Ten years...

"So, what have you learned in ten years?" 

One thing I have learned is that wondering about an alternate reality, where the accident never happened, can end up feeling uncomfortable. I think it is only naturally that we, as humans, do it. But if I dwell on it, I start to realize that it would mean the life I have today would never have happened, either, which is also painful to imagine. Playing the game of "what if" becomes a painful exercise in loss--loss of the "before" and loss of the "after." Again, natural to do it, natural to wish it, but I have learned to not dwell on it too long.

I have learned you never "get over it." You move forward.

I have learned parenting is exhausting.

I have learned parenting is rewarding.

Mostly, I have learned that, "It is going to be ok."

That is not a promise of perfection. It is not a promise of ease. It is not pain free. It is, often, not fair. It is simply...truth. The truth of my faith. The truth of my belief in the coming Resurrection and Restoration. A truth found time and time again throughout the scriptures. A few of my favorite examples:

"Give your entire attention to what God is doing right now, and don’t get worked up about what may or may not happen tomorrow. God will help you deal with whatever hard things come up when the time comes." Matthew 6:34 (MSG)

"Don’t fret or worry. Instead of worrying, pray. Let petitions and praises shape your worries into prayers, letting God know your concerns. Before you know it, a sense of God’s wholeness, everything coming together for good, will come and settle you down. It’s wonderful what happens when Christ displaces worry at the center of your life." Philippians 4:6-7 (MSG)

"Pile your troubles on God’s shoulders—he’ll carry your load, he’ll help you out. He’ll never let good people topple into ruin." Psalm 55:22 (MSG)

Ten years. It still hurts. It will always hurt.

But He reminds me, "It is going to be ok, hold my hand."

And so...

The world moves on.

Those who grieve move forward.

Part of moving forward is being able to recognize when the world has moved on.

Not just recognizing it, but also being OK with it.

That's what I spent my weekend thinking about.

I think it's time to let the world move on.

Even as I keep moving forward.

Ten years ago, our story dominated the local headlines for a few weeks.

Social media was new, not divisive like it is today.

The blog (this blog) I started when Sara got pregnant, and then continued after her death, was getting thousands of hits each month, for a long time.

The first year I did the Miranda Gift, people around the globe participated.

My journey with grief was an open book.

This weekend was really about me coming to grips with the rest of the world (in general) being ready to close that book...and move on.

And I'm at peace with that.

Moving forward, holding His hand.

6 years, 8 months, and 12 days...

Today, for me, is a juxtaposition of the celebration of new life and a reminder of those no longer with us...

With great joy, we celebrate the first anniversary of the birth of my son, Josiah, whose name means 'Jehova has healed.' He joins his older brothers in our crazy chaotic household, which will only be more so when starts walking, running, and being even louder than he already is.

Meanwhile, this pops up, or should I say out?

It was a few hours after the accident. I had finally been released from the confines of the backboard. One of the X-rays, from a few hours before, showed at least one small piece of glass in my wrist. As I sat, numbly processing loss, an ER doctor probed the wound with his tweezers, searching for the shard(s) so clearly evident on the X-ray.

After what seemed like forever, he gave up and told me any small piece of glass left in my wrist would eventually find its way to the surface. It took 6 years, 8 months, and 12 days, almost to the minute of the accident, for this piece of glass to finally make it's way out.

The original scar will heal, again. The path the glass traveled, both in and out, will be different than the surrounding tissue for the rest of my earthly time. It occurs to me that our lives are a little bit like scars. Easily, and often deeply, affected by other people. Never to be the same as before we let them in, or after they've gone.

Five years...

Five years ago tonight, I crawled into bed next to my very pregnant wife. She was more than ready to have a baby, even if the thought of actually giving birth to a baby terrified her.

I’ve spent five years wondering what I would have done different if I had known that I would never crawl into bed next to her again. Would it change anything if I knew she would be gone in a few short hours and our daughter would be on life support systems in the NICU at CS Mott Children’s Hospital in Ann Arbor?

Five years and I don’t have answers to those questions…I don’t have answers to the most of the questions that still roll around in my head.

I don’t expect I ever will.

Five years and so much is different and so much is still the same.

In the eyes of the world, I know I’m “moving on” well; I’m “getting over” the loss, as it were.

I’m remarried. I have a family. Life is good.

And…

…life is good. I have reasons to smile every day. I have children to play with and hug. I have a beautiful wife…and I love crawling into bed next to her every single night. Some people have even used the word “restoration” and congratulated me on where I’m at now...I prefer to think of it all as my new normal.

But…

…the ache of loss is still there.

Every time my son reaches a new milestone, there’s a reminder, from somewhere deep in the back of my head, that I won’t get to see Miranda grow up. I often wonder if a day will come when he will do something new and I won’t hear that low voice.

I still have people tell me they don’t think they could endure what I’ve been through. I don’t think I’ve ever responded to that out loud, usually keeping my thoughts to myself. I think about how they would either lean into their faith, their family, and their friends, where they would find strength they never knew they had, or they would shrivel into a pitiful reflection of their former selves, with eyes that never look to a brighter future. I don’t know what drives people down the path they choose, but I will never be ungrateful that my path was/is the first.

Five years later and there are still days when it feels like it all just happened yesterday.
Five years later and there are days when it feels like something I saw in a movie once, something that happened to someone else.
Five years later and I choose to find strength in my brokenness, joy in my family, and victory in my Savior. Because, five years later, I truly believe God can help us find beauty in the ashes.

Endings...

This is not at all how
We thought it was supposed to be
We had so many plans for you
We had so many dreams
And now you’ve gone away
And left us with the memories of your smile
And nothing we can say
And nothing we can do
Can take away the pain
The pain of losing you, but…

We can cry with hope
We can say goodbye with hope
‘Cause we know our goodbye is not the end
And we can grieve with hope
‘Cause we believe with hope
There’s a place where we’ll see your face again
We’ll see your face again

And never have I known
Anything so hard to understand
And never have I questioned more
The wisdom of God’s plan
But through the cloud of tears
I see the Father smile and say well done
And I imagine you
Where you wanted most to be
Seeing all your dreams come true
‘Cause now you’re home
And now you’re free, and…

We can cry with hope
We can say goodbye with hope
‘Cause we know our goodbye is not the end
And we can grieve with hope
‘Cause we believe with hope
There’s a place where we’ll see your face again
We’ll see your face again

We have this hope as an anchor
‘Cause we believe that everything God promised us is true

We wait with hope
And we ache with hope
We hold on with hope
We let go with hope

“With Hope”
by Steven Curtis Chapman

Every book, every story, has a final chapter. It doesn’t mean the story is over, it just means that we don’t get to read the rest of it. Hearts will still ache, wounds will still bleed, scars will still knit, and grief will continue to flow, like a mighty river, through our families for years to come, even as this final chapter is put in place. The story of Sara and Miranda will continue to be written on the hearts of those they loved, and those who loved them, for a very long time. However, the happy ending, the ride into the beautiful sunset, will not take place here on this Earth.

"Never again will they hunger;
     never agaain will they thirst.
  The Sun will not beat down on them,
     nor any scorching heat.
  For the Lamb at the center of the throne
       will be their shepherd;
     he will lead them to springs of living water.
  And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes."
          Revelation 7:16-17

I live with the hope of The Resurrection. I live with the promise that my daughter and wife are rejoicing in Heaven, worshipping the Living God with the angels and all those who have gone before. I live with the promise that they are made whole, recreated, resurrected, as God fully intended them to be. I live knowing that my love for them will never fade, but can also never grow beyond what it is today. I live knowing that I, and all those who believe, will join them in that resurrection when our time here is through.

I want to thank you for joining me, us, in this journey. The love, encouragement, prayers, and support of so many have been so welcomed, so unexpected, and I know they will continue, even after today. The story does not end; it’s simply recorded in a different way from today forward.

The Hurt and The Healer
by MercyMe

Why?
The question that is never far away
The healing doesn’t come from the explained
Jesus please don’t let this go in vain
You’re all I have
All that remains

So here I am
What’s left of me
Where glory meets my suffering

I’m alive
Even though a part of me has died
You take my heart and breathe it back to life
I’ve fallen into Your arms open wide
When the hurt and the healer collide

Breathe
Sometimes I feel it’s all that I can do
Pain so deep that I can hardly move
Just keep my eyes completely fixed on You
Lord take hold and pull me through

So here I am
What’s left of me
Where glory meets my suffering

I’m alive
Even though a part of me has died
You take my heart and breathe it back to life
I’ve fallen into your arms open wide
When the hurt and the healer collide

It’s the moment when humanity
Is overcome by majesty
When grace is ushered in for good
And all our scars are understood
When mercy takes its rightful place
And all these questions fade away
When out of the weakness we must bow
And hear You say “It’s over now”

I’m alive
Even though a part of me has died
You take my heart and breathe it back to life
I’ve fallen into your arms open wide
When The hurt and the healer collide

Jesus come and break my fear
Awake my heart and take my tears
Find Your glory even here
When the hurt and the healer collide

Jesus come and break my fear
Awake my heart and take my tears
Find Your glory even here



Sincerely,
Chad Cole

NOTE - this post was first published on 6/20/2011. As I consider the events of the past year, moving this post to "the end" of my blog seems like a more natural position for it.

Surprise...

Dear Miranda,

Daddy still misses you, I know I always will. I was at church, watching two of your cousins get baptized this past Sunday, and the fact that you're not here with me, that I won't get to experience these little bits of life with you, hit me like a ton of bricks. It's so hard knowing you're already in Heaven, and trying to be happy about that, when I feel so cheated here on earth.

I love you. I miss you. Give mommy a kiss from daddy.

Love,
Daddy

Save A Place For Me
by Matthew West

Don’t be mad if I cry
It just hurts so bad sometimes
‘Cause everyday it’s sinking in
And I have to say goodbye all over again

You know I bet it feels good to have the weight of this world
Off your shoulders now
I’m dreaming of the day
When I’m finally there with you

Save a place for me
Save a place for me
I’ll be there soon
I’ll be there soon
Save a place for me
Save some grace for me
I’ll be there soon
I’ll be there soon

I have asked the question why
But I guess the answer’s for another time
So instead I’ll pray
With every tear
And be thankful for the time I had you here

Happy Birthday...

Dear Miranda,

Today we celebrated your birth. A time of sadness. A time of joy.

Today, at the same time that you were delivered last year, a single pink balloon floated into the clear blue sky and we sang Jesus Loves The Little Chidren and Happy Birthday to you. What a contrast to the day you were born...today, the the sun was shining. The wind was calm. There is no snow...not a flake to be seen.

My dear sweet little girl, my angel. It's hard to express what not having you here feels like. There's a hole. A gaping hole that is supposed to filled with giggles, kisses, and birthday cake. Instead it's filled with tears.

Daddy is surrounded by love today. And prayers. Family. Friends. It's hard to feel so loved...and yet still feel so alone. There's only one thing I want today...you in my arms.

I love you. I miss you. I always will. Give mommy a hug from me.

Love,
Daddy

The worst day...

Dear Sara,

It’s been one year…

…I remember those first few months…vividly…

Staring into the bathroom mirror…not recognizing the man staring back at me. Curling up in a ball on our bed, the family room floor, or wherever I might just happen to be, and crying…and hurting…physical pain and anguish that just can’t be described in words. I can still hear sounds that I know came out of my mouth, echoing in my head, but they are not sounds I could reproduce today…and I wouldn’t want to hear them coming from anyone else either.

A day came when I woke up and smiled…I cried because it made me feel so bad. Another day came and I laughed…out loud…and I cried because it made me feel so bad. A day came when I heard myself respond to a casual “have a nice day” with “you, too” instead of stone cold silence…and I cried because it made me feel so bad. Moving forward meant moving farther away from “us.”

It’s been one year…

…I’m not the man I was when I looked into the mirror that last morning. I never will be. I have to be a new man, a different man. I may look the same on the outside, but the inside has been completely rearranged.

I wake up most days and smile now…most of the time. I laugh without crying…most of the time. The polite phrases of society roll off my tongue without a second thought these days...most of the time.

I haven’t forgotten…I’ll never forget. I remember. I remember the good times, the laughter, the love, and the shared joy. I remember the good things, even when the bad things are right there in front of my mind’s eye.

It’s been one year since the worst day of my life. One year since I held your hand and listened as the doctors and nurses said they’d done all they could. One year since I last kissed your lips, since I last held your hand to my face, and said goodbye.

 I love you. I miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.

Love,
Chad

The portrait...

I can see you fly.
You are an angel with wings,
high above the ground.
(traditional haiku)

Recently, I’ve had this self-portrait Sara did in college sitting out where I can see it every day. It’s been on display in my dining room, where I get to look at it several times each day. I found it while sorting through some of her things a few months ago. My first thought was that it was “so Sara.” Most people would look at it and immediately think, or notice, that it’s just “not done.” The parts that are “finished” showcase her exceptional eye for, and use of, color and her attention to detail. It also showcases Sara’s penchant for starting projects…then letting them sit, unfinished, until she was ready to see them finished.

Thematically, it would be easy to say this self-portrait is the perfect analogy of Sara and Miranda’s lives – unfinished portraits, lives cut too short. However, I find I’ve been trying to focus on the portrait as a statement of life from the perspective of my faith. In Psalm 139:16, the Psalmist declares, “Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” (NIV) In the book Through A Season of Grief, Dr. Louis Palau shares, "The Bible clearly teaches that a brief life is not an incomplete life. We have our ideas of how long we should live, but the Bible says that every one of our days was written in God's book before they even happened.” You and I may look at Sara and Miranda’s lives as incomplete portraits…but in God’s eyes, they are exactly as He knew they would be. To be clear, I don’t believe this means their lives were as He planned them to be; only that they were as He knew they would be. To some of you, that may not sound like much of a difference, while to others it may sound like a huge difference; I find myself having to believe that God’s knowledge of their days, and deaths, doesn’t have to align with His plan for their lives. I believe that God planned on Sara and Miranda living full and complete lives. It was the chaos of sin and death that interrupted His plan, stealing them from this earth, and allowing them to enter into His Glory, albeit prematurely. I understand I’m treading in some deep theological waters here, and it’s highly likely that I’m floundering and simply in desperate need of someone to toss me a spiritual life preserver; however, I have to believe…I choose to believe…that the portrait of their lives is “complete.” The painting may appear unfinished, or incomplete, but I feel privileged to have been included in the brush strokes.

All in the family...

Dear God,

It's me. Are you there? Are you listening?

The door is closed and locked. The lights are turned off. I'm laying in my bed, listening to all the children playing right outside the door of my room, and my heart hurts more than I can take. I can't leave to join in the family fellowship because my face burns and my eyes sting from the tears. All that's going through my head tonight is, "where is my little girl? Why is my little girl not here?"

Why did you give us the capacity to hurt like this? I've been trying so hard to just cling to the Rock; but, in this moment, right now, all I want is my daughter, sitting on my lap, in her Christmas jammies, her mommy at my side. Why?

Will you be there to help me through these next 3 days? Will you give me the Peace that passes ALL understanding? Will you hug my girls for me?

Sincerely,
Chad

First Christmas...

Dear Sara,

It's almost Christmas...just not the Christmas we were supposed to be having. The tree should have been surrounded by gifts for our little girl's first Christmas. Her first ornament would have been proudly on display at the front of the tree.

Our families now approach a first Christmas no one would have imagined...one without the two of you. One where jig saw puzzles just won't be as jiggy, quilts won't be as quilty, and the twinkling lights will feel a little dimmer than they did last year.

We celebrate the birth of the King of Kings, our Savior, knowing that you and Miranda stand, worshiping, in His glorious presence. However, that knowledge brings little comfort to hearts that still wish you were here. Instead, we try to fill ourselves with the hope of the Resurrection. We look forward to the reunion that is still to come...but with sadness, because of what our humanness reminds us we do not have today.

We love you. We miss you. Give Miranda a kiss from daddy.

Love,
Chad