Tag: family

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Mother’s Day Rewritten

Hannah

There is not much I feel like saying about Mother’s Day this year, and that makes me feel like it’s more important than ever to say it.

Mothering, as well as having relationships with our mothers can be really hard. Yes, there are blissful moments, like when that baby is first placed in your arms, when they say their first “I wuv you,” and when they run inside from school desperate to find you for that unforgettable hug.

There are memories of mom being the smiling face in the crowd at all of your performances, the one you could come home and spill all of your emotions to while she quietly listened, the late night back rubs, early morning hair braids, and the countless times she came to your rescue when you forgot your homework, said something you regretted to your best friend, or really weren’t sick but she knew you just needed a day home from school.

There are also a whole lot of hurts wrapped up in being a mom, having a mom, or wanting a mom. There are empty wombs and empty cribs. There are sleepless nights and bone-tired days you don’t know how to push through. There are arguments because you just wish she could see things the way you do, and there are painful gaps where you needed a mom and didn’t have one there. There is pain and fear over children who have walked away and you don’t know if they are coming back.

This Mother’s Day, close to my heart are thoughts of my sister trying to balance the joy of the homemade cards from her littles with the deep grief of feeling the sharp edge of her first Mother’s Day without one of her cherished sons with her earth-side. How does one fully celebrate the gift of motherhood after watching one of her children draw their final breath? Just like a house of cards needs at least 8 cards to stand, does not one child missing make a mother struggle to build herself back to who she once was?

Heavy in my thoughts are the lives of my own littles. Two at the edge, ready to fly from the nest they’ve always shared with me. Each one of my birdies fighting hard battles that this broken world has thrown in their path, and myself, sitting practically on the sidelines, crippled and nearly motionless from the ravages of a rare disease that steals many of our moments together.

So yes, this Mother’s Day I am having trouble hyping myself up, but I think that’s ok. There are seasons for jumping up and down with excitement, and seasons for quiet reflection, and I’m sure each one of us is at a different place on that continuum. Wherever you are, I’d like to meet you there; in your joyous celebration, or in your silent weeping.

Tomorrow we will wake on a day meant for mothers. I will be thankful for my own mom, and for the women that have filled spaces I’ve needed filled along the way. I will celebrate and smooch on the children I have here with me, and I will take time to think upon each of my treasures in Heaven, and how they furthered me in who I am as a mom. I will rejoice with those who rejoice, and I will grieve with those who grieve, and somehow through it all I hope the littles who made me a mama will feel my love and appreciation for them, and see the reality and okay-ness of taking each day from right where you’re standing. Of being real and kind and tender and aware of those around you, and able to ride these ever-changing waves with grace and enthusiasm.

Happy Mother’s Day!

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The Shoes She Wears

Hannah

She walked to her closet, thoughtful with each step. She had an opportunity tonight to be herself; to kick back and laugh and feel light and free and enjoy herself. She wanted to make sure she wore just the right outfit for the occasion.

She chose a brightly colored dress that made her look mature, yet young. The hem swished and danced with her steps as she walked. A softly knitted bright shawl wrapped her arms in warmth, and she tamed her frazzled hair into waves that bounced around her shoulders and framed her face.

When she leaned to study her face in the mirror a brief frown twisted across as she noticed how dark and tired her eyes were, and the dark shapes even deeper in her eyes that whispered of something heavier. She blinked it away though, and set about finding eye shadow that lifted her eyes, and selected a lip gloss that shimmered with glee and sparkled even brighter against the white of her smile.

“Almost ready!” she called to the footsteps pacing in the front hall. “I just need to grab my shoes.

Throwing open the closet door again she surveyed the shoes she took joy in gathering. They sat in matched sets, each with memories of a lighthearted dance, a day exploring at the park, or the sidewalk chalk scuffs of skipping through the backyard. Tonight was special, she wanted to look her finest. She reached for a glistening pair of high heels. Their sequins shined bright, and shiny new straps crossed daintily across the ankles. She reached for them, and in doing so knocked another shoe from its place. It tumbled across the others and lay in front of her, ready to step into. “Oh yes,” she mumbled. “How could I forget.” She put the other pairs of shoes away; the shiny conversational heels, the flirty strappy slides, and the tippy toe shoes that clicked the hard floor for attention as she walked.

She slid her feet into the muted pair that had fallen out. She didn’t even have to look down to get them on; they slipped into place with such familiarity. The soles were flat and worn from pacing. They cupped all her bony angles gently, an impression made from being worn many times. There was a scuff or two along the edge, and for a brief moment she remembered her conversation shouting at the heavens for a bargain, pleading for the life of her child. The worn material at the toes bore a few slight stains; likely the strong salt water of tears that could not be diluted.

Both feet comfortably in these familiar shoes, she sighed. There was no changing the shoes she wore now. They were forever a reflection of her. A grieving mama; a soul tormented by the agony she had walked through. But she knew how to wear these. Walk, run, sleep, pace a divet into the floor, these were the shoes that represented her day in and day out as she clamored through her painful story and prayed that it would be reconciled.

She grabbed her purse and headed for the front hallway, ready to meet whatever the world had for her today. She slipped her tiny hand in her true love’s large one, and he gave a squeeze as he took her in from head to toe. He knew whatever dreams she wanted, these would always still be the shoes she knew so well, and for now they carried her. They gave her the grace to excuse herself, the joy of a blessed memory, and they gave her the kinship of understanding another mama in recognizable shoes. So she stood tall and proud after all she’d been through, and she wore the shoes that wore her heart.

**For my sisters, who bravely put on their shoes every day.**

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Worth It

Hannah

As my baby sis and I chatted back and forth today on what would have been my nephew Angel’s 11th earthly birthday, my sister said something so incredibly true and equivocally profound that I am left pondering over it hours later.

“You know what’s amazing?” she said. “Angel refused to believe he was a burden (and he wasn’t). But by society’s standards, he was. He couldn’t move a single muscle other than his eyes. He was 100% dependent on others for literally everything–life, health, engagement, communication…all of it. Yet he never apologized for taking up space. He had high expectations for how he was to be treated and honored and considered and included and he didn’t tolerate those who saw him as worth less than anyone else. He KNEW his worth. He knew it so deeply. And I can’t say that for myself. I at times feel overwhelmingly guilty just for existing and have since childhood. But not Angel. He. Knew. His. Worth. No matter what. And that is really, really powerful.”

This struck me to my core, because I at times get caught up in how much of a burden I must be, and how I wish I didn’t have to depend so much on other people. But Angel never felt sorry for himself like that. He knew he was a treasure; a child of royalty, and he did not accept being treated as anything less.

While a lot of that came from being just the incredible little boy that he was, there is also loads to be said about the fierce way my sister and brother-in-law fought for Angel’s worth. He knew he was valued because he was constantly treated as valuable, and he was shown that what he brought to the table mattered. He was fought for, given a voice, listened to, applauded, and all of those things only cemented his knowledge that he was worth it.

As Angel’s 11th birthday winds to a close my heart is so tender, but so grateful that for a boy who could have felt less-than, he always knew right where he belonged, and now in Heaven, he has claimed his true worth, his royalty; the crown he fought so hard for and was bestowed by his King. And I can’t imagine a bigger smile than on the boy who always knew- I am worthy.

Happy birthday, sweet Angel. You are loved.

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Christmas Every Hour

Hannah
6:30 am
7:30 am
8:30 am
8:30 am
9:30 am
10:30 am
11:30 am
11:30 am
12:30 pm
1:30 pm
2:30 pm
3:30 pm
4:00 pm
4:30 pm
5:30 pm
6:30 pm
7:30 pm
8:30 pm
9:30 pm

”For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulders, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his government and of peace there will be no end, on the throne of David and over his kingdom, to establish it and to uphold it with justice and with righteousness from this time forth and forevermore. The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this.“
‭‭Isaiah‬ ‭9‬:‭6‬-‭7‬ ‭ESV‬‬

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Grieving Well at Christmas

Hannah

The first December after having watched our youngest daughter be buried in a gaping rectangle of earth I did not feel like celebrating Christmas at all. I wanted to skip it altogether, and truth be told if I hadn’t had 3 other littles expectantly waiting on our yearly traditions I would not have done a thing. But there they were, those bright little eyes and tiny hands open wide to receive the giving and the caring and the celebrating of the most joyous gift, and while I couldn’t see it then I know now that my heart needed that just as much as theirs did.

I was stuck wondering how to move forward through the dark days of Advent in a way that would point my family to hope while still suffocating beneath the ache of the sudden loss of my little girl. What I learned that December and all the ones since is that the Christmas story holds space for our stories, even the dark parts— for the tears and the scars, the mourning and our deepest grief. I learned how to weave the remembrance of our littlest sister girl into the stories and traditions of each Advent season, and have done so ever since.

When a friend visited a few days ago and saw how we still include our Ellie in the patterns of our Christmas season, she suggested I share the ways that we do that, knowing there are others holding the shards of painful losses and unimaginable grief this season, and hoping I can help you to find meaningful ways to embrace the joy of anticipating the day of our Savior’s birth while still honoring the lives that have left us with ragged and tender edges during the happiest season of all.

One of the long-standing traditions in our home is that every year each of the kids get a new ornament to hang on the tree. Wanting to include Ellie in that, yet realizing it didn’t make sense to gather a growing collection of ornaments that she would not be taking with her to leave our nest one day, we came up instead with Ellie’s Christmas Tree. Delighted to find a tree existed in purple, her favorite color, we set about adorning it with miniature ornaments that all reminded us of her and her precious days spent with us. Every year the Ellie Tree gets set up on a tabletop and decked out with all the girly symbols of her tiny self. Occasionally we find a new ornament to add that suits her perfectly, but for the most part we keep the same collection and enjoy every year this small but bold representation of our girl.

As I hung the family stockings that first Christmas without her, it felt like betrayal somehow to not include her in that tradition, yet an equally painful gut-punch was staring at a limp, empty stocking that would never hold gifts for the littlest sister. So we started the tradition of Letters to Ellie. As the calendar page turns to December each year we purchase a pack of cards specifically for Ellie’s stocking, and as we move through the days of Advent toward the coming of the Christ-Child, each family member takes the time to write a personal letter to our girl and slip it into her stocking.

In the early days when the siblings were bitty, that often looked like adorable drawings of stick people representing the littlest girl twirl-dancing in Heaven, or memories of what they missed doing with her. As they’ve grown the letters have grown too, to include writings of their memories with her, updates on what they wished she could have been a part of this year, or wonderings of what she would look like or be involved in today. Each year as the celebration of Christmas winds down I have taken the cards and added them to a growing scrapbook of Ellie’s Letters that we all enjoy looking through and seeing how time and maturity and the aching of missing her have colored what has been documented. It has been a sweet way to include her and to reflect on the impact her life has had on our lives.

However you choose to include your missed loved ones into the celebration of our Savior’s birth, always remember that the little Lord Jesus asleep on the hay has made a way for us through the tears and the deep grief-aching of our hearts. His birth paved the way to the cross that beckons us to come and makes space for all of our grieving, and promises to bring us rescue from these dark days into an eternal life of joyous fulfillment.

Come, oh come, Emmanuel.

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Broken by a Pillow

Hannah

A few days ago I was attempting to change the sheets on my bed. My dear hubs likes to use these heavy weighted gel pillows to sleep on that feel best on his neck. He was helping me put the bed back together and I reached for one of his pillows on the floor to hand it to him. Grabbing it with both hands I yanked it up almost to waist height only to have the weight of it slip from my hands and plummet back to the floor. Again I reached for it, and again it slumped to the floor as it slid from my weak grasp. And then I lost my ever-loving mind. “This is ridiculous!” I shrieked, and before I could even think I burst into tears. I know his kind words were trying to console me, but I could not hear them over the shame and frustration and despair that rang through every cell in my body.

I made a beeline to retreat to the bathroom where I hid behind the closed door and let loose hot tears of anger and deep sadness. All I could think was, “They used to call me Mighty Mouse because I was the strongest in my fire department, and now I can’t even pick up a stupid pillow. This isn’t fair, God. This was not supposed to be my story. Why can’t I have my life back?”

Silence screamed back at me as I finished having my temper tantrum and blotted my swollen eyes. Then there was a quiet whisper to my soul, “There are countless others who have that story; yours is one that will show my glory even more so because of your weakness. Just trust me.”

Peace seeps in like the gentle rocking of a newborn to sleep. My Abba Father has got me. He knows the pain, He knows the frustration and disappointment, and He promises to make something beautiful of my broken pieces.

As I crawled into bed I did the only thing I know to do when given the choice to despair or choose hope; lift my hands and praise Him for the many gifts in my life. I list them off into the stillness of night, and like a mighty shield, that act of thanksgiving pushes back my shame, my frustration, and my despair, until all that’s left is a calm assurance that I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

In what ways are you feeling your shortcomings? Are you able to leave those at the feet of Jesus and trust that He’s got you? It’s not always easy, but it always comes with a huge helping of peace.

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Thanksgiving

Hannah

In a season of suffering and deep grief, a day set aside to give thanks can feel counterintuitive. This week as I have pressed into a list of tasks to prepare for a day of fellowship and feasting with my family I have faced endless hours of debilitating pain, a frightening drop in function on a repeat breathing test, a company that has decided not to provide my tube feedings anymore, and fatigue that binds me with so much exhaustion that a whole day slips by without me waking. Admittedly, it can be easier to find things to complain about than to be grateful for, but then in my morning quiet time I am reminded that thanksgiving is the way we enter into and experience His presence (see Psalm 100:4). To say “Thank You, God” is to perceive Him with us in our suffering.

In the dark, painful corners of a Nazi concentration camp, Corrie ten Boom wrote, “Thankfulness keeps us connected to the reality of God in our lives.” If a woman persecuted and tortured for doing nothing more than showing love and hospitality can find reasons to give thanks during the darkest days of her life, than I have no excuse not to be counting my blessings. So, I pull out my journal of daily graces and scrawl them down on the pages; the easy-to-miss but very present reasons throughout my days to give thanks to a God who is acquainted with my sorrow, and is fiercely present in my suffering.

Gratitude is not always easy to embrace. Suffering affords us endless opportunities to complain and despair and harden our hearts. For myself, some days are so acutely painful that I wonder how is there possibly anything good to be thankful for today? Yet I continually find that just that amount of belief is enough to gently turn my heart and head toward my Savior.

To those of you that are trudging through deep grief and fighting daily battles that threaten to consume you, I see you. I hear your desperation and I feel your pain. Still, I urge you to lift your head and look around. Find the daily graces, no matter how small. Your warm cup of coffee. The sunshine streaming through your window. No matter how small your capacity gratitude in that moment, you will find yourself inspired to thank Him for more and more of His gifts and His goodness.

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Providence

Hannah

Providence. A young wife stripped of her physical capacity, struggling to do basic things for herself as life moments pass by, leaving her behind.

Providence. A child living his entire young life consumed with the fear his mom is going to be taken from him. Calling her from school 4-5 days a week to make sure she is ok.

Providence. Two young girls swirling and giggling as they try on their mama’s wedding dress while she watches on, swallowing hard as she wonders if she will get to see them married.

Providence. A young boy looked over as having less worth because he is different, broken. Trying to scream his presence and purpose and his charisma for life from a body that won’t let him speak, or stand, or dance.

Providence. A thin sheet of water turns to glass as the tires screech across it, slamming the car into a semi, snatching away the life of a roommate, known, cared for, and needed.

Providence is a word I’d heard but not understood very much about until a recent sermon I heard from my pastor. I learned that Providence means God is in complete control of all things; there is no chance or fate.

This week I have rolled the word over and over in my mind, trying out its relevance, wondering if I have the guts to cling hard to the truth my mind knows even when my heart feels shredded.

What I am learning to believe about providence is that it is responsible for making an important story out of the hard path I am called to walk. When I view life through this lens it lends the hope I need to keep clinging even in these darkest valleys, though not easily.

Providence and I have come head to head this week. I have challenged why God’s complete control feels so out of control at times. I have pondered why if he is able to do immeasurably more than we can ask or imagine… why don’t we always get the answers we long for? It seems that sometimes when pursuing God, he cannot be located. What then?

I discovered reading the story of Esther this week that even in such turmoil God’s name was never mentioned, yet His fingerprints were all over that story! I knew God was trying to help me better make sense of the process and better accept particularly the things that we do not prefer or do not understand taking place in our lives. These things, hard as they may be are all part of God’s plan to develop us and take us from where we are to where he wants us to be. We may not see him, but that doesn’t mean he is not behind the scenes arranging every detail for His purpose.

Even the excruciating details. Even the ones that bring you to your knees, and the ones you don’t know how you’ll ever recover from. Every single detail with His loving heart imploring me to never give up hope that the hard parts I walk through are the beginning of something important and even beautiful that he is orchestrating.

Here I am, arms wide open, bleeding heart held out to You. Trusting you will take and use it for Your Kingdom, because I know You never waste our pain, and Your plans are so much greater than my own.

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To My Son on his 21st Birthday

Hannah

How do I write a letter to a 21 year old who used to fit in the crook of my arm with ease; the one I rocked and bounced and drove back and forth with for hours and hours when he would not stop screaming in the first weeks of life? How do I acknowledge adulthood to the little boy I taught to sing his ABC’s, and make himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? (Wellll, we are still working on that one😉) How do I give permission to soar to the little sweetling that used to look back just to make sure I was still safely behind him?

As I rise to look my blue-eyed-boy in the eye, I see the reflection of each of these moments, big and small. The insignificance of how many months old you were when you walked. The monumental moment of greatest joy when you shared that you’d given your life to Christ. The skinned knees, the baseball trophies, the nightly kisses on the cheek that continue to this day. The victories and achievements, as well as the falling short and the battles. All of these tiny moments making the whole amazing you, and the joy and enthusiasm and determination that you bring to this world.

I am proud of you for letting each moment, whether easy or excruciating carve you into who you are today. I know it does not stop at adulthood; you have many years and many more small moments that will shape and change who you are. Promise me above all you will cling to your faith in God, you will be an advocate for what is right; standing up for those in need as you always have. Those truths I whispered to you in bedtime’s drowsiness, those songs I sang; keep them tucked away to always lead you back to where you came from. As you stand at the brink of this new ridge in your life, so much behind you, and yet such a beautifully immense expanse widening your eyes in front of you, I pray you remain anchored to that which is love and truth and family, and that you F L Y.

I love you, Jacob Andrew; the boy who made me a mama.