Where is God in all This Mess?

Suffering is everywhere. Grief, loss, brokenness. Everywhere. Everyday.

Everyday, I meet or read about a mother who has lost her child. My inbox is full of mothers waiting for SGM shipments to honor the memory of these precious lives.

A couple days ago, one of my best friends (mommy to baby Sawyer), kissed her sweet boy and sent him off to the operating room where he endured his second open heart surgery. He is a little more than one year old. He is full of life and joy, seemingly unaware of the precarious way he entered this world and ridiculously resilient although he has been poked and prodded by various physicians throughout his brief time on planet earth. (The surgery went well, and sweet Sawyer is recovering...please keep him in your prayers.)

This week, after one of the plethora of high school golf matches that fill my afternoons, I sat for a couple hours talking with another dear friend and co-worker, mother to my son's best friend. Her husband was a co-worker of mine, an amazing father to her three boys (the youngest a senior), a beloved girls' basketball coach, and a devoted member of our community. The fourth anniversary of his sudden death is approaching. We spoke of the missing...of the reconciling how God could let this happen...and why. I couldn't shake the image of my beautiful friend sitting in the church pew with her three boys beside her and his casket in the front of the church. I have often thought of the grief I have walked through, and the times Tim has held me up when I couldn't stand...held me when I woke up sobbing...covered for me when I couldn't leave my bedroom...held my hand and led me when I couldn't see where to walk. My friend has walked where I have not. Grief I have known, but grief without him...I dare not even speak of it. It's the kind none of us want to know, and yet she walks this path...bravely and beautifully. The world keeps turning...the sun rises and sets. She goes to work everyday, and loves her boys, and aches for the love of her life.

A student is watching his father bravely battle cancer.

Another boy I know loves the color pink, because his mother is fighting cancer...for at least the third time. His grandfather is currently in the hospital...not doing well.

There are other children...who come to school with hurts we cannot imagine. Everyday.

And, the world keeps turning. The sun rises and sets.

The question hangs in the air. It's the one I struggle to answer when face to face with such grief. The one that won't tolerate some well-thought out response with flowery prose. The one that looks skeptically at the scriptures that promise comfort and peace. It's the one I don't have an answer to...at least not a worthy answer.

Where is God in all this pain...and why did He let this happen?


Sure, I could wax poetic with a thousand cliches and pat answers. There are beautiful scriptures...examples of faith. Words that are true and right. But, when standing face to face with the raw agony of a heart twisted in pain like that....sometimes I am rendered speechless. Sometimes there are no words...no answers.

I could say that this world is not the one He intended for us. The suffering, grief, and destruction are part of life in this fallen world. They are not Who He is. He is the love that carries us, the peace that sustains us, the grace that offers redemption. He is in the beauty born of the ashes.

My words will not fill the ache of a mother's empty arms or the agony of living life on this earth without the one she loves. Many times, I say nothing or very little and simply offer prayers and/or scripture. But, sometimes I long for something to say...some hope to cling to.

In April 2010, Kristin wrote this post, wondering about God and His intentions...wrestling honestly with her grief and the sometimes hurtful words of others. The response that poured out of me (along with buckets of tears) was the closest I have ever come to saying what I wish could be said to an aching heart. Still...the words are far from adequate. I copied my comment from her blog and pasted below:

Kristin,

I am so sorry people have used words that are hurtful. I'm reading your words with tears pouring down my face...so sorry for the hurt you are feeling. I can feel the strength of it through your words. The anger...the pain...the feelings of abandonment. They are bigger than anything else right now. Right now, there are no perfect answers or words tied up in a neat bow to explain the suffering and death of your sweet baby girl...and the continuation of loss you feel facing infertility. There are no words to make that better or explain why. I know the pain is bigger than anything else...that you feel like He has let you down, turned His back on you. You are in the thick of grief...heavy, relentless, merciless grief.



You may read my blog and see where I am now...it isn't a place I've always been. The process of getting beauty from ashes is no walk in the park. There were years of healing, brokenness, restoration, surrender, and learning to trust Him. He is still piecing some things back together in my life.

The words I want to tell you are going to seem so cotton candy right now. But, they are true...and maybe you can take some comfort in knowing that they are coming from someone who has walked through some stuff. 

God doesn't intend suffering, pain, death, sickness, cancer, grief...any of it. He never intended it. He isn't the author of it. And, as a loving Father who values you enough to send His own Son to suffer horribly and die in your place....He takes no pleasure in your pain. He loves you and His heart breaks for you...with you... I get that you can't feel Him right now...that the pain is too much. I get it, and so does He. When I even try to think of the depth of your pain, it seems like such bologna as I'm writing it...knowing that you are in a place to receive this right now, and desperately hoping that my words do nothing to pour salt in your gaping wounds...

(To be continued in next comment)

April 19, 2010 8:36 PM 

Kelly @ Sufficient Grace Ministries said...

Ridiculously long comment continued....

You may be thinking...O.K...He didn't intend it, but He allowed it. He didn't stop it. He didn't protect her. He didn't protect me. You're right...He didn't stop it from happening...and I don't have an answer for that. Not one that will make it better. His ways are not our ways...and only He sees the beginning from the end. It is true that there are beautiful things that come from the ashes of our brokenness. And God can use all things in our lives to shape and mold us. 

But, when you are in the pit sinking...where you are, those words sometimes don't help...and may even bring hurt. Who wants to hear about being shaped and molded when your arms are aching for your baby, your body is broken, and your heart is in pieces, and your mind is plagued with memories of the suffering of your precious child? You can't see the hope of that promise from the pit. Can't feel the comfort of it. That doesn't mean it isn't there...doesn't mean that He isn't there...and I know me saying it doesn't make you feel better. 
From my pit...I didn't want to hear about God's will...didn't want to hear about the fruit that would come...didn't want to count it all joy...didn't want the witty words and well-meaning verses...didn't want the pretty flowers...certainly didn't want to listen to any miracle stories...almost every promise from scripture or well-meaning words from Christians brought pain. I just wanted my babies. And I just wanted my mother. And...they weren't here...

For a time, I didn't want to hear about the promises and hope.

But...in time when, I did. I wanted to hold on to the promise of the joy set before me...wanted to know that although weeping may last for a night...joy would come in the morning. I didn't know when morning would come to my house and stay...but one day, on my knees, crying bitter tears...I felt myself surrender all that I had wanted and just let Him carry me. There's no formula or timetable to come to that place...and it sounds so easy and tied up in a pretty bow as I'm writing it right now. It wasn't. And, it wasn't a place I could come to on my own...

Here's the thing, I believe as the bible says, the rain falls on the just and the unjust. Whether we are Christians or not, we will find suffering and trouble in this world. It's a guarantee. We will walk through these valleys with or without Him. The bottom line is...I'd rather walk through it with Him than without Him.

There is unspeakable beauty that has grown in our lives from the ashes of our sorrow. I don't believe that God sent the sorrow and loss...and I never would have chosen it. But, He has used it to make us who we are...to draw us to Him...to teach us to love one another. I'm saying that, not to rub salt in your wounds, but to tell you that there is hope for healing. Even in this darkness...light can shine again.

And, Kristin...even when you can't feel Him, He is holding you. He will carry you...He is carrying you. When you are too weak to reach for Him, He still holds you. When you are too angry to hear Him...to go to Him...He waits for you. And...no matter how hurt, angry, deserted, lost, hopeless, broken...no matter how long it takes...He will wait for you. He will be there with open arms. He loves you with a relentless love. A love that can take your anger, your sorrow, your questioning, your doubt, your pain...
His only intention is tTo love, heal, save, and carry you....

You, my dear, are not a failure....and no one has the right to judge your "performance" in the pits of grief. No one.

I hope you don't mind my long comment...and all of my words. Words that I know do nothing to "fix" the brokenness. Please know that they have all been written in love...my heart is breaking with you...
I pray nothing I've said added to your pain...

Love and Continued prayers,
Kelly

I know this post is getting long, but I wanted to share these thoughts for the mothers newly walking this path...or those with other struggles feeling hurt and wondering where God is in all of this. I've asked that a few times, and He is always faithful to answer. God loves honest, real questions. And, He loves to meet us where we are. There is no pit so deep He cannot find us. For further thoughts and scripture on where God is when we are in the pit of despair, visit this post: Letting Go and Holding On

Put it Away

Over the years, and even most recently, I have heard many of you share that your family and friends were less than supportive of your grief over the loss of your child. We posted on some of the original Walking With You posts about this subject. There are many reasons: maybe they are struggling with their own grief and have difficulty expressing it, or maybe they are uncomfortable and just do not know the right words. Unfortunately that leads many to just act like they don't care, fail to even acknowledge our children, avoid the subject or even avoid us, or worse...speak words that add to the hurt.

I posted a bit about it here:

The Things People Say

Supporting a Grieving Mom

But, for this post, I would like to focus instead on how we can cope with their reactions or lack thereof. While it has been many years since we said good-bye to our Faith, Grace, and Thomas, reading your struggles has made the sting of our family's reaction fresh on my heart this morning. And, before this launches into a finger-pointing, hurt-wallowing session, let me just say that while the memories still come with a sting, I have forgiven those hurts. I now realize that they were doing the best they could. Even if some of them reacted in ways that were hurtful to us, it was done out of lack of knowledge more than malice. God provided support for us in other ways. Over the years, I have learned to lay down my expectations for family. And, sometimes I have had to re-learn this again and again as new hurts arise. Sometimes love requires laying it all down.

That being said, I realize for many of you, the wounds are too fresh for full healing...the hurt still too intense for  relief. It may surprise you to know that I didn't know that I could publicly embrace the memory of my children in the early years of grief. I often felt compelled to put my feelings away to spare the discomfort of others. Sometimes I didn't want to see the expression on their faces as their eyes shifted down and they squirmed uncomfortably when I shared about my children in heaven. I didn't want to seem like the weird mother who thinks she needs to keep bringing up her dead babies, making everyone around me uncomfortable. Yeah...I know....the initial lack of openness seems pretty crazy considering God has placed a passion in my heart to serve in a ministry that honors the lives of these sweet little ones. 

People gave us some ornaments the first year to honor the memory of Faith and Grace, and it seemed at first that many friends reached out. The same month they were born still, another set of twin girls was born in our family. To comfort herself, and because she was genuinely excited about filling her own arms with these grandbabies, my mother threw herself into spending time with them. She had no idea that it felt like a punch in the gut to me when I walked into her house and saw two identical baby girl dresses slung across the chair. She had no idea that I went into the other room and cried, feeling sick when I saw their pictures on her refrigerator. Not that she shouldn't have been embracing the gift of their lives...certainly for them, it was a time to rejoice. But, for me...it was agony. What made it harder is that I could never have shared that with my mom. I don't share this often, because in many ways, my mother was a great support to me in my life. But, there were things about grief she didn't get.

My mother expected me to put my grief away after a time. When a friend of mine had her baby shortly after I lost my girls, mom said: "I know what will make you feel better. We'll go to the baby department and pick up a new outfit and visit your friend."

So, she drug my grief-weary self to the baby department (a place that still brings a twinge of pain to this day), while my wounds were still gaping, and to add insult to injury...a trip to visit my friend's brand new baby...in the hospital. She even made me hold him. It was all I could do to keep the sobs in until I reached the elevator. She looked disappointed by my tears. As if she thought forcing myself to visit the OB floor and hold someone else's baby would magically make me all better.

Other family members said hurtful things, ignored us, never mentioned our children, looked uncomfortable if I did. And, still sometimes look uncomfortable, even now that we have a public ministry. 

And, for years...I put it all away. Stuffing it far down. Hiding my hurt. Keeping the memories and longing to myself. Failing to mention my precious babies. I put it away because it was expected....and because I didn't want to draw attention or make others uncomfortable. It's shameful, really, but I also understand that it's hard to defend yourself in early grief. It's hard to know what you need. It's hard to take the next breath.

Here are a few ideas for survival in those early years:

You may not be strong enough to defend yourself, so find someone who loves you that is able to deflect hurtful comments and situations. 

Know what triggers hurt for you, and do what is necessary to protect yourself. We cannot keep ourselves from every hurtful situation, but when we can it's more than o.k. to do so. If the baby shower is going to be too hard to attend, graciously decline.

Take time as a couple...allow laughter when you can.

Find someone who gets it. This blogging community has been so helpful...even years later...for me and for many others. It helps to know we aren't walking alone. And it helps to know in the early days of grief, that you will not feel this way forever. You will feel joy again.

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Have you ever felt you had to hide your grief and put away all your memories? What are some of the things you found helpful in dealing with others who didn't get it?

Just Being a Mom...

Sometimes I feel like I am wearing too many hats. There is the wife hat, the mom hat, the employee hat, the ministry hat, the friend hat. And, more, of course. Nicole Johnson performed a funny skit that showed all the hats a woman wears at Women of Faith...and she literally stacked each one on her head. It was quite a visual!

Sometimes I find myself longing for less hats. Lately, as Timothy approaches the end of his junior year of high school, and James finishes elementary school, I feel a longing to return to a time when I was only their momma (and Tim's wife, of course!) The slipping away of the minutes, hours, and years that brings us to today leaves me yearning to focus my heart toward home...toward these boys who are quickly becoming young men. Oh...how fleeting this time is.

When I am quiet...at the feet of Jesus, in the still of the night or the wee hours of the early morning....there are no hats. I am simply His...lost in Him. Peace washes over me and burdens are lifted. It is the place I long to be, even as the Martha in me drives me on to the next thing.

I had a prayer time like that last Saturday morning, and it was a sweet release of all that I carry. The day was no less busy, but the burden was lighter and each task less cumbersome. He was with me, bearing the weight. And, I felt joy instead of heaviness. I prepared the SGM shipments for the week, washed James' golf clothes and packed snacks and drinks for the day. The baseball game was canceled, so I went to the church to get Comfort Bears for the rest of the shipments going off to comfort grieving mothers.

I was thinking of all that needed to be done...of the size of the tasks...the endless needs that I never seem to fill. I was thinking how much I want to focus on being the mother my kids need. Life was simpler when that was my only focus. There was peace in my heart as I walked through the to-do list, but the thoughts were floating through my mind. What am I called to do, Lord, with all this busy? I walked through the church to the kitchen, picked up the bag of bears, turned off the lights, locked the doors.

When I opened the back of the Jeep, I stopped, struck by the sight. There were golf clubs and bat bags filled with tools boys need to be boys...ready for the activities of the day. And, on top, I gently placed the bag of Comfort Bears.

There they were, all together, in the back of my Jeep.

Bat bags...

Golf clubs...

And Comfort Bears...

Evidence that I am a mother. A mother to Timothy (almost senior in high school), James (almost middle schooler), and Faith, Grace, and Thomas (dancing in heaven). As I looked at the evidence filling the vehicle, my heart swelled.

And God whispered to my heart...

"You are just being their mother. You are just being a mom....to all your children."

Riding my Turquoise Bike Past Her House in the Spring...

I love my turquoise bike.

It has what I call a mama bottom seat. You know, a seat made for a mama-sized bottom. Not some tiny uncomfortable contraption.

I had been eyeing it for awhile, looking longingly through the window of our small town hardware store each time I rode by on my hand-me-down ten speed, taken by the way the sun reflected off it's frosty blue goodness.

It was July, several years ago...the week of my birthday...when Tim handed me the money and told me to go get the bike as a present.

The first place I rode my new bike was to my mother's house. She smiled and said that she was just about to do the same thing. She knew how I loved to ride my bike, and how much I had wanted the shiny turquoise bike that had been calling to me from the hardware store window. She bought me a pink backpack, instead...to carry my library books when James and I rode our bikes to get books. Her house was always on my bike route. And, we would often stop there to pet her dog Pebbles, get James a drink (he is always thirsty), and grab some tomatoes from the garden. Even after she went home to heaven, her house remained on our route. We would stop and chat with Grandpa, pet Pebble, and get James a drink.

I still ride my bike, sometimes with James chatting away alongside me, and sometimes on my own. And, her house is still on our bike route.

Only now, it isn't her house anymore, or mine, or the house of my children's grandmother. Someone else has bought my mother's house. Her husband remarried and moved away last summer. Someone else will wash the dishes in the sink that I washed so many dishes in, while listening to the oldies with the summer breeze blowing the scent of lilacs in the windows, and the faint whir of mopeds humming in the distance.

The first bike ride we took this year we went around the reservoir lifting our legs as our bike sped down the muddy hill, life blooming all around as spring awakens from its winter sleep.  Her house came into view. And, I stopped, overwhelmed with the nostalgia washing over me. My eyes settled on the deck Tim built, where I sat on the swing, watching the boys swim in the pool that's no longer there. My throat swelled, and I shook the tears away.

James was with me, and I didn't want to dwell long on the sad. I didn't want to ruin the first bike ride of spring. Still, my heart ached with such longing I could barely breathe.

Last week, I started off on my ride, alone, over the creek bridge, muddy waters rushing fast, full of spring rain. I crossed the bumpy railroad tracks that surround my neighborhood and past the Methodist church, rode around the school, past the pool park and around the ball diamond, remembering the summers when all my friend Nicki and I did was ride around town, waiting for something to happen and dreaming our summer dreams.

I crossed Main Street and Ron's Super Valu, then over more bumpy tracks until I reached her road.

I've mentioned before how each season, the missing washes over me anew. Spring is no exception.

But this year, this year is different.

This year, when I ride past her house, the house where I grew up, I cannot stop and get a water and pet Pebbles.

I road by, drinking in the sight, allowing the ache to fully envelope me. My eyes settled where the flag used to fly so proudly, her rock garden that she and Grandpa proudly laid by hand, the pink stencil she painted on the gas tank.

Her lilac bush, not yet blooming.

And, her clothesline...with the clothespins still clipped to the top. She loved to hang the clothes out to dry in the summer breeze, and was quite dedicated, even tromping out in the mud in her snow boots.

That did it. The tears spilled over, and my chest heaved, as I pedalled away from the memories, the hurt, and the missing. Or I tried, but it followed me. It followed me as I rode over the bridge where the wildflowers bloom tall in the summer and past the field still muddy with spring, over the tracks again and around the reservoir hill. Still...I pedalled my turquoise bike, tears streaming, chest heaving.

By the time I rounded the corner of my road and pulled into my stone driveway, the tears were dry.

I rolled the turquoise bike into the garage, hugged my husband, and started supper for my family.

Time marches on, and the missing washes over me anew each season. It probably always will. Even more reason to make memories with those we love. Even more reason to soak in the gift of right now, with a grateful heart. Even more reason to cling to Jesus, and not the fleeting things of this world.

For, no season on this earth lasts forever.

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A Blessed Easter to you and yours....love and prayers for those missing someone during this spring season of hope and renewal.

Jesus said to her, “I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live. And whoever lives and believes in Me shall never die. Do you believe this?” John 11:25-26

Tasting Heaven While Dressed in Funeral Clothes

I laid out my dress, chosen with her in mind, searched through my drawers to find the elusive pair of black hose without a run, fastened the silver beaded necklace, slipped on the bracelet Marlene made for me, and smoothed the make up over my tear stained face. He pulled his suit from the closet and hung it on the door as we readied ourselves.

Funeral clothes. Everyone who loved her was laying them out at the same time in their various homes, getting ready to say goodbye. Tears mixing with water droplets falling from the shower head. A ritual that becomes more familiar with the passing of time. Laying out the funeral clothes.

The scent of yellow roses wafted throughout the sanctuary and draped her casket. I nodded in the direction of her zebra print top and stepped onto the stage for the sound check. She always inspired me to rise to the occasion and do the next thing. "Lord, help me be able to do that now...help us." After adjusting his guitar strap, I sang a couple verses, breathing in the flowers and letting the song carry us. His peace was there.

The whisper..."Just cling to Me...I will carry you...I will meet you there".

I nodded, knowing He would.

The joy of her heart, three years old with the blondest hair I've ever seen and the bluest eyes, stole my heart in one second as he clutched his big Floppy pony. He danced to show what Grandma Dinah was doing in heaven, and made the tear stained faces smile. He stood by his Grandpa and folded his hands as he leaned into his mama. Pieces of her living on in him...in all of us.

We bowed our heads, we took the stage, and sang our songs. I thought of how she always inspired me to rise to the occasion. Even though I was being carried, I was grateful that He met me there so that I could honor her. We listened to the memories of her, and I clung to him. There's nothing more beautiful than the testimony of the life of one who loved the Lord and served Him with all of her heart. Precious. Precious in the eyes of the Lord is the death of His servants. Precious. Because death here means new life there.

Heels clicking on pavement and a sea of black suits made the procession. Driving through puddles in our funeral clothes, snow melting into mud. Heels sinking into the soft earth and gentlemen hands helping ladies over the puddles. Black suits huddled beside the grave adorned in our funeral clothes, breathing in yellow roses under a tent, February winds swirling around. Quiet weeping and scripture reading, heads bowed in prayer, hearts honoring a woman dearly loved. Her blond legacy beautiful, sitting in a row...saying goodbye, beginning the missing. Full of the grace and beauty she leaves behind.

She knows how I feel about the grave and visiting the cemetery. She knows I'd rather focus on heaven, and she always agreed. Still, we stopped to lay one of her yellow roses on their grave, just a couple spots over, clinging to one another as if it were yesterday that we stood in this spot saying different goodbyes with the much younger looking tear stained faces. We walked away from the graves, heels sinking in the mud.

I'm always saying the only thing you can take with you to heaven is other people. If in heaven our riches are based on how many we take with us by showing the love of Jesus during our time on this earth, then our Dinah is a very rich woman. She touched so many lives in such a profound way...

A funny thing happened...an amazing, miraculous thing. Dinah loved everyone in her life with all that was in her and she talked about each of us to the others. She described the people she loved in such detail that when we met face to face today in the place we came to honor one we love in our funeral clothes, we felt as if we knew each other. In heaven, scripture tells us that "we will know one another as we are known". I tasted that today.

Let me preface this by saying that I have an absolutely terrible memory. I am always forgetting names and everything else. But, today, many times I would see a someone Dinah loved...a person I had never met or seen before, but I knew their names. I would say "Are you so-and-so?" And, they were the person that Dinah had told me all about. Each one knew me right back. It was as if we all knew each other and were connected by her love. That must be a taste of what heaven is like...knowing one another...connected by His love. It was a special gift. And, truly a beautiful celebration. Except for all the black and the tears, she would have loved it. She would have loved all the people she loved gathered together and knowing one another as we are known...no doubt she did.

Another Goodbye...

I walked through the house, drinking in the sight of each room, unsure of when or if my eyes would settle on her house again. I always loved the way her house was adorned with touches of her, paintings she made, fabric draped across windows, fabric she chose for it's color and texture. Fabric she sewed with her hands. I looked at her pictures telling the tale of a life well-lived and a woman well-loved, who loved well.

I settled in the chair beside her bed, the room filled with amber light bouncing off the sage green walls, listening to the rhythm of her breathing her waning breaths and the whispered prayers of the women surrounding her. I saw in her daughter's eyes a reflection...familiar. Oh...how I wished they weren't being asked to walk this path. I looked at the scripture scrawled across her beloved chalkboard and my eyes wandered to the kitchen table where we shared our revelations, our tears, our prayers, and most of all our unbridled laughter. I ran my hand across the table with the wild horses painted on it...the table she made with her hands, admiring the beauty of her work. Absently, I brushed the crumbs from the table onto a plate. Dinah always hated crumbs on her table.

I remembered our conversation after my mom passed.  I was struck by how much the touches of a woman and her personality makes up a home...how valuable a mother is to the life of her family. Dinah had talked then of her own mom's passing in those days when my wounds were still fresh, as I cried with the ache of a daughter who had no idea such missing could exist. She knew about the missing. She missed her own mother still...her mother, the one who always had painted finger nails and called me, "the girl who laughs".

Listening to her anguish, an Ecclesiastes moment threatened to punctured my thoughts, "What is the point?" The answer lies in the look in her husband's eyes when someone shares how his beloved has touched their lives. The answer lies in her beautiful blond daughters who love Jesus and are filled with the grace and grit she leaves behind. The answer lies in the legacy of photographs, pristine English riding competitions, and her dog Sky's blue eyes wondering. The answer lies in the face of her precious grandson. It lays in the beauty of my marriage restored and flourishing, and countless others she prayed for...healed and restored. It lays in those who proclaim the name of Jesus because she prayed and boldly shared the truth with them.

As I lay awake in the night watches praying my pleading prayers...the prayers that hurt too much to fully utter... I think of all the night watches she lay awake on my behalf...on behalf of my kids, my mother, my husband, her family, her friends, the prisoners she ministered to....everyone she loved.

I read some of her favorite quotes hanging in the kitchen. One was a reminder never to get too hungry, tired, lonely, or angry. Advice she gave me early on in my marriage, along with a myriad of other things. Another was "Most people die with the music still inside of them." I smiled, looking around at her eclectic, colorful house that so reflected her eclectic, colorful, snarky sweet personality. Not Dinah. She held nothing back...not her opinions, her wisdom, her passionate love for Jesus and His word, and most of all her love. The symphony of her life was poured into the lives around her. Her symphony plays on in the lives of everyone who loved her.

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I started writing this early this morning...reflecting on saying good-bye to my friend Dinah, whose time was short as I began this post. She went home to heaven this afternoon. She is free from cancer and every other earthly discomfort and sorrow. I will see her again, but for now, I will miss my dear friend. Please pray for her family and those who loved her.

Psalm 116:15

Precious in the sight of the LORD
is the death of his faithful servants.

Shaken

Tonight I'm feeling a little shaken.

I have been purposing in my heart to make some changes. To run toward the Lord, to cling to Him, not to seek comfort in the things of this world, or my stinky onion layers. I have been desiring life and joy...determined, focused, excited about the Lies and Truth Bible Study...ready for a new year, a new adventure...excited to see what the Lord has in store for our family and Sufficient Grace Ministries in 2011. I've been having a grand time, getting my groove on with the Just Dance 2 game on our Wii. Dancing until I am out of breath, dripping with sweat, and laughing hysterically at myself. Good stuff.

The thing is, we are not in charge. We never know what is waiting around the corner. We may think we are going to get our dance on and wallow in a season of joy, reaping a harvest of the fruit that comes from sowing our tears during the seasons of sorrow.

We think we are ready for one thing.

And, something entirely different punches us square in the face shattering our plans.

I have shared before that watching my mother suffer and die from cancer was a struggle unlike any other in my life. It changed me...for the rest of my time on this Earth. Although I have leaned on the Lord, and felt His comfort and strength. I miss her daily...yet even in my missing, His grace is sufficient for me. I dream my dreams of longing for her...some ending bitterly. I experience her days of suffering like the flashes of a veteran returning from war. And...still His grace is sufficient for me.

Paul speaks in Corinthians of his thorn in the flesh. It was something that wasn't taken from him...something he struggled with all his days on this earth. Many of us have thorns in the flesh...illness, pain, sorrow, grief, loneliness, depression, physical and/or mental disabilities. We have imperfections, flaws, quirks. Call them what you want.

This afternoon, I heard that one of my dearest friends who has been battling cancer was taken to the hospital. She has endured radiation, chemotherapy, all sorts of procedures and medicines, and other forms of torture to fight the cancer in her lungs and brain and perhaps other places in her body over the past couple years.

This woman taught me how to be a wife, with her sweet, snarky way of telling me how it is. With her straight-talking ways, she drilled into my young, selfish, raised-in-a-household-where-women-were-in-authority mind the importance of honoring my husband and caring for my home...and training up Godly young men. She walked with me through the deaths of my twin daughters, Faith and Grace...and later my son, Thomas. She sat beside us as her husband delivered Thomas' eulogy under the blue sky with big, fluffy white clouds while the sun shone on our grief-stricken faces. One of a handful of people whose eyes looked upon our Thomas, she saw and appreciated his beauty. Her house was always the best place to have parties...the best food and fellowship. Her special gift has been making her home a haven for all who entered. She can make the best apple pie on God's green earth. She prays fiercely for everyone in her life...no doubt her prayers helped keep my marriage together through the toughest years. She loves and "gets" teenagers...and they love her right back. When in good health, she visited and encouraged, and genuinely loved those in prison as she helped deliver the gospel to them. Her words are part of the story...our story...shared in the Dreams of You Memory Book. Dinah and I are always saying..."The most beautiful gifts in this life emerge from some of the most difficult suffering. It's in the hard stuff that beauty is born." Saying it is much different than walking it.

She is my second mom. And, like my first mom...cancer has stolen much from her. She has toughed it out...much like she toughed out everything else this life has dealt her so far...with a perfect blend of grit and grace. I love her dearly.

And...tonight, she is laying in a hospital bed.

The outcome is uncertain, for now, as far as the condition of her physical body and mind. She has survived much more than doctors expected. And, we serve a God who makes all things possible.

I am trying not to look with my eyes....

Trying not to remember the flashes of the moments I watched cancer steal my own mother's mind and body...

Praying for my beautiful friend, Dinah, and her beautiful family.

Trusting that the same God who carried my mother and I through those days...will carry Dinah and her family in these days. Knowing that He is faithful.

When my mother was in the hospice center, Dinah sent me these verses:
Even to your old age, I am He,
And even to gray hairs I will carry you!
I have made, and I will bear;
Even I will carry, and will deliver you.
~ Isaiah 46:4

Verses I whispered to my mother as she longed for reassurance of His promises in the last moments of her life...

Tonight, I am shaken...

But my God is steadfast and sure. He is not moved...

But we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellence of the power may be of God and not of us. We are hard-pressed on every side, yet not crushed; we are perplexed, but not in despair;  persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed... ~ 2 Corinth. 4:7-9

Therefore we do not lose heart. Even though our outward man is perishing, yet the inward man is being renewed day by day. For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory, while we do not look at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen. For the things which are seen are temporary, but the things which are not seen are eternal. ~ 2 Corinthians 4:16-20


When my world is shaking, heaven stands...when my heart is breaking, I never leave Your hands...
~JJ Heller




Please pray...

Choosing to SEE

I am most of the way through Mary Chapman's book, Choosing to SEE. My heart is so full, I couldn't wait until I was finished to pour out the words and emotions oozing from me this morning.

I'll be honest, I was putting it off. Not sure what I expected. I spend so much of my time immersed in the grief of others, reading the stories of broken-hearted mothers and families trying to live a new normal. Prayers for each of them leave my lips and the weight of each one tugs at my heart. I have learned to balance the heaviness of grief, both my own and others, while still embracing the joy of every breath. Well, most of the time. In truth, I suppose I'm still learning to do that...and covered in much grace as I try.

Anyway, I'm not sure what I expected from this book, but I knew that it would be another story of a broken-hearted mother carried by a loving God, comforted in His arms. I needed some time to prepare for this one.

What I didn't expect was how much of Mary Beth's heart was poured into her telling of the story that God has woven through her amazing life. I didn't expect there to be so much of her shining from the pages . And, I certainly didn't expect her to capture my heart so completely with her spirit. I was there in Columbus when time stopped as she took the Women of Faith stage to tell her story for the first time. I mean this with all do respect. But Mary Beth is not a typical wrapped up in a neat bow, smoothed edges Christian. She is beautiful...don't get me wrong. But, she is probably the most genuine, real person...so real that it is disarming. So honest, and humble. So not a picture of a woman wallowing in grief, and yet still someone that you know battles the struggles of balancing sorrow and joy each day. She is funny and gritty, honest about her imperfections in a way that somehow endears her to us even more.

I laughed through most of this book. And a couple times, I cried. But, when she told the account of what happened on May 21, 2008 in her driveway....the words gut-wrenching and heart-wrenching took on new meaning for me as the two collided in my own body's physical response to her words. The sobs I cried literally wrenched my heart and turned my stomach as I pictured the blow that Satan delivered to this beautiful family on that spring day. I wanted to throw my arms around each of them, and felt as if I were there feeling the devastation with them that day as I read her words. And, the mother part of me wanted to back away...run away...far away from the possibility that any mother would ever be in that moment.

And, then...came hope.

The kind of hope that rises when you are in the midst of the ugliest, most hopeless situation. The kind of raw truth....so bare and real that when it comes in the midst of such incredible devastation that you know it has to be real. You couldn't conjure up that kind of hope when you are so hopeless. Those are the moments we know that God will meet us there. When hope falls from the mouth of a mother who has just held her lifeless child for the last time...and a father who gave his last butterfly kiss. That is the place where eternity lives on this earth. That is where we have to embrace God and know that He is. When it is the darkest and the veil is the thickest....that is when we SEE with the most clarity....our desperate need for Him. And, his complete ability and willingness to meet us anywhere.

I love that Mary Beth seems like the kind of soul that would rather laugh...which is kind of ironic, considering that she has cried many tears in her life as she battles depression and now has walked such intense grief. I love that about her...that she has a spirit that still finds a way to laugh and desires to make others laugh. I love that she finds herself in these crazy Lucille Ball moments (of which I can also relate). I love that she is a beautiful mess. And, I love that it is so easy to see Jesus through her beautiful mess. I wonder if she knows that she and her family have revealed Jesus to so many people in such a tangible, miraculous way. Those seem like just words....inadequate words. I know she would say that she is a mother who would trade all of the lives touched by Maria's passing to hold her little girl again. But, that truth just makes THE truth even more real and beautiful.

Stephen and Mary Beth aren't just giving some pretty Christian words like a band aid to fix everything. They are living this. They are "doing hard", gut-wrenching, toughing it out through this pain....and still clinging to Him for breath everyday. When they say He is the way, because of where they have walked, it is believable....even for the most hardened cynic.

God's timing is always so perfect, and He is creative in the ways He speaks to our hearts. Do you know that there is no place too far, too dark that He cannot reach you? Do you know that He will not give up....He will not stop reaching for you...even when you are not reaching back? Please let those words sink in.

I have not been the person I want to be...for such a long time. I've hidden behind my layers. A couple times, I ventured out...thinking I could climb out out on my own. Saying I would trust God to help me, but not really trusting Him. The layers were no match for me...with all their stinky heaviness. Even as I write this, I just ate a handful of Doritos. I am still a work in progress, but I know who to cling to. I know the Lifter of my Head.

Recently, some wonderful blogger friends attended the Relevant Conference. I so wanted to go, but it just wasn't to be. I couldn't make the time and resources fit into my plan, and figured it must not have been in God's plan for me to go. Instead, I stayed home and had a very revealing conversation with my husband about the way I spend my time and the focus of my heart.

Home was where I needed to be.

Home needed to be the most relevant thing for that moment. God has been speaking to my heart about living the life He's given me to live....even as I balance the reality of sorrow in the lives of others. He has been whispering freedom and joy into my heart in ways that I am trying to learn to embrace. I have been hiding under the various hats I wear and the many layers I cover myself with. My visits with the Lord have been few and far between...other than the prayers I lift for those who are hurting, the mini prayers I throw up on behalf of my family, and the moments He has permeated my heart during worship. My time with Him has not been as intentional...not a daily priority. Not lately. It's hard to run to Him, when you are busy running away.

As I've poured over Mary Beth's book the past couple days, it occurs to me that God can reveal His relevance and make our lives relevant where ever we are. I didn't get to go to the conference and hug the women whom I have laughed with and cried with, prayed with, and been inspired by since I entered this blogging world. I didn't get to go get all encouraged and filled up. Oh, how I longed to go. But, He is filling me right here....stinky, onion layers and all. Right here. Finding me, even as I'm running away. Loving me just as I am...embracing me just as I am...using me, just as I am.

I desperately want to be relevant...and free...full of joy...living this life...embracing every moment...dancing the dance He has meant for me to dance. I want to live the adventure He means for us to live...ready to go every time He says go. Unencumbered by the worldly flesh that holds us back. I want to see all that He has for us...I want to SEE Him in everything.

And, I feel Him whispering....

"Just show up. I'll do the rest."


He has shown you, O man, what is good; And what does the LORD require of you But to do justly, To love mercy, And to walk humbly with your God?      Micah 6:8

The Drive

Giveaway has now closed. Winners have been announced. You may still leave a comment, but it will not count toward the giveaway. Thank you! =)

Tuesday evening, I took a drive.

Not just any drive...the drive.

I've been meaning to take that drive for a couple years, considering the idea of soaking in every whisper of the memories from four years ago when I drove that path many times from home to you.

It's the road that takes me to the place where you took your last breath on this earth. This week, before the anniversary of your passing, boasts all of the beauty of Earth's splendor...nature's last hoorah before the dark cold winter...God's artwork. And in a way, maybe only to me, a send-off celebration...a beautiful goodbye to you. That's what it felt like when I drove that path over and over again four years ago. The glorious celebration of color, such a contrast to the darkness of death's sting surrounding you.

I didn't miss the contrast then. And, I didn't miss it on Tuesday's drive.



As I approached the turn, I let my eyes wander to the house that always let me know the turn was approaching. It looked like a peaceful place to live, I thought. I remembered how I noticed it one last time four years ago, the dark night I drove home telling people the news that your battle was over, and you had gone home.



As I made the turn, I felt the weight in my chest and the catch in my breath. I opened the sunroof, so that I could allow every nuance of this drive to soak itself into my senses. I wanted to breathe it all in, deeply. I didn't fight the memories...the flashes. I let them wash over me, as I gazed at the magnificent beauty before me.








The name of a housing development...The Sanctuary did not go unnoticed. I turned up Jim Croche's "I've Got a Name" and drove on with a smile. Feeling entangled and free all at the same time. Letting the weeping and rejoicing dance their dances over and through me, I lived each memory of laughing with you and crying with you...fighting with you, hurting with you. I smiled as I thought of your spirit...how every time we drive on a hilly road, I accelerate at just the right point so that we can fully experience one of life's great gifts...the "belly getter" just like you used to. My kids love it as much as I always did. As I parent a teenager, I am acutely aware of all the time I spent fighting the wrong fight for the wrong reasons. And, all the fighting I watched you do most of your life, even in the end. I thought of how you sopped up every inch of joy in every moment life offered you...even making us laugh as your body failed. Your spirit never did.



I looked up through the sunroof as I drove through what could only be described as a tunnel of autumn splendor. The leaves surrounded me forming their own blanket, a sanctuary, if you will. I drove on...to the place where I last heard your voice.

I turned into the driveway and the memories pushed their way into my psyche with such force, they ran into and overlapped each other in their efforts to be remembered. I remembered all at once the day we brought you here...the day I collapsed in exhausted delirium, the day I returned after a rest, and the day I left after four weeks of watching you suffer more than I thought was humanly possible.

I entered the building to use the restroom, walking past two women, who were there to visit a loved one, waiting in this place where people go to die. The door was locked and a hospice nurse approached me to lead me to another restroom. She led me down your hallway, past the chairs where we contemplated decisions, conditions, breathing patterns, and what to eat for dinner. Past your room, where we slept and listened to my brother's stories and the rhythm of your breathing. The memories coming at such rapid fire speed, I staggered into the bathroom and felt the eruption of emotion...wondering for a moment why I made this drive. I let the emotion come, and made my way outside to the beautiful ponds and the serene path I walked so many times.



I remember walking this path to let out my anger, to cry, to pray, to refuel, to look at something beautiful and alive for a few minutes. I walked it with my kids, walked it while pushing your big hospice bed around the bricks and listening to your snarky humor as you tried to keep my huge sunglasses on your face. I watched James feed the ducks and marvelled at how intertwined beginnings and endings are as life and death weave their way through our days. I remember reading each brick, the names of those who have gone before us...feeling somehow less alone and realizing once more the precious gift of life each of us is given.




As I opened the doors that led to the path of serenity, I heard a group of ladies in the lobby begin to sing what might have been a hymn. The emotions were swarming my senses with such fury, I'm not sure. Suddenly, the doors closed behind me and all I could hear was the sound of the fountains.


Oh, Lord...will you meet me here again? I felt my feet hit the bricks. My eyes scanned the names through the tears. The cool air filling my nostrils and breathing deep into my lungs. I crossed the bridge to a little clearing with a bench. I sat down and soaked it all in for a moment as the peace settled over me like a soothing balm. The fountains sprinkled, the crickets chirped, and I began to read scripture aloud, letting the words join the melody of peace soothing my weary soul. As if the Lord whispered through His comforting words of peace and truth..."I've got her, I've got you. I am here." I prayed a little, wept a little, and let the Lord hold me a little in the place where you breathed your last breath on this earth. Then I stopped to read one last brick, leaning down to wipe my hands over the name of a treasured life...a beautiful soul that once walked this earth and now brightens heaven with her exuberance.




As I got into the car to drive home, I saw an ambulance bringing someone in. I sighed with a heavy heart, and left the place where people go to die. On the way home, I talked with my "in real life" Lynette and she mentioned a story someone shared where the hospice wing was referred to as the "birthing rooms". Perhaps in light of that, it would be better to say it is a place where people go to live...eternally that is.

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If you are new to this site, this post is about my sweet mom who passed away four years ago on October 20th after a very difficult battle with cancer. She was just fifty years old. I miss her dearly...

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Giveaway is closed....winner has been announced!

I know this is a long post...and if you're still hanging in, I'd love to share today's giveaway with you. We are offering a free copy of Mary Beth Chapman's book, Choosing to SEE, to one commenter on this post. Anyone can enter and leave a comment. You do not have to be a grieving parent (as is the focus of the rest of the giveaways this week...which you may also wish to check out!) No matter what we are facing in this life, it is always good to choose to SEE the Lord working through it all.

Blessings...

Soaking it In...

I can't recall a dream I've had about my own babies, but I have longed to dream of them since they went home to heaven thirteen (and twelve) years ago. Last night, I dreamed of many of your babies. I couldn't make them out, but I dreamed of so many babies that have gone home to heaven and family after family needing comfort. I suppose it is because the grief of many has been heavy on my heart.

Everyday, I speak to or read about, or exchange email with a mother who has buried her child. Since May 13th, we have sent more than 45 (and counting) Dreams of You packages to grieving families around the country. Truth be told, I had no idea when I took the first steps into this journey that the need was so great. I didn't know the level of broken-heartedness I would encounter, the magnitude of loss that would surround us. I spent much of the past thirteen years healing. Only the last five years have led me to the path I now walk beside many of you.

Suffering exists all over the world, and to some of it, I have turned a blind eye. There is always more that we can do to feed the hungry, to comfort the grieving, to reach out to the lost, to restore the broken. The need is endless. And, yet, this is the corner of suffering that God has given me to look upon. This tiny corner of need. In my dream it seemed endless and constant...so many families. But, in the face of all the suffering in the world, it is just one tiny corner.

This week, three families have lost a child in our region. In this small community, that is a large number. I won't lie, the losses have hit me hard this week. Even as I prepared Dreams of You Baskets for these families, more emails are coming in from mothers across the country and beyond. More mothers who have said goodbye to their babies. My heart breaks for each one.

Every once in awhile, the emotion builds up and spills over for me. And, when it happens, I struggle with feeling selfish for allowing my own sorrow to take my attention when so many are suffering. When I need to stop and pray for myself...for strength to offer comfort, for wisdom to know what a family needs, for comfort for my own aching heart...I feel selfish. While talking with others who work with grieving families, I heard the same struggle and sentiment expressed this week. And, as often happens, the struggles in my own heart became more clear as I listened to them.

It isn't selfish to feel pain for another hurting soul. It is human. It isn't selfish to ask for prayer...to know that we are too weak and small to carry the burden alone. It isn't selfish to ask the Lord to fill us up, that we may give more to those in need...to comfort us, that we may give comfort. Being willing to hurt with someone else is a privilege, a gift...a gift that comes with a price. But, true compassion sometimes requires a heart that is willing to break...over and over again.

This week, while many in our community struggled to make sense of the tragic loss of a two day old baby, one friend of the family expressed guilt, wondering how she could feel joy in her day when her friend was suffering. I thought about that often this week. I was preparing to leave on a camping trip with my family...very much desiring (and needing) to focus on relaxing and experiencing the joy of the moment with them for a few days, when the call came, requesting our services. Not only would the funeral home oversee the needs of the family whose baby had died, but also the parents who lost their teenage daughter. I stopped midway through packing my suitcase, and tried to mask the tears falling as I listened to the voice on the other end of the line. My heart throbbed with the familiar ache of sorrow as I hung up the phone. I stopped packing to pray for the families and prepare a Dreams of You package.

I let the tears fall for a little while, and thought of how much my family has seen those tears as I cry for so many. I thought of how much we needed to embrace joy this weekend. They needed me to focus on them, without distraction. They didn't need the heavy weight of sorrow. So, I asked the Lord to help me put away the sorrow and embrace the joy. It's something I believe He has been teaching me to do, as I continue to learn how to serve Him in this way.

I used to feel guilt experiencing joy when there was so much sorrow. But, one thing I have learned in the midst of so much suffering is that we must embrace the moments of joy when they come. For, we never know when we will be called to suffer in our own life or to walk with someone else who is hurting. And, there are plenty opportunities for weeping. When a moment of joy comes our way, we must soak in every inch of the gift. It may very well be the thing that carries us through the next difficult time in our lives.

Another friend expressed it well when she said, "It isn't selfish to embrace joy in our own life when we know others suffer, it is an act of gratefulness for the gift God has given us." If we don't cherish it when it comes, and cherish the people He has given us to love, it will pass...and we will miss it. There is plenty of time for grief, for suffering, for sorrow in this life. We should weep with those who weep...but we should also take time to rejoice with those who rejoice...to live in the land of the living...to love with abandon. There is a time to mourn and a time to dance, and there are gifts in both seasons. When the time to dance comes, I don't want to miss it because I'm too busy mourning. So, I will mourn when it's time. And, when it's time...I will put it away and dance with those I love while I am able.

I pray that you will do the same...that you will embrace joy when it comes with freedom and abandon...and without guilt.

Stopping

There is so much hustle and bustle this time of year. So much to set our eyes upon, so much noise to fill our ears, so many thoughts to clutter our minds.

Don't get me wrong. I love it. I love Christmas and all of it's splendor. Love the celebration of the birth of our Savior. Love the season. Love the time with family and friends. Love the fun and traditions that are passed down in our family from generation to generation. And... love the new traditions we've added to the mix. I even love buying gifts for my children, and those we love.

I don't, however, love the frenzy that overtakes us every year. I say that I will resist it. Annually, in fact, I vow that I will not allow the madness to sweep us into it's clutches. I won't run around missing the joy of what's happening to "get it all done". I won't stress about buying gifts and spending money. I won't burden us with unnecessary obligations and time commitments. I won't miss the beauty of the one True Gift...that Jesus came. I will not miss it.

And...

Every year, inevitably, there are potlucks and school/work gift exchanges, family dinners, expectations, baking, cooking, cleaning, shopping, running, millions of things filling my already-quite-scattered mind that quickly come upon us. Before I know it, the frenzy has overtaken us, and I am a very tired mama, wondering how I let this happen again. The excitement is fun. The celebrating with those we love...that is a gift. But, the stress is not.

The reality is that there IS much to do. This past week, I slept little and raced around much. I was feeling especially exhausted and many concerns were heavy on my mind yesterday after our school/work Christmas Party (and incidentally our last day before Christmas break - Hallelujah, Praise the Lord!). James had the cookies for his school party, and his gift exchange, but I forgot to put his homework back into his bag after signing it. I still have gifts to buy for several people on my list. Shipments need to go out again soon for Sufficient Grace - so many grieving hearts. There are scheduling conflicts for some of our family dinners. Who is coming? Who can't make it? When will Tim and I have a minute to sit down and work on songs for Worship? We are out of cereal. A family needs a Dreams of You Basket for their baby girl whose funeral is Sunday. This is the kind of random craziness that was rolling around in my mind. And the ache of tiredness was seeping in.

I pulled into the post office to check the ministry mail and to (finally) send out my Christmas cards. It had been a few days since I stopped. And there were two envelopes in the box.The first one was a Christmas card from sweet Jennifer that held a picture of her beautiful boys. It brought a smile to my weary face.

And, when I opened the second. I finally stopped.





I stopped to let the tears flow...

I stopped to remember them...

I stopped to envision the joy on their faces as they look into the eyes of their Savior...

I stopped to let the gift of it all wash over me...

The gift from Jess, another mom who has said good-bye to her babies, and finds hope in the promise of heaven and comfort in the fact that Jesus holds her babies until she is allowed to hold them once more...

The gift that came in an envelope...

The gift made with the hands of a grieving mother, a mother who took the time to remember the names of three more babies and the years of their first Christmases in heaven, even as she longs for her own little one. She remembers the names of MY babies. She knows that they were here.

And, she knows this...


Better is one day in Your courts, than thousands elsewhere...(Psalm 84:10)

She knows that the greatest gift can't be found in a store...that what He's already given us is more precious than anything on this earth.

The greatest gift came wrapped not in tinsel and shiny paper, but with swaddling clothes and lying in a lowly manger. A Savior who is Christ the Lord.

This morning, I awoke with a song in my heart ("Go Tell it On the Mountain", in case you're wondering.) I looked out the window, and I stopped again.



I closed my eyes and remembered the first snowfall so many years ago...a gift from heaven above, just like the picture before me this morning.

Then, during devotions the Lord whispered this verse to my heart, just in case the frenzy sweeps in once more to steal my peace...

Your Father knows the things you have need of before you ask Him. - Matthew 6:8

And...I stopped again. Whatever is on my heart and mind today...God sees and knows, and He will take care of it.

We serve a God who loves us enough to stop our frenzy and make sure that we don't miss the gifts He's given us.

Praying that you will be able to stop this Christmas and that you will not miss one gift sent to you from our Father in Heaven...especially the greatest gift of all...given for you...His precious Son.

Walking With You ~ Thankful...

Updated to add The Secret Garden ~ October

I am cheating a little adding this update to my Walking With You post. But, the truth is: thirteen years after saying good-bye to my Faith and Grace, and eleven years since sweet Thomas went home, what I am feeling most is thankful. Continue reading below for further explanation...

Walking With You is an outreach of Sufficient Grace Ministries, led by Kelly Gerken. Walking With You is a group of mothers who have lost a baby or child who gather together each month to share our stories, to encourage, and pray for one another as we walk this path together. Our hope is that you will be comforted when you join us here...and maybe that we can offer some grace for the journey as we look to the Lord for comfort and strength.

Thank you to everyone who joined us last month for October 15th Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. If you haven't listed your baby's name, and would like to, please add your family's information to the comments on this post. I would like to keep this as an ongoing list to refer to and also to pray for each family frequently. All of our babies are precious and should be remembered.

This month we are focusing on our gratefulness for the gifts we were given and the ways our lives were changed by the lives of our babies. I know that many people are busy, so this can be as simple or in-depth as you wish. I hope you will link your own post with us, sharing ways that you are thankful. I do think that reflecting on gratefulness is very valuable...especially in the throes of grief. Grief is big and consuming. The simplicity of counting our blessings refocuses a grieving heart from the giants of pain, sorrow, and hopelessness to the hope, comfort, peace, and eventually joy that waits for us on the other side of the valley. The comfort that waits for us in the arms of our Savior.

For the Lord will comfort Zion,
He will comfort all her waste places;
He will make her wilderness like Eden,
And her desert like the garden of the Lord;
Joy and gladness will be found in it,
Thanksgiving and the voice of melody.
~Isaiah 51:3

I am thankful...that I have been comforted by the Lord.

I am thankful...that His grace is sufficient.

I am thankful...that my wilderness has become like Eden, my desert like the garden of the Lord.

I am thankful...that joy has been restored, that morning has come.

I am thankful...for every moment I watched Faith and Grace and Thomas on the ultrasound screen.

I am thankful...for every hiccup, every movement, every kick, every stretching pain, (not-so-much the nausea and vomiting:).

I am thankful...for every dream that we shared together for your lives.

I am thankful...for every conversation that held your names...and for all the times your names have yet to be spoken or written.

I am thankful...that I was chosen to be your mother...for the blessing and privilege of that amazing gift.

I am thankful...that all of my children, in heaven and earth, have their daddy's dark eyes and cute nose.

I am thankful...for prayers prayed over you, songs sung to you, tears wept for you, and the love that spills from the hearts that loved you...and continue to love you.

I am thankful...that Thomas opened his eyes to look up at me and a picture captured that moment of bliss.

I am thankful...that my babies lived on Earth...and that they live in heaven.

I am thankful...Faith, Grace, and Thomas...that I carried you in my womb, held you in my arms, and forever hold you in my heart.

I am thankful...for the promise that I will hold my sweet babies once more in heaven's glory and we will never say good-bye again.

I am thankful...that because our babies lived, many families are comforted in the midst of their sorrow.

I am thankful...that our mourning has been turned into dancing...that our love has sustained the storms of grief...that our God is able to carry us through this life and keep us together as we walk with Him.

I am thankful...that God has blessed me with the boys who remain here with us, filling our house with boisterous noise and the husband who continues to make me laugh, and fills my heart with songs of joy.

You have turned for me my mourning into dancing;
You have put off my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness,
To the end that my glory may sing praise to You and not be silent.
O Lord my God, I will give thanks to You forever.
~Psalm 30:11-12

September Wind

I can feel the September winds blowing in, filled with intoxicating memories that swirl around me, pulling me to that place of remembering moments I ache to experience once more and moments I never want to revisit.

Her birthday was in September. She turned fifty in a hospital bed, smiling as she ate a piece of my famous peanut butter cream pie...laughing carelessly with Pastor James (who incidentally, if I recall is among the two people in the whole world that did not profess my pie as the most wonderful thing in all the land!!). I was wishing she didn't have to endure the treatments much longer. She was determined to continue fighting.

I remember the day they said the word cancer. Actually, the oncologist spouted off a thousand other unrecognizable words. The kind of words that doctors use when they don't really want to tell you the findings. Words are easy to hide behind.

So, I finally said, "Are you saying she does not have cancer?"

"No," he said. "I am saying she most certainly does have cancer."

We walked out of the room, after she promptly told him that she would make him famous when she beat this cancer. He pulled me aside and said, "I need you to understand. It's not good. What we're dealing with...It's very serious...it's bad."

I guess it was easier to tell me than to look into her determined, beautiful eyes and say those horrible words. I appreciated his honesty, though. From the places I've walked, I'd rather know what I'm dealing with head-on. Once you know that you are not invincible...once you know that it's possible to lose someone you love...it's kind of always with you. That possibility.

I acted strong, nodding to the doctor, smiling at my mother. I felt the room start to spin, as I struggled to steady myself. I thought, "If I could just get to the bathroom before anyone notices." I barely made it inside the door, when I collapsed against the wall, my body shaking with the sobs of a helpless little girl...not the strong woman of faith who had been carried more than once through the sea of grief by her loving Savior. But, a little girl...whose mother was filled with a hideous disease that would steal her health, her body, her mind, and her life...but couldn't kill her spirit. The sea of grief swirled around me, taking me captive with swells of images from other times when death's darkness stood mocking me...as he threatened to steal the ones I love. I resisted crying "NO" from the depths of my soul as the memories washed over me, "I'm sorry there are no heartbeats...they're gone"..."a condition known as Potter's Syndrome"..."incompatible with life"...and, now..."cancer...it's not good...very bad". I cried out to God, begging him to spare her...to spare all of us. The sorrow had it's way with me in that oncology office bathroom. Then I wiped my tears and walked out, stunned to face a life that held that ugly word.

She had "cancer of unknown origin" that they think possibly started in her lungs. It had spread to her lymph nodes, her brain, her bones...it was everywhere! They said she had two weeks to six months. Two weeks? I couldn't even process that. Thirteen months and tons of chemo and radiation treatments later, she sat in that hospital bed on her fiftieth birthday, lighting the room with her smile.

Growing up, we had a tumultuous relationship. I was so head strong...always wanting to establish my independence. I spent most of her life missing all of her gifts and her beauty...all of the things about her that made almost everyone who knew her fall in love with her. She had that kind of gift about her. She was so beautiful that people were held captive by her, even after the cancer treatments left her bald and thin as a rail. Didn't matter. She glowed with beauty. I spent most of her life missing it...but when that word was spoken, everything between us disappeared. All I could see when I looked at her was the person God created her to be. All of the barriers between us tumbled helplessly when that word was spoken, and we could hug and laugh and share our hearts. As often happens, there were precious gifts, even in the face of such hideousness.

A few weeks after her birthday, we made the trip we had taken so many times down river road...the one with all the big beautiful, extravagant houses. She had one picked out on that road. Only, hers was a little cottage with some hanging baskets on the porch. She always did prefer the simple things in life. The leaves were a myriad of colors, exploding with the majesty of fall as we drove the winding path to the hospital for a visit to the ER to help manage her pain. It was just a "routine" pain management visit. We should have gone home later that day. We made jokes in the ER and giggled. I looked over and she was out cold...resting from the medicine they had given her. I felt the relief a mother feels when her baby is resting, knowing that she was not in pain at that moment.

They decided to keep her in the hospital over night. But it soon became clear that this time was not like all the others. She wasn't making sense and could barely wake up. When she did, she seemed like a little girl. I realized that I couldn't leave her in the hospital when I saw the condition she was in the next morning. She stayed for three days, and our very large family surrounded us as we tried to make sense of what was happening to our mother. In and out of consciousness...barely coherent. Where had she gone? I was just talking to her hours before. I can't describe to you what transpired next. The memories overwhelm me.

All of her doctors agreed that the next step was to take her to the Hospice Center or a nursing home. The cancer had spread throughout her body and it was only a matter of time. They said, "Maybe 48 hours." We had promised her that we would not put her in a nursing home, so we reluctantly chose the Hospice Center, thinking that it would probably only be a few days. We decided right away that we wouldn't leave her alone. So, we stayed there with her...sometimes all together, sometimes taking shifts. The Hospice people were amazing...and we are so grateful for their compassionate care.

Forty-eight hours turned into four weeks. For four agonizing weeks, she suffered in a way I never knew it was possible for a human being to suffer. We didn't sleep, except for a couple hours here and there when we would collapse out of exhaustion and then we would awaken in a panic. I sang to her, prayed over her, read scriptures...as I've described before. What I haven't described is the depth of suffering she endured. And I won't...I can't. Only the ones who were there can understand what it was like. All I can say, is that it shook me to the core...trembling the very foundation of my faith. There were, of course, glimpses of joy in the midst of sorrow and gifts...even in the pain. She would awaken sometimes and we hung on every word, when she was able to speak. We never wanted to leave...desperate to soak in every moment we were given with her...and wanting to be there, when she was finally carried Home.

I won't lie...I begged God to take her Home. The suffering was so much...and I couldn't bear to see her in such agony. But the moment she left us, I realized that her leaving left us without her. And, the missing came. The missing was like nothing I ever thought possible, either. And, if anything, it has intensified with time. Every September - October, when the leaves change and start to fall, and the fall winds blow...the missing washes over me anew...and the memories flood my mind. I even resist sometimes...wanting to just keep my eyes on Jesus and rest in His comfort...wanting to just enjoy the land of the living. But, almost involuntarily, my body reacts. I can't sleep in September and my heart aches with the missing of her so deeply, I am overcome. The memories flood my mind. The sights and smells and feelings of fall all bring with it that time.

I walked into her house this afternoon to let out her dog (which we do for my stepfather every afternoon), and the ache was stronger that I could contain. I felt suddenly so desperate to see her sitting on her couch. It's been three years, and I don't know when I'll be able to walk into her house and not feel disappointed that she isn't laying on her couch. I walked through the house, stopping in the kitchen as I remembered the feeling of "home" when we would stand there, laughing about when we were kids and the silly things we did. We would tell stories in the kitchen. I washed countless dishes in that kitchen (those who have known me a long time always laugh, because it seems I'm always doing the dishes...and have been since they've known me!) I thought about how if she were here, she would laugh at my "teaching Timothy to drive" stories and annoy me as she told him the stories of "teaching me to drive when I was 16"! I can't explain to you the bittersweetness of those memories or the depth of the ache. I can't explain how it feels to stand in the kitchen of your childhood home and feel like your "home" is no longer. It disappeared with her. But, if you have felt that kind of missing...if you have lost someone you love like that...someone who was your constant...your definition of family, you know.

There are so many things that a mother fills in our lives. Sometimes I wonder where she begins and I end. So much of our mothers are part of the person we become. You know, you can't really brag about your kids to anyone but your mother. No one else gets it, cares, or loves them like she does...like you do. She would love to hear about Timothy going to the Homecoming Dance, and James scoring a goal in soccer. She would be excited to hear her grandson's name on the radio for having the lowest round of golf. She would relish it and wallow in it like Grandma's do.

For the rest of the time I walk this earth, something...someone will be missing. Several someones. Eventually that is true for all of us, and I know that. We will all lose someone we love. I also know that there is comfort in the arms of our heavenly Father...that one day, we will see them again. One day, I'll laugh with my mother and hold my babies. I know, until that day, His grace is sufficient and He will carry me...I know all of that. But, right now...I'm just aching with missing...swept into the memories of a September wind.