by Jill Kelly
I didn’t want the two huge oxygen tanks to leave either. We’d had oxygen tanks in the house before Hunter was even born; they were familiar to us. Jim’s mother, Alice, had been on oxygen because of her emphysema. When she died, the tanks left. And then a year and a half later, Hunter was diagnosed with Krabbe disease and the tanks came back. I missed the sound of the air bubbling through the water attached to the tank.
What am I supposed to do with Hunter’s Quickie wheelchair? And should we sell Hunter’s van made special for him? The van Hunter and Robert cruised around in the first day Hunter ever rode in it? The van we only had for two months before Hunter died?
What about his therapy vest? Unique memories were literally plastered all over it in an array of colorful stickers filled with meaning. Before we would put any stickers on Hunter’s vest, we’d always show them to him first to get his approval. He would blink once for “yes” to let us know if he liked the sticker. If he didn’t blink, it didn’t go on. There were three Spider-Man stickers on the vest along with four glittery frog stickers. A big sticker of Davey and Goliath was on the front of the machine. Hunter loved Davey and Goliath. My aunt Dodie, one of Hunter’s nurses, searched everywhere for videos and other Davey and Goliath paraphernalia. Hunter even had a lunch box with the dynamic duo on it.
“U.S. Army” and “God Bless America” stickers were on the vest machine, too. My mother gave Hunter the nickname “Soldier Boy” because he was so incredibly courageous and brave. As I looked at those stickers, two memories came vividly to mind. First, I could hear my mother singing “Soldier Boy” to Hunter in the Jacuzzi. She was always singing to Hunter, and he loved her voice. I knew I’d miss hearing my mother sing.
Then I remembered Hunter’s 2003 Good Scout Award for Bravery, given to him by the Boy Scouts of America–Greater Niagara Frontier Council. Many of our family and friends had attended the awards ceremony. Robert was there to celebrate and support his best friend, too. Having the boys together, decked out in their best attire, was a sight to see. Hunter was feeling good and he looked so handsome.
Before the ceremony I talked to Hunter about the normal protocol when someone receives an award of such magnitude. I explained how important it was for him and our entire family to acknowledge how grateful we were for his honor. We talked about what it means to be truly brave and courageous, and I told him how incredibly brave I thought he was.
Together we wrote an acceptance speech for Hunter’s award. As I discussed with him what he might possibly say to the audience, he’d blink in agreement at the suggestions he liked, and I’d write the words down. I only wanted Hunter’s words to be heard, not mine.
Here’s what Hunter said in his acceptance speech after receiving the Good Scout Award for Bravery:
First of all, I just have to tell you that I’m feeling pretty important with this fancy shirt and tie on. I only dress up like this once a year for our family Christmas picture, so this is so cool for me.
This is such a great day! Thank you so much for honoring me this afternoon with the Boy Scout Award for Bravery. I did not know what it meant to be brave until now. For a six-year-old boy to stand up here in front of all of you—now that’s brave.
When my mom and I talked about bravery the other day, a few thoughts came to my mind. To me, bravery is:
Like a tiny fish in a big blue sea or a birdie learning to fly
Being strong even when it hurts
Telling you how I feel deep in my heart
Watching kids run and play and telling them, “Great job”
Stretching my arms and moving my head all by myself
Catching my breath
I’m very happy to be Hunter James Kelly. Although I am unable to do a lot of things, I am able to do what is most important—and that is to love. God is so good to me. He blessed me with a very important mission here on earth, and all of you are helping me to achieve it. Hunter’s Hope is so special to my family and me. You all have been so generous in helping us to raise awareness and funds to help my friends with this terrible disease. And believe me, this disease is awful.
But more important than all of that, God asked me to teach all of you about Him and His amazing love for all of us. Sometimes we get carried away with the things of this world that really don’t matter, when all that really matters is that we fulfill the purpose for which God created each one of us. My purpose is to show all of you that God’s love is the best, and that prayer really can move mountains and give strength to the weak and hope to those who have none.
You see, it’s not about me; it’s all about Him. I love being a six-year-old boy, but I love being God’s little warrior even more. I’m thankful for God and all the people that love me and help me to be brave. Please keep me in your prayers, and thank you again for this very special honor.
There wasn’t a dry eye in the room that day. What a precious memory. A memory birthed from a sticker on a therapy vest.
I was surrounded by such reminders. But regardless of how wonderful a memory might be, each one also had the power to immobilize me. Should I give away some of the sources of those memories to avoid the emotional pain? It was just so hard to make decisions about anything. I felt paralyzed.
Laundry could wait.
The dishes could wait.
Quiet time could wait.
My life could wait.
Chapter 15
Unexpected Grace
The day after Hunter’s funeral I dusted off a copy of Randy Alcorn’s Heaven—a book I had barely started reading months before Hunter died. I had to get out of the house, away from what life was starting to become without Hunter, so I threw my book in a backpack and headed to my mom and dad’s house. Erin and Camryn were busy playing with friends, and that made it easier for me to leave them at home with Jim.
In my grief, I needed to be near where my boy was during the last moments of his life. I needed to touch the soft sheets he’d last slept in while they were still exactly as he’d left them. The young life that had captivated and consumed my every minute and my every thought was gone. I didn’t know what to do with myself.
As I traveled the same route I always did to my parents’ home, the same route that led to the hospital where Hunter had died, I tried desperately to make sense out of what had happened. So many questions were invading my mind. I wanted to know why God had allowed Hunter to take his last breath in my mother’s arms instead of mine. Was He mad at me? Did He forget that I had prayed many times to be the one? If I had been there at my parents’ house that morning, would Hunter still be alive?
I cried and tried to take in the beauty of the day as I drove. The sky was very blue, with a few puffy clouds scattered here and there. The sun was bright yet it wasn’t hot. There was a nice cool breeze, too. It was a perfect day; just like the day Hunter took his last breath.
When I arrived in Attica I stopped by the cemetery before going on to my parents’ house. The plot of land where Hunter’s body was buried is right next to a war monument for fallen soldiers. How fitting, I thought, that our brave little soldier was buried next to a memorial for those who have given their lives for our country. A pile of fresh dirt was still there, waiting for grass to grow. Standing there I thought, While I’m waiting to see Hunter again, what’s he experiencing in heaven? What’s heaven really like? Does Hunter have a new body right now? What’s he doing? Can he see what’s going on down here? I had so many questions.
A little later, when I got to the top of my parents’ driveway, my mother was standing there to greet me. I was happy to see her. “Did you stop at the cemetery?” she asked.
I responded yes and just looked at her. It was obvious that I had been crying. As we hugged, she whispered in my ear, “We’ll take care of Hunter’s spot, Jill. It will eventually look better than it does right now.”
“I know, Mom. I know,” I responded with a heavy sigh.
I walked over to a lounge chair by the pool and my mom went inside to prepare some lunch. A
fter I got situated, I opened Heaven to where I had left off months before: page fifty-five—“Does ‘paradise’ suggest a physical place?” The more I read, the more excited and encouraged I became.
A fundamental article of the Christian faith is that the resurrected Christ now dwells in heaven. We are told that his resurrected body on Earth was physical, and that this same, physical Jesus ascended to Heaven, from which he will one day return to Earth (Acts 1:11). It seems indisputable, then, to say that there is at least one physical body in the present Heaven. If Christ’s body in the intermediate Heaven has physical properties, it would stand to reason that others in Heaven might have physical forms as well, even if only temporary ones.1
My heart started to race as I thought to myself, Maybe Hunter does have a physical body right now. What if God’s actually revealing what my heart longs to understand?
The more I read, the more convinced I was that God was speaking to the questions on my mourning heart.
Hebrews 12:1 tells us to “run with perseverance the race marked out for us,” creating the mental picture of the Greek competitions, which were watched intently by throngs of engrossed fans sitting high up in the ancient stadiums. The “great cloud of witnesses” refers to the saints who’ve gone before us, whose accomplishments on the playing field of life are now part of our rich history. The imagery seems to suggest that those saints, the spiritual “athletes” of old, are now watching us and cheering us on from the great stadium of Heaven that looks down on the field of Earth. (The witnesses are said to “surround” us, not merely to have preceded us.)2
Picturing Hunter as an athlete watching us from the great stadium of heaven was uplifting and exciting. I thought of Jim and the thousands of fans that had cheered him on for years, and now our son was cheering us on. While we continue to press on here in the game of life, our little athlete is suited up in heaven’s finest, watching and waiting. As the sun continued to warm my face that gorgeous afternoon, I thought about Hunter wearing a number 12 jersey and playing football now for the winning team—the only team that matters.
I laid my copy of Heaven down on my lap, closed my eyes, and started to pray: “Lord, can Hunter see us right now? Is he watching and cheering us on as we struggle to live without him? My heart overflows with questions. But knowing You is more important than having answers. Lord, help me to love You more than I miss Hunter. Thank You for—”
“Jill, lunch is ready,” my mother called. I got up from my chair and headed over to help her. Then she stopped abruptly, looked up to the sky, and exclaimed, “Turn around, Jill. You’re not going to believe this.” When I turned and looked up, there, in the middle of the beautiful blue sky, was the letter H in the clouds.
“I’ve got to get my camera,” my mother said as she handed me the lunch tray and ran back into the house.
I stared at the sky, speechless. An H for Hunter, an H for heaven, I said to myself as I walked over to the nearest table and set the food down. Eating could wait.
As my mother snapped a bunch of pictures, my gaze was fixed heavenward.
“Look through here,” she said, handing me her camera. Though it was still there, right before my eyes, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
Maybe we were hallucinating. Or maybe a few planes had flown by and stretched the clouds out to form a perfect H in the sky.
Or maybe—just maybe—the hand of a loving and compassionate God reached down into our grief that afternoon.
I didn’t know, and honestly, I didn’t have the energy to try to figure it all out. But what I was certain of is this: we saw a huge white H in the sky that day, and I’ll never forget it.
After the H-shaped cloud started to disappear, our momentary excitement ended and feelings of sorrow returned.
“Mom, what happened?” I asked. I needed to hear the story repeatedly the first few months after Hunter’s passing. I wasn’t there, but she was. I wasn’t in the back of the ambulance, holding Hunter’s hand. Agonizing as it was, I had tried to picture everything in my mind, hoping to make sense of it all. Thankfully, as hard as it was for my mother, she was always willing to recount what had happened during those horrible moments at her house.
She was lying next to him when he stopped breathing, she said. She watched the emergency technicians try to resuscitate my son. She was with him in the ambulance as they kept trying to revive Hunter. She was there as they wheeled him into the emergency room for the last time….
My mother and I had so much to talk about, so many memories to share, and yet the emptiness and sorrow we felt were unbearable.
Later that night, while I lay restlessly in Hunter’s bed trying to sleep, I remembered my book. Throwing aside the covers, I went to the closet in search of my backpack, where I found Heaven. I started reading where I had left off that afternoon:
Meanwhile, we on this dying Earth can relax and rejoice for our loved ones who are in the presence of Christ. As the apostle Paul tells us, though we naturally grieve at losing loved ones, we are not “to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope” (1 Thessalonians 4:13). Our parting is not the end of our relationship, only an interruption. We have not “lost” them, because we know where they are. They are experiencing the joy of Christ’s presence in a place so wonderful that Christ called it Paradise. And one day, we’re told, in a magnificent reunion, they and we “will be with the Lord forever. Therefore encourage each other with these words” (1 Thessalonians 4:17-18).3
A sense of peace and purpose swept over me as I closed the book and laid it on my nightstand. I was overwhelmed with gratitude to God for the encouragement the words had given me. It was a little bit of unexpected grace. At that defining moment, I determined in my heart not “to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope” (1 Thessalonians 4:13).
Two months later, on October 5, I was surprised by another small touch of grace. I was standing in the kitchen, peering through the sliding glass doors, when I heard a thump. There, lying motionless on our back deck, was a little bird. The poor thing must have flown into the window and injured itself because it was barely breathing. I wasn’t sure what to do, but I had to do something.
I scanned the kitchen for some tissues and slowly opened the door. The frail, fallen creature struggled vainly to move but couldn’t. Instead, it lay there in silent fear. Gently, I nudged the helpless little thing onto the tissues and into my hands. Then, walking slowly over to the patio couch, I sat down, not fully understanding why I was so moved.
The bird was beautiful. I guessed it was a male because its bright, multihued body was striking. Stroking his soft, ruffled feathers from the top of his head to the tip of his tail seemed to soothe him, and he relaxed a bit. It was the least I could do, because it looked as if he was dying. And as I sat there cradling him, I thought about an experience I’d had just two days before Hunter died—a very similar encounter but with a different bird.
My daughters and I had been staying at my parents’ house for a few days. Our breakfast was interrupted one morning by a loud noise that caused us all to jump in alarm. A disoriented bird had flown into the kitchen window. Unfortunately, before we could get to it, Max and Jake—my dad’s black Labs—were trying to mess with the wounded bird. Somehow we were able to wrestle it from the snarling dogs amid the cries of Erin and Camryn, who sobbed as I cuddled the poor thing in my hands. Hunter was in his stroller not too far from all the commotion.
Although it was obvious the bird was dying, it was so beautiful, and this was such an uncommon occurrence, that I wanted Hunter to see the little creature. I walked carefully over to his stroller and knelt down next to him. Everyone crowded around and watched intently as I picked up Hunter’s hand so he could pet the bird.
“Isn’t he beautiful, Hunter?” I said as I moved his hand up and down across the bird’s feathers. He blinked his eyes once to say yes. “Do you see how lovely this bird is? Even though he’s dying, all his colors and markings are still so beautiful. The life of every creature a
nd the breath of all mankind are in God’s hand,” I said. “He knew today would be the day this little creature would take its last breath. He knows everything. And even though we don’t understand why things happen the way they do, God knows.”
My inquisitive daughter, Camryn, interrupted me with a stream of questions: “Is he going to die, Mama? Are we going to bury him? Where are we going to put him? What are we going to do, Mama?”
“Well, Cam, we’re going to find a resting place for this bird.”
We found a spot near the edge of the woods and laid the little bird there.
“Can we come back and check on him?” Camryn asked earnestly.
“Sure, honey, we’ll come back in a little while. Let him rest for now.”
As we walked away, I knew it wouldn’t be long before the bird would be gone. Of course, I didn’t know it then, but it wouldn’t be long before Hunter would be gone, too.
But God knew.
Now, here I was, sitting on my patio couch two months later, remembering that day in my parents’ backyard and recalling what I had said to Hunter and his sisters about the death of another little bird. I suddenly realized that God had used that earlier experience to somehow prepare all of us for Hunter’s death.
I wept.
And I prayed for the broken bird in my hands. “Please help this bird. He’s struggling, unable to fly. Is he going to die?” And that is when I experienced a touch of God’s grace, the kind of grace that would help to shepherd me through the grieving process, no matter how long it might take.
When Hunter was alive, I had hoped and prayed that he would take his last breath in my arms. The fear of losing him, or not being there for him, had consumed me for years. He was my boy, my only son. I wanted to be the one with him when he took his last breath here and his first breath in heaven. But I wasn’t. And I was devastated.
My entire life had revolved around Hunter. Every breath he took was a gift. I didn’t want to miss a thing. No matter where I was or who I was with, my heart and mind were with Hunter.