A few weeks ago I was thinking about my upcoming birthday (love the cake; dislike another digit closer to the big 65), and since I haven’t really had a memorable “feel like I spent time with Robb” dream in 4 years, I started praying that God would grant another dream as a birthday present. Only a couple days went by before I did indeed dream about Robb….at the age of around 10 years, probably. Maybe because Tucker and Abby turned 10 not too long ago? Whatever the reason, it was as real and wonderful as if he were right there with me.
I was trimming his hair, of all things. I used to cut both boys’ hair, and Robb’s was so much thicker that it would take me twice as long to do his as it would Jay’s. In my dream I could feel the thickness of it, the coarser texture, the way the ends felt when they’d just been cut. And the color! That glorious red that was Robb’s—it was so real and vibrant and rich in my hands! I can see and feel it still, and with this sweet reminder, I pleasure in the sensation again.
What a gift that was from my God: To not only see my son, but to feel him. I can’t tell you how much my arms ache to hold him…to touch Robb again, in any way. So to be given that memory of him, one that was so very real…well, it’s a most precious birthday gift.
And then suddenly he was in a car, being driven away, and I was yelling at his father, “Don’t take him away from me!” His father? Yet it clearly wasn’t Craig, so it had to be…God?. His heavenly Father? Though I’ve never felt angry at God…blamed him…could my subconscious be saying that I do struggle in that way? I would never ask God to bring Robb back into this world—never. Too much suffering. Way too much pain. How could I ever want more of either for my sweetie? But just before Robb crossed that threshold, would I have argued with God if I could have, pleading with him not to take my son? Oh, yes. I would have yelled and screamed at the top of my lungs. Don’t take him. Don’t take my son!
Currently I’m writing on grief and loss, and maybe the hard work of thinking through and feeling all those memories is forcing things to the surface that I didn’t even know were there. It’s breaking me wide open all over again, and I’ve asked myself numerous times, “Are you sure you want to do this? Are you strong enough to do this?” Sometimes—in answer to both questions—I honestly don’t know.
There will be no phone call from Robb today. I won’t answer the phone, lighting up at the sound of his voice. I can’t reach out and pull him into a hug, feeling those strong arms, his body pressed to mine. But I’ll treasure the precious gift: Closing my eyes, I see that adorable 10-year-old. Brush my fingers through his hair. And kiss that freckled cheek.
Come to me again soon, sweetie. I’m waiting.