Tag: Hosanna

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Beautiful crying forth

As I contemplate my thirteen precious children today, on PAIL (pregnancy and infant loss) Remembrance Day, I am praising God for His beautiful crying forth of ideas which created each one of them.

I still daily get to set my eyes on four of them, and I am daily blown away by His imagination in how He formed each one. They are absolutely spoken magic, woven into flesh.

But there are nine other ideas of His which were spoken into creation by His Words. Although my eyes do not see them, nor my hands get to hold theirs, and my days are not filled with teaching & instructing them; and although their beautifully cried forth souls have flown from their woven bodies of flesh; they are still spoken magic. Fully alive. Glorifying God.

How stunning.

God, thank You for giving me so many children.
Thank You for lending some to me for such a long time.
Thank You for balming my heart when You took so many of them to Your heavenly places.
Thank You for crying forth such beauty even through my broken womb.
Thank You for showing Yourself faithful to me in grief.
Thank You for hearing my prayers.
Help me to show my children how beautifully & imaginatively spoken they are by You.
I believe Lord, help Thou my unbelief.

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Light

Light at the end of the tunnel.
It’s an interesting phrase, cliche, concept, and reality.
I remember spending months and years wondering why every light I would see would end up being a train to pummel me rather than the end of the tunnel.
Just when I would glimpse hope or joy, my life would come crashing to a halt again.
The pain and the sorrow, the tears and the utter devastation.
I kept thinking, I can never survive this again. If it happens again, it will kill me.

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The thick shadow of death’s valley was my home for ages.
And to be honest, I can not put my finger on the time when I felt like I was suddenly out in the light again.
Out of the tunnel.
There was not a time where I saw the light at the end of the tunnel, and suddenly realized that it wasn’t another train.
There hasn’t been a moment where I finally notice the darkness is dissipating and I’m almost out of the shadowy tunnel.

But here I am.
I turn around, and I look back, to see that the tunnel is behind me.
That particular dark journey of thick shadows and tunnel vision is over.

Although I did not know it was coming, or perhaps it was simply that I was afraid to hope against hope and chose the path of denial…
I can tell you now, there was light at the end of the tunnel.
I know because I’m there now.

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To be real, frank, & honest, I haven’t come very far out of the tunnel.
It’s not like I’ve journeyed away.
I still stick my toes in there and dance around the opening.
Sometimes I do it on purpose.
Other times, I simply look up to realize I tripped and somehow ended up inside the tunnel again.
But I stay close to the open edge now – I don’t want to get sucked back into the deep darkness.
If a train is coming, I want to be out in the open so I have a chance to jump out of the way.

~…~…~…~

So here I sit on October 15th.
It’s Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Day.
And I specifically purposed not to buy balloons this year.
I don’t know why.
Maybe it’s because the tunnel feels too close right now.
Maybe it’s just because I want to feel like I’m making decisions I want to make,
rather than just continuing with a tradition because, well, it’s tradition.

I didn’t used to believe I would ever come out on the other side. I didn’t know how it would ever be possible to “move on.” I disagreed that I would ever reach a light at the end of the tunnel. I clenched my teeth and sighed to myself when someone would tell me, “there’s always hope.” Honestly, a lot of cliches (true or not) made me want to smack something or someone.

But here I am.
There really was light at the end of the tunnel.
There really was hope.

I have full confidence now that if God did not want us to have another biological child after Gabriel that He would have had a different perfectly wonderful plan for our family. But in all honesty, I did not have that confidence at the time. Everything looked bleak from my perspective back then. So while I know now that God would have been faithful, no matter how black life looked from my unfaithful perspective, I understand from experience that you can not see rainbows when the storm is thick & raging so you can’t even see six inches in front of your face.

But today I am wearing my unwieldy necklace with thirteen metal nametags.
Simeon loves the jingle jangle it makes when he plays with it.
Evangeline likes to find her nametag and read it to me.
The big boys like to read the babies’ names, and ask me their order.
These kids know our family is bigger than it seems.

Life is not what I imagined it would be.
(Me with my dreams of three in diapers.)
But life is good.

~…~…~…~

Crying used to be a form of daily exercise for me. It was that exhausting.
I would bawl my eyes out in the shower each night because I knew it would limit anyone knowing how broken I was.
I used to think I would be drowning forever, that the nightmare would never end.

~…~…~…~

I know that I’m not longer held in the throes of deep, dark, ugly grief.
But how in the world did I survive that nightmare through to this other side, called “someday”?!
Grief is horrible. It is caused by horrible things, and it in turn can cause horrible things.
I didn’t know that, in time, it could also cause something beautiful.
I didn’t realize that “beauty from ashes” would look this way.

~…~…~…~

Grief was exhausting. Not just the crying parts.
But the mourning.
The ache and pain and physical manifestation of internal, emotional, spiritual devastation is horrible.
Just surviving hurt.
The life of being a mama to four little kids, and the underlying pain I have in my physical body on a daily basis still make me exhausted and I still deal with daily pain.
But it’s different. Lesser, somehow.

Mommy-exhaustion from my four miracles is less exhausting than grief.
Grief was a full-time job.
And that’s no exaggeration.
I spent years just enduring.
Ask anyone who has dealt with chronic suffering of any type.
Enduring isn’t for the faint of heart.
I don’t know how people do it without Christ’s strength.

I was telling another loss-mama just this week how encouraging it is, not only to be on the other side of the dark tunnel,
but to be able to better see purpose in my grief.
And not just for myself.
It is good to know that God has woven beauty out of the ashes for my own family.
For me.
But it is even more amazing to see how God allows me to share that beauty with others.
Romans 12:15 and 2 Corinthians 1:4 sum it up pretty spot-on for me.
I love to be that other woman who pulls you through the muck, because I used to be there too.
I love that God urges me to send books and make jewelry for other women whose babies have died.
I love that He lets me burden-bear for grieving women around the world.

~…~…~…~

So for PAIL Remembrance Day today, I want you to know…
I have been there. I get it. Me too. It sucks.

But I also want to gently tell you that while I don’t know God’s plans for my future, or for yours, I do know with confidence that He will be faithful.
He delights in bringing joy and peace to His saints. He rejoices over us with singing.
He is our keeper. He is the shade at our right hands. He doesn’t slumber or sleep.
He knows the beginning from the end, even when all we can see is one moment of dark, tearful despair when it feels like everything might as well be over.

The story isn’t done yet.
I’m praying in whatever chapter is next, His pinions reach you in a tangible peace.

~…~…~…~

Sometimes when I think about my babies in heaven, it knocks the wind out of me.
How much I love them.
How terribly I miss them.
How often I wish others knew about them or acknowledged them.
How happy I am in life now, even though the tunnel of grief is still visible and touchable.
Yep, even that.

There are times when it hits me so much harder than I feel like it should.
But I’m a mommy.
And those are my sweet babies.
So maybe it’s just that my brain doesn’t realize fully that it should hit me hard.
Being bowled over by the mixture of love & grief isn’t out of the ordinary.
It’s normal.

You know how moms start talking about their kids? They go off on a dozen rabbit trails, and sometimes you glaze over and think about how you can’t pay attention to another single tangent about this woman’s kids?
I feel like that at the moment.
I feel like I got started talking about my babies, and went on a few tangents and a bunch of rabbit trails, and I just realized that your eyes look glazed over.

I am their mommy. They are my babies. You will never know how much I love them, how deeply I miss them, how proud I am to be their mommy, how thankful I am that God gave me these babies.

Covenant Hope, you made me a mommy first. You were the first other soul ever to inhabit my body. I never got to hear your heart beat, but I felt you living inside of me. You are something super special. You are the big sister that Gabriel forever talks about. You, in the palm of my hand, with your precious limbs and that perfect little umbilical cord and the deep blue where your eyes were forming ~ I think of you and the one short evening I got to spend with you outside my womb. You are the one (of my thirteen!) that I have taken camping. Those were horribly painful memories for such a long time, but I love that those memories now make me smile. Your daddy and I got to take you camping.
Glory Hesed, you made Gabriel a big brother first. You would have been just eighteen months apart, and I often imagine the level of crazy you would have added to our home. It makes your mommy smile. I remember the days when I walked around with you underneath my skin.
Promise Anastasis, you are my summer rosebud. Your life gave me hope. I love that I can now look ahead to the resurrection, when I will see you again. I remember holding you. I remember the world caving in around me. I think it was when I said goodbye to you that I found myself in the tunnel-that-had-no-end.
Peace Nikonos, there is so much I remember about being pregnant with you. I remember every detail of delivering you into my hands, too. It has been seven years since you were knit inside me, snuggling in my womb. You came on an airplane with us to the East Coast. You are one of the few babies who had a chance to hear the voices of your paternal grandparents and even great-grandparents. Besides Gabriel, yours was the first heart we got to both see and hear beating. The immense comfort and delight of that was indescribable. I remember thinking you were a strong fighter, and that’s how I think of you. Fast and strong. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I never once even considered that you weren’t my son.
Mercy Kyrie, a little one who came along with me for a jump into the deep end of immunology treatments. I was surprised to learn you were growing inside me, and overjoyed. We spent an entire holiday season with you in my womb, and the joy and peace and hope you brought to my soul were deliciously addicting. Your grandpapa brought me a bouquet of flowers one day when we had good news about your health. Christmas that year suddenly felt redeemed. I think of you when it snows.
Victory Athanasius, you make me speechless. I remember when we named you, it specifically stands out to me for some reason. And saying goodbye to you. I remember the day keenly. So does your daddy. Again, you specifically stand out to us. The seventh child to inhabit my body, I love to think of you as a dancing victor.
Hosanna Praise. My son. I remember when your grandpapa called and confirmed you were a boy. It knit you more deeply into my heart than I could ever tell you. There’s something about a mommy and her boy. I remember carrying you in my belly. I remember taking you to Mexico. I remember seeing you on ultrasound and loving to watch your heartbeat. Your ultrasound photos might be my favorites (shh! don’t tell the others!). I named you Hosanna as soon as I found out God was knitting you. I didn’t know the number of your days, but I knew you would forever be my Hosanna. And although God’s plan is different than mine would have been if I had been the author (and everyone is thankful that Mommy isn’t, by the way!), I am thankful He heard our cries to save you. I’m thankful He is your Savior and your Lord. When I think of my sons, you are always there in the corner of my mind.
Heritage Peniel, you are the sweet little girl who made Evangeline a big sister. You and I shared blissful joys, baby. I saw you numerous times on ultrasound. I loved every piece of you. I still do. No bigger than my thumb, you were the most beautiful little thing. Holding you in my hands broke my heart, but at the same time, it was one of the best days of my life. That’s weird to admit. It was a horrible day. But oh! I’m so thankful I got to hold you. And kiss you. I miss having you running around in your big sister’s wake, wearing her old clothes, sleeping together in a pink and grey room full of flowers. Even though you are my January sweetheart, when I close my eyes, I envision you with peonies and lacy bonnets. There isn’t a doubt in Mommy’s mind that you would have been the quiet little freckle who could never quite keep up with the firecrackers.
Fidelis Se’arah, my wee faithful babe. Another little May blossom. Plucked too soon. Blooming fragrantly in heaven. You took my breath away. I still catch my breath when I think of you. You remind me that there is Someone who is faithful in all things, all times, all ways. You were the darling who pushed me to the end of a rope, and who gave me the courage to fall.


remembering today,
October 15th, 2016
with much mommy love for my nine xxx

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Blinding

October has always been one of my favorite months. In fact, if I had been a more patient woman, I would have waited an extra five months to get married just so I could have an October anniversary! But as it happened, seven days post college graduation was all I was willing to wait. (No regrets, by the way!) I had often prayed for an October baby (and an April baby, incidentally), and what’s interesting is that in all of my pregnancies, I never had a due date or a loss date in October. I did have some bad-news days in Octobers, particularly when carrying my sons Peace and Hosanna, both who died in early Novembers. And then the icing of the cake was the delicious joy that God (somewhat unexpectedly) gifted me with Simeon in October.

And now, just a few days into this beautiful month, with its cold nights and crisp days… days for wearing boots & scarves & sweaters… mornings that beg me to bring in an armload of wood & stoke a fire… bellies longing for soup and fresh bread…
Now, on October 4th, I can’t stop crying. No anniversary of anything specific. Not even the 15th, which is Pregnancy & Infant Loss Remembrance Day. It’s simply a random day.

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A day of blinding grief.

I can not explain why. It simply is.

Most days now, I am so busy with focusing on what is right in front of me each day that my grief is faded into a dim shadow behind the hills. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of it. Sometimes it is like a cloud that filters how I see things on a given day, but it doesn’t fill the entire lens.

But there are occasional days where the grief is simply blinding. I wish I could put sunglasses on so I wouldn’t be walking around squinting, with tears running down my cheeks.
Today is one of these days.
The bright, sharp pain of grief is everywhere I look today.

It is in my bedroom. My bathroom. My kitchen. The bread rising in the oven.
It is in the knowledge that the house where I miscarried seven sweeties is being sold.
It is in these precious freckled faces all around me.
It is in the sound of Simeon’s cries.
It is in the ache of a womb that wishes it could be filled again.
It is in the frustration of not having a moment’s peace & quiet.
It is in the silence I feel when I hold Heritage’s box in my hands.
It is in the meal I am making for a friend who just had her sixth child.
It is in the load of diapers I have rinsing in the washer.
It is in the necklace around my neck with nine little crystals.
It is in the necklace that sits in my jewelry case, because honestly the thirteen tags on it have simply become weighty & awkward.
It is in the canvas I ordered today of my family of six. Only six.
It is in the nervousness I feel as I anticipate meeting new people at a homeschool co-op, and realizing I once again get to introduce my family & our life story.
It is in the ache of my muscles and the chap of my lips.
It is in the wrinkles on my hands and the grey in my hair.
It is in the songs I sing and the prayers I say over the four little red heads around my table.

Grief.

It is not as predictable as the path of the sun.
It’s about as unpredictable as the weather.
I have come to understand it and live peaceably with it, as a dim and distant part of my landscape.
But these days of blinding grief that appear sharp and harsh… it stuns me.
I shade my eyes with my hand, I squint, I cry, I turn my face… I run back inside.

I don’t want to face it.
I would rather hide.
There are SO. MANY. good things in my life.
I feel ashamed that there are still days where grief eclipses the rest.

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But I am not ashamed of missing my children.
I am not ashamed of how deeply I still love each of my wee babes.
I am not ashamed of being their mommy.

So I cry.
And I miss them.
My heart longs for heaven.

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Lenses

It never ceases to amaze me how our experiences shape and color the lenses through which we look.

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Even something as simple as a devotional title this morning… it struck me…
My eyes read “Riding the Rollercoaster of Miscarriage.”
I was surprised to find, upon reading it & then going back to the top to double-check the title, that it was called “Riding the Rollercoaster of Marriage.”

Oh.
Whoops.
My bad.

Yesterday when I was picking my two big boys up from VBS, someone who I have known casually for over a dozen years made a comment about how perfectly spaced my children are. She seemed to be congratulating me for the beautifully placed stairsteps… and then she asked when the next baby would be on the way (to which my eyes stung and my heart silently cried oh, I wish).

Gulp.

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I breathed deeply to keep myself from breaking out into a sweat and allowing my heartrate to rise in anxiety.

I told myself quickly and quietly, she sees my family & me through different lenses.

Another deep breath, a squeeze of my little baby in my left arm & squeeze of my daughter’s hand in my right hand…
They do look stunningly like little stairsteps, I guess, was my reply with a smile.
I continued, Maybe you’d never know that there were nine other babies in there along the way.

I kept smiling, and the woman seemed to try processing my words.
She was blinking.
It’s like I was trying to share my lenses with her, but the glasses didn’t quite fit and the prescription was made for my eyes rather than hers.

Since it didn’t work well to share my lenses,
I just put them back on myself and let her keep her own.
Instead, I briefly explained what my view showed.
I described the picture’s colors to her, since she could not see their variety herself.

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We have nine little ones in heaven already. One before Gabriel, six between the big boys, and two between my youngest children.

When she commented that she “hoped I lost them early on,” rather than bristling that her lenses didn’t show her the colors & shadows & silhouettes & nuances more clearly,
once again I just described to her what my lenses show me.
They were young, yes, but they had beautiful little arms, legs, eyes, umbilical cords. I got to hold most of them. They have names. They are my children too, and I love them dearly. Honestly, I can’t wait to meet them in heaven. But until then, I sure am thankful for these four little miracle million-dollar-babies God has given us to raise.

It’s enough.
It is enough to realize that I see things differently than other folks. It goes both ways.
And I praise God that He is giving me peace with my lenses.
He continues teaching me how to see, how to share what I see, and how to learn what others see too.
With thankfulness, grace, contentment, joy.

I pray that He will continue to work on my eyes to better focus
on what He wants me to see in this world
and in the particular life He has given me.

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Palm Sunday Thoughts…

Yesterday was Palm Sunday. We were given little crosses made out of palm fronds at church. The liturgy was different. The vestment colors were different. And as I dealt with a 3 year old who threw up all over her church dress and her carseat… and as I bounced a fussy, overtired little 4 month old… I was happily comforted in the reminders that my Jesus, my King, is Lord over all things ~ both small and great. He came in lowly ways. He ministered in the daily things. He came to save.

My mind repeatedly wandered back to a year ago… six weeks pregnant with Sweet Teen… and the terrible dance of hope & doubt I was enduring…
So today, I am sharing with you something I wrote that day; last year on Palm Sunday. It’s as true today as it was 366 days ago. Hallelujah! Hosanna in the highest!

 

Today was Palm Sunday—a day full of good reminders of our King who reigns, of His lowly entry and faithful rule, of how we as His people can & should cry out to Him, hosanna! Save us now, Lord, we pray! One of my sons in heaven is named Hosanna, and I love the excuse to say his name. When I do, I am crying to the only One who can save to the uttermost. This morning’s church service, as we visited a church we love a couple hours away, began with the choir, pastors, and dozens of children processing through the sanctuary with palms in their hands while we all sang to the Lord of His glory and honor, lauding Him with our praise. We cried out to Him beseeching Him to save us! And since we are on the other side of the story, we know with confidence that He is the Savior! He has saved us! He didtriumphantly bear our sins and conquer death, saving us from the holds of those shackles! Amen!
But we are still in the midst of the story. This morning I felt painfully, acutely aware that the story continues.

I sat there with my family, in the midst still of our own story of asking the Lord to save and preserve and give us life in place of death, begging Him with every little panting breath to cause this baby to live…
In front of us was a family whose daughter suffered a terrible cancer some years ago, and the Lord preserved her precious life, and there she sat with parents and siblings, with health glowing in her cheeks and hair and the saving presence of the Lord spilling from her eyes as she sang…
In front of them sat a family who buried another son this very week—the Lord saved their little boy by ushering him to heaven, and now He saves this family every moment by upholding them even in the midst of horrible grief…

I cried repeatedly.
Suffering everywhere I looked. Sometimes already redeemed. Sometimes not yet.
It is hard to wait for the redemption, and wonder whether we will see it here in this life, or whether we will be yet waiting to see it in the next.

And then Pastor Sumpter preached on hope & joy.
He said, so much of joy is bound up in hope.
How painfully, purely accurate.

I am so afraid to hope and so afraid to be joyful. Even though there is a sliver of me that wants to shout from the rooftops that the Lord has filled my womb—I want to plan and prepare and anticipate and expect an autumn baby—I want to let the kids kiss my tummy and pray aloud all day for the little baby without wincing in my heart of anxiety—I want to talk about baby names for this little person, to embrace this pregnancy rather than moment by moment telling myself not to get attached.

Today we heard an exhortation to ignore the voices in our head that shout realism and logic and probabilities. We ought to rather take joy in hoping, and not to grow weary if we have to keep asking. It is exactly realism, logic probabilities, and my own history that causes me to limit my joy and squelch my hope. But we serve the Lord who delights in giving good gifts, who takes pleasure in acting outside the boundaries which people expect of Him, who came in order to redeem the broken places so that our joy could be full and our hope renewed.

So this week, even as I constantly preach truth to myself not to give in to anxiety just because it certainly doesn’t do any of us any good, I will also be reminding myself day by day to be joyful even when I don’t know the end of the story. Because that is why Christ came. I rejoice in hope—and this hope is not bound up or settled on the things of this world. This hope in which I rejoice is bound up and settled on the glory of God. And because of this, because of God’s glory, we can rejoice fully! Even when suffering comes. Even when endurance is necessary. When character is tried, tested, affirmed. (Romans 2:1-5)

This hope is not foolish. Hope that is grounded in God’s glory will not put us to shame. He died for me. So that I could have hope. So that I could rejoice.

So as I remind myself of these things this week, walking toward Easter as well as taking daily steps further and further into my pregnancy, I will remember the joy and the hope along with the suffering and the grief. It’s the dichotomy of living the Christian life. May He give us the strength and peace to glorify Him this week through all of this.

I want to hope with unabashed, reckless abandon. I want to have incalculable, irrepressible joy.

This is the Lord‘s doing;
it is marvelous in our eyes.
This is the day that the Lord has made;
let us rejoice and be glad in it.
Save us, we pray, O Lord!
O Lord, we pray, give us success!
Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!
We bless you from the house of the Lord.
The Lord is God,
and He has made His light to shine upon us.
Psalm 118:23-27

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Tangibly Remembering

Psalm 105:1-6

Oh give thanks to the Lord; call upon His name;
make known His deeds among the peoples!
Sing to Him, sing praises to Him;
tell of all His wondrous works!
Glory in His holy name;
let the hearts of those who seek the Lord rejoice!
Seek the Lord and His strength;
seek His presence continually!
Remember the wondrous works that He has done,
His miracles, and the judgments He uttered,
O offspring of Abraham, His servant,
children of Jacob, His chosen ones!

One thing to help us in a visible, tangible way to remember our nine sweet babies in heaven, giving us fodder for conversation about it, and to be a sort of picture to our children here is to release balloons into the sky. I know it may seem like a silly sentimental thing to do, and I won’t deny that there are aspects of silliness & sentimentality here. But I’m okay with that. I love that my kids played with balloons and then said goodbye to them. I love that my kids each had three white star balloons to let off into the sky (3×3=9). I love that (simply due to the nature of having three little kids be in charge of letting off nine balloons into the sky) not all of the balloons were let go at once ~ in fact, they were let off in sets of 1, 6, and 2 which incidentally is the way my babies in heaven have been grouped as well (one before Gabriel, six between the boys, two this year). I love that my kids shouted cheerfully after the balloons, everything from “goodbye balloons!” to “brothers and sisters, we love you!” to “we hope you reach heaven, balloons!” and the boys wanted to be reminded of all their brothers & sisters’ names. I love that we got to talk about heaven, God’s sovereignty, the gift of life, contentment while still desiring more, remembering God’s works, living mercifully together in community. And balloons. We got to talk about shiny white star-shaped balloons too. 🙂

It was silly. Sentimental. Sweet. Tangible. Visible. Fun. Bittersweet.
And in a situation that is often filled with just tears and emptiness and unanswered questions, those are some pretty great adjectives.

Here’s a small glimpse into some of that. And yes, it got dark between playing with the balloons and actually releasing them into the wind. So we added some glowstick wands into the mix. 🙂

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Psalm 111

Praise the Lord!
I will give thanks to the Lord with my whole heart,
in the company of the upright, in the congregation.
Great are the works of the Lord,
studied by all who delight in them.
Full of splendor and majesty is His work,
and His righteousness endures forever.
He has caused His wondrous works to be remembered;
the Lord is gracious and merciful.
He provides food for those who fear Him;
He remembers His covenant forever.
He has shown His people the power of His works,
in giving them the inheritance of the nations.
The works of His hands are faithful and just;
all His precepts are trustworthy;
they are established forever and ever,
to be performed with faithfulness and uprightness.
He sent redemption to His people;
He has commanded His covenant forever.
Holy and awesome is His name!
The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom;
all those who practice it have a good understanding.
His praise endures forever!

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Remembering, joyfully

Today is October 15th, the day of Pregnancy and Infant Loss remembrance and awareness. In past years, I have been nearly overwhelmed by anticipating this and preparing for it. It’s one of the few times where I felt normal for speaking about the babies that were born directly from my womb to the glories of heaven, one of the few days where I don’t find myself blushing when talking about the little babies the size of a fingernail who I have cradled in my hand, one of the few Hallmark holiday type moments that I take delight in embracing. I love to speak about my babies, to remember aloud the beautiful little children that God created with Steven & me, to imagine what their resurrected bodies look like, to wonder what the hosts of heaven sound like with my seven little saints uniting their voices with all the saints victorious. I love to light candles and let balloons go up into the sky. I love to wear jewelry with their names on them, and look at the arrows in a leather quiver that also bear their names. As weird as it sounds, I love to think about the sorrow and the grief ~ it’s one of the few things I have done in my motherhood of these seven children. And I love to think about reuniting with them in heaven ~ it’s the only thing I have in my motherhood of these seven children that I get to look forward to. The mystery of heaven, the glory of heaven, the purity of heaven… some of my children are experiencing that right now, and I can only begin to wrap my brains around that.

Nancy Guthrie, one of my favorite authors, describes this at length (quoted from The One Year Book of Hope, pp 161-174):

Heaven. It is our fondest desire, and yet it is such a mystery, isn’t it? We lack the clarity or vocabulary to understand or describe heaven. The magnificence and marvels of heaven are beyond the capacity of our language and intellect. And really, anything less wouldn’t be heaven, would it?

“No eye has seen, no ear has heard, and no mind has imagined what God has prepared for those who love him.” ~ 1 Corinthians 2:9

If only we could long for heaven and long for Christ as we long for our son.
Suddenly I was longing for heaven and it seemed so real. And yet, if I was honest, it was not Jesus I was longing to see and enjoy most of all; it was Hope. But I didn’t want to admit it. not to myself, and certainly not to anybody else. It seemed to me a sad commentary on the inferior state of my love for Christ.
Should you feel guilty about wanting to see someone you love in heaven? I don’t think so. It is a desire God uses to awaken us to Himself. When someone we love is there, heaven becomes more real and our longing more vivid. It is a sacred longing. The fact that we long for them more than we long for Jesus reflects our current human limitations of taking in the beauty and magnificence of Jesus. In heaven, we will see Him in His fullness, and we will not have to choose  between focusing on the people we love and loving Jesus with our whole heart. We’ll be swept up with the chorus of heaven singing, “The Lamb is worthy” (Revelation 5:12). And together with those we love, we will look to Jesus.

The grace is, for me, a difficult place. Sometimes people have tried to comfort me be reminding me that Hope and Gabe are not in that grave — that they are in heaven. I know what they are saying — but my children’s bodies are in that grave and I loved their bodies! Bodies must mater to God because He will use the seed of our earthly bodies to make for us bodies fit for heaven. Out bodies will be remade for glorified minds that understand the mysteries of the universe and purified hearts that are free of bitterness and resentment, selfishness and suspicion. We will see each other as God intended us to be all along, before sin had its way in our hearts and bodies.

There is one place where heaven is always talked about — in the pages of a hymnal. Have you ever noticed how most old hymns end with a heaven verse — one that celebrates Christ’s coming return or what it will be like to cross death’s shores? O that with yonder sacred throng, we at His feet may fall, we’ll join the everlasting song, and crown Him Lord of all… Far, far away, not only could I see that “younger sacred throng,” I could see a familiar face in the midst of the throng! Someone I love is there, worshiping Jesus! I am closest to them when I do what they are doing and love Whom they are loving — when I fall at the feet of Jesus. They are at the feet of Jesus, singing praises to the Lamb who is worthy! But we don’t have to wait until heaven to join the everlasting song. We can join in here and now.

Grieve with us, share our sorrow, but don’t feel sorry for us. We are enormously blessed. A piece of us resides in heaven. Her absence leaves a hole in our hearts, but we are comforted to know we will one day see her again.

“He will remove all of their sorrows, and there will be no more death or sorrow or crying or pain. For the old world and its evils are gone forever.” ~ Revelation 21:3-4

This life is not all there is, and neither is it the best there is.
The undercurrent of all Scripture — even the passages that give directions for how to live our lives on this earth — is preparation for and longing for heaven. To set your sights on heaven is to choose to anchor your thoughts and your heart’s desires beyond the ordinary things of earth. It is to choose to value what is valued in heaven, to be concerned with the concerns of heaven, and to enjoy what is delightful in heaven.

Longing for heaven is not a form of escapism. It is extreme realism.
Every hunger we have has been placed there by God. All are God-given, and he is not surprised when we try to satisfy these desires. Neither is He disappointed when we discover that we are  never satisfied. Discovering that we cannot satisfy our longings in the here and now forces us to reckon with the fact that we will never be satisfied in this life.

It is the separation that hurts. In heaven there will be no more separation. there will be nothing that separates us from each other or from God ever again. No more sorrow. No more crying. No more pain. No more curse. No more death. “No more” encapsulates some of  heaven’s sweetest gifts.

In a couple of weeks, it will (God willing) have been three years since my last miscarriage. Three years ago, my son Hosanna was snuggling in my womb, and we were praying with trepidation that God would save him. His very name, Hosanna, means “save, lord!” The realization that it has been nearly three years since death has been in our home is utterly astounding to me, extremely humbling.
I am in a transitional phase of life right now. Letting go. It isn’t easy. It is both good and difficult.
Remembering some of what Mrs. Guthrie said regarding letting go and moving forward (pp 409-414) brings bittersweet tears to my eyes. Back when I first read these words, I didn’t know if I would ever get to the other side. But now I can say that I know from experience that she is right. I’m there. Thanks be to God.

She wrote to her daughter in heaven, “I don’t want it to be another year; it just takes me further away from you. I want so desperately to feel close to you, to be able to hear you in my mind even if all I ever got to hear from you was a cry. I want to feel your skin and stroke your cheek. I want to wake up and find you here. But you are so far away and becoming even more distant in my memory, and it is so painful. I don’t know how to let you go and hold on to you at the same time. How can I stay close to you if I don’t stay sad? Sometimes I want to scream because I feel so torn. Forgive me for going on with life without you… it just keeps moving farther and farther away.“

Some days I wonder if the letting go will ever stop… I had to let go of her physical body, my dreams for her… her things… her room… my hopes for Matt to have a sibling…
The truth is, eventually, we will let go of everything in this life. Life is a constant barrage of having things and people we love ripped away from us. Every ripping away takes a piece of us with it, leaving us raw and stinging with pain.

Do you find yourself resentful that people no longer ask about your loss or struggle? Are you frustrated that they seem to have moved on and forgotten? Don’t be afraid they’ll forget. Don’t be afraid they’ll think you’re fine when you are still hurting deeply. It takes a conscious choice to turn conversations away from my pain, to stop trying to make sure everyone understands my hurt and has considered my feelings. but it is a step toward normalization, and a step closer to Christ.

There is a tyranny in grief. We realize at some point that we have to figure out how to keep on living, how to incorporate the loss into our lives. We want to feel normal again, to feel joy again. But the energy and emotion of grief keep us feeling close to the one we love or connected to what we’ve lost. Letting go of our grief feels like letting go of the one we love, leaving him or her behind and moving on. The very idea of it is unbearable.
We can make the painful choice to let it go — not all at once, but a little every day. We begin to find that we have the choice of whether or  not we will let ourselves sink to that place of unbearable pain when the flashes of memories and reminders of loss pierce our hearts. And we can begin to make that hard choice. We can begin to let go of our grief so we can grab hold of life and those who are living. but I think the only way we can do that is by telling ourselves the truth — that if we choose to let go of the pain, or at least let it become manageable, it does not mean we love the one we’ve lost any less. And it doesn’t mean that person’s life was any less significant or meaningful, or that we will forget.

When you love something or someone, the process of letting go is a painful one that takes some time, and it need not be rushed. Nor should it be avoided altogether. We feel the pain, mourn the loss, shed our tears, and with time we can begin to let go of the grief that has had such a hold on us. Perhaps it’s not so much that we let go of our grief, but more that we give our grief permission to lessen its grip on us.

Psalm 13
How long, O Lord? Will You forget me forever?
    How long will You hide Your face from me?
How long must I take counsel in my soul
    and have sorrow in my heart all the day?
How long shall my enemy be exalted over me?

Consider and answer me, O Lord my God;
    light up my eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death,
lest my enemy say, “I have prevailed over him,”
    lest my foes rejoice because I am shaken.

But I have trusted in Your steadfast love;
    my heart shall rejoice in Your salvation.
I will sing to the Lord,
    because He has dealt bountifully with me.

My Father has not forgotten me. We have trusted in Him, and our hearts rejoice in Him. We do sing to Him, because in all things (even in the grief), He has dealt so bountifully with us. We are so thankful.
Thank you for remembering our children, for knowing that we have ten children. Thank you for living with us through the storm. And thank you, too, for being with us in the peace that has followed the sorrow.

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The Thorn
by Martha Snell Nicholson

I stood a mendicant of God before His royal throne
And begged him for one priceless gift, which I could call my own.
I took the gift from out His hand, but as I would depart
I cried, “But Lord this is a thorn and it has pierced my heart.
This is a strange, a hurtful gift, which Thou hast given me.”
He said, “My child, I give good gifts and gave My best to thee.”
I took it home and though at first the cruel thorn hurt sore,
As long years passed I learned at last to love it more and more.
I learned He never gives a thorn without this added grace,
He takes the thorn to pin aside the veil which hides His face.
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Remembering my Sweeties

Today is October 15th, the national day of awareness and remembrance for Pregnancy and Infant Loss. It is a unique way for those of us who have endured these griefs to publicly remember and honor these precious children that God has given to us. Today as I remember my Covenant, Glory, Promise, Peace, Mercy, Victory, and Hosanna, I am rejoicing over the gift that it is to be their mama.

I am so thankful for the blessing of having held these precious children in my womb. I am so thankful for the glorious hope of dancing and singing in paradise with them at the feet of our Father for all of eternity. I am so thankful that God has graciously allowed it to be 23 months since my last miscarriage. I am so thankful for the challenge of living out the dichotomy of grief & joy. I am so thankful for the story God has given my family to walk, both with its pains and with its pleasures, with its sorrows and with its rejoicings.

Today the Lord gives me the opportunity to share with you anew how glorious it is to serve Him!! Along these lines, let me one more time share Rainbows & Redemption for the blessing and encouragement of bereaved mothers who are once again holding life in their womb. You or someone you know may have the tricky blessing of walking this dichotomy, and this is a free e-book devotional geared toward that exact journey.

So today while Gabriel, Asher, and Tiny Ten are my tangible comforts and blessings and joys, they help remind me of their brothers and sisters who are already numbered with the saints triumphant. Glory be to God!

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Remembering two of my sons

One year ago yesterday we found out that our sweet son Hosanna died, and it will be a year ago on Tuesday since he left the secret depths of my body.
Two years ago today our adorable little Peace died & was born into my hands, just a few mere hours after we saw his precious heartbeat on an ultrasound.

Yesterday I got together with my best friend to practice singing something we’re doing for a meditation in church on Sunday, and the words were so encouraging, given these anniversaries/reminders. The lyrics remind us that Christ humbled Himself by coming to earth, then living and dying in order to take away the sting of death from His people ~ that JOY is ours completely because He came to abolish the sadness that comes with sin and death.

Anyway, it gave my friend and me an opportunity to talk about my heaven-babies, specifically Peace and Hosanna, because of their anniversaries right now… and I love talking about my children. (in case you’ve never noticed, haha…) And I’m so thankful that God has given me such a sweet friend who loves to talk about them too. :happytears:

So today I remember my sweet Peace Nikonos and Hosanna Praise. Two of the beautiful boys I am eager to be reunited with when I join them on the other side of those glorious heavenly gates. How my heart loves them! This mommy still remembers holding them in my womb, seeing them on ultrasound screens, praying for their lives, mourning for their deaths, and the years of grief mingled with joy as I miss them now but anticipate meeting them again.

Mommy, Daddy, and Big Brother love you two sweet littles forever and deeply... and Little Brother will too once he knows who you are.

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Anticipating Heaven

Today I am anticipating so many things. Finishing some things on our house. Moving day. Baby Nine’s arrival. Heaven.

Wait a second, did you read that right? Yes, indeed: you did. I said heaven.

I suppose heaven is something that most Christians would say they anticipate, but today I am anticipating it in a particular way. It’s October 15th again. That’s the day for national remembrance of pregnancy/infant loss. Last year, Gabriel and I did some special, tangible things to remember his brothers and sisters, including letting balloons float away up into the sky in their memory. If you remember, though, unfortunately the bunch of balloons was blown into our neighbor’s super tall pine tree in their backyard! Oops! So umm… while some of the balloons have slowly escaped the branches and fallen to the ground, there are still at least two left up there. So yeah… we decided not to do the same thing this year. Maybe next year the boys and I will let balloons go from the vast expanse of our own pasture. Away from trees. 🙂

This year I am being low-key about things. I will light seven candles this evening to reflect a tiny spark of the glorious beauty our seven “heaven babies” are enjoying, and to remind us of the brightness & joy each of them have brought to our family. And besides that, I am simply anticipating. Anticipating with curiosity as well as great joy.

There are many things I anticipate about heaven. No more tears, no more sorrow, no more grief, no more pain (Revelation 21:4). Rejoicing and praising our Father forever alongside our Brother Jesus Christ (Psalm 11:4 and Psalm 103:19). Joining the ranks of all the saints who have gone before ~ including my seven children.

I don’t know a lot about heaven. Details, I mean. But I trust in the covenant promises of my heavenly Father (Hebrews 9:15), and believe that His faithfulness extends even to a thousand generations (Deuteronomy 7:9 and Psalm 105:8) ~ so one thing of which I am confident, is that I will meet my children again (1 Corinthians 13:12 and Philippians 3:20-21). My little host of redheads are not in my home and will not return to me; but someday I will join them in the mansion created by God the King (John 14:2-3) and I will go to them (2 Samuel 12:23).

So while I anticipate some ordinary things like my new house and some extraordinary things like holding a living baby of my own again soon… I am also anticipating some truly inconceivable things like the glories of heaven. Today I reflect on God’s goodness in sustaining us through long-repetitive grief, His mercy in allowing us to have a bigger covenantal family than we ever imagined, His grace in providing us with covenantal promises to claim, and His gift of hope for our reunion with our beautiful children once He calls to our eternal home with them.

So today I am honoring and remembering my adorable children,

Covenant Hope (July 29, 2007)
Glory Hesed (March 30, 2009)
Promise Anastasis (June 20, 2009)
Peace Nikonos (November 5, 2009)
Mercy Kyrie (January 26, 2010)
Victory Athanasius (May 18, 2010)
Hosanna Praise (November 8, 2010)

and while I continue to grieve the emptiness I feel over their absence in our earthly home, I joyfully anticipate being present with them for eternity in our heavenly home.

Anticipate the glories of heaven with me today!!