Permission Granted

Elizabeth Kubler-Ross staked her claim in the counseling world with her work entitled “Of Death and Dying.” (Yep, that’s a title that will bring the masses….)

The book describes the 5 stages of grief, and I remember studying it in college as I majored in Youth Ministry (technically, I majored in Bible spec. Youth Ministry, but that’s semantics for you), and thinking it was pure genius. The book (http://www.ekrfoundation.org/five-stages-of-grief/) does an incredible job of breaking down the grieving process and of destroying that ridiculous notion that we should all just “suck it up and move on.” It let us all know that YES, you can cry! You can get angry! You can take all of the time that you need! And your grief is as unique as you are—there’s no order, and that’s OKAY!!!! 

My professors at the time had no idea how important all of this information would become to me throughout my life…how I clung to what I learned, and how I so desperately needed to hear that what I was feeling in the wake of my daughter’s death was my own version of normal.

The world tells us we need to do whatever we need to do, to feel better quickly.

Sometimes, our families and friends do the same…they want the “old us” back again, but for me, that person died for a very long time. I know I’m not alone in that…Part (if not all) of my heart went to a very dark, sad place for years, and it took years for all of me to emerge.

And when I finally came out of that dark place, I was someone else…someone who was still me, but who had lost their “shiny.” I went from being like newly-polished metal into being more like a hammered shield—still me, still the same materials, but with an entirely different outlook in every possible way.

It wasn’t an easy journey, and sometimes, it still isn’t. 

This fall marks what would be my daughter’s 10^th birthday, and to be honest, I’m struggling with it. It’s not like I’m going psycho about it; it’s just a painful realization, and I don’t think I should have to rationalize my feelings any further. The labyrinth of grief is so multi-faceted and unique that I am positive that I am right where I should be for my process, and I would like to thank Ms. Kubler-Ross for teaching me that I have that permission.

I have permission to grieve, and though the knowledge of that may have come from Ms. Kubler-Ross, the grace to do so comes directly from Jesus…from His grace, and His compassion, and from His ability to carry it all. I have His permission to mourn what was and what was not (within reason), and I have His consent to burden Him with my heart. What a wonderful, glorious, awful, thankless thing for Him to carry…what a huge thing for Him to trade, and what a beautiful exchange! I give him sorrow, I share my grievances, my anger, my broken hopes and dreams, my FEARS…He gives me new hope, new joy, new goals, new adventures. He restores, He soothes, and He LOVES. He gives us permission to express all of our massive emotions, and He gives us FREEDOM FROM THEM.

I’ve described my own “stages of grief” in past blogs, but I’m reminded of my own words: Grief is like a body of water. Some days, you’re drowning in an ocean of sorrow, you’re Jack and/or Rose floating on a piece of wood in an overwhelming lost cause…you can’t breathe, you can’t move, and you can’t function.

Some days, you’re swimming in a river, keeping your head up, but only on the surface. The slightest tug/pull/reminder, and BOOM, you’re back in the ocean again…

Some days, it’s a creek, and you walk through the clear water, and it’s up to your knees, and you can handle it, and you can even see some of the beauty in it…

Some days, it’s a puddle that you step in and jump over, impressed that it didn’t trip you up, and you keep walking.

Some days, it’s a raindrop that falls on your face…you hold the memory in your hand for a minute, catch your breath, and you keep going…

Until out of nowhere, you trip, and there you are, back in the river, or the creek, or the puddle, or sometimes, the ocean again…and you start the process over, and as time goes on, you navigate the waters more efficiently, and with more grace, than ever before.

It’s a constant process.

I feel like that as the years have gone by, I learn to predict “the markers.” I know certain things will get to me (like her 10^th birthday, or dresses with flamingos on them, or seeing my niece that was born 2 days before my Hannah died) to various degrees, so I can prepare myself. Some things still catch me off-guard, and that’s okay.  

One of the best things I’ve learned is how to gracefully (seriously!) remove myself from situations and conversations that affect me. I have learned how to stand up for myself when necessary in this process, and when to take a deep breath and extend the grace of realizing that people have the “best of intentions, and the worst of executions” (I should trademark that). People who haven’t been through deep loss are at a loss for what to do or say, but they sure try; sometimes, people who HAVE been through deep loss say things that are dumber/more hurtful than those who haven’t (been there, done that, stuck my foot in my mouth HARD-CORE)! We are humans, we are unique, and we have big hearts and small brains. What really and truly matters is that we LOVE the person who’s been going through grief, and that we remember to put them first. We have a responsibility as human beings, and as Christians, to bypass drama and simply love. Be there for the grieving when the audience/drama has left. Be the meal one month into the process for the family that is so fractured. Be the hug on a busy Sunday morning when worship has rubbed a stinging, healing balm into a shredded heart.  Be the quiet place for the mind that cannot make itself turn off the frantic internal screams of pain.

Grief is such a difficult, unpredictable process, and we all live it out in different ways. The Five Stages of Grief (Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance) are worked out individually at times; sometimes, they gang up on you; they play out in unexpected ways. I think the key thing to remember is that they “play out.” 

If you’ve just gone through a deep loss, first of all, my heart aches for you. It doesn’t take much for me to tap back into what those early days felt like, and I will never forget what I went through (publicly and privately). Secondly, please remember that anyone that tells you to “get better,” or “get back into the swing of things,” or, “it is what it is,” or “just go back to work and stay busy, you’ll feel better!”—The person who says those things is not your friend, and is not a kind of counsel that you need right now. They may think they’re helping you, but they’re not. Grief is a pushy beast; she WILL be part of your life, and the more you try to stifle her, the more she will come out in other areas. Your health will suffer; your mental health will definitely suffer. Your entire world will suffer until you let yourself be free. You have to give Grief her time, even though the horrible world keeps right on spinning.

You have to give yourself permission to grieve.

Your family and friends need to give you permission to grieve, even in the midst of their own grief (assuming you have gone through this loss together), and they need your permission to grieve in their own way.

You have to be honest with God; He knows how you feel, even if you don’t even know yourself….even if you don’t want to talk to Him, or if all you want to do is scream at Him (or scream at Him and beat your steering wheel into a pulp—hey, at least I didn’t hit a person).

Please give yourself the gift of time. Let yourself feel; don’t wall yourself off. Know that you’re going to have good days and you’re going to have awful days. As time goes on, you’ll have more good than bad; but at first, those bad days are going to be more prevalent. It’s okay to have a bad day!!!!

Finally, please know that time really does heal. It doesn’t make it all go away—that’s a stupid, stupid myth.  In my case, I lost my daughter…she was literally a part of my body, and she was gone. I have scars, physically and spiritually…I will never be the same, and I embrace that (although I used to feel that I should be completely healed, now I know that my scars—seen and unseen—are more like a road map to redemption. They’re markers of healing, and of undeniable change). Time heals, but you will always have a marker in your heart, and it alters you.

And that’s okay.

Ten years is a long, long time…My grief is nothing like what it was, but there is a tenderness there that I will not apologize for. There are things to note in this season that I will probably ponder in my heart more than usual…questions that will come up, and debates I will resurrect with Jesus. The healing process is lifelong, I believe, but if we’re willing, it’s lifelong progress…

We have permission to grieve…permission to question…permission to hurt…We have permission granted by the very Savior Who willingly carries our every emotion and burden, and Who gives us the greatest gift of all:  Answered Hope.

Christmas...A New Understanding

Christmas…

It’s always been my favorite time of the year.

When my parents were blessed with their house, one of my childhood dreams was fulfilled: A fireplace! With the fireplace crackling, and the snow falling outside of the picture window, every Christmas imagination I’d ever had, came true…We had an enormous Christmas tree full of sparkling things, and the world was absolutely perfect.

Christmas with my family is a gift from God.

I remember the first Christmas after Hannah died; as much as it hurts me to think about those memories, it serves to put Christmas in the light it’s meant to be seen through.  Jesus, the Son of Man…the Man Who wept at Lazarus’ grave…

His arms were around me that day, and I know He cried, too…

I cried myself to sleep that day, as my family helplessly stood by…

So many tears were shed in that first…second…third year…

I spent as many nights as possible in our family room, just staring at the fireplace, wishing I were anywhere but in the life that I had. 

David and I had nothing left…

Of course, we had a family that loved us; we had a roof over our heads, and I had a job. The lights stayed on, the cars stayed running, and life carried on

With a huge, missing chunk and an ugly hole in our hearts…

Time keeps ticking, though, and the years have gone by.  I’ve never forgotten that Christmas, though-the Christmas where the grief was so tangible, where the feeling of being abandoned, but of being held, was so strong…It’s very easy for me to go back to that place, and to remember that intensity.

If I could go back to that grieving mother…to that grieving family…and say anything

I don’t think I would.

We were all shaped that Christmas; we were all molded. From the grandmother that felt as if she were watching her children in a burning building of pain; to the mother that felt like her heart had been ripped out; to the father who didn’t know how to handle his wife or his own grief, and only knew to be strong arms; to the sister who saw it all spin helplessly out of control; to the grandfather who had let down his walls to fall in love with a tiny baby, only to see her fly away…

We were all molded and shaped.

We’re all missing that little puzzle piece.

The greatest gift, and the worst gift, I received that Christmas was a pair of earrings that said “#1 Mom.” I literally buried them in my jewelry box.

I wore them on Mother’s Day this year for what I believe is the first time.

Why would I bring this up?

Just as the snow is falling; just as the trees are being lit?

Why would I reintroduce such a sad memory?

Because it’s with me every Christmas.

Not a Christmas will go by that I don’t appreciate.

Not a Christmas will go by that I don’t compare to the most heartbreaking Christmas of my life;

Every time I do, I will rejoice and be thankful that those are days I never have to go through, again.

Every time I think about the Worst Christmas, I will celebrate The Best Christmases of My Life…which is pretty much every one I’ll have from this point, on.

I reminded my mom of my Best Christmas Ever: I was incredibly sick; I’d been sick in my bedroom, and I was miserable. I came down our stairs to find an enormous Sylvester, and a full set of furniture for my dolls. I grabbed Sylvester (and Tweety, naturally); curled up on the couch, and went to sleep.

The site of those amazing toys made me so happy; I still remember the intensity of that emotion, even though it had to be almost 30 years ago.  I can jump right back into that memory, and it still makes me smile….

Because of the hardest Christmas ever, I am afraid to hope for this Christmas. I’m afraid that once I verbalize my dream, it will be snatched away. It’s a struggle I’ve had since before Bug was born. Although I’ve not held back any emotion or love from him, it’s made me not want to verbalize my hopes and dreams for certain things. It’s also made me stomp my foot, stand my ground, and make myself say it anyways. I don’t know how long he has; I don’t know how long I have. I’m increasingly aware that we’re all on a countdown, and God alone knows when it stops. Rather than hide under the fear that keeps us from declaring and from going forward, I’d rather set my face and take my chances…even when I’m scared to death to put my heart out there.

I want to embrace the excitement.

What does he think of this season? I want to see it how he sees it…He laughs as we drive home in the dark, when we pass the houses with all of their lights. He’s fascinated by the sequined tree skirt, by how it catches the light. He wants to touch everything, to feel the textures…and of course, he wants to put EVERYTHING in his mouth.

He’s incredibly active, crawling, touching, standing, picking up, reaching, smacking, slobbering, and the sweetest of all—he’s hugging. The days when I pick him up at the babysitter’s are when it hits me the most, how much he’s grown: He crawls toward me with a big smile, clapping to see my face. This week, he grabbed my ears and pulled my face close to his, so he could bite my nose.

It’s the most beautiful moment of my day.

How could I hold back?

How could I let fear stop me from embracing these moments?

From hoping for a future?

From believing for His plan, for His hope, for His destiny for me? For my child?

How could I let the fear and pain of Christmases past, cloud any of the joy in Christmas today?

I can’t.

I won’t.

I will celebrate this Christmas; I will embrace this season…I AM embracing this season.

I’m finding that like last Christmas (only amplified), that songs about The Child are affecting me deeply. I can’t imagine what Mary went through—no clean hospital, no knowledgeable staff or medications; no ERs or nurses, or even her mother to hold her hand…no sterilization, no clean towels…

Not even a bed, to lay her Newborn in.

“Away in a Manger” has never made me cry before…I can’t even listen to it this year.

How could He bring Himself into this world? “No crib for a bed?”

My son relies on my husband and I for everything—food, shelter, water, love…clean diapers, toys, health.

The Son of God needed someone to change His diaper, to rock Him to sleep…

Did she understand?

He had to learn to walk…to fall down, and bump His head…

To cry…

To be hungry…

To be broken…

How great is our salvation?

I think about my son, and I think about The Son, and I’m stunned…why, oh why, did He do that? How could He? How can He see us as worthy?

How can He see our broken hearts, and our broken messes in life, yet find us worthy of such sacrifice? How can He see our pain, and cry with us? How can He see our joy (compared to what He knows), and laugh with us? How, and why, can He love us?

He became like us…one of us…He knows us from the inside out, and still redeems us…He still gives us hope. He still has faith in us, which is amazing…

It’s the time of year when the whole world sparkles; it’s a season of hope, yet our news is full of people in pain and in sadness.  Celebrating the season doesn’t make the darkness go away…it does remind people of family and tradition, of stories and of imagination, even in the secular world.

For me, it reminds me of childhood…of deep and painful memories…of healing, and most of all, of hope…

My son will most likely not remember his first Christmas.

I, for one, will never, ever forget it…

I have never been more thankful for my Savior, than when I see Him reflected in my own child…I have never appreciated His sacrifice like I do in this moment. This Christmas feels like MY first Christmas…it feels like I’m seeing it through a completely different set of lenses. The emotion of this season is overwhelming…I want to shake people, to ask them if THEY GET IT. Do they SEE it? Do they feel it? When they hear “a Child, a Child, shivers in the cold; let us bring Him silver and gold,” do their hearts break for a King that became helpless? For a King Who cried when He needed His mother’s touch?

He became we…

I know this blog is long…I know I’ve gone on for a long time, but I’m entrenched in this…

It’s not just about Christmas…

It’s about motherhood…about being His Child…about seeing Him in my child…about seeing Him with new eyes, and with a new heart….It’s about realizing His true humility, and the reality of what He did at the beginning of His story on earth…

It’s about rediscovering joy in the midst of heartache, about finding the new with respect to the old…

It’s about believing in the possibility of the unexpected…about declaring that the formerly-impossible is happening.

It’s about the gift of the present…the Presence…

It’s about the celebration of the Sacrifice…how it gives us such Hope, Peace, Joy, Happiness…

Christ is Christmas…no amount of pain or joy can change that.

May this season be one of eyes being opened to the Truth of the holiday…of hearts being broken for Him, and repaired by His love…of Hope for the future, and of Destiny in His grace…May you celebrate The Child and the Sacrifice with true understanding…

May you have the ultimate Joy this season…

10 #Random Things...

So many thoughts are currently swirling around my sleep-deprived brain, that I decided to make a list. Maybe this way, I can excise 10 things OUT of my brain, and can focus on a few more things that are probably more important:

• 1.       Your co-workers may only “pretend” to like you…but if you bring them chocolate, the feeling will be genuine for the 5 minutes it takes for them to eat it.
• 2.       Grief hits you at the most bizarre moments. I was standing at the fax machine, and suddenly realized that my daughter’s birthday is in exactly 1 week. For that brief moment, I wanted to sit on the floor of the office and cry. It was a fleeting moment; no one around knew anything different. But for me, I had to stop and catch my breath before I could continue…for just that moment.
• 3.       Waxing your own eyebrows while trying to have a conversation with your husband and keep an eye on a mobile child will undoubtedly result in half of your eyebrow suddenly going missing. Don’t look too closely at my face for at least 2 weeks.
• 4.       The more I listen to conservative radio, the angrier I get at the “Affordable” Care Act. If the government would have handled their first run at insurance in a cost-effective, efficient way (Medicare/Medicaid), then I wouldn’t mind. But the facts don’t lie: Medicare and Medicaid are a poorly monitored, overtly-abused mess that is enabling/entitling people. Medicare/Medicaid cost us billions, yet the same government wants to run our healthcare? Bad idea, guys. Let healthcare providers handle healthcare. The government messes up every single program they get their hands into. Healthcare CAN NOT be dependent on boneheads who simply will not get along! After a week of listening to conservative radio (why in the WORLD does Dave Glover play some stupid song about "Chimpanzees Riding on a Segway?!?"), I finally feel like I've caught up in the world of politics. I don't know if that's a good thing. I've become very familiar with Glenn Beck and Dana Loesch, and I'm genuinely surprised at how much I like their shows. We don't always agree, but I'm always entertained and educated...
• 5.       I see a lot of Facebook posts that insult people on welfare. I used to post those things, too, until a friend of mine made me realize how brutal it sounded. There are so many people who are abusing the system, that it’s made us forget that there are people who genuinely want to get off of it. They want a better life; they don’t want to be on welfare, or be attached to that stigma. They’re doing the best they can. You can’t post something anti-welfare and expect it to make an impact on the people who are milking the system. All you’re going to do is hurt the feelings of the people who need that system. And really, the bottom line? If the church did what Jesus called us to do, there would be no need for the welfare system. I get it—there’s nothing more annoying to me, then seeing someone with expensive acrylic nails swipe a food stamp card. That pisses me off. But I’ve been the mom who cries in her car because she has to get WIC and she’s mortified (we were both unemployed for most of my pregnancy with Hannah). I was so ashamed, and I’ve never forgotten it. You don’t know who is in what position, so stop the mean posts. It could be you (I certainly never thought it would be me).
• 6.       My son is mobile. He’s scootching forward (yes, “scootching” is a word) when he hits tile, and he’s into everything. He really, really likes cords, so I think I’d like to hire some magician to come into my house, and figure out how to keep everything running, but hide the cords. Any takers? Watching him try to figure out how to get something he wants is an object lesson everyone should see. I think he may have a determined streak like his Auntie..
• 7.  I'm not entirely sure who the baseball geniuses are that scheduled the games, but every home game is on a night that I don't have to drive downtown. I'd like to kiss the scheduler! #GoCards #WorldSeries (Speaking of, I'll never forget listening to the World Series while I was in the hospital waiting to have Hannah. It was a really fun time at MoBap! And I guess my children will both have baseball ties; JD was born on the day of Stan Musial's funeral.)
• 8.       If I hear the weatherman say “Alberta Clipper” one more time, I’m going to smack him. I have no idea why I find that phrase so annoying, but I do. #BlameCanada
• 9.       I just realized that there are a LOT of things from Canada that totally annoy me: Justin Bieber. Anne Murray. Avril Lavigne. Nickelba…can’t even type their name. People who say “eh.”  I’m sure there are more things, but I can’t think of them right now.
• 10.  I'm teaching a poetry workshop on Saturday at GHOP. I'm excited, nervous, and praying that I don't stick my foot into my mouth. I'm hoping that God pours an extra measure of grace on my brain, because although this is something I've always wanted to do, I've never done it, and I feel sorely underqualified!  I'm gathering my materials, and I hope I have a strong presentation for my first run...

And THAT is my list of 10 Random Things Swirling Around in My Brain! #GoCards

Waiting to Exhale

Most of you know that there's a timeline running through my head. I've been advised to stop thinking about it...but as anyone who's lost a child knows (particularly, an infant child), that's impossible. Hannah was 29 days old when we had to make the decision to remove life support. That's a life-changing thing to go through...not only the loss of a child, but to pull that plug. It's hell, plain and simple.
JD is 29 days old, today.
I was watching the clock in the nursery, thinking to myself, "don't watch the clock." It's ridiculous--I wish I could turn my brain off. I sat in the bedroom last night, watching him, and realized that we're almost through the worst part...almost.
Everything we gain reminds us of a loss at this point...the things he does, reminds me of what she didn't do at this stage. It's a mind game that I would love to turn off, because it tends to rob me of the joy of my current situation. Ever have an issue like that? Where something from your past that has such strong ties, keeps you from celebrating the beauty of the present? It's not a Godly mentality, and I'm not so stupid that I don't recognize that.
I've always had really intense dreams, but lately, they're even more so. The other night, I dreamt that I was wrestling with both of my kids...my little boy, and my little girl. I didn't want to wake up;it was so beautiful. Reality hit: Until I get to Heaven, I will never have the chance to do that...to put both arms around both of them, to hug them and hold them together...A new wave of anger creeps in, and a new face of loss presents itself...something I never really thought about before.
Everything we gain reminds us of a loss.
I want to be mad at God again, if only for a brief moment...but then I stop and I think about the leaves , and about His careful design. Our steps are ordered by Him, even the steps that look like more of a fall. Sometimes I can look back and see the pattern in the tapestry He's woven...if not for Hannah, there would be _____. I could fill in the blanks with a 100 things that will never fill the gap of her loss.
Certain things in this process have surprised me. In the midst of celebrating JD, I'm faced with a new facet of grief that I've never had to deal with before, and I'm completely unprepared. A new line of "why" has come up, only this time, I'm in the place where I can mostly deal with not having answers.  There's a moment in which I have to force myself to exhale--to stop holding my breath, to let the tears flow, and to mourn the loss of Hannah not as my firstborn daughter, but as JD's big sister...I never really thought about it before, but it definitely hurts.
So we deal with it. I like lists, so here is what we have: We have the fear...the "let's make it through the first 30 days" fear. We have the loss...my family is missing a piece. We have the questions...God, what exactly were You thinking again, and when will I get over the fact that I don't get to have all of the answers? And we have the hope...This little guy is here, and he is loved more than he will ever know; he deserves our love without reservation, without comparison, and without compromise, and he will get it.
We have these things. And though we don't have the answers to the questions, or a quick-and-easy balm to make the hurtful things go away, we have Jesus. Even when I don't understand Him, when I go to Him with scraped knees from falling down, or a broken heart from letting my mind run away with me, He still accepts me. I'd give anything for an audible conversation with Him that's full of answers or promises for the future that were specific to our lives...I won't get that (barring a miracle). But in my list of questions and hurts, I have hope and faith, even when it's hard to access either one of them. This is a case where my heart knows what my head can't wrap around just yet. This is a process.
As of tomorrow, my son will have outlived his sister.  A certain measure of tension will be alleviated, and I am encouraged by the kind thoughts and prayers I've gotten from people who may not understand the situation, but that understand that this is tough. It's a bit of a milestone that I don't expect most people to get. Anyone who's lost a little one, and has had their "rainbow baby," though, understands. Tomorrow, I will turn off the internal clock, and I will let go of this 29 days of underlying tension. I will breathe. And I will celebrate a new phase in JDs life...At some point, I will be able to celebrate the milestones without thinking of what it might have been like, to celebrate them with Hannah, too. I don't know when that will happen, and I think other moms of "rainbows" will have some insight into whether or not that EVER happens. I have no idea. I know that I can look at him, and I can see only him...but I also know that I have thought more about Hannah over the past few months than I have in a long time (although not a day goes by where I don't think of her)...and that eventually, I'll sort through all of it. Again--it's a process.
One day at a time.
One breath at a time.
One milestone at a time.
One prayer at a time.
And slowly, but surely...
Breathe.

Calendar Girl...

I used to write a lot of prose...but for the last couple of years, I just haven't gone in that direction. Probably because I'd rather blog, and prose tends to be morose (stop that rhyming, I mean it!).
Every year, I sit down and put together a photo calendar for the current year that's made up of pictures from the previous year. I also do a photo book. I have a nice collection--I have a book for every year except for our first year, and at some point, I'll get around to that. I also don't have one for our wedding, but I have a real scrapbook for that--I think that counts. I rarely print pictures; the digital albums I have are nice. When I upload digital pictures, I am careful to organize them by month so that these projects aren't monumental. I've streamlined it; I can get the year done in about an hour.
Last year's book is so tainted.
It's so HAPPY.
I mean, sickeningly happy.
I am not complaining--I've had too many years of sadness.
Going through those 2012 pictures--you can see the joy on my face. It's an expression I haven't seen since I was pregnant with Hannah...it's hope, it's joy, it's ecstatic-ness...it spills over into every single picture from June-December, and even now, in the midst of the struggle of sleeplessness and emotion, it's there.
I am happy.
I'm afraid to say that...seems like I've spent so much time thinking that I would never be allowed to be happy again, that I'm afraid to accept that day may have arrived.
Can I actually give myself permission to be happy?
To be happy without being afraid of God?
To stop thinking, for real, that He's a Cosmic Killjoy?
I know He's none of those things..He loves us. But when you've had your heart broken so badly, the enemy creeps in. He messes with your head--he lies to you, and he convinces you that God couldn't love you...that He takes away your joy to keep you desperate. It's not true...but I'm scarred from believing that lie for so long, and even though last year I began to find my way away from that lie, I'm still tainted with it...still attacked with it...
So I hold my little guy, and I cry...and I pray...and I have faith that we will make it to 30 days with Jericho.
People tell me to stop worrying...to stop comparing...and I know I should, but it's nearly impossible. I'm doing things with him that I never had the chance to do with Hannah, and I'm fighting fear with every step.
We're at 26 days.
On Monday, I will breathe. On Tuesday, I will rejoice--one month old...He'll have outlived his sister by far.
These are comparisons that sneak in, that try to steal my joy...but they can't have it. I won't let it. I will fight these thoughts...I will hold my son...and I will thank God for the life that he has, for the life that he WILL have. I will not let this fear steal my joy.
I will celebrate my son.
I will celebrate joy.
I will be happy in this moment...for the bath times, for the feedings, even for the lack of sleep. I will be happy.
I will not be afraid to rejoice in the gift of life...
My pictures from 2012 will mark the celebration...the joy on my face in those pictures will spill over into every picture from 2013, and I will not see the "hollow girl" that I was for so long, rear her ugly head ever again...God willing, I will never have to go down that road again.
I will not write this in fear.
I will write this in healing...
In hope...
And in a victory that comes from answered prayers to a God Who loves us beyond belief.
I'm getting an inkling of how He feels about me, every time I look into those beautiful eyes...My son looks like my husband, but every now and then, I catch an expression and I wonder...just maybe...he might resemble me...Those are my fingers and toes, my legs...my eyebrows...that might be my nose (sorry, kid!)...That's David's chin, but those might be my ears...
He's a reflection of both of us...and I've never loved anyone like I love him. It's different, this time around...I wasn't sure I could love anyone as much as I loved Hannah, but I do...I love him the same, but different...I get it.
God loves us all the same...the childless, the Mom with 15 kids, the teenager who's confused about who they are, the wanderer who eventually finds his way home...He loves us all the same. He always knows where we are, and He always calls us home...He always opens His arms to us...
I hold my little guy to my chest, in his Moby wrap; I think of how I used to tell God that I just wanted to hang out in His shirtpocket, closest to His heart. I imagine myself held in the Father's arms like I hold JD, and I find peace in that moment...
All JD feels in that place is my heartbeat, and there's security in that closeness. That's where I want to be: where I can feel the Father's heartbeat, the rhythm of His love and peace.
Where I can feel His joy in knowing that His daughter finally knows she is loved...
The days of the week are passing by, and the subliminal timeline in my head is dwindling even now...
There is peace in His arms...
And there is happiness that is undeniable in that place...
I'm working on learning how to live that way...I have a long way to go. But that girl in the pictures I see? She sure looks like she's got it down...
I'll get there...