Tag: hope

Grief at Sixteen Years

We’ve reached sixteen years. Sixteen. Years. Sixteen years of grief over the loss of my Jud Bud. S-I-X-TEEN.

My grief is now old enough to get a driver’s license. It’s aged enough to have gone through puberty. And it’s mature enough to be exercising more independence. My grief is sixteen years old.

But my boy never got to be sixteen. Or 13. Or 10. Or even five. He never got his driver’s license. Never went through puberty. And never got to seek independence.

Interestingly, my grief is actually like a teenager in my life. I know it well. I’ve lived with it for many years; but it can throw me off guard too. It keeps growing and changing, but the general gist of it’s character has been revealed. It grips my heart in every way. But it has a mind of its own—I can’t control it, even though I unwittingly still try. It is, after all, sixteen years old.

Sixteen.

Sixteen is a lot of years to grieve. To miss. To long. To wonder. To ache. To yearn. To have a pain that still shapes most of my thoughts, my breaths, my life, but is unseen by others much of the time. The pain of losing my child is still very much alive at 16 years. And will be at 20 years. And 30 years. And even 40 years, should I survive that long.

But we all know pain. To miss. To long. To wonder. To ache. To yearn. These are experiences of the human condition that impact every heart. We all want something more. Something sure. That which is whole. Real. Pure. Beautiful. Good. Right. True. And free of pain.

Jud has that.

Jud has that and he’s had that for these sixteen years…a life with the One who came near to suffer with us and ultimately for us. The One who is sure. Whole. Real. Pure. Beautiful. Good. Right. True. …and Jud has that for eternity.

Someday, after these sixteen years have multiplied, I will have that too.

Will you?

Tags death of a child, grief, hope, human condition, longing, sixteen

Rewind

Dear Jud Bud…

14 years without you. I miss you so much! You and your sister are my greatest joys and my longing for you never wanes.

The other day I was at a dinner party where someone was asked the question, “If you could return to any year of your life and relive it, what year would you choose?”

Though I wasn’t personally being asked the question, I had an answer that came to mind immediately.

It’s just a small window to which I’d return. It’s not even a full year. There is a sliver of my life that was the highlight, Juddy. I didn’t know it at the time. But I know now that this tiny stint was a climax in my life and a season for which I long.

I’d push rewind to the day Jessie was born, and I’d delightfully relive every moment until you began to stumble. It was my nine months of heaven where I got to live with both my kids in a life unadulterated by Krabbe disease and death.

It’s not that these months were easy, by any means… I was transitioning to being a mom of two kiddos. I was exhausted with all that comes with having an infant and a toddler, your sister and you being just 19 months apart. I was really struggling with breast feeding your sister. We were strapped financially. And I was longing for friends after having just moved to a new area.

But those were my months to which I’d rewind and relive over and over and over again. Just ordinary days. But oh what a delight — having you and your sister together and our family whole! Those memories feel complete.

Once Krabbe Leukodystrophy entered the picture, everything changed. And since losing you, every breath has felt incomplete. Every family dinner, Every vacation. Every holiday. Every family picture. Every momentous occasion. Every. Thing. Incomplete.

I miss you so much, Judson!

Which begs the question of a fast forward button… my answer, again, comes to mind immediately.

This time it’s a massive window to which I’d fast forward. It’s infinite. The bulk of my existence, will, in fact, be the climax.

I’d push the fast forward button to eternity with Jesus — the time when your dad, Jessie, and I will all be reunited with you by our loving and gracious Father. I’ll experience every moment with sheer joy and delight. It will be true heaven, where your dad and I get to live with our Savior and both our kids in a life unadulterated by Krabbe disease and death.

Complete. Whole. Fully Alive.

But there is no rewind button. And there is no fast forward button. There is only this moment…

And I want to live this moment well — not only in light of my past with you, my precious son, but especially in light of my future to come, with God’s precious Son.

Just a few more weary days, my beloved boy. Just a few more weary days.

Every ounce of my love,
Mama

Tags death of a child, hope, leukodystrophy, loss of a child, rewind

My Little Seed

MY LITTLE SEED

Enveloped in the dust,
A tiny little seed,
Sown in love.
Physical, earthly origins shaped with purpose.
Plain. Natural. Weak.
Broken and Deficient.
Dishonored by mortality.
Lifelessly Perishable.
Dead.
Buried.
 
…but Christ.
A secret mystery revealed.
 
Bursting from the dust,
A great and magnificent tree,
Reaping in love.
Spiritual, heavenly completion shaped by glory.
Exceptional.  Supernatural. Powerful.
Perfect and Whole.
Honored by immortality.
Vibrantly Imperishable.
Alive
Resurrected.
 
The seed must die to find true life.
 
“Where, O death, is your victory?
Where, O death, is your sting?”

**When the Seed Dies**
art by *Christina Levasheff*

Inspired by 1 Corinthians 15:42-58 and John 12:24.

Written beside the gravesite of my Jud Bud, 13 years after his passing.

Tags death, death of a child, faith, faith in suffering, hope, loss of a child, seed

Heartache and Hope

Not Our Usual

Community of Krabbe Families

Today is Easter.

In our family, Easter is usually set aside as a day to gather with loved ones in remembrance of the resurrection of our Lord Jesus and the hope therein.

Drake and I are not home today. We are not with our precious daughter. We are not with parents. We are not with siblings. We are not with our church community.

This has not been our usual Easter.

Through a whirlwind of events Drake and I felt called to hop on a plane to Kentucky for a memorial service with our Krabbe community; we booked flights and 16 hours later we were on a plane.

I wrestled significantly with the decision to leave our girl on Easter weekend. I struggled with bowing out of our family celebration with parents and siblings. I grappled with not worshipping together with our church community.

This has not been our usual Easter.

However, it has been a glorious Easter.

We stood alongside some of our Krabbe family, and stared death, the death of a not-quite-two-year-old girl, in the face and sang Because He Lives I Can Face Tomorrow. We cried together. We laughed together. We shared meals together. In the richest sense, we celebrated Easter together.

So, indeed, this was not our usual Easter, but Drake and I did, in fact, gather together with loved ones and proclaim the resurrection of our Lord Jesus, clinging profoundly to the hope therein.

Tags death of a child, easter, hope, krabbe family

Heartache and Hope

Spring

On my stroll around our nearby lake this morning, my heart leapt at the signs of spring. New blossoms covered the trees, birds chirped with wild enthusiasm, and budding flowers lined my path. Out of a cold, bleak, and gloomy winter, life emerges…

Spring always comes.

Life can feel cold, bleak, and gloomy…

But wait for spring.

“Then he gives the command and it all melts;
he breathes on winter—suddenly it’s spring!”
–The Message, Psalm 147:18

Spring will come.

Author: Christina

Tags hope, spring

Heartache and Hope

Keep Walking

There is a gentleman who lives in our area that I regularly see out walking the neighborhood. He always catches my eye. Using a quad cane, he ever-so-slowly takes one very small step after another, inching along with purpose and determination. He appears to be a victim of a stroke, half his body paralyzed, but obviously working very hard to rehabilitate.

When I see him, I feel infused with strength in my own struggles.

Yesterday I was riding my bike when I glanced to the other side of the street and noticed this man was on his hands and knees, dried grass covering his back, trying to reach for his cane on the concrete beside him. “Do you need help?” I hollered over, my voice cracking as I assessed the situation, realizing he had fallen.

“Yes, please,” he humbly responded with a garbled voice.

I raced over to his side, put my arms around him, feeling the heat of his broken body and tried to help him rise. He couldn’t get up.

“Try the other side,” he recommended with slurred speech.

I quickly moved to his other side, put my right shoulder under him as I pulled his arm around me and slowly lifted him up. He stabled himself with his cane, once again standing. I began to dust the dried grass off his back. He looked at me and smiled, half his face paralyzed, “Thank you.”

“Of course,” I said smiling back at him.

“I’ve never fallen before,” he continued, a little sheepish about his stumble.

“Sir, I see you walking all the time. You inspire me. You inspire me so much!”

His eyes sparkled while his half-smile grew.

“I’m Christina. What’s your name?” I asked.

“Chort.”

As we were chatting a woman drove up in her car, rolled down the window and called out to Chort, “I saw you fall. Do you want me to drive you somewhere?”

“No, thank you,” he responded.

I piped in, proud of him, “He walks everywhere. He’s just gonna keep walkin’!”

She drove off and I gave Chort a pat on the back, “It was such a pleasure to meet you. Enjoy the rest of your walk.”

As I hopped back on my bike and rode away, tears pooled in my eyes. The resilience, determination, and strength-of-spirit in my new friend were a reminder to keep walking. Even when I’m just inching along in my brokenness, keep walking. When I stumble or fall, keep walking.

Don’t give up. Keep walking.

Tags hope, perseverance

Heartache and Hope

Floating Silhouette

What is it about butterflies that capture my heart unlike any other creature? Is it the intricate beauty? Is it the idea that they have emerged from dark cocoon to new life? Is it that they dance through the air with such grace? Is it their peaceful silence as they fly?

I expect it is all of these things and more.

Every butterfly now reminds me of Jud. For many who have lost a loved one, the butterfly seems to carry a special symbolism tying them to their beloved. I have written many times about butterflies, but in the last couple days I have had two special encounters.

We attended a butterfly release this weekend in honor of families who have lost children. However, unlike the people around us, when we slowly opened our box to free our butterfly, it actually sat on my hand for quite some time before it took flight. It was an amazing experience to have an extended opportunity to hold this beautiful memorial for Judson before seeing it disappear. And as it flew away, Jessie said over and over, “Fly to Jud! Fly to Jud, little butterfly! Fly to Jud!” and I imagined Judson might have been in heaven holding a butterfly similar to the one we’d just released.

Yesterday morning we took a trip to our local butterfly house and had a similar experience. There was a monarch butterfly that climbed on my finger and then stayed with me the entire time we were there. Strangely, it was almost as though it wanted to be near me. This exhilarating encounter with the “painted lady” actually inspired the following poem from me.

Vibrant colors gleam with light
Dancing upon the sky
Silently fluttering into sight
Capturing my eye

Mesmerized by beauty true
In silence and in awe
I watch with only thoughts of you
Vulnerable and raw

The butterfly a sweet reflection
Of marvelous rebirth
Like the little boy with my affection
No longer bound by earth

My heart sees you in everything
But nothing greater yet
Than the creature with the painted wing
Like a floating silhouette

Tags butterflies, featured, hope, loss of a loved one, poetry

Heartache and Hope

Floating Confetti

Jessie and I have been frequenting the local Butterfly House at the Environmental Nature Center in our city. I find myself mesmerized by these little creatures. It is hard to believe they were once creepy crawly caterpillars, yet now they flutter effortlessly through the sky with grace and serenity. Their delicate, colorful wings allowing them to silently soar through the air like confetti floating in the wind.

Since ancient times, the butterfly has been considered a symbol of the soul, so it is no surprise that in my heartache I’ve discovered this concentrated home of flitting beauty soothes my troubled spirit. I am captivated by their exquisiteness as they dance in the breeze, imagining my life as carefree as they appear to be.

Yet, even butterflies have scars.

I took many photos of these fragile organisms today, and as I scanned my pictures this evening, I discovered that one of the butterflies was missing parts of his wing. I would have never known, seeing as it flew and functioned like all the other butterflies, but with a closer view, it was markedly disfigured.

I felt solidarity with this painted “American Lady”.

I am profoundly marred by the loss of my sweet Judson, but the wounds of this butterfly give me hope that I, too, will fly again someday, soaring with grace and peace despite being deeply scarred.

Tags butterflies, hope, poetry