Dear Samuel,
Happy 16th birthday, buddy! I can hardly believe you would be 16. Most of the time when I think of you, I think of that beautiful newborn baby I held in my arms for 15 short seconds or you in your CICU dock, hooked up to so many noisy machines but still looking like a sweet newborn with a lifetime of promise ahead. I don't tend to go to the clearly sick baby near the end or even who you might be if you'd lived. Probably because one is painful to remember and the other is hard to imagine. So when your birthday rolls around, it tends to be jarring to suddenly think of who you would be if you were here. Imagining you in a 16-year-old body with a 16-year-old swagger, probably sweating the driving test you'd be signed up to take on Monday in hopes of getting your license just in time to drive to the first day of school on Tuesday with Anna in tow—that's hard to wrap my head around. Man, I would sure love if you could drive Anna to and from her freshman year of high school every day; I am not excited about getting back in that carline after a several year reprieve of your brothers driving. And I'd love for our gorgeous daughter to have a big brother in the building looking out for her. Most of the time when I've wondered what our family would be like if you were here, I've imagined your relationship with your brothers and what a band of three boys would be like and how tight you three would be. But today I'm thinking about how we'd be heading into the years where you would be the only boy left at home, how you and Anna would be going to and from school together every day and how sweet that brother-sister bond would be. Maybe you two would be thick as thieves, listening to music at full blast on your drives, laughing about your inside jokes, and planning out how you would fend off any would-be suitors. I wish you two could experience that.
This summer has been a disjointed one on the family front. Caleb was home for just a few days in May before heading to Texas to work at Pine Cove Outback, a Christian camp for middle schoolers. He came home for less than 48 hours for Joel's graduation and then spent six more weeks working as a counselor. Joel headed to Pine Cove Chimney Point in South Carolina the day before Caleb came home, and he's still there as the audio guy, so thus far all six of us have only been under one roof for a combined total of five days the last several months, and before that we hadn't all been together since Christmas break. I know this is the way of things as everyone gets older and has their own jobs and commitments and school, etc, but can I just say I'm not a huge fan? My favorite is when everyone is all together.
And that has made today a little hard. Joel finally comes home from camp tomorrow, Caleb is working all day at the carwash, Eliza has soccer practice tonight, and Anna has a final staff hangout from her summer day camp job. So those of us in town won't even all be together for any part of today. Plus Atlanta built a brand-new (and supposedly beautiful) children's hospital, so Egleston no longer exists, which means our tradition of taking cookies to the hospital, hugging whichever doctors/nurses/RTs we might know, walking and remembering our time there, and playing hide-and-seek in the garden isn't happening. Part of me is relieved by that. It was always a collision of emotions to drive down and experience waves of hard memories (my stomach is hurting right now just thinking about it) but also good for our souls to remember and especially to practice gratitude, thanking the people who do such incredible work caring for the heart children of Georgia. We have so much to be thankful for, Samuel. So much. And your life is undeniably one of those things.
Since going to Egleston is no longer possible, Dad and I had to figure out how we want to mark today. We threw around a few ideas, but in the end it was clear that we both want to continue to bless others on your birthday. So this year I baked cookies again (though not nearly as many as past years), and we delivered them to our pediatricians' office with a thank you note. We LOVE our pediatricians, and we've been with the same office since Caleb was born, so they've known us for twenty years! I can't tell you how many times I've thought, "I should really take them some cookies to thank them for all they do," but I'd never done it before today. Dad, your sisters, and I dropped them off this morning, and they seemed delighted to receive them. Dr. Roy even called a couple hours later to say thank you, that he remembers you and your story, and that he is thinking of us and of you today. I'm glad to leave a ripple of kindness and love in your wake, sweet Samuel. I love thinking that the goodness you left behind continues and that your life still makes a difference. It certainly does in me.
The next week holds some pretty big changes for us with the girls going back to school on Tuesday (Eliza to 7th grade and Anna to 9th) and with moving Joel into UGA next weekend. It still doesn't feel real that he's heading off to college, but I am thankful he'll be just an hour and a half away, and he's so, so excited. He's already made some really sweet friendships at camp, has found a Christian fraternity he's super pumped about, and he is just plain ready. I'm not sure I am, but that's parenthood, I guess. It's not about whether I feel ready. I have no doubt he will thrive there, and it fills my heart to see him so enormously happy. Letting him grow up and spread his wings is its own collision of emotions—sorrow at the closing chapter and anticipation at his chapter ahead. I know this is best for him, and I don't want to hold him back. I want to see him become all God is calling him to be, and that won't happen being stagnant at home. It's a lesser version of letting you go to heaven, I guess. As a mom I want what's best for my kids far more than my own desires and what I find comfortable, so that means living open-handed and holding you precious children loosely, trusting God to lead, guide, grow, comfort, stretch, tend, and love you each perfectly—far better than I ever could. And in your case, that meant taking you home to heaven at 31 days old. And I'm not resentful of that.
Samuel, I love you as much as always. Though our time together is farther and farther in the past, your mark on my life is permanent, beautiful, real, and still one of my favorite parts of our story. I am so incredibly glad God made you just they way he did, entrusted you to us, soldered our hearts to his through your life and death, and sanctified us through your tumultuous 31 days of life and the heartrending grief that followed. I am such a better version of myself because of you. You refined me in ways nothing else could. And your life showed me just how loving, trustworthy, good, and faithful God is. His tender care for us in those tender days has forever changed how I see him. I know no matter what life holds, he is enough, and I have you to thank for that. Thank you.
However you're spending this birthday in heaven, I know you are whole and filled and satisfied. Maybe you're finding a quiet place alone to be still and drink in the goodness of heaven. Maybe you're traipsing through golden streets with a gaggle of friends, soaking up the joy of fellowship. Maybe you're laughing uproariously at my witty grandma's antics, appreciating the lightness of a life without brokenness. Or maybe you're sitting at the very feet of Jesus, content and hungry for more of him at the same time. Who knows. But I do know however you're spending this day, it's right and good, and all is as it should be. I love you. Always.
Love, Mom
