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This past weekend I got to witness one of the most precious events; my little brother making his vows to the woman of his dreams.  I loved the joy in the breeze, the glow of their happiness, and the adoration that spilled from their eyes when they looked at each other.  Then, while they eagerly repeated the words of lifelong commitment to each other, I was hit by the breath-stealing dark that has taken root in my soul.  “In plenty and in want, in sickness and in health, till death do us part.”  I feel like when I spoke these words 10 years ago I agreed to them, but never grasped the thought that any of those things could come true.  My mind insisted things would continue to be light and joyful and filled with nothing but promise.  As Jamie and Daniel exchanged their vows, I found my mind racing…. what is going to happen?  Will one of them get sick?  Will tragedy strike?  Will they have to endure losing someone they love? Will they look back on the snapshots of today and think “if only we had known…”  I hate that that’s how my mind turns now.  I hate the fear I have seeded deep, wondering what will knock us down next, and preparing for that battle.

While some days I’m overwhelmed, it has gotten incrementally better…. I am no longer paralyzed by fear while driving… I can let the kids go out to play… I can accept that it’s ok to just get through one thing at a time, and experience the peace that comes from having to trust.  I sure have lost some filters to my lens though.  I never used to focus on what could go wrong, but now I find myself seeing the flip side of many situations and preparing to brace myself if I should need to.  It is a huge journey of faith.  Faith deeper than I have ever known.  Deep enough that I will never lose hold of something to grasp for.  Faith that will bring me to healing no matter what I go through.  It challenges me daily.

I have been scrolling through some pictures… pictures that a bystander might oooh and ahhh over… happy times, memorable events, remarkable firsts… and that’s the thing… now I see how many lasts there were.  You don’t take most pictures thinking “this will be the last time.”  —Unless of course it’s a last tooth lost or a last game of the season.  You don’t take pictures thinking “this is the last time I held my child,” or “this is the last smile she ever gave me.”  And what if we had known?  It wouldn’t have made it better, it would have changed the smiles and the glittering eyes.  They would look like the most painful and forced happiness… such as in the photo of the time I really knew “This is the last time.”

The last time we held Ellianna alive.

The last time she held hands with her Daddy.

Last.

March 2, 2012 marked an important day in our lives.  The listening stones the kids picked for the day gave an accurate picture of how we all felt.

Ellianna would be one year old… but instead of pictures of her smashing her first cake in her hair, another family snapshot of us visiting the cold, hard stone that marks where her beautiful shell is buried.  It was hard to know exactly what to do.  I bounced between wanting to have a celebration, and wanting to just ignore the day and not do anything at all.  In the end though, we wanted to celebrate more than just the anniversary of our daughter’s birth.  We wanted to celebrate all that has happened in our lives because she was here.  The sweet memories we have of her, the growth in our marriage that the trials have cultivated, the way that our children have learned to feel and express and love because they have seen the value of living fully.  So we celebrated. 

We didn’t get to birthday shop for Ellie, so we picked things we would have liked to have given her, and took them to her NICU.  The nurses chose for us a little baby girl whose family is experiencing the challenges of having a preemie.  We got to pay forward some of the love and support we have received since Ellianna graced our lives. 

We got to open our home to our worship group who surrounded us with love and caring.  They had encouraging words to share, gifts of sweet significance, and prayers that uplifted and strengthened our hearts.  We sent the most amazing cloud of glowing balloons off into the night sky…each scrawled with thoughtful words of grateful memories. 

We made it through another hard day, and came out the other side with a renewed sense of the blessings that are daily showered on our lives. 

 Grandma Naomi was no ordinary woman.  She was the most generous woman I have ever met.  She put everyone before herself, she made all the best comfort foods, and oh did she love the babies!

The first time I met her, she learned I was already married to her grandson, and expecting the first grandbaby.  Instead of shaking her head at me, she took me on a shopping spree to welcome me to the family.

The first holiday I spent with her was Thanksgiving.  Since I was the newest family member, she insisted I make the dumplings (a tradition I am still somewhat baffled by, but it was a memorable event nonetheless).

When I was living selfishly and treating her grandson terribly, she never judged me.  She was always willing to welcome me home.

When Mark was deployed, I went to Ohio to stay for awhile with Jacob a toddler, and Baylie a little baby.  I’m not sure I held Baylie while I was there.  Grandma Naomi rocked that baby girl until she had rubbed a bald spot on the side of her head.  That rocking chair must have a million miles on it.

She never forgot a special day. Birthday, anniversary, promotion… she let you know she remembered and she was thinking of you.

She never got worked up. If the doctor said she couldn’t drive, she just said “well we won’t tell.” If a grandkid dumped juice on her couch, she just offered them another one. When the doctors said it might be cancer, she just said, “well that doesn’t mean anything you know.”

She read about 2500 thousand books, just since 1997.  And she signed her name and the date in the cover of each one.

She kept an impeccable photo record of her life… and of the lives of all the people closest to her.  A gift that will be shared for generations to come.

She forwarded every cute or funny e-mail forward that came her way.  My inbox is really gonna miss those.

When our daughter died, she didn’t try to say the right words.  She just told us how much she loved us.

She had an amazing green thumb.  In my kitchen window is a small plant; a cluster of blooms that cousin Kurt trimmed from her garden… one that has been passed along through generations now.  A reminder of her strong spirit.

I felt sad that Grandma Naomi didn’t get to meet Ellianna during her short life here.  I hope there’s a rocking chair in Heaven, because she is never going to put that baby down!

I am honored that my children got to share life with her… that they ran barefoot through her grass, listened to books on her couch, and shared special sleepovers filled with way too many desserts.  They got to see the huge part she had in raising their daddy to be an honest and committed father and husband.  They got to see that even when you have a little, you can always give a lot.  And they got to know that Grandma Naomi loved them with all her heart.

Our hearts are heavy as we’ve had to say goodbye for now.  We anxiously await the day we are reunited again.

Months now spent trying to claw my way to the top of the pit of grief that would love nothing less than to swallow me whole.  Ups and downs, but onward nonetheless.

Screeching Halt.  U-Turn.

This past Friday, our dear Grandma Naomi got very sick.  She was admitted to the hospital with an infection.  Monday, the doctors discovered she is more than just sick.  She was found to have pancreatic cancer that has already spread to multiple organs.  If she were younger and stronger, the course would be radical surgery and chemotherapy.  But she isn’t.  It is a terminal diagnosis. 

My mind can’t wrap around it.  Mark’s mind can’t wrap around it.  We can’t come up with anything useful to think about it, or any plans that might help.  I guess you would call it a state of shock.  For me, a state of fear.  Fear because I don’t know how to deal with another loss right now.  Fear because I want to be a source of strength and encouragement to Mark and the rest of the family through this, and I just can’t find it yet.  Fear because we had to tell the kids, and I’m afraid when the day comes that she is taken from us, they will withdraw completely from the pain of a wound we have been trying so carefully to heal. 

My soul is disturbed within me, my spirit unsettled.  I know I need a strength greater than myself if I am to bring any comfort to those around me.

Psalm 46:1

I feel like I should have something more uplifting to say.  I want to have days when I don’t feel like crying, and where I don’t hide in my house for fear of being a “downer” to everyone I’m around.  I just can’t seem to get on top right now.

Yesterday was the anniversary of a miscarriage we endured with our second child.  A little baby boy we never got to meet.  Somehow it felt different this year. A heavier reminder of how much we are longing for Heaven.

Today started off pretty upbeat.  I finally had the motivation to tackle some projects around the house, enjoyed watching Bella prancing around in dress ups, and even took a few time-outs to dance with her when a good song would come on.  Mark had to work late, so I was on my own to wrangle our group of AWANA Sparks at church tonight.  The game and story portion of the night are held in the gym which doubles as the sanctuary for our church services on Sundays.  Suddenly, in the middle of a game of Sharks and Minnows, I realized I was standing in the same place my little girl’s casket had been.  It all came rushing back… the soft purple lights, the larger than life picture of her on the screen up above, the overwhelming pain of looking at her tiny body for the last time.  It was all I could do to get through the rest of the evening.  To paste on a smile, give a few high-fives, and pretend I wasn’t dying inside. 

“Joy is coming in the morning.”  I keep asking how long.  How long till every joyful moment in my day isn’t coupled by a moment of feeling something missing. 

I feel so inadequate at processing my grief.  Like instead of moving forward, I’m churning the same spot over and over.  Some days feel like we have made it so far, and some days feel like we are right back at the beginning.  Some days I don’t even want to feel.

I have this verse stuck in my head– one that I wrote out and taped at the head of Ellianna’s bed in the NICU.  “I know what I’m doing.  I have it all planned out…”   I would like to be let in on what it is He is doing…  right now I feel like I’m missing the point.

Tonight we will all stand watch as the final seconds of this year slip into the next.  365 fresh new days packed full of promise.  As I anticipate the clean slate of a brand new year, I do not want to discount the many blessings that have graced my life in 2011.  Blessings that make ordinary days  remarkable.  This year I got to:

My Sweet Ellianna Grace,

We never imagined we would not have you here for your very first Christmas.  It saddens our hearts to see your stocking hanging empty, and to know there will be no rushing in to scoop you out of your crib on Christmas morning. 

I try to imagine what is must be like in Heaven… are the angels bustling around preparing for a big celebration?  Are there Christmas carols and sounds of bells?  Is everyone still whispering about the little baby Jesus and what He did for us all those years ago?

I hope that you are held close by your new friends, and that your brother is lovingly showing you the way around.

We will be giving thanks for the blessing of 4 1/2 months here graced with your presence, and for the ways we have grown and the things we have learned. 

Missing you dearly, loving you deeply, and waiting for the day I will hold you again.

Mommy

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

Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s… One thing these special days have always had in common for us is family.  A time to be together with the ones you love the most; to enjoy each other’s company, and share in each other’s joy.  Only this year, these days will reverberate echos of sadness as we try not to keep staring at the empty chair among us. 

Frankly, I would be content to just fast-forward through the holidays this year.  Better yet, rewind to this time last year when Ellianna was snuggled safe and secure inside my womb… before she felt any pain, and before we knew the pain of losing her.  How about a re-do?  I’m sure I could fight harder for her this time.  Unfortunately, that is not a reality.  I must try to find peace in knowing her pain is gone and she is whole once more.

What will it be like to have Thanksgiving dinner uninterupted by the needs of our 8 month old?  Will we be able to hold back the tears at the sight of a lone, empty stocking hanging between ours?  As we count down to a brand new year, will we be able to look past the agony of knowing she will not be here to celebrate her birthday?  Most of all, will there come a day when it no longer feels like our hearts are shattered beyond repair?  Because we choose hope and we know faith, the answer is yes.  Healing will come.  For this season though, the pain is immeasurable.  It’s hard to feel joy and it’s hard to give cheer.  We are clinging to each other, taking one day at a time… bracing ourselves against the storm.  Aching from the deepest places within us to not see our beautiful little girl in that empty chair.