Homework: Family Matters Seminar: Tradition!

Homework: ~Write about a tradition that has influenced your life in a positive way. Idea: "Our family always had family prayer before we opened the Christmas presents; my mom always wrote a letter to us on our birthdays; my grandpa always told us he loved us at Thanksgiving Dinner."


We have a tradition of going to our son’s grave on Easter Sunday. We bring flowers, and the cemetery staff has placed a plastic egg on each of the graves in the area in which Taylor is buried (called ‘Babyland’). We place the flowers on the grave, we take a picture, and we talk about the resurrection. We talk about families being together forever. We talk about what it all means, and how it affects us.

And then we tell the kids to put those toys back on the other headstones and to stop touching the balloons and get back in the car.






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Homework: School of Thought: What Was She Thinking?

With age we get the face we deserve.
Homework: Choose any or all, or be inspired. ~List your five biggest worries. Now imagine how each could become a blessing in disguise.

My five biggest worries? And how they could each become blessings? Yeeeeeah, RIGHT. I don’t know how this could apply to worries stemming from a mind crazy with What-Ifs; from someone who claims ‘Just In Case’ to nearly everything. But, in attempt to comply with this assignment, and since it’s almost that time of year (and for some reason, the sobbing and missing and aching has gotten an early start this year), and this is indeed exactly what’s on my mind, I’ll share one with you.

What mother doesn’t worry about losing their child? Of course, like most other things, to preoccupy with oneself too much with this is likely to drive one batty, but it’s a real worry.

When I found out that my son was stillborn, I realized that I was in for a looooong haul, one that is, essentially, living a nightmare.

I think about the experiences entailed. Getting through the week, the labor, the delivery, the funeral, the burial – that was the finite stuff, the stuff with dates attached. It’s the After that haunts: waking up in the middle of the night, frantic, because I can’t find The Baby (this continued for years, even after the next baby was born alive and healthy), sobbing because I know where the toddler is, and where the newborn is, but where’s The Baby?; the physical aching of my arms and the physical but even more emotional torture of milk being involuntarily expressed for a baby who isn’t there; the continuing dilemma, arriving at any moment, which is answering the simple question, “How many children do you have?” (My standard answer is, “Five alive, One in Heaven.” But it’s a split-second decision: do I mention Taylor? Who is this person who’s asking, and how long will I know them? Do they need to know? In general, I feel disappointed in myself when I don’t acknowledge him; there’s so much of him not here, the least I can do is to contribute a few words his way.)

I think about what this means for me, long-term. Here’s the thing – it does get better. Don’t get me wrong, it’s horrible, and don’t you dare tell someone going through it that it will get better. This is something a grieving mother must learn and decide on her own. Because it gets better . . . and then it gets worse. But it would be a lie to say that time doesn’t at least soften.

I think about what this means for my family. My kids know that they’ve got a brother in Heaven. They know that his spirit lives on, and that we will be with him again one day. That’s such a wonderful thing to experience – to hear your kids bear their testimony of that principle, and know it to be strong and true. My kids know that families are forever.

It’s said that the baby who comes along after the angel baby is called The Rainbow Baby, because they are the calm after the storm. This couldn’t be more accurate of my daughter, due exactly one year + one day after her brother was born still (thankfully, I was induced early as to keep Taylor’s week his own). Just today, she and I were running errands together. As we drove by the cemetery, she asked, “Mom, can we go see Taylor for just a minute? Just you and me? I miss him.” We drove in and to his section as I asked her to tell me her thoughts. “I just … I just miss him, Mom. I wish I knew what he looks like. I mean, I really wish I knew how curly his hair is.” We spent just a moment standing in the rain together, looking at the flat gravestone, as I strained to stay silent but instead made some weird choking noise in the back of my throat. On the way back to the van, she said, “Oops!” She noticed that someone had placed a small gift on one of the baby graves, and the wind had knocked it over, so she took the time to make certain it was upright before we drove away. On the way out of the cemetery, I told her, once more, about the time when she was in my belly, and I was so, so very scared, and got a blessing from her Papi, in which blessing I was told that Taylor and ‘this baby’ have a unique and special friendship. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw her smile. I asked her if she agreed with that statement about their friendship. She does.

I think about other mothers whose lot is to endure such a loss. Close to Taylor’s grave is the grave of a man who is the brother of a good friend of my mom. This man’s mother and I have a special bond, because we are in, for lack of a better term, This Club (you, by the way, are not invited to join). My cousin Heather, my friends Lynn and Sandy, countless other women whose friends, cousins, acquaintances, have phoned or sent emails asking what can be done, what can be said . . . we all just know. Even when words fail us, it's okay. Sometimes words aren't needed.

I think of all these things, and how it continues. Tomorrow morning I will attend the funeral of a friend’s baby daughter who lived just ten days before returning to Heavenly Father. For this sweet grieving woman, I’ll give love, I’ll offer hope, I’ll share the connection. And I’ll cry, and pray that this will be the last time, knowing full well it won’t be.

Of my worries turned to blessings, what I hope is shown outwardly is exactly that: an unspoken connection for that time when it was needed most.













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I'm hiding. It's Taylor Week. Don't know what that is? Click here and here.



Since you asked, I'll tell you that I'm not having a very nice time of it. Curly turned 6 last week, and once her birthday was finished, it started. Crying on the way home from work, and on the verge of tears at any given moment. I've already asked Darin to stay home from work on Wednesday, because I know I'll need it.



I've decided this year to pay tribute to just a few of those who helped care for us during that out-of-body time in our lives. It goes without saying that our family was vital to our survival, both emotionally and practically (ie: There were days in there when I realized at the end of the day, "I never fed li'l ~j. today." Luckily, someone else always had.). Today I'm going to honor a few others. Namely, our then neighbors, and always friends. More specifically, these are the families who lived in our same apartment complex at the time.



The Rohm Family



Trevor & Stephani lived across the hall from us, but they had also been in our ward when we lived at Wymount. Plus, they both grew up in close proximity to Darin; he and Trevor played soccer on rivaling teams in high school. As our neighbors, they really stepped up to help us out during this trying time. They bought a toy for li'l ~j., then 18 months old -- this meant so much to me. They also gave us a framed print of Jesus with a small boy on his knee, in (presumably, what with all the clouds) Heaven. This oak-framed print is always on the wall right next to our most recent family photos. They also sent some friends to the hospital at 10:30 at night to make something for us: plaster casts of Taylor's hands and feet, as well as a molding of my hand holding Taylor's, with Darin's hand around both of ours. Trevor created the dual-sided program for our little graveside service, and it was perfect.



The Barlow Family



I'll just never forget Sarah coming downstairs, knocking on our door, and with tears in her eyes, handing over a framed 5x7 print of the Savior -- the one where He's knocking on the door with no outer doorknob. She just cried and said, "I'm so sorry."



The Prieto Family



Anyone who gets the chance to have their life intertwine with this family during this earth life will never be the same. That's the only way I can describe this honorable Brazilian family. Brother Prieto, with his no-to-broken-at-best English, gave me the most meaningful hugs I could have possibly gotten that week. His sincere sorrow was in his eyes. He helped me create the pages for Taylor's scrapbook. After each page printed on their printer, he'd carefully scrutinize it, checking to make sure the margins were perfect and that the pages were completely without smudges or errors of any kind. If imperfections were found, that page was dicarded until the right one had been created. He was most patient and helpful. And Sister -- I mean Mama -- Prieto is always amazing, never without wisdom. She shared her talents and feelings by way of a poem which came to her in the middle of the night. This poem is framed and in my bedroom:



Glimpses of Eternity

A tribute to the life of Taylor Eckton



Warm as the first sunbeam in a cold morning,

beautiful like the first blossoms of

early spring,

unique like a snowflake,

tender as the love of

your parents' hearts and

pure like an angel...

You came into our lives;

Warm, beautiful, unique, tender and pure.



Through your eyes we saw God's

glimpses of eternity.

Through your ears we heard the whispers of

His comforting words.

Through your heart we felt His love divine,

In your countenance we saw the

image of our Maker.



We thank our Father in Heaven for the gift of

your precious life and through His only

begotten Son the gift of eternal life.



You are beloved, wanted and

present in our lives.

Today we bid you farewell, for a

brief moment 'till the blessed day when

hand in hand we will see together

the glimpses of life eternal...



by Vitoria Prieto



The Burch Family



Speaking of getting to know a family and never being the same...also former Wymount neighbors, and Kerri also grew up in the same town as Darin. And Doug had been my manager when I worked at an office supply store ("Yeah, We've Got That.") in Orem a few years previously. They were so very helpful. Doug, then still a manager at the office supply store, gave us as many copies of that program for our graveside service (the one made by Trevor) as we wanted, at no cost. Kerri put together a gift basket with survival necessities (chocolate) as well as a shirt for li'l ~j.. She took pictures at our funeral service. She taught me some funeral ettiquette that I hadn't been aware of. She made countless meals for us, to our great delight and fortune. It would be impossible to list all the things the Burches did for us that week, but one thing in particular stands out: Kerri told me of something that happened at her home at the very time I was giving birth. You see, as I was in labor, the phone in the hospital room rang; I had Darin answer it and asked him to tell whoever it was that we'd have to call them back. It was Kerri on the phone, just checking in on us. After she hung up the phone, knowing I was about to give birth, she watched her own little boy, Bret, playing with his toys (I'm going to guess Legos). After a couple of minutes, she said, "Bret? Bret, where's Taylor? Can you tell me about Taylor? Is he in Heaven?" Pausing for a moment from playing, he considered her questions, and then nodded affirmatively and told her: "Stay there."





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Neighbors and friends since have done some wonderful things to support us on this anniversary that has not ceased to be painfully sorrowful for me (ie, cw brought me some delightful apple strudel on Sunday night, "so that you can start Taylor week off with some comfort food".). It's not that I think that it's going to get any easier. I'm not sure what I expect, or expected, to happen after seven years. I guess I just need to prepare myself better for being reduced to this slobbery puddle of tears during the first week of October each year.



This year's celebration will consist of my going to Costco on Wednesday morning to buy flowers for Taylor's grave, as well as a pumpkin cheesecake. It's what he'd want. Or, at the very least, what he'd want for his mom.

For Taylor, Jeremy, Rachel, and their moms

Well, it's October. This has always been my favorite month. A few days ago, I was driving in North Orem and saw the beautiful colors on Mt. Timpanogos. It was five years ago when I first got a good look at the beautiful fall colors that that mountain has to offer. I was in a recovery room at Timpanogos Regional Medical Center, and the only thing I had to do was look out the window. I didn't watch tv. I didn't call people. And I didn't have a new baby to cuddle.

On October 1, 2000, I found out that the baby I was carrying was no longer living. I was 30 & 1/2 weeks along (that's 7 months, for those of you that don't speak in weeks). Just a month earlier, my friend Sarah & I were on our way to an Institute class when she told me about a friend's sister who had just had her baby two months early because the baby had died. "Did she have a c-section?" I asked. "No," Sarah told me, "they just induced labor." Then I said my nightmare-inducing words: "I cannot imagine anything worse than having to go through labor to give birth to a baby you know isn't alive."

On October 2nd, Darin & I picked out a plot in the Provo City Cemetery for our son, and then bought an 18-inch long casket. Sitting in an office at Berg Mortuary, all I could think was, "This is wrong. It's backwards. People don't get caskets for their kids." Taylor James was born on October 3, 2000, and we were able to see the cause of his death - his umbilical cord was in a knot and wound around his right thigh and both ankles, figure-8 style. As his body grew and the knot got tighter, everything just shut down. His funeral was October 6th. We were shown so much love and support from so many - from my friend Grace, who brought me a copy of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun to cheer me up, to the man that cut Darin's hair the day before the funeral - at the BYU barbershop, when it was closed, and didn't charge him anything, to whoever it was that taped an envelope to our door that contained $300 cash. The first card we received in the mail was from the Kinnears. I received numerous cards, letters, and phone calls from my cousin Heather, who was so supportive and praised us for loving our son before he was even born.

Imagine my surprise when I found out that Curly was due to be born on October 4th, 2001. When that preganancy was coming to its close, I reminded my doctor that October 1st was when I found out Taylor wasn't living, he was born the 3rd, and the 6th was his funeral - could I PLEASE have this baby early? I won't be able to throw any birthday parties that first week of October. Dr. Gamette was very accomodating, and Dr. Dayton delivered Curly that very day, September 26th. She was, and is, my rainbow baby - the beauty after that storm.

When Curly was not even three weeks old, my mom called me. I knew immediately that something was wrong. She told me that Jeremy Kinnear had died. Jeremy was, I guess, technically, my brother James's friend. But you know how sometimes your siblings' friends become your own? That's how it was with Jeremy. He was my friend, too. He wrote letters to me when I first moved to Utah. The first "band" I was ever in consisted of me, James, and Jeremy - the band was called "Jeremy's Mom's a Librarian", and I played guitar, James played harmonica, and Jeremy played...buckets, which were easier to carry around than drums. His nickname was Crazy. He was one of the most talented percussionists I've ever encountered. He and James were in a band called Attica with four other guys. They were very, VERY good. They were played on local radio and traveled far distances to perform. Jeremy was ALWAYS HAPPY - in a dark, contentious atmosphere where people all around him could be found arguing and screaming, he'd have a little grin on his face and be quietly laughing. I've seen it happen.

I thought my mom must be mistaken: "What? No. *crying* You're wrong. You're wrong..." I asked her what had happened. "We don't know yet." What?! "Mom, that doesn't even make any sense." "It happened some time this morning. He was found on the New York State Thruway..." And as she was telling me the little of the known information that she was sure of, I tuned her out and realized that it was Jeremy's birthday. I talked to Chad, another of James's friends. He was as distraught as I've ever heard him. He told me that it was a hit-and-run, probably, but no one knows how he ended up on the thruway at 4 in the morning. He asked, "Jenny, can James come for the funeral?" "No, Chad. He's committed to two years. He won't be coming."

I made arrangements to fly to NY for the funeral. Darin couldn't get the time off from work, but Monica (now James's wife) came. I liked having another adult with me because, in addition to the stress of flying with a 2 & 1/2 year old and a newborn, this was just a month after September 11th, making the entire flight extra tense.

The funeral home was packed - in fact, I think Jeremy's funeral set a record for number in attendance at the Lind Funeral Home. The service was filled with music, just like Jeremy's life. The best talk I have ever heard in my life was given by Ben Tillotson, Jeremy's next door neighbor, who, upon finishing his talk, put his newest Special Olympics medal in Jeremy's hand. At the conclusion of the services, everyone walked by the casket one last time, and my sister, Brandy, and Monica and I cried even harder when we saw that someone had put a photo in the casket of Jeremy & James together.

The next July, we went to Indiana for an extended family reunion. It was held at McCormick's Creek State Park, but we stayed with my cousin Heather and her family. Li'l ~j. and Heather's son Luke aren't too far apart in age (and are pretty similar in personality), and Curly's only three months older than Heather's daughter Rachel. Ours was an extremely pleasant visit, and I couldn't help but think how excited I was that my cousin & I had kids that played so well together. I kept envisioning our kids being penpals and having special friendships even though they lived so far apart from each other. Then in August, I got another of those phone calls from my mom. This time the call woke me up. "Rachel Norris died last night." "What? Heather's daughter? How?" "Well...she choked." I absolutely could not believe it. "Mom, I HAVE to go to the funeral. I have to be there. We were just there. Heather was so supportive when we lost Taylor, Mom, I have to go." Later that day, I contemplated calling Heather. What would I say? Then I remembered that, when we lost Taylor, as hard as it was to get phone calls, it hurt more to NOT get them. So I called. David answered. "David, it's Jenny." "Just a minute." Heather answered. I could barely whisper, "Heather." "I know." That's what she said, over and over. I don't even remember what else was said during that conversation, only that my resolve to get there was stronger.

Again, my mom stepped in and helped us get last-minute flights to go to Indiana for the funeral. Again, Darin couldn't get the time off, so li'l ~j., Curly, and I flew to Indianapolis. My cousin Erica picked us up at the airport and drove us directly to the funeral home where the viewing was going on. Rachel looked like an angel. Heather and David were weary. Lukey was holding on tightly to his parents and sucking his thumb. He was also shaking a bit. My mom and Brandy drove to Indiana, as well, to be there for the funeral. It seemed the entire town of Greencastle knew about what had happened. The funeral service was so sad - it's very blurred in my memory. The burial is what I recall, and it was wrenching. As the casket was being lowered into the ground, Heather began wailing. It was hell.

Heather had gotten Rachel's picture taken a month or so earlier, and a few weeks after the funeral, she went to the Wal*Mart photo studio to see if she could purchase the remaining photos. The clerk asked her to wait a minute while she spoke to her manager. The manager came out and told Heather that she would be given a print in every size of each pose, as well as the negatives, at no charge.

When my son died, I made the choice to help people going through similar circumstances, whatever their stage of mourning, no matter how long it has been - if their crisis is just beginning, or if it's been years. Just last year, I got a phone call from a gentleman I've never met: "Hello, is this Jenny? My name is Kevin Simons, and I was just at the cemetery today, visiting my daughter's grave, and I noticed fresh flowers on your son's grave. Then I noticed that today is his birthday, and I just wanted to call to say that I hope you have a beautiful day." "Well, thank you very much. I really appreciate that. If you don't mind my asking, when did you lose your daughter?" "No, I don't mind at all. It was 25 years ago."

Once you've experienced something like this, people come out of the woodwork with similar stories - either it happened to them, or their sister, or someone else that they know... And while I still have a drive to help people and do all I can to help share the burden, I hope you'll excuse me this week while I turn to my food- and retail-therapy.

Here's to Taylor, Jeremy, Rachel, and their moms. As it says on a headstone near Taylor's: We have a renewed desire to pass our earthly test.