Without a Word: How a Boy’s Unspoken Love Changed Everything

by Jill Kelly

  The last thing I had to do before mounting my camouflage golf-cart-chariot was put on the tulle skirt. Everything else was done. My mom finished ironing it and handed it to me. As I talked through how I imagined the events of the evening would proceed, thirteen-year-old Erin Marie, who was close by listening, politely interrupted me and asked, “Mommy, do you think I can say something tonight at your ceremony?”

  I was so surprised. “Oh my, Erin! Of course you can. I didn’t ask you because I thought you would be nervous talking in front of all those people. We would love it.”

  In the midst of all the hustle and bustle, I found myself reflecting on some of the events that had led up to this moment. I thought about how incredible it was that Jim and I had survived. We were different now. Everything had changed. It was almost as if we were getting married for the very first time.

  We had been through so much. We had wanted to give up and walk away many times. Yet we didn’t.

  Divorce was no longer lurking around the corner of our lives. Unforgiveness and deception had no part in our relationship anymore. Unconditional love had healed our broken and hardened hearts. After twelve years of marital strife, we had finally discovered what real love was. We were now truly in love—possibly for the first time ever—for real. It was incredible.

  It was a miracle.

  “Mom, can you believe this is really happening?” I said as I grabbed my perfectly ironed skirt from her hands.

  “Only God, Jill… only God,” she responded.

  As I pulled the tulle overskirt up over my hips and draped the silk bow across my waist to fasten the hidden buttons, I paused. While everyone in the room stared at me, patiently waiting to gaze upon the finished product—I burst out laughing.

  “It doesn’t fit.” I laughed.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” my mother replied. “Didn’t you try it on?”

  “No. I knew the other piece of the dress would never fit me, but I thought for sure the skirt would. What are we going to do?” I exclaimed.

  “Do you even have a sewing kit here?” my mother asked as she started rifling through the bathroom drawers.

  “I have no idea. I doubt it.”

  I started laughing again, and my mother and Karyn joined me.

  How appropriate that in the midst of these intense preparations and heart-pondering moments, a bit of comic relief should intrude. I had managed to keep back tears all day long, and now, ironically, as I started to really think about all that was happening, my skirt didn’t fit. How perfect. I was rather thin for our wedding, but I didn’t think I had gained that much weight. It must have been the three kiddos.

  I don’t remember where the needle and thread came from or how my mother managed to move the buttons and sew them back on, but she did. And it was hysterical.

  At 7:30 p.m., as the sun started to set over the scenic Ellicottville hills, my camouflage chariot was ready.

  “Do I look okay?” I said to my mother.

  “You look beautiful, Jill.”

  As my “entourage” and I slowly made our way down the stairs, my dad was waiting patiently at the bottom. He looked so handsome and happy. I love my dad; we had been through so much together.

  Through the years my dad had watched me deteriorate in despair and defeat and then rise up with courage and hope. He had witnessed the transformation of our entire family. And though he said very little, I knew he was amazed that we had all come so far.

  I could hear the soft beautiful piano music playing in the distance as I carefully slid into the golf cart. My mother, camera in hand, joined us.

  I was so nervous.

  My dad drove us down to the pavilion nestled between Hunter’s Cabin and Two Sisters Pond. As we parked, cameras flashed like lightning all around us. Camryn and Paige, my six-year-old niece, sprinkled the ground with rose petals while my nephew Ben kept my skirt from dragging along the ground. As my dad and I made our way down the candlelit aisle toward Jim and Pastor Rich, there was a heavenly hush throughout the pavilion. I tried not to make eye contact with anyone because I knew if I did, I would lose it.

  We had purposefully invited everyone who was there. Jim and I wanted an intimate ceremony. We wanted to share this very meaningful event with special people: Individuals who had walked beside us through the many tumultuous seasons of our marriage. Friends who were at the party the night I met Jim in 1991. Family members who had watched us grow apart and struggle for years. Dear friends who came to our rescue when life started to crumble.Those who loved us and spent countless hours praying for our entire family. We wanted to share this deeply cherished night with these treasured few.

  Everyone there needed to see the answer to years of prayer. They needed to stand witness to the fact that the impossible is possible.

  As we stood with Pastor Rich, the glow of hundreds of candles lit the area and a gentle breeze swayed the elegant draping back and forth. It seemed as if time actually stood still. Initially, Pastor Rich cracked a few simple jokes to lighten the mood and calm our hearts. Jim and I were both nervous. Not so much because we were standing in front of our friends, but because of why we were there.

  I hadn’t written down what to say to Jim; instead, we decided to spontaneously share what was on our hearts. A simple ceremony of prepared words just wouldn’t do this time.

  The expression of our commitment to love each other no matter what had to be real. I wanted the intimacy and intensity of what we were about to do to echo in our hearts into eternity—and in the minds and hearts of all who were there to share the event with us.

  To start off the ceremony, our two nephews, Benjamin and Zac, and our daughter Camryn each read a Scripture from the New Testament. Then Bill and Mooch, two longtime family friends, each made their way up to the microphone to say a few words. Mooch glanced over at us and began, “I am amazed when I think back on how Jim and Jill’s marriage started. We saw a beautiful, blonde, green-eyed Jill from ‘our little Attica’ marrying a big, popular football star, Jim. You might say they both found the right person. It was a fairy tale come true!

  “What I see now is a spiritually beautiful Jill and Jim. What I think we all need to understand is that marriage is not about finding the right person. Marriage is about being the right person. Praise God that, in Christ, Jill and Jim are new creations. They now bear the fruit of righteousness—love… joy… peace… patience… kindness… goodness… faithfulness… gentleness… and self-control—that will allow them to be the right person.

  “I feel that what these two have now is far better than any ‘fairy tale come true’! I am so thankful to be a part of such a special evening, and I look forward to growing together with them and their family in Christ.”

  My dear friend Mary got up to share after Mooch. Her words were mixed with tears and fell on our hearts.

  When Erin Marie started to share, I could barely control the flood of emotions welling up inside me. Her eloquence and tenderhearted reverence for Jim and me was incredibly moving. Here’s what she said:

  Dear Mom and Dad…

  Mom, my life would not be the same without you. You have taught me that with God all things are possible. Without you, I don’t know what I would do. You have been there for me when I felt like there was never going to be a tomorrow. You were there through the stomachaches and the tears, through the bad dreams and the mistakes.

  Dad, words cannot express the way I feel about you. I remember writing a report about you for school. I remember going to basketball practice and my basketball games with you and going to football games with you. I remember you telling me to block out and take electrolyte strips that I thought tasted disgusting. Even though I don’t always want to practice, thank you for pushing me to do it. You are the greatest dad. You had many fans cheering you on during your football career. You were their hero. Daddy, you’re always my hero, always and forever.

  Mom and Dad, today as you renew your wedding vows, I believe that you are making a confession of
faith. Today you are standing in front of your friends and family, showing them that you are renewing your wedding vows because you are both now children of the Lord. You are showing your peers that, even now, after all you have been through, God is love and He is in control. And the verse I chose for you today is 1 Corinthians 13:4–8, 13: “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails…. And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.”

  I love you, Mom and Dad.

  There wasn’t a dry eye in the pavilion.

  Love certainly was in the air that evening. More than a love between family and friends. More than a love between a newly committed husband and wife. Love even bigger than that of a mother and father for their treasured, one and only son.

  We were drawn to the gravity of a love greater and deeper than our love, pain, and sorrow. A love more profound. We’d tasted this love in the face of suffering and were now compelled to share it with anyone and everyone. A love that is patient and kind, longsuffering and never failing. A love between a Father and His Son. Love beyond comprehension. Love that conquers all. And though love was exchanged in many ways that evening, it was the love spoken without a word that changed everything.

  Clearly, we didn’t have it all figured out then, and we still don’t. We’re on a marriage journey for life that continues to need constant prayer. But here’s the important thing: we are not the same people anymore. While it didn’t happen overnight, our family was changed and we’re on a totally different program now, following a new playbook for life. And it’s incredible.

  Jim and I have absolutely no desire to go back to that old life filled with selfishness and betrayal. We didn’t come to this place in our journey by chance. We never determined to live for each other rather than ourselves by our own efforts. Our lives were so saturated in sin and self-indulgence that only a divine work of God could have rescued us. And it did. God made us desperate for Him—and in that desire for Him, He gave us our marriage back, better than it ever was, stronger than it ever could have been. If not for love, I’m certain Jim and I would’ve divorced. Because of love, we’ll never be the same.

  In Jim’s Own Words

  I have to admit, the idea of renewing our vows was Jill’s. I always thought people did this when they were in their fifties or sixties. After talking it through, however, it made sense for us to go before God and renew our marriage commitment again. At our first wedding, neither of us really understood the magnitude of what it meant to be committed. I know I didn’t. Everything was so different then. We were both different. And then everything changed when Hunter got sick. Our love for him and our two girls kept us together until we both realized our need for God.

  Our renewal was about more than just our vows. It was the coming together of our hearts. What was broken in the past had been mended, and we wanted to express to everyone and to each other how much that meant and the seriousness of it.

  Marriage is hard. It is. Jill and I still need help, but now we have Christ. I may not be as outwardly expressive about my faith as Jill is, but I know who saved our marriage, our family, and our future.

  To think that in eight and a half years, God had been working His plan through the life of a helpless little boy who never spoke a single word, but nonetheless completely altered a family’s life for eternity is, well… indescribable.

  Chapter 20

  The Time in Between

  One of my favorite Bible passages is Ecclesiastes 3:1–8. It begins, “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot”… and so on. You may have read or heard these verses before and noticed that the author of Ecclesiastes compared contrasting experiences—experiences that have a period of time in between them. The time between birth and death. The time between our weeping and our laughter. The time between searching and giving up, keeping and throwing away, war and peace… and between mourning and dancing.

  After more than four years of living without Hunter, it hasn’t gotten any easier. So far, my time in between—my time between mourning and dancing—has been characterized by an agonizingly slow process of grieving. After Hunter’s death I heard people say, “The first year is the hardest.” I disagree. Every day without Hunter has been hard—every day. I wish I could run away from the expectations of grief and sorrow. I’ve been told, “It will get better.” Maybe it will, but I can’t say that because I haven’t experienced the “better” yet. My arms still ache to hold my boy.

  Everything has changed.

  Everything is different.

  And yet Christ’s sustaining love remains the same.

  People say, “As time goes by, you will heal.” Why do people set a timetable for grief? If time heals, that would mean that as time goes by, the pain eventually goes away.

  The pain doesn’t go away.

  It doesn’t.

  I live with it every day.

  But I still live. I still have joy. I still find pleasure in a cup of coffee in the morning and a night out at the movies. I smile and laugh with my daughters and snuggle with my husband. But the pain is still there.

  And it always will be.

  Should I expect it to go away? Pain is an unlikely companion. It continues to remind me that I’m still alive. I’m still a wife and mother of three precious children. Oddly, my sorrow helps keep me focused on what really matters. It keeps me humble and grounded. It continues to remind me that I’m a stranger in a strange land—I’m not home yet!

  I’ve often wondered what life would be like without heartbreak. What if I woke up tomorrow morning and everything was better? What would it be like? It’s almost impossible to comprehend, but I think life void of heartbreak is self-centered and loveless. Love is what drives my sorrow. If I hadn’t loved Hunter so much, I wouldn’t ache with longing right now. If I didn’t love him so much, the anguish of his absence would’ve dissipated by now. If God didn’t love me so much, maybe He would’ve never blessed me with a sick son.

  Time doesn’t heal; it just goes by. God heals. And He chose not to heal Hunter this side of eternity. I don’t understand why. But I am convinced that He knew what was and still is best for Hunter, Jim, the girls, and me.

  Maybe we needed to be healed more than Hunter did. What if Hunter’s disease wasn’t a tragedy but a triumph somehow? What we perceived as evil (surely, disease is evil), God used for good.

  Could it be that in my brokenness I was healed? What if the healing I was so desperately searching for could only be found at the end of this road of brokenness and despair—at the end of myself? I don’t know. But as I continue to live and breathe and grieve, I ponder these things in my heart. What’s a grieving mommy to do? Some well-meaning people have said to me: “God will never give you more than you can handle.” Well, missing Hunter is way more than I can handle—way more. At times, just getting out of bed has been more than I could handle.

  God knew I couldn’t handle watching my son slowly die. I was steeped in anguish, and everything in me apart from my mother’s heart wanted to run away and never come back. God knew I would feel helpless and hopeless living without my only son. Maybe that’s why He sent His Son—because He knew I couldn’t handle it. If I could, I wouldn’t need Jesus.

  Here’s another cliché I’ve heard from time to time: “He’s in a better place.” Of course he’s in a better place: he’s in heaven. But I’m not there yet. I’m still here. All of Hunter’s things are still here. But he’s not. He’s gone and it seems like forever since I touched his precious face. Heaven seems so far away. Hunter seems so far away. As each day goes by, I have to remind myself that every day is one day closer to heaven, to Hunter, to home, to Je
sus.

  There’s no twelve-step program or secret healing remedy for mourning. It’s just not that easy, nor should it be. Grief spits in the face of routine and self-sufficiency. It makes a mockery of comfort and complacency and pierces your heart when you least expect it. At first it seems like a journey with a final destination, but then sometimes you find yourself back where you started, experiencing the loss again and again.

  Grief is so unlike anything—almost as if it is unnatural and just doesn’t belong. And it’s such a lonely place. Strangers are not welcome there, and friends usually don’t stay very long.

  Inevitably we all experience grief, and we all grieve differently. And it’s okay. It has been a hard lesson, but eventually I realized that Jim and I would always deal with the loss of our son very differently. More than four years after Hunter’s death, we are just now finally beginning to talk to each other about our grief.

  We’ve been taking walks together in our neighborhood lately. I tease Jim that he’s getting old and can’t really keep up with me anymore, so I have to walk circles around him in order to get any sort of exercise. He insists that his labored stride is due to all those hits he endured while being the toughest quarterback in the NFL. But it’s okay that he can’t keep up because we talk during our walks, and that is huge. Honestly, I’ll drag him around our neighborhood in a little red wagon if I have to. Whatever it takes to continue having the conversations we’ve been having lately, I’ll do it.

  For the first time in our marriage, we are talking about things never discussed before—out-of-comfort-zone topics, failures, and wounds of the past. You name it, we are bringing it up.

  On one particular day in late summer 2009, Jim and I were walking and discussing possible subtitle ideas for this book.

  “Let’s just think of words, simple words that describe Hunter and our story,” I suggested.

  “Courage and bravery… how one child changed the world,” Jim offered.