Things started out alright, but I kept expectations low. After all, it was Nov. 20th, the day our son Vincent died 7 years ago. [You may have heard about him, but it’s fine if you haven’t.] Unlike previous years, I wasn’t particularly committed to writing an annual grief journal blog post. I mean, if I wrote about him today, great… but no pressure to produce. Besides, I already had plenty keeping me busy.

Kids are off school for Thanksgiving “break.” A break for who, I ask? Washing machine still broken. Spent an hour bailing out dirty water to keep the smell at bay. Repair people not returning calls. Kids fighting with each other, but I bribed them to behave with the usual incentives: leftover Halloween candy and tightly adjudicated screen time. Returned some emails but not as many as I would’ve liked. Ho hum. Nothing earth-shaking, at least not yet.

How does one celebrate a loved one’s birth after their death? Our family has had some practice, but only enough to know that grief is reliably unpredictable.

In the musical Hamilton, the song “It’s Quiet Uptown” depicts protagonist Alexander and his wife Eliza grappling with their son’s death:

“There are moments that the words don’t reach. There is suffering too terrible to name.

You hold your child as tight as you can, and push away the unimaginable.”

Holding Vincent didn’t protect him from cancer. We pushed away the unimaginable, but it pushed straight back until our fears became reality.

A couple years ago, I likened my grief to a shipwreck sinking deeper into the ocean with time. In the initial months after Vincent’s death, it didn’t take more than a snorkel to find, but the process now requires a deep sea dive. This sinking shipwreck image still resonates with me because it captures the notion that healthy grief requires effort.

For instance, when I woke up this morning, my brain felt like crying, but the tears wouldn’t come. The shipwreck had sunk beyond reach. I wanted to go there, but didn’t know the way. My pain was buried, inaccessible to numb fingers groping in cold water. I knew it was there, but couldn’t find it.

Where did my shipwreck go? How far would I have to swim to touch the pain? Could I hold my breath long enough for a deep dive?

Our losses don’t float near the surface forever. They tend to sink out of view as time moves forward. Consequently, one cannot grieve well without venturing into choppy waters, plunging deep enough to see what’s become of the wreckage since we last touched it.

Not only does the shape of grief change over time, it also becomes increasingly inconvenient. Once your bereavement leave is over, there is no place for it in the American workweek, where public expressions of sorrow are seen as something private to keep covered. Who would allow grief a place at the table? Surely not a society that expects preemptive apologies for the disruption tears might bring. Surely not a culture where weeping is considered “breaking down” from the norm.

Remembering our dead carries a cost, but I will not be silent about my child. I will not live as if he never lived. I will continue to speak of him, grieve him, and celebrate the gift that he was. When social convention tempts me to sugarcoat this loss, I will resist. When pressured to omit Vincent from the narrative, I shall defiantly refuse.

Thank heaven for the internet–one of the few ‘public’ spaces where it is (relatively) safe to express our losses truthfully. Finally, a place where unexpected waves of emotion can be, well, expected.

These 78 months since Vincent died have taught me to interpret grief waves as invitations to go deeper (with my gear on) rather than keep out of the water altogether.  It’s not a matter if the waves will hit, but how to respond when they do.

It’s time to swim toward the shipwreck.

This year, my appreciation has grown for what I’m calling “grief-aids,” that is, resources that aid me in grieving. To be clear, grief-aids aren’t like band-aids that hide our wounds from view. Quite the opposite, grief-aids are prompts (books, films, songs, activities) that help express more of my grief-shaped emotions, not less of them. Since avoiding the work of grief comes so naturally for me, the task of cooperating with it requires some “aid.” This infrequent blog is an example of my avoidance!

American society saturates us with band-aids to suppress the grieving process. Anyone who so much as sniffles mid-sentence feels pressure to apologize for deviating from the list of accepted emotions. When it comes to bottling mine, I’m as adept as the next bloke. Churches can be part of the problem too, at least to the extent that they traffic in theology that discourages the public expression of unfiltered sorrow. By contrast, a good grief-aid will cut through the layers of blockage and numbness, helping release overdue tears that need to flow.

Vincent may have lost his battle with liver cancer, but my responsibility to be honest about this loss did not die with him. Grief work seems out of place on a to-do list, yet it’s no less urgent than paying bills or servicing the car. And because it doesn’t happen automatically, I’m learning to intentionally pursue grief the way I might seek an imperfect airport restroom before boarding a 5-hour flight. The pursuit isn’t a joyful one, but it beats the alternative.

Strangely enough, I sometimes treasure the moments when a song, film, or book prompts unexpected tears. These are invitations to grieve. Where I might have resisted such occasions in the past, I now recognize these grief-aids as opportunities to connect with Vincent’s memory. So I receive them—not every time, but more often than before.

Want some examples of grief-aids? Here are a few recent ones that have helped me:

1. The film Arrival (currently in theaters) is marketed as an alien invasion thriller, so I didn’t expect the opening minutes to reveal its protagonist as a grieving parent. A wondrously evocative film by any standard, I found its depiction of grief among the most potent I’ve ever seen. As Amy Adams’ character labors to save the world from destruction, she takes action fully understanding what it means to experience profound loss. This film reminds me that grief isn’t just about sadness or pain, but the full scope of answering God’s call to be ambassadors of reconciliation, justice and peace. Rather than portraying grief as a barrier to meaningful participation in the world, Arrival affirms the power of vulnerability—power impacting everything.

2. Jessica Kelley’s book, Lord Willing? Wrestling with God’s role in my child’s death (Herald Press, 2016) juxtaposes the author’s narrative account of losing her son to brain cancer with a robust critique of theological assumptions frequently held by (some) Christians regarding God’s role in human suffering. She had me in tears before I finished reading the introduction. Having been on the receiving end of numerous offhanded quips about “God’s perfect plan” and “greater glory” intended to explain Vincent’s death, this book is a breath of fresh air, reminding me there’s nothing heroic about trying to shield God (or our view of God) from the reality of suffering. God doesn’t need rescuing, but our theology might. We don’t have to choose between taking suffering seriously and taking God seriously. Isn’t that what healthy grieving is all about?

3. Earlier this year, I was introduced to the music of Tim Be Told when they performed at an event sponsored by Fuller Seminary’s Asian American Center. After the concert, I bought a CD, couldn’t stop listening to it, then proceeded to purchase all their other albums and made an old-school “mixed” CD of my favorite TBT songs to play in the car. So why do I like them so much? Perhaps it’s because I’ve been starved for songs that speak to the complex experience of being an Asian American Christian, but it’s more than that. TBT is my grief soundtrack. As their twitter bio states, they make “sad songs disguised in happy melodies.” Songs like Lament express disappointment with God directly, but grief-tinged themes loom more subtly in Wasted, One Chance, and Mighty Sound, which asks, “Can a short life still make a mighty sound? Can a broken world still make a mighty sound?”

I think Vincent would say yes.

“Your son has a tumor. Stage four.”

We had just celebrated Vincent’s first birthday. He was almost walking, learning his first words.

Making sense of the treatment schedule was like deciphering a grid containing every bus route in the city. Our movements were now choreographed by rows and columns of fine print.

Vincent was on more medications than we could count. Most were high-octane cocktails with lengthy names, but the one he hated most wasn’t one of those. It was the tiny yellow feeding tube that went into his stomach through his nose.   

To prevent his squirming fingers from tugging on it, the tube had to be securely taped to Vincent’s face, neck, and clothing. Sometimes his arms were locked into restraints that kept his elbows from bending, so that he couldn’t reach his own nose.

For Rebecca and me, the enemy was cancer. But from Vincent’s perspective, his enemy was that tube.

One night, we were home without medical staff. Vincent refused to sleep and Rebecca was up with him into the morning’s wee hours. I pretended to be useful, but by 3 am, my eyes wouldn’t stay open. Additionally, I have what Rebecca terms “daddy hormones,” meaning I can sleep through any noise my children make.

Just after 4, she gave me an assignment. I would be in charge while she went to the store for some Benadryl to help us all sleep. All I had to do was hold the fort for 15 minutes. I accepted my mission as she scooped up her keys.

When Rebecca returned exactly 15 minutes later, she was greeted by the sight of her son sitting up proudly in bed, smiling triumphantly, clutching the tube in his fist, having removed it completely from his body. Next to him was yours truly, thoroughly asleep as the the tube’s nasty contents spilled everywhere.

Needless to say, I was in the doghouse. But Vincent was thrilled. He had defeated his enemy. The nasogastric tube, the bane of his existence, had been vanquished at last!

As it turns out, Vincent would never need to battle another feeding tube again. That same day, we learned the cancer had spread to an extent where the tube was feeding the tumor more than Vincent’s body. No wonder he yanked it out!

Without nutrition, the doctors gave Vincent 24 hours to live, but they underestimated our little warrior. He lived for another 11 glorious days—even beyond the date of his projected funeral. The additional time time gave family and friends an opportunity to say goodbye to the kid whose name means “victorious.”

When all was said and done, there were only two things Vincent cared about. He wanted to stay with us and he wanted that tube gone.

Turns out he got both for a little longer than anybody expected. Happy Birthday, bud.

1. Whether you’ve ever purchased a book from Archives or not, we all benefit from its presence in our neighborhood.

2. If my calculations are correct, walking across the street consumes slightly less fossil fuels than planes and trucks shipping us the exact same books that are already on the shelves at Archives.

3. Our shopping practices have consequences beyond our wallets. Just as there’s a systemic cost to buying the “cheapest” food/clothes/gas/electricity, there’s also a cost to buying the cheapest books.

4. When we send our money to a faceless online retailer outside the community, our money is removed from the local economy, the local tax revenue stream, and the seminary ecosystem.

5. Erin Dufault-Hunter and Tommy Givens (professors who know a thing or two about ethics) encourage their students every quarter to #ShopLocal at Archives.

6. Call me a purist, but scrolling through screenshots just isn’t the same as browsing a real bookshelf.

7. Archives will gladly buy your used books. It’s a fantastic way to obtain store credit, clear precious shelf space in your tiny apartment without shipping/driving your books anywhere, and make your unwanted books available to someone who might actually read them.

8. John & Judy (the owners) go to my church and are awesome folks. Running this store is their life’s craft.

9. There’s always a decent sale going on at Archives, like the $1 Book Sale happening April 1 & 2, where 10,000 books will be a dollar each (tax included).

10. Better to have Archives on the northwest corner of Walnut St. & Oakland Ave. than a redundant encore of some megacorp that already exists in our city. There’s only one Archives.

[painting by Joseph Stoddard]

For the next year, I posted a public entry into my “grief journal” on the 20th of every month. It was my way of reminding the world we had lost a kid.

After the first anniversary, things started to feel different. Not better, just different. Blogging monthly about Vincent had become too emotionally draining. I was out of stories. There was little to say.

Except that the rhythm needed to change.

As we approached the point at which Vincent’s absence eclipsed the length of his life, I journaled less often. With each passing month, the gap grew between the younger Vincent we had lost, and the older, hypothetical Vincent, alive and cancer-free as he should have been.

But time steamrolled forward, taking us with it. The above photo was taken on the two-year anniversary, as grass sprouted through what was once a pile of dirt.

The day was further complicated by the reality that our third son was due any moment. Thankfully, Andre took his time and arrived on November 23, 2012.

Andre’s physical resemblance to Vincent made for a stark juxtaposition of death’s sorrow with the joy of new life. Neither negated the other—they were both true as could be.

With Andre’s birth came new layers to our family’s annual grief pattern, a cycle that now includes one kid’s birthday and another’s death-day three days apart.

Every. Single. November.

By the third anniversary, my focus shifted from survival to sustainability. That day, I wrote:

Each anniversary is like an ominous semester deadline, when your list of unfinished assignments can no longer be ignored. Grief will let you procrastinate, but only for so long. My tears are due today.

The wave of every anniversary left greater dread of the next one in its wake.

In my quest for a more sustainable grieving pattern, I started using pre-written prayers. Weary from reinventing the wheel each year, I developed a responsive prayer for our family to recite every November 20th.

This practice didn’t take away the pain, but it provided continuity with the past while conserving energy on an emotionally taxing day. “Give us grace to treasure Vincent’s memory and help us bring comfort to others,” we prayed.

A year ago marked the fourth anniversary, our first in California. Many of our new friends and neighbors didn’t know we had a middle son, so I used this space to introduce Vincent and re-tell the story of his magnificent life.

Around that time, the book Father Factor was published, including an essay I wrote exploring the experience of losing my father and son to premature deaths. Writing helped me describe the unspeakable, but it hasn’t stopped the cruel advance of dreaded anniversaries.  

Which brings us to the present moment. The road has been long, and it isn’t getting shorter.

Although Vincent’s absence remains conspicuous as ever, it now takes me much longer to write about my grief. Sometimes I’ll be up late at night for hours, grasping in vain for words that aren’t there.

These days, my grief is more like a shipwreck sitting at the bottom of an ocean that gets deeper as time adds new layers of water. Right after Vincent died, I only had to put on a snorkel to find it, but the process now requires a deep sea dive.

Time has a heartless way of creating distance from Vincent, even if he’s never far from my thoughts.

Especially today.

My father wasn’t always a jungle doctor.

By the time I entered kindergarten, he had grown a successful dental practice in downtown Honolulu, where patients appreciated his gentle touch and chair-side manner. My dad loved dentistry, but over a decade of fixing American teeth had failed to satisfy his desire to make a difference. His professional colleagues affirmed his skills and contributions, but Dad felt he wasn’t taking full advantage of his gifts. He wanted more of a challenge.

An active church leader, he helped start a cluster of new churches meeting in suburban homes like ours, where friends appreciated his ability to explain spiritual concepts in simple language. A faithful husband and playful father, he enjoyed living in Hawaii, but still wanted something more. As my dad understood it, his Christian faith demanded more.

[Dad and Dan, 1980]

The restlessness began in 1979, the year before I was born, when Dad discovered the value of his skills as as oral surgeon during a two-week mission trip to the Dominican Republic, sponsored by the Christian Medical and Dental Association. He could brighten many smiles in America, but overseas, he could save lives and train others to do the same. Dad was not content to pray for the poor from a distance; he wanted to fix their teeth. Personally.

Following nearly a decade of prayerful discernment and discussion among trusted friends, my parents made a full-time commitment to international dentistry in 1987, signing on with the Presbyterian Church (USA) as mission co-workers in the Congo, then called Zaire. For the next 12 years, Dad lived his dream as an international missionary dentist. His young family of five would never be the same.

Not because I was sick, far from it. Our second son, Vincent Wing Seun Stringer had just been born.

I don’t remember much about that day, except feeling surprisingly relaxed. It was a peaceful Sunday morning without any traffic on the pre-delivery drive. We even had time to stop at a gas station to install Vincent’s new car seat.

Unlike our first child’s birth, when every possible preparation had been choreographed weeks in advance—car seat included, Vincent’s arrival was an uncomplicated and panic-free Mother’s Day gift.

Plus he was adorable. It was 2009.

As we welcomed him into our world, who would have dared predict that Vincent would spend just one more birthday with us, or that cancer would enter his body shortly thereafter? What proud parent doesn’t expect their healthy newborn to someday reach adulthood?

What parent envisions the kind of emptiness that only follows a child’s death and burial? Who could have foreseen the flood of unanswerable questions about how this happened, why it did, and what might have been?

A number of my seminary courses have explored the implications of bodily resurrection, body-soul dualism, and the “intermediate state,” important subjects for clergy to grapple with. For example, when Vincent’s body is resurrected in the eschaton, what will he look like? How “old” will his appearance be? In what sense is Vincent turning 6 years old today?

Furthermore, can Vincent be “presently” with Jesus somewhere (inside time/space? outside time/space?) but without his body? Can Vincent truly be Vincent without his resurrected body? Is Vincent’s earthly family “missing out” on his heavenly upbringing? How do we navigate tensions between theologies that comfort us and those that can withstand critical scrutiny?

Daily life is complicated enough, even without layering seminary-infused questions on top of my grief experience. When people ask how many kids I have, I usually leave Vinny out because I understand what is actually being asked: How many living kids do I have?

Tax forms, rental agreements and health insurance policies only count the living. Including the dead complicates life.

When people ask how old my (two) kids are, they often note the “interesting” age difference of 5 and a half years between our oldest and youngest. It’s as if they can sense there might be a middle child missing.

But even without knowing what happened, they are right to notice this unusual gap size, which makes for a variety of parenting challenges when it comes to finding age-appropriate activities for both children. Not that I’m looking for additional reasons to wish Vincent was still alive.

As I wrote last year, grief and celebration are not incompatible. For the last 5 Mother’s Days, our family has found ways to do both. It’s actually quite simple. You cry, then eat cake.

First, the update: Back in December, I started a new part-time job at Door of Hope, an amazing non-profit organization whose mission is equipping homeless families to rebuild their lives.

Given my social work experience addressing homelessness back in Hawaii, I’ve been thankful for the opportunity to get involved here in Los Angeles County, where an estimated 254,000 men, women and children experience homelessness during some part of the year and around 82,000 people are homeless on any given night.

So far, I’m finding the work both challenging and rewarding. It takes many hands on deck to break the cycle of homelessness, but the stories of changed lives make it a worthwhile effort. Two of my favorite things about Door of Hope are the incredible staff and its walkable proximity in the neighborhood where we live.

Second, the announcement: I will run the 2015 ASICS LA Marathon on March 15th! Since Door of Hope is an official partner charity of the race, I’ll be running with the Door of Hope team (each at our own pace, of course) to raise funds for the organization. This will be my third marathon overall, but my first on the “mainland” (I ran 2011 & 2013 in Honolulu).

I’m particularly excited about the Los Angeles Marathon’s point-to-point route which features a net elevation drop of 430 feet and incorporates many of the city’s iconic landmarks. Given my crazy life balancing full-time seminary and part-time social work on top of family responsibilities, I’m trying to stay realistic about how much training I can put in this time around. My top goals are to finish healthy, have fun and support the cause. Which brings us to…

Finally, the invitation: So I already mentioned this was a fundraiser, right? I’ve also said a bit about my connection to Door of Hope and my interest in running. Put those together and you’ve got a fantastic reason to support my run that will benefit the homeless families of LA County as they rebuild their lives through the Christ-centered mission of Door of Hope.

Donating is simple, secure and tax-deductible. Just go to Door of Hope’s homepage and click on “Donate” in the top-right corner. In the comments box, please type “marathon Stringer” (or something to that effect) indicating you are supporting my marathon run. 100% of your donation goes directly to Door of Hope.

As a member of the staff, I assure you that we stretch each dollar to help every family we possibly can. Many of my Pasadena friends already know about Door of Hope’s work in the community. For those who do not, feel free to contact me or flag me down if you have any questions. I look forward to seeing how this event changes lives.

And whether or not you’re able to contribute this time around, let’s keep dreaming together and working together for a future in which every family has a place to call home.

There’s a unique joy that comes from bringing worlds together, initiating connections between persons who are important in my life. Not only am I enriched by their interaction, I’m also liberated from the limits of my own words. I no longer need adjectives to describe my kids because their energy fills the room. Their presence says it all.

But how do you introduce a child who is no longer with us? What kind of interaction remains possible?

In the four years since Vincent died, we’ve made many new friends who never had the chance to meet him. And because he only lived 18 months, Vincent has many relatives (including a younger brother) who never got to meet him.

This is part of the heartache, part of the loss.

So allow me to introduce Vincent again, perhaps for the first time.

Vincent Wing Seun Stringer was born on Mother’s Day, May 10, 2009 at 8:41 am at Kapiolani Medical Center in Honolulu. Weighing 7 pounds, 7 ounces and measuring 20.5 inches, Vincent was born full-term after 8 hours of labor and was in perfect health.

Vincent is a name of Latin origin meaning “victorious” or “one who prevails.” His middle name, Wing Seun, means “eternal kindness” in Chinese. Over the course of his life, Vincent was affectionately known by a variety of nicknames including Vinnie, Vince, Vinnie Boy, Mr. Vin Vin and the Vinnamon Bun. Rebecca called him “pumpkin” and I often referred to him as “the good baby boy.”

Vincent took his first plane ride when he was five weeks old, visiting Tampa for Aunty Esther and Uncle Yoon’s wedding. He was extraordinarily well-behaved during the 12-hour flight and charmed his extended family. Despite some minor feeding and reflux issues, Vincent thrived during his first year. He went everywhere with Mommy including work, and many friends loved carrying him to be near his wrinkly-nosed smile.

One of Vincent’s favorite activities was playing a hair-pulling game with his big brother Theo, who would oblige by placing his head close to Vincent’s hands saying, “Vincent, here I am!” He also loved touch-and-feel books, especially Pat the Bunny, which required multiple copies to withstand the wear and tear of his love. Vincent enjoyed spending time with his three grandparents, three aunts and two uncles.

On May 6th, 2010,  a few days before his first birthday party, Rebecca was rubbing Vincent’s belly when she felt what seemed to be a lump. She brought him the next day to her trusted pediatrician. Vincent resisted the examining table and started to cry, which tensed his body and made it difficult to detect any anomaly. Rebecca was instructed to keep an eye on the area.

On May 16, a few days after the party, Rebecca was changing Vincent’s diaper when she noticed the lump had become a distinct bulge. Apparently, it had grown quickly in just a few days. Rebecca met immediately with a surgeon at Kapiolani Medical Center who ordered an ultrasound, confirmed the presence of a growth, and admitted Vincent as an inpatient.

An MRI showed a large tumor in Vincent’s liver, although his blood test results were negative for the most common type of liver tumor. Biopsy samples were sent around the country until it was finally determined to be an extra-renal rhabdoid tumor, extremely rare.

Vincent began chemotherapy in June 2010 and responded very well during the first several rounds. Always a little champion, he initially seemed to have even more energy than before! He crawled, stood up, played with trains, pulled his brothers’ hair, and even learned to say, “kitty.” Over the next three months Vincent continued to grow, eat well, and explore his world.

One of his favorite things to do was to grab a toy and hand it to you. Then he’d grab another one and hand it to you.  Then he’d grab yet another toy and hand it to you. He was very giving. He loved to give Theo his toys, sometimes accidentally destroying a carefully placed train track in his eagerness to reach his brother.

Everything was on target for the tumor to be removed on September 7, 2010 However, it was discovered shortly beforehand through a CT scan, and confirmed through a biopsy, that the cancer had mutated into a chemo-resistant form, and had spread throughout his liver and to his lungs. 

Vincent’s final two months were filled with ups and downs. He had some good days; going to the beach, kicking the waves, digging his feet into the sand, and visiting Dolphin Quest. Vincent was fearless during his dolphin encounter, lunging directly into the water and petting Hoku the dolphin’s nose. Another highlight was a four-day trip with his parents to visit Bethel Church in Redding, CA.

Soon after returning home, Vincent began receiving morphine every day to lessen his pain. The tumor’s growth made it impossible for him to crawl, but he would still sit up in bed to read stories or play with his trains.

One night, he couldn’t sleep because his feeding tube was getting infected and itchy. Vincent surprised everyone by pulling the entire tube out of his nose, removing the only source of nutrition from his body. He was admitted back to Kapiolani and once there, his breathing became increasingly labored, with a CT scan showing considerable new growth in his tumors. 

By that point, Vincent had endured 6 rounds of chemo, had spent a total of 60 nights in the hospital, and had made 52 visits to the outpatient clinic. Vincent spent his last 11 days at home receiving hospice care. His final hours were filled with love from friends and family members, many of whom traveled great distances to be present.

On the evening of Saturday November 20th, 2010 at 8:25 pm, Vincent died peacefully at home, just after Rebecca had been holding him. As she put him down, God picked him up.