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
