Life After Miscarriage: Every Storm Runs Out of Rain

She gave me this painting back in April when I was drenched from standing in the middle of a torrential down pour that felt like it might never end.

My heart dripping and my flooded, she had prayed peace and healing over the colors and words she so lovingly spread out over the white of canvas and pages of His Word from James 1, a visual prayer layered with truth and hope.

And that painting stood as an encouragement that my suffering wouldn't be in vain

and

that every storm runs out of rain.

I kept it close day in and day out for months, reading the words from James so many times I could almost say them in my sleep. Sometime during the summer, though, I noticed that I didn't need that prayer quite like I needed it before, so I began paying more attention to some other passages of scripture that were meeting me where I'd been living -- abiding {John 15) and living a life of faith {Hebrews 11}.

A few weeks ago, one of my really good friends lost her baby, and as I sat on my bed crying for her, crying over the brokenness of our world, I looked long and hard at that painting that still sits on my nightstand.

That visual prayer  -- it was right.

Every storm does run out of rain.

It's something I can see seven months away from when we unexpectedly said goodbye to our baby and I said hello to a whole new level of anxiety for a period of time. It's something I can understand now. But when that storm was raging, it was hard to imagine any break in rain would ever occur.

And the first chapter of James was, of course, right, too; every ounce of suffering does produce perseverance and character.

Last week, as I standing in the park watching my boys laugh and play with warm October sunshine warming my face, I realized the storm storm clouds have been broken apart and cleared for awhile now.

I can feel the warmth of the sun again, my heart no longer a sopping wet mess of tears and anxiety,

and I can feel my lungs inhale the deepest of breaths without feeling like I'm exhaling the weight of the world through my mouth.

That very night, I shared while at a session with a beautiful soul whose been walking with me through the grief that has accompanied the loss of our babies that I don't feel like I'm the person I was even a year ago.

She nodded and smiled and agreed, saying that my spirit was calmer, my demeanor softer, my heart less guarded. And while I'd never choose to walk that path of hurt again, I could now appreciate what suffering has produced in my character, my spirit, my heart. All of that doesn't make the loss any less stinging, but it does grow hope in a weary heart that is so very tired of hurting.

I left that session feeling stronger, more of the woman I was created to be than I had in months, even years.

And I left that session realizing that what I thought couldn't be true is, indeed, true-- every storm runs out of rain, passes at some point. I think, perhaps that visual prayer that was an umbrella of hope over my head for so long needs to be passed along, too, a small but mighty shield from the storms of life, a traveling reminder that our hearts can hope for healing because He does heal and He is Healer.

And it will be accompanied by a journal with my story of the healing {and hopefully passed along again with another story of healing}, a traveling visual prayer of hope with stories of how the storms have passed and what He did in the midst.

For Michelle, the painter of my visual prayer, fellow hope seeker and heart-companion who keeps pointing me back to Jesus. 

Life After Miscarriage: Dear Selah

My dear Selah,

I certainly thought at the dawn of the new year that I'd either be holding you in my arms this week or anticipating your pending arrival. When you slipped into eternity after 12 weeks nestled in the depths of my womb, I was broken hearted and just plain broken.

I simply couldn't believe we'd lost you; I thought you'd call these arms, this family, this place here on Earth home for longer than your short life here. When I birthed you and held your tiny body, I marveled at your small but perfect form. We named you Selah because in the Psalms, the Psalmists often put a break in their Psalms with the word Selah -- a pregnant pause of sorts, a praise to God. But there really isn't an accurate direct translation ... Your name is fitting.

Because you, beautiful soul, have been just that for me -- a pregnant pause. A long, drawn-out pause amid the hectic nature of life, calling my attention to beauty and miracles and overflow.

For days turned weeks turned months, I longed for you; the empty inside of me screamed and the space where you once fit ached, the heaviest empty I've known in years. 

Truth be told, that empty wasn't yours to fill, and you know that because where you dwell there is no empty. There's only overflow. 

But your life -- it made me pause, long and slow and steady. It pushed me to the Filler of the Empty, asking, aching to be filled. It pushed me to consider the faith I've long clung to; it pushed me to claim the promise that whenever we seek, we find Him waiting, ready to take that ocean of empty I thought I could fill bucket full at a time, with His very self. Your life showed me that beauty and miracles and overflow are often born of pain and grief and empty. 

You are a praise to God from my lips.

You are not the baby we lost. We know you are; you dwell in very depths of goodness and in my heart. 

And because of your life and because of His goodness, you'll always live in the overflow there inside my chest instead of in the empty. 

I love you, 

Mommy

One Word 365: In Which I Intimately Understand Rejoicing

I thought we had turned the corner on that first brilliantly sunny day of the new year. 

I thought surely God had given me the word rejoice for my yearly word just a day before for wonderfully obvious reasons.

On that New Year's Day, I was feeling remarkably better than I had in years. Just a few weeks prior, I had let go of a really toxic relationship and the guilt that accompanied it was replaced by peace. And on that first day of the new year, we discovered I was carrying our long-desired baby after having had our hearts broken by two miscarriages.

I wasn't naive enough to think the year would be without challenges. I knew adding a baby to the family would bring trials in itself

But I thought I really understood why God had given me that word, rejoice. Because, indeed, there was a lot to rejoice about. And a new baby would naturally have us rejoicing.

When we lost the third baby just shy of 12 weeks into pregnancy I just couldn't understand why God had given me that word.

I honestly thought that the birth of our little one was a central reason for our rejoicing. 

And it has been -- just not in ways I could have ever dreamed.

The day I birthed our tiny baby into my hands, I had to make a decision. 

I could sink under the heavy weight of grief. I could swim against the relentlessly smashing waves of sorrow and anxiety.

Or I could throw my hands up and cry out for rescue.

I threw my hands up, wildly waving them that day, asking Jesus himself to pull me out of the storm. 

And almost every day since, I've thrown my hands into the air in still-surrender.

It's looked nothing like a sweet surrender and everything like a flagging down of the mother ship. 

During the first few months of the storm especially, I  angsted over and lamented the darkness overhead.  As I was pulled through those days, a small boat tethered to the Rescue Ship, I was tempted to sever myself and just sink into the angry waters.

And on those days I felt the rope become increasingly taut ... until I actually found the rope had given way to being in the arms of the Rescuer. 

I asked Him who He was. Really. Who was this Rescuer who came in my distress? And what was His heart for me,  He who could have just as easily quieted the wind and waves. 

He who instead He stilled me. 

Over and over He spoke that verse about being still and knowing he was God to my heart in ways I couldn't understand until I finally began letting go of the busy, the expectations, letting the noise and other voices around me fade.

Have you ever tried to rescue someone who thought they were drowning? I have. My oldest son has been extremely cautious of water his whole life. He once went in over his head and when I got to him his thrashing, his movement made it all the more difficult for him to realize I had him and he was safe.

It wasn't until I began coming before Him in silence that I really began to relax and clearly see I was safe in His arms.

In those long stretched out days of silence and stillness, He began revealing himself to me in more intimate ways than I had ever known. I began entering into times of conversation, where I could hear His heart for me. At first it was harder to distinguish, but the more time I spent listening, the more I recognized it as clearly as I could hear my boys calling me from the opposite end of a busy park.

When I began hearing His voice regularly, and it always lines up with the Word I'll add, I began hearing His heart for me. He called me daughter clearly one evening as I drove home beneath blue skies and puffy pink clouds after a therapy session. 

After I realized the storm I'd been in was a product of sifting from the king of lies, I asked Him to call me by my new name just as he had done for Simon when he renamed him Peter after denying Christ three times.

And he called me His lovely bride. I wrote down the truths that communicated about both me and also Jesus.

In this I realized I am valuable and loved, worthwhile and captivating while He is everything I've ever dreamed the most ideal husband to be: strong and patient, valiant and just, loving and merciful. 

And I realized it beyond the song and dance I've known. 

I realized it intimately and deeply, like I was truly hearing the lyrics to parts of the song I'd always just hummed over but enjoyed before. 

There's more. Because with Him, there is always more but theres only so much time to write today. 

The clouds seem like they are breaking apart now. The sun keeps poking out and streaming through these days. Not only is my body healing from the stress and regaining the physical balance that began faultering after the miscarriage; my heart and my mind and even our marriage has also been getting healthier, stronger.

Healing has been slow but drenching. 

That, indeed, is a reason to rejoice. 

Seven months ago at the start of the year I would have thought that our word for the year was finally holding true.

And it is. 

But for reasons I never expected.

I rejoice today because the Rescuer of the storms is far more complex and personable than what I ever knew or understood

And His heart for me goes far deeper than any depths I could sink.

 

Bigger Picture Moments: Consider this Strength Shared

"Simon, Simon, Satan has asked to sift you like wheat. But I have prayed for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail. And when you have turned back, strengthen your brothers." Luke 22:31-32 

Grief has this way of making everything that was once black and white seem like a million shades of grey.

And grief upon grief upon grief has a way of making you question if colors even exist at all.

After we lost our baby in March, I fell into a deep funk I haven't been able to explain. The kind where I've questioned knowing even the most basic tenants of my own heart -- up versus down, the goodness of God, who I really am

and the most basic principles of the world I've known for the past almost eight years since marrying John -- am I really safe, what is solid ground anyway, on what am I standing?

People have asked me how I'm doing, and I just haven't had an answer other than "better every week."

Which has mostly been true.

Have you ever stood in front of the mirror and found yourself wondering who is staring back? Or into the eyes of those who know you best as they search your face for a even a glimmer of who you once were?

I know these long looks too well, and my family knows them, too.

And none of us, myself included, could put it into words what was happening. I haven't known how to describe it until just a few days ago when I read the verse above in a book a good friend reminded me to read. As I delved into the pages of Sifted by Rick Lawrence and he dove into those two small but mighty verses in Luke, I began to understand that this funk I've been perpetually stuck in since late March hasn't been just a funk.

It's been a sifting.

I've pretty much found myself shaken apart in more ways than I thought I could be shaken.

Lawrence describes sifting like this:

"It's the violent process of separating the useful from the unnecessary -- the crushing and sorting of something whole for the purpose of isolating its nourishing core from the trappings that guard it."

Well, um. yes. It's been scary. I've questioned God's goodness. I've wondered who I am. I've struggled to trust and even speak faithful words let alone live faith out.

During the past few months, I've been having to relearn what it means to hear the voice of Life whispering in my ear versus hearing the voice of lies echo throughout my mind. I've had my thoughts, my beliefs sifted.

I've cried out to God so often for Him to deliver me, to bring me back to my old self. 

And I've wondered why. Why, God, could I feel you here with me, whispering Life and Grace and Love into my ears but still not feel restored back to my normal self? Why did I still feel like a playing piece in a chess game who had been strategically moved into intense battle?

A few nights ago the answer I'd been searching for all but dropped into my lap when I read these words, a love letter to my heart.

"The point of our lives is not the pain -- we are not the pawns of a capricious deity or the collateral damage of an ancient metaphysical feud. We are prisoners -- freedom is our only hope and sifting is its currency."

I have been living life in various captivities -- entangled in fear and worry, enslaved to health and body and bound to what ifs and should haves.

The reason why I could feel God walking beside me through violence of this sifting and hear Him whispering truths to my heart all while feeling like I was being sifted to my very core has more to do with His heart for me to live in freedom than it has to do with the restoration of life as I once knew it.

God doesn't want to restore me to the person I was before the sifting began because then I would still be living entangled and enslaved.

And if the currency for freedom is sifting, then my heart has had to be sifted because God's heart for us is always freedom. And it's always truth. And it's always love. 

And

"God wants nothing to do with cheap imitations of love, and He recognizes {as we most often do not} that there are far worse things that can happen to us than the pain we fear so deeply."

Through this sifting, I've discovered more of God's heart for me. I've asked Him to call me by name, and explain to me who I really have been created to be.

Repeatedly, He's called me by name. First Hyacynth. Then Daughter. Then Lovely Bride, each displaying a deeper and deeper intimacy that I wouldn't have otherwise sought and known.

The seasons of hard suck. The pain hurts like hell. The colors have been dulled and faded. The grief has been heavy and pressing and almost crushing feeling.

And there's no 'but' that will follow that.

There's only an 'and'

an 'and' that says Jesus is there in it with us, calling us by name, showing us that we are more than who we once were, praying for us to persevere in our faith and making us into something new after some of the old scrap has been sifted away.

He's there painting over the gray, reviving the colors and reviving our hearts.

Bigger Picture Moments: I See You

Yesterday, in a fit of frustration, I called out to God, asked Him where the heck He's been lately.

I've been feeling a little invisible. A little forgotten. A little frustrated lately.

With not being pregnant anymore.
With hearing repeatedly to be still.
With trying to be patient.
With feeling like I'm literally standing on a boat in gentle waters most of the day and some days rendered unable to walk without holding onto the wall or a hand for support because I feel so off balance. 

It's all things I don't often wear out on my sleeve.

All things I can keep circulating in my brain, quiet prayers constantly being uttered in a persistent, humble bringing to God and asking Him if He could just

Heal me of the grief from losing the babies.
Give me a direction in which to move.
Give me patience if I can't have that direction yet.
Restore the life balance and with it my physical balance. 

Please God. Please.

Maybe I'm greedy. Maybe I'm needy. Maybe I'm feeling a little like desperation looks.

I know I have much for which to be thankful. I know He's answered many prayers these past few months.

But still I plead for restoration and direction

and to just know that He hasn't left me here alone in this place of frustration.

Sometimes I forget and I mistake God's silence for stillness. 

Sometimes He has to remind me clearly that the two are not the same. And in that sometimes He breaks His silence.

Like yesterday.

Our senior pastor and I record a weekly video called Joe on the Go. And in it he spoke about how that morning he was reminded of the story of Hagar when she's out in the wilderness and she called God "the God who sees me."



I didn't give it a second thought.

Until I came across that very same story of Hagar again on Facebook.

And then

again in a book I was reading.

I closed the book, taken aback, and heard a whisper in my heart that said, "I see you."

As I journaled the day, I realized, too, that on a day when I had an explosion of frustration from feeling so invisible from what I was truly wearing on my heart, God sent others to really see me, too.

My husband saw I needed more sleep yesterday and wanted to make sure the kids slept until a decent hour before leaving for work.

My almost six year old noticed that morning that I was rushed and encouraged me to relax and slow down. {He's not even six! He rarely notices more than light sabers and play forts let alone the way I'm feeling!}

A friend messaged me during the day to say that she knew how I was feeling and could she come over tomorrow?

Another friend shared that she felt like our friendship made worthwhile the hardship of having moved to the suburbs.

Simple conversations that seemed to sing, "You know, I see you. I really, really see you."

And on a day when I had an explosion of frustration from feeling so invisible from what I was truly wearing on my heart, God broke silence to say, "I see you. I really, really see you, too."

And in being seen, I feel like today my eyes are open to what's really going on these days -- I'm not wandering alone, off map in unchartered territory.

I'm under the careful watch of the Shepherd who knows where we're going ... even when I don't.

Bigger Picture Moments: The Small Storms

It's not the biggest storm we've ever had, but he's completely overtaken by it.

We've been trying to go to sleep for about 20 minutes, snuggled together in his bed, but he can't relax enough to take his eyes off of the storm.  He's wholly intent on watching the lightening flashes jet across the sky just outside his window, and he nervously asks about each loud rumble of thunder that meanders in through the open window of his darkened room.

I open my arms for him, but he's too preoccupied with the storm ... until he grows tired and cannot keep his eyes open.

Finally, he tucks himself into the crook of my arm. The thunder roars a bit louder ... and he sandwiches me into a headlock between his 3-year-old arms, drapes his legs over my body as while the tree branches dance wildly in the wind just outside his window.

I try to slowly slide myself from his grip after I think he's drifted to sleep, but he whimpers about loud booms and holds on for dear life.

There's surrender tonight, heaping high in the midst of the storm.

Him, drifting to sleep.

Me, sinking into the bed until deep slumber takes over his body. And while I'm lying next to him, I know I've had trouble averting my eyes from the storm.

It's not the biggest storm I've ever known, but my eyes are glued to the window, worried about what's coming next ... when exhaustion sets in

and I, too, have to choose

to fight

or throw my weary arms around my Father's neck

and surrender to the Rest that only surrender brings

when there's storm thundering outside.

Hope and Healing: Putting My Hand Up

Last Sunday night, I plummeted hard and fast into a deep, dark hole after weeks of trying to outrun the overwhelming anxiety and grief that's been building.

The shear force of the anxiety about my physical health coupled with the grieving of the three precious babies we lost during pregnancy during the last 18 months has had me running as fast as my mind could spin, feet could move.

Last weekend, I stumbled a few times and then Sunday night I fell hard.

A mess of tears, shaking on the couch, I surrendered the race because I had to.

I couldn't muscle my way out of that hole with sheer determination because fatigue has taken over and reality had been blurring from black and white to about a dozen shades of gray.

I made the move that seemed all along harder than trying to pull myself up and out: I raised my hand in surrender from the bottom of the hole; I asked people to help pull me out.

I welcomed my mom to come up and help without feeling guilt. I submitted to John's request to call my doctors. I explained repeatedly that I couldn't do this alone anymore. I told them I needed more help.

I met with a therapist we've been seeing and really love. I laid my fears and anxiety and grief out before me, and I gave to God what He's been asking for for a really long time: the control of my health I've been white-knuckle clenching since my dad died three years ago.

One week, lots of prayer, tangible help, art therapy and a few anti-anxiety pills later and I'm hearing clearly the truth in a good friend's words:

"We all fall in holes. But you have to put your hand up so we can pull you up."

So this week I've been practicing raising my hand

to grab others' hands

to give thanks

to surrender

all of that which I can't bear

and was never actually meant to.

Everyday Life: The Words

The words won't come.

Not in writing or in conversation.

And so I find myself quiet in this struggle.

The tears are free-flowing, though, in a way I've never known before now, like there's been years of them pent up.

The dam is apparently filled and any extra overflow has nowhere to go except for out. I feel like I should wear a sign that says "flood warning."

It's all so heavy.

The weight of the tears.

The weight of the losses.

The whole not knowing what's happening with my body and why when I stand up I still feel this spacey/off balance sort of feeling.

The feelings of depression and the accompanying anxiety that follows after sustaining so many losses in just three years time {we lost my dad three years ago this month on top of the three babies in the past 16  months and my grandfather this past December}.

They say it's normal for me to feel this way ... after what we've gone through.

But there's nothing normal about the way I feel right now.

The tears. The quiet. The racing of my thoughts and mind.

Not in writing or conversation.

Life After Miscarriage: Seeking and Stuffing

No matter what it seems beforehand, there are no answers to be found half way through a container of ice cream, no matter how far the digging.

It didn't stop me from trying, though, last night after my heart felt like it dropped from its rightful place in my chest and onto the floor, a weeping mess of angry tears following closely.

This week I had to schedule an ultrasound for next week  -- part of post-operation check up -- and that was pretty much the last clipping of the final string from which my weeping heart had been hanging.

This week, I should have have been nearing 20 weeks of pregnancy.

This week, we should have been taking a longer glimpse during an ultrasound to find out whether the baby was a boy or girl ... not staring into the empty open space of my baby's former home.

I've never said "should" before because I've been busy clinging tightly to the thought that only what should happen happens.

It's not true.

Mothers aren't supposed to lose their babies to death before their babies are born.

Babies aren't supposed to die.

Bodies aren't supposed to go wonky after giving birth or ever.

Mothers shouldn't have post-partum depression ever let alone after miscarriages.

Bombs aren't supposed to go off at marathon finish lines and claim little lives and sever limbs and leave people fighting for their lives.

Earthquakes aren't supposed to shake the ground on which we're standing until we fall to our knees wondering if solid ground is a myth we've taken as truth our whole lives.

This world, these people, this very heart -- it's not supposed to be broken; it wasn't meant to be that way.

And I'm angry.

I'm angry that deception ever had the opportunity to slither into our hearts.

I'm angry that we ever bit off more than we could chew of the most tempting and destructive of fruits.

I'm angry that my heart falls off its strings when I feel like I'm being battered from every direction, an unlucky piñata at the hands of a most strategic and skilled batter and that I pick up a box of ice cream and go digging for answers there

when my heart knows that where I'm digging just melts and gives way.

I cried and yelled and swore Friday night, my husband sitting next to me in bed, listening to me list my grievances; he listened carefully, looked me in the eye, anger blazing bright and told me what I need to hear:

"You're right. It's not supposed to be this way."

He didn't tell me to pray harder.

Or read more of my Bible.

Or seek Jesus better.

Or stop crying and just have more faith

So I raged on until the storm inside quieted for the night.

But I woke with it raging again yesterday and a little today, and it started to dawn on me that I think I skipped this part of the grieving process -- the letting myself feel and express and say and voice my outrage before I accepted the calm that seemed to come so quickly and easily in just recognizing that God is God {and I am not}.

So by the time I had pizza and wine and conversation with my brain twin Saturday afternoon, I was ready for the words I didn't know she'd share.

"It's OK to be angry. It's OK to be pissed off. What happened sucks."

I like peace. I crave calm. I mean, I felt like the word "rejoice" was my word for this year. I want for joy and gratitude and I long to live in those spaces and places, and I think I longed for those so much during the turmoil of finding out about our baby having died and giving birth and then having an emergency d and c that I began seeking that calm and peace and joy and gratitude before I ever expressed the other emotions that come

when something happens to that heart that the heart was never intended to bear.

In seeking, I stuffed down deep inside me the grief that needed to escape so I could move forward.

So I'm letting it all unravel, slowly and trusting that in the meantime

His grace is and will be sufficient to carry me through the day-by-days that seem so daunting right now.

Just Write: The Light Bearers

Bombs explode and with them, lives, too.

I hug the small and tall people in my house a little tighter and wonder how I can send them out day by day into a world where such darkness stretches over the sky and spills out for miles across the horizon,

a storm of hurt and pain and terror brewing in the hearts of the hurting and bubbling over into explosion

after explosion

after explosion

born from the sheer force of pain.

Here's the thing about explosions  --

it's the force that takes us by surprise, leaves us stunned and battered and wounded.

But it's the aftermath of smoke that leaves us in despair, masks the light and sends us to our knees, groping around in the dark for something to hold onto, praying for clearing.

The first time I saw an explosion, eight years old and eyes wide, glued to the screen, my heart unleashed a fury of fear coated in tears.

The tender daughter of a firefighter watching a movie about fire-starters and exploders and the rescuers that rushed to the scenes of burning darkness was too much for my heart to bear, and I sobbed and sobbed, begged by dad to quit the business of extinguishing flames and storming burning buildings.

My father wrapped me in his thick arms and shushed my tears:

"If all the firefighters quit fighting fires because it was dangerous, think of how much more dangerous life would be."

At eight, I cared little for his few words, his waxing of logic to a weeping heart, but at 30 I hold them closer; at 30, I hold them as truth.

As long as there is pain, pockets of it will continue to explode, drench the day with darkness and coat the sky with ash, smoke that threaten to blind our eyes.

And that's when the Light bearers come in, blazing through the smoke and the darkness and setting it bright with hope.

We are the Light bearers carrying on the Light that was first born into the darkness of a black-ink sky stretched out over creation.

We are the Light bearers who don't fear the darkness because we know that the Sun always overcomes.

That's how we mothers, wives, sisters, friends find the courage and strength to send our loved ones back out into a world of explosions day in and day out --

we cling to the Sun, we embed the Light in their thoughts until it soaks deep into their bones, their hearts and then we send them out as light bearers who offer bright glows of Light when the darkness seems overwhelmingly dark.

{And we pray. And oh my ... this is so hard.}

Everyday Poetry: Stuck

Mud and cold slur together like April's had too much drink 

and has forgotten her own name. 

My little boys ignore the obvious rush of arctic air and sloshy mud

and forge through the elements to bask in the clearing that broke

this afternoon after days upon days of rain and whipping wind. 

I stand behind the sliding glass doors looking on as they salvage

what's left of the day

enjoy what's good

bask in what's been given

and I am super glued to the floor. 

My oldest comes to the door for a drink

nose red

cheeks pink

smile wide

I ask him if it's just too cold to play outside. 

"Not if you keep moving, mom," he says in between gulps.

"If you keep moving it gets warmer and warmer."

He shuts the door, cuts off the cold of a stuck-in-winter spring and runs off into the yard. 

I watch him closely as he 

laughs

talks

jumps

runs

and I know what I have to do. 

We're sharing Everyday Poetry over at Bigger Picture Blogs every Monday in April. Join us. 

Five-Minute Friday: After

After the body heals

and the space once filled with baby smooths.

After grief comes hard

and the nights once again give way to sleep.

After the sympathy cards taper

and the flowers wither

and the help slows

and life as we once knew it resumes.

After the winter melts

and spring slowly dawns

from the darkness.

After all of this -- I breathe.

Chest rises and falls

steadily for the first time in months

a rhythm of new normal emerging.

And the fog begins to burn off

in the steadiness of the Son.

Bigger Picture Moments: When Nothing Fits

Nothing fits right now.

The maternity pants are too big.

And my regular jeans too snug.

There's still a swell of belly that forces my every-day shirts to stretch and cling to the slight roundness that lingers after pregnancy ends {even with no baby in arms}.

Every day this week now, I've bucked up and buckled down our two boys into their carseats, and we've ventured out into life, schedules looser than normal but still too tight for where I am

when nothing fits right now.

The God we trust sends friends and family to love on us up and down and my gratitude spills over from welling eyes onto red cheeks the same way the tears of grief do and both grief and gratitude feel so uncomfortable when they are wrestling for space in the space in my heart

where nothing fits right now.

This morning we bundled up, ready to brave the 20-degree weather as we ventured out to register G, my oldest, for kindergarten this fall

but the early spring sun was so warm we ended up roasting a few minutes into our drive

and when I pulled into the parking lot, we each ripped all of our jackets and hats and gloves off

sat long, leaned bare skin into sun streaming through glass windows

and it doesn't fit right now

for winter to be hanging on so tightly while spring is fighting so hard to burst through.

There is a break in the silence when my oldest asks why we are sitting still for so long when we have so many places to be.

I didn't have an answer so I said just that and

when I caught his eyes in the mirror and heard him say

"it's ok."

I couldn't help but think that yes.

Yes, it is.

It's all ok that nothing fits

right now.

Share your Bigger Picture Moment HERE!http://biggerpictureblogs.wordpress.com/2013/03/21/rejuvenation-bigger-picture-moments-featuring-stephanie/

Bigger Picture Moments: In the Rain

It seems I've been praying for spring for weeks now.

Spring with all of its glorious, healing sun and warmer weather and green buds.

But when I look out the window, all I see are piles of snow and gray skies and long bare branches and rainy sleet dripping from clouds, beading and sliding down the window panes in the middle of March.

I feel like those rain drops.

Slowly sliding down down down into a never-ending pile of winter.

I wake up to more gray skies, and my prayers feel like they've been pleaded in vain.

Same as the ones I've cried and then finally laid at His feet while anxiety swelled in my heart the very first day we found out we were pregnant

Only to lose our baby just before the second trimester began.

Just like the night I begged God to allow our midwife to find baby's heartbeat.

Only to find ourselves weeping over the loss in a hospital waiting room in the length of after hours.

Same as the ones where I cried out for Him to send my body into labor and save me from surgery.

Only to find myself in an operating room late last Tuesday night.

I see a lot of prayers, seemingly unanswered.

I look outside, and I see snow.

I look outside, and winter still seems spread out thick over the land.

But I know better.

I know better than to stop looking after first or second glance. And I know we often see only what we look for.

I know better than to get so stuck on those barren branches that I miss the spring birds that briefly land on them.

So I look closer for spring, and I find it in lengthening days.

I look for spring and see the promise of green just barely poking through dark, wet soil.

I look for spring, and I see beneath the snow, in the rain

where love is showered over our hearts in the midst of grief

and mercy is born in delivering my sweet baby at home

and grace is granted in the OR

and hope is replanted in my heart after a conversation in the recovery room

and Words black on the white page of what Stands Forever.

And I see it all in the rain.

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Miscarriage: Labor and Delivery and Saying Goodbye

I don't often caution people against reading my posts because that seems counter productive, but I urge pregnant women or people who don't want to read about labor and delivery and baby loss during pregnancy to stop reading here. 

However, if you're dealing with the loss of a baby during pregnancy, I'm sharing this for you as well as for my own healing. I pray you find peace and comfort during this hard time. 

Last Friday, the morning after we found out our sweet baby stopped growing at our monthly check up at my midwife's office and the shock sort of wore off a bit, I began the process of saying goodbye to our baby and letting go.

Almost immediately, I began cramping intermittently and lightly spotting, but it wasn't until five days later and many repetitions to just let go that I delivered our tiny, precious little one into my hands after an hour of moderate-intensity labor-like cramps and contractions.

The birth of our 10 week and 5 day old baby at 12 weeks of pregnancy was quite a bit like labor and delivery had been with my two boys but with less intensity pain-wise. It was nothing like the two early first trimester losses at 5 and 7 weeks; those were like heavy periods.

I really wanted to labor and birth our baby at home for a few reasons even though I knew the baby would not be born alive.

First, I wanted to give my body an opportunity to let go instead of just having the baby and placenta removed by the d and c procedure that's pretty common during miscarriage. It was really important for me to not send my body into shock. I wanted my body to realize we needed to let go both emotionally and physically.

Second, I really wanted to deliver my baby. I spent nearly 11 weeks growing this baby and loving this baby and I carried this baby for 12 weeks and a few days. I needed to honor this baby's time with us and with me in particular by birthing him or her. And I needed to say goodbye.

We were granted all of that in that in unlikely grace.

My labor began around 3:45 and peaked at 4:50 p.m. when the baby was born into my hands. For baby only spanning the length of my pinky finger, I was surprised at how large the sac was -- about the size of a large grapefruit.

The baby itself was perfect and tiny. Little toes and tiny fingers were formed and baby looked small and delicate, just how I'd imagined.

About ten minutes after I birthed the baby, I began delivering pieces of placenta every ten minutes. After about an hour of delivering placenta pieces and passing blood clots, we noticed that the bleeding increased from a dripping faucet to a leaking faucet. At that point, when my midwife could not assess the blood loss via phone, we left our two boys with my mom and headed for the emergency room.

After being assessed at the ER and continuing to bleed, I was hooked up to a fluid IV and transported to a full-service ER where the on-call OB-GYN met us, listened to our story, checked me out and found that the bleeding hadn't stopped because my uterus was still retaining pieces of the placenta. My sweet in-laws met us there and began asking friends and family for prayer as my husband put out a plea on Facebook and via text message.

The OB explained that some women are able to complete a miscarriage without a d and c, but sometimes the body has a hard time expelling everything because mechanisms that are in place after a full-term birth are not necessarily activated during a miscarriage -- nursing for instance is one way the uterus is stimulated and activated to help expel the placenta; I obviously had no nursling. She also explained a few other reasons, but I was spacey and loopy from blood loss so I don't remember enough to explain well.

I'm thankful for medicine and doctors and surgery especially when it's needed, and though I didn't want to have a d and c, I listened to what my body was saying and knew it would help. I was tired and growing weaker.

I explained my concerns to the OB, and she was an amazing listener. I shared with her that we weren't sure if wanted to have another baby in the future, so we were concerned with my uterus' health and I shared that I was nervous about anesthesia.

So she went above and beyond to make sure I really needed the procedure. She actually scheduled an ultrasound so she could confirm pieces were still stuck inside the uterus before we went to the operating room.

And because there were rather large pieces still stuck in combination with the heavy bleeding, we agreed that a specific kind of d and c would be fitting in this situation; I then went straight to the OR for an ultra-sound guided d and c using suction and no scraping. A normal d and c, she'd explained, is often completed by feeling around inside the uterus and gently scraping pieces away from the uterus.

For experiencing something so sad and unpleasant as the loss of a baby during pregnancy, I felt God sent us a huge gift in having her be the on-call doctor. Her extra care and commitment to detail as well as her compassion were extremely helpful and healing.

Another amazing gift of mercy was when John's parents' friend from their neighborhood found out I was going in for an emergency d and c, she offered to come to the hospital and be with me during the procedure; she's a OR nurse at the hospital I'd been taken to, and though she'd never met me she offered to come be the hands and feet of Christ to me during a really stressful time.

Our friends and family have also been extraordinarily helpful and supportive, covering us with prayer from the very first night we found our baby had passed away to meeting our needs tangibly when all we could do was cry and process. The intercessions from the hearts of our friends and family were heard, and God showed us His love and His mercy and grace through the sending of the right people during our time of loss and suffering.

Though last night was a really difficult night for my whole family, I'm not sure I would have done much differently in hindsight. It was really healing for me to have the moments with my baby and to have delivered that baby I loved and grew and carried for nearly an entire first trimester.

I needed that closure.

I also overwhelmingly felt the strong urge to name this baby, and we've picked out names for our little one; we'll share with family and friends after we find out our baby's gender; my midwife picked up the baby this morning so we could run some tests to determine anything possible. At first, I was sort of sad that we wouldn't bury the baby, but I know our baby's soul is already with our Maker. Likely we'll plant a tree or bush in baby's memory once spring arrives -- beauty springing forth out of the soil and ashes.

Miscarriage: Waiting Rooms and Waiting Days

We are the only ones left in a waiting room long after all the well people normally leave the hospital.

This realization is what grounds the hope that's been swelled up like an inflated balloon in my lungs; I am holding my breathe and still somehow breathing.

But when she angled the computer monitor away from my face and stared grimly at the screen while pressing the wand against my belly, I knew something wasn't right.

I knew as I glanced inquisitively at my husband sitting across the room that when she was done snapping pictures, there'd be another waiting room waiting for us.

These past three months have been anchored in waiting.

We waited for the positive pregnancy test of our long-hoped for fifth pregnancy.

We waited for tests to come back confirming HCG levels were rising steadily.

We waited as each week rolled by to hear the heart beat of our baby as my stomach swelled and rounded.

All the while hoping the waiting would lead to our third child being born alive and well and beautiful in our arms.

But at the midwife's office there was no heartbeat found with the doppler. So we waited for an ultrasound later that evening.

And came full circle back to the waiting room.

Somewhere in the past week or so a feeling of peace had washed over my body -- peace I couldn't understand; I'm always thinking, sometimes anxious.

I prayed, though, in trust that God would take care of this baby and take care of me.

Peace, unexpected and abounding, in the surrender.

John and I hold hands, hopeful, but the balloon begins to deflate with every moment that passes, and I'm breathing deep breathes before she walks in and hands us the phone.

My midwife, she says she's sorry. The baby stopped growing. 10 weeks 5 days and I'm actually only 11 weeks 5 days and not the 13 we thought.

I don't hear anything else she says.

I birth heavy wet tears

in the midst of peace

I cannot explain.

I voice the injustice and I sob and I fall into my husband's arms with more questions than he could ever answer.

But underlying is this strange peace.

I don't sleep much that night

but I breath, and I tell my body

"it's ok. just let go. the baby is already in heaven. so let go."

I cry more through out the Day Two and notice cramping sneak into the lower parts of my abdomen,

heart still thick-coated in grief dancing closely with gratitude, each battling to take the lead

and un-understandable peace.

So we do what we know how to do:

We wait.

We pray.

Balloon of baby-hope deflated

deep breathing

as weeks of hopeful waiting

morph to

one night of waiting rooms and

bleed into waiting days.

"Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." Philippians 4:4-6

'Twas the Write Before Christmas: The Brightest Light

"But Nothing is Impossible with God." Luke 1:37

It began heavy coated with darkness -- evil showing its face apparent Friday morning in the slaying of innocent lives in Newtown, CT, darkness trying to overshadow the third weekend of Advent.

I wanted to hide, crowd around the Light of Jesus, the only light that burns bright enough to set aglow a blaze of hope in the blackened sky.

I didn't want to go anywhere this weekend. I wanted to tuck safely my family in the comforts of our house, sit together in the soft shimmer of our Christmas tree and hibernate the weekend away

bask in the Light of Jesus

and keep far from the darkness that threatens to overshadow our land

because it seems impossible that the candle of Hope we hold in our meek hands

could burn bright enough to make light a world where small children are killed in a slew of evil rage

where women are sold into slavery daily

where lives waste away for lack of food and water.

****


It began in darkness -- the first Advent, the Christmas.

And in silence -- 400 years worth of silence from God,

His people waiting for a word, left to grasp onto a Promise made

that a deliverer would come and rescue them.

That first Christmas was thick with waiting,

darkness coating the land

people longing for a Promise fulfilled

longing for Light to sweep over the horizon and fill the sky with bright ways

that would wipe out the darkness, the hopelessness that had settled over the land.

****

Impossible.

It seems impossible that a girl who'd never come together with a man would be heavy with child.

That angels would appear to men and proclaim the Promises soon to be fulfilled.

That 400 years of silence from God would be broken by the cries of a newborn baby.

That God would first tell shepherds, the lowest of men, of the newborn King.

That a sweet baby, born humbly in a stable, would redeem us, would deliver the world from darkness not through sword and slay

but through death where the Light absorbed all the darkness of the world.

Impossible.

But what seems most impossible of all is that the same God who created millions of stars in the sky, millions of cells in our body, would leave His Heavenly home and come near.

That Jesus was Immanuel -- God with us, Light in the darkness.

"But nothing is impossible with God."

****

I drag myself out of the house, reluctantly follow my family into the darkness covering thick our world, make our way into a busy weekend, the third weekend of Advent and hold meekly my candle of Hope burning, burning, burning ... looking for another wick to pass along some light.

It seems impossible, to set such a world of darkness ablaze with His light, His hope.

But so did a virgin birth, a baby king, a God who came near.

I remember the darkness in which they waited for any word

any light

any hope.

It seemed impossible.

"But nothing is impossible with God."

I look at my hands, holding my candle

His Promise of Light

holding close the very God who came near

who is near.

It seems impossible.

We thread our arms and heart cries together with others in prayer.
We hold open doors and speak kindness through well wishes to ears longing for those words.
We open-arm embrace through hugs those who need the warmth.
We bring gifts to those who have not.
We speak Love and Truth to friends.
We scrub dishes and prepare food and soft beds.
We hug our kids when they are hard to love
and offer love when our hearts are shredded into pieces.

We live with His Light shining bright through us. 

And we remember the brightest Light

sets the world aglow

not in a fierce blaze

but by

candle of Hope

by candle of Hope

by candle Hope

one heart

at

a time.

Jesus said in Matthew 5:

"You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven."

If you are a heart looking for Light in the darkness, may I suggest reading Luke 1-3? Or listening to Christmas Wrappings: Wrapped in Prophecy?

Join us for 'Twas the Write Before Christmas here

Thinking, That's All: In Grieving

Like most everyone else I know, my heart felt like it went through a paper shredder as news broke yesterday about the dozens of little lost lives in the Newtown elementary school shooting.

Shredded into millions of tiny pieces.

My sister happened to come over as the news was breaking, and we sat at my dining room table with her only and my youngest, weeping and praying ...  mostly unable to even find words to cry even prayers.

What happened yesterday is undoubtedly and rightfully devastating to the Newtown community and particularly to the families who have suffered a heart-wrenchingly tragic loss.

But many of us onlookers are reeling, too, as if we were a physical part of that community, as if we actually knew the families who lost these precious babies when we know them only by news stories, only through our deep empathy and realizations that many of the families are likely much like our own.

Our grief seems to be deeply rooted, many of us so very truly broken hearted over the lives lost .... and maybe about more than just the lives lost.

Last night we went to a Christmas party, and I cried almost all the way there.

As I wept, I realized my grief stretched beyond sadness for the families and responders and the entire community; I grieved, too, the fallenness of our world. I grieved the evil that runs rampantly, like wildfire, throughout our world.

I grieved sin.

Oh. There's that word that separates, that divides, that stirs debate and conjures up definitions that are distorted.

I awoke to my mentor's thoughts, and I ate them for breakfast:

"We live in a world of relativism. This week's events in OR and CT declare loudly that there are absolutes—not everything is grey. Evil exists. Sin exists. Some things are not just poor choices, they are fundamentally wrong and offensive to a holy God. As a nation, we've seen God's standards profoundly violated this week, and I think on some level all of us whose hearts are breaking know this to be true."

Sin -- the very choices we make that are in direct opposition to a good God, a holy God, a righteous God, a loving God -- the kind of God who didn't just make a bunch of rules and leave us to figure existence and eternity out on our own, but the kind of God who came near.

The kind of God, who by sending His son to be Immanuel -- God with us -- demonstrated His love for us through not only words and healing and love during His life as a man

but also demonstrated His love for us by making a way for us to be reconciled to Him through Jesus' death and resurrection, His conquering of both sin and the grave. The kind of God who gives us a choice to love Him, to choose Him.

I grieve that we choose to doubt His goodness, denying the crazy-awesome love of that kind of God -- the kind who loves us more than life and into eternity.

I grieve sin.

And that's where I'm left still and silent, heart heavy and weeping while the world continues to spin.

How are we supposed to celebrate at parties while our hearts are broken? How are we supposed to laugh and be merry in the middle of our deep sadness? How are we supposed to celebrate Christmas as we mourn and grieve?

As I spill these heart cries to a friend she asks, voice filled with compassion,

"How are we not?"

How are we not supposed to celebrate beauty, goodness and love even as we mourn and grieve?

We can grieve evil, grieve tragedy, grieve fallenness, but we cannot let it steal our joy or else evil takes more than what it deserves. 

And in clinging to our true joy -- the hope we have in a God who came near, who made a way for us in our brokenness through Jesus to come to Him in His goodness, who promised to destroy sin for good on a day yet to come -- we offer Light in the darkness, Hope to the hopeless, Wholeness to the broken.

How should we best grieve as people who know this Light, this Hope, this Wholeness? {1 Thessalonians 4:13}

We comfort the afflicted.

We come to Him as we are, speechless as we may be as the "Spirit intercedes for us through wordless groans." {Romans 8:26}

We give to Him our anxiety and "with Thanksgiving through prayer and petition make our requests known to God." {Philippians 4:6}

We share the Jesus who came to "bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners." {Luke 4:18-21}

And we to cling to joy, hopeful and knowing that in the end, God, in His tireless love, wins. 

Why am I so certain of God's promises? Because He has been crazy faithful in my life and in this world throughout history. Click here for a really good listen about why we can trust God. Choose "Christmas Wrappings: Wrapped in Prophecy" by Josh Peterson. 

Thinking, that's All: In Which I Write My Heart Out

All week {um fall long?}, I feel like I've been writing for everyone else.

And that's left me here in these quiet moments too exhausted to write much of what's been on my heart and mind despite there being a flood of thoughts and emotions.

Writing here in this space has been a lot like taking a bucket to an overflowing river, trying to reduce the flooding one bucketful at a time; by the time I get back from emptying one bucket, the river has again spilled beyond its flooded banks and I'm just dipping into a tiny bit of it, carrying it away.

This week, especially, has been one of these overflowing weeks.

I said goodbye to my grandpa just days before he slipped from this side of eternity into the next ... and days before my late father {his son's} birthday, which is always hard because I think of how old he would be and what he's missed with the boys and what my boys have missed of him.

This weekend, we'll say a proper farewell, but I'm positive it won't hold a candle to spending an hour with him Sunday, talking to him, holding his warm hand, praying with him and voicing my appreciation for him while he was still conscious enough to hear and understand and respond.

I grieve for the loss of such a great patriarch; but I find joy in the hope that he's with his Creator ... and my dad and my grandma {his wife} experiencing fullness in the reunions. I give thanks for having had 29 years with him and for having the chance to say so and say goodbye.

I woke up this morning to my eyes washed with streaks of red across the white, and I wished that I didn't wear my heart so visibly on the outside.

It's hard to explain a week like this to the people who read the heart in your eyes, a week so wrapped up and bound in not only my own sticky grief and gratitude but that of others who are hurting or weighed down by the heaviness of life.

Selah.

No one knows exactly what that translates to but its splashed across the pages of the Psalms. Some say it means to give pregnant pause and reflect; others ponder that it means that with an infusion of praise. 

I feel like my life is a Psalm this week.

I've cried out to my God through tears of sadness, praise:

"I love you, O Lord, my strength.
The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge.
He is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.
I call to the Lord, who is worthy of praise, and I am saved from my enemies." 

Psalm 18: 1-3 

And joy.

"You are a hiding place for me; you preserve me from trouble; you surround me with glad cries of deliverance. Selah." 

Psalm 32

Strange thing is how one can cry tears of grief and yet sing songs of praise all within almost the same breath.

Today was my 90-day check up with my crazy-smart holistic doctor and E's eight-week check up.

Though I knew the report would likely be good because I've been feeling so.much.better these past few weeks especially, I couldn't help but let tears spill onto my cheeks when she told us both my and E's candida infections were cleared up.

After more than a year and a half of both E and I battling that infection and all of the imbalances produced during other less effective treatments and the infection itself, our bodies have been cleared of it.

Cleared. Healed.

All I could say was thank you to her for her help

thank you to God for giving her such insight into the body

and allowing our paths to cross and linger

and

Selah.

Tonight, I'm done carrying buckets of overflow.

I'm just going to wade and cry and sing and praise.

Selah.

Hope: A Story You Should Hear

It's not my story to tell, so I'll let my words be few.

Last year, our good friends -- John's best friend from college, Jamey, and his wife, Kaila, -- excitedly stood in our kitchen as we cooked dinner and shared that they were expecting a baby.

Life, however, didn't go as planned.

We prayed for miracles.

And, though we didn't get the one for which we had hoped, for which we had pleaded, He continues to allow our fingers to unwrap unexpected ones.

This isn't just a story of grief, a story of loss, though both are interwoven into its threads.

But, rather, overarchingly, it's one of hope

and it's one of what God can do with willing hearts and resolves to trust that even when life doesn't make sense to our minds, God can redeem the seemingly senseless.

Mugford Story - Stereo Final Web from cedarcreek.tv production on Vimeo.

I hope baby Sam's life and story blesses your life in the way it's blessed ours.