Birthdays and Blogs and the Joys of Naked Cowboys...

I just realized that I haven't posted since May. That's a really, really long time, but it's been a busy summer...
A friend of mine recently noted that I process things through Facebook posts. That's actually not true; Facebook statuses are a mini-alert message of what's going on in my world, but I wouldn't call it "processing." I'd call it "Miniature Lunatic Rants and Anecdotes."

Blogging is how I process. Writing in long-term is how I process. And when things get too difficult to sort out, writing is my method of dumping the paint all over the floor, and using the mess to paint a mural on the wall. This time of the year, there is so much to process that I don't even know where to begin.

So here I am. 

I’m only writing because this time of the year beckons it…this time of the year demands that I sit down and process the feelings that are lingering in the back of my head, those feelings that I’ve temporarily been trying to suppress with Chinese food and bad TV…But they won’t be silenced, and I really don’t want them to. You deserve the processing that is the biggest part of the remembrance.

I’m not overwhelmed in sadness, although it’s there. It rears its head when it’s least convenient, like right before a meeting with strangers that may ultimately determine the course of my employment. It rears its head when I’m trying to process delicate data that requires focus that I just don’t have; it rears its head when I tell my boss why I have to leave without notice…when I stammer out that “I’m suddenly not feeling well” and by her quick response, I realize that I must look like it’s true. These incidents are far from common, but this week has been hard….just like it is every year leading up to your birthday.

The weight of the memories is too much. I know exactly where I was, what I was doing, who I was with. I remember the feelings leading up to your birth, and the incredible, incredible joy…the photos my husband took are beautiful and painful and everything I could ever ask, and I’m so, so grateful in retrospect that he peppered my days and your days with the flash of the camera…Back then, I thought it was too much, but now? Now I’d give anything for one more shot….but would I?

As your little brother gets older, the reality of your story gets even more convoluted, even more difficult to balance out in my brain. I know without a shadow of a doubt that if you would not have died, he would have never been born. I know it, and therein lies both the confusion and the gratitude…I can’t figure any of this out, and I’m no closer now, 10 years later, than I was when you were here.

From time to time, the guilt strikes, along with the fear and the intense, soul-gripping anxiety that is medically untreatable. It is always a conscious effort to stop the derailed-train of emotions and get it back on track with prayer and focus. I know from the very bottom of my heart that your birth and death were part of God’s plan—that’s not saying that part of the plan didn’t suck and I don’t understand it—but it is freeing to know that faith that fills in the gaps when we can’t figure something out. I don’t understand why He decided you would be born only to die so quickly after. I’m still angry; I’m still devastated, and though those feelings are tempered with time, they’re still there, and I am comfortable saying that they always will be. Jesus knows how I feel; why would I try to hide it or act like I’m at peace with it? No parent is ever at peace with the death of their child—never. It’s the most unnatural event in the human experience, and it’s not the way life is designed.

Your birth (which nearly killed me—then again, so did your brother’s birth, so you kids are even) made my heart explode (literally) with happiness that I never thought I’d experience again…but I did!!!  I DID, and it’s because the joy of your birth infected my soul to pursue another chance at motherhood.  The joy of your birth confirmed what I’ve known since I was 3 years old: I am meant to be a mother. I was meant to be YOUR mother; I am meant to be your brother’s mother, and that is all I have ever wanted to be, second only to being a wife. You and your brother are my deepest heart’s desire, and for the longest time, I was so unfulfilled and empty…I held you, my soul was complete and my role in life had purpose…and then you were gone, and so was everything in me that had just been made whole…

Hannah, the emptiness in my life….
I can remember exactly how my days and nights felt in the days—weeks—months---years after your passing.
It’s so hard to juxtapose the fullness we say we have in Christ with the emptiness of the aching womb…

Having your brother didn’t “fix” me. He’s not a “band-aid” baby; he’s a Rainbow Baby, through-and-through.  He’s my Promise, my Answered Prayer, my tangible reminder that Jesus loves me, that God heard me and your father. I’ve never been more grateful for a human being than I am for you, your father, and your brother. The three of you make my heart so whole, so light…The reality of the Family Picture, of the incomplete nucleus of us, is heavy and confusing but also full of gratitude and realized hope…

Hannah, I can’t celebrate your birthday without mourning your death…without mourning the unanswered questions, the unrealized dreams. You were here, but then you were gone, and it still hurts. It still hurts…what else can I say? Christian rhetoric be damned; yes, I know you’re in Heaven, blah, blah, blah. I’m still your mother, you’re still a part of me, and we will always be connected in some inexplicable way. I will always wonder who you would have been…what you would be like. I look at nieces and other families and try not to think about dates of birth that come across patients’ paperwork…I look at forms that detail disabilities and think of the split-second where we thought you’d survive, but would be critically handicapped and think of how we would have stopped time to care for you…I pass the section of clothing for your age group in the store and still, to this day, think of the glitter we would have in our home. I saw a toddler dressed as a flamingo at a Fall Festival last week and my heart stopped…

And then I looked at your brother dressed in his cowboy-finest, and it started again. There is little time to process the things that threaten to overwhelm me when I’m chasing a pseudo-nudist/cowboy.

You led us to him…the love we have for you led us to him, and he is everything we could have ever dreamed, even on the hard days. I don’t know how or when we will tell him about you; you’re certainly no secret, but as he gets older, he will start to understand that those pictures on the wall are not all him…he will have questions, and I am praying even now for the words to answer. The answers we give now will set the stage for the deeper questions he has later on…for the times when the enemy comes to steal, kill, and destroy his self-esteem, for the times when he hears the whispers and the lies that say he is not unique, that he is not special, that he is “second,” or that he is a “replacement.” That day will come…I know it, because in my own way, I’ve been there. I hope that by the time we have that conversation, that he reads the words I’ve written to both him and to you that share the deepest love in my heart…that he understands the love I have for him, and how utterly unique and special it is. I hope he gets even the tiniest inkling in his heart of how grateful we are for his smile in our lives…of how blessed we are, of how great the reward is for the hard-fought Battle of Jericho. He is such a tremendous gift…I hope he understands, and grasps that there is no pressure in being who and what he is; there is only love and appreciation for him, and for the great, mysterious grace of God.

10 years is a long, long time; it seems like yesterday. Your birth was a traumatic experience; I didn’t realize how awful it was until I had your brother, which was peaceful and planned, and so exciting. In retrospect, I actually feel somewhat violated by my birthing experience and by a doctor who seemed more concerned about how “perfect” his incisions were, rather than the long-standing damage done to my body by symptoms that pointed in every direction to cardiac complications. I’m not angry with him; I’m frustrated with an industry that has made the most human experience of giving birth into a highly-marketable commodity that is a minefield of lies. Giving birth is difficult, natural, raw, and messy, yet we’re taught to expect a stylized suite in luxury accommodations that look lovely but fail when we look at statistics. Since your birth and death, the façade of American healthcare has been shattered in my life, and now I know: 1 in 4 pregnancies in our country end in loss. 25%--we don’t even rank in the top 10 countries with the lowest infant mortality rates (http://www.mapsofworld.com/world-top-ten/countries-with-lowest-infant-mortality.html)

Our nation is failing our children.

We’re facing an election over the next few weeks, and there’s a candidate who thinks you--you, my perfect, 34-week angel—do not matter. She thinks that babies like you are trash. I can’t even look at her face on the television. She even thinks your brother, at 36 weeks, is trash. I don’t understand this kind of disregard for humanity. That is a woman who has never known what you and I have known, what you and your brother have known. She has never known the love of a mother, not even for her own child. She doesn’t value life, and she doesn’t even know what it is. She couldn’t; she is blinded by deception. I feel so sorry for her; a life without love just isn’t a life at all. Maybe I’m being terribly judgmental, but how could anyone—anyone—look at your sweet face and not be in love?

I am sad for our nation and for the place we are now….for a nation that feels that we are an accidental collision of cells without purpose, and are therefore worthy of nothing but destruction.

You, you beautiful girl, were created by God. So was I. I know your brother was, and so was your Daddy. God cares for us; He loves us, and He sacrificed His own Son—I can’t imagine—so that we could all be reunited someday. This is my hope, this is why and how I breathe; this isn’t rhetoric or myths. This is Truth. Jesus is real; I know you know that better than anyone.

I don’t know what your life is like in Heaven, or if you remember me…I don’t know how you pass the days, or what you will look like when we meet again. I know I have my own beliefs of what happens to babies that die before they’re capable of making decisions, and I feel those beliefs were whispered into my heart by the Holy Spirit when I needed them most. I believe we will have our chance together, and I do not believe that has to make sense to anyone else.

I believe in reunion and restoration.
I believe the Word of God is true, even when I do not understand it.
I believe in the Hope He gives, and I rest my life on it, even when my life is not easy.

Hannah, I miss you. I miss the way you felt, all snuggled up on my chest…the way you smelled like Cheerios…the sounds you made, the way your fuzzy hair stuck out…your beautiful eyes and your gorgeous fingers and tiny toes that were shaped just like mine…I miss the way you looked at me, and I miss holding you in my arms most of all…I still feel you, even now, and I remember…I will not forget, and neither will anyone in our family.

I hope that if for some reason, you can sense me where you are, that you still feel the love I have for you and that it has never faded. I hope that you know you are thought of every day, and that I am so incredibly grateful for you.  I am grateful for the fight you put in me, for the faith you put into your father, and for the days we are living right now…I am so grateful for the life we have, for Jericho, for our family…you made me never give up. You showed me and your father what we are capable of going through, and what we have in each other, and every year that goes by, that gets stronger.

Most of all, I am grateful for Jesus, Who walked us through the darkest days, Who has grace for our anger and for our confusion, and Who truly does trade beauty for ashes. I am grateful that in death there is life, and that nothing is for nothing.

Hannah Elizabeth Gayle Cooley…I am grateful for every second I spent with you, so for your birthday, I am going to set my face and celebrate our time together. I never want any emotion other than gratitude to cloud your memory or my celebration of the gift of you.

I love you…
And I always will.
Happy 10^th Birthday, Beautiful Girl…

Dread, Monsters, and Muppets...

It's that time of the year. Every October, I can't help but reference my favorite children's book: "The Monster At the End of This Book."

In years past, as soon as October 1st hit, the dread would start...Her birthday is coming....

The days go by...the calender turns page by page...

 Every day that passed by would take me closer...and closer...and closer...

 Infant Loss Awareness Day (10/15)....the National Share Walk for Remembrance and Hope (10/19, this year)....It kept building....

You can try to stop time, but you're not going to be very successful. You can see the monsters coming...you know that on that day, you will consciously and subconciously replay

 Every. Single Detail. 

You will remember what the doctor said when he came in to see you that morning at 8:00 am. You will remember frantically calling your family in at 8:04. You will remember regretting the orange juice, but being thankful that you did because it held off the delivery of your perfect princess until everyone could be there.

You will remember being aggravated at the conversations going on around you, as a drug that felt like liquid death coursed through your veins. You will remember the strength of your sister's hand in yours, of her blue eyes looking back at you with concern, and of wanting to throw Taco Bell at your husband...

The lights were too bright...things were too rushed...the shaking, the smells, the sounds...

The cry...

You will remember your first look at the most perfect person you had ever seen...

Tiny, elegant grace...

A quick kiss, before she's whisked away to the NICU...

At 1:24 pm.

You will remember

Every. Single. Detail...

(Okay, that's not exactly true. It just sounds good...I do remember all that I just described, but there's a lot that was a blur. Going into heart failure means that your brain just doesn't work as well, and there are a few things that I'm missing. And as much as I hate to say it, some memories fade over time...But I remember a lot, and I cling to those memories ferociously. And hey--although part of me wants to feel guilty over not remembering every single detail, the rest of me acknowledges that deliveries--especially high-risk ones--are full of rushed decisions, quick procedures, and kind of a hot mess of what's-happening?!?!? So, realistically, I can't be expected to remember it all. I just remember what matters, and that's her beautiful face...)

Of course, it happens: The day comes.  You wake up in the morning, you start to go through your routine, and then you realize (if it hasn't woke you up already) that it's time: It's her birthday. 
The sky is still blue...The sun still comes up. You're expected to maintain your performance at work, unless you have vacation time built up that you can take off (I don't).
You find yourself wondering how you can "celebrate: Do you go to the cemetery? Not possible, this year...Do you cry? Sometimes. Is it awful, if you don't? No--it just means you're not at that stage right now.
I'd like to take the day off...to get a massage with my husband, to get a pedicure, and to indulge in things that make me feel relaxed and quiet...to do something that gives me a place to process my thoughts, and to be together with him. I'd like to let go of balloons at the cemetery (but we'll get the chance to do that at the Share Walk). Instead, the day will be rushed, and my time for reflecting will be done in the evening as I'm in bed. I might cry my face off; I might not. Grief is unpredictable in how it strikes, when it strikes, and how it presents itself. 
I'll spend a lot of time thinking of what Hannah Elizabeth Gayle means to me...how she smelled like Cheerios (and when I forget, I will literally buy a box just to sniff it)...how she felt (she weighed about as much as a gallon of milk, and when I forget, I will cradle that in my arms)...I might go through her memory box, though I know that's a definite trigger (but sometimes, I just have to look back at those tiny handprints).
I'll spend time wondering what she'd be like...in the first grade...I imagine she'd be doing a lot of twirling. I'm not sure why I think that, but every time I dream about her at this age, I see her twirling. I also think she'd be a redhead, and that she'd probably have inherited her auntie's blue eyes.
I think my house would be a sea of pink and glitter, and that I wouldn't mind.
I think she'd love her brother, and that I'd be saying a lot of "Stop changing his clothes! He's not a doll! Put the glitter down!"
I think she'd be smart and funny...but don't we all think that, about our children?
The sun will rise on October 30th, and it will set. Millions of children will be thinking about Halloween costumes and candy...but I will be thinking about my princess.
Morning and evening will pass. The world will most likely not end, and I will get up on Thursday, October 31st, and I will have not just survived; I will have lived through another birthday and another year, of not having her with me...I will be one more birthday closer to seeing her again.

It's been 6 years and 322 days (as of today, 10/16) since I last held my baby girl's hand, and kissed her goodbye. That's 2,512 days.
I am 2,512 days closer to seeing her again.
October 30th is Hannah Elizabeth Gayle Cooley's 7th birthday, and as a mother who has lost a child, I grieve; as a woman who is also a child of God, I have hope.

I reference this book every year around this time, and if you've read my blog, you probably know that. It really does explain this month better than anything I know. You consciously/subconsciously dread the date, it comes, you survive, and it's okay (it's not okay). It builds up as much as you let it; you break through it as much as you let yourself break through it. You can see the tsunami coming, turn your back, and let it hit you full force. It will drag you down into the bottom, and break you, and drown you in the process...or you can cling to Christ as an anchor, and turn and face the wave, knowing that it's going to hit you, but knowing that you're hanging on to something/Someone Who will protect you...He will keep you grounded, but He won't keep you in denial. You will have to face it.
But you will stand, with His help, after it passes.

Jesus helps you face the Monster At the End of This Book: Yourself. 

This time of year in particular, I am My Own Worst Enemy. I'm Grover--I'm The Monster. 

When I pull back the layers...when I embrace Him instead of my own grief...when I confront the truth of the loss, my own lack of understanding (does ANYONE ever understand why their child died?), and when I trust Him implicitly, the Monster is revealed for who he truly is: I am a broken woman, with scars and missing pieces that only He can heal, and He can only heal them when I let Him. 

He is my Anchor; He is my Healer.

He is the One Who calms the storm of grief, Who soothes the panic attacks and the questions that for now, don't have answers.

He is the One I trust.

And He makes ALL things new. 

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.

Moving Forward...but stealing glances back

I never thought this day would come.
I never thought the anniversary of Hannah's death would be met with anything but heavy, heavy grief.
But here we are...
Usually, I approach the time from 10/30-11/28 as kind of a "Monster At the End of This Book" paradigm. I dread it, from October 1st, on; when it hits, it's like a kink in a hose that's let go--there's a flood of sadness that can be pretty hard to navigate through.
This year is so different.
There are those (who are clueless) who will sit there and say that having another baby is some kind of miracle balm that is making this so much better. You're wrong, and I will not hesitate to say that very clearly: You. Are. Wrong.
Having another child does not "fix" the hole that is left when you lose your child. There is, simply put, nothing that "fixes" that hole. The only "miracle balm" is the love of Jesus--that's it. He loves you through the darkest days, and He hold your hand to walk you through the healing process. You're never completely healed, and you never forget where you were; however, you are slowly, but surely, equipped to not only move forward, but to glance backwards without falling into the vacuum of grief.  At some point, you stop crying for the pain you went through at the time; instead, you cry for the opportunities you never got to have. That's something that will always hurt, I suppose--not knowing what could have been, mixed with a little bit of wondering what exactly happened, and why?
So, here we are...6 years ago, we said goodbye...
I can walk you through every minute of that day. I can remember the nurses, what I was wearing, how it felt--but I don't want to. Those who were there remember--for some of them, they will never forget. Those memories are not ones that I want to have--they're the ones the enemy attacks me with when I'm at my lowest moments. What he hasn't figured out, though, is that it's those memories that will send me running to my Father faster than anything else. You see, I've learned that there are some things I cannot handle on my own. I have to run to Him, because those things are too big to try and process on my own. He's always faithful to keep me from going under. 
Today, I face the "Monster At the End of This Book." I embrace the memories with a strange kind of warm melancholy--yes, that's an intentional oxymoron--and maybe my heart hurts a little more than usual. But I'm okay...It's okay. I've found this place of peace, over the last year, and I feel like I can finally say that I am free from the heaviness that is always associated with this time. I asked David, and my Mom, if that was okay--I mean, is it disrespectful, to live life, and to move forward, during this time? Of course it is--it doesn't make me a bad mother, and it sure as heck doesn't mean that I've forgotten my beautiful Hannah-girl. But it is time...
It is time to move forward, and every year that goes by takes me to another phase of progress. I will always steal glances backwards...but I am far more inclined to look forward to not only my future here on this earth; I am inclined to look forward with far greater hope to the eternity that I have waiting for me...

Happy Angelversary, Hannah-girl--Happy Homecoming! You are loved, and you are in a place that's surrounded by the One Who Loves Us Most. I have no greater hope or healing than that...

Mother's Day & Strangers I Should Know...

Mother’s Day is always a mixture of emotions for me. It took years before I’d finally go to church on Mother’s Day; with the change to a different place of worship, this year I took the high road: I left town.  I didn’t want to deal with the confusion and awkwardness of being in a new place, with new people, who either didn’t know, or who were new to “the story.” Even in a place where I knew most people, Mother’s Day was difficult—I felt like other mothers took time away from celebrating themselves, to comfort me. Beautiful, wonderful, incredible women of God—they have carried me on their shoulders so many times. I never felt that it was fair that they would cry (over me) on a day that celebrates their motherhood.  Yet, I wanted to go to church, to be with them, and to know that they were going to help me make it through—it’s incredibly selfish of me. Either way, this year I decided that I wasn’t ready for a new place; even if I was, I didn’t want to drag anyone down. So, we went out to my parents’ house. (Yeah, that’s it! Drag Mom down!!! :) )

This past week was very difficult. Our clinic was closed, yet we still worked, so things were far too quiet. With the change in David’s schedule, I was home alone in the evenings with the ATTack Dog (she tried to murderize an AT&T salesman last week. After I got over having my arm ripped out of the socket, it was quite funny. You should have seen his face!!!), and things were again, Far. Too. Quiet.

What do you do?  Pester your friends who have families and children? Annoy your siblings who have jobs and kids and psychotic birds of prey? Talk your mom’s ear off over the phone? Shop?  It’s hard to pray when you’re frustrated with God, and even harder to worship, so I marked that one off (Just being honest). What do you lean on, when you should be standing on your own at this point?

Is there ever a point when that’s possible?

The perfect storm was capped off by one of the worst rounds of PMS that I think I’ve ever dealt with. The benefits of juicing are that your body starts to detox. Detoxing makes you cranky on its own; couple that with hormonal fluxes, and you have a real problem. Things spiral out of control, and you quickly find yourself at a whole new level of despair. When that’s wrapped up in too much quiet time, the enemy has a field day.  I think the best word to describe last week was “torment.”  That might sound pretty dramatic, but by Thursday evening, I was at my wit’s end. I really didn’t know what to do, where to go, or who to call.  Whether it’s true or not, I always feel like a complete burden when I’m dealing with this kind of stuff, and I’m sick of it. To finish it all off, the orthotics that I’m supposed to be getting, to combat the foot pain I’ve dealt with for over a year, are tied up in insurance BS; I actually yelled at an Office Manager, and I don’t think I’ve ever done that before. Considering that I know her job, and I know how hard it can be, I believe I will be apologizing at some point. Frankly, I’m still mad, so it’s not happening yet.

I called my sister, Billie, who agreed to take me out to my parents’ house on Friday instead of waiting until Saturday, so that I wouldn’t have to deal with another night by myself. Once we got together, we had a really great time of catching up, laughing like we always do, and rocking out to some Skynyrd. We got to “The Ranch,” and I promptly got busy giving my mom a mani-pedi while we snacked around and goofed off. It’s amazing, how quickly laughter can push aside despair. There’s nothing like it! J

Saturday morning, while waiting for David to arrive, Dad put Billie to work (haha!-j/k!), and Mom & I set out on a “brief” shopping adventure. Just hanging out with her, enjoying my mother, was a blessing. I feel like she gets a little robbed on Mother’s Day, because she’s worried about me. She is the most amazing person I’ve ever met, and I hope she understands how grateful I am to have her.  I really enjoyed spending time with her!  As the morning went on, the cloud that was hanging over my heart totally lifted off; by the time David arrived at the house, things were in full swing, and a lot of laughter was going on.

David—what a blessing he is!  As we pulled into the driveway, I could see something sticking out of the back of the truck…he had gotten me the most gorgeous plant that I had admired at the produce stand!  It was a complete surprise—it’s so beautiful! It became the centerpiece of our Mother’s Day pictures! Just the fact that he—well, he says he doesn’t understand, but he definitely supports—says the world to me.  He gave me a card encouraging me to keep up the faith…he knows we will be parents at some point….

It’s not necessarily Hannah’s loss that affects me this time of the year. It’s what I lost, and what I do not yet have. It’s the invasive questions, the empty place in my heart, and the unfulfilled promises…It’s having a heart’s desire that I know He gave me, that has not been made to come to pass. It’s a consuming fire, a passion to be a mother that I’ve had since I was a little girl. Being a mother is all I’ve ever wanted to be, and yet here I am…34…and what I’ve had so far was a passing opportunity. I was a mother for 34 weeks, and 29 days…I had everything I ever wanted in life, for 34 weeks and 29 days. To have it, and to have lost it, and not have it again, but to want it so desperately—that is the ache.

David has heard all of this, and what he doesn’t fully comprehend from a woman’s point of view, he gets from a father’s point of view.  He shares that heart with me, and at times like this, there is no one that lets me cry without judgment like he does. There is also no one who makes me laugh, or who grabs my hand and pulls me back up, like he does. He teaches me so much about the love of God—what a great thing, to be able to say that about my husband!!!  He gets my heart.

Things at the parents’ house were pretty typical—food, poker, BBQ, me winning everyone’s money, snacks, movies, laughing, pie, sleeping in…fun. It was exactly where we all needed to be, because we all acknowledge the blessing and the pain of Mother’s Day. Both sets of grandparents are gone now…we spent all of our time this weekend celebrating family, and that’s what they would have loved. 

And then the strangest thing happened:

My biological father showed up.

I haven’t seen him in 6 years.

I haven’t talked to him in weeks (and that was only because he was in the hospital, and I’m the contact person for medical issues).

What.

The.

Heck??!?!?

Billie and I weren’t prepared to see him. We weren’t ready to see the shaking hands…the terrible complexion…the constant blinking from dry eyes. We weren’t prepared to hear that he has 3 blocked arteries and has to wear a nitro-glycerin patch. We had no idea. 

He’d moved back to MO from FL 2 years ago, or so…he really doesn’t live that far from us. He just doesn’t call or try to get together, and he doesn’t return our calls. I care about him…there is love there. I know that he loves us to the best of his abilities, but…

I really don’t know what to think.  Billie’s word was “strange.” Mine was “uncomfortable…awkward…weird…disconcerting…odd…” I really, truly had/have no words. Of course, we embraced him; to my parents’ credit, they invited he and my aunt to have dinner with us (we happened to be sitting outside having dinner when they showed up). He and Aunt Bonnie ate dinner, looked around at pictures, and chatted for a bit; then they left, with thoughts that they might come out for Father’s Day (I’m not getting my hopes up), and that he’d try to “do better” at calling us.

He looks bad.

I know what happens next.

I’m not ready for it.

So many things I’d like to say, good and bad…If that was the last time that I will see him, did I do it right? I waved as he drove off—is that my last memory? What do you say, what do you do, when your heart tells you that’s “goodbye?”

I’ve thought that about him before, and been wrong…

It’s too soon.

All of my talk, all of my anger, all of my frustration at a man who threw us away…there is still love there. Everything says I should hate him, but I also know that he only expressed what he knew. Billie and I break the cycle—we are not the alcoholics. We are not the abusers, we are not the entitled. We are freed by a grace that he was introduced to, but rejected….why did he have to reject it? We did everything we could, to show him Jesus; will he find Him, now that he’s at the end?

This man that I have called “Daddy” for as long as I can remember…will he soften his heart, and turn toward truth?

Jesus, save my Daddy...

There are the hurts of the past, but there are also the realities of the present. The past can be let go of, but the present is what we face right now. This is where we make our impact, this is where change can happen and where prayers get legs. 
My selfish issues of Mother’s Day are quickly diminished when I see someone so broken in front of me…my heart aches for this broken man.

Mother’s Day weekend—when I said on Facebook that it was a “kaleidoscope day,” now that you’ve read this, maybe it makes sense. There really are no words to describe it. “Hope” was the word I kept getting, before it ever started….it’s the word that I’m clinging to, and not just for me.

Hope.