She wears courage on her womb
My wife is the bravest woman I know. She wears her courage on her womb. She is a stunning wife, radiance is her name. She is an incredible mother, her love for Brave is deep and continues to be tangible. Mothering our boy from a distance is the most difficult type of mothering, she is learning it’s broken art. I watch her. I watch her body. I watch her wrestle to be kind to...
you never know how brave you are…until being brave is the only choice you have.– unknown (via christyangelle)
grief is itself a medicine.– william cowper
514 n 86th Street
For the week of Brave’s death (before & after) we screamed, we cursed, we prayed, we wailed at 514 N. 86th St, the house of our dear friends. With over 30 of our dear friends and family holding our bones together, it was the darkest days. This poem was written about those days from our dear friend Heather Stringer. Once, no twice spoken The letters wrangled into clumps...
Sorrow is so woven through us, so much a part of our souls, or at least any...– By Love We Are Led to God | Harvard Divinity School
I dreamt Brave was alive
- We were glued to the television. Christy and I silent, with a group of faceless friends awaiting to hear the news anchor. “It is reported that Brave Bauman has been missing since the vehicle accident and is believed to be dead”, she said assertively and without affect. We had feared this to be true seeing the seen of the car accident. No one dare say a word, the silence was so...
A Constant Ache
How do I get accustomed to this constant ache? This stinging chest? A longing I will never get used too. A loss of language to describe my suffrage. How do I go on? Learn to re-live? Without him. Without him. Reality seems too harsh, his ground too cold, his grave marker too solid, and his absence too loud. How do I get accustomed to this constant ache? Someone tell me! ...
You have to be willing to live your loneliness, your incompleteness, your lack...– Henri Nouwen The Inner Voice of Love
The trading of joy comes naturally because it is of the nature of joy to...– Frederick Buechner Source: The Clown in the Belfry
He is suppose to be here with us.
Still I sit. Still I wait. Still he was born. Still my life. Still my...
"Come to my house of Violence & Grief"
I feel brief moments of guilt as secret thoughts run through my mind. “Why are we the only ones who have lost a child?” Many of the pregnant women I see or the thousands of baby pictures on Facebook daily remind me of how utterly violent our lose is. I think, “How does everyone else have their baby” and I rage, “Why don’t we have ours?” Of course this...
A poem found at Brave's grave.
” I press my ear against his holy ground to listen. a breath, a heartbeat, a sign of life. Deafening silence. I only heart the echo of my pulse, each beat taunting me with my life. A life I would trade for for this baby boy to be alive in their arms, in this world. Body for body, please Lord, burry me so he can live. I am not granted my request. So I stand, shake my first to...
Brave Love: church →
christyangelle: “oh Brave, I am so sorry.” the walk to our house from church is only a few block and I have my pants pulled up in a tight fist to keep from tripping over them. the words keep stumbling out of my mouth without consent, “oh Brave, I am so sorry…. whatever I did to bring this on us, to bring…
Donate to the Jackson Brave Scholarship Fund →
Please click on the title of this blog to donate, then procede to the Jackson Brave Scholarship Fund (under the program designation) to donate in our sons honor. This is one way we hope to continue Brave’s lasting legacy. This scholarship will go to incoming Seattle School students who have shown great “bravery” in their personal story.
Brave Love: everyone here knows Brave. →
christyangelle: “….everyone here know Brave.” this is Tracy, the funeral contact that we have been working with for months now. I went in on Wednesday to pay for the final detailed parts of Brave’s marker. “it should take 4-5 weeks.” Thursday afternoon I get a call. “Christy, the marker is ready.” I…
My Arms Remember
My arms memorized his 6 lbs 13 ounces, my arms remember, they keep reaching for him, hoping something will meet them. I long to smell his soft skin, kiss his forehead, and touch his little face. Oh his sweet, little face, so peaceful looking to have gone through such war. I did not have to look hard to see my own face in his lifeless form. Each remembrance, taking me out of my zombie state, “This...