Capture Your Grief: Now

 
I almost didn't open this page to write.  It was a long, sleepless night with a baby girl who was more fussy than usual and only wanted to be held.  I didn't crawl out of bed until almost 10:30, grateful for my husband who was entertaining the big kids downstairs so I could sleep but still weary eyed and exhausted. 

Needless to say, I've been tired all day.  And when I'm tired, my mind messes with me, anxious thoughts wreaking havoc on my heart and tears brimming over every little thing.  The dishwasher is broken and the dishes are piled high.  The carpet in the craft room is covered in broken egg shells from a certain toddler who thinks the garbage is a place to discover hidden treasures.  The laundry is spilling out of basket after basket waiting to be folded while piles of folded clothes are still piled high in the living room. I look around and all I see are messes and I kind of want to curl in a corner and hide from it all.  

I muster the energy to wash the dishes while the big kids giggle hysterically over nothing in their rooms and the littlest one coos and squirms around next to me.  Somehow cleaning, when I can zone out the rest of the noise and chaos around me, soothes and quiets my restless mind.  I feel refreshed staring at a clean sink and a pile of drying dishes.  I scoop up the littlest one who is beginning to fuss again and she relaxes in the curve of my shoulder while I quietly walk upstairs to check in on the big kids. 

As I walk upstairs, I smile and remember that all of this - the noise, the mess, the sleepless nights - are exactly what I've always wanted.  Even the hard moments are a gift, the sacred mundane found in embracing my calling and counting my blessings one by one. 

Sometimes I feel guilty when this motherhood journey is hard and I find myself crying over nothing and everything.  I know too many women who want this and I know I shouldn't take this for granted.  I would take sleepless nights over and over just to have our Hope here in my arms.  It's such a precarious balance between acknowledging the hard and embracing the gift of every moment, good and bad. 

Even as I finish writing this, my littlest one is fussing again, just moments after I laid her down after falling asleep nursing.  Part of me is exhausted from the endless demands of motherhood, but I know this is a gift and I really am grateful for this life.  So, I will scoop her up, kiss her cheeks, and hold her close again...and again...and again. 

 

Capture Your Grief: Before

For as long as I can remember, motherhood has been part of my dream.  As the oldest of five, I've always been a mommy at heart.  From the moment I first saw those tiny blue lines, the dream grew as I began to plan and prepare for the long awaited one whose tiny heart was already beating to the tune of her own dance.

I read every book, followed so many do's and don'ts, and counted down the days to my due date.  When the day came and went and two weeks later I was still swollen with child, I began to give up on my carefully laid out plans.  The moment I walked in those revolving hospital doors without even a single contraction just waiting for my doctor to coax our baby into the world is the moment I began to realize that life doesn't always go as planned.

I didn't realize how blindsided I would be for the storms brewing in our future.  After a long and difficult labor, our firstborn entered the world...and was quickly whisked away to the nursery before I even got to hold her in my arms.  I didn't even hear her cry and the only glimpse I caught of her was from a distance as the nurse carried her away.

She had swallowed so much meconium the doctors and nurses first thought she had developed pneumonia from the junk that caught in her tiny little lungs.  But, less than twelve hours after her arrival, when her tiny body began seizing, my world fell apart.  I could hardly breathe as I stared at the nurse and doctor hovering over her and I barely heard their words to us as I rushed back to my hospital room and collapsed on the floor as my already sore and aching body gave way to gut wrenching sobs.

We still don't know what exactly caused her seizures, but, after two weeks in a nearby NICU, she was miraculously healed.  We brought her home and tried to put those scary days behind us...until, just fourteen months later, our second born arrived three weeks early with premature lungs and was rushed to the same NICU.  We took him home one week later and everyone told me that all was now well.  I had two healthy babies and those traumatic experiences were buried deep in the past...

...except...I couldn't forget.  I fell into a depression that gave way to nearly debilitating anxiety after the death of my dear grandfather.  I realized that just like I needed to allow myself to grieve the loss of my grandfather, I needed to grieve the birth experiences I had wanted and process the emotions of their traumatic arrivals.  I spent over a year in counseling and when my youngest turned three, I was finally ready to welcome our third little one.

His birth was empowering and healing in so many ways.  I had thought my body was broken and hated the way I thought it had failed me before.  When the doctor laid him on my chest just moments after my body brought him into the world was a moment I'll never forget.  I held him close, only allowing him to leave my sight when the pediatrician arrived later that day to check him over and declare him healthy as can be.  Taking him home less than 48 hours after his arrival was something I never thought I'd experience.

Traumatic birth experiences and postpartum depression were hard enough, but I never thought I'd add baby loss to my story of motherhood.  While I was pregnant with my third, I watched two friends grieve the loss of babies gone too soon and I prayed with another dear friend whose unborn baby was so very sick.  I knew about baby loss, but I didn't know what it was like to have a child torn from your womb and to feel the ache of empty arms and broken dreams.  

When I stare at the photo of my first tiny baby bump, my firstborn just beginning to grow in my womb, I realize just how much I have also grown along the way.  The person I was before had no fears about pregnancy and birth except the discomfort of morning sickness and the expected pain of childbirth.  I didn't expect to be on this journey, but, then, who does?

I miss the innocence of that first pregnancy and the pure joy that knew nothing of trauma and loss.  There really is no "safe" zone.  Every moment is a gift and I cannot know what the future holds.  All I can do is rest in the security of a God who knows and goes before me.  He has never once left my side and He is always faithful, even in the storms.

 

Capture Your Grief: Heart

My dearest Hope,

I miss you.  Some days that's all there is...because one moment you were here and the next you were gone, but still you hold a place so deeply engraved on my heart.  I can't forget you and I never will.  As long as I walk this earth, I will carry you with me wherever I go. 

I hold your little sister close enough to kiss and I wonder...what would it have been like to hold you close, curled up in my arms, your heart beat matching my own.  I never did hear your heart beat this side of heaven.  All I knew of you were two tiny blue lines that all too soon had faded away to dust and ashes as my heart broke. 

You are as much a part of me as the two sisters and two brothers who walk this earth and yet I have nothing to show for you except dreams that never came true.  I smile as they smile, laugh as they laugh, cry as they cry...and all the while I wonder what it would have been like to hear your voice and watch you grow.  Your little sister coos and smiles and my heart melts at the same time it aches.  It's bittersweet, this remembering the moments long gone while still living and embracing the moments here and now. 

I can't make sense of it and maybe I don't need to try.  Some questions will be left unanswered this side of heaven.  The one thing I can hold onto always and forever is hope, because you remind me that this life is not all there is and that my story will never be complete or perfected here on earth.  I move forward, living and loving and grateful for every morning I wake to new mercies and a life that is still unfolding...carrying close to my heart the memory of you. 

As long as there is breath on my lips and as long as my heart beats, there is good, even in the storms.  One day I will see you for real and oh, what a glorious day that will be. 

Always,
Your mommy

Capture Your Grief: Sunrise

I woke that morning, nearly one year ago, weary from a late night argument with the man I sometimes forget is my friend and not my enemy.  My stomach aches, but I'm not surprised.  Words were spoken that never should have been said and I wish I could turn back time and redo the entire conversation. 

I groan as I roll out of bed and the pain in my belly grows worse.  For a brief moment I wonder if it's more than just carrying the weight of stress and hurt for the road we've been walking for just over a month.  We're both confused and unsteady as we navigate through the fog, trying to find our way to greener pastures and wondering all the while how He can make good out of this. 

I make my way to the bathroom...and there it is...the bright red stain I can't ever forget.  I feel the panic rising and I try to calm myself with reason, hoping against all odds that this is not what it looks like. I shower and try to let the warm water wash over my aches and pains, soothing and calming the fears fighting their way to the surface, but I can't. 

I find him at the kitchen table, just sitting down for breakfast and the tears fall.  His mom notices and she holds me close.  We voice every possible reason we could be wrong...but somehow, I already know. 

She's gone...and my world will never again be the same. 

***

I wake to the early morning squirms and grunts of our littlest one and my alarm goes off before I can tuck myself further under the covers in hopes that she will fall back asleep.  She's slept for a long stretch, but it was still a late night and I am still so tired.  I scoop her into my arms, gently soothing her with my words as I choose to welcome the day with joy instead of regrets.  She nurses quietly and I allow my body to relax and rest for just a few minutes more. 

As soon as her tummy is full, I lay her back in her bed and climb into the shower, letting the warm water wash over my aches and pains, remembering and wondering how to make sense of the long road we've traveled in just one year, but I can't. 

How do you explain the bitter and the sweet, the joy and the sorrow, the good and the bad...and the way one year has both knocked us off our feet and set our feet dancing for joy? 

There are moments that still feel like a gut punch to the soul.  I stare at the sweet smiles and coos of our littlest one, the rainbow after the storm, and I am in awe of the gift she is.  But still I ache, my arms longing for the one gone too soon.  It doesn't matter how brief her life was.  She was still here and she was still ours. 

***

I put on my walking shoes, tuck my littlest one close enough to kiss, and make my way outside to capture the sunrise.  It's brighter than when I first arose, but the sun is nowhere in sight.  All I see are clouds and somehow it seems right.  I turn down the dirt path by the water and think about the times the path before us has seemed so dim and we've been left with more questions than answers. 

I'm disappointed I won't be capturing a pretty sunrise, but then I spot the soft glow of a street light and the "Dead End Ahead" sign.  Somehow this view seems more perfect than a picture perfect sunrise.  The sign warns me of what's ahead, but the soft glow of the street light and the sound of gentle waters urge me forward. 

This journey has been much like that path.  That morning I woke to a bright red stain warning me of what was ahead stopped me dead in my tracks.  The outlook was gloomy and overcast and I didn't want to keep walking.  I wanted to stop and turn around, because who wants to go down a Dead End? 

But even when all hope seemed lost, there was One light that still shined, reminding me that all hope was not lost and that our Hope would always be here with us.  He has both carried and led me forward, one unsteady step at a time.  I've wondered and I've wandered, but still His love remained. 

And so, here I am, one year later, piecing together threads of memories that somehow still make a beautiful tapestry.  It's still hard and I still ache, but He is still good and there is still so much that lies ahead.

***

This month, I'm participating in Carly Marie's Capture Your Grief, in honor of Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Month.  I'll be sharing my daily photos on Instagram and Facebook and hopefully using some of the prompts as writing inspiration, because writing is so healing and good for my soul...and, plus, I miss writing here. 

The Sacred Dance of Grief & Joy

The moment we knew a new little life was being knit together in my womb, the fear set in.  I was afraid to embrace and fall in love, because what if?  But the very next moment, even as I voiced the fear out loud, I knew I had to make a choice to walk in freedom instead of bondage. 

It's not an easy road to walk and it's not always a straight path.  I find myself holding back, waiting for the moment I can breathe again knowing everything will be okay.  But there really are no guarantees.  I don't know what tomorrow will bring and, really, all I have is today.

I couldn't stop myself from falling in love with this little one even if I tried.  But I also can't stop myself from grieving the one gone too soon.  It's such a sacred dance. 

One moment I'm back in that moment, my heart breaking all over again as I remember how I delivered our tiny baby Hope alone at home.  I can feel the emptiness where she should be, even as my womb grows with new life.  I could have a dozen more children, but not a single one will ever fill the empty place she left behind. 

Even as I grieve, I feel a tiny flutter in my womb, a reminder that new life is growing and that every storm really does run out of rain.  My daughter giggles as she pats my belly and I smile as we thank God for the baby whose presence is a most precious gift.  I begin to dream about the day this little one is laid in my arms and I whisper my love that grows with each new day.

Still, as I embrace one life, I can't forget the one who will never fill our home with laughter and life.  I wonder how to honor our baby Hope at the same time I embrace this new life in my womb.  My arms ache to hold a newborn baby and some days seem to move much too slowly.  But then there are days when I wish time would slow down, because I don't know how to dance this dance with grace and beauty. 

Some days I'm simply a mess, tears of joy mixed with tears of sorrow.  I'm exhausted with the weight of it all and I don't know how to take one more step...until I remember again what it means to walk in freedom. 

So I fall to my knees again, whispering to the only One who can carry me through how I need Him every hour of every day.  As I pray, He covers me with the peace I need and I wonder why I forget to run to Him before I'm a mess of tears.  The only way to embrace the beauty and gift of today when the future is so uncertain is to keep my eyes fixed on Him...and I'm so grateful He waits so patiently for me to remember.

"In peace, I will both lie down and sleep; 

for you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety." 

(Psalm 4:8)

 

Advent Week 2 & 3: Peace & Joy

"When we are inwardly tossed by various tempests, and when Satan attempts to disturb our consciences, let us remember that Christ is the prince of peace and that it is easy for Him quickly to allay all our uneasy feelings." (Calvin)

Grief is such a roller coaster ride.  It seems that no matter how hard I press into Jesus, there are still days that rock me so hard I wonder how I will ever survive this.  But in the middle of the storms, He is there, walking out on the water and meeting me right where I am.

The sea billows like the sorrows of my heart and the tempests rage before I even know what's hit me.  It only takes a moment, one word, one sound, one smell, one thought, and I'm right back there on the very day our tiny babe was released too soon from my womb.  Time doesn't stand still for mourning, but sometimes it feels like I'm locked in a time warp of grief.

But God.

Oh, those two words are some of my favorites in His word.  Because no matter where I am, no matter what storm I face, no matter how hard the struggle, God is bigger.  The grief overwhelms, but God is still here.  But God still loves and God still knows.  But God still comforts and God still redeems.  But God is still bigger and stronger and greater than anything this world brings my way.

"The Lord your God is in your midst, a mighty one who will save; He will rejoice over you with gladness; He will quiet you with His love; He will exult over you with loud singing." (Zephaniah 3:17)

"Be strong and courageous.  Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the LORD your God who goes with you.  He will not leave or forsake you." (Deuteronomy 31:6)

Fear has been too close a friend to me for far too long.  It's my biggest stronghold to total surrender and fully embracing the freedom found in Him.  My mind races with a million "what ifs" and the mystery of tomorrow and the unknown overwhelms me with anxieties beyond my control.  I fall and weep as the darkness consumes and I wonder how I found myself back here, gripped so much with fear that I can't even hear my husband's pleas to stand up and see His light that still shines. 

But God.

He goes before me and hems me in on all sides and He will not let me go.  He will not let me be moved or ruined and, oh, how His great love overwhelms my weary, broken heart.  Like the one lost sheep in a herd of thousands, He chases after me and I am found again in Him.

"You can not have peace unless you turn your troubles up.  You have no place in which to pour your troubles except the ear of God." (CH Spurgeon)

"Oh, love that will not let me go.  I rest my weary head in thee.  I give thee back the life I owe that in thine ocean depths its flow may richer, fuller be." (Fanny Crosby)

His light pierces the dark and as He pulls me out of the depths of my despair, I lay it all at His feet, piling my every sorrow and hurt at the feet of the One who already bought me with such a great price.  Peace can be found in the deepest, darkest storms when it's found not in the world or our circumstances that are ever changing but in the God who is the same yesterday, today, and always.

No matter how hard it is to see the good, I know that He is good.  Even when it's hard to see His everyday gifts, there is always much joy to be found in the greatest gift ever given.  A life of joy is not a problem free life.  No, in this world there will be tribulation, but we can always take heart that He has overcome it all.

"The then may serve for a ground of comfort to every soul distressed with the tedious bitterness of this life; for short sorrow, we shall have eternal joy; for a little hunger, an eternal banquet; for light sickness and affliction, everlasting health and salvation; for a little imprisonment, endless liberty; for disgrace, glory." (CH Spurgeon)

There will come a day when I will see how all my struggles are but momentary afflictions in light of an eternity of joy.  But joy can be found here and now.  It should be joy to us that the Word became flesh to redeem and save.  It's in fellowship with Him that we find joy in the mourning.

"Let us know, let us press on to know the LORD; His going out is sure as the dawn; He will come to us as the showers, as the spring rains that water the earth." (Hosea 6:3)

"At this moment, despite our spirit depression and soul battling and heart strife, the LORD has set His love upon us and rests in that love!  Should not this make our faces shine?" (CH Spurgeon)

So, I keep pressing into Him, the author and perfecter of my faith.  I may wait for eternity to know how He will fully redeem all my sorrows, but I know that even now I have more than enough reason to rejoice.  He daily offers glimpses of this eternal joy in the way He relentlessly pursues me over and over again.

As long as I walk this earth, I will wonder why, but I know that without the refining fire of trials I would not know Him the way I do today.  It's easy to praise Him when life is good, but the real test is how we praise Him when life is hard.  I've never understood His love more than I have when I need Him most.

Peace is found in the chaos of life and loss when I press into Him, even though it hurts...and joy is found in knowing the God whose redeeming love overwhelms my soul with praise. 


 

Advent Week 1: Hope

(This image is currently my facebook cover photo on my personal page made from an image found through a google search and the great free editing software of picmonkey.  The verse is one I chose for our Christmas cards this year as a way of remembering our baby Hope and clinging to the Hope we have in Him always.)

"For all the promises of God find their Yes in Him..." 

(2 Corinthians 1:20)

It's been nearly two years since that phone call on a day already heavy with fog that brought a coming storm I wasn't expecting so soon after the other.  And now, my heart is torn wide open again with a fresh grief that has totally swept me off my feet.  I find myself wishing the entire holiday season away, because it's so hard to find the joy and beauty of these days through tears. 

I cried over creating our Christmas cards, a tradition I usually love that now seems a chore.  I open the box of Christmas decorations and I just stare and stare at all the stuff that's supposed to make the season merry and bright.  I write a Christmas gift list, all the while thinking of the ones whose names should be there.  It all feels so empty, like something is missing.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, I realize what I really want is the Hope born on Christmas day to remind me that the pain of loving and losing is worth it all. 

Ann Voskamp says "We live perpetually for the coming of Christ.  We are the advent people."  This is the longing in my heart - to push away all the traditions and decorations and stuff that crowds out the manger scene to prepare my heart and wait expectantly for the Hope that came wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger.  

"Behold, the days are coming, declares the LORD, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and the house of Judah.  In those days and at that time I will cause a righteous branch to spring up from David and He shall execute justice and righteousness in the land." (Jeremiah 33:14-15)

Long before that manger scene day, there was a garden, a man, a woman...and a serpent who tempted them to disobey.  With one simple choice, the perfection of God's creation was broken and with it came pain, struggle, sickness, and death.  But God wasn't surprised and He wasn't finished yet. 

No, the God who created the world came down to the world to live and walk among us.  He felt the aches and pains of living in a dying body, knew the heartbreak of losing a loved one, understood the struggle to do right when the flesh so easily rebels...and then He did something amazing.   He saw how man fell short and every mistake, big or small, and He chose love, a love so great He laid down His life and died in our place.

I can't read the story of His birth without remembering His death.  We wait with hope for His birth, not just because He came to earth, but because He also died...and rose again.  

"He that hung upon the cross was the maker of all worlds.  He that came as an infant, for our sake, was infinite.  How low He stooped!  How high He must have been that He could stoop so low!"

(C.H. Spurgeon)

"What God had to say to us was not only or mainly what Jesus said, but who Jesus was and what He did."

(John Piper)

Long ago, God promised that His righteous branch would come and, though the wait was long, He didn't forget.  He never forgets His promises, because His faithfulness is unchanging and unfailing.  Right now, in the middle of the storm, it's hard to believe that the beauty of green pastures He promises still await me.  But no matter how long the wait, I can be sure that the day will come. 

That's what hope means - enduring the long wait with joyful expectation, believing that my Hope will be fulfilled. 

"God gave the hopeless world the gift of hope that first Christmas...and He continues to every year after."

(Good Morning Girls)

What Love Does

I wasn't expecting it to be this hard.

I sat by the warm fire surrounded by family who would do anything for me...and, still, somehow, I felt so lonely.  

I crawled in bed with tears in my eyes and woke with a heaviness I couldn't shake. 

Food preparations began, smiles of thanks were offered, and the house was filled with noise of laughter and giggles and three healthy children I'm blessed to call my own.

But still my heart broke. 

I feel torn between embracing gratitude for what I have...and being swallowed up by grief for the one taken too soon from my womb.  

I've watched friends grieve the loss of a baby and cried with them, but I never knew how much my entire body would ache and break when the loss was my own. 

Weary from a restless night, I crawled back in bed wanting to cry but feeling so numb. 

Finally, I called out to him, the one who chose long ago to love me in sickness and health, in good times and bad. 

Little did we know then what the cost of that choice would one day be.

But still, despite the cost and in the midst of the hard, he holds me without saying a word.

My own words come in a mess of tears and hurt I can't even explain.

The grief hurts so much I want to run and hide, but I know I can't.

I need people.  I need community.  I need love.

But, mostly, I just need Him to take away all my tears, all this pain, and all the fear.  

I know He loves and that He is good always and in all ways, but sometimes the dark is so heavy and the pain runs so deep I wonder where He is.

Still he holds me, listening to words that don't make sense, because right now my world doesn't make sense.

And then he holds out his phone, his facebook newfeed open and a message from my uncle written there at just the right moment.

"...I'm so glad you still have Hope in your heart."

Another tear falls and he wipes it away as he says what I know in my head is true but stumble to believe in my heart.

"See.  You are loved.  So much."

Later, when the storm of tears subsides, I leave the dark of the back room and return to the light of family and love that has held me through storm after storm. 

As I sit surrounded by such love, I see the tender looks, the unspoken concern, the hugs that linger, and the family who shows me just a glimpse of what love does. 

Because their love is strong and steady, but His Love is greater. 

I think about the messages still flooding my email and facebook from friends and family spread far and wide, of the mail and gifts so freely given, of the meals offered and the love that continues to pour into our hurts. 

And for a moment, the grief doesn't feel so heavy and He doesn't feel so far away.

Because what Love does is grab hold of my heart in my darkest, most tender hurts and rub healing balms of comfort and grace and hope. 

Love is the One who from heaven, the Word became flesh. 

Love is the One born in a lowly manger of a dark, cold, and dirty stable. 

Love is the One called Emmanuel, God with us, who grew up to be Messiah, the God who saves and sets us free.

And though it all still hurts, He is still Emmanuel and what Love does even in the storms continues to amaze me.





 

She Was Still Here

photo credit

It was late, far later than usual, before our weary bodies finally found rest. We curled up together, his arms around mine and he kissed me gently.

I sighed and he waited for the words to find their way out of my mixed up thoughts.

"I wonder what she would have looked like."


I hold on tighter to my memory bear and wonder what it would be like to hold her in my arms, feeling the warmth of her tiny body curled up in mine and watching as her tiny lips found the first taste of her mommy's milk.

"I know what she would look like.  She'd be pretty, just like her mommy."

A smile forms behind the tears that still fall and I journey with him into dreams we will always wish would come true.

"She'd probably have blonde hair.  And maybe it would be curly," he continues.

"No.  She'd probably be bald.  All our babies are bald," I say as a laugh finds its way out of the pain.

But as quickly as the laugh emerged, so does the guilt.

As much as I want to move on and find that joy again, I also want to find my way back to her.

Because I don't want to forget her.

The more time moves forward, the farther I am from when she was here.

No matter how small, she was still here and no matter how short the time, she was still ours.

And I want her here.

I want to watch my two girls grow up together and see them bond as only sisters can. 

I want to watch my boys protect and care for their baby sister.  

I want to hold her close enough to kiss and watch her breath deeply in and out.

I am a mom of four, but the world only sees three.

"I had to fill out a form today...and I had to pause when I came to the question of how many kids and their ages."

He holds me tighter and kisses me again as fresh tears fall.

"There's no place for her," I cried.

We stay there, in the silence, questions unanswered and a longing unfulfilled.

I listen to the soft breaths of our toddler who still needs his mommy's milk and think of the other two curled up in their beds...and somehow I have to put one foot in front of the other.

Because as much as missing her hurts, there is still life and love here and now.

I force myself to count gifts, no matter how small, and remember how, even in the storms, there is still joy.

I wonder how to give thanks in all things, until I am reminded that it's not FOR all things, but IN all things.

So I break the silence in our room by breathing His truth into our hurt and remembering that, though it might hurt now, we will not be ruined.

We put one foot in front of the other, no matter how painful, and keep pressing into the only One who can make all things new and fill in our empty places with the riches of His grace. 

But, still, sometimes, it just hurts. 

When You Wonder Why

photo credit

I sat curled up on a couch, her eyes tenderly aching as she listened to my broken words.

I told her of the pain and the hurt and the grief.   My heart spilled out everything I've said here already...and everything I was too afraid to say out loud.

In a whisper, I choked out the one thing I didn't want to admit as another lonely tear escaped my broken heart.

"I was so, so grateful for this gift of one more...and then He took it away.  And I'm angry... 

Why did He allow this?"

Instead of reminding me of the sin that first broke our once perfect world, she nodded and acknowledged this part of the grief that was so real and deep.

I write here about being thankful even when it hurts and choosing to still praise Him in the storms...but sometimes the writing is mostly to make my heart believe what I already know in my mind to be true.

Because my heart recoils at the mystery of it all.  I want to cling to His truth, but when hard things happen every part of my flesh cries out a resounding "no!".

When God created this world out of nothing, He looked at it all and said it was good.  But then, there was the snake and the choice Adam & Eve made to walk away from all that was good.  Sometimes, I think of that moment and wonder why He, all knowing and ever present, didn't intervene.

The truth is that sometimes I just plain don't understand.  I wrestle with my flesh all the while holding onto hope that He will again make all things new and good and well.  

The only thing I know for sure is that there is a God who is creator and comforter and healer.  He grieves and mourns our loss, because death wasn't part of His original design.  He holds me as the tears flood and the pain overwhelms.

So, I will keep pressing into Him, even when every part of me wants to run and hide.  Because without His light, all is dark and the emptiness will consume me.

I also know that, because of His redeeming love poured out in the blood of His son, I can ask these questions boldly before His throne.  He doesn't push me away or tell me to get over myself.  He simply listens, nodding His head and holding out His arms, because He knows how the pain feels and how the flesh rebels against His Words. 

The only thing I can do is rest my doubts and fears and hurts in Him and think on these things, hoping that one day soon He will make my broken places whole again. 

 

Holding Onto Our Hope

photo drawn by our five year old daughter of her with her hoped for baby sister

I slept the restless sleep of a heart breaking and grief expected.

The bleeding grew worse and the pains increased.

I kissed my love before he walked out the door for another day of work, his arms wrapping me close in unspoken words of shared tears.

I watched our three little loves laugh and love and live, the absence of you growing heavier and harder.

I had been carrying you here in the safety of my womb and here I was waiting for one last goodbye.

I rushed to the bathroom as your arrival weighed me down and with one final sigh of pains and tears and grief I felt you leave my womb...

empty...

broken...

torn.

I stared at you, tiny and lifeless, as the emptiness of my womb made my knees tremble and ache.

I scooped you out of the water and carefully, tenderly, gently placed you in a tiny cup with lid tightly wound closed.

And then I held you in my arms, the first and last time here on earth.

You were two little bumps where arms were waiting to be formed and a tiny body curled into a C, cradled in my earthly arms while your soul rested safe in the arms of Christ.

You were here, but you were there.

You were born lifeless into my arms, but born to eternal life in the only arms that heal and comfort and restore.

I held onto you, our Hope baby, for just a moment in time, but the real Hope you remind me of already I will hold onto forever.

Now, my arms are as empty as my womb and my heart broken, but hearts can be mended and emptiness filled by the  one Hope that is an anchor for the soul.

As the rains flood and the storm rages, He comes, sure and steadfast, to bind up all wounds and comfort all tears.

I miss you.  I will always miss you.

But I know where you rest, where I will meet you once more.

You rest in the arms of the only Hope that gives life without end and love without fail.

One day, I will see you for real, fully restored and fully alive...right at the feet of the One whose arms will always hold us both.

 

God Is Still Good

I awoke from a restless sleep, body weary from frequent night time wakings and soul even more weary from the hard stuff that just kept coming.

I grumbled and moaned, dragging my feet and wishing more and more as the minutes passed to curl up in a corner and shut it all out.

And then the bleeding started, heaping burning coals on my already aching heart.  Every trip to the bathroom confirmed my worst fears: the Lord who gives sometimes also takes away.

I knew this truth and that, really, every good and perfect gift belongs to Him in the first place...but I had always feared the taking. 

As tears fell, I felt my heart being emptied right along with my womb.

To say we wanted and loved this baby should be obvious, but the way my heart is breaking still catches me off guard.

I had dreamed of watching our four children run and laugh and live, imagining out youngest as the piece that made our family whole.

But now?  The dream is broken and my womb is empty.  And it just hurts.

Two days later I sat in a sterile urgent care room listening to the doctor confirm our fears once more.  As he spoke, the tears in his eyes told more compassion than words alone.

Then, in the silence after he walked out and I waited to be discharged, I said goodbye.

Goodbye to hopes and dreams and a future that will never be.

Goodbye to the tiniest little life that had already captured a huge piece of this mother's heart.

And then I felt something so unexpected.

Peace.

While sorrow like sea billows rolled, His peace like a river attended my soul.

An unchanging, unfathomable, pure and simple peace.

Even as my heart breaks, I know this one thing remains: He is still God and He is still good.

His promises are still sure and He is still here, walking out on the water in the middle of the storm arms stretched out and a stillness surrounding His light that still shines in the darkness.

I don't understand why and everything in me wants this baby back.

But none of it changes who He is.

And so, even while it hurts and even when it's hard, I will praise Him for all that He is today, tomorrow, and always.

 

"Oh, taste and see that the LORD is good! 

Blessed is the man who takes refuge in Him!"

(Psalm 34:8)

Bigger Picture Moments: Softly & Tenderly

Softly and tenderly, he holds her hand, caresses her face, and kisses her lips.  Her eyes blink and she moans, as if to say, "I love you too". 

Her body is failing and she waits, with arms and legs too weak to move and words that no longer come.  We came to say goodbye and, oh, how it hurts. 

Softly and tenderly, we sing the hymns she so loves, the sweet melody filling the room with an unexpected peace.  For in the eb and flow of the melody, there is hope.

My daughter curls up in my arms, with her heart exposed in the tears glistening her eyes and the way she clings to me.  She listens to my voice, but, the girl who always has a song to sing and a dance to perform, can't seem to find her own. 

Softly and tenderly, we sing to the grandma we love of Jesus who loves us, who is strong when we are weak.  The simple truth of a childhood favorite calms her whimpers and relaxes her shaking arm. 

Friends come to join our circle, their voices and the plucking tune of a guitar blending perfectly with ours.  The room heavy with grief is covered with grace from the God whose power is displayed throughout the universe. 

Softly and tenderly, the melody changes as we remember that death was overcome and this is not the end.  We say goodbye for now, but there is One who binds us together calling her home where there are no more goodbyes. 

We gather round closer to her bedside as the music fades, hands joined together.  With heavy hearts, we lift both praises and sorrows to the One who knows and cares for every one of our needs, grateful for the hope and joy that can only be found in Him. 

Softly and tenderly, one by one, we say goodbye, until we meet again.  Kissing her forehead and holding her hand, I look into the eyes of the grandma I have loved, one last time. 

Slowly, I walk away and wonder if I said all the words I wanted to say.  I hold back tears, but my body is quivering with grief from too many goodbyes in too short a time. 

Softly and tenderly, my husband leans in to kiss her too and I watch as he whispers his goodbye.  As he walks away, I see the tears he is fighting against, trying to be strong, while his heart is as heavy as my own. 

My daughter gently grabs my hand and looks into my eyes with a longing to understand it all and a need to say her own goodbye.  I lift her into my arms, watching as she kisses her and listening as she whispers so sweetly, "I love you, grandma". 

Softly and tenderly, my son places his hand in mine, asking me without words to help him say goodbye too.  He follows his sisters example and I can barely see through the tears clouding my eyes as he whispers his own "I love you, grandma". 

Walking out that door is one of the hardest things I've ever done.  It never, ever gets easier, but it always, always makes His hope sweeter. 

Because, softly and tenderly, I remember, through tear-stained cheeks and grief-torn heart, that hope changes everything.  And, oh, how I look forward to that day when pain and sorrow will be no more. 

Hope Mingled With Grief

photo credit

Hope. 

How do you hold onto hope when it hurts too much?

What does it mean to hope even in the storms? 

Where is hope when all seems lost?

Just as my eyelids were beginning to droop and our littlest one was nursing to sleep curled up in my arms last night, I read words that brought me back to the days of waiting rooms and sad goodbyes.

My husband's grandma has lived a rich and full life, but how do you say goodbye to someone you wish you had known all your life, who has loved you in such a short time with a deep and unconditional love, who has embraced you as her own and encouraged you even as she struggled to do the daily tasks you so often take for granted?

"But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope."

(1 Thessalonians 4:13)

I read these words, but still I wonder: how is it possible for hope to be mingled with grief?

"For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have fallen asleep."

(1 Thessalonians 4:14)

I know my husband's grandma awaits a joyful celebration in heaven, because she knows the One who died and rose again.  The hope of heaven draws her near to Him...but far from those who love and have been loved by her here on earth.

So, we weep that she will no longer be here with us, but we rejoice that she will soon be with the Lord, for all eternity, where sin and death and tears and pain are no more.  Her body will be fully healed and she will be sitting at the feet of Jesus, gazing upon His glory.

This is hope mingled with grief, a time for weeping and a time for rejoicing. 

But, even if I wasn't sure that the hope of heaven awaited her, could I still grieve with hope?

"Then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we will always be with the Lord."

(1 Thessalonians 4:17)

And so we will always be with the Lord.  Oh, what hope is found in those words, to know that when we know the Son, we can know the Father and that there will be a day when we will be with Him for all eternity. 

Matthew Henry says "This hope is more than enough to balance all our griefs upon account of any of the crosses of the present time."  And so, we do no weep as the world weeps, as those who have no hope of a better life after this, but hold onto the hope of heaven that awaits us one day.

"All grief for the death of friends is far from being unlawful; we may weep at least for ourselves if we do not weep for them, weep for own loss, though it may be their fain. Yet we must not be immoderate in our sorrows..." (Matthew Henry)

Yes, we can weep, but we don't continue to hold onto grief instead of holding onto hope.  That would look like we have no hope, but our hope is not in this world.  Our hope is built on nothing less than Jesus' blood and righteousness.  His blood covers our sin and opens wide heavens doors to those who open wide His gift and embrace life in Him. 

And so, I may rejoice, come what may, just as Job did, even when everything he held dear on this earth was taken away.

"For I know that my Redeemer lives, and at the last he will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been thus destroyed, yet in my flesh I shall see God, whom I shall see for myself, and my eyes shall behold, and not another. My heart faints within me!" (Job 19:25-27)

***

For more about HOPE, my One Word this year, check out these posts:

When Hope Changes Everything

{Broken & Mended} Truth Reminders: Psalm 42:11

Hope That Is Grounded

The Weekend Brew: My Safe Place

One Word 2013: Hope

Bigger Picture Moments: A (Sort-Of) Farewell

photo credit

I opened up my newsfeed this morning, all ready to be inspired and encouraged by one of my favorite writing communities when I saw this post.  My heart sank and my breath stopped short when I read the words "A Finale".  I don't know if I can ever fully put into words what this community has meant for me, but I will try...

I've been along for the ride from the beginning, waiting with anticipation when its creation was first hinted. Those first few weeks, I linked up with caution, wondering if my words were good enough to be found among the words of these amazing writers. 

In truth, I still hesitate with every post I write, because there's always this fear of what others will think and if my words are good and right.  But, ultimately, I write for an audience of One and His is the only approval that is worth seeking.  

When I first started writing my own Bigger Picture Moments, I was struggling to get out of bed every morning.  There was a long period where I didn't write at all, because the words were just too hard to write.  I was barely staying afloat through the raging storms that were grief, postpartum depression and anxiety, and post-traumatic stress. 

Once the words started to come, I opened up my heart as I shared the ups and downs of my journey with this community of writers.  I was overwhelmed by the women here who began to share their own stories and open up their hearts to me, a women they only knew through words on a computer screen.  These women gave me a safe place to heal and grow as a writer, a mom, a wife, a friend, a daughter. 

But, while this is a finale for Bigger Picture Blogs, it is not the end of friendships cultivated through blog posts or finding the bigger picture in the simple moments of life.  I've already connected with many of these amazing women beyond our blogs and look forward to continuing to share our lives through the beauty of the internet.  And I will continue to write my own Bigger Picture Moments as the words come, because it's in the simple moments of life where God teaches me and grows me the most and if I don't stop to smell the roses and embrace the moments I'm going to miss them. 


 

{Bigger Picture Poetry} New Memories Blossom

 Photo credit: luz

It was the day after Easter,

the Monday after hope was found

in an empty tomb

and a risen Savior.

My heart ached

for the one I loved

who never rose again,

but whose body lay cold

beneath the dirt and the grass

and the stone that showed

a mere dash where he

had once breathed

and danced

and laughed

and lived.

Three years later,

my heart still breaks,

sometimes fresh as the day

he breathed his last.

I fight for memories

of joy and love

and life well lived.

And wonder when

it will stop being so hard.

It was the day after Easter

that our firstborn

the daughter who is so much like me

and yet so much like her,

the one who dances and sings

as though the whole world is her stage,

whispers to her daddy

a hunger and longing

to know Truth and grace

and to unwrap the gift

found in the blood of the cross

and the joy of the empty tomb.

She wants to enjoy that gift,

to open her heart

and let Him in,

to confess with her mouth

and believe in her heart

that He is not just God and Son,

but Savior and Messiah.

As new life blossoms

on trees waking from their winter slumber

and snow melting gives way to green grass,

new memories blossom

in a four year old girl

unwrapping the most precious gift

and claiming it as her own.

Hope covers the still aching wounds

and mends broken hearts

as tears give way to dancing

and we join angels in singing

for one more lost sheep

found and redeemed

and forever His.

Linking up with Bigger Picture Blogs to find meaning in the word plant with Poetry.

 

When Hope Changes Everything

photo credit

Sometimes you're going about your day to day living when grief hits you like a tidal wave and knocks you clear off your feet.  And you remember that day as clear as the sun shining through open windows on the first spring day after a long winter.

That was my Saturday and, somehow, in between the darkness and emptiness of Good Friday and the joy and hope of Easter Sunday, it made sense.  This is what Lisa-Jo called Saturday living.  It's the in between, the silence of Saturday, that is deafening and heart breaking...just like losing someone so dear and near to your heart.  

It was on the drive home from my parents' house, after a busy day of shopping, visiting, egg hunting, Easter basket finding, and family meal eating, that it hit me.  The roads were wet as the rain fell and we stopped to fill up with gas when our five month old littlest one begged to be filled up with more of momma's milk before continuing our trek home.  As I pulled into the gas station, a wave of memories came.

***

It was the day before Easter, the Saturday in between, three years ago that we drove home from my grandparents' home, now filled with new life and new memories as my parents call it their own.  I dragged my feet out the door, a huge piece of my heart left behind in that room where my grandpa lay laboring for his every breath.  The weight of death was heavy in that room as I said goodbye that night, knowing that it would probably be the last time I held his hand, kissed his cheeks, and hugged him close.

I don't remember if it was raining or if the road was blurry from the tears in my eyes.  But I do remember my son's hunger cries.  Our second born, now three and a half, was the same age as our littlest one.  Every night that week we drove home from my grandparents' home, weary from the weight of what we didn't want to admit was to come.  And every night, without fail, we had to pause on our journey home to calm our littlest one with momma's milk.

I sat in the front passenger seat, my five month old son cradled in my arms, weeping as the milk flowed and my son went limp in my arms with sleep and a full belly.  Because I knew, without admitting it out loud or even in my thoughts, that my grandpa's body was growing limp with a different kind of sleep. 

I cried myself to sleep every night that week and Easter morning I woke up before the sun rose and immediately called my mom.  "Go to church...because you already said goodbye.  It won't be long..." she told me, as he held onto life for one day more.  We sat through the resurrection service that day, celebrating the risen Son, while my heart broke for the grandpa I loved who would never rise again.

***

I can't forget those days, the pain, the tears, the weight of it all, no matter how hard I try.  I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else that week and I don't regret sitting at his bedside, holding his hand close, and whispering my last goodbye.

But sometimes those memories are so fresh and clear they overshadow the joy-filled memories of a life lived well.  And I fight to remember the way he laughed from the deepest part of his soul, the way he walked with long and purposeful strides, the way his hands shook as he held me in his embrace, the way his steadfast love made me feel secure and safe.

This Saturday, as the memories washed over me as fresh and clear as that day three years ago, I wept again, held in my husband's strong arms.  "I'm starting to forget...and I don't want to forget..." I whispered through sobs that shook my body.

It scares me when all I can remember are his last days, because I don't want to forget who he was when he was full of life.  I want to forget the pain and tears and hold onto the joy and years of life we shared with him.

***

There's something about Saturday living, filled with fresh tears and old wounds that still ache, that make the empty tomb on resurrection Sunday that much more precious.  Because I know that Friday's grief and Saturday's silence were not the end of the story.  The hope of Easter really does change everything.  

I imagine walking to the tomb that morning, fresh tears falling onto the dust and dirt of the road there.  I am broken and weary, empty and hurting.  It doesn't make sense, why He, the promised Messiah, had to die.  I wonder what to do next, where to go from here.

And then, I see it: the empty tomb.  The stone, which took many soldiers to move into place, has been rolled away from the opening and the cloths our Savior was carefully wrapped with lie vacant.  An angel appears just as I begin to wonder at what this all means and answers the question I haven't even asked yet.

He is not here.  He has risen.

Oh what wonder!  Oh what joy!  Now it makes sense.  Weeping gives way to dancing as I realize that death no longer holds the power it once did.  I can now open the gift He prepared for His people before He even spoke the world into existence.  This gift is hope of life everlasting and joy unending, tears washed away and pain no more. 

It's this hope I hold onto when the pain of those memories takes my breath away.  It's this hope that carries me through the fire and water and leads me forward to a place of abundance.  It's this hope that fills the darkness with light and mends broken hearts, one day at a time. 

Because hope really does change everything.


 

{Broken & Mended} Truth Reminder: Isaiah 40:31

“But those who wait on the LORD 

Shall renew their strength; 

They shall mount up with wings like eagles, 

They shall run and not be weary, 

They shall walk and not faint.” 

(Isaiah 40:31)

I've heard this verse so many times, but often wondered what it really means to mount or soar like eagles.  Eagles have a very large wing span, so it takes a lot of energy to flap their wings.  According to scientists, Gerrard and Bortolotti, "The energy needed to maintain a bird in flat soaring or gliding flight is much less, perhaps a 20th or less the power needed for flapping.  Therefore, eagles will always choose to soar or glide when possible."  So, instead of trying to fly by its own strength or energy, an eagle uses the wind or air to soar.  In the same way, when we rest or wait on the Lord, we are using His strength to soar. 

I just love the image the eagle creates in this verse, because I know how often, like the eagle, it just takes too much energy to try to flap my own wings.  But, where an eagle will always choose to soar, too often I refuse, instead trying to use up my own energy, which is far less than what I need to really soar through life's trials and storms.  Matthew Henry says, "To those who are sensible of their weakness, and ready to acknowledge they have no might, God does in a special manner increase strength; for, when we are weak in ourselves, then are we strong in the Lord."  When I acknowledge my weaknesses, that is when I see just how strong He is and when I too can mount up with wings like eagles. 

It never ceases to amaze me how God reveals truths like this just when I need them.  It was three years ago, on the Monday before Easter, that my grandfather was taken by ambulance and the week that followed began the hardest journey of grief I've ever had to walk.  The one thing that carried me through that week and the flood of grief that continues to catch me off guard is the hope I have in truth reminders like this.  I know that His grace really is sufficient and that His power is made perfect in my weaknesses.  I will rejoice then, even in my weakness, for I know, as Isaiah 40:28 says, He is the everlasting God who does not faint or grow weary and that strength is mine by the blood of the lamb. 

*** 

 

This blog post is part of a series of posts I will be sharing on Sundays during Session 2 of (in)courager community groups to encourage the women I am honored to be ministering to and leading in the Broken & Mended: Hope in the Midst of Postpartum Depression group.  Each week will include a Truth Reminder from His words that gives hope of healing and mending in the midst of postpartum depression.

 

A Year of Bigger Picture Moments: 2012

 

 Photo credit: Kelly Colgan Azar

For the past week, I've spent a lot of time looking back on the past...not to relive the hard moments and dwell on the heart breaks, but to learn from the past in order to embrace and move forward in the future.

Last Sunday, we attended a church near my parent's home where the pastor was preaching on new year's resolutions. I love these truths I wrote down in my sermon notes: "Learn from your failures and celebrate your successes...Successes come from not only the knowledge of your past, and a desire, but also the willingness to be disciplined in your future."

So, I look back on the past in order to move forward in the future...and I take the lessons I've learned to continue growing and changing as I embrace another year of new beginnings.  Here are my top five Bigger Picture Moments from the past year, the ones that have challenged me in the best possible way to love and live this beautiful life I've been given.

1. Is God Really Enough?

"...There is anxiety that is a real, medical illness...but there is also anxiety that is a real, spiritual illness.  Deep in my heart there is a lie I've believed for far too long: God is not really enough for me...."

2.  My Story, HIS Story

"...This space might be about me, because it is written by me and about my life...but it is even more than that.  It is about the work that He continues to do in me..."

3. To Love Like Him

"...He knows my faults and my mess...but He also knows my heart.  He knows how I long for Him and how, no matter how much I fail, I keep running to Him with a repentant heart..."

4. Rooted & Grounded In Love

"...He whispers those three words again as the storm passes and reminds me that his love is a choice he makes day in and day out.  He knows that love is more than a feeling, more than a fleeting thought..."

5. 5 for 5: Age

"...Because as much as pictures speak a thousand words, hands are like a glimpse into the past and this photo of four generations of hands tells more of a story than any our smiling faces would..."

Linking up with Corinne and Bigger Picture Blogs as we look back on the Best of 2012 Bigger Picture Moments. 

 

A Year In Review: 2012

Dear 2012,

2011 was the year of blessings through raindrops, but you were the year of rejoicing always, no matter what trials I faced.  You brought joy in the midst of tears as I said goodbye to another grandparent.  The memories of the 28 years I was blessed to know and love my great grandma are bittersweet, but coming together as a family - her legacy - as we cared for her in her last days and celebrated her life filled me with a joy I cannot explain. 

You brought unexpected joy as my family welcomed not one, but two new little ones.  I never imagined this would be the year I would become a mom of three...or that his birth would bring healing in such a beautiful and perfect way to my heart.  I still find myself breathless when I wake up in the morning with three children smiling and calling me mommy. 

You changed me and challenged me to grow in ways I didn't expect.  I have cried and grieved and ached...but I have also laughed and rejoiced and embraced this beautiful life I've been given.  You taught me what Paul meant when he said he had learned to be content, because this has been a year of learning to find joy even in the storms. 

You have shown me that even in the storms, there are promises of rainbows on the other side...and that there is One who is not frightened and does not run away from the thunder and lightning, but holds my hand and leads me through, step by step. 

Thank you, 2012, for teaching me what joy really means...but I am ready to say goodbye and embrace the fresh start of a new year. 

So, goodbye 2012...

...and hello 2013.