Shards of Glass

I was sent home yesterday, away from the hospital as I have a touch of a virus and understandably they didn't want to compromise the health of the other in-patients. My first night in my own home after more than a month. Its strange to know we once left thinking we'd be away for only two days. I stayed the night alone. It was something I felt I had to do. Painful, so painful, but necessary.

There are paths in life that lie hidden. I've set out each day thinking I will be walking down the one I've chosen, the one visible to me, the one I've anticipated. Then, suddenly, inexpicably, I now find myself in a completely new life. A road that came out of nowhere. I was pulled out of the wreckage and my path, my family's path, the one we thought we would be walking for years ahead, had disappeared. 

I see a picture of this new road as I pray. It is twisted and filled with jagged edges. Rock and debris lay everywhere, and there are canyon walls on either side. It feels inescapable. It is brown and dusty and when I turn around I can see our original path, the one I assumed we'd travel on, lying off in a different direction. But that one is like a photograph now, one dimensional, not something I can access or stand upon. It is only a view, a snapshot of where we were. So I have to turn around and look now at where we are. It is so unbearably difficult to make myself turn to face this new direction. Unbelievably hard. I want to stand looking at the old picture, the old path that looks good and green and filled with promise.

I don't know how to walk this new journey. I don't want to walk it. I stand in the dust and cry, "WHY do I have to do this? Why are you making me do this? I want to go back to what we had!" But my children are coming up behind me, walking the same road as I am, and so I have no choice. I feel as though all I can do now, right now, is run ahead of them, trying to see where the road is most difficult, trying to anticipate where they might stumble or fall, trying to find the wisdom to anticipate where the journey will be the hardest and be ready to help them over, around or even through it.

But God showed me something that made me rest for a moment, that eased that burden of always running ahead. I saw Jesus walking with me, pointing out the most treacherous parts. I suddenly didn't feel as frantic, didn't feel like I had to keep ten steps ahead of it all. The road does not look any different, but he was gently pointing things out to me, and suddenly the children were not so far behind. We were walking closer together, a group. The rocks that seemed so terrifying, that were lying in my path became smaller as he showed me how to push them, helped me to roll them off the path to the side, until they are but pebbles that I can kick with my shoe. But only the ones he points at. I can only look where he is pointing.

And suddenly I am aware that the road ahead, though brown and dusty and inescapable, is not empty. There are people in the distance, people I know, people I don't, working to clear the way, lifting and moving the debris, filling in holes and building ramps. They look at me, at us, moving slowly towards them, taking our little steps, pushing our wheelchairs, limping, and I feel humbled and so encouraged, knowing that he has sent so many before us, to make the path a little easier. There is love in their faces and in their actions. We are in a new direction, but we are not alone.

Taeryn's birthday party went well. She was completely surprised and it was a joy to see her face, just as I had anticipated. At one point, that night during the concert, she looked sad and said, "This would be so much better if daddy was here." Yes, it would.

On Friday we made a trip to Children's where she had a follow-up appointment with the plastic surgeon. I was saddened to learn that the facial scars would be visible, but he was pleased at the progress. Her massive arm cast was reduced to a smaller one, freeing up her right fingers a bit more, although now she is determined to stay left-handed. She, Karson and Lauren will all be re-evaluated on the 7th when new exrays will be taken. We are hoping for some of the other casts to be removed, or maybe reduced. For now she stays in her wheelchair and neck collar. It will still be a while before she is able to start using her legs.

Bryn continues to face challenges in the body cast but is trying to meet them bravely. She is dealing with problems in her right knee (the leg that wasn't broken) which has slowed down her physio and the pressure sores on her left heel continue to bother her, but she is trying to be patient. We continue to live together at Sunny Hill hospital where everything now feels a little more comfortable and familiar.

Karson, due to the impressiveness of five year old physiology, is walking. It is amazing to think that three weeks ago he was in a wheel-chair. Actually, he is a bit sad that he no longer has the use of that chair and tries to steal Taeryn's when she's not in it.

We are finding that certain things are more difficult than we had anticipated. We were being hospital transported in a wheelchair bus and were travelling on the highway late at night. Unbeknownst to us, an ambulance was driving in the lane beside us. It suddenly flipped on its lights and siren. Bryn, who was asleep, instantly woke up and began screaming. Lauren screamed as well, I may have too, I don't remember, and both she and I were close to tears. It took several minutes for us to all calm down. So many things to adjust to on this new road. Hidden things that are taking us by surprise.

When Taeryn had been in the hospital for almost a week, she began complaining of pain in her head and back. The nurses were puzzled and thought it was perhaps the discomfort of the hard neck brace she was lying in. But she became more and more uncomfortable and I could tell that this was important to her, not just a child who was unhappy. We finally, carefully turned her over onto her side, and I was speechless. Her entire back was covered in shards of glass. Covered. She was lying in a coating of slivers and broken pieces. Everyone was horrified. As we searched along the back of her head a large chunk of glass was found embedded just below the top of the neck brace. Her hair had been soaked in blood and due to her injuries they had been unable to wash it well. The smell was very strong and as they had tried to rinse some of the dried blood out, they hadn't realized that her hair was also full of glass, glass that had showered down her gown beneath her. We washed and rinsed and washed again for an hour and a half, picking out hidden pieces, finding them where they hadn't been just a moment before. It was such a relief to see her more comfortable, resting on her skin instead of the shattered windshield.

As time has gone on, we occasionally still find pieces of the car working themselves out of their bodies. Karson had a large chunk suddenly become visible on the side of the forehead. Bryn had pieces working their way out of her heel. Each time I feel a sense of shock. How could this be taking so long? How can they be hiding so deeply and working themselves out so slowly?

I have felt a significance to this process but couldn't understand why. Today, after thinking about the situation with the ambulance sirens scaring us, after seeing Myron's pictures scattered around the house and feeling the horror and intensity of my loss escape out of me all over again, I realized that like the shards of glass, it is going to take a very long time to discover what is hiding in all of us. I think that we will be surprised and hurt at what begins to work its way out as the weeks, months and years move on. And that is a knowledge that is difficult to accept. Because I can't hunt for the shards. I cannot anticipate where they are hidden or how they will show themselves. I just know they will. They will appear in us like the debris on the road. I guess maybe we are one and the same.

Another night at home and hopefully by tomorrow my symptoms will be gone and I can return to be with the children. I am longing for us to all be together again.

Reliving It Again

The crash happened so quickly I could barely comprehend what was happening. We were only twenty minutes from home. Twenty minutes. Two of the children were listening to music on their earphones and the rest of us were listening to a story CD on the car stereo. I was looking out my passenger side window, half-listening, half-planning the unpacking and sorting that would take place when we arrived, and how I had promised to take the two younger children to see the movie, "Tangled", that afternoon.

I had been sick all Christmas. We had wound up our last day of homeschooling on the 17th and by the 19th I was hit with a massive cold that just got worse over the week. All the holiday plans I had made were laid aside. We cancelled parties, suppers, I had no time to bake or do any of those chores that I had been saving for when I wasn't teaching. Instead, a week in bed and then I dragged myself out to have a family over on the 22nd, a quick get-together with extended family on the 24th and attend the Christmas Eve service. Lauren forced me to sit with Myron under the Christmas tree that night for a picture. Our last picture. One last pose of he and I together. It now sits framed on my living room table.

On the 25th we worked with a local homeless shelter to serve Christmas dinner to those with no place to go. Afterwards Myron decided we should go to Denny's for Chistmas dinner. Being that I was still sick, I gave in. He was so happy. Randy Stonehill had an old song about Christmas dinner at Denny's and Abbotsford had just opened one. He had always wanted to say he had had Christmas at Denny's. I remember he was so concerned about my feeling ill, so sorry that I was having such a miserable Christmas. I don't know why our last one had to be marred with that miserable cold. All I can think of was that it gave him a little more time with the kids, a few extra hours where I couldn't and he could. Its all I can come up with.

The two days at Harrison were good. It was nice to see him sit back and relax. Myron loved food and each buffet made him so happy. We swam with the kids, played games, watched "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas" (the classic cartoon) in the movie room and sat by the fireplace and read. And then it was time to go home.

As we drove, oblivious to what wa before us, I suddenly heard Myron yell, "NO!" and looked up just in time to see the blur of another car where it shouldn't have been. Myron tried to swerve right but all of a sudden there was a terrible sound, the one I relive again and again and we were suddenly spiralling through the air, ten feet off the ground, twisting over and over in the opposite direction. Its unbelievable what goes through your mind in a split second. I heard screaming, the children's and my own, and when all the glass exploded I remember thinking, "It's done. My nightmare has come true. We're all dead."

The van came to a violent stop. I hung upside down from my seatbelt and was eventually shocked to find that I was still breathing. After hurtling through the air at what I've been told was nearly 200km/hour, my arms could move, my legs, and I realized, "I'm alive! I'm alive!" The first thing that went through my mind were the children. I remembered, again strangely, being at a conference where a woman had recounted a similar experience and once her car stopped she began calling out the names of her children, until she reached the last one and there was no response. I instantly began yelling to my babies.

"Lauren...Lauren!" "I'm okay, Mom," I heard, "I think my arm is broken!" I yelled for Bryn, who took a moment and then said, "It's okay, Mom, I'm okay!" I could hear Karson screaming and looked behind me where he hung from the ceiling, blood running down his face. The fact he was screaming gave me comfort, so I began calling for Taeryn. There was no answer.  Just like the woman at the conference there was no...answer. She was no longer in her car seat. I looked down and froze in horror. She had been thrown and was lying beneath me, her face a mass of blood, limbs twisted, eyes open but seeing nothing. I began to scream at her, begging her to wake up, to say something to Mommy. "Jesus," I yelled, "Jesus, please! No! Save her, save her!" I reached down the best I could from my prison and tried to hold her. "Oh, God! Help her!" The unbelievable horror of the possibility she might not wake up froze every emotion except panic, every fibre of belief. She had to talk, to blink, to breath! She had to!

Voices from behind told me that people were climbing in, trying to get at the children in the back. I vaguely sensed that someone was cutting Karson out of his straps, lifting him up through the shattered glass. A man appeared at the window above me, insisting that Taeryn be lifted out. I had no idea that we had sheered through a power pole, that there was other danger of fire or electricity. All I knew was that my baby girl wasn't responding. He reached in and took her, warning me that he was going to release my belt and catch me, then lift me out. It was as Taeryn was lifted up and over that I saw Myron, laying beneath her. He was still, frozen in his seat. I couldn't see his face, it was turned away, and then it hit me. Not once had I even considered the possibility that he might be hurt. If I was alive, then so was he. We were one and the same. We would get up and get the kids out, get help. I stared at him and as my belt fell away and my body was lifted something in my brain said, "You need to start screaming." So I did. I screamed. And I pulled against those trying to lead me away and I reached out my arms to that horrible, twisted and broken metal coffin and begged someone to help him, to get him out, to make sure he was alright.

The children had been carried inside. We were miles from everything, but right in front of a lonely gas station. They were laid out on the concrete. I could see the two older girls in the back room, quiet, eyes wide. Karson continued to scream as someone leaned over him trying to calm him. But Taeryn lay perfectly still. I threw myself down beside her and begged her to say something, anything. There was nothing. Blood clotted her nose and mouth so I turned her gently on her side to keep her from choking and spoke to her again and again. Still there was nothing. Her legs were lying in pieces, and were so swollen it looked like two hams had been shoved into her pantlegs. I kept pleading, waiting desperately for some kind of sign, some kind of life and then, finally, the most beautiful sound. A tiny gasp for air. She began to moan and the moans grew louder until she was screaming. Someone knelt beside me and as I began to weep with gratitude that she was responding I was pulled away and held as the horror of what had happened began to take shape.

People began coming, trying to help, the fear and shock evident on their faces. Firefighters arrived and took over, and as I stumbled back over to Karson the Chief wrapped me in his arms and held on. I could feel the hysteria threatening to take over and my legs began to shake and he sat me down. I asked about Myron, could someone please tell me about my husband, was he alright, but no-one could say. The sobs began to choke me and just as I was going to sink into the weight of this nightmare, this kind, strong man whispered something in my ear about the children. The children. It was like a switch went on. Suddenly, I had a mission. These were my children. They needed me. They needed to make it.

One by one I knelt down beside their broken bodies, trying to calm them, trying to get them to focus on the help, on the sound of my voice, trying to convince myself that I wasn't hearing my own screaming thoughts, the ones trying to drown out everything happening around me. Just moving from one child to another, talking, touching, telling them I loved them, telling them it was going to be alright, not caring if I was lying or not, just wanting them to hold on, to wait for help. The arms of the Chief stayed with me, wrapped around me as I shifted from one to another, pulling me gently out of the way when the medical teams arrived, encouraging me that help was here, that they were going to be taken care of. I wanted to ask again and again about Myron, but I was so scared they would tell me and I would have to choose all over again how to react. I didn't think I had the strength so I just kept talking, consoling, pleading my love and their need to hang on to life, praying, praying, praying that somehow we would get through this as a family, stay the family.

But we didn't. As I was led out to the helicopters, following behind the stretchers that bore my children, their bodies wrapped and covered against the wind, I saw again the wreckage that had been our van. The corner of a yellow plastic sheet lay partially out the side. The kind of plastic used by police. The kind of sheet used to cover a body. Again, I wanted to run, to push myelf into what was left of our car and do something. Maybe he was already out? Maybe they had already taken him to help. But I think, inside, I knew. Something cold and numb closed over my soul and I forced my legs to keep walking to the waiting aircrafts. They put me inside, next to Karson, and I sat frozen, staring out the window at the scene below. As the helicopter began to move away I looked at my watch. Ten to two. The writing on its face said Eternity. I had never noticed that before. Ten to two. Ten to two. I made myself remember.

The flight felt so much longer then it was. I was so torn. Lauren had been sent by land to Mission. My husband stayed behind. But Taeryn was in the first helicopter, being the most critical, and if she was going to die, if she was going to leave this earth, I was going to be with her. I had to be with her. And yet, I had to somehow be with them all. With the man I craved, with each child I adored. It was the first of many, many choices I would have to make, for days and days on end. Choices I still have to make. We landed, finally, and I was now being helped off and led to the doors of the emergency room of the B.C. Children's Hospital, miles and miles away from where my life had just changed directions, as quickly and as drastically as had our van in midair.

The Kiss

Tomorrow is Taeryn’s 8^th birthday.

A little girl turning 8 years old without her daddy. And yet we can rejoice in what it does signify, that she is still here with us, breathing, laughing, even crying. Every year I thank God for my little Taeryn. This year I praise Him for her, over and over again.  For it could have been that we had to go through this day without her.  Without her smile or her beautiful shining eyes. But we are not, in this case, without. We are with. Thank God, we are with.

I have planned a small surprise party tomorrow morning here in the hospital. A few gifts, some party bags, a cake that one of Myron’s co-workers so lovingly ordered and delivered here. And then later we will be ambulance transferred to the Toby Mac concert, a date that her daddy had made with Taeryn for her birthday several months ago and something that she had so been looking forward to. A date that he cannot attend but where I will stand in his place as best I can.

I am trying to create a memory for her, something she can look back on and delight in. But the greatest gift was not of my planning but completely by surprise. Tonight we were given a gift that can only be described as a kiss from God. I received an email from a friend who had been watching the Canucks game tonight on t.v. The opposition was given a penalty and as he skated to the box a camera picked up on a man in the stands, waving a Canucks flag. Taeryn’s Canucks flag! On t.v. Being waved for her, for her dad, for their team.

I have so been looking forward to seeing her face when she walks unaware into her party room tomorrow. So looking forward to seeing her face when tomorrow I tell her that Toby Mac, her favourite singer, has asked us to come back stage and meet with him. But nothing will surpass the look on her face when I came to her bedside this evening and told her about the flag on t.v. Because that is the way God is. Nothing surpasses the joy of being kissed by Him. By being told by Him that on the eve of her birthday, He cared enough to ensure that a tiny piece of paper taped to a stick would be displayed at a hockey game for all to see. It made me weep with gratitude for the reminder that yes, He is watching. He is moving. He still cares.

Lauren, my oldest, received her own kiss from God yesterday afternoon. On our last evening at B.C. Children’s Hospital, the night before we were transferred to Sunnyhill, a music therapist happened to overhear Lauren singing. The therapist sought me out and explained that a recording studio in Vancouver had offered to make studio time available for free. How would I feel about Lauren going over to the studio to record a couple songs?

 How would I feel? Like God had wrapped his arms around my teenage daughter and said, “I love you, precious child. And in the midst of your pain I want to show you my devotion.” Yesterday we were taken by a dear friend to the studio where Lauren worked for several hours to lay down two songs, one being the song she and Myron had written a short time before he died. The song she so bravely shared at the Memorial. I sat in the sound room and cried, so moved that she was able to experience something that both she and her dad had dreamed about. I wished that Myron could have seen her, listened to her. He would have been so incredibly proud. I am so incredibly proud.

Yes, tomorrow will be hard. It will tear at the wound that is so fresh within me, that is still bleeding within all of us. But as I sorrow for what is missing, as we sorrow for the man who could not be here to tell his precious Taeryn how much he loves her, there will be joy. For we have been kissed.

Happy birthday, my precious, precious Taeryn.

With

The depression has retreated and I thank those who have been praying for such.

The children have been asking more questions, sharing more thoughts for which I am grateful. As difficult as it is to hear their pain, which in turn stirs my own, I am thankful that they are beginning to be able to voice what they are feeling. Sometimes they see my tears and ask, "Are you thinking about daddy?" When all I can do is nod and let the grief flow, Taeryn will often say in a voice filled with compassion, "Its because you've lost your best friend, isn't it, Mom?"

I hate the thought of my children growing up without a father. I know that many have done so and many are doing so, but it is, of course, not what I wanted for them. Not what I had planned. And the reality of what that might look like takes my breath away. I can't seem to comprehend the title of "widow" or "single mother". They may be accurate in definition, but nowhere else. My heart remains married, in love with my husband of 17 years. My ring finger carries its symbol. I am committed to a man who no longer lives on this earth. I suppose at some point my mind will accept those vicious new titles, ones that I had not agreed to, nor had any desire to wear. Someday. Not yet.

Last night as we talked together in the dark, my older girls asked some of the age-old questions. Did God know this was going to happen? Did He decide to take daddy away? Why?

Why. The question that haunts so many.

Why didn't we leave 5 minutes later that day? Why didn't the driver of the other vehicle swerve right instead of left? Why didn't God spare all of us instead of leaving half of me in that mangled, crumpled piece of metal? In the depths of my grief I have cried out these questions, wishing that somehow we could go back and choose a different path. I could read a hundred theological answers and yet none would satisfy the question. In the end, I suppose, the "why's" eventually become irrelevant.


I remember when Myron and I were dating, he wrote a song and woke me up at my window early one morning to serenade me. Not being a morning person, it took a few minutes to come up out of my precious sleep and finally comprehend what he was doing, which wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't chosen a frosty, winter morning. Every minute I delayed opening the window meant colder fingers and that much more difficult to play a guitar. However, eventually I got the window open and sat as he played his song titled, "Better To Be With You Than Without You." I was touched and teary that he had spent so much thought and effort to be romantic, but was not so thrilled with the lyrics. "What's wrong with them?" he wanted to know, genuinely interested. "You're not supposed to say it's just better with me," I explained. "You're supposed to say you can't live without me!"  "But...I can," said my puzzled, logical and very practical husband to be. Down came the window.

Of course, as time went on the words began to change. And I guess, by all logical standards, we could. We just no longer wanted to.

I was speaking with a friend last night who after recounting her own painful journey said, "In the end, I thought, I either choose daily to be with God, or without Him. And I realized, why would I choose to be without Him?" It both spoke to my situation and brought to mind the song Myron first wrote me, back when I was a silly, overly-romantic, highly expectant young woman. The song that I would give anything to hear sung to me once more.

And I wouldn't even make him change the words.

Never

“Mom…I‘m scared. What happens if someday you don’t come back?” My stomach turned to stone. It was the question I have been waiting for, dreading. Dreading, because the answers I had given before the accident seemed obsolete. The best I could do was to say that I believe God spared me for a reason, and I was trusting Him to protect them and provide them with what they needed. Right now, they needed me and I was here. But the question hangs in my heart, mocking me.

Where do I stand with God? He promises to fulfill the desires of our hearts. This? This is not my desire. I have often begged him, pleaded with him to protect us, to make sure that my children grow up with both a mother and a father. I remember lying in bed before Christmas and lifting up that exact prayer. And yet, He has allowed the exact opposite of my cry. What do I do with that? How can I assure my children of his love and protection now that we feel so incredibly vulnerable? So unbelievably broken. This doesn’t feel like protection. This doesn’t feel like love.

And what I am going to say next has nothing to do with my strength or any attributes of righteousness. It has nothing to do with theology or any attempt to be encouraging. It has to be all Him, because as I raise those questions, as I struggle to understand or comprehend where this has left us, somewhere deep inside lives a tiny flame of faith, that somehow He is still there. That somehow He was there throughout all of this. I do not understand that knowledge. It does not come from me. I am too weak. My trust in Him was already shaky before December 28^th. No, this is coming from Him. Somehow, He is speaking faith into a place I cannot access with my thinking or feelings. Some place that is separate from the rest of me. A place, I think, where He must live and has made His own. The questions, the anger, the grief and disbelief, they are consuming what surrounds that one, protected piece of my soul. But they have not, as of yet, managed to pierce it. And that can only be from Him. It is not human. It is not me.

I am struggling today. The Memorial was so beautiful, so meaningful, but it is over. And it feels like that was the last, tiny piece of Myron that I had been able to hang on to, to savour. Now it rests behind me and what lays before me? I knew that I would have to mourn, but I was not ready for the immensity of grief that has attacked me today. I feel as though I am dying, the actual physical pain is at times so real, so encompassing that my chest feels as though it is being forced apart to make way for the chasm of emptiness that burns there. I sense that monster, depression, lurking in the shadows, ready to come and steal anything I might have left to offer my children, myself or the people around me. And I pray, I pray that God will answer this cry, to keep it from descending upon me, that I would not be victim to its destruction. I cannot be. I cannot, for who will step in? Who will they have left? I need protection, I need wisdom, I need the strength to do all the things that feel meaningless, but are so important.

I opened my Bible today and forced myself to read. John 1:5 jumped out at me. “The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness can never extinguish the light.” I hold on to the word “never”. Today, it is all I have.
　

The Sea of Flags

Yesterday was Myron's burial and memorial. The children are tired, as am I. We were brought back to the hospital tonight and I am so grateful for the compassion and tenderness of the hospital transfer team. They were kind and considerate. The ride was quiet, none of the usual chatter. Just the quiet individuals of one family, watching the passing lights, homes and businesses as we travelled by. I very much felt like we were observing a different universe as we stared out those windows, like we were travelling in our own separate, tiny world with our thoughts, our pain, and our questions.

It had been pouring rain at the cemetary, the day before. The spot was pretty, or will be when the sun shines again and the blossoms on the crabapple trees bloom in the spring. But yesterday it was cold and muddy as we all stood beneath the canopy, staring down at the hole that would soon be filled with shovels full of dirt and the box that carried my husband. It was important to me that the children witness the entire journey that box was going to make. They had seen their father’s body the evening before, watched the next morning as it was loaded onto the hearse and followed it up through the hills and down the other side to that waiting hole. We watched as family and friends lifted it out of the car and set it down, watched as it was lowered into the arms of the earth and heard the heavy splattering of dirt and rocks as they left the shovel and pummelled down below. It was a heavy sound, a sad sound, that thud of the soil raining its weight upon the perfect, shiny wood of the casket. We didn’t stay long, just enough to hear some spoken words and to know that we had done what was needed to be done. His earthly journey was now complete. We will visit there again.

As we prepared for the Memorial, I began to shake. I couldn’t bear the thought of walking into the sanctuary, of having the eyes of almost a thousand people turn to witness those painful steps towards the seats reserved for those who’s mourning was the deepest. But I did. Because I had to. And then the blessing came.

Everything I had hoped for in planning this tribute came alive. I listened and watched as first Myron’s brothers and then my children took the stage and spoke from their hearts, and as my oldest daughter sang the song she and her dad had recently written together I closed my eyes and felt the words wash over me, words of hope and faith, words of their hearts. The ceremony where we retired his hockey jersey, a jersey worn over 20 years ago, was so beautiful, so moving. The music played and the jersey began to rise, and my little Taeryn who had been lifted onto the stage in her wheelchair, began waving her flag, her daddy flag, a flag that by the extraordinary kindness of someone who wanted to help, had been copied and made into a thousand flags, passed out at the door and were now being waved in honour of her dad, and a tribute to her devotion to him. I turned and looked behind me to witness this sea of flags, this incredible movement of blue and white, and saw the look on my baby’s face as she saw her gift, her vision, being carried out before her. There she sat, before all those people, leading them all and I thought for a moment that my heart couldn’t have been more full than in that one moment. A line of men and boys, my own tiny son included, were lined up shoulder-to-shoulder facing her and the rising jersey, and as the music faded the drumming of their hockey sticks upon the floor crescendo-ed until at last they were lifted high in a salute of honour. It was perfect.

Friends and family spoke words, words that painted a picture of the true Myron, a man not perfect, but full of gifts and grace, of humour and integrity. We laughed at all the stories that made him who he was. And it was good. Good to remember. Good to see him through the eyes of others.

A band of four played one of his favourite songs and the flags were raised again and I began to weep, so grateful for this crowd of people who were willing to do something out of the ordinary. The music was so beautiful I didn’t want it to end and I kept thinking, Myron would love this! He would so love this, all of it. A brave message of hope by our pastor who just that morning lost his mother to cancer, and then it was my turn. My turn to stand and speak about this man that loved me, that together with me loved our four children, who balanced me and my weaknesses, who vowed never to leave me, and whom I believed every time. The strength came exactly when I needed it and it felt good to speak the words, to share about my love for him and his crazy ways. It felt good. So good.

The slideshow pushed us over the edge. The tears the children had been holding back began to flow, just as I knew they would, and together we sobbed as image after image appeared of the one we loved. The one we were missing. The one that had changed our lives forever.

I was so glad we ended in worship. Songs of praise and joy and all of a sudden I was able to sing, to lift my hands and praise the one who made it possible to love at all. I didn’t want it to be over. I wanted to keep hearing about Myron, to keep praising the God of his heart, I just didn’t want it to end but of course it had to. But oh the blessing of that time we spent. So beautiful. So perfect. Just what I had hoped for. A true tribute.  A real message. And that glorious, glorious sea of flags.

Thank you

I haven't had the time to respond to any of the comments left below the blogs, but I wanted you all to know that I have read through every one and appreciated so much your words of encouragement, of wisdom, of grief and the stories both of Myron and of your own journeys that you have shared. I have cried for the losses in your own lives, prayed for your strength, felt somehow like the grief was shared by those who had been dealt similar blows, which in turn lessened, even minutely some of mine.

I have been left gift, food and cards. I will not remember who has done what, but I wanted you all to know I am grateful for the thought that went behind each effort. Truly.

To those who worked with Myron:  I have been so touched by your thoughtfulness and willingness to help and for the many things you have sent to say you care. Thank you for your love. And to James, Vanessa, and Gary...bless you.

To all those who are waiting, planning for the future and who are "on-call" to help:  It is such a blessing to just know that there are people in the ready. That when a need arises, as many will, there is an army of friends waiting to offer their talents and services. Bless you.

To Sherri who gave up her day yesterday to come and do our hair. It meant a lot. I thank you as do my children.

To my closest friends: You have literally held me up. You have given up your daily lives, time with your own families, work, sleep, and so much more. Thank you for crying with me. Thank you for laughing with me. Thank you for every single thing you have done to support and take care of the details. Cathy, Crystal, Randy, Frank, Mike, Lani, Teena, Anthony...so many more. I love you. Myron loved you. May God bless you back ten-fold.

To Myron's family:  For your standing with us, loving us, caring, working to lift off the burden, for wanting what I want, for understanding. Its an honour to call your family. I know your sorrow. Thank you for sharing mine. Every single one of you were so important to Myron.

To my family:  My friend, my sister - You have crawled inside of me and held me up. You are beauty. You are strength. I saw again everything I love and respect about you. Thank you for your love. To Jeff, your strength and support, organization and assurances mean more than I can say. You are my brother. To my mom and dad:  Just being here, just having you close by, just knowing and feeling the love and concern that radiates out of your beings, is something that no-one else can do. Thank you for loving Myron, for taking him into our family and treating him like one of us. Thank you for the countless trips, the birthdays, the events, all the time you have spent travelling to be with us over the years. Thank you for being in Quesnell, for being a part of Myron's last earthly baseball games. That is precious to me. I love you.

To anyone I have missed, and I am sure I have, I doubt that what you have said or done has gone by un-noticed. I hear people saying, "I know its not much." To you it is little, to me it is massive.

Bless you all,
Gillian

Tomorrow

Tomorrow is the day I have been dreading. The day where arrangements have been made for my children to say goodbye to their father's earthly body they have loved so dearly. The day where it will be made clear that daddy is not coming back; is not merely waiting at home or staying late at work. The day where we will close him up in a box and prepare to surrender him beneath the earth, in a spot beyond the trees.

I do not want to go. But I have to. We will need to hold each other up, I them and they me. Or perhaps we will all just need to fall down together, weak and helpless and weep over this event that has changed the course of our lives forever. The strength needs to be waiting for me in that room as I feel none of it right now. Go before me, Jesus, be there waiting for me, for us. We will so desperately need to feel your presence.

Then we will prepare. Prepare for a day that is sure to drain us in every capacity, but that hopefully also brings a true sense of what he meant to us. Prepare for a supernatural burst of bravery as we speak before a thousand, cry before them, sing before them. May it be everything my sweet children need it to be, not to make things better, but that they can one day look back and feel settled that we did what we could to honour the man we loved. Did what we had to. Did what we wanted to.

Myron, I dedicate these next two days to you, my love. To your memory. To the life that you so freely shared with us. To your desire to bless others even in death. I hope that even now, standing next to Jesus, it somehow blesses you, fills you again with the knowledge of how much you meant to us, will always mean to us. To me.

I prayed today again for a picture, a glimpse of Myron in his new home. For the first time I began to see through the mist. He was stepping up to home plate, knocking the bat against his cleats to clear them of dirt. I sensed that he was focused on the game, but there was no anxiety about him. No fear of missing the pitch, or needing to perform. Just a joy that he was playing. Playing the game he loved. I wasn't able to see much more, but I felt certain that the ball he was going to swing at was a homerun. It was such a small glimpse but I trust that God will show me more. When I'm ready. For now it was enough. Enough to store in my heart, to go back to when I needed to see that he was alright. That he was good.

But it will be a while before things are good here, here on this earth where I remain. They might be. One day. Someday. When the grass has grown back green and lush on that plot of earth torn and brown. When we are able to move from a time of grief with brief interruptions of normalcy, to a time instead of normalcy with brief interruptions of grief. When the air I breath no longer hurts but fills me with life. One day. One day. But not tomorrow.

Tears in a Box

I can't sleep. Every night I go to bed believing I am tired enough, yet sleep just doesn't come. The same thoughts keep playing their endless cycle and even when it doesn't seem I am thinking about anything in particular, the pictures seep their way down into my heart where they imprint themselves and make their presence known.

The plans for the memorial are taking shape. So many people working behind the scenes, filling in the missing pieces, making what is important to me become available. I am hopeful that it will convey what I desire it to: That Myron was a man of honour and integrity. That he was creative and unconventional. That he was both flawed and perfect. That the most important thing to him was the Creator he put his faith in. The endless details have sapped me of my strength and I find myself having to work a little bit harder to be patient in order to give the children what they need and to honour the struggles they are enduring themselves. I will be relieved, I think, when it is over. To have the extra time to just sit with the children, to do daily tasks, to not have to think about so many things. And yet I know that the freedom of time will bring its own pain. I will have more time to hurt. Or maybe just more time to acknowledge how great the pain really is. There is a blessing in being busy, but I suspect that in time I will have to surrender that distraction and face what is constantly chasing my every thought. Grief. Loneliness. Fear.

I had a little visitor last night. A tiny grey mouse was exploring the floor around my cot and disappeared beneath it. It didn't leave the room, but I did. Quickly. I fled to the nurse's station and we came back together, a flashlight our only weapon. I'm not sure what it was we were hoping to achieve. If we found it what was our course of action? I don't know about hers, but mine was nothing that would have solved the situation. I ended up trying to sleep on a couch in the lounge. It was only a mouse, but thinking about the possibilities of it sharing my pillow was enough to endure the sacrifice of comfort.

Thinking about the mouse brought me back to our second year of marriage when we were living in a basement suite in Mission. I had noticed that the soap in the cupboard under the sink in the bathroom was getting chewed up. Shavings and teeth marks increased daily and it was annoying me. One night we were laying in bed and I could actually here the scratching of tiny feet. I came up with the brilliant plan that I would sneak up on it, flip the bathroom light on while flinging open the cupboard door and scare it out of its poor little mind.  The plan worked perfectly until upon opening the cabinet I was staring not at an adorable, tiny mouse, but a very large, very ugly rat. The rat got out of there but no faster than I. In seconds I had made it back to the bedroom, slammed the door and shoved a chair against it, and was jumping up and down on the bed screaming, "It was a rat! It was a rat!" Myron was getting pumelled and thought my stereotypical reaction was quite amusing. Not so amusing when minutes later we heard more scratching and noise making, this time in the stairwell.

"You're the man," I hissed. "You take care of it." There was no response. "I know you're not asleep," I said. "We can't leave it there. Go get rid of it." "I don't like rats either," he said. "Let's just pretend its not there." But I couldn't stand the thought of that hideous creature somehow making its way through a crack in the wall or under the door.

 "Rats can collapse their skulls to squeeze through a hole the size of a quarter," I lectured him."Its true. I  just read it in Reader's Digest." Finally, I heard him get out of bed and begin stumbling around in the dark. "What are you doing?" I whispered. "I'm putting on long socks and hightops," he grumbled. "I don't want that thing running up my leg."

Off went my husband, out the bedroom door, down the hall to the stairwell door where the scratching was getting more frantic. I assisted the best I could by shutting myself back up in the bedroom and placing the chair firmly under the doorknob. What if it got by him and in a panic ran towards me? It was every spouse for himself.

I heard a brief commotion, a slamming door and soon Myron was back in bed. "Was it the rat?" I asked, trembling at the thought of being invaded overnight. No, it was the neighbour's cat, trapped in the hall. I cuddled up to him, my hero, and said, "Do you still have your shoes on?" "In case it comes back," he replied sleepily. "I'll be prepared." There was a pause and we both burst out laughing. Myron finally took off the hightops, I found an assortment of materials to stuff in the hole in the cupboard and we settled in for a much shortened but welcomed sleep.

I asked the children today what they would like to put in the casket with daddy, if anything. They came up with various things: a chocolate because he loved it, a bottle of green tea iced tea, a guitar pick with a name written on it. Pictures, notes, flowers and a stuffed animal. But it was Karson, my five year old, who said the thing that most touched my heart. "I want a little box," he said, "to put my tears in. Daddy can have that."

Lord, comfort them in a way I cannot. Give me wisdom and endurance as we enter into this terrible and emotional week. We are broken-hearted. So very, very broken-hearted.

Pictures

One task I have had to do is to sort through our photo albums, selecting pictures for the memorial. It is very difficult to reduce someone's life to a small pile of photographs. Each picture has a story and each story a gateway to a million thoughts. As I selected one here, another there, I realized that most of the pictures were of happy moments. I guess we don't often take pictures of the bad ones. It must not be in our nature to stop in the middle of an argument and say, "Wait, I just need to grab the camera. We'll want to remember this disagreement!" Our snapshots were of daily life and special highlights. I'm glad I took many, though I still wish I had more.

One picture was given to me by my brother-in-law. It was taken the morning after our wedding as we headed down to the Oregon coast. We're sitting in the red car, the one that was traded in shortly after having Lauren. Two people starting their lives together as man and wife. I can remember the moment that picture was taken. I can also remember the rest of that day.

Myron's job was to organize the honeymoon. As the accountant for an RV manufacturer, it was logical to him that we should take the company's staff camper and save a few dollars. I quickly demonstrated how little I liked that idea and plans were changed to instead drive down the coast of Washington and into Oregon, staying in hotels along the way. Neither of us had been and we were told it was beautiful. So it was decided that I would handle various wedding arrangements, and Myron would make sure the details were organized for our trip.

Being an accountant, you would assume that he was the type of person that had everything in order. I've met other accountants who seem to be more stereotypical (as a matter of fact, one of  our little quirks was to watch the credits after a movie. You wouldn't believe how many times a production accountant was named Myron), but my Myron was a different breed. At work he was fastidious. But being a very creative individual, outside of work, he wasn't always good with getting the practical things done. (I've tried describing him as a "creative accountant" but that implies something that would require jail time.) On our wedding night we drove to our hotel suite, spent the night, and left from there to cross the border into the United States.

I can't remember how long it was before I asked where we were staying this next night, but somewhere along the way it became clear that booking the first hotel was all he had done. I was horrified. "You mean we have no place reserved for tonight?"  "Oh, we'll find something," he said. "There are lots of hotels in the town we're going to." What he had completely forgotten was that it was Labour Day weekend (I'm not sure if it's called something else in the States), the last holiday of the summer. Sure enough, we arrived at our destination and began inquiring at hotels. Then bed and breakfasts. Then motor lodges. Then anywhere we thought there might be a spare bed. There was nothing. Everything was booked up solid through the weekend. So Myron decided we should drive south to the next town or city and try there. And the next one. And the next.

At first I was willing to chalk it up to as a humourous adventure. Nowhere to stay on our honeymoon, ha ha. But by 3:00 a.m. I was in tears. We had already been stopped twice by the State Patrol, once for taking the wrong exit and driving the wrong direction on the freeway and once when we stopped on the side of the road, contemplating if we should just try to sleep until morning. I couldn't tell if the officer was sympathetic because of our predicament or because he inwardly suspected how much trouble Myron was in. Regardless, he firmly informed us that it was against the law to stop and sleep in your vehicle and that we would have to move on.

At one point we passed through a tiny place that seemed to have only a convenience store and a bar with rooms for let above it. I insisted we stop and ask if any were available. Myron was not convinced this was a good idea. The bar sounded rowdy, country music blaring, people stumbling around. It was not a clean looking place but I was absolutely desperate. I had to get out of this car and find a bed. He had reluctantly just stepped out of the car when two men burst out the front door, fists swinging, bottles crashing, a full-out brawl. Myron quickly stepped back into the car, locked the door and said, "We cannot stay here."

"Why not!" I wailed. "I don't want to drive any farther. I can't keep my eyes open and I'm afraid you'll fall asleep at the wheel. I don't care what it looks like, or what's happening. We can move the furniture against the door of the room!" I just wanted out of the car. As we argued Myron became more and more repentant, admitting he should have reserved the hotels. "I promise I'll get counselling," he begged.  "As soon as we get home I will get counselling for my procrastination problem! I'll do anything, just please let's not stay here and keep looking. I don't want you in a place like this." He looked so vulnerable, so sorry that I was so upset and so tired. I nodded and we drove off to the next city where at 4:15 a.m. we did indeed find one empty room that we paid full price for and had to vacate less than six hours later.

But, I have no snapshot of that moment. None of the tears. None of all the no-vacancy signs or the increasingly frustrated looks on my face. We do however have quite a few of the rest of our trip, happy pictures enjoying our freedom, the new surroundings and each other. Pictures that show that despite the weaker moments, our life was primarily built on happiness and love, for each other, for God, for our children.

Even if he never did get that counselling.

Bryn had a better day today. We were blessed with many visitors that seemed to lift her spirits. Taeryn was placed into a special lift to lower her over a tub to be showered which started as a good idea but quickly became problematic and cold. She is not keen on repeating the procedure. Lauren also had a good day and was lifted up with humour and love. She is planning on singing a song she and her dad wrote together at the memorial.

Karson wept today, the first time since I had to tell him the awful news, the night after the accident. He had seen his little hockey jersey he had received for Christmas and it hit him hard that he would never again play road hockey with his dad. I held him and we cried for a while. Then I said, "Mommy will play road hockey with you, Karson. Would you like that?" Karson looked up into my eyes and said, "No mommy, you're too old." We started laughing and even when I insisted that I was younger than daddy was, it was still the same, "It won't work, Mom. You're too old!" I admit that lately I feel very old and not at all like playing road hockey. But his giggle, it was good for my soul.

I had a picture in my head today of a bridge built high above a valley, the kind a train would travel across. It was flanked by two mountains, green and beautiful. The bridge was broken, cracked in places, unstable. But the valley was filled with people, standing one upon another's shoulders, hands held up high or across to the person beside them, to support the instability of the bridge. They were filling the gap. With the help of the multitudes of people, the structure was secure, safe to cross. They filled the space between the hills, reaching, using each other, all focused on making sure the structure didn't fall. As I write this I realize that in the picture, in a way I don't understand and am not ready to yet accept, each side of the bridge is green and beautiful, the side from which the train comes, the side to which it is moving.

Thank you all, for helping to hold up my bridge.

The Red Shirt

On Monday I went home for the first time since the accident. It was like the walls reached out and hugged me, surrounding me with their familiarity.  I thought it would feel empty, but it didn't. The rooms are filled with our memories, our pictures, our things. When I just stood and let it wash over me, I felt so incredibly relieved. Home. I'm home.

But only for a short while. There were many things that were needing to be done and I didn't have much time. At first I just walked through some of the rooms. The Christmas tree still stands, decorated by the hands of a family who didn't realize that this would be their last Christmas together. The gift he had given me was lying near the fireplace, a GPS for our van, something that I had requested. I picked it up and held it to my chest, walked around with it in my arms. The night I opened this, Christmas Eve, was the last time I had kissed him. Thanked him for thinking of me. He had laughed and said it was to stop all the frantic phonecalls I make to him trying to navigate my way downtown. One last gift. One last kiss.

Myron's guitar lay next to the piano, his music spread out over the bench, songs written in his handwriting, an outpouring of whatever he was feeling at that moment. Sacred ground. I ran my hands over the case of his guitar, wanting to open it, to visualize him holding it and singing the way he did with his eyes closed and his face tilted back, but I couldn't. So I moved upstairs to the bedrooms and began gathering items I needed to bring back to the hospital for the children; socks, pyjamas, Taeryn's stuffed dog, Karson's slippers, and finally went into our bedroom to get some of my own things.

It didn't hurt, at first, stepping into this setting, this intimate place we had shared, where we laid in bed together, talking late into the night about our kids, their futures, our fears and dreams. But as I began searching through our things, looking for photo albums and items to take with me, it got harder. I began noticing little things; his baseball stats clipboard in his nightstand where he could review it at night; a file of Larry Norman materials; his pillow laying on his side of the bed. I picked it up and smelled it but it was clean, so I went to his closet to get a shirt, something to wear at night, to feel close to him. They all smelled of laundry soap, not of him. I tore through his clothes, trying to find something that still carried his scent, anything. The laundry basket stood by the door and I dug through it, almost desperate, but found nothing. Then, on the chair, I saw his red shirt, the one he'd put on in the evenings when it was time to relax, the one he didn't throw in the hamper but flung on the chair instead, probably as he was quickly packing for our getaway at Harrison. I grabbed it, buried my face in the material and cried in relief. It was there, his aftershave, his scent. I could smell it, smell him just like I did when he'd ask that I just stop and let him hug me, stolen little moments that in my business I didn't always value but were all so important to him. I took the shirt with me and sleep with it in my cot here at the hospital. The scent is already getting fainter, and I panic to think of the day it is no longer detectable. But for now it stays beneath my cheek, grasped in my arms, a little piece of him. Something to soak up my tears as I cry in the dark.

When I was 14 I allowed my heart to be touched by Jesus. It was at a summer camp, a special place, where even though I had been brought up in the church, Jesus revealed himself to me. Being the black and white thinker that I am, I walked the next 18 years trying to prove to God, to myself, that I was good enough. If I just worked hard enough I'd be acceptable. I'd be appreciated by God. The doors of His throne room would be opened and I could maybe slip in, near the back, one of the chosen. And then one day it was as if God said, "Enough. Enough of this distraction. Enough of the lies. I want you to know me. To know you are loved. To know that my throne room doors are not only open, they have been taken off of their hinges that the entrance might be as wide as it can be, to show you that there is nothing that stands in the way of your running to me. Nothing preventing you from crawling up into my lap, whenever you want, because I am always calling you into my throne room. Night and Day. There are no doors, only Me. Waiting for you." It was a revelation that changed everything I knew and felt about Him. I didn't have to perform. I didn't have to do anything to earn my place or make me acceptable. It wasn't about me. It was just about Him. Him and his incredible love for me. And I learned that I could run through the open doorway, straight to the throne, and hide myself in Him. Lose myself in his love for me. Sometimes I'd forget and go back to doing this myself, but I eventually I would be reminded where that doorway was.

Many have said that I am holding on to God. It's not true. I don't have the strength to hold on to Him. I cannot run to the throne, walk there, or even crawl. All I am able to do is sit on the floor, outside that open door, holding a piece of clothing to my face, and fall apart. The truth is, it is not me that is finding the strength to hold on to him; it is He who is holding onto me. Tightly with both hands. Rocking me with my memories and my pain and my husband's red shirt. It is He who lifts me up and walks me to the beds of my children, or just holds me still as the people around me step in to take my place. I cannot hold on, not right now. I cannot search for Him in all of this chaos, this brokeness, not yet. I can only be held. Held and beg that He not ever let go.

The day seemed better here, just a tiny bit more familiar, which brings hope that perhaps our stay will not seem so long. Bryn is really struggling, with her emotions, her words. She just seems so conflicted, imprisoned there in her cast, unable to move or flee or even turn. Lauren appears as if she's not sure of where she should be standing, what her role is in all of this. I think she senses I need her help but really just wants to be the child, so she can be taken care of, and rightfully so. Taeryn is cheerful, brightening up the room, but at night she often cries. "I don't want to cry, mommy," she said. "I'm scared the tears will wipe away all of Daddy's kisses." I reminded her that you can never wipe off a kiss from a mommy or daddy, they stay on forever, absolutely nothing washes them off (which thankfully is something I have teased her with for years) but I see her struggle to believe that it's true. Karson is quiet, then shows himself briefly, and becomes quiet again. He's unsure. Someone gave him some cars to play with and he just looked at them then said, "I don't know what to do with them." But then there are those times when they all reappear, making the best of things, showing concern for other patients, for each other. And I pray that they would sense His holding them, tightly, so that they never feel, even in the midst of all that surrounds us, like they are ever alone.

Someone asked me today how I was doing. A stranger, someone who when they found out I had four children recovering here, realized immediately who I was, who we were, and the circumstances that had brought us here. And they asked very pointedly, "But, really, how are you doing?"

How am I doing. I am asked that question more times than I can count. And of course, it is the logical question to ask. The question that comes from people who care, who really want to know.  It's just that I don't  always know the answer. And, as I replied to this particular person, "It depends on what part of the day you happen to ask."

Tonight I am finally alone, sitting in the family room where my internet connection actually works, answering emails and trying to make decisions, opening up this journal where I have given myself permission to just write...write whatever my heart is saying. And often I am not aware of what it has to say until the words begin appearing on the screen. At this moment, I feel a sort of peace. My children are finally resting. The hospital halls have quietened, the chaos and business having been paused until early tomorrow morning when it is scheduled to start up again, and best of all the community washing machine was actually not in use so I can finally have something clean to begin the new day. If I answered the question at this particular moment, it would be that I'm...stable. Relieved. Content that for now I can just sit here and do what I need to do.

But that is only this moment. Had the question come earlier this morning the answer would have been "tired". Too tired to try and face another day in this place, this situation. Too tired to drag myself off of my cot where I lie 14 inches from the bed of my seven year old, and her siblings beyond. Too tired to care what my hair looks like or if my clothes are clean. I only long to keep sleeping, oblivious to that master, Time, which would continue on its path despite me, stepping over my inert body as if I wasn't there, pushing the days and weeks ahead until one day I could awaken to a day where this doesn't hurt quite as much. But of course that doesn't happen in real life, so I get up. I find some clothes that look reasonably presentable and begin again, moving to where I am needed, trying to encourage them to eat, to move, to live this day, trying to hold my temper when they do what children do, and love when I have the chance to give it.

And had the same question come later this afternoon, while running after nurses and moving broken legs and answering calls and questions, making informed medical decisions, working to calm down a screaming child who's scared or in pain, searching facts and figures for estimates and legal papers, finding that book someone wants or the get water they need, all the while trying to remember when was the last time I ate, I'd in fact be too busy to answer that question, which on the one hand is a good thing as I could in a way blissfully lose my inner voice in the needs of others, and assuredly a bad thing as somewhere within me is the realization that I am feeling panic, and stress, and completely inadequate.

Then comes the evening where the four little engines that could just can't anymore. Their tears begin as they cry for daddy and ask all the questions to which I have no more answers. And I find myself kicking the chair that I'm trying to push across the room but for some reason has a brake on it that I can't release and I'm demanding God for an answer as to why can't something, just one thing in my day be easy, just work the way its supposed to, like this stupid piece of furniture that is in the way but I can't make roll to the other side of the room. Just four feet, over there, to where it needs to be. And I kick it again and feel the growing frustration and anger that I can't seem to control any of this, its all beyond my capabilities, and I just want to cry and demand that God give me back the man who was supposed to walk this out with me, was not supposed to be taken away before I was ready, who was supposed to help me be a better person. And in that moment of anger I am so profoundly happy that there is no-one standing there, asking how I am, as my answer might not be quite as kind as I would later have hoped it would be.

And yet, there it is. The nagging question. How am I.

I am everything and nothing all at the same time. My heart aches and yet gives thanks. My body screams its wounds and yet at times, is able to accomplish what seems impossible. My thoughts race and rush to places far away and then fly back to moments long-gone, stretching my emotions from hope to fear to frustration to relief. I am accepting, and I demand answers. I am grateful yet long for something completely different. I am the entire book of Ecclesiastes all working at once inside this ridiculously small-minded, weak-willed human body. And yet His grace continues to pour out all around me, despite me, through the Holy Spirit, through all who surround me. God is what I am not. I am not brave. I am not strong. I am not able. I am just stumbling through this the best I can. And in those moments where I just need to be nothing, and they are many, infinitely many, He'll be everything. He has to be. Or there is no hope. And right now, I am in desperate need of just that...hope.

The move is not going well. The children are somber, teary, short-tempered. It was a necessary day of countless new faces, names, schedules and meetings and I am over-whelmed. I just feel done.

I don't want to do this anymore. I want to lock myself away somewhere and try to pretend that my world is not falling apart. I still hear the still small voice whispering its assurances but I don't have the strength to listen to it. I want it to be saying something different. That my husband isn't dead. That my children don't have to suffer. That tomorrow we can just all go home. Oh God, we just want to go home.


Gillian

Today There Are No Strangers

We were moved today from the BC Children's Hospital to the Sunnyhill Rehabilitation Center for Children, also in Vancouver. It was so very difficult to leave our nest at Children's. So many beautiful people who devoted their time to us, piecing our physical bodies back together, cleaning our wounds, holding our hands, tending to our needs. Over the years I have read and heard many words of thanks and praise from people needing and receiving care from this hospital, little snippets in the papers or on t.v. I'd notice it and move on, on to things that were more relevant to me, to my world.

I now understand what those people were saying. And why.

To the staff at Children's:  Thank you. Thank you for every second you devoted to me and to my family. Your patience and tenderness astound me. Your ability to help my children both physically and emotionally has changed something inside of me. Its made life more beautiful, more meaningful. Shift after shift of men and women touching our lives. To Perry, an amazing and gifted soul who made everything just a little more bearable. To our Doctors who spoke with such tenderness and compassion, who proved to me over and over again that we were not just patients, and they were not just physicians. To Theresa who cried with me, and Jude and Sam and Terry and Daphne and Sharon and Danielle and Debbie and every one who's names escape me at the moment...you have made such a difference. You are amazing. You are inspiring. You are family.

The move here was difficult. It was hard to say goodbye. We felt safe. Protected. Insulated. We've now moved on to our next step in the journey and I think that all five of us sense, each in our own way, that this journey is in fact going to get more difficult. The children have been very quiet. Sisters of my heart, dear friends, worked so hard to unpack our belongings, tucked children into beds, helped feed and care for them. We are again surrounded by beautiful people, people who will care for us, love us. It will just take time. Everything will take time.

As we left the ward of Children's a couple approached me, holding their beautiful baby boy. She pressed a note into my hand and whispered that they hadn't wanted to intrude but that they knew who we were and had been following the story, had been praying for us. As we embraced she apologized for being strangers, not wanting to cause any more pain or stress, and it was in that moment that I realized that right now, in this time, in this situation, there are no strangers. I have had messages, and food, and cards and letters from people who often begin with the phrase, "You don't know me...", and I want to tell each one of you that you have all felt as real to me, as important to me, as if we had grown up together. Your stories are making their places inside of me, stirring me to look beyond myself, beyond what is happening to us to this world where so many people are living in pain, who too are or have stumbled down the road of brokeness, who want to share their compassion or just bear some of the burden. I have been surrounded by my friends and family, who have rushed to stand with me, hold me up, people who's names I know and lives I've shared. But I am also surrounded by a multitude of others that for some reason or another, God has pointed in my direction, people I have never met and may never have a chance to meet.  You are not strangers. Not any more. Right now, in my world, there are no strangers.

And I thank you.


Gillian

Shattered

How can a heart bear so much pain? How is it that I continue to breath? To think? Jesus, my heart is shattered. Hold the pieces in your hands. Count the fragments. Keep them safe until a time you can begin to make me whole again. I do not have the strength to keep them from falling into the cracks and crevices of my own despair, to be lost in my disbelief that I will ever be able to stop hurting, longing, crying out for it all to be different.
I went to see my husband today, but he was not there. Only the shell. Only the faint image of someone I knew and loved. I didn't have the strength to stand, the weight of reality pushed me down and my cry came from somewhere I didn't know existed. Somewhere deep within this frail woman who doesn't want to truly believe what she had to see. To know. I begged God to wake him up. Wake up! Be with me. Touch my face and stroke my hair. Put your arms around me and hold me. Tell me again that you love me, that you would never leave me. But there was of course no movement. No breath. No life. And although I knew that people everywhere were dealing with tragedy as great or greater than I, it felt, for a while, like all the pain in the world was in that one little room. In me. Killing me.

It took everything I had to finally leave. To thank him for loving me, for loving our children, for touching lives in a way that I am now just finding out about. And then I had to walk away. I had to get into a car and go back to the living, to the pieces of him that still exist here in this fallen world, his flesh and blood. And I felt their hands touch my face, and their hands stroke my hair and they let me pull them close to my chest and I felt their life.

Since the accident I have been asking God for a picture, a vision or image of Myron in his new home. I begged God to show me that heaven was real. Why was it so much easier to believe in heaven when it was someone else's loss? Someone else's pain? But the truth is I know, in that same deep place that bears my pain, that He will in time reveal that picture to me. Because I know that God is real. I know, somehow, that He still is good and kind and compassionate. I don't know how I know, I just do. And if God is real then so are his promises. Myron is somewhere so beautiful, so full of life and love and peace, that he wouldn't want to come back. He is home. And in a heavenly moment he will turn around to find the rest of us there with him. Please, everyone, know that the desire of your heart is to someday be there too. Listen to that desire. I believe it burns deep within every one of us.

I spent the better part of today making arrangements to celebrate not just the man I love, but the one who gave him life in the first place. Anyone is welcome to come. Please come. Be with the children and I as we gather to celebrate our love for Myron. To give thanks for our time with him. To rejoice in what God has allowed us to know, to have, to look forward to.

The celebration of Myron's life and the things that were most important to him will be held January 21st, 1:00 p.m. at Northview Church in Abbotsford, B.C. Come, if you can. Stand with us as you have been doing, in our grief, in our thankfulness, in our knowledge that we had something, someone, to celebrate. Just come and know that you are welcome.

Gillian

Not my friend

Tomorrow will be a hard day. I have to begin the preparations for something I have yet to believe. Yet to comprehend. I am not looking forward to it and still it is something that looms ahead and needs to be started. God give me the strength to do what needs to be done.

I was thinking about our honeymoon today. We had saved our big trip for our one-year anniversary, a cruise to the Caribean. Our flight home was delayed when we had tried to take off three times only to have warning lights flash on in the cockpit. The pilots finally decided to stay grounded and rebook everyone on other flights. Myron and I spent 12 hours sitting on the airport floor playing rummy. Group after group of people were boarded until at last there were just 10 of us, all waiting to get home. A smaller plane was geared up and we were boarded, the ten of us, to be flown to Atlanta for the night and then home the next day. As we headed into the darkness, a flash lightening storm caught the pilots by surprise. Electricity hit the wing of the plane and we slipped sideways. Emergency warnings clicked on, flight-attendants strapped themselves in and when we were all asked to assume crash positions as a safety precaution the passengers were terrified. Almost all the passengers. I was near hysterical, crying, praying that we would be saved, envisioning our inevitable crash. And what was Myron doing? Not crying. Not praying. Not lamenting. He was annoyed because they had turned the movie off. "Weren't we supposed to get a meal?" he whispered. I couldn't decide who I was more angry with, God for letting us die or Myron for not seeming to understand our predicament. "Don't you get it?" I yelled. "The plane is going down. It's going to go down!" Myron, still fiddling with the tv said, "Don't be silly. The pilot doesn't want to die. Its fine." Within a minute or two the plane had dropped below the storm, the bucking stopped and people began wiping off the drinks that had all flown up into their faces during the storm. And Myron asked if he could possibly have two meals as his wife wasn't feeling very hungry.

There are fears that I battle with. Some, I guess, are ones that I would have assumed would be present in a situation like this. Fears for my children, their health, their happiness. Fears about finances. The fear of facing the future without a loved one that you have come to depend upon. There are many fears that I had never anticipated. The fear that by cleaning out his office, it was like he had never existed. The fear that people wouldn't really know who he was, who he had come to be. The fear that he would be forgotten.

Fear is a terrible thing and I have to admit that I have struggled most of my life with fearing what may come, what is out of my control. If I was completely honest, I think I would have to say that a part of me believed that if I feared things enough, gave enough credit to what could happen, that just the knowledge that something horrible was possible would in fact protect me from what I was afraid of.  Convoluted and illogical, yet the reality of my daily struggle.

Myron didn't live a life of fear. I don't mean to imply he was perfect. He wasn't and he was the first to admit it (maybe the second, I sometimes had the ability to beat him to it). But as I reflect back on who he was, I am beginning to realize that there were many things I didn't see clearly. Things about him that I maybe assumed were weaknesses when in fact they were strengths. Things that frustrated me then but that I desperately want to now have for my own.

There were so many times where I just didn't understand why he wasn't afraid, wasn't mad, wasn't feeling what I thought he should feel. "Why doesn't that make you angry?" I'd demand, or even more commonly, "Doesn't that bother you? How can that not bother you?" Very little worried Myron. There was the odd thing, something that made him lose a little sleep at night, but mostly he just didn't spend a lot of time thinking about what might happen. His thought was usually, Life isn't perfect, don't worry about it. And when I'd start to rant about why exactly things should not only be bothering me, but also bothering him, he'd just wait until I'd run out of steam and try to say something positive. It drove me crazy.

I have decided, cried out, begged God that I do not want to fear any longer. Fear is not my friend. It is not the ability to foresee the future, or prepare yourself for disaster. There is no comfort in saying, you see! This is the very thing I was afraid of! Fear is a thief. It robs those precious moments of peace when all you should be feeling is gratefulness. Thankfulness. Joy. Forgiveness.

This world is a difficult place to live. And yet, in mercy, we are given such beauty.

Taeryn and Karson, my 7 and 5 year old, lay sleeping here in the hospital room where I write. Every breath they take is a thing of beauty. Their baby blankets brought to us from our home are tucked around them, and mountains of stuffed animals sent by friends and strangers alike fill the empty spaces of their beds. And I am so grateful. So very grateful. Fear didn't accomplish this. This is mercy. This is blessing. This and the two girls that sleep in the next room; the unrelenting messages and prayers, the daily flow of cards and trinkets, tenderness and compassion; the care that this exceptional hospital wakes us up with and puts us to bed with; the decisions that people are making to try to help us in this unbelievable time of helplessness; the gathering of family to comfort and support. Fear is not my friend. Grace is. Grace and the only the thing that I am so unworthy to receive and yet have received every minute of every day. Love.

Trust Fund Information/Legal request

This feels awkward to do, but I have requests to put the information on the blog about the trust fund that friends have set up for the children. If anyone has been looking, here are the details:

Any TD Bank in Canada is available to take donations. The bank has named the account:

Teena Forstbauer and Cathy Bates in trust for Gillian Berg, Mission Branch.

You can just walk in and ask for that account.

If it is a cheque that is to be mailed, it would be addressed to:

TD Canada Trust
Unit 140
3255 London Avenue
Mission, BC
V2V 6M7

I also have a request from my lawyer:  Please refrain from posting any specifics or details about the injuries or recovery on the internet. It has the potential to make things more complicated down the road.

I continue to be so grateful for your comments and stories. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Gillian

I once read that scientists can find no logical reason for the human eye to create and shed tears purely due to emotion. So why do we cry? Why did God design the eye to well up with water and salt when our hearts are in pain? What purpose does it serve?

My children over-flowed today with their grief, their loss. Their future looks entirely different now, nothing we had anticipated happening as a family will ever come to be. They grieve the loss of all they had assumed would be part of their journey, the anticipated chapters of their storybooks that are now just headings over blank pages.  So many memories that were supposed to be made, waiting to be  experienced, simply gone. I cried with them, feeling both their loss and the loss of all that I had assumed would fill the chapters of my own story. A friend to grow old with. To walk the faith with. To experience life with. And the tears kept coming, streaming, soaking, defying all physiological reasoning as to their purpose.

I've had loss before. Myron and I lost children before they were able to be born, pregnancies that were filled with hope and anticipation. And I wept then too, over our shattered expectations, over our desire to have our stories written the way we assumed they would be. But God rewrote those chapters for Myron and I. For every child we lost, one was born, healthy and strong. Four new chapters, each with a beautiful heading: Lauren, Bryn, Taeryn, Karson. Four new stories beginning where we once feared none would be.

I stood in the lobby of the hospital today and saw strangers experiencing their own storybooks being erased and rewritten. A cluster of three holding each other and crying. A man stepping off the elevator, tears falling as he moved across the lobby towards the door. And my heart hurt so much because I could see that they too were hurting, were scared of how their story would read. But in the end, I guess its still a story. I don't like all the pages. I wish God had allowed it to be written the way I had hoped, the way I had assumed. I am not strong enough to like the new chapters, or even want them. But they will be written anyways. And maybe there will be joy in the new story, somewhere along the line.

But tonight, there are only tears. Those unpredictable, logic-defying tears, that flow and flow and flow some more, soaking the pages of my life and the lives of my children. Just tears.

The Towering Cedars of Lebanon

Thank you again, all those who have been praying, sending in words of encouragement, and just letting us know you care. You have blessed us deeply. Each day brings its own set of challenges, new areas of pain but also, amazingly, new joy. At times the two become entwined so intrinsically that I cannot tell one from the other, and yet I know that they both are there, transforming, reminding, stirring something deep within my being. And I hope and pray it is doing something of worth, something that will be valuable to the lives around me. Something that will polish this stone that weighs upon my heart until it feels like something beautiful. Working until by the grace of God I know that something has been accomplished.

Our day was blessed by a visit of three strangers who are strangers to us no longer. Three men who in the act of answering a call came that horrible day to lend us their strength. Firemen who in their commitment to duty rushed away from their own lives to enter into ours. They came today just wanting to see, to touch the children, to know that the little bodies they had held in their arms, broken and crushed, that the little ears they had whispered into to hang on, help was coming, were alright. I was emotional as they moved from one child to the next, handing out toys and shirts, bending down low to sign casts and place hands on heads. And the words "Cedars of Lebanon" sprang into my mind as clearly as if they had been spoken to me directly. The bible tells of the massive trees God directed to be used to build His temple, His holy place, the cedars of Lebanon that supported the structure that was the house of the Lord, a place where His people would worship and know that He is a God of love, of protection, of commitment to His loved ones. As I watched and was surrounded by these towering men, I couldn't help but believe that these had been our cedars of Lebanon that day, these and the others who came with them, not knowing what they would find, but being towers of strength to shelter us in that terrible storm. You and the others with you literally saved our lives that day. You are friends of my heart and I can never thank you enough for your protection. May God bless you and your families, men of courage. Know that you are loved.

Bryn smiled today and there was peace in her body. Thank you for your prayers. I see them in her face.

Gillian
 
Gillian

Day 10

Praise God, I think Bryn's improving. The reaction has turned from hives to a vicious rash that has spread up from under the bodycast to her chest and face. They are trying new creams and some anti-anxiety medications to try and calm her down. She is convinced that nothing has changed but I think, hope, that we've taken a step in the right direction.

I can't believe it has been 10 days since the accident. 10 days of pure crisis, just wanting, needing each child to be physically at peace, to be able to rest. For the first time I left the ward to go to the cafeteria and buy a meal. It felt strange to be able to sit and eat, to not be rushing from one side to another, or meeting with doctors and administrators, occupational therapists, psychologists or social workers. Just 20 minutes of my sister and I, sitting together in an empty cafeteria. In some ways it was terrifying. Too much time to think. Time to focus on what lay ahead. I almost wanted to run back upstairs and be busy again. But I guess the quiet times are important. The thinking is important. The weeping is important.

My little Taeryn is devestated.  A good week before Christmas she got out her paper and markers, glue and craft sticks and painstakingly copied and created a Canuck's flag. "So daddy can wave it when he watches the games on t.v." she told me proudly. She wrapped it herself and slept with it under her pillow until the 24th and could hardly contain herself when it was time for him to open it on Christmas Eve.  I can picture her face right now, the anticipation of revealing her gift, her labour of love to him. Together they planned how he would always have it ready to wave by the tv, to cheer on his team, how they would wave it together. Now through her tears she sobs that daddy will never get to use his flag, will never get a chance to wave it during a game. She is so sad and I just can't fix it. How do you fix something like that? All I could finally say was, "Taeryn, I know you are sad. I've been thinking about where Jesus is in this and I realized today that we could have had the accident before Christmas. Before we got to open presents. But we didn't.  Daddy got to open your beautiful present. He got to see it, and wave it, and kiss you all over for it. He had the chance to know how hard you worked on that flag and how much you loved giving it to him. I think that Jesus wanted to make sure you had the chance to make something really special for daddy, and that Jesus wanted to make sure he opened it." It was all I had. She thought a moment and said, "Maybe at his funeral we could all have Canucks flags and we can all wave them for daddy. And I'll wave the one I made." My beautiful Taeryn. What a great idea. If only I could make things right for you. For all of them.

As I moved through another day I thought about Taeryn and reminded myself again of all the things Jesus had recently allowed to happen for me. What were my flags that Jesus made sure were opened before that horrible crash?

A couple of months ago it was announced in church that a charity hockey game was to be played by some of the men in our church who had been playing together on Friday nights. Myron was instantly hooked. An avid hockey fan, he was alas a B.C. boy, land of the puddle not the rink. He was a great floor-hockey player but had never spent much time on skates. For some reason he was determined to get good enough to play Friday night hockey with the men. Every night for a month, Myron came home with a new piece of gear: hockey pads, helmet, a new stick, new skates, jerseys (one white, one black so he could play either side). He was a kid in a candy store. I kept saying, "I was hoping you were getting more mature - it seems like you're heading back towards childhood!" When he got it all together he put it all on and came up to show us. "Daddy, are you a Canuck?" Karson asked. But the teams had been set all year and there was no opportunity to play. So he took the kids to the rink to practice his skating and just hoped that one night he'd get the chance to try the game.

December 17th was the night of our children's dance recital. The studio is owned by our Pastor's daughter and many of the hockey men were there that night to watch their children dance. As I was trying to pack up the kids, their costumes and paraphanalia, Myron ran up with the news, "They need a sub! Brandon just asked if I was available to play tonight!" He had his own vehicle there so he left for home to get his equipment and head to the rink, late that night.

I got the kids home about 10:30 p.m. Myron had once asked if I would ever bring the kids to watch should he join a league and I had said not a chance, the games were way too late at night to be hauling kids around. But as we unloaded and began heading for jammies, I just got this sudden urge to go watch him play. So I told the kids that I would be back shortly, I was just running over to the rink to see daddy play hockey. Immediately, ALL the kids wanted to come, and I thought, why not, let's do it. We arrived at the rink where the game was already in progress. Myron wasn't the strongest skater but I could tell he was having a blast out there. A fellow hockey-wife announced that he had scored the first goal, and then boom! into the net went his second goal, in front of his kids, his wife and his dad who had come to watch despite the late hour. Up went his hands in a victory pump and the kids went crazy cheering for number 10. Their dad. Their Gretsky. When he came home that night he was beaming. He had had fun. He had scored.

I see now that that night was a flag, a gift, something I look back on and just thank God with every fibre of my being that it had been allowed to happen. For me, for the kids and for Myron. Thank you hockey guys, for calling up the rookie skater. It was the best skate of his life.

Gillian


Gillian

Prayer for Bryn

Its been a tough day. Bryn had an allergic reaction to either the bodycast material or the morphine. The skin under the cast is covered in rash and hives and she has been in excruciating discomfort and panic. Please pray for mercy on her, that despite this already difficult situation and the frozen position of her body, she might be healed of the reaction and be able to rest in comfort.

I hit a wall this morning. It suddenly seemed impossible to spend another moment sitting by the side of a child screaming in pain, or to help another child into a wheelchair. I am just so tired. My body is bruised and my heart is broken and my ability to function just seemed in jeopardy. Thank God for my sister who came and rescued me so I could just lie down and sleep for an hour and a half. Thank God for all who are just being that extra pair of hands when I can't be in four places at once. I didn't even have the energy to cry out to God and yet He brought what I needed. Just enough. Enough to make it another day.

They are trying a new medication for Bryn that tentatively seems to be making a difference. If we can just get her comfortable, I'd feel like they were all taken care of and we could focus on healing the bodies instead of dealing with crisis. Jesus, I beg you, let this work.

Your thoughts continue to pour in and I appreciate them all (although not able to read many at a time or respond). The stories and memories of Myron help, they really do.

Gillian

Update on my children

Dear friends and family,

I know many of you have been anxiously waiting for an update on the children. 

Lauren (age 14):  Lauren was sitting at the back right of the van. She suffered a severe break to the right arm and elbow. Through surgery a rod was placed to stabilize the bones. She is doing very well, sore and has a giant cast which will be on for approx. 6 weeks. She will need some physio to regain flexibility in her arm and hand but will recover fully.

Bryn (age 10):  Bryn was sitting at the back left of the van. Her left leg was shattered between the knee and hip joint. Bones were twisted, displaced, her knee-cap pushed up and she had a concussion.  She went into shock at the site but both she and Lauren stayed completely calm the entire time. They were amazing. They air-lifted her to Vancouver Children's Hospital and stabilized her then put her into traction to try and separate and place the bones. It was to be for three weeks but after several days it became apparent that it was not working. They then took her into the O.R. to try and cast it the best they could. Unfortunately, a section of bone was so shattered it was impossible to piece together. They described it as a pile of worms, there was just nothing to work with, pin or wire. Instead, they carefully placed the pieces of bones in as close to alignment as possible. Bryn woke up in a complete body cast. It has been horribly confining, painful, uncomfortable and she is reacting severely to something inside that is making her skin unbearable. She will remain in the cast for minimum 10 weeks. They will be re-evaluating her leg and doing any surgeries in the future year, however, she too is expected to recover fully.

Taeryn (age 7):  Taeryn is my most severely injured child. She was seated directly behind Myron (who was at the wheel) and the front left and corner of the van took the brunt of the impact. As I hung upside down in the van, I realized that Taeryn had been thrown from her booster seat. She was unconscious, unresponsive and I feared with all my being that she had been killed. If you could see the difference between her those first few days and how she looks now, it would astound you. Taeryn's upper legs were snapped. Her left ankle was broken and foot lacerated. Her right arm and wrist were broken. She had a deep liver contusion and the top vertebrae just below the base of her skull is cracked. She has torn ligaments in her neck, had glass embedded throughout her right eye and her face was shredded by glass. She was airlifted to Children's were a team of specialists spent five hours piecing her back together. All that glass missed her cornea. Her legs are wired back together in pieces and her arm and ankle are casted. She will be in a neck collar for a month to stabilize the crack and ligaments. A plastic surgeon worked for an hour stitching back all the lacerations in her face, nose and lips. It is healing so well.  Both she and Karson were in Intensive Care. She is now on the floor with her siblings and yesterday, after days of just not being Taeryn, the light turned back on within her. It is a miracle to hear her laugh, talk and see her beautiful smile. It feels like hope. She will be in a wheelchair (first time today, and the glow on her face was tremendous) for 4 to 5 weeks and then she will undergo major physio and rehabilitation to walk again. Despite all this, she is expected to make a full recovery. Another miracle.

Karson (age 5):  Karson was seated just behind me on the right side. He suffered head trauma and a broken pelvis. He was in ICU next to his sister, but one morning about 4:00 a.m. he fully woke up and just started talking. And talking. And talking. I heard him telling the nurses all about mammals and reptiles and how he was a male and she was a female, and thought, "He's going to be alright!" (Although at one point he actually had the nurse convinced that a duck was a reptile because it came from an egg (she had to double-check that one with a colleague who agreed it did indeed come from an egg. So either the head trauma confused him or I'm a worse teacher than I thought.) He looks so good and is wiggling all over the bed. His face is almost completely healed. He got his tiny wheelchair two days ago and is so proud to manoever it himself. He is still off his leg, but will begin bearing weight soon and will heal quickly.

I (Gillian) was in the passenger seat and suffered the least physical damage. Soft tissue injuries to the neck, left shoulder, arm and legs. Myron saved my life by his reacting as quickly as he did. My children would be completely alone.

Myron, my love, my best friend, my confident, my partner was killed on impact. It is indescribable the pain that tears me apart. I forget a hundred times a day and turn to talk to him only to find empty air. Both I and the kids have/are experiencing flashbacks, nightmares and reliving moments of terror. And yet the days slide slowly forward, the flesh is healing and somehow my body moves that necessary inch towards whatever task lays before me.

I am so grateful for the prayers of those around the world. I have felt the strength lifting me when I just don't think I have another ounce of energy. Thank you for your love and your compassion. I have been trying to write this for days and it is late. My children are all resting and tomorrow comes quickly. I will write more when I can.

Gillian