The Discouraged Place

You will find no resolutions here.

No pretty explanations or metaphors tied with florid descriptions.  

No revelations.

And no answers.

For months I have been in the sad place.  Dealing with the compounded grief of 3 sequential losses of my 3 babies.  Sad, angry, grieved, and quite honestly, still trying to get out of bed some days.  

But over the last couple of weeks, I feel like my sad place has transformed into more of.  well.  of a discouraged place.  The grief is still there, but it is overshadowed by the looming presence of the absence of hope.  If that makes any sense at all. 

It's a deep pervading sense that this season, this season of loss, struggle, and deferred dreams seems to be dragging on and on and on.  And that despite the crystal ball that some people must be hiding in their back pockets, assuring me that everything will work out perfectly in the end, there is no end in sight.  

And that as I sat in the doctor's office last week, trying to make it the first visit that my doctor didn't have to hand me a kleenex to dry my eyes (and failing miserably), and I listened to her explain that we needed to move on to the next step because the prior plan wasn't working and my body had evidently become immune to the drugs--I remember sitting there thinking...this is no longer just a baby loss journey.  It's no longer about the fear of losing another one.  Of getting the BFP and panicking that a 4th loss was in store.  It's the fear that I  may never even get the chance to fear that again.  What was a struggle to keep a baby has now become a struggle to even just conceive a baby.  

What the heck.

Call it a step back, a slap in the face, a kick in the butt, a punch to the stomach, a wrench in the plans...call it whatever you want.  It's downright discouraging.  And I feel.  so.  hopeless.  

And for the last couple of weeks, that's where I've been camped out.  The discouraged place.  And like the grief place, it's a lonely place.  Isolating, cold, and full of a lot of darkness.  

And as I consider the stories that have come across the desk of FMN over the last couple of weeks, the feelings of despair only compound.

First, there was the woman who was told at 20 weeks that her baby boy had a terminal disease.  She and her husband made the courageous choice to carry him for as long as they could, and the next week he died in utero.  Did I mention that her husband is also battling terminal cancer?

Then there was the momma from Texas who emailed us to ask for a box.  For herself.  She had just lost a baby girl at 14 weeks due to cystic hygroma.  4 years before that, she gave birth to a stillborn son at 24 weeks.  And a year before that, she miscarried another at 8 weeks.  Last we heard, she was planning the funeral for her little girl.

There was also the momma who was told that her baby boy had a terminal type of dwarfism and would not survive birth.  He was born into heaven last week.  

And finally the woman whose baby boy was also just diagnosed with cystic hygroma at 18 weeks gestation.  He is alive but not expected to live much longer.  

And as I sat tonight.  And I read more in detail about some of these women and their stories, I wept.  I wept for the dark days they face, the isolation they will experience, and the despair that they will feel.  I wept that they would be leaving the hospital with empty arms.  I wept for the children who were excited to have a new baby brother or baby sister.  I wept for the husbands who will work so diligently to hold their families together that they will deny their own grief and begin to crumble under the weight as the dark days keep coming.  

And I wept for myself.  For my babies that I will never get to hold on this side of heaven.  For the dream that feels a little more crushed every day.  For the stab that I feel with every announcement, shower, meal delivery, and milestone that belongs to someone else.  

And I wept for the fact that I feel as though I have been drafted to head the saddest, most devastating committee on the planet.  

Afterall.  I did not ask for this.

And as Karen and I were talking tonight, I said, it's too much.  This is too much.  Because here's the thing.  

It will never not be this way.

There will always be momma's without babies.  And momma's whose babies die.  

And that is terrible.  It's devastating.  And it kind of makes me want to crawl into a hole, put my fingers in my ears, and hum as loud as I can to drown out the noise of this tragedy.  

And these stories literally represent one week of FMN emails.  One week.  There are many many many others just like these with equally as heart-wrenching outcomes that we have heard over this past year.

Well.  Thank God for Karen.  I don't know that I have much to offer her, but she always shows up in those moments when I need her, as she did tonight when she reminded me that yes, it will always be like this.  These stories will continue to happen.  The tragedy is not going to end.  But. 

These women could grieve alone.  Or.  We could come alongside them.

"Blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted."  Matthew 5:4

And so.  Each will receive a box or a package from Forget-Me-Not.  And it will not erase their pain.  It will not make these days any easier.  And it will not really fix anything.  But.  It might let them know that they aren't alone.   

There are days like these where I feel like giving up.  Where the burden is too heavy and the path is too dark.  And for today, I won't.  I won't because Karen is right.  And these women need us.  And we need them.  And because quite frankly, as much as this ministry was designed to minister to other hurting mothers out there, it has proven to be a very necessary lifeline for me as well.  

Like I said.  No resolutions here tonight.  Just a bit of jumbled thoughts and perhaps a deeper glimpse into the heart of a girl, a mother, who is hurting and wondering what will come next.  But until then, I leave you with this.

There is another reason why I'm not going to quit today.  Why I'm going to fight again tomorrow.  Because I thought to myself, if Eisley can do it for another day, I can do it.  

See, Eisley is Karen's 8 year old daughter.  And a couple of months ago, Eisley came to her mom and said that she wanted to help with Forget Me Not.  And she had an idea.  That maybe she could do something to help the other kids out there.  The kids who were excited to have a baby brother or sister, only to be told that there was no baby coming home from the hospital.  See, Eisley remembers how that feels.  She remembers how that feels because she felt that disappointment not one time, not two times, not three times, but four times.  Four times, she learned that the new baby was not coming home as they planned.  And so she, together with her twin brother Jake, decided to write a note to those kids.  Telling them that they know how hard it is and how sad it feels.  And they suggested that maybe we could give those cards to the kids that we hear about in Forget Me Not who learn that their baby brother or sister has died and won't be coming home after all.  

In one short week, we will release the details of our new branch to the FMN ministry-- Snuggles for Siblings.  Eisley and Jake have been hard at work and we will be sharing what they have come up with and how we will begin using it to reach out to the hurting siblings out there who are grieving the loss of their baby brother or sister.  

And so tonight, I guess I say this.  Eisley and Jake, I am so proud of you.  You display more courage, strength and kindness than most of us adults.  On days like today, where I feel like giving up, I am inspired and encouraged by you.  And I am so glad that we have you to help us out because I know there are a lot of kids out there who need to know that they aren't alone and that someone cares about them.  Keep up the good work.  Welcome to the Forget Me Not team--I know that I will learn a lot from both of you. 

Stillborn, but Born Still

I heard a phrase once that stuck with me so much. "She was stillborn, but she was still born."

What an incredible reminder.

Lily was stillborn. Born still. Born sleeping. But she was born. I have had the opportunity and blessing to give birth to three other children besides Lily, and trust me when I say, Lily was born. Perhaps the most heartbreaking part of having a stillborn baby is that their birth is forever overshadowed by their death. As mothers, we crave to tell the stories of our baby's arrival. We yearn to share the details of each contraction, each incredible moment, each tiny finger and each tiny toe. But when our babies die before they have had the chance to be born, we are forever robbed of the opportunity to tell our birth story, because no one wants to hear it.

I remember talking to someone once about epidurals. I mentioned that I did not get a good one when I had my twins, but I had an excellent one with Lily. The look on this person's face, the shock that I had mentioned one detail of my birth story with Lily, they thought I was insane. I could read it all over their face. What had previously been an easy going, light-hearted conversation about having babies halted immediately at the very mention of my stillbirth.

Here is what I would like the rest of the world to know: Yes, it was a stillbirth. But it was still a birth.

Yes, Lily died. But Lily was also born. I went through what all mothers go through when they give birth to their babies. I felt each contraction and savored each measly ice chip. I endured forced contractions for hours and hours because I wanted to feel every single ounce of pain this birth brought me, because it helped distract me from the pain they do not have any drugs to numb. I had amazing nurses and an amazing husband who coached me through the hardest day of my entire life. I allowed those amazing nurses and that amazing husband to encourage me into getting an epidural so I could sleep after twenty hours of labor. I sat on the end of my bed and sobbed while the anesthesiologist told me it would only hurt for a second, because I knew that wasn't true. I finally slept, until I was awoken by Lily, who had already died but still needed to be born. And I pushed that tiny little girl into this world, and listened as the only cries we heard were my own. I watched the nurses wrap her in a blanket she was far too small for, and smiled when they told me she was perfect. I felt like a new mommy when they had to teach me how to hold a baby so small, and my husband and I marveled over the daughter I had just given birth to.

There is a movie called "Return To Zero" in which the father of a stillborn baby boy mentions the irony of how his son's tombstone would have his date of death before his date of birth. Who has ever heard of such a thing?

We have.

Our babies died before they were born. But they were born. Don't you see? Our babies didn't just die! THEY WERE BORN TOO!!!!

If I could help anyone on the outside of this isolating bubble to understand one thing, it would be that. Thank you for grieving with us over the death of our child. But please do not forget that our child was also born. We have a story to tell. Albeit a very sad one, but we cannot control that. Do not shy away from listening to our very special story. Do not trivialize our baby's birth simply because they happened to die first. If you get the sense that we want to share our story, our pictures, our life changing experience of giving birth to a baby, please do not shut us down. Encourage us, listen to us, validate us.

I had two very distinct, very different, and equally impacting interactions in the weeks that followed Lily's birth. The first one is not uncommon, and I imagine many mothers of babies born still have had very similar experiences. I was talking to a small group of mothers who were telling their birth stories, and like mothers do, we were sharing the good, the bad, and the ugly parts of having our babies. I talked about my twins, and had the absolute attention of everyone at that table. They asked questions, wanted me to elaborate, laughed at some parts and winced at others. And then I mentioned a small detail about my birth with Lily, something very unimportant like the food they allowed me to eat when I was in labor with her, and no one, not one person, knew what to say. As if the very mention of Lily's birth was totally against the rules and I had in one fell swoop ruined what had been a very interesting conversation. I wanted to say, "I'm sorry, I forgot I wasn't allowed to talk about the birth of my daughter because she had the audacity to die first." But I didn't. But one day, I just might.

The second one was not long after I had Lily. A friend was bringing us dinner, and while she was there, she noticed a small album on my coffee table that had Lily's name on it. She asked me, "Oh Karen, are those pictures of Lily's birth? Would you like to share those with me? I would love to see them."

This friend did so many things with that one interaction. She mentioned Lily's birth instead of referring only to her death. She noticed that I obviously cherished those photographs and memories because I very proudly displayed them where anyone could see them, and she took that as a cue to ask me to share. She gave me the opportunity to share my daughter with someone, and, as a mother, who wouldn't want that? She validated that Lily mattered, that her birth was significant, that she was worth sharing, and that I had every right to share her. She put whatever anxiety she may have had over looking at some very sad pictures aside and put my needs first.

A friend once reminded me that we must educate others with grace. I cannot expect people to know what to do or what to say about the birth and death of my daughter. But I can tell them. And I can show them grace when they fall short. So this is my attempt to educate with grace. If you take one thing away from reading this, please take away this:

The death of my daughter does not negate the birth of her. Her date of birth and her date of death were backwards, but they were. They happened. She died, yes, but she was also born. And that is something to be cherished.

If you ever want to see a mother, any mother, glow, ask her about her child. Compliment her on them. Use their name. Tell her she has such a special story and that her child is so blessed to have her as a mother, because no one would love them like she so obviously does. It doesn't matter if her child lived or died, because her child is still her child. When a child dies, our mothering of them does not. We continue to love them, to cherish their story, no matter how short it may be. Our memories of them do not disappear, and their existence is not erased simply because it has ceased here on earth.

We are still mothers. They were still born. We would be honored to share their story with you. And trust me when I say, you would be honored to hear it.

A Trigger Week

Mother's Day --As I sit, staring at my phone, waiting for the text, I can't help but feel completely overwhelmed by the most conflicting cluster of of emotions I have ever experienced.  Never have I walked a road that has married the most opposite of feelings of joy and sorrow.  I pray and wait and picture the moment in my mind that will take place in the next few hours in which I will see my very closest friend as a mother for the very first time-- with her rainbow baby in her arms.  After a year and a half of loss upon loss upon loss upon loss, upon loss, she is experiencing her miracle right this very moment.  I don't think I have it in me to do this.  And on today of all days.  But how could I miss it?  

****

I pick this up now, 2 days later, as the very moment I was writing was interrupted by a text and a picture of a beautiful, newly born, baby girl.  And so what started as a dream of what was to come is now a look in the rear view mirror of the events of the past couple of days.

And so, as we left to head to the hospital, I managed to hunt down one of the last Mother's Day balloons in the greater Phoenix area at the Safeway across the street.  And as we walked into the waiting room on the 2nd floor we were met by mothers, siblings, cousin, uncle and aunt--wide-eyed and walking on the clouds that reside above the 9th, they said "look, look, over here!  She's over here!".  And as I approached the glass to the nursery (am I the only one that thinks it's a little bit like the zoo??  There are even signs that say don't bang on the glass!!), my eyes landed on 10 lbs and 3 oz of pure miracle.  And the tears flowed as I recounted in my mind the journey that I'd watched this baby's mama walk, that led up to this moment.  Moments that had been dark, sad, hopeless, and angry.  Moments that had been wrought with death.  And here.  Right in front of my face.  Was life.  Squalling, wiggling, life.  And as I sat several hours later, holding the bundle that I still couldn't quite believe was real, my heart felt as though it would burst.  I wanted one too.  But this one?  This one was a gift.  And as I sat with my counselor last night and tried to make sense of it all, I had an epiphery.  (..Michael Scott, anyone?  The Office?  No?  Ok, nevermind...)  I realized that for the first time in two years-- I wanted to be around a baby.  I found myself neglecting dinner time and my puppies to come back on night two for more-- because I wanted to be around this baby.  Because she made me smile.  And though the sting to my heart was still there, the joy that came from holding her was unmistakable.  That has never happened before.  Babies remind me of what isn't.  They remind me of the little ones that I will never get to hold in this life.  And of the one that I so long to hold right now.  But something about Charlotte is different.  And what most probably don't realize is that Charlotte and my Pearl would have been just a few weeks a part.  That my walk down the hall to see my sister friend and hold this baby should have been a waddle.  And I have been afraid for months that it would just be too painful.  That the loss of being pregnant, having our babies together, and watching our children grow up together would be too great.  That I would feel the need to run.  To stay away.  But the past couple of nights, I have wanted nothing more than to sit with my friend and be near her little one.  Wow. 

(friends don't take pictures of friends when they are in the hospital and fresh out of major surgery-- so wedding pic it is)

A lot happened last week.  A lot.  It was a lot.  But this Mother's Day was precious.  It hurt.  But it was precious.

First, there was the comment that my husband made to me just before.  "Guess what we have at work again?  We have chocolate covered strawberries and I know they're your favorite.  We have them for Mother's Day.  And since you're a mother, I'm going to get you some."

I will never be able to express the validation, love, and healing that transpired as a result of that sentiment.

Wednesday, my ministry counterpart, sister, and fellow-loss momma left a "basket of sunshine" on my doorstep.  Full time mom, ministry co-founder, and full time PCH Child Life Specialist extraordinaire, somehow found time to find all things yellow at Target, put them in a yellow basket, and leave them on a doorstep with a card wishing me joy and sunshine in the midst of a week that was booby-trapped with loss triggers like non other.  She even included one of the flowers from our FMN loss garden with the words "To Becky-- a mother"

On Thursday, as Jess and I grappled to find ways to remember our little Nadia on the anniversary of losing her, I was met with another gift on my doorstep.  A clock with the words "Dear Sweet Nadia- We are counting the days until we can meet you in heaven.  You are missed."  Charlotte's mom left that for me.  She knows the ache of pregnancy loss all too well, and she wanted me to know something.  That she remembered.  

And so, my husband and I spent some precious time that night remembering our little one.  Letting a balloon go, drinking champagne, eating a cupcake, and leaving some cash in a random formula can at the grocery store-- a small random act of kindness in her name.  And as we asked just a few other folks to do the same, we smiled at the donations made to the ministry in her name and the bags of provisions that Karen's family decided to make and hand out to the less fortunate that they encountered through the week.  (And I think that was the idea of her kiddos-- so excited to do something in the name of a little one in heaven with Jesus).  And our hearts were sad.  But they were full.

And the timeline gets a little fuzzy here, but the thoughts and gifts had not yet ended.

A friend, a momma who has been through the deepest and darkest of valleys that I will never understand--who has watched her newborn head into operating room after operating room after operating room over these past few months--who does not have the time, with 2 other little ones on top of caring for her very sick, very precious new heart baby--but somehow managed to leave the sweetest note and pot of flowers on my doorstep Saturday.  Just to encourage my heart. 

And just before leaving for the hospital on Sunday, I was met with a set of cards and gifts from my husband.  The gift was sweet necklace, picked out by my momma, letting me know that she loved me and that I am her sunshine.  My momma who has now foregone celebration on 2 Mother's Day's because I have been too grieved to even acknowledge the holiday's existence.  And yet, she thought of me.  And went out of her way to make me feel loved.  Who is a pretty darn good example of what motherhood is all about.  

And a card.  From my husband.  That I did not expect.  And touched my heart more than I can really say.

And upon returning from the hospital, was met with yet another doorstep offering.  (I know you're starting to think, What???  This is crazy!  You aren't that special and there's a lot of hurting people out there, not just you.  I know!!  That's what I was thinking too!!)  And as I opened the card and pulled the tissue from the gift bag, I found a bracelet.  A bracelet with the initials and birthstones of all 3 of my babies.  And a beautiful wooden keepsake box--and in it were 3 flowers and 3 monogrammed charms for my babies.  From a fellow loss momma-- whom, in truth, I have never been exceptionally close with--who crafted the bracelet and each piece in the box with her own hands.  Just for me.  On Mother's Day.  Talk about lost for words...

And finally.  The last token came today.  From my cousin who is really more of a sister than a distant relative.  Who is very busy raising 3 little ones of her own and running her own stellar photography business.  Who started the whole thing more than a year ago, with a Willow Tree piece titled "Remembrance".  And today, she sent me the figure of a mother holding a child, titled "Mother's Embrace."

And I never meant for this entry to sound like the staccato timeline that it does.  I meant to take a moment and think.  Really think.  About what I have.  Do I think it's as easy as "don't focus so much on what you don't have, think about what you do have!"?  No.  I don't.  And please don't ever say that to a grieving mother.  But do I think that I have been gifted with a great deal of over-the-top love and support to make it through this season?  Yes.  I do.  I dread my next due date, just around the corner, because I know it's going to be a painful one.  But people are showing up.  And the body of Christ is doing its job.  And some days, that gives me some hope to hold on to.

Those of you who have reached out to me?  Have sent me messages, texts, and posted on my Facebook wall?  Who fall in this timeline of precious events detailed here?  And the ones who have been sending cards, gifts, and other sentiments along the way? (Did I mention that last week yet another friend, a different one, sent me a card and a gift because she didn't want me to be left out of the baby shower that would have included my Pearl???  Who even thinks of that kind of thing??!)  You know who you are.  All of you.  And I'm not good at much but I'm pretty okay with words most of the time.  But this time?  I'm really at a loss.  Because I know you are sweet, caring people.  And I know that you have momma hearts.  And I know that you love Jesus and love his people.  But I never expected you to show up for me quite like this.  You've shown up when I least deserve it--and when I most need it.  I am thankful.  And you challenge and inspire me to do something, to show up for someone else.  To love, encourage, and walk with the sad, wounded, and faint of heart. To not let your gifts and your sacrifice end here with me. 


"26 If one part suffers, all the parts suffer with it, and if one part is honored, all the parts are glad."  1 Cor 12

"9 Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up."  Gal 6

This is Why

lady: "so how are you doing?"
guy: "oh you know."
lady: " how is your wife doing?"
guy: "not very well.  and I think it's only going to get harder as the due date approaches next week."

My heart skips a beat at the conversation I'm overhearing from the two people walking to the cafeteria ahead of me.  Who is this guy?  Does his wife work here too?  They obviously just lost a baby.  And as the conversation goes on I have to talk myself down from interrupting.  What are the chances that week 2 on the job in a brand new place with a bunch of people I don't know that I overhear a story about someone dealing with a recent loss?

And as the days go by, I pass this guy in the office constantly but have no idea what his name is or how I could possibly connect with him.

"Uh, excuse me sir.  I know I'm a total stranger but I overheard you talking with your friend.  I'm so sorry that you lost your baby."

He would think I was crazy!  So every time I saw him, I prayed for him and his wife.  Hoping and asking God to somehow make our paths cross so that I could reach out to him.

And then last week I get a text from the friend who got me the job.  "Hey, Beck.  I wanted to let you know that I ran into one of the trainers at work today after not seeing him for a few months.  And I found out that he and his wife just lost a baby.  Would you pray for him?"

Well.  I'm pretty sure I scared the tar out of the pups who were sleeping soundly at my feet when I shrieked and frantically called my friend.

"I've been trying to find out who this guy is for weeks!!"

And after a few moments chatting with her, I learned that he and his wife had just lot a full term baby boy a few weeks before.  My heart broke and I asked her if she thought that it would be appropriate to offer him a box for his wife.

We decided that would be okay and I tried unsuccessfully for a couple of days to nonchalantly cross his path in his training room when he didn't have a class.  Finally yesterday, I left the box for my friend and asked her if she would be comfortable offering it to him if she saw him and it looked like an opportune time.  She agreed.  And this morning I was met with a text as I was getting ready for the day.

"Michael would like to meet you and get an opportunity to thank you.  He was very touched.  And the baby's name is J*****."

And so today I had the opportunity to meet and talk with a man, a husband, deeply concerned for his wife.  I listened as he told me of their infertility journey to conceive their baby boy and the hurt in his eyes was evident as he tried to describe just how lost he was in trying to support his broken and grieving wife.  I was deeply moved by his desire to love his wife in her darkest hour, even if it meant going to support groups together, something that was clearly out of his comfort zone.  I listened as he opened up about how he doesn't know what she needs and yet he comes home every day, asks her if she took her daily walk, asks her how she's feeling, and then just lets her talk.  And as he tried to explain his wife's grief-stricken state, I wished that I could somehow have met her and given her a hug.  Broken mom heart to broken mom heart.  And he thanked me for the box and I could tell that he was affected by the idea that someone else might care about his wife, their baby,  and this devastating loss that was rocking their world.

I don't know if or when he will choose to give her the box.  It's not always the best thing for a hurting mom.  And sometimes, she just needs more time.  Time to get from the angry place to the hurting place to the healing place.  But as I rode home today with a friend (I was met with a dead battery when I went to leave for work today and had to hitch a ride home -- oh and did I mention I dropped my dinner on the floor face down tonight too?!) and we talked about the sanctity and miracle of life, and of the joy and blessing that comes from ministering to others out of our own hurt (it was an intense 20 minutes!), I was reminded of the very reasons why the Lord allows these painful experiences in our lives.

2 Corinthians: 3 All praise to God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. God is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. 4 He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. 

And I'll be honest.  This is an emotional week for me.  This week holds a significant anniversary date, Mother's Day, and the impending delivery of the miracle baby for my very closest friend.  And quite frankly, I feel like I've been run over by an emotional MAC truck...that was thrown into reverse, drive, reverse, and then drive one more time, just for good measure.  I'm tired.  And I'm hurting.  And I've had to resort back to the "one day at a time" mentality for the time being.  Because thinking about tomorrow or how Thursday will feel, or Sunday, or meeting Charlotte for the first time (how I have WAITED and PRAYED for her!!!!), is just too overwhelming.  And if I try to start thinking about these things now, I may just quit altogether. 

And so tonight as I consider all of these things and wonder why God continues to lead me through (what feels like) this never ending valley of uncertainty and heartache, I think about Michael and his wife and their beautiful boy.  And I think to myself-- This is why.  And I think about the box with the blue flower that I was privileged to give them, as a tool to let them know that someone else cares about them, hurts with them, and misses their baby boy with them.  And in this moment I can actually see just the teeniest, tiniest sliver of the tapestry that is being woven from the tears and heartache of those of us who are comforted by our Savior and long to share that comfort with others.  And although I'd be lying if I said that I don't pray for mercy, for this part of the pain to end soon, I can truthfully say that I am honored and genuinely thankful to be a part of it. 

   

Thank You

Have you ever said the words "thank you" and known that they didn't even come close to sufficiency?  Have you ever been so overwhelmed by someone's kindness, generosity, and other-centeredness that you were at a loss for words as to how to respond?  Have you ever experienced the compassion of another person, knowing that you would never fully be able to articulate your gratitude or repay them?

Last week I took a risk.  After a number of weeks away, we attended our Sunday School class.

We weren't taking time away from the class because morning snacks were discontinued (be honest, it's one of the things you love most about Sunday morning!), because they weren't, or because we didn't want to see our friends, because we do.  We were taking time off because quite frankly, the pain of attending was outweighing the benefits.  Try as I might to redirect my thoughts, I was more focused on the many pregnant bellies and new babies than on any of the social interactions or on the the message from God's Word that was being taught.  I wasn't sitting in my chair, rocking back and forth with my fingers in my ears and quietly humming to myself or anything (which doesn't mean the thought hadn't crossed my mind a time or two), but I was one hundred percent distracted and counting the seconds until the closing prayer during which I would gently tug my husband's elbow to indicate that I was ready to escape before more social interaction would be required.  And at that point, I realized, as hard as it was for me to admit (it was extremely difficult), that being in our Sunday School class was actually doing me more harm that good.  

[Enter major feelings of guilt here.]

I felt bad.  Really bad.  And it took the love and counsel of 4 of my support mommas to give me permission to take a break from class.  That if my husband agreed and we could find some alternative methods of worship and study, that taking a break wasn't the unpardonable sin that I had made it out to be in my mind.  That it didn't have to be permanent and that for now, it just might be best.

But a week ago Sunday, I had a flicker of bravery.  One moment when I woke up at 8:30 where I thought that I would like to go to class instead of big church (sorry, old habits die hard--it will always be "big church"!).  And an hour later, I found myself sitting in class, clasping my husband's hand and trying to focus on the message.   And when that moment came where the "Amen" was uttered and everyone around us began chit-chatting, I grabbed my husband's elbow and made a beeline for the door.  But before I could, I was intercepted by a friend-- a precious fellow loss momma-- who greeted me with a smile and a hug and asked me how I was.  It wasn't the kind of "how are you?!" where the subtext is "I'm asking you how you are because it's a social nicety but I secretly hope you say you are great because I really have more important things to be doing".  Far from it.  It was the kind of "how are you?" with the subtext of "I haven't seen you in a while and you've been on my heart and I really want to know how you are doing because I genuinely care about you."  In fact, she may have said that out loud.  At any rate, her warmth, compassion, and kindness gave me the boldness to really tell her how I was doing.  Before I could finish telling her about the newest encouraging story from the ministry, two more girls had walked up and joined the conversation.  It wasn't one of those awkward situations where you could tell one of them wanted to ask the first girl something or had an agenda--on the contrary.  They intently listened and asked thoughtful questions--because they genuinely cared.  I was 5 feet from the door--and this scenario happened two more times before I left.  

I sat in the car on the way home, fighting back tears.  My husband instantly grabbed my knee and began asking what was wrong and who said something insensitive and am I okay....... and I could barely get out the words.  "I just.  I feel so loved."

And it didn't end there.  Last week, I got an email from one of the girls in our class, a friend, letting me know that she had knit fifty pair of baby booties for the boxes and would be bringing them to the party.  What?!  In all of her spare time as a grade school teacher (the job that NEVER ends!) she just whipped up 50 pair of the most adorable baby booties you have ever seen.  What?!  And then came the text from another friend from class who told me that she was so glad to have seen me there and to apologize that she didn't get a chance to chat with me because she had to teach a class 3rd hour.  So in all of her spare time as a mom of two little ones, she took the time and felt the need to apologize to me because she didn't get a chance to come say hi face to face......what?!  I was so touched by her kindness, by her thoughtfulness...

I have known many of these girls for about 4 years now-- some of them longer--but I will be the first to admit that I have not gone very far out of my way to get to know them or really even to reach out to them.  It's not even like I have been sowing this type of selfless behavior all over the gals in the group--at best, I have been polite from a distance.  And right now?  The way they are reaching out to me?  The huge effort.  The sheer compassion.  Selflessness.  Genuine kindness.  This is where the "thank you" just simply doesn't suffice.  And so.  I want to take this opportunity to thank these girls.  In my own simple, meager, insufficient way.  To let them know that their compassion has touched me deeply.  Has made the difference between feeling like I can never return to the class, and feeling like I'm actually wanted there, in spite of my grief and (at times) hardness.  That even though many times, they probably have no idea what to say or how to make it better, that they are trying.  And.  That they love me.  Just.  Wow.

And I will leave you with the message that arrived in a card in my mailbox yesterday.  From another classmate.  From a very sweet, very precious sister.  These are the actions that speak louder than words.  That make me want to come back.  And that show me a compassion so real, that it is now being used to help me heal.

To these girls and the rest of you who have displayed similar actions with your cards, mementos, messages, and texts these past months: I'm sorry that I don't have better words to express my gratitude.  I wish that you could just see my heart because I will never be able to explain it.  I hope that when given the opportunity, I will show up for you the way that you have shown up for me.  Thank you for loving me.  And thank you for remembering my babies.  These are the greatest things that you can do for my grieving momma heart.  

"Dear Becky, I've been thinking a out you and praying for you a lot the last few days!  I heard you threw the most gorgeous baby shower ever.  I'm sorry I couldn't make it.  I'm so challenged by the love, time, and energy you put into blessing your friend when it's a celebration of something you so desperately desire yourself.  I'm really sad that we didn't get to celebrate your little one this last Sunday.  There will forever be an unfillable hole in the nursery, in our class, at play dates.  I'm sorry my little boys don't get to meet your babies and play with them.  Please know they have not been forgotten and will forever be missed."  

My glitter space

I had a day yesterday.

No.  I had a day yesterday.

I didn't expect it to bother me very much-- in fact, I wasn't even sure that when the day actually arrived-- that it would really even end up on my radar.

Boy, was I wrong.  Radar, shmadar.  Turns out, it was one of the first things on my mind when I got out of bed, and the last thing I thought of as I quietly sobbed myself to sleep.  Grief has a funny way of making you think that you've reached that next level, the one where you don't care nearly as much, where you don't break down at every little trigger, where you think that maybe, finally, things have subsided and you can get back to whatever the new normal is.  And then on a day like yesterday?  Grief jumps out of nowhere like one of those creepy jack-in-the-box(es) and knocks you flat on your butt.  I had one of those days yesterday.

There was a celebration yesterday.  A celebration of two precious and long-awaited little lives.  When I say long-awaited, I mean that these little lives, these babies, did not come to their mommas without a lot of fear, frustration, heartache, grief, and loss.  And I know this because these two mommas are very dear friends, whom I love.  Very much.  We have shared good times.  And sad times.  And hard times.  They are my friends.  My sisters.  And I wanted to celebrate with them.  I really wanted to celebrate with them.  But I could not seem to move past/rise above/get over the thought in my mind that what was a double celebration should have been a triple celebration.  That one of my little ones would have added to the reason to celebrate.  That when I lost my little Pearl, yes, I lost the chance to be a part of that group of celebrated mommas yesterday, but I also lost the chance to have a kiddo grow up with my friends' kiddos.  There are a lot of facets to this baby loss grief, but that is one that cuts deep.  There is a special kind of hurt that happens when the visions of little girls and boys toddling around together, pulling on each others pigtails and dumping sand on each other's heads, crumbles into a million pieces.  When it all falls apart.  And there is no way to put it back together.

Yesterday was, in lots of ways, a day that I would rather forget.  And yet.  Tonight when I was texting my husband while he was at work, I recounted yesterday as one of the best days I have had in a very.  very.  Long.  time.  In fact, I told him that it ranked in the top ten, in the 4 years that we've been married.

Yesterday was tough.  It was one of those milestones in this grief journey.  The kind that knocks you back a step or two.  But see, I married a really good guy.  I married the kind of guy that can make it okay when absolutely nothing about the circumstance is okay.  I married the kind of guy who is willing to use his FMLA time to stay home from work and care for you when you need it most.  The kind of guy who takes you by the hand, kisses you on the cheek, and tells you that he knows that today sucks, but he isn't going to let you face it alone.  The kind of guy who spends the rest of the day, tending to your every need--with a smile on his face and a grip of reassurance on your hand.  Who decides that you need your own glitter space.  And then builds you one, that same day.  Oh, and while you're getting settled into your new glitter space?  He decides to go grocery shopping and whip up ribs and cornbread for dinner, just in case you still needed an extra dose of comfort.

We all laugh at my constant obsession with all things glittered.  But really and truly-- it is my outlet.  I have always been one that can get lost for hours if all I have is a pair of scissors, some glue, paper, and glitter.  I also write, and play with my puppies, and exercise, and cook-- but my strange little creative gene-- my glitter and paper and scissors--can get me through the longest and loneliest of days while my husband is at work and I'm desperate to find something that I enjoy as a mental vacation from the grief that threatens to pull me under on those especially dark days.

And so, when my husband decided to give me my very own space to cut, glue, glitter, and emboss to my heart's content?  He met the deepest of my needs in a very tangible, practical way.  He loved me.  Selflessly. Practically.   And when I walk by the study, and I see my new little space.  My eyes well up with tears.  Not at the ribbon or the perfectly organized glitter or the crazy cool sticker spinner that we made together.  My eyes well up with tears because my husband has served me and loved me in such a way that I am overcome with an immense amount of respect for the ways in which he cares for me, and for a desire to return the favor and love him--selflessly--back.

My husband isn't my savior.  He can't fix it all and he can't love me perfectly.  But I do believe that God gave him to me as a gift.  As an extension of Christ's love for me.  And so when Jesse metaphorically wrapped the towel around his waist, bent down, and washed my dirty, broken, blistered feet yesterday--in an earthly way, he loved me as Christ loves me.  And that is a powerful thing.  That is a love that binds wounds.  That heals.  That brings joy in the midst of sorrow.

And so I guess this is my public announcement of respect for my husband.  My shout out.  My skywritten declaration that he is a wonderful husband whom God uses to love me and hold me together on days like yesterday.  That I have the utmost respect and admiration for the Christ-like man that he is.  And that I am so unbelievably grateful for his presence in my life--and as much as I would give just about anything to have my 3 babies here with me now--the loss of their precious little lives has brought Jesse and me to a new level of intimacy that I did not know was possible.  We have been to the depths together--and an immense bond has been forged as a result.  And I would not trade that for anything.

I love my friends.  I can't wait to meet their little ones.  And maybe someday, that dream of toddlers running around harassing each other can be realized.  Some days, I'm brave enough to hope that it will.

And I adore this guy.  And I am privileged and crazy blessed to call him my husband.  

  
Matthew 19:4-6 NIV 
"Haven't you read," he replied, " that at the beginning the Creator made them male and female and said, " For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh" So they are no longer two but one. Therefore what God has joined together, let man not separate.

Ecclesiastes 4: 9-12 NIV 
Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their work: If one falls down, his friend can help him up. But pity the man who falls and has no one to help him up! Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone? Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.

Song of Songs 8:6-7 NIV 
Place me like a seal over your heart, like a seal on your arm, for love is as strong as death, its jealousy unyielding as the grave. It burns like blazing fire, like a mighty flame. Many waters cannot quench love, rivers cannot wash it away. If one were to give all the wealth of his house for love, it would be utterly scorned.

Box Packing Party Update

This is just a super quick post to let everyone know where we are at with our upcoming event and to put out a quick request to let you know what we still need.  We are really excited to finally be doing this and hope that you will consider being a part of it in some way!

We are down to about 17 days left before we are hoping to get together and pack as many boxes as we possibly can!  The following list details our current needs:

ITEM	NEED
Boxes	0
Burlap (6 in. width)	40-50 yds
Lace (2-3 in. width)	50 yds
Flower Centers (pearls or gems 1/4 in. diameter)	207
Cream Tissue	40 sheets
Blue Tissue	41 sheets
Pink Tissue	0
Cream Ribbon (appox. 1/4 in.)	10 yds
Blue Ribbon (appox. 1/4 in.)	5 yds
Cream Ribbon (appox. 1/4 in.)	10 yds
Thin Twine	18 rolls
Tag Paper	25 sheets brown paper cardstock (paper bag type color, not chocolate brown)
Kleenex (unopened travel packs in muted colors if possible)	166
Pens (new)	159
Seed Packets (any kind of flowers)	161
Copies of I'll Hold You in Heaven by Jack Hayford	193
Booties **if you crochet and are interested, please send us a message!	as many as we can get
Journals	166
Candles (3 in. white or cream pillar, new)	163

Please let us know if you have something on this list that you would like to donate and we will make arrangements to collect it as soon as possible.

Again, consider joining us on Sunday, March 30th at 1 pm at Palmcroft Baptist Church-- no craft skills required, if you show up, we will find a job for you!  :-)

Any questions, email us at any time--

becky.forgetmenot@gmail.com
karen.forgetmenot@gmail.com

Thanks, all!  :-)