sometimes...

and it’s like we’re living

on the wrong side of a “what if” scenario—

the part of the movie

that would have happened if the main guy

had made a bad decision.

memories of you float across

a quiet, empty part of my heart,

tiny fragments of the beginning of a life

not filled out

unfinished pages from a coloring book

clothes washed only once, then folded and put away.

there is a bag in the top of the closet

and a box of ashes in the armoire

and all the words have been said—

how many times and ways can I rearrange them

when they all just spell

sorrow?

ache

and Oh God, help.

sometimes

it just rains.

shs

When you don't get what you want...

You are my portion, O Lord;

I have promised to obey your words.

Psalm 119:57

So here is what I have been struggling with-- and when I say "struggling," you should imagine me wrestling with a giant beast, trying my best to pin it to the ground and make it stay.

Desire. Hope. Things wanted. Hope deferred. Longings unfulfilled.

Don't worry-- my intention is not to depress. I write with a kind of joy that I can't say I've experienced before. It's a joy that has begun to settle into my spirit, the way feathers from a broken pillow might drift down over the floor-- pieces so light and small, but ultimately covering the place.

Here's the question I've been asking a long time-- it's the thing I've been struggling with: what happens when you don't get what you want?

I think that, so often in the Body of Christ, we insist on calling hope and faith and "being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see" a promise of what we want to have, what we long for.

How do we continue to believe the Lord for His promises when He doesn't seem to hear that one cry of your heart-- for a husband, for a child, for whatever...? We tell the world that if you just believe God for something, He will provide it in His time, and we wait quietly hoping that it's true, silently willing ourselves not to become bitter or angry with God for not showing up in the way or timing that we're expecting or hoping for.

But what about when it just doesn't happen? Do we give up? Do we throw in the towel because the time stamp on that hope or desire is about to expire? Do we decide to come up with another dream?

In a word... kinda.

Here's what I mean: I'm 41. I've held one beautiful, stillborn son in my arms, and experienced an early (9 week) miscarriage on Halloween, of all days. We have continued to hope and try for pregnancy, but it looks like it might not happen. I won't lie-- having a baby, raising a little one, has been a deep desire of my heart. The loss of two little ones has broken my heart, and it has affected the way I see and understand things. But I have a choice about how I process this.

The whole thing is complicated.

I told my students that there are three ways I got through and continue to get through the death of my baby son: my faith in my God, my relationship with my husband and our community, and writing. But there's a huge key to the first part: worship. 

Here's why: when I go before the Lord in worship, I am dragging my focus back toward Him. I'm looking Him full in the face, and this thing happens when you look Him full in the face: all you can see is Him. He fills the screen. I sort of see Him putting His hands on either side of my face, leaning toward me with eyes full of the most intense and beautiful love and concern, and fixing them on mine. And He just looks at me. And He is my closest, most precious friend. And He understands every pang of grief and He understands all of my frustrations and He knows the whole story that I could never begin to grasp, and suddenly I remember why I'm even alive.

To know Him. To tell everyone I know about Him. To worship Him. To enjoy Him. To tell everyone I know that He is merciful. That He is kind. That He never abandons us. That this life is simply a through-path to eternity. That the end, here, is not the end: it's the beginning. This life on earth is prologue. Who hangs out on the prologue?

And it's not about being Republican or conservative or any of the trash we find for our hands to get mixed up in on earth-- it's not about being exclusive or inclusive or any of the things we get so distracted by, those things that we use to distract others from just this:

His beauty.

I long for a baby. But it's not what I was created for.

I love teaching students and laughing with them. But it's not what I was created for.

I love my husband and cannot imagine my life without him. But he isn't what I was created for.

I love my family and friends-- but they are not why I exist.

First, I exist for Him.

Then I exist to tell everyone that Jesus Christ is the way to Him.

I exist to know the depth of His love, the sureness of His friendship, the perfection of His plan, and to share it. To talk about it. To talk about His goodness and to sing about it and to write about it. To shine a light into dark places and proclaim that Jesus is good and that He is the hope of life.

Because that is the hope that was set before the people on that list in Hebrews.

These were all commended for their faith, yet none of them received what had been           promised. God had planned something better for us so that only together with us would they be made perfect.

Jesus. 

So many times, we live our lives wishing for things only to miss what is right in front of us.

For me, my mind has been changing over these last years. I always thought I would have babies. It never occurred to me that I wouldn't. I didn't prepare myself for the possibility that I wouldn't. I just sort of knew that at the right time, it would happen.

I had no contingency for "just in case" because...well... just because. I mean, seriously, what kind of "contingency" plan can there be for hope deferred?

What it has looked like is a sort of bowing in my heart. Grabbing that desire-- that panic that rises at the first sign of my period arriving every month-- and feeling it. Not ignoring it. Feeling the grief of waiting again. Feeling the grief of loss all over again. Disappointment. 

But the emotion that tags along with that grief is anger, and that's when I have to get up and look that thing right in the face and say NO. That's when I have to start singing. That's when I have to remind my soul of why it is here, why the Lord said "YES" at the moment of my conception. I was created to bless His name.

Everything else is extra. 

And every single month, the grief grows a bit smaller, and my faith increases that much more.

Someone asked me, "But how?"

Honestly-- music. Listening to worship music. Singing to Him. Being careful who I talk with about the dreams in my heart-- some friends mean well but do not help at all. Meditating on His goodness. His word.

But how?

Here's your assignment:

1. When you feel the grief of loss and disappointment rising up (because it rises up, doesn't it? Like a really big wave, and you see it coming and you brace yourself for it, but it knocks you down anyway. Sometimes you don't see it coming, but it hits like that, too) allow yourself to feel it if you need to. Cry, write, call a friend who will cry with you and not preach to you about faith or desire or how many people "wish they had what you have" (we all have those friends...we've all been that friend... but after a while, even with the most amazing friends, this becomes a solitary path-- one you have to work through on your own). Don't ignore the sadness-- it's real, and God has created you with the capacity to feel deeply and widely and with great strength.

2. Then think of this: He's in it with us. He's with us. Ultimately, our friends will fail us, our family won't be able to think of anything comforting, our husbands will be out of words (because they're walking this path, too). In the end, it's just you and Jesus. 

3. Give up on trying to figure out why. I've battled this point since the moment I heard that Ben was dead. Did God just think I would be a bad mother (did He think you'd be a bad wife? Is that why you're single?)(by the way, the answer to those questions is "Seriously? Have you seen some of the idiots who reproduce and marry?")? Only God has the answers-- He is sovereign, and He's a good Parent-- He knows what we can understand and what we cannot possibly understand. We live in a fallen world where the sun shines on the good and the evil. We live in a place where we are not exempt from sadness. The difference for those of us in Christ? We are never alone in it. We are not abandoned to it. We understand something else-- we might not understand why bad stuff happens, but we know that we are never alone. 

But we feel alone until we lift our eyes and look at Him.

4. Do something. Sing. It doesn't matter what it sounds like-- He dances over us with singing, no matter how it sounds coming out. When I begin to sing, I feel my whole focus shift. When I begin to truly think about the lyrics I am singing, suddenly I find my vision lifted-- when I begin to worship the Lord, my enemy flees. When I begin to meditate on the goodness of the Lord, it seems like everything else that wants my attention-- my grief, my despair-- falls away. 

Do you paint? Do you run? Do you create anything with your hands? Can you think of a way to do it "as unto the Lord"? Can you do it while worship music is playing in your ears? Meditate on the beauty of the Lord and do something tangible while you're doing it. If you let Him distract you with His goodness, He will begin to fill you with the wisdom we're crying out for. Peaceful understanding that passes all other understanding. 

There are so many other parts to this whole thing, of course, but these are some of the steps He has been walking me through. 

So what happens when we don't get what we want? How do we cope with disappointment and longings left unfulfilled? I've been discovering that these aren't questions that have easy answers, but that they are the gates some of us walk through to greater depths of intimacy and friendship with Jesus Christ.

Because here's the bottom line: no matter what longings we're left with on this earth, He has accomplished the deepest desire of all of our hearts-- He has given us His Spirit, His Son, Himself. And that is no small thing, dear friends. That is no small thing. It is the only thing. 

And worshiping Him brings my soul back up into that truth, out of the depths of grief, every time.

Because no matter what I long for on earth, He is my portion. He is my great inheritance. He is why I live. 

Songs for lifting our vision higher, for reminding our souls about the beauty of the King we were created to know (I'm not that all concerned about the videos-- it's just the music):

I Gotta Get Closer

How Great is Our God

I Have to Believe

Worth It All

When I think about the Lord

Holy Visitation 

Reason To Sing

Jesus, You're more than a Friend

Desert Song

Gotta Tell Somebody

Choose to Fly

Healing is in Your Hands

More than ever

Perfect Peace

Some days...

So, I've heard so many stories of lost babies in the last couple of weeks. Somehow, my miscarriage of two and a half (has it really only been two and a half?) weeks ago stirred up the old ache for Ben all over again, and hearing other stories of loss has highlighted the loss, too.

On the one hand, I long to reach out to those mothers whose babies have passed on to glory-- I long to do what other mothers did for me. I long to tell them, I promise-- I know that ache. I know that sense of desperation. I know that sense of panic you feel at two in the morning when you're all alone and your husband is asleep and your arms are empty, and you realize that this is true forever. I mean, you may have other babies, but this baby-- this one you just spent nine months dreaming about-- this baby will never be in your earthly arms. This baby is gone forever. That choking panic that rises up when you know that this isn't a dream and that there's no fixing this. It's true forever and you must learn to live with the blackest loss.... I long to tell them that relief does come. That it's not cheap relief either-- it's not a forgetful relief that makes your child's importance any less intense. It's not a relief that comes from ignoring the facts. It's a lessening of the sharpness of pain because that pain moves in. The loss becomes a part of your reality, and you grow used to it. That sounds depressing, but to me it isn't. It's simply that I miss my son-- miss getting to know him and love him and hear his voice-- and his life and death are part of who I am now. The farther I move away from April of 2009, the more the loss of him is "normal."

Is there any good way to explain it?

But the miscarriage... it stirred it all up again. I was afraid to relax the whole time I was pregnant-- hanging on for week 12-- and then the thing I dreaded happened... and it didn't kill me. It's amazing what we can live through, isn't it?

Truly, I am grateful it happened at 8 weeks. I am grateful that my body responded well and I didn't need any surgery and I'm back to "normal" today.

But I'm sad that it happened at all. That this wasn't a "viable" pregnancy. That things didn't just progress normally and result in a little baby girl or boy. I'm sad about that. Disappointed. Tired of feeling sad and disappointed.

Someone was telling me how much they admired "how we'll [you're] doing" the other day, but there was an edge to her voice and it occurred to me that it was important to acknowledge that this sucks sometimes, too. That I'm not being "good" or "bad" when I feel angry or sad or depressed or discouraged, but so often I forget to write about that any more.

Here's what I was feeling on November 15 at 9:48pm:

"Oh God, where are you? I feel so rejected by You. I feel rejected as a woman, as your daughter, as a child, as a wife, as a teacher, as a human freaking being. I don't know how to tell my husband what I'm really feeling. I feel like I have to stay 'up' or I'll scare everyone around me. Where are You? My body has lost two children now. Two. Not one. Two. One cut down at the moment he was supposed to begin, before I could see his eyes, before he could see me looking at him, before he could feel my lips on his face, just gone. The other, before he could even grow enough to make me feel his presence, enough to know mine. Oh God. My body fails me. Failed them. I am rejected as a mother. I don't qualify. I can't discuss my birth pains. I am a horror story. Mine is the one people shake their heads at and cover their mouths over. I am rejected. I don't work. My femaleness is an utter loss and a miscarriage in itself. Why am I a woman? Why have I gone through these monthly cycles for all these years? I feel mocked by my own body. I feel like a failure. Where are You? Why won't You speak to me?"

It's like a horrible psalm.

I wait for the

"But You, O God, are a good Father"

while my mind says, "Why does He keep picking on me?"

Sigh.

I'm not feeling that way today. But sometimes I feel that way.

And I don't shake my fist at Him-- He deserves my respect always, no matter how bad I feel about things. I know that He is sovereign.

And I know He isn't picking on me. I won't compare war wounds with other people, but I will say that I am completely aware that mine are not the worst anyone has ever sustained. They're mine and they hurt, but they're not the worst. Not by a long shot.

So what do you do when you feel that way? That's the big question at two in the morning (or at 10 at night). To me, you fight through it. You cry til you think you can't cry any more. You write down or sing what you're feeling and you know that you have a Father who knows every sadness you could ever experience and who is there in every moment. A Father who is not easily offended-- who doesn't get His feelings hurt because He knows what we really mean when we question His wisdom.

But friends, if you've never walked the way of grief (yet), this is the most important part: get your feet on the Rock. Get your house ready for a storm. Get your faith settled. Actively work out your salvation. Because to me, it always comes back to this strong reality: the wise man builds his house upon the rock. And when the rains come, and the winds come, it will not get washed away because it is secure.

"Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. ²⁵ The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall, because it had its foundation on the rock. ²⁶ But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on sand. ²⁷ The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell with a great crash." Matthew 7:24-27

On days when I feel rejected, sad, like a failure, like a ruined temple, I am so grateful for the grace that I know I'm walking in. I know that I am not rejected. I know that He has loved me with a tender and gracious love that has picked me up time and again and set me in the safe place, in His presence. I have felt Him. I have seen so many demonstrations of His favor and mercy. He has given me the faith I cry out for.

But I still want a baby. I still want a better ending to this story.

And I still want to want what HE wants more than what I want.

That is my prayer.

...but thanks be to God

But thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumphal procession in Christ, and through us spreads everywhere the fragrance of the knowledge of Him. For we are to God the aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing. To the one, we are the smell of death; to the other, the fragrance of life.

2 Corinthians 2:14-16

Such a short time since my last post, in my mind, but so much has happened. And the fragrance of Christ washes up around me, lapping into my face like waves on the ocean, soothing my heart whenever it would creep toward unbelief, and speaking with words I cannot understand, but whose tone and timbre make perfect sense to my soul.

On Monday morning, I miscarried the baby I was carrying, and I have total peace about it. I am sad, but let me explain....

I have been a fretful gardener for a long time-- if you've read anything on this blog and if you know me, you know that I feel endlessly unsure about my ability to keep a plant alive for any length of time.

But one of my best friends gave me a Christmas cactus the first winter we lived here in our dream home, and can I just brag for a second? When she gave it to me, she told me that she hadn't had a lot of luck getting the thing to bloom at the right time and for any length of time, but she had a good feeling about its ability to thrive in my care. Her reasoning probably went something like this: "I have over watered this dagum plant and have payed much too much attention to it. SAMANTHA will not have this problem. She'll probably forget to water it-- which is good because it's a succulent-- and she'll forget she even has it and it will thrive in its total invisibility." Her reasoning was probably spot on. That thing has bloomed with gigantic pink flowers both Christmases we've had it, and the blooms have stayed for weeks. WEEKS.

All because I know how to leave something the heck alone when I need to.

But when it came to the gardening outdoors.... Remember last spring when our friends blessed us with a porch full of the most beautiful flowers and shrubs? I was so blown away at the beauty of the abundance, but was so intimidated by my ability to care for it all. What if I forget? What if I over-water or underwater? What about plant food? What if there's a drought? What if someone's chicken wanders into the yard and eats it all up? What about the tilt of the earth and gravity? I can't even grow a tree frog. What about who's in the White House?

Panic. Sheer panic when it comes to gardening because I have failed in the past. Failed with houseplants. Failed with forgotten shrubs. But this time, the plants weren't from my hand-- they were gifts, so the added responsibility inspired both fear and action.

So after the most incredibly fun work day EVER (loads of people showed up to transform the yard and plant all the plants), it was up to Don and me to water it all and to Miracle Gro it, etc.

But you've heard all this before. Let me skip to two weeks ago.

Don and I have a neighborhood friend that we absolutely adore. Russ is a master gardener with one of the cutest dogs you've ever seen. Since we moved in, Russ has stopped by on a pretty regular basis on his afternoon walks with Baron, the dog.

Well, Russ moved a few streets away over the summer so we hadn't seen him for a while. I had planted three more rose bushes (the climbing kind) over the summer and they had EXPLODED with growth and flowers since planting them. No one was more surprised than I was about that. And here winter was coming, fast, and I had no idea what to do with my beautiful flowers. I sent Russ a note on Facebook and he was at the house the next afternoon.

Russ, Don, and I walked the perimeter of the house-- we were running all around, showing Russ all the stuff we've planted like he was our dad, competing for his attention-- "Look at the blueberries! Look at the orange tree!"-- and he was just shaking his head in wonder. He couldn't believe how gorgeous the roses looked. He exclaimed over the perfect spot for the blueberry bushes.

"It's this soil you guys have," he told us. He lived about one mile away and his soil was totally different, he said. This soil in our yard, he told us, was rich and black and perfect for growing things. It was like miracle soil.

Miracle soil.

So I have been thinking about this a lot.

It has been very difficult to understand the mind of the Lord when it comes to whether or not it's in His plan for us to have a baby. I don't understand so much of what happens in the world and in our lives, but that's mainly when I try to understand it in pieces. I find that when I look at the Big Picture, it makes more sense: we live. We are citizens together with so many others on the same planet, but we are simply sojourners in this place. Travelers. We don't settle here. Our home, our settlement, is so much farther beyond. Here, we learn the taste and fragrance of the God we serve-- there, we will see His face. Here, we learn to rely on something we do not see-- there, we will see the One upon whom we have relied, and I cannot begin to even think about what new things He will teach us there.

As a believer, I am not exempt from the trials of this earth. A baby lost during labor and another lost to miscarriage is nothing compared to the agony that others have experienced. For others, it is a bottomless well of grief. But whatever our experience, we are not exempt.

And we know this, I think, but there's this little voice deeeeeeep down inside that says,

Yes, but I am Your beloved! How can you let anything bad happen to me? Can't You hear my prayers? Are you mad at me?

God has planted us here, on this planet, and He is the master gardener. He know the conditions. He knows if you are designed to thrive in the Coastal South while I am perfectly made for the Western Mountains and High Plains.

I remember seeing these stunning flowers that looked just like really tough red roses on huge bushes in Sweden. It was 35 degrees below zero and the leaves were perfectly lush and green and the flowers were as crisp and fresh as a spring day in Georgia. In the dead of winter, those camellias were thriving. I have them-- hundred year old camellias-- along the front of my home. They only bloom in cold weather and they blow my mind every year.

So when I think about gardening and about how overwhelmed I have always been about it, and I think about the things my heart cries out for and the powerlessness and helplessness I sometimes struggle with feeling, I begin to remember this about the Lord (totally taking this verse out of context, but there is another thing I am seeing here):

"I [Paul] planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God made it grow. So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God who makes things grow." (1 Corinthians 3:6,7).

Paul goes on to say that each of the men have their purpose (the planter and the water-er) and each will be rewarded  according to what they did, but that we cannot forget that we are co-laborers with God, and HE is the one who does the Big Thing. Only He can say yes to the seed. Only He can approve its growth or not.

And there is so much mystery to just that, too.

Think of seeds planted in the worst of circumstances-- rape, prostitution, drug addiction, intense poverty, disease-- and those seeds embed, thrive, and come to fruition nine months later. We so often hear stories of great men and women being born in just such circumstances. These individuals grow to be amazing citizens of this earth. Seeds planted in soil that didn't appear to be "good"-- or at least not "ideal," whatever that means-- but God said yes. He said, YES, those seeds will live.

But what of us? What about the rest of us who wait, taking vitamins and shunning alcohol and diet coke, with lovely little future-nurseries in our houses? Russ was blown away at the roses in my yard. He just shook his head and laughed about the fact that these difficult roses were thriving even though I consistently forget to water them and hadn't given them rose food even one time since I planted them in the heat of the summer. It this magic soil, he said over and over.

It isn't in the will of  the gardener. It isn't in the will of the planter or the water-er. It is in the will of the One who orchestrates it all. So many times, my students question why we are doing this part of a project first or why they can't skip steps three through five, and I don't always tell them. I don't often tell them, in fact. I tell them to press on, to trust me, and that they'll see when we're finished why we needed to do it this way. Almost always, I hear, "Ohhh....that's why...."

I know that when I stand before my Father in heaven, I will say, "OH, that's why...." My Father, the maker of soil, the grower of roses under the hand of a forgetful, fretful earthly gardener, will make all things clear. But here are the lessons I can see now:

-- He is the maker of the soil. I am not making a judgment call on my "soil" (my womb)-- it is simply that HE can make roses grow when they shouldn't have. If He wants us to have a baby, I don't need to worry about the soil-- HE will do it.
-- He is the master gardener. He knows the climate. He knows what would thrive in this environment. Children are not all He has for us. We long for them. But He knows.
-- He is the teacher. He knows what steps we need to go through to get to the point of this lesson (LIFE). He knows that it will all make sense to us later, but for now, He asks us to trust Him with the process.
-- He loves me.

I am sad that this seed, this little baby, was planted and died before coming to fruition, but I am thankful that it happened early. I am thankful that it was at week eight and not week eighteen. I am thankful that the Lord heard my prayer-- when I started to suspect that it was happening, I prayed that it would be quick and clean, and it has been (so far). I don't understand the "why" of it, but who ever does? I cannot be controlled by the questions that threaten to plague. I am thankful that the Lord has been with me through every step and that He is not silent.


No eye has seen,
no ear has heard,
no mind has conceived
what God has prepared for those
who love Him--
but God has revealed it to us by His Spirit.

1 Corinthians 2: 9-10

Something new...

First, let me tell you about my yard.

Gigantic yellow chrysanthemums and blooming roses and daisies and fluffy ferns and a slow burn just on the maple trees all invite you to stay in the rocking chair just a few minutes more. The wind chimes are finally starting to be stirred on a regular basis and if you scoot just past the planter filled with rosemary and lavender, a cloud of fragrance will force you to collapse into an adirondack and just breathe. The climbing roses in the back and along the chimney are starting to reach and actually climb, and sometimes, if you stand in just the right spot --in the driveway-- in the middle of a strong breeze, some mysterious fragrance (smells like jasmine? Maybe rose?) makes you breathe deep, sniffing the air and following it like a bloodhound. I think I found the source yesterday, I think, but I don't know what kind of bush it is-- is there such thing as a flowering jasmine bush? 

Even though it's fall and, technically, everything is about to die, it feels like brand-newness. In the south, we're all headed outdoors. The oppression of the last few months has lifted like a reprieve on death row and you'll find us on porches, at the lake, tailgating, walking to town, and crowding all the outdoor seating at restaurants. The last hurrah of nature will turn everything bright orange and gold and red and we have to be outside to see it.

Because I guess it's not really death, is it? It's more like sleeping. All of nature feels the biting sting of winter coming, so it pushes all its baggage off the end of its branches and heads underground for a long respite, stretching out roots and shoots, snuggling deep down into the warm earth for a restful nap, to dream about spring and new birth and new life. Snuggling deep, soaking up nutrients, hiding the beauty of its perfection until the unveiling begins in April. Nature gestates while life is woven and knit over and over and over again in a womb of dirt and roots.

And it's happening inside our house, too, and the mystery is just as profound.

I am newly, finally, pregnant. My hands shake as I type the words.

You've seen my last posts... I'm only about four weeks pregnant... I wasn't expecting it....I mean, I was hoping, obviously, but had come to a sort of settled peace about the thing...

It's early to share, but how could I not, really? Most people wait, right? Twelve weeks, or at least six, is when most of my friends seem to share their news, but they are better people than me-- I couldn't keep this to myself.

And for me, as my dear girl Sarah said, I must proclaim faith over this little one. I know that I will battle fear over the next few months. Not over the pregnancy-- my pregnancy with Ben was so easy, so uneventful-- but over that last bit of the journey, the doorway between cuddling under the earth and pushing the shoots forth: delivery. I have commanded my mind to stay put, in the name of Jesus, and will continue to as the months push on into the journey. I know my weak points, and I know the weapons of the battle.

God has not given me a spirit of fear, but a spirit of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.

A sound mind.


Here's the battle cry of the enemy:

"What if?"

It's a puny, whiny little voice that creeps and screeches and picks and drags. The battle cry of the enemy is:

"But how come last time...?"


But my God is good.


His battle cry is:

PEACE, PEACE

and Goodness

and Hope

and Charity

and HOLINESS.


God is my refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Therefore I will not fear, though the earth should change
and though the mountains fall into the heart of the sea;
though its waters roar and foam,
though the mountains quake with their surging.
There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,

the holy place where the Most High dwells.
God is within her, she will not fall;
God will help her at break of day.
Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall;
he lifts his voice, the earth melts
The LORD of hosts is with us;
the God of Jacob is our stronghold.

Selah.

Psalm 46:1-7



There is a new baby here within, and I am grateful. And somehow, I am sad about Ben all over again, in a way that I have not experienced before, and while I don't understand it, I sense that it is part of the process.

There is so much more to this story, and I will share more later, but I had to share this news. Praise God for this new thing that I had only hoped for! Praise God in advance for this gift that I must hold with open hands-- if I have learned anything in these last two and a half years, it is that we simply cannot read or comprehend the mind of God. So I accept today and pray for His blessings and trust Him that He is endlessly kind and wise and merciful, no matter what.

But I will not expect the worst-- I will simply sit back and enjoy the colors as nature beats a hasty retreat into gestation with me, and will wrap the two of us in a cozy blanket and enjoy a companionable silence together as we wonder at the silent, dark knitting that is happening in us both, and hope for a blossoming in the spring. Wait and expect new life.

Selah.


3 Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! In his great mercy he has given us new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, ⁴ and into an inheritance that can never perish, spoil or fade. This inheritance is kept in heaven for you, ⁵ who through faith are shielded by God’s power until the coming of the salvation that is ready to be revealed in the last time. ⁶ In all this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while you may have had to suffer grief in all kinds of trials. ⁷ These have come so that the proven genuineness of your faith—of greater worth than gold, which perishes even though refined by fire—may result in praise, glory and honor when Jesus Christ is revealed. ⁸ Though you have not seen him, you love him; and even though you do not see him now, you believe in him and are filled with an inexpressible and glorious joy, ⁹ for you are receiving the end result of your faith, the salvation of your souls.


I love You, Jesus. Thank you for today.


1 Peter 1: 3-10

Letting some things go...

I can't believe I didn't write about this before. It won't be poetic or lyrical, this re-telling, because I'm trying to remember the details, but I feel like it's important-- I've gotten notes from people who have wondered about when to break down the nursery and how to do it, and I want to address the way I did it. There will be holes, but this is what I remember (I should add that the initial taking down of the nursery was forced upon me because we moved about eight months after he died. All his stuff went into the attic. If we hadn't moved, I don't know how long it would have taken me...).

June:
At the beginning of the summer, I decided that it was time to make some space in the studio above the garage. It was time to begin to really use it like a studio.

I opened the door to the room and was greeted by two things: a blast of 100+ heat and a pile of baby stuff.

Baby stuff. Ben's stuff. Precious gifts from friends who fully expected to hold my son in their arms, but which now sat unused and unopened in a blazing hot attic.

I've known the stuff was there for a long time, but I haven't wanted to think about it. Since moving out of the old house, those things have been sort of my last link to my son-- and I know that they're just things, but...how do I explain that I held those things in my hands while he was with me? That my husband loaded the car up with those gifts while I waddled behind him, carrying our son. That those things were his, not mine, and his name is attached to every piece in my mind. I know that those things don't bring him back, but they sort of bring me back....

But I stood there, hands on hips, and I knew it was time. It was like a peace and a resolve came over me and I simply felt okay about it. It was like, all of a sudden, the thought of doing it didn't make me want to throw up. I needed to do it. I wanted to do it, and fast. It wasn't a feeling of desperation-- it was like I was just rolling up my sleeves and ready to get down to it.

So I called my friend Miki. Miki always knows what to do. If you have a crisis or a dilemma, she's the go-to girl for the solution or at least fantastic ideas on how to find the solution. I've called Miki in moments of crisis several times over the years and she has never failed me. She's a genius. And a precious friend. And as much like a sister as anyone I know-- we've been friends since infancy, and to me, that's as good as blood.

Of course, Miki knew exactly where to go.

"Miki, I want to donate this stuff. I have piles of diapers, wipes, bottles..."

It was a Thursday and she was out of town. I wanted her to go with me, so I loaded up the car while my heart was still in it and I waited until her return-- which was kind of funny. I drove around all weekend with loads of baby things shoved into my station wagon-- my car smelled like a baby every time I got into it and I was able to think about the fact that someone who desperately needs this stuff is going to be blessed and that I was sad that I had hoarded it all this time, but at the same time, I had needed to...

I'm so glad I have a huge, loving, caring, thoughtful Father in heaven.

So Miki and I drove over to Refuge Pregnancy Center in Conyers that following Monday morning. Walking to the door, she looked at me and said, "You wanna drive or you want me to?" I told her I wanted her to, and I am so glad I did.

The place was really beautiful. The office is a former doctor's office with a skylight and comfortable couches in the antechamber. We went to the front desk and Miki asked to speak to one of the counselors because we had a donation and would like to speak to someone-- proof number one that Mik was the person for the job on this mission. I don't know what I would have done. I think I would have just said that I had some stuff to donate and then would have just lugged it inside, leaving without a word and with no sense of closure at all.

But instead, the woman at the front window was so nice. She went and got one of the volunteer counselors (whose name I have forgotten, and I so wish I had not!), who brought us back to a counseling room. It was small with a small TV and VCR, a comfortable couch and a couple of chairs. The counselor, a gentle soul, told us that she was happy we were there and asked how she could help. I nodded at Miki and she gave the most beautiful rendition of Ben's story that I have ever heard. My friend of 39 years told this woman how much we had longed for Ben, how we had loved him, and how senseless the thing seemed, but how we have asked the Lord to somehow be glorified. The counselor and I both cried. I felt so deeply honored  to hear my story told so generously. The counselor shared her story about the passing of her daughter (as an adult-- I cannot imagine) and the three of us shared a good cry together again.

We prayed together and then she gave us a tour of the place. There's a little "store" where the moms can use the points they earn from classes to buy maternity clothes (they love donations, if you're ever trying to figure out what to do with yours!), formula, baby clothes, shampoos/lotions/diaper ointment,etc., car seats, tubs-- you name it. If it's for babies or moms and it has been donated, the girls can earn them. They have bags of diapers that the girls can earn and an emergency supply that they have limited access to. The center wants to aid the girls in becoming independent, but also wants to support them as much as they can without crippling them. There's so much wisdom in what they do there.

After the tour, Miki and I brought loads and loads of stuff inside. I wish I could describe how right it felt. I'm usually pretty good at describing stuff... this one is tougher.

After lunch, Miki gave me a gift: a set of wind chimes for the front porch for remembrance. It was perfect.

For me, giving Ben's things away wasn't an act of "giving up"-- that's sort of what I had been afraid of before. I was afraid that giving the things meant for him was an act of wiping my hands and saying, Oh well, no babies for me! But that wasn't what it meant. In fact, my main thought-- the one that really did it for me-- had to do with other babies. I looked at my gigantic pile of Huggies and I remembered children I have seen who live in poverty. I thought of students of mine who have had children, with no money to pay for the things they need. I thought of little ones who get rashes because their diapers aren't changed enough. I thought of the expensive creams and shampoos my friends had blessed me with, and I thought of the girls who don't have adult friends who love to go to baby showers. When it was time to give up Ben's things, it wasn't about giving them away... it was about giving them to....

I am so thankful for the friends who have been walking this long road with Don and me this last couple of years, and so thankful for their support in all kinds of ways-- flowers to remember Ben and bless our family, donations of money to organizations in honor of his memory, and truly sympathetic companions to cry with us (and sometimes speak for us when it's too difficult).

We're not done with this road, but I feel like the load is lighter now in many ways. And I love the thought that there are some sweet-smelling babies out there who are benefiting from the fact that Ben lived for 9 beautiful months and was expected by a community of generous people.



If you ever want to donate to Refuge Pregnancy Center (time, resources, money), please head over there. They are some of the nicest people you could ever want to meet.