It’s 2012!  And with a new year comes renewed hope and anticipation for the future.

We are especially delighted to have just signed the last major documents that will move Judson’s Legacy from a pending non-profit to official status as a 501(c)3 organization.   We expect we are just one or two months away from fully launching Judson’s Legacy!  This is a sobering and exciting notion!!!

It has been a long journey getting to this milestone, but we are grateful for all God has been doing to prepare our hearts, give us partners in our ministry, and provide necessary resources.

Our mission, through the sharing of Judson’s story, continues to be propelled by a longing to see God move and change hearts as we witness to his compassion, comfort, and hope through our own suffering and loss.  Meanwhile, we will now be making more of a concentrated effort to raise awareness of Krabbe and fund research for leukodystrophy diseases.

Judson has already been having a significant impact on the research community.  Dr. Patti Duffner, one of the premiere researchers of Krabbe, regularly shares Jud’s story in her presentations about the disease.  In an email to me she indicated, “I use Jud's video all the time and it has such incredible impact!  I call the later onset form of Krabbe...Judson's disease.  I wouldn’t be surprised if one day it is known as such.”  We are honored by her words and even more convinced of our calling to allow Jud’s life to shape future research.

In a nutshell, Judson’s Legacy exists to change lives for the Kingdom while supporting efforts to give Krabbe Kids a chance at life on earth.

If you would like to help us make a difference, you can join our mailing list for updates and announcements.  Simply click “Connect With Us” then “Subscribe” and fill in your name and email address.

And as an organization run completely by volunteers, we are pleased to have every donated dollar directly benefit the mission of the organization.  You can make a tax-exempt donation through Paypal by clicking the link below:

Thank you for allowing Judson’s story to touch your life and helping us touch the lives of others!

More to come…

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As much as this time of the year is filled with festivity and fun, the Christmas season can be a very difficult time for so many.  Even with the hope of the Savior, wishes of merriment and happiness can almost feel like salt poured into an open, raw wound; sometimes a heart is so completely broken that jolliness, even at Christmastime, is elusive.

When someone sent me a quick message during the season last year, instead of ending with a Merry Christmas, she signed off with Tidings of Comfort and Joy.

I marveled.  It was a perfect expression.

As she quoted the age old carol God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman, her words carried such appropriateness for all hearts during the season, even those who are hurting,   She had captured in that simple phrase all the blessings of the season with great sensitivity to possible pain.

This is the first Christmas since losing Judson that my heart has truly been able to embrace the merriness of the season, but seeing as our Jud Bud was born on Christmas Eve it will always carry loss and pain.  To be blessed with tidings of comfort and joy is a great gift.

So from Judson’s Legacy and the Levasheff family, we wish you...

Tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy

Author: Christina

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All the pleasures this life affords, especially in our wealthy, well-developed societies, can erroneously attach us to this world.  But pain is the great disconnector.  Suffering leaves us longing for more.  It reminds us that all is not as it should be.  It highlights the gaps in our lives, destined to remain unfulfilled here on earth.

God didn’t intend for us to be attached to this world.  We are foreigners passing through this land on our way home.  Yet, with all the amusement, indulgences, entertainment, and comforts that beckon for our attention and affection, it is easy to lose sight of the Kingdom and get all wrapped up in the here and now.

But pain sets our eyes on the hope of heaven.  Pain leaves us desperate for a place where there is no more death, mourning, crying or agony, where every tear is wiped away.  Pain refocuses our hearts on the eternal.

I am anxious for heaven.

I want to run on greener pastures
I want to dance on higher hills
I want to drink from sweeter waters
In the misty morning chill
My soul is getting restless
For the place where I belong
I can't wait to join the angels and sing my heaven song. 
(Phil Wickham: Heaven Song) 

I trust in God’s purpose for my life here on earth, but with each twinge of pain, I get more and more eager for heaven!

Author: Christina

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I am a reader of PostSecret.  If you are unaware of PostSecret it is an ongoing community art project where people mail their anonymous secrets on one side of a homemade postcard with the potential of being shared publicly on the PostSecret blog and elsewhere.  (Note: If you choose to visit the PostSecret blog, please be aware that some postcards contain R-rated content and they are not censored.)

Over a year ago, I read this Postcard:

A natural response to reading this secret may be shock and disgust.  How could someone who has endured the heartache of losing a child possibly wish any such devastation on another? 

But if I look beyond the horror of this secret.  I see deep, deep pain.  I see a person so isolated by the anquish of their loss that they’re desperate for understanding—an understanding that might only come by experience.  I see someone who feels pain upon pain due to insensitivity.  I see someone who has felt unable to meet the unrealistic societal expectations for grief.  I see someone who has lost friendships and no longer fits in the same ways they used to.  I see someone whose whole life has been turned upside-down while feeling alone in the heartache.

I don’t think there is any part of this writer who actually wishes for someone to lose a child; I think this secret simply reflects a longing for understanding, for the space to feel the depths of heartache without judgment. 

I am, of course, reading between the lines, but I am intimately familiar with the feelings that stem from isolation, insensitivity, unrealistic expectations, and even judgment that can emerge out of the loss of a child.  There are times I have thought to myself, I just wish they understood!  It’s not that I would ever, ever want another soul to experience this heartache.  But it is hard to weather some of the social pains and pressures on top of an already broken heart.

But in reality, aren't we all desperate for people to understand us in our pain?  None of us want to feel alone, or judged when we hurt.  The validation that can arise when someone gets a glimpse of our heartache and "gets it" can bring sweet healing.

So this postcard reminds me to be an expression of grace and validation for all the brokenness around me, whether or not I have walked the same path!

Author: Christina

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It is such a gift when new memories of Judson, memories I haven’t recalled since losing my son, unexpectedly surface.

While Jessie and I were walking home from school the other day, she noted that one of the sprinkler heads in the grass along our path was sticking up out of the ground.

Suddenly, a sweet new memory arose out of the cobwebs of my mind…

When Judson was just learning to walk, we would frequently meander around our complex, exploring the area.   The sprinkler system was on a timer that regularly watered the landscape, and after each period of saturation the sprinkler heads, rather than retreating back into the ground, would stick straight up out of the lawn, beckoning to my little boy.

With great enthusiasm, Juddy would lift his little foot over each spray nozzle and with all the strength he could muster, stomp with glee as the sprayer fell victim to his power, collapsing into the ground.  Giggles of victory would follow as he energetically made his way to the next sprinkler.

A precious memory.

Precious, precious memories such as this are such treasured gifts on this journey.

Author: Christina

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We all love a good story.  We are especially drawn to stories of triumph because they can be particularly moving, inspiring, and full of hope.  A good, triumphant conclusion leaves us satisfied, while those without can be unfulfilling.   

As I had the opportunity to listen to various people share a bit of their story in a large-group setting this weekend, I was touched to tears as I heard one triumphant story after another.  I was moved, inspired, and filled with hope.  Each one shared out of a heart that had struggled, but had experienced, or was experiencing, triumph over the circumstances.

But as I searched my heart, I also realized that some of my tears were tears of mourning.  I was mourning my own story.

When Judson was sick, we were begging God to miraculously heal our son.  We were envisioning the triumphant story that would flow from his restoration here on earth.  We were pleading with God for a story that would move and inspire faith, a story full of hope.  It would have been a story where I could have stood up in that room this weekend, holding and hugging my son as a reflection of God’s power and victory in this world.

But that isn’t my story.  My story is not one of triumph.  Instead, God chose for us a story of loss.  He gave us a story where if I were stand up and share, all I have to hold before people is my broken heart.  My story is not one that causes people to spontaneously erupt in applause and celebrate—it is not inviting or appealing.  On the contrary, it is a story that triggers tears and sadness.  It’s a story that can even make people turn their face away, leave the room, or want to run the other direction.

Yet God is in both kinds of stories.

God is present in pain.  Period.  God is moving, inspiring, and full of hope in the pain, not simply after being set free from it.  The hope of our story lies in the suffering, not a triumphal emergence from it.

Of course we have other personal stories of triumph , which are such a tremendous gift, but God’s shaping story for our lives is simply about clinging to him as we navigate lifelong loss.  It’s not glamorous and doesn’t hold a lot of allure, but it’s also not a story in isolation.  There are so many stories of perseverance in pain when the triumph we all long for is elusive.  But God is at work and worthy of praise.

Now I would be remiss not to mention that there will absolutely be triumph to our story—the most triumphant climax imaginable—but it won’t occur in this lifetime.  Our triumph requires a life of patient endurance.  And part of my grief is to mourn the loss of earthly triumph.  But part of my healing is to recognize the hope of God’s sustaining grace, no matter how the story ends.

Author: Christina

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During the summer of 2010, Drake and I found ourselves as finalists to be contestants on the primetime gameshow Minute to Win It.  We had randomly been invited to an audition and became enthusiastic about the possibilities as we progressed through their full contestant vetting process over the following weeks.  And ultimately, we were invited to MTWI Boot Camp.

What many viewers may not realize when watching the show is that every contestant goes through an extensive, four-day, intense “boot camp” to learn all the possible games they might face as contestants on the show.  We spent 10-12 hour days learning over 86 potential MTWI games; we were trained on each game, given the opportunity to practice, and then tested on our ability to complete the challenge.  Furthermore, we met with story producers who were developing the background story for each contestant—which for Drake and me meant they were planning to share Judson’s story with the world.

To say we were invested at this stage would probably be an understatement.   I was not only grateful for the potential to provide for our family, but I was thrilled that God might be using a gameshow as a platform to raise awareness of Krabbe disease and share the life of our boy.  Though there was risk involved in dealing with the fickle entertainment industry (which I cryptically blogged about at the time), my heart was in it!

So after committing the time and energy to boot camp, we were asked to practice at home until we received a call in the following 2 weeks to appear on the show.

Our call never came.

I admit to being incredibly disappointed (Drake weathers these things much better than me).  Not simply because we weren’t given the opportunity after investing so much, but because I actually thought God was at work in the whole situation.  I thought he was leading us into this opportunity and I could not understand why it never materialized into anything.  I was confused, hurt, and even a bit disillusioned.

But one unexpected thing that happened through boot camp was that we got to know many of the other contestants, seeing as we spent four long days with them.  There was one brother/sister team, Aaron and Andi, with whom we especially connected.  Andi, in particular, took great interest in our story.  As a provider of electronic communication devices for patients affected by disability, she clearly had a heart for those who suffer and wanted to know more about Judson.

Aaron and Andi received the final call to be contestants on Minute to Win It and won $50,000!  Their episode just aired this summer.

After boot camp I had become friends with Andi on Facebook and we’ve touched base a little here and there since.  But yesterday, I received a beautiful card in the mail from Andi…along with a check.  It was a check for Judson’s Legacy.  When I opened the folded check to read the amount, my jaw literally dropped to the floor and a loud gasp escaped my lips.

I began to cry.  In fact, I wept as I tried to take it all in.

Not only had Andi just sent us an incredibly sizable donation that will serve as the seed money we have so desperately needed to fully launch Judson’s Legacy, but she also served as conduit of God’s love and a reminder of his faithfulness.

I had struggled so much after the Minute to Win It experience, trying to understand what God was doing, but Andi’s card suddenly made it all crystal clear.  It provided a HUGE peek into how God’s ways can be SO different than our ways, but he is ALWAYS at work, even if we don’t see the fruit of what he is doing for quite some time.

In fact, in many ways, this is the ultimate truth of our entire experience with Juddy along with our efforts with Judson’s Legacy.  God’s ways have been completely different than anything we would have ever chosen for our son, but we continue to trust that he is at work even if we often can’t see what he is doing.

Thank you, God, for your provision and may we be faithful to the call you have for our lives!

Author: Christina

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It is not uncommon for me to be asked how I have maintained faith in God after watching my son suffer and die.  I usualy respond in two ways...  First, I believe God has preserved my faith and it is only by his grace that I continue to trust.  Second, I have taken liberty to lament before God--to be completely honest about my hurt, my questions, my confusion, my disappointment, my complaints, and my anger over the path he has chosen for my life.  And interestingly, I have found it to be a springboard for real relationship with him.

I had the opportunity to teach from Psalm 13 this week and the model of lament offered through the heart of David where it is evident that "if we want to learn to never let go of God, we must learn to speak the language of lament” (Michael Card).  

32 Minutes

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At Judson's Park Remembering Together

Monday was a sacred day.  It wasn’t a holiday.  It wasn’t a birthday.  It wasn’t a day of festivity.  In fact, for most people it probably wasn’t a day of much consequence at all.  But for us, for our family, for those who knew and cared for our dear son, November 7^th is sacred.

Drake didn’t go to work.  Jessie didn’t go to school.  Family and loved ones gathered. 

Monday was a day to remember.

With reverence, each year we take the time to reflect on the dark but hallowed last days, hours, and minutes of Judson’s life.  Naturally we are reminded of the sacrosanct moment when the cloak of death enwrapped the precious body of our boy, while our hearts were forever torn in two.  The pain of those moments persists.

But where death sought to destroy Judson, and us, life prevails.

We remember how on an ordinary day, in a non-descript room on Wilson St., heaven and earth collided.  We were witnesses as eternity came near, near enough to expose the frailty and fragility of life, along with our powerlessness as mortal beings…but also near enough to illuminate the glory of a faithful little life...restored and whole.  We remember our beloved Judson and we remember with hope.

Furthermore, as we remember, we are reminded of all that has transpired since Judson’s death; it devastated but did not desolate us.   Our faith, trust, and even joy have been graciously preserved.  We live with new understanding, new motivation, and new purpose.  

It is important to remember.

Because although it is painful to recall those dim hours in our life, the sacredness of November 7^th softens the veil between now and eternity; it brings perspective to all of life—the past, the present, and the future.

We miss you so much, Judson!

Author:Christina

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“This is my life.”

I’ve found this phrase floating through my mind a great deal recently.  With every twinge of pain I’ve been hearing the words, This is my life.

Sadly, it is not a statement of enthusiasm.  But the words are good for me nonetheless.

Seeing as Judson died four years ago this Monday some may find this unhealthy or strange, but I think I am just now beginning to truly accept the sobering reality that this is my life, to begin to embrace it rather than object to it.

I have spent much of the last four years as an observer, seeing and feeling all the holes in my heart that have resulted from losing my Jud Bud; this is a natural part of grief.  But rather than simply remembering what my life was like before the upheaval of my world, I have continued in longing, longing for something other than what is now my reality.  My thoughts have been filled with an insatiable yearning for what was or what could have been, rather than an acceptance of what is. I have wanted to go back to that life, my previous life.  But my pining, however natural it may be, at some point must start to fade.

This is my life.  This is my life now.

This is the path I have been given.  This is the road I am on.  I don’t have the ability to alter the defining moments of my past.  I don’t have the power to bring back my son.  I don’t have the option to change all the personal and relational ramifications of my loss. 

This is my life.

And I need to not only recognize this life as my own, but say yes to it when my heart has been crying no for so long.  This does not mean that I cannot continue to grieve my boy, but as I accept this life, including all the pain, I trust I can grow in my ability to live well.  I might become more open to discover the unique gifts I have been given through this journey.   My eyes might see with more clarity from the perspective provided me.  I might even grow in my trust of God’s goodness for my life, this life.

Moreover, maybe one day I just might grow to actually love this life, my life, once again, to the point where the statement, This is my life, could, in fact, be met with great enthusiasm even when it is entangled with great pain.

This is my life.  I am slowly, very slowly, learning to embrace it.

Author: Christina

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A friend recently sent me a note about her neighbor who is dying of cancer and has been given only a few months to live.  And understandably, my friend was feeling ill-equipped, struggling to know how to best support her.

I expressed to her how I still feel feeble in my ability to walk through difficulties with people.

To journey with someone into heartache is to become deeply aware of my own powerlessness, of my inability to change circumstances when every ounce of my being wishes I could alter the situation.  I feel desperate to remove the pain, but I cannot.

Really engaging the heartache of another requires us to be reminded of our own helplessness, the messiness of life, and the reality that we are not in control.  It is a sacrifice.  But it is a sacrifice that can also open our hearts to see and receive the grace of God anew.  As we love, not necessarily by doing or saying the right things, but by actually caring enough to deeply feel the pain of another, our hearts can soften, becoming more pliable for God to move in our own lives.

Isn’t it amazing that by loving someone in their heartache we might find ourselves at the center of what God is doing, not only in them, but in us?

Author: Christina

The LORD is my shepherd, I shall not want. 
He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul. 
He guides me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.  --Psalm 23:1-3

It is amazing to me how many times I have been commissioned to speak on a specific passage of Scripture and find the verses cutting right to the core of my struggles.  Our Wednesday morning women's study at our church is currently probing the book of Psalms and last week I was slotted to teach Psalm 23:1-3.  But it happened to be a week of great strain for me, and I was left questioning those times when we wonder, God, where are the green pastures?  Where are the quiet waters?  Why do I feel like I am in need? 

Furthermore, the night before I was about to teach I found myself in a heap of tears over some unanticipated circumstances.  And of course, that brokenness spilled over into the morning: I showed up at church with swollen, red eyes and streaks of tears across my face, ironically about to teach on one of the most beloved and hope-filled passages in Scripture.

Though unsure how I would make it through the morning, God graciously spoke to my heart and his truth penetrated my questions.  I pray it may bring others hope too.

You can listen here:

25 minutes: The end gets cut off...

I concluded with this video:

...We know that David’s soul drifted into the lonely wilderness and the tumultuous jungle, that he found himself in the thickets of painful life, but we also know that in his faithfulness and trust, God lead him into the green pastures and beside the quiet waters.  Therein lies our hope.

When we first started down the path of incorporating Judson’s Legacy as a 501 (c)(3) non-profit organization, which was well over a year ago, I was enthusiastic about the potential but also hesitant and reserved about the idea, moving forward with reluctance; I felt out of my element, with very limited knowledge or expertise. This created a great deal of uncertainty for me.  Yet, we had multiple ways God seemed to be calling us to move forward in faithfulness—through people, through circumstances, and through unexpected resources.  And many of my concerns were slowly alleviated as we navigated through the process.

But what I did not anticipate was the tearing in my heart that would ensue.  This path has been far more emotionally difficult than I ever imagined and there have been multiple times I have just wanted to give up and lick my wounds.

My friend and member of the Judson’s Legacy Board, Cristina, so aptly described the process as trying to cut a straight line through a braid.  Our lives and hearts are so intricately intertwined with Judson’s Legacy, vulnerably braided together, but the legal ramifications of establishing a non-profit are causing us to cut a defined line between what is personal and what will be “assets” of the organization. And the process has been agonizing for me, where at times I’ve felt like I’m holding severed pieces of the braid, wondering how God can possibly use what has been cut.

When I first met with a non-profit consultant a year ago, he told me to expect a lot of bumps and bruises as we moved forward but to keep pushing through the pain because there will be great things to come.   Likewise, a couple months ago, I was on Twitter and saw a quote that basically stated, anything worth doing will be difficult and require sacrifice.  These are the words that keep ringing in my ears as I have excruciatingly felt the line being cut through the braid.

That said, we are now at the point where the cutting has been done on paper and now it must be done in practice.  So changes are coming…

Within the next week, my personal blog, “No Artificial Colors or Flavors” (including "Joys of Jessie") will be moving locations and no longer available on Judson’s website.  The URL for my blog will be redirected to the new site.  But I will also continue writing for Judson’s Legacy on a new blog entitled “Hope in Suffering.” 

 “Hope in Suffering” will contain many of my previous blogs and future posts will focus on my journey of grief, loss, and sorrow, my reflections as Judson’s mom, updates for the organization, and pertinent resources that will include guest posts. However, it will not include any writing where I feel the need to personally maintain copyright, or blogs that are unrelated to our journey of hope in suffering; those things will all be found on “No Artificial Colors or Flavors.”  Each time I write, I will need to make a determination as to whether the blog becomes an “asset” of the organization or whether to keep it as my own.  Hence, the line between the two blogs will be a little gray, so I hope you’ll plan to follow on both sites.

Let me just add, we welcome your prayers for Judson's Legacy, that all things be done out of hearts longing to serve and trust God as we faithfully share Judson's story.  Thank you for your support!

It was the dead of night and I was jarred awake by sudden screams from my Jessie-Girl.  I jumped out of bed, startled and concerned, and ran to my lady’s bedside.

“I love Juddy so much!” she cried, “But I don’t want to die.  I don’t want to die!   I want to live forever.”

The substance of her dream hit me like a punch in the gut.

I stroked her back without saying a word.

Her inconsolable cries continued as she writhed in bed, “I want to live a really long time.  I don’t want to die.  I don’t like death.”

“Oh Jessie…” I didn’t know what to say as I kissed her face over and over while trying to hold her.

My mind was racing.  These concerns are much too heavy for such a little heart, I thought to myself.  I don’t want her worrying about death at this age.  This burden is too great for her developing soul.

I felt powerless.  I felt so powerless as worries of death poured out of my little girl.  How do I relieve this load of fear that had clearly been growing alongside Jessie’s growing awareness over the loss of her brother? 

I also felt responsible.  I felt somehow responsible that the way we have handled Judson’s death has in some way triggered these fears.  Have we been too open with Jessie?  Should we have approached our loss differently?

But as my mind flooded with questions and concerns, I began to consider how natural these feelings are for all parents, no matter the substance of one’s journey.  We feel powerless when our children hurt.  We fear responsibility when we see their struggles connect back to our parenting.

But there is grace.  I felt like God was saying, You have done the best you can with what you have been given, Christina, and that is all I ask of you.  Grace.

I desperately need God’s grace as I endeavor to care for this precious little child entrusted to my care…and the greatest thing she needs is God’s grace too.

I began to whisper, “Even though we may walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we don’t need to fear any evil, Jessie.  For God is with us.  His rod and staff, they will comfort us (Psalm 23)… And all the days ordained for us were written in God’s book before one of them came to be (Psalm 139).  He has a plan for each of us, Jessie.” I took a deep sigh wanting the truth of my words to settle in my own heart.

I gave my ladybug more kisses and softly reminded her, “You are precious to me, Jessie-Girl, and you are precious to God.”

And it was as though God was simultaneously reminding me, You are precious to me, Christina.  And my grace is sufficient for you (2 Corinthians 12).

Both Jessie’s heart and mine began to calm.

I have a sweet friend, Jen, whom I met through the Costa Mesa MOMS Club when Jud was about 18 months old and I was pregnant with Jess.  Jen is incredibly thoughtful, sensitive, generous and kind; I have written about her before on my blog.  She has proven to be a gift in my life time and again, but interestingly, we have very contrasting philosphies and perspectives in life.  Yet one of the greatest gifts she has given me over the years is the way she continues to love Judson.  This week, she posted an open letter to Jud on Facebook that touched my heart in a way that is impossible to express in words and really challenges me to grow in my love for others—her love moves me and stretches me.  

Jen gave me permission to share her letter here, despite knowing that most of my readers may have differing viewpoints.  I hope Jen touches your heart too...

Dear Judson,

It has been almost five years since I first saw this street sign and thought of you, the little blonde-haired son of my friend. It’s such an unusual name – how random to find a street sign with the same name! I smiled when I saw it because I immediately thought of you, your brown eyes open wide with excitement about life, your sweet smile seemingly a permanent fixture on your sweet 2 year old face.

The first time I saw this street sign you were my friend’s little boy: sweet, gentle, smiling Judson. You were excited about your newborn sister Jessie and full of joy. You were remarkable in your kindness and intelligence for such a young boy.

The second time I drove by this sign it made me sad. It made my stomach turn. You were no longer just sweet little Jud, you were sick. Very sick. I felt acid in my throat thinking about the sickness that was raging in your tiny body. Your body was being seized by illness, darkness and paralysis.

I thought of you all weekend after I drove by that street sign. Others who knew you were praying. Praying nonstop that you would heal, mend, be well. There were fasting, prayer circles and so many other ways to call out to God to heal your body.

I don’t pray, Judson. I thought of you often, all the time in fact. I wished you would heal, I hoped for your body to recover. But I never prayed. Until that year.

You see, I drive by that sign each September on my way up the San Bernardino Mountains to a yoga retreat. The year you were sick, I stepped out of my comfort zone. I participated in a Reiki healing circle. I meditated. Our circle of people at the retreat all focused our energy into one healing force. I imagined beautiful, healing energies -- a ball of fantastic and amazing light -- surging forth, through the ground, through the place where my feet touched the Earth, racing through rock, stone, granite, sediment, to you. Racing like a pulse of magical healing power, erupting under the foundation of your home, racing up the stairs to your bedroom floor, coursing through your bed and your skin, into your tiny veins, pumped to your generous heart where it would pump the healing energy to your brain, to the lining of your skull that had deteriorated from the vile, unwelcome disease. I imagined the energy replenishing your cells, your body restoring itself to full health and vitality – miraculous! Healthy! Whole again! WELL!

I am not a deeply spiritual person Judson. But I tried. I tried to focus and ‘help’ you in the only way I could, when science and medicine and even other prayers had failed you.

Love and hope seemed to be the only things that were keeping you alive. I poured as much love and hope into my meditation as I could muster, hoping I would come home at the end of my retreat to happy, miraculous news.

But I didn’t. All the hope and love and prayer and meditation in the Universe (and there was a LOT of your behalf, young man!) could not fight the battle in your body.

You died two months later.

I miss you and I think of you often. I think of you when I look at my own blonde-haired little child. I think of how much you would love spending time on the playground with Sophie and how I wish I could have watched you grow. I think of you all the time, Jud. But especially in September when I pass your name on that street sign.

Because even though my meditation, my hope, my ‘prayer’ if you will, didn’t come to fruition, for those brief hours you lived in my mind, fully healed, walking again, joyous again, singing again, smiling again, whole again.

And you will always live on in my mind and in my heart – joyous, happy, smiling and whole.

Blonde, sweet, gentle, charming, Judson.