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.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Thankfulness, still
It seems to always happen to me in the kitchen.
I had just rushed to my house between meetings yesterday and I was standing at the counter, looking into the foyer, when a rush of love for my home just came at me. Thankful. So thankful for the way my Father loves me. So thankful for the way He has blessed Don and me. Longing for so many things, but thankful, still.
I wrote it down on my ipod right afterward, but I wanted to reproduce it here.
Here was my magnificat:
Lord, thank You for this house. Thank You for this beautiful house You built so many years ago, just for us. Thank You for the floors and the ceilings and the way the light pours in the windows. Thank You for the porch. Thank You for the friends I have laughed and cried with on that porch. Thank You for the red-checkered floor that my Don put down in the laundry room. Thank You for Chuck's brilliant idea to put in a staircase to the attic. Thank you for the perfectly preserved doors and door knobs. Thank You for the front door and the gigantic Christmas tree and the way Don and I laughed and laughed as he pulled it through. Thank You for this place, Lord.
Sigh.
And Lord, fill this house. Fill it. Fill it with Your Spirit. Fill it with children or fill it with friends, but fill it. Lord, we want Your will for our lives, for our home. We hope our desires are the same as Yours, but if they aren't, I ask you to help me to want what You want. Only You can see everything. We see such a little part. If what I want isn't what You want, I submit my heart to You for change. Mold me-- I give You permission to bend me. Fill my home and my life with Your light and Your life and Your will and Your presence. You, Jesus. You. Make it what You want-- we give You permission-- but help us to want what You want.
And Lord, if it's not a baby, then let me just offer that desire to You as a sacrifice of praise. I tell You that I choose to worship You either way. And not begrudgingly, but joyfully. This is our small sacrifice: to submit to Your will. To worship You in the face of longing. And to choose to long more for You than for the things of this place. Just help me, Lord. Help my heart to want what You want. Do what You will, but help me to love Your will. I trust You Lord.You are worthy of everything good.
I had just rushed to my house between meetings yesterday and I was standing at the counter, looking into the foyer, when a rush of love for my home just came at me. Thankful. So thankful for the way my Father loves me. So thankful for the way He has blessed Don and me. Longing for so many things, but thankful, still.
I wrote it down on my ipod right afterward, but I wanted to reproduce it here.
Here was my magnificat:
Lord, thank You for this house. Thank You for this beautiful house You built so many years ago, just for us. Thank You for the floors and the ceilings and the way the light pours in the windows. Thank You for the porch. Thank You for the friends I have laughed and cried with on that porch. Thank You for the red-checkered floor that my Don put down in the laundry room. Thank You for Chuck's brilliant idea to put in a staircase to the attic. Thank you for the perfectly preserved doors and door knobs. Thank You for the front door and the gigantic Christmas tree and the way Don and I laughed and laughed as he pulled it through. Thank You for this place, Lord.
Sigh.
And Lord, fill this house. Fill it. Fill it with Your Spirit. Fill it with children or fill it with friends, but fill it. Lord, we want Your will for our lives, for our home. We hope our desires are the same as Yours, but if they aren't, I ask you to help me to want what You want. Only You can see everything. We see such a little part. If what I want isn't what You want, I submit my heart to You for change. Mold me-- I give You permission to bend me. Fill my home and my life with Your light and Your life and Your will and Your presence. You, Jesus. You. Make it what You want-- we give You permission-- but help us to want what You want.
And Lord, if it's not a baby, then let me just offer that desire to You as a sacrifice of praise. I tell You that I choose to worship You either way. And not begrudgingly, but joyfully. This is our small sacrifice: to submit to Your will. To worship You in the face of longing. And to choose to long more for You than for the things of this place. Just help me, Lord. Help my heart to want what You want. Do what You will, but help me to love Your will. I trust You Lord.You are worthy of everything good.
Friday, April 29, 2011
730 Days: Still missing you
This is a profound mystery.
How many times have I thought those words-- "this is a profound mystery"-- to myself over the last two years?
How many times have I admonished myself with Friar Lawrence's words--
A pack of blessings lights up upon thy back;
Happiness courts thee in her best array;
But, like a misbehaved and sullen wench,
Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love:
Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.
(Romeo & Juliet, 3.3.141)
You are alive-- there art thou happy.
You lived through surgery-- there art thou happy.
You have a beautiful home and a job you love-- there art thou happy.
You have a husband who loves you and takes care of you and makes you laugh every day-- there art thou happy.
You are surrounded with faithful, loving friends and family-- there art thou happy.
A pack of blessings lights up upon thy back, Samantha-- happiness spreads itself out at your feet every day in a thousand ways, singing and springing forth in a thousand voices, but, like a spoiled child who is used to everything working out just as she wants it, you pout when your foot stumbles down a tough path. Watch out! Pay attention-- this is no way to live your life, and if you choose to do so, you might as well have died that day, too.
But, oh, Benjamin Joseph Swaney, I love you. Oh God, I long for him. I crave his presence in my life today.
You wanna know the key to the fact that this line of thinking is not crushing?
Because my Father does not ever, not for one second, begrudge me my grief, even 730 days later. Oh, my Father is gracious in His mercy-- He is boundless in His compassion. He alone perfectly understands every thought and emotion that races through my head and heart at warp speeds. He knows each one. He does not indulge me: He understands and loves me.
I've been told that I am remarkably in touch with my emotions.
My poor husband. I'm hard to follow sometimes. My dad says he's watched me do it my whole life-- I can feel a thousand emotions all the way through and name them, all in about 20 seconds.
Losing Ben took me to a level of feeling stuff that I never knew existed.
When your child dies before he ever had a chance to live, your mind rushes through a seemingly endless list:
-Wait-- what? I took all my prenatal vitamins.
-I went to every dr. appt, I didn't drink Diet Coke or anything even questionable.
-What did I do?
-I thought you loved me, God.
-Why did you even let me get pregnant in the first place if this was going to happen?
-Did You know this was going to happen?
-What do I do with his things? Why did You let me buy those clothes, Lord? Didn't You know?
-What do You know? The knowable? What does that even mean?
-Was this Your "will"?
-Am I to believe You were trying to teach me something? Couldn't You have just led me to a book or something?
-What's going on up in heaven that You decided to bring him up there now?
-Did you know that I would be a terrible mother so you just saved him from countless hours of therapy?
-Was he going to have a dread disease, so you took him before he could suffer?
-Was he going to be a criminal, so you took him before others could suffer?
-Are you mad at me? Did I disappoint You? Not pass a test?
But if you don't take this list and submit it as quickly as possible to Jesus, the King of your soul, the Lord and Keeper of your everything, you can drown in it. Bitterness and fear and anger and misery will overwhelm you. More than one time, I have had to picture myself running to Him, stapling my list to His throne, pushing it into His hands, and begging for more mercy-- more grace, more patience, more faith, to be able to wait until my faith becomes sight, to understand "Oh God, why?"
Did I say "why?"
I meant "Oh, God, whhhhhhhhhhhhhhyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?"
The Lord reigns. He is the answer to every question. The fact that He can see all of the things that I cannot see has become one of the most comforting things I've experienced this last two years. Oh, friend whose heart is aching-- oh, dear woman whose arms are empty, He knows. He hears the cry of every aching heart-- and we are deceived by one who hates us if we believe that He is uncaring, or powerless, or cruel. Our Father sees that we are made of clay and we live in a world that is made of clay. We live in a place where things that hurt happen every day. He saves us from more things than we actually walk through. Can you imagine what all this will look like when He shows us all the things we didn't see? When we see this life from heaven's perspective?
The Lord reigns
Let the earth be glad
Let the distant shores rejoice
clouds and thick darkness surround Him
righteousness and justice are the foundation of His throne
fire goes before Him and consumes
His foes on every side
His lightning lights up the world
the earth sees and trembles
the mountains melt like wax before the Lord
before the Lord of all the earth
the heavens proclaim His righteousness
and all peoples will see His glory...
Psalm 97
The earth is the Lord's, and everything that is in it.
If the earth is the Lord's, and I am the Lord's, there is something sacred and eternal that I am touching when I touch this thing that has happened to my life. My child, my son, was taken immediately to the Most High God for reasons that He has not chosen to reveal to me, but if I can fix my gaze upon Him... If I can strap the blinders to my head and focus on Him alone, suddenly things are not hopeless.
My Ben is gone, but he is not dead.
He is, to take from Shakespeare again, "some other where."
What fruit is being birthed from this death? His life and death have changed his mother and father in a way that no light trial could have ever accomplished. His coming into my life, the most precious and tragic experience I have ever known as a woman, has changed me intrinsically. I am not the same. And it's for the better. Oh friend, this is a profound mystery.
This life is not about you or me. It's about Him and His beauty and His great worth, and there are very few ways to really get to Him-- the way is narrow and straight. It seems the more desperate I get for comfort, the more willing I am to stay my focus on Him. The more I search for His worth. The more I am grateful for His redemption.
Here is what has begun to happen to me in the last two years: I have begun to realize that all of my stuff is in heaven. I have a beautiful home on earth, but my home isn't here. Everything looks different in the light of eternity. If my whole purpose and goal in life is getting to Jesus without doing too much damage to the Kingdom between here and there, suddenly the crappy stuff that happens here is not as heavy. You and I are in a race-- if we're running a race, do we stop to check stuff out along the race route on the way to the finish line? Do we get worried about what color some of the shops have chosen to paint their buildings (well, if it's lime green, maybe, but if they're nice people we'll let it go...)?
Do we get caught up in the things of this world when we were created for the reality of that world?
All of my hope is focused on Him. All of my life springs from Him. He is where we are going. And only He can see the answers to all of our questions-- I have faith that He will reveal it when it is time. And my son? He is safe-- he is completely safe, learning about Moses from...Moses. He's got the whole Red Sea thing down cold. He heard all about Noah and Jonah and Ruth... from the stars themselves.
Jesus's death and resurrection and our redemption are the point of this life. To worship Him in the face of darkest difficulty is wine culled from the bitterest grape that somehow comes out sweet.
I'm not telling the truth if I say that it doesn't still hurt like crazy, especially not knowing if we'll ever have another baby, but I decided a long time ago that my remedy for the sadness that would overwhelm me is worship. How is it that what is meant for Him is like water to my soul? It's like an embrace in some ways, I guess-- our aim is to hold Him, and we look up and find that He is holding us.
But this morning, Don and I woke up and talked about the day Ben died and we cried and we prayed, all before getting out of bed. It was an intense time of remembering. And then
we got up and washed our faces and waited for mom and dad and Nathan and Ella to get here. And then Don came to get me-- "Samantha, you gotta hustle. Get out here right now!" I thought Ella must be doing something outrageously cute, so I rushed out to the porch...
Oh, our friends.
Last year, Don and I decided that we would spend Ben's birthday planting and working in the yard, and that we would try to sort of make that our tradition-- celebrating LIFE on his birthday, and remembering his death, too. Last year, very precious friends decided they wanted to bless us with azaleas and cut flowers and peonies and we were so thrilled. This year, Caroline thought it would be fun if they could amp that up a bit. And let me tell you, when my girl Caroline decides to flip the switch on something...well...
Our porch was crammed with Gardenias and Hydrangeas and Tiger Lillies. A blackberry bush and a blueberry bush. Rose bushes galore. Gerbera daisies. A butterfly plant. Hanging flowers. A Japanese Maple. And so much more. Our friends had gotten them together at Caroline's house and a small group of them-- Rob, Robert, Brandon, and Caroline (Flower Ninjas)-- brought them over before 6am so we would wake up on this sad day and be blown away by their love and friendship.
It worked.
I wonder if Ben sees all this stuff. You know? If God lets stuff like that happen. I bet yes.
Day 731 without Ben has begun, but heaven is my true measure of time: this life is but a moment. There's so much we don't know. When our faith becomes sight and we are finally looking at the Him of our souls, this life will seem like a fragment of a second. In His light, everything else will make sense. Until then, He loves us and holds us and pours beauty out on us every day, if we'll only open our eyes to see it.
 |
| God will provide rain for the seeds you sow. The grain that grows will be abundant. Your cattle will range far and wide. Oblivious to war and earthquake, the oxen and donkeys you use for hauling and plowing will be fed well near running brooks that flow freely from mountains and hills. Better yet, on the Day God heals his people of the wounds and bruises from the time of punishment, moonlight will flare into sunlight, and sunlight, like a whole week of sunshine at once, will flood the land.... Isaiah 30:26 |
 |
| What a pack of blessings lights up upon thy back...and these are some of their names... |
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Hope
Since it's been so long since I've written, I should probably introduce myself...
Hi, my name is Samantha and I love Ticonderoga pencils, peppermint tea, and houses whose paint is old and peeling. I live in a small little town in the house of my dreams and I love orange. My husband is the funniest person I know and our families are made up of the nicest, most genuine people either of us has ever known. I am an artist who is afraid to hang anything on my 130 year old walls and I'm pretty sure I know all 1030 friends on my Facebook page. I am an English Lit teacher to some of the greatest kids around. My Sunday school class is amazing and my car passed emissions the first time this year, bless the Lord.
There. That's better.
But I can't get away from this one, tiny little thing: my son died almost two years ago and it is that, my almost-motherhood, and a deep love for my God, which continues to define this new woman that I am.
I've gotten several email messages and a couple of FB posts reminding me that it's time to get back to writing. My husband even asked me earlier today, "Do you think maybe you need to go write tonight?"
The season is starting to change-- grass is starting to sprout up in weird places, little tufts of baby green all over the yard, and the trees are sporting tiny nubs of possibilities. Some of the cherry blossoms are even starting to bloom. Surely the dogwoods are next. Our neighbor's pink and red camellias began blooming two weeks ago, and I wonder why my white ones bloomed in the dead of winter when theirs are just now here. So much birth and life, sprouting up and out. When it's not relapsing into winter, this is what my friends and I like to call "porch weather." We sit, like hens, all lined up across the front of my cozy porch, cackling and talking and solving all the problems of the universe. There are plenty of babies to hold and people we know honk and wave as they drive by. Outside is where everyone wants to be this time of year. It's good to be alive in March in the South.
But just as rebirth is happening all around me, there is a deep unrest still stirring in my soul, and it's hard to get away from. I've pointedly avoided the topic in my blog, but it's time to face it: I don't know if I will ever have another baby, and I have to learn to live with that.
I should share the fact that, whenever this subject is broached aloud or just in my head, I feel the need to qualify the statement. I know that I have friends who have not had children and likely never will-- some of them have chosen that route and have peace with it, while others longed for children and for whatever reason never had any. We all have our stories. For me, I always assumed that I would have children. Don and I wanted them (and still do). I have no idea how all the years got away from me-- one day, I looked up and I was 37 and pregnant for the first time. And then I was 38 and the mother of a baby who had just died at birth. And then I was 39 and about to celebrate the first anniversary of his passing. And now I am 40 and still not pregnant, though I had assumed I would be. I had hoped that I would be.
And what do you say after that?
Maybe that's why it has been hard to write. Because I don't want to share this particular ache. Because I know that, once I share it, I am opening myself up to a round of advice (adoption, fertility treatments, druidic smoke dancing-- I dunno, I made that one up) that only sinks the knife of sadness about this particular thing deeper.
Some of you can relate.
We don't want more babies to replace our babies-- no child will ever be Ben. He's alive some other where and I will see him again. I long to hold him and I ache to raise him, but to have another baby is not to replace him... it's to do the thing I feel such a longing to do: bring another person into this world, to raise that person and nurture him or her, to take care of them, to raise them to know God and honor Him. To laugh and cry with them. To see a mash-up of Don and Samantha in a little human package.
But here is my challenge: will I love Him even if that never happens?
And what happens to hope if I resign myself to the possibility of it never happening?
What am I hoping for anyway?
And that's the thing I have been learning in the last eight months of trying to get pregnant (we didn't start right away)-- my hope is in a Who, not a What.
My hope has to be nailed to His heart, His visions, His dreams-- not the thing that I long for. I have to lay that down.
I was looking up the word-- hope-- in the Bible, and most of the time the word was connected to hoping in Him, not for something.
Psalm 39.7
I hope in You, O Lord
Psalm 42:5
Why are you in despair, O my soul?
And why have you become disturbed within me?
Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him
For the help of His presence
(by the way, David repeats this refrain over and over-- Psalm42.11; 43.5-- commanding his soul to hope in God)
Psalm 62.5
My soul, wait in silence for God only, for my hope is from Him.
Psalm 71.5
You are my hope; O Lord GOD, You are my confidence from my youth.
You get the picture.
The psalmist proclaims that God is his hope and salvation. The implication, over and over in the pages of the Word He gave to us, is that hope that is focused on Him is firm and secure. It is founded on solid stuff. It is a hope that has substance. And it is hope in HIM-- not a thing or a reward.
He is the ultimate answer to all of our prayers.
He is what we hope for in the dead of night.
He is our hope.
I don't claim to understand a whole lot of Job, but one of his friends said this about hoping in the things of man:
the hope of the godless will perish,
Whose confidence is fragile,
And whose trust a spider's web.
He trusts in his house, but it does not stand;
He holds fast to it, but it does not endure...
Job 8.14-15
If I focus all of my hope on the thing that my heart longs for, I will grow bitter, because it might not be the thing He has designed for me. And even if it is what He has for me, I might miss the blessing of it because I grow insistent and entitled-- it's my right, you owe me. But if I put my hope in Him, I find myself
Falling in love with Him
Over and over and
Over and over again,
He gets sweeter and sweeter
As the days go by
Oh what a love between my Lord and I,
I keep falling in love with Him
Over and over and
Over and over again...
(if you don't know that old praise chorus, don't look it up-- the tune is so cheesy, but the words are precious)
If I place my hope in Him, I will never be disappointed because He never fails. Baby or no baby, He is perfect in all His ways. I know it. I knew it the day Ben died and I know it now. He has proven it by holding me every single day of this journey.
And I have no idea how He does it.
It's a miracle.
Lord, I put my hope in You again tonight. I take it-- all the hope that is bunched up tight and packed deep in my heart-- and I put it in Your hands. And I confess to You that You alone are holy, You alone are worthy, You alone are God, and worthy of my praise. I consciously take my focus off the desires of my heart and look instead to You and I say that You are the desire of my heart. Oh Jesus, the peace that fills my soul-- how do you do it? I give you my fears and sadness-- here, I hand it to You-- and I receive Your peace. I choose not to let my mind race ahead to all of the things that could possibly disappoint. You are my hope, O God. And I trust You to heal my heart, no matter what the outcome. I have to trust You. Where else could I go? You have ruined me with Your beauty. No one compares to You. You alone have the words of life-- You alone are trustworthy. You alone are eternal. And You are good.
Hi, my name is Samantha and I love Ticonderoga pencils, peppermint tea, and houses whose paint is old and peeling. I live in a small little town in the house of my dreams and I love orange. My husband is the funniest person I know and our families are made up of the nicest, most genuine people either of us has ever known. I am an artist who is afraid to hang anything on my 130 year old walls and I'm pretty sure I know all 1030 friends on my Facebook page. I am an English Lit teacher to some of the greatest kids around. My Sunday school class is amazing and my car passed emissions the first time this year, bless the Lord.
There. That's better.
But I can't get away from this one, tiny little thing: my son died almost two years ago and it is that, my almost-motherhood, and a deep love for my God, which continues to define this new woman that I am.
I've gotten several email messages and a couple of FB posts reminding me that it's time to get back to writing. My husband even asked me earlier today, "Do you think maybe you need to go write tonight?"
The season is starting to change-- grass is starting to sprout up in weird places, little tufts of baby green all over the yard, and the trees are sporting tiny nubs of possibilities. Some of the cherry blossoms are even starting to bloom. Surely the dogwoods are next. Our neighbor's pink and red camellias began blooming two weeks ago, and I wonder why my white ones bloomed in the dead of winter when theirs are just now here. So much birth and life, sprouting up and out. When it's not relapsing into winter, this is what my friends and I like to call "porch weather." We sit, like hens, all lined up across the front of my cozy porch, cackling and talking and solving all the problems of the universe. There are plenty of babies to hold and people we know honk and wave as they drive by. Outside is where everyone wants to be this time of year. It's good to be alive in March in the South.
But just as rebirth is happening all around me, there is a deep unrest still stirring in my soul, and it's hard to get away from. I've pointedly avoided the topic in my blog, but it's time to face it: I don't know if I will ever have another baby, and I have to learn to live with that.
I should share the fact that, whenever this subject is broached aloud or just in my head, I feel the need to qualify the statement. I know that I have friends who have not had children and likely never will-- some of them have chosen that route and have peace with it, while others longed for children and for whatever reason never had any. We all have our stories. For me, I always assumed that I would have children. Don and I wanted them (and still do). I have no idea how all the years got away from me-- one day, I looked up and I was 37 and pregnant for the first time. And then I was 38 and the mother of a baby who had just died at birth. And then I was 39 and about to celebrate the first anniversary of his passing. And now I am 40 and still not pregnant, though I had assumed I would be. I had hoped that I would be.
And what do you say after that?
Maybe that's why it has been hard to write. Because I don't want to share this particular ache. Because I know that, once I share it, I am opening myself up to a round of advice (adoption, fertility treatments, druidic smoke dancing-- I dunno, I made that one up) that only sinks the knife of sadness about this particular thing deeper.
Some of you can relate.
We don't want more babies to replace our babies-- no child will ever be Ben. He's alive some other where and I will see him again. I long to hold him and I ache to raise him, but to have another baby is not to replace him... it's to do the thing I feel such a longing to do: bring another person into this world, to raise that person and nurture him or her, to take care of them, to raise them to know God and honor Him. To laugh and cry with them. To see a mash-up of Don and Samantha in a little human package.
But here is my challenge: will I love Him even if that never happens?
And what happens to hope if I resign myself to the possibility of it never happening?
What am I hoping for anyway?
And that's the thing I have been learning in the last eight months of trying to get pregnant (we didn't start right away)-- my hope is in a Who, not a What.
My hope has to be nailed to His heart, His visions, His dreams-- not the thing that I long for. I have to lay that down.
I was looking up the word-- hope-- in the Bible, and most of the time the word was connected to hoping in Him, not for something.
Psalm 39.7
I hope in You, O Lord
Psalm 42:5
Why are you in despair, O my soul?
And why have you become disturbed within me?
Hope in God, for I shall again praise Him
For the help of His presence
(by the way, David repeats this refrain over and over-- Psalm42.11; 43.5-- commanding his soul to hope in God)
Psalm 62.5
My soul, wait in silence for God only, for my hope is from Him.
Psalm 71.5
You are my hope; O Lord GOD, You are my confidence from my youth.
You get the picture.
The psalmist proclaims that God is his hope and salvation. The implication, over and over in the pages of the Word He gave to us, is that hope that is focused on Him is firm and secure. It is founded on solid stuff. It is a hope that has substance. And it is hope in HIM-- not a thing or a reward.
He is the ultimate answer to all of our prayers.
He is what we hope for in the dead of night.
He is our hope.
I don't claim to understand a whole lot of Job, but one of his friends said this about hoping in the things of man:
the hope of the godless will perish,
Whose confidence is fragile,
And whose trust a spider's web.
He trusts in his house, but it does not stand;
He holds fast to it, but it does not endure...
Job 8.14-15
If I focus all of my hope on the thing that my heart longs for, I will grow bitter, because it might not be the thing He has designed for me. And even if it is what He has for me, I might miss the blessing of it because I grow insistent and entitled-- it's my right, you owe me. But if I put my hope in Him, I find myself
Falling in love with Him
Over and over and
Over and over again,
He gets sweeter and sweeter
As the days go by
Oh what a love between my Lord and I,
I keep falling in love with Him
Over and over and
Over and over again...
(if you don't know that old praise chorus, don't look it up-- the tune is so cheesy, but the words are precious)
If I place my hope in Him, I will never be disappointed because He never fails. Baby or no baby, He is perfect in all His ways. I know it. I knew it the day Ben died and I know it now. He has proven it by holding me every single day of this journey.
And I have no idea how He does it.
It's a miracle.
Lord, I put my hope in You again tonight. I take it-- all the hope that is bunched up tight and packed deep in my heart-- and I put it in Your hands. And I confess to You that You alone are holy, You alone are worthy, You alone are God, and worthy of my praise. I consciously take my focus off the desires of my heart and look instead to You and I say that You are the desire of my heart. Oh Jesus, the peace that fills my soul-- how do you do it? I give you my fears and sadness-- here, I hand it to You-- and I receive Your peace. I choose not to let my mind race ahead to all of the things that could possibly disappoint. You are my hope, O God. And I trust You to heal my heart, no matter what the outcome. I have to trust You. Where else could I go? You have ruined me with Your beauty. No one compares to You. You alone have the words of life-- You alone are trustworthy. You alone are eternal. And You are good.
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...
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
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)