Yesterday marked 7 years. 7 years since we’ve held our sweet boy, since I held him for his first and his last breath.
It was a sweet day.
Sweet and full of all the things from everyone. As our oldest daughter said in the car after it felt way too hard to get everyone buckled to go to the playground… Mom, I think we’re just missing Jacob.
Yes, sweet girl. I think you’re right.
I fell asleep wondering about the mystery of it all — how my living children have never met their brother and yet they excitedly entered into celebrating all day yesterday as if it was anyone else’s birthday who they have hugged and laughed with and talked to before.
They never touched him, never saw him, never had a tangible experience with him. And yet, they love him, and happily celebrated all day with some sort of anchoring confidence that he was real and that he still is real to them.
Because Jacob is a conversation in our house, they feel completely free and comfortable asking questions about him. As each of my children grows into a new stage developmentally, they process his life and his role as their brother in new ways, and new ways that are unique to their personalities, too. Sometimes they just take it in, internally processing. Other times they want to know things like how Jacob will get to eat cupcakes for his birthday since he died.
As we started the day with cinnamon rolls and I watched, almost like an outsider, as my children buzzed around their seats, playing with their toys, talking/singing/making noises (yes, all three at once), with John-Mark in his seat at the table, too, my eyes suddenly overflowed with tears.
In that moment I felt Jacob’s absence so tangibly. There was one empty chair at breakfast, and if he hadn’t died, it would’ve been filled by him.
I’m feeling sad that Jacob isn’t here; that’s why I am crying, I told them. So tenderly, and not afraid of my tears as they once were, they looked at me and smiled and nodded.
Somehow they understand and they’re with me in it.
As I tucked them in last night, exhausted after a day of big emotions and hours upon hours spent outside in the warmth, and adventures, and all the things, I told them thank you. Thank you for helping make today feel special for Jacob’s birthday, I said.
You’re welcome, Mama.
They smiled, quiet for a moment.
For the many moments as I’ve cried this year over what losing their brother has meant for them in various ways — the way I’ve seen my grief and the effects of the trauma of losing a child and their own responses to grieving a brother they never knew — yesterday reminded me that we’ve gained richness, too.
It’s not an if/then experience, not a trade-off. It’s a both/and. And in the weeds of the pain, it’s so hard to see the and.
But yesterday, I saw glimpses of richness. Glimpses of the result of years of me learning to share feelings I once deemed as bad or negative with them, inviting them in (appropriately) to naming my emotions and owning them as mine and not for them to have responsibility over. Glimpses of the effects of talking about death and Heaven like it’s a normal part of life and not something to be so afraid of asking about or afraid of at all.
Glimpses of the depth of character and gift of wonder that comes after an actual, non-theoretical, non-abstract fight to live out the belief that a life is meaningful no matter how small. Glimpses of the benefit to learning (and modeling while learning) that we can live in the tension of joy and sorrow, just as Jacob has taught me all along.
Seven years closer.
But seven deep and painful and beautiful and rich years here.
Seven hours too short and yet seven hours beautifully long.
We fit a lifetime of love into 2:12am-9:12am on February 9, 2016. I’m still receiving the gifts of it now.
Dear Jacob,
7 years! 7 years with you and without you at the same time. You are a gift, my sweet boy, and one that I will forever cherish.
There was a time that I feared I would forget — that others would forget. There are times still where the loneliness of all that I carry with you is deafening.
And yet, there is a hidden and sacred space I hold in my heart knowing all that is you, something that only I can hold as your mom. Today, as we start our 8th year with you in Heaven and not in our home, I treasure it.
I wonder what 7 would look like for you. Would you love books and legos and playing outside? Would you love Zelda and Pokemon and bikes and pizza? Who would your friends be? What kind of wrestling moves would you and your brother be practicing? What would you do to make your sisters laugh?
If I close my eyes right now I can feel you still on my chest. The 5lb, 13oz that you’ll forever be. With the best tootsie roll arms and perfectly round cheeks. What color are your eyes in Heaven?
This year I learned that I can do hard things. I learned that your siblings can, too. And this morning I even repeated that to your sister as she faced something that felt overwhelming to her. She is so brave.
Jacob, you taught us how to be brave. You opened our hearts bigger and deeper and wider than we ever thought possible. You live on in us, and in eternity, and we miss you. Oh, we miss you.
But sweet boy, the grief and the missing just means that we love you so much.
I can’t wait to squeeze you again one day. I can’t wait for you to show me around.
I love you. Happy birthday.
Love,
Mom
One of my favorite parts of yesterday involved sitting down and opening a brand new journal that The Morning released this year. Eighteen years worth of prompts, places to include photo(s), and lined pages for free-writing. It’s perfect. If you love a grieving mom, these journals make the best gift. Trust me.
Oh, and ps — I will share my meal planning strategy (which a few of you have requested!) and little life updates in just a few weeks. You can look for me back in your inbox then.
Thanks for entering into my grief journey with me. Thank you for celebrating Jacob. It’s a gift to share him with you. Happy 7th birthday, little one! We love you.
Last thing: You can read more of Jacob’s story here.
🦁💕