What Eisley Taught Me About Trust (by Karen)

This entry was originally written on my blog (ouradoptionfaithwalk.blogspot.com) shortly after we learned about Ember's fatal diagnosis. One big lesson God taught us all during that time...trust...




"Blessings"
Laura Story


We pray for blessings
We pray for peace
Comfort for families
Protection while we sleep
We pray for healing
For prosperity
We pray for Your mighty hand to ease our suffering

All the while you hear each spoken need
Yet love us way too much to give us lesser things
Cause what if your blessings come through raindrops?
What if your healing comes through tears?
What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know you're near?
What if trials of this life are your mercies in disguise?

We pray for wisdom
Your voice to hear
We cry in anger when we cannot feel you near
We doubt your goodness
We doubt your love
As if every promise from Your Word is not enough

All the while You hear each desperate plea
And long that we'd have faith to believe
Cause what if your blessings come through raindrops?
What if your healing comes through tears?
What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know you're near?
What if trials of this life are your mercies in disguise?

When friends betray us
When darkness seems to win we know
That pain reminds this heart
That this is not, this is not our home
What if my greatest disappointment, or the aching of this life
Is the revealing of a greater thirst this world can't satisfy?
What if trials of this life
The rain, the storms, the hardest night
Are Your mercies in disguise?





I saw that song plastered all over Facebook months and months ago. I never clicked on it, just saw that people were "so touched by it". I don't know why I never clicked on it and listened to it. I just didn't.

I was at a friend's house awhile back and we were talking about old memories of Psalty the Song Book and his wonderful repertoire of children's music, and my friend was flabbergasted that I didn't have my kids listening to the very CD's (which were at that time cassette tapes) we all grew up on. She offered to burn me a copy (thanks Rachel!!!) but there was still some room left on the CD after Psalty. She told me she'd burn some Laura Story onto it, she was sure I knew her.

"No," I told her, "I don't think I've heard her."

"What!?!" she said. "How have you not heard her song 'Blessings'"? It's like written about you!!!"

Well alright then, I better listen to it! And I did. And she was right, I felt like it was written about me. (I realize I say that a lot, but you know what I mean) After our many losses, especially our experience with Lily, I often found myself wondering what in the H-E-double hockeysticks the Lord was doing. Did He not hear my prayers? My cries to keep my babies healthy and my pregnancies uneventful? Why, why, why did this keep happening? I often felt ignored by God. Like He simply wasn't listening to me, or didn't care, or both. In my heart of hearts, I knew the Truth, of course. But when you are in that much pain, you don't care for the truth much.

And then, once again, the Lord allows yet another unspeakable heartache to enter our lives. We have grown to care and love very much this woman and the baby girl she is carrying. That happens when you spend so much time in prayer for people. But once again, it is as if our prayers fell on deaf ears.

We SPECIFICALLY prayed for this baby's health. "Lord!!!" I cried. "WHY can't you just hear me just ONCE!!!???"

I have cried that so many times.

The other day Eisley asked me if I could dig out the Psalty CD. After we got it, we listened to that thing until I was literally dreaming in children's worship songs, so mommy decided to put it away for awhile, replacing it with Adele, which I realize isn't the most uplifting of music, but the change I needed after months of non-stop Psalty in the car (Yes, I do own an Ipod, but we only have one car dock, and Josh keeps it in his car for reasons I am now thinking I should debate...).

Anyways, I stopped for a moment to find the CD, and stuck it in. We listened and sang along, and it was just a Psaltastic time. Yesterday, I was in the car by myself, and the CD had moved along to the Laura Story song "Blessings" my friend had burned for me. I literally had to stop the car because I was just crying and crying over the realization that I, in fact, do not know everything, and God is not ignoring me, but He is aware of a heck of a lot more than I am. Who am I not to trust Him? I have to believe. I have to believe that there is a greater purpose in all of this, that He does hear me, that He does love me more than I can fathom, but He knows something that I don't.

Our greatest aspiration as Christians is to live for the life beyond this one. What if all that He is allowing into our lives, as painful as it is, is fulfilling a purpose that may not be apparent in this life, but will be in the next one? Which life do I want to live for, this one, in its blink of an eye, or the next one, which will last an eternity? As hard as it is to do, I definitely want the latter.

I was out shopping with Eisley today. She begged me, begged me, in her sweetest little Eisley voice, to take her shoe shopping for school. Even though it was totally past a time I like to leave the house and she was already in her pajamas, I just really couldn't think of a good reason to turn her down. It's summer, we are starting school soon, she slept really late this morning, and it would just make her entire day if I said yes, so I did.

She has had her eye on a specific style of shoe ever since I broke down and let the kids start watching Nikelodeon (which I specifically did not allow up until this point because of the commercials and the direct effect they have on my children's begging). They are high topped Sketchers Twinkle Toes, and Eisley simply can't imagine herself starting at a new school without them, especially since I dropped the bomb on the Style Queen that she would be wearing one of six school uniform shirts in a bland variety of colors every single day of the first grade.

So we ventured out on this little shoe shopping adventure hoping to find a cheap pair at Ross or something, but were totally unsuccessful. She was so, so disappointed. I looked at her sad little face and I just melted. It is not often she gets her heart set on things, but when she does, it is simply a travesty not to fulfill her wish. I had these sudden overwhelming feelings of sadness for her, not because of the stupid shoes, but because her greatest wish at this point in her life is to be a big sister. And try as I might, I just can't seem to make it happen.

But I can buy shoes.

So we continued, and we went to store after store and failed miserably at each one. WHERE ARE THE SHOES??? Why would you advertise something and then make it impossible for normal people to find?!? I was feeling like a failure as a mother. I felt so sad that I couldn't grant her this simple thing. I wanted so badly to give it to her. And then I had this thought...

God loves me so much more than I love Eisley (which, I have to tell you, is an unfathomable amount, because I already love her an unfathomable amount, so, you do the math). When you love someone that much, you want to give them the desires of their hearts. You go out of your way to do it. You stay up past your bedtime and go to more stores than you'd like to admit. You spend more money than you probably should. You work extra hours, you spend the time and the effort, you do it. Because they want it, and you have the power to give it to them, and it won't do anyone any harm to grant them this tiny thing, so you do it. I wondered to myself, why? Why, if God loved me so much, wasn't He granting me the one thing I have been asking for these past two years? What was the hold up?

As we walked out of the last store into the dark of the dead of the night, I told her we needed to give it a rest and try again tomorrow. Or try the internet. The internet will not fail us. She sighed. And then she told me she needed to go potty.

Well, okay. We were in a parking lot, and she's six, so I figured her bladder could handle the five minute ride home.

I was wrong.

As I rushed home as fast as my conscience would allow on a very busy main road, she yelped at me from the back seat that I needed to hurry, hurry mommy, don't let me have an accident mommy!!!

I finally made it to the stop light right before our house. I had to turn left, and as I said, it is a super busy road. I waited in the middle of the intersection for the clear space needed to turn left, but cars just kept coming. Eisley is literally crying in the backseat telling me to turn. I'm telling her I can't, it isn't clear yet! She screams that I have a green light and she is going to pee in her pants if I don't turn RIGHT THIS SECOND!!!

"But I can't!!!!!!" I say.

"BUT THE LIGHT IS GREEN MOMMY!!! TURN MOMMY!!!" Eisley cries.

Now, I am an adult, with twelve plus years of driving experience. She is six. The extent of her traffic knowledge is "Green means go." To her, I was torturing her. All she wanted was to go potty, if she didn't get to a potty RIGHT NOW, the worst of the worst of the worst in the world of a six-year-old would become her reality. She would pee in her pants.

But I knew, being the wise and highly intelligent adult that I am, that if I turned, we would crash into another car and die or be severely mangled. Does Eisley know that peeing her pants is nothing compared to being severely mangled? Yes. But she did not understand that these were mutually exclusive. To her, I was simply being mean. That, or I didn't understand the severity of the situation at hand.

Remind you of any other situations you've been in?

I realized, as we were sitting at this stop light, Eisley crying, me panicking, Laura Story singing about Blessings on the CD player, that this situation is not unlike what God must experience on a daily basis. Us humans whining about peeing our pants when He is only trying to protect us from being severely mangled in an automobile accident!!!

This analogy might seem like a stretch to you, but it really hit home for me.

He knows more than I do. He is listening to my first prayer, my greatest prayer, to honor Him with my life, to serve a greater purpose for Him, before my second prayer to have another child. I have to trust Him. I have to trust His love for me, even when what is happening makes no sense to me at all and seems almost cruel.

Eisley thought I was being cruel. That I wasn't listening. That I didn't understand how very badly she needed to go potty. She was mad at me! To me, her pleading broke my heart. I hated seeing her like that! I could relate to what she was experiencing as I myself have been six and had a bladder the size of a walnut with a brother who would have teased me endlessly had I peed my pants. Her situation, through her eyes, was dire. I wished so much that she would just trust my love for her and the fact that I did understand her pain, but I had to make a different decision, for her own good. Even though it broke both of our hearts to do so.

But I know better than her. I love her so much, that I would allow this awful, horrible, no good thing to happen to her, because I wanted to save her the pain of what would come had I turned left when she wanted me to.

Josh and I struggle with the trial that God has allowed into our lives right now. We are so hurt that we are going to lose another baby girl that we have grown to love. We are so sad and especially heart broken for her mother. But if God were to sit me down and explain to me that He is allowing this because of this amazing reason and that amazing reason, that this person may come to Christ and that person may finally turn back to God and showing "Kim" this kind of unconditional love may cause this chain reaction and that chain reaction, I am sure I would understand. He loves us so much. He allowed something awful, in our eyes, to serve a purpose for Him. And I am pretty confident that one day He will have that conversation with me, and we will both cry, and I will thank Him for allowing what He did for the reasons that He had.

Does that make it less painful right now? No. Honestly, no. But it does make it worth it.

Josh and I are determined to find and help create purpose from each tragedy the Lord allows into our lives. We will never, ever waste a sorrow. Ever. We will do everything we can to make the tears and the heartbreak and the utter brokenness of what is happening worth it. At this point, that means sharing with all of you what God is teaching us. I'm sure He is doing a lot of behind the scenes action that I'm unaware of, and that is comforting as well.

We will not shield ourselves, our children, or any of you from the pain of what is happening, because we are fully confident that the Lord will create something totally awesome from it. We will continue to love this little girl and her mother. Even if it means another piece of our hearts is taken from us.

My sweet cousin Lisa sent me this video, that so much better says what we are feeling about this whole situation. Please take a moment to watch it, and if you have two moments, listen to Laura Story's "Blessings".

You won't regret it.



http://vimeo.com/24355556


"All of Me"
Matt Hammitt

Afraid to love something that could break
Could I move on if you were torn away?
And I'm so close to what I can't control
I can't give you half my heart and pray He makes you whole

You're gonna have all of me, you're gonna have all of me
Cause you're worth every fallen tear
You're worth facing any fear
You're gonna know all my love
Even if it's not enough
Enough to mend our broken hearts
But giving you all of me is where I'll start

I won't let sadness steal you from my arms
I won't let pain keep you from my heart
I'll trade the fear of all that I could lose
For every moment I'll share with you

You're gonna have all of me, you're gonna have all of me
Cause you're worth every fallen tear
You're worth facing any fear
You're gonna know all my love
Even if it's not enough
Enough to mend our broken hearts
But giving you all of me is where I'll start

Heaven brought you to this moment
It's too wonderful to speak
You're worth all of me, you're worth all of me
So let me recklessly love you even if I bleed
You're worth all of me, you're worth all of me

Grief - A Man's Perspective - By Josh Harrison

Karen asked me to write something from a man’s perspective for FMN this week.  I put it off for a couple reasons.  One reason is that it’s hard for me to write what I’m thinking sometimes.  Lucky for me I married Karen and she can do any required writing for me now.  The other is that the topic is a difficult one to talk about.  All week long I was thinking about what I could write and I came up with a few things, sorry if they don’t fit together perfectly.

                I’ll start by stating the obvious, pregnancy loss sucks.  I wouldn’t wish any of it on my worst enemy.  For me each of our losses was very different but they all were terrible.  Our first loss, Grace, was very difficult.  We had Jake and Eisley and their pregnancy went smoothly especially considering that they were twins.  Looking back we didn’t realize how amazing it was that everything went so smoothly with them.  Karen convinced me that we should have another kid so we gave it a shot.  At the time my biggest fear was that we would have twins again.  Karen got pregnant quickly and we were very excited.  She went to the Dr. and like I said before, I was just hoping and praying for one baby this time.    The Dr. said that they couldn’t find the heartbeat but that it was probably just too early.  We were both shocked by the news but I wasn’t too scared because I just figured that it was indeed just too early.  We spent the next few days praying and praying for the baby.  I was convinced that everything was going to be fine and that we would see a heartbeat.  I can remember the next part very vividly.  Karen has some Dr. friends who were able to do an ultrasound at night after I got home from work.  Well there was no heartbeat again.  This hit me very hard because I was convinced that God was going to make everything ok and that we would see a heartbeat.  The miscarriage was a lot more difficult for me to handle than I had anticipated.  Karen was just so sad and there wasn’t anything I could do to ‘fix’ it.

 It took us a while but we finally got to the point where we wanted to try again.  This time we were much more aware of what could be the outcome if/when she got pregnant.  Well she got pregnant again but things were different this time.  We were not very excited and we kinda kept our hearts guarded.  We didn’t want to get too excited and attached in case we had another miscarriage.  She had many appointments and each time we went in half expecting to hear bad news, but everything was going smoothly.  Once she made it to her second trimester we started to let our guard down a bit and even get a little excited.  We even told the kids and had an amazing experience bringing them to an ultrasound where we found out that it was going to be a girl.  Eisley was soooooo excited to have a little sister.  Jake was a little bummed but was still excited.  Shortly after Karen had another routine appointment that I almost didn’t go to because she had so many and everything was looking good.  Everything seemed the same at this appointment, little did we know what was to come.  We were talking about possible names in the waiting room then they called us back and started going through the routine.  I always got a little nervous at the beginning of the ultrasound until I could see or hear the heartbeat.  Right away I could tell something was wrong.  The ultrasound tech said that she couldn’t find the heartbeat and left to go get the Dr.  I looked over at Karen and she had tears rolling down the side of her face.  I just sat there in shock and stared at the screen with no heartbeat.  I said to Karen that her name is Lily and she nodded.  I could go into great detail about the next couple days but I’ll just touch on a few things that stick out the most.  I’ll never forget the stupid fake fish tank in that room and when I see one like it now it makes me sick.  I’ll never forget the sad faces of the nurses as we left that appointment.  I’ll never forget having to go pick up the kids from VBS and explain to 5 year olds under a tree at church that their baby sister didn’t have a heartbeat anymore.  I’ll never forget having to call my mom to tell her and not being able to get the words out.  I’ll never forget picking out stuffed animals in the hospital for the kids to bring for Lily.  I’ll never forget the kids coming to visit Karen in the hospital and feeling heartbroken for them.  I’ll never forget sitting in the dark room waiting for Lily to come and realizing that God is in control of this terrible situation and somehow have some peace about it.  I’ll never forget seeing Lily’s perfect face and her lips just like Jake’s.  I’ll never forget the 2 hours we spent with her holding her and singing to her and reading the Bible to her.  I’ll never forget walking to the car and not going back up with our car seat for Lily to go home in.  I’ll never forget seeing the nurse roll Karen out who was just broken.  I’ll never forget going to the flower shop to pick out some Lilies for my daughter’s funeral, and realizing this was the only time I would get to buy her flowers.  I’ll never forget having to tell my sister who was on a mission trip that we lost the baby.  I’ll never forget sitting down and writing what I was going to say at the funeral.  I’ll never forget carrying her little casket the size of a shoe box from the funeral home to the grave site.  I’ll never forget seeing everyone put those flowers I bought on her little casket.  I’ll never forget that I had to be strong for Karen and for Jake and Eisley even though I was crushed.  I’ll never forget that I’ll see my sweet baby girl in heaven someday. 

A couple years have gone by since we’ve lost Lily.  Things didn’t really get easier, but I guess you could say that we weren’t so sad as often.  Even now a couple years out, there will be moments that it feels just as bad.  Like a couple weeks ago I was playing with Jones and he was laughing and all of a sudden it struck me that I never got to do that with Lily and I had a mini breakdown when I was telling Karen about it as we drove by the cemetery where she’s buried.

A while after everything with Lily, we tried one more time to have another baby.  Again, Karen got pregnant quickly.  This time we were very guarded and not excited because we were scared.  Well Karen had another miscarriage.  This one wasn’t as hard for us to go through but it did lead us down the adoption road because it seemed like God was trying to tell us something.

I’ll try and make this long story short.  We went through the very long adoption process and got picked by a birthmom.  She didn’t have any ultrasounds until real late in the pregnancy.  At the ultrasound they told her that the baby had some real issues and wouldn’t live long after she was born.  We went down to the hospital not knowing what to expect.  Well the baby was born and she looked perfect.  But they did an ultrasound on her brain and they found that she only had a brain stem and that her brain didn’t develop.  They said that she wouldn’t live long and that she would need special medical care.  We couldn’t put Jake and Eisley through another sister dying.  We prayed and asked God to show us what to do.  (Oh I almost forgot this funny part)  Somewhere in the middle of all of this Karen found out that she was again with child-more on that later.  We spent a lot of time at the hospital loving on Ember.  One trip to the hospital we went to Jack in the Box nearby.  We sort of laughed at our crazy situation: everything with Ember and the fact that Karen was pregnant again.  We talked about how we have no control over anything and that we just need to rely on God even though we have no clue what His plan was.  When we tried to head back our car wouldn't start.  We just laughed and cried at how ridiculous things were going and walked back to the hospital.  On the way back it was hot and clear skies but we saw a rainbow and felt like that was God telling us that He’s right there with us.   The adoption agency found a lady who had experience with the issues that Ember had.  We felt at peace about this lady taking care of Ember.  Ember was adopted by an amazing family who loved on her for the short time she was here on Earth. 

Back to Karen being pregnant again.  This definitely came as a surprise and we did not expect to have a good outcome.  We were very guarded and not excited.  Even up to the moment when the doctors pulled Jonesy out I was convinced something was going to go wrong.  But God had a different plan this time.  Thank God.  The pregnancy went smoothly and Jones was born perfectly healthy.  And now because of all that we went through we definitely appreciate and love Jones that much more.  We still hurt for our losses but even less often. 

Well that was way longer than I expected.  I guess I like talking about my kids that aren’t here with us since I don’t get much chance to.  Each of our losses was very different from each other but they were all very painful.  My advice to guys when dealing with a loss themselves is to let your wife know that you’re hurting too and that it is a big deal to you too.  My advice to guys that have a friend who is going through a loss is to talk to them about it.  I know this type of stuff isn’t the normal surface level sports talk that 90 percent of my chats are with guys, but just mentioning something about their loss goes a long way.

For me, the only thing that got me through the losses was knowing that I would get to see them again someday.  And trusting that all of this ‘mess’ was part of God’s plan.  

"The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps." -Proverbs 16:9

 

Grief. A Man's Perspective by Jesse Brimhall

       I was asked to write a blog post for Forget-Me-Not from a man's perspective. I guess I should start with some of my credentials. I am a 31 year old father to three children that died before they were born. I am a horrible blogger, having come to the conclusion that whatever I have to say of value is usually intermittent and is usually much to short to warrant a blog of its own. Some of the most profound things I have ever said have been limited to 180 characters, and are lost in a jumble of social media materials that supposedly are now being logged for posterity in the Library of Congress. I guess my profundity is not lost. 

Two and a half years ago, my wife and I began trying to start our family. I guess you could summarize the experience in that it has not gone how we expected. We have lost three children to miscarriage, and we have lost a lot of hope along the way. This is not an easy way to go about life, just in case you weren't aware.

It has been an uphill battle. We have shared excitement with our friends when we have found the illusive blue line, and have shared grief with those that would accept it when we got bad news. The truth is, those who want to share in the grief seem to be smaller in number. Honestly, I think it stems from difficulty in knowing how to share grief. 

I lost my father a few years ago, and a list of things to say and not to say to someone in grief caught my attention. All of the things on the do-not-say list were said to me, and very few encouraging things were said. It was an isolating time for me. Good friends didn't know what to say, so they never wanted tot talk about my loss. Subjects were changed and my grief was ignored, and I became more and more introverted and isolated. 

Eventually, I came out of the depression I felt, but it was definitely a dark time for me. I later met and married my wife, and for some reason, still feel like my feelings about my father's death are mine to bare alone. She did help me a lot with it at the time. She was understanding and supportive, but the feelings sometimes return, and as a man, I feel like they have to be mine to deal with.  Similarly, we seem to have been placed in a position in which our grief of the loss of our children is sometimes not easy to share. 

As a man, it's the pain of grief, of loss of a loved one as well as loss of a potential future, combined with the responsibility of taking care of my wife in her grief. The burden is heavy. Traditionally, it is the responsibility of the husband to be stoic and strong, to carry the burden if the family on his shoulders and to never show any sign of strain or fatigue. His role is to tirelessly lead, love and support his family. It's not easy. It's exhausting. 

A lot of people will tell you that the grieving process gets easier as time passes. A more accurate statement would be that grief is always hard, episodes just become less frequent. There are times that everything is fine for months, and then, instantly, something will set me off. For my wife, these triggers are much more common. Sometimes it comes in the form of seeing a pregnant friend, a cute infant, or even just a small situation in which having our kids nearby would have changed the entire experience.

I am not an expert at the grieving process. If I were to speak candidly, I'm pretty horrible at it. I am, like a lot of men, an emotional pacifist. I am pretty content, if not compelled, to ignore all feelings of grief as long as possible. It's when they resurface that things get messy, but only until I am able to sweep them under an emotional rug again. One of the most inappropriate things that I have ever heard was said to me by a volunteer social worker a couple hours before my dad died. It has been one of those profoundly horrible things that has probably mutilated my ability to grieve in a healthy matter ever since. I tell myself sometimes that it was a mostly innocent comment, but the ramifications have been ongoing for years, and I hear them now as I consider my position in my own family.

"It's a good thing you have those broad shoulders to carry your family through this."

It left me questioning, for years, when it would be ok for me to be carried. 

We named our children, and although we never got to meet them, I imagine their personalities based on those things I have seen in the children of friends of ours. Our oldest, our boy, is a spitfire. He is constantly into things he shouldn't be. He is like me, and is going to light our garage on fire with the welding torch before he has a driver's license. He climbs everything, harasses the dogs, shaves off his eyebrows before his first day of school, and is fiercely protective of his two sisters, who he also talks into snatching snacks out of the pantry for him.

The two little girls, are inseparable, despite having opposite personalities. They are adorable little troublemakers, getting out of all sorts of trouble with innocent smiles and innocent quips. All of the rest of the details are very private and guarded. 

There are days that I get lost in thoughts of them. There are also many more days that I can't. The pressures of work, supporting my wife, and just dealing with everyday life cause my grief to be delayed. They have caused my mind to be overwhelmed, at times, and empty at others. In a recent conversation with my wife, we talked about how I deal with the pain, the loss, and the frustration when she can't. My methods, as misguided as they are, have always been to seek solace in distraction. It's why I enjoy owning cars that require tinkering, I watch cartoons late at night when I should be sleeping, and it is probably why I have made a hobby out of having hobbies. It's one of those things that probably largely hereditary, but helps me connect with my father and my absent son. 

Teaching a grade-school aged son to rebuild a carburetor or change brake pads, or teaching a kindergartner how to slow dance at a father-daughter dance. These are the thoughts I have of my children. They are the happy experiences I wish I would have a chance at, but they are the things that I can think about while I absently fix up the car that would have taken my son and I years to finish, and I would have driven my daughter on her first date in.

        This post is an expansion on the thoughts I had while drawing these sketches last week. Becky bought me an iPad for my birthday, and I had started messing around with a new drawing app, and I realized that I had something to say with it. My hope is to turn them into a small book for her some day. 

        

"It's still a birthday"

As I re-read my answers one more time and finally click the "submit" button, I think about how it feels as though more than a week has gone by.

One week and one day ago, I sat with my head in my hands, the glare of the laptop screen piercing through the darkness as my husband snored next to me.  If he had been awake, he likely would have been wondering who in the world I was talking to.

"This is insane, I am the least qualified person on the planet to do this."

"I SERIOUSLY don't know nothin' about birthin' no babies either--for real."

"But I don't WANT to."

And as I argued.  Wrestled.  With God as to why He had put this seemingly impossible thing in front of me, before my excuses were even mumbled, I knew that He wasn't asking me.  He was telling me.  He was telling me that He knew I was scared, that He knew that "all this baby stuff" really and truly freaked me out--and that He knew that there was no way to come out of this emotionally unscathed.  And a wrestled a little more.  And then a little more.

And as I tried to explain to my husband a little while later what had been brought to my attention (again--not that I told him about the other two times this had been placed in front of me), we talked and prayed about what to do.  See, it was July 6th.  And the next Stillbirthday Birth and Bereavement Doula Certification Class began on July 7th.  And I sat and listened to my husbands thoughts on the matter I was genuinely surprised at how on-board he was.  It isn't that his support took me by surprise, it was more the fact that I heard actual genuine excitement in his voice.  Did he have reservations?  Sure he did.  There was the concern about how this would affect me as a person, as a currently grieving and broken-hearted loss momma.  There was concern about whether or not I was in a place where I could handle reading and watching this type of material in my current state--not to mention the cost.  But we prayed and decided that as we parted ways for the day, we would both continue to pray about it and see where God led us at the end of the day.  And as I found myself a few hours later, sitting on the floor of our Sunday School classroom,  re-organizing 100 FMN boxes, I thought more and more about what this would look like.   And I had nothing but questions on my mind.

How is this going to feel?

What if I get halfway through the material and it's too much for me?

Am I really capable of even making it through the class?

If I even get through the class and I pass the exams, what then?

What in the world would I ever even use this for?

Why me?

But every single question was met with the same response.

"Come with Me."

And the more I thought and the more I talked it over with God, the more I knew He was inviting me to jump.  To take a leap of faith, or whatever you want to call it.  To follow Him on the next path of this journey.  And to come and see what He had planned.  What He had in store.

And so, a week ago Sunday, I talked with my husband one more time.  And to my surprise.  We were on the exact same page.  Now I don't know about you, but I implicitly trust and respect my husband deeply.  And if something doesn't smell right, doesn't line up, I know he will have the wisdom to discern that--and I will follow him wherever he leads our family, for that reason among others.  And so I nervously texted Karen one more time to make sure she was doing this with me (please, like I could do something like this without her...!?), I punched in my debit card number.  And as the welcome information from the head of Stillbirthday began to pour into my email, I blinked back tears as I considered how significant this was.

See, the thing about this certification, about Stillbirthday, is that the whole idea is to be equipped to walk through and support any mother in any birth outcome in any trimester.  For close to two years, I have been surrounded by one birth outcome and one birth outcome only:  death.  This was a result of my own experiences and the experiences of the women that had crossed my path, but it was also a result of my own choice.  I gravitated towards it.  It's all I know.  With the exception of one friend--one friend--I have chosen to not be involved in or participate in any other pregnancy outcome.  Showers, gender reveals, announcements, even most of the meal set ups--I have run in the other direction.  And so, one of the reasons that this decision is so very significant for me is that I am willingly choosing to be exposed to healthy pregnancies and birth outcomes, in the training material if nothing else.  I could not, with words, describe to you how much of a stretch this is for me right now.  It's huge.

But there has not been a single day that the Lord has not confirmed that this decision was the one He had for me to make.  First, there has been the incredible sense of community and support that I immediately began receiving from the other women in my class.  They are kind.  They are genuine.  Many have suffered a great deal of loss.  They are supportive.  They speak the same language.  And they get it.  Then there has been the huge perspective change that has happened in my mind and in my heart.  I had never previously considered that a woman might choose to quit talking about the baby she lost altogether, for fear that her choices in the matter would invite only ridicule and hatred rather than compassion and understanding.  That she might just start saying that her ectopic pregnancy was a miscarriage because the thought of admitting that she induced a chemical abortion so that the baby growing in one of her tubes would not kill her was just too much to bear.  I never even would have thought about that, or how that might feel.  And then there was the new phrase I learned.  "my baby was born through miscarriage."  It took me an entire day to let that one sink in.  And for any woman who has ever had a first term miscarriage, or two, or three, you will understand why.  And the course content is no joke-- the videos, pictures, discussions, and reading materials-- and the "open book exams"?  They should call them open-heart exams.  Those questions cut deep.  And then there was the live birth video that I watched.  And I only made it halfway through and I felt a little nauseous when I turned it off.  But I watched it.  Voluntarily.  There was also the other video that I only made it halfway through for the time being-- the 40 minute training on how a birth and bereavement doula might bathe/help the mother bathe a stillborn 16 week old baby.  And as I watched it, I wept for the women who have needed and will need to know how to do something like that.  

And I have thought to myself more times in the last week, " I am so unqualified for this...That is the weirdest thing I have ever seen/heard...I had no idea that's what that meant...I never knew that...I never knew that....I never knew that...I could never ever do that."  And I truly have never felt so inadequate.  So freaked out.  And so in the right place.

So to those of you who might be looking at me and thinking, wow, are you really ready for this?  Is this really something you are going to actually do?  I don't have any answers for you.  I will be the first to admit that I have zero clue why God is asking me to do this right now.  But as a wise mentor reminded me last week, He would think nothing of moving heaven and earth, of taking me through all of this, for one person.  For one woman.  Who would need this kind of support, this kind of compassion, this kind of friendship and ministry, somewhere on down the road.  He loves each person so much that He would think nothing of that.  And I believe that is true.   And until such a time as He chooses to let me in on what He has planned in all of this, this is where I'll be.  

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