It’s nearly impossible to comprehend.

The first ‘Sam-less’ year has really taken place.

365 days without his smile. No more wheelchairs. No more counting carbs. No more eye rolls and sighs. No more power chair gear clicks or additional holes in the sheetrock. No more belly laughs or hearing, “Mommmmmm!” coming from his bedroom or bathroom.

As hard as the past 12 months have proven to be, there have also been regular intervals that the grief subsides some and healing has its way in my soul.

It’s a slow and sometimes unpredictable process, this whole grieving thing.

I’d like to share some recent ‘wow’ events that have occurred in our family.

I’ll call it soul food, for they really have fed my soul.

“B “ is for bear.

The last part of May, our family took the long anticipated vacation to Yellowstone that Sam had told us last summer in the weeks before he passed, that he wanted to take. I remember through slow and garbled speech him saying in the hospital room, “I really want to go back to Yellowstone in the time that I have left.”

And just exactly how Sam had begun to plan for and had envisioned the trip, his besties Jon and Madison packed into a suburban with us and we headed off out west on Kathryn’s 16th birthday.

It was a spectacular trip from start to finish. Sam’s fingerprints were everywhere – I don’t know how else to explain it, but I’ll give it my best.

My sisters had conspired with each other in the weeks before we left and sent our family an entire box of supplies and ideas for the trip. Memory making tools like journals, pens, ribbon, rose petals, and a beautiful devotional on grief for me to read while on the road. I hadn’t stopped to take the time to be that intentional and thoughtful – I was merely trying to digest how I was going to just get through the week and Yellowstone without Sam. I’m so thankful that they were thinking ahead to healing vs surviving, which was where my mind was in the days leading up to us leaving.

On the road, we frequently listened his Spotify playlist, jamming to the Lumineers and Chainsmokers, with some ZZ Top and Casting Crowns thrown into the mix. I became quietly emotional listening to the last song he downloaded to his playlist – “You’re Worthy of it All.”

Our time in the park was much different this trip, for obvious reasons. No longer were we bound to the restrictions that a wheelchair and the energy draining Friedreich’s continually placed on us. We were able to actually hike and visit sites we had never seen before.

Our first stop in the park was at Firehole Falls, and we got out to take some pictures. Wade and I couldn’t help but cry when we stood in the same spot that he held Sam on his legs just 2 years before, so Bub could gaze at the beautiful water crashing and coursing through the rocks.

Incredible at how life can change, and how swiftly the landscape of our lives can be totally different, in the blink of an eye.

A few days later into our trip, Wade was especially eager for us to hike to Trout Lake, though I was a bit hesitant at the thought of being prey to a bear or confronting a bison on the trail. I clapped my hands, sang out loud, and beat some sticks together like a moron while hiking our way up a heavily wooded hillside to reach the lake. I just somehow knew my obnoxious behavior just might save our lives from becoming lunch to a grizzly.

And then I saw the lake. Frozen and silent I suddenly became, for the incredible scenery in front of me commanded stillness…and quiet, reflective reverence.

Gazing at the sight in front of me, I immediately understood why Wade was so insistent on making the trek to this little secluded mountain lake. I was moved to tears to witness the sun dancing on that beautiful still water with pine trees dotting the shore line and the massive towering mountains and cliffs reflecting off the water’s edge.

“Sam Brown, is this similar to what you’re seeing right now??”

As I spotted each person in our group, I noticed the same effect on each of them as well. Sam’s earthly memory and yet Sam’s heavenly reality was at the forefront of each of our thoughts as we all found a quiet, solitary spot to sit and gaze at the canvas that was before us. All that was heard was occasional quiet crying. The scene was that breathtaking, and we all knew this was what Sam had dreamed about in regards to heaven’s scenery.

I whipped out my phone, not wanting to forget this moment and captured this image behind Kathryn.

I can feel the perfect mixture of Sam and the splendor of God’s hand when I look at this image.

Enough of the lake……I almost forgot about the letter “B”.

Fast forward to our last day, our last moments in the park. I had mentioned previously that Liz had sent ribbon and markers, in case we wanted to leave some momento or message for Sam somewhere. Though I had spied many places that day that might seem appropriate to leave our ribbons, I never could quite make up my mind. Knowing we had to make a decision soon before we exited the park, we picked out an inconspicuous pine tree ahead to tie our ribbons to. One that had branches high enough to stay out of the reach of wildlife and the public’s eye, but would provide enough privacy to shed a few more tears to mark the close of a near perfect trip to Sam’s favorite destination on earth.

As the suburban approached the tree, Kathryn suddenly points and yells, “BEAR!!” Sure enough, directly across the road from our tree, we witnessed a massive brown bear ambling up the hill. What made it more special was that we were the first vehicle to spot it. Wade quickly pulled to the side and we all hopped out with phones and gaping mouths to quietly and carefully watch the now named “Sam Brown Bear” as he made his way through the woods, right in front of us. But in classic Yellowstone style, within a 60 second span, 15 other cars had now stopped to watch the bear as well, and we were no longer the sole audience for this spectacular viewing.

We patiently waited for the traffic to disperse as our Sam Brown bear waddled farther away, and was eventually out of sight. We all quietly made our way over to our tree, each of us taking a somber turn and tying up high our ribbons tucked in our pockets. Just like at the lake, a hush fell over each of us, and it was hard to contain emotions. We took some time sitting under our tree, looking at the still scene in front of us: a gently flowing small river, flanked by thick trees ahead and towering rock mountains. The meadow that the river flowed through was so green, and tiny wildflowers were all around. I’ll never be able to read Psalm 23 again, without recalling this scene and this moment.

And then, miraculously, our bear appeared for an unprecedented second time. Way off in the distance, just at the edge of the tree line, he lumbered slowly in and out of the trees, only showing himself for a minute or two. We watched in amazement for over 20 minutes through binoculars, smiles, and tears – stunned that we were the only ones who’d been given a front row seat to such a sight, again.

A fitting tribute to Sam, on our last day and last memory in the park.

This was truly Bub’s trip from beginning to end.

Later that evening back at our cabin in Idaho, we were packing up our things to leave and head home in the morning. Outside, Wade struck up a conversation outside with the next door neighbor. He explained to the man the purpose of our trip, and began to tell him about our time in the park earlier in the day. As he described our encounter with the bear, Wade noticed the man’s eyes began to fill with tears.

“Sir, I’m quite familiar with Yellowstone. Been coming since I was a kid and I’ve fished many, many times that exact stretch of river that you’re talking about. In all of my 20 years of fishing, I’ve seen only 1 bear the entire time. What you all witnessed today was nothing short of incredible. Bears just don’t appear on the west side like that at all.”

Indeed, “B” is for bear. The Sam Brown Bear.

Wade was speechless. We knew the bear sighting was special, but now it was confirmed. A little tap on the shoulder from the Lord. “I’m here. He’s with me. I’ll send comfort when you need it. You’re not alone.”

And that gentle stretch of river I described that our ribbon tree faces?

It is aptly named the “Madison River.”

“C” is for camp.

A week or two after returning from Yellowstone, Kathryn’s church group packed up and hauled 15 or so kids to Youth For the Nations camp in Dallas. I could see a little reluctance in her, but I simply and quickly prayed the morning she left that she’d have an encounter with the Lord. Just some kind of heart and soul encouragement for her …. just something.

And I never thought anything about it again.

Talking to her briefly the first few nights, I found out she had acquired a pretty bad head cold and she sounded exhausted and beat. I really felt for her, because I knew she was struggling to maintain a good attitude, despite feeling like crap.

However, the third or so night of camp, she called us pretty late and there was a noticeable difference in her voice. “Service was really good tonight. I gotta tell you what happened. I think God gave me a vision of Sam tonight. Mom, his legs were normal and they weren’t small and thin anymore. He was wearing gray shorts and a red shirt. And his hair! It was beautiful curls on top, and the sides were kinda back, but it was perfect. And he was pointing at me, smiling the whole time. Like he was saying, ‘I see you!!’ He was happy, mom.”

Through more tears, she began to spill more of her heart to me, explaining that she had held much, much anger and even hate – towards God in the months since Sam died. I was stunned and shocked, for I never was aware of just how intense she had been struggling. She went on to describe that a word was spoken over her during that service, letting her know that God understood her. That He had still never left her. That He knew the nights she had fallen asleep crying, and that she was still totally and completely loved. “Mom”, she said through her tears, “this girl really didn’t even know me or the situation that well!!”

I was stunned as we hung up the phone. There it was. There was the answer to my rushed yet simple prayer for her. It was the encounter I had prayed for, but never imagining it would be on this scale. I went to bed grateful; simply speechless at the way He loves us, hears us, and how He moves in our lives, always when we need it the most. In the same instance, I felt a degree of ‘mom guilt’ prick my conscience, for I had no idea Kathryn had been wrestling with so much angst and turmoil. But still yet, I had to acknowledge that even it I had known, there are always places in my girl’s hearts I cannot go; problems too deep and complex for me to fix. But yet, Christ is there to meet them and heal them, and His grace knows NO boundaries or limitations.

I didn’t know that there was still more to come.

Christ was waiting.

The next night, my and Wade’s phone began alarming around 11pm. Still at camp, Kathryn sends out a group text to me, Wade, and Kinsey: (modified a bit for some details are too personal and too painful)

“Hey guys…..I know y’all don’t want to relive the morning that Sam passed but I just felt like God wanted me to tell y’all this and me to share. So this is what I encountered tonight and I wrote it down – some days are hard when I miss Sam so much I can’t see straight. I want to see him again. I need to know what he’s doing and stuff. Tonight I just prayed that God will give me another glimpse of him. I don’t know if this was a glimpse or a vision but the morning he passed away, it just kept coming to my mind and I couldn’t get it to leave. —– details omitted ——then there was Jesus, walking up to his bedside with a smile on his face. I saw him extend his hand towards Sam. Sam’s hand took Jesus’s and then Sam left his body. He became a soul. He was perfect. He had new legs, new arms, he had a perfect new body. After Sam left his body, that’s when we found him that morning. And then him and Jesus left. But here’s the catch. Even though the two of them left….only one stayed. That was God. God stayed behind because he knew that we would need him. He was there beside us all evening through all the chaos, He was there. He has never left us since day one. He will never leave us. It was just the time for Sam to pass through this Red Sea and go into the promise land which was heaven. “

In the moments that passed after reading that text from her, I was incredulous at how tenderly – how tenderly – the Lord ministers to each of us, in such a personal and unique way.

Kathryn did not know this, but there were unknowns about that awful morning that I have wrestled privately with, sometimes to the point that I literally felt like I’d lose my sanity over – that were laid to rest finally when she later described in detail what she saw.

We oft cast doubts about two unchanging and constant characteristics of God: either His ability to work and move in our situations, or His willingness to do so. At least for me, I am confident of one, but I highly doubt the other. Make sense? I am forever reminded in this situation that I have been so guilty of this, for He showed us all that He is more than willing to meet our needs personally and uniquely, and He is more than able to do just that, far beyond what we could hope for.

Jesus revealed himself to my unassuming 16 year old at church camp, and as a result, it brought an immense amount of soul comfort to many, especially me.

I know that it is an experience that will last her a lifetime.

“A is for Apple.”

The last week of June has been scribbled on in my kitchen calendar for months and months.

“Camp Barnabas week”.

Truth be known, I was dreading it. I knew Wade felt the same. Dreading it for several reasons. First being how in the world could I set foot on those campgrounds knowing that Sam wasn’t with us? This place was him. Camp had become soooo intertwined in our story – Sam’s story – that you can’t talk about Bub without acknowledging the role Camp Barnabas has played in our lives throughout the last 9 years.

Secondly, this would also be the week of his 19th birthday. His first birthday without us, or rather, his first birthday for us without him.

Oh well – he got celebrate his last birthday at camp – a place he loved – surrounded by people that loved him…..and this was his first birthday in heaven……surrounded by the same love, just much better scenery than the camp cafeteria.

Could I really function optimally at camp this year, given the above hanging over me? We were about to find out.

In the days leading up to camp, I had decided I would take Sam’s ipad with me and maybe even donate it to camp, for it has a really cool speech app on it. Years ago, his intuitive speech therapist at school had acquired the ipad and app for him through a grant. The app gave him the ability to point to letters or pictures and form sentences whereby it would talk for him, in the event that his FA progression would make talking too hard. He used it some, but found it to be tedious and time consuming.

The Ipad had sat untouched for over an entire year and I really felt if there were any place I knew that could benefit from this technology, it would be camp. There have always been campers I’ve seen that have used speech devices, or those that could definitely benefit from having one available, so it just made sense to me to take it and find out. Who knows?

The night before we left, I was sitting on the couch with Kinsey, poring over the ipad, looking at Sam’s pictures, his games, and just the little traces of himself that the ipad contained. I came across the Notes section and found old assignments he and Juanita had completed years before together at school. I had created an entry for him in notes that had his email and various passwords and user ID’s, so it would be easy for him to find and recall. (I despise memorizing 250,000 user ID”s and passwords!)

Kinsey’s eyes grew large when she read his email address that we had created several years ago. “Where did you come up with those numbers? Why did you pick those?!”

“What numbers are you talking about?” I was perplexed. “I just used the last 4 digits of his cellphone number, so it would be easy for him to remember.”

Then it hit me like a ton of bricks and I was stunned. Tears filled both our eyes as we stared at the white screen, not believing what we were seeing.

“sambrown0804@gmail.com”

I can’t believe I had never noticed it until now.

Do you see it? The last 4 digits of Sam’s phone number was the date he went home to Jesus.

08-04.

The next day, it made perfect sense when I was retelling this to my dear friend and colleague, Brenda, on our way to camp. Through tears of her own, she told me, “Don’t you see Annie?? God knew the number of days for Sam before he was even born! There wouldn’t have been anything you, or Wade, or that anyone could’ve done any differently to have altered or changed that.”

I knew she spoke the truth, but the human part of me tortures my mind and tears at my emotions at times with, “what if…….??”

Job 14:5 “A person’s days are determined; you have decreed the number of his months and have set limits he cannot exceed.”

A prophetic phone number? I don’t know how else to explain it.

Let me continue to paint a picture of how else this Apple Ipad was a blessing to more than just me this year. There’s more.

My cabin assignments this year at camp included a 19 year old camper, whose name I’ll just call “Chris” for privacy reasons. Chris’s dad spent 45 minutes with me in the rain the day he arrived, for Chris’s needs were time consuming and very detailed from morning til night. I completely understood Dad’s angst and hesititation in leaving his son in the care of complete strangers.

I understood it all too well.

Chris had been hit by car in previous years, and he was nonverbal and pretty much confined to a powerchair now. He slowly pointed to a sheet of paper with the alphabet to communicate 2-3 word sentences. He would rock his fist slowly back and forth for “yes”, and use 2 fingers for the word “no”. Chris required feeding sessions through his peg tube 4 times a day, generally to the tune of 30 minutes each session. His bedtime routine was nearly an hour’s worth of care every night.

Needless to say, I spent great deal of each day with just this one camper, and my heart became pretty tender towards him with each interaction. I watched his eyes roam to his missionaries, eager to join them in conversation while still watchfully observing me to make sure this nurse was doing everything correct, just as mom and dad do at home.

I ached for this boy and the freedom that his broken body was denying him. The longing in his eyes to be included and be ‘normal’ were undeniable. I understood how frustrating it had to be, to suddenly become so vulnerable and helpless – totally dependent on someone else’s skills and moods.

Once again, all too familiar emotions and thoughts that I just kept stuffed down deep.

Halfway through the week, I introduced Chris to Sam’s ipad and quite to my shock, he knew EXACTLY how to navigate the speech app on it!! Apparently, this was the same software and program he used at home. I couldn’t believe it.

The next to last day of camp during one of his feedings, Chris’s missionaries were goofing around with the Ipad while they waited on me to finish my tasks. They were just randomly typing all sorts of letters and having the app repeat the jibberish in its deep digitalized voice.

In that moment, two events happened that I’d not seen all week: Chris smiled the biggest smile I had seen, and he laughed.

Out loud.

I wanted to cry.

I hadn’t heard him once make a sound all week. The barrier was broken. He and his missionary had found some common ground to share – goofy teen pranks – and it felt as if my heart would burst. An instant of normalcy and inclusion that is the essence of Camp Barnabas.

Sam Brown, even your ‘things’ are bringing smiles to others – your mama included.

Camp had really marked the end of the ‘hard’ things I knew we’d have to walk through this summer: Yellowstone, his birthday, Camp Barnabas, but of course, the day he left this earth will be the toughest and most complicated of all…..

While I’ve dreaded and feared having to live through each of these events, I have to quote what Cindy Lee, a fellow camp nurse, told me the first time I was introduced to her this summer.

Cindy is a nurse practitioner from North Carolina, and she was Sam’s camp nurse last year. She consistently returns to camp year after year for this particular term. I had heard much about her last year from Sam and Wade, and lemme just say that she lived up to every funny story, every glowing accolade. She’s a remarkable human, and the Lord’s mercy and joy drip from her fingers.

“I know all this hard right now Annie, but you know what you have to look forward to in going through all the ‘firsts’ this year?? You only have to do it but just ONE time.”

How true.

I still find it surreal that my Sam is really gone. In one of my previous blog posts, I shared an illustration about a ship sailing away from its port. While one perspective sees the ship slipping over the horizon and out of sight, yet another perspective leaps for joy when the same ship is seen approaching new shores. That illustration provides me a great deal of comfort to dream about what his homecoming to Jesus must have entailed, but on this shoreline, my mama’s heart is so stinking empty and forever altered without my kid’s daily presence.

It’s an emptiness that I just don’t have the vocabulary for.

One of the huge frustrations I have is just longing to know what his present reality is. I hate….I despise….I grieve and cringe…. when I take inventory of the memories of him in the files of my thoughts. How incredibly stiff, thin, achy, frail, and disfigured his body had become. I just HATE that those images are there. It gave me tremendous comfort to know that Kathryn caught a glimpse of a totally different and restored Sam; and if I were honest, I hope the same will happen to me. His earthly images are too painful to recall on most days, and lots of photographs hurt my eyes.

So being intentional and dwelling on his heavenly healing vs recalling his earthly existence is where I have to tell my thoughts to go. But tears still come when I just ache for him……but I’ve now come to accept the sheer necessity of crying and I welcome it when the circumstances and privacy allow me.

Because when I’m done crying, I can breathe again. Grief is released. And the beat of life goes on, and I’m ready to join back in.

If there are any pertinent take away’s from our story, from Sam’s story…… If there is just ONE undeniable truth that I hope is evident, it is this:

God’s heart for His creation can be trusted, but we often can’t see that unless we are forced to. I do hope that our testimony and lives reflect that; and whatever or whomever the audience may be, they hopefully can translate that truth personally into their own lives, and find hope and help for their situation and struggles.

Because He’s the same Lord. Because He is willing to love. Because He is capable of restoration. No matter the pain, no matter the person.

He’s a good, good Father.

So, before I close this blog post, I’ve really saved the best for last. Because it’s a fitting way to wrap up this difficult year in the chapter of our lives with a neat little ‘bow’ for an incredible gift that had impeccable timing.

You remember me describing earlier the content of the notes section of his Ipad? Well, I also came across a short letter he had written to me in May of 2016.

I have no recollection at all of ever having seen it until now:

That’s right, Sam Brown. I’ll see you in a better life.