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People don’t like hard.  They don’t want to be involved in messy, and they certainly don’t want to feel uncomfortable.

That has been a difficult reality for me to learn over the past year and a half.  When our lives got hard, we saw too many people walk away.  People we thought would be there day in and day out to pull us through, instead chose to walk to more comfortable ground where there were less tears, less heartache, and certainly no talk about death.

Some of those people have been watching; waiting until it seems like the air has cleared and they wont have to see any pain when they talk to us.  These “waiters in the wings” have assumed that it must have been long enough now.  This precious new baby we have welcomed into our lives has surely healed all our pain and enabled us to move into the future without talking about the past.

Well, oops, sorry to burst that bubble.

Hard is not fun. Hard is not pretty. It’s not something any of us would choose, but it is real and immutable and a big part of what makes us who we become.  The hard things we go through don’t magically fade away after a given amount of time.  The hard things become part of our story, and shape how we respond in the future.

Reluctantly, we have let it in.  We have leaned into it, wrestled with it, and learned how to push on when we don’t know how.

The people who don’t want to know hard exists, won’t want to commune with us, but the ones who are brave enough to embrace it, might just be blessed by some of the things it has changed in us.

Are you brave enough to let us in?

During the first few weeks of Colby’s life, I was aware numerous times of the differences between him and Ellianna.

He is alert… he shows interest…his body feels so soft and cuddly compared to the stiff muscles Ellie had.  All these things not only made us realize just how sick Ellie had been, but how healthy our new little guy is.  In spite of these obvious differences, my heart was holding out for one thing…

I know there are many anti-Valentine’s Day folks out there… for various reasons.

I like this special day, not so much for all the mushy him and her stuff, but because it gives me an extra special day to celebrate my LITTLE loves.  I enjoy their sleepy smiles when they stumble in to find a little gift wrapped in red tissue paper, topped with a sugary treat.  It is satifying to see the awe on their faces when they see that I can make pancakes turn pink, or create eggs in the shape of a heart.  They are my little Valentines, and I love reminding them just how full my heart is because of them.

There came a day though last week when Valentine’s made me feel sick.  The day I wandered through the store picking that special little treat for each of my sweeties. 

I absently stumbled upon the baby section of the store and stopped right in front of a tiny white dress sprinkled with the brightest pink butterflies.  A year and a half since I have held her, and my first thought was, “Perfect!  That’s what I will get for Ellianna.”  And then it hit me like a belly full of concrete.  She is gone.  I don’t get to pick a special Valentine surprise for her.  The only things I get to buy for this little girl are things on sticks.

A frosted flower, a flapping butterfly, a wooden heart…  things on a stick that can be stuck in the cold metal vase that sits atop her grave.  That’s it, and it makes me so sad.

I miss that I don’t get to remind her I’m thinking of her with a special treat or a new hair bow.  I miss knowing to buy her favorite color, and what size she would need.  I miss getting to tie a red bow in her hair, and staying up late to cut her sandwich in the shape of a heart.

Mostly though, I miss getting to hold her and tell her how much I love her.  So Jesus, hold my heart… until someday again I get to hold… my Chubby Little Pumpkin.

If I could figure out how to blog while nursing a baby, I would have been caught up well before now:)

Yes, he is here.  Our little nugget of handsomeness took his first breath at 2:48pm on Thursday, December 13th. 

Here is how it went….

Pregnancy was hard this time.  It came with a slew of health problems for me, a monstrous load of fear, and 8 long weeks on bedrest.  I was determined to soak up as many moments as I could, relishing in the fact that God was creating new life through me, and cherishing each new change that brought this little one closer to resting in our arms.  I took a boatload of “belly” pictures.  I completely missed out on that last time because Ellianna arrived so early, so I was determined to have proof of being pregnant this time. 

Weeks have ticked by with people wondering, questions whispering, assumptions and conclusions drawn and redrawn about why the sweet, dark, smiling face has disappeared from the candid snapshots of our life.  It has taken time to even know what to say.  It has taken sifting and processing to try to grasp what should be said when it seems there are too many souls eager to gobble up the information to be regurgitated as neighborhood gossip.

The truth is, there are things I want to say, fingers I want to point, and agony I would like to unload… but none of that will change what has happened, and none of that will right what has gone wrong in this world.

All that I really need to say is that she is gone.  The bright eyes and hopeful smile of the daughter we thought was to be our own have dissolved through an unsettling mist of heartache and confusion. 

Every time I come across things of Akemi’s that remain– a picture she drew for me, a letter she wrote, another stretched out sock without a match, I find a flurry of unanswered questions seeping from where I have tried to cover my scars.   I would sure like to know God’s purpose in all of this.  Of letting Akemi open herself up to us, and ourselves to her, just to allow it to end in yet another heartbreak for a little girl who has already been through too much.  What part does this have in the big scheme of what we are doing and who we are becoming?  Actually, I would like to pound on the doors of Heaven and scream and yell until these answers are explained to me, because I don’t like being patient, especially when it hurts.

My girls have written her letters. Excitedly telling about plans they have made, reminders of secrets they have shared, and news of the baby brother she was so excited to meet.  Letters I have tucked away from sight because I don’t know how to explain to them that they won’t get to her.  I don’t know how to explain anything, because the continued twists and turns have been so breathtaking, so discouraging, and so utterly confusing, sometimes I can only throw up my hands. 

I’d like to believe that in the hardest of times I choose to cling to faith and believe the promises I am often preaching to myself. Guess when the rubber meets the road, that’s when you see what’s really in there.

This entire pregnancy I have been doing battle with my thoughts… choking back fear, trying to rest in knowing that God created this to be just what He wanted, and that we won’t be disappointed.  Some days I have been overwhelmed when the “what if’s” creep in, but overall with the constant support and reassurance of my wingman and dearest friends, I have been able to watch days blossom into months with growing reassurance that our unborn son will be sustained with life and good health.

Until there was a chance he wouldn’t.

I have been guarded with my words to the kids.  Knowing too well how fleeting life is, when they have expressed their fears I have been careful not to make promises I know are not up to me.  Instead I have told them to keep praying, that we will be strong enough to make it through whatever happens, and that Jesus is taking care of our babies… whether on earth or in Heaven.

When I told the kids I had to go to the hospital, Baylie said, “I hope Poppyseed doesn’t die too.”  She spoke what my heart was screaming, but I couldn’t stand the cloud of fear in her eyes, and before I had a second to think of something to say to smooth the line between hope and reality, I had already blurted out “He is not going to die.  He will be fine.”

In the crush of contractions, the peril of bleeding, Mark and I did our best to point out the positive…. Baby’s heartbeat is steady, he is getting the steroids for his lungs, the magnesium to prevent brain bleeds… soon the IV’s will stop the contractions.  History won’t repeat itself.  I held myself together… until the nurse confirmed my water had broken.  That was it.  All the panic and fear and struggle to be able to control life and death came screeching to the forefront of my thoughts. 

“I can’t do this again. I won’t survive another loss.  I told Baylie he would be fine.”  The thought of betraying my daughter’s hope, of hearing her say “but you said this wouldn’t happen,” was enough to crush any semblance of faith I was still clinging to.  Anger raged, mostly at myself for being selfish enough to put everyone I loved through this again.  Dispair choked out the hope I had been painting, and most startling, faith dissolved into an ungraspable mist to reveal the truth that had been cementing itself all along… It’s a lot easier to believe when everything is fine.

In spite of myself, the sun came up again.  A nauseating blend of medications has pushed us back from the edge of danger, and the tiny little legs and arms continue to jostle and roll within my swollen belly.  Hope has taken root again, and faith dares to smooth the disrupted waters.

Within days of losing Ellianna, people wanted to know “are you planning to have any more children?” “Are you still going to adopt?”  In the blackness of the fresh and searing pain, we could not imagine opening up our hearts again at the risk of another hurt.  Even though we had talked about starting foster care, we didn’t want to subject our kids to the emotional roller coaster of other children coming and going on top of the pain they were already wading through.  It was just unthinkable.

Months have ticked by… Jacob, Baylie and Bella have been doing weekly grief counseling and we have seen them be able to process and understand and express some of the hurt they don’t always wear on their sleeves.  All of us as a family have begun to build bridges across the chasm of pain that is forever torn in our souls.

Foster care and adoption continued to be a conversation in our home, but it seemed that Mark and I would never end up on the same page at the same time.  Until April 17, 2012.  On this day, God very clearly, did I mention VERY CLEARLY spoke to both Mark and I in separate ways with the same message… His plan for us was to begin foster care with the intent of eventually adopting as well as continuing to foster.  It’s a whole ‘nother story, which will probably have to wait for my book, but when God so unmistakably speaks to you like that, you act on it.  After hours of gathering and filling out paperwork, we turned in our initial packet two days later.

Our application for foster care

 The next few months were more paperwork, interviews, training, certifications.  Our agency expressed excitement in licensing us, and in our desire to care for children with special needs.  We were told we should expect to have our first placement in August or September. 

It was July when I felt so joyful and empowered that I shook my finger in the enemy’s face, and it was two days later we got the first clue our homestudy wasn’t coming along as timely as we were expecting.  Frustrated, we were stuck waiting on our agency.

Shortly after, we heard a story about a little girl.  She had been adopted from Haiti two and a half years ago, and the family who had adopted her had decided to dissolve their adoption.  A completed homestudy was not an immediate necessity if her family found someone they were comfortable placing her with.  We began praying…asking what our part was in this story.  The answer was to reach out in faith and take her into our home.  After several meetings with her current family, 9 year old Akemi (uh-kimmy) came to live with us on July 29th. 

We know that a child of her age comes with baggage, especially after having been uprooted not once, but twice.  We are blanketed in prayer by loving friends and family, and are prepared to go the distance to help her heal and feel loved and accepted as part of our family.

So far she has adjusted very well, starting school with Jacob and Baylie only a few days after she arrived.  She is learning our story as we are learning hers, and she brings joy to each of us.  Some days are tears and questions, and some days are pure faith and determination… but each day is a gift and part of a plan we know has been in place since long before we knew.

We must still complete a homestudy within the next five months, and are having to start completely over with a hopefully more accomodating agency. We appreciate your prayers that the process would go smoothly this time and as quickly as possible.

With our baby BOY scheduled to arrive at the turn of the year, we have grown even sooner than we expected with the addition of our new daughter.  Life has never followed our plans, but we know there is a perfect plan even when we can’t see past our own mess.

Akemi, Baylie, Isabella, Jacob

Mom

The anniversary of her death is excruciating because I’m reliving every moment from these days a year ago.  I’m reliving them without that fog that socked me in last July, and the clarity is unbearable. 

I am remembering that choice we made, and I’m thinking, “what in the world were we thinking?!”  We said no more.  After CPR revived her twice, we were afraid she would die surrounded by strangers, crushed by pain.  We said no more so that we could hold her while she took her last breath.  What if that wasn’t the end though?  Little Bowen Hammitt was gone for 45 minutes… and they kept on working… and now he is almost two.  Could that have been us? 

I wish we had never had to make that choice, and I will never know if it was the right one. 

Tomorrow we try to celebrate… one year of paradise for our little girl.  I wish we had just a little of that paradise down here.  This place is trying to crush my faith.