Everyone loves a story of triumph; the story where a person, having endured every imaginable obstacle, perseveres to the finish….against all odds.

This is our story of triumph.

Eight and a half years ago, while I was in the hospital for severe pre-term labor with Judson, petrified that our child was going to arrive precariously early, Drake was at UCLA taking his written and oral competency exams for his PhD in History of Religions.  Despite the intense stress and fear we were facing over our unborn baby, Drake successfully passed his exams and advanced to candidacy.  Thereafter, the last step to becoming Dr. Levasheff was to write his dissertation. 

In general, the statistics for completing a PhD are not favorable.  The Council of Graduate Schools reports that only 47% of male doctoral students in Humanities actually complete their degree once they’ve started—less than half.  But little did we know, when Drake advanced to candidacy, how the odds would become almost completely stacked against him.

In the season that immediately followed his exams, we faced multiple stresses and transitions: Our Judson was born (amazingly, he was full-term).  I stopped working.  Drake started a new job.  Six months later Drake was laid off from that job.  We weathered a few months of unemployment.  Drake started another new job.  I discovered I was pregnant with our second child.  We moved to a new area, which entailed numerous changes.  And soon thereafter, Jessie arrived.  As you can imagine, such instability significantly affected Drake’s capacity to engage his dissertation.

Then, a few months later, we discovered our beloved boy was terminally ill. 

I remember just weeks before Jud passed away, while we were lying in bed, Drake was staring up at the ceiling, his chest heaving as he wept bitterly, tears rolling down the side of his face.   With despair he wondered aloud, "If Judson dies, I don't know how I'll make it."  He began lamenting many of the potential challenges.  At the top of his list he shared, "It will be impossible to finish my dissertation.  I don't know how I'll ever be able to complete my degree."

Judson died, and we became disabled—internally disabled by our sorrow and loss.  Engaging even the smallest things in life took on a new challenge.  And for Drake, completing his dissertation felt like being part way up Mount Everest and suddenly losing his legs…climbing to the top seemed an impossible task.

Fast forward.

I vividly recall where we were sitting in October 2010 when Drake looked me in the eye, resolute and determined, and declared, “I’m gonna do it!  I’m gonna climb this mountain.  I’m gonna finish my degree and I’m gonna do it in honor of Judson!”

Fast forward again.

Indeed, Drake has done just that!  He has climbed our Mount Everest!  Having endured unimaginable obstacles, even in the home stretch—other trying circumstances including a severe car accident—but Drake has reached the precipice!  The Dr. before his name is like his flag waving at the top of the mountain, a symbol of resilience and strength and a tribute to our son.

This journey to earn his PhD began twelve years ago (yes, you read that correctly—twelve!).  When we set out on this path we didn’t have kids, didn’t expect to have children, and certainly never could have imagined what would befall our family.  But at the time, we felt strongly that a doctoral degree would be a great compliment to Drake’s gifts. Now we see that it has also beautifully demonstrated his character; Drake has modeled diligence, fortitude, perseverance, passion, sacrifice and honor by persisting toward the goal we had set together many years ago—and all of it ultimately points to God’s sustaining grace.

It seems fitting that Drake had his doctoral degree conferred on June 13th, exactly six years to-the-date that our horrific journey with Judson began.  I am so incredibly proud of my Dr. Drake…who has triumphed...against all odds!

COMMENTS     Author: Christina

The other day as I was washing dishes alone in the house, I found myself shouting at God, “I don’t feel your love!” In a volcanic outburst, I exclaimed with hot tears of brokenness, “I know you’re loving.  I trust that you’re loving. But right now I don’t feel your love!  Where are you?  Why does life seem unusually hard?  Why is it so difficult for me to grasp your love?  Why do you feel really distant?”  My voice cracked as my cries bounced around the walls of our kitchen.  Finally, exasperated by my tears, I flopped onto the couch, leaving the dirty dishes behind.

I trust I’m not the only person who periodically has outbursts with God, just as one might have with a spouse when they're feeling especially wounded.  On this particular day, I felt desperate for God to somehow reach down from heaven and touch me in my broken places.

As I lay on the couch, my chest still heaving from the intensity of my explosive conversation with God, I reached for my phone, wanting to distract myself from my feelings.  Noticing a notification for a new email message, I opened my inbox and discovered this note:

Dear Lord Jesus, I pray for Christina today, that she will feel the embrace of your arms. Our savior, please let her feel your presence and that your promise is true for her, that you will be with her every day until the end of the world…Please show her, that you are not distant to how she feels, but so close and so concerned. I remember a video that showed Drake describing Judson as "SO loving"... and if Drake had spoken about you, Jesus, he would surely have said "SO caring about Christina" with the same intensity. But sometimes we need to feel that, Lord, our souls are hungry to feel your touch. Please let Christina have such encounters with you, her healer, her shepherd, in the time to come, and today. Please encourage her with your word today. It may be the tiniest word that sustains her, let her find it…Can you please speak your love "louder" into Christina's heart therefore so that her heart will be filled with your comfort? Please…  Amen.

Love from Germany

This person in Germany, whom I’ve never met, became God’s tool to speak his love directly to my heart—at just the right time—in a sweet, unexpected way.

He hears.  He is present.  He loves us.  Even when it feels like our prayers and cries are just bouncing around the walls of our home.

COMMENTS      Author: Christina

By no fault of his own, Drake was in a severe car accident weeks ago.  We are so grateful he is okay, having walked away with the ongoing aches and pains expected from a serious crash but nothing grave or life-threatening.  However, the car was totaled.

We have been confronted with many challenges associated with the accident, but I’ve been particularly struck by how much I’ve found myself mourning the loss of the car.

We bought our 1999 Mitsubishi Galant just a few weeks after Judson was born.  It was the car he filled with his chatter from the backseat.  It was the car that Judson regularly pretended to drive.  It was in that car that he’d ask me to play his favorite songs over and over and over again and would sing them at the top of his lungs.  It was the car that took him to and from his doctors’ appointments and the vehicle he threw-up in on his way home from his MRI in Los Angeles.  That little black car was part of my life with my son—having been filled with O’s (Cheerios), sand, trash, and stains by his hands.  I could picture Judson in that car.

The car is gone. I’ve grieved it.

But the sadness is not merely sentiment (like I feel over things connected to Jessie), or an unhealthy connection to an inanimate object, it’s that losing the car reflects greater separation from my life with my boy, from the togetherness we shared.  Over time we’ve had to let go of so much tangible “stuff” that tied us to our son.  It’s hard.  Whereas sometimes we’ve been able to choose when to let go of things, other times we've been forced to let go unexpectedly, like in this case, which carries more of a searing pain (read about the bunk bed and our home).

I continue to feel the ache of the increasing distance from my life lived with Judson.  But I am simultaneously aware that moving farther from our earthly time together concurrently moves me closer toward our unending, heavenly life together.

COMMENTS     Author: Christina

This last weekend Jessie participated in The OC Kids Run in conjunction with the Orange County Marathon.  Students from her school have been training for the run these last couple months, jogging a couple times a week to equal approximately 25 miles.  They then complete their “marathon” by running the 26th mile in a timed competition.

Jessie did great and we were very proud of her, but something else stood out to us as we watched her race. Twice on the course we had the chance to root her on as she ran past.  Both times she was in a slow jog, her passion for the run slowly fading as she showed signs of weariness.  But when she heard our cheering voices, and caught a glimpse of us enthusiastically applauding her efforts, a smile swept across her face as she exploded with speed and power, running rapidly toward the finish; seeing our support infused her with fresh strength, energy, and zeal to keep going.

It reminded us how much we all need people cheering us on, encouraging us to keep going when we’re weary, losing focus, feeling defeated, or we’re tempted to give up.  Especially when facing hardship and pain everything can look bleak, but having people who believe in us standing on the sidelines expressing their support, infuses us with renewed strength and heartens us to keep going.

Who in your life might need you to cheer them on today?

COMMENTS      Author: Christina

On my stroll around our nearby lake this morning, my heart leapt at the signs of spring.  New blossoms covered the trees, birds chirped with wild enthusiasm, and budding flowers lined my path.  Out of a cold, bleak, and gloomy winter, life emerges…

Spring always comes.

Life can feel cold, bleak, and gloomy…

But wait for spring. 

“Then he gives the command and it all melts;
he breathes on winter—suddenly it’s spring!”
--The Message, Psalm 147:18 

Spring will come.

COMMENTS     Author: Christina

Most of Judson’s belongings now sit in a storage bin in our garage.  It’d been a couple years since I opened the plastic tub to engage its contents.  I use the word engage because the items contained therein cannot simply be browsed; they provoke, stir, and kick up memories, which can be both beautiful and painful all at once.  It requires a willingness to “go there.”

On Nov. 7th, a day of remembering, I retrieved a few of Judson’s favorite things from the tote: his Silly Sally book, his white Chevy Blazer truck, and his fleece basketball blanket.  I didn’t go digging through the bin, these items were sitting on top, and they were just what I needed—a couple things Judson had held, loved, and played with to ignite my memories.

I carried them with me throughout the day, reading the book a couple times, inspecting all the dirt and grime the Chevy Blazer had accumulated from life with my boy, and snuggling the blanket that had brought Jud comfort throughout his life.

The next day, I put the book and truck back in the large container…but I couldn't part with his blanket again.  I have been sleeping with Jud’s basketball fleece almost every night since—smelling it, cuddling it, and picturing the small hands that received comfort from it.

The longings in my heart for my son don’t change; they just find expression in new shape and form over time, most recently expressed in my inability to part with his blanket. 

COMMENTS      Author: Christina

How easily I lose heart. 

I get discouraged by the bumps and bruises of life. I see looming troubles and hope escapes me.  I experience pain and it clouds my view of God’s grace.  I get weary under a heavy load.  I encounter new struggles and somehow forget God’s faithfulness in previous hardship.

I lose heart.

I woke this morning, unable to pull myself out of bed, disabled by hopelessness.  Everything felt dim.  I didn’t want to get up.  I didn’t want to face the day.  I didn’t want to go about my routine as if all was well… 

So I didn’t.  I just silenced my alarm, snuggled back under the warmth of my blankets and cried…moaned…bawled…and wept…until I was so weary that I fell back asleep.

When I awoke, a song of expectation was running through my mind—an encouragement to be strong and never give up hope, that God has a plan for me and I don’t need to live life in fear.  My tears flowed again…but this time they were hope-filled tears rather than the ones of hopelessness that preceded.

God knows how easily his people lose heart.  He knows that we get discouraged.  Years ago, when his beloved children in Corinth were growing weary and disheartened, he reminded them, and us, not to lose heart because he is renewing us day by day.  Ultimately our troubles are light and momentary, though they definitely don’t seem that way, considering the glorious life that awaits us in his presence (1 Corinthians 4:16-18).

That means that my sweet boy who suffered heinously for several months looks back on that time and considers it nothing in view of his life now.  I get choked up at the thought.

How then can I not fix my eyes on what is unseen?!!?  For although that which I see can feel bleak and daunting, it is temporary.  That which I cannot see is eternal.  In that I take heart.

COMMENTS     Author: Christina

As a symbol of your precious years,
Amidst a celebration marked with tears,
Eight balloons made an ascent,
Gliding through the firmament.

The heavens enveloped balloons of white,
Each swiftly unseen, though still in flight.
But the crimson two colored the sky,
Floating distinctly, ever so high.

Much like your years on earth, though few,
They marked this world, gliding through.
Your time absorbed by heaven is veiled,
No longer seen, but life prevails.

COMMENTS     Author: Christina

On Christmas Eve we arrived with family at Judson’s gravesite armed with lawn chairs, blankets, decorations, and balloons—the usual fare to celebrate our boy’s birthday.

But that’s what got to me most this year…it was the usual fare.  It was the same.  No new memories of our son.  No little boy to marvel at or consider his growth over the year. Nobody to receive our gifts of love.  Our experience was the same as it had been the year before, and the year before that.  For six years now, we have celebrated Judson’s birthday in his absence…at a gravesite.  

I highly value honoring our little man’s life in these ways, but it especially hurt me this year as I walked up to the plot of land marked with his sweet smile and vibrant eyes, how Jud’s 8th birthday looked the same as his 7th and 6th and 5th.  And his 18th, 21st, and 30th will be the same too.

We have our typical way of celebrating and yet there is nothing typical about it.  

COMMENTS     Author: Christina

The other night as I was tucking Jessie in bed, she expressed a desire to specifically pray for Judson and proceeded to pour out her heart to God on behalf of her brother.

Dear Lord... I pray that Jud could have lots of fun in heaven and that he could get many kisses from you under the mistletoe.  Please give him four kisses from me and one hug.  Please let him have a wonderful birthday in heaven.  I also pray that he could have a really big stocking for Christmas and that it would be filled with at least four toys.  I hope he gets everything that he really wants and that Santa brings all the kids in heaven what they ask for.  Please let him know that I miss him.  Amen.

As I heard her pray, her precious heart attempting to make sense of Judson's life in heaven, my heart melted at her longing for her brother to experience all the joys she has here on earth.  But what stood out to me even more was how much she recognizes Judson is alive.

Her childlike understanding of heaven may have theological gaps and errors but it beautifully expresses so much truth.  Judson is vibrant and whole.  He is embraced and completely loved by God, face-to-face with his Savior.  He is able to experience the joys of life, like those on earth, yet in all the richness for which our souls can only long.   Moreover, we can continue to engage relationship with him, through Jesus, in anticipation of our reunion.

Judson's stocking here on earth may remain empty this season, but his life in heaven is completely full.

COMMENTS     Author: Christina

I fell into a heap of tears this morning, experiencing the full extent of my weakness, fragility, and vulnerability.

Then I began to think of the numerous radio interviews I've been doing recently, speaking of hope and God's work in and through my pain.  I started wondering what those listeners might think if they heard my words and then saw me in such a feeble state.  Would it seem duplicitous?

My heart was gently reminded that it's not about being strong...it's about being submitted.  God is not asking me for strength, he's asking me to surrender.

So today I boast of my frailty in hopes that His power might be perfected in my weakness (1 Corinthians 12:9).

COMMENTS     Author: Christina

There is a gentleman who lives in our area that I regularly see out walking the neighborhood.  He always catches my eye.  Using a quad cane, he ever-so-slowly takes one very small step after another, inching along with purpose and determination.  He appears to be a victim of a stroke, half his body paralyzed, but obviously working very hard to rehabilitate.

When I see him, I feel infused with strength in my own struggles.

Yesterday I was riding my bike when I glanced to the other side of the street and noticed this man was on his hands and knees, dried grass covering his back, trying to reach for his cane on the concrete beside him.  "Do you need help?" I hollered over, my voice cracking as I assessed the situation, realizing he had fallen.

"Yes, please," he humbly responded with a garbled voice.

I raced over to his side, put my arms around him, feeling the heat of his broken body and tried to help him rise.  He couldn't get up.

"Try the other side," he recommended with slurred speech.

I quickly moved to his other side, put my right shoulder under him as I pulled his arm around me and slowly lifted him up.  He stabled himself with his cane, once again standing.  I began to dust the dried grass off his back.  He looked at me and smiled, half his face paralyzed, "Thank you."

"Of course," I said smiling back at him.

"I've never fallen before," he continued, a little sheepish about his stumble.

"Sir, I see you walking all the time.  You inspire me.  You inspire me so much!"

His eyes sparkled while his half-smile grew. 

"I'm Christina.  What's your name?" I asked.

"Hort."

As we were chatting a woman drove up in her car, rolled down the window and called out to Hort, "I saw you fall.  Do you want me to drive you somewhere?"

"No, thank you," he responded.

I piped in, proud of him, "He walks everywhere.  He's just gonna keep walkin'!"

She drove off and I gave Hort a pat on the back, "It was such a pleasure to meet you.  Enjoy the rest of your walk."

As I hopped back on my bike and rode away, tears pooled in my eyes.  The resilience, determination, and strength-of-spirit in my new friend were a reminder to keep walking.  Even when I'm just inching along in my brokenness, keep walking.  When I stumble or fall, keep walking.

Don't give up.  Keep walking.

COMMENTS     Author: Christina  

Photo courtesy of Jenny McMasters Photography

Dear Judson...

For awhile it felt like just yesterday that I had been snuggling you, running my fingers through your hair, kissing you to pieces, and sharing the simple joys of life with you.  But those experiences are so distant from me now; everything has changed since the day you left my arms five years ago.

It is devastating to realize how foreign the actual experience of embracing you feels.  And yet, you remain principal to my very existence.  I hold you close because you are my boy.  But I also hold you tightly because God continues to use you to help me see him, because you give me more understanding of my purpose, and because your voice compels me to speak.

As I continue to hold you closely, God has graciously been expanding your legacy.  He is using your voice.  He is revealing glimpses of his redemptive power through your suffering.  He is opening hearts and changing lives out of your faithfulness as a little child.  God is clearly at work through your life and we are humbled to be a part.  I am so incredibly proud of you!

But as your legacy grows, I get concerned that you might simply become an idea, a sweet concept, or just a cause to support.  I also fear that your personhood might get lost or forgotten with time.  Please, please forgive me if others ever treat your memory thoughtlessly or without respect.  As your mama, who wants desperately to protect you, there is little that breaks my heart more.  I am so sorry!  

However, please also know that your personhood will never be lost or forgotten with your dad, sister, and me.  You are our fourth.  You complete our family.  You are an integral part of us.  We are not whole without you.

I hope you see all the cards Jessie writes to you, the gifts she makes for you, the ceremonies she puts together for you, the games she creates to include you.  Her actions reflect all our hearts--you are precious to us, a super-loved member of our family and considered in all we do.  We miss you so much, Juddy! 

Five years ago my heart was shattered when you left.  It is still shattered.

Five years ago your body was broken before you left.  It is no longer broken.

I can't wait for the day when my shattered heart will be whole just as your broken body is now whole. 

My soul yearns with love and longing, Bud Bud.

With all my heart,
Mommy

Comments

Photo courtesy of The Orange County Register

As I was sitting in my Starbucks office, typing away on my laptop, a sweet woman tapped me on the shoulder and, pointing at my necklace, asked, "Is that your son?"

"Yes," I smiled, leaving it at that.

"Is that his age now or was that picture taken awhile ago?"

Taking a deep breath, always unsure how someone might respond, "Well, he actually passed away."

Tears welled up in her eyes.

"I lost my daughter when she was 3 years old.  She would be 53."  A tear trickled down her cheek.  "It's been 50 years and I can still grieve like it was yesterday."

Touching her hand with tears now filling my eyes, "Oh how I pray you have the gift of seeing her again."

Putting her other hand on top of mine with a smile that spoke volumes, "It won't be long now."

Hope.

Author: Christina

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"Do you still think about Judson much?" my neighbor, whom I've only known for a few months, recently inquired.

I responded with a curious look, wondering what prompted her question, but touched she was thinking about my boy.

She continued, "The only person I've lost in my life is my grandma.  It was a couple years ago and she rarely comes to mind."

I realized she was sweetly trying to grasp my grief, but had limited experience of loss herself.  "I understand," I replied, " I was actually present when both of my grandmas passed away.  I love them very much, but they don't come to mind for me very often either. "

Her son, born just a few months after Judson, was playing nearby.

"It's different with Judson.  Very different.  I think about him all the time.  Our kids are part of us; just as he was a central part of my life when he was alive, even in death my mind continues to connect Jud to my current experiences.  Whether it be remembering him, imagining what life might be, or grieving what is, he comes to mind all the time.  All the time.  Although he is not physically present in my daily living, he's still a central part of my thought-life.  Does that make sense?"

This time, she responded with a curious look.  I paused, trying to think of a way to help her understand.

"Consider how much you are connected to your kids right now.  They are integrated in one way or another to most areas of your life," nodding toward her son I continued, "Imagine if something happened..."

"...I can't.  I can't imagine that!  I just can't!" she exclaimed, waving her hands in the air.

"I'm sorry.  I understand why you wouldn't want to imagine that," I affirmed.

Meanwhile my heart was torn by the reality that I not only have to consider such an awful possibility, I live with the actuality of it every single moment.

Author: Christina

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