Bigger Picture Moments: On Your Birthday, A Gift

Dear Selah,

This morning when the wise woman talked about finding each moment of grace, each moment of gift through the easy moments and even the hard, I thought of you.

I thought of how your short life here on Earth, buried in my ever-expanding womb, was marked with moments of grace and blessing.

And how even your soul passing from body to body anew into the glory of forever, still while inside my very own, was surrounded by very good gifts, from a very good God.

I think of you today because this day, last year, was the first and last time I ever held your small body, all 10 perfect fingers and toes, in my shaking hands.

And I wept over you, a miracle, and gave thanks, my hands cradling you with palms stretched up toward the giver of good gifts, giving you back to Him.

You helped me understand how it is possible to both hold and give, to both receive and let go. You were my pregnant pause, Selah, and your life continues to give me just that. Your life was a series of moments of grace and your death, even, was a gift of pause to understand what it really means to live.

God works all things together for the good of those who are called according to His purposes, and I have heard Him call my heart, inviting me out into deeper waters still.

After you went soul from body to body renewed, I prayed a desperate prayer for God to make clear what He wanted for our family, and I really just wanted you to come back. In the midst of being heartbroken at losing you soon fast and quickly, God answered my plea in a way I didn't understand when He began to break my heart for the children who don't have parents.

I thought of the heartache of losing you, entrenched in my mother's heart, and I fell face first into grieving the reverse loss, a baby losing her mother and father.

We prayed hard, and when your due date rolled around, we knew God was inviting us to host a girl who found herself in those shoes of loss reversed. And she came, and we learned, and we loved, and we cried together because when you know loss as deep as what she knows and what my mother's heart knows, you know what empty looks like.

But I'm not empty any more. I miss you, yes, and I long for you, yes, but another mercy moment, another gift of grace from your life and from your death was understanding that empty is a space that is yet to be filled only by Fullness Himself.

It's a gift you gave me to know that, and one that I'd like to whisper to other hearts that are empty and aching with voids they just can't seem to fill.

And the girl we hosted because our hearts were broken for the children without parents after we knew the broken of being parents without the child we loved, she'll come, God willing, into the fullness of a family that was born of empty and the fullness of a Family that was born of broken. And she'll have the parents, the brothers that were first yours, but that you all now share, and I pray that she'll have the Father we all share.

We know, because of your life, that one child never replaces another, and so we also know that one mother and father never replace another mother and father that were before. She'll know your name, and we'll know the names of the ones who came before us.

So this morning.

When the wise woman spoke about recognizing moments of grace and moments of gift through the good times and the hard times

and when she told us to make dots to mark those sightings and then string them together

and when she asked what I saw in the stringing together of those moments from this past year, I breathed in awe and exhaled reverence at what was before me.

I saw the Giver of Good giving me more gifts to unfold and savor, abundant gifts gleaned from your life.

A most perfect birthday present to celebrate your life, my beautiful baby girl, on the day you were born.

My love and my heart,
Mommy

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

Healing: Undressed

He met with me graciously in a quaint bedroom-turned-office, a moment where I could feel the warmth of God's breath on my neck.

I sat on the couch across from Michelle, a woman who's graciously been walking with me through the grief and healing of losing another baby during pregnancy, as she thanked God for being healer and restorer, almighty and good and then petitioned God to remind me of a time when I felt loved, cared for, safe.

Because after losing another baby, I've needed constant reminders of those feelings to heal. After losing a baby and knowing week by week how far along in the pregnancy I would have been had the baby lived, I've needed pictures of tender care to remind me that God isn't the pain I've been feeling but rather He's the comfort in the pain.

Through deep breaths and hands open wide, God brought to mind a time when I was small and sick. Small and uncomfortable and sitting in an oatmeal bath at my grandparents' house.

The itching was relentless, and my had grandmother pulled me out of the tub and proceeded to gather a cotton ball and calamine lotion to dab each and every sore on my skin.

And as I remembered her care, her love poured out in the act of trying to ease my pain, God whispered to my heart that He wanted to do the same with all of the sores coating my heartskin, all of the wounds that are still open and gaping.

But I'd have to stop running from the pain. I'd have to stop shooing away the hurt when it surfaced while deleting another "Your Pregnancy This Week" email. Or while looking at the calendar for September, wide open and clear. Or while remembering the other two babies who never snuggled into my arms.

I'd have to stop hiding myself away beneath the clothing of coping, and I'd have to shed those clothes and sit in the healing waters He offers and bring to Him my sores and allow Him to dab the lotion on with cotton balls.

I'd have to remember what it's like to come before a loving caregiver as a child in need, to shed the clothes of cover I've been hiding beneath and find freedom and comfort in sitting before Him in my own skin, wounded as it is.

And could I?

Could I do that?

Could I just trust the God who sent me the grandmother who'd poured love over me in a vulnerable season to also pour love over me in another vulnerable season?

On a couch, in small quaint bedroom-turned-office, on a cool Early- June day, I decided I could.

And I undressed from the clothes of coping and stood still as He dabbed the first of the sores, relief cooling the first of many.

Relief in losing the clothes that I've been outgrowing and that no longer fit.

Relief in remembering what it's like to be safe despite feeling underdressed.

Are you walking through a season of grief and need someone to walk alongside you? Michelle Lenz at Cherry Hill Counseling in Lake Zurich has been walking beside me, and I'd be happy to connect you with her. This isn't a sponsored post; just a helping hand extended because, you know, sometimes we can't walk through pain alone. 

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.

Bigger Picture Moments: Lightening Flashes

There's a storm brewing off in the distance and long before I can hear the thunder, lightening sets thick approaching clouds aglow.

The day has been warm and muggy; air hanging heavy in late spring is a sure-fire sign of approaching storms.

And how the day has unfolded, so goes my heart.

Today was deep joy and bright sun and spring warmth, air thick and heated, and I knew tonight would be one of those stormy nights in my heart and head.

We celebrated my niece's first birthday today with balloons and family and cupcakes with thick frosting, and it was good. My youngest played his heart out and snuggled me as he inhaled cupcakes and breaths of air. My oldest fawned over my niece. My niece smiled and snuggled against my chest, tired and deflated by the end of the party.

In those moments of holding her close and heaving to pick up my youngest and watching my oldest wear his heart of love on his sleeve, I remembered the first baby we lost ... one I'd hoped would share a birthday or birth week with my niece.

And in those memories, the second and third little lives we lost came to mind, too.

I silently shushed tears during the party and instead soaked in what was right there before us, celebrated  the lives of the children with which we've been blessed, gave thanks for the lives of the people we call family and friends.

But tonight as I watched the storm clouds thicken and build and blow in, I couldn't help but blow out the deep exhales of frustration and tears I'd held back earlier in the sunned part of the day.

On a whim, I captured the pink of the clouds lit aglow by the lightening.

Twice.

That never happens.

And I thought about the news we'd received a few weeks ago from the genetic testing; it showed a probable cause for the miscarriages, a genetic one from my own DNA.

An inversion on chromosome 13 likely explains why we lost those three precious babies; but we haven't pursued much more insight through the genetic counseling offered because honestly we're just not anywhere near the point of doing much more than healing.

But I've looked long at these two boys we have with wonder since we got the test results.

And I've wondered and awed at their lives, how they made it here into the land of the living when we'd barely uttered a prayer or laid a plan for growing our family,

how they might be these tiny miracles clothed in skin walking around my house day in and out and we just never really realized or understood the magnitude of such miracles.

I wonder if they are much like having captured lightening flashes twice in one storm

unlikely



perhaps impossible



but very much planned

to light up this space in time

and leave a long memory

just not exactly planned

by us.

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.

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.

Everyday Poetry: What Did We Know

I grabbed his hand and ran wild

into roped-off spaces of ancient digs

following a man with a machine gun into the shadows.

He said he knew then that he loved me;

why else would he have followed a wild-child of a beautiful mess

like me into the dark unknown of catacombs

half way around the world from

where he first read about them in books

dreamed of a brown-eyed girl.

But what did he know of love.


I followed him a few months later

a sparkling diamond on my ring finger

back to his old stomping grounds

promised I did and I do and I would.

But what did I know of vows.


I birthed him two babies

and we built a life and planted a garden

of trust and tears and laughter

in our backyard and living room,

found out what sickness and worse

and pockets of poorer meant.

Looked at each other, hands on hips,

from across the room some nights

before finally giving in,

melting into each other's arms

wondering aloud

what we knew of love.


I've stained his shirt with soft gray smudges of eyeliner

and hot tears more days than not now

in these four weeks and counting

since the baby in my womb traded

breathing amniotic fluid for angel air

And we've folded up into conversation

of babies gone

and sleeping soundly in the next room

of heavenly lights

and earthly darkness

of questions pleaded into the night

and answers given by morning sun

of a rugged tree where He was nailed

and an empty tomb where He was risen

Realizing exactly what we now know of love

and still also have yet to grasp.

Join us every Monday for every-day poetry during the month of April!

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/

Scenes from a Weekend: Repair

The thing about life is this -- even in the midst of grieving our baby, the human heart can still swim deep into joy.

This weekend there have been tears. Oh, yes. Enough tears to soak several tissue boxes and make you think that maybe I might have fallen into a rabbit hole of despair.

But instead this weekend, I fell face first into repair, despite, well, myself.



These days have heard lots of laughter, starting first thing in the morning with a 3-year-old boy bounding into my bedroom bellowing "Goo morning, mommy. How you sleep las nigh?" while I was still, um, sleeping.



And ending in fits of giggles after John and the boys were Irish jigging and a certain long-legged husband accidentally kicked a certain oldest son in the head ... knocking him off of his feet and sending him into a hysterical laughter at daddy's attempt at traditional Irish dance.

There's been a slow-coming surrender in remembering to turn my shaking palms back up and open the closed-knuckle grasp with which I keep trying to squeeze everything I've deemed as mine ...

and in mustering the courage and trust to actually begin such a movement to let go. Again.



This weekend afforded John and I three hours alone with each other to talk and process and sort and cry and question ... and then finally acknowledge that our ways are not God's ways and our thoughts are not God's thoughts

while giving Him thanks for that hard bit of dessert manna to swallow.



And this weekend was sprinkled with warm, sweet coffee, sipped slowly and steadily while taking in the moments that unfolded and seemed to promise renewal that, too, would come slowly and steadily.

Join us at Bigger Picture Blogs as we capture Scenes from our Weekend

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.

Share your Bigger Picture Moment HERE!

Life After Miscarriage: Maybe We Shall

Essentially, I passed go. 

I don't know how the conversation began or why we were discussing fertility at all during a recent doctor's appointment, but when she finished my half-way point evaluation she'd said she wouldn't be concerned at all if I were to get pregnant tomorrow. 

Through a mustered smile, I thought to myself -- maybe she wouldn't, but I couldn't say the same. 

Her green light was unexpected. So unexpected that it left me more flabbergasted than joyful, like I would have expected. 

I'd long been dreaming of the day, the appointment when my crazyhella smart doctor would say that my body wasn't so broken that she would worry about what a pregnancy would do to me, that she wouldn't have cause to believe we'd say goodbye to another baby before we ever got to hold that new life in our arms. 

After John and I left her office, the astonishment of her words, the shock of my reaction didn't wear off. And as days have progressed into weeks, I've become a river of emotion winding wildly down stream through every twist and turn imaginable. 

There's no question of if I want to welcome a new baby into our family; I do. Honestly, we both do. 

But I'm the complicated one who was cleared to pass go but can't seem to collect her $200 and be on her merry way. 

Because now I know that positive pregnancy tests don't always mean baby in arms at the end of a nine-month journey. 

Now I know that we have to welcome all the risks that come along with the chance of welcoming another baby into our lives because another baby, whether living here on Earth or there in Heaven, will indefinitely take up more real estate of the heart and mind. 

I find myself praying, asking God if we should try again to grow our family. If we should journey into three, and I enter into theological discussions about having more kids and the whole "be fruitful and multiply" command and whether or not two miscarriages were clear indicators to let go of the dream of a bigger family. 

Over time, after discussions, in searching my heart, I know, though, that I'm not really asking theological questions anymore. I'm not really asking if having another baby is black-and-white right or wrong for our family. 

I'm asking if this time we will actually have and hold another one. 

I'm asking if a new baby will be in our arms, not just our hearts. 

I'm asking if we take the risk, will there be rich reward. 

Or will we be face to face in another seemingly dead end.

****

We're wandering a corn maze with our boys, our good friends and their boys on a bright, warm October afternoon; we're discussing such matters of the heart and such matters of theology as we keep running right into dead ends of thick corn stalks -- so many times that I joke they might have to come in with a search team and flashlights to find us. 

And that's when it stares me right in the face, bright and golden like the towering cornfields beneath soft autumn light. 

There's not really any such thing as a dead end if you can turn around. It's more a side-road detour. 

And

we didn't enter the maze just to effortlessly walk through. We went in knowing it could be a trial. We could get lost. We could be wandering aimlessly until the sun set over the fields. 

But, too, we went in trusting that we would be rescued if rescue was needed. No theological discussions about whether we should turn at this corner or that or if it's right for us to walk a path before us that we're unsure of where it leads. No desperate prayers for an answer before we even come to the fork in the road. 

We find our way through after a few long roads that led to nowhere, after lots of discussion and giggles, tears and tiredness, triumph and trial, conversation and sun soaked onto faces. 

I grab John's hand and catch his eye, our boys running off into the clear open space of prairie outside of the maze. 

And I think to myself, maybe we shall.


Those who know your name will trust in you, for you, Lord, have never forsaken those who seek you." 
Psalm 9:10

Just Write: Borrowed

I hear whimpers tumble through the baby monitor from small lips.

As I climb stairs that aren't my own, I hear her voice a little clearer.

There's hesitation as I slip through the door both in my careful movements toward her small body perched sleepily atop of the crib mattress.

And in her eyes as I enter the room, a familiar enough face but one she doesn't expect.

Humbly, gently I lift her into my arms as tears pool in her eyes, confused as to why I'm here instead of her mommy or daddy.

But I've got this, I reassure myself.

I've got you, I reassure her.

A few tears spill down her cheeks as we head downstairs and try to find shoes so we can join the big kids in the backyard.

But her hands, they cling to my shirt, fabric balled tightly in between fingers, and she rests her head momentarily, hesitantly on my chest before I exhale deeply, sink into a chair and just hug her as she wrestles with her emotions.

Then, she sinks into the space beneath my chin and fully surrenders to the warmth.

I watch through the screen door her older sister and the boys I once cradled as babies, my very own babies, run wildly around the backyard, no time for anything other than the hard work of play, as she lends me the sweetest of snuggles.

This little one, she normally won't hang out with me for more than just the moments it takes for me to try and bribe her with chocolate or bananas, but it's like she knows that I need a baby to borrow for just a little bit today, so she lingers in my lap.

And these few precious moments, they confirm that I again want to count down days until new life comes forth, passing time sorting and folding those soft, impossibly small newborn clothes {like these baby clothes from Polarn O. Pyret},

that I want again to snuggle another small body born from my own body

that perhaps we're ready to venture into the unknown territory of trying again

instead of simply living in the familiar land off of borrowed baby snuggles.

This post was graciously inspired and sponsored by Polarn O. Pyret. I was compensated for my time. 

Five-Minute Friday: Change

Beneath the late August sunlight

hope hangs thick

like honey dripping from the hive,

soft-sticky amber coating my heart

seeping into open wounds,

filling in the cracks and crevices of hurt,

a salve that sweetens spaces threatening

to harbor bitterness.

I linger long, still tender and stinging,

in its balm

and welcome the slow march

from summer sunlight

into cool autumn air

where honey slowly thickens

and holds strong, solid

those spaces that desperately

needed to be filled with something

sweet.




{This Five-Minute Friday piece was written in chunks because of multiple interruptions by two small children, so it actuality, it's more like a 15-minute Friday piece. Just keepin' it real.}

Bigger Picture Moments: I Wonder

I wonder to myself -- especially mornings when we sleep in long and restful tucked together in the same king sized bed long after daddy leaves for work -- if this is it.

If we're full.

If we're happy to accept that these two little bodies who sneak in beneath our covers during the early morning and snuggle themselves next to our own are the only fruit that will come of our vine.

In the moment, I say yes.

I can say yes -- there in the bed -- because I'm absolutely bursting with gratitude that these little toes and little legs, little minds and little souls are fabulous gifts that just keep growing and we just get to keep unwrapping.

In that moment there's fullness in my heart and in my bed and in my arms.

Fullness.

I love being mom to two.

I love the the way our family operates. The way I sleep solid now without children waking me most nights. The way John and I are able to send the boys on overnight with their grandparents while we spend time together. The way I have one hand for each as we walk through parks and parking lots, one parent for each on family dates.

I love two. On days like this, I rest in the fullness, the functionality of two and call it complete.

***

We rehome a kitchen island from another family after years of talking about how our kitchen needs more storage, more counter top, more seating in order to make cooking and communing and conversing at the same time enjoyable.

We set it up perfectly, and we marvel about how it makes the kitchen not just functional and full but also complete.

Our boys are perched on the stools, leaning elbows on the countertop as I slice and dice zucchini and John unloads plates from the dishwasher for dinner.

In the midst of the chatter and food preparations, I smile and catch a glimpse of two little sets of feet dangling next to the legs of the stools.



My heart instantly, unexpectedly groans for a third pair to swing from the third stool.

With two little boys, my heart says we are functional and full. So very functional. So very, very deeply full.

But that third stool -- it somehow screams the definition of complete to a heart that hears.


Each Thursday we come together to share the harvest of intentional living through sharing a piece of life gleaned: a picture, words, creation or list; just come to the table with the beauty in the simple moments of the week. Link up your gleaned moment this week at Melissa's!

Link your moment at Melissa's this week!

Thinking, that's All: Letting Go

A generous thank you to Bounty for encouraging the pouring out of my heart by sponsoring this piece. 

I've let go of trying to figure out why.

Why I'm not waddling around in the final days of being large and swollen with child.

Why my earliest signs of pregnancy were my last ones. 

Why we've not been counting down the time left in my pregnancy week by week and day by day, especially now that we're in the thick of my due week.

Why we lost not just one baby in September, but then, you, too, in December.

I guess why doesn't matter so much anymore because a reason wouldn't make it feel right anyway.

A reason wouldn't make arms that wanted to hold you feel fuller, more satisfied.

It wouldn't make me more OK with the fact that sometimes pregnancies end unexpectedly and sometimes mothers don't get to hold their babies outside of the womb this side of Eternity.

And it wouldn't make my heart grieve any less the loss, the promise, the hope of you here in life as we know it.

The resignation to resting in the unknown doesn't mean, though, that I don't

give thought to whether your hair would shimmer coppery-red against dark locks when sunlight presses into it like mine, like your brothers'

that I don't long to see father, your brothers marvel over you

that I don't wonder what you could have given to a needy world.

Just because I'm no longer lingering in the why, small one, doesn't mean I don't remember.

It just means that I'm refusing to let you become synonymous with loss

because you haven't been lost.

You haven't been misplaced

or forgotten. 

I know you dwell in Light I can't yet imagine. 

And I know that instead of me welcoming you into my world today, this week

one day, you'll be there welcoming me into yours, His.

A generous thank you to Bounty for encouraging the pouring out of my heart by sponsoring this piece.