Category: Grief

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Thrown back into the valley

We have been walking on the mountaintops of LIFE. Blessed beyond description by the gift of living children, by renewed dreams, by bigger hopes… and suddenly we are dashed from the bliss on the sunny mountaintop and thrown back into the valley of the shadow of death.

Our eighth miscarriage… but not one we exactly expected. You’d think that after seven already, we would simply have expected it. But we didn’t. My OB said, after he did the ultrasound that showed no heartbeat, “are you just totally surprised?” And I said yes and wept. He said, “did I give you false hope? I hadn’t meant to; I’ve been concerned from the start.” I said, “no you didn’t; I had wished you had! I just know that God is bigger than pregnancy complications, bigger than a too-small-sac, bigger even than possible genetic problems. We’ve been praying, and hundreds of other people are praying for our baby; and I know that He COULD have preserved this baby for us here on earth. And somehow I guess I somehow came today actually thinking he WOULD.” And that pretty much sums it up.

We were sent to the hospital an hour later for a more thorough ultrasound, where the most compassionate tech (I’m so thankful God put us in her path yesterday) gave us some really nice views of our little baby, pointed out those precious arms and legs and eye pits. Printed some pictures for us, too. I am so thankful to have pictures of our beautiful baby.

When we finally came home, Gabriel came and hugged us and asked “how’s the baby doing today?” When I started crying, he started crying and said, “is the baby okay? is the baby’s heart beating okay?” Telling him, and holding him while he wept, and grieving and talking together with him… I think that is the hardest thing I have ever done. And it’s one of those continuing things: he is continuing to cry, talk about it, ask questions.

Last night, my boys ran in to say goodnight to me: Gabriel kissed me, then kissed my belly and said, “Baby, I love you, and I’ll see you in heaven!” and Asher rubbed my belly saying “bye bye baby, love you” blew a kiss, and they both ran upstairs.  Looking at the living miracles I have and realizing (not that I ever forgot) that THAT is what I wanted for my Little Leven. I would never take the glorious choirs of heaven from Leven, but oh… how sad I am that those glorious choirs get to be with the baby rather than me. :tears:

It has been over three years; we were in a different house, and I was confident that we left all those skeletons in the closets there… and all our dreams about this house not being tainted with this horrible thing came crashing down yesterday. So many “little things” that have grown into big dreams and almost monuments (not in a bad way, but in a Joshua 4 kind of way) of sorts in my heart are suddenly broken. It’s like starting all over again at ground zero. Those dreams that I used to think were unreachable (like having stairsteps; having 3 under 3; maybe even that dream of having 2 boys and 2 girls) suddenly felt touchable… and then it’s like I touched the bubble and it POPPED. And it’s almost more horrible than it was before I thought I could touch it. Back when I KNEW it was unreachable. Before I had felt like I COULD reach it.


Suddenly, we are told to make decisions about what to do… and things I honestly didn’t expect to face again are staring at me, waiting for me to make the call…

I know we’ve been this broken before. But at the moment, it’s hard to remember that. I know I’ve survived this by God’s grace numerous times before. But today… just for now… I feel like the world is over for the very first time. :tears:

Why did God throw me back into the valley of the shadow of death?
Dancing on the mountaintops was so blissfully beautiful. :(

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valley of tears

“I don’t see how any degree of faith can exclude the dismay, since Christ’s faith did not save Him from dismay in Gethsemane. We are not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us: we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be.”

~C. S. Lewis~

“Could we hear our children speaking to us out of heaven, they would say, ‘Weep not for us who are happy; we lie upon a soft pillow, even in the bosom of Christ. The Prince of Peace is embracing us and kissing us with the kisses of His lips. Be not troubled at our preferment…. You are in the valley of tears, but we are on the mountain of spices. We have gotten to our harbor, but you are still tossing on the waves of inconsistency.’”

~Thomas Watson~

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Thankfulness in the midst

Are you facing Thanksgiving day tomorrow with trepidation? Coming to that table of feasting with tears in your eyes because your heart is overwhelmed with pain or loss? Anticipating prayers and times of “sharing” with grief rather than excitement? Are you wondering what is the best way to honor God tomorrow as you prepare for a family gathering? What is the way to most glorify Him when all your heart can see is the lack of enough chairs around the table ~ the chairs that your children (or parents, or someone else altogether) should be occupying?

Oh sweet friends, I’ve been there. Treading those waters… oh goodness, I can’t describe it… just anguish, really.

One of my favorite authors, Nancy Guthrie, has said the following,

The truth is, it is possible to be filled with joy and still not be described as “happy.” Sometimes we’re just plain sad, not only down in our hearts, but down to our toes. Have you found that to be true? Have you experienced joy in the midst of your great sadness? … In fact, our joy should be as consistent as God is. It doesn’t have to be tied to the turbulent conditions of our feelings and moods. Our joy is grounded in God. It flows from him and back to him. Joy is not something we can generate with positive thinking or a bit of humor. It is a fruit of the Holy Spirit’s work in our inner lives. Joy shines forth from the life of the true believer, no matter how dark the circumstances.

Now, I think a bit of that can be applied fairly well to thankfulness, which is a relative of joy. Remember, while thankfulness is not listed in Galatians 5 as a fruit of the Spirit, it is definitely a work of God. I have often found joy and thankfulness to be deeply intertwined in my heart.

After Nancy Guthrie had two children die, she said, “while there were lots of tears of sadness in our home, there was also a great deal of joy. …sadness did not always define the atmosphere in our home. Joy was always peeking its way through the curtain of sorrow. To experience sorrow does not eliminate joy. In fact, I’ve come to think that sorrow actually deepens our capacity for joy — that as our lows are lower, so are our highs higher.”

And the icing on this cake: “It’s just not natural to experience profound joy in the face of heartache. It is supernatural; it is spiritual.”

I know that for myself, in very similar shoes, it can be very unnatural to experience profound thankfulness in the face of heartache as well; that too is supernatural, spiritual. Throwing myself at God’s feet and begging Him to make me thankful because I know there is SO MUCH to be thankful for has been one way I express my thankfulness.

There have been numerous years where I have not even said “happy thanksgiving” because happy just didn’t fit in my vocabulary. But if someone else said “happy thanksgiving” to me, I would seek to bravely reply, “yes, it is a good day to give thanks” ~ because that’s always true. Regardless of my feelings at a particular time. It is, in fact, always a good day to give thanks.

In another place, Mrs. Guthrie has said, “[God] doesn’t want you to exert all your energies following a moral code or figuring out doctrinal difficulties. He wants your heart.” And when your heart is bleeding and broken, that is exactly the heart you have to give Him: that may be, in fact, what you need to give Him tomorrow as your thank-offering. Give Him your bleeding, throbbing, broken, pained heart; He will be very pleased with this offering, as you acknowledge your brokenness and total reliance on Him for every breath.

And regarding gratitude specifically, let me share one last thing from Mrs. Guthrie regarding Ephesians 5:20 (“Always give thanks for everything to God the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ”):

We’d like to figure out how to water this verse down. We think to ourselves that Paul couldn’t really mean everything. This seems like a tall order for anyone, but especially for those of us who have faced heartbreaking, soul-crushing loss. And yet we see this kind of worship through gratitude lived out in the life and losses of Job. In the wake of losing nearly everything he owned and nearly everyone he loved, Job fell to the ground expressing gratitude, not just for all the blessings God had given him, but amazingly, for everything God had taken away. “I came naked from my mother’s womb, and I will be stripped of everything when I die. The Lord gave me everything I had, and the Lord has taken it away. Praise the name of the Lord!” (Job 1:21:). God gives, and God takes away. But let’s be honest. We just want him to give, don’t we? And we certainly don’t want him to take away the things or the people we love. … Genuine gratitude is a response not to the worth of the gift, but to the excellence of the Giver. …I know you can barely stand to think about being grateful in the midst of your loss. You may think I’m crazy to suggest that you could be grateful to God for who he is and all he has done for you as you face the empty chair… but if you refuse to nurture gratitude, you will become bitter. So would you turn your eyes from your loss and disappointment to the great Giver, asking him to reveal more of himself to you so that you might grow in gratitude? Would you ask him for the peace and joy that only those who nurture gratitude are given?

Then she encourages her readers to specifically pray for God to grant them hearts of gratitude in the midst of their very real anguish, and asks for us to meditate on 2 Cor 9:15, 1 Thess 5:18, 1 Tim 1:12, and Heb 12:28.

As another Thanksgiving holiday dawns, I just wanted to share some of the comfort with which I myself have been comforted in the past. I don’t even know if anyone who occasionally glances at this blog would be searching for such a kind of comfort at the moment, but it’s what God has given me when I’ve experienced those same questions near this same holiday, and so I wanted to pass it on today… because I remember.

Bring your heart to God; bless His name. Even though you bring brokenness, tears, confusion, pain, and wobbly knees… God wants you and your worship… and so you bring Him what you have and what you are. That, from what I know, is precisely what is most honoring to God in times like this, and what glorifies Him: thankfulness in the midst of your suffering. Not separated from your suffering, but actually in the midst.

Grace and peace, joy and comfort be yours in abundance. Let us give thanks for God and the many ways He sustains us through even the darkest of valleys and in the coldest of shadows.

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In praise of our sovereign, powerful God!

From Streams in the Desert, for November 5th:

Genesis 18:14 “Is anything too hard for the Lord?”

Here is God’s loving challenge to you and to me today. He wants us to think of the deepest, highest, worthiest desire and longing of our hearts, something which perhaps was our desire for ourselves or for someone dear to us, yet which has been so long unfulfilled that we have looked upon it as only a lost desire, that which might have been but now cannot be, and so have given up hope of seeing it fulfilled in this life.

That thing, if it is in line with what we know to be His expressed will (as a son to Abraham and Sarah was), God intends to do for us, even if we know that it is of such utter impossibility that we only laugh at the absurdity of anyone’s supposing it could ever now come to pass. That thing God intends to do for us, if we will let Him.

“Is anything too hard for the Lord?” Not when we believe in Him enough to go forward and do His will, and let Him do the impossible for us. Even Abraham and Sarah could have blocked God’s  plan if they h ad continued to disbelieve.

The only thing too hard for Jehovah is deliberate, continued disbelief in His love and power, and our final rejection of His plans for us. Nothing is too hard for Jehovah to do for them that trust Him.

In 2010 I wrote in the margin, “Weeping. Too close to home. I can not even write.”
In 2011 I wrote in the margin, “Oh God, a year ago indeed we had given up hope for our desire of another living child! I am in tears again now, for the reminder that no indeed, nothing is too hard for our Lord!”
In 2013 now, I assent again that God is in control of all things, and even my disbelief does not block the Father’s design. Even my rejection of His plans. He takes my disbelief, my rejection, my despair, my weeping… and He takes this cracked pot of clay and reworks it, so that He can work out His perfect will. What a beautiful thing, and what glorious promise, what blessed hope!!

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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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What Utter Joy

It is often hard to put one’s experience down in words, and even more difficult is the task of penning one’s innermost ponderings. Not just what I have experienced, but how that experience has molded me and what I retain now from the experience.

Asher is three and a half months old already. I have posted pictures and happy updates during that time. Our happiness is broadened and our joy is immense. The goodness of the Lord in the land of the living (Psalm 27:13) is a truly marvelous thing. The utter beauty and joy I find in the daily grind of repetitive, monotonous, and largely thankless tasks is nothing less than wonderful. To have turmoil turned to peace is an experience that I am unable to pour into words. Instead, it just usually pours out in tears.

God heard us and sent relief. His  mercy is abundant and the gladness in our hearts & home is immense, let me tell you.

Psalm 4:1, 7-9
Hear me when I call, O God of my righteousness!
You have relieved me in my distress;
Have mercy on me, and hear my prayer.
There are many who say,
“Who will show us any good?”
Lord, lift up the light of Your countenance upon us.
You have put gladness in my heart,
More than in the season that their grain and wine increased.
I will both lie down in peace, and sleep;
For You alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.

But that may yet be only part of our story. The saga will continue. It does continue even now. Life and sanctification, joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, sunshine and rain, diamonds and dust ~ it continues with each breath we take.

Wouldn’t you think it would be easy to move from sorrow to happiness? Yeah. Me too.
And it IS easy.
And yet it isn’t only easy.
As He has long sustained us in the past, so our Father yet sustains us now. He will continue to be faithful, for He can be nothing less than perfectly faithful. No matter where He leads us on our journey.

Long is the way, and very steep the slope;
Strengthen me once again, O God of Hope.

Far, very far, the summit doth appear;
But Thou art near, my God, but Thou art near.

And Thou wilt give me with my daily food,
Powers of endurance, courage, fortitude.

Thy way is perfect; only let that way
Be clear before my feet from day to day.

Thou art my Portion, saith my soul to Thee,
Oh, what a Portion is my God to me!

~Amy Carmichael~

We are so thankful for the children in our home. I still catch my breath when I say, write, or hear that word. Children. Will I ever get used to it? Will I someday take it for granted? Will the novelty of life eventually give way to the normalcy of it all? God forbid.
Yes, the Lord has given us great things. But we clearly remember what He brought us before He delivered Asher to us. And it seems beyond possible to me that we could ever take our sons for granted, or life in general, or medical science, or fertility, or romance, or a godly spouse for granted. And yet, but for the grace of God and the Spirit’s stirrings within us, we would quickly take His goodness and mercy for granted. We are sinners, and grossly imperfect.

This afternoon I have been meditating on Psalm 16. Some verses have particularly popped out at me and are repeating over and over in my heart. Not only has the Lord been good to us, causing our lines to fall pleasantly of late, but He is the One who has given us counsel. He is the One that has been our Captain and King through all of this! He is the One whose arm is mighty to save (Isaiah 63:1, Zephaniah 3:17)!

Psalm 16:6-9
The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places;
Yes, I have a good inheritance.
I will bless the Lord who has given me counsel;
My heart also instructs me in the night seasons.
I have set the Lord always before me;
Because He is at my right hand I shall not be moved.
Therefore my heart is glad, and my glory rejoices;
My flesh also will rest in hope.

In Scripture, I love how “night” is often a metaphor for more than simply the dark hours of a 24-hour cycle. It can imply inner darkness, such as sorrow or grief. So when David says that his heart instructs him in the night seasons, I give thanks that we can proclaim the same. The Spirit inhabits our hearts, and as we remain faithful to the Father and set the Lord always before us, He will instruct us even when our path leads through terrible darkness. Amen! God has been our Sovereign Lord through our recurrent miscarriages, through treatment trials, and eventually through a full pregnancy and delivery of our son. It is because of Him that we have not been moved, that our faith has remained strong, and that He has been glorified.

We ARE glad! We GREATLY rejoice! And we DO have hope!

What kindness.

This is one of those things that I just can’t adequately describe in mere words. I try. And I fail miserably. Every time.

A young lady at our church who competes in speech and debate tournaments around the country interviewed me a number of weeks ago, in order to compose an interpretive speech about my “story.” Her speech would be ten minutes long, once it was finely honed. The fact is, at first I wondered how in the world she would find enough solid material to fill up ten minutes. And then I started to wonder how in the world she could ever capture the height, depth, width, breadth, and spirit of my story in just ten little minutes.

As the days move on, I get to find joy and gladness in cleaning, cooking, laundry, hospitality, playing trains, reading Frog & Toad, drinking tea by the blazing fire, watching Bald Eagles perch in a tree right behind our house and then swoop down to feast on something (along with a coyote, no less), washing diapers, making silly faces, singing psalms, answering countless “why?” questions, kissing away countless tears, soaking in dimples and smiles and new red fuzz atop my baby’s head.
And at the same time, I remember. I remember seven little sweeties who so quickly stole their way into my heart. I see their seven little boxes lined up on top of a dresser in our room. I see their names hanging from arrows in a hunter’s quiver. I wear those names on a necklace, where they rest right near my heart.
I still have shadows of scars from injections. I have a shelf full of leftover medical supplies. Certain smells, certain feelings, certain places ~ and I’m right back there again.

Grief.
I no longer live in grief. Now I live with grief.
It isn’t who I am, but it has shaped who I am.

When I see our boys, my Gabriel and my Asher, I feel like I can see pieces of our other children in them. I wonder if Hosanna would have had his brother’s steely eyes. And I wonder if any of their sisters had their long eyelashes and cuddly natures.

The perspective and thankfulness we have as we raise these boys for the glory of God and for the furtherance of His Kingdom is a blessing. It was painfully won, but it is a reward we reap.
We get the privilege of teaching, training, disciplining, discipling, and catechizing these boys.
We get the pleasures of playing, reading, wrestling, singing, running, cuddling, exploring, and living with these boys.
We get to clean up their messes, listen to their laughs, dry their tears, feed their bodies, fill their souls, and shepherd them for their life both on earth and for eternity.

What. Utter. Joy.

Father, hear us, we are praying,
Hear the words our hearts are saying;
We are praying for our children.

Keep them from the powers of evil,
From the secret, hidden peril;
Father, hear us for our children.

From the whirlpool that would suck them,
From the treacherous quicksand, pluck them;
Father, hear us for our children.

From the worldling’s hollow gladness,
From the sting of faithless sadness,
Father, Father, keep our children.

Through life’s troubled waters steer them;
Through life’s bitter battle cheer them;
Father, Father, be Thou near them.

Read the language of our longing,
Read the wordless pleadings thronging,
Holy Father, for our children.

And wherever they may bide,
Lead them Home at eventide.

~Amy Carmichael~

Thanks be to God. I know some deep sorrows of motherhood. But I also know deep pleasures. I know the faithfulness of God during the day as well as the night. I have been sustained by Christ in all things. And I glorify Him, offering my hands and my home, all that I am and all that I have, for His glorious service.

Not pretending that I have even begun to truly scratch the surface ~ but realizing that now I get to go live out what I am writing, as I go away from the laptop and back to the beautiful boys God has given me and the beautiful tasks He has put before me.

Selah.

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Family Christmas Photo

This year we took a family Christmas photo, true to the common tradition that families everywhere enjoy from year to year. In 2007, we were overjoyed to do a photo as a married couple and also as expectant parents. In 2008, our joy had grown even more as we got to enjoy having little Gabriel’s sweet smile join the photo. In 2009, however, our happiness was tainted and the photo felt incomplete. While we had missed having Covenant in previous photos, our grief was compounded by the deaths of Glory, Promise, and Peace in 2009. Suddenly the impact of not having any of these four faces included in our photo was weighty. We took the photo anyway, but felt an awkward imbalance of joy and grief. In 2010, Hosanna had just died so recently and our hearts ached over the additional deaths of Mercy, Victory, and our Hosanna-boy so much that I just couldn’t do it. I didn’t want the photo with so many missing faces. The grief was too overwhelming. The pain was too intense. Death, and recurrent death at that, was too fresh. Eventually we did take a picture in front of my parents’ hearth just to stick with tradition, but as soon as the picture was taken, I cried. And nearly wished we hadn’t taken it.

But this year? We are still missing seven little faces. There is still grief in our hearts that sin entered the world, and as one of the many consequences, death entered our family’s life. But the Lord has restored our fortunes, in the wording of Psalm 126. He has renewed our hope and strengthened our loins. He has given us a respite in the drenching storm. And we believe this is reflected in our 2011 family Christmas photo. Much of this is obviously due to the fourth face you now see present in this picture, and the mercy God has extended to us through this little boy’s life.

I have often wondered if my pain with Christmas photos is unique to myself and my heart. But as I found out for sure today, it is not. Jess, one of the sweetest & most candid bereaved mamas you’ll find online (or anywhere), wrote in a Christmas post about the traditional family Christmas photo so eloquently. So many of her words (emphases mine) could have been taken right out of my mouth:

“Christmas is a wonderful time of year, but along with it comes many mixed emotions…especially as we send out our Christmas cards. Our family picture represents the life that God has entrusted to us this year…not one, but two sweet boys. We love those boys so much and feel incredibly blessed to be their parents. But when we look at our family picture we cannot help but be reminded of a huge hole. A hole that our daughter Cora left behind. A hole that forever makes our family feel incomplete. We are so thankful that Christmas is about more than pretty decorations, presents, fun traditions, or even a “complete” family Christmas card. We celebrate because Christmas is the time God kept his promise to send a Savior. It is amazing to think that God sent his Son to the earth as a tiny baby to save us…to save me. What an incredible truth to celebrate. A truth that assures us that because of that tiny baby in the manger and His death on the cross for us, we can have a personal relationship with Him. And we can look forward in great anticipation to the day we will stand “complete” before our Heavenly Father. A solid truth and HOPE that we can live by.”

Amen and Hallelujah!!

Last year, this verse from It Came Upon a Midnight Clear was the most impacting thing I sang, as I was crushed beneath life’s load, and my heart as well as my body was bent so low; my steps were dreadfully painful and each one felt glacially slow; I so much wanted to rest and hear… but oh dear, was it incredibly hard!

O ye
Beneath life’s crushing load
Whose forms are bending low
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow
Look now
For glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing
O rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing

This year, the song that impacted my heart the most was O Come, All Ye Faithful, and the charge I get to sing to Covenant, Glory, Promise, Peace, Mercy, Victory, and Hosanna. They are citizens of heaven, and I get to charge my sweet children to sing glory to God in the highest! I love that. And this year, my heart is blessed and encouraged by that.

Sing choirs of angels, sing in exultation
Sing all ye citizens of heav’n above
Glory to God, all glory in the highest!

So this year, my heart is balmed, my grief is less fresh, my hope is renewed, my happiness is restored, my joy is strengthened.

Thanks 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!!

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Sorrowful Yet Rejoicing

A year ago today I posted here about seeking courage to drink the cup the Lord had given me and continued to give me. Through the last year He has continued to be my strength, both in giving me courage to drink from His draughts and to give me courage to ask for that courage. I praise Him for His sustenance and provision! New mercies and sweet graces are continually surprising me, in the many & varied forms He shows them.

Today I continue to walk the path He has prepared for me. The path that still stems from the past and disappears into the future that I can not see. He continues to be my only strength to put one foot in front of the other. Even now, yet as before, we can only do what He leads us to do at any present given time. The past still influences and characterizes and molds us; that part of the path may seem left behind to those who continue to watch me walk forward… but it isn’t.
The road is, in fact, more like a river: the waters from before mingle with the current that urges me forward now into pools of even newer waters that I can not yet see. But the droplets all mingle together into one flowing river. You can not tell where yesterday ended and today began, and I can not predict where tomorrow falls in the river.

So I am yet sorrowful because the past is still fresh & raw, still mingling with today, still influencing & effecting & molding me… yet I am rejoicing, because of the beauties that past sorrows have grown ~those flowers that bloom only in the shadows~ and because of present beauties that lighten our load and give us hope for what tomorrow may hold,  understanding that they do not hold any guarantees for tomorrow yet that bring such rejoicing as I flow along with the river’s current wherever the Lord directs it.

My heart is overflowing with such joy and rejoicing ~ again I say, we rejoice!! But the past is not forgotten. It is not distant. I have to daily work very hard to hold my thoughts captive and have courage over my fears. I continue to need strength to endure medical treatments. I still pass due dates, loss anniversaries, see marker babies, grieve with others, hope with others, and walk the line of living the dichotomy of sorrow & joy ~ grief & hope ~ death & life.

So today I share a meditation I recently read in Streams In The Desert by Mrs. Charles Cowman that has blessed me and that captures the spirit of my daily journeys so eloquently. May it encourage you also, as as you bear your own burdens ordained by our Father and carried by His Christ, whatever your own sorrows & joys may be.

The Lord be with you and give you peace.

~~~~~

“As sorrowful, yet always rejoicing” (2 Cor. 6:10).

Sorrow was beautiful, but her beauty was the beauty of the moonlight shining through the leafy branches of the trees in the wood, and making little pools of silver here and there on the soft green moss below.

When Sorrow sang, her notes were like the low sweet call of the nightingale, and in her eyes was the unexpectant gaze of one who has ceased to look for coming gladness. She could weep in tender sympathy with those who weep, but to rejoice with those who rejoice was unknown to her.

Joy was beautiful, too, but his was the radiant beauty of the summer morning. His eyes still held the glad laughter of childhood, and his hair had the glint of the sunshine’s kiss. When Joy sang his voice soared upward as the lark’s, and his step was the step of a conqueror who has never known defeat. He could rejoice with all who rejoice, but to weep with those who weep was unknown to him.

“But we can never be united,” said Sorrow wistfully.

“No, never.” And Joy’s eyes shadowed as he spoke. “My path lies through the sunlit meadows, the sweetest roses bloom for my gathering, and the blackbirds and thrushes await my coming to pour forth their most joyous lays.”

“My path,” said Sorrow, turning slowly away, “leads through the darkening woods, with moon-flowers only shall my hands be filled. Yet the sweetest of all earth-songs–the love song of the night–shall be mine; farewell, Joy, farewell.”

Even as she spoke they became conscious of a form standing beside them; dimly seen, but of a Kingly Presence, and a great and holy awe stole over them as they sank on their knees before Him.

“I see Him as the King of Joy,” whispered Sorrow, “for on His Head are many crowns, and the nailprints in His hands and feet are the scars of a great victory. Before Him all my sorrow is melting away into deathless love and gladness, and I give myself to Him forever.”

“Nay, Sorrow,” said Joy softly, “but I see Him as the King of Sorrow, and the crown on His head is a crown of thorns, and the nailprints in His hands and feet are the scars of a great agony. I, too, give myself to Him forever, for sorrow with Him must be sweeter than any joy that I have known.”

“Then we are one in Him,” they cried in gladness, “for none but He could unite Joy and Sorrow.”

Hand in hand they passed out into the world to follow Him through storm and sunshine, in the bleakness of winter cold and the warmth of summer gladness, “as sorrowful yet always rejoicing.”

“Should Sorrow lay her hand upon thy shoulder,
And walk with thee in silence on life’s way,
While Joy, thy bright companion once, grown colder,
Becomes to thee more distant day by day?
Shrink not from the companionship of Sorrow,
She is the messenger of God to thee;
And thou wilt thank Him in His great tomorrow
For what thou knowest not now, thou then shalt see;
She is God’s angel, clad in weeds of night,
With ‘whom we walk by faith and not by sight.'”