I could feel the tension building inside of me. You know the feeling. Anxious excitement. The kind you'd get as a kid while standing in line for the roller coaster. The first day of school kind.
The day was fast approaching when my son was to be born. My second son, and third child. This baby, this child that came from grief. This gift, an idea spawned from Dad's passing.
Here we were, arriving at the same hospital that held such haunting memories from just a year prior. All I could see as we pulled up (to a different entrance, thankfully) was Dad in his hospital bed while we circled around his lifeless body singing his favorite hymns while holding his and each other's hands, and then finally, him passing away. How was I going to manage this?
The next ten hours passed by slowly. While Carolyn dosed, I read the paper, watched some TV, and prayed that I'd be able to handle all that was to come. I prayed for courage, and began to feel His strength. And in a strange sense I could feel Dad's presence in that room, his bright smile telling me it would be OK.
And then there he was, all pink and loud and beautiful. My son, Colton Lee Clausen, named after his grandfather. It was then that the floodgates burst. While the myriad of nurses attended to him (and Carolyn) I sobbed at the irony of it all. From death to life, in an instant. From winter to spring. From black and white to color. It was so bright in that room.
Someday I'll be able to tell Colton all about his grandfather. About his tender heart and loving way. And I'll be able to share with him that his birth carried with it a deep and relevant meaning unlike any other. When I look in Colton's eyes I'm sure I see Dad, and it's been the soothing balm to my grief filled soul. What a miracle to see the circle of life.
In the days that followed, I became curious about the time of day that Colton was born, 5:05 p.m. It seemed familiar. And so I did a little digging.
Dad passed away at 5:03 p.m.
