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.

Dear Brynna,

I remember the day you were born like it was yesterday. I remember I woke up and knew that you were coming that day. I didn't feel any different, but I knew in my heart it would be the day I got to see your face. I got ready that morning knowing we would go to the hospital at some point. I had our bags packed and my hair done and our cute going-home clothes all ready. But this would be my first lesson in many that no matter how prepared you are as a mom, you aren't prepared for everything.

I remember the contractions started at the mall. We all thought that was funny because we love the mall. They weren't strong at first, so of course, I kept shopping. I remember Papa needed new shoes and while he tried them on, Yaya noted times on a pad of paper. I remember when they started getting stronger. I remember when Daddy got home and was so excited to leave for the hospital, but Yaya said it wasn't time. Daddy asked Yaya to see her medical degree and she pointed to me. She didn't need a medical degree. She's a mom. Moms know stuff. I remember how the contractions hurt worse when I laughed but I couldn't stop.

I remember driving to the hospital. I remember when the nurse said it could be awhile and Daddy told her we weren't going anywhere. He's been protecting us long before you were born. I remember when the pain was really bad. I remember when it was even worse. I remember when they said it wouldn't be long. I couldn't wait to hold you.

I remember their faces when they said you couldn't breathe, so I breathed extra air for both of us. I remember when they said my heart rate was dropping and the doctor gave me medicine. I remember Daddy's face being scared but all I could think about was you. My heart knew even then I would always take care of you before me.  I remember how many people were suddenly in the room. I remember talking and pushing and pulling and serious faces.

And then I remember silence. I remember wanting to hear you cry but not hearing anything. I remember seeing you across the room. I remember how you were purple and blue, and I just wanted you to be pink and wrapped up in my arms. I remember telling Daddy to go with you. I remember how torn he was to have to leave one of us. I remember how empty it felt without you. I remember laying face down and praying for God to do for you what I couldn't.

I remember visiting you in the NICU. I remember really bad times and really good ones. I remember watching Daddy hold you and just stare. I remember you looking back at him, memorizing parts of his face. I remember walking away from the hospital without you. I remember sitting in your room at home, praying for you to fight like the strong person we know you are. And you did.

I remember pieces of every day since that day. I remember days when I wish I'd been a better mom and days when I felt like we were getting this right, you and me. I remember you crawling backwards first and getting stuck in corners. I remember the day you slept on your bear on the floor next to TayTay as she painted you a picture. I remember Daddy sneaking in to your room to let you sleep on his chest.

Five years later...
Daddy still sneaks in to let you sleep on his chest. I'm still willing to give you all my air and heartbeats. I can't describe the ways God has changed me by letting me be your mom. I can't explain how proud I am of your love for people, your energy and your confidence. I'm grateful I remember that day. It makes me all the more grateful for this day.

Happy 5th Birthday, Brynna Grace!

I love you from the east to the west...

I pray I learn to love like kids do...

As we drove to lunch today, Brynna prompted a conversation that will stay with me always. Sitting in the backseat dressed loudly in pink, she asked if Zoe was in surgery. I explained that it was still nighttime in Australia so Zoe was sleeping but would start surgery soon. Brynna was momentarily distracted by the timezone discrepancy (she comes by that naturally; it confuses the heck out of me) and then she said, "So AJ & Zoe and I share the sun. When it's here, they're sleeping and then when they have the sun, I'm sleeping."

I'm not sure I've ever heard a better explanation.

She chattered on about how she hoped Zoe wouldn't be too scared and how she prayed she slept well. Then, as though the thought hit her for the first time, she asked, "Mama. What's actually wrong with Zoe's back?"

It never occurred to her to need the details to pray.

I explained that when Zoe was two, she had a really bad bug on her back and it hurt her insides. She had to take medicine and have surgery to remove it. Now the doctors are fixing where the bug hurt her back. She thought a moment and as if she was doing math in her tiny head, she asked, "So has Zoe always been sick since I've been alive?" I confirmed and told her that's why in some of the pictures when she and AJ were babies, Zoe doesn't have hair. The medicine made her lose her hair. Her response was, "Zoe lost her hair?" I told her to think about the picture on Yaya's wall. Nothing. I told her to think about the pictures we laugh about when she and AJ were such different sizes. Nothing.

She was too busy playing with and loving her cousin to notice she was bald.

She then asked if Zoe's back has always hurt even after the bug was gone. "Yes, " I told her. "That's why she's had to wear a brace." I can't count how many times Brynna and Zoe have been in the midst of a conversation while Zoe laid on the floor and one of us tightened the straps on her brace her brace. (Brynna's arm is literally wrapped around Zoe's brace as they smile for the camera in Disney World.) Brynna obviously knows Zoe has worn a brace; it just never dawned on her it was bad. I added that after today's surgery, she hopefully won't have to wear the brace again or the halo on her head. Without a joking ounce in her body, she asked with every bit of 4-year-old seriousness, "Mom. There's something IN Zoe's head?" The tone in her voice implied "What is wrong with you people that you haven't gotten it off her head before now?!"

I share these pics only to illustrate how profound it is that she literally never noticed. That check in your gut that just happened...she never had that thought of "oh, poor Zoe!" She saw her cousin. She loves her cousin. They made faces to see who could make the other laugh because that's what they do.

We could learn so much from children if we'd let them teach us.

We don't need to be in the same timezone to share.
We don't need details to pray.
If we'd focus so intently on loving one another, we wouldn't even recognize the differences and flaws that we think are such a big deal.

Silver Linings Playbook

I never saw that movie. I actually don't really know what it's about. But I love the title. I want to live by that playbook. I want to take my cues based on the silver linings rather than the clouds.

My niece, Zoe, is in traction in a hospital in Australia. My sister is sitting by her bed and I'm not there. Zoe is in pain. Vikki is tired. Those are some dark clouds. And if all we look for are the clouds, there are more to be found. But if we look for the silver linings...what a better skyline that is. What a more beautiful sight!

The hospital they are in is set up differently than we understand in the US. You don't suffer your pain quietly and personally but laying right next to another child in their own pain. There is no private room with your own bathroom and place to lay by your baby's bed. There isn't space to take a moment to yourself to regroup, pray or cry. That cloud feels pretty dark and heavy. But if you look for it, there's a silver lining. That lack of privacy means you know the people around you. The day Zoe was admitted, she shared a room with two other kids. One little boy was undergoing chemo, so Zoe and Vikki could relate personally and give them encouragement. The other was just out of surgery similar to the one Zoe will have next week. Those close quarters meant that Vikki was able to talk to parents. Those conversations meant those kids were prayed for by people an ocean away. I prayed for them just this morning.

Sometimes a cloud feels darker because of when it rolls in. In the middle of the night when Vikki had just gotten Zoe calmed down and resting, a little girl was brought in to the room where Zoe is in traction. She needed constant supervision but her parents were less than concerned for those around them in such critical conditions. As you can imagine, Vikki initially responded with frustration at the effect their outburst had on Zoe. I have a "you wake her, you take her rule" and that's just on a Tuesday. But throughout the next day they got to know that little girl. They learned about her life and struggles. Vikki circled her bed in person, and I joined her prayer in spirit. They were able to be a little bright spot for her. They were a silver lining for her and she was one for them.

And my favorite silver lining of all... The night Zoe shared the room with two kids, one of them, Anthony, had complications from his fusion surgery. It's sad to see any child hurt. It's hard to not be able to help them. It was scary on a new level to see Anthony's pain knowing Zoe would have the same procedure. That cloud isn't just black, it's ominous. That's the kind of cloud that feels like it blocks out the sun. But God had the lining ready and waiting in the room down the hall. Zoe was moved into a room with a little girl named Rachel. Rachel is 12 and has paralysis and severe trauma as a result of a car accident years ago. Her family lives hours away, so they aren't at the hospital with her. She's been in rehab and under observation for so long that it's been arranged for Rachel to be able to go to school. That means that Rachel wakes up, go to school and then goes "home" to hang with the nurses in the afternoon. I could hear the heartbreak my sister felt as she described Rachel's situation. But where Vikki saw sadness, Zoe saw opportunity. Zoe may be in a hospital but she's a child. And children have a way of seeing what we can't. As they talked, Zoe asked Rachel where her mom is. When Zoe finally understood that Rachel was alone, her response wasn't pity. Her face lit up and she said, "Well that's great because my mom's here and she can help us with whatever we need!"

We see a little girl alone in a hospital. Zoe saw a friend to share with.
We are sad for a mom who has to watch her baby hurt. The girls just saw a mom being a mom.
We cry for what is. They smile at what can be.

Rachel is no longer alone. She visits Zoe in traction, and Vikki keeps tabs on Rachel's progress so she can answer when Zoe asks how she is.

When we look for clouds, we will find them.
When we look with the eyes of a child, we will see the silver linings.

Who Holds Tomorrow

My niece, Zoe, is a survivor. Not like in the dreamy "little girls are resilient" way. Like in the Zoe kicked cancer in the face way. We walked through some really dark days a few years ago. My family held hands and we prayed all the way through the valley of the shadow of death - literally. As I walked to Zoe's hospital room one day, I asked the nurse what the colored signs on the doors to the right and left of Zoe's were for. She explained that the signs alert hospital staff that the tiny, precious patients in those rooms are near death. It was a silent way of reminding people who entered to be sensitive to the broken hearts inside. It was also a silent reminder that death literally knocked next door. So we prayed and cried and prayed and cried. Through chemo and radiation and puke and fear. And still holding hands, we slowly but surely, walked out the other side, led by a little bald head who now, 5 years later, has long, blonde hair.

Her head is no longer bald and her nails aren't chipped from drugs - they are usually painted a sparkly shade of pink. But rarely do wounds heal without leaving scars and aftereffects in the wake. For Zoe, that lingering damage is in her back. The tumor wrapped around her spine and that area of her body has tried to compensate for the trauma by compressing and turning inward. Her spine has curved and isn't allowing her to stand or walk straight, which is affecting her organs, hips and more. So today, Zoe is back in a hospital. After today's surgery, she will remain in the hospital in traction and, then in a few weeks, she will have a second surgery to fuse the vertebrate that have died.

Zoe is scared. Her mama and daddy are scared. Her grandparents and her Aunt Gigi are scared. And if her Aunt Gigi can be candidly honest for a moment: I'm so sad. I'm sad she has to feel one second of pain. I'm sad I'm an ocean away and can't sit beside my sister and say nothing. I'm sad that some of the childlike faith of a little girl in Zoe has been replaced with hurt. I'm sad that I can't hug her and hold her and tell her I love her. I'm sad I won't be there when she wakes up. I'm sad someone else will hold the pink bucket when the anesthesia makes her sick. I'm sad someone else will paint her nails and blow bubbles to take her mind off what's happening. I'm so sad.

I'm also speechless at how good God is. That may sound an odd thing to you in the midst of the sorrow I've described, but the truth doesn't change with our situations. The truth is the same when we're up and when we're down. And the truth is: God is good. He doesn't want Zoe to hurt anymore than I do. He loves her more than I or her mom or dad, even, could imagine loving her. He has surrounded her with a family who would walk through fire for her. And we will. And just like last time, He will go before us. A sweet new friend approached me Sunday to ask for specifics about Zoe's situation. I shared a bit and thought it overly compassionate when she started crying. But then she told me why. She told me that while we don't really know one another, she felt compelled to fast and pray for my family. After I talked to a friend this morning in another city, she prayed with a group of women I will never meet. God was paving the path before I knew how bumpy the walk would be. My sister and her family live in Adelaide, Australia. While they aren't close enough for my family to be there every day, my brother-in-law's family is, and they are. And that means that even though I'm not beside my sister in the waiting room, God made sure she's not alone. Some friends "happened" to have a business trip that took them to Adelaide last week, and my mom and dad will arrive soon. God is in the details. He knows our need before we know to ask for help. Even when we don't understand, God is good.

Does it mean I'm not sad? No. My heart feels like it's in pieces and some of them are on the other side of the world. Does it mean any of it's easy? Not at all. But does it mean we have hope beyond what we feel? Yes. A million times, yes!

Because as I trust Him even when the sadness leaves me empty, God fills the void with joy and peace.
It doesn't mean I know what tomorrow holds. It means I know who holds tomorrow.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. (Romans 15:13)

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.

Convinced: Part 2

A few months ago I wrote a blog about healing. I explained that while there are things that may cause me to question or fret, there is one thing of which I am sure. Way down deep in my gut I know...I am CONVINCED that God is a healer.

I said that I was just waiting for another story to add to my treasure chest of ways that God has proven Himself...

I prayed along with hundreds of others for Summer to be healed of the cancer that overtook her body. Summer wasn't healed in the way so many wanted her to be. She went to sing with Jesus in October. In the months since her death, women from all over the country have posted on her Facebook wall and reached out to her family and friends. Women who never knew Summer personally have gained strength in their own battles from the faith she displayed. People tempted to blame God when bad things happen have gained hope and turned to Jesus because they saw so much love in her response to her own pain. When I think of the lives changed forever because of Summer, I'm still CONVINCED.

On Nov. 5, I looked at David and said through tears, "I literally wish it was me. I would take her place to spare her this pain." See, of all my girlfriends, Tania is the sweetest. I have friends who are tough, snarky, smart and bold, but Tania has a calming tenderness about her. If your friends say something about you, Tania gives me hope that there's something soft in the midst of all my rough edges. After carrying her baby girl to term, Tania never got to hold her in her arms while she lived. Lilly Claire died during delivery. But Tania did hold her. And so did her daddy. And they held each other. The day before Lilly's funeral, Tania's husband Bob emailed me these words: Inside my heart I fell to my knees, I just pulled her to my chest and sobbed uncontrollably. It was terrible and beautiful all at the same time. I have never been more proud of my champion wife; I have never been more in love, I have never been more committed to my God and my bride. Lilly never had to hurt in the ways they predicted she might, and thousands of people have watched Bob and Tania deal honestly with the pain of her loss.  When I consider how many people have seen faith under pressure and trusted Jesus a little more, I'm still CONVINCED.

Last year Janay joined my family to celebrate July 4th by my parents' pool in Oklahoma. We swam, we ate and we laughed. But in the midst of the fun was a sadness we couldn't deny. It was that day that Janay was supposed to give birth to the baby she miscarried. After months of doctor appointments and the news that her chances of ever conceiving were slim, she and Maurice decided to forego any further fertility treatments. Janay had to fully let go of her dream to embrace God's plan for her - no matter what it may look like. Today, she wrote about the new baby they are expecting - the very same week that her baby would have been born last year. When I think of how this July 4th celebration will be different than last, I'm still CONVINCED.

I'm convinced that God heals according to His will. I'm convinced that He is able to do more than I can even think to ask. I was, I am, I'm still...CONVINCED.

And don't be surprised if you hear a loud sound sometime around the first of July. It's not fireworks. I'm just praising God as I welcome my new niece or nephew into the world.

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

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.

Home Is Where the Heart Is

It’s after 1am and I can’t sleep.  David is on a plane bound for London, so no one is here to acknowledge how nuts I am for still being awake.  In my insomnia-induced haze, I’ve been reading old posts on my blog.  (We’ll talk later about whether that’s just weird or strangely narcissistic.)  Bottom line: I am sniffling.  Mascara isn’t running but I should probably blow my nose instead of continuing to wipe it on my shirt sleeve.  (I know, gross.  Sorry to be graphic.)  Anyway…it’s rare that I cry, so a sniffle is pretty significant.  It’s sad snot.  I miss home.

I made a commitment not to call Dallas “home” as a show of acceptance that DC is now our home.  This is not a temporary move or short-term vacation.  We live in Virginia, no longer in Texas.  And for the most part, I’ve stuck to that verbiage.  But when I talk about DC Metro (our new church), I sometimes catch myself saying “you,” still referring to the way “we” do it at Fellowship.  When I am in need of adult conversation instead of toddler-speak, I can’t help but think of the differences in cost of living and wish I were “home” where daycare was more affordable.    When I’m panting at the top of the 3^rd floor, I miss my house with more room than we needed and no stairs.  When I don’t know a new place to eat or can’t get to an unknown location without my GPS, I find myself pouting a little, knowing I could get anywhere in Dallas with my eyes closed.

I am so blessed to have started some great new friendships already.  Tomorrow, Brynna is going to spend a couple hours at Esther’s house with her little people, Samuel and Reagan.  I’m so grateful for that, but unlike leaving BG with Kim, Jami, Stephanie, Janay, Deb or a plethora of other people, I feel a little guilty for asking. 

I was told when I arrived that I would most likely form a small allegiance to one grocery store – you’re either a Harris Teeter, Whole Foods or Giant shopper.  For convenience and one-stop shopping, I fall in the Harris Teeter fan club.  (Let’s not get into that name.  It took me a good 3 weeks to overcome it and the subject is still touchy.)  But even though I can get free-range eggs, shampoo and Easy Mac at the same place, sometimes I’d still just prefer Central Market.

But mostly…I miss my girls.  I want to go shopping with Tania for the settee I’m planning to add in the kitchen nook.  I want to go to the park and talk to Kim while BG swings with Jackson and Laila.  I want to laugh with Yanci after church ‘til there’s no one left in the atrium but Brynna, Sterling and Kingston running in circles.  I want to go to the Arboretum with Jami, Eisley and Beck.  I want to hold Malosi and Colton.  I want to sit on the porch swing under a blanket with Mikele and Cheri.  I want to spend this week David is out of town in Tulsa with Hope and Brandy, hugging Hannah, playing with MacKie and hearing all the new words NiNa can say.  I want to go to lunch with Janay.  I want to go shopping with Janay.  I want to watch stupid TV with Janay.  And my little girl – let’s not even start – I want to hug Taylor.

So now the sniffles have officially turned to puddles about to spill over my tear ducts.  (Yes, I am so annoyed to cry that I choose to describe it in this way.)

My resolve has not changed – I know God sent us to DC, and I am grateful He trusts us enough to use us.  I am honored to obey Him.  I am blessed this is my home now and I will continue to put down roots. 

But tonight (or this morning…whatever), I miss home.

Top Ten Things I'll Miss the Most: The End

#2 and #1 – My Cot Carriers and My Girls

I have struggled to write the last two of my Top Ten, so I’m just putting them together.  They bleed into each other.  They are so close to my heart it hurts less to try the denial tactic when thinking of saying goodbye.

Several years ago, I sat across the table from Cheri (whom I call my spiritual mother) and cried.  I had faced hurts before, but the road in front of me at that time was more than I could bear.  Cheri assured me that, yes, it was more than I could bear alone, but God never said I had to walk alone.  She read me the story in Mark 2 of the man who lay paralyzed on a mat.  Jesus assured the man that his own faith had healed him but when he was incapable of doing so on his own, it was his friends who carried him to Jesus.  Cheri promised to carry my cot at the times I was incapable of getting through on my own.  She kept that promise ten fold.  But one person alone can’t carry your cot, so others came alongside me and poured out their love, care, affection, kindness and grace.  God used Mike, Mikele, Deb, Dr. Jim, Janay and so many others to carry David and I as He strengthened our faith and healed us. 

Each of those people holds a piece of my heart.  They saw me at my worst and carried me anyway.  They knew the cost and still chose to love me.  That is a rare gift.  Everyone needs to know that feeling.  My feelings for the friends who carried my cot are deeper than words can express.  How do you say goodbye to the ones who carried you to Jesus?  I can’t.  All I can do is trust and know that the Jesus in me has seen the Jesus in each of you and that makes every mile between us Holy Ground.  And Holy Ground makes us family.

Sometimes your family carries your cot and sometimes carrying your cot transforms friends to family.  Hope and Brandy will always be my sister-friends.  I have the rare privilege of calling their girls my goddaughters, and I hold that responsibility with the utmost honor.  It makes me sad to think I’ll be farther away from gymnastics meets and first steps and birthdays, but I know we will remain connected as we have for almost 20 years because our hearts are linked. 

But now I have more than just two to miss.  When I moved to Dallas I thought I’d never again know the type of friendship forged over time.  I assumed that only someone who has known you since you were 12 can feel as close as family. I’m so grateful God proved me wrong.  I am sad with a hole in my heart but because there will be a void in the absence of my girls.  I will miss being there the day Kelly, Kelli and Tania bring home their first babies.  I won’t be there when Lisa finds her wings and really learns to fly.  I will miss comparing shoes with Kris and dancing with Cassandra, Brittney and Kemi.  I will miss laughing about life’s messes with Stephanie, Jami, Kim and Yanci.

And then there’s Janay.  We laugh that on the outside we couldn’t look more different but somehow people continue to mix up our names.  We just chalked it up to the fact that we’re so alike on the inside it spills out and confuses people.  When I inspect myself through a raw and honest lens, I know that my life would look completely different without my sister-friend.  God used Janay to open my ears to Him.  I couldn’t have learned many of the lessons I have in the past several years or grown and matured as I have without her friendship.  We have sharpened each other as iron but more importantly, she was the laughter I needed in the midst of hurt.  She understood my jokes and my life experiences.  When I felt alone, she was the one with whom I could be my real, authentic self.  She understood the color of my heart.  That safety and security softened me to hear God’s voice. 

I can’t begin to understand what life is going to feel like without my girls.  It doesn’t seem possible that I’ll wake up tomorrow and they won’t be down the street.  I keep hearing in my mind a poem by E. E. Cummings.  It ends with…

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

REAL Therapy

As greatly therapeutic as writing is for me, it, like every other attempt at self-help, can only go so far.  There is only one place that could give me peace that goes beyond my expectation and true joy in place of sadness.  After posting last night, I journaled my heart out to God.  So often I forget, but prayer is less about me talking and more about LISTENING.  After laying all my sadness down, I wrote the words that God spoke to my heart.  I would normally never share with anyone what God and I discuss.  The pages of my journal are sacred and holy ground just for us.  But this, I would like to share.  These are the words in red staring back at me...

I am here, baby girl, and I hear you.  You are not alone.  I understand your sadness but there is hope in knowing all things have a purpose.  I have a plan to prosper you and to give you a future.  Trust me beyond the hurt.  Put your faith in Me - what you can't see - rather than putting faith in what you see before you.

I don't know who needs to read these words with me, but write them on your heart.  This is how much God loves you.  I have talked to my sister most of the day.  If not with our mouths, with our hearts.  I still miss her so bad it hurts.  I still feel a little more lonely.  God never said He'd take away the pain.  He said He loves me enough to hold my hand and pick me up.  He said there is hope after the sadness.

I said last night that therapy makes the heavy things a little easier to bear but after writing, it didn't feel any lighter.  These words from my Father make it lighter.  That's REAL therapy.

Therapy

The first question my therapist asks as we sit down to meet is, "So...what brings you here today?"  Writing is therapeutic for me.  If you haven't noticed, I tend to say what's on my mind, and sometimes, just doing that makes the heavy stuff a little easier to bear.  So this is what brings me here today...

My sister is moving.  The person I share most with in the world won't be a quick phone call away.  The only kids except my own to poop and throw up on me won't be within driving distance.  My confidante, my partner-in-crime, my encourager...will be halfway through tomorrow when I wake up each day.  I'm not an emotionally "showy" person.  When I must cry, I prefer to do it in David's lap when no one else can see my mascara run.  Today, though, I think the moms at the indoor play area may have caught a glimpse of runny black-brown Cover Girl.  There was nothing sad about kids running and playing except that Brynna was doing it without Zoe and AJ.  All day, those tears were just hovering right about my cheekbones.  I worked so hard to keep them down but at this point, at 7pm the day before she gets on a plane, I'm losing the battle.

First things first, yes, I said sister.  I know many who read my blog are wondering what happened to my little brother that he became my little sister, but rest assured.  Ryan is still very much himself, and although he's a grown man, I'll still always call him my little brother.  But 12 years ago, I added another "little" when Vikki was grafted in to our family.  The specifics now seem so unimportant.  We met in college and through a series of events that brought both misery and blessing, Vikki became a permanent fixture at our house.  When she got married, she asked my dad to walk her down the aisle.  When Zoe was born, my mom flew to Denver to be by her side, holding her hand.  Two years later, Mama stood by my bed in Dallas on a Thursday then flew to Houston to hold Vikki's again the next Saturday.  We call Brynna Grace and Nicolas AJ the "not-so-twins".  I've heard people say that tragedy can make or break you.  In December of 2008, we found out that in this family, regardless of how you got here, we will face the storm together and let God use it to make us stronger.  Zoe was taken to the hospital on the evening of the 19th where they discovered a tumor on her spine.  She went in for emergency surgery at 11pm, and my parents were in Houston at 9am.  It never occurred to any of us to treat each other differently because we weren't "blood".  (I still say that's in question, though.  Vikki has more of our mom's mannerisms than I do.  I say there was a hospital mix-up.)

I often feel I have to give a long explanation (as I just did) so people understand just how much a part of me Vikki is.  I feel obligated to explain our relationship so they can understand.  But really, it doesn't matter who understands.  What matters is that the landscape of my life looks different because Vikki is part of it.  What matters is that Thursday will feel totally different than today because she'll be halfway around the world.  What matters is that I'll have to learn to function with a piece of my heart in another time zone.

I have explained to her and Her David (yes, our husbands have the same name) that you can be sad and excited all at once.  I'm excited for their new Malaysian adventure.  I'm happy they will get to be nearer to his family than they've ever been.  I can't wait to visit a new place on the other side of the ocean.  I am so proud of the way Vikki has grown in her faith as she's handed this process over to God.  But in the midst of all that joy and as therapeutic as writing is for me...at the moment, I don't really feel any lighter.  At the moment, I just feel sad.

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.