The Heart of a Mom: Part 2

Every woman has the heart of mom within her. We were designed to nurture life. The way we walk that out, though, looks different for each of us. Some women choose not to have kids; some nurture life in a doctor's office or classroom. Some women nurture the lives of natural children they birthed and others nurture adopted children who were birthed in their hearts.

While Mother's Day is for all of us, it's especially hard for some of us. For some women, each May reminds them of the child(ten) they lost. For some it's a painful memory of a decision to end a life. For so many among us, Mother's Day with empty arms reminds them of the depth of their hurt. For these women, Mother's Day is a balancing act. They want to rejoice with friends and family; they want to celebrate the women nurturing life around them. But you can be happy and sad at the same time. You can rejoice for her while your heart is breaking. For so many women I know, this holiday is one of their hardest days a year.

The last thing a woman wants when she's hurting is to be alone. But so often, the loss of a child - whether by miscarriage, still birth or abortion, whether intentionally or by accident - makes you feel just that. It's like an invisible line is drawn in the sand and you're on one side or the other. You've been there or you haven't. You know that pain or you can't imagine it.

But every woman has the heart of a mom. We were designed to nurture life - especially in one another. We were created to bear each other's burdens and carry each other's loads. We are never stronger than when we walk hand-in-hand, when we pick each other up when we fall and carry each other when one is too weak. To do that, we have to be real - we have to honestly share with one another and be wiling to walk through even the stuff that hurts.

If you, like me, are on the side of that invisible line that hasn't experienced the loss of a child personally, let me say on behalf of all of us....we say dumb stuff. We don't meant it, but in our self-absorbed happy perspective, we don't stop to think about what this day means to some. We ask questions that feel like salt on an open wound. We make comments that pierce like a knife. My hope is that this Mother's Day can be different.

Here are a few suggestions. These are not meant to be exhaustive or concrete but rather a starting point - a way to think a little differently and make her day a little brighter.

1. Don't ask "When are you going to hurry up and have kids?" It's really not a good idea on any day, but especially around this day. If she has no kids, there's a reason and you don't need to know it. More importantly, she doesn't need to say it. Imagine the pain of being asked that question when all you want is a baby of your own. Imagine the answers she wants to give you when you imply that it's her choice.

2. Similarly, don't ask "Why don't you have kids yet?" if you aren't prepared for the answer. You've backed her into a corner. Either she can smile and lie or say in the middle of brunch that her uterus isn't capable of carrying a baby to term or she does have children but they live in Heaven. Just don't make her. Just talk about the other ways you see her nurturing life around her. Compliment her giving spirit, her tender heart and her willing hands.

3. Don't say "You know what makes babies, right?" (or any derivative of a similar joke) Anyone over the age of sex ed knows what makes babies. And I assure you, she isn't doing it wrong. While it may be meant in jest, it hurts. The stress a marriage endures through infertility and/or the loss of a child is indescribable. The last thing she needs is to defend publicly the relationship she's trying desperately to hold together through sadness, pain and anger.

4. If you know she's experienced a loss, don't ignore her. Don't assume she doesn't want to be invited or wouldn't have something to add to the conversation. Don't think your joy makes her sad. Her loss makes her sad. Your joy might just pull her through. So don't enforce the invisible line. Cross it. Love her. Hold her hand. Walk beside her regardless of what it looks like.

My prayer is that we learn to see the world through each other's eyes. My hope is that we get stronger as we walk together - that we lift each other up, wipe each other's tears and hold each other's hands. Because every woman has the heart of a mom.

Lilly's Day

A year ago, I posted a letter from their baby girl to my friends who lost her. The letter has been used to comfort parents who lost babies and encourage women considering abortion. In all those cases of all those moms and dads, not once has someone written to tell me that it gets easier. No one has said it becomes simple and painless to do what's best for your child when it tears you apart. Lilly will always be gone, so there will always be a void in our lives that she would have filled. It doesn't get easier to lose a child. It doesn't get easier to go through a day and not miss her. IT doesn't get easier. But YOU get stronger.

Today is Lilly's birthday...and the day she died. Birthdays are usually happy occasions. They are the day we celebrate a life beginning and the hope of the future. They are filled with cakes and balloons and colors and joy. They are a day to look back at the last year and look forward to the next. They are a day to be thankful.

We all have tears to shed today because the space in our lives Lilly would have filled is still empty. That sadness doesn't go away. But today, my prayer for those who know the pain of losing a child is that today - Lilly's day - will be a day to be thankful.

I'm thankful that Lilly Claire spent all her time on earth tucked safely under her mama's heart.
I'm thankful that even in that place that hurts, we can celebrate her day.

I'm thankful for the hope of a future where we understand God's comfort in a way we couldn't before because we hadn't needed it so profoundly. 

I'm thankful that we can have cake and balloons and colors and joy because Lilly is our constant reminder of God's faithfulness. She is the picture in our hearts of what it means to trust Him beyond what you can see or think or feel. 

I'm thankful that we can look at the last year and see every step of hurt where we were carried. 

I'm thankful that we can look forward to the next year and know we are stronger than we were before.
We can be thankful - not in a fake way, not with empty platitudes, not as those who take life for granted. We can be thankful that one little girl changed us forever.

Losing a baby doesn't get easier. Sometimes the hurt comes even when we pray with all we have that it will be different.  IT doesn't get easier. But YOU get stronger.

And we have Lilly to thank for reminding us of that.

unwritten

I read about these people who were so overwhelmed, tired and frustrated that the writing of their blog was the only thing that saved them. They talk about screaming kids and piles of laundry and how blogging was the way they coped. I don’t understand these people. When my kid is screaming, the last thing I can think of doing is to sit and write anything. What I want is a drink. And a pillow. And for the love of all that’s holy…silence. How does the laundry get done in these houses where people blog to cope? Does the blog somehow magically spit out detergent? Have they found a way to type and sort socks at the same time? Seriously. I’m so confused.

I’ve said before that when I love, I do it with my whole heart. Recently, my whole heart has been tried and tested. When Tania had to bury her baby, I grieved with her regardless of how far away I live. When Janay had beautiful news, we laughed and praised God together. When Brandy was faced with the hardest trial of her life, I couldn’t blog our way to happiness. I flew her to DC and we sat on my sofa and stared at each other, both as sleeplessly exhausted as the other. When Brynna threw a fit in the middle of the restaurant this afternoon, I couldn’t type a solution. I had to sit in the midst of all those people staring at me like I was poisoning my kid simply because I asked her to eat chicken.

I don’t blog because it can somehow save me. I blog because I hope that somewhere in the middle of my craziness, you can see a part of you. I hope you can find something to laugh at (usually at my expense…I’m ok with that). I hope you can read a little something that makes you think, points you in the right direction or brings you to your knees. I’ll try to get better at not disappearing for periods of time. But know that when I have gone MIA, it’s not because I have nothing to say. It’s because if given the choice to sit and hold my friend while she cries or write about it, I’ll choose to be unpublished any day of the week.

Letter from Lilly

There are so many days that I think "I could handle this so much better if I just knew she understood. If Brynna could just verbalize that she knows the discipline is for her good, that she sees the sacrifices and feels loved and safe and secure." But as parents, we don't get that feedback. It's the one job that doesn't have an annual review or progress report. You don't get to hear what they are thinking. Tomorrow my friends have to face the thing every parent hopes against. They will bury their baby girl who was born Monday with Trisomy 18. Tania carried her to term, feeling her kick and squirm for all those months. She endured the back pain and sleepless nights, the nausea and leg cramps. But a few hours before delivery, Lilly Claire's little heart that formed with a hole in it stopped beating. Tania pushed through that pain so many of us know firsthand but her baby girl didn't cry and look up at her with big expectant eyes. 

As they lay her to rest tomorrow I just keep thinking that there's nothing I can do. I can't ease their pain although I want to with all my heart. I can't make it hurt less. But I can tell them the one thing that might make it a little easier. Maybe if they just knew what Lilly was thinking it'd give them a little smile in the midst of their tears. If she could tell them how she feels, I think it might sound something like this...

Mommy & Daddy,
Thank you. Thank you for loving me so much that you chose to be even more sad right now instead of ending a pregnancy you knew would be painful. Thank you for loving every part of me - even the incomplete parts - even when you knew I wouldn't be like other kids. Thank you for naming me and grieving for me. Thank you for telling my big brother about me. 

Mommy, most of all, thank you for carrying me under your heart. Your heart helped my heart beat and your breaths gave me breath. Thank you for singing to me and praying for me. (Thank you especially for eating good Mexican food!) Daddy, thank you for talking to me and letting me hear my brother's laugh. Thank you for holding me and telling me you love me even after I was gone. Thank you for not being afraid to let people see you cry.

You chose to hurt to let me grow. You chose to cry so I didn't have to. You chose to bear the pain and sadness of my loss and because of that everyone knows how much you love me. People can see that you love Jesus because you chose to love me. 

Thank you for showing the world what it means to be a parent - to love your baby more than yourself even when it hurts. Thank you for loving me enough to give me to Jesus even though you don't understand. Thank you. 

--Lilly Claire

It's OK Not To Be OK

I recently learned of a church near Vegas who is known for a slogan. They have it painted on walls, signs and shirts. Not far from the strip, it's become their symbol of the open door the church should always have - no matter what you look like, feel, think or do.

It's ok not to be ok.

How different would each of us be if we really, truly believed that? How would your day look? How would your voice and the words you use sound? What else would you do with all the time in your day usually reserved for just trying to be (or at least look) ok? What would your kids learn about you and themselves? How would your marriage change? How would it affect your view of the world around you?

It's ok not to be ok.

You are a new mom. Your body is only vaguely recognizable as the one you've known for 20+ years and you are awoken every few hours by the most awful sounding siren. Not only does the sound wake you, but it then expects you to feed it, change it, hold it, sing, walk, rock or stand on one foot until it can sleep again - at which point now you're hungry and can't sleep because you need a snack. It's ok not to be ok.

Being a wife is hard. Period. You have to share both your bathroom and your feelings with another being who apparently prior to knowing you did not respect either. You have to love him with he's unlovable and care for him when you need care yourself. It's ok not to be ok.

You are pregnant. Enough said. It's ok not to be ok.

You want to be pregnant but you're not. It's ok not to be ok.

Toddlers are exhausting. Utterly, completely and totally exhausting. No, you don't want to go outside again. No, you would rather not push the swing for the trillionth time. No, you don't want to get out the paint supplies because you just cleaned the kitchen AGAIN. It's ok not to be ok.

You are grieving the loss or pain of a loved one. It hurts. Your world looks different today than it did yesterday. You don't have to go on like it's business as usual because it's not. It's ok not to be ok.

You now have two kids (or three or more...). Two is different than one. You have to learn to change diapers with a toddler hanging from your back. You have to discipline one person while comforting another. Schedule is now a curse word because everyone is on a different one. It's ok not to be ok.

You are depressed. I know, I know, you don't want to call it that. (I didn't either.) You don't want to take the medicine. (I didn't either.) You don't want to admit the "failure." (Which isn't true at all, but we'll wait 'til you get past the medicine part and then we can address all the wrong stuff your head has tried to convince you.) You don't want anyone to know that you don't want to get out of bed. But you don't. And it's ok not to be ok.

You are in over your head. You feel like you might be close to drowning. You are overwhelmed. It's ok not to be ok.

Do you hear me? It's ok. You are ok.

Will you make me a promise and make this your mantra for the next few days? Will you write it on your mirror, put it in your car and hang it on the fridge? It's ok not to be ok. That does't mean it's ok to stay in the place you're in. If you need someone to help, it means it's ok to ask. If you are tired, it means it's ok to let the laundry pile up and eat take-out food while you take a nap. If you are hurting, it means it's not going to hurt forever. It's ok not to be ok.

And it's ok if people know you're not ok. It would make them a little more ok to help you. That's how God designed us - to need each other and to fill needs in each other. It's ok not to be ok. It doesn't mean you failed. It doesn't mean you are a burden. It doesn't mean you don't measure up. It's ok not to be ok.

Convinced: Part 1

I heard a sermon recently that stuck with me. The speaker described a guy named Andy who is convinced that God is his provider. She told numerous stories of how Andy, his wife and 4 kids have found themselves in a place of financial need and in one way or another God provided. At the end of her stories about Andy she said, "You may be able to sway him in another area, but when it comes to whether or not God is his sole provider, you can't shake him. He is CONVINCED in here (his head), here (his heart) and down here (his gut)."

I struggle with a lot of stuff. I doubt myself. I question my abilities and decisions. I know He promised it, but I wonder if He can really use the pieces of me to create something more beautiful than I can imagine. I know He's our comforter but sometimes I keep Him at arm's distance. I believe in His love but it overwhelms me. I marvel at His ability to create the universe but I struggle to let Him lead my sometimes silly self. But I realized today why that sermon stuck with me. I have an "Andy spot." I have one area in which I am CONVINCED.  When it comes to this, you can't shake me. I know that I know that God is Healer.

How do I know?

I dropped the phone when they told me he had a heart attack. I smiled through tears when they said the only way he was alive was because he was at the hospital (the last place on earth he'd ever choose to be) when it happened. I held his hand and walked that country road for months, helping him get stronger after a 7-way bypass. I learned that you don't have to know what you're doing to ask God for help. I learned He doesn't need me to be eloquent. He needs me to acknowledge I need Him. When I watch my dad throw my daughter in the pool, I'm CONVINCED.


I laid in a hospital bed and rubbed the radiation burn on her little back. I held her while she cried and hurt. I held her mama while she did the same. I learned to pray in ways I didn't know before. I learned that while God never, ever wants us to hurt, He will use even the imperfect parts of our situation for good. My niece is not only a cancer survivor, but people who meet her now struggle to accept that she was ever sick. Every time I watch her run and swim and play, I'm CONVINCED.

I sat in that delivery room in stunned silence after they took her to the NICU. I sobbed the night they said she was too sick for us to visit. I felt an emptiness I had never known when I drove home from the hospital without her. I learned to trust even when I can't see the hand to hold on to. I learned that faith is a battle scar proudly earned. When my little girl reminds me she's a big girl, when she runs with limitless amounts of energy, I'm CONVINCED.











I held her tiny hand when it was too small to wrap about my pinky. I helped wrap her little body in plastic so she wouldn't get too cold. I put together her crib that for months she couldn't come home to sleep in. I learned a kind of faith you can't teach without going through something. I learned that believing is not about receiving. It's about believing - in the One able to be believed. My goddaughter is a healthy two year old with not one complication from being born at 26 weeks. Every time I see her sweet smile, I'm CONVINCED.

Today, you may sway me on a few things, but of one thing, I am CONVINCED. God is a healer. I've seen Him do it too many times.

I talked with her via Facebook and email when she became Taylor's "Auburn mom." A little piece of me was jealous that when Taylor had a bad day, she called me but Summer got to hug her. I thanked God daily for the love, support, protection and guidance her family provided the daughter of my heart. When they found cancer and chemo started, I was jealous again that she rocked those wigs like a pop star! I've learned that it doesn't matter what I see, God is bigger. As Summer now recovers from two surgeries in a week, I'm CONVINCED. And I'm just waiting...

I prayed with her through in vitro and a dozen procedures. I walked the road with her to the decision to adopt. I threw a party when that baby boy was born and went home with two people who love him more than he'll ever comprehend. I rejoiced with her when a year later, she got pregnant. We talked it through when last week that baby girl was diagnosed with Trisomy 18. I've learned that God can do what we can't see. I've learned that sometimes He waits so that when He steps in, we can't wonder who did it. There's no option but to be CONVINCED. So I'm just waiting...

I cried when I discovered how her abortion affected her life for years to follow. I traveled from the passenger seat as she navigated the waters of being single into her mid-30's. I stood by her when she married a man who loves God and my Janay. My heart broke when she lost the baby she carried for 3 months. My heart hurts as I now hold her hand (long distance) as she does everything in her power but has yet to fill the desire of her heart for motherhood. I've learned, though, that He has a purpose for every breath we take - even the ones that hurt, and I'm CONVINCED. So I'm just waiting...

Last weekend I watched a man tightrope walk across two buildings at Niagra Falls. At 600 ft. in the air, I realized that some things you have to see to believe. I've seen, I believe and of this, I'm CONVINCED. God is Healer. In here (my head), here (my heart) and down here (my gut), I know it because I've seen it. I'm CONVINCED and I'm just waiting...for the the next story to add to my list.

open hands

From the second Brynna entered the world, I had to let her go.  Ten minutes before she was born, they said she wasn't breathing well and it was necessary to get her out immediately.  I had to let go of that vision I had of holding her and staring at the beautiful person God had created.  I had to let go of what it's "supposed to look like."  I had to open my hands and let her go.

In December of 2008, I watched my sister and her husband as they had to let go.  When Zoe was diagnosed with cancer all they wanted to do was hold tight.  They couldn't fathom starting this process of chemo and radiation that would strip Zoe of her hair and what health she had to make her feel worse, all in hopes of making her feel better.  But little by little, they did.  They let go of the myth that they were in charge.  They let go of knowing what tomorrow would look like.

I have friends who have just started this journey of daily thinking your baby belongs to you, only to be reminded you have to open your hands and let it all go.  Jason and Katie have let go of fear and false pre-tenses.  They have let go of assurance and stability.  They are standing on completely shaking ground, holding tight to their Only Hope and letting go.

Two weeks ago, I laid my eyes on and touched this beautiful baby girl we weren't yet expecting to see.  Brandy is my best friend in the entire world and I wanted all the best for her.  I prayed she would have an easy pregnancy and easy delivery.  I prayed she would experience all those first moments I missed.  But God wanted more.  He wanted her to learn to let go.  She was due to have a baby in October; instead, she had a baby in July.  And before she was supposed to, she had to let her go.  Brandy's having to let go of the anger that Hannah is supposed to be safe and secure inside of her.  She's letting go of her 'whys'.

My point is not to make a laundry list of kids who have faced things before their time.  These trials were part of their time.  My point is that it was also part of our time as their parents.  My heart is heavy for Jason and Katie, for Brandy and Quarter.  I have sat in these hospital rooms, laid in the bed next to a hurting baby, sure you are going to wake up at any minute and find it was a bad dream.  But as much as I would like to make it all go away and feel better, I know deep down, that's not what's best.  I learned the day Brynna was born that she is not mine.  I am not the parent I would be had her birth been"normal," and I don't want to be.  I pray I never look at Brynna and forget what it felt like to leave her in the NICU and walk away.  I pray I discipline, teach, love and guide her always remembering that she is not mine.  God has allowed me the honor of being her mom today.  But she belongs to Him.  Zeb belongs to Him.  Hannah belongs to Him.  And thankfully, we, their parents, belong to Him, too.

Our girls...

First came Imani MacKenzie Grace, my 9-year-old -going-on-20 goddaughter. She may be the smartest person I've ever met...and I've met a lot of people. She is not satisfied to hear a fact, she wants to know everything about it and then teach it to someone else. She was a surprise we weren’t planning for but has taught us all more than we could have ever taught her.

Several years later, came my niece, Zoe Regina. She lives up to my name in the middle of hers. She likes shoes and sparkles and all things pretty and pink. When a tumor threatened her ability to stand, let alone walk, she got up and tried again. Today, she runs and jumps and plays so well we sometimes forget that last year she lay in a bed unable to eat.

Last year, I had Brynna Grace - my mini-me, my shadow, my baby girl. Some people come into a room and draw attention. Brynna consumes every space she enters. She laughs, talks, sings and lives LOUD. She was born with an infection that made her unable to breathe and therefore, not make a sound. She now makes up for that everyday.

Two weeks after Brynna, we added Nia Grace and Nala Iman, my twin goddaughters. They are MacKie's little sisters and Brynna's best buds. Separate, they have their own, amazing personalities. Together, they can throw a party! Twins often struggle at birth; "NiNa" defied those odds.

This past Tuesday, our gorgeous girls added a new member to the group. Hannah Lynell is my newest goddaughter. Born at 26 weeks, she is the most beautiful 2 lbs I've ever laid eyes on. She has the most perfect nose, long fingers and pretty brown eyes. As I watch her learn to breathe, I can think only of the favor God shows us. He didn't have to give air for our lungs, but He does. And so much more.

We have often joked that to be in this elite group of girls, you have to be feisty (which is, of course, in no way related to the character of the mothers who birthed them). What started as a joke has become truer than we ever imagined. Each of our girls has overcome awesome obstacles. Through them, we have learned that even when life brings things you didn’t plan for, you make adjustments, hold on tight and let God drive. We have learned the power of prayer. We have learned how to support each other even from a distance. We have learned that sometimes you don’t need a million people; sometimes you just need to sit with the people who love you most and say absolutely nothing.

I am so much more than a mom. I am a proud aunt and godmother. I am blessed to be in the company of these girls, to learn from and teach them, to watch them grow up to be strong women. These are Our Girls and I couldn’t love them more…