The New Club, Amputation, Relinquishment

On Thursday, August 21, we gathered at a cemetery in Nashville, the burial site of many babies. We had already said goodbyes to Luke at a church in Georgia shortly after his passing. Because Nicol and Greg are planning to relocate to Nashville, little Lukey was transported there. Jim and I arrived early, and we watched in disbelief as they moved the tiny casket from the vehicle to the canopy.

Greg and Nicol, Greg's parents, sister, nieces, friends from Georgia, our family, Jim and I, and other friends from the Nashville area gathered to commit Luke to a place he will someday triumphantly rise from whole and glorious.

A few days before Greg's family and we met at a restaurant. I anticipated this meeting more than I can say. Grieving has a way of bonding and unifying people like nothing I have ever experienced before. I couldn't wait to see Greg's mom and sister, dad, and nieces and knew that when we embraced I would cry for our profound loss but feel the comfort of their touch.

Vicki and I spoke together of the new club we never planned on joining, the club of grieving grandparents. Our membership was forced. I relished every moment with her the next few days. We compared notes--how we don't feel understood by well meaning and caring people who have not lost their grand babies; how, as we look into the eyes of these people, we see a yearning for everything to be "normal" again, to be back to what it was, or at least to be better. They so long for Greg and Nicol and Angie and Todd to heal NOW or be making some kind of quick, palpable progress toward that end. How many grieving people have I done that to?

We spoke of nothing being the same again, that it would never be the same again. Vicki said, "I don't want to ever be the same again." I agreed. If that were the case, then Luke's birth, life, and death would count for little if anything. The Africans have a saying. Kabisa bampasi ya beno. Divide up your sorrow with us. And that's what we did with each other. Not knowing many other grandmothers who have walked this road, we found it catharctic to share the new feel to our lives. Lengthy explanations were not necessary. We knew exactly what the other one was speaking of. It was wonderful, rich, unifying, and peace giving, but too short.

Several weeks ago I met with a dear friend who lost her 10-year-old son from a rare blood disorder. He was gone within a week. This November will be the 8th anniversary of his death. It is only now that she can speak of his death without crying, but the tears are not far from the surface. She described her loss in many ways, but one word has resonated in my ears since our meeting. Amputation. His death was sudden, horrific, and totally unexpected, like Luke's. he was cut off--amputated from their lives.

Amputation changes life forever. Three months down the line (we lost Luke on May 27), the paralyzing numbness is not as great as it was in the days following his death, but his severance has left us with the feeling of amputation. Just as the loss of an arm or a leg requires daily adjustments, daily relinquishments to a new life, and daily alterations to living, (and those days turn into years) so the death of a child forces those left behind to deal indefinitely with the changes resulting from such a great loss.

Personally speaking, we as grandparents must sit by and watch our children suffer. We are helpless to make it better. Fixing things is a parental instinct. Furthermore, we not only grieve our children's losses, we grieve the loss of their babies as well.

We can allow our hurts to take on a bitter hue or we can choose to relinquish this pain to the One who has a master plan. Tonight I am relinquishing not being able to take Luke and Audrey to the ice cream shop and watching them smear chocolate all over their little faces when they would have become toddlers. I am relinquishing their not being able to grow up together. I am relinquishing holding Audrey in my arms at the age of 3 months clothed in a beautiful frock I would have purchased. I am relinquishing watching the wonder in Kate's eyes as she takes in her little sister and the looks on Ellie's and Abby's faces as they sit holding Audrey on their couch. I am relinquishing seeing Luke doing all the wonderful moves a baby makes in his first five months, watching him smile, watching him recognize his mama and daddy, watching him trying to start to crawl and get ready to sit up, watching him so enjoy his bath. And what about the delight in my children's eyes as they track the progress of their babies at this stage of life. I relinquish that too, Lord. Oh God! It hurts.

And in my relinquishing, these words ring saliently in my head. Jesus wept. He doeth all things well, and precious, important, and of no light matter in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints, His loving ones. He will not come to me, but I will go to him. These truths cause me to relinquish my finite mind to His Infinity, to take His hand and hold on tight. To trust Him in the darkness and tell Him how desperate I am for Him. And He once again comes and soothes me with the balm of His Holy Spirit. Warm grace washes over my soul. He speaks Peace.

Here are two tributes to little Lukey, one by his uncle Jack and one by his daddy spoken at his committal service on August 21, 2008.

Memories of Lukey
July 12, 2008

Hi Guys,

Nicol, you asked me to write some memories of Luke a while ago, but I've been unable to write it in one sitting. Either the tears or grief would get in the way of my words and cause me to postpone continuing. It's been difficult considering the grief we have experienced the last few months. I have cried more in the last weeks than I care to remember. I cry because of the pain and loss you and Greg have suffered. But I also cry because of the joy Luke gave to me in our short time together, and I will miss not having more memories with him. I will cherish the short time we had forever and keep them in my heart. Luke's life has already profoundly impacted me. I realize more the gift my children are and when I am being consumed with the grind of life, I recall the memories I have of your sweet boy, and it stills my heart. His memory slows me down and gives me much needed perspective. Luke's life has left an imprint on the walls of my heart and it will continue to do so.

One of the first things that come to mind when I think of Luke are his eyes. Not only were they a deep, deep blue but they held you captive. When your eyes met his, you had no choice but to stare. He was truly spellbinding! If it's true that the eyes are the window to the soul, then Luke had a bright one. His eyes were pure and beautiful and I believe it reflected what was in his heart.

He was also curious. At times he would look at me and it seemed like he was studying and trying to make a connection on how I fit into his life. I remember going to the Mexican restaurant with you and having his carrier set right next to me. I would glance over at him and catch him sizing me up. He truly attempted to understand what was surrounding him.

The memory of his smile comes to mind as well. The way his cheeks would indent, revealing his beautiful dimples, would melt anyone's heart. I felt so good when he laughed. I got such joy out of his expressions. Not only would he be able to tell a joke but could take one as well. I would have loved to have seen his humor come out as he grew up. I envision him being one of the boys and being around his uncles and daddy and being able to hold his own.

Even though I barely held him and had little time with him, I feel attached to him in a special way. With all the changes that Molly and I are contemplating and praying about, I believe the most important are the ones that draw us closer together. Luke's life and death is one of those events. It bonded mine and my wife's heart. Our hearts are broken and the events continue to disturb our faith, but all we are left with is the decision to trust. I don't understand God's timing or will. I will never attempt to explain Luke's short life. I do, however, value the life he lived and place a great deal of significance on the time I had with him.

I hope the knowledge of Luke's impact on our lives brings some comfort to your hearts. His memory will live on and will be cherished forever. We love you all so much and pray for you always. You are always in our hearts and on our minds.

Love,

Jack and Molly



We stand here today. . .
in a dreadful place
on a dreadful occasion
because of a dreadful loss
We stand here today. . .
ravaged by grief
our hearts have been trampled
we are wounded and broken
we bleed and we weep
there will be no forgetting, there is no escape
We stand here today. . .
without the luxury of choice
sinking toward depression wrestling with despair
brawling with anger
fighting our fears
We stand here today. . .
more intensely familiar
with death's lingering stench
more intimately acquainted
with the grave's vicious sting
more keenly aware
of life's grass-withering fragility
its flower-fading brevity
We stand here today. . .
struggling to reconcile
some of the things we believe
holding on tightly to those scarce certainties
we know to be true
asking questions never faced before
none more often than 'Why?'
except for 'How?'
in this world do we go on
We stand here today. . .
forever changed
never again the same
in some ways, bad
in all ways, eventually good
We stand here today. . .
beaten and battered
but not totally crushed
bewildered and confused
but not surrendering to our despair
and though there are questions aplenty
we have not been forsaken
and we are not destroyed
We stand here today. . .
having limped to this place
our hearts overwhelmed with sadness
over the profound loss of our precious Lukey
our minds filled with wonder
at what might have been
our souls buoyed with a new-found longing
for that place we call home
We stand here today. . .
reminded anew
that our soul's constant hunger
its unrelenting thirst
its persistent longings
its empty yearnings
will never be fully satisfied
'til Christ's promised return
We stand here today. . .
in a beautiful place
with all of Creation
as it raises both chorus and groan
of praise and of ache
up to the heavens, to the Father above
for who He is, for what is to come
We stand here today. . .
in an expectant place
for from this very spot
our 'Little Man' will rise
when Jesus comes calling
oh what a beautiful thought
Maranatha, come Lord Jesus, come even now
We stand here today. . .
grieving with hope
for we are not among those
who have nothing to look forward to

Greg Sponberg