Sunday
Oct162011
so beautiful, so bright, so free.
Sunday, October 16, 2011 at 11:22AM
Six days before Noah passed away, I sat with The Kings in the kitchen at Ronald McDonald House. We all chatted and ate bad McDonald's and the boys were distracted by McDonald's' newest sticker-peel promotion. We interacted with a woman whose twin boys were born at 26 weeks, and as I watched her hold them, so tiny, all I could think about was how that seemed too familiar, and felt a pang in my chest for some people I care for, all the way across land and sea, about as far away as you can get from Hobart, Tasmania. And then how doubly consuming it was to watch Lisa and Aaron wrestle with their possibilities, but to continue to smile for their other boys.
And I learned, again, but harder: death doesn't discriminate. Hurt doesn't bounce over good people. Hit and miss. Random. A mess. Sometimes a beautiful mess. Sometimes not.
Turn it around, though; hold it up to a different light and watch what happens after. Crushing and messy and busy and stand-still?...yes. But precious and beautiful and solemn and raw, too.
...
There have been so many deeply profound moments in the past week that it feels like we're learning faster than we can take notes. Hurting and learning, yes, but learning. Would I be dumb so they could have him back? Well, yeah. But he was sent here to touch and to teach, I know that for sure.
...
On Thursday, when I (and 400-500 others) attended Noah's funeral, there was so much colour, so much emotion, so many fond stories, and only love. Only love for Noah and his family. A beautiful celebration of an incredible life. A life that surpassed expectations, touched so many, and taught so many.
Of course, until you've seen two incredible people kneeling at the grave of their son... boy, there are no words for that. There is only a splitting ache in the chest for that. But they'd do it all again in a heartbeat, they say.
...
Last weekend: I was driving to visit Noah. (Incriminate me! I answered a phone call in the car.) Lisa called to tell me to come straight to the hospital to see Noah, to say goodbye. I cried and cried and cried. I listened to Bon Iver (forever the soundtrack to the week I lost my favourite boy). I cried more. Oh, Noah. And as I rounded a round-about into Hobart, I was struck with the question: 'if you didn't have to feel this way, but you didn't ever get to know Noah, would you choose that to spare this?' A moment of clarity amongst the snot and the tears. Of course not. Of course I wouldn't. Three years is so much more precious than never at all. Infinitely more precious.
On Thursday, I sat in the chapel of his family's church and I sniffled and wiped tears from my eyes (and my cheeks and my chin) as I watched his brave, beautiful mother tell him and hundreds of people how proud and privileged she feels to have been his mum. I choked out loud when she spoke those words; a giant gulp of 'I'm about to sob louder than you're talking', but I held it in. I laughed out loud when his father reminisced about the Cheeky Monkey's antics, and cried again when he declared his beautiful son his true hero. I was so impressed by his brothers, as they so proudly shared their versions of their incredible brother.
If the only way I didn't have to feel this sorrow is to never have known Noah, I wouldn't give it up.
No way.
No how.
Noah: Rest. Peace. Comfort.
He was laid to rest in a beautiful area. It's a children's section of the cemetery, which is as beautiful as it is intensely heartbreaking. But it's only his body that stays there. His spirit is free. And you know what? He showed off a little on Thursday. It was the most beautiful day we've seen in so long; almost as if he put in a call. The blue sky was the perfect backdrop for the dozens of brightly coloured balloons released in his honour; so beautiful, so bright, so free.
But not so beautiful, so bright, so free as Noah. Not even close.
And I learned, again, but harder: death doesn't discriminate. Hurt doesn't bounce over good people. Hit and miss. Random. A mess. Sometimes a beautiful mess. Sometimes not.
Turn it around, though; hold it up to a different light and watch what happens after. Crushing and messy and busy and stand-still?...yes. But precious and beautiful and solemn and raw, too.
...
There have been so many deeply profound moments in the past week that it feels like we're learning faster than we can take notes. Hurting and learning, yes, but learning. Would I be dumb so they could have him back? Well, yeah. But he was sent here to touch and to teach, I know that for sure.
...
On Thursday, when I (and 400-500 others) attended Noah's funeral, there was so much colour, so much emotion, so many fond stories, and only love. Only love for Noah and his family. A beautiful celebration of an incredible life. A life that surpassed expectations, touched so many, and taught so many.
Of course, until you've seen two incredible people kneeling at the grave of their son... boy, there are no words for that. There is only a splitting ache in the chest for that. But they'd do it all again in a heartbeat, they say.
...
Last weekend: I was driving to visit Noah. (Incriminate me! I answered a phone call in the car.) Lisa called to tell me to come straight to the hospital to see Noah, to say goodbye. I cried and cried and cried. I listened to Bon Iver (forever the soundtrack to the week I lost my favourite boy). I cried more. Oh, Noah. And as I rounded a round-about into Hobart, I was struck with the question: 'if you didn't have to feel this way, but you didn't ever get to know Noah, would you choose that to spare this?' A moment of clarity amongst the snot and the tears. Of course not. Of course I wouldn't. Three years is so much more precious than never at all. Infinitely more precious.
On Thursday, I sat in the chapel of his family's church and I sniffled and wiped tears from my eyes (and my cheeks and my chin) as I watched his brave, beautiful mother tell him and hundreds of people how proud and privileged she feels to have been his mum. I choked out loud when she spoke those words; a giant gulp of 'I'm about to sob louder than you're talking', but I held it in. I laughed out loud when his father reminisced about the Cheeky Monkey's antics, and cried again when he declared his beautiful son his true hero. I was so impressed by his brothers, as they so proudly shared their versions of their incredible brother.
If the only way I didn't have to feel this sorrow is to never have known Noah, I wouldn't give it up.
No way.
No how.
Noah: Rest. Peace. Comfort.
He was laid to rest in a beautiful area. It's a children's section of the cemetery, which is as beautiful as it is intensely heartbreaking. But it's only his body that stays there. His spirit is free. And you know what? He showed off a little on Thursday. It was the most beautiful day we've seen in so long; almost as if he put in a call. The blue sky was the perfect backdrop for the dozens of brightly coloured balloons released in his honour; so beautiful, so bright, so free.
But not so beautiful, so bright, so free as Noah. Not even close.
Reader Comments (7)
This is so beautiful Alison. We love you and know Noah did too. xxxx
Oh Alison. What a day, what a family, what a boy. xo
YOU my friend are a talented writer. This was a beautiful tribute to an even more beautiful boy. Lovely. Tears.
have read this many times now... big lump in my throat again. love you x
This was an absolutely stunning tribute to Noah. I feel so privileged to have read this! Thank you!
You strong, lovely woman. I can't send enough love your way ... thank you for sharing that.
[...] of broken hearts. A stunned silence fell across the hundreds that gathered to say goodbye to him. Noah’s balloon release was colourful and freeing and childlike and ‘bye Noah!’. But Aaron’s? Silent. [...]