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Table for Six

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It's been almost eight years since we had our Gabriel.  Since we lost our Gabriel.  Over the past several years, one child in this family has continued to talk about him the most.  Joel, now nine years old and the only sibling to have the chance to actually meet his brother, doesn't often speak his name these days.  He is, however, very protective of his "Gabey Bear" that he sleeps with every night, and goes to find when he's sad or hurt.  I'm still not sure Ruby, who just turned four, completely understands that she has a brother who is no longer with us.  The only photos she's ever seen of him are obviously baby pictures from the day he was born, but she does usually ask if every random picture she sees of a baby, is our Gabriel.  But our Zoe, almost six, talks about him all the time.  She points out that there is a seat in the back row of our family car, between she and Joel.  "That's where Gabe sits."  And when she asked about the key
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Horrible, Thanks for Asking

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Almost ten years ago, I delivered the baby boy who would die in my arms just two hours later.  But we had months to prepare for this reality.  His fatal diagnosis had come sixteen weeks before.  So there was no baby shower.  No celebration of the life about to begin.  We didn't have a nursery full of items we’d have to return with a sorrowful explanation.   That hasn’t been the case for my best friend. Two months ago today, I sat by her side as she tearfully and reluctantly pushed her baby girl into this world.   Silence.   Just the sounds of our gasps at the beauty of her perfect face.   There she was.   The miracle baby no one thought would come.  The one we were all so looking forward to meeting.    In absolute perfect form, but already gone.   It was surreal, like there was no way this was actually happening.   Not again.  Not to my Laura.   It was somehow holy, the thick presence of death also brought the sure presence of God.   It was beautiful, because here sh
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My Tattoos...

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I wanted to give some background and explanation on my little pieces of art.  I got my first “tat” (Is it still cool to call them that?) when I was only 18.  I actually got my nose pierced on my legal birthday, and then just a month later I was ready to rebel some more.  Ah, youth…   Truth be told, if I could go back in time and never start this little body modification hobby, I would.  Once I hit my mid-20’s, I realized some of my tattoos had no significant meaning.  In the very least, they didn’t reflect the most important aspect of my life – my relationship with Jesus.   Thus starting my quest to spiritualize what I was working with.  And I can finally say I am very happy with what I have on my body right now.  I would still love a memorial tattoo for my Gabey, but every time I try to decide what to get, nothing ever seems good enough to capture his memory.  So, here’s a tour… My first tattoo is actually the only one you won’t see a picture of.  It’s a Chinese character.  On
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