he said, "there are no babies in heaven".  

I was devastated.  

So naturally, I asked my dad (because to me, he obviously knows more than the priest :) ).  I was confused.  I was disheartened.  I was crushed.  I asked him to tell me his thoughts on the subject.  My father, in all of his infinite wisdom and faith, told me something that stuck:  he believes that in heaven, we are in the prime of our lives.  

The prime of our lives.  

Just as Adam and Eve were when they were created.  And as Jesus was when He died on the cross.

That's a great thought, right?  The definition of prime is "of the best quality; excellent".  You can define the word "heaven" using the same words.  It makes perfect sense.  

Fast forward to a few weeks ago, when we returned from our trip to Houston.  

I can't tell you how or when it happened.  I know that at some point, Rita and I were talking about heaven.  And I *think* that I was discussing heaven with one of our children.  Again, I truly cannot tell you how or when it happened.  

When Luke sent me the sign that I had prayed for at his grave.

I'm not sure if you would call it a vision (that is definitely not the charism given to me by God--I was told that my gift is encouragement), but I know that it was not a dream.  Luke has visited me in my dreams before.  But this time was different.  I was awake.  And it was instant.  It was just all of a sudden fact.  There was no question.

I saw Luke.  Not standing right in front of me, but I saw him in my mind.  Not as a baby, not even as a child.  

In the prime of his life.

Luke was a young man.  A handsome young man, tall and slender.  His hair was a light brown/dark blonde and it was short.  He was so handsome.  Like movie star handsome.  Such a beautiful sight to see.  I couldn't tell you much about his features, but I do remember his nose.  Probably because that was the first thing I noticed about him after he was born.  It was a perfectly-shaped, very masculine nose.  What a strange thing to remember, but I can recall it vividly.

We didn't speak, but I knew.  I knew instantly that he will be there to welcome me when I enter the gates of heaven.  He will accompany me to paradise.  This young man, in the prime of his life.  

No words.  Just peace.

That is what he gave me: a glimpse of what I will never see here on earth:  our Luke in the prime of his life.  

I am so thankful to my father for being patient with each of my questions as I know it is not easy for him to talk about Luke without becoming emotional.  His insight helped me understand things a lot better.

Tomorrow, we will celebrate his life once again.  We will go to a soccer game, head to Dave and Buster's, followed by dinner at Chuy's, and a balloon release and cake when we return home.

I hope that this post has given you some peace if you are grieving a loved one and may God bless you.  Thank you for remembering Luke.

Once Again

Once again, I sit here on my computer.  Trying to come up with words to eulogize our son.  Attempting to be eloquent when I'd really like to scream.  Wanting to be positive and uplifting, when the reality sucks.  Hoping not to upset anyone, but realizing that I probably will.

Once again, I am at a loss.  What can I say that hasn't been said a hundred times?  How can I explain the unexplainable?  When will the emptiness go away?

Once again, the memories will come flooding back.  That horrible night.  The sights.  The sounds.  The helplessness.  The fear.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, it will be seven years since we said "goodbye".

Once again, April 18th will be an acute reminder of the worst day of our lives.

I really want to be positive y'all.  But the truth is, being his mother is the most difficult thing I have ever done in my life.  It's just not fair.

Most days I am good.  I can talk about him with a smile.  I can put on a happy face, making sure not to make anyone else uncomfortable.  I can explain how sick he was and how he is in a better place.

And he definitely is in a better place.

But I still want him here.  I want him with us.  Each and every day.

And it's hard.  It's hard because, once again, I'm writing this post, worried about what people will think.

And why do I worry about what they will think?  Do those people know what it's like to bury a child?  Have they had their hearts broken in so many pieces that it will never be the same?  Who are they to judge a grieving mother?

So, I will tell you how I feel:  I feel sad.  And happy.  I feel angry.  And joyful.  I feel scared.  And optimistic.  I could go on and on.

Because when we lost Luke, everything changed.

And as I have said many times, I have changed.

Part of that change enables me to be more straight-forward and less "Pollyanna Sugarcoat" {a nice little name my sister Rita once gave me}.  And frankly, I'm ok if people aren't ok with me.  Because my life was fundamentally changed on April 18th, 2008.  And there was nothing I could do to stop that change from happening.

Luke's death hasn't made me bitter (well, maybe a little), but it has made me better.  To others, I may not seem to be a better Bernie {believe me, I struggle with "New Bernie" a lot}.  I'm more inclined to speak my mind, to stand up for myself and others, to be the advocate that my children need.  I have allowed relationships to wane, but have invested a lot of time in developing new ones.  I have realized how important it is to keep people close who make you better, and not bitter.  I've let go when I wanted to hold on, because I now know what's better for me.  And I'm ok with it all.  

Once again, as with some most of my posts, this one has been all over the place.  But I want to leave you with this...

Once again, we will spend tomorrow with the ones we love.  Once again, we will remember the most beautiful boy in the world.  Once again, we will hold fast to the promise that we will see him again.  And once again, we will thank God for being given the chance to be Luke Thomas Haberman's mommy and daddy.

Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.

Luke 18:17

Signs

I can't believe I am writing on the blog again this week!  It's a festivus miracle!

Today, Luke would have turned seven years old.  This time seven years ago, Tommy, my dad, and I were sitting across the table from a cardiologist.  We listened to him tell us about our boy's heart, what we could expect, and what he would and wouldn't be able to do in his life.  I felt like a zombie.  I had just given birth earlier in the day and was facing the nightmare of our child having HLHS.  

It was surreal.  

But Luke was real.

Today, we celebrated with our babies.  We ate (a lot), played games, had cake and released balloons.  We shared what we would like Luke to know, and talked about how much we miss him.  It was precious.  And beautiful.  Just like our Wittle Bubba.

Since we couldn't be in Houston to visit him, Luke had some special people visit him for us.  Nana went to the cemetery and brought a beautiful vase of daffodils.  They surely brightened up his spot.  Thank you, Nana.

My friend Amy also went to visit Luke with two of her boys.  Her visit is the reason I felt compelled to write tonight's post.

Amy called me this afternoon as we were driving to dinner.  She told me that she had read yesterday's post, and mentioned the part about my broken heart being similar to a broken ceramic plate:  the pieces never fit back together perfectly and there are always gaps.  Inside the gaps of my heart lies grief.  

Amy told me that someone must have left a ceramic angel figurine at Luke's site, but that it was broken, just like plate from the blog post.  She had never seen the angel, but said it looked like the angel's heart was missing.  This is what she saw:

Can you see the angel?  Can you see the broken piece of the heart in the top left piece?  {And that super cute army man?  Amy's boys left that for Luke.}  :)

So that's a bit crazy, right?  Why would there be a broken ceramic angel on Luke's stone?  Right away, I knew the angel and who it was from.  Each Christmas, my friend Cheryl takes her children to visit Luke and they place an ornament on the tree that Nana brings.  They send us our own matching ornament and we lovingly place it on our tree.  Here is the angel ornament that Cheryl placed on the tree (and also sent one to us):

Can you see the hearts on the angel's wings?  I believe that one of those hearts is the piece in the top left of Amy's picture.  Broken.

And what angel do we know who had a broken heart?

Luke.

So if the story stopped there, it would be a nice little coincidence:  a sweet angel ornament brought by a friend and found, broken, by another friend.  Just like the broken ceramic plate in my last post.

But the story doesn't stop there.  

I couldn't shake off a feeling that I had.  The sight of the broken angel really seemed to affect Amy.  She was so touched by the angel and I feel like she really felt Luke there.  ***{side note:  he also sent her rain--he always sends rain for Amy and fire ants for my sister Katie}***  

So I started to think back...Cheryl and her family sent us that angel for Christmas 2013.

Over a year ago.

I did some more "research" and found Cheryl's post from this past Christmas 2014.  Cheryl had sent a different ornament:  a beautiful cross.  And she sent this picture:

What is missing from this picture?  

The angel.

It's not there.  And tonight, when I asked Cheryl if she remembered seeing the angel ornament from the previous Christmas, she said "no".  

And I checked a picture that my sister Katie had sent in early December 2014:

Guess what's missing? 

The angel.

{but the ants are there}

The cemetery cleans the grave sites every few months (not sure of the exact times), and they throw away whatever they find.  

So...can anyone out there tell me why an angel ornament that was left for Luke over a year ago would be missing in pictures from December, but would be back (and broken) on his birthday, the day after I shared a post about my broken heart?

I prayed for the right words to use in my last post.  And they came to me.  

I prayed for a big sign from Luke, that he was with us.  And the broken angel ornament returned.  

Maybe I am loony.  Maybe I am romanticizing things to help me deal with my grief.

But I know one thing:  these pictures don't lie.  The ornament was not there in December.  And it was back today.  

I'm curious to know what others think about this post?  Do you believe that the broken angel (with the broken heart) was a sign from Luke or just a mere coincidence?

God bless everyone and thank you for the support you have given our family.

Another Year

Another year has passed. And it is time to wish our baby boy another "happy birthday".  It's supposed to get easier, but it's really not.  He is one of the first people I think of when I wake up and he never leaves my heart throughout the day. 

This year, I am having a really difficult time trying to find the words to explain how much I miss that boy.  How much I wish that he could be here to celebrate his seventh year.  How much I wish I could get a glimpse of what he would have looked like.

But I can't find them. 

The words are lost.  I feel like, each year, I say the same things:  we miss him, we will celebrate his life, we don't want him to be forgotten.  It's the same thing when I look at his pictures:  the same pictures year after year.  No new pictures are taken.  No sweet smiles for the camera.

This monotony is torture.  Nothing changes.  Our baby boy is still gone.  He will never grow up.  He will never have a birthday party.  His baby brother will never know him here on earth. 

And my heart is still broken.  Utterly broken without him here. 

I know that some of you think that the grief should be lessened, that I should move on. 

But I have moved on.  Just eleven months after Luke was born, we welcomed James into our family (and he was very, very planned).  We moved to Tennessee right after we lost Luke and to Georgia three years later.  I have stepped out of my comfort zone and tried new things.  I can talk about Luke to anyone without shedding a tear.  I went back to work as a preschool teacher, even after I had sworn that I would never return to the profession (my last year of teaching in Texas was while I was pregnant with Luke).  I try with all my might to share our story with those who are facing a similar situation.

BUT...that part of me that is utterly broken?  The same thing that was broken inside of his tiny body? 

My heart.

My heart will never be the same.

Have you ever dropped a plate and it broke?  Like into a million pieces? 

What happens when you try to glue that plate back together?  It's virtually impossible to glue each piece in it's correct place without having some gaps in the ceramic. 

That's my heart.  It was broken into a million pieces when we lost Luke.  Over the past seven years, I have tried with the strongest of glue to put those pieces back together.  Some pieces were big enough to fit together, but there are still so many gaps in the ceramic of my heart.  Those gaps can only be filled with Luke.  I will keep using that super glue and I will try to pick up the pieces, but...

There will always be gaps.

My heart will never be the same.

Because his heart was too broken for this world.

So on his birthday this year, we will celebrate.  We will remember.  We will grieve.

Because those gaps in my heart?  They are filled with grief.  And it's o.k. to grieve.

Our hearts are as fragile as a plate.  They are so easily broken.  And can never be fully repaired.  There will always be gaps.

I will leave you with a little note to Wittle Bubba...

Dear sweet boy,

Happy 7th birthday!  I remember the day well.  There were some very precious moments in that hospital room.  And some of the scariest moments of my life. 

I remember right after you were born, I looked at them cleaning you in the warmer, taking in every part of you:  your Daddy's nose, Grampa's ears, and Great Gramma's mouth.  How could we have guessed that a few hours later, they would tell us about your broken heart?  That they would take you from our arms and stick you with probes and needles?  That in a week, they would open your chest to put a "bandage" on your heart?  How could we have guessed?  And how could we have prevented the pain that you faced? 

Through it all, you were amazing.  Sweet, calm, strong.  A miracle.  Daddy and I are so very proud of you and who you became.  We didn't get to see you grow up, but you lived so much in those 5 1/2 weeks.  You are truly the strongest person I have ever known. 

Baby, I miss you so much.  But I was so very lucky.  I was blessed to carry an angel inside of me.  To feel you kick.  To have a relationship with you that no one else experienced.  I was given a gift that I will cherish forever.  And I am forever grateful for that gift. You are that gift.

I wonder who will celebrate with you today?  Pop-Pop?  Uncle Bob?  All of your great grandparents?  You heart friends in heaven?  I know it will be quite the celebration.  Your brothers and sister will send balloons for the party, so keep a lookout for them. 

I love you more than you could possibly know.  Please pray for your Mommy...and Daddy...and Em, Matt, and James.  It's really tough without you here. 

Love,
Your mommy

I'm Mad

If you are my friend on Facebook, you may have read a rant about a {horrible} woman at a family restaurant who made me mad.  I took the kids into the restaurant while Tommy parked the car.  From the time we walked in, this woman was giving us looks.  She was whispering to her friend.  She was judgmental and rude.  James was excited.  We were meeting a few friends and he was happy to see them.  James is five.  He has a loud voice.  He was definitely using that loud voice.  But I was trying.  I was trying to keep him quiet.  I was acknowledging his noise level while trying to correct the behavior.  I wasn't ignoring him.  I wasn't walking away.

But I could still sense her dirty looks.  Hear her whispers.  

When Tommy came in, I took James to wash his hands (and to remind him of the behavior that we expect from him).  It just so happened, that she was sitting at a table near the restrooms.  As she rolled her eyes and mouthed "I can't believe this..." to her friend, I apologized.  OK, it wasn't a real apology.  It was a backhanded, passive-aggressive "apology".  

This is how the "conversation" went:

Me:  "I am so sorry that he is misbehaving."

Wretched Woman:  "He really is."

Me:  "I'm so sorry {not really}, but I am trying.  I'm doing my best."

I know that I said something else, but I cannot remember exactly what was said.

She thought James was being loud?  You should have heard me.  But my blood was boiling and my heart was palpitating.  I took James to wash his hands and I sent many glares to her as I ate and enjoyed bonding time with our friends.  

She left without further incident.

You know what?  My heart is still palpitating and my blood is still boiling.  I am literally shaking while I type. 

I'm not upset because she was a rude, wretched, and sad person.  

I'm upset because I'm mad.  Not just at her, but at a lot of things.  And a lot of people.

I wish that this woman had taken the time to understand.  To understand that maybe James needed this time with friends.  To understand that maybe his mommy had a rough day at work and was trying so hard to keep him quiet. 

Maybe she would have been a bit more kind if she knew what that five year old has gone through in his little life:  four surgeries (two of which were major), blood draws every six weeks until he was four years old, ultrasounds looking for tumors every three months, the fact that he talks about a brother who he never met.

Maybe she would have been a bit more kind to his momma if she knew what she had faced:  nightly P/T with her four year old daughter, saying "goodbye" to her newborn as he was flown to a different hospital the night he was born, seeing her week-old son's chest open after surgery, watching as her son passed from this world into heaven, being offered termination for her fourth child, watching that same child go through four surgeries, and holding him down while he had blood draws and ultrasounds.  

Maybe, just maybe.  Maybe if she had known what this boy and his mother have been through.  Maybe she would have shown grace.  Maybe she would have been kind.

But she chose judgment.  She chose to jump to conclusions.  To believe that this kid was a brat who was misbehaving.  She didn't think about that fact that he is phenomenal.  That he is more creative than anyone I have ever met.  That his imagination is out of this world.  That he is so full of love and is so very smart.  

I feel sorry for her.

But that doesn't make me feel any better.  I'm still mad.  

I'm mad that today while cleaning, I had to pick up one of the {very few} pictures we have of Luke, and dust it.  I'm mad that Luke died.  I'm mad that James was born critical.  I'm mad that my father-in-law passed before he was able to meet our babies.  I'm mad that we just lost my brother-in-law, a man who was so good and so very kind.  I'm mad that my sister had to watch as her son battled (and beat the hell out of) cancer.  I'm mad that so many friendships have been lost over the past almost 7 years.  It all adds to the grieving process.

I'm mad that I just can't ever seem to be enough.  I fail so often.  At being a mother.  A wife.  A daughter.  A daughter-in-law.  A sister.  A friend.    

And I'm also mad that this post will probably make other people mad.  But you know what?  Honesty sometimes sucks.  And hurts.  Believe me, I have been hurt by honesty a lot over the years.  

As mad as I am and as much as that {wretched} woman's judgment hurt me the other night, I know that there are people who will forgive me.  I know that my husband will hold me and will tell me that all will be ok.  I know that he will support me whenever I fail and will pick me up when I fall.  I know that my children will always love me.  As much as I think I fail, they will love me unconditionally.  They will always forgive my shortcomings, because sometimes I do succeed.  And sometimes, I can even be their hero.  

And I know that God will forgive me.  I ask forgiveness of Him all the time.  When I am mad, when I am frustrated, when I question Him.  He forgives me.  And He gives me so many blessings:  my husband, my children. my family, and my friends.

To this woman, whoever you are and wherever you are:  I pray that you will leave your judgment at home.  I pray that you will be accepting of children and will remember that we all have good days and bad.  And I also pray that if I ever see you again, that I am granted grace and can offer that grace to you.  

To everyone else, please remember to be kind.  It does no good to take your frustrations out on anyone else.  You never know what crosses other people have to bear.  A kind gesture or word can make a big difference in that person's day.  

I love you.  I love you for reading this.  For saying Luke's name.  For not trying to "fix" me.  For understanding when I just want to complain.  For knowing that I will never, ever be the person I was on March 11th, 2008, the day before that beautiful boy came into this world.  I love you.  Thank you for loving me.