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 

5 Arrows

Here are a few segments in the saga of our lives these past, well... 

15 weeks, 3 days to be exact.

Where the idea of "arrows" became a symbol of tenderness and love in my world.

Keep reading...

On an unassuming Wednesday in late August, 

I casually took a pregnancy test. 

(See, I'd been feeling pretty tired through the days and wondered if my thyroid levels were off, so I sometimes I take a pregnancy test before I'd go into the doctor to get my blood checked.) In light of just picking up my refill of birth control pills that morning, my mind was 99.9% certain of the results the test would show. 

So when the "+" sign showed up, I just stared. After almost falling off my chair. And said "oh my gosh" out loud for maybe a full minute. 

Then went on to take 5 more tests in the next few days. 'Cause, you never know. 

And tangible was so important when this news was so unbelievable.

The physical support + true care of a precious friend that first day (who sat squished next to me in our upstairs rocking chair) gave me strength to finally get out of the chair that I somehow was stuck in for what seemed like hours. 

Tears, freak out, tears, disbelief, confusion, more tears, fuzziness. 

And staring out my bedroom window at the once-ordinary view of the street. Somehow the view seemed reassuring in the presence of such life-shaking news that had just knocked me upside the head and shifted my life's direction.

Man.

Four children.

That was it, that was in our vision, in our plan.

Even our nicely canvased picture on the wall seemed complete: Nate and I with our four precious babies right after their births.

Four kids were in my family, my mom's family, my dad's family, my sister's family...

Nowhere in our plans was FIVE. 

It was hard to even swallow, that number. FIVE.

Almost as hard as it was a few years ago to say my sister had cancer, was it to say we were going to have five children.

I hate to say, that the thought of how others would react to our news shook me almost more than my own fears and anxieties. 

And that is where God began to meet me and walk as close as close could be. 

No, you don't have to remind me.

That we live on one income.

That I stay home with our young ones.

That our home is not a mansion.

That children cost a lot.

That they take your energy and run with it. 

All that work. 

All those sacrifices.

No. I got that. No reminders needed. 

Please don't, in fact. 

Those realities have been pretty darn present, 24/7. 

And the reality of heading back to my OB's office for ANOTHER pregnancy made me want to run the opposite direction. We had said our goodbyes and closed that door. I seriously dreaded walking down the hall to my doctor's office door.

Our kids were all growing, and we were moving forward to adventures as a family of six.
Our youngest, our girl, was The Baby of the family.

Baby items: gone.

Maternity clothes: gone.

Randomly learning that hotels only allow 6 people in one room: put me over the edge.

A family of seven is new territory.

We were entering that same ol' again with pregnancy again. A newborn. Another child, PERSON to merge into our already busy family.

And we were also entering a new group, at least in my mind. Of a "really large" family size. 

And I didn't have a joyful excitement about any of it. 

When a door closes to a part of your life... that time has come and gone.

You do not expect that door to be opened again for you.

Life was a messy muddle.

And pregnancy sickness was just starting to push its way in my days.

I longed to feel like myself again. Familiar, even to myself.

But anxiety and dread and chaotic thoughts wouldn't leave my side.

But, this is not the whole story.

Thank. God.

After battling through unending mental arguments with myself... moments of relief.

Tender thoughts would return, beautiful glimpses of hope and allowing fresh air where I could finally BREATHE again.

Like the day I walked through an Altar'D State with my big sister and niece, and the signs of verses and quotes kept bringing tears to my eyes. Like, huge emotional roller coaster-but a good one. (Thank you, store, for allowing me to sneak pictures of all your gentle reminders of God being near.)

And verses a pastor would read at church that I had just happened to have read earlier in the week (Isaiah 46).

And a book segment a friend messaged me ("Kisses from Katie" by Katie J. Davis)

"As long as God keeps giving me these precious children of His, I will continue to love them with the best of my ability."

And quotes that brought yet more teary eyes. But oh-so needed.

A song introduced to me from a wonderful friend:

"He Will Hold Me Fast" (Norton Hall Band)

https://youtu.be/0345Ls4IJf4

In fact, only times I really felt I could breathe with ease were when I was being fed, showered with encouragement, with words from the Bible/music/trusted ones to help me remember my faith, my beliefs in what this life is really about. (Thank you, dear friends and family for your kindnesses.)

Once I'd leave that bubble, my anxieties and concerns over this world's perception of me would return. So I kept returning to those sources that would give me life and not confusion.

And then, in late September, my newest nephew was born. 

That precious new life started so rocky, with him spending days in the NICU to allow his sweet body to recover and strengthen. 

And when I was standing near that baby boy, my momma resolve began to grow. The intense care of his parents, the love shown toward that miracle of life... 

My heart began to open wider to that new life growing inside of me, as surprising and unanticipated as he/she was. 

And then those beautiful ultrasound glimpses of the littlest Balder. 

Seeing that quiet but rapid blink of a heartbeat...

Wow.

Not something I ever expected to experience in myself again. But, wow. 

Then there was a morning in October, when I decided to put one of those black and white ultrasound photos into a frame, next to our current family picture. It seemed such a big step for me. Part feeling guilty it was such a step, and part feeling anticipation to simply see the reality of that new life being added next to our family. 

And in those next moments, a song came on over Pandora that took my breath away and brought happiest of tears to my eyes. A Beatles song. Really? "Here Comes the Sun." 
I couldn't help but scoop up my littlest girl and swing her around the room in dance to the music, smiling and melting a bit inside. 
https://youtu.be/V0kHokSsokI

That was a big day, of accepting. The reality of pregnancy was still a hard one, sickness + shock, but the news of a FIFTH child making our family into SEVEN had somehow sunk in. 

So, like Nate said in a conversation in the middle of the night when we had just learned our pregnancy news, "This is a calling for us. OUR CALLING." To have these children given to us, to raise and sacrifice for and give until we've given all. It's hard and it's not the calling for everyone. But, it's a big part of OUR calling. 

And God has chosen us and reopened our quiver of arrows to add one more to the mix.

"Children are a heritage from the Lord,
offspring a reward from Him.
Like arrows in the hands of a warrior
are children born in one's youth.
Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them."
Psalm 127:3-5

As a dear friend describes this child, he/she is our "ENCORE BABY." Just when you think it's done, there comes an unexpected surprise encore to keep the show going. The adventure going...

And God will provide for our needs. Somehow.
And God will give us enough energy and love to share with yet another child in our family. Somehow.

"Because I am abundantly loved by Him, 
I have an abundance of love to give."
(Lysa TerKeurst)

"We weren't made to be robotic followers of this world's formulas.
We were made to be transformed into the unique person God appointed to fulfill the assignments set before us.
...All throughout the day, she can can be heard whispering heartfelt pleas to her Jesus,
saying 'Show me the way, show me the way, show me the way.' 
She courageously embraces His gentle voice behind her, 
saying 'This is the way. Walk in it.'"
(Lysa TerKeurst)

(My favorite quote, currently)

So, here's to our encore baby.
Your encouraging smiles and hugs and kindness even in the grocery store aisles means more than you'll know, to keep me going forward.
And please, pray for us in all our future weeks and needs and decisions we face. 

Life is beautiful. 
But hard.
But beautiful. 

Blessings, 
Elizabeth