Due Date

So today has finally arrived.

Since late summer, this day has been reserved on the calendar. 

May 3, 2018.

I have been anticipating this date for so long. 

Partly anxiously waiting for it to come so that it can pass. And partly wanting it to linger in the future, because I wasn't sure how it would feel, to face it and to then bid it goodbye. 

It feels like a chapter finishing, a book's end.

And I don't want it to be over. 

Because what do you do next, when a cherished story is completed? 

These past few days, facing this mountain of a day,

I have been longing for the noisy and rushed to be quiet and calm. 
Just so I can sit quiet and calm: to be still.

Today, Noah was supposed to be born.

With scheduled deliveries with each of our children, 

this very likely would have been the true date we would have met and welcomed our youngest child.

Early morning anticipation of arriving at the hospital and getting this labor day going.

Envisioning the absolutely pure chaos of how crazy adding another baby to this mix would be! My word.

But, instead. 

That hospital date has already happened, and the delivery is already over.

Instead of May, it all shifted to December. 

December 1, 2017.

The first family picture, 

instead of at a hospital bedside at St. Luke's, 

was taken outdoors in Pocahontas County.

But first, back up a few months.

There was the beyond-surprised surprise we discovered, late summer.

Say what?

Number 5?

A family of 7?!

Oh, the desperate prayers. 

The tears.

The disbelief.

The absolutely necessary support of loved ones. 

The clinging trust that God had a plan.

The gradual, subtle acceptance of the reality coming to us... 
"Here Comes the Sun"

And then, the big day came.

Boy or girl? Girl or boy?

BAM.

Suddenly, it. all. shifted.

Life's direction had changed.

Our baby was gone.

What? When?

Questions, no answers.

It just was.

Plans to be made.

Surreal:

Suddenly, moving from an ultrasound room 

to 

discussions of funeral homes and gravesites.

What?

What?

Plans.

A new road.

And calling in the calvary of our dearest loved ones.

Long hours that day, just sitting in the front seat of the minivan.

A Jars of Clay Christmas song softly played on repeat.

Clinging to the voices of family, friends. Thank you, dearest ones.

Loss.

Shock.

Loss.

Questions.

No answers.

"Noah" means rest, comfort. 

The perfect name for our innocent life who directly went on to heaven.

"What Child is This" brought me to tears.

So did anything.

Even Jimmy Johns sandwiches. 

I found myself in such a tizzy, weighing the burden of this loss. Sometimes "how horrrendous this is" and the next second, "but others have had such a more terrible circumstance." Not sure how my grief could even be measured.

Here are some wonderful words on grieving in that way:

It’s in thinking that one pregnancy, one life, is more significant than another based on its duration. It’s in thinking that the loss of a baby who was too small to be seen, or held, is less significant than the baby who was big enough for a crib, but was laid in a casket instead...

The truth is that my losses are no more or less significant than anyone else’s. Whether it was an early loss or a late loss, I’ve missed out on the same things as every other loss mom. I’ve missed a lifetime of getting to know two of my children. I’ve missed milestones and celebrations. I’ve missed the mundane moments that would have made up the majority of memories with the two babies who didn’t make it home...

But I do know hat there is no "only" in pregnancy loss. Not in mine or anyone else's. There is "already."

There was a pregnancy that had already progressed to six, or eight, or twenty weeks along. There was already life as evidenced by two pink lines. The same pink lines that had already alerted a woman to her role as a mother. There was already the sound of a heartbeat, whether it beat for a day, a month, or longer. There was already a connection between mother and baby. And there was already love planted deeply in a mother's heart. A love that had already begun to grow from the moment the first sign of life was displayed in the once empty window of a pregnancy test. It doesn't matter if a pregnancy "only" lasted for a few weeks. It doesn't matter if it was an early loss or a late loss. What matters is that there was already a baby who was loved immensely. An love cannot be measured in weeks."

(Jenny Albers, https://abeautifullyburdenedlife.com/all-blog-posts/no-pregnancy-loss/)

So.

Weeks went by, life has carried on forward.

Without one hour going by, it seemed, where I didn't keep coming back to our loss.

Dealing with it all.

The bitter, the sweet, the aching, the reminders, the recovery, the journey, the beauty, the awful, the sad, the tender.

And in all that slippery, sludgy, heaviness... there really appeared to me, such pristine touches of love.

Coming through others, and through my Jesus.

Oh, the heartaching beauty of grief stories shared. 

Of fellow lost babies, mommas relearning how to breathe and move through.

I am so honored to be a receiver of those stories, those hurts, those journeys. I hold your heart tenderly in mine.

Babies in heaven, awaiting the reunion, the meeting, the introduction.

I have recognized that, for myself, walking through these weeks, months with transparency is how I needed to face my own journey. Not keep it in entirely. Others may move quietly, privately, and that is beautiful, too. 

No matter the style of progressing these days...

"There is great glory to the Lord in a quiet, confident walk in a day of adversity, a day of dread, when things about us are shaking and trembling."

(Charles Trumbell, p.32 "The Green Letters" Miles J. Stanford)

"Truth is, everyone is wounded-just some folks are better able to hide it or ignore it. Child loss has helped me be more transparent and that is a good thing." 

(While We're Waiting: Support for Bereaved Parents)

And so.
I write. I talk. I am grateful for those who check in. To listen and show love.

And now.


Today.


Here I am. 
After a late night/early morning, just thinking.
I'm sitting in a coffee shop alone. 

Instead of checking into the hospital to prepare for our child's welcome to this world...

Instead of these most-precious, indescribable newborn baby-parent moments...
The intense emotions that accompany the arrival of a new life.
Emotional exhilaration.
Physical exhaustion.
The BIG STUFF...

We grieve.

And oh my heart, are we grieving.

Those soft, wrinkly baby skin touches. 
That desperate newborn wail. 
The comfort warmth can bring.

Memories of these First Moments with our older children.
Close my eyes, and I'm back there again.

I close my eyes, and I long to be have those First Moments again.

Only, I can't. 

Not with our sweet Noah.

We've had some moments holding our small one. 

Oh, where those incredibly tender, heart wrenching moments.

But his eyes weren't locked on us. 

His eyes were softly closed.

Already staring up into the face of Jesus.

So, although we are 

absolutely grieving...

We have hope. 

(1 Thessalonians 4:13,14)

And for us, and for our Noah...

"There is never lack of (His) presence."

(Mary Beth Chapman, https://www.marybethchapman.com/blog/2018/5/1/i-hate-may)

Our youngest child: He has been with Jesus from his first.

"Your baby, who resides in heaven, is loved. 

You can be sad for this, but know that your little one is now in the state of complete perfection. 

Can I whisper a promise to help you in the days ahead? 

Although your baby died on earth, your baby was born into heaven. 

This isn’t the plan you would have chosen, but there is an absolute promise. 

Our heart suffers right now in the present, but there is the promise that one day you will greet your child. It is in this place where glorious happiness shall forever exist. Trust that in the future, 'He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.' Revelation 21:4." 

(While We're Waiting: Support for Bereaved Parents)

And while we down here wait...

Oh, there are such "why" questions. 

WHY were we given such a surprise in expecting another baby? 

When we had felt complete before, as we were.

When that new baby wouldn't actually be joining us.

WHY did we finally adjust to the idea of a full family with 5 children? 5 blessed arrows in our quiver.

When we would have to come to accept that having 4 means one will always be absent.

WHY.

When.

"Questions…there are still so many of the “what if” and “why” questions, but slowly they have turned into the “I wonder what” and the “would she” questions. I wonder with every school picture taken, what she would look like? Would she be shorter or taller than Stevey Joy? Would she cheer? Would she play ball? Would she sing? Would she be serious, funny, easy, or difficult? All of it rattles around in my head." 

(Mary Beth Chapman, https://www.marybethchapman.com/blog/2018/5/1/i-hate-may)

 

Dearest Noah Samuel, 

Your momma and daddy miss you. Oh yes.

We are soothed and calmed by the belief we will meet face to face someday. 
Where you will fit into our hands, our arms, and you will absolutely pierce our hears with your gaze. (My stars, I can hardly wait.)

We'll be worn down by all those older siblings of yours, who caused us gray hairs and worry wrinkles. But, our lives always held a place for your life. For you, sweetest tiny one.

We have hope, even in our grief over our loss of YOU here.
Oh, how we miss who you would have been. How we would have CHERISHED YOUR LIFE.

But, baby. 
Us 6 you left back here to wait?
We're doing okay.

"When I truly look at my children and know they are walking with a limp but doing great, when I see the impact that one little life has had…"

(Mary Beth Chapman, https://www.marybethchapman.com/blog/2018/5/1/i-hate-may)

I have grown to truly, truly look at these brothers and sister of you.
To memorize them. To see the beautiful and try to make it freeze in time.
CHERISHING...
-Z's "I love you" on repeat at the close of bedtime
-L's sideways shrug, closed lips smile
-B's darkest brown eyes, coming in for a hug
-A's "pretty" as she touches my cheek

And to see how much your daddy and I been through, together. And to love him more with each year, and with each struggle we walk through on this journey. 
I bet you'd have looked like your daddy. Just like those older Balder brothers of yours.

    

And those siblings of yours? They know a piece of us is not here. 

We are a family of 6. But really, there are 7.

Oh, I want to kiss your toes, your neck, your cheeks. 

Every single day that you'd let me.

And I would read to you, the book that I read to your sister day after day, night after night.

The pages are worn and ripped, and tears have fallen as I've sometimes had to whisper those words aloud. Especially in those first days of losing you... "Safe in a Storm."

And I would pray for you, guide you. 

But knowing you are already in the mostest perfectest place? 

You have already been made perfect.

Why Jesus wanted you with him RIGHT AWAY is something I'll continue to wonder and dream about. But knowing you are okay, that you have always known perfection and beauty and love and peace... there aren't human words for that serenity, that comfort.

In the quiet and stillness, you can smile down on your momma, okay?

When I read about Jesus, please, send a glance His way and wink.

I've made some changes in my daily life since you've gone on. For the good, even when it's been hard. It's been good to have something to focus on and work toward, when the days of missing you growing, growing in me were so very rough.

And, a friend recently shared about standing up tall, in the midst of the winds. No more complaining, no fear or overwhelming anxiety. But be like Pocahontas. I want to try to be more like this, in your honor, dear one.

Someday (for now, in my daydreams), we will reunite together, my youngest one.

And the lasting cuddles you'll have to bear through.

Anticipate the widest smile your momma can ever have, at the sight of you.

YOUR LIFE, however brief and unknown down here... has meaning. 

God had an intention for you being created.

As your daddy told me about you: "He was made for heaven."

Love you forever, to the moon and back, just in case you ever wonder.

Hugs. And say hi to Jesus for me. And Grandma Balder. And all those others already there who have deep affection for you. Receive love.

Your Momma

(And P.S. Baby honey? Let's cheer on our Chicago Cubs together, little boy. 

You, from the view above.)

May You be glorified, my Jesus. 

Blessings, dear ones. 

Elizabeth

Imagining

I recently learned my dad regularly stops by Noah's spot when he is passing through. There are not enough words for how loving his actions are to his girl.

And Saturday night, moments after the movie "I Can Only Imagine" ended at the theater, a dear friend shared a warm sad smile, and bittersweet emotions came.

So this sunshine morning led me on a drive to visit this very special place.

Nate and I are still carefully designing the memorial stone, so for now this so-simple name card means something.

Blue sky,
birds singing,
patches of snow on the ground,
sitting on the cold grass,
a video call with Nate,
hand pressed hard into the grass.
that once-so-familiar song playing,
big (okay) momma weeping,
a sacred time imagining our tiny one with my Jesus in perfect heaven. 

"I Can Only Imagine"
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Da4fnYIuV9s

My Mad

Transparent here in this safe place with you, sharing from where I've been at these past few days. (An afternoon writing a journal. Words from a book. Lyrics from a song. )

It began with why-in-the-world have I been so anxious, upset, edgy these past few days. No circumstance changes, no other reasons why suddenly "it" all hit. 

But something was... different. 

It's simmering down for the moment, but for some long hours, it's been consuming.

"I have just this hour realized that I am mad. 
I am so mad and I have become mean and irritable to those nearby. 
And I haven't been able to answer phone calls 
And I can't even listen to voicemails. 
Or make plans. 
Or think too far about the future. 

I have just longed and ached to be alone. 

It is settling in right now, that I am angry. 

Results? Resenting any intrusions into my quiet, safe bubble. 

I am so mad and weary of this sense of being incomplete. 

We will never be a complete family unit here in my lifetime. Never "all together." 

And that idea of being ALL TOGETHER is something I have ALWAYS cherished and has meant so much to me. And it has been snatched away. 

First, adding one more to our family of 6 was unreal, ridiculous sounding. We had been a solid 6. Thrust into 7.

But, then that one extra was taken away. 

And I/we are left incomplete. 

And unsettled. 

I cannot bear this feeling of undone and can't be complete: ALL.

I am so angry, so mad. 

Unsettled and not able to breathe that breath of peace, of all being right and well. 

Why, God? Being a light to others, being real. Is that why? Is that the reason and the meaning? 

I am so anxious and uptight and cannot settle down, this side of heaven. Someone is missing. 

From our immediate family and from our extended family. 

We can never be all together. 

And it makes me crazy inside. 

These family pictures are as complete as it gets.

(My side, with everyone including 2 unborn babies growing.

N's side, the most recent of the group we could gather.)

Beautiful families, beautiful individuals.

But there can never be a picture with the one only N and I have laid eyes on.

Frames of my family: The 6 of us. 

And then Noah.

Us at the gravesite is the only one we'll have, and Noah is hidden in that precious box. 

Imperfect picture, but this is our treasure:

Working on a project with names of family members: 

to include his name or not? 

I hate that this is even A Thing to think about.

Not simple anymore.

  

Are we 7 or 6? 

We are most definitely 6, yes. That is what's reality.

But we were 7. 

"Supposed to be."

How is this beared by others who have seen/known, and then have lost.

How is that incompleteness ever reconciled? 

Does it ease up, without ignoring it, being calloused to it? 

I hadn't felt the anger deep until now. 

Stages, yes, I know. This one is kicking me down low. 

And I am sorry, loved ones, for how I am handling this (NOT handling this). 

I need your support, yet I can only (visibly) receive it in certain ways, I don't know why. 

I wish, I wish... That this ache would be able to be pushed aside. That I could ignore it and move on by, find a way around it. This void in my heart, spirit, my ideal of togetherness, concept of completeness. 

Trying not to believe/follow temptations that are trying to get me so far down. 

And yet this unsettledness of my spirit is weighing me and wearing me down to core anger and fumes. 

Loss and grief isn't unique to me, that's for #$!@ sure. 

How is this worked through? Time passing? Or does it always ache. 

Does the mad go away, somewhat? My loved ones need that in me..."

There.

I can't give in and give up and be okay with this, what all I wrote, the other day...

And so I'm talking, some. To just a few. 

(Thank you, my precious Mom, my husband, you ladies who have been in my path, or across the miles.)

And reading a book mailed to me: 

(Thank you, L.)

"I was walking blindly into a new season, a place that didn't line up with my plans and dreams for the coming year. A place that I never would have chosen, never wished or asked for. But God's promise to Abraham spoke to me. God wasn't promising me ease. He wasn't promising that things would go as planned. He wasn't promising me a world without trouble, without heartbreak along the way. He was promising me HIMSELF. 

God with us. Our very great reward.

The angel had said of Mary, 'Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill His promises to her.' And this blessings isn't always what we think- the happy ending we wanted and the desires of our hearts fulfilled. Blessed is she who believes His promises. This blessing is different from blessing as the world sees it. It isn't an easy life or one of success. Blessing is that we find ourselves in a place that God has yet to explain, may never explain, a place or a life that doesn't line up with what we had in mind, He gives us promise like He gave to Abraham. It is the promise of Emmanuel, God with us. He will be here with us, our reward." 

(Katie Davis Majors, "Daring to Hope" pages 22-23)

And listening to, reading the words of a song shared with me:

(Thank you, T.)

"Oh, my soul: Oh, how you worry. Oh, how you're weary, from fearing you lost control.

This was the one thing, you didn't see coming, and no one would blame you, though

If you cried in private, If you tried to hide it away, so no one knows, no one will see, if you stop believing.

Oh, my soul: You are not alone.

There's a place where fear has to face the God you know.

One more day, He will make a way. Let Him show you how, you can lay this down.

'Cause you're not alone.

Here and now, you can be honest.

I won't try to promise that someday it all works out, 'cause this is the valley.

And even now, He is breathing on your dry bones. 

And there will be dancing, there will be beauty where beauty was ash and stone. This much I know.

I'm not strong enough, I can't take anymore (You can lay it down, you can lay it down)

And my shipwrecked faith will never get me to shore (You can lay it down, you can lay it down)

Can He find me here? Can He keep me from going under?

Oh, my soul: You're not alone.

There's a place where fear has to face the God you know. One more day, He will make a way, let Him show you how, you can lay this down, 'cause you're not alone.

Oh, my soul, you're not alone."

(John Mark Hall / Bernie Herms, "Oh My Soul")

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tn5aq54yu8A

And I hurriedly cleared out my closet floor. 

Where there is an open space, to sit on that tan carpet, where I can close the door, and have my "war room" back. Praying, thinking, reading, thinking.

There are promises everywhere I look. 

And realities of how grief goes on.

So I'll keep walking.

...Until that next place that surprises me with its intensity to my heart. 

A hug and a prayer for any of you out there who are where I'm at. 

And grace and love to you who have walked this path ahead of me.

Blessings, dear ones.

Elizabeth 

A Hardest Comfort

I have been waiting for the time 

that I would begin to write here about our baby loss.

So when, in just these past few days I have listened and read news about laws of life, of weeks of pregnancy before abortion, I have realized this is when my (written) words needed to come out.

What my family has gone through these past 8 weeks will forever change how my mind processes those most tender procedures 

related to giving birth, 

including abortion and those not-ideal medical situations.

I now know. 

I know what a baby looks like who was delivered 

before the right time. 

Before there was time to be fully developed. 

Before the time you would hope for, 

without the circumstances you would hope for.

Those most intricate toes, heels.
That tiniest nose, gently opened lips.
How soft and smooth the skin.
The hardness of those knees, elbows, shoulders. 

Oh, my heart.

And when I allow myself to really remember those beyond-words moments of my delivery story... 

It is sorrow all through me, 

but also such a sacredness that I will protect and honor for my entire life.

And when I allow myself to imagine abortion and what that decision and process may entail...

My mind wants to shut off, 

and my heart hurts so badly I just about have to curl up my entire body, to combat the pain and ache. 

These words are meant with such love and such tenderness.

Years back, when I was working as a counselor, 

my first client was a female college student with beautiful dark red hair. Through a fragile smile that turned into sobs, she described to me her present heartache. 

2 years earlier, she had gone through an abortion. And she suddenly was struck with such agony and emptiness, that if she had instead chosen to carry the child to full term, she would be celebrating a 2nd birthday. Even if she had decided on adoption, somewhere, somehow a small child would be having a 2nd birthday. Her eyes mixed between bright with tears and deadened sadness. We talked, we sat together. 

And I will never forget her grief.

And I think of those lovely women who have found themselves in such difficult situations where abortion is considered or pressured or freeing or wrenching...

And my heart aches and my arms long to reach out for each one of you. 

No guilt, no politics. No.

Just most gentle arms to surround those shoulders, 
and box of tissues. 

I would not argue your most personal reasons for such a decision. 
I would not pretend to lighten the load carried.

But I would listen. 

And I could tell most tender details of how beautiful life looks when born fully ready at 9 months. 

And, how beautiful and priceless a once-growing life looks at those halfway weeks.

And I would wonder. 

Did you have tears, like mine?

How was your heart in those hours?

And I would whisper that 

God is in it all.

Those babies who are not born alive.

I believe my God holds them 

oh so softly and tenderly in His forever arms. 

No matter the reasons for their early arrival in Heaven, 

they are beloved and cherished.

I think of those beautiful women who go through an abortion procedure. 

And I think of those women who go through a delivery procedure for a stillborn, my story.

...I do not know what it is like with an abortion, 

how she is treated, how she recovers, how medical staff care for her during and after.

...I do know what it is like in the setting I was in. 

And the soft kindness toward me, the support. 
The hand held, safe to grieve.

...And I do not know what it is like to go home after an abortion. Whether what had happened was known to others, or not. 

What kind of care, tenderness, kindness, love was given.

...I do know what it was like for me. 

And in my wordless sorrow, or times I wanted to share, loved ones continued (continue) to show their concern and care and tenderness.

And God has been in it all.

Whether comfort comes from physical affections and support, 

or whether feeling it when all is quiet and you are alone...

I pray, with all that is available in me, 

that each and every woman who has been in or is going through these heavy decisions and hardest circumstances... 

that she will feel God. 

His presence, His forever love, His touch of acceptance and mercy.

When I was at my hardest points in those delivery days and beyond, 

I would sometimes whisper "Jesus." 

Or sometimes there were no words, not even that one. 

But in those very worst times, I would feel a most gentle touch of affection, protection, presence, as real as if I could actually see it: Jesus' palm resting on my forehead. 

Quietest, realest comfort. Beyond what any human could give me.

THAT is what I pray for those precious women, needing that same care.

Jesus.

...And I don't know what it's like for women who have gone through an abortion, whether they ever yearn for some kind of honor for that child who could not share life here on earth. 

...But I do know for myself. The loss of the life we were expecting with our little one:

It has been honored and we have been given tangible evidences of that baby who could not share our life here on earth. 

And these are physical comforts I wish I could pass on to those women who have sorrow over their abortion losses. 

The photographs.

The gifts from the hospital.

The blanket.

The teddy bear.

The balloons, released to the sky.

The memorial time.

The ornaments. The gifts. The letters. The messages.

Even those moments etched in memory, 

of my older children processing their grief.

I wish I could share those.

Loss.

Memories.

Comfort.

God is in it all, dear ones.

May you find the realest hope, 

real lasting comfort in Him.

(And I am here for you, too.)

Blessings,
Elizabeth