No easy Answers

It's cold and raining outside. The Christmas Tree is lit next to me casting a warm glow on the living room. The house is quiet while the boys take their afternoon nap. And I am listening to Sarah McLachlan's Wintersong CD fill my heart with melancholy sorrow. And I find myself weeping.

And more than anything, I feel guilty. I have been struggling lately with giving myself the freedom to feel sad. Not just to feel sad (because everyone expected us to be sad) but to still be feeling such loss, sorrow, brokenness, and pain. Why should I? I didn't spend 16 years loving my daughter only to receive some horrible late night phone call about an accident. I didn't have to love her and know her for 3 years only to watch a long battle with fatal cancer slowly suck the life from my toddler. I didn't spend weeks painting a lovely pink nursery, enjoy baby showers, and have the car sear ready, only to go to the hospital and hear no comforting heart beat from the monitor. I didn't have to return to a nursery full of toys and clothes. I didn't have to wonder how in the world to pack up 3 years worth of memories, toys, clothes, and pictures.

I knew. I knew half way through my pregnancy what was coming. I made the decision to delay the inevitable. I knew not to make plans, buy clothes, paint the nursery. I didn't have clothes or toys to come home to. I knew.

So why am I still so upset? It wasn't a surprise. It wasn't a shock. It was expected. Why does Christmas music and one less stocking bring me to tears? I knew she would not be here this Christmas.

As Christians, we talk big about how pain is universal. We do the same thing in the medical field. "Pain is what the patient says it is." This metaphysical idea that all pain is equal, and there are no "levels of pain" sure sounds good. But do we really believe it? Does anybody really, in the deepest part of their heart, really believe that? Can we honestly say to ourselves that a person who stubbed their toe on the couch have the same level of pain of someone who just had their limb severed in a car accident?

Can we really say, that someone who watches their toddler endure years of painful, horrible medical treatments for cancer, only to die anyway, feel the same pain as someone who loses a pet? Can we really say that someone who never got to say goodbye to a spouse of 20 years is in the same kind of pain as a new mother who is lonely and scared at how to raise this child right?
And, do I really have the right to grieve over my daughter, who I only knew for three days, who we knew never to buy clothes or toys for, who we knew would never go to Prom, shop for her wedding dress, or celebrate a single holiday with us?

Let me tell you, the answer has not been easy for me...not at all. One moment I am so vehemently adamant that Yes, I have lost my daughter! She was my little girl! She was part of me, part of Jason. I got to hold her, love her, see her breathe, hear her cry. She was a person. With a soul and a personality. She had likes and dislikes, preferences, and habits. I just only got to observe them for three days. I might not have seen every part of her grow and be developed, but she was no different than my boys. Not only did we have to watch her die in our arms, but we lost the ability to dream for her, to plan for her, to live with her. I don't have to rush this grief process or sell myself short. I have the right to still miss her, remember her, and take as long as I need to grieve her horrible loss.

And other days, I am not so sure. Is it really the same? If I lost Charlie, my darling first born, my sensitive, emotional, stubborn, intelligent 3 year old...would it really be just the same? I have spent three years loving him, knowing him, becoming attached to him. So how can I still be writing sad, negative things on my blog about a precious little girl, who is so special, but was here so short a time? There were no plans to cancel or dreams that had to die. Because we knew to stop dreaming, to stop planning at 20 weeks.

If we are honest, aren't there really levels of pain? We say there aren't, but I am not sure that anyone ever really believes it. We want to say that every persons pain is "bad" because it is the worst pain they have ever experienced. But if that is true, then why do we label certain things a tragedy? If all pain is equal, why do we give special sympathies to those events we all label as tragedies?

And so I find myself here so often. Fighting against myself, battle waging in my heart. Are people tired of hearing me ache? Are they tired of me going on about my loss? Do they think I should just be done by now? Because...she knew this was going to happen.

And what about me, what do I think? Am I tired of feeling sad? Do I give myself the freedom to still grieve? Do I think I am exaggerating my own feelings and loss? Most days, I just feel heavy. Weighted down by some unknown, unspecific emotion. Not openly crying or sad. Just, different. Changed. Lonely. And heavy.

I know I miss her. I know I wish she was here. That I wish I could have her cuddled in the sling and snoring softly while I hang ornaments with the boys. I wish I could buy her bows or a beautiful Christmas gown. I wonder if she were alive, if she would have smiled by now. She would be 6 weeks old today. And how would she react to the boys laughing and giggling about Daddy's silly Christmas singing? What would it have been like to have 3 sets of matching Christmas Eve pajamas this year, and not just two? I miss being able to sneak out here, in the middle of the night, and while she is feeding just enjoy the warm cast the light of the tree makes on her face. Just me and her, the rest of the house quiet, except for the melancholy glow of the Christmas tree.

Choosing Gratefulness

I am not a naturally thankful person. Not because I don't see how many wonderful blessings I have, but because I am an idealist. And it is hard to be grateful when you are constantly looking at how things could be better or improved. My mind lives in what "could be, or ought to be." And I have to fight that tendency, and chose to live in today. I have to remind myself to be grateful for where God has me now, not just what he has for me in the future.

So I have had to learn to be thankful. And what I have learned is that thankfulness is not always a feeling, it is a choice. This truth has only solidified for us during this time in our life. God calls us be thankful, despite our emotions. You can chose to look at the things God has given you, and concentrate on the history of faithfulness in your life, and throughout time. You can praise God for His nature and who He has been for eternity. That is how you can be thankful in a situation that doesn't always overwhelm your heart with feelings of blessing.

We hope to start a new tradition, after today, in our family. We are going to take a lesson from Moses and the Israelites, and make a memorial of God's provision. Something concrete that we can see and be reminded of the One who provides for our every need. Everyday we see God's faithfulness, mercy and grace played out in our lives, we are going to write it in a journal. And the next year, we will read these together, and remember (despite our circumstances) that God is good, and we have MANY reasons to be thankful!

So, in the heart of declaring the faithfulness of God, despite such feelings of loss and sorrow this year, here is a list of things I am thankful for. And because I chose to direct my thoughts this way, I pray my emotions follow suit.


I am thankful...for my husband. He is my best friend. He has stuck with me through good times and bad, joy and sorrow, hardship and plenty. I love him more now than I ever have.

I am thankful...for my precious boys. They bring me such joy and challenge. I treasure the moments I have watching them grow up.

I am thankful...for our house. Despite it's "fixer-upper" status, it is our dream house. One we hope to stay in forever and have a lifetime of memories in.

I am thankful...for God's unending, unearned love. I am the least deserving, and He is the most giving.

I am thankful..that I know that October 15th is not the last time I will hold my daughter. I can't imagine grieving without that knowledge.

I am thankful...for our friends, family, and church who have prayed for us, cared for us, supported us, and loved us. They have allowed us to walk this journey with grace.

I am thankful...for God's gift of his own child, so that I may know Him and have relationship with Him. And for Jesus, who gave his life so willingly.

I am thankful...for my daughter. I am so grateful I got to meet her, love her, hold her, and be completely amazed by her for almost three days. She has changed my heart forever.

And lastly,

I am thankful...that God specializes in making good come out of the most horrible circumstances. It is my absolute favorite trait of our God. Because I have a tendency to mess most things up. And yet, He is so powerful as to use my mistakes for His good, and my good. How amazing is that?

I hope that you, too, can chose to be thankful this year, and that God will bless you for it. Happy Thanksgiving!

The Love of a Girl...

I spend hours every night on the Internet. I pour over blogs of women who's stories coincide with mine. We leave comments of support, join together in grief, and recognize that the way we feel is very common between us. There is such a story of faith out there! I wish I could have found it before my delivery, but am soaking it in now. Most of these women are women of deep faith and conviction, who find comfort in God and His strength while desperately missing their precious babies.

One blog I stumbled upon (I stumble on each blog it seems, as they all connect together, know each other, link to each other, and support each other) had a quote in it that hit me very hard today. She said "I strive everyday to not make her death bigger then her life".

It is so difficult to do this sometimes it seems, because their precious lives were so short. And grief often overwhelms and consumes those it visits. But Adelle's wonderful, powerful, short life is way more important than my sadness or grief. And I never wish for my saddness to become bigger than the awesomeness of her life.

So, in time for Thanksgiving, I wish to tell you the wonderful things I have to treasure about the life of my precious baby girl. I want to mention the warm memories I have, and the things Jason and find ourselves smiling or laughing about as we talk of her. We were so privileged to have time to watch her, to study her, to know her while she was alive. Despite my sadness and brokenness, I cherish these memories. I could never tell them all to you, because there are way to many, but here are the ones I am thinking of tonight:

*Her strong grip. This was the strongest communication we got from Adelle. When she would reach out and grab for me, and hold my finger, I felt so connected to her. And it was the only thing we really saw her initiate with us. I like to think it was her way of telling us she loved us, and could hear us, and was happy to be home with her family. As we look back at pictures, we notice that every person who held her, held her hand. Even at the viewing, hours before her funeral, you can see in the pictures that her family and friends continued to hold her hand. In fact, I have vivid memories of how warm her hand was that day because it was held so consistently for that two hours. Her body may have been cold, but as I held her hand that morning, it was familiarly warm.

*She was a Daddy's girl. From the moment that girl left my womb, her heart went straight to Daddy. Jason held her more than anyone in those 59 hours. He studied her, he talked to her, he held her hand. He gave her the tour of the house, kissed her nose, and stroked her face. And she responded. If her breathing became erratic, or if she was starting to choke or cough a little on her secretions, we handed her to Jason. And, safe in the arms of her father, she would instantly calm. He was her protector and hero, and she was his precious baby girl. The two of them were inseparable. I will forever treasure the memory of my husband and daughter falling in love with each other.

*Her big feet! Everything about this precious girl was petite, tiny, fragile. She was like a doll. And I loved that! (Want to know a secret? The tiny little babies at work were always my favorites!) And with all her wonderfully tiny parts...came those huge, gorgeous feet! At 3 lbs, she didn't come close to fitting into any of her clothes, but let me tell you, she fit her shoes and booties!

*Her "squishy eyes." When we got to see her so closely on 4D/3D sonogram, I was so worried about what her eyes would look like. I thought they would look "bugged out" or alien like. And then she arrived, and they were kind of bulgy...but they were so cute! Jason and I would touch them, and they were so squishy and soft. Now we look at her pictures and joke about how wonderfully soft and spongy those beautiful eyes were. So the thing we were so worried about being "ugly" or "deformed" was the thing we loved and enjoyed the most!

*I loved that my boys got to see her, hold her, and love her. Max was enamored immediately. He loved pointing out every feature, her eyes, nose, mouth, ears. And all he wanted to do was touch her. And Charlie, in his tentative and sensitive personality, had to warm to her. But in that 3 days, he talked to her, touched her, sang to her, and still remembers her. He still prays for her (like he does for every member of our family) and mentions to me that she is in Heaven. I hope somewhere deep inside him, he never forgets that he met his little sister.

*Her dirty diapers. I know, what person in their right mind would be grateful for that? But I am! I never thought I would get to change her diapers, I didn't think she would live long enough to put a diaper on her! But I changed three diapers in three days, and really ought to have changed her more! (sorry girl, we got so wrapped up in holding you, we would forget to change you!) But the first night, she had the heaviest diaper I have ever seen for such a tiny person! She may not have had the brain of a normal baby, but let me tell you, her kidneys and bowels were in perfect condition! For not having any fluids, that girl could put out some pee! (and she pooped on my chest the moment she delivered and was laid on me!)

*Her soft hair. I also never expected she would have hair. But she did, it was light brown (like Max's and mine as a child) and it was so heavenly soft. I would hold her tiny head in the palm of my hand and stroke the hair. And then I would put it to my cheek and rub the hair across my face (I also did this with my other kids. I have always had a strong connection to sensory stimuli!) Poor girl, I practically shaved her after her bath so I could keep her hair with me always! And now, when I sleep with her blanket at night, I stroke the soft side of it and think of that precious hair.

*Lastly, one of my warmest thoughts, is of me holding her, all swaddled in her pink blanket (yes, I am a die-hard swaddler!) and Charlie crouching over the top of her, singing her 'Jesus Loves me.' I am pretty sure every other adult in the room watching was signing along too, but all I remember is Charlie's voice. And luckily, we had the foresight to get it on video. In fact, it is the only thing we have on video while Adelle was alive. And although I can't bring myself to watch it just yet, I know I will hold that video close to my heart for years to come.

So, my friends, despite how all consuming this grief is, or how long it will take to walk this path of healing, I will always say it was worth it. The pain and brokenness is worth knowing and loving the most amazing little girl I have ever met. And if I had it to do again, I would only love her more.

My Life

My life is having tears waiting behind every smile when I realize someone special is missing from all the important events in my family's life.

My life is trying to decide what to take to the cemetery for Birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving, New Years, Valentine's Day, July 4th and Easter.

My life is sleeping super light because my body expects to be breastfeeding an infant every two hours.

My life is having the TV on the minute I walk into the house to have noise, because the silence is deafening.

My life is every happy event being backed up with a small sadness lurking close behind, because of the hole in my heart.

My life is telling the story of my child's death as if it were an everyday, commonplace activity, and then seeing the horror in someone's eyes at how awful it sounds. And yet realizing it has become a part of my "normal".

My life is my heart warming and yet sinking at the sight of something special my baby touched. Thinking how she would love it, but how she is not here to enjoy it.

My life is after the funeral is over, everyone else goes on with their lives, but we continue to remember our loss forever.

My life is disliking jokes about death or funerals, bodies being referred to as cadavers, when I know they were once someone's loved one.

My life is trying hard to not be irritated with everything and everyone, except someone stricken with grief over the loss of my child.

My life is sitting at the computer crying, sharing how I feel with chat buddies who have also lost a child.

My life is a new friendship with another grieving mother, talking and crying together over our children.

My life is feeling like I finally understand the depth of how broken this world really is, and longing for Heaven.

My life is not wanting to listen to people make excuses for God. "God may have done this because..." I love God, and I know that my baby is in Heaven, but hearing people trying to think up excuses as to why my baby was taken from this earth makes absolutely no sense to this grieving mother.

My life is being too tired to care if you paid the bills, cleaned the house, did laundry or if there is any food.

My life is wondering this time whether you are going to say you have three children or two, because you will never see this person again and it is not worth explaining that my baby is in heaven. And yet when you say you have two children to avoid that problem, you feel horrible as if you have betrayed your baby.

My life is hiding all the things that have become "normal" for me to feel, so that everyone around me will think that I am "normal".

And lastly, my life is praising a Father "who gives and takes away."

(post inspired by, borrowed, changed, tweaked, and shared in grief with a "fellow mom" at http://www.tripletbutterflywings.com/)

A Mother's Love

I've been thinking lately what it means to be a mother. There are many cliched poems and songs about motherhood, but when you experience it, you feel down to the depths of your heart. The need to protect, comfort, teach, and love your child controls you. It gives you conviction you never before felt, and love so deep you can barely know the depth of it.

It felt that way a couple of weeks ago when Charlie began having night terrors. We were getting ready to head to bed, around 10:30 pm, and we heard Charlie begin to wail. It wasn't just a cry, or even a scream, but that sound that comes from a child in serious danger. I ran to him, threw the door open, and rushed to his side. Jason was fast behind me, looking just as frightened. Immediately Charlie jumped into my arms, griping me with all his might. The nurse in me, or perhaps just the mom, began searching his body for some ailment or life threatening wound. I even felt his bed for blood or vomit. But there was nothing. By now the wailing had calmed slightly and he began to cry hysterically saying over and over, "I want Mommy, I want Mommy."

I asked Charlie if he was hurt and he cried "Yes," but could give no further explanation. I asked him if he was scared, and again he answered "Yes," but couldn't tell me what he was frightened of. I whispered to Jason that he must be scared or having a bad dream. When Jason realized he was fine, and with my prodding, he left me alone with Charlie to see if I could calm him and get him back to bed.

And I began to rock him and soothe him just like when he was a baby. I rubbed his precious back, wiped his tears, and whispered in his ear. It took me back to when he was a tiny baby, helpless, and small. And I found myself instinctively whispering the same phrase in his ear that I did when he was little and he was crying in the middle of the night.

"Mommy is here, sweetie, Mommy is right here. I love you so much, and I am right here. Mommy is here, I am here."

It is one of those "Mom things." I never think about what I am going to say or practice it, but every time one of my children is hurt or crying, I find myself saying the same thing. It is instinct. It is just like when you pick up an infant, and your body immediately starts to rock back in forth in a slow, calm, rhythmic fashion. When I hear that cry, the one every mother can recognize in her children, the one that rings of deep injury or hurt, I rush to them, scoop them up, and began to whisper this same phrase.

And that night, I curled up next to Charlie in his bed, held him tightly, stroking his hair and repeating, "Mommy is here Charlie, Mommy is right here. Don't be scared, buddy. I am not leaving, Mommy is here."

And I wept right along with him. I wept for all the times I cannot take away this broken world from the children I love so much. I wept for not being able to fix life for them, or take away their pain. And as Charlie began to slow his breathing and fall asleep, I continued to weep next to him on his pillow.

And when I closed my eyes, it wasn't my inquisitive three-year-old I was holding, it was his precious sister wrapped in a tiny pink blanket. And a rush of memories returned to me of the last night she was alive, and her Daddy and I were huddled together on the living room couch, watching her breathing become slower and slower. I could see the exhaustion in those tiny eyes as she fought for every last breath, every moment, every heart beat.

And that night, like every other time I have had to watch my children hurt, I wept over her, repeating the same phrase:

"Sweet girl, don't be scared. Mommy is here, right here with you. I won't leave you, I promise. I love you, I love you so much. Don't be frightened. Mommy is here, Mommy is here."

And even now, as tears drip off my face into the crevices of my keyboard, I wonder about that phrase. I wonder what about being a Mom makes that phrase flow so naturally from my heart. Of all the things I could say to comfort my children, why the reassurance that I am here? That doesn't fix things, it doesn't take away the pain. But so often I can't help the pain, I can't take it away. So, all I can offer my children is my love, my sympathy, my presence.

And in my pain, in my brokenness, isn't that all I want as well? To know I am not alone and that I am loved.

So, as I mourn for my daughter, grieve my own loss of not being able to love her or hold her as I want, not being able to protect her as I wished I could have; I should look around and see that I am being held. That some is lying next to me, holding me tenderly, stroking my heart, rocking me gently, wiping my tears, and whispering softly in my ear:

"I AM here, sweet daughter. I AM here. Do not be afraid, do not be frightened. I love you so much. I AM not going to leave you, I promise. I AM here."

He is my Father, after all.

Decisions, Decisions

I can't make decisions. Every decision, from tiny to large is pain-stakingly difficult. All my grief books say it is normal. (Yes, I have a stack "how to" grief books littered all over my house, on the bedside table, bookshelf, counter...) They say it is a stage of grief and expected. But it feels the farthest thing from normal to me. I was not expecting this at all. And it is so frustrating.

I am not the kind of person that struggles with making decisions. I usually make decisions quickly, and with ease. If anything I tend to make decisions too quickly, and end up rolling over others feelings or regretting that I didn't slow down to think more about the decisions I am making. The word, impulsive, comes to mind.

But now...now I can't even decide the smallest of things. Invitations to lunch out, play groups, holiday plans, parties, clothing choices, dinner options, Christmas presents, medical treatment, discipline methods, everything!

Small decisions feel large, emotional, and take hours of vacillating between options, weighing pros and cons, and changing my mind one hundred times. I cry, get angry, and just land smack dab in indecision every time. And half the time I change my mind 10 minutes later.

Let me give you some examples:

Jason and I were graciously offered a couple of hours child free (compliments of my in-laws) to get some Christmas shopping done for the boys. In 3 hours we bought 3 items! And two of the items were tiny, under $3 stocking-stuffers.

We have a fellowship group full of wonderful friends that have supported us and loved us through this whole journey, and it took me days to decide to go to our weekly meeting, and 10 minutes before we were supposed to leave (and our babysitter was already here) I changed my mind and stayed home.

It took me one hour to decide what to wear to church this last week, and I didn't even end up liking what I had on after it was all done.

Charlie has been stuttering for over a year, and it has worsened since the week of Adelle's death. I can't even decide whether or not to have him tested for free at the local elementary school. One moment it feels that it is imperative that he receive treatment, and the next I just think it will go away on its own.

Household chores have been left undone, because I can't decide which to do or when to do them. I think this might be the dirtiest my house has ever been.

When the phone rings I stare at the caller id going back and forth on whether or not to answer the phone.

We are trying to decide how we will save Adelle's pictures, what album style to do, Shutterfly or not, formal or not, writing or not, one or two, do you add the maternity photos or do that separately, do you use every picture or chose the best ones, which are the best ones, where do we have the pictures printed, how much do we spend...? The list goes on and on. I spent 5 hours just deciding what kind of album I wanted.

We have spent 2 hours talking about if we want to do Christmas cards, what pictures to use, what template, what will they say, how many do we want, who do we want to do them....and we still don't know what we are doing.

And don't get me started on how hard it has been to make holiday related decisions! Everything having any holiday theme or centered around the holidays has become a massive decision. Which parties, which family, what meal, what to bring, how to decorate, how to celebrate, where to stay, who to see, what events...it feels like 100 decisions are left to be made and I can't even imagine having the ability to make one. Add on stress, postpartum hormones, the thought of disappointing others, missing my daughter, and the emotional depth of what the holidays really mean...and I feel completely useless.

I think the problem is two fold. I am having trouble making the decisions, and every decision feels huge. So not only can I not just pick something, I feel like each tiny decision might have massive repercussions.

It is exhausting and emotional, and seems to me to be completely unrelated to grief at all...except, every one of my helpful books begs to differ.

So is it just me, or is this time of year just comprised of one decision after another? Or were there always this many decisions to make, and I just never noticed?

Late night rant

On Monday it will be 5 weeks since Adelle was born. So, let me clear up what seems to be a very common question as of late.

No, I am not back to work yet.

First of all, after you deliver a baby, most practitioners will not release you to work until after 6 weeks (some are now doing 4 weeks). That is strictly for physical healing. Granted, I am not up in the middle of the night breastfeeding my infant, but, my body still has to recover.

Secondly, I am not emotionally ready to come back yet. I know that for most people, time is flying, and the holidays are approaching quickly...but in our house, we count every day, every week from October 12th. I want to tell people when they ask about work: "It has only been 4 weeks since I (naturally, no drugs) delivered my little girl, held her for three days straight barely sleeping or eating, watched her excruciating last 4 hours, and held her while she died. I then planned her funeral, held her one last time, watched them close her coffin and lower her into the ground." So, no, I am not quite ready to go back to work yet.

Thirdly, remember what it is I do for a living. I am a Labor and Delivery RN. That means my job is to take care of women and their babies. And when they walk into the door at our hospital, I don't always know whether those babies are going to live or die. Often I am working hard to prevent that baby from dying. Other times I must assist the women in grieving over their infants when they die. Or, I am encouraging and rejoicing with those that have wonderful, healthy babies. So, am I ready to return to mourning with others or rejoicing for them? Nope, not yet.

Sorry to be frustrated and tired in this post. But when others just mean to ask an innocent question like "Are you back at work yet?" What my heart feels them say is, "Aren't you over this yet, moved on, and back to normal life yet?" And despite the seemingly innocent question, it makes my heart hurt. Should I be OK yet? Should I be completely healed, back to normal, moving on, and no longer ever sad?

It has only been 4 weeks. That is all it has been! We are doing well, we are grieving together, healing, praying, and learning to live this new life we never expected. But I am not sure if I will ever be completely OK with not having my daughter on earth.

I can declare that God is good, that my daughter waits for me in Heaven, and that we have SO MUCH to be thankful for. I can trust that God is working in us, loving us, and providing for us. But we are still navigating this road of grief. It is not over for us. It is unknown and unpredictable. Some days are great, some are still hard.

Trust me, I would never say these things to people, because I know it is a struggle sometimes to come up with the "perfect" thing to say to us. God has been teaching us to give grace to others just as others have been so graceful to us, and ultimately, how wonderfully graceful God has been to us.

But tonight, tonight I am frustrated and tired. Tired of this road, tired of this battle. Tired of feeling out of place in every setting, not sure what to say to others, just like you are unsure what to say to me. Tired of being at home, but not wanting to be out. Tired of feeling lonely, but akward with groups. I am just tired.

One Month

Happy One Month Birthday, sweet girl. Mommy loves you and misses you so much.

Time

Today marks 4 weeks since Adelle's birth. At this time last night we were rushing out of the house, contractions getting closer very fast. I was too caught up in how quickly this was moving (and how much it hurt) to think about what was coming. But not Jason. As he watched me breathe, and coached and loved on me with every contraction...his heart new. And he cried like I hadn't seen him cry since the day of the sonogram. He was overcome with anticipation, fear, love, and sadness. And as I navigated through each painful contraction, he wept in my ear. His heart was overwhelmed with the idea that he was about to finally meet his little angel, and then have to say goodbye to her, all in one moment. I will never forget those quiet sobs. The sobs of Dad with a broken heart.

It is also my due date. Today, Nov. 9th was the date I was given to meet my little girl. After this date passes, something will feel very different. No more counting down the days "I would have been pregnant." From here on out, I was just supposed to be a mommy to this sweet girl.

Time is bearing down on us like a freight train. Some times time goes slowly and other times very quickly. But time now seems to be approaching so fast my head is spinning. How can it have been one month since I saw her sweet face for the first time? Or inspected her perfect toes and hands?

Everyone says "life moves on." But I had no idea it would move like this. It feels like yesterday to me, and yet to everyone else, who is caught up in the beginnings of the holidays, I know it seems like a lifetime ago. Somehow I feel stuck back in time, and the world is moving around me so fast it is a blur. The holidays are approaching, and it feels like we are steeling ourselves for them. Instead of blissful anticipation, we are hesitant, weary, and unsure. What will they hold this year? What odd mixture of sorrow and excitement? How will we celebrate, how will it change? What will we be feeling? Time will only tell.

Life moves on. But does it really have the nerve to move on this quickly? And where does it get the nerve to be so busy? Was life always this busy? It feels like there is some force or power at work around me, filling up time, distracting me, so that my heart cannot be focused on the one thing it desperately desires: her perfect face. Perhaps this is a coping mechanism of sorts. If you must focus elsewhere, the break gives your heart time to heal. So that everyday is not a re-opening of a wound.

But I resent time. For moving so fast, for filling up to easily, for demanding attention, and for distracting my heart. I long to have more moments where I can sit with God, cry, read His healing words, and journal my heartaches and joys. But my kids don't understand that need. The dishes and laundry do not care, and time...it just keeps pressing in from all sides.

So each day I am forced to carve out time to just rest, be quiet, mourn...and heal. And quite frankly, I resent time for this. After 4 weeks, I have to carve out time? Really? Is life so fast paced that I must work so diligently to have 20 minutes to remember the face of my daughter?

I guess it was part of "life goes on" that I never thought much about. Busyness returns. And if we let it, time just takes over. I guess that is true with everything we are care about. We must work to give it the proper place in our lives. But you think life would have a little more respect for a little 3 lb girl who left a huge mark on the world, and a hole in one little family.

Little Faith

Have I ever mentioned how little faith I have? It is so small, short lived, and not near as big as it ought to be. I have learned that this last month. I might as well rename myself "Israel." Because God continues to be faithful, and I continue to doubt, panic, cry, and attempt to fix things myself. Despite great faithfulness, I doubt God's ability to provide for me every time I have a need.

I could very easily go through old posts with prayer requests in them and show you the way in which God has answered so much more abundantly than I could have ever asked. Well...lets do just that.

*Thurs. Oct. 8th: I longed to go into labor soon. I told God I was ready. And on Oct. 12th, a mere 4 days later, God gave me the most precious gift of my life...the chance to hold my daughter...while she was breathing and crying!

September 8th:

*I asked you to pray that I would go into labor on my own, without a c-section, and that it would be quick...so I could spend more time with her. Labor was short, without induction, in the birthing center I wanted to deliver at, I was only there one hour before delivery, I pushed less than 10 minutes, and was holding my daughter immediately, and with minimal help she was pink and breathing on her own. And my family was all at my side.

*I also asked for wisdom with finances and provision, since we ended up having to spend our entire maternity fund on a new A/C. God has continued to bless us unexpectedly by the generosity of others. We have received so many gifts, some from people we don't even know, who found out about our situation from the blog or from friends or family. We have received gifts from families who are struggling much more than we are. It is something we never even knew how to pray for, that God knew exactly how to answer. Now, with the generous gifts of others, I can concentrate on my family through the holidays and not return to work until my heart is fully ready. We continue to be so touched by others love.

*And lastly, I prayed, desperately, that we have more than 1 hour with Adelle. In my mind, I was convinced it would be 20 minutes. And God, in his unbelievable mercy and love, gave us a wonderful 59 hours. Even after an hour or two at the birthing center, when my sister was trying to set up hospice care for us to take her home, I didn't believe she would make it. I told Tammi to stop wasting her time, we would rather just enjoy her here. And, that night, Jason and I took our daughter home with us, and enjoyed another 2 days with her. It was much more than my little heart could even gather the faith to pray for.

*And there are things God has done that we didn't even ask for! We have had friends and family surround our family with prayers.

*We have meals set up for months, so we don't ever have to worry about cooking or cleaning...just on being a family. And when those stop, our freezer is quickly filling with "just in case you don't feel like cooking some night" frozen meals. And the dessert...oh it keeps on coming! And my favorite coping mechanism, Nestle Tollhouse cookies, keep showing up!

*We have two huge boxes of letters of love, sympathy, and support. Letters that bring sweet healing and balm to the pain of not having my daughter to hold. And we read them often.

*We have hundreds of photos, all professionally taken and given to us without charge, of our daughter...from the moments before her birth (well, even farther before actually, because we have maternity shots as well!), to the moment we put her casket in the ground. And these we have treasured, pouring over them, committing every thing to memory. They will forever help us remember the goodness of God in the face of our daughter.

*We have a beautiful tree, now planted in our backyard, in honor of our little girl. Our Sunday School Class gave this precious gift to us, and we cannot wait until spring, when it blooms hundreds of pink blooms. And forever we can look on the gorgeous pink blooms and remember. The boys already call it "Adelle's tree."

*We have received tons of other precious gifts: necklaces, bracelets, books, journals, plants, flowers, cards, babysitting for the boys, weekends away for just Jason and I, sweet phone calls, long conversations, forever friendships, and an entire body of people surrounding us with love and encouragement!

It is more than we can take in at times. Those times our hearts swell to overflowing at how blessed we really are. How can anyone doubt that God has been good? How can we spend too long on what we have lost, when we see what we have gained? How can we be angry with God, when I see how He took everything I ever knew to pray for, and multiplied it by thousands?

And yet, my faith is small. I often sit and concentrate only on my pain, only on my losses. But again, God answers unvoiced prayers, because he continues to pour out mercy, grace, love, hope, and blessing on a heart like mine. A heart that has such a short memory, and an even shorter faith. That is truly an answer to my most basic need. He loves me when I am so undeserving. He loves me in the life of my daughter, in the words we read from friends, in the peace he brings amidst the sorrow, in the hot meals that have been coming so steadily, by unexpected gifts, in the friends that surround us, and most importantly, at the sacrifice of His son for me, and for my little faith.

Lack of Words

I don't have a lot to say today. I find myself stuck right smack dab in the middle of full heart-numbing apathy this evening. It is not a place I am liking much, and I hope I don't stay here long. It is like my eyes have cried the tears they have, and my heart has hurt as much as it can. And now, now I just feel a bit numb. Like my body is taking a vacation from my heart, just so it can rest for a bit. But, I feel disconnected from her, far from her. And at this point, I would rather hurt just to feel close to her.

So, with my lack of words tonight, I will give you words in which I find great comfort. Words that speak truth and encouragement to Jason and I, and we read them often. They are words from a dear friend, with a large heart. They were spoken at her funeral and written with love by Patrick Lafferty.



Adelle Marie Young Meditation

"There are some gifts that elicit our gratitude for how they have been so enduringly faithful to us. A friend, a mentor, a spouse—just their constancy and steadfastness make us thankful to have been their beneficiary.

But there are other gifts that elicit our gratitude, not for the length of their presence, but for how they accomplished so much in the short time they were present to us.

Adelle Marie Young was with us for but a few days, but despite her brief life and frail condition, she has been a gift beyond measure. Many of you have been witness to the words and conduct of her parents these several months. For all their sadness, they’ve borne abundant testimony to a kind of gratitude that can walk in lock-step with pain.

This is not a day to paper over our sadness—not a day to pretend this isn’t heartbreaking. Sorrow is a good in that it expresses our love for the one we’ve lost; to deny the sorrow would be to conceal our love.

Yet as we mourn Adelle it’s fitting that we also remember how she reconfirms to us what the Psalmist had to say about children. He says in Psalm 127:

Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord,
The fruit of the womb is a reward
Like arrows in the hand of a warrior are the children of one’s youth
Blessed is the man who fills his quiver with them
He shall not be put to shame when he speaks with his enemies at the gate.

With evocative succinctness, the Psalmist declares children to be a gift—a gift from not just anyone, but a gift from the Lord, Himself. They are meant to reveal the Lord’s love for us. They remind us we are His and that He has our interest at heart. This Psalm understands children to be a gift in how they are a source of provision and pride, and a defense against whatever accuses or afflicts us.

How can Adelle be that kind of a gift? How can this little lady, without saying a word, have fulfilled that role of a gift from the Lord? How can she have been one who comes to our aid—when she herself depended so much on the aid of so many others? May I suggest three ways she has been a gift—three ways her short life will be a defense against the enemies you will face henceforth?


For one, she’s reminded you of the magnificence of this world. You knew she would not last long here and so you understood that the time you would have with her was precious. So you introduced her to all that you could in the time that you had--simple things, common things. Green things. Quiet things. Bright things. Moist things. You surrounded her with people who loved her. You took her on walks and said, “this, our sweet girl, is the world.” For a moment, you got to be her tour guide in this place, the lustre of which you and I often fail to notice. This is a creation subjected to much futility, Paul says. It is rife with what is flawed and corrupt, but when you have a little girl whom you know will, in a short while, glance off this terrestrial ball, suddenly you see again, just through being with her, that this fallen world is nevertheless the Lord’s fallen world—full of majesty and beauty. You and I are plagued all our days with hearts that tend to minimize the full grandeur of this place. But having been with her for just a few days will, for the rest of your life, be a defense against a dullness of spirit that fails to see how this world is shimmering with glory. That’s one bountiful gift she is to you. Here’s another.


She’s provoked in you a holy defiance. Oh, when you came to discover the depth of her malady, conventional wisdom might’ve led you to act very differently than you did. But defiantly you sought to honor her life by tending to her every need. You defiantly honored the Lord, who fearfully and wonderfully made her, by marveling at her every feature, by unveiling her beauty to countless eyes, by speaking honestly, openly, and lovingly—of her and the Lord whose fingerprints you have seen in this unexpected season. (She herself displayed a similar defiance—she would not go quickly or quietly; she would not submit to the expectations of the experts; she would not leave until she gave you a little time to stop and stare.) This is a world largely bereft of the kind of holy defiance that demonstrates love at great cost. It often hallows convenience over honor. Adelle’s gift to you is that she elicited from you a courageous, loving strength that will serve your children, your church, and this world.

She’s been a gift to you in one more way—a gift that will be a strong defense against what may be your greatest adversary. What has she done? She’s raised your eyes to that further, surer horizon that the Lord Jesus bids us look—the one where Christ is seated. She’s done that like few other things can. We mourn today because she has gone. But the mournfulness is not without hope because of the One who willingly walked the same road toward death that Adelle has. He died so that the sin that seeks our life and that would kill us eternally would no longer plague us. He rose again to remind us that the life that ended Thursday is but a temporary thing. In His death and resurrection, he fired a shot across the bow of our despair; for what this day has brought we cannot change, but the events of this day shall not stand forever.

To have been so close to one who has now gone on ahead of you to be with Christ is to have an indelible mark left upon your heart—a mark that will often restore your sight to where your ultimate hope is found. Frodo said there are some wounds that never heal—wounds that reorient your gaze toward where that wound shall be healed, where that rest shall be found. The wound of Adelle’s loss will feel differently a year from now perhaps. But the yearning to be with Christ who enfolds her in His care will now be more accessible. Yours and my greatest weakness is to set our hopes much lower than on what Christ has done and will do. But with Adelle having come here for a moment and now having gone there for eternity, you have a powerful pointer toward the hope that is in Christ. And such hope, as one pastor has put it, is “a revolutionary patience.”


Reminding you of this world’s magnificence, provoking a holy defiance in you, lifting the gaze of your heart toward the horizon of His hope—all that Adelle has given you. Pretty good for three days work. The Psalmist was right: the fruit of the womb is a reward. Even the abbreviated life has enormous power when in the loving hands of the Lord. For her, this day, we, with tears, give Him thanks."

Answers

I thought I would answer some questions that people seem to be afraid to ask. And give you a bit of my thoughts as I interact with you. I know that often people don't really know how to comfort us or what to say. Trust us, this is new territory for us as well. So let's muddle through this together.

1. How are you? First of all, this is a difficult question to answer, it is usually better just not to ask. The better thing to say is "I am praying for you, I love you, What can I do for you, Can I give you a hug, etc." Because, quite frankly, how I am varies from moment to moment. One moment I am positive, full of hope, enjoying the things God has given me, and one minute I am consumed with sadness, apathetic, tired, and wanting it to be Oct. 12th again. Most of the time if you carry on a long enough conversation with me, you can usually figure out pretty quick which place I am in. Or, sometimes, I will even volunteer the info. I am working on being honest and open with people and saying when I am struggling, but when you are passing me quickly in church or in public setting, it is hard to come up with an answer quickly that is true, but doesn't take 30 minutes to explain. I know there is no perfect question or right words for you to say to me. Just be sincere.

2. Most of my grieving happens in private. In the last couple of weeks, when life has chosen to move forward, and I can't necessarily indulge in my grief all day long, I have learned to put some things on hold. When the boys are asleep, when things have quieted, then I can let my heart decompress. It is usually then that I am able to wrestle with grief and hope. There are times I am unable to hold this battle in and wait for the privacy of a quiet living room, but they are rare, and seem to be less frequent lately. Life and laughter and time happen, but sadness remains for now. So do not be surprised that you read of my struggle, and yet, are not always able to see it on my face.

3. I have no idea when I will go back to work. All I can answer to that question is, not now. I don't know when I will be ready...when I can face the sheer amount of people, the questions (from patients and friends), the energy expenditure, or the depth of possibility of things that can happen in labor and delivery. For now, I am protected in my house, with my two boys and loving husband, and don't really want to be many more places.

4. I don't mind if you call. Usually, I enjoy the break in the day, the distraction, or the chance to talk about the day or what I am dealing with. The days are often quiet. If for some reason, I am not in the mood to talk, I just won't answer the phone. Leave a message, and if I am feeling up to it, I will call you back. Just don't take it personally if I don't call back. There is still comfort in just knowing people are calling, and care.

5. Don't feel you always have to be positive. There are times you can just listen to our grief, and share in our sadness. Don't feel that you have to come up with something to say to "make us feel better." It is often very healing to just share in the pain of the brokenness of this world without needing to hear something intended to "fix" our sadness. Aren't we all dealing with the circumstances of this broken world?

6. Don't be afraid to talk about her or call her by name. She is part of our family, we all talk of her often, and she has things that have already become part of our home. You won't "upset me" more or make things worse. I may cry, but that isn't always bad! I take comfort in the fact that she impacted others and has not been forgotten! And it doesn't bother me at all if you are crying too. In fact, it is nice to know that I am not alone in sadness or grief.


This is never a situation we thought we would be in. Does anybody imagine this? We have had time to prepare, and yes, we knew she would die. We chose to carry her to term, we chose to know her, to treasure her. And we knew we would have to bury her, sit through a funeral, and say goodbye. But, we never had any idea how much we would fall in love with this little girl. We had no idea the depth of the grief we would have in losing her. We had no idea how much you can love, miss, and treasure a person you were only able to physically see and hold for 3 days. So, in some ways, in spite of our "preparation," we were caught so off guard. We feel we are walking a path that is unknown and unexpected, despite months of trying to prepare.

Ironically enough I find myself not wanting to give myself the freedom to grieve. I made the decision to carry her, and I knew it would be hard. So, I think my grief should somehow be shorter, less severe, less dramatic. But I don't know if I would grieve any differently if I knew her for years instead of days. God did something to my heart in that three days. He gave me eyes to see my daughter, to really see her. I saw so much beyond her brokenness and disease. I saw her personality, her mannerisms, her heart. I felt her perfectly formed body, and spent hours listening to her heartbeat and her breathing. I realized that I had been so focused on what she was missing, I hadn't thought about the fact that the rest of her would be so perfect. I never expected to have to change her diaper, or see her sleep/wake cycles, or watch her react to our voices, or to see her reach for us and strongly grip our fingers. I knew she deserved to be treated like any other baby, to be held, named, and treasured...but then she arrived, and I did more than just know the theology of the sanctity of life. I loved her, completely and fully.

And so, with this wonderful glimpse I was given, the chance to truly see the heart and soul of my daughter, I am now convinced of this: I grieve for my daughter as I would with any of my children. I didn't have her for as long as my other children, didn't get to see her walk or speak her first words...but I knew her. And like my boys, I have loved her with my whole heart. I have known her by name. I have treasured and adored her.

Maybe the world will think my grief too great for the situation. Let them think! For those who have loved much, have lost much.