To Samuel on his 15th Birthday

Dear Samuel,

Happy Birthday, my precious son. Today would be your 15th birthday, and that is pretty hard to believe. Fifteen years ago you changed our world forever, and I'm so glad you did. I see the ways you grew us—our faith, our grit, our hearts, our hope, our endurance, and our strength. We are so much better because of you. Thank you for all the ways you've shaped us as individuals, as a couple, and as a family. We are richer, our well is deeper, and our hearts are fuller because of you.

This week your cousin June was in town, and it was so sweet to see her on your shared birthday week. We celebrated her 15th birthday with Atlanta family, and I loved having a glimpse of what 15 looks like. Grown up and yet still not a grown up, confident and yet still figuring out your place, hungry for belonging and creating a space for others to belong, silly and mature all stirred up together. It was a beautiful picture. I bet you two would be thick as thieves.

June came with me to North Point's high school ministry where I lead a "small" group of senior girls, and I loved sharing with them how June has always been a picture of God's grace for me. They've heard me talk about you countless times and are familiar with your story, but it was something different to have June in the room and be able to tell her what a blessing she has been to me through the years—how she provides a picture of where you might be in life and how she has soothed my soul on more than one occasion, but especially that first Christmas when I held her all through Christmas Eve service and imagined you celebrating Jesus's birth in his very presence. It was a treasured moment for me to talk about God's faithfulness to us through the heartbreak of handing you back to him and to share how June has been part of our healing. 

This summer your dad and I led 23 high schoolers on a mission trip to Mexico. Joel came with us, along with seven girls from my small group and my co-leader Marissa who was one of the very few people who ever met you in the hospital. I realized part way through the week that if you were alive, you'd have been there with us too. We had a handful of rising sophomores on the trip, and I imagined you mixed in among them. The trip was the highlight of the summer for both me and your dad. Doing ministry together and leading such an extraordinary group of students, alongside some fabulous fellow leaders, was so powerful. It's hard to put into words how encouraging the week was. The physical work we did there was incredibly hard, and the scorching heat was ridiculous, yet not one student complained. Thinking of you being part of that equation fills my heart. Maybe you'd have been the one student who whined, but I bet you would have admired the seniors (your brother chief among them) who set the tone of willingness and positivity, and you would have given all you had to give like the rest of the team did. I would have loved to share the experience with you.

Today was the first day of school for three of your siblings. Caleb goes back to Wheaton in a few weeks, but our county schools started today. As I'm sure you know by now, I hate the start of school, and layering it on top of your birthday is really not my favorite. Joel is a senior (not sure how that happened. No, I am not ready), Anna is in 8th grade and seeming more and more grown up, and Eliza started middle school today. Our days of elementary school are behind us after 14 consecutive years of elementary-aged kids. So today has a lot of hits. I was really blue yesterday, but today I am more peaceful. I cried when I dropped off the girls, of course, but I've been pretty steady since then. I've worked on your birthday cake (ice cream cake this year) and have made some cookie dough for our annual trip to Egleston on Saturday. This will be our last ever year to go to Egleston as the CICU moves into a brand new hospital building in September. So our 15 year tradition is coming to an end. I don't know how I feel about that.

This year has been a growing up year for all of us, I think. Sending Caleb to college far away and letting him figure out life without us right there, learning to give Joel more room to make his own choices and hardly seeing him because of how full his social life is, Anna becoming a teenager, and Eliza graduating from 5th grade—it's been a lot of letting go and then allowing your siblings to own their choices and the resulting consequences. Dad and I are learning to step back, but it's not natural. There is a lot of joy in bearing witness when your brothers or sisters choose wisely, love big, seek guidance, step out in bravery, and express heartfelt gratitude. Like our hearts could burst. But there is fear and the temptation to step in when things don't go smoothly or when someone doesn't heed wisdom. Of course we have to parent each child uniquely and respond differently depending on age and the specifics, but in general we're working to let your beloved siblings be their own selves. (It's pretty hard, but we're learning.) Letting our cherished children grow up is both beautiful and heartbreaking. Dad and I are so very proud of who Caleb, Joel, Anna, and Eliza are and are becoming. And I have no doubt we'd be so very proud of you too if you were here with us.

Maybe you're enjoying pickle ball, Joel's latest obsession, up in heaven, or maybe you're stretched out in some meadow of tall grass and wildflowers where I'd expect to find Anna reading a book. Maybe you're playing with baby animals like Eliza would love or pulling a Caleb and staying up super late talking to someone interesting you encountered in the course of your day. (I bet there are endless interesting people to talk to up there!) Whatever it is you're doing, however it is you might be celebrating your birthday, I know it's just right because you are where everything is just right. And that is wonderful.

Samuel, I am so thankful to be your mom. It is a privilege I treasure more deeply than I can say. You are forever in my heart, and my heart is bigger because you're there. I am more fully me because of you. Thank you for indelibly marking my life and shaping who I am in elemental ways. I look forward to one day throwing my arms around you and catching up on all the things, to learning what makes you light up and seeing all that brings you wonder. I can so easily picture putting my hand in yours and letting you lead me through heaven, pointing out all that inspires you and laughing as we journey along together. I can't wait to get to know that laugh. I love you, Samuel. Forever and always. Happy Birthday, my boy.

Love, Mom XOXOXOXOXOXOXO through eternity

To Samuel on his 14th Birthday

Dear Samuel,

Happy Birthday, my oh-so-loved son. 14 feels like full-blown teenager to me. Your brothers and I just got back from a trip to the beach with our churches' high school groups, and Caleb was a fill-in leader with a group of 26 rising freshman boys -- who I am just now realizing would be your age! He had a fabulous and wild week (is there any other way to describe Daytona with 2800 high school students?!), and his stories help me picture what you might be like at 14. Hopefully your jokes would be cleaner than a lot of theirs and your hygiene a bit better, too, but on the whole I bet you'd fit in with their rowdy ways and late night piles of boys with too much energy and a longing for a hug from their mom (but too much false-machismo to admit it) that devolve into 1:00 am sock wrestling matches and 9 guys choosing to sleep in the same hotel room, haphazardly spread out all over the floor. Maybe you'd be one of the wilder ones, chugging Monster energy drinks and begging to storm the beach late at night. Or maybe you'd be in the more chill subset of the group, hanging with the kids who opted to go at a slower pace, preferring to sit in the wheelchair accessible alcoves of the arena over fighting for space at the front of the mosh pit. Either way, I would be crazy about you just the way you were -- bursting with energy, drive, and a fair helping of folly or riding comfortably in the back seat, observing, evaluating, and taking it all in -- or somewhere in between. Whoever you are, Samuel, I love you. Just the way you are. Just the way God made you. I never did want to change the way God made you, even though it meant handing you over the Jesus so soon after meeting you. I always wanted the Samuel you are, the one God made because He makes no mistakes, and I only want what He has for me. And He had you. What a gift.

As always this time of year is my least favorite -- the coupling of back to school (why must summer be so short in Georgia?) and your anniversary dates, but this year has an added weight as next week Caleb heads to college outside Chicago. Man, would you be proud of your biggest brother. He is a remarkable human, and I know you would look up to him like crazy. He is going to Wheaton College where your dad and I met, and he is so excited about it. Honestly, I'm incredibly excited for him, but I am also overwhelmed at the thought of our home without him in it for months at a time. Numerous sweet friends have reached out recently to check on me and to tell me they're praying for me, and one of them talked about how hard it is to let go. That got me to thinking about the alternatives of letting go, and none of them are good. C.S. Lewis wrote a novel called The Great Divorce which postulates that some people, even after seeing Heaven and all that it has to offer, will still choose Hell because they love something more than they love God, and they cannot fathom giving up whatever that thing is. One character idolizes her son and her love for her son so much that she has completely destroyed her relationship with him. In the end she does not really love her son at all, but she has made an idol out of her idea of loving him, and she chooses to cling to that at perilous cost, refusing Heaven in order to hold on to her idol. I know that's extreme, but I never want to elevate my love for you or Caleb or Joel, Anna, or Eliza to the point that it blinds me to who my children really are or what God is up to in your lives or to how He is asking me to open my hands and let you grow into who He is calling you to be. I know that means letting Caleb head off to college and blaze his own trail. I know that means trusting God to take care of my heart as some of those strings of Caleb's dependence on me as Mom are snipped. As hard as it sometimes is to watch our kids grow up, growing up is what we ultimately want for them. The alternatives to that are too awful to dwell on. So in this month of weightiness, I choose to let go and lean on God who will be more than enough for my tender momma heart.

We visited the hospital on Saturday for our annual trek, loaded with cookies and cakes. After 14 years we no longer expect to see people we know, but this year surprised us with both Richard and Marybeth. Sweet Richard came to the hospital just to see us. He hasn't worked there since 2012, but he drove out because he knew we were coming (and because he wanted cookies, let's be honest 😁). It never ceases to move me that Richard cared so beautifully for us during your life and that twice now he's driven to Egleston to see us. It is a kindness that is written on my heart. Both Richard and Marybeth were a big part of your story, and seeing them again was such a joy. It was our first time back on the CICU floor since before covid, and this was definitely the gentlest that experience has been. I'm so glad we got to go back on the floor because Eliza barely remembered it, and the CICU will move to a new building next fall, so hopefully she will now have a lasting memory of the space where you lived out your days. Caleb had to work, so he wasn't able to go, but the rest of us played our traditional game of hide-and-seek, and Anna crushed us with the most amazing hiding spot. Even though I knew where she was, I could not find her. If you were alive and featured prominently into our annual trips of thanks, I wonder if the hide-and-seek portion of the visit would mortify you at 14. 😂

On Friday when I was busy baking, I felt some nerves and dread about the visit -- as I often do. This year the layering of going to Egleston, Caleb going to college, and Joel getting his license the day before -- heralding yet another letting go -- made for a super teary day. I was fighting back tears all morning, but at one point I was home alone for about 20 minutes, and as I was crouched down searching the spice rack for cream of tartar and cinnamon, I burst into tears and could.not.stop.crying. I felt silly for being doubled over next to an array of spices, but I had to remind myself what I often tell the girls from my high school small group: "Don't apologize for crying. None of us cry enough. It's good for us. We need it." I'm parroting what my favorite prof Mark Lewis said to me in college, but I truly do believe it. So I'm hoping to give myself grace in the days ahead as I mourn your absence and Caleb's, too. You two boys will be gone in very different ways, but my heart will feel them both.

I wish you could see our family now -- how grown and amazing your big brothers are (I am so.proud of who they are. So.proud.) and how delightful and lovely your little sisters are (you would be blown away by them). I think you would be amazed at each one of your siblings. Caleb is funny, encouraging, loving, and chill. Joel is purposeful, hardworking, engaging, and affectionate. Anna is joyful, wise, capable, and confident. Eliza is kind, intuitive, creative, and empathetic. Each one is a wonder. Each one is unique and made just right. Just like you.

Samuel, I love you. I always will. You are forever part of this family. And though our family feels comfortable as 6 of us, we feel your absence. We know we're a family of 7. And someday we'll finally all be in the same spot at the same time, and I can't wait for you to show us what Heaven is like. On this side of Heaven I have raised a family of big time huggers. Your brothers are incredibly good at giving me hugs -- even at 16 and 18 -- and your sisters eat them up. Your dad is a world-class hugger, too. I won him over to the way of hugs and cuddles long ago, and now he's a champion. I'm hoping when I get to Heaven you, too, will be a hugger even though I didn't get to shower you with them on earth and indoctrinate you into the way of physical touch as a mega means of communicating love. I know people whose idea of Heaven definitely does not include lots of hugs, but I hope you love hugs and sitting so close on the couch that the whole side of your body makes contact with your neighbor as much as we all do. 'Cause, kiddo, I have a lifetime of hugs to catch up on with you. 

I love you, precious son of mine. Happy 14th. 

Love, Mom

                                                              With Richard and Marybeth

To Samuel on his 13th Birthday

Dear Samuel,

Happy Birthday! You would be a teenager today (what?!?), and we would have 3 teenaged boys in the house, which would mean many moments of madness, no doubt. We already have some moments of madness to be sure, but I think another teenaged boy would amplify that. I have genuinely loved the teen years with your brothers -- so much more than I thought I would -- and I am sure I would have loved them with you, too. I get to see who Caleb and Joel are becoming, what they think about the world, what they value and prioritize, how their experiences shape them, what they believe about God and whether He is who He says He is. I get to answer their earnest questions, laugh at their increasingly individual senses of humor, be a safe landing spot when life has left their hearts (or egos) battered and bruised, and listen to their wonderings, their stories, their hopes, and their fears. It is all a divine privilege, and I love every minute of it -- even when they make poor choices or respond with harsh pushback. It's all part of being Mom, and I treasure every day I get with these remarkable young men. I would have loved doing all those things with and for you, too. I know Caleb and Joel would have been the best big brothers to you. And your little sisters would adore you they way they adore Caleb and Joel. Oh, sweet Samuel, you are missed.

This birthday is a little different for us. Caleb, Joel, and I went to Daytona Beach with our high school youth program last week, and when we got back on Friday night, all three of us promptly tested positive for Covid. The girls moved to Gabu's house for 5 days, and Dad moved to the basement. So your brothers and I have been hanging out for 4 days so far, and it's been a sweet time with them, but we miss your sisters and Dad a lot. We've seen them from a distance, and tonight we'll do our balloon tradition on opposite sides of the front yard, but I won't get to hug Bryan, Anna, and Eliza today, and that hurts my heart. In the past we've spent this day as connected as possible, but at least I have Caleb and Joel with me. I made brownies for your brothers and I to eat in celebration of you tonight, and Gabu is making the exact same kind for her, the girls, and Dad to eat. We're making the most of what we've got. And Colleen and Dave are joining us for front yard balloon releasing this evening. They are the ones who put this tradition in motion when Bryan and I were too grief-laden to make decisions. That first birthday they put together a whole day of celebrating you and making it fun for your brothers and gentle for us.

Despite disappointment at being separated, the boys and I have had a really sweet time together talking about all God did in Daytona, processing how we can continue to grow in our faith and stay rooted in Jesus, watching movies, and just being together. One morning Joel surprised me with an oatmeal bar; he set up bowls of strawberries, blueberries, craisins, pecans, and brown sugar and had oatmeal ready to go. My favorite thing is probably snuggling up on the couch with one of the boys. They are both taller than me now, so usually one of them puts his arm around me instead of vice-versa, and it always kind of melts my heart. Your brothers are thoughtful, kind, funny, and irresistible. I am so over-the-moon crazy about them, and I wish I could see you with them and see how you fit into the mix. 

Anna had her middle school orientation today, which I had to miss. I would have missed it anyway, though, because I am starting part-time work this week, and today was supposed to be my first day. I haven't had a job since I was pregnant with Caleb 17 years ago, so it's a big change. I will be working at North Point's preschool for staff kids in the pre-toddler room. I think I will love it as you know I love babies more than just about anything. I smile whenever I think about spending 2 days a week with those little people. But back to Anna -- it's hard to believe she's starting middle school on Thursday. If you were here the two of you would be there together, and I think that would have been really sweet for both of you. She'll find her way, though. She always does. She's a bright light, that one. 

Eliza will be by herself in elementary school for the very first time. She's starting 4th grade. She's always liked having an older sister with her and has typically cried anytime Anna wasn't going to be at school. This will be an adjustment for her, too. I think it will be good for her to find her own way. Eliza is helpful and tender and funny, and she gives great hugs. I wish you could know her and Anna. They are such radiant beams of goodness.

This morning I spent some time just thanking God for you and your life. I am SO GLAD He made you. Our story could have gone a thousand different ways, and I am so grateful God chose to write it this way. You could have never been conceived, and admittedly I wouldn't have had to walk through such grief and heartbreak, but I also wouldn't have known and loved you, wouldn't have seen your beautiful face, wouldn't have known the sweet presence of Jesus so tangibly during your month of life, wouldn't have had to lean on God with my whole being and found that He is enough just as He is -- even with unanswered prayer, wouldn't have known God as my most intimate Healer, wouldn't have walked through the fire with Bryan and found the incomparable comfort of clinging to each other in the deepest of loss, wouldn't have the firm assurance of God's loving heart and unfailing goodness through intense sorrow, and wouldn't have grown as a person, wife, and mom because of loving and losing you. We're all so much better because of you. And our love for you doesn't fade as the years go by. The heaviness of your absence lightens, but the joy of your life remains steady and true. You are one of God's most precious gifts to me, and I love you forever, Samuel Erik Apinis.

13 years since you came into this world and brought such joy and love and on-our-knees prayers for your life. 13 years since my heart burst with that new momma pride and the adrenaline of giving birth flooded me. 13 years since I held you without tubes and wires and incessant beeping. 13 years since that wash of hope filled my soul, and I thought "everything is going to be alright." And you know what? Everything is alright. It's not alright in the way I imagined it. You aren't here. You never came home from the hospital. We've never been a family of 7 all together. But you are whole. And you are healed. And you are our son forever. And we love you, and we are better because of you. And one day we will meet again, and you will be the one to show me the way then. I can't wait to be your student, Samuel. I can't wait to learn from you all you already know about Heaven and being in the presence of Jesus. Better is coming. For you it's already here. And that is beautiful.

Happy Birthday, Samuel Erik. I love you. I can't wait to see you again. We have a lot of hugs to catch up on. 

All my love forever,

Mom

To Samuel on his 12th Birthday

Happy 12th Birthday, sweet Samuel! In my mind you are perpetually sweet, but as I typed that greeting, I realized at 12 you might not be so sweet if you were here with us. 😄 But maybe you'd take after your dad and brothers and be kind and speak words of life far more often than not. I realized recently how unusual it is that I get to hear words of love, life, and encouragement every single day from the 3 men in my life. Your dad has modeled kindness and encouragement in our family, and as a result your brothers speak to me with the same kind of tenderness and respect that your dad does. I am spoiled by their intentional words that lift up, and yet I also feel like that's what everyone should get to hear every day, and I am so thankful it's what your sisters see and experience so they know to expect nothing short of excellent treatment from the men who will someday be in their lives. Your brothers don't always get it right, of course, but they are such wonderful humans, and I am sure you would love being their little brother and would look up to them and want to be like them. You would be choosing very wisely! They are true gems. Though so very different from one another, they are both extraordinary, and I wonder how you would fit into the dynamic and who you would gravitate towards. Maybe you'd match Joel's endless ability to play -- he'd love that!, or maybe you'd tip toward Caleb's quiet reader ways. Either way -- or a totally different way all your own -- we'd treasure and love you and your unique wirings. And you would so enjoy your little sisters, Samuel. They are so fun and earnestly wish they could have met you. They'd love another brother to lead the way and look out for them and play with them. Anna talks about you pretty regularly, and Eliza sometimes get teary thinking about you and how you're not here with us. We all feel your absence.

Today has been a little harder for me than the last couple of years. I woke up with a nervous stomach and have been close to tears for a couple of days now. I think it's at least in part because we haven't yet done the cookie baking extravaganza. Typically we deliver cookies to Egleston Children's Hospital before your birthday, which enables me to work through some of my heavier emotions before August 1 arrives. But this year, even though I had all the ingredients and was ready to spend the day baking, we ended up having to push pause because Caleb has been sick all week. I took him to get Covid tested Thursday morning even though he and Joel are fully vaccinated (yay for vaccines!!!) because he has some Covid-like symptoms. Thankfully he was negative, but our pediatrician recommended we wait to bake and deliver cookies until everyone in the house is healthy. Though we won't be able to go up to the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit this year due to Covid, we are able to arrange a cookie drop-off with our CICU contacts, so hopefully we can work that out once Caleb quits coughing.

Today is a fuller day than I would typically prefer your birthday to be. In general I try to keep August 1 as unscripted and unscheduled as possible because I can feel my tension and grief escalate when the outside demands on me go up. I like to be home as much as possible and be able to have whatever kind of day it ends up being, but this year your birthday fell on a Sunday, which means morning church and now also means afternoon church because I started leading a freshmen girls' small group in our high school ministry. (I don't even know the last time I felt so inadequate for the job set before me, but that's another story.) Even though I might have preferred to do online church today, I found myself really grateful to be there this morning. We sang "Goodness of God," and you are what I think of whenever we sing that song:

"All my life You have been faithful
And all my life You have been so, so good.
With every breath that I am able
Oh, I will sing of the goodness of God.

I love Your voice

You have led me through the fire

In the darkest night

You are close like no other.

I've known You as a Father

I've know You as a Friend

And I have lived in the goodness of God.

Cause your goodness is running after,

It's running after me

Your goodness is running after,

It's running after me..."

Gosh, I can't sing those words and not think of you and our time with you. It's so true that God was perfectly faithful to us in your life and in your death. He showered us with His goodness while we huddled around your hospital bed. His voice led us through the fire, and in the darkest nights when we knew we had to give you back to Him, He was close like no other. I have never experienced the nearness of God so tangibly and so beautifully as I did during your month of life. He was a loving, faithful, good Father and Friend, and His goodness has been running after me ever since -- and long before -- I laid eyes on beautiful you. It's counterintuitive that something so hard and painful illuminates God's goodness and faithfulness to me, but no other part of my story speaks as loudly of the faithfulness of God than you. It's one of the many reasons I am so thankful to be your mom, Samuel. 

We did birthday cake and our balloon tradition this afternoon, and Gabu joined us. We all wrote our balloon notes and released them in the front yard. It was windy, so we lost track of them really quickly. As always I loved reading what your siblings wrote to you. They each miss you, and we all have a thousand questions about who you are and what you're like and what Heaven is like. We all register the gap you leave in our family. Each one of us loves you deeply and longs for the day when we will know you intimately face-to-face. That day is coming. You are more a part of our future than our past. It's a beautiful promise, and I cling to it on days like today. Though I've now spent 11 of your birthdays apart from you, the birthdays we'll be separated from one another are finite. But the number of birthdays we'll be together? Those are infinite. I don't know when those will start, but once they do, they will never end. That's basically impossible for me to wrap my mind around, but it sure is a comforting thought. What are 60 birthdays apart compared to infinite birthdays together? Just a blink of the eye. I'm coming, my dear Samuel. I will be there soon-ish. Probably really soon to you but not so soon to me. And in the meantime, I know you are fully you, fully alive, fully joyful, lacking absolutely nothing. You are in the presence of Jesus, and there is nothing more you need. You are content in the truest way, and therefore you are patient for our arrival. That is beautiful. I am so pleased that you are enjoying the bounty of Heaven and the unwavering love of Jesus in His very presence. There is nothing better. And I couldn't want more for you than that.

I love you, Samuel Erik Apinis, my son. Do you know one of my favorite titles of all-time is "Samuel's mom"? I've only been called it a handful of times, but it fills my heart with joy whenever I think of it. I still remember the day nearly 12 years ago when a stranger came up to me at church about a month after you died and asked, "Are you Samuel's mom?" My heart swelled with joy and pride and sorrow all at once. No one had called me that since you'd gone to Heaven, and in that moment I realized I hadn't thought I would ever hear those words again. They were beautiful and heartbreaking but mostly beautiful. I remember my eyes welled up with tears as I said, "Yes. Yes, I am. I am Samuel's mom." Or maybe no words came out at all, and I could only manage a head-nod because the joy of the title overtook me. But that moment and those emotions have stayed with me all these years -- turning in surprise to a stranger's tender smile and feeling so much pride that I got to be your mom. Only me. It's a title only I have the honor of carrying, and I am so thankful God chose me. He could have written a different story, but He wrote this beautiful one, and I praise Him for your life and trusting your dad and I to be your parents. We are forever grateful and forever changed because of YOU.

Happy Birthday, Samuel. I love you more than words can ever say.

Love, Mom

To Samuel on his 11th Birthday

Hello, sweet boy.  Happy 11th Birthday!  11 always seems like a fun number to me.  Maybe because my birthday is in November, and I love double odds -- 11, 33, 77, 99.  Not 55 for some reason, but that's just me being weird.  You may not know it yet, but I'm a quirky soul.  Ask your siblings (and your dad!), and they'll tell you it's true.

Anyway, I miss you. A lot.  Even though 11 years have gone by, I still find this day and the month of August kind of knock the breath out of me.  I have less emotional bandwidth in August, and tasks feel harder to accomplish.  I'm sure it's the shadow of grief and days remembered from your short life.  It's certainly grown easier and gentler as the years have gone by, but I find I still miss you terribly, and the weight of grief still settles on my shoulders and in my stomach on marker days.

This year has been a strange and hard one for much of the world.  We're in the middle of a global pandemic, and life has shifted in lots of ways.  At the beginning of it all, there was a communal "we're in this together" attitude, but as the months have gone by, that team mentality has dissolved into division, blame, anger, accusation, and just a slew of ugliness.  It's been so disheartening to watch.  On the whole, Covid-19 has not brought out the best in people.  I see a decided lack of compassion, grace, empathy, and effort to understand those who see life through a different lens.  I've been guilty of it, too, finding myself upset by differing viewpoints and with friends who make choices I disapprove of.  It's been hard to see my own ugliness, but God has been growing and teaching me and calling me into Himself, refining my self-righteous tendencies and reminding me of Andy Stanley's pivotal question: "What does love require of me?" And the truth is love requires so much more than self-righteousness or trying to get people to align with my thinking or pointing the finger at people who are making different choices than I am.  Love requires grace.  Love requires relationship.  Love requires forgiveness.  Love requires a heart that stays open and keeps loving, even when it feels battered and weary.  Love requires seeking to understand before being understood. Love requires taking the low place and elevating others above me.  It's so hard, and I have so far to go.  

In the midst of the pandemic, there has also been a wide awakening to racial injustice and a move toward racial reconciliation -- something I've been way too slow to recognize and pursue.  To be honest, I'm not sure how to talk about it all, but it's something God is definitely growing me in.  It's hard to write about because there are so many ways I could get it wrong, but I am trying to let go of getting it just right and just make sure I am continuing to grow.  I guess that's a life lesson, huh?  We can't always get it just right, but we can keep growing.  I don't want "just right" to hinder me from moving forward, from seeing the hurt I have caused others, from seeing my own privilege.  Your dad and I have spent hours and hours and hours discussing racial injustice, and I love being on this journey of growth together.  I hope we are teaching Caleb, Joel, Anna, and Eliza to be allies to people of color, to speak up against injustice, and to treat everyone -- regardless of their ideology -- with honor.  It won't be easy, but again, what does love require of me?  It requires a lot.

Because of the pandemic, we've been home a lot since March.  Honestly, I have loved that part of it.  It's been so joyful to be all together every day.  Dad has to work, so we try to keep the volume down, but it has been so fun spending so much time together.  Your siblings have gone through phases of tree climbing, backyard swinging, obstacle course building, bike riding, LEGO building, wall ball playing, and a host of other things. We've had countless family movie nights, played lots of family games (the current favorite is Sushi Go), and are working our way through the entire Star Wars cannon on Disney+.  Every day at lunch we go down to the basement and watch a Star Wars episode or part of a movie.  We've made it through Clone Wars, Rebels, Resistance, Episodes 1-3, Solo, and are in the middle of Rogue One right now.  (Your sisters have skipped out on Episode 3, some of Solo, and Rogue One because they're pretty scary and intense.) I don't think we'll quite finish episodes 4-9 before school starts, but it has been such a fun tradition!  I wonder if you would love Star Wars, too, or if you'd be the lone dissenter of the family.  :) 

Normally we would visit Egleston Children's Hospital for our annual cookie delivery and to say thank you to the CICU doctors, nurses, RT's, and staff.  But with Covid, we can't do that, so we thought about who could use some love these days, and we landed on our teachers.  They are in pre-planning right now, and soon they will be seeing students either face-to-face or virtually for a wildly different year of learning.  They must be overwhelmed and are probably fearful.  So we're planning to deliver cookies next week to our home schools in memory of you.  Those teachers are heroes in my book in a normal school year, so they are even more so in 2020!  We'll be making a LOT of cookies!  I wish you could be here to help.

I baked a homemade 3-layer chocolate salted caramel cake for your birthday, and holy smokes is it filling!  I ate a piece 45 minutes ago, and I still feel sickly full.  While we were sitting around and enjoying your cake, Eliza asked if she could pull a 7th chair up to the table for you.  She put it right next to her.  :) Tonight we'll do our balloon tradition as always.  Dad just went to pick them up, and half of them had no helium by the time he got home!  Looks like I'll be making a run back to Publix.  

I miss you, Samuel.  11.  I wonder how you would have wanted to spend today.  All your siblings celebrated their birthdays in these socially distant pandemic days.  I wonder if you would have wanted a drive-by parade like Eliza, Joel, and Anna, or if you would have said "I do NOT want a parade" like Caleb.  Would you have wanted a Culver's picnic?  A family movie night?  To throw a football in the backyard or play Spike Ball?  Just a day that was totally unscheduled for you to choose at a whim what to do?  I can't wait to get to know you, Samuel.  To know your likes and dislikes, to discover if you're a cuddler like Joel or if you like your space, to learn if you're a creator like Anna, a reader like Caleb, an independent play-er like Eliza, a give-me-all-the-people-all-the-time and anything sports-er like Joel, or something entirely different from your siblings.  Sweet Anna told me at the beginning of the pandemic that she started talking to you at night.  At first she would ask God to tell you things, but then she decided she could just tell you herself, and she said she got to know you, and that you're pretty much the perfect brother: you would be ready to play with Joel whenever he asks, but you would always have time for her and Eliza, and you would be happy to give Caleb space to read but willing to talk Star Wars at any time.  According to Anna you would be great at problem solving and helping your siblings come to a peaceful resolution when they argue.  I loved hearing her imagination of who you would be.  I guess we all look forward to knowing you in Heaven.  What sweetness is ahead!

Samuel, I love you.  Our month with you was holy and beautiful, and we learned so much in those 31 days and the months that followed.  I think back on those lessons now, and I hold fast to them.  I just finished reading The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boom to your brothers, and one line in there struck me profoundly and made me think of our time with you: "There are no 'ifs' in God's world.  And no places that are safer than other places.  The center of His will is our only safety."  When you were born so sick, I very purposefully turned the "ifs" off and chose to live each day we were given.  There was no way to turn back time and change anything.  The story God was writing was His story, and the center of His will was perfect safety -- not the safety of "nothing bad will happen" but the safety of living peacefully in Him and trusting Him to be good even if He didn't answer our prayers exactly as we asked of Him.  And there was great peace and even joy in living that way.  I lean into that truth now as the world is topsy-turvy and people around me are filled with angst.  As school starts soon and exposure will go way up and as unkind words fly across the internet.  As the sea roils around me with swells and dips of turmoil and crises and fear, underneath it all I am anchored in the unfailing truth of Jesus, in His peace that passes understanding and His love that cannot be lost.  He holds the world and all its brokenness and heartbreak and anxiety in His loving, capable hands.  And now, as then, He is trustworthy and good.  The world is full of bad, but He is always good.  You helped teach me that.  You taught me so much, and I will always be grateful for you.

Happy Birthday, Sunshine.  I love you, Samuel.  And I always will.  Someday we'll celebrate August 1st together.  I can't wait for you to show me what you love and take me to all your favorite places.  I can't wait to throw my arms around you and squeeze you tight and tell you 100 times in an hour that I love you so much.  No matter how old you are in Heaven, I hope you'll hold my hand, and together we'll laugh and smile our way through this day.  I'm SO GLAD God made you and trusted you to us.  You and your brothers and sisters are our greatest gifts.

I love you forever.

Love, Mom

To Samuel on his 10th Birthday

Dear Samuel,

Happy 10th Birthday, dear son!  10 always feels like a milestone birthday -- a whole decade, double digits, last year you can tell people how old you are by holding up fingers.  With this birthday it takes on an even bigger significance as it's been 10 years since I got to snuggle you and see your perfect face and hold your hand and pray over you and sing to you.  A decade since I was able to greet you with "Hello sunshine!" and feel that joy wash over me of seeing you again after leaving the CICU for a meal or for the night.  That's a long time to be separated.  A quarter of my life -- which feels impossible.  Too long for this momma's heart.  And yet, I know without question that this is the story God has written, and it is a beautiful story, so 10 years is just as it should be.  But it does feel so long to me.

Believe it or not, your bothers and sisters started school today!  I can't help but wonder how you would have felt about sharing your birthday with the first day of school.  Maybe you'd be like Anna and think the start of school is the best.thing.ever, and so having your birthday today would be utterly amazing.  Or maybe you'd be more like Eliza who would really rather not go back to school and would surely grump about school commencing on her birthday.  Perhaps a breakfast donut with candles would have helped to ease the blow?  However you would have felt about it, I am not a fan.  Too many emotions in one day!

As I write this, your birthday cake is in the oven.  At the request of your siblings, it is chocolate cherry cake.  I just got back from picking up balloons so we can write our traditional notes to you tonight.  Surprisingly, this is the first year anyone has asked me if the balloons are for a birthday celebration, and today it happened twice.  Thankfully after 10 years I was able to say "yes" with a smile to the first person who asked and "something like that" with a smile to the second.  I really can't believe no one has asked before.  I would have stumbled over that question years ago, which reminds me how much God has healed my heart in the years since we said goodbye.

On Friday we went to Egleston with 22 dozen cookies to say thank you to the remarkable people who work in the CICU.  Not surprisingly there has been so much turnover in 10 years that we only saw one person working who took care of you, and he was the overseeing doctor of the unit back then, so I'm certain he doesn't remember us.  But then to our delight Nurse Richard drove out just to see us!  We met him in the garden, and it was so good to hug him and see him and thank him for his tremendous care of you and of us.  Samuel, he was so good to you and our family.  He was patient, gentle, thoughtful, attentive, and so kind.  I have half a dozen "Richard was amazing" stories, but my favorite was the day Caleb and Joel finally got to come and meet you.  Previously your brothers hadn't been allowed on the unit because of a prevalent illness at the time, but they made a somewhat hard-fought exception when we all knew you were dying.  By God's grace, Richard was our nurse that day.  Your dad and I were in some turmoil because not only were Caleb and Joel going to see a puffy, sick baby brother, but we had to tell them you were probably not going to get better and that you were dying.  When Dad and I arrived on the unit that morning, Richard had two gift bags.  He told us you asked him to go to the gift store to buy your brothers each a present -- an ambulance and a fire truck.  He handed the bags to us to decorate and then when the boys came back to meet you, Richard gave you all the credit.  It was your idea, he said -- he was just doing what you asked him to do.  I have tears pouring down my face as I remember it.  We were so moved by his thoughtfulness.  And he greeted your brothers with gentle joy and love and even tried to take them up to see a helicopter, but there wasn't one currently there to go see.  I will never forget his many kindnesses, and seeing him last week was the best thing a visit to Egleston could have held.

I wonder what you would have been like at 10.  Your siblings are so different from one another, that I imagine you'd be uniquely you, too.  Verbose or of few words?  Calm or wired?  Joyful or more serious?  Impulsive or reflective?  I don't know, but I do know I would have loved you just the way you were -- just how God made you.  And I do.  Though I don't know those things about you, I do know God made you just right, and I am wild about you.  My love for you doesn't fade as the years go by, and your place in our family doesn't diminish.  We're forever knit together, forever mom and son, forever better because of each other.  My heart is full of love and gratitude for you.  You have made our family a richer, deeper, more connected, more forgiving, more joyful, more trusting of our good God family, and I am so thankful for you!

Happy Birthday in Heaven sweet one!  I hope you get to celebrate by doing what you love -- leaping through fields or talking someone's ear off or reading a great book or throwing a ball or singing to Jesus or creating a masterpiece or soaking in a quiet sunrise.  Whatever it is you love, I hope your day holds it.  I look forward to one day celebrating your birthdays with you in Heaven.  Will you show me all the things you love there and introduce me to all your friends and let me shower you with hugs and kisses even if you're a grown man?  I hope you will.  Because I can't wait to share in all the wonder with you.

I love you, Samuel Erik Apinis, and I always will.  Happy 10th, my love,

Love, Mom

To Samuel on his 9th Birthday

My dear, sweet Samuel,

Happy 9th Birthday, buddy!  Nine sounds so old, and therefore the night we met seems impossibly long ago.  I'm not sure how it can have been 9 years since you made your entrance, three and half weeks early, in the fading hours of a Saturday night.  We'd been at the lake with a group of dear friends that weekend but left early that morning because you were sending us warning signs that labor might be on the horizon.  Of course once we were on the road home, everything calmed down and seemed right as rain.  We all had time to take a nap that afternoon, and then just as dinner started to wind down, I knew you were coming.  What joy it was to meet you 9 years ago, to see your adorable and perfect face, even if only for 10 seconds before they whisked you away to the NICU.  I had that rush of adrenaline and pride that follows a birth and buoys you up to unassailable heights.  I already knew how much I loved you, and that love grew with each passing minute of your life.  We may not have had many days together, but oh how much we loved you!  No baby could have been more loved.  What joy you brought us!  What joy you still bring.  I'm so glad that you are our son, that you are Caleb, Joel, Anna, and Eliza's brother.  Your place is our family is forever sealed.  Our love for you is eternal.

We made our annual trek to Egleston on Friday, bearing cookies as usual.  As the years have gone by, so many of the people who were there during your month of life have moved on to other jobs and other places, so we don't expect to see anyone we know when we visit.  But this year was a sweet blessing because we saw 3 of your doctors and Mary Beth, who took amazing care of you during some of your final days of life and was there the morning you died, bathing you and dressing you and being so very kind to us.  We talked to the doctor who tried our grace and calm when you took a turn for the worse by his abrupt and -- in all honesty, extremely insensitive -- delivery of the heartbreaking news that you wouldn't survive, and shockingly, it didn't stir up all those painful emotions.  We also chatted with the doctor who was on the floor the morning you died and who gave us hugs as we walked out of the CICU that final morning, praising us for letting you go peacefully.  And most happily, we talked to Dr. Kim who was a source of encouragement shortly after you died.  He found our blog through another patient and spent time reading it and responding to it, which will always be beautiful to me.  And last year, after we missed him for I-don't-know-how-many years in a row of Egleston visits, he sent us a kind card in the mail, which was once again sweet encouragement and blessing.  It was good for our souls to see him face-to-face, and he shared kind, meaningful words with us yet again.  Those moments are always so humbling because we were just stumbling through each day of your life, clinging to Jesus and to each other, but God saw fit to make something beautiful out of them.  Your dad and I love hearing that your life has touched others in some way, and to know some of that was lasting is always a little piece of Heaven for us.

I'm always a little anxious on your birthday, but this morning was more intense than it has been in some years.  A big part of that is school starting tomorrow (always one of my least favorite days of the year), and this year your littlest sibling starts kindergarten.  I have been a mess the last week, crying unexpectedly throughout the day and thinking of all the joys over the last 13 years with babies at home with me.  For my whole life I have wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, and God graciously granted my wish when Caleb was born.  With each new baby, I rejoiced in extra years of littles at home with me.  This chapter of life has been beautiful, abundantly rewarding, and more than I could ever have imagined.  It is what I was made to do.  And knowing it has come to a close -- at least the part with a child home with me during the day -- is breaking my heart.  I know growing up is a good thing, and it's certainly what I want for all my children, but I lament what has already passed and can never come again.  I have found such joy and fullness and fulfillment in living out what God designed for me, and if I could, I would rewind the clock and do the whole 13 years all over again -- your part, too!  Each of you five children has changed and shaped and sanctified me, bringing immeasurable joy, laughter, tears, and frustration.  You've all made me a better person, and I can't imagine life without you five.

As has been my habit for the last several years, I started your birthday with a run, which always helps me work out some of my angst on August 1.  This morning the grass and trees were the amplified green of summer rain showers, and the richness of life around me reminded me how good God is a tending His creation -- you and me included.  He loves us well, and He faithfully cares for us through all that life holds.  And He will do the same for Eliza as she starts school tomorrow and for me, too, as a new chapter begins.  Part way into my run, the heavens opened up, and I got completely soaked.  Apart from the sloshy shoes and the way my drenched shirt clung to the belly chub that stubbornly insists on serving as indisputable evidence that I birthed you 5 babies (and love to eat cookies), it was delightful.  The rain refreshed the ground and my spirit, reminding me again of God's tender care and love, of how He renews and restores and brings life from the void.  He has brought such life from the void of your absence, and I am so grateful.

I've been thinking about who you would be if you were here -- how you would fit into the dynamics of your siblings.  I keep thinking how much Joel would love having another playmate who can play sports with him, how Anna would love having an older brother still at school with her to walk her to class everyday and to maybe do her bidding when she gets an idea,  how Eliza would nestle in to your lap, make you laugh, and find strength in your presence a few halls over as she starts kindergarten, how Caleb would would enjoy someone else to talk to and to look out for as the oldest brother.  I don't know the things that would make you uniquely you, but I sure do look forward to learning all about you someday and to seeing you in full glory.  I think I'll know you immediately when I finally do see you, though I imagine you won't still be a tiny baby.  But somehow between a mother's intuition and the revelation of Heaven, I think we'll know each other right away.  What joy that moment will be!

This has been a heavier letter than usual, so let me just say, sweet Samuel, that I am so glad you were born!  Happy Birthday, baby.  Your life matters.  You matter.  It is easy to celebrate you today because we're all better because of you. We love you still and always.  I anticipate that reunion hug with joy and tears, and I find such peace in knowing you are perfectly loved, perfectly known, and perfectly whole where you are.  Find someone up there to give you a hug from me today, please.  And whatever it is that brings a huge smile to your face, do that today, my love.  Maybe it's a great book like Caleb, or a rousing game of Spike Ball like Joel, or a choreographed dance like Anna, or a big cuddle followed by laughter and singing like Eliza, or a long walk exploring God's creation like me, or reading up on and watching sports like Dad.  I don't know how all that works in Heaven, but whatever it is, I hope your day involves that thing.

I love you, Samuel Erik Apinis.  Happy 9th Birthday, big boy.  You are so very loved.

Love, Mom

 With your birthday cake.  The siblings unanimously voted for chocolate cherry cake.  Dad was at work when we decided to break in to it.  :)

 With Dr. Maher and Mary Beth

With Dr. Kim

To Samuel on his 8th Birthday

Dear wonderful Samuel,

Happy 8th Birthday, sweet son of mine!  Each time a son of ours has turned 8, your dad and I have commented that 8 seems so much bigger than 7.  I don't know why exactly, but it does.  How can it be that 8 full years have gone by since you entered the world and changed us forever?  8 years feels like a long time.  For many people, 8 years seems like plenty of time to have "moved on," but as time continues to go by, I realize more and more clearly that there is no "moving on"; you are not something to move on from.  You are part of us.  Forever.  I felt that way in the beginning, of course, but the feeling hasn't changed.  You are our forever son.  Caleb, Joel, Anna, and Eliza's forever brother.

Grief has certainly shifted over the years.  For a long time it was the predominant emotion and experience of each day.  It pounded in my ears, dominated my thoughts, and was the lens through which I saw everything.  Gradually it lessened.  It ebbed and flowed.  It ebbs and flows still.  Eventually grief became the undercurrent of my life -- the steady rhythm beneath my feet but no longer the overpowering heartbreak in my face every second of the day.  And now grief is the quiet stream in my soul that, on days like today, can rise up and flood its banks a little, but it's no longer a tidal wave that crushes me and holds me under its power and might while I gasp frantically for air.

But sometimes grief does catch me unawares, like the last couple of days.  We visited Egleston Children's Hospital for our annual cookie delivery on Friday, and the day I spent baking was a tough one.  Tears sprang up, and my heart was heavy.  And the drive down to the hospital and the visit there were weighty and teary, too.  This time of year is always tender, but the last few years our annual trek to the hospital and your birthday coincide with the week school starts back up, and I struggle with that.  I lament the end of summer all summer long.  If you were here, you would know how much I love summer with your siblings home.  Sending everyone back to school is one of my least favorite times of the year, and when it's coupled with missing you extra lots, I get pretty blue. August is my least favorite month (with the major exception of your dad's birthday -- he's going to be 40!! this year!).  It's always a doozy for me.

This morning I woke up with my stomach in knots and feeling the weight of today and you not being here, but I went for a run (I swear sometimes I still can't believe I run -- and that it helps me feel better!), and decided to make Matt Redman my Pandora station because I knew I needed Truth today. Wouldn't you know the first song that came on was one I discovered shortly after you went to Heaven and became my favorite.  It starts with my favorite lines: "Who, oh Lord, can save themselves?  Their own soul can heal?"  And I was reminded anew that Jesus is the Healer of my soul, and He has already done profound healing in me.  And He won't abandon His work; He will continue to be my Healer.

To make today more fun, we met our dear friends at the pool for a few hours, which was a welcome bright spot.  This afternoon we'll go to meet-the-teacher for Joel and Anna, and then tonight we'll eat your birthday cake (I tried something new.  How do you feel about chocolate and strawberries?), and do our balloon send-off.  I am continually grateful for our traditions on your birthday.  They are comforting, and they give the day intentionality.  They help your dad and I remember and celebrate, and they help your siblings, too, stay connected to you.  And thankfully, your brothers and sisters seem to enjoy our traditions, which was what Dad and I hoped seven years ago when we put them in place.

Earlier this year I had the opportunity to share your story at a women's retreat in California.  It was a great experience for me.  I was very nervous about getting up in front of a room of people to talk about you because I cry really easily in those situations and the first time I practiced it, I cried the entire 45 minutes, but God blessed my time of preparation and enabled me to share about you and many of the ways He has redeemed your story -- how He has brought such beauty from ashes.  It made me thankful in new ways for you and how God has written your story.  It really is beautiful.  You are one of my greatest treasures, and I'm so thankful God gave you to us.  And I'm thankful that the story isn't finished -- that we have Heaven together still to come.

In the meantime, I celebrate you.  I celebrate your birth, that you joined our family on August 1, 2009, and that your Dad and I will never be the same.  I celebrate all the beauty God has brought from our Samuel Erik Apinis -- not the least of which is what He has done in my own heart.  You, my sweet, are treasured, valued, cherished, and loved.  And, Samuel, you always will be.

I love you.  Happy Birthday, Samuel!

Love, Mom  (I'm thinking that 8 is probably about the time your brothers switched from Mommy to Mom, so I'll make the switch for you, too. :) )

To Samuel on His 7th Birthday

Dear sweet, wonderful Samuel,

Happy 7th Birthday, my love.  Oh, how I love you.  I think of you, and I smile...and well up with tears at the same time.  There is so much joy in my heart that you were born, that you are mine, that I get to call you son.  But there is also sorrow that I don't know you as a 7 year old boy -- that I don't know your likes and dislikes, how you'd choose to spend your birthday, what your relationships with your siblings would be like, how you'd shape and change our family dynamics, how you'd feel about school starting back up in a mere 3 days.  There is an especial sorrow that I don't know what you'd look like at 7.  Would you have brown eyes like Caleb, Anna, and Eliza, or would you have the twinkle of Joel's hazel?  Or maybe, just maybe, you'd be our one child with your dad's beautiful green eyes.  Would you have a smattering of freckles across your nose and cheeks like your brothers?  Would your hair be bleached blond by the summer sun?  Would you tan deep brown like Caleb or be more fair like Joel?  Would you be lean and lanky like your sisters and Caleb or more solidly built like Joel?  What would you feel like in my arms in a huge birthday embrace?  Would you be soft and snuggly or all sharp angles and bones?  I long for a picture of you frolicking about Heaven, for some idea of your face and shape, some hint of how it would be to hold you and gaze at you on your birthday.  I want to know you, Samuel, and my heart hurts that I have to wait for eternity to do that.  But eternity is coming, and someday I will know you.  This gives my heart hope and stills its clamoring.  Someday will come.

I woke this morning to my stomach turning with nerves and grief and longing.  I reluctantly climbed out of bed and went for a run, choosing to listen to David Crowder, who I haven't listened to in a while, but this morning I knew I needed Truth.  I ruminated on something John Woodall, who has lost two grand babies, texted me and your dad this morning -- "with great hope and grace for today."  Those words anchored me as I ran: Hope for that coming someday and Grace for this very today.  I thought about last night when I snuggled in bed with your littlest sister, Eliza, and told her the truths we often tell your siblings -- that she is special, valuable, important, precious, lovable, lovely, worthy, wonderful, a blessing, a healer, a delight, and a joy.  As I listed those truths to her, she whispered each one along with me, which moved my heart in deep ways, hearing her internalize what your dad and I pray will be foundational for our children.  And I realized that you are living in the fullness of those truths in Heaven.  You are living them in completion, for you are living in the presence of the perfect One who made you perfectly.  You know without any doubt that you are special, valuable, important, precious, lovable, lovely, worthy, wonderful, a blessing, a healer, a delight, and a joy.  Those truths are complete in you, and that made me smile as my feet drummed on the pavement.  By the time I made it back home, my heart was peaceful, and my joy in this day -- your birthday -- was welling up.

Since then it's been a day with smiles and laughter: a trip to the library (which Anna declared you probably would not have liked, but I said, "Who knows?  Maybe Samuel would love the library." She nodded and said, "Like Caleb."), stopping by our old elementary (we were rezoned to a brand new school) to give hugs to teachers, and then swimming and a picnic lunch at the neighborhood pool with very dear friends (something we all think you would have liked).  Tonight we'll write our letters to you on balloons and eat birthday cake.

On Friday we went to Egleston for our annual trip.  We delivered 16 dozen cookies and a note thanking the doctors, nurses, RTS, and staff who work in the CICU.  It was the very first year where we didn't see anyone we knew from our time there with you, but we're still glad we went.  It is always good to remember, to keep our connection to you, to give your siblings something tangible to link to you, and, maybe most of all, to choose thanks -- to position our hearts in a posture of gratitude.  For we are so very thankful for you and for those who cared for you during your brief life.

It is easy to celebrate that you were born, dear Samuel.  I would never wish away your presence in our lives or your part in our family.  You belong in our family forever, and I'm so very glad that's true.  You will always be my son, and I will always be "Samuel's mom."  It's one of my most cherished titles.  I love you, little boy.  And I miss you more than words could ever express.  Happy Birthday, baby.  Someday I'll have eternity to catch up on all those hugs I'm missing out on.  Get ready, little man!  'Cause these arms won't be letting go for a loooooooooooooooooooooooooooong time.  I love you, and I always will!

Love, Mom

To Samuel on his 6th Birthday

My dear, wonderful Samuel,

Happy 6th Birthday, my love!  Oh, how I love you, boy of mine.  I miss you ever so much and wish I could give you a hug and a bunch of smooches until you would wriggle out of my arms on this birthday.  Though I would never want to take you away from Heaven, I do wish I could pop in to celebrate with you for awhile, to snuggle you close, and to see your face as it grows and changes, and you move more firmly into boyhood and out of those early years.  I wonder what you'd want on your cake if you were here and how you'd want to spend this day.

Your namesake, Uncle Erik, is here this weekend along with your cousins Charlie and Grady.  Uncle Erik spent your last night of life with you along with Auntie Marta.  After they flew in with Grammie to meet you, they took the final shift, so Daddy and I could get a few hours of sleep.  (Daddy and I tried to stay together as much as possible and not divide up the hours between us because we wanted to walk through your life and death together, and we clung to each other every minute of those days.  God has faithfully used those days of connection to keep us close and grow and bless our marriage through our grief.  Many marriages of parents who lose a child end in divorce, but thankfully God has bound us together instead of allowing our sorrow to create a gulf between us.)  When your daddy and I walked into the CICU very early on your final morning, Erik and Marta walked toward us to give hugs and head to bed, and over their shoulders we watched your stats plummet.  We knew in that moment that you were ready for Heaven.  You got a night with your aunt and uncle, and you waited for us to hand you over to Jesus.  I'm so thankful for that.

Yesterday we went to Egleston on our yearly trip to remember you and to say thank you to the doctors, nurses, respiratory therapists, and staff in the CICU.  As always, it was both hard and good.  I love to remember you in this specific way, but it's also gut-wrenching.  This year we took care bags to the families of kids on the cardiac floor thanks to a family friend, Allison Russell, who came up with the idea to give 31 Bags to the families.  People could sponsor a bag, and she ended up with 54 bags.  Guess how many beds on are the cardiac floor?  27 in the CICU and 27 in the Step-Down Unit.  We didn't know that going in.  How amazing is that?  Another little way God showed up in our Samuel story.  Each friend who sponsored a bag made my heart happy.  I love that people remember you and continue to honor your life.  I love that Allison had this idea and that each bag had a tag on it saying, "This bag was assembled for you with love in honor of Samuel Apinis, a very special little boy whose life touched many."  You did touch many -- mine maybe most of all.

This was the first time I went to Egleston and wondered what it would be like if you were with us to go back.  Would you want to go and thank the doctors and nurses and marvel at the place where your life started, or would it be a place of stress and fear and knots in your stomach?  I wonder what your associations would have been.

Yesterday we saw one of your amazing nurses for the first time since you went to Heaven.  Mary Beth was your day shift nurse the last 3 or 4 days of your life.  She was so tender with you and so devoted.  I remember her telling us her first morning with you that when she knows a child is dying, she is extra attentive and gentle and works especially hard to take good care of her patient.  She did just that.  She was frank with us but compassionate.  She was very present and kind.  On one of her breaks, she took me through the staff corridors and treated me to a frappuccino.  She was a sweet blessing to us.  She was there the morning you died, but she was assigned a bed near yours.  Someone must have covered her child for her because she came over to us after you went to Heaven, and she gave you a bath and dressed you for the first time.  She helped Nurse Richard clean you up and wrap you in a blanket.  She was good to us, and it was so good to hug her and thank her.  Many amazing people made a tremendous difference in our lives over that month, and we're grateful for every chance we get to express our deep thanks.

As we enter August, I am always a little surprised by the crash of grief that comes over me. Even 6 years later, my longing for you can feel so raw.  A piece of our family is forever absent in this life.  I always live in that truth, but usually it's a quiet undercurrent.  As I was baking cookies to take to the hospital, I had an image of a zero entry pool that ultimately extends into the ocean.  If that pool is grief, normally I live in the shallow end with water just over my toes or maybe up to my ankles.  But as I move into August, I steadily wade deeper into the waters and my body begins to submerge.  After six years, I only end up chest deep, but that's a lot more than my toes being wet.  In that first year after you went to Heaven, I lived underwater, and sometimes the ocean encroached upon the pool, and a full-force wave would crash over me, and I'd wonder if I'd ever come up for air again.  But I always did.  And now the waves are very infrequent, though ever unexpected.  August continues to be weightier than the rest of the year, but it's always a beautiful reminder of just how much healing God has done in our hearts since we said goodbye to you.

Normally your birthday has some lightness to it since it's a day to celebrate your life and that God made you -- which I do! -- but this year it feels heavier than usual, I think because Mary Beth was such a part of your last few days, and that's when Erik was here, too.  So my mind has jumped to your Homegoing.  I will try to spend the rest of the day focusing on your birth, and the great joy we felt and still feel in becoming your parents.

Samuel, I can't tell you how much I love you because words fail me and could never do my love justice.  Just know I am so utterly and thoroughly grateful that God chose US to be your parents and that He made you just the way He made you.  I really wouldn't change our story.  It is so beautiful.  You are such a beautiful part of who we are.  God has done amazing things in us through you.  The me that loves you is a much better me than the one who hadn't met you yet or been heartbroken by your absence.  I love how you've shaped me and our family.  And I love telling Anna and Eliza about you and how they have been God's healers in our hearts.  Anna asks a lot of questions about you, and she already can't wait to meet you one day in Heaven.  Get ready, kid.  You've got one talkative, energetic, sunshiny, beautiful sister coming your way some day with oodles of questions about you and about Heaven.  :)

Samuel, thank you for being you.  Thank you for entering our lives and changing us forever.  Thank you for the gift of you.  I love you exactly as you are, little boy.  (Joel would never have let me call him "little boy" at 6!  Maybe you'll indulge me a few years longer. :))

Happy Birthday, Samuel Erik Apinis.  I love you to Heaven and back again.

Love, Momma

To Samuel on His 5th Birthday

Dear Samuel,

          Happy 5th Birthday, my precious son!  Can it really be true that 5 years have passed since you entered this world and took our hearts by storm?  From the moment I knew you were growing in my womb -- a much longed for and prayed for event -- I loved you.  That love grew exponentially when we learned you had a severe heart defect at your 19 week ultrasound, but none of that remotely compared to the love I felt for you once you arrived, and I could see your beautiful, perfect face and put one hand on the top of your head and one on the bottoms of your feet.  How desperate I was to scoop you up into my arms and shower you with kisses, but I had to content myself with touching your soft skin and staring at your tiny, adorable face.  You were so vulnerable, and that made my love fierce.  I was utterly smitten with you, and that love has done nothing but grow in the five years since.
           
          I miss you, sweet boy.  I wonder all the time what our family would be like if you were still here.  Who would be your main play buddy?  With whom would you bicker?  Where would you sleep???  Would we cram all three of you boys in one room?  Would you share with Anna who throws the occasional tyrannical fit at bedtime?  How would we fit you all in one vehicle?  What would you look like?  Would you resemble any of your siblings?  What would you be into?  And how, oh how, would I survive sending you to kindergarten in 6 short days?!?

         I've had a few heavy and sad days lately as August has approached.  Recently your daddy and I hung up a painting Caleb did, and the clear best place to hang it was in the upstairs hall -- where a collage of pictures of you has hung for the last 5 years.  We moved the collage to a less prominent place in the laundry room (where I still see it every day), and afterwards we both laid down on our bed with heavy, aching hearts.  I looked at your dad and said, "I can't believe how much grief it stirs up in me just to move a picture of Samuel.  My heart just hurts."  He looked over at me and said, "I know, right?  Grief is such a strange thing."  I was glad we were both in the crashing wave of grief together.  It hurt so much to think it was time to take those pictures out of the hallway, where you can see them from the front door of the house.  I know it's the healing God has done in us that enables us to think Caleb's artwork should have the place of prominence in the hall, but who knew healing could still be so painful five years later?

          I am still bewildered that next week would have been your first day of kindergarten.  I can't even imagine taking you to the boys' school and dropping you off with them.  In so many ways, you are forever my baby boy, so it's hard to wrap my mind around a you who would be headed to elementary school.  A kindergartener.  Oh, my.

          Today our family went to Egleston Children's Hospital for our annual trek to remember you and thank the CICU staff for all their hard work and the ways in which they blessed and served us in your lifetime.  It's always hard to visit as nothing takes me back to our month together like Egleston does.    Driving down into the underground parking lot and searching for a spot (I always get a sinking feeling in my stomach at that part), the smell of the soap on my hands (!!!), the long walk down the yellow hall, the loud click of the big double doors opening to the CICU, wandering in the beautiful gardens…it all takes me back to you.  And to the holiness that was August 2009.  I still marvel at God's tender presence, His embracing love, His faithful care while we were in the thin line between life and death.  I've never known God so intimately, relied on Him so fully, experienced His goodness so tangibly as I did that month with you.  As we surrendered you to Him, we knew His goodness in previously unfathomed ways.  And though He didn't answer our prayers the way we hoped, He carried us through every moment of gut-wrenching pain, of dashed hopes, of worst fears realized with previously unimagined love, tenderness, grace, and faithfulness.  I am so thankful.

          God has done a mighty healing in our hearts, Samuel.  We still miss you every day, but when I think of you, I almost always smile, and my heart floods with joy.  God has gone back and painted almost all my memories with a brush of joy.  Your name, your face, your place in our family fill my heart with gladness and gratitude.  I am so thankful God gave us you.  I love the way he made you -- imperfect heart and all.  I love how He's grown us because of you.  I love that He trusted us to be your family.  I love the story He has written and is writing in our lives.  YOU are at the heart of that story in so many ways.  I wouldn't trade you -- or even losing you -- for any other story out there.  This story He is penning is beautiful, redemptive, and life-giving, and I am so thankful.

          Samuel, I love you.  We all do.  Daddy, Caleb, Joel, Anna, Eliza, and I all treasure you.  You are forever part of our family.  Someday, I can't wait to get to know you.  Will you meet me at Heaven's gates when I come?  I hope so.

          Happy Birthday, little buddy.  I love you.  I always will.

                                                                      Love,
                                                                           Momma

         

God Beneath

Every once in awhile, something drives me back here -- to read and remember.  This morning Bryan's former boss and mentor's granddaughter died after only 14 days of life.  I've been following her story and praying fervently for baby Olivia and her parents.  They have clung to Jesus in a beautiful way.  I am truly grieved for them as they face life without sweet Olivia.  And I can't help but remember Samuel and the day he died and the months that followed.  Though every story is unique, I can imagine what today is like for David and Danae.  

A friend emailed me this morning to tell me she is praying for us as she prays for the Woodalls, for she knows it must stir up a lot in us to see a similar story play out in someone else's life.  As I thought about her sweet email, I couldn't help but think of all the ways God cared for us after Samuel died.  I came back here to read some of my posts from those first weeks without Samuel, and I am so glad I recorded what I was thinking and feeling.  It is good to remember.  It is good to have a record of God's faithfulness.  Here are two paragraphs that echo my prayers for David and Danae as they walk in this valley:

"Once again I find myself at the feet of Jesus, depending on Him for the strength, joy, and courage to move forward and to face what this day holds.  He continues to be my portion, my rock, and my good, good God.  Is it weird that I am amazed -- truly -- at His goodness as I navigate the paths of grief? He is so very real, so very present, so very strong, and so very tender with me.  Can I say yet again, IT IS A GOOD GOD WE SERVE!"

"…despite being very, very sad and tearful and fairly unable to take care of ordinary tasks, I have a constant and steady peace underneath it all.  I know in no uncertain terms that God is good.  He is trustworthy.  He is worthy of my praise, and I find I can praise Him even in my darkest moments.  Though the world around me seems dark, and I feel burdened and literally weighed down -- sometimes to the point of suffocation -- the ground beneath me is firm and unchanging.  I know the bottom can't fall out from under me because my foundation is Christ, and He is always the same.  There is a safety underneath my grief, a sense of being held and kept on firm footing.  As long as I make my home on the rock of God, I am safe and peaceful.  I never would have thought there could be such peace in grieving, such confidence in my God, such assurance of His sovereignty.  But He has shown Himself good and loving even here, in the death of my baby boy."

As I think about David and Danae and all their family, as strange as it sounds, I have a quiet expectation that accompanies my sorrow for them.  An expectation of God's tender love for them, of His care, of His faithfulness to carry them through these days and to heal their broken hearts -- not from their grief but in their grief.  I experienced God's mighty love for me most clearly and powerfully after Samuel died, and I find myself expecting the same to be true for the Woodalls.  I quietly anticipate the tender mercies He will shower on them and the "refreshing springs" and "pools of blessing" He will bring from their loss.  I would never, ever wish this sorrow and loss on anyone, but when God takes someone down the road of losing a baby, I silently wait for the beautiful fruit He will produce from it.  And I remember.  I remember Samuel.  I remember fresh grief.  I remember the cruelty of life as usual for most everyone around me.  I remember the empty arms and overwhelming ache in my soul.  But most of all I remember God beneath me, God sustaining me, God loving me.  I pray it is the same for our friends.

Stockings and Tears

Last month as we were decorating for Christmas, our 8 1/2 year old gave me a precious glimpse into his heart.  Kathy, my mother-in-law and Bryan's step-mom, handmade Caleb, Joel, and Anna's stockings.  Eliza's will be next.  Caleb's stocking is of a large snowman hugging a smaller teddybear.  The stockings were newly up on the fireplace, and Caleb came up to me with something he clearly wanted to share.

Caleb: "Mom, something about my stocking is SO familiar to me."

Me: "You mean other than that you see it every year at Christmas time?"

Caleb:  "Yes.  Something about it really moves me."

Me: "Hmmm….is it something you experienced, something you saw, or something in your heart that's familiar?"

Caleb: "I think it's something in my heart."

At this point, I look over at Caleb and see his eyes welling up with tears.  I put down the things I was working on in the kitchen, and walk over to him.

Me: "I can see it's making you sad."

Caleb: "No, Mom.  They're happy tears."

I grab Caleb's hand, and we walk in to the living room and sit on the couch where we can see the stockings.  I pull him into my lap.

Me: "Do you think you're the snowman or the teddybear?"

Caleb: "I really think I'm the snowman."

Since the snowman is the bigger of the two, I start to wonder if perhaps Caleb is thinking of Samuel.  Samuel has been on his mind quite a bit lately, and he's shed a lot of tears for his baby brother in the last few months.  I don't want to plant that idea in Caleb's mind, so ask: "Is it you with one of your siblings?"

Caleb: "No, I don't think so."

Me: "Is it you and Puppy?"  (Puppy is Caleb special stuffed animal.)

Caleb: "That's what I thought at first, but I really don't think that's it."

Me: "Hmmmm….."

Now Caleb's tears spill over and stream down his face.  With more tears pouring and his voice cracking, he tells me: "Mom!  I know what it is!  It's me with my future children! That's me when I'm a dad!"

I am speechless.  Seriously?  What 8 year old cries (I mean really cries!) happy tears when he envisions being a dad someday?!  I wouldn't believe it if I wasn't there witnessing it.  The only thing I can do, because now I'm somewhere between a sob and a disbelieving guffaw, is pull Caleb in tight and wrap my arms around him.  This kid's tender heart is something else.  I cannot believe I've been entrusted with its care in his childhood.  My, what a gift this kid is!

Caleb's stocking is the 3rd from the left.