Category: Deacon

A Life Remembered

Published on by Lindsey Claassen1 Comment

Well, we did it. We made it through September. I won’t say it was perfect, or pretty, or somehow magically made our grief less intense or desperate to be on the other side. But we did feel held, loved, and as though we were able to honor Deacon’s 8th birthday and his first heavenly anniversary.

When I would think ahead to the anniversary of his passing, and how we might spend that day, so many ideas ran through my mind. Balloon-releases, painted rocks, gathering at the graveside, etc. Somehow, none of those felt very “Deacon”. We stalled and put off making any concrete plans. Then a friend mentioned just meeting at the land where we are building. Just to be together. And that felt right. So we pulled our grief circle together, admitted we didn’t know how to possibly spend such a day, but that we knew we wanted to do it just has we had the day he passed…together.

The only probably accurate thing I did going into that day was set my expectations low. It was going to be a rough day. My kids would bicker about something random. A plan would fall through. Someone would be unhappy. And none of that would matter. I prepared myself to meet each moment with perspective and calm. And it did seem to help.

We spent the morning just our family together, being rather lazy and slow to get going. We decided to go by his gravesite just our little family. The kids hadn’t seen his finished headstone yet, and it did seem appropriate to stop by on such a day. It went as I expected. Some kids were hot. Others didn’t like bugs. Our newest foster son was clingy and fussy.

But there was good too. We watched the video that played at his funeral. And we laughed about a couple memories. We reminded the kids that this wasn’t fair, that the year they’ve endured was impossibly hard, and how proud we are of them. And even more, we reminded them that he’s not lost with the body buried below his stone. Deacon is in the presence of his Holy Father and that heaven is his home. All of our true home….he just happened to beat us there. A reminder I needed as much as them.

We spent the rest of the afternoon resting and doing our own things. Then, in the evening, we headed to our land. The family and friends who have sat with us in our grief the closest this year began pouring in. And we were so, so loved.

It was just as it should be. Deacon’s dream evening. Perfect weather, kids everywhere, games, four wheelers, and food. Then, just before sunset, we headed to a clearing to write notes on lanterns and send them up into the night. A grasping, inadequate way to attempt to connect to my son, but somehow still comforting and joyous to be a part of.

I still don’t know how you should spend the day your child leaves your arms on earth. But I do know, when I crawled into bed that night, I thought a little less about what we were doing at that time the year before, and a little more how very supported and blessed we are.

This doesn’t close the chapter on our sorrow. I woke up the next day, and he was still gone…my arms were still desperately longing for him. But I can look back on this year and see the markers of God’s faithfulness. I could never have dreamed surviving a year of not having one of my children. I’m certain I would have found that impossible. God’s promises are true though. He does comfort. His hope is real. And now, after surviving all the “firsts” without him, we face all the “seconds”. Knowing our tribe is close, our God is good, and our family is incredibly strong.

“Because maybe 80 years on this earth will feel like 20, and maybe, I’ll blink my eyes and you’ll be back in my arms. For now, I’ll soak every moment in, try hard as I can to spread every ounce of love, try as I can to live for a reason, so that on that day, I’ll run to you and tell you everything I was able to do, not for me. But because of you.” Lexi Behrndt

365 days without you. 365 days closer.

Share The Love

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September brings both Deacon’s birthday, and the anniversary of his passing. It would be very simple to just focus on our sadness. I could attempt to explain the level of desperation and panic that wells up in my heart when I allow myself to just WANT HIM. More than our sadness though, Derek and I want this month to be about his LIFE. We want to celebrate our little boy who brought sunshine, mischief, and JOY into the world. We want to remember and honor how faithful our God has been this year. How He has consistently and creatively met us in this darkness. In September 2020, I boldly and confidently declared God good, even as my world laid motionless in a hospital bed. One year later, I can honestly repeat: God is good.

We’ll be honoring Deacon’s incredible life this month by doing random acts of kindness in his name with these cards, and we’d love to challenge you to do the same! Will you join us? Knowing that his spirit of love and excitement for surprising others will be spreading out all over our city and further is an incredibly hopeful thought to our still broken, tired hearts.

Want to join in? Here’s how!

Local: We’ve printed 100’s of cards and they’ll be in a basket on our porch, in our cars, and with us. Drive by and grab 1 or 20, ask us if you see us, let me know you want some and I’ll track you down!

Print Your Own: Click on #sharethelovedeacon in the menu of this blog and you can easily print your own at home! Just follow the directions.

Mail: Just need me to mail you some cards? Happy to! Just let me know and I’ll pop them in the mail.

Tag Us: What creative ways did you find to bless others? We want to hear how Deacon inspired you! Please tag #sharethelovedeacon so we can see!

Can’t get your hands on or print any cards? That’s ok! You can still share the love and share with us. We’re just blessed knowing that he’s inspiring others to take a look around them and find ways to bless others.

Thank you in advance for joining us in this small gesture of honoring our Deacon. Thank you for the year of loving us well.

8 Months

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I still don’t understand it. I would have plotted a different way. Yet, without logic or reason, I still feel God’s goodness. For the gift of Deacon when God didn’t have to give him to us in the first place. For the gratitude that bubbles up in me every time I think of how I got to be his mom. Yes, the grief is relentless, and the sorrow is suffocating….but….I have to believe that the God who moved mountains to bring Deacon to us, and has sustained us through these hellish 8 months, cannot be anything but good.

I’m learning, after eight “19th’s” have come and gone, to look for God’s “I see you’s”. The little gifts He sends throughout the day to get us through. My high school girlfriends coming over with lunch. Friends going out of their way to come by for hugs and to drop Crumble cookies off. Brecken and Aven’s first softball game after last year’s season was cancelled. Sweet texts from family and friends. Prayer. It’s all God’s love out loud.

8 months closer to you Bub. My joy-filled boy. We’re doin’ it.

Mother’s Day

Published on by Lindsey Claassen1 Comment

Last year, Deacon was discharged from the hospital on Mother’s Day. Because of Covid, I had stayed the entire time with him instead of taking turns with Derek. I was so thankful to be back with all my kids (and my shower and bed), but also so weary and frustrated with another hospital stay. The helplessness of lack of answers, and loneliness of trying to find them was taking a toll.

I didn’t know then what a blessing it was to enter and leave the hospital with him beside me. How much I would long for those annoying and disruptive stays. I’d give anything to sleep on a plastic “couch” and eat from a vending machine again. To have four days of one-on-one time with my albuterol and steroided up little boy.

I asked God how I would survive Mother’s Day without him. His answer came in the form of distraction and sleep-deprivation. Two precious babes needing the love I’m desperate to still be giving Deacon. I think Deacon would approve. He would have been the first to shout “Happy Mother’s Day!” at me and squeezed me as tight as he could. He also would NOT have been able to keep my surprise a secret (my own four-wheeler!) and would have been full-body excited for me to see it.

It wasn’t my first Mother’s Day to not feel complete. To feel like I’m the least person qualified to be celebrated when I’ve so often failed at motherhood. Other years when I’ve birthed babies much to early for this world, or said goodbye to toddlers I’d raised as mine for 18 months. It’s a complicated day. My heart longs for children not in this picture while at the same time being so deeply thankful for my four.

Grief can cast a shadow on life’s most beautiful moments. Like a 6 year old handing you his Mother’s Day drawing. I fought to make it a day of peace, hope, and love, and some moments I was successful. I put on a smile, thank God for them, and ooh and ahh over all the homemade goodness they make me. I think of my incredible mom and mom-in-law and the qualities they embody that I want in my parenting. I thank my lovely, grace-filled friends who are walking this messy, wonderful, mama path with me. And I sigh and take a breath when the day is finally over. Another “first” without him survived.

A New Park

Published on by Lindsey Claassen1 Comment

At the beginning of the month our family was honored to be included in a special event at the Wichita Children’s Home. A years-long project, put together by bunches of selfless and tireless individuals who are passionate about foster youth, was recently completed! A beautiful new park on the WCH campus. A safe place for foster children and families to get fresh air and move bodies. While in police protective custody, it can be unsafe for children to be out in public. This playground is a secure spot for the 100’s of children who come through the Home each year.

Before the big ribbon cutting event, the Children’s Home called to let us know they had plans to include Deacon in the park and that they wanted to create a play space there in his honor. We cried (per usual) and said we’d he honored to have him remembered this way.

The day of the ribbon cutting featured Kansas wind in all her glory but it also showcased the heart behind so many people in Wichita in the creation of this park. We were humbled and excited to be included. While the kids were a little disappointed the scissors weren’t massive, we had a great time helping to officially open the playground.

There is a water feature still in the works (you can see the water pump on the left in this picture) that will flow down through the rocks. This is the space that will celebrate Deacon. We can’t wait to update pictures when this section is finished.

It’s perfect because Deacon loved water and certainly would have found a way to end up drenched.

It was a good morning. Good for the Children’s Home, whom we love. And good for our hearts. We say so often at things like this, “Deacon would have loved this”. The bitter part is, if he were still here, lovely things like this wouldn’t be happening. While I’d give anything for that playground to not need a section in Deacon’s honor, it does help in our healing. And in our hunt to see and feel pieces of him out in the world still. It helps to know that a little boy, who was once a foster child himself, made his love of others loud enough to be heard and recognized by others. Deacon would have loved this.

6 Months

Published on by Lindsey Claassen2 Comments

A long time ago I read somewhere that if God were small enough to be understood, He wouldn’t be big enough to be worshiped. Often that’s brought comfort. Its a release from having to have all the answers. A reminder to keep a childlike faith. Sometimes though…man…what I wouldn’t give for a little understanding.

6 months without him. 6 months closer to seeing him again. Today, as texts poured in, friends and neighbors brought by bright and beautiful flowers, videos of him were played and replayed and sent from friend to friend, plans for a headstone were tweaked, and dinner was brought to us, I sat again and tried to comprehend that this is our life. He’s really gone. My brain just can’t get there yet.

Six entire months without him. Half of a year. It’s still unbelievable to me. Incomprehensible. Impossible. I’ve realized these last 6 months that I always had a wrong understanding of the “denial” part of the grief process. I just thought maybe it was that a person didn’t want to believe it. As though maybe if I don’t believe it, it can’t be true. But it’s more than that. It’s a literal, actual, disbelief. I still CAN NOT wrap my mind around the fact that he’s really gone. That those tragic and precious hospital days happened. Surely the doctor announcing his time of death that repeats itself over and over in my head daily is somehow just a dream. Denial runs deep.

In the impossible though, Deacon feels so close. The reason it’s still so hard to believe is because he’s still so with me. And while it’s easy to just be sad, I can also start to list all that he gave me and there’s no way to feel anything but joy that I got to be his mom and deep, deep gratitude that he came to me. That I got to call him mine for seven years and eight days. I could never possibly begin to say how incredibly grateful I am for him.

Because of Deacon I know:

  • deep, unconditional, uncontainable, limitless, unchanging, undying love
  • Heaven is here with us, around us.
  • emotions can be conflicting and opposing yet happening at the same time. darkness + light; shattered + unbreakable; hopeful + lost; fighting to live + begging to die
  • a braver voice
  • a deeper purpose

The same voice that whispered, “you will GET UP” to him in the hospital says it to me now each morning. Even though I don’t want to. Surviving the unsurvivable. Only because of a God who is, thankfully, big enough to be worshiped even when I don’t understand, and a little boy who makes me so, so thankful every single day that I got to be the one he called Mom.

A dear friend sent this video today and I laughed through the tears. Just a tiny clip but it reminded again about the LIFE he brought. Still brings.

Thunderstorms

Published on by Lindsey Claassen2 Comments

So many times in a week we look around at something fun we’re doing, sigh, and say, “Deacon would have loved this.” But today began with walls of rain, claps of thunder, and even some hail, and I thought, “Deacon would have hated this.”

Out of five kids, Deacon was the only one ever scared of storms. He seemed to have an innate sense of their arrival and I’d crack my eyes to see his little form standing at my bedside, often before the first drop of rain had even fallen. “It’s going to storm,” he’d whisper. I’d lift my blankets and he’d scramble in next to me, all knees and elbows. The only time a kiddo really ever slept with us was Deacon during a storm.

Today, the thunder woke me and I strained to hear the squeak of our door opening and his feet padding in. Instead, I was slammed again with the realization he wouldn’t be coming. We’d sleep this storm out kid-free. I clung to his favorite blankie (that stays in our bed now), squeezed my eyes shut and searched my memory for every sense of his warm body curled into mine. His back against my chest, my nose pressed into the back of his head with his perfect little boy smell all around, his always-noisy breathing steadying back into sleep.

I miss the things he loved. And now, I realize, I miss the things he hated, too. I just miss it all.

I wonder if it storms in heaven. I hope it does…I adore a good storm. If it does, I imagine Deacon has a new appreciation for them in a realm without fear. And a Heavenly Father wrapping His arms around him until I can get there.

While he may have hated the storms…he was always up for the mud puddles left behind.

Legacy Building

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We’ve had a lot of reason to cry in the last 5 months, but this week it was tears of awe and gratitude when we opened a little note in the mail. We were reminded once again, people are so very lovely.

Family, friends, strangers…you’ve raised over $12,000 in Deacon’s name!

In the messy, overwhelming, all consuming days immediately following Deacons passing, we knew we needed to pick somewhere meaningful to him to designate for people to direct monetary memorials. It was one of the few quick and easy decisions. The Wichita Children’s Home.

I’m not sure what I expected would come in…I didn’t have the capacity to give it much thought…but maybe a couple thousand dollars. You’ve blown us away with your love and support. It is humbling and encouraging. More than I could express.

Deacon adored being a foster brother. His history in foster care himself, and his outgoing, inclusive personality made him the perfect welcoming ambassador for hurting children. From 2 days to 17 years, he championed each child who entered our home.

On our stair landing is a cork board (that needs to be upgraded!) with a picture of each child who has come through our home. Deacon knew their names, remembered little facts about them, and would sit on the window seat and pray over them with me.

I’d selfishly and happily throw the money back to each donor if I could just have him back, but in the lack of that option, please know that your generosity is felt. Our hearts are warmed knowing that this $12,000+ is building a legacy of Deacon’s life that goes beyond an ornery, outgoing little boy. I have no doubt that it will be used well. I’ve seen first hand the love the staff at the Children’s Home pours out on every child in their care. $12,000 matters. Gosh, he would have loved this.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you. ❤️

P.S. if you’re wanting to join in, online donations can be made at: https://wch.org/donate Make sure to include Deacon’s name so we can know!

Messy Theology

Published on by Lindsey Claassen1 Comment

When you believe that your God allows the people you love dearly to die much too early, what does that say about your God, and who you are becoming?

Who would you be and how would you feel and how would you live life if you decided to believe that God, whatever you believe God to be, only allows each of us to die right on time? Regardless of the circumstances of our death.

What if you decided to believe that it could be no other way? That everyone dies at the right time. Even if you don’t understand it. And never will. When you’re in your physical body. Who would you be if you decided to believe that everyone dies at the perfect time? Everyone. — Tom Zuba

I read that quote by Tom Zuba (look him up…what an incredible story of loss and life) a few weeks ago and it has bounced around in my head ever since. Deacon is gone, and what I choose to believe about God because of it is life-changing. While I do (did?) believe that no one dies by accident, guilt plagues me. Guilt has made a home on my shoulder. Guilt walks beside me around the block on a sunny day. It sits beside me driving the kids to school. It stares back at me in the mirror. I can even find it in the eyes of friends and family looking back at me (although I’m certain it couldn’t be found in their heart or mind, it’s only me placing it there). Cause the thing I was supposed to do….the only thing, really…I didn’t do. Protect my child.

In a variety of scenarios it follows me. I didn’t get him to the right doctors. I didn’t push hard enough to get him to that program in Denver to be a part of that asthma study. I didn’t take him to the hospital soon enough. I didn’t find the right combination of drugs. I didn’t see that this time something was different. I didn’t. I didn’t. I didn’t. It’s in my head on repeat.

What I would have said I believe about God, before losing Deacon, was that He knows the number of each of our days on this earth. That nothing I did or didn’t do killed Deacon. That “all the days ordained for Deacon were written in your book before one of them came to be.” Psalm 139:16 I would have said all that. But I find myself saying it now and then adding a *but maybe* to it. Maybe if I’d tried… Maybe if I’d seen…. Maybe if I’d called…

I’m on shaky ground. But I think that’s ok. God’s ground isn’t shaky. He’s firm. And he’s letting me fling my wonky theology and wounded heart at him. This time is creating who I am becoming and what it says about the God I believe in.

I’m out of words to comfort myself and put a bandaid over the guilt. I only have God. He’s there while I try to be gentle with myself but fail. He’s there when I know I’m supposed to have hope but just don’t have the oomph for it. He’s there when I practice telling Him that I’m not fine. That this is NOT fine. He’s there.

In the school drop off line when I say, “You feel so far.”

When I’m making beds and say, “I’m not sure how to see You here.”

In the grocery store when I think, “I can’t find You but I really want to.”

Washing the dishes whispering the uncomfortable truth, “I don’t know if I want to find You, but I want to say that this hurts.”

These honest, messy, prayers, brought to Him before cleaning them up. The guilt. The questions about my God. Is He good? Is He there? What do I truly believe the Bible says about life and death? The ache of who I am becoming through this. I’m counting on what’s being created in my darkness and chaos.

And so I ponder again, “Who would you be if you decided to believe that everyone dies at the perfect time? Everyone.” Working on finding out.

Deacon Aug. 2017 ~ 2 yrs old “And Jesus thank you” was how he finished every prayer.

And If Not

Published on by Lindsey Claassen1 Comment

Long-time friends recently passed the nine year mark of their baby girl going to heaven after a year long battle with leukemia. I can take myself back to those days so easily. The shock that Paxten hadn’t made it…that she hadn’t gotten her miracle. The empty, hollow feeling of what now?

I’ve watched these friends learn to live in a world without their daughter for nine years. I’ve seen them crawl towards love, fight for joy, and build a new life that absolutely includes Pax…just not they way they’d hoped and longed. This year had an entirely new perspective for all they’ve been though. This year I couldn’t help but go back to our desperate prayers for her healing. Those same groanings I repeated over my little boy nine years later.

I started thinking how wonderful to be the parent who can proclaim, “God is good! My child is a miracle!” because their child could have died but didn’t.

But even more, the depth of peace, knowing, and love for the parent whose child has died and can say the same thing.

Nine years later, my friends stood and said, God is good. While my heart still breaks for their loss, what an inspiration and hope for my raw and confused heart.