| Biographical Non-Fiction posted July 10, 2021 |
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July 10, 1981
God Called His Angel Home
by Begin Again
Today marks the anniversary of the death of my son, Michael. Though it has been forty years, sometimes, like today, it seems like yesterday.
I felt the need to post his story today...maybe just to remind people how short life can be and how we should appreciate what we have because who knows how long we are meant to be together. My children and grandchildren have blessed me, but I can't help missing my son and wondering what his life would have been if not for the unfortunate accident.
*****************
The wide-open area of luscious emerald green grass bordered by trimmed boxwood hedges blends into the surrounding cemetery gardens. Chirping birds and an occasional jet shattering the austere solitude. The powder blue sky and the honey gold sun-rays dance across the open spaces, adding the finishing touches to a perfect setting. A quiet, peaceful, beautiful space visited by few.
Carol, a young mother in her early thirties, sits quietly on a blanket. At first sight, one would imagine that she is simply enjoying the warmth of the sunshine and the gentle breezes. By her side, snuggled in a blue blanket, is her infant son, Matthew. The little boy is blissfully asleep, lost in the carefree world of infancy, oblivious to the importance of this day.
Her blue-gray eyes are locked on a square gray granite stone. She softly touches the letters etched into its surface, "Born of Love into Eternity." Tears glisten in the corner of her eyes, and she whispers, "Hello." Her trembling fingers brush across her lips and then slowly follow the outline of each engraved letter - MICHAEL. Silence embraces her as she struggles to speak, "Mommy misses you."
Reality is cold and harsh. Her heart aches beyond any pain she's ever known. Tormented, a sob rages through her body. Shoulders slumped, she knows only memories and a beautiful place to visit are all that remain.
Michael was born five years before the birth of Matthew. He was a child who needed to do a lot of living in a short amount of time. His father, Chuck, and his mother were not aware of Michael's timetable and often found it difficult to keep up with the bright, inquisitive mind of the toddler. Bored with the confines of a playpen, he astonished his parents by crawling at four months and walking at nine. His world grew by leaps and bounds, as his chubby little legs gave him the ability to widen his horizons. His inquisitive, young mind lacked knowledge of fear and consequences, so he rushed into his new world without hesitation. He was constantly mixing bottles of shampoos, breaking eggs on the kitchen floor, or standing at the top of the stairs pouring a box of cheerios, watching the tiny little o's as they cascaded down the steps. With the face of an angel and the spirit of the devil, Michael was on the move every waking moment.
It was impossible to meet the young toddler without walking away with a beautiful memory or two. From cowboy hats to his older sister's recital costumes, he danced across the kitchen floor, making his mother laugh until she gasped for air. Despite his never-ending antics, Michael's winning smile and joyous laugh would always steal his mother's heart. A heart that would be shattered into a million pieces shortly after he turned four years old.
People would comment that Michael was far too pretty to be a boy; he had the face of an angel. No one could ever know that he would be an angel in heaven sooner than anyone could ever expect, no one except Michael, of course. If Carol or Chuck had any possible way of knowing what the future held, they never would have taken their children on vacation to Lake Lodi in nearby Wisconsin. The week's vacation had been wonderful. They had been to a safari, rode a steam engine train, frolicked in the warm lake waters, picnicked on the beach, and roasted marshmallows on the campfire at night. Michael had even tried purchasing ice cream bars shaped like Mickey Mouse, telling the clerk to put it on his father's bill. The vacation had been special to all the family, and none of them wanted it to end.
While packing the car, Chuck tried to explain to Michael that they had to go back to their own home, but he refused to accept that idea. With hands on his hips and his feet firmly planted, he stubbornly confronted his father and told him how wrong he was about going home. He calmly explained with the sincere righteousness of a four-year-old that his dad was simply confused. He was not going home. He was going to see Peter Pan, Mickey Mouse, and Jesus. How could his dad have known or understood what the young, innocent child was trying to tell him? How could his mother have known moments after consoling her son and kissing his tears away that he would disappear?
Helicopters hovered over nearby cornfields, parting the corn stalks with the wind from their blades. State police checked campers as they exited the secluded campground and searched in hopes that the young child had crawled inside. Volunteers walked through the vast forest of trees and tangled brush that bordered the campground boundary. A thirty-man team of campers and rescue workers formed a human chain and walked the shallow depths of the crystal clear water.
As minutes turned into hours, hopelessness tugged at the hearts of everyone involved. The family huddled together, refusing to accept the possibility that Michael was lost to them forever.
As darkness began to settle across the campground, the sheriff sadly told the family that they'd done all that they could do. He chose his words carefully as he tried to explain that if Michael was in the water, it might take days for him to surface. Frantic with the thought of leaving her son alone in the water, Carol begged and pleaded with the sheriff and his volunteers to try one last time. Someone had found an empty bubble bottle drifting near the shore. Sobbing, she remembered that she had given the bubbles to her son to comfort him while she was packing. Unable to refuse her agonizing pleas, the team formed once again and walked through the waters.
Only moments later, Michael's tiny body was carried from the shallow depths of the lake. The coroner labeled it an accident, the death certificate said asphyxiation, and the volunteer who lifted the lifeless child's body from the water found it gut-wrenching. The family called it devastating beyond words. The coroner said his lungs were free of water, and there was no evidence of drowning, but Michael was dead, leaving his family to deal with grief and his last words to his dad. Had the little boy known more about living and dying than anyone else had that tragic day? Had he innocently tried to leave his family with a message of peace? Had God simply offered the traumatized family a reason for the tragic death? No one had any of the answers!
After returning home, Carol and Chuck walked through the steps of preparing to bury their son like zombies from the dead. Each parent did whatever was required without ever realizing that they were doing it. Overwhelmed with grief, they both reached out to God for answers.
Chuck, a devout Catholic, attended church and prayed for the soul of his son. Heartbroken, he clung to his faith. He had to believe that his son had died for reasons known only to God. He'd received a gift of fatherhood for four short years and felt blessed. His pain and agony found no relief as he struggled with the teachings of his Catholic faith. For him, he must accept that the tiny coffin held only the shell of his son. He had to trust that Michael was now in a far better place and was certainly at peace.
Carol lived by the word of God and carried her faith deep in her heart, but didn't find her peace within the walls of a church. The young, devastated mother sat for hours at the gravesite of her son, alternating between quiet, loving words to Michael, torrential floods of salty tears, and deep, passionate anger for the loss of her son. Consumed with grief, she searched the heavens above, praying for relief from her agonizing pain. Without warning, her anger bubbled from inside as she berated God for having taken her baby boy. Shaking her fists at the sky, she righteously demanded answers. What reason could God have for taking an innocent child from his family? What kind of God gave the precious gift of life and then snatched it back without warning? They had been good parents. They'd loved their son with all their hearts, and now his body lay lifeless beneath the granite stone. She believed in God and everlasting life, but her heart ached for her little boy. She needed to be reassured that her son was safe in the arms of God.
Torn between faith and motherhood, Carol screamed towards the sky, begging for a sign, anything that would ease her pain. If God needed Michael so badly, he could at least give her a sign that he was okay. The wrath of a mother's lost love left no room for doubt. She had given birth to this child, cared for him, loved him with every fiber of her being, and without notice, he'd been taken from her. Tears of agony streamed down her face as she pleaded once again for a sign, an answer from God. Wasn't he the all-powerful, the shepherd of mankind? He gave Moses the power to part the seas, granted miracles of life, and gave his son to save the world. Was the simple plea of a heartbroken mother beneath his level of caring?
She knelt beside the grave, exhausted from her outburst. She could hear the leaves on the trees begin to rustle with the gentle breeze. Two tiny, baby blue butterflies fluttered across the grave. A moment ago, she had been tormented by grief, but now, a sense of peace enveloped her. The tiny butterflies were mesmerizing as they darted here and there. Finally, one of the butterflies softly landed on her hand. Stunned into silence, she watched as the tiny wings fluttered across her mother's ring, content to sit on the stones. The other tiny butterfly continued to fly here and there around her and the grave. Sitting on the grass, finally feeling at peace, she could not take her eyes away from the tiny blue butterflies. Had God truly answered her pleas? Were the butterflies a sign? The calm that enveloped her as she stared at the tiny wings that fluttered on her hand was more than enough of an answer. Ashamed at her anger, she looked at the sky and softly whispered, "Thank You." She was thankful for the butterflies, but wondered why two?
Months later, she would discover the answer to that question. After a routine physical, Carol's doctor was deeply concerned for her health and emotional well-being. What normally would have been a blessed event, now was a cause for great concern. She was pregnant. Due to past medical history, a pregnancy would be life-threatening to her and the baby. In addition to the medical problems, Carol had been on prescribed narcotics for several months. Giving birth could be a death sentence for each of them or a life of deformity for the newborn child.
Chuck was torn between his faith and the love of his wife. He believed in the sanctity of life, but his heart ached with the possibility that she could die giving birth to this child. He had been engulfed by grief over the death of his son, Michael. He couldn't even fathom the depths of his sorrow if his wife died.
On the other hand, Carol was overjoyed. She had no reservations about the gift God had chosen to give her. As she thought of Michael and that day at his gravesite, the meaning of two little blue butterflies became obvious. God had seen fit not only to answer her heartbreaking pleas about Michael's well-being, but he had blessed her with another child, a gift from God.
Today was her first visit to the gravesite since Matthew's birth. She remembered the butterflies and was thankful for the blessings God had seen fit to bestow upon her. Today was a special day, a day of happiness, yet a day of sorrow. Carol's heart still ached for the loss of her son, Michael, but she understood that he was in the hands of God. Closing her eyes, she envisioned him running through the grass, laughing with pure joy. She remembered every moment as if it was only yesterday. It was almost impossible to believe that it has been fourteen months since she'd been given the gift of the two tiny butterflies. She faced and overcame unfathomable grief, extreme bouts of anger, and a bottomless pit of emptiness. She'd risked her life, and in return, God had blessed her with another son. Sitting next to the granite stone, she carefully cradled her baby boy and began to tell him a story. A story that he would be told for years and years to come. A story about his brother, God, tiny blue butterflies, and a very special gift...a baby boy named Matthew, meaning a gift from God.
For those who have read this and understand...I thank you.
Story of the Month contest entry
Today marks the anniversary of the death of my son, Michael. Though it has been forty years, sometimes, like today, it seems like yesterday.
I felt the need to post his story today...maybe just to remind people how short life can be and how we should appreciate what we have because who knows how long we are meant to be together. My children and grandchildren have blessed me, but I can't help missing my son and wondering what his life would have been if not for the unfortunate accident.
*****************
The wide-open area of luscious emerald green grass bordered by trimmed boxwood hedges blends into the surrounding cemetery gardens. Chirping birds and an occasional jet shattering the austere solitude. The powder blue sky and the honey gold sun-rays dance across the open spaces, adding the finishing touches to a perfect setting. A quiet, peaceful, beautiful space visited by few.
Carol, a young mother in her early thirties, sits quietly on a blanket. At first sight, one would imagine that she is simply enjoying the warmth of the sunshine and the gentle breezes. By her side, snuggled in a blue blanket, is her infant son, Matthew. The little boy is blissfully asleep, lost in the carefree world of infancy, oblivious to the importance of this day.
Her blue-gray eyes are locked on a square gray granite stone. She softly touches the letters etched into its surface, "Born of Love into Eternity." Tears glisten in the corner of her eyes, and she whispers, "Hello." Her trembling fingers brush across her lips and then slowly follow the outline of each engraved letter - MICHAEL. Silence embraces her as she struggles to speak, "Mommy misses you."
Reality is cold and harsh. Her heart aches beyond any pain she's ever known. Tormented, a sob rages through her body. Shoulders slumped, she knows only memories and a beautiful place to visit are all that remain.
Michael was born five years before the birth of Matthew. He was a child who needed to do a lot of living in a short amount of time. His father, Chuck, and his mother were not aware of Michael's timetable and often found it difficult to keep up with the bright, inquisitive mind of the toddler. Bored with the confines of a playpen, he astonished his parents by crawling at four months and walking at nine. His world grew by leaps and bounds, as his chubby little legs gave him the ability to widen his horizons. His inquisitive, young mind lacked knowledge of fear and consequences, so he rushed into his new world without hesitation. He was constantly mixing bottles of shampoos, breaking eggs on the kitchen floor, or standing at the top of the stairs pouring a box of cheerios, watching the tiny little o's as they cascaded down the steps. With the face of an angel and the spirit of the devil, Michael was on the move every waking moment.
It was impossible to meet the young toddler without walking away with a beautiful memory or two. From cowboy hats to his older sister's recital costumes, he danced across the kitchen floor, making his mother laugh until she gasped for air. Despite his never-ending antics, Michael's winning smile and joyous laugh would always steal his mother's heart. A heart that would be shattered into a million pieces shortly after he turned four years old.
People would comment that Michael was far too pretty to be a boy; he had the face of an angel. No one could ever know that he would be an angel in heaven sooner than anyone could ever expect, no one except Michael, of course. If Carol or Chuck had any possible way of knowing what the future held, they never would have taken their children on vacation to Lake Lodi in nearby Wisconsin. The week's vacation had been wonderful. They had been to a safari, rode a steam engine train, frolicked in the warm lake waters, picnicked on the beach, and roasted marshmallows on the campfire at night. Michael had even tried purchasing ice cream bars shaped like Mickey Mouse, telling the clerk to put it on his father's bill. The vacation had been special to all the family, and none of them wanted it to end.
While packing the car, Chuck tried to explain to Michael that they had to go back to their own home, but he refused to accept that idea. With hands on his hips and his feet firmly planted, he stubbornly confronted his father and told him how wrong he was about going home. He calmly explained with the sincere righteousness of a four-year-old that his dad was simply confused. He was not going home. He was going to see Peter Pan, Mickey Mouse, and Jesus. How could his dad have known or understood what the young, innocent child was trying to tell him? How could his mother have known moments after consoling her son and kissing his tears away that he would disappear?
Helicopters hovered over nearby cornfields, parting the corn stalks with the wind from their blades. State police checked campers as they exited the secluded campground and searched in hopes that the young child had crawled inside. Volunteers walked through the vast forest of trees and tangled brush that bordered the campground boundary. A thirty-man team of campers and rescue workers formed a human chain and walked the shallow depths of the crystal clear water.
As minutes turned into hours, hopelessness tugged at the hearts of everyone involved. The family huddled together, refusing to accept the possibility that Michael was lost to them forever.
As darkness began to settle across the campground, the sheriff sadly told the family that they'd done all that they could do. He chose his words carefully as he tried to explain that if Michael was in the water, it might take days for him to surface. Frantic with the thought of leaving her son alone in the water, Carol begged and pleaded with the sheriff and his volunteers to try one last time. Someone had found an empty bubble bottle drifting near the shore. Sobbing, she remembered that she had given the bubbles to her son to comfort him while she was packing. Unable to refuse her agonizing pleas, the team formed once again and walked through the waters.
Only moments later, Michael's tiny body was carried from the shallow depths of the lake. The coroner labeled it an accident, the death certificate said asphyxiation, and the volunteer who lifted the lifeless child's body from the water found it gut-wrenching. The family called it devastating beyond words. The coroner said his lungs were free of water, and there was no evidence of drowning, but Michael was dead, leaving his family to deal with grief and his last words to his dad. Had the little boy known more about living and dying than anyone else had that tragic day? Had he innocently tried to leave his family with a message of peace? Had God simply offered the traumatized family a reason for the tragic death? No one had any of the answers!
After returning home, Carol and Chuck walked through the steps of preparing to bury their son like zombies from the dead. Each parent did whatever was required without ever realizing that they were doing it. Overwhelmed with grief, they both reached out to God for answers.
Chuck, a devout Catholic, attended church and prayed for the soul of his son. Heartbroken, he clung to his faith. He had to believe that his son had died for reasons known only to God. He'd received a gift of fatherhood for four short years and felt blessed. His pain and agony found no relief as he struggled with the teachings of his Catholic faith. For him, he must accept that the tiny coffin held only the shell of his son. He had to trust that Michael was now in a far better place and was certainly at peace.
Carol lived by the word of God and carried her faith deep in her heart, but didn't find her peace within the walls of a church. The young, devastated mother sat for hours at the gravesite of her son, alternating between quiet, loving words to Michael, torrential floods of salty tears, and deep, passionate anger for the loss of her son. Consumed with grief, she searched the heavens above, praying for relief from her agonizing pain. Without warning, her anger bubbled from inside as she berated God for having taken her baby boy. Shaking her fists at the sky, she righteously demanded answers. What reason could God have for taking an innocent child from his family? What kind of God gave the precious gift of life and then snatched it back without warning? They had been good parents. They'd loved their son with all their hearts, and now his body lay lifeless beneath the granite stone. She believed in God and everlasting life, but her heart ached for her little boy. She needed to be reassured that her son was safe in the arms of God.
Torn between faith and motherhood, Carol screamed towards the sky, begging for a sign, anything that would ease her pain. If God needed Michael so badly, he could at least give her a sign that he was okay. The wrath of a mother's lost love left no room for doubt. She had given birth to this child, cared for him, loved him with every fiber of her being, and without notice, he'd been taken from her. Tears of agony streamed down her face as she pleaded once again for a sign, an answer from God. Wasn't he the all-powerful, the shepherd of mankind? He gave Moses the power to part the seas, granted miracles of life, and gave his son to save the world. Was the simple plea of a heartbroken mother beneath his level of caring?
She knelt beside the grave, exhausted from her outburst. She could hear the leaves on the trees begin to rustle with the gentle breeze. Two tiny, baby blue butterflies fluttered across the grave. A moment ago, she had been tormented by grief, but now, a sense of peace enveloped her. The tiny butterflies were mesmerizing as they darted here and there. Finally, one of the butterflies softly landed on her hand. Stunned into silence, she watched as the tiny wings fluttered across her mother's ring, content to sit on the stones. The other tiny butterfly continued to fly here and there around her and the grave. Sitting on the grass, finally feeling at peace, she could not take her eyes away from the tiny blue butterflies. Had God truly answered her pleas? Were the butterflies a sign? The calm that enveloped her as she stared at the tiny wings that fluttered on her hand was more than enough of an answer. Ashamed at her anger, she looked at the sky and softly whispered, "Thank You." She was thankful for the butterflies, but wondered why two?
Months later, she would discover the answer to that question. After a routine physical, Carol's doctor was deeply concerned for her health and emotional well-being. What normally would have been a blessed event, now was a cause for great concern. She was pregnant. Due to past medical history, a pregnancy would be life-threatening to her and the baby. In addition to the medical problems, Carol had been on prescribed narcotics for several months. Giving birth could be a death sentence for each of them or a life of deformity for the newborn child.
Chuck was torn between his faith and the love of his wife. He believed in the sanctity of life, but his heart ached with the possibility that she could die giving birth to this child. He had been engulfed by grief over the death of his son, Michael. He couldn't even fathom the depths of his sorrow if his wife died.
On the other hand, Carol was overjoyed. She had no reservations about the gift God had chosen to give her. As she thought of Michael and that day at his gravesite, the meaning of two little blue butterflies became obvious. God had seen fit not only to answer her heartbreaking pleas about Michael's well-being, but he had blessed her with another child, a gift from God.
Today was her first visit to the gravesite since Matthew's birth. She remembered the butterflies and was thankful for the blessings God had seen fit to bestow upon her. Today was a special day, a day of happiness, yet a day of sorrow. Carol's heart still ached for the loss of her son, Michael, but she understood that he was in the hands of God. Closing her eyes, she envisioned him running through the grass, laughing with pure joy. She remembered every moment as if it was only yesterday. It was almost impossible to believe that it has been fourteen months since she'd been given the gift of the two tiny butterflies. She faced and overcame unfathomable grief, extreme bouts of anger, and a bottomless pit of emptiness. She'd risked her life, and in return, God had blessed her with another son. Sitting next to the granite stone, she carefully cradled her baby boy and began to tell him a story. A story that he would be told for years and years to come. A story about his brother, God, tiny blue butterflies, and a very special gift...a baby boy named Matthew, meaning a gift from God.
For those who have read this and understand...I thank you.
 Recognized |
|
Hug your loved ones today... You never know if you will get another chance. The pain and grief of losing someone you love never goes away. At times it fades, only to roar back with a vengeance when you least expect it. We never know when God will call his Angels back home....
The picture was taken the day before he passed away. He was so happy. Gotta love that smile!
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. The picture was taken the day before he passed away. He was so happy. Gotta love that smile!
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