Peroxide God

"I mean, we can say no. We don't have to do this," I heard Daniel's voice say on the other end of the line.

"I don't want you to say no. I think... I think it will be an adventure."

Looking back, that was really what I focused on. In some ways, we were way too busy with preparing for the move and walking with Mama during the final months of her life that we rarely paused to let ourselves consider what moving to a foreign country might mean for us.

When I looked to our future living arrangements, I romanticized a lot of it. I saw rich history and a new culture. I saw mind expansion in seeing another side of the world. I saw cobblestones and bakeries with fresh bread and leisurely bike rides. I saw a new house to decorate and the possibility of my eyes taking in the sights of Europe.

While we have experienced all that and more, what I never expected was the loneliness. I never expected to feel isolated and confused most of the time. I didn't expect to grieve the life I knew, the life filled with the safety of community and the ease of the everyday tasks. I didn't expect to bury my Mama just 60 days after moving 4500 miles away. I didn't expect that a treasured friendship would end shortly after, and I didn't expect to say goodbye to yet another baby in early miscarriage.

But that's what happened.

I thought it would be an adventure. No, that's not exactly correct. I thought it would be a fun adventure. If I'm honest - no holding back, gut-wrenching, face-palm worthy honest: It has been mostly difficult and I've hated probably 75% of the past 10 months.

We said yes to the opportunity to come here, believing it would be good. Believing it would make us stronger and more sanctified. Believing it was a gift from God. It's felt more like a burden than a gift. More like "have to" instead of  "get to."

But the truth? No holding back, gut-wrenching truth?

Life's hellish circumstances don't dictate the character of God.

I fight daily to believe that. My emotions say that I've been led to the desert, wounded, thirsty, and alone. That I've been tossed around like a rag doll, given a promise that's been broken. That my life has been put on hold and I'm stuck out here. That faithful obedience brings me pain, loneliness, isolation. That grief will get the best of me and I won't survive this furnace that's getting hotter by the minute.

But my heart, the heart that's been loved by God screams louder that my emotions. His voice, speaking softly, reminds me of the truth.

My only fight is to believe that God is who He says He is: faithful, loving, steadfast, strong. Honest, perfect, holder of all things. He tells me that He's led me to a desert where I'll be thirsty so I can learn to drink from Him. He tells  me He is with me. He reminds me that promises are never more important than the One who gives them. He says that I am in motion, being shaped and molded by His hands that hold me. That the process is dirty and sometimes painful. That I must go into the refining fire, but that the flame will never overtake me. That faithful obedience will ultimately yield eternal perfection.

When I was six years old, I fell on our long gravel driveway and scraped my knee. My Mama pulled out the peroxide and ointment and went right to scrubbing my wound, taking care to remove the tiny bits of stone and dirt that were mixed into my exposed skin. It hurt. I screamed, cried, and tried my best to fight her. But she continued, speaking softly and calmly as she did, reminding me that it would only sting for a moment. It would begin to heal and before I knew it, the scrape would be gone and fresh skin would take it's place. My wound would be healed.

A life lived with Jesus is never perfect. Living out of obedience to Him doesn't always bring blessing and comfort and joy right away. It's quite the opposite. The process of sanctification is rarely without pain. The dirt must be cleaned and blemish stripped away.

The wound must be scrubbed in order for healing to take place.

Like peroxide on a fresh cut, bubbling and stinging, God cleanses our souls.

He cleanses my soul.


Thank you, Jesus, for the work You are doing. We praise You!

Precious Life

I hugged Camden a little tighter each time I picked her up that day.

I paid closer attention to her every move, soaking her being in just as I did on the day we brought her home from the hospital, so aware of the miracle she is.

We rocked a little longer before bed that night. I felt the rise and fall of her chest, her life breath. I felt the steady thump-thump of her heart, pumping her life force. "She's really here," I thought. "I can't believe she's here."

We still don't know how she's here. Well - we know, we took part in her creation - but we don't know exactly what circumstances allowed her once tiny, invisible-to-the-naked-eye life to progress. We don't know if it was the progesterone, or the endometrial biopsy, or the clomid. Or maybe just two of those things. Or maybe none of those things. Over two years later, we still don't know.

Three of her siblings couldn't hold on. We don't know why.

Three. 

I think of them, my first two, still. I think of our fourth now, reminded of the wounded heart that comes with this territory. I wonder of them. I wonder what their eternal forms look like. Will I recognize them when I step into eternity? Will I know they are my children? Will they know me?

Do they know how much they were wanted? I hope they know. Oh, how I hope they know.

Like all of them, we wanted this baby. 

We were so content in trying for you, so at peace with no worry or anxiety. I knew you existed before the test even told me so. I could feel the changes that your little life brought my body. I felt the holy work, the hands of the perfect One shaping you. I loved you, my fourth. In the few weeks of your existence on this Earth, you were loved and wanted every second.

We began telling people of you, the happiest news. We saw smiles and cheers and joyful tears. We weren't even given enough time to let everyone special to us know you were here. I wish there was more time.

I started planning for you. I knew how we would arrange your new room, and it didn't matter if you would be a boy or a girl. We just wanted you. We wanted to watch you grow inside, and then kiss your cheeks and forehead and hands and toes. We wanted to change your messy diapers, and lose sleep every night over you. We really wanted you.

I ordered Camden an outfit. The shirt read "Big Sister". It will arrive in a few weeks, now a harsh reminder that we'll never know you this side of eternity. She would have been the best big sister. You would have been so loved.

I know you are loved, even now. I know you are there, with your older siblings, and all those who lived numbered years on Earth but now reside eternally. I know you existed in God's heart first, and that existence is even more special than the days we had together. 

I'm really honored to be your Mother, holy being. I'm really humbled that I got you, even for such a short time. I will love you all my days, a piece of my heart continually aching for who you might have become. 

You are forever loved, forever wanted, forever cherished.

We will see you soon, precious life.

Capture

It's been ninety-five days.

Ninety-six sunrises and ninety-five sunsets since my Mama stepped into eternity with Jesus.

Ninety-two days have come and gone since we returned her body to the dust from which it once came.

Not a single day has passed where thoughts of her are absent.

At the beginning, so soon after her passing, the days were long. And a month in, the days seemed longer somehow. Weeks later, they also seemed darker.

But in the midst of those dark, long days: Grace.

God's perfect grace has carried me day after day, moment by moment. His perfect grace lead me to a place of wholeness again. A place of peace and surrender and deep knowing that this - this plan that included the loss of her life - was the better way. It was always the better way and there could have been no plan to compete. This way may have shrouded me in dark days, but this way lead her to eternal light.

A truth of life that none of us want to think about but know we will one day reckon with is the truth of loss. The truth that the physical beings we know to be our families and friends will one day become eternal. The truth that at some point, all we will have left are the remnants of the lives they built: Walls, doors, windows, and a roof. Pictures that speak a hundred words. Memories, both precious and bitter. Music that represents their essence. Movies they loved, books they read. Certain scents.

It may seem like a long list. But compared to having them here? Impossibly short.

Our lives go on after a loss. We feel the void their presence once filled, but life goes on.  Moments come and we wish they were here. Memories flood in that we wish could be changed. Others that we wish we could freeze and live in, just for a moment.

For me, a single photo by my bed serves as reminder of who my Mama was. It was taken on my sixteenth birthday and still sits in the original frame it was placed in ten years ago. The photo was snapped in our front yard. We both smile, the mother and daughter who share such similar features. The mother and daughter who started out the inseparable pair only to one day become strangers; the daughter filled with bitterness. The mother who loved in spite of the daughter's anger-masked-anxiety, who loved with no conditions. The mother-daughter duo who eventually landed in new territory: a place of few words but great forgiveness and surrender. A place trembling with God's redemption. A place where life came full circle: the daughter who was once dressed by the mother now did the dressing.

We look at this picture, Camden and I. Each morning she points to it, excited to hold it in her chubby little hands. She traces her fingers over the three-dimensional roses, taps on my face and then her Mimi's. We talk of her. I share stories. Sometimes I don't speak at all. Sometimes, her Daddy says Camden comes from a long line of strong women.

I can only hope that to be true of my life as it is true of my Mom's.

But while I wait, in what I hope are many, many years before my legacy is left, I live each day. I love my daughter, my husband. I try to memorize the twinkle in Camden's eyes, the way her belly rounds and the infectious and joyful sound of her laugh. I try to remember the way her little body feels in my arms. I watch as light pure fills their being when they lay eyes on each other every afternoon - Camden and her Daddy. I hear the deep, strong voice that prays over our meals, thanking God for breath in our lungs. I witness the strong hands, following the command of a selfless heart, that clean the kitchen after I've cooked dinner, no matter how messy the condition. I listen each night as he reads a story of Camden's choosing and then sings a song. I feel his warmth as he hugs my body close every single night before we drift off to sleep.

My life is good. My life is full. My life is joy.

I live. I live in that goodness, fullness, and joy from God every day. And I look at our picture, my Mama and I. A moment captured.

Loving can hurt

Loving can hurt sometimes

But it's the only thing that I know

When it gets hard

You know it can get hard sometimes

It is the only thing that makes us feel alive

We keep this love in a photograph

We made these memories for ourselves

Where our eyes are never closing

Hearts are never broken

Times forever frozen still

So you can keep me

Inside the pocket of your ripped jeans

Holdin' me closer 'til our eyes meet

You won't ever be alone

Wait for me to come home

Loving can heal

Loving can mend your soul

And it's the only thing that I know, know

I swear it will get easier

Remember that with every piece of ya

And it's the only thing we take with us when we die

We keep this love in this photograph

We made these memories for ourselves

Where our eyes are never closing

Our hearts were never broken

Times forever frozen still

So you can keep me

Inside the pocket of your ripped jeans

Holding me closer 'til our eyes meet

You won't ever be alone

And if you hurt me

That's OK baby, only words bleed

Inside these pages you just hold me

And I won't ever let you go

Wait for me to come home

Wait for me to come home

Wait for me to come home

Wait for me to come home

Oh you can fit me

Inside the necklace you got when you were 16

Next to your heartbeat where I should be

Keep it deep within your soul

And if you hurt me

Well, that's OK baby, only words bleed

Inside these pages you just hold me

And I won't ever let you go

Wait for me to come home

-Ed Sheeran, Photograph