Every year, I have tried to be faithful in writing a letter to each of my kids on their birthdays. It started as a way to grieve all the things my sweet mama was missing in her grand daughter’s life. Then it became a way for me to capture the highlights of the year and place them somewhere I wouldn’t lose them (because the internet never loses anything, right?). As time has gone on, and I’ve continued to write, I realize that perhaps my kids will actually read these letters one day. That the moments I took to sit down and remember would actually hold value to more than just myself. I don’t presume to think that any of my offspring will be overtly sentimental, but there is something special about preserving the small details. And so, therefore, I continue to write. Whether they ever get read beyond the day they were written, doesn’t ever seem to particularly matter.
But this year, something is different. I find myself longing to write a birthday letter to George Mason - he would be 6 today - and yet, I’m mostly at a loss for words. Not because I’ve forgotten him or because he’s not worthy of writing about, but because for seemingly the first time, it is very, very hard to consider who he *would* be instead of who he is…
I woke up this morning, after a long week (I’m going to make a mental note that when his day falls on a Friday, I need to be kind to myself for the whole week prior) and looked out the window to catch the last rays of the sunrise. I do this most mornings. It’s calming. Grounding. I can start my day in awe of God’s kindness to us by the way he is so generous with his creativity and majesty. And as I looked out the window, the most brilliantly yellow daffodils lined the walk; in stark contrast to the other February looking landscape. Tennessee has had a wild winter and those little buds came out of the earth far too many weeks early. And yet, despite it being February, despite having an ice storm just last week, the brightest yellow buds were showing off. It was such a perfect display of how this day feels. The grey and brown hues of the end of winter and it’s somber slumber are so starkly contrasted by the green and yellow of the first blooms. There are 365 days in each year, and while all of them hold both heavy grief and live giving love, only this day, February 10th, holds them in such clear display. I weep for what we lost on his day and I rejoice for the hope we have in Jesus as our son’s savior.
We mourn because this world is broken. We miss the little boy who would be 6. We daydream of the could have/should have/would haves of a life known only for 16 hours. And we celebrate, as if he were right here with us - every February 10th, since they first one, has ended with the Happy Birthday song. Every February 10th, we methodically and meticulously decorate a cake. Every February 10th, we get to re live and re love that very first one. Still with such vivid clarity, it both hurts to know it’s been 6 years and also feels like it was only yesterday.
I’m thankful for the little things in our lives that can remind us of him. The unexpected texts from friends near and far, saying his name and remembering his day. The precious ways that Audrey Nole plans out our birthday theme. The curious ways that Harry tries to participate - this year I’m almost positive he thinks we are having a birthday cake for his favorite little monkey, Curious George. I’m thankful for the memories we have made each year as we take the time to create a cake for the little boy whose residence is in heaven. For the ways that it allows my mama heart to serve him and be with him, even if only for a moment or two. I’m thankful for the people in our lives who have come alongside us in this hard part of our story. Who have loved us well. Who have shared and carried the weight of this little boy’s story with us.
George Mason,
Today you would be 6 years old. You would love our yard here in Tennessee, I just know it. You would surely have come up with all the greatest places to play pirates or super heroes. You would probably have thrown more footballs than I can count, both to your daddy and little brother. I think you’d really like Harry. He’s a sweet little man and I think would be such a great sidekick to your 6 year old adventures. You’d also probably be an added layer of annoyance to your big sister’s constant frustrations over not having a sister.
She talks about you all the time. I think more people know about you than I could have even guessed, and it’s only been 6 years. Imagine how many lives will be touched by your story when she is 50?! She really is a gift to this family and you not getting to know her is one of the hardest things for your daddy and I to miss out on.
We took your siblings to Disney World this year and it was so hard not to have you tagging along with us. There are many places that make me wish for you to be here, but that place was particularly hard. Do you think you’d be a Mickey fan like Harry? Or would you be the kid who likes Goofy? I can just see you dressed as Prince Charming or pulling the sword out of the stone and grinning from ear to ear. Your smile would probably be just like Audrey and Harry’s: squinty eyes and lighting up your whole face.
We made you a football cake this year. It was Audrey’s idea, but it’s honestly pretty perfect. I have no doubt you’d be all about watching the Super Bowl with your daddy this weekend and teaching your little bro what all the things your dad yells at the tv about actually means. He would totally adore you and you and daddy and Harry would be the sweetest three musketeers the world has ever known. Happy 6th Birthday, George Mason. You are my favorite middle man.
Mama & Daddy love you forever and always.
