Sunday, December 21, 2014

A Christmas Miracle



by Richard Edfeldt

Ten years ago today, we received the call that Jacob was to be the beneficiary of a new heart. On this day in 2004, he underwent his first heart transplant.

Karen and I received the call at 4:00am while we were in the catacombs of Egleston hospital where there were some sleeping rooms for parents. The nurse called to gleefully announce to us that a heart had been located. I figured it was going to be awhile before the donor heart would make its way to the hospital and I knew it would be a long day of surgery so I jumped into the shower to wake me up and to get ready for what lay ahead.  About 20 minutes later, Jacob’s nurse called and frantically said, “Where are y’all?  They’re about to take Jacob away for prepping!” We rushed up to the floor, tying shoes in the elevator, to get the chance to see Jacob and tell him we loved him (and praying it wouldn’t be for the last time). Thankfully, we made it in time.

The rest of the day was a whirlwind of updates and activity around us as the waiting room grew crowded with family and church friends praying for a Christmas miracle. And it came … as you are aware, Jacob successfully received his new heart and made it home a week later. A miracle.

Throughout Jacob’s life, we have been reminded again and again that he was a miracle.

The doctors told us that Jacob’s congenital heart defect was 100% fatal without medical intervention. God sent us to the right doctors and hospitals that were used to bring us this miracle baby.

With each open heart surgery that was performed by Dr. Bill Norwood at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia and his entire team of nurses and doctors that served Jacob and Karen and I so well, we thanked God for the miracle of continued life for our son.

With each check up and each time he got sick and with each successful recovery and report, we reveled in the miracle we held in our arms.

And with the success of the first transplant (and the second one as well), we once again thanked God for His grace in giving us this miracle.  But we always acknowledged that with advent of our miracle, another family’s life was shattered and their broken miracle was scattered across the floor.

And then on June 14, 2009, our last miracle didn’t happen.

I can hear many of you now saying, “Come on, Richard, you’re a minister. Surely, you understand how this works.” Honestly, I don’t. I’ve read and I’ve studied books about God’s sovereignty and about the power of prayer.  I can give you the ‘book’ answers.  But as a grieving parent, those ‘book’ answers ring hollow. I can buck up my spirituality and quote Matthew 5:45, “it rains on the just and unjust”, but as a parent I long to have my child back with me. 

And I can even grasp the concept that my Jacob is no longer suffering and is in the presence of God with a perfect body … and that does give me peace …. But there are many times, as a parent, my greater wish is to have him around to trade jokes with and to ask about his day.

So, as I have said on numerous occasions, on days like today and other times throughout the year, it is such a quandary of emotions for a grieving parent (or spouse) to deal with as to how to survive the day, especially at Christmas time.

For example, later today Ben and Beth will be arriving with our two grandchildren, Tucker and Libby.  We love them. We adore them. They will be bringing such joy and Christmas excitement with them. We have planned some great memories to create with them.  Then Katie and Andy will arrive on Christmas Eve and we will have “the family” with us on Christmas. That’s every parent’s Christmas dream, to have their family with them.   But it always gnaws on our heart that Jacob will be forever missing as part of our family and we will be missing him and wishing that one more miracle could have happened.  There is such sorrow mingled with such joy.

So as a minister, I know the ‘book’ answers. But as a parent, I’m standing next to the father in Mark 9:24, “I do believe, help my unbelief.” I know that God himself has experienced the loss of a son.  And Jesus, in his earthly body, experienced loss and he also felt the lack of understanding of a plan – but in that lacking still trusted in God’s love and plan. I know God loves me and wants the best for me. But often, in the pain of grief, I feel like I’m living what C.S. Lewis described when, in his pain, went to God and only heard the slamming and bolting of the door and then only silence as he stood outside alone. It’s like I’ve developed a type of spiritual bi-polar disorder. One minute I’m bathed in the presence and love of God and then in the next I feel abandoned.

So for now, even when I don’t see how this is ‘best’ for me and my family, we must trust Him as we journey through this forest of loss, seeking those patches of light that pierce through the darkness of the trees until we experience the final miracle of eternal life in the presence of God and re-united with Jacob and a host of other loved ones.  And that’s what the miracle child of Christmas has brought to us.

Merry Christmas to all!

The family minus one

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

My Admiration Keeps Growing

by Richard Edfeldt



When Karen and I moved to Franklin, NC, last February we began doing all the things you do when you move to a new residence in a new place.  Since we had already owned our house for several years previously, we didn't have to worry about utilities and things like that. But we did need to do the 'change of address' thing with the post office, get our drivers licenses for a new state, and find new doctors and dentists.  We accomplished all of this over a period of time.

Our new doctor wanted to establish a baseline on us so we had to endure some blood work and other prodding in uncomfortable places (if you know what I mean).  That is when they discovered that my PSA level was too high, indicating a problem with my prostate gland. My brand new doctor then referred me to a urologist who did his own examination (much to my bent over embarrassment) and, after a few "hmmmmms" and ”uh-ohs", said I needed a prostate biopsy to check a nodule he discovered.

I'll skip over the joys of the biopsy experience and get to the results I received last Friday -

I have prostate cancer.

I'm not sharing this to gain your sympathy or to garner your prayers (probably the subject of a different blog).  The doctors have given a good spin to it, saying we caught it fairly early and that it is the ‘good’ kind of cancer’ (didn’t realize that was possible). They have also said I was on the lower end of the risk spectrum and that I have an excellent chance of successful treatment and continued good quality of life.  I loved that he said that I was still a young man and in good shape (I asked him to repeat that so I could record it on my pocket recorder for future pep talks).

But here are the lessons I'm learning.

First, I'm not a real good patient. I've been fortunate to be fairly healthy throughout my life. Of course, I've had my share of colds, viruses, and injuries. I've also had a few outpatient surgeries but I've never had to spend nights in a hospital as a patient. It sounds like that’s about to end … and I’m not looking forward to it. This leads me to the biggest lesson that has come forward ….

My admiration and love for Jacob Edfeldt continues to grow!

From day one in his life, he consistently faced and endured doctor’s visits, consultations, medical procedures involving needles, blood work and the like, surgeries, and extended hospital stays.  As much as I dread what’s coming around the bend for me, I can’t, for the life of me, see how Jacob handled all of those ‘dreaded experiences’ with such fortitude.

I’ve tried to recount what all he went through in his twenty-one years and I become ashamed of my own little bit of whining that I’m emoting about what I am facing.  I’m sure I’m missing some things, even though Karen and I were sitting beside him throughout each experience, but by my count, he underwent five open heart surgeries (including 2 heart transplants), a major thoracic surgery, a pacemaker insertion, at least 40 heart catheterizations, plus your normal assortment of doctor’s visits.

Now don’t get me wrong … he wasn’t a saint about it and he had his share of meltdowns and pity parties … but, for the most part, he understood what he had to face and, somehow, generated the willpower to endure each encounter with remarkable maturity, grace, faith, and even humor.

I am humbled to have been his father and can only hope I can display the same demeanor and courage as my son in the days ahead and with a diagnosis that sounds far less ominous than the one he faced every day of his life. I am a daddy who hopes to emulate his son.

Saturday, December 6, 2014

The Exclusive, Complicated, and Unspoken Language of Grief

 by Richard Edfeldt

People who have experienced the loss of a loved one have instantly acquired a new language - the language of grief. It is a language that is not composed of words, but of emotions that is activated by sights and sounds. This language appears suddenly and in unexpected times and places.

The language of grief is an unspoken language but it speaks loudly to those who have acquired this vocabulary. And, through glances to one another, they communicate in this grief language. One of the most amazing aspects of this mode of communication is that people around those using this language have no idea this is taking place.

Let me give you a personal example.

Karen and I went with some friends to watch another friend participate in a dulcimer concert at a well known local landmark.  Given the time of year , the music was comprised of some beautiful Christmas tunes from around the world. We were thoroughly immersed in the glory of the moment, enjoying the music with friends.

The leader introduced each song selection and explained its point of origin. After completing one wonderful rendition of a holiday melody, she announced the title of the next composition- "In the Bleak Midwinter". This was when Karen and I glanced at each other and, in the midst of an atmosphere of joyous holiday spirit, we began to communicate in the exclusive, complicated, and unspoken language of grief.

As the first notes of this beautiful tunes filled the air, our eyes began to fill the tears and our hands reached for each other. No one else in the room knew we were suddenly 'speaking' to each other using the language of grief and, in their defense, there would have been no reason why they would have known why this melody would have thrust us into this language. Only Karen and I knew why and so we were the only ones using the language. Here is why:

When we lived in Gainesville, Georgia, back in the 1990's, Jacob became involved in the community's musical theater group. This was a brand new world to our family, especially to me. Ben and I shared (and still do) a love for baseball so I could go in the backyard or a nearby school field and work on improving a certain skill he needed in the game. Katie and I shared (and still do) a love for choral music and so I could help her in certain ways as she practiced her songs.  But the theater was a foreign land that no one else in the family had ventured.  There was no point of reference where I could use my experience or expertise to help Jacob in this realm.  All I could do was be a supportive parent who made sure Jacob was at all the practices.

One of the productions that Jacob was a cast member of was a musical presentation of 'A Christmas Carol'. He had a minor part playing a street urchin in several of the village scenes. He loved the experience and seemed to light up when the stage lights were on him. It was a beautiful interpretation of the Dickens' classic. 'In the Bleak Midwinter' was the opening song and recurring theme of the stage production.

So when the dulcimers began playing the notes of this hauntingly lilting composition, Karen's and my eyes locked on each other and we listened to grief speaking to us as our eyes wept and our hands trembled.

Such is the experience of those who know the exclusive, complicated, and unspoken language of grief. At a point in time you acquire the language and throughout the rest of your life, in the most unexpected times and places, you find yourself hearing grief speaking to you.

Saturday, November 15, 2014

Some Would Say This is a Good Thing. If So, Why Do I Feel So Ashamed? (by Richard)

It started out as another normal Saturday…. taking care of a few household chores and then settling in to watch some college football.  As I watching some of the best games of the day, I was doing some mindless computer work and internet surfing.  I saw a commercial advertising that the musical, Wicked, is coming to the Peace Center in Greenville, SC next February.   I quickly got on their website and checked about the availability of some tickets to see this play that evokes so many memories of our years with Jacob. I was happy to be able to secure some good tickets that will serve as a nice Valentine’s present for Karen.

I called up my calendar on my computer in order to record this outing…when it hit me.  On a note posted on this date is a reminder that seven years ago Jacob underwent his second heart transplant.  It jolted me to my core!!!  I had forgotten the importance of this day!

To anyone who has lost a child or another close loved one there are certain days of the year that hold a higher and poignant significance. Days like birthdays, anniversaries, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, holidays, and, especially, the day we lost our loved one conjure up memories of that person.  In Jacob’s case, we add on two more momentous days – the dates of his two heart transplants.

I have written in previous notes I’ve posted on Facebook that for many friends of Jacob’s and friends of our family, they have continued on in their lives. They recall occasionally a happy memory of their time with Jacob but, for the most part, those memories are shelved in a remote section of the brain as they deal with other things in life.  And that is to be expected …. for them.  But not for parent or sibling or spouse who has lost a loved one.  Those memories stay closer to the surface and many things will bring those memories to mind on a daily basis. But special days, like were listed earlier, will stir those memories up to remembrance like a blast of arctic air that takes your breath away when you open the door.

However, friends and well wishers will whisper to one another about their grieving friend, ‘some day they will get over it and, I hope for their sake, they get over it soon and move on.’

So, is this the day I’ve ‘gotten over it and moved on’?  Did the busyness of the day of getting chores done in time to watch my favorite teams play cause me to momentarily forget about the significance of the day?  Some would say that’s a good thing.  If so, why do I feel so ashamed?  How could I forget this day among a handful of others that impacted us so deeply? Are the memories of Jacob fading from view? 

I guess this is may be a new phase of the grieving process.   We don’t talk of Jacob as often. You may have noticed I don’t post as many things about him as I once did.  We recognize that people have moved on and there’s an awkwardness with some people when we bring up a memory of him in their presence.  As a result, in a sense, we have gone underground with our grieving. But I assure you, we still grieve! There are still times of sadness and tears, but mainly in private.

So the seventh anniversary of Jacob’s second heart transplant nearly slipped by me, but it didn’t.  Some would say it would have been a good sign if it had.  Who knows, maybe some year it may slip by me entirely. If or when that happens and I come to realize it, I expect I’ll feel as ashamed as I do today.  I never want to get to the point of ‘getting over it’ that I forget days like today. Jacob’s life means too much to me. I may get to a point where I fail to post some tribute (as I have in the past and like this today) but I hope I will always have quiet moments of reflection on days like this.

I’ll close this somewhat sobering and sad tribute with my favorite memory of that mind boggling day that I posted last year on this day - http://embracinggrief.blogspot.com/2013/11/another-anniversary-by-richard.html.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

Chili's and McDonalds

by Richard Edfeldt

Today is the 26th birthday of Jacob and as you would expect, it unleashes a flood of emotions (literally) and a host of memories of that significant day. Here are a few:

Karen and I were aware of Jacob’s fatal heart defect (hypoplastic left heart syndrome or HLHS) for several months before he was due. We had to endure months of hearing what were our options were (A. an abortion, B. do nothing, C. move to California and hope for a heart transplant [human or baboon], or D. palliative surgery only done in Philadelphia).  Added to the oppressive weight of this decision was the impact this decision would have on our other two children and the financial ramifications of it all.

What helped us cinch our decision came through an appointment with a fetal echocardiologist in Houston who became a trusted friend. Doctor Jim Huhta was at Texas Children’s Hospital at the time and we were sent to him to confirm the diagnosis we had received from Karen’s doctor.  After he performed the procedure and, indeed, confirmed that dreaded diagnosis, Karen asked him this question, “What would you do if this was your child?”  He tried giving the expected answer of saying he couldn’t say and that it was our decision to make. But Karen would have none of that and pushed him for his real response. Finally he took a deep breath and gave his answer.  And his answer became the driving force in our decision making and care for Jacob throughout his life – he said, “I would do all I can within my power to provide a chance for life for him.”  Doctor Huhta then went on to explain that he had just accepted a new position on staff at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP) to work with the world renowned surgeon, Dr. William Norwood, who had pioneered a series of palliative surgeries for HLHS that showed a lot of promise.

On March 8th, we said our tearful good-byes to Ben and Katie and to my parents (who had come to take care of them) and boarded the airplane headed for Philadelphia.  Normally, starting a trip that would end in a birth of a child would be surrounded by excitement and joyful anticipation. To be sure, we were excited that we were close to the birthday of our third child and had already carefully chosen his name – Jacob Blackburn Edfeldt.  But there was also a heavy cloud of dread of the vast unknown as to  what we would be facing. Would we be coming home with happy hearts as we held an infant … or with a crushed soul
accompanying a casket?
Philadelphia's Ronald McDonald House

We had been in contact with the Ronald McDonald House in Philadelphia (the original one!) and had a room reserved for us. We landed in Philadelphia and took a taxi to the beautiful house. We met with the RMH staff and they gave us the tour and explained the rules of the house. Once we settled in, we faced the decision to find a place to eat.  There were several restaurant choices down the street a few blocks. So we began to walk down the street in silence, lost in our fears and neither wanting to make the decision as to where to eat.

We turned a corner when we saw it.  Here we were, two scared young adults from Texas struggling with making our way around the foreign land of Philadelphia and grappling with the reason why we were there. But the decision of where to eat was made for us in an instant. There was Chili’s, specializing in Tex/Mex food! It was like saying, ‘You’re not in a foreign land after all. Here is a little bit of home for you.’ We went in and had our fill of chips and salsa and ordered up fajitas for two.  Except for having to ask for ice in our tea, we felt like we were back home, at least for a few minutes.

Karen and Jacob at birth
The next days were filled with meetings and preparation for Jacob’s delivery and the first of three open heart surgeries. And then Friday, March 11th, arrived and so did Jacob via C-section!  Karen and I were able to see Jacob for a few seconds after his delivery in the University of Pennsylvania hospital before they carted him off through a series of tunnels to nearby Children’s Hospital of Pennsylvania.

The following Tuesday,  Karen and I experienced the first of many times when we walked by the gurney wheeling Jacob into the surgical room; pausing long enough to give him a kiss and pushing the terrible thought away if it would be the last kiss.

On that day, they performed the first of what became many open heart surgeries in Jacob’s life and the relief and thanksgiving when told he came through surgery just fine.  I remembered distinctly how cold Jacob’s body was when they brought him out into the hallway, due to him being packed in ice throughout surgery.  How thankful we were that they had prepared us for that eerie tactile sensation.  We often joked with Jacob about being so hot natured was a result of those ice baths.

Leaving Chop
Over the following weeks, other memories were made:
  • The Polaroid pictures of Jacob Karen had taped to her hospital bed
  • Long days sitting and holding him in PICU
  • Long nights trying to sleep at RMH while thoughts pestered you about what the next day might bring
  •  Cold and snowy days in the northeast for a couple born and raised in the south
  • Ordering real Philly cheesesteaks from trucks parked outside of the hospital (imagine a ‘wattayahav, wattayahav, wattayahav’ with a major attitude!)
  • Daily mile long walks to and from Ronald McDonald House to CHOP through the campus of University of Pennsylvania (a beautiful campus)
  • Pushing Karen in a wheelchair from RMH to CHOP up and over a bridge and on that same mile long walk through the university. Unfortunately it was across a brick walkway (no way to soften the jarring of each brick for Karen who was recovering from her own surgery no matter how hard she hugged that pillow)
  •  Enjoying meals made by volunteers at the RMH
  • The conversations and comparing notes with other RMH parents


Back in Houston
And the best day … the day we flew home with a three week old infant!  He may have a little blue in his skin color due to mixing of his blood as a result of this ingenious surgery by Dr. Norwood, but he was alive! And he was coming HOME!
Finally Home

And being greeted by the best welcome home party in the world being comprised of an 8 year old boy and his 2 ½ year old sister ready to meet their new little brother, Jacob, and begin their next stage of life as a family.



That’s how Jacob’s journey began 26 years ago …. and what an extraordinary journey it has been!
Family Dedication 1988

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

Jacob's Award

by Richard Edfeldt

You’re probably aware that we have just concluded a move to North Carolina. Over the past year we have conducted the arduous task of downsizing. We have owned this cabin in North Carolina for about four and half years while maintaining our home in Marietta. We found it shortly after Jacob’s death while visiting with our dear friends, Wes and Debbie Stoops. Both Karen and I felt a strong sense of peace then and continue to feel that peace in the midst of our grief when we are in the mountains. Often times we have called this home, “Jacob’s Place: Our home of Refuge and Restoration”. But I digress…

While sifting through those mountains of boxes of family mementos, I came across a plaque awarded to Jacob at the end of his junior year in high school. It was during the first half of his junior year that his health deteriorated so rapidly to the point of him being placed on the heart transplant list and receiving that gift of life on December 21, 2004.

While he was in the hospital awaiting that life saving procedure, he tried to stay up with his studies. Through the generosity and support of the faculty of McEachern High School, Jacob would receive assignments and would endeavor to complete them from his hospital room.

Often was the time when Jacob was too sick and on so many different medications that he could not concentrate enough to work on his various independent homework assignments.  During those times when he was so addled, he received some ‘extra’ help from loving adults and students that had come by to check in on him.

Since I feel the statutes of limitations are over on any ‘stretching’ of the definition of support and/or help (some may call it ‘cheating’) in completing Jacob’s assignments, let me describe a few occasions that are fondly embedded in my memory.

Jacob was never a gifted student. His gift was being a friend to all he encountered, but he was not gifted academically. I remember one occasion when one of Jacob’s youth teachers from church, I’ll call him David, came to check in on Jacob when he was restricted to his hospital room. Jacob was struggling with a science assignment and that was David’s forte.  He offered some tutoring tips and, as Jacob’s endurance wore down, David gently moved Jacob aside and filled in the rest of the multiple choice assignment while Jacob drifted off to sleep.

That brings me to the aforementioned plaque that I found in a box of Jacob’s things. Jacob was taking a special elective class on Comparative Religions when his health took the ultimate nosedive. Again, his teacher was very gracious in him finishing the class through independent study.  The class was drawing to a close when Jacob’s health as at its weakest. He had the final test to complete but had no energy to draw on to do so.

You may be seeing where this is going …. but, in case you don’t, let me remind you my vocational calling – Christian ministry! Several of my classes dealt with Comparative Religions. Now it may cause you to think less of me in the less than honest action that I’m about to confess I carried out. But, as a loving father, watching my son wait and waste away waiting for a new heart, I felt compelled to help my son in this way. I took Jacob’s final exam in Comparative Religion.  I didn't give it a second thought nor did I sense any overwhelming conviction in standing in his stead except with a conviction of my love and empathy for my son.

At the end of the school year we attended Awards Night.  Jacob, with that twinkle in his eye and the wry smile he always had on his face, responded to his name being called …. and received the award for ‘Outstanding Achievement in Gifted Comparative Religion’ class.  That twinkle and that smile … and the standing ovation he received amid his name being yelled out by his fellow students was the best confirmation that I had done the right thing months before.


I do feel compelled to apologize for the other students in that class who may have received the award if I had not helped Jacob at that time. I hope you accept my motive. By now, chances are you are a parent as you read this.  You can now understand the lengths a parent may go to help their child who is facing more dire consequences in life than receiving an award and a grade in an elective class. And I dare say, though I hope you never face the situation, you would do the same for your child.

Saturday, January 25, 2014

Uncle Jacob

by Richard Edfeldt

A few days ago, I posted the following statement in Facebook:

I hate that I have to gauge significant events affecting me, my family, and/or my friends as BJD or AJD (before or after Jacob's death).

Regrettably but inevitably, that’s how I analyze when things have happened.  What brought this to mind recently was a posting from a niece of mine who celebrated the 6th anniversary of the ‘Gottcha Day’ of their adopted daughter, Zoey.  My first reaction was, “Wow! It’s been six years already?” Then this reaction was quickly followed by, “Was Jacob alive when this happened?”  I quickly surmised, “Yes, he was”. Then I asked myself, “Did Jacob ever have the chance to meet Zoey?” That answer still eludes me.

This process goes on continually – “Was Jacob alive when ….
Barack Obama was elected president?” – Yes
The Atlanta Braves got back into the baseball playoffs?” – No
When I began working for LifeWay?” – Yes
When Karen was selected Teacher of the Year at Abney Elementary?” – Yes
When Tucker was born?” – Yes
When Libby was born?” – No
It goes on and on and on …..

It’s those last two that really do a number on me.  Jacob loved kids and was extremely proud to be an uncle.

We’ve told the story in a previous posting about how Ben and Beth, along with infant Tucker, rushed back to be at Jacob’s bedside when he received word of the availability of his second heart transplant.  We have pictures of Tucker dressed in a pumpkin sleeper being held securely in Uncle Jake’s arms.

 Jacob had a pet name for Tucker – Monkey. I’m not sure Ben and Beth approved of it so Uncle Jake would whisper it in Tucker’s ears when the parents were in the area. But Uncle Jake loved his little Monkey!  Jacob went so far as to get Tucker a Curious George stuffed animal and book.

I remember a few months before Jacob’s death, we went to Nashville to care for Tucker while Ben and Beth were attending Beth’s brother’s (Cooper Kandler) wedding.  Jacob spent as much time as he could babysitting Tucker throughout those few days.  I got a huge smile on my face to see them playing on the floor.  But, it also gave me a chill and tears brimmed in my eyes when I heard  Jacob, on the floor with Tucker, quietly say to him, “Will you remember me?”

“Will you remember me?”

After Jacob’s death, we kept his computer. It is one of those desktop styles with the tower CPU. We rarely use it any more, since we have our laptops and Ipads.  We still have the printer, too, and that’s the main use of the unit now – we wirelessly send our printing requests to Jacob’s computer which passes on the request to the printer.

We have finally gotten to the point where we acknowledge we don’t need that ‘antique’ computer set up any longer so today I sat down in front of that old computer and when I jostled the mouse, the screen saver came alive presenting picture after picture of Jacob with college friends – some on BCM mission trips, some at fraternity functions, or others showing him just horsing around the Shorter campus. It flooded the room with great memories.

 I said to myself  that we needed to save those pictures. But when I tried to access Jacob’s files it asked for the password. I was stymied! I tried to venture a guess and guessed wrong. But then the computer asked if I wanted a hint. I clicked on it and here was the hint:

MONKEY

That’s right, “Tucker” was the password! Uncle Jacob loved his nephew and his greatest desire was to watch him grow, to play ball with him, to take him to movies and take him to plays.  He wanted to be a part of his life and he wanted to be remembered.

Fortunately, Tucker was born BJD (Before Jacob’s Death) but probably was too close to it so he won’t have recollections of Jacob’s physical presence in his life. And sadly, Libby was born AJD (After Jacob’s Death). 


But I pledge to you, Jacob, that Tucker and Libby, and all future nieces and nephews of yours WILL REMEMBER who you are and that they will know that Uncle Jake loved them to infinity and beyond!