Thursday, November 2, 2017

Two Years Later

"Time heals all wounds."

The deep ache that still exists within me contradicts that statement. Time has passed. 730 days have passed, to be exact. And yet the wound is still fresh. It is still difficult to catch my breath when the memories flood my mind. 

I can still feel those days as if I'm there now. There, living those last moments we shared with Mama before her body could go no more. I can feel the stillness in the room as we waited for the inevitable. I can hear the rattle of her breath as her lungs fought and fought. She fought to stay with us for as long as she could.

I believe she wanted to stay as long as she could, to soak up every last second.

But I also believe she yearned for the freedom her soul was only just beginning to experience. I believe in those last moments that she was hovering between our two worlds, held fast by her physical body to the place below while her soul tried to break free and soar. To soar high into the clouds, high into the perfect love she'd spent her life believing in.

I can remember the last breath she took. Hearing one final exhale, and then nothing.

Silence.

Stillness.

And then relief. Relief that her fighting was over. Joy knowing she was finally free of her pain. And the peace, oh that consuming peace, that told us Heaven met Earth in those moments that followed.

I remember holding her hand, struggling to find the willpower to let go. I remember being the last one in the room with her, unsure how to leave her again. I didn't want to say goodbye. I remember giving her one final hug, feeling the fleeting warmth of her. 

My Mama. The last moment I ever felt her on this Earth.

It is two years later. Two years of sunrises and sunsets. Two years filled with my feet touching the ground of foreign places. Two years filled with the loss of one baby and the birth of another. Two years of relationships changing and souls evolving. Countless moments of wishing she were here, and even more moments where I carried her along in my heart. 

I look at my children sometimes and wish she could see them. I wish she could watch Camden play, hear her sing her silly songs. I wish she could see the joy in her. I wish she could know Blaise. I wish she could see his eyes so blue and smile brightly over their shared trait. How my heart burns, knowing my baby boy didn't get to meet his Mimi. 

These things won't get easier. Instead, these moments will eventually sting less as they become part of my new normal. I won't ever stop missing my Mama. The yearning to have known her will never stop. 

No, time doesn't heal all wounds. But maybe, in time, the wounds will hurt a little less.







 



















I hope the last two years have felt like just a second for you, Mama. I hope that you are existing in a tangible love and perfect peace. And I hope that you've seen the highlight reel of the last two years of my life. I hope you have felt those moments I held you in my heart and somehow experienced them with me. 

I miss you every day. And I know it's selfish, but sometimes I wish you were still here. I cry over missing you, but I also celebrate this day knowing it is the anniversary of your freedom.

I love you, Mama. I'll see you soon.

Sunday, May 14, 2017

To the One Still Waiting: It's Worth It

There are probably at least a dozen posts you've scrolled past on your social media feed today that will say basically the same thing I am. There are a dozen different ways to say what I am going to say, and these words aren't new.

Yet, I really want to say them anyway.

I really hope you can read this, whoever you are, in whatever place you are, and maybe feel a tiny inkling of hope for your future. Maybe have your heart widened just enough to see that there could be an end to this waiting. To this pain and hurt that you are living with.

You're still waiting for two pink lines. You've just had another fertility test come back with bad results. You've had another failed IVF attempt. You've just learned that having biological children isn't possible. You've just miscarried your first or your second or your third baby before you even got a chance to know them. You've just given birth to your baby born still, or you only had short time with your miracle before having to let go too soon.

I don't know your circumstance currently. But I do know you are hurting. And I know this day that is meant to honor mother's is like a grenade that goes off right in your face at every turn.

If you are going through what I once was, this day is filled to the brim with lots of emotion, and not all of it is positive. Maybe you have an excellent Mama of your own who you are so happy to celebrate, and being able to love and honor her takes away some of the sting this day brings. But maybe you don't. Maybe, having a family of your own is the puzzle piece missing in your life. You feel you have so much love to give that's just being wasted.

That was me. Just a few years ago, I felt like I didn't have a place in this day, even though I knew in my heart I was a mother already. I had two babies not in my arms, but in the heavenly realm. I felt like a mother but had nothing to show for it; no growing bump, no little one to care for. No proof of the lives that too briefly filled my womb.

I know you understand, whoever you are. I know you feel alone today and that nobody understands your grief, your heartache, your pain. I know you feel like nobody appreciates just how much effort it takes to plaster a smile on your face today, just how much it rips your heart out to look around you to see all the mothers with their babies. How much you wish that could be you. How much you long for that toddler to hang on your leg. How much you yearn to carry a sleeping, peaceful babe. How much you wouldn't mind carrying a few extra pounds around your midsection because it meant you'd grown life. And even how much you envy the gift that too many take for granted.

You wouldn't take it for granted, you tell yourself.

And do you know what? You won't take it for granted as easily. Not really. Why? Because you know what it means to yearn. You know what it means to wish and hope and pray and beg for this precious gift. And perhaps you know what it means to hold that precious gift for an instant, only to lose it.

I know it may feel like there is no end in sight to what you are suffering through. It feels like you will always be reminded of what you don't have or what you've lost.

I will tell you this: you will never forget. You will always wonder who your gift would have become, and a piece of your heart will always grieve and yearn for their lives. But I can also tell you that the bitter sting will subside.

Eventually, this pain will lessen. Eventually, you'll start to enjoy life again.

Eventually, you will be able to put into practice all this love welling up in your heart. Sooner than you believe is possible, you will be able to pour out that love on some precious miracle that calls you Mommy.

A little over a year ago, this picture was taken as my husband and I got ready to go on a date together. Its a sweet family picture and makes me chuckle when I look at it because I can remember Daniel and I posing together only to see our toddler run toward us to be a part of the picture, too! She had no room for being left out!







But what isn't evident about this photo is the tiny life - our 4th baby - that was growing within my womb. We walked to dinner that evening and talked about plans for this baby who would become our second child. We felt thankful and blessed and hopeful.

We never dreamed that not even a week after this photo was taken, our fourth would be gone.

I also never dreamed that one year later, this would be our current family photo:







See that bump? That's our 5th baby, our soon-to-be second born. Our son, Blaise Daniel.

Blaise Daniel came to us unexpectedly and at a time when I had almost given up hope for us to grow our family. A time when fear was ruling my heart and I was weary of the infertility process. I was tired of seeing doctors, I was tired of taking tests and guessing what could work for us. I couldn't take any more losses, so I had decided that we may just be a family of 3.

But there was a miracle waiting for us. One I didn't see coming but whose timing was perfect and pure and necessary.

This morning, my growing family and I had brunch at a cafe in our little city of Bamberg, Germany. We came back home where Camden and Daniel had gifts waiting for me. They gave me hugs and told me Happy Mother's Day. My sweet girl gave me an unsolicited kiss and in her little voice said, "Happy Birthday, Mommy!" (We're still working on other holidays!) And all the while, Blaise Daniel has been squirming around and kicking me and his Daddy.

There was once a time that I couldn't conceive of such gifts. That I couldn't dream up a scenario where one growing, healthy, beautiful little girl calls me Mommy (and sometimes Carrie; hello sassy toddler!) and another little life would be steadily growing within.

But I'm living it.

Toddlerhood is challenging. Pregnancy isn't always comfortable either. But you know what? I love it all. I love it because I remember all to well what the yearning felt like, and how deep the wounds go. A toddler with an attitude isn't my favorite but you know what is? The gift of being the one to help shape her heart as she learns how to make sense of her world. Peeing every time I sneeze makes me roll my eyes, but you know what? I love that my organs are squished and shifted to make room for my 5 pound growing, healthy baby boy.

Do you see now? Do you see that this could be you? Can you see that the stench of grief lifts eventually? That one day, you will know this love and this gift?

I hope you do. And I hope that until then, you take every painful moment in stride, knowing that one day it will all be worth it and that one day, these moments of pain will be distant memories that pale in comparison to the great gift of motherhood.

Happy future Mother's Day to you, dear one still waiting.

Happy Mother's Day to you, dear one who had to let go too soon.

Happy Mother's Day to you, dear one who is sacrificing her body to grow another life.

Happy Mother's Day to you, dear one who is living her dream, finally.

Dear one, the waiting is worth it. 







Wednesday, February 15, 2017

Stream in the Desert

Drought. 

That's the word that comes to mind when I think of the last year and a half.

It's been a challenge for me to be positive for at least that long. There are so many aspects of our circumstances that have been frustrating, sometimes daily. There are things I wish I could change, things I wish wouldn't have happened, and things I still struggle to accept. And most of those frustrations eventually began to equal bitterness and a complete lack of joy.

I've been frustrated with myself. I've gone from walking through the toughest of valleys and somehow still thriving to walking through this one and just barely surviving. I have often wondered why I haven't been able to just snap the hell out of it and why I haven't been able to be grateful.

Why has it been so hard to focus on the good things? What is so wrong with me that I am blinded to the very obvious gifts in my life? 

We can probably all think of at least one person we know that is habitually negative. We probably love them and try to to encourage them, but that negativity takes a toll on even the most upbeat of personalities. Lately, that person has been me. 

Lately, I haven't recognized myself. 

I want that to change.





I'm lying here now, listening to my husband and daughter in the loft upstairs. Feeling my son move within me, my son who is almost 23 weeks into his creation and weighs about a pound. And feeling a stirring in my heart, the simple beginning of an overflow that is sure to come.

"I have good things for you," a familiar voice says. And for the first time in almost a year, I believe it again.  For the first time in too long, I feel hope rise against the persistent negativity. I feel the questions, frustrations, and the self degradation begin to be laid down.

And so here I am, whispering to my tiny baby boy, feeling waves of thankfulness for the feelings of gratitude that are stirring within me again. 

Gratitude for a Father's heart who simply loves His daughter enough to wait on Her as she tried to go it alone for too long. Gratitude for His patience as I almost lost my faith entirely. Gratitude that He is greater than any religion, or culture, or suffocating set of rules. Gratitude that His love really IS all that matters. Gratitude for letting me receive it. And for the words that are slowly starting to flow from my soul again.


For the first time in a long time, I feel like my feet are finding their way to solid ground again. For the first time in a long time, I see a stream in the desert. 

And I have hope that maybe, just maybe, this drought is seeing a beginning to its end. 

"Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I entrust my life." Psalm 143:8