Friday, December 10, 2010

sometimes singing worship comes out in tears....

If you don't think it's hard a year and a half after the death of my son, you're crazy.

I say that because somehow, I thought it would be... not easier, but different.

But grief... I remember my earlier thoughts on grief and I still see so much of the same character today that I did when we were newly acquainted. Grief is sneaky. It hides-- it figures out that you're sort of exhausted with its presence and it creeps back into the shadows for a while-- a week, a day, a couple of months-- and then when you least expect it, "Hulloooo! I'm back! Where's dessert?"

Tonight, we're having dear friends over for a Christmas gathering. Don and I are scurrying around the house, mostly happy-- we've had people over at least once or twice a week for the last couple of weeks so we're mostly ready for company-- listening to Hillsong's "God He Reigns (Live)" album at full blast. "Mostly happy"-- always a little on the verge of tears this Christmas season, always feeling a little tender, always feeling a little sad, it seems. Tonight, while folding towels before our friends get here, I realize the words that I am singing...

i don't care what the world throws at me now
it's gonna be alright!
cause i know my God saved the day
and i know His word never fails
and i know my God made a way for me
salvation is here
salvation is here and He lives in me
salvation is here
and He died to set me free...
Jesus, you are alive and you live in me...

And I have to worship. Right in the middle of that little cloud of melancholy.

He set me free. Oh friend, oh childless mother, oh friendless one, oh motherless child, oh woman... He set us free from all this sadness. I mean, we can walk through it without fear of melting into it. We weep our way through the grief, but we are not invisible in it. He's made a way. He walks with us. We are not alone. Death is not the end. Life here is not all there is. He doesn't live there. He lives here.

YES!!!

One of my kids asked me today-- totally out of nowhere-- "Mrs. Swaney, do you love Jesus?" OH YES! My heart leapt inside me when I was able to throw my head back and laugh and say, "Oh YES, I love Jesus!"

Oh yes, I love me some Jesus.

And here is my prayer tonight-- just like it is every time I worship, ever since Ben changed everything-- Praise You Lord, in all things. Even for this. Even in this. Even this. And Lord, I give You my son again. Oh God, how I wish we had a little partner running around here this Christmas. How I grieve His absence. How I wish for the frantic schedule of my friends who are mommies. But I bless You for the grace You've filled my life up with. I thank You for the mercy that You have poured out on me, and I thank You that this life is not the end of the story. And I pray, Oh God, that the bigger thing that You are weaving through this deep loss, this seemingly bottomless grief, would bring You eternal glory. This temporary grief. This earthly sadness that will end in a joyous reunion-- with You and all the saints, my little guy right there in the middle-- that all of this will bring You glory somehow.

That if one person can see that it is possible to sustain a great loss and not lose your faith... to still live and still love You deeply... Oh Jesus, I give it all to You. If You had asked, I don't think I would have been able to say yes like Abraham did, so I thank you for not asking. I thank you for all the mercy You poured out before and after.

I love you, King. Thank You for Christmas. Thank You for Your friendship. For Your sacrifice. That You see me. That You weep with me. And thank you for bringing it out every time I worship You-- I'm crowded with Your presence, You're already holding me before the tears come.

How I love You and long for You.
Bless Your name...

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Thoughts...

Today has been one of those gorgeous, shining southern pre-fall days, and they always seem to make me thoughtful. The air is dry and scrubbed clean, lit up with the sun and a light breeze and the assurance (finally) that fall really is coming. It's been hot this summer. Suddenly, I feel like I can breathe outside. I love to run errands on days like today-- to be alone in the sunlight and drive and not listen to the radio or music and just think.

I had a list of things I needed to do today: I looked for curtain rods at five different stores, trying to avoid buying them online; I bought a book for a dear friend who is newly pregnant and worries all the time and with whom I often feel so awkward-- what is my experience to her? I did everything right and look how my story ended? (at least, that part of the story) Never mind that his death had nothing to do with my pregnancy, I always feel so aware of the fact that mine is a sort of cautionary tale, not the comforting story of peace and miracles that a pregnant woman needs to collect for the wee-morning-worrying-rituals. My friend hasn't confessed to such thoughts, but would she? Ah, Jesus, just another place I need Your redeeming touch and power.

But that's why I wanted to write-- not just because I am avoiding scrubbing the tile in the front bathroom. Because God is so very, incredibly good and kind and I have to say it-- proclaim it.

I've learned so much in the last year and half. Before April 28, 2009, I always wondered how in the world a woman could survive the death of her child. I wondered how you go on. I had watched my dear sister Winter walk that path and I saw it nearly kill her for a season, and then I saw the Lord come in like a flood and restore everything the enemy attempted to steal...but still, I wondered. How do you go on? Until you've walked the path, it's impossible to know, honestly.

Truly, it is a horrible experience, but here's the thing:

Jesus is real. He is real. When I cry out to Him in my darkest moments, I feel and know His presence in my very bones and He lifts the shroud of mourning and I can breathe. He has guarded my mind from insanity and my soul from total anguish. My testimony is that we can experience the darkest depths and lo, He is with us. He is the God who sees-- He is El Roi, the God who sees me. He is faithful. He guards my dreams. He comforts me in the moments I allow myself to revisit the day of Ben's arrival and departure. He softens the memories. He holds me when I know that no one, not even my husband, truly gets the depths of my longing.

He is the same Person for you. He will be.

Cry out.

When you pass through the waters,

I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze.
Isaiah 43:2

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Let it rain...

You heavens above, rain down righteousness; let the clouds shower it down. Let the earth open wide, let salvation spring up, let righteousness grow with it; I, the LORD, have created it (NIV)

or

Drop down, you heavens, from above, and let the skies pour down righteousness: let the earth open, and let them bring forth salvation, and let righteousness spring up together; I the LORD have created it (AKJV)

Isaiah 45:8


Oh God, let it be! Let it be according to Your very words!!! Just as You have longed for it, we long for it with you, great God of every living thing.

Let it rain!

Oh, God of our hearts, may we throw our heads back and cry out to You, from the depths of our hearts-- where all the pain that comes from sojourning on this earth hides and rots-- may we open our mouths and TELL you that YOU ARE GOOD! Help us, Spirit, to acknowledge Your goodness and righteousness and Your abundant kindness to us, even when sadness pounds at our hearts-- we acknowledge that Your goodness and the eternal nature of Your being is so much bigger than any grief we bear. And we praise You for everything everything everything, but right now, I praise You because I know that surely You have borne our griefs (Isaiah 53:4) and you never tire of hearing my heart....

And God, I sing praise to You because You would be worth it in any circumstance, and I sing praise to You because You were good today and yesterday and a year ago and the years before that. You have been with us in every dark place-- on every lonely path, in every horrifying situation, in times when I was right and times when I was wrong... You've never left, not for one second.

And sometimes I wonder... would I think of You like I do if Ben was alive? Would my heart be so set on You if tragedy had not struck? Would I have begun to cool, my love for you growing ever more stagnant as I sank into my horror-free life? I wonder...

I mean, I loved you. I knew You. I served You. But I was just... longing for You, but in the same old way.... On April 28, my need for You was blown into a category 5 hurricane. The need in my heart and soul became a screaming, sucking hole; a giant crater in the center of my chest, and only You could fill it.

Oh, and my Jesus, You have been filling it and filling it and filling it...

Here's my cry today: COME DOWN HERE! Pour Your Spirit out on Your people! We are dry and aching and longing to see You! Oh Savior, MARANATHA! Come quickly! You are high and lifted up!! May we worship You-- may we cry out to You NOW, in times of peace and fulness and ease so that we will be ready for the day of turmoil, and our first instinct will always be to worship Your name, even when it all comes crashing down, because THIS IS NOT ALL THERE IS!!!!

Oh JESUS, You are the point of life! Thank You for the beautiful extras, but Oh, God, they do not hold a candle to Your majesty.

And no sadness can dampen the sweetness of Your goodness.

Ah, Jesus, I adore You.

You are good.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

A List

Have you ever had one of those days where you have a million thoughts and ideas swimming around in your brain and you know you need to write them down somehow-- journal, blog, something-- but just thinking about writing it writing it is exhausting? So here's a list instead:

*My bathtub rocks.
*The yard needs to be mowed.
*Don told me, "Thank you for cleaning the kitchen. You know that feeling you get when I mow the lawn? I get that same feeling when you clean the kitchen."
*The fact that this came right after the note that the yard needs to be mowed is completely unrelated... :)
*I'm currently living in denial that school starts back soon
*I'm excited about school starting back soon
(oooh-- I am such an enigma... :))
*New light fixture from JD's stash of cool stuff. OH-- good idea for the name of the shop I wish he'd open: JD's Stash of Cool Stuff.
*JD and Kristen are also responsible for the bath tub
*Fantastic-- FANTASTIC-- Sunday school class
*Butt-kicking Sunday school class
*Such fun at Jason and Tara's today. Gorgeous baby. Smiled the whole time. Perfect pink christening gown. Jason's post-baptism ribs were out of this world. The conversation was a blast.
*New friends! So much fun!
*Approaching storm today was brilliant. I love the south.
*Tinelle and Tara are lovely sisters. They've survived so much-- but more than survived. They are thriving women.
*I get nervous telling pregnant women what happened with Ben except when they're believers. I don't want to frighten them or freak them out. I had a conversation with the loveliest pregnant woman today (see "new friends" above :)), and it blessed me so much to see the peace on her face when I shared briefly about Ben after she asked.
*My husband says that I "sang good" in worship this morning
*He also says that we have temporarily cured the cat from sitting on the chair in the den
*He would also like you to know that most of his toenails are clean and also wants to know if I'm really typing that.

:)
Be blessed tonight. God is good.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

No one expects the Spanish Inquisition

The Two Foundations

24"Therefore everyone who hears these words of Mine and acts on them, may be compared to a wise man who built his house on the rock.

25"And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and slammed against that house; and yet it did not fall, for it had been founded on the rock.

26"Everyone who hears these words of Mine and does not act on them, will be like a foolish man who built his house on the sand.


27"The rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and slammed against that house; and it fell--and great was its fall."

28When Jesus had finished these words, the crowds were amazed at His teaching;


29 for He was teaching them as one having authority, and not as their scribes.
Matthew 7: 24-29

First things first-- I am totally breaking a serious rule in Bible study-- there is SO MUCH to this passage, and if you have a passage that starts with "therefore"-- well, you know you have to search to understand what it's "there for" :). So I had the entire chapter here and realized that I wanted to talk about every bit of it, but I was too all over the place. The real thing is this foundation thing that I keep coming back to in my heart.

My dear friend Jonathan and I were talking on Saturday afternoon (he's a seminary student at Duke and he's interning at a great big church in Atlanta this summer and I could not be more proud of him-- I joked with his mother when D and I first got married that once I was pregnant, I wanted her to spit in my drink so I could have a son just like her sons-- I have a handful of women whose sons are so amazing, I have made the same joke with them...they THINK it's a joke... :)).

Anyway, Jonathan was telling me about the sermon he was going to give the next morning at church and he reminded me of the story of the wise man who builds his house on the rock, which is one that has come to mind for me again and again in the last year.

I remember being a little girl in children's church at Rockdale Baptist Church. Mr. Ronnie and Miss Janet and the other teachers would teach us little Bible songs and I still know those songs, and the Word is written right across my heart thanks to some of those little verses (all of you kindergarten and preschool teachers, don't give up! Your work is so valuable and huge! You never know what kinds of eternal seeds you are planting!!).

The wise man built his house upon the rock

The wise man built his house upon the rock
The wise man built his house upon the rock
And the rain came tumbling down


Oh, the rain came down
And the floods came up
The rain came down
And the floods came up
The rain came down
And the floods came up
And the wise man's house stood firm.


The foolish man built his house upon the sand
The foolish man built his house upon the sand
The foolish man built his house upon the sand
And the rain came tumbling down

Oh, the rain came down
And the floods came up
The rain came down
And the floods came up
The rain came down
And the floods came up
And the foolish man's house went "splat!"

So, build your house on the Lord Jesus Christ
Build your house on the Lord Jesus Christ... (etc.)

I remember thinking about the images those verses paint-- I couldn't imagine building a house on Stone Mountain or on the big rock that we had out on the play ground at Pine Street. How would they get it to stay and keep from sliding off? At the same time, building in the sandbox was pretty messy and everyone knows that the sandbox is no place to be if it's raining.

Such a literal child, from the beginning.

Anyway, this story is gigantically important to us as believers.

The thing about trials is that we don't expect them most of the time ("no one expects the Spanish Inquisition!"). In the parable, Jesus had just been warning his listeners to watch out for teachers who would mislead them and He was advising them to consider the fruit that they bear. The whole warning is fairly intense.

But the thing that stood out for me last year was the fact that we had no idea that a storm was coming. That's the thing about storms (or the Spanish Inquisition...)-- we know to be prepared for them, to mend our leaking roofs or to have candles and extra batteries and a weather radio on hand, but really, you don't have time to replace the entire roof when you hear on the news that a weather event is slated for your area that afternoon.

We didn't know that we needed to be prepared for our worst nightmare last year. We got pregnant, rejoiced over our great blessing, and went about the business of registering at baby stores, designing a nursery, poring over baby name books and sending emails back and forth with funny ideas, giving our family fun "worksheets" at Thanksgiving dinner, asking them for suggestions-- family names, family stories connected to those names, etc. We were prepared for a sunny spring. We were looking forward to happy sleepless nights and figuring out how to breastfeed.

We didn't expect a freaking hurricane.

But here's the thing that was so beautiful: our house was built on the Rock.

And the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and slammed against that house; and yet it did not fall, for it had been founded on the rock.

I've thought about that one miracle so many times. That He led us so wisely, so gently, in all the years leading up to April of 2009. The Lord drew us to Himself during the "building phases" of our lives, both together and separately. He inspired a hunger and thirst for His word, so we studied and studied to "show ourselves approved. We took verses like this seriously:

14 Warn them before God against quarreling about words; it is of no value, and only ruins those who listen. 15 Do your best to present yourself to God as one approved, a workman who does not need to be ashamed and who correctly handles the word of truth. 16 Avoid godless chatter, because those who indulge in it will become more and more ungodly. 17 Their teaching will spread like gangrene. 2 Timothy 2:15

...and tried to live in such a way that we were growing into followers and teachers and helpmates who were Christlike. Perfect? No. Seeking? YES!! We were seeking Him out to live Christ-centered lives because it feels good and right and holy and peaceful to live that way. Not to prepare for the worst-- we didn't know we were preparing for anything, really. Eternity, yes. Minor trials and temptations on earth, certainly. But this thing? No, because I thought I was blessed and highly favored and that this meant...well, I didn't think it through. But to me, it implied...

wait...Jesus said in John 16 that in this world we will have tribulations, but take heart! Be of good cheer! He has overcome the world!

The rain fell and the winds slammed against us, but the house didn't fall because the preparation had been done ahead of time. We were ready for anything-- we just didn't know it.

Jonathan and I were laughing about the fact that you can't move your house during a storm. It's either built solidly right now or you're going to have to hang on and fix it after the crisis has passed.

You never know when weather is going to happen. You don't expect the death of your son. You don't expect to get laid off. You don't expect to get a diagnosis of breast cancer when you're only 34. You don't expect a brain tumor at 37. You don't expect to get your heart broken by the man of your dreams. You don't expect to still be longing for a spouse at 43. But the wise man? He builds his house against the day of trouble-- on the Rock. And the rains will come and the winds will howl, and he'll lose some shingles and maybe some siding and a front door, but the house will stand. And God promised to give wisdom to anyone who asked. As much as we want, He's got it.

Church, we have to get building-- we have to turn back to our first love-- the One who wooed us to Himself in the first place. We have to unstick ourselves from church politics and petty disagreements. We have to be about the Cross of Christ. We have to be about Him for Him alone and get our houses off the soft sod with sandy, easy earth underneath and get our butts on the Rock.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

Time

This summer seems to have passed so quickly. It's nearly drawing to a close and I haven't gotten half the things done that I had on my list... but I have enjoyed time with my husband and reading book after book at my parents' pool.

So I'm choosing not to beat myself up for not finishing the tasks I had planned. I'm choosing to be so thankful for time to myself. I'm choosing to be thankful for a summer that wasn't drenched in tears.... Don and I have wondered aloud several times this summer, "What did we do this time last year??" We walked. We talked. He changed the dressing on my wound three times a day. We cried. We felt so...sad.

But this year has been different and I'm so grateful. I remember being just at the beginning of the journey of grief after the death of a child and thinking that life would never be normal again. Couldn't be. And granted, there is always this check of sadness in the back of my heart and always will be-- always should be-- but I'm not depressed or hopeless. God has been faithful to heal the ache of the wound. The loss is still there, but the desperation is gone.

It does pop up sometimes. It did last week. I cried on my mom's shoulder three weeks ago. I sometimes stare at the ceiling long after D has gone to sleep and wonder what life would be like with our little guy toddling around. I read a status update on FB where a friend of mine joked that she would like to sell her screaming baby at a garage sale, and I know she's kidding, but I don't think I'll ever hear comments like that from moms ever again and not wince and get a little pissed for a minute. Even if the Lord chooses to give us another baby, I think I'll always want to shake people who say it-- even though they love their babies and would lay their lives down for them. In the same way, I would never joke about wanting my husband to die. It's not funny. It happens to some people. I know that I'm uniquely sensitive, though, so I'll keep it to myself (or share it with you guys here-- but we're on the same page, aren't we, in many ways?).

I saw a Hoarders episode where this woman lost her mind after her baby died in a way that was similar to what we think happened to Ben (I think her baby had a cord accident or something-- can't remember). She started keeping everything. The whole house was out of control. She just couldn't get it together. It had been years and she was slowly falling apart.

I won't judge that woman. I know it can happen. I know that the only thing that has kept me from losing my sanity is my faith in Jesus. Before carrying a baby for 9 (10?) months and then holding him, dead, in my arms, I had no idea how intense a mother's love for her baby is. I had no idea. I didn't even get to know Ben. I can't imagine how insanely intense and agonizing that connection from mother to child is when the relationship is allowed to grow. And when I think of this woman, it occurs to me that she had two other children before the one she lost-- is it possible that her grief was even greater because she understood the fulness of what she had lost? In a way that I can only peek at? How could you endure the death of a child when you know what could have been? Know it from experience?

Jesus. That's all. His goodness and closeness and the fact that this life is not all there is. That we'll only sojourn here for a few years but will spend bazillion gazillion matrillion years with Him and with those we have lost. Time.

This whole journey feels like such a freaking mind bender sometimes, you know? My prayer, constantly, is that the Lord would give me His mind in it all. Just help me to see and experience it the way He meant for me to. Help me walk it out the way He intended. There is so much comfort knowing that He knew what was coming and never planned to abandon me to it. Bad things happen to everyone-- EVERYONE-- and we are ridiculous if we think that somehow we are exempt because we are believers. Instead, we should expect that bad things will happen because we understand that the place we live in-- this planet-- is eaten up with destruction, but that the difference between us before Christ and us after Christ is that there is an answer to our suffering. There is a balm in Gilead. There is One who walks with us. We are not exempt, but we are also not alone.

None of this is pointless.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Relatives

Even dunces who keep quiet are thought to be wise;
as long as they keep their mouths shut, they're smart.
Proverbs 17:28 (The Message)



I know that, in life, it's honestly all relative.

For instance, the frustration felt by the housewife who is trying desperately to run a household which employs four gardeners and several housekeepers, battling the pressure to keep up appearances of perfection and the loneliness of isolation, can be crushing.

It's almost impossible to avoid the commentary that must address that, though: I should be so lucky to have the frustration of managing my housekeeper. I'm happy to pay all my bills this month, one woman says. I think I could make myself get over the whole "keeping up with the Joneses" thing-- let's see that lady deal with sucking up your pride at the grocery store when you run out of money at the cash register because you just knew you stuck two twenties in your purse, but there's only one.

Lady One argues back (in my mind), You don't know what I feel. You don't know the horror I deal with daily. At least your husband is home. At least he loves you. At least you know for sure that he's not sleeping with his secretary.

Lady Two considers her luck in that area, but barks back, At least your husband has a job.

And it can go on and on.

So I recognize that so many things are relative-- one person complains about their crappy car situation while his neighbor wishes getting his car fixed was the only thing on his list of things to do after dialysis. The guy with dialysis guy complains about his health while the woman in the butt kicking dream car next to him just lost her job, her home, and her best friend.

I'm not trying to bum anyone out. I promise. It's just kind of what I've been saying to myself about complaining lately. But then, I was listening to this woman talk (I didn't know her, so if we're friends and you had this same tirade in a grocery store lately, don't worry!! It's not you!)-- granted, she really seemed to have a lot on her, but I wanted to hit her in the face. I wanted to scream, "Shut your stupid mouth" and pull her hair.

Surprised? Sorry. I've only ever thought about doing things like that...

That woman was complaining about the curse and burden her two lovely children were to her today. She was tired. Her youngest son, an infant, has been colicky lately, and she was spewing complaints all over, wishing that he had a "mute" button (I've heard that one several times in the last two weeks-- so weird).

You know where I'm going with this...

That woman probably has other stresses that she's not as comfortable blabbing about in a public forum, but the anger I felt listening to her was directly related to this. "YOUR BABIES ARE ALIVE," I wanted to yell at her. At least your son has living tear ducts to cry from! You can hold him to your heart, lady, and he will eventually calm down, and I know you're tired, but you sound like a spoiled brat. You sound like that girl on Willie Wonka that everyone cheered for when she blew up (is that right? It's been so long since I saw that movie... I just remember that I hated her and we all clapped when she came to an end). You have everything, everything, and you want to mute your child?

Sigh.

But it's all relative. Maybe her husband is a jerk. Mine's pretty great. Maybe her living situation is rocky. Mine is stable and comfortable.

Or maybe she just doesn't know what she has.

Okay, I'm convicted. I'll pray for this stranger, that she will know as deeply as she has ever known anything that she is a mother who is richly blessed. And just like I need to cry out to the Father to help me remember how extraordinarily blessed I am, I will pray for her that she will remember the women who long for babies to comfort.

How different would this place be if we stopped complaining? If we were ever aware of how bad it makes us sound, and how it sometimes serves to highlight what other people lack? How amazing would this life be if we focused on the things that inspired our gratitude instead of the things that inspire our grief?

There's a key to something eternal here. If God is the point to everything-- every day, every mundane thing, all of our breaths and blinks of our eyes-- then it should all somehow lead back to Him.... My friend Matt used to say that the secret password into the Holy of Holies is "Thank you"....

4 Enter His gates with thanksgiving
And His courts with praise

Give thanks to Him, bless His name.
5 For the LORD is good;
His lovingkindness is everlasting
And His faithfulness to all generations.
Psalm 100:4-5

Sunday, June 20, 2010

Nurseries in Heaven

So, I'm reading this book.

And after reading a certain chapter, I closed the book and wept. And this is what I prayed:

Oh God, I do not know when this pain will go away. It doesn't feel like it did last year, but I'm sometimes surprised by the pain that shows up fast, out of nowhere-- the longing for my son. I've heard from women whose babies have died that they never "get over it"-- that the grieving looks different, but it always stays, even once they have other children to fill their arms. It has been a little over a year and sometimes it feels like it has been a day... it is so surreal.

But at the same time, I am not in despair, and I have to ask you, would you tell Ben that I love him tonight? Oh God, will you lean close to my son and whisper to him that his mother loves him? And that I miss him and I long for him, but Lord, I don't want to bum him out. I know that he exists, that he is alive somewhere, that he is with you, so just kiss and hug him and tell him that I love him so, so deeply. And if a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years is like a moment, tell him that I'll be with him shortly-- even if that's 50 years from now-- and that I long for that day.

But here's this: Lord, I prayed for him-- I cried out to you for this child the way Hannah cried out for Samuel, and I told you before he was born that he was Yours for all the days of his life. I dedicated him to you. So I don't know how much sense this makes, but Lord, I pray that he still fulfills his destiny. I felt so strongly before he was born that you had created him to be a worshipper-- that my son was a musician, that he would glorify your name with his voice and his hands, so I pray that even in heaven, my son would fulfill his destiny. You knew that he would be with you early-- you knew the plans you had for him just like you knew the plans you had for me when I was born. I long for him, but I say yes to your plans. I say YES to your higher ways. I release him, as pitifully as I am able, into his destiny-- whatever that looks like. It's too high for me to understand. It's too supernatural. It's too otherworldly. It's so beyond me. He is with you, and to be with you in your presence has to be so much more alive than to be here in my presence. So again, I bless your plans. I thank you that I am his mother and that I will see him again one day, and I say let it be with him according to your will-- and I thank you that your will is perfect. And that you have given me so much peace.

Know that I feel perfectly kooky praying like that sometimes.

I mean, seriously-- praying "for" someone who is already dead? That doesn't even make sense to me. It's like, whatever-- game OVER, right?

But his life was just beginning. I have just had the hardest time accepting that it was over for him. Don and I have talked about it so many times, and we always end up talking about Ben in the present tense, wondering what God's plan for this whole thing was. Knowing that life on earth is a blip on the screen-- 80 years or more if we're lucky-- so it's entirely possible to have been created for something beyond life on this planet. That, like my friend Winter said so long ago, our sons' destinies were to be with the Lord early.

Ah, friends, we have hope, don't we?

I mentioned a book... I'm hesitant to put it here because, well, these types of books bring out the skeptic in me (which is funny to even say, and if you ever saw some of the prayer sessions I was a part of in the Schools of Intercession, Worship, and Spiritual Warfare in YWAM, you'd laugh at me calling myself a skeptic about anything prophetic, because we saw some amazing things in those prayer times-- though I confess, one of my biggest struggles as a believer has been "intellectualism"-- which is just a fancy way of saying that my dork mind has the temerity to actually think it's smarter than God).

Anyway, I'm totally putting the book title in here and I'm going to type an excerpt, too, because I was profoundly blessed while I read. So far, every single word the author has written has brought glory and attention only to God, never to herself, and has not contradicted anything I know of the Word, and these are things that I look for when I read prophetic books (this is a woman's account of prophetic insights into heaven-- it's fairly radical). I first heard about the book on Facebook-- a dear friend had posted the link on her page and I clicked on it because, I mean, really, who isn't going to at least be a little curious when they hear someone say that the Lord took them into heaven during one of their times of intercession (and if you know any real intercessors-- the kinds whose prayer sessions last so long that they take lunch breaks-- you know that God does crazy stuff with them. And that makes perfect sense-- they spend hours and hours on their faces before Him, listening to Him, talking with Him. There is something very precious about the relationships built with the Lord in the place of prayer)? And this lady was saying that He had taken her up repeatedly.

I listened and wanted to roll my eyes, but couldn't. Don and I both sat on the couch and listened to this very nice, very normal lady being interviewed in what looked like someone's living room and couldn't help but smile. We were both waiting, though, to hear about the babies. We knew that something was coming about babies. If you're reading this and you've ever lost someone, you know that feeling-- that constant curiosity to know where they are, what it might look like, how it might feel for them. I have always known with 100% certainty that my son is not alone and that he is loved and that the Lord has let him know that his mother and father did not willingly give him up but that we bless the Lord's plan for him, but I have also wondered.... will he be an infant still when I see him again? Will he be a grown man? Who is taking care of him? Have our grandmothers seen him? Have our grandfathers kissed his face? Have our friends and family who have gone on before us been able to coo over him, the way babies on earth get adored and cooed over? Oh, I pray so. I pray that my friends Ellen and Stacie have held my son, and that my grandmothers have playfully argued over whose side of the family he resembles (they're both out on that one-- he was his father's side of the family, all the way). I wonder if Winter's boy Josiah knows him, and if Susan's boy Will, four days younger than Ben, has become one of his playmates.

How does it work, Lord? How does it work?

I should say that I don't think about this all the time-- just sometimes. Sometimes I give myself permission to dwell on it because it's fascinating, but I can't go there often because I am aware that these sessions usually end in weeping. And that's okay, too, but life would become fairly unmanageable if that was a daily event :) .

Anyway, I know that I have many, many new (and old) friends reading this blog who have also lost babies, and I wanted to share this with you-- I'll post a link to the website where you can buy the book if you're interested in reading the whole thing for yourself.

p. 74 (a couple of pages into the chapter about "heaven's nurseries")

...[The] nurseries hold all the babies [aborted, miscarried, stillborn, etc.]. They are received by Jesus and He heals the wounds of their hearts. They are cared for by angelic beings who sing to them as they rock them in their arms. The breath of God nourishes them as they grow ever so slowly. Because of the goodness of God, a 20 year old mother could miscarry her baby and 50 years later die and go to heaven; her baby would only be around 3 years old (in earth years). She is given her baby when she arrives and she gets to raise it. How wonderful for all the parents who thought they had completely lost that privilege!

... The first illustration is of [an angel] and a baby named Precious who was miscarried in 2006. This baby girl was wanted very badly by the parents and one day she will be restored to them, because they have received Jesus as their Savior. She will be treated like a princess until their arrival in heaven. There will be many surprised women who did not know they had miscarried a baby, because it was so early in the pregnancy. What a shock when they arrive and find a little "package" waiting for them.

The facilities where the babies are cared for are very beautiful. There are arched ceilings with openings at the top which cause the rooms to be bathed in a warm peachy glow. Flowers are growing right out of the walls and tiny birds come and perch on the branches to sing for the babies. The babies' beds have the appearances of beautiful sea shells that come out from niches in the wall. Every baby's  name is etched in the wall above them; embellished onto lovely ribbons if it is a girl and on stately shields if they are boys. If you have a baby in heaven and you haven't named it, please do so...

Some of the angels appear to be male and some female but they all wore soft ivory gowns with pale colored sashes. They held the tiny babies (some only inches long) in the palm of their hands and the bigger ones against their chests. Even though these babies are tiny, they are different than the babies here, because they do not necessarily need to sleep. They do rest, but they also play. They already have the ability to "know" things and they can communicate. They are raised in the perfect love of God and joy is an automatic part of their lives [just like I prayed for Benjamin before he was born-- that he would know the perfect love and joy of the Lord from the womb]. It was the most beautiful place, filled with the peace of God. Their little faces reflect the Glory of God and they will know Him as we all should know Him.

from Revealing Heaven: An Eyewitness Account, Kat Kerr

See what I mean? Precious. What if?

Here's the bottom line:

Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable His judgments, and His paths beyond tracing out! Who has known the mind of the Lord? Or who has been His counselor? Who has ever given to God that God should repay him? For from Him and through Him and to Him are all things. To Him be the glory forever. Amen.
Romans 11:33-36

Because whatever the truth is, it's good. Wherever our children are, it's okay. As long as my God is the God He keeps on showing Himself to be-- the one who comforts me in the middle of the night, who saves all the tears from my eyes, who cradles me like a little child, who never disappoints me, and who fills my life with good things-- yes, GOOD THINGS, even in the valley of the shadow of death. As long as that God is with me and fills me with His Spirit, it's all good. It's all going to be okay. Because whatever the plan, even if it's not this one, it's perfect.

But I'm glad He's cool with us wondering.

And I hope this lady's right.

:)

Monday, May 17, 2010

sigh.

Oh, good afternoon.

Tired. All the tired teachers go, "haaay..."

And feeling a little quirksome.

The end of the year is like... what's it like? It's like... four weeks of feeling like you're being squished into a tiny bean bag, slooooowly.

The kids are at each other's throats, the teachers are stretched as thin as can be, the parents are completely freaking out, the wheels on the bus go 'round and 'round...

Something funny happened after Ben's birthday.

Nothing.

I don't know what it was. This whole year, I have felt like I was on some sort of countdown toward this magical, heartbreaking date, and once it happened, it was... anticlimactic? That's not right. It was...just a day.

He was just as gone.

He was just as much the gigantic life-changer wrapped in a teeninesey package as he ever was.

The scar across my tummy still itches.

The pain in my heart still comes and goes.

I don't know what I expected from that day.

But here's something I know now: I can cry out to the Lord and He hears me. I have been offered so much advise from so many beautiful, genuinely good-hearted people this year and have found that so much of what I really needed to hear and know could only be spoken to my heart through His word and waiting in His presence.

I have also learned that He can speak to my pain through the lips of people who do not know or love Him. I just have to listen. He's hiding everywhere.

I have learned that He really is the only source of life for me. That Jesus Christ is the only answer for me.

I have learned that I can run to the Rock of my salvation and even though I can't lay my hands on Him physically, He unfolds me and pours out the balm of His presence into my aches.

And I am learning about the sheer power of gratefulness.

Yesterday, I stood in my kitchen and got all teary-eyed and began to just say, "Oh Lord... thank you for my house. Oh wow, I just love my home. Thank you, thank you, thank you...."

And I felt like dancing.

And for a minute, I thought of how sweet it would be to be dancing my son around this beautiful home, but I knew we would dance around one day... just not today... and I brought my brain back to this moment of thankfulness.

Oh, how I love Jesus. Oh, how I love Jesus...

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Happy birthday, little boy

April 28 was a beautiful day.

The air was scrubbed clean and it was shining like polished brass.

The rain that came to us over the weekend washed all of the pollen-dullness away and the grass and trees fairly vibrated in their green dresses, and bride-white flower petals sparkled, and sky-blue lightheartedness danced all around us.

Purple prose. I do acknowledge that I am overstating it…

But it was good. It was really beautiful outside. There was a lovely breeze and all the colors really were that pretty and Don spent the whole day mowing the lawn (the back yard was covered with wild-as-my-fourth-period-class wisteria for a little more than a generation, and we tried to pull a ton from the trees a few weeks ago, but dang) and I cleaned the house that I love so, so much, and we both felt the Lord visiting with us. Every once in a while, I would glance out the back windows to watch Don working and a rush of gratitude would wash over me: I miss Ben, but look at what I have. Look at this precious man that I have. I was happy when it was just us, before Ben was even a thought—even if God chose to never bless us with another, I still have this man who makes me laugh and think and who sometimes makes me mad, but always keeps me company in the most profound way. I love him. I wish our son was toddling around with us, but I love his father and I never want to look back at our life together and wish that I hadn’t wasted this moment or any moment.


People brought us things. Mom remembered that I always forget that I love peonies, so she brought me some to plant. Others brought us hanging baskets, and vases of Publix flowers (a flower is a flower is a flower— I loved them so shut up, MC). Chocolate. Sent cards. Called. Mostly, I think, people prayed. The whole day was filled up with goodness.

I had asked Don to get the bag of stuff from the hospital down from the attic. This is the bag of the most special of Ben’s things. This bag sat in his crib until we took it down—I wasn’t trying to be maudlin about it at the time, but it was the best place for it in our tiny house. We bought our “new” home about four and a half months after Ben’s passing and I had left his nursery up the whole time… I just never could decide when the “right” time to take it down might be… it was sort of my last connection to his reality in our lives and I couldn’t bear to say that final goodbye. Dear women who had gone before me told me to take as long as I needed— hearing their words set my heart at ease. I don’t know when I would have taken the nursery down if we hadn’t moved. If you’re reading this and you’re just now walking through it, here’s what I think: you leave that nursery up for as long as you need to. At some point, you’ll need to walk on…but not soon. If you need six months, take six months. The people who love you will gently lead you, I hope, when it has been too long… but for me, I am so grateful that my husband was alright with letting me have that time. I’ll tell you, though, he was happy to take it down when we finally did.

Anyway, we took showers and sat down on the bed, all scrubbed and clean and we got out each item: his little footprints (did I say little?? I had forgotten how big his baby feet were!), and the length of measuring tape with his 19” marked off. There was a smudge of cord blood on the measuring tape and I could feel the peace in my heart begin to move…a piece of him. I’m so grateful that the nurses left me that blood.

We looked at his little hospital bracelet, and at ours. “Mother” and “father” and “baby Swaney.”

We looked at the blanket they wrapped him in. I unfolded it for the first time… another spot of cord blood…my son had so recently been alive when they wrapped him in this blanket. I gasped slightly. His blood. My baby’s blood. He was alive, alive, alive, and he had my blood running through his little veins and he was mine. Ah, God, he was mine.

We opened the ziplocked bag that held the onesie and undershirt that they had put on him. I had saved it-- it has never been opened since the nurses put it in the bag and last year, I resisted opening it. I wanted to save touching it for the first time for his first birthday. We both cried as we looked at his little things, at his little marks of life, his footprints, his hair clippings...

We prayed together that the Lord would somehow let Benjamin know that his parents love him and long for him and that we have not forgotten him and that we won't. And that there are lots of other people who will remember him, too. And that if it was possible, could You hug him for us, Jesus?

And then we put the bag away and held each other and went to sleep-- missing him, but okay.

And I think that's how life is going to be. I'm going to miss him, but I'm going to be okay.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Day Twenty-seven of the First April Remembering

Writing this post right now is a dangerous thing. In about 30 minutes I am going to be sitting on a stage beside a bunch of other teachers because one of my precious girls is a genius and she is going to be honored tonight and she chose me as her "honor" teacher. I am so blessed and proud and thrilled to have been honored by her in this way-- she is one of those children who earned my respect in class with her insight and dedication and integrity. To be respected in return...well, that is an awe-inspiring thing.

So I can't cry when I write this, but I want to write because I'll be too tired later.

Today is Tuesday. It's not the date of his death, but it's the day. Tuesdays were ugly, ugly for so long. And today was Tuesday all day long and all I could think of was that tomorrow was the 28th.

But this exact day, this Tuesday, one year ago, I was completely out of it right at this moment. I was in hell and I was on drugs and I was in shock. It had been three hours or so since I held him for the first and last time. My husband was doing whatever he could to make things keep going, but neither of us had ever walked that path. Our parents and our friends and my doctor and midwife and the nurses walked us through it all. Oh, and our Beloved Jesus.

But if I think of this date as the day before he died, a Monday, I remember that right about now I was getting my stuff together to go to the hospital. I had spent another hot afternoon lying across the bed with the fan blasting across me, singing to Ben and crying a little because I couldn't wait to hold him. I was so deeply full of peace. I remember that I was irritated with Don because he was taking forever doing something... I can't remember what... and mainly because I was just irritable.

We felt so unprepared.

Sometimes... sometimes I wonder if we knew that it wasn't going to happen. If somewhere deep inside each of us, we knew. We didn't even have the car seat installed yet. Don was going to get my brother to show him how to do it the next afternoon in the parking lot. His room wasn't decorated-- one of my sweet friends on Facebook told me that it didn't matter, that the baby wouldn't care :)-- but his bedclothes were all clean and the bottle stuff was where it was supposed to be in the kitchen. I hadn't yet gotten the breast pumps from some friends of ours and I hadn't interviewed a pediatrician or even given it much thought. I mean, I had a name, a short list, but still.

It was like... I knew.

Of course, I'm also the kind of girl who sort of throws things together after I've been stewing on them for months and it just sort of works out perfectly. I don't know how that works, but it does. It's how I will think and think about a painting or a little picture and then take 30 minutes to execute it and it's almost exactly what I wanted. So the whole "not being prepared" thing might have just been a "Don and Samantha being themselves" thing, too.

But our hearts were 100% ready. Oh man. I never had one doubt, not one. I mean, we had HOPES that we would be good parents, but no doubts that we wanted him or that we were simply called to be his parents. My confidence lay in the fact that I knew that we were going to love him and raise him to be a godly man and that he would be a worshipper and that we would always do our best to make him know that he was deeply, truly loved and admired and... just fantastic.

The 27th of April can be compared to the day before my wedding, or even the morning of the wedding-- thrilling, full of hope and nerves, but so much like standing on the bow of a great ship as it took off for adventure. The adventure of a lifetime. If the 28th of April was the darkest day I have ever known, the 27th was one of the brightest.

So there. I did it.

I have no idea what tomorrow will look like. I don't know what I'll do. What Don and I will do. I have a few plans.

Oh God, this year has been so long, and so incredibly short. It is amazing what a person can walk through. I'm both happy and sad to see tomorrow-- happy because it is a significant date, something I can share with my little boy, even though he's not here to share it with me (is that weird?? I don't know). Sad because it puts me farther away from him-- he will no longer have died just a few months ago... he is outside the parenthesis of one year-- on Thursday, he will have been gone a year and a day, and it begins again... year two without him. Somehow, that seems sadder.

But it's hard to put into words, these feelings. It's like trying to describe color sometimes. How do you describe orange? I mean, it's bright and fiery and sweet and tangy... but that could be yellow, too.

Ah, Lord. We wait for you.

Monday, April 26, 2010

Day Twenty-six of the First April Remembering

Psalm 31: 19 -24
What a stack of blessing you have piled up
for those who worship you,
Ready and waiting for all who run to you
to escape an unkind world.
You hide them safely away
from the opposition.
As you slam the door on those oily, mocking faces,
you silence the poisonous gossip.
Blessed God!


His love is the wonder of the world.
Trapped by a siege, I panicked.
"Out of sight, out of mind," I said.
But you heard me say it,
you heard and listened.

Love God, all you saints;
God takes care of all who stay close to him,
But he pays back in full
those arrogant enough to go it alone.

Be brave. Be strong. Don't give up.
Expect God to get here soon.

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Day Twenty-five of the First April Remembering

This is the week.

This is it.

I just went back and read this one post and had forgotten about the water running down Ben's little cheek after our pastor baptised him. I wonder how much I have forgotten....

And I read the last line, where I wondered how long I could live, feeling that grief... and I can honestly tell you that, one year later, it's not the same. It aches. It hurts. But it's not the same raw, stormy, violent grief that I was experiencing on May 19. It's manageable, maybe. I can compartmentalize, maybe? I don't know. I'm going to think about it more later, but my testimony is this: it's possible to laugh deeply these days. It's possible to sigh and feel completely content some days.

I also find myself wrapped in a quilt, weeping on my front porch, calling my dear friend in Alaska who lost three babies and now has three beautiful children on earth. I call her, sniffling and gasping for breath and in the background, her precious children squeal and scream and rush around her house and I know that there is hope... there is hope.

I remember when she lost her son, Josiah. Winter was seven months along and she was one of my first close friends who had had a baby, as an adult, and my first close friend to lose a baby like that. Josiah had anencephaly and we had believed God for a miracle for four months, since she and Scottie had first found out that the baby had that disorder. Winter had suffered through two miscarriages and I remember the day that she pulled our friend Amy and me into a bathroom at the school where we taught and told us breathlessly that she was pregnant and we praised God with her. When we found out that the baby was sick, we just decided that we were going to believe for a miracle. Winter held on to that hope until the moment she delivered and she knew that the Lord had not chosen to heal Josiah. My heart ached for my precious friend when she called me from England, where she delivered the baby while at The Factory at the YWAM base in Harpenden. I wanted to hold her, to weep with her in person, to brush her hair back from her face, but instead we just cried and cried on the phone.

Seven years later, she has done the same thing for me repeatedly. This time, we were pregnant together and she delivered her third son about three weeks before Ben was born. When Don called from the hospital room to tell her that Ben had died, she was shocked all over again and she told me that she thought it was the worst joke she had ever heard-- it just couldn't be. She told me that she felt her loss all over again. Later, she told me that she laughed out loud when I sent her one of the close up pictures of Ben's little face...she laughed because he looked so much like Don and was just so beautiful. It was so unreal. So impossible. She has picked up her phone to my tear-choked voice countless times this year and she has dropped everything, every time. 

If you've ever wondered how to be a friend to a woman who has just lost a baby, I will tell you this: listen to her tell the story over and over again. Never tell her that you heard her say something before. Be honest about the grief you're sharing with her-- I can't tell you how affirming it has been to me when my friends shake their heads and say that they just don't get it, that it's just not right...and that they trust God still.

Virtually all of my friends have been that kind of friend this year. I am so blessed. I can call any number of women at any time of the day and they will listen to me. They will come to my house. They will meet me anywhere and continually pursue me, even when I don't answer the phone sometimes or respond to invitations to baby showers that they wrestled over sending to me but didn't want to leave me out of...

Oh gosh, how loved I am. Jesus, Jesus, you have poured out Your love over me a thousand times in the wet embraces of women who know my secrets and those who only know my name. All have blessed me and held my heart. Oh Lord, You have ministered to me through Your body, the community of believers all over the world-- from women who have never had children but whose hearts are full of understanding and so creative and can only imagine the horror of the loss, and so full of empathy, who are willing to sit in the darkness and feel as much as they can with me. I have felt Your embrace from mothers who have never lost children but who can imagine the horror of it (how can I name you all? If I name one, I have to name forty... I cannot bear the idea of leaving any of you out... you have been a better friend to me than I ever deserved-- you are so selfless, dear women-- P and T and M, R and D and P and T and M and D and C and S and G and K and K... see? And that's not even close to the start). I have felt Your sweetness in the words of women who have walked this path before me, whose testimony is that it always hurts like hell but that it does get better and that there is hope and who tell me to keep talking, keep talking, keep talking... and who keep listening, keep listening, keep listening.... I have never been alone, even if I have felt it. I have been husbanded by a husband who loves me as Christ loves the church and I have been mothered by my mother and pastored by my father and gently held by my brother and nurtured by sisters-in-law and a brother-in-law. My mother-in-law has gently reminded me with her tears that she loved him, too, and that she longs for him, too, and my father-in-law has answered questions about what he thinks about eternal things in the light of our little boy being there, and I have remembered that this boy was part of his lineage, bearing his name. I have been shown friendship by my friends because Jesus is real and He has never abandoned me.

And He never leaves, even when I question His goodness...because I still question His wisdom in all of this, often. But there's a thing called "acceptance" that I am only beginning to understand.

I am crying out for something special on Ben's birthday.

This time last year I was getting the nursery ready. I was packing my bag and making my list and getting ready to leave on Monday afternoon. I was excited. I was scared of the pain of labor, but I did not think anyone would die. This time last year, I lay down on my bed, burning up hot, and talked to him... told him that it wouldn't be long now. I think I sang him a song. I had two afternoons like that-- today and tomorrow are the one year anniversaries of the last time I sang Ben a song.

I didn't have any idea how precious those memories would be one day. What a treasure those moments that felt so slow and heavy and hot were. Oh God, I wish I could go back and tell myself to pay more attention. I wish I could tell myself to make sure to tell him everything and poke him and feel his little body squirming and make him feel your hands pushing against him and make him hear your voice saying, "I love you, I love you, I love you-- mommy loves you, baby."

But I keep thinking that he knows. Right now, he knows. Wherever he is, he knows.

It's almost your birthday, baby. My God, how I miss you.

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Day Twenty-two of the First April Remembering

Here are some things I wish he knew about me:

That I wear rose perfume that smells just exactly like roses and I smell it everywhere, even though I chose to not bring it to the hospital when you were born because they told us that the baby needed to just smell my unperfumed scent. At the time I thought, That’s cool. I’ll wear it as he gets older and when he’s an old man, he’ll remember that his momma wore rose perfume. Now, it always reminds me of you.

I wish you knew that I love to sing and that I had been singing to you while you were in my tummy…hm. Maybe you knew I would sing to you, then. And that when I was pregnant with you, I was overcome whenever I sang. So much emotion. My heart so full of love for you that sometimes it made me feel like I could break apart with weeping.

I wish you knew that I loved to paint and draw and that I had already bought you a book by my favorite children’s author. That I had daydreamed about fingerpainting with you and making crazy looking cookies for your grandparents when you were old enough to be able to do stuff like that and still young enough to not take yourself too seriously. I daydreamed about making a painting of you while you slept.

I wish you knew that I had an amazing childhood and that your father had one, too, and that I had so many hopes for traditions we were going to make for you.

I wish you knew that I had dreamed about nuzzling you right under the chin. Kissing your nose and forehead. Memorizing the smell of you. I wish you knew that I didn't mean to not do that... I wish I could go back to those moments and shake off the drugs, and this time I would hold you and hold you tighter, kiss your face, undress your tiny, perfect body and memorize every line of you. I wish I could tell you that.

I wish you knew that I have horrible luck with cars but that your dad doesn’t, and that your dad was going to teach you how to fix them. And how to fix lawn mowers. And how to fix anything he could think of. That Don was calling you his “little partner” and that he would have made you laugh every day.

I wish you knew that your mother is a woman deeply loved by your father and that I wanted you to be like him. I wish you knew that we are so happy, even though we miss you, and that we are deeply blessed, even if we do sometimes feel like we're walking around a gigantic crater blown into our lives that has "April 28" written on it.

I wish I could look into your little baby eyes and know that you see me and that you can feel the love that still sits in my heart for you, that rocks back and forth and feels desperate for you. I wish I could sing you a song and put you down for a nap and wake up to your laughter.

I wish you knew about me that the day you were born became one of the most important things anyone could ever know about me.

I wish you knew so much.
 
Maybe you do.

Monday, April 19, 2010

Day Nineteen of the First April Remembering

Being a high school teacher can be so much fun. Often, it's hilarious. Don't get me wrong-- it's crazy hard work and you're exhausted when you get home (can I get a witness? I know from your notes that there are more than a couple brothers and sisters-at-arms out there :)). I've been so lucky to have some seriously funny kids-- and it's usually about this time of year that I start getting sentimental about them. They're getting ready to leave me, all in various states of "undress" as it were... some are so totally not ready to be sophomores in any way. Some are still very much middle schoolers. Some started out sweet as babies and are ending the year tough and hardened. Some started off quiet and withdrawn, and are ending the year with the confidence of pop stars. I love teenagers. They're so complicated.

Probably because they are led by their emotions in so many ways, and we all know how complicated that can be.

One of my favorites (and I have quite a few this year) is a young woman from New York. She has this incredible accent-- she tells me that it's a Brooklyn accent. Honestly, I could listen to her talk all day. She sounds like she's 45 years old. She must live with her grandmother, too, because the stuff she says... she's such an old soul. Every day, I'm listening for something for her to say so I can post it here. More than once, she's done it...but I don't write it down and would rather have nothing than misquote her. But I'm on it.

In other news... As I was cleaning my home (um, have I mentioned that it's such a gift from the Lord? And that I am so grateful for it? And that it is beautiful but modest but also the home of my dreams? :) God is faithful) this weekend, this show that profiles Lotto winners came on TLC. One woman's story just struck me.

She said that she wrote a specific number down-- like 12.1 million or something crazy like that, folded the paper in half, and slept on it for a certain number of days. A bunch of details I do not recall came next, and then the next thing you know, she has hit it big for the exact same number... Really?

I mean, I'm sure she wasn't lying.

But dang.

Really?

So, how many of us immediately have a laundry list of things -- specific things, as specific as her number was-- that we would love to "sleep on" and welcome into our lives days later? Both hands raised here.

But it makes me wonder... you might think this is a weird connection, but there is a horrifying movie from the '80's that I see in a whole new light since losing my son: Pet Sematary[sic] (that's how King spells it in the title). The family buries their precious son in the pet cemetary after he is killed because they have discovered that whatever gets buried there does not stay buried. Baby Gage comes back, but it's not the baby they said goodbye to.

It's been so long since I saw the movie (I don't watch scary movies any more-- at all), but I have this one image seared into my mind-- the father is sitting on the floor in his kitchen, having lost everything to the grave, having tried to get everything else back in his own power, and the moment was so profoundly lonely and desperate.

I remember feeling that way last year. Desperate to wake up from this horrific dream. Desperate to say some magic words and make it all be different. A dear friend told me about her faith, in which there was hope that my son's spirit would come back in the body of my next child, and even though it is wildly at odds with my own faith system, part of me wanted that...but it felt like Pet Sematary. God allowed this and took him to His arms. I can't force him back in any way. No medium, no ghosthunter, no hokus pokus. No list printed on parchment and buried under my pillow.

But the desperation claws. How to change it, change it, change it.... It's why I haven't really felt a desire or really even a need to ponder the details of the mystery of his death. I have a couple of ideas, but my midwife is a close friend of mine who would discuss any part of it that I want and I haven't felt the need to bring it up. "Why" doesn't matter so much, still. But that longing for a re-do.

I have a short list of immediate desires. I won't list them here or put them under my pillow, but here is what the Bible says...

As a man thinks in his heart, so he is (Proverbs 23:7)

and

...whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, dwell on these things (Phillippians 4:8)

Remember that old worship song?

Jesus you're true
Jesus you're good
Jesus you're pure
and you are lovely
we will fix our eyes on these things...
Jesus, who is like You?

So I will dwell on the goodness of the Lord-- He knows my hopes and dreams and desires. He knows where and how and to what extent I still long for my son, and always will. He knows my heart more than I know it myself.

So I will stay my mind on Him.

He is lovely.

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

Day Thirteen of the First April Remembering

Today, I long. But not with despair.


Psalm 13

A David Psalm

1 -2 Long enough, God— you've ignored me long enough.
I've looked at the back of your head long enough.
Long enough
I've carried this ton of trouble,
lived with a stomach full of pain.
Long enough my arrogant enemies
have looked down their noses at me.


3 -4 Take a good look at me, God, my God;
I want to look life in the eye,
So no enemy can get the best of me
or laugh when I fall on my face.


5 -6 I've thrown myself headlong into your arms—
I'm celebrating your rescue.
I'm singing at the top of my lungs,
I'm so full of answered prayers.

(The Message)

Sunday, April 11, 2010

Day Eleven of the First April Remembering

A list:

*the most servant hearted man alive is my husband. This man amazes me all the time. When he's not pissing me off :)
*Azaelia bushes, gifts from precious friends (Debbie and Renee.... you guys bless me all the time). They told me that they wanted to give us something that would bloom every year around April and would remind us of the beauty of Ben's short life here. Oh wow. How fantastic.
*Friends who volunteer their sons to help plant the bushes-- thank you Bryan! :)
*American flags
*Grey paint, white trim, soon-to-be black shutters.
*my father and my father-in-law: helped Don paint the house-- they were alternately in heaven and agony. It was a perfect week. Rained one day. Perfect spring break.
*Rocking chairs.
*being southern. Thank you Lord. :)
*Paige's plant expertise
*Friends with interviews at cool colleges (if you think of it, throw up a prayer for my friend J. He'd be fantastic at this position and deserves a BREAK!)
*Dinner outside with new friends
*Crickets
*friends who share cuttings from their yards (dear Delynn!!!! Thank you!!!!) and share their hearts, too.
*White linens. Not the perfume. Actual linens :)
*Clotheslines
*Tea
*Our families
*the squeeky front door

There's so much more-- our jobs, our schools, our kids at school, our precious friends...

I'm remembering that I miss Ben, but that my life is still tremendously full. Nothing, no one, can replace him, but this is still a good, good life. I still have so many complicated longings in my heart and the ache is always, always there, right at the surface of my chest, and I could cry at any moment, but I'm happy. We're happy.

Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Day Six of the First April Remembering

Here are some things I saw yesterday:

-The view from my bedroom has virtually exploded in color. Where I was once worried that our new maple trees were not going to thrive, suddenly overnight they were covered in leaves! It is incredible how quickly things can move and change in nature. I should take this to heart more often.

-Many days, people unknowingly drop messages from God to other people on the path as they go. I was pushing my cart through a grocery store, worrying about things which have been weighing heavily on my mind, when I saw a man with his little girl. She was squirming and he said, "Hey, Daddy has you-- he's not going to let you fall." That man didn't know it, but it's like his mouth opened up and the Lord spoke right through him, right to my heart. Thank You Lord.

-The old guy at the emissions testing place was cool. He had spiky grey hair, a glass eye, and was wearing yellow tinted horn-rimmed glasses. He looked like a middle-aged indie musician who was getting ready to make a music video which was set at an emissions testing site. He even smoked his cigarette funny. And who knew that mechanic's shops are still open for indoor smoking? Or maybe he was breaking the law? Yeah, he was cool like that.

-Turns out, I like the color of grey we've gone with on the house. I wanted to keep it white. LOVED the white. But D really pushed for the grey with white trim and black accents. I miss my white house, but admit that this is going to look sharp. Plus, he promised me that he would paint the whole thing white for me if I hate it. And that man of mine is a man of his word. He would do it for me if I asked him. But I won't. :) As I drove up to the house yesterday and got a look at the side of the house, already covered, I knew it was going to look good. Almost time to plant shrubbery! Anybody want to donate shrubs, I'm looking for gardenias and azaelias and something green (do people divide shrubs?? see how little I know about planting stuff??).

-I was driving along on the most gorgeous day of spring so far when I drove down to the roundabout, which always makes me happy but also takes way longer than just turning past the library (well, it depends if you are going "to" or coming "from," doesn't it?)(if you're from here you know what I mean). I looked across two yards and down the sidewalk and I slowed waaaay down when I saw the woman with the stroller. I've heard about this woman, but until yesterday had never seen her. An old African American woman with a funny sun hat on, she was pushing an empty stroller (baby carriage), holding a plastic bag of something in her right hand. I could tell by the way she was walking that she was not a young woman, but I couldn't estimate an age by looking at her face. I noticed as I looked, though, that she was talking, and I realized that she was addressing the empty stroller.

I looked again at the stroller and it was indeed empty. And my heart broke.

I don't know exactly what was going on. Maybe she's a grandmother and she was on her way to pick up her grandbaby. Maybe she's homeless and that stroller is the only thing she has to carry her stuff in.

But that's not what it looked like. The stroller was clean and she didn't look homeless. Her eyes were tired and focused somewhere else-- weary. Haunted. Where is the baby that was supposed to be in that stroller? Who was she saying, "Just hush now, honey" to? And what does she do when she gets where she's going and she leans in to pick that air-baby up? Does she crumble? Did she ever weep over the lifeless body of a baby son or daughter? Did God weep with her, but she never heard Him? Or did she never conceive? I cannot imagine which is worse....

Oh God, my soul cries out, let me never fall into such despair. I cannot imagine losing my mind, but I know that if there was any event in my entire life that had the power and capacity to push me over the edge, it was the loss of my baby son. God held my mind in His hands and I am well, but I wanted to hold that woman when I saw her...and I wanted to run away, too.

For day six, I plan on painting. I cleaned house all day yesterday, but today I am going to paint something for my kitchen. And I'm going to finish cleaning out the ancient shed in my back yard. And wash these cool mason jars with glass lids that I found.

And breathe deep. And listen for God's voice.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

Day Four of The First April Remembering

It's warm out.

My friend Paige and I went and wandered around a local nursery, trying to decide how many of the lovelies I wanted to pack up and take home (a PLANT nursery!-- how crazy do you think I am?? :)). You should know that I have a, well, pretty bad history with plants. I just sort of... forget about them. At one point in the early grieving process, when I was trying to figure out what I did that made God "take" my son from me (I know, I know-- bad theology, but the brain wants reasons for things, and it will try on even the most ridiculous theories), I thought for the briefest moment of seriously-on-the-edge-of-comic despair, that He took him because of my bad track record with plants. Yes-- how can I be trusted with an infant when I can't even keep a fern alive?

There. I've said it. I killed a fern last year.

That takes a special kind of crappy gardener right there.

Anyway, I bought a little orange tree. I've wanted one BAD since I saw this article in a Martha Stewart magazine years and years ago-- I was a missionary at the time, so I didn't have my own home or a spare dime so I tucked it away in the back of my heart and always thought, you know, I'm gonna get me an orange tree as soon as I have my own house.

I have a whole list of plants that I want to have a go at, but I'm going to start slow. We have dark, rich soil to plant in and I have a big, big yard, and a list of things I want to try. Oh, and I am also surrounded by gifted plant people. Which is good.

Right now, I'm listening to Don and Joshua, my 19 year old step-son, sitting on the front porch and laughing their heads off. I'm about to head out to the back yard to tend to my other prize from yesterday-- a tiny gardenia bush.

I wish Ben was here, but it's okay today. I'll carry that ache out to the yard with me and try to imagine what heaven must look like to him. Imagine what it will be like to join him before the throne one day, many, many years from now. Imagine that God lets him know who we are. That he knows that I suck at keeping plants alive, but that I would have remembered to feed and water him :). That he knows that he is deeply loved, even if we didn't get to know each other. Flesh of my flesh-- what more is there to know?

Praise God for His resurrection. Only He can resurrect the broken heart. Only He can resurrect life from death. Only Him. And He is good.

Bless you today, dear friends.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Day Three of The First April Remembering

My last post was so sad! And it was exactly where I was at at that moment-- that whole day, actually.

But grief is, as I have become accustomed to saying, weird. It's sneaking up on you or hiding from you or letting you know that it's waiting patiently in the next room for you to come visit it-- not forcing itself, just waiting.

Today is gorgeous.

My husband is tending to his new obsession: the grass. I am about to clean my dream house. We haven't turned on heat or air conditioning in two weeks-- I am excited about the next electric bill (you should know that for the last couple of years, Don and I have had a little competition to see how long we could go without turning on heating/AC at the intro to each season. The world of Facebook has expanded said competition to some other cheapskates  good stewards and it's become kind of fun-- my friend Lori totally lost the AC competition this season, though. It's sad that she's already out-- I miss her! I was planning on pushing this one pretty far, but her gentle southern sensibilities simply cannot tolerate these blistering spring days... :))

At any rate, life, as they say, does go on.

I kind of hate when people say that.

But it's just true.

I had one of those eye-opening moments that just sort of hits you out of nowhere yesterday morning-- that phrase just came alive for me.

I was walking toward my classroom and one of my most precious students was walking toward me (I'll call her "M"). She's this beautiful, willowy girl-- all linen and graham crackers and she is the kind of beautiful that does not have a clue about it. Don't you love that kind of beautiful? She's so kind to her friends-- she is mild and peaceable, and she looks like she just stepped out of a catalog, but she is completely unaware that she is so pretty, so she is totally unaffected and humble. She is, truly, a breath of fresh air.

And she feels things deeply. She and another of my favorites came to Ben's funeral last year-- the funeral was packed with people and I was medicated so I don't remember everyone, but I do remember my students in those lines of precious people (oh Ben, did you see all the people who came to honor your brief flash of a life? Did you see that the church was packed and people who had never held you wept with us over your goodbye?). Anyway, both of those two girls were so gentle with me-- so red-eyed and anxious to help.

But when this sweet girl came up to me yesterday, I could see new grief in her eyes. Our community lost two fantastic young people a week ago Thursday. It's stunning in its sadness. Outstanding students, this brother and sister were on their way to school when they were involved in a car accident. They weren't doing anything wrong-- maybe driving too fast, but no drinking, texting, knocking over mailboxes with a baseball bat. The boy was a recent Eagle Scout and his sister has won the county science fair for the last three years in a row. He had been accepted to Georgia Tech and she was headed, from what I understand, to a prestigious Magnet school for Mathematics and Sciences. They were the only two children of their parents.

Oh my God in heaven, how do you live with such grief? These parents have been so heavy on my heart-- will you pray for them? Ah, Lord, they need prayer. I have no idea what to ask for-- I only pray what I prayed for myself most often in the days after my different loss: "Help."

I asked M how she was doing and she winced a little and I immediately thought of her friend (the brother had been a senior and an active member of the band-- if there was ever a reason to put your child in band, outside the pure goodness of being IN music, the tightly knit community it provides for your child could be reason number one)-- for a moment, I had forgotten, but she hadn't. I realized, as I asked it, that of course she was not alright.

She told me that she was okay but that it was weird-- that she wants to be "normal" but she's not done grieving the loss of her friend (plus, I think it just freaks teenagers out when someone their age is suddenly taken from them-- that's so outside the realm of possibility for them. For all of us, I think, but especially for them, in the bloom of life). She said that it was just kind of...weird... how people are just sort of going on with things. "He was in my section in band and yesterday, someone had already moved to his chair. It bothered me for some reason. I was all, that's Karl's chair. Are we already forgetting him?? I mean, I guess I know that life sort of moves on, but it doesn't feel right yet...."

She's so healthy.

And are there any words to fix loss?

No.

And those parents are nowhere near moving on yet, but his peers have to. They just do. They have final AP exams and summer jobs to get in place. They are anxiously awaiting college acceptance letters (congrats to JE for your acceptance into UGA-- that's a BIG, BIG deal). They are getting sentimental about their soon-to-be alma mater. They're shrugging off their early youth and moving into young adulthood.

Life goes on, with or without all of the people who walked this way with us for any length of time.

Today is beautiful. My husband is sewing grass seeds where the earth was tilled up during our remodel and old daffodils are popping up in unusal places-- we thought they were dead, but they were just misplaced. Or maybe old seeds were just rejuvenated, if things work like that. But there is a newness, this spring.

It's day three-- 25 days until the first anniversary of my son's birth and death-- of a month I have dreaded all year, and how lucky am I that is a month so full of rebirth? It is the month where we celebrate the death and resurrection of our Lord and King-- where we drape the cross in mourning cloths while we remember the days his body spent in the tomb, and on the third day we remember that this is not all there is-- that death is not the period on the sentence, that He has conquered the grave and there is nothing to fear. That He came to lift my son to His bosom and I can trust Him that He held and comforted Him because He knew how weird physical death is...because He has been there. That His Spirit comforted my wounded mother's heart because He had a mother and He knew her grief. That He did not disappear into the black beyond, but instead burst forth into majestic, permanent Spring. Death lives here only-- there is none of it in Heaven.

Bless the Lord, O my soul-- I am commanding you to do it, soul-- for He is the author of life. Bless His holy name.

Thursday, April 1, 2010

April

This is it.

This is the month I have been thinking about for 11 months.

This is the one year mark.

Has it really been a year almost? Have I really been this new person for a whole year? Has Benjamin Joseph Swaney really been gone a year? Was it really just this time last year when I felt like I was going to explode, when I was folding little baby clothes with my mother, when it was really starting to hit me that I was going to have this gigantic new responsibility...and then it was snatched away?

How can it have been a year? Sometimes I feel like parts of me are still stuck in that week in the hospital. Every day, this same memory comes back to me (one of many, but this one is the most precious and the most painful):

I am surrounded by friends in a room that is kind of dark-- it is early afternoon on a spring day and the blinds are mostly closed. Someone hands me my son-- was it my mother? My husband? I can't remember-- and I can feel the precious warm weight of him against my chest. He is sweetly heavy, but so little-- just the right size at almost 8 lbs. I look down and -- am I only imagining that I could see his head? I think he was bareheaded-- I see the most precious little nose. I see the rosy glow of him, all pink and beautiful, and I can see the pores on his skin. I can see strawberry blonde hair across his scalp, and I see his little fingers. I touch the tip of his nose, just like I would a live, sleeping baby, and I can't believe that he is mine. I splay his fingers across mine and they are precious, just like any live, sleeping baby, except that I think they are starting to darken. And I can't believe that he is mine.

I want to keep holding him but I am so loaded up with drugs-- I've just come out of an emergency C-section and my head is still so foggy I can't focus and I'm afraid I'm going to drop him. I ask Don to take him because while I'm holding him I go in and out of consciousness.

It is the only time I remember holding him.

And he was mine.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Dear Enfamil

Dear Enfamil,

Thank you so much for reminding me today that my son does not need this sample. Thank you for bringing it up again and again. Thank you for not removing me from your mailing list, even though I sent what I thought was a fairly clear and well-put note. And how did you get my new address? It was sent directly to this very house-- not even re-routed. Thank you for marking time with me-- he would be eleven months. Thank you for making sure that I did not forget that. I'm sure that, without your monthly reminders (between you and the complimentary Parenting magazine-- again, did not sign up for it; have no idea how I'm getting it), I would completely forget that my son is not snuggling into his little bed tonight.

Appreciate it.