No Strong Words

I won't put a happy face on the last few days. Colorado was hard and I thought perhaps coming home would bring some comfort. It hasn't. Wyatt isn't here. Three months have passed without him coming into my room in the morning, or riding his bike on the driveway, or jumping on the bed, or playing in the bathtub, or listening to story after story before bedtime. Life is still vastly empty and sad. He didn't go fishing with Rachel and E.J. He didn't pick wildflowers with Mima and Pop. He didn't listen to Big Cassie's stories in the van. He didn't squeal with joy when he saw Maasen after being gone for two weeks.

It seems the only thing I can do to stop the pain is read. Sometimes it's too hard to focus enough, though, and I start thinking: Wyatt. He's gone. That voice gets louder and louder until I can't take it anymore and I try to read again. Or do the dishes. Or... there's nothing I can do to get rest it seems.

And somehow we're supposed to face tomorrow morning and remember the last time we held Zeke. Precious and horrible, all in the same breath.

Happy Birthday, Zeke

 This time last year we had our third child, Ezekiel John Blake. In typical Tblake fashion he came quickly and "easily" as some might say. He was a large baby, 9 pounds and 2 ounces, but his arrival was a joy to us. He came just in time, with thirty minutes to spare he was born on Aunt Lauren's birthday and during Sabbath. Though his time with us on this side of life was short, we look forward to the years of loving G-d together.

Last night Sam pulled out his guitar and led the nine of us (Little Cass joined us) in a time of worship. He played several of his new songs, songs that reflect the pain and struggle we are going through right now. Songs that echo the voice of David as he ran for his life from King Saul. And as we all sang our lungs out, praising the One who created Zeke, I felt that eternal moment come closer. This has happened before, during worship times at Kingdom Living. My heart shifts to the heavenly and I feel the overwhelming joy that will come when I sing with all of my children before the Holy of Holies.

Here in Colorado the sadness that comes from missing our boys has been compounded by the fact that they aren't here to enjoy it. The reason we are here is because Wyatt is gone, and observing Zeke's birthday is a strange mix of sadness, emptiness and longing, with only a hint of happiness. That week that he was with us was the happiest week of my life. Since he's been gone there's been a deep decline in joy. Without Wyatt this life seems unreal. So last night, singing about our G-d and King, I felt what will one day be real. One day I will not long for anything because the longings in my soul will be met by the One who put them there. I will dance and sing with tears of joy instead of this pain and sorrow. I wait for that day...

At 9:15 this morning Cassie was still quiet in her room. I laid in bed and waited. I waited to hear the thud of her feet on the floor, the quick little steps and then the door creaking open, and slamming closed. I'm not sure why she closes the door behind her. Perhaps it is to keep Yuma off of her rug. Perhaps it is out of habit, like on the rare occassion that she would get up before Wyatt.

I tell fear to leave, I trust that Cassie is ok.

I wrote this down in my journal a week ago, to remember in the hard times:
I believe G-d is good. He will provide for me emotionally, physically, mentally and financially. I trust these things are true. I believe they are true. G-d took Wyatt; it was not an accident. It was His timing and His way. I will see Wyatt again.

The clock turned 9:20, those five minutes lasting hours, and Cassie came out of her room and crawled into bed with me.