Category: grief

grief

Midnight Tears

Hannah

In the ink-black hush of night, I lie awake, my body heavy with fatigue and pain, my heart a storm of grief and longing. Tears fall in quiet rivers, tracing the contours of sorrow I cannot name. I weep for my husband, for the weight this life presses upon him. I weep for my adult children, for the precious hours I wish I could stretch into eternity, to know them more fully, love them more completely. And I weep for my twelve-year-old boy—for the tender, unspoken ache of a mother who knows she cannot protect him from everything, and who feels the relentless pull of her own mortality. There are no words to capture this deep, trembling sorrow.

Yet even in this darkness, there is something sacred. Pain and wonder sit side by side in the same trembling heart. In these midnight moments, when the world is hushed and the stars are silent witnesses, I feel the faint brush of God’s own breath upon me.

As the dark gives way to morning’s first light I walk with my boy through grief toward hope, whispering truths we both need to hear: that this life is but a blink, fleeting, whether our days end at thirty or a hundred and five. None of us are promised tomorrow. Today is the gift—and even suffering, piercing and raw, is not wasted. It is the means by which God presses treasure into our hearts, treasure that lasts beyond the fleeting pulse of this world.

So I hold my boy’s hand and I murmur lessons meant for both of us. That Jesus is enough. That our story does not end in a hospital room or a grave. That heaven is not an escape, but a home we were made for, and sorrow is merely the shadow that makes its light possible.

faith, Fatal Illness, grief, hope

Already Gone, Still Here

Hannah

In the lonely slowness of the in-between, I have discovered something deeply human. A kind of fierce clarity about what matters. An urgent desire to stop faking things just so others won’t be uncomfortable. A pressing yearning to stop wasting words. I can already see who stays. And who doesn’t. Why then do I go to such lengths to create a mirage of okayness so that other people don’t have to reckon with my pain? Why do I smooth over the truth, soften the edges, laugh at the wrong moments—just to make grief more palatable for them?

I think it’s because pretending is the currency of the healthy world. We’re taught to keep things light, manageable, convenient. And when you live in the long shadow of a fatal illness, your reality becomes deeply inconvenient. It disrupts dinner parties. It silences group texts. It taints the joyful camaraderie of a birthday party and unsettles the rhythm of everyone else’s forward motion.

So I contort myself. I wrap my fear in polite phrases. I pad my sorrow with jokes. I give updates that are vague but upbeat. I try not to be too much.

But the cost of that mirage is high. It leaves me lonelier than the illness ever could.

Because here in this slow unraveling, there’s a strange and sacred gift: honesty. The kind that doesn’t flinch. The kind that strips everything down to what’s real and raw and enduring. The kind that doesn’t need to be tied up in a bow.

I’m learning—painfully, awkwardly—that the people who can sit with the truth, even when it’s heavy, are the ones who deserve a front-row seat to what’s left of my life. The rest, kindly, can drift.

This in-between space? It’s not just waiting to die. It’s where I’m learning how to live.

And it’s beautiful and sacred and so much richer than the plot points I would have imagined for my life, and if I am worthy enough to be used for His glory in this way, then I dare not try to contort the storyline that I was written into- one that is not defeat, but is my final triumph.

This is my sacred stage to shine for Jesus- to show a watching world that He is true and every word He spoke is sure. So I will be clinging to His promises like breath itself until my breath is nothing more than the stringy shadow of a vapor hanging suspended in nothingness. If I do that alone then I know it was done with the most honest of intentions, not for the sake of trying to fit into one of the many molds this world would have me choose.

To those of you who were courageous enough to sit near and take fire based on your proximity, I thank you, and I commend you. Know that you did something holy. You didn’t fix it. You didn’t have to. You just stayed—when leaving would have been easier, cleaner, safer. You let the silence speak. You let the pain breathe. You let me be more than just my label.

Know that your presence has been a lifeline. A quiet rebellion against the cultural pull to look away, move on, keep scrolling. You bore witness when I felt invisible. You carried pieces of my grief in your own hands, and somehow, that made it more bearable.

You may not realize the impact you’ve had, but I do. And I will carry the weight of your kindness with me for as long as I have breath.

This long goodbye is not just mine to live—it’s ours to hold. And I am so deeply grateful for those of you who chose to hold it with me.

grief

Bingo, Ice Cream, and the Bitter Gift of Missing Out

Hannah

For several weeks I have been looking forward to this past Sunday. It was a chance to not only go to church in the morning, but then in the evening it was our quarterly meeting plus Ice cream and bingo, and I was excited to see so many of my people. And then MSA.

It didn’t take long to recognize that I was going to have to choose wisely what to use my energy on that day. Pain has been searing out of control more often than not lately, and Sunday morning there was no reprieve. I decided I had a better chance of making it Sunday night if I stayed at home and watched the morning service online, which I did, and then rested throughout the day.

As afternoon faded into evening however, it became clear that my body was not going to tolerate a car ride or anything else. The plans I had so carefully paced myself for began to crumble before my eyes. And with that, came the sting of disappointment—sharp and real.

I wish I could say I shrugged it off with grace, that I whispered a quick prayer and moved on. But instead, I wrestled with it. I grieved the loss of what felt like a lifeline that day. I missed my people. I missed being in the room, surrounded by familiar laughter and shared stories and the simple joy of ice cream and bingo. I missed being seen.

That’s the thing about disappointment—it sneaks in and tries to convince you that you’re forgotten. That everyone else is moving on without you. That your suffering sets you apart in the worst way.

But here’s where faith steps in and steadies the soul.

God doesn’t minimize our losses, and He doesn’t rush us through our grief. He meets us right in the ache. As I sat alone in my living room that night, I remembered the One who never misses a moment. The One who knew I would be here, again. The One who catches every tear and counts every pain-ridden hour as precious.

Crushing disappointment doesn’t get the final word. Not when we serve a God who promises beauty for ashes and joy in the morning. Not when He reminds us that He is our portion, not a perfect evening, not our best-laid plans. Him.

So, I went to bed that night not having seen the people I love, not having laughed over silly bingo cards, not having been part of the fellowship I was so looking forward to. But I went to bed held. Known. Carried. And even in the disappointment, maybe especially there, I was not alone.

And that’s enough.

grief

Trusting God as the Table Changes

Hannah

Despite often not having much of an appetite, that has not slowed my consumption of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream, or homemade yogurt, or anything really that resembles the flavor of a pickle. Until today. It was a waffle. A delicious, crisped-to-perfection sourdough waffle with butter and syrup was the red flag that put a stop to eating as I knew it. Truthfully I had noticed over recent weeks that bites were getting caught in my chest and being stubborn to go down, but I had been dismissing it as too big of a bite, or not enough chewing. That was wishful thinking. After a brief check-in with my speech therapist, she confirmed that the dangers of eating by mouth now outweigh the benefit. Fortunately for me I have already had feeding tubes placed for a few years now as my inability to absorb nutrients became a bigger problem. 

So this isn’t entirely unfamiliar ground for me. Still, hearing those words—that food by mouth is no longer safe—hit me in a way I didn’t expect. It’s not just about waffles or yogurt or pickles. It’s about the little pleasures, the ordinary gifts I’ve often taken for granted. The lit candles at my dinner table. The joy of sitting down to eat with others, the taste of something warm and comforting, the way food brings people together. That chapter is closing, and I find myself grieving the loss of it.

But grief, for me, never has the final say.

As I sat with this news today, a quiet truth settled in my heart: I am not sustained by waffles. I am not even ultimately sustained by feeding tubes. My sustenance comes from the Bread of Life—Jesus Himself. He alone satisfies the deepest hunger of my soul. The world may see this as loss, but in Him, there is gain. Not in a shallow, “look on the bright side” kind of way, but in a rooted, unshakable truth that His grace is sufficient for me—even here.

Scripture tells us, “Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day” (2 Corinthians 4:16). My body may be failing, piece by piece, but I am being upheld, day by day, by the One who does not grow weary. I have tasted and seen that the Lord is good—and that is a flavor I will never have to give up.

So while I may no longer get to enjoy the crispy edges of a sourdough waffle, I rest in the promise of a coming feast—one prepared for me by the King Himself, where no illness, no brokenness, and no feeding tubes will ever be needed again.

Until that day, I will keep showing up to the table of His grace. Because He still meets me there.

child loss, faith, family, grief, Infant loss, Uncategorized

When Suffering Repeats

Hannah

Some sweet friends of mine just experienced the horror of delivering their lifeless baby girl at 18 weeks. This is after they buried their infant son just a few years back, and have suffered through 3 miscarriages in between. 5 babies that they have gone through excitement and joy and dreaming and hoping just to end in a devastating tragedy. When does it stop?

As a young adult I thought suffering was a transient and limited thing. It was meant to teach important life lessons, and once those lessons were learned the trial would end and that would be it.

My middle years taught me such a different truth though. Suffering isn’t something brief to be passed through— suffering is an invitation into the very heart of God. Since the best thing I can do with my life is love God and love people, whatever brings an increase to that goal then has to ultimately be incredibly good for myself, and for those my life touches.

It is a very painful truth to accept though, much less embrace. When we experience the sacred being ripped from our lives over and over again it gives way to some big questions about the goodness of a God who has said His plans for us are for good and not disaster; a future of hope. (Jeremiah 29:11)

Over the years, an especially long season of suffering has shown me that grief, loss, deep pain, and crushing brokenness have been the best teachers in instructing me how to best experience Jesus’ flawless love, and have taught me to have compassion and love for others in a way I never could have known before the hard roads of suffering I have found myself on.

It has not always been with open arms that I have embraced the hardships in my life though. Not even close. I have had long, hard wrestling matches with God with lots of searching and hard questions.

For me, if a terminal disease is the way for me to learn greater love for God and people, then I must count it a gift, not something to be endured and rushed through as quickly as possible. The suffering I experience now is only going to get harder and harder, and it won’t end until I die, but every day I endure I am pressed more into the heart of God… and that allows me to walk through the valley of the shadow of death with a God who promises to comfort me (Matthew 5:8), renew my strength (Isaiah 40:31), strengthen and help me (Isaiah 41:10). Mysteriously enough, the process of walking with him through that valley and beside those waters is what teaches me how to better love and care for others. 

God may still choose to heal me, but only if my healing presses me further into love. Only if healing can accomplish eternally what a terminal illness cannot.

My prayers these days are less for the miracle I used to beg for, and instead for more days here to practice loving God and people, and I fight hard for that, especially for my husband and my children.

My most pressing question is no longer, “Why doesn’t God heal me?” but, “What capacity would I have for loving and empathizing with others if healing was my story.”

Nobody likes to feel stuck in suffering, but before you rush your hardest seasons away, consider what character is being developed in you that you would not have otherwise had the opportunity to grow into, and whose lives you are able to reach out and make an eternal impact on because of the fire you have walked through. It is painful, friends, but it is also some sacred , holy ground you get to stand on when what shatters you also becomes what helps you find your true purpose in life.

death, faith, family, grief, gun laws, guns, hope, school shooting, sisters, suffering

Staring Down the Barrel

Hannah

“Hope holds a broken heart together.”

~Ann Voskamp

moonrain

I am sitting in the thick blanket of nighttime, listening to the steady rain beating the drum roll of its sixth hour on the hollow-sounding roof.  The intense piercings of a familiar pain keep me from my slumber, and I am delicate in my constant re-positioning and pill-swallowing to avoid waking the mounds of purring sleep close to me.  My bedroom started out far less crowded tonight, but as the starlit veil fell, came the padding of feet and the tiny, emotion-filled voices describing fear of the dark, tumultuous dreams, and loneliness that needed the quiet comfort of my presence near by.  So here we all are, their chests finally rising and falling with the rhythm of their dreams, and me wondering when things will go back to normal.

This was a headline week for guns.  A few state lines over, lives were shattered as another troubled youngster unleashed explosive fury on rooms full of unsuspecting  teens and adults, cutting short the futures of many who had planned on having more time.  All the articles and bar-room-conversations and social media statuses are blasting loud the positions and rules and amendments and movements that each are convinced will bring an end to this terror. All of this buzz about bullets and laws and security and the NRA, and all I can think is how will these kids face tomorrow?  Closer to home, how will my daughters face tomorrow?

2F7B2588

Mitchell-60Mitchell-76

Just a few days after the most recent school shooting in Florida, my girls experienced their own kind of horror at the barrel of a gun.  My two, along with a roomful of other innocent, energetic young girls had come together to kick off the Spring season of cheer leading.  The room was full of ponytails, giggles, and camaraderie.  As they finished tying sneakers and warming up tight muscles, a new and horrifying ambiance sliced through the room.  My oldest daughter had slipped out for one last dash to the restroom before practice, and when she rounded the corner to go back into the gym, she ran right into him.  No one knew, so the coach opened up the door and let them both inside.  The next 90 seconds were so brief, but stretched eternally in the burning scars of terror that now streak the memory of everyone watching.  A few odd but indubious remarks were made to strike up a conversation with their coach as he positioned himself closer to the cash box where each parent had given the weekly dues.  Then, beneath his slouching hood, he grew expressionless and in the longest instant, the dark, round metal of a gun contradicted the innocence of the hairbows and glitter, and the giggles turned to a fear that would not be forgotten.  My girl, still the closest to him, tried to make a subtle move for a cell phone, but his instincts were fast and he tucked the metal box and dashed for the door.  Then the knee-jerk reactions of the coach slamming her shoulder into the door corner as she lunged after him, the instant tears of the little sister who felt the hysteria of watching her sister so close to a ruthless bullet, and the mayhem of the entire crowd as adrenaline was unleashed.

I am still incredibly grateful that this tasteless man had a thirst for money rather than for blood, and my girls got to come home safely that night.  What was no longer safe though, was their security and peace of mind.  Tears upon tears from the two of them and the best friend as they clung exhausted in an embrace of profound emotion in my kitchen that night.  Panic, flashbacks, sweating whenever they found themselves in a room too far from the safety of knowing a trusted adult was arms-length away.  An incessant need for the security of a cell phone pressed closed whenever they have to leave the house. Nightmares and sleep-screaming through the deepest hours of the night, peace divided by having to learn that sometimes these things happen for no good reason.

Mitchell-116

Tomorrow my girls will face walking back into that gym.  My oldest will relive the details of his coat and his birthmark as she walks through the same hallway where he first cut into her memories.  My youngest will remember the powerful emotions of watching helpless, wondering if she was going to see her sister’s future rewritten.  They will have to come to terms with these memories and these fears, and I will support in them whatever ways that they need, but I can’t help but wonder… what about the kids who watched friends and classmates and teachers gunned down in front of their eyes this week?  How will they find the courage to walk back down those halls?  I truly cannot grasp it.

Everyone has an opinion about what needs to happen.  More guns, less guns.  More restrictions, more screenings, more freedom, less.  So many different points of view.  I have an opinion too, but I’m not going to share it right now.  Right now all I can think about is the downright brokenness of it all. The terror, the pain, the distrust and the loneliness that has gone down in irreversible ways.  The truth is, regardless of what decisions are made about whether or not guns are legal and what the process will be to get one, there is an issue at the foundation that is something we all hold the answer to.   This world needs people who care more for the hearts of their neighbors than about how their status will suffer if they are seen breaking bread together.  It needs hearts that can anticipate the needs of others, and read from the eye motions and the face lines when someone needs an extra dose of kindness.  This world needs people who are wholly committed to seeing each other for what they are; other humans who are hurting and struggling and trying to make it, and in desperate need of being loved, accepted, and understood.

We don’t need gun laws, whether for or against, in order for this to happen.  We simply need to look up, and look around, and reach out with everything we’ve got in order to say, “I see you, and I know you’re hurting, and I’m going to walk you through it.”

We all just want to be seen.  Have you ever stopped to think that maybe you are part of the answer?  What is it that’s holding you back?

Mitchell-85

PLEASE LEAVE ME A COMMENT, IT LETS ME KNOW YOU’RE LISTENING!!!

faith, grief, suffering, trials

Look Up

Hannah

It was 4:00 in the morning when I left the hospital, and as I hit the first traffic light, the dam that had been holding back all of my fear, anger, and desperation crumbled into a million broken pieces. Tears coming from a depth beyond understanding carved slick rivers down my neck and pooled in my shirt.  I was aware my car was drifting between the painted lanes of the empty interstate, and I glanced for blue lights that would assume I was drunk.  My voice scraped raw as I screamed my questions to a moonlit sky, daring His promises to be kept.

Knowing my other little ones were tucked sleeping in a quiet house, and needing to do something tangible that felt productive, I pulled off into the only store open at this desperate time of morning.  Despite trying to slow my heaving sobs in the parking lot, hot drips still occasionally seeped from my stinging eyes as I wandered the empty aisles.  I chose a few items mindlessly, that I thought at the time would bring comfort, and I trudged my way to the lone check out stand with a flickering light.  A slight embarrassment prickled over me as I became aware of the frightening sight I must be with my blotchy face and swollen eyes.

The checker grabbed my things and began swiping them across the counter without looking up.   “How are you today?” he beamed. “I’m ok.” “That’s good,” he replied.  He continued to ring up my things and take my payment without ever making eye contact. As I grabbed my bag and turned to leave, he swung the hammer one last time.  “Have a great rest of your day!” 

If you have spent much time around me, you may have noticed that often when someone asks me how I’m doing, I don’t ask the same question back.  It may come across rude.  It is not because I don’t care though, it is the exact opposite.  I don’t ask because I either know that that person was just asking to be polite, and they don’t really want the true answer from me, or because I know that I am not at a time or place I can truly give thought and caring to their answer.  I ask how someone is doing because I sincerely want to hear their heart, and not just the glossed over “I’m fine, how are you” that we all are guilty of giving sometimes.  I’ve learned to pick out the people who honestly want to hear how the real me is doing, and the people who would be completely uncomfortable if you let them see beyond the surface.

When I am standing in line at the grocery, I know that there may not be the time for me to be a listening ear to someone’s bad day, but on the other hand I do not want to ignore the person in need of some encouragement. If I notice a rude or grumpy employee, I will leave them with an “I hope your day gets better.”  They didn’t have to share what is weighing on their mind that day, but they will know they are seen and given validation.  I will not ask you how you are doing or how your day has been unless I authentically have the heart to hear the good with the bad.  I’m ok with you taking the time to tell me what you are struggling with, and will not make you feel ashamed for not finding the good in a new day of life.  The truth is that life is hard, and we should stop conditioning each other to put on a brave face and pretend everything is fine. 

I challenge you to stop your robotic motion and your scripted lines, and look up.  There is a world out there of hurting people.  People who in the sticky messes of their daily lives may not need you to spend an hour listening to their problems, but need to know that they are not invisible, that their pain is not ignored, and that we are all in this together.



PLEASE LEAVE ME A COMMENT, IT LETS ME KNOW YOU’RE LISTENING!
faith, grief, miscarriage

Sixlet

Hannah

When Mark and I were young in marriage, we had no trouble agreeing that we both would be happy with two children.  We had a strong, adventurous son for our first, experienced a miscarriage when we started planning for our second, and then were elated to bring a gorgeous, healthy baby girl into the world.  The perfect pair, a matched boy/girl set; we had what we wanted.  Then, somewhere down the line, up to our ankles in parenthood, we started itching for another, and joyfully welcomed our second daughter.  Our next baby, we agreed, would be adopted, and we started that journey, which took a sharp right turn and brought us through fostering, and unexpectedly, but joyfully welcoming another biological baby of our own.  We agreed that she would be our last.  That’s the thing though, our best laid plans are ever moldable by a God whose plans are better.  Giving our youngest daughter back to Jesus was the most heartbreaking and life-changing moment in our lives so far.  It caused a shift in our paradigm, an about-face in our priorities.  We realized that in the ranking of importance in our lives, our children are one of the most precious pieces of our story, and our hearts are drawn to gather them around us in a big, loud, challenging, loving, fulfilling clan of family togetherness. From that point, we were no longer daunted by the thought of a big family (well, let’s be real, MARK was no longer daunted; I grew up in a family of 9, he is an only child, it was more of an adjustment for him). We decided by way of biological children, and adoption, we definitely want to grow.

It’s funny how everyone else knows what’s best for us, right?  At the mere mentioning of having more children, we’ve had friends and family who immediately tried to discourage us.  We should be grateful we’ve made it with the healthy kids we have, we shouldn’t risk putting my body through any danger, we should not put our children through anymore big changes, or take on the financial responsibility in such an expensive world.  I hear ya, and I try to see where you’re coming from because surely this is you just trying to protect us. I love that someone said it’s ok that people don’t understand your journey, it’s not their journey to understand. I don’t have the answers, and I know it seems scary, or even crazy, but I’m trusting God to do it. I truly believe He is the one that has placed this desire in our hearts, and if He called us, He will equip us.  I’m resting in that.  I don’t have to know how or when, I just have to believe He has our best at heart.

After some of the responses we have been met with when we have shared our enthusiasm to grow our family, we decided to simply sit back, keep our plan in the hands of the One who knows it best, and let Him quietly take it from there.

With the physical challenges I have faced over the past few years, we had come to a place of accepting that our future children will come from adoption, and not from me.  That was a hard place to reach, not because we don’t want adoption, because we absolutely, wholeheartedly want that to be part of the story, but it’s a big chapter to finish, and I was still filled with desire to carry another baby of our own.  I spent months wrestling, in fact praying that God would take this desire from me, because it was so painful to hope for something that would never be.  I did not understand why He would let me have such strong desire, but not allow it to be fulfilled.  It was a dark and powerful struggle to come to a place where I could completely submit that, hand over my desire, and trust the outcome would be gentle to my aching heart.  It brought freedom though, and excitement for how He is going to work.

This summer wound down with our minds refocused on the legwork of adoption. We started drawing up plans and timelines and praying for the fatherless that we hope will someday be part of our quiver-full.  Imagine our surprise then, when against all the odds that had been given us, we were staring at the very realness of another little one… of our own

Coming in 2016

As we drove to Kansas to throw a baby shower for my little sister, who was expecting in a few months, I squealed with delight at the thought of finally getting to share a pregnant picture with someone so close to me, something I had dreamed of.  We would get to raise our babies being the same age for most of every year; we were so tickled.  Even Mark, who is usually slower to give to giddiness, was openly excited and marveling at this miraculous blessing that had been given to us. 

Pregnant Together

I am terrible at keeping surprises, and t was difficult for me to wait until we thought it appropriate to share with the other kids.  They eagerly shared our enthusiasm and excitement. You can watch that hilarious conversation here:

We began to shift our thoughts to planning for the big changes we would find in 2016, with Mark retiring from the Air Force at the beginning of the year, and then welcoming the little one we affectionately began referring to as “Sixlet.”

Being pleased that I actually felt better during early pregnancy than I had in a very long time, I was a bit alarmed one day when my hot flashes came back with a vengeance, and I started cramping. I already had an appointment with my OB the next day though, and she eagerly assured me everything looked great, and shared excitement that this truly was a special gift.  I was happy for the good report, but something still didn’t sit right, and I couldn’t shake a feeling of unease.  I whispered prayers through the moments of my day, praying protection and health over our little one. 

The deep of that night woke me with excruciating pain in in my back and legs.  Terrified, I ran to the bathroom, but besides the pain, nothing seemed unusual.   I was awake most of the rest of the night, unable to lie still or get comfortable… moving from room to room trying to relax the pain away.

The next morning, Mark was away early, in a mandatory course preparing him for retirement.  It was in the early hustle of breakfast and packing backpacks that the crimson slashed through the hopes of my future.  Somehow the kids knew.  They read the shadows of my eyes and the sigh of my spirit on the drive to school, and one of the oldest asked the brave, unanswered question… did our baby die?  My heart knew, but I kissed them away and told them to pray, and reminded them that no matter what, Jesus would walk with us. 

The only communication I could have with Mark was by text that day; he couldn’t escape his class, and for the second time, I sat alone in a cold room staring at a dark ultrasound, void of the flicker of life.  While I waited to be taken back to my room, they sat me in a hallway outside the ultrasound rooms.  I sat in paralyzed agony, watching woman after woman stroll to the exam rooms, plump, ripe, life-bellies cupped beneath pregnant hands.  I bitterly scowled inside, already hurling the questions that I knew I probably wouldn’t get answers to on this side of eternity.

Hours huffed by, as it seemed everyone was avoiding being the one to tell me what I already knew.  I grew restless and frustrated, and by the time there was nothing left to do but tell me, there was no comfort, no apology, just facts, and all I wanted to do was run.  I texted Mark the words that spilled his glass half-full, and drove mindlessly into a gray afternoon to gather up my little people and begin a life without Sixlet.

I was having an impossible time sorting out my emotions, knowing that if I dwelt in anger, bitterness would take me places I didn’t want to go, but finding it very hard to accept that another loss, another shattered dream was part of a great, good plan for my life,  Knowing I had to take a stand against letting this destroy me, I sat alone in my car and loudly starting repeating, “I trust You.  I know You are good.  I know there is a reason beyond my understanding.  I trust You.” I hoped the enemy could hear me, but not see my heart, because in fact I was preaching to my own battered soul, trying to convince myself.  That’s when the song “Blessings,” by Laura Story came on the radio, and I turned the corner to see a brilliant, color blocked rainbow streaked across the gray horizon.

Watching precious life bleed away, tiny footprints slid from safety, never to grow bigger, is a soul-stopping grief, but my God has not forgotten me. He has promised not to abandon me, and to give me the future I hope for.  It’s inexplicably hard, and some days, I hear the lie that it’s only fitting that my story end with loss, but I refuse to believe that. If this is the journey I have been called to, then I am going to walk it out, and I choose to believe that what He has for me is greater than any of the pain.

It was so hard to tell our little people that the little brother or sister they had been waiting for had gone straight to Heaven.  There was much sadness and questions we couldn’t answer, but we did what we do, we celebrated.  We worked together to make cake and special balloons and thanked Jesus for holding our hearts, for holding our babies, for making us stronger than ever through our weakness.  We celebrated for the reunion to come, because friends, it is going to be amazing.

       Please leave me a comment, it lets me know you’re listening!

child loss, grief, Mothers Day

Seen and Unseen

Hannah

I am struggling with what to say for Mother’s Day because it’s not just about my motherhood, but about my mom and the loss of her son, and it’s about the children of my friend Kara, recently slipping away to Heaven, and leaving them wondering what to do as their classmates create Mother’s Day crafts to bring home to a warm embrace. It’s about driving Kara’s van and thinking of the time she spent in that seat, speaking love and kindness into the hearts of her children, and the echo now in the silence of her absence.These losses forever change the innocence of a day that is supposed to be about flowers picked by tiny hands, and home-made coupon books for chores, and backrubs, and breakfast in bed.

There are mothers that long to be acknowledged, validated, understood by our tired eyes and ponytails and minivans, and insanely proud-happy smiles when we look in the faces of our little sweetlings.  There are also mothers unseen, with a sadness behind their eyes and perfectly vacuumed cars because the little ones that made them mothers have slipped from this life, leaving aching holes that aren’t filled, and often aren’t acknowledged.

Have a compassionate heart this Mother’s Day and climb into the shoes of a grieving mother or a motherless child, and just sit with them right in the middle of their tears; just be.   There is salt poured into an open wound on this day, and souls just wanting, needing to be recognized, loved, met where they are.

For all the mothers, seen and unseen, this day is for you.  Even separated by life and death, you are still a mother, you are.

For all the children  with hearts aching for the love of a mother, or grieving the loss of a mother, you are her baby, you will always be her baby, from now until forever.

Please leave me a comment, it lets me know you’re listening!
faith, grief

I Can Do Hard Things?

Hannah

I am a binge blogger, and when much is on my mind, much spills out.  Writing spells the words I can’t find to speak, and sometimes they’re words of encouragement and hope, and sometimes there is nothing to overflow but yuck.  If you’re not up for yuck, or will fear for my faith, or need to correct my doubting, just skip this post…

I tell myself I can do hard things.  I tell others I can do hard things.  And maybe in the night of the doubting I am really saying that phrase to try to convince myself of something I fear I am not capable of.  Truth is, I am tired of doing hard things.  I am tired of facing valleys and begging for rest.  I am weary of feeling like I have spent it all just to face a new day of having to rally for “more” that I don’t have.  What is it God is asking of me?  Does He know what I’m up against?

I want to be whole.  I want to wake not sinking, drowning in pain.  My voice is worn out from screaming for help.  I don’t want another battle; to be surrounded from all sides.  I want the peace, the restoration of ashes that is promised… even for just a short time.

It is hard to trace the hand of God in it all.  Restore me. Pull me from this shadow.

The uplifting Ann Voskamp speaks reassurance through my inbox today… “It isn’t about maintaining control of everything.  It’s about maintaining your gaze on Him in the midst of everything.  It’s not about getting through everything.  It’s about letting Him carry you through everything.”

Ok, ok.  I believe no trial comes except with His permission and for some wise and loving purpose which perhaps only eternity will disclose.  Armor up.  I can do hard things.

Friends, please tell me there are days your valley is so deep that you are screaming too… that my tears aren’t the only ones falling… that we can get through this together?

Please leave me a comment, it lets me know you’re listening!