Yesterday was the four-month anniversary of Levi's heaven birthday. Thanks to some wonderful friends, I got to spend the weekend at a scrapbooking retreat, and chose to use that time to add pages to Levi's memory album. And while doing so, I remembered the reasons I have to be thankful.

Can we look backward and move forward at the same time?

Even though I don't understand the reason, I still believe. Like Job, I choose to believe despite the uncertainty. And because I choose to believe, my grief is changing me for the good.

So often we think that it is words as sharp and cold as icicles that will sink the deepest. But really, it is love sown through kindness and respect that opens hearts.

Moving forward is what we are designed to do. I will never forget him, but it's okay to find pleasure and joy in other things in this life. In this life, there is a great deal of joy to find.

Moving forward is hard. Yes, the inexorable march of time moves us whether we want to move or not. But how do you "move forward" inside without feeling like you are leaving something--or someone--precious behind?

One word we would often use to describe Levi was "fearless."

He had no fear of anything--big machines, big animals, dangerous things, strange people (although he was often quiet around strangers--I think he was studying them, not afraid of them.)

I can see why some people would choose to make a shrine out of their child's room when they lose one, leaving everything exactly the way it was. It is tempting to not get rid of a single thing, to leave it all just how they left it. Parting with the things seems like choosing to forget.

And truthfully? I'm terrified of the things about him that I am forgetting. My memory is so full of holes, punched there from this tremendous grief, that I already know that I have forgotten things that I wish I could hold on to tightly forever. Every day that passes feels like it is taking me one day farther away from my boy.

Being human is hard. There is so much pain involved in this thing called "life." But it is also joyful. What makes life easier is walking this road with other humans, and sharing those experiences of joy and pain with each other.

But there is a time and place for everything.

After having children, I really only had one major fear: backing over a child. As recently as last month, Jude gave Jason and I a "get to know you" survey that asked us a few meme-like questions, and this is the answer I put down as "my greatest fear."

And then, twelve days ago, my youngest child--for whom I had prayed for years and loved with all my heart--thought it would be clever to hide behind Daddy's truck as he was taking the big boys to school.

On Wednesday, I found I was grieving all the things that Levi will not get to do that I wanted him to be able to do. I find that writing songs helps me deal with very stressful and emotional topics, so I wrote "Things I'll Never Do". Here is a quick scratch recording on a video for this song.

At the beginning of the week, I had no idea all the ways that this week would not follow my nice, neat plan.

I am so thankful that bad days--and bad weeks--are temporary.

What makes someone inspiring? And why would I want to be that, too?

How do you care without bleeding out? How do you protect yourself without becoming callous? How do you draw the line between "making a difference in the world" and "being healthy and whole for me and my family" when your heart breaks every time you hear about the damage done to one of the least of these?