It’S so Warm on Your Lap, Jesus

By Marilyn Kuehl

The moment her son, Andrew, arrived into the world with a great burst of energy, Marilyn Kuehl knew that he would be different than the rest of her children. As he grew into an adventurous toddler, Marilyn reveled in his innocence, not knowing that a horrific tragedy would soon strike her family and change them all forever.

On a hot July day, two-year-old Andrew walked into a lake with his sandals on and drowned. In her memoirwritten thirty years agoMarilyn shares the heartbreaking story of her journey through her grief as she tried to come to grips with her unimaginable loss, address her fears and agony, and find a new normal in her life. As she offers a candid glimpse into the depths of her familys sorrow, Marilyn illustrates how faith helped all of them cope with a myriad of emotions and how she came to accept that Andrews short life had not been lived in vain, but with great purpose.

Its So Warm on Your Lap, Jesus tells the story of a mothers pain after the loss of her child with the hope that her words may comfort, sustain, and allow the grieving to know that with Gods help, they are never alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inspiring Voices
• Release date: Nov 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781462407712

Marilyn Kuehl

Marilyn Kuehl wrote It’s So Warm on Your Lap, Jesus thirty years ago when her pain was deep, her emotions raw, and her future unimaginable after her two-year-old son, Andrew, drowned. She continues to receive emotional support from her husband, Bill; her four surviving sons; and their families. She currently lives in Minnesota.

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Copyright © 2013 Marilyn Kuehl.

Cover Image by Dan Kuehl

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ISBN: 978-1-4624-0772-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4624-0771-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013918796

Inspiring Voices rev. date: 11/06/2013

Contents

Preface

Rushing through life

The Hair of an Angel

And a Little Child Shall Lead Them

The Journey of Grief Begins

The Long Dark Night of Grief

Anger Thrusts its Ugly Head

At Least You Have Each Other

Slaying the Grief Giant

A Grain of Mustard Seed

When the Holy Spirit Comes Upon You

The Bite of Bitterness

Ten Buckets of Tears

Letting Go and Letting God

Preface

Following the untimely and tragic death of our young son, Andrew, I searched hungrily for books that would help me survive my great loss and sorrow. Many of the writings that I found fell short of answering my need for simple assurance that what I felt in my heart was normal and that I would be a survivor. I have poured out the hurts of my being, risking the exposure of the raw flesh of my very soul in an attempt to help others, like myself, to grow and once again walk in the sunshine of His path.

This book is written on behalf of Andrew. It is for you-the grieving, the broken-hearted, the hurting. May its words comfort you and allow you to grow.

Rushing through life

I thought perhaps it was to be the last night of sleeping with this great, awkward shape moving from side to side within me. As I lay still in the darkness, I dreamed of this new child, this gift from God. My body and mind were filled with the exhilaration of the event to come, and finally, I slept.

As I showered the next morning, I thought, reluctantly, that soon I would no longer experience this magical, rhythmic feeling within me as this was to be our little bonus baby. My mind caught up each movement, as a fisherman with his net, securing them tightly into my subconscious, safely locking them away so that I might always have the memory of this phenomenon within my heart.

I began my house chores like any other day, straightening the daily family clutter, returning things to children’s bedrooms as I waddled heavily through the house. I again took inventory of the nursery, reassuring myself that everything was, indeed, ready and waiting for our new arrival.

All of our other babies had gone past their due dates, but my doctor was certain that this one, because of his seemingly large size, would perhaps arrive earlier than his calculated due date. He had scheduled an ultrasound test to affirm his certainty and had then predicted the arrival on May 12, the confirmation date of our oldest son, Bill. That day had arrived, sunny and beautiful, filled with the promise of a special day in the life of our son. Our house fairly overflowed with the love of family togetherness. Because Bill was the oldest grandson and cousin, this would be the first confirmation we were experiencing as a family. I had made one last large dress for the occasion and was relieved when I woke and dressed, because I knew the prediction of the baby’s arrival date had been wrong. It was nice to be able to devote this day totally to our son. It was a proud time and I drank in the richness of the moment, quietly thanking God for allowing Bill to bask in the attention of the day. This day truly belonged to him.

That month had passed and now we had arrived at the original calculated due date, June 10. Even as I began the day like any other day, in the very distance of my mind’s eye I knew that day would not be an ordinary day.

In the early afternoon, my body began sending out the birth signals and I called my husband, Bill. By late afternoon, contractions had distinctly made their presence known. I began to note their regularity and duration.

My husband arrived home with a small spruce tree and the urgency about him told me he needed to plant it immediately. At the time, I thought this was his way of coping with the nervousness of the hour.

I sat awkwardly on the back end of the station wagon waiting, a little impatiently, watching as he sank the roots deep into the ground, packing the soil firmly around the tender, young stalk. It looked to be a strong little tree and I sensed it would be able to withstand the sharp winds at the corner of the house.

My husband seemed preoccupied with his thoughts, perhaps dwelling on the uncertainties of the hours that stretched before us. Never looking forward to the hospital experience itself, never liking to even apply band-aids to skinned knees, he did seem anxious for our baby to be born.

We arrived at the hospital in the late evening hours and I was efficiently settled into the labor room with its stark white walls and over-sized clock, its face staring out into the dimness of the night. My husband settled into the one uncomfortable chair in the room. He didn’t complain, being concerned only for my comfort. This usually impatient man was gentle, rubbing my back and speaking quietly with me about nothing, passing time and keeping my mind diverted from the now demanding signals my body was sending. Dr. Eisenbeis arrived at four a.m. quietly but in command of the hour. Now I felt totally secure knowing that in a brief time, this thundering churning within would end and I would hold a warm, soft little baby in my arms.

Our child arrived with a great burst of energy, all ten pounds of