Devotional Blog

Today is our son, Eric’s, birthday.  He lost his battle with Duchenne Dystrophy fourteen years ago at the age of 34.  We had beat the odds.  The following was read at his memorial service.  I share this today in honor of him.

Requiem for Eric

Our dearly beloved Eric,

My mind is an bucket of thoughts that are continually being shaken up, and I’m having a difficult time sorting through them to know how to say all that I want to say so the world you left behind will know you better. 

Mid-summer of 1975 you came into our family – you had one older sister, who was greatly excited to have a new little brother! 

It wasn’t long before you two became playmates, schoolmates, mutual tormentors, and later friends.  Little did we know at the time the significant role she would play in your life as caretaker, protector and the one to provide comic relief when we all needed a laugh.  And laugh we did!  When we first brought you home, we sat you in your infant seat in the center of the table.  She would watch you move and squirm and say, “you’re really weird, Eric!” 

When you were five, your younger sister was born.  Somewhat frustrated that you didn’t get the brother you were hoping for, you asked mom if she would take her back!  But, in time you got used to the idea of another sister and actually liked her!  It would be a couple more years before the long-awaited little brother came along!  He not only would be just a brother but your lifelong best friend, and the two of you became inseparable as the years progressed. 

The reason for that becomes the story of your life.

In the fall of 1981, we received the news that you had a very severe form of Muscular Dystrophy.  Your mom and I had hardly heard of this disease, let alone know of the journey we were about to begin.  The most devastating part of that news was that we were told by the doctors you would only live to your late teens or early twenties under the best of conditions. 

I remember on that dreadful day when all the tests confirmed the diagnosis.   Your mom and I came into the house, stopped, and embraced each other for a long time.  Then she said, “We will build a strong, close-knit family and we will get through this.”  We also made a commitment to you that day that we would always be by your side every step of the way.  By God’s grace, through the years, we kept that commitment. 

I remember also on that day we had to tell you what you had.  You listened as intently as any six-year-old can.  Once you understood what we told you, there seemed to be a peacefulness that came over you.  The frustration you had been feeling over the things that were difficult for you, or simply could no longer do, seemed to be gone.  You never complained, at least not then, and we never heard from you – ever, “Why, me?”  God had bestowed on you an extra measure of His grace to continue. 

Your early childhood was fairly normal.  You charged around our neighborhood on your big wheel, and when your legs became too weak to pump the pedals you would with one hand push on your knee and steer with the other.  Then there was the time when you decided you had had enough of our home, and it was time to move on.  You were six! You packed up a small bag and headed out the front door – sending your mother into a panic and yelling at me to “do something!” 

Remember the time mom was transferring you from wheelchair to commode and dropped you to the floor?  She couldn’t get you back up alone so she made you comfortable, brought you some books to look at and said, “Your father will be home soon!”  She called me and I came – life returned to normal.

You excelled in school graduating as a National Honor Society scholar.  So impressed by your wisdom, your high school history teacher gave you several collections from his library when he retired.   For a short time, you attended a nearby university.  There you developed your love of literature and history, J.R.R. Tolkien, and C.S. Lewis.  How well you remembered your Old Testament class when your professor had each of you take stones from the creek on campus, put your names on them and place them back in the water just as the Israelites had done at the Jordan when entering the Promised Land.  That was a God moment in your life and if undisturbed, they remain to this day.

Challenges, though, were your constant companion and a major change would come in the late spring of 1994.  After a particularly severe bout with pneumonia – not your first – you were unable to breathe on your own and it became necessary for you to use a ventilator.  That took us all to a whole new level.  Now we had nurses coming and going from the house, trucks delivering box after box of equipment and supplies on a regular basis.  The disease raged on.

Since you were not able to return to school, we had to develop a new routine.  With the help and support of many friends – many of whom sit in this room today – we were able to continue your care at home.  These dear dear people set you up with computers, remodeled your bedroom, built ramps, and provided a van for us to get around as a family.  I’m sure one of the dear saints to welcome you home as you entered Heaven, was our close friend, Tim, – he spearheaded that van project.  Hug him for us!

Well, Bud, I could go on and on.  There are countless more stories, wonderful memories, great times together!  Sports was a passion of yours and you, like many of us, cheered in futility for the Cubs and Bears!  (By the way, the Cubs finally got their World Series win in 2016 and your friend Matt wrote your name on the bricks at Wrigley that said, “For Eric” and framed the picture for you.)

We laughed together watching episodes of “Everybody Loves Raymond”, “Frasier” and “According to Jim”.  We discussed politics at the dinner table and chewed on passages of the Bible that were difficult to grasp.  And you left us where we started – at our kitchen table seated together as a family.  We know you’d grown weary of your body, tired of being uncomfortable in your chair and bed.  You were indeed ready to be at home with your Saviour.  Now you are whole again – “dancing with the angels” as the song goes. For that we all rejoice.  But, until we see you again in that land beyond the river, for now we will miss you.  Run, Eric, run! 

Love,

Dad …for all of us

Bill Erickson