The response after my last post was overwhelming. It warms my heart so much to know just how many of you are following along this journey with us. When I started this blog I never intended to do anything but help myself journal through what was certain to be one of the most difficult seasons of my life. The fact that so many of you continue to pray for us and shower us with love - the way you are now keeping this new life in your thoughts - is, well, humbling.
So many of you reached out to offer well wishes and congratulations. Many others of you were so overjoyed because you felt as though we deserved this baby. Those comments really got me thinking. They've actually had me thinking for quite some time. After Olive died we were told that we didn't deserve to lose her. When we lost our second baby we were told that, too, was a loss that was undeserved. Over and over these comments hang in my mind, and what I've determined is that if there is anything I don't deserve - it's a baby.
As I've thought about this for the last eleven months or so I've had lots of thoughts swirling around in my head - but could never figure out how exactly I wanted to write this post. I didn't want to seem ungrateful, I don't want to say something to offend someone else, but it weighs so heavy on me that to not say anything at all wouldn't feel right. Then one night this past week I was reading in a book I've referenced before on this blog, The One Year Book of Hope by Nancy Guthrie, and she began to speak to my heart.
"We live in a world that teaches us, "The early bird gets the worm," "No pain no gain," "There is no such thing as a free lunch," and "You get what you pay for." We're comfortable in this world where people get what they deserve, at least in theory. But when pain invades our lives, we quickly say, "I don't deserve this!" and claim our right to justice. Believing we have a right to fairness, we feel violated when we think we haven't gotten what we deserve.
But if we open our eyes to the rest of the world where most people do not live with even the basics of comfort and security that we enjoy, or if we look back on the living conditions and daily-life realities previous generations lived and died with, we realize that to assume we deserve a life free of loss and pain is not only unrealistic, it's arrogant."
I've said it before, and I'll say it again - we were never promised a life without pain. We are certain, absolutely certain that we are all going to die - every single one of us - yet when we lose someone or something, it shocks us. Many have heard me say that I firmly believe all of our days are numbered. Psalm 139:16 tells us, "your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be." Job 14:5 says, "A person's days are determined, you have decreed the number of his months and have set limits he cannot exceed." Whether you believe in God or not - you know you are going to die. You know your children are going to die. Yet, when it happens - if it happens at a time when YOU are not ready for - well, then you don't deserve it, right?
Nancy goes on to say that in a perfect world there is no room for grace. Or mercy. "Suffering may be undeserved, but so is our redemption. A fair world might be a nice place for us to live, but it would only be as nice as we are. And we know we're really not that nice."
"Suffering may be undeserved, BUT SO IS OUR REDEMPTION."
One could say that this new life is part of the brighter side of our story, and I wouldn't disagree with you - but that doesn't mean I deserve it. There are so many couples who have suffered much more than my husband and I have. So many women who, month after month, receive a negative on that pregnancy test. Women who have suffered miscarriages, still births and infant loss - combined - in this one life! Why do I get a baby and they don't? Why do you have living, breathing, healthy children and your neighbor's one and only child is suffering from a life threatening illness? Why is the person who never takes care of them self healthy and free of disease but the marathon runner who is vegetarian is battling cancer? Does one really deserve anything over the other?
Yes, I feel thankful. I am humbled and honored that God has chosen us to have an opportunity to parent another child on this earth. Whether it be for a day, a month or many years - we will happily take on this responsibility no matter what the plan is. But I do not feel as though I deserve it. If there is anything the last (almost) eleven months have taught me it's that I need to stop questioning life. I don't know the answers to the above questions. I will never know the answers. The only questions I should be asking is: How will I respond? Am I responding out of love? Are my actions bringing God glory?
There is much to be learned from our pain. Maybe we didn't deserve to lose Olive, but her life wasn't about what we deserved or what she deserved - it was about bringing glory to God. So is my life. So is yours. That's a tough pill to swallow when you feel like you're at your lowest point. When Olive died I had a choice and I've chosen to glorify God through this journey - and remarkable things have happened, none of which I deserve but all He has freely given.
Saturday, June 13, 2015
Thursday, May 28, 2015
Rainbows
When I think back to my first post I find myself amazed at where this journey has taken us. I started this blog as a way to begin the repair on my broken and fragile heart, and along the way I feel as though I've gotten much more. The kindness of strangers, the community of loss parents that have found me through this blog, the parents I've found through other blogs and resources - and the power of faith and prayer all leave me mesmerized at how God can take one tiny (but mighty) girl and use her life to influence so many.
In my first post I focused on a promise fulfilled by God to Noah. As the waters receded after the flood a dove appeared with an olive branch signifying that there was life after the storm. Today I want to focus on the other promise made shortly thereafter - the covenant made with Noah and for generations to come: the rainbow.
"I have set my rainbow in the clouds, and it will be the sign of the covenant between me and the earth. Whenever I bring clouds over the earth and the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will remember my covenant between me and you and all living creatures of every kind. Never again will the waters become a flood to destroy all life." Genesis 9:13-15
I think about the way God used that first rainbow so long ago and how the covenant has not changed. It reminds me that God keeps His promises and that there is life after the storm.
Rainbows, in the loss world, have a similar meaning. The term "rainbow baby" is used to describe the child that comes after a loss, whether miscarriage, stillbirth or infant loss. A bright rainbow follows the storm (loss) and gives hope and new life. When I was pregnant earlier this year I felt like I was seeing rainbows all the time - it gave me hope that maybe I was indeed pregnant again, either that or God was reminding me that he was still with me in this storm. I was pregnant, and yet the storm thickened with my miscarriage. While heartbroken, my husband and I refused to give up hope.
It can be so easy to misunderstand what God is doing in our lives - I feel as though Olive's life and death are beginning to take on more purpose, and I am seeing things much more clearly than I have before. And while I would do anything to hold that sweet baby in my arms once again, have her here to raise and watch grow, I know that was not part of the plan. I understand that might not make sense to all of you - there are days it still confuses the heck out of me, but I trust that it was for the best (as hard as that can be to say) and trust that God's will is being fulfilled exactly as it was intended. I am finding so much beauty in her life AND her death - it's hard to put into words.
There are certainly mixed emotions that come with every part of this journey. But way back when we decided to remain hopeful, and I specifically chose to try and see the beauty in our circumstances. I am humbled, yet again, at the graciousness of God as He has blessed us with another new life. It has been a rocky first trimester, both physically and emotionally, but we are so thrilled to announce that our second rainbow baby will be joining us later this year. There are so many feelings that come with another healthy pregnancy, but the best way to describe it is by a popular quote that is often shared in the loss community:
It is understood that the beauty of a rainbow does not negate the ravages of any storm. When a rainbow appears, it does not mean that the storm never happened or that we are not still dealing with its aftermath. It means that something beautiful and full of light has appeared in the midst of the darkness and clouds. Storm clouds may still hover, but the rainbow provides a counterbalance of color, energy and hope.
It is my prayer that you join us as our journey continues, as we know it's far from over - Olive's life and death was just the beginning of a really incredible love story. A love story that all of you have grown to become a part of. Thank you - for your love and constant support.
In my first post I focused on a promise fulfilled by God to Noah. As the waters receded after the flood a dove appeared with an olive branch signifying that there was life after the storm. Today I want to focus on the other promise made shortly thereafter - the covenant made with Noah and for generations to come: the rainbow.
"I have set my rainbow in the clouds, and it will be the sign of the covenant between me and the earth. Whenever I bring clouds over the earth and the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will remember my covenant between me and you and all living creatures of every kind. Never again will the waters become a flood to destroy all life." Genesis 9:13-15
I think about the way God used that first rainbow so long ago and how the covenant has not changed. It reminds me that God keeps His promises and that there is life after the storm.
Rainbows, in the loss world, have a similar meaning. The term "rainbow baby" is used to describe the child that comes after a loss, whether miscarriage, stillbirth or infant loss. A bright rainbow follows the storm (loss) and gives hope and new life. When I was pregnant earlier this year I felt like I was seeing rainbows all the time - it gave me hope that maybe I was indeed pregnant again, either that or God was reminding me that he was still with me in this storm. I was pregnant, and yet the storm thickened with my miscarriage. While heartbroken, my husband and I refused to give up hope.
It can be so easy to misunderstand what God is doing in our lives - I feel as though Olive's life and death are beginning to take on more purpose, and I am seeing things much more clearly than I have before. And while I would do anything to hold that sweet baby in my arms once again, have her here to raise and watch grow, I know that was not part of the plan. I understand that might not make sense to all of you - there are days it still confuses the heck out of me, but I trust that it was for the best (as hard as that can be to say) and trust that God's will is being fulfilled exactly as it was intended. I am finding so much beauty in her life AND her death - it's hard to put into words.
There are certainly mixed emotions that come with every part of this journey. But way back when we decided to remain hopeful, and I specifically chose to try and see the beauty in our circumstances. I am humbled, yet again, at the graciousness of God as He has blessed us with another new life. It has been a rocky first trimester, both physically and emotionally, but we are so thrilled to announce that our second rainbow baby will be joining us later this year. There are so many feelings that come with another healthy pregnancy, but the best way to describe it is by a popular quote that is often shared in the loss community:
It is understood that the beauty of a rainbow does not negate the ravages of any storm. When a rainbow appears, it does not mean that the storm never happened or that we are not still dealing with its aftermath. It means that something beautiful and full of light has appeared in the midst of the darkness and clouds. Storm clouds may still hover, but the rainbow provides a counterbalance of color, energy and hope.
It is my prayer that you join us as our journey continues, as we know it's far from over - Olive's life and death was just the beginning of a really incredible love story. A love story that all of you have grown to become a part of. Thank you - for your love and constant support.
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
40 Weeks Later
40 weeks.
40 weeks is how long women are told they "should" expect to be pregnant for. Olive was born at 39 weeks 6 days, one day shy of her due date.
40 weeks.
40 weeks is also how many weeks it's been since that day. While I do realize that you are technically only pregnant for 38 weeks, if you've carried full term, the point I'm getting at is that we've officially grieved her longer than we had her.
That seems so strange to me. Many people would only count the 36 hours she was on this earth, but I gladly and proudly boast that my child was alive and thriving inside of me well before she came earthside. When I think about these 40 weeks I recognize that a lot has changed.
Occasionally I'll go back and read earlier posts on this blog - posts that are filled with sorrow, some that are filled with hope and a couple with a good balance of both. But mainly sorrow. and pain. and hurt.
I have had a number of people tell me that they have enjoyed following our story from the beginning because they've had an opportunity to watch me grow. I have grown. As a parent you take on the responsibility of teaching your children lessons in life and, hopefully, have an opportunity to watch them grow into remarkable adults. I don't have that option, and in our situation, the exact opposite happened. I planned and prepared for what kind of a parent I would be to Olive - I never realized the full potential of what my daughter was going to end up teaching me in the long run.
Often times I catch myself thinking of the person I was before Olive. The people and things that were important to me - where I spent my time and energy. Then my thoughts will turn to the people I have met, the opportunities I've had and the love that has been shown since Olive's death. While I would do anything to cradle that sweet baby in my arms once more, I am also at a place of peace and acceptance for where this road has taken us. I know that might garner some questions. Obviously there is no way to trade in all of the people and moments since her death, so I won't try to put it into words - the only way I can describe it is, "I'm ok" - actually I'm better than OK.
Please don't misunderstand me - I still hurt, I still cry and I still long for the moments I've missed out on - it's not a fair trade no matter how you look at it. But there have been some wonderful blessings that have come from not only her life, but her death.
My marriage is stronger than ever. I always knew I loved my husband - but there is something heartbreakingly beautiful about experiencing tragedy with someone. In our case, I believe we have walked away with a better understanding of each other. We have a new level of respect for our thoughts, feelings and ways we express ourselves. Even after enduring the death of a child, I'm certain we will experience more that will shake us - but we've learned that it will not break us.
I have a greater appreciation for this life. I should start out by saying that I do not, in any way shape or form, go through my day blissfully loving every thing about this life. No - I still have bad days, people still irritate the crap out of me and I have low patience (some things will never change), but I appreciate more. It's more than just admiring a beautiful sunset or seeing spring come to life after a long, harsh winter. It's truly finding beauty in moments and feelings, even tragedy. The "circle of life" has become much more apparent to me and while I feel sadness over life lost too soon, joy over new life and hope for everything in between - there is a peace that comes with accepting God's will as it falls into place. Things don't shake me as much - I know there is someone greater than me in control - especially over the heavy hard stuff that doesn't make sense. And I truly believe something beautiful can come of everything - if we're open to it.
I have a much greater appreciation for the life to come. I know this is controversial to some, but I have never been so sure of anything that I am that this is not the end. It's true that I've begun a new relationship with the Lord through this walk, many of you have witnessed that first hand through this very blog. In no way am I anywhere near being as close to God as I'd like to be. In no way am I anywhere near understanding Him. I don't pray or spend as much time as I should with Him - and I don't give Him near the credit He deserves. But He loves me anyway.
God and I still have a rocky relationship - and to be honest, I kind of like it that way. I don't want to know Him perfectly, not in this life anyway - but I do want to spend this life searching for Him. I never want to feel too comfortable with Him - that's how I felt before Olive was born. God and I were good - He was giving and I was taking, it was the perfect relationship. And then He took and I had nothing to give - and it's the loneliest and most empty I've ever felt - and while I was angry and confused, a deeper desire to draw near Him took over. I brought my broken hallelujahs to Him and He answered. And someday this selfish, desperate body will be restored to glory - and I will know the joy my daughter now knows.
40 weeks later and I'm still sad, but I'm no longer angry. I'm still grieving, but I'm no longer broken. I'm still confused, but I no longer question. It's not that I don't have moments that knock me to the ground - but I get up more quickly now. I recognize in my pain that the sadness, confusion and anger I was feeling were because I was missing out on her. I wanted her longer so that I could have the experience of raising her and watching her grow. In the end I've had to watch myself grow - and while not the ideal situation for this selfish mama, it has been a beautiful thing.
40 weeks is how long women are told they "should" expect to be pregnant for. Olive was born at 39 weeks 6 days, one day shy of her due date.
40 weeks.
40 weeks is also how many weeks it's been since that day. While I do realize that you are technically only pregnant for 38 weeks, if you've carried full term, the point I'm getting at is that we've officially grieved her longer than we had her.
That seems so strange to me. Many people would only count the 36 hours she was on this earth, but I gladly and proudly boast that my child was alive and thriving inside of me well before she came earthside. When I think about these 40 weeks I recognize that a lot has changed.
Occasionally I'll go back and read earlier posts on this blog - posts that are filled with sorrow, some that are filled with hope and a couple with a good balance of both. But mainly sorrow. and pain. and hurt.
I have had a number of people tell me that they have enjoyed following our story from the beginning because they've had an opportunity to watch me grow. I have grown. As a parent you take on the responsibility of teaching your children lessons in life and, hopefully, have an opportunity to watch them grow into remarkable adults. I don't have that option, and in our situation, the exact opposite happened. I planned and prepared for what kind of a parent I would be to Olive - I never realized the full potential of what my daughter was going to end up teaching me in the long run.
Often times I catch myself thinking of the person I was before Olive. The people and things that were important to me - where I spent my time and energy. Then my thoughts will turn to the people I have met, the opportunities I've had and the love that has been shown since Olive's death. While I would do anything to cradle that sweet baby in my arms once more, I am also at a place of peace and acceptance for where this road has taken us. I know that might garner some questions. Obviously there is no way to trade in all of the people and moments since her death, so I won't try to put it into words - the only way I can describe it is, "I'm ok" - actually I'm better than OK.
Please don't misunderstand me - I still hurt, I still cry and I still long for the moments I've missed out on - it's not a fair trade no matter how you look at it. But there have been some wonderful blessings that have come from not only her life, but her death.
My marriage is stronger than ever. I always knew I loved my husband - but there is something heartbreakingly beautiful about experiencing tragedy with someone. In our case, I believe we have walked away with a better understanding of each other. We have a new level of respect for our thoughts, feelings and ways we express ourselves. Even after enduring the death of a child, I'm certain we will experience more that will shake us - but we've learned that it will not break us.
I have a greater appreciation for this life. I should start out by saying that I do not, in any way shape or form, go through my day blissfully loving every thing about this life. No - I still have bad days, people still irritate the crap out of me and I have low patience (some things will never change), but I appreciate more. It's more than just admiring a beautiful sunset or seeing spring come to life after a long, harsh winter. It's truly finding beauty in moments and feelings, even tragedy. The "circle of life" has become much more apparent to me and while I feel sadness over life lost too soon, joy over new life and hope for everything in between - there is a peace that comes with accepting God's will as it falls into place. Things don't shake me as much - I know there is someone greater than me in control - especially over the heavy hard stuff that doesn't make sense. And I truly believe something beautiful can come of everything - if we're open to it.
I have a much greater appreciation for the life to come. I know this is controversial to some, but I have never been so sure of anything that I am that this is not the end. It's true that I've begun a new relationship with the Lord through this walk, many of you have witnessed that first hand through this very blog. In no way am I anywhere near being as close to God as I'd like to be. In no way am I anywhere near understanding Him. I don't pray or spend as much time as I should with Him - and I don't give Him near the credit He deserves. But He loves me anyway.
God and I still have a rocky relationship - and to be honest, I kind of like it that way. I don't want to know Him perfectly, not in this life anyway - but I do want to spend this life searching for Him. I never want to feel too comfortable with Him - that's how I felt before Olive was born. God and I were good - He was giving and I was taking, it was the perfect relationship. And then He took and I had nothing to give - and it's the loneliest and most empty I've ever felt - and while I was angry and confused, a deeper desire to draw near Him took over. I brought my broken hallelujahs to Him and He answered. And someday this selfish, desperate body will be restored to glory - and I will know the joy my daughter now knows.
40 weeks later and I'm still sad, but I'm no longer angry. I'm still grieving, but I'm no longer broken. I'm still confused, but I no longer question. It's not that I don't have moments that knock me to the ground - but I get up more quickly now. I recognize in my pain that the sadness, confusion and anger I was feeling were because I was missing out on her. I wanted her longer so that I could have the experience of raising her and watching her grow. In the end I've had to watch myself grow - and while not the ideal situation for this selfish mama, it has been a beautiful thing.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Small Everyday Moments
The trip had been planned for months. I had been mentally preparing with therapy visits and reaffirmations, but no matter what I had done previously, when I stepped on the plane I was overcome with emotion. There, in row 1, sat a mom and dad with a baby around Olive's age. I turned to my husband, tears forming in the corner of my eyes, "this should be Olive's first plane ride."
We were headed south for a two-part trip. The first leg of the trip was to visit our new niece, born one month prior. The second part of the trip, planned very much on purpose, a four day getaway for the two of us a couple hours north to Charleston where we could reconnect and decompress. I had no idea what to expect, meeting Olive's new cousin without Olive was starting out more difficult than I had planned. We didn't cover this in my therapy visits - how would I deal with a crying baby on the plane ride? I couldn't just put on my running shoes and proclaim I was going out for a morning jog, and make my escape when I was feeling overwhelmed - no, this was not part of the plan.
Lucky for me our seats were at the back of the plane, and the baby didn't make a peep - at least not one I could hear. Whew - that was a close one.
The 2 hour drive from the airport to Savannah was a leisurely one. My husband and I chatted and listened to music, but the signs on the drive indicating that we were getting closer and closer to Savannah were reminding me of the moment I had been eager for and dreading all at the same time. This trip was supposed to look much different. It wasn't just going to be Olive's first plane ride or first trip to the ocean, no, this trip was supposed to be much more. This trip would be a test of our parenting ability - could we travel with a baby? Would she sleep on the plane or make a fuss? How do you check a stroller? Do you rent a car seat at the car rental place or bring yours with you? My sister-in-law and I would share stories of newborn struggles over a hot cup of coffee. We'd exchange stories of our new motherhood experiences in between nursing babies and diaper changes.
What was happening? The panic began to set in. Just as I was about to lose it in the car my husband nudged me to look out the window. There, out the driver's side window, I saw the most beautiful rainbow - full of color and radiance. The tears began again, except this time they were tears of relief - God was there, Olive was in my heart and we would survive this trip.
I definitely had moments of doubt and frustration, and there were moments where I needed to take a breath and recompose myself. I couldn't help but get teary-eyed watching my husband rock our niece to sleep, or picturing us sitting on a blanket with Olive under moss-lined trees as we took a break from the hot Savannah sun. Every day there were moments that reminded me that she was not there physically. The volume of the radio in the rental car - kept much higher than would have been appropriate for a small child, driving with the windows rolled down to let in the warm breeze, eating raw oysters and other shellfish (we never could have gone to that nice of a restaurant with a 7 month old, and had we not lost our second baby - raw fish is a no-no when you're pregnant), late night dinners instead of having to call it an early evening because baby (or mama) needed to sleep. The harsh reality hit me every chance it could get - but I would not let it break me.
God continued to give me signs - for as many reminders of what I was missing, there were equal or more reminders that He was with me and she was OK. I cannot begin to tell you how often I saw a butterfly or the word Olive. Whether it was a butterfly on a scarf in a shop window or the Olive Branch A.M.E. church we passed on our way back to the airport - God knew what I needed when I needed it. I felt His love and her memory in those small everyday moments.
While standing in the ocean, still too cold to swim in but warm enough to dip your toes in, I contemplated whether Olive would have enjoyed the feel of the sand between her toes or let out a cry at the shock of the temperature on her little piggies. Just as I started to feel the emotion well up in my throat, the sun peeked through the clouds. I stood there with my eyes closed, listening to the waves roll back and forth over my ankles and allowed God to embrace me with the heat of the sunshine.
We were headed south for a two-part trip. The first leg of the trip was to visit our new niece, born one month prior. The second part of the trip, planned very much on purpose, a four day getaway for the two of us a couple hours north to Charleston where we could reconnect and decompress. I had no idea what to expect, meeting Olive's new cousin without Olive was starting out more difficult than I had planned. We didn't cover this in my therapy visits - how would I deal with a crying baby on the plane ride? I couldn't just put on my running shoes and proclaim I was going out for a morning jog, and make my escape when I was feeling overwhelmed - no, this was not part of the plan.
Lucky for me our seats were at the back of the plane, and the baby didn't make a peep - at least not one I could hear. Whew - that was a close one.
The 2 hour drive from the airport to Savannah was a leisurely one. My husband and I chatted and listened to music, but the signs on the drive indicating that we were getting closer and closer to Savannah were reminding me of the moment I had been eager for and dreading all at the same time. This trip was supposed to look much different. It wasn't just going to be Olive's first plane ride or first trip to the ocean, no, this trip was supposed to be much more. This trip would be a test of our parenting ability - could we travel with a baby? Would she sleep on the plane or make a fuss? How do you check a stroller? Do you rent a car seat at the car rental place or bring yours with you? My sister-in-law and I would share stories of newborn struggles over a hot cup of coffee. We'd exchange stories of our new motherhood experiences in between nursing babies and diaper changes.
What was happening? The panic began to set in. Just as I was about to lose it in the car my husband nudged me to look out the window. There, out the driver's side window, I saw the most beautiful rainbow - full of color and radiance. The tears began again, except this time they were tears of relief - God was there, Olive was in my heart and we would survive this trip.
I definitely had moments of doubt and frustration, and there were moments where I needed to take a breath and recompose myself. I couldn't help but get teary-eyed watching my husband rock our niece to sleep, or picturing us sitting on a blanket with Olive under moss-lined trees as we took a break from the hot Savannah sun. Every day there were moments that reminded me that she was not there physically. The volume of the radio in the rental car - kept much higher than would have been appropriate for a small child, driving with the windows rolled down to let in the warm breeze, eating raw oysters and other shellfish (we never could have gone to that nice of a restaurant with a 7 month old, and had we not lost our second baby - raw fish is a no-no when you're pregnant), late night dinners instead of having to call it an early evening because baby (or mama) needed to sleep. The harsh reality hit me every chance it could get - but I would not let it break me.
God continued to give me signs - for as many reminders of what I was missing, there were equal or more reminders that He was with me and she was OK. I cannot begin to tell you how often I saw a butterfly or the word Olive. Whether it was a butterfly on a scarf in a shop window or the Olive Branch A.M.E. church we passed on our way back to the airport - God knew what I needed when I needed it. I felt His love and her memory in those small everyday moments.
While standing in the ocean, still too cold to swim in but warm enough to dip your toes in, I contemplated whether Olive would have enjoyed the feel of the sand between her toes or let out a cry at the shock of the temperature on her little piggies. Just as I started to feel the emotion well up in my throat, the sun peeked through the clouds. I stood there with my eyes closed, listening to the waves roll back and forth over my ankles and allowed God to embrace me with the heat of the sunshine.
She was OK.
I was OK.
We are going to be OK.
I was OK.
We are going to be OK.
Friday, March 6, 2015
Am I Enough?
"Am I enough?" I asked my husband one lonely Saturday night while lying in bed. I had hit rock bottom, and felt like I was spinning out of control. Two days prior I had woken up and realized that our second baby was also going to make it to heaven before we'd have the chance to bring he or she home. The reality that hit me that night was tougher than I could have imagined.
I may never bring a baby home.
Suffering another loss on top of the crippling one that we had just gone through a mere 6 months prior seemed like a cruel joke. Just weeks before my husband and I got the news that both terrified and excited me - baby #2 was on the way. I knew I was pregnant - I had another special and peaceful dream, there were direct signs that it was coming - and even though I knew what I was going to see when I looked down at that stick, it still was a surreal moment. Tears flowed, I hit my knees to give thanks and then ran to tell my husband that our dream of having another child was coming true.
I went through a slew of emotions - excited, anxious, frustrated and then giddy. Day after day, new feelings. Shortly after finding out I was pregnant I shared the news with some other mamas that have suffered loss - there were a handful of them that were also expecting, and I wanted to share my joy too. There were 4 of us that were going to be mommies again, I was thrilled - for us all!
Until I tried to fall asleep that night, that is. The only thought I could think of was, "1 in 4 pregnancies ends in loss." How awful. It was in that moment that I realized that no pregnancy of mine would ever be the same. Ever.
I guess statistics don't lie. Weeks later I found myself curled up in a ball on the couch, crying my eyes out to episodes of Parenthood, realizing that I was 0 for 2. What an awful feeling. At least my babies have each other, I kept telling myself as I scrolled through newsfeeds of friends announcing due dates right around when I would have been expecting again.
Babies were being made. Babies were being born. Mine were dying.
While different, the two losses have brought out the same gut-wrenching feelings. I'd like to say, since I've been here before, that I'm handling them better - but I fear I'm not. Or wasn't. Depends on the day, I suppose.
That night, while bawling my eyes out to my husband, I wanted to know if I was enough. If we never brought home any babies, would I be enough for the rest of our lives? That question lingered on my mind and in my heart for days. Until I realized God was asking me the same thing.
"Am I Enough?"
"If the only babies I ever gave you are the ones you've had to say good-bye to, will you still trust me?"
"If the only chance to know your children is when you get to heaven to meet them, do you believe in my promises to be faithful to you and bring you home to meet them?"
"Do you believe that I still love you and have not left you, even in this?"
"Am I Enough?"
A month later and I can say that I'm getting there. I wish I could tell you that my response has been, "Yes, Lord - you are enough," but it hasn't. I'm not there yet - I don't know how long it will take, but I will tell you that I won't stop trying.
O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
and feel the promise is not vain
that morn shall tearless be.
George Matheson, "O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go"
I believe that hope is greater than fear. I believe that love can mend broken hearts. I believe that this will make me a better, stronger mother. In the end, I believe that none of this will matter when I see my babies and we get to spend our forever together.
I may never bring a baby home.
Suffering another loss on top of the crippling one that we had just gone through a mere 6 months prior seemed like a cruel joke. Just weeks before my husband and I got the news that both terrified and excited me - baby #2 was on the way. I knew I was pregnant - I had another special and peaceful dream, there were direct signs that it was coming - and even though I knew what I was going to see when I looked down at that stick, it still was a surreal moment. Tears flowed, I hit my knees to give thanks and then ran to tell my husband that our dream of having another child was coming true.
I went through a slew of emotions - excited, anxious, frustrated and then giddy. Day after day, new feelings. Shortly after finding out I was pregnant I shared the news with some other mamas that have suffered loss - there were a handful of them that were also expecting, and I wanted to share my joy too. There were 4 of us that were going to be mommies again, I was thrilled - for us all!
Until I tried to fall asleep that night, that is. The only thought I could think of was, "1 in 4 pregnancies ends in loss." How awful. It was in that moment that I realized that no pregnancy of mine would ever be the same. Ever.
I guess statistics don't lie. Weeks later I found myself curled up in a ball on the couch, crying my eyes out to episodes of Parenthood, realizing that I was 0 for 2. What an awful feeling. At least my babies have each other, I kept telling myself as I scrolled through newsfeeds of friends announcing due dates right around when I would have been expecting again.
Babies were being made. Babies were being born. Mine were dying.
While different, the two losses have brought out the same gut-wrenching feelings. I'd like to say, since I've been here before, that I'm handling them better - but I fear I'm not. Or wasn't. Depends on the day, I suppose.
That night, while bawling my eyes out to my husband, I wanted to know if I was enough. If we never brought home any babies, would I be enough for the rest of our lives? That question lingered on my mind and in my heart for days. Until I realized God was asking me the same thing.
"Am I Enough?"
"If the only babies I ever gave you are the ones you've had to say good-bye to, will you still trust me?"
"If the only chance to know your children is when you get to heaven to meet them, do you believe in my promises to be faithful to you and bring you home to meet them?"
"Do you believe that I still love you and have not left you, even in this?"
"Am I Enough?"
A month later and I can say that I'm getting there. I wish I could tell you that my response has been, "Yes, Lord - you are enough," but it hasn't. I'm not there yet - I don't know how long it will take, but I will tell you that I won't stop trying.
O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
and feel the promise is not vain
that morn shall tearless be.
George Matheson, "O Love That Wilt Not Let Me Go"
I believe that hope is greater than fear. I believe that love can mend broken hearts. I believe that this will make me a better, stronger mother. In the end, I believe that none of this will matter when I see my babies and we get to spend our forever together.
Monday, February 23, 2015
Olive the Person
Grief does funny things to you, and at really strange times. There were so many babies born around the time I had Olive that it's hard to not wonder, as I gaze through Facebook each day, what she would look like, how she would be progressing developmentally and how different our lives would be. But as much as I miss not having a baby to fill our arms and fill our home - it's not the baby version of Olive that I miss the most.
I've told many people (most frequently my therapist) that I didn't just lose a baby when Olive died. When Olive died I lost the innocence that comes with being a new mother. I lost the toddler years, and the awkward preteen years. The disgruntled teenage years where she would slam her door and tell us just how unfair we were being over the simplest thing. The college and grown up years where she would realize we were right all along and make her way back to thinking we were cool again.
As I was sitting in church yesterday I noticed a mother with her two daughters a couple pews ahead of me. Her girls were maybe 7 and 9, and the older one would glance up at her mother with such a loving gaze. After awhile she put her hymnal down and climbed up on her mother's lap- she was tall and lanky, but her mother still found a way to cradle her sweet girl in her arms. I realized after awhile that I was crying (which isn't uncommon for me in church). It was so beautiful and yet so painful.
I often find myself wondering what kind of person Olive would have become. It's common to think about whether or not she would have blue eyes or curly hair like mom, but lately it's not the common things I long to know about her. What instrument would she have played? Would she have enjoyed watching baseball and hockey with her dad and I, or would she much preferred to curl up with a good book? Does her forehead wrinkle or does she chew on her pencil when she's concentrating on her homework? Is she an animal lover or good with kids? Would she be a nurse or an engineer like dad? What does she do in her spare time- cook like me or would she prefer to go out to eat and have someone cook for her?
When she's sad, would I have come over to her apartment with a whole cheesecake and two forks? Or would she have rather spent the afternoon doing a little retail therapy?
WHO would she have been?
That is who I find myself missing these days, not my baby, but my daughter. I miss the moments I would have shared with her. I miss not having the chance to watch her grow up into an amazing woman, sister, wife, mother, friend.
I know there is a greater reason, a greater purpose, that her life was only meant for us to have her as a baby, but it's hard not to long for those moments- selfishly, for us- not really for her.
I believe that Olive is safe and secure in the loving arms of her Savior. I believe that it was better for Olive (as it is for all of us) to be in heaven rather than here on earth. That's a hard things to say as a mother. Obviously, as you can tell by this post, I long for the earthly moments that we are missing. I do truly believe she is experiencing a better life than I could have ever given her. But since I'm here and she's there it makes this life that much more difficult to navigate.
I know the time we spend here on earth is brief compared to eternity in paradise, but the thought of going through life without her- without all of the mother/daughter moments I was so looking forward to just hurts my heart. Praying tonight that God would fill that emptiness back up with His love and comfort. And, with a glimmer of the peace that my daughter is experiencing now - a peace that someday I'll experience with her.
Saturday, February 7, 2015
The Good Old Days
After my last post about pausing, I must admit I started to drop the ball a bit. I was feeling good, I had basically gone through almost an entire month of "better days" and started to take those days for granted. People have been telling me how strong I was, how much I had grown- and I was starting to really believe it. I was starting to feel like I had this. How foolish of me.
Now, I'm not saying I haven't shown strength in my situation at times, or that I haven't grown over the last 6 months. In fact, I was recently thanking God for just that- not necessarily for how much I've grown but for how much my relationship with him had grown. Six months ago I was angry, I was doubting God's very existence at times. I was determined to stay rooted and pick up my bible every night, but when I did I would find myself with more questions. I kept reading and kept questioning, and soon enough began finding the answers I was so desperately looking for- maybe not all of them were being answered exactly as I thought they would be, but I was finding comfort and peace that I hadn't felt in a long time.
I was feeling so much better that I actually asked God to give me a little glimmer of the sadness back.
Say what?
Why on earth would anyone want to be sad?
I should clarify -It's not that I wanted to be sad, but the sadness was one of those feelings that made me feel close to Olive. Having so many days in a row without that desperate sadness was making me feel like I was losing a piece of her. And, if we're being honest, it's in my empty moments that I feel I learn and grow the most. I was beginning to think that dealing with her loss was getting easier, and that made me uncomfortable.
Last week I was brought to my knees. What a week. Emotionally, physically, professionally and mentally I was rocked to the core. Now, do I believe that God granted my wish of heartache and sadness because I asked for it? Not exactly, but I do believe he knew what was coming. Most of what I experienced last week was self-induced. I didn't have to let the stress of work come home with me. I didn't have to let the not so nice things said by someone close to me linger on as long as they did. When I woke up on the wrong side of the bed I chose to carry those feelings with me throughout the rest of my day. I allowed so many of the feelings and emotions that I could control get in the way, that when the circumstances that were out of my control came, I was already a mess and feeling defeated.
God, in his infinite wisdom, did throw me some extra curveballs this week. Ones that left me, once again, asking all of the "why" questions that I just so recently reminded myself aren't the the right things to ask. It's just human nature, I suppose, needing to have all the answers. The need for justification, thinking that we are owed explanations, it's all a part of the sinful way we lack faith that God is still in control, still working to our advantage even when the circumstances would seem to tell us otherwise.
I laid in bed this morning thinking about life before loss, how much easier it all seemed. A couple years ago I was excelling at work, had success like I had never experienced before, my husband and I were traveling, I was in the best shape and health of my life and we were planning and preparing for what our future would look like. Those were also days when I was dutifully going to church on Sunday's and felt my relationship with God was in a good place- I was working my tail off and he was staying out of my way. How could I complain? Life was grand.
How many of us find ourselves there so often? We never need God when times are good. But boy oh boy do we let him have it when our good old days come to a screeching halt. We turn our backs to him when times get rough because a good and gracious God would never let these bad things happen. And if he did, well then, he's just a jerk.
We pray for for health and healing. We pray for success and blessing. No one prays for cancer or that they continue to live paycheck to paycheck. We pray for world peace and strong leaders. No one prays for terrorism or calamity. We pray for strong healthy babies and moms. No one prays that their pregnancy ends with a funeral. It's not that those are the wrong things to pray for- God tells us to bring our requests before him. He does not promise to give us everything we ask for though.
I've been trying to change the way I pray. Rather than being so specific and almost demanding in my requests, I've begun to change it up a bit. Nancy Guthrie writes this in her book, The One Year Book of Hope:
"Often I see the body of Christ put so much into pursuing God for physical healing. With great boldness and passion and persistence, we cry out to God, begging for healing of the body. And in these prayers, there is often a tiny P.S. added at the end where we say, "If it be your will." But shouldn't we cry out to God with boldness and passion and persistence in a prayer that says, "God, would you please accomplish your will? Would you give me a willing heart to embrace your plan and your purpose? Would you mold me into an instrument that you can use to accomplish what you have in mind?" And then, perhaps, we could add a tiny P.S. that says, "If that includes healing, we will be grateful."
My good old days feel a long ways away at times, especially when I've never felt this much emptiness, heartache and doubt all at once. This past week I found myself on my knees once again, faith shaken and mind stretching to understand what God was doing in my life. I had just asked God for what I wanted - more emotion, feelings that would help me grow more and experiences I could continue to learn from. I got just that- just not the way I wanted. I guess I hadn't been clearer with my instructions to God. Been there?
In response to what he brought to my life this past week I tried something different. Instead of asking for what I wanted (after already asking and not getting what I wanted in the way I wanted it) I tried the above way of praying instead. I was tempted to pray, "Ok God, that's not what I meant- thanks for the quick little test, but now I need you to make it all better. You can heal this, I need a miracle". Instead I got on my kees and thanked him for the blessing he had provided. I asked him for understanding and patience. I told him that I trusted him with my life and my death, and with the lives and deaths of those I love. I asked him to open my heart to what he has planned for us, for our present and our future.
But I found you can't just pray it once and expect results, it's a prayer that needs to be prayed every day. If it's not, you fall right back into the woe is me mentality that I so quickly found myself in, once again, today.
I'm hurt. I'm confused. I don't get how much one person has to continue to endure for it to be enough. But then I'm reminded of how much He loves me, and that this life is just a small piece of the puzzle. I'm reminded that my suffering is understood by the One who suffered much more that me so that I wouldn't have to suffer forever. Oh, what a difficult truth to live though.
If you're there, if you're in this same place - I understand. Our stories are different, I'm sure, but your suffering- your circumstances don't define you. They don't mean that God is ignoring you or picking on you. But He very well may be testing you. That doesn't make him a jerk, it doesn't mean he no longer cares. In fact, it's just the opposite - He is in control even when you feel like it's all crumbling before you. It's not your circumstances that matter, but how you respond to them. This world's version of the good old days have nothing on what's to come. Hang in there, friend.
And if you're not sure how to get there, you can pray Nancy's prayer:
Lord, so often I run ahead of you, insistent that I know what is best and what you would want for my life. Teach me to trust in your love for me and your great wisdom so I will want your will for my life, no matter what. Amen.
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