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My “glass half-full” husband has always sighed at my “glass half-empty” attitude, while I try to persuade him I am simply being a realist.  Lately the level in my cup has dropped dangerously low.  I have cried with my kids when I am too weak to get them out of the house and thrown temper tantrums in my mind when I glare at the handful of medications I have become reliant on.

While my loving husband has tried to focus me on the next appointment and the hope of relief ahead, I have buried my head beneath the fear of the future where my wandering thoughts take me. The enemy has been hard at work planting thoughts of despair and defeat.

The past few months have been hard; each day feeling like a mountain I don’t have the strength to climb. I have let my anger grow at the thought of the struggle ahead, wishing instead for a break from these refining fires.  I have begged for mercy, screamed to know when enough is enough.

As I battled the weight of discouragement that lays heavy, and pondered the suggestions of misunderstanding friends that assume God is singling us out, I heard the simple and hope-restoring answer to my desperate pleas.

Right now we can not understand the pain that we have walked through, or the fear that we are facing ahead… but there is a platform being built beneath us. A platform that the Mitchell family will stand on and share an incredible story of hope and redemption.  The valleys that we are walking are giving us a story that will be able to reach the hearts of many.  We will be able to offer hope to those in despair, not with empty words, but because we have walked through the fire.  What  an incredible promise.

This doesn’t erase my fears for the future, the questions about what will be left of me and how it will affect my husband and my children, but it gives me a thread to cling to; a promise that our scars are not for nothing.

I had to share that, because I want you to watch it happen. Doesn’t mean it will be pretty… there is going to be a lot of yuck in the process, but stay tuned for the beautiful ending, and please pray us through the here and now.

Pray for Mark that he would have people in his life that can encourage and fill him, especially on the days when he feels helpless with a wife who has nothing left to give.  Pray for our children that peace would be spoken to their fear.  That they would grow with the changes instead of becoming bitter at the new “normal.”  Pray for me that I would not allow my discouragement to make me hard.  That I would be able to embrace the small triumphs instead of focusing on the big disappointments, and that I would have the strength and determination to fight instead of allowing my joy to be stolen.  Pray for our story… that it would be a beautiful reflection of why we made it through, and Who sustained us in the battle.

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 I always find myself up late the night before one of the kids’ birthdays, blowing up balloons, curling ribbons, putting finishing touches on whatever cake they have challenged me with, laying out the cutest outfit to showcase their cuteness on a day that is all about them.  A celebration of life to reflect on the milestones of the year passed, the anticipations of the year ahead, and if the cake was a flop, at least there is always next year.

This night two years ago, I was up late preparing for a different celebration of life.  Instead of balloons, we had shopped for flowers, choosing bright hues of purple that would sprawl across a tiny casket.  I had stood in the middle of Babies R Us while people stared, tears pouring down my face when I couldn’t find tights little enough to match a dress fit for a little princess.  Instead of finding the right sentiment on a card, we had had searched for the right words that would be etched forever when we visited her headstone.  All of these little details enormously important in the way we wanted our little girl to be remembered; because this day would only happen once.

Two years ago I sat surrounded by my most precious friends and family and soaked in every carefully chosen song and word as those closest to us helped us honor and remember every priceless day we shared with Ellianna before we had to close the chapter of her life here.

With aching hearts we closed the lid together and escorted her to the beautiful grounds where she would forever be remembered while we wait to see her again.

A breathtakingly painful day, but also a day of such tenderness and love, just fitting for how we wanted everyone to remember our little girl.

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As we have been visiting for a church to call home, we have been looking to be challenged, encouraged, pushed to seek, and embraced by those who can walk alongside us.  The frustration with the cliquey-ness and fake conversations filled with spiritual platitude have brought me back to something my older brother told me several years ago when I expressed my dismay with the so-called christian influences in my life… He said “God doesn’t call us to GO to church, He calls us to BE the church.”

It’s in the friends who welcome us into their homes with unconditional love and the freedom to share whatever is on our hearts…

It’s in the selflessness of a family who have taken our children in the blink of an eye, showed up to help on a moment’s notice, and poured into us with mentorship on all things faith and family…

It’s in the silence of a friend praying through each hospital stay, knowing no words are necessary…

                                                                                                         
My Sweet Ellie Grace,

Today is the day when all of those horrible and frightening memories come to mind the most.  The day I am haunted by the sights, the sounds, the shattering pain of watching you die.

Today though, I want to think about the happy things of you.  I want to spend the day imagining what your smile must look like.  I want to imagine your fluffy hair blowing in a sweet breeze, and your dainty features eclipsed in the glory of the Everlasting Light.  I want to imagine the sound of your voice, and your carefree laughter as you play with the many friends you have made in Heaven.  I want to imagine the overwhelming joy I will feel when I get to hold you in my arms again.

Today we will go to the Butterfly Pavilion, to marvel at the beautiful creatures that always remind us of you.   We will visit your grave and bring you pretty flowers, and help your baby brother release his first balloon for you.  We will cry tears from the deepest gashes of our grief, and then we will hold each other close and we will press on another day, because we know each day brings us closer to kissing your sweet face again.

You are deeply missed my precious and beautiful daughter.  I am longing for Heaven.

Until we meet again,
Mommy

When the stars and stripes and fireworks appear, my gut is heavy, my breath sharp, because that day is coming again.

The day I chose a soft, neon pink onesie with a frilly little bow… not knowing that would be the last time I would dress you.

The day after I had filled a deep bath and soaked with your warm body against my chest… not  knowing that would be our first and last.

The day I called and your daddy said “What???” and I said, “Just get here.”

The day the only thing I ate was a 3 Musketeers Bar, and how I can’t eat them anymore because I get that same nervous, gut punched feeling I had that day.

The day I screamed at God to please not take you from me.

The day I watched in disbelief at hands that didn’t seem to be mine holding you close as your soul slipped from your body.

The day I kissed each tiny toe and wondered if I had ever taken the time to do that while you were alive.

The day I set you down to be covered by that ugly orange knitted blanket before they rolled you away forever.

The day I walked out into the sun holding your daddy’s hand and an empty car seat.
                                
                                                   

The day I watched your siblings dissolve into hysterical tears when I told them you wouldn’t be coming home.

 

The day I watched a deep dark hole swallow up every delicate detail of you.

The July my heart broke forever.

This Mother’s Day I have no words… there is joy and there is pain and there is thankfulness and fear, and I can’t quite sort them all out right now.  So on this Mother’s Day, simply some beautiful faces… some that are here and some that I miss, but all that have called me “Mommy.”

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

Friday, April 26th.  An ordinary day that should not have stood out in my mind.  But somehow it did.  As much as I pushed the thought to the back of my mind , I subconsciously still counted the days.

On a morning that thrilled with the hum of routine, my heart knew it was different. Day 135. One hundred thirty five days of waking up feeling like Christmas as I float in to scoop up the warm snuggly smile that awaits me beneath rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes.  Handfuls of days to smell his sweet skin and feel tiny fingers wrap around mine.  Four and a half months that feel like a lifetime that I cannot imagine any different, but four and a half months to remember what a painfully short amount of time that is.

April 26th, my beautiful Colby Grayson was the same age Ellianna was when we held her as she drew her last breath.  Another morning we had awoken, expecting ordinary.

 Earlier in the week I tried to imagine… two days left… what if I had known?  What would I have done?

While I may have paused to let my lips memorize the feel of her skin, or rocked her through the night instead of putting her in her own bed because I was exhausted, deep down I’m glad I didn’t know.  I was present in those days before we lost her, instead of worrying what it would be like without her.  I let myself imagine who she would be, instead of wondering what would be her very last outfit.

 No matter how long the time… days, months, hours, it would have always been too short.  It reminds me of the song “The Dance” by Garth Brooks… “I could have missed the pain, but I’d have had to miss the dance.”  I’m glad I spent those four and a half months imagining my lifetime with her, instead of bracing for the reality ahead.

Day 136 I lifted Colby out of his bed and breathed in every memory I could.  I smiled, I cried, and I whispered a prayer of thanks that I got to  hold him in my arms this day…and the next, and the next, and the next.

FEAR.  That’s the big scar for me that I have done battle with for months.  This season in my life has too acutely shown me how little control I have.  Not so good for a perfectionistic control freak like me, oh my!  It is a journey… to learn how to trust with unwavering faith.  I have a long way to go.

I feared when we brought Colby home from the hospital at one week old.  He seemed so healthy, but I worried anyway.

 It took me several days to realize why my stomach hurt every time I combed his hair– it was my body remembering softly brushing over the scars on Ellianna’s head–always scared that I might hurt her. 

Colby’s soft, milky baby smell made my chest hurt.  It reminded me of the day that scent disappeared too soon.  I breathed deep of it, to ingrain it into my memory; afraid that day would come again.

My sweet baby boy started sleeping through the night at two weeks old.  Dreamy, sighing, refreshing sleep, and yet I was exhausted; awake every 15 minutes to check if he was still breathing. 

I have feared I won’t have the chance for one more photo, or that I won’t have any video of him.  You can imagine what THAT fear has led to 🙂

After several weeks of the sun rising with my sweet little boy still safe in my arms, I began to let my guard down.  That was when my faith was tested again.

He was blue, gasping, but no rise of his tiny chest.  My mind shut down, my hands did what I have been trained to do… but I couldn’t revive him on my own.  I called for help, and it wasn’t until he was on the way to the hospital ahead of me, that it all came crashing down.  The roots of hope I have been nurturing were pulled by doubt.  I was blind with terror, incredulous that I was about to live this nightmare again.

Colby stabilized, he was breathing on his own, weak and pale, but breathing.  He was admitted with aspiration pneumonia after spitting up and then inhaling the fluid.  It seemed so stable, but my heart was not.

This will sound ridiculous, but I started taking pictures.  Every few minutes taking another, because “what if this is my last chance?”
                             

It wasn’t just me… shortly after my husband left the hospital to go home to the other kids for the night, he texted me.  He was sick because it was all too familiar…. the last time he left, leaving me at the hospital with our little girl, and me calling him to come back because she was going to die.

I was standing over Colby’s bed.  He was pale, temperature rising, and everything in me was bracing for impact.  I bowed my head and I screamed at the God I was trying to trust. 

“Don’t you dare take my son from me.  I am not Job.  I will not continue to praise You.  I will not survive this time.” 

All this fear stemming from such a shallow belief that the God I claim to believe, really does have my best interests at heart.

They say He doesn’t give us more than we can handle… So I’m trying to believe that He must really think I’m strong to give me what He has.  Doesn’t make it easier really.

 As I’m entering another season that at times seems too much, I have the advantage of being able to look back at all He has brought me through.  Wasn’t ever pretty at the time, but here I am… after days I thought I would never make it through, here I am.  And there He is, just trying to make a Job out of me 🙂

Colby has since recovered completely, and is thriving.  His smell is sweet, his smiles are cherished, and we have enough photos to embarrass him for years to come.  I am sleeping almost the whole 8 hours that he is, and I am continually, purposefully giving my fears to God.

Two of my sweet little ones have surgeries coming up.  Although nothing like the brain surgeries that changed our lives, I can’t help but feel anxious.  Enough so that we are opting to drive to a hospital out of town instead of sitting in that familiar waiting room close to home.  I know that I will be an emotional wreck; that’s just the result of the hard that I’ve been through. But I’m being intentional about sharing my fears, leaning in, and choosing to hope that good things and happy endings do exist.

 Most of all, I’m preaching to myself, reviewing the promises, and remembering that even if things get hard, I will be upheld and sustained by a God who has already brought me through so much.