A Rainbow Heart: Our Journey with James

By Lara Edmonds

This story radiates hope.

It inspires us to encounter God in our darkest hour.

When the Holy Spirit gave the Edmonds their ‘Rainbow Promise,’ they were high up on the eleventh floor of a hospital tower with their critically ill baby, James. In faith, they embraced it fully. However, they had no idea that God would unravel His colorful supernatural sign, not only across the sky, but across generational timelines and even realms where angels moved. Ultimately, this radiant promise would lead them to heaven’s gate.

Lara and Andrew Edmonds have had the privilege of sharing their journey with a number of churches, schools, and ladies’ groups over the years, and it has touched the hearts of many people…

“Your testimony about your journey with little Baby James said what a hundred sermons could not say. I know that there wasn’t a dry eye in the church. From all of us, who sat in your presence with weeping hearts that night, I thank you for your courage and for the wonderful witness to the love of God, as revealed in His ‘rainbow’ fingerprints.”
(Rev Ian Mc Guigan – All Saints United Church, Pietermaritzburg, 2004).

Lessons on letting go.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Aug 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781664270299

Lara Edmonds

Lara Edmonds is a teacher, writer, entrepreneur and passionate advocate for emotional and spiritual healing after abuse and loss. She has had the privilege of addressing a number of women’s groups, church groups and school groups on these important topics. Lara has conceptualized and administered a number of media campaigns for causes that are close to her heart. The mother of two children in addition to James, she and her husband, Andrew, live in KwaZulu-Natal South Africa.

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Copyright © 2022 Lara Edmonds.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are

models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Cover and interior image credit: Kerry Pentz.

Scripture quotations marked KJV are taken from the King James Version.

Scripture quotations marked NKJV are taken from the New King James Version®.

Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-6642-7030-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-7031-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-6642-7029-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022911557

WestBow Press rev. date: 8/16/2022

Contents

Prologue

Old Sodden Boxes

To Write a Dream

A Picture Tells a Thousand Words

No Room in the Inn

Oh, Mother!

The Cute Factor

Moments in Time

Little Boy Blue

A Very Special Boy

Darkness

The Terrible Truth

Finally, a Diagnosis

Dawn

Preparing to Leave

Our Darkest Hour

No Doctor?

Jo’burg Hospital

Very Little Hope

Midnight in Johannesburg Hospital

The Decision

The Cause

A Little Visitor

Special Friends

A Roller Coaster

A Sign in the Sky

Back Down to Earth and Up Again

Birthday Boy

Chasing God’s Rainbow

Searching for a Match

A Rainbow in the Post

Heavenly Co-ordination

Battle of the Doctors

He Holds the Detail in His Hands...

The Perfect Time

At Long Last

A Floating Aquarium

Ticking Clock

Time to Transplant

Final Count Down

Frozen in Time

Great Joy

A Mystery...

A Ladder in the Dark

Devastating News

You can pull a rainbow out of the box!

A Fearful Call

Second Time Around!

Still Waiting

Completely Empty

The Meaning of True Love

A Rainbow Ladder to Heaven

St James

Rainbows Truly Have No End...

The Heart of the Matter

I Count My Blessings Twice

Epilogue

In memory of our baby,

James Paxton Edmonds.

Dedicated To

Andrew, Isabella, Samuel, the doctors, and nurses who treated James.

It is also dedicated to family, friends, our community,

and all those who journeyed with us.

Special Thanks

I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to all the people who supported me

on my writing journey - you know who you are! I must, however, make

particular mention of the following folk whose expertise I found invaluable:

Kerry Pentz, Sharon Reece, Amanda Risi, and Clive Thompson.

Flower.jpg

The Hope Flower

Imagine you found an envelope,

Just lying on the ground?

You picked it up and read the label.

Plant me! it said in scribbled hand.

Nurture me, and I will give you Hope!

So you planted the single seed of Hope,

And you watched it sprout and grow,

You nurtured it and waited patiently for its bud to form.

Sure enough, before your eyes

A mysterious flower unfurled.

For days, you observed its mesmerising color, shape, and grace.

And then, rather sadly,

You watched it fade.

So, you pulled the crumpled, dried out flower off the stem

In an attempt to save the rest of the plant!

But at that moment

You witnessed the true miracle of that flower,

For within your grasp,

Lay the seeds of HOPE

And fields and fields of flowers.

by Lara Edmonds

Prologue

Do you believe in miracles? I have come to understand that amazing things can happen to ordinary folk if one is open to them. I hope our story inspires you to see the miracles in your own life.

As a pastor’s daughter, the Bible caught my imagination like no other storybook ever did. The Garden of Eden, for starters, was a fascinating subtropical garden, with creatures peering from behind every conceivable species of plant - Adam and Eve were the only wild and naked ones. As a ‘goody-goody,’ I always won the ‘Best Attendance Certificate’ at the Good News Club, as well as the Sunday School Bible Quiz. While this may have irked some of my friends who probably felt that I had an unfair advantage as the club leader’s daughter, it certainly didn’t bother me, as I greedily enjoyed my prize - the inevitable slab of Nestlé chocolate.

Church was a natural way of life for our family, and it was not confined to Sundays. We beetled off in the back of my parents’ VW station wagon on week-nights to attend the Bible Studies held in the neighboring farm districts. Here, snuggled up in my sleeping bag, I remember listening attentively to the lesson when I was supposed to be fast asleep.

My childhood was always steeped in sermons and flavored by the visits of guest speakers, who offered us the opportunity to witness intense discussions and debates. It was also filled with noisy choir songs and fun-filled Christmas plays. It is no wonder then that my idea of miracles was a vivid one - not unlike the bright illustrations in my collection of ‘Children’s Bible Stories’ or the tales shared by foreign missionaries over tea.

However, as part of my teaching degree, when I took a Biblical Studies course, I found that others had a more subtle interpretation of these Old Testament miracles that had been so colorfully woven into my childhood. With unqualified horror, I became more and more aware of this, as each Bible miracle was shredded. Our class was told, for example, that it had been scientifically proven that winds from the West could dry up the Red Sea, that rock-falls periodically dam up the Jordan River, and that manna is a seed-pod that can still be found in the desert. These revelations hit us like an earthquake, as our understanding of the biblical heroes like Moses, with his grey beard streaming and his outstretched staff, crumbled in each lecture.

These were mighty miracles – don’t make them sound like accidents! was our cry.

Our professors must have watched with gentle amusement as the very foundations of our faith appeared to be shaken. They surely knew that, after this initial academic quake, the class would tremulously grow to accept that miracles did, in fact, still exist – and that they were just as great - but that they were miracles of timing. Thus, with a touch of sadness, a new perspective replaced the powerful childhood images of these biblical characters and miracles. Indeed a very practical God uses what already exists in His creation to perform His miracles. Oral tradition, which was not dependent on scientific analysis, created these epic tales of God’s mighty miracles. This, especially, makes sense to me now - almost.

What happened to my family may read like an old-fashioned biblical miracle – it is just that God decided to modernize it and project it into a new-world setting.

You see, our faith was galvanized into action when our firstborn son, James, was diagnosed with a very rare form of leukemia at just eleven months. We learned that he only had a 20% chance of survival and that the only known cure was a bone marrow transplant from an unrelated donor. Within days of his diagnosis, we would be plucked out of our home and our safe, traditional Bible Study group and catapulted into a spiritual storm.

In our quest for healing, we gave God the tablet of our hearts, and in faith, we allowed Him to craft each chapter. We then watched in awe as the same omnipotent and omniscient God in the storybooks of my childhood wove a colorful tale of hope and grace through our lives. God’s rainbow became a powerful signpost that guided us through unimaginable difficulties, and His promises comforted us in times of near despair. The fact that we still perceive our little son’s passing as a beautiful destiny bears testimony to the miracle that God performed in our lives. There are no words to describe our gratitude and the humility we now experience; they too are a gift that we embrace, and they underscore our conviction to share our journey with you. We now invite you to chase God’s rainbow with our family.

CHAPTER ONE

Old Sodden Boxes

An old decoupage hatbox that had lost its lid, together with two large boxes filled with papers, sat on my spare-room beds. My husband, Andrew, had rescued them from our flooded outside office. A bag filled with pine needles had blocked the drain and, after weeks of unrelenting rain, the water had seeped under the door until my tiny office lay a foot deep in water. It was fortunate that we noticed this because, since our move to the new house, I had probably only ventured into the office four or five times. To an outside observer, it consisted of nothing more than a built-in desk and a cupboard that was stacked with old files, boxes of tatty stationery, an old PC, two chairs, and a dilapidated metal filing cabinet. However, in that room and in those boxes lay the contents of my heart. That is why, when I opened the door and saw some files and boxes on the floor, soaked with the rainwater, all I could do was to move the offending bag of pine needles out of the way and close the door again. I could not face that task alone.

I told Andrew about the flooded room, but it continued to rain for another three days, so by the time the sun came out over the weekend, the room smelled like a slimy pond.

Don’t stress, my love, I’ll clean it up, Andrew said.

No doubt he could read the anxiety in my eyes. I was terrified that the special mementos, which I had kept as a record of our little son’s life, had been ruined. And so, with a heavy heart, I left him with the mess. I was so grateful for his kindness. Perhaps a less patient spouse would have been annoyed and accused me of holding onto sentimental piles of rubbish.

Andrew stacked all the furniture and sodden boxes on the sunny grass while I pottered in the garden with our little toddler, Isabella,

You had better come and see if you can salvage some of this stuff, he called when he had mopped up all the water. It looks as if it’s the Christmas decorations and some old teaching files.

Hmmm. I sighed, looking at the tangle of golden baubles and silver tinsel.

Why are these in here? I asked, and Andrew simply shrugged.

The truth is that we had not celebrated Christmas in our own home for several years, so I had forgotten all about this box of decorations. The excitement and joy that had driven me to buy a stack of beautiful balls, birds, cones, and other ornaments to decorate our first Christmas tree had all but disappeared.

rainbow.jpg

Our last Christmas Eve with James was in the isolation ward of the bone marrow unit (BMU) in Cape Town. At eleven months, he had been diagnosed with a rare and chronic leukemia called juvenile myelomonocytic leukemia (JMML). After six months of praying and searching the international bone marrow registries for a bone marrow match, we had found our way to the Constantiaberg Medi-Clinic, where James was undergoing his bone marrow transplants.

We had made a special effort to decorate our hospital room with all the beautiful tokens that people had sent us: rainbow pictures, from a nursery school back home in Pietermaritzburg, smiled down from the walls, and the Christmas stocking that Pat, James’ transplant nurse, had given him hung on his drip stand, alongside the chemotherapy and blood products that dripped into his little body.

Friends and family who knew that we would be spending Christmas in the hospital had also made a special effort to cheer us up -they succeeded. The silver luminescent stars that our friend Beverly had given us were stuck on the window, and they, just like our supportive community, reflected rainbow lights of hope into the bedroom. I remember the staff remarking on what an incredible, peaceful spirit there was in the room, and I believe that all the prayers held us in a mysterious, serene suspension during that time.

SMS Date: 12-23-2003 Time: 21:04

My mum and dad said I should tell u

I look like a bald elf

I know I will get new eyelashes soon

& then I can really wink @

All my new girlfriends/nurses

Happy Christmas Luv James

heart.jpg

"I suppose it is understandable that I have not made an effort to unpack the decorations, I thought to myself. Christmas has held just too many sad memories."

I think everyone believed that the gift of our little daughter, Isabella, who was born eighteen months after James passed, would shift the deep sadness that I felt. But, instead, it was deepened by postpartum depression.

Ballie, Ballie, Isabella said, laughing as she threw a golden bauble into the air. Andrew and I both smiled as she wobbled after the ball that was disappearing down the pathway.

I’m sure we can save some of this stuff, I said, taking the box of damp Christmas decorations and heading back into the house.

Interestingly, eighteen months after Isabella’s birth, it was the move to our new house, an old cottage with wooden floors and lead-light windows, which helped lift the depression. Simple things like sitting on the beautiful covered veranda, watching Isabella play in the garden, or taking a dip with the whole family in the enormous swimming pool made me smile again. I was very aware that one could become bound by grief, as it had a way of slowly and silently weaving around one. However, in the new house, I felt a stirring in my spirit - the possibility that I could escape and - like a creature that had been given a second chance - unfurl my wings. Perhaps this new hope gave me the courage to enter the office and look for the other boxes that had held my heart captive for so long.

It turned out that all the mementos of our journey with James were safe. I had forgotten that I had put them in the dilapidated old filing cabinet that Andrew had bought at a local auction. I had cursed this metal cabinet when he first brought it home, but was grateful that it had stood as a bulwark in the flooded room. I still remember Andrew triumphantly driving up the driveway, with the filing cabinet tied to the roof rack of his car.

rainbow.jpg

I finally got one, he declared. Hardly cost me anything. So now you can file all those papers nicely. Look, it even has a whole lot of folders inside.

I was exasperated and furious - the cabinet symbolized a rather ridiculous solution to the massive paper trail of medical bills that we had to reconcile. After so many months in the hospital, it was very stressful dealing with the bills that totaled over a million rand, and I was getting myself into a complete state about it. Yet, to Andrew, who had never been involved in the administrative side of things, the practical solution to all our problems lay quite simply in the rusty depths of this filing cabinet. The weeks of stress finally bubbled over.

I don’t want this monstrosity! Take it back! I screamed.

I stormed back into the house, where I had been working, and Andrew left the cabinet in the driveway and roared back into town, hurt.

When he came back a few hours later, he sought forgiveness with a bunch of roses.

I’m sorry, babe, he said sincerely.

I’m sorry too, I cried, embracing him.

We hardly ever fought, and I had almost immediately regretted my outburst.

The poor guy was just trying to be helpful, I told my friend, Claudia, later.

You’ve just lost your baby, Lara, she counseled. You shouldn’t be dealing with the medical bills.

Of course, she was right. But I felt an extra burden of responsibility because I was the one who signed the checks from the Baby James Fund, which was set up to help us settle outstanding medical bills.

I know, Clauds, we have decided to hand this task over to someone else.

In the end, our broker, together with a bookkeeper, helped us to resolve the issue, and the old cabinet stood empty until we moved.

heart.jpg

It looks like your cabinet saved the day. I smiled as I examined the contents of the metal drawers.

Andrew just chuckled.

Later that afternoon, we moved the old filing cabinet into the main house. I then placed some of its precious cargo on my spare room beds and packed the dry Christmas decorations into a top cupboard.

Perhaps this year, in our new house, and with Isabella nearly two years old, we would be able to celebrate Christmas again, I thought. And perhaps in the New Year, I will be able to work my way through the pile of cards, emails, newspaper articles, and medical documents that were a unique record of our journey with James. However, the real question remained: ‘Was I finally ready to share the story that was hidden in my heart?’

CHAPTER TWO

To Write a Dream

Whenever I entered my spare room, Jamie’s souvenirs waved at me like old, neglected friends.

I wish I were one of those obsessive-compulsive scrap-bookers, I muttered, shutting the door on them.

Have you seen Sally’*s scrapbooking room? Alison asked; she had popped in for a cup of coffee.

I do admire her work, I sighed.

Sally* could turn any sentimental paraphernalia into an exquisite album.

I know, Alison smiled, But it helps that she’s got all those stamps, fancy paper, and other accessories.

She has spent a small fortune on scrapbooking stuff! I laughed.

Perhaps Alison dropped a hint because I received a call from Sally* a couple of days later.

Why don’t you come for a cup of tea, Lara, she suggested, I can show you how to scrapbook all your photos.

When Isabella and I arrived at Sally’s* house, we were greeted by a pile of brightly colored albums sitting on her coffee table.

This is impressive! I said, hugging my friend.

Our little girls toddled off to play, and I settled into the couch to look at the albums while Sally put the kettle on. As I flipped through my friend’s scrapbooks, her little girls smiled back up at me from the glossy pages - their photographs were carefully framed and trimmed with pink buttons, bows, and cute sayings.

Wow, Sally*, I remarked, taking the cup of tea she handed to me, these are gorgeous!"

Thank you, she smiled, sipping her tea. Just think of all the wonderful things you could do with rainbows.

I know, Sal, but where would I start? I mused, remembering the pile of papers that sat in my spare room and thinking, "I don’t have a picture-perfect life!"

Why, she laughed, you start at the beginning.

I suppose the dream for our family started when we bought our first house.

rainbow.jpg

What price do they want? I asked the agent when we walked up the stairs into the house.

They are quite negotiable, he said, You see, there’s been a tragedy in the family.

Oh shame, what happened? I asked, looking at the framed family portraits, in which two shy schoolgirls smiled down from the family gallery on the wall.

They lost their eledest daughter very suddenly, the agent continued, also glancing at the portraits. I think they want to start a new chapter -they only bought eighteen months ago.

The house needs a good paint, but have you seen the garden? he asked, looking out through the large windows. She spent a lot of time on it. Doesn’t it have a wonderful ‘American feel’ about it? You know, they have those spacious open gardens.

The rolling, green lawn was not interrupted by a fence and so it did look like one of those classic American suburban gardens, which I had only ever seen on TV and in magazine spreads. However, it was out of our league financially – or so we thought.

Three weeks later, we were to change our minds and return to the house. And both sets of parents accompanied us to give the place a once over. This time, I appreciated the bedrooms, which were particularly large and had arched wooden windows that gave one a view of the sprawling, green lawn. One of these bedrooms was strangely empty, except for an old knitting machine that occupied the one corner.

This room must have belonged to the daughter who died, I whispered to my mother.

Well, what do you think? I asked once the tour of the property was over.

It certainly is very solid, said Jack, Andrew’s father, who had built their double-storied home on the farm.

Yes, and I like the arches and the balconies; they soften the elevation, my father added from his architectural background.

The garden is quite large. Are you going to cope? asked Andrew’s Mother, who was an avid gardener.

It will make a stunning family home, my mother said, and everyone agreed with her.

With that, we signed the sales agreement that same day.

Later, while walking through the neighborhood, Andrew told me that he had taught the young girl who had died in the house.

Her name was Mary-Lou, he said. She was in my standard-seven class.

What happened? I asked, looking up the long driveway.

She injured herself while playing netball. They knew something was wrong, but only later, after the autopsy, did it all make sense – she’d had an undiagnosed form of leukemia, he explained.

They had no idea?

None, he shook his head sadly.

I remember she looked very pale in those photographs.

With this conversation in mind, I asked my father, a minister, to pray a blessing over the house when we moved in.

We bumped into the previous owners, Andrew and Rosemarie Hart, at our local shopping mall. They were renting a duplex nearby, and she mentioned that selling the house had, indeed, helped them start a new chapter in their lives. I remember that our conversation also centered on gardening, and Rosemarie gave us tips on how to take care of the many roses in the garden.

Mysteriously, one particular rose that Rosemarie had planted became deeply symbolic. And, although I did not know its name or significance back then, I tenderly dead-headed it, fed it, and sprayed it against disease.

heart.jpg

Yes, I could begin with what had been our dream house, I pondered after my visit with Sally*, but it was also a shattered dream.

We tried to make it work after James - the house, that is. We had even kept James’s beautiful nursery for Isabella, but only her clothes hung in the cupboard as Isabella slept in our room. That way, I could wake up at night and feel her warm body next to mine and be reassured by her sweet breath on my cheek.

There really was no excuse for me not to compile our journey by using scrap-booking, which was the new trend. I thought to myself.

I had even been given a generous voucher for a local scrapbooking shop. However, the voucher (along with all my good intentions) had been sitting in the top drawer of that old filing cabinet for years. Sally* would have been horrified - I had just let it expire.

So, while I would have loved to have a beautiful scrapbook of memories to show my family and friends, I couldn’t seem to get it done. I was overwhelmed by the vast number of photos, cards, and newspaper clippings that I had collected at that time. It would, in the end, take fifteen years of working through my grief to finish my ‘scrapbook,’ and it would not be an album of photos, but rather this - my first book - which would hold my heart and memories of that sad, but remarkable time. Yes, as an ex-English teacher, writing was more my style.

CHAPTER THREE

A Picture Tells a

Thousand Words

I sat on the bed, surrounded by cards, photos, and medical records that I intended to file in neatly labeled folders. Andrew was running some errands in town, and Isabella played in the garden with her nanny, Hlengiwe. I picked up a pack of photographs - we seemed to have so many – and flipped through them.

I can understand why people pack all the photographs away when they have lost a loved one, I thought, it’s just too difficult to look at them.

I was quite proud that we had not done this - we had framed photographs of James placed next to Isabella on our mantle and walls. We would always have them on display, but I had grown accustomed to them because I saw them every day. It’s the hidden photos that seared my heart. Andrew never looked at the photo albums unless I showed them to him as he believed they opened up old wounds. He once shared this with the grief counselor.

Lara looks at the photo album and gets upset, he said, pointing to the album that I had brought to show her.

Well, I don’t know what grieving is if I’m not allowed to look at the photographs and cry, I said defensively.

You can look at them, the counselor said, but you also need to protect yourself. These wounds are still very raw.

We only visited our grief counselor briefly – she was a kind and sensitive person, but it had not felt right, sharing our hearts with a stranger. I was invited to grief-sharing groups, but I couldn’t face comparing stories with other moms who had lost their children.

How can I bear to go to that when my friends are sipping tea and watching their kids play at our mom’s group, I told Andrew sadly.

I know, my love, he said, trying to console me.

So instead, I found solace with one particular friend and colleague who understood the trauma we had experienced. I also discovered that journaling was an effective way of preserving memories and processing one’s emotions.

And as I wrote, remembered, and looked at the photos taken of James before his diagnosis, I realized that I could examine them through ‘different eyes.’

It is as if ‘time’ itself has given me a certain degree of objectivity about the events that transpired back then. I mused.

Yes, time and time again, I caught myself looking at the photos more critically as I tried to find the slightest sign that something had been wrong. However, most of the pictures reflected such happy moments: James, a newborn, swaddled in a receiving blanket, a beautiful baby smiling at my breast, and an eight-month-old sitting on our bed and grinning, proudly showing off his four little front teeth. Nothing appeared to be abnormal - even my pregnancy had been so easy.

rainbow.jpg

During my first trimester, Andrew discovered that he could get on with his holiday projects at his own pace