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!

This is hard...

This is so hard.  Hard in so many ways.  It's hard enough missing him each and every day.  It's hard waking up each morning, and having the stinging reminder that he is gone.  But do you know what else has become surprisingly difficult?  As time goes on, it is getting even more challenging to write on this blog.

And that absolutely breaks my heart.

I feel defeated. 

I have always said that it is our job to make sure that Luke's legacy lives on because he is not here to make one of his own.  But my heart is broken because I simply can't write any more than I have already written over the past ten years.

I have written about his birth, his diagnosis, his surgery.  I have written about his daddy, his siblings, his grandparents, his aunts and uncles.  I have written about my faith, my fears, my joy, and my anger.  I have written about my struggles, my victories, my hopes, and my dreams.  And I have written about his death.

Truly, there isn't much left to write about.  I'm kind of lost.  This tenth anniversary has been one of the hardest, probably because double digits is a big deal in a child's life.  But also because a decade has passed since we last saw those beautiful eyes.  An entire decade without our "bringer of light".

I wish that there was something that I could say that hasn't already been said.  Something deep.  Something profound.  But all I can say is that I am sad.  I'm sad that our baby was born with a broken heart.  I'm sad that he had to go through open heart surgery at one week old.  I'm sad that no one listened when we told them that he wasn't well.  I'm sad that we never got to hear him laugh.  I'm sad that he never got the chance to crawl, or walk, or say "daddy" or "mommy".  I'm sad that he never got to meet his legacy, his baby brother.  I'm sad that he was never able to attend school or play a sport or an instrument.  I'm sad that he will never get to drive a car or go on a date or have a job.  I'm sad that he will never get married or be a father.  I'm sad that he was not given the chance to outlive his parents, his grandparents, or even a few of his great-grandparents. 

I'm sad that he's gone.

And I'm sad that, even ten years later, there are still people who can't acknowledge the loss.  People who have yet to mention his name.  People who ignore the fact that he lived.  People who cannot pick up a phone or send a text to offer a word of encouragement or love.

I'm sad that people are cheating themselves by not knowing Luke.  

As much as I wish that this would be an uplifting post, I am sorry that it didn't turn out that way.  The truth is that Luke's actual day of birth was one the the most difficult days of my life and the actual day of his death was actually a lot easier because I immediately felt God's mercy bestowed upon our entire family, but especially upon Luke.  He wouldn't have to live a life full of physical suffering.  And we wouldn't have to watch him live that life.  No, he was whole.

But ever since that day?  His birthday has been so very joyful.  And this day?  This day has been so very sorrowful.  There is just no joy in remembering the day you watched helplessly as your baby boy died.

So once again, I am sorry that this post is not what you may have expected or what I may have hoped for, but please extend grace.  Because honestly, after ten years of posting, I am scared that I am losing so much of what I have to say about our precious Luke.

And it breaks my heart.

{Amazing} Grace

...how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me.

How can ten years pass so quickly, yet seem to have gone by so slowly?  How can it seem like we held him for the first time just yesterday, yet we said "goodbye" forever ago?  How has our family survived without our son, our brother, our grandson, our nephew?  

You know, this year has been hard.  Like really, really hard.  I'm sure I have said that before, but this year is different.  This year, the milestone is different.  Double digits.  Luke would be ten years old.  Double digits.  That's huge!  

And yet, as these ten years have both flown by and dragged on, I feel him less and less.  Can you imagine how heart-wrenching that is?  To have that void?  To not be able to feel one of your children?  To beg God to allow him visit you in your dreams, to send you a sign, to be near you so that you can feel his presence?

But...

Sometimes those signs are so subtle that I almost miss them.  Like this morning during mass.  As we sat down, I found myself {once again} begging God to allow Luke to send a sign that he was with us.  As the choral member opened the list of song numbers, I opened the hymnal to the last song listed and it was one of the songs that was sung at Luke's funeral:  "Amazing Grace".  

I immediately showed Tommy and he nodded, knowing that tears would come {honestly, he was probably fearful of how many tears would come}.  But it wasn't so much the song as a whole and the fact that it was sung at Luke's funeral that made me weep like a baby.  Since Luke's death, "Amazing Grace" means so much more to me.  The meaning of the words are so much more profound to me than the beauty of the music.

Now I don't promise to be a religious scholar, nor do I promise that my interpretation of this song is correct in any way, shape, or form.  But I do love that boy with all of my heart and I always do my best to honor him and his life.  This is what the song means to me in my life now, because of Luke.

So here it goes...   

Amazing grace! How sweet the sound,
  That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
  Was blind, but now I see.

When we first lost Luke, I was angry with God.  I yelled at Him.  I told Him that Luke was our baby and that He couldn't have him.  That I wanted him back.  How dare He take our baby.  He was so loved and so wanted.  Why did He have to take our baby?  What had we done in our lives that was so bad that God had to take him?  It took a while before I realized how much grace we were shown with Luke.  We were blessed in that a wonderful L&D nurse heard his murmur and sent him to the NICU.  Without her help, we may have taken him home and lost him within days.  Instead, we were given 5 1/2 weeks with him.  We were able to know him and snuggle with him.  We were also given grace in that Luke did not suffer with his HLHS.  I have seen so many children suffer with this condition and it's just not fair.  Luke was extended so much grace in that he was given the chance to spend eternity in paradise while he waits for us to meet him there.  I was blind, so very blind.  But it took a while for me to see the grace that we have been given.

’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears relieved;
How precious did that grace appear
  The hour I first believed!

In these lines, I look at the word "grace" as being our Luke.  Luke's life caused more fear in my heart than I have ever felt before.  When I looked at him, I felt panic.  When I thought about him, I felt panic.  When I slept, I felt panic.  I was a walking, breathing ball of fear.  But as soon as I held him, the fear would slip away.  I was holding my baby.  Grace {Luke} relieved that fear in me.  He was my baby and his soul had so much power over me.  It still does.  And wow, "how precious did that grace appear"?  All I can ask is, have you ever looked into the eyes of an angel?  Because I have.

The Lord hath promised good to me,
  His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be
  As long as life endures.

As I said above, I was angry.  Angry at God for giving me a gift so precious as Luke and then taking him away.  And not only taking him away, but taking him away in such an awful, scary, and life-altering way.  In a way that you only see in movies or on television.  I still ask Him "why", and I will never understand until I reach heaven.  But one thing I know is that He understands.  He understands my questions and He isn't upset with me for asking them.  He knows my flaws and He forgives me for them.  He has promised good to me.  He has promised me that I will see Luke again.  He sent His Son so that I will see him again.  In His Word, my hope secures.  

When we’ve been there ten thousand years,
  Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing God’s praise
Than when we first begun.

Like I said, I'm no religious scholar, and I am just reading this song as Luke's mom.  nothing more, nothing less.  But this last stanza is the one that is the most difficult for me to interpret, because I can read it in two different ways:  one as Luke looking down from heaven and another as us yearning to be with him.  Luke, up in heaven, shining like the sun.  Can you imagine how brightly he shines?  And how he must sing God's praises for showing him such grace and mercy in this lifetime.  And us, waiting here on earth, singing God's praises for showing us the same grace and mercy that He showed our son.  

So there you have it, my not-so-scholarly, Mom-of-Luke interpretation of "Amazing Grace".  I don't believe in mistakes and I do believe that this song was sung in mass this morning for a reason.  

Thank you for continuing on this journey with our family.  We are continually amazed at the support that we receive from so many.  From the Luke's Legacy Boxes that people give so generously to, to friends who visit our boy's site, to a special family who brings him an ornament at Christmas and sends us the identical one for our own tree.  We are blessed.  We are given grace.  

But I must say that the most important gift of grace that we were given was the gift of our Luke.  

Our own Amazing Grace.

Happy birthday, Wittle Bubba.  You're double digits now--keep shining!

Are there really only five stages of grief?

One of the last pictures taken of this precious boy...nine years ago tonight.

So tomorrow is the day.  The day that we had to let him go.  The day we told God that we would be ok if He took our Luke.  The day that he was taken to paradise. 


I think it was a few weeks after his death before I was introduced to the Five Stages of Grief, developed by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross:  denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.  Here I was...a post-natal mom, still "feeling pregnant", still lactating, still physically needing my baby in order to fulfill my motherly duties.  And I was introduced to this idea that grief was supposed to be universal.  That each of us who grieves goes through these stages.  Sure, we may go through them at different times or we may stay at a stage longer than someone else.  But the idea is that we will all face these stages. 


And I have. 


But these aren't the only stages that I have faced.  They aren't the only stages that Tommy has experienced.  We all grieve differently.  Tommy and I have grieved our son in very different ways.  A few stages that I could add:


*  Catatonia:  this stage happened in the days and week after we lost Luke.  I could barely move.  I couldn't go outside.  I could speak and talk, but I just wasn't "there".  Tommy and my father took care of all of the funeral arrangements, but I just couldn't bring myself to go.  They did a wonderful job and I can't imagine that it was an easy thing to do.  I was present at the wake and the funeral (and I can tell you everyone who was there).  But at home, I was catatonic.  I have read that catatonia can be brought on by PTSD, which is definitely something that many people who have witnessed traumatic events can develop.  It all makes sense.
*  Thankfulness:  This stage took a bit longer to reach.  It took me a long time to realize that Luke was spared from a very difficult life.  He wouldn't have to endure more hospitalizations, more surgeries, and an eventual heart transplant.  God welcomed him to heaven at an early age to save him from an unknown future.  And then we were given the gift of James--thanks to Luke's life, we were blessed with a new one.
*  Bitterness:  this stage kind of lingers.  I first experienced it when some very important people didn't attend Luke's funeral.  I realize that bitterness is not something that a newly grieving mother should feel, but it was involuntary.  Bitterness still rears its ugly head every now and then.  I hate it. 
*  Disappointment:  it's cliché, but it's true that people show their true colors when others are faced with adversity.  All of a sudden, I was part of a really crummy club:  The Grieving Mom Club.  It sucks and no one wants to be a member.  And unfortunately, some people pulled away.  In all honesty, I also pulled away a bit.  But shouldn't I have been given a pass?  I mean, I had just buried our son.  A little bit of compassion and empathy goes a long way.  And patience.  Lots of patience.  Disappointment  is something that I still feel.  Just today, I was disappointed.  I have prayed so hard for a sign from Luke.  But none came this year.  I haven't felt him near.  I haven't felt his presence.  Thankfully, I have received some really amazing signs in the past here and here.  But not this year.  And my heart is hurting.
*   Fear:  what if something else happens to another loved one?  What if someone else gets sick and dies?  What if we have to witness what we saw that night?  I realize that it's not good to worry.  But no one knows what Tommy and I saw that night.  It rocked us to our very core.  The fear creeps up more often than I would like to admit. 


I'm sure that this post probably seems a little negative, but when I started the blog almost nine years ago, I wanted to be transparent.  To show the good and bad sides of grief.  The easy and the hard.  The pretty and the ugly.  It is my hope that someone will read it and realize that they are not grieving the wrong way and that what they are feeling is ok. 


Let's stop trying to put everyone in a pretty little box and send them on their way.  Let us be present in their grief.  Let us tell them that they are doing the best that can be expected.  Let us be patient and kind.  Let us not leave them behind because they can't "get over it".  Let us not judge those whose shoes we would never want to fill. 


Let us be good. 


So on this night before the ninth anniversary of our baby boy's entrance to heaven, please be present in our grief.  Please tell us that we are doing the best that can be expected.  Please be patient and kind.  Please don't leave us behind because we can't "get over it".  Please don't judge these shoes that we wear, because you would never want to fill them.


Please be good.

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: