On the loss of innocence

June 27, 2009


Craig is a co-worker of mine, his daughter Addyson born just three days before Isaac. The proximity of time and vocation connected the two births, and had connected the two pregnancies, beginning in November when we first found out.

I went to Addyson’s funeral today. She was nine days old.

The proximity of the two births made her passing so jarring. So close. It’s clouded my thoughts since it happened, my mind imagining what I’d do if it was ours, my heart bruised from questioning why it had to happen to someone so cool. So genuinely caring. To someone who, despite my knowing only on a work level, had quickly become a friend.

Let’s be honest. There’s nothing more heartbreaking than the funeral of a baby; the white casket wheeled in, padded and adorned with teddy bears, small enough to leave nothing to the imagination. There is no doubt that we’re all there to mourn the death of a child. There is no question that it’s going to be hard.

Through the beveled walls and wooden pews, a wave of sadness quieted the room. Nothing – nothing at all, not a single word – can comfort a parent during this. There is only time. And as time hadn’t made its way into their lives, we could only sit. And hope.

Because so few in attendance knew Addyson on a personal level, I suspect we were all thinking the same things. About how horrible it must be to be in that position – to say goodbye to your own daughter, to attend the funeral of a person you had nurtured and raised through the womb, finally to meet her, only to see her taken away before you ever got the chance to know her.

And we were all thinking about what we’d do in that position. During a video of Addyson’s short life, I had to bury my eyes, squeezing back emotion. During a congregation-wide singing of “Jesus Loves Me,” I had to stay silent. I might have been as torn up as the family – not because I was close to Addyson, but because I’m so close to my own children. Because I don’t know what I’d do if they were taken away.

Do we feel worse about the death of a child because of the life we knew? Or because of what we never had the chance to know? When we ache over a young life lost, is it because of what we had discovered – the love we had found while they were still alive – or because of the potential love we could have shared?

It’s the innocence of parenthood – and the innocence of a newborn – that makes everything so difficult. No one believes their child will be taken – after all, in a karmic world, a newborn hasn’t had a chance to learn right from wrong, their innocence shielding them from judgment.

There are times I feel guilty. Though there’s no correlation, I can’t help but feel guilty. Isaac and Addyson were connected, though only through chance. Isaac survived. Addyson didn’t.

But that’s not fair – to us or to Addyson’s family. It’s not about who’s left, but who’s gone – it’s about losing a love before it could even be stoked, finding a soul mate only to have him or her taken. It’s about knowing what could have been – to be within reaching distance – and seeing it disappear.

So I sat, quietly, a whirlwind of feelings – concern, empathy, sorrow. Staring at the ceiling, fighting to keep it together, one person put everything in perspective. Kaiden, Addyson’s brother, a little boy who barely understands the magnitude of the event, looks up at his crying mother and tries to crack a joke. He laughs. I can only imagine a flicker of a smile passed by, a flicker Kaiden picked up on and, loudly, with innocence, asked his mother if things had passed.

“Are you better now?”

Probably not, Kaiden. Especially not now.

But who knows? In time, all of this will pass. Until then, though, it will weigh on our hearts – yes, even ours, those who only witnessed a fit of love so strong it filled the funeral home with emotion despite our distance – and it will continue to remind us of what we have in life.

To never take things for granted. To cherish each hug. Now, and until the end, whenever that is. So that if we’re ever put into this position, we can say with confidence that we’re crying for everything. The past and the future. Each day of a child’s life, and each day yet to come.

Feeling pain for both for what we had and the potential of what could have been. And lamenting the loss of innocence.

Tags: Friends, On... |

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On moving

May 17, 2009


I haven’t written anything in a while, and I have a lot to say.

You’ll have to forgive me. It’s been three days since we said goodbye to our first home.

And I can’t help but be surprised how much I miss it.

Though we spent the past two and a half months working to buy and sell a home, the move crept up on us. Despite the culmination of events – events that led us from desperate to frantic to endlessly busy in just a few weeks – I am still shocked by how empty our house could become, how it happened so fast, how I was completely unprepared to let go.

How, despite spending months trying to get rid of it, I still wished we could have made it work out. Stay a little longer. Hang out one last time.

It took two trucks and a handful of eager movers to completely gut our house. When it was finished, I walked from room to room, snapping pictures of my favorite features, taking it all in – as empty and clean as when we moved in, with little change aside from seven years worth of wear.

Kerrie shed a few tears. But I kept myself insulated from it, fearing that I’d shed the same tears. I looked forward, not behind; blinded by anticipation, I did what I could to grind out the hours. I unpacked the house several times in my sleep. I imagined where things would go, what I could do, what surprises were in store.

But that last night, I couldn’t help myself. “Here I am,” I thought. “My last night in my first home.”

Our first home. Where we planned our marriage. Brought home a dog. Trained a dog. Nursed little nips from a dog. We got married and bought cars and became adults. We formed our careers though several hiccups. I began writing in the dormer. I began reading again in the dormer. I learned about my new job in the dormer and privately celebrated in the dormer.

It was Sierra’s first home. Our first child. Her first steps, first words, first teeth, first joys and pains. She learned how to be a person in that house. She fell into our lives in that house.

There are a handful of things I’ll always remember. The creaky floors outside of Sierra’s room. The nights sitting in a rocking chair, with only the glaring light of the hall illuminating my book as I lulled Sierra to sleep. The night I listened to John Edwards and Dick Cheney as they debated in the summer of 2004. And the night I watched the first politician I truly believed in elected President four years later.

A lot of life was lived in those walls. But I’m thankful for one thing: the first years in that house were something Kerrie and I had to ourselves. They are memories we hold closely, memories that only we can claim. And likewise, that house is something that we can share with Sierra – a reminder of the days before our family had become four, something special that Sierra gets to remember, to her ability, in the upcoming years.

This new house begins a new chapter. In a few weeks, baby boy will be born. Life will get more complicated, will require more time and more space. And with our new home, we have it. It’s the perfect marking point for what we had and what we are about to become.

We are lucky. We found a house we wanted, put our house on the market, and were lucky enough to still snag it months later. We were able to make it quick. Harried, but painless. We were able to find people to help us – people who we thank for all eternity, from our families to our friends, from our Realtor Briana to the kind souls who owned our home before we moved in.

I miss the old house. But I love this one just as much. And once I come to grips with the idea that my memories are still around, despite the new location, I’ll slowly forget about what we had and focus on only what we have.

All of our stuff is here. It’s strewn across the house, scattered throughout each room like beads of mercury, dispersing in every direction, seeking level ground, but it’s here all the same.

And room by room, things are looking more comfortable. More like what we left behind. More like home.

Really, it’s already there. We’re here. We’ll continue to grow here, will celebrate new lives and new milestones.

This is our new base. Our new home. All that’s changed is the location.

Tags: Career, Friends, Home, Isaac, On..., Vilhauer |

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Hunting for traditions

April 12, 2009


As Sierra has grown, I’ve grown as well.

You’ll have to pardon me for going all Rick Reilly on you. There’s no surprise in the statement I’ve just made. It’s certainly not an original thought.

But when it comes to the traditions that accompany the holidays, it’s true. And it’s even more. I’m not simply growing – I’m rediscovering, finding the joy in holidays and rites of passage that I had long since passed off as child’s play, too old to even consider the enjoyment.

Halloween was this way. Same with Christmas gift opening. And now, Easter egg hunts.

Three times this week, Sierra took part in some version of an Easter egg hunt. Each version, though conducted by different people and stocked with different types of prizes, had one thing in common – eggs left in the open, cordoned off by some invisible pact that they were available only for the smallest children. These eggs, though bright colors and easily discernable from the grass underneath, still went overlooked at times, each kid running right by it as they focused on an egg in the distance. It was all very cute. Naturally.

More than that, it was a lot of fun. For both of us. When had I forgotten about Easter egg hunts?

I once grasped the holidays like there would be no others, and Easter was one of my favorites. I jumped headfirst into the traditions – dyeing eggs, hunting, waiting anxiously until the next morning, the idea of a treat-filled basket second only to the bounty that waited on Christmas.

I had left those traditions behind as I grew older, dissuaded by parents who rightfully assumed I was getting too old and then distanced further as I assumed my own march into adulthood. Other friends – the people that are probably more fun to hang out with than myself – may have continued to hold tight to the youthful charm of these traditions, but I had moved on. I had grown out of it.

But today, I saw those traditions being discovered; the excitement of discovering another egg around the corner, the seemingly constant barrage of candy and snacks, the exhausted fall into drowsiness that accompanies a day of family and friends and food.

I felt as if I was finding something I had lost. With each egg Sierra found, and with each excited squeal, I remembered how much fun life can be.

How the things we do as kids prepare us for the lives we’ll lead as parents. How, despite the time away, growing up is like riding a bike: you never forget how to crack open a plastic egg, and you never forget how to shove so much candy in your mouth you almost choke.

How we never really lose the love of a tradition, even if we no longer take advantage of it.

Tags: Friends, Sierra, Vilhauer |

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On the market

February 16, 2009


On the market

Today, our house went on the market.

I wish it was that simple, though. Because it’s so much more than that.

This is the vessel that our entire married life has been contained within. The only home Sierra has ever known. The house where our lives changed - where sheer longings turned into surprising realities, where we’ve seen friends come and go and pass away.

Which means, in some confusing and over-dramatized way, we’re selling our life. Or, at least, part of it.

We’ve put our house on the market. In doing so, we’ve put our sense of style on the market. Our security. Our cocoon, our safety zone, our base, free from tag, no touch backs and all of that.

We’ve put our view of the perfect life out for everyone to see, to judge and to offer on. It’s like sending a manuscript to a handful of publishers – we’re opening ourselves up for critique, and the person who wants our home the most will make an offer.

I’m happy that we’re doing it. I’m thrilled, actually. It’s exciting, without a doubt. The chance at altering our surroundings is something I look forward to. I’m thrilled with the idea of the hunt, of discovering the perfect new habitat, where both of our kids will roam free, creating the same kind of memories that I created in the homes I grew up in.

But it’s weird to think that Sierra won’t have many memories of this house. And to Baby Boy, this house will simply be an illusion in his parent’s minds – a home in which he was conceived but never stepped foot. It’s the foundation that we clung to as we created a new life for ourselves, a life that made both Sierra and Baby Boy possible, yet it will be like cell theory to the two of them – impossible to imagine, too minute to understand.

I’ll miss this house. At times, I’ll be filled with nostalgia. I know Kerrie feels the same. But it will be short lived. We will turn wherever we land into our home. Just as we’ve done before at this house; just as the lucky owners that follow us will once we leave.

It’s a chapter in our lives that will have passed by – not with painful remembrance, but with fondness. A chapter we can always look back on, proud of what we accomplished.

A chapter in the past, with many left to discover.

Tags: Friends, Isaac, On..., Sierra, Sioux Falls, Vilhauer |

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Season Ticket Review: Two nights of entertaining

January 19, 2009


Skyforce

Game 12 & 13 – Fort Wayne (5-11) at Sioux Falls Skyforce (12-8). January 15 & 16, 2008.

The last Skyforce update came nearly a month and a half ago.

It’s not that we haven’t been going to games this season. It’s just that, you know, we’ve been pretty busy, what with the world continuing to spin despite the continuation of the NBA D-League. Imagine that – even in the wake of a new season, life moves on.

Actually, I should be fair. If we’ve been missing games, it’s our own fault. We can no longer blame Sierra – especially since the advent of her willingness to hang around for the entire contest. To begin the season, we were wary of her attention span, assuming she’d be out around half-time – her natural bedtime. But, thanks to a couple souvenir balls we’ve snatched out of the air, and owing a lot to her advanced patience with daddy’s favorite sport, we’ve gotten to stay longer and longer each game.

Unfortunately, this added attention has come as the team began its decline. We began the season with a 9-2 record, losing only the season opener vs. Iowa and a lopsided contest in Austin that sparked a 9-game Toros winning streak.

But then Christmas happened – a two-point loss to Dakota at home – and then 3-6 happened.

And that’s the story of the first half of the season. After 20 games, the Skyforce were a disappointing 12-8. Looking for a spark, they sent longtime guard Carl Elliot to the Fort Wayne Mad Ants for longer-time-guard David Bailey. Things seemed as though they’d be okay – after all, we had a weekend home series against the last place Mad Ants, and we just brought back one of the most popular players of recent memory – a player who, theoretically, new the opponent about as well as you possibly could.

At both games, we were joined by company. We were surprised to see our friends Eric and Tony at the Thursday game, and just the next day we invited more friends (Jim and Mel, Sara and Ryan) to join us.

It was a different feeling to have friends at the game. For so long, we have simply made the Skyforce our little thing – never making the connection between the pastime and the friends we’d visit after the games. The Skyforce are our vice, and by having friends at the game it felt as if we were entertaining – as if we were responsible for how the team played. After years of being a hardcore fan, we found ourselves passing that fanhood on.

What’s refreshing is that our friends look at the game from a different angle. To them, it’s still fresh and somewhat exciting. They question the conventions, and they ask about things we’ve long held as truth.

We talked about half-time shows. We answered questions about the league itself, and about the team, and about the NBA affiliate system and how NBA players are sent down and D-League players called up. We went through the subtle nuances of the league and discussed the mundane nature of the Arena’s pretzels. We were Skyforce experts, and, while we might not be proud of that fact, it was fun to inform instead of grumble silently.

It was like rediscovering the game we had become so numb to, looking at them from a fan’s perspective, and not from the chiseled glasses of a bitter, long suffering cynic.

“So, who’s the go to guy,” Eric asked on Thursday.

This question stopped me. I was stunned, actually, that I couldn’t think of an answer. I didn’t know, I said. The Skyforce have never really had a go to guy. It changes daily, the team turning toward whoever had the hot hand.

On both nights, it turned out to be Frank Williams, averaging 26 points over the two contests. Newcomer/old favorite David Bailey poured in a few of his own, sure, but it was Frank – seemingly absent from the games we had attended previously – who put the team on his back and charged forward.

He was really the only consistent bright spot. As is the team’s custom, we took a lead into the half both nights, and, as is our habit, we promptly lost it in the 3rd quarter both times. The refs could be to blame – both nights saw an attempted comeback thwarted by tic-tac fouls called by a greenhorn ref – a ref who called loose in the beginning and tight near the end (the exact opposite of what you’d expect). But really, it was Carl Elliot who took the wind out of our sails, leading the Mad Ants to two straight wins on the road, sending our record to 12-10, lovingly giving us a little payback for sending him to one of the worst teams in the league.

It was the Carl Elliot we had ourselves enjoyed. And while both nights were cold, and much quieter than usual, we were torched by a Mad Ants team that simply wanted to win a lot more than we did.

It wasn’t the best face to show a set of visitors. But we couldn’t take it personally. After all – we’re merely visitors as well: visitors that show up more often than most, often leave early, and occasionally consider ourselves proud fans – fans that always end up looking on the bright side, who always enjoy the game for what it is.

It’s simply basketball. And it’s for all of us to share.

Thursday: Skyforce 127, Fort Wayne 131.
Friday: Skyforce 115, Fort Wayne 124.

Tags: Basketball, Friends, Sioux Falls, Sioux Falls Skyforce, Sports |

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On searching for dignity

January 14, 2009


Television news is in search of ratings. More than anything.

It’s not about journalistic integrity, or a dedication to informing the community. It’s ratings, only, above all, without question. It’s programming, not journalism; entertainment, not scholarship.

I often forget this fact until it’s thrown in my lap.

Yesterday, a friend was arrested for intentional damage to property and aggravated assault. (Not a close friend, but a friend all the same.) I don’t know the details any more than anyone else. I do know that is a good guy.

I also know that he has had mental health problems in his past. Reportedly, they seemed to have begun developing again.

The offenses are indefensible. He walked through his neighborhood and struck at windows with a shovel. Eventually, he threatened a human being. No motive, no cause. Just a mixed up mind, I suspect.

But the coverage by a local station was even more indefensible.

“Neighbors say they’ve had a few interactions with the suspect, just to know he was a little off…”

“It’s really weird that the one [neighbor] I happened to meet ends up being the crazy one.”

“Definitely get to know your neighbors. Too bad you can’t get a background check on them beforehand.”

Snickers. The slo-mo perp walk. Obviously biased interviews. Just another story about another crazy guy, so let’s see what we’ve got for weather!

Whether it’s the Wheel of Justice or a habit of trivializing tragedy to point out fault, the heavy handed holier-than-thou approach that local television news programs take when reporting is contrary to the very core of good journalism.

Of treating every story with dignity. Every person with decency. Every news item with respect.

It’s all part of the news cycle on television, keeping us up to date on the ridiculousness of life, looking for the angle in every story whether or not it’s decent to do so, chuckling along as they shake their heads, saying, “Life might suck, but at least you’re not as screwed up as THAT guy.”

It’s all a big joke, until you realize it’s someone you know.

Today, the Argus Leader printed their version of the story. Just the fact. No assumption. No cute cracks about crazy people.

Because cute cracks about crazy people don’t belong in journalism.

Print may be dying, but I’ll take its dignity over television’s sensationalism any day.

“I believe that the journalism which succeeds the best-and best deserves success-fears God and honors man … seeks to give every man a chance, and as far as law, an honest wage and recognition of human brotherhood can make it so, an equal chance … is a journalism of humanity, of and for today’s world.”
-Walter Williams

Tags: Friends, Journalism, On..., Sioux Falls, Television |

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Merry Christmas, everyone

December 25, 2008


The gifts have been opened, their paper thrashed and bows left abandoned.

The basketball games have begun. The fudge has nearly disappeared. The food is starting to wind its way into our minds and Sierra is finally taking a nap.

We’re happy to have our family together, and we’re happy to have the house picked up.

Most of all, we’re happy it’s Christmas - we’re happy to have this excuse to simply be together. An excuse we don’t need, but gladly accept.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Don’t shoot your eye out.

Tags: Friends, Vilhauer |

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