“Write hard and clear about what hurts.” -Ernest Hemingway
A week ago today, a precious little six year old boy in my youngest son’s class left this world and received his wings. Noah’s passing left shock in its wake which quickly morphed into a sinking devastation as we all began to fully comprehend what had happened. Suddenly, we went from worrying about helping our children get their homework done to how to tell them that they would never see their friend again. The past seven days have felt like being in an ocean: waves of heartache suddenly rushing in while occasionally being pulled back out with the responsibilities and happenings of the day-to-day. I’ve heard people say ‘I can’t imagine’, but I have imagined over and over and over again, and it’s just completely overwhelming. It truly has felt like a very bad dream.
Last Sunday I decided to tell both of my sons since it would be talked about at school the next day with the counselor and teachers. I sat them down on the bed and, through many tears, told them what had happened. The first thing my youngest said was, “But how? He’s not big.” Oh, my heart! So I told him that dying can happen at any age and for various reasons. I gently explained to him the reality of the situation and how he would not be able to see his classmate anymore. We talked about how the next day he might see his teachers and classmates cry and that he might too and that it was okay. He curled up in my lap and lay there for a very long time, holding onto me as the gravity of it set in. That night after my oldest son took a shower, he came in and told me that he was sorry that Noah had passed away. He said he didn’t know that people could die when they were young and that he wished that it never happened. I agreed and told him that I wish no one ever had to die, to which my logically-minded son replied, “Well, then there would be overpopulation.” If you know my son, you know why that made me smile a little bit.
The counselor, principal and teachers were there to greet the students in my son’s class on Monday morning. They had a chat about Noah at circle time and the kids asked some questions. Being so little, they began telling stories of their own experiences in the hospital. Bless their sweet little hearts! His teachers tried to keep it as routine as possible, and the counselor was in and out all day to help. His teacher texted all of the parents throughout the day, keeping us updated on how the kids were doing, which I am thankful for. The next day the kids had more questions and started to feel the absence of their friend a little more. The teacher wiped her morning schedule and instead all the kids wrote letters to Noah. That day driving home from school my son told me about how he had drawn his friend a picture of an airplane since Noah liked them and about how much he liked sharks. I drove on with tears streaming down my cheeks, trying to hold it together as my son beamed with pride with what he had made for his friend.
This morning the school came together around the flagpole to pay tribute to this sweet child’s life. The kindergarten classes let the butterflies go that they had been taking care of in their classrooms (all the butterflies in my son’s class emerged from their chrysalises the weekend Noah passed away). Afterwards the class, Noah’s family and friends moved on to the school’s garden area where they dedicated and planted a tree in Noah’s honor. All of the students got to help shovel in the dirt when it was planted. As my son stood in line to do his part I heard him say with enthusiasm, “He’s an angel now!”. The students of his class also decorated a birdhouse to be placed on the tree once it is big enough (when they were going to buy the birdhouse at Lowe’s, the cashier had asked what it was for. When he found out, he gave it to them for free). They each put their thumbprint on it and made them look like little ladybugs.
Afterwards, I finally got to give Noah’s mom and dad a big hug. His mom is a friend of mine, and I had been worried about both of them since finding out that Noah got sick. I had tried to give them space to let them process losing their son, but I had wanted so badly to go over there and wrap them up in my arms. We often wonder what the right thing to do or say is in difficult situations such as these, but I think what truly matters is that we just show up. Let them know we love them and are here, standing by their side, ready to hold onto them if they get weak. And I will tell you that this little military community in the middle of Nowhere, California has done that and then some. If there is one thing military families know how to do, it is how to support each other through the hardest of circumstances. I’m so proud to be a part of this community.
This afternoon there was a more formal memorial service at our base chapel, and I decided to bring both of my boys. Neither have ever been to a funeral or memorial service before, and I debated on whether or not to bring them, but I think it is important not to shield them from this part of life. My youngest lay on my lap for awhile at the beginning and told me that he missed Noah B. He hugged the piece of paper that they had given us when we arrived that had Noah’s picture on it. It was a lovely service filled with sweet stories about this kind-hearted boy with an old soul and an empathetic nature. He touched so many people’s hearts in his short little life, but he also ended up saving three lives with the donation of his organs. He will, no doubt, live on forever.
I will close the same way as I began, with Mr. Hemingway:
We love you, Noah B. Enjoy your wings.
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