Two Words

Praying challenges me.

I have found that putting expectations on myself during prayer is almost always counterproductive.  Whenever I make goals for the length and frequency of my prayers, I always fall short.  I have realized that making strict rules for my prayer life shifts my focus away from God, which doesn't make sense.

Sometimes my words to God are few, but He draws me near anyway.  I don't think He counts my words or the number of times I pray.  Instead, I believe He listens to my heart...the joys and the sorrows in my soul.

When William was first diagnosed, my shock and sadness was disorienting.
All I could pray was, Carry me.

After William died, I was broken and weary.
The only words I could find were, Help me.

During my pregnancy with my daughter, the fear was overwhelming.
I pleaded with God, Protect her

When I hold my daughter in my arms as the sun is just beginning to rise,
I whisper, Thank you

Pouring your heart out to God can mean hours of praying...
but sometimes two words are enough.

Family Time

I hear my husband call my name and I open my eyes, barely awake.  He's opening the blinds beside our bed.   

Look outside, he says. We have to tell William about snow!

I smile as we lay beside one another and look out the window.  We take turns telling our baby boy about the wintery scene outside.  We tell him that snow is cold and white.  We tell him why snow is fun.  We talk to him for several minutes about a variety of things.

This is something we do now.  We intentionally talk to our baby.  Not because we think he understands what we are saying, but because we want to share ourselves with him.  We want to tell him about the world.  We want him to hear our voices and sense that we are together.

It's a way to spend time together as a family...and it feels good.

When we first received William's diagnosis, I hardly left the house.  The level of pain and shock was high and I found it hard to cope with the outside world.  One Saturday morning, my husband suggested we go for a drive.  It would be good to get out of the house, but we wouldn't be required to interact with people.  We just weren't ready for that yet.

We drove with no destination in mind.  Neither of us could barely utter a word, so we held hands and listened to music.   Sometimes there just aren't words.

Quiet tears rolled down my face as we passed parks where William would likely never play.  I held my breath as we passed soccer fields full of little boys, thinking about the teams that William may never join.  I ached as we drove, longing for my son to live...grieving for all he may never experience.

I want so much for you.  You are so wanted.

As we drove, I allowed myself to feel the unavoidable pain and disappointment of our situation.  I believe it's healthy and normal to feel these things and I don't deny myself moments of appropriate grief.

We finally found our way back home.  I felt drained, but I also felt comforted. 

We woke up the next day and I found myself asking if we could go on another drive.  My husband eagerly agreed.  We both felt a sense of healing from our previous drive and thought it was worthwhile to go again.

We headed in a new direction.  I quietly listened to the music, allowing the words to encourage me.  I looked out the window and occasionally pointed out beautiful houses or trees to my husband.  I found myself smiling once or twice.  Again, we came home feeling strangely refreshed from our drive.

When the next weekend arrived, we didn't even discuss it.  We just knew we were going for another drive.  With each new drive, I found my attitude shifting.  Instead of focusing on what may never be, I started to notice and appreciate what is.

We started talking a little bit more to one another, and soon we found ourselves talking to William.  Our aimless drives began to have specific destinations.

We drove to where my husband went to elementary school.  We drove to his old church.  We drove to my old schools, too.  We drove to places that meant something to us.

William, this is where Daddy scored a soccer goal and everyone cheered...

This is where Mommy went to school and learned how to read...

This is where your grandparents live.  They love you so much...

I began singing along with the music.  I began telling William about the things I could see out the window.  I found that it felt so good to teach him things, to be his eyes.

I'm grounded in reality enough to understand that he's not at the developmental point where he comprehends what I'm saying to him.  Yet, I know he can hear my voice and sense my presence. 

Talking to him and sharing ourselves with him gives us the opportunity to validate his place in our family.  It's one way for us to show him that he is our precious son and we are proud to be his parents. 

We are proud to be a family.

Our situation is unique and we've had to change our expectations and our plans.  I never thought our time with William could be so limited.

So we adjust.  We change how we define a lifetime.  We embrace the time that we have.

As I sit on the couch, I feel him kick.  I know he's awake and moving, so I rub my stomach and begin talking to him.  I walk across the room and stand beneath the skylight window, peering into the sun.  There are at least five ladybugs crawling around on the surface of the window.

William, there are ladybugs that live in our skylight.  They crawl all around on their little tiny legs, which is kind of fun to watch.  They are red with small black polka dots.  I don't really like insects, but I've always loved ladybugs.  They are really quite special and beautiful...

...just like you.

Keep Calm and Carry On

Perhaps you've seen this poster before.  I saw it a year or two ago and always thought it was rather clever and inspiring.  It was created by the British government at the very beginning of World War II.  It was intended to be distributed in order to strengthen morale in the event of a wartime disaster.

I always thought the origin of this poster was very interesting, but I find it particularly poignant right now.  I don't have first hand experience with the horror of war.  I've never faced a military attack or been forced to flee during an invasion.  However, I'm going to guess that nothing fully prepares you for what you face during times of battle.

Likewise, I find myself in the midst of an unforeseen crisis and I often feel incredibly unprepared. 

What prepares you for the news that your baby is dying? 
What prepares you to deliver a baby who has passed away or will die shortly after birth? 

Nothing.

Not books.  Not websites.  Not long talks with others who have walked this journey.

There are some battles in this life that you must face moment-to-moment.  Carrying a baby with a fatal diagnosis is one of those battles.  I have certainly read some excerpts of books, visited websites, and talked with a few very strong women who have experienced similar loss.  We are doing what we can to be as prepared as possible for what may come, but there is only so much we can do.   

My thoughts take me back to last Sunday.  On Saturday night, I went to bed after a lovely evening of full of family, good food, and pumpkin carving in honor of my birthday.  William kicked away as I drifted off to sleep.  He often moves the most throughout the night.  I find myself looking forward to his precious movements when I wake early in the morning.

On Sunday, I opened my eyes before the sun came up and lay waiting to feel him move. 

Stillness.

I tried not to panic, feeling sure that he would start squirming soon.  The morning wore on as I drifted in and out of sleep.  I became more and more aware of his lack of movement, but refused to dwell on it.

Surely he'll move after I eat breakfast and drink some juice.

The hours passed and I didn't feel anything.  My anxiety began to increase.

It is time, God?

Please, no.  

I'm not ready!  Please, please...

I need more time

I don't want to say goodbye

As the afternoon turned to evening, I began to feel frantic.  I grabbed the computer and searched the Babies R Us website, my hands shaking.  I have had my heart set on picking out an outfit and a blanket for him.  There's so little I may be able to buy for him.  I so wanted him to have something that was chosen specifically for him by his Mama.

I searched for preemie sized clothing and blankets for baby boys, thinking someone could go to the store and pick them up for us if today was the day.  But it became too painful to look through the items on the screen.  I pushed aside the computer, tears streaming down my face. 

I wanted so much more, God.

I'm trying so hard to accept the time we've been given,

but I ache for so much more

If I felt no movement after 24 hours, I knew we were supposed to call CHOP.

I don't want to call CHOP

Please kick, William

Please move for Mommy

My husband tried to stay calm, but every so often he would ask me if the baby moved yet.  We were both waiting...waiting to find out if it was time to face something we could hardly imagine.

As we prepared for bed, my thoughts were all over the place. 

I felt angry.  Why do we have to be in this place of uncertainty?

I felt fear.  But I don't know how to deliver a baby. 

I felt panic.  What if I never feel him kick again?  What if he's...gone 

I felt a deep sadness for which there are no words.  At this point it had been about 24 hours since I'd felt him move and I began preparing to call CHOP first thing in the morning.

As I lay in bed, trying to fall asleep, I felt a small thump. 

I froze, hardly able to breath.  Is that you, baby boy?  Move some more for me, William. 

Two more thumps. 

The relief poured over me like warm water.  His movements increased throughout the night and by morning, he was practically dancing.

Although I was relieved beyond words that William was still with us, I found myself feeling very traumatized on Monday.  His lack of movement and the possibility that his life could be over gave me a glimpse into the unspeakable pain we could experience if that is the outcome that awaits us.  Yet again, I realized how one cannot fully prepare for loss of a loved one.

Since I do not know exactly what's ahead and can only walk through this battle moment-by-moment, there are some things I will commit to doing in the meanwhile.

I will cling to God, trusting that He will carry me through the moments of unimaginable grief that may come in my life.

I will pray that He guides me through all the moments for which I cannot prepare.  

I will carry my precious son and give him all the comfort, warmth, and love I can possibly give him.

I will cry, because I love my baby and the threat to his life warrants sadness and heartache.

I will laugh, because I want William's life to include so much more than my tears and brokenness.  I want him to hear and feel the joy of laughter every day of his life. 

I will sing, because I want to share the gift of music with him.

I will hope, because each day his heart beats is a miracle.

I will honor his life, because he is a precious gift from God.

I will love him.  I will love God.  I will love others.

And amidst the battles, the storms, and the moments for which no one could ever prepare...I will do my best to keep calm and carry on.   

The Morn Shall Tearless Be

I have days when joy and hope help to cushion my pain, but I also have days when the sadness and heartache feel insurmountable.  It's a sadness that I've never felt before.  It seeps into my body and I ache, inside and out.  

And then there are the nights.  I find myself staring out into the darkness, wondering if the morning will ever appear.

How can this be, God?

How can this be...

A few nights ago, I woke in the middle of the night.  William was moving as I placed my hand onto my stomach.  The joy and the pain mingled together.  I smiled as silent tears ran down my cheeks. 

My husband slept soundly beside me as I reached for my cell phone.  I opened up the calendar screen and scrolled to William's due date.  I pressed the screen to my face as my silent tears turned into muffled sobs.  I let my phone drop down to my chest and I held it over my heart.  As I held his due date close, I longed for my baby to be born alive and well while simultaneously preparing for a different and devastating outcome.   

Help me, God

If it's your will for me to let go,

Help me let go

I find that moments like these are part of an important process of surrendering my own plans and expectations to God's will. 

It's a painful process.  In fact, sometimes it's excruciating.

I recently purchased an album of classic hymns sung by Chris Rice.  His voice calms me and the long-treasured lyrics of each hymn soothe my heart.  A verse from the hymn, "O Love That Will Not Let me Go" has really resonated with me.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be. 

I accept the days of sadness and the nights of pain as part of this journey I'm walking.  I accept them because I know that it is normal to grieve when the circumstances in your life take a painful and unexpected turn.  It's normal to grieve when you are forced to alter your hopes and dreams and adjust to a new and unfamiliar reality.  Surrendering your plans and expectations is so very hard.

But I will continue to seek joy, despite my circumstances.
I will believe that God is good, even when life feels bad
I will allow the beauty of William's life to soak into my heart

God, please help me endure the nights of weeping

And believe that joy will come in the morning

Reclaiming Joy

During our time of trying to have a child without success, I had some very sad days. When happiness escaped me, I began to adopt the notion of choosing joy.

For me, happiness is linked to external circumstances.  When positive things are happening in my life, I experience happiness.  I view joy quite differently.  I feel that joy comes from within.  It is not dependent on the circumstances in my life.  As a Christian, I believe the source of this joy is God.

When the darkness closes in, I can choose to dig deep within me to find joy.  Sometimes it's buried beneath my sadness, but when I choose to look...it's always there.  That joy can glow in the corner of my heart, helping me hold on to hope.

A little less than two years ago, I remember coming home from a dear friend's house in tears.  I watched her darling child play on the carpet while she and I discussed the hopelessness I was feeling about ever conceiving a baby.  She prayed with me and encouraged me and loved me.  But when I got in the car to drive home, the doubts pinched at my heart and the tears began to flow.

But what's the plan, God?  What's the plan?

I'm lonely for a child.  I long to be a mother like so many of my friends.  

Do you even care?  Are you even listening?

I came home to our quiet, empty house.  I stood aimlessly in the kitchen as my sadness began to form into anger.

Should I throw something?

Should I yell?

I am so disappointed, God.

And that's when I realized I had a choice to make.  I could give myself over to the bitterness. 

Or I could choose joy.

Through a blur of tears, I began writing on the blank chalkboard hanging on our kitchen wall.  I wrote three words...

"I am blessed"

I chose joy.  I chose to love my husband more than ever before.  I chose to love the children in my life until God blessed me with my own.  I chose to be grateful for our home and our jobs and our families.  I chose to hope.

The day we left that doctor's office with the devastating news of William's condition, I felt as if the glow of joy within my heart had finally gone out.  I felt as if I were in some sort of terrible game, and I was losing.

I tried, God. 

I can't do it anymore.

Losing this baby will break me beyond repair.

For several days, when I looked at the chalkboard my eyes would narrow in bitterness.

I am not blessed...I am destroyed

And then I began to feel the familiar longing to dig beneath the sadness for joy.
And do you know what?

I still couldn't find it.

A few days later I would dig again.  Through my pain and weeping, I kept digging.

And slowly...I began to find it again.

I decided to reclaim joy. 

It's a choice I have to make every single day.  Some days I'm successful and other days I'm not.  But I know that God has placed a joy in my heart that cannot be stolen, despite my circumstances.

Today was a particularly low day for me.  The joy was hard to find...but it's still there.

As I write this, William is wiggling inside of me.  So I choose joy.
Our friends and family continue to love us, pray for us, support us.  So I choose joy.
William has been a part of our family for 22 weeks and 2 days.  So I choose joy.
God has made me a mother.  So I choose joy.

As I sit in our family room, I can see the chalkboard hanging in our kitchen.  I've never erased it.  It reminds me that I made a choice that day.  It reminds me to recognize the blessings in my life.

Most importantly, it reminds me to choose joy.