The Gift of Liam
In February 2005, one of my best friends, Mike, called to tell me the news that his wife, Brooke, had given birth to their second child named Simon. Now Mike isn't one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but a couple days later he wrote me an email saying that Simon was experiencing some difficulties and that he was more than worried. I assured him that it was his right to worry...it was his son!
A year and a half earlier, their daughter, Tovah, was born. It was during a time just after we had moved across the country from Michigan to the Seattle area and I remember always thinking that these were friends we would probably grow old with and raise our kids with, you know, just do life together through a ripe old age. But we made the decision to move in order to chase some dreams of ours. All that to say that when Tovah was born and Brooke called and told me, I wept harder than I had in many months (probably not since we said goodbye to our dear friends 9 months earlier). So it was with great excitement and sadness that we received the news of Simon's birth. Excitement because who isn't excited for their friends when they have another child, but sadness (call me selfish) because we couldn't be there in person again to celebrate.
Another couple days passed and I received a phone call at like 5:30 or 6 am and I remember not answering because I thought that it was either a miss dialed call or a prank or something, and if by chance it was a legitimate call then they would indeed call back. The second call came immediately, it was Mike. He simply said to me in his 'non-heart-on-his-sleeve' way, "I just wanted to be the first to tell you that my son is dead." I was stunned and lived 2,000 miles away, I couldn't hug him or anything, all I could do was say a meager prayer and then tell him that I'd check in with him a bit later. Heather's immediate thought was that I had to get back there to be with our friends. As the day progressed, having solicited prayer from many friends and family, we found ourselves blessed with folks who wanted to get the money together to fly both of us back to be with our friends! Some other friends of ours offered to take care of our 3 kids at the time while we were gone (we now have 4 by the way), and so we were off.
Most of what I remember, though, was the story of Simon. Simon lived just 3 days but the stories Mike and Brooke could already tell were told as if he had lived 10 or 15 years and it was obvious that Brooke knew her son intimately. I remember the irony of that Sunday when we arrived in Michigan for the funeral, it was Super Bowl Sunday and we couldn't care less. We went out that night to savor fine brews at the pub, and conversation with friends new and old (Mike and Brooke, too)...we told stories both directly and indirectly having to do with Simon. There were profound pensive pauses in the flow of stories but it wasn't awkward, for that moment we all remembered a little boy who lived 3 days.
Brooke, a fantastic mom, had a body that was still functioning as if she were nursing an infant...talk about constant reminders. Mike got a tattoo of Simon's name in Hebrew on his chest (I'm proud to say I wrote the script and designed it). And now today their expecting another child in September sometime (and in fact they had another son, Lucian, just a year after Simon...so this will be their '4th'). Each pregnancy has been a memorial for them, and I know that fear and uncertainty is there still. I can't even imagine.
Now this week we learn of the passing (some would call it death) of a little boy named Liam. His mom is Kate, and his dad is Justin, and they live in Nova Scotia. Liam is a twin to Ben and a brother to Evan. Ben is still around and stronger every day, but I'm again struck by the profundity of a life well lived even as an infant for only a couple months. Kate has a writer's gift (check out her blog) and her words are, well, the words only Liam's mother could write. Coming from anyone else would not suffice, rather she's greiving and celebrating in a strange swirl of life. I wish on some level I could go there and sit with them, just sit there...just as Job's friends did. In the meantime, I somewhat helplessly sit here on the other end of the continent mourning in my own way by remembering little boys who change the course of things by simply hanging out with us for a few days.
"Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you. I do not give to you as the world gives..."
