MISSING MICAH

January 9, 2013

It is amazing how time goes by so fast. It was 7 years ago December 17, 2012 that Micah died. I can hardly believe it. Some days it seems like it was yesterday. I am still missing Micah and I know I always will. Here is a poem I wrote shortly after he died. I had always wanted to rewrite it and edit it but now I just don’t have it in me to do that. So here it, still needing to be tweaked!

Monday, January 2, 2006        

MISSING MICAH,       written by Laura Leake

You know him by his face.

Bright clear blue eyes

Curly soft brown hair, with a spot of grey on his left side

Smiling, always, even when in pain

Making silly faces and joking

I miss his face

I wish I could touch his face,

Kiss his cheek or forehead

Rake my hands through his curly locks, comb his hair gently back.

Talking kindly or being funny

Making some kind of joke

I miss his voice, his laugh and his singing.

Sometimes his singing to the Lord sounded like real “crying out” to God.

His saying ,” Hi, Lydia!” every time he saw her and smiling at her no matter how bad he felt.

His face scrunched up, eyes closed tight when getting a lumbar puncture or bone marrow aspirate, but not complaining.

I miss his hands, gentle, soft, fluent.

They spoke of grace and mercy as they flowed over his guitar strings and moved so eloquently, picking songs and worshipping on his Taylor guitar or his mandolin.

Playing piano, the few songs he knew, like Pachelbel’s Canon in D, so smooth and sweet.

His hands strong and serving, quick to lend a helping hand

Getting the stroller out putting it in the trunk, even after TB irradiation, and chemotherapy and transfusions

Putting Lydia in the car

Lifting bags and back packs

Driving the truck to bring the garbage to the road, shifting gears with a big smile on his face,

often reaching over to steer the car while I drove.

Hands making interesting concoction for dinner, knowing quickly the right combination of spices, doing it even after a long day at the clinic

Hands trimming bushes, working hard

Hands playing cards and monopoly and other games

Hands gently soothing and comforting as he holds Lydia and comforts her and smiles

at her to make her happy

Those hands I held as I prayed for him as he took his last breath

Those hands I massaged and stroked when they hurt and weren’t working properly

Those hands too weak and uncoordinated to hold a pill

I would pick up and wrap his arm and hands around Lydia so he could hold her

Those hands holding his Bible, turning pages, treasuring God’s Word

I miss those hands, never to touch again

I miss his feet.

Walking, walking, walking, more than a marathon after his transplant

Blistered feet from walking so much

Those feet, walking with a purpose to a destination, sometimes known only to him,

Duke Gardens, Duke Chapel, Dick Orcutt’s grandmother’s house,

The Presbyterian Church blocks away from the hospital.

Walking adventures on the roof, unto the parking garage at Baptist Hospital.

Those legs unable to walk or run or play after breaking his leg or toe or getting blisters.

Yet, content and resolved to make the most of whatever the situation

Those legs and that body peddling hard on his mountain bike on all sorts of adventures many times with his camera ready for a great picture of a beautiful broad magnificent landscape or the detailed delicate peddles of a flower

He loved and appreciated God’s wonderful creation

I miss his feet

I miss massaging his feet especially towards the last month of his life when they would swell from fluid built up in his body

The messaging helped reduce the edema, but I couldn’t stop holding and rubbing those feet even when they weren’t swollen anymore

Like Jesus washing the disciples feet

I loved his feet. I miss the feel of those worn feet that used to run and play and climb trees.

That used to jump on trampolines, and the ground, and beds,

Jumping up and down, jumping up and down jumping up and down

Those feet that almost always were sticking out of his sheets when he slept

Those feet propped up on the ottoman or draped over the arm of the love seat as he rested

I miss those feet

I miss Micah,

His feet

His legs

His arms

His hands

His face

His hair

His smell

His eyes

His mind

His heart, full of love for God and people

Full of laughter, joy, and sorrow, suffering, worshipping

His mouth confessing his love for our Lord Jesus Christ through music and words

I miss Micah

He’ll always remain in my heart

And one day

I will see him again

But now

I just miss him

All of him

I miss his face, funny, laughing, joking, making faces,

Yet sometimes so serious

Worshipping God, looking up to Jesus

Down on his knees, crying out to Jesus for His mercy and healing and help

Emotional as he talks of how good God is and how thankful he is for Lydia who he said is always happy and brings joy wherever she goes.

Emotional, tears as he speaks of his love for us in his last days

And for his love for God and confession that God is so good, He has been so good to him and is good and so close to him even now in his suffering

Quick to stand up for someone younger, to defend the weak

A peacemaker- who now sees God

Smiling in admiration at the determination of the younger transplant children

Hands and heart pouring forth words in pink pen on a spiral notebook paper, full of love for God and appreciation and love for people

Joy in the midst of suffering

The joy of the Lord is my strength

Hands typing away on his xanga website, recounting funny stories and situations,

making jokes about his suffering, writing songs, original and others that touched his heart,

Stories deeper than what appears on the outside

Showing a heart full of love and compassion, kindness, joy, and desire to be in heaven with the Lord

Now Micah is with the Lord

He is no longer in pain or suffering,

He is full of joy in the presence of our Lord,

But,

Part of my heart is with him

I miss Micah

I always will

                        Micah’s Mom