It'S so Warm on Your Lap, Jesus , livre ebook

Inspiring Voices - Marilyn Kuehl

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43 pages

English

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The moment her son, Andrew, arrived into the world with a great burst of energy, Marilyn Kuehl knew that he would be different than the rest of her children. As he grew into an adventurous toddler, Marilyn reveled in his innocence, not knowing that a horrific tragedy would soon strike her family and change them all forever.On a hot July day, two-year-old Andrew walked into a lake with his sandals on and drowned. In her memoirwritten thirty years agoMarilyn shares the heartbreaking story of her journey through her grief as she tried to come to grips with her unimaginable loss, address her fears and agony, and find a new normal in her life. As she offers a candid glimpse into the depths of her familys sorrow, Marilyn illustrates how faith helped all of them cope with a myriad of emotions and how she came to accept that Andrews short life had not been lived in vain, but with great purpose. Its So Warm on Your Lap, Jesus tells the story of a mothers pain after the loss of her child with the hope that her words may comfort, sustain, and allow the grieving to know that with Gods help, they are never alone.

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Philosophie et théologie

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Publié par	Inspiring Voices
Date de parution	12 novembre 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781462407712
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0240€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Marilyn Kuehl

Copyright © 2013 Marilyn Kuehl.

Cover Image by Dan Kuehl

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Inspiring Voices books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

Inspiring Voices
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.inspiringvoices.com
1 (866) 697-5313

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-4624-0772-9 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4624-0771-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013918796

Inspiring Voices rev. date: 11/06/2013

Contents
Preface
Rushing through life
The Hair of an Angel
And a Little Child Shall Lead Them
The Journey of Grief Begins
The Long Dark Night of Grief
Anger Thrusts its Ugly Head
At Least You Have Each Other
Slaying the Grief Giant
A Grain of Mustard Seed
When the Holy Spirit Comes Upon You
The Bite of Bitterness
Ten Buckets of Tears
Letting Go and Letting God

Preface
Following the untimely and tragic death of our young son, Andrew, I searched hungrily for books that would help me survive my great loss and sorrow. Many of the writings that I found fell short of answering my need for simple assurance that what I felt in my heart was normal and that I would be a survivor. I have poured out the hurts of my being, risking the exposure of the raw flesh of my very soul in an attempt to help others, like myself, to grow and once again walk in the sunshine of His path.
This book is written on behalf of Andrew. It is for you-the grieving, the broken-hearted, the hurting. May its words comfort you and allow you to grow.

Rushing through life
I thought perhaps it was to be the last night of sleeping with this great, awkward shape moving from side to side within me. As I lay still in the darkness, I dreamed of this new child, this gift from God. My body and mind were filled with the exhilaration of the event to come, and finally, I slept.
As I showered the next morning, I thought, reluctantly, that soon I would no longer experience this magical, rhythmic feeling within me as this was to be our little “bonus baby.” My mind caught up each movement, as a fisherman with his net, securing them tightly into my subconscious, safely locking them away so that I might always have the memory of this phenomenon within my heart.
I began my house chores like any other day, straightening the daily family clutter, returning things to children’s bedrooms as I waddled heavily through the house. I again took inventory of the nursery, reassuring myself that everything was, indeed, ready and waiting for our new arrival.
All of our other babies had gone past their due dates, but my doctor was certain that this one, because of his seemingly large size, would perhaps arrive earlier than his calculated due date. He had scheduled an ultrasound test to affirm his certainty and had then predicted the arrival on May 12 , the confirmation date of our oldest son, Bill. That day had arrived, sunny and beautiful, filled with the promise of a special day in the life of our son. Our house fairly overflowed with the love of family togetherness. Because Bill was the oldest grandson and cousin, this would be the first confirmation we were experiencing as a family. I had made one last “large” dress for the occasion and was relieved when I woke and dressed, because I knew the prediction of the baby’s arrival date had been wrong. It was nice to be able to devote this day totally to our son. It was a proud time and I drank in the richness of the moment, quietly thanking God for allowing Bill to “bask” in the attention of the day. This day truly belonged to him.
That month had passed and now we had arrived at the original calculated due date, June 10 . Even as I began the day like any other day, in the very distance of my mind’s eye I knew that day would not be an ordinary day.
In the early afternoon, my body began sending out the “birth” signals and I called my husband, Bill. By late afternoon, contractions had distinctly made their presence known. I began to note their regularity and duration.
My husband arrived home with a small spruce tree and the urgency about him told me he needed to plant it immediately. At the time, I thought this was his way of coping with the nervousness of the hour.
I sat awkwardly on the back end of the station wagon waiting, a little impatiently, watching as he sank the roots deep into the ground, packing the soil firmly around the tender, young stalk. It looked to be a strong little tree and I sensed it would be able to withstand the sharp winds at the corner of the house.
My husband seemed preoccupied with his thoughts, perhaps dwelling on the uncertainties of the hours that stretched before us. Never looking forward to the hospital experience itself, never liking to even apply band-aids to skinned knees, he did seem anxious for our baby to be born.
We arrived at the hospital in the late evening hours and I was efficiently settled into the labor room with its stark white walls and over-sized clock, its face staring out into the dimness of the night. My husband settled into the one uncomfortable chair in the room. He didn’t complain, being concerned only for my comfort. This usually impatient man was gentle, rubbing my back and speaking quietly with me about nothing, passing time and keeping my mind diverted from the now demanding signals my body was sending. Dr. Eisenbeis arrived at four a.m. quietly but in command of the hour. Now I felt totally secure knowing that in a brief time, this thundering churning within would end and I would hold a warm, soft little baby in my arms.
Our child arrived with a great burst of energy, all ten pounds of him. We learned later that this was to be the nature of this little child. He was always rushing through life, as though God has whispered in his ear as his soul left Heaven, “Now remember, fill each minute and make them count.”
Dr. Eisenbeis announced that he had red hair and I smiled to myself. Truly, he was going to be different from our four other sons. My Scandinavian background had shown itself in two of our sons, both having very fair skin and blond hair. Our other two sons, also fair skinned, had light brown hair and darker eyes, resembling their dad more than me.
We named him Andrew John after Andrew the Fisherman, the quiet supporter of Peter, and John the Strong one who prepared the way for Jesus.
We came home on Father’s Day and Bill knew it was the best gift he would receive on this special day. Each son took a turn holding Andrew. Bill and David, our fifteen and thirteen year-olds, were gentle and almost fatherly. The younger two were more curious and needed to examine his tiny fingers and toes. In the days that followed, Paul who was eight and Daniel, just three, could be observed parading their “sandbox” friends in to peer at their new brother. Their dusty little fingers left tell-tale prints along the freshly laundered bassinet skirt. The bassinet was kept in the living room during the day, and I noticed each trip our boys made through the house included a detour past Andrew, checking to see if he was awake and needing some attention.
Andrew settled into his new surroundings so easily that often we had to remind ourselves that we had a new baby in the house. Each member of the family seemed to take their special time with him. Andrew and I shared special moments, too; perhaps one of the best being his feeding time. I especially looked forward to the wee hours of the night when we would snuggle into the large, old wooden rocker in our family room and he would suck contentedly at my breast. Oh, the comfort of that old chair that had existed as long as our marriage, a wedding present from Bill’s sister. The gift card attached to it had read, “A place to dream dreams, to rock your babes and a solace for broken hearts and skinned knees.” It had been a favorite chair for me, a comfort spot as I studied to earn my degree after our marriage. And yes, it had, indeed, been the place to hold and rock our little ones and soothe the tears and hurts of their hearts and bodies.
During one of those quiet times in that old chair that kept its arm so lovingly around us, these thoughts came to me: “the warm fingers of sunshine touch and caress me, and I delight as they tug gently at my heart; a bond of trust, a secret merriment between two hearts. A sharing of new, yet deep love and joy… these beautiful gifts from God are mine when my new young son smiles at me.” Those shared moments were spent with God; each night my mother-heart giving great thanks for this beautiful “angel” child He had placed in my arms.
At the end of July, we packed and loaded our station wagon with vacation gear, making room for the extra little traveling bed and other baby things. Very early the next morning, our boys climbed tiredly into the car, their eyes still swollen with sleep. They were anxious to have the long ride to the lake behind them, hoping to arrive with still a bit of the first day remaining for each to enjoy.
Needing a break, we stopped in a town we always enjoyed, visiting an art and craft store we liked. Daniel, our three year-old came running up to