Tag: family

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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.

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Twilight

Hannah

Today a nurse and doctor from hospice came out to my house and assessed my condition and the things that have declined for me over the past few months and weeks. We talked in depth about my goals and my family’s needs, and the reality of the days ahead of me. They interjected hard conversations with compassion and kindness and humor, and in the end as they admitted me under home hospice care, I felt as though I had been given a great gift rather than something to grieve.

How perfectly that word describes the jumble of days that has been this week… “the period between daylight and darkness.”

Thank you for hanging in there with me this week. I realize now that I dropped off the planet in the middle of conversations, appointments, and even in the middle of uploading a photo to Facebook! I know many of my friends and family members were wondering what on earth was going on and why I wasn’t answering.

Rendition of a photo I posted this week without knowing it. No one knows what it is… to me it looks like twilight.

This weekend my respiratory drive decided to take a vacation, and my family found me unresponsive. For my medical peeps, I had a GCS of 3 when paramedics arrived. I spent the first part of the week intubated in the ICU.

In the haze between sedation and full consciousness I was so blessed to know that some of my dearest people were there with me praying over me, reading scripture over me, and just holding space for me on some very scary and unsteady ground. Unable to talk, all it took was me scratchily scrawling out a name or two on a piece of paper, and my people came running to be by my side. I am so incredibly thankful.

My medical team worked hard with me, but it was obvious my body was tired. Each time they turned off the ventilator to try to get me off of it, my chest remained silent, and they had to turn it back on. What changed this was overhearing my husband ask what the next step would be, and seeing my doctor motion to his neck that I would get a tracheostomy. I scraped up what fight I had left in me and scribbled out “try breathing again.”

For the next hour I breathed, but it was like trying to come up for air when the pool cover has already been put back on. I fought and fought, but eventually I heard the doctor order the medications be drawn up for rapid sequence intubation; they were getting ready to intubate me again. Somehow in that moment of defeat I sucked in a thin stream of air, and then another. Little by little I was able to take each next breath on my own until I was finally resting back against my pillow, only a bipap mask supporting me.

I made it very clear to my doctors that my daughter was graduating high school on Thursday, and I would be leaving the hospital by then with or without their blessing! Thankfully my team was very supportive and worked hard to get me out of there in time. That seemed an impossible feat at the beginning of the week, so my heart was overjoyed to be able to celebrate with my girl.

Sola Gratia!

I was there to listen to her beautiful singing voice peal across the arena in perfect harmony, and my heart sang. I was there to hear her name announced as she walked forward for her diploma, and my pride thumped swollen in my chest. I was there to giggle at the cute, triumphant face she made as she walked by the cameras with her prize in hand, and my spirit soared. The joy of the Lord is my strength, and he truly has shepherded me through some of the deepest valleys and the highest mountaintops this week.

I also delighted in the fact that my little sister and a few of her littles drove out for the graduation and I was able to spend time loving on them.

Seester Love
Thankful for my girls helping me get fancied up! 💕

This will be the way forward for now, and we are grateful for the help to better manage things that have gotten frightening and difficult, like my weakness and breathing. I am grateful for this roll in seasons that brings these beautiful blue skies and warm breezes; ready to soak them all up with my people! And I am thankful for each of you who have faithfully walked us along this journey in so many ways. ♥️

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Hard Questions

Hannah

I was using an unexpected burst of energy to shuffle things around in my garage, attempting to organize the means of the DIY adventures that call to me on my stronger days. I must have been deep in thought, because the abrupt swinging open of the thick wooden door to the house startled me. A tear-stained face appeared, begging companionship. “Can I please talk to you?” “Of course,” I replied, and took a seat on the striped padding of our wooden bench. I patted the seat beside me, and there was an eruption of sobs.

“I just really, really don’t want you to be sick. I don’t like it, and I would rather die so that you can live a happy life.”

I was caught off guard by the heaviness of the situation, and as the lament continued I silently prayed for the right words to comfort this tortured soul. How do you answer the questions for which there are no answers? I was reminded of my notebook full of gratitude; all the beautiful and miraculous that is found woven through the mundane ache of every day.

When the slew of bemoaning faded into hiccuping sobs, I spoke. “Oh sweetheart, I /am/ living a happy life. I love getting to be here and be a wife and a mom and a friend, and my sickness will never take that away for me.”

“But why doesn’t God heal you. He can! Why doesn’t he want that?”

Admittedly it is a question I have also asked from time to time, but I gave the answer that has been whispered to me on repeat as I have studied similar stories of suffering in the scriptures. What if my suffering is the way into a greater love for God and his people? I have found that the process of walking with him through these deep valleys is teaching me how to better love and care for others. Maybe if I was not sick I would not know how to do that.

Not that I have readily accepted the hardships in my life. Not by a long shot. I have had my own sob sessions, wrestling long and hard with God, desperately searching scripture and asking really hard questions. I have waded through grief deeper than I thought I could survive.

The truths I have come to know, and that I shared on that dusty bench in my garage is that whatever trial I am asked to walk through, God will give me the strength to take each step through it. And if a terminal illness is what presses me nearer to his heart and grows my own to love others in a way that I could not have imagined on my own, then that is what is good for me, as well as for those my life intersects with.

Who knows, God may still heal me, but only if healing pushes me further into him. Only if healing accomplishes eternally what terminal illness cannot. These days my prayers are less for the removal of my illness and more for a greater number of days to love God and love people. I continue to press forward and fight toward that end; especially for my husband and my little people.

In the cold quiet of our garage that night, I explained that my present suffering is only going to increase, not ending until my death. Every day I am pressed harder into the story of the gospel, which allows me to fully trust the God who has numbered my days (Job 14:5), and to embrace the future of hope he has planned for me (Jeremiah 29:11). As I thank him for each new day, I search with intention for ways to leave a legacy for my children that will urge them to press into their Father God in their pain; to trust him with their hurt, and believe in him for their future.

He will meet us there.

Sola Gratia~ by grace alone.

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Sliding Into Home

Hannah

My youngest little turned to me a few nights ago and said, “Mom, I want to tell you something, but please promise not to be sad or upset.”

I assured him that I could handle whatever it was that he wanted to share, so he went on.

“When I was at practice today I saw a mom and her little boy on the playground. They were looking for something and then the mom climbed up and went down the slide and something in me triggered. I wanted to fall down on the ground and bang my head and cry.”

He slid his hand into mine, searching my face expectantly for my reaction. I think I did a good job of not betraying the chasm that cracked right through the beating of my heart. I smiled. I thanked him for sharing that with me. I told him I am sorry that his mom can not do a lot of the things other moms can do. We agreed it was hard and sad and unfair. And then I crooked-pinky-promised him that I was going to go down the slide.

Most kids get excited about a play date with friends, a new toy, the weight of a lemonade stand’s worth of quarters in their pocket… at the words that his mom would go down the slide with him, my boy’s face lit up like Christmas morning covered in a blanket of snow. “Actually?!” He beamed. “Absolutely. There are a lot of things I cannot do, but I can figure out how to slide with you.”

So transpired the day that we drove to the park, maneuvered the obstacle course to the top of the slide (because why just have simple stairs?), and made time stand still to the sound of my shoes squeak-clunking down the blue plastic slide that gave my son a moment of the most joyous normal that he could have imagined. He watched me slide, rode on my lap down the slide, and raced me down the double slide.

Even though there will always be things we miss out on together, I pray that every time he sees a slide instead of that painful trigger he will be filled with the memory of the day I said yes to reaching for more, challenging the limits, and grabbing hold of the joy that makes my hard story worth it.

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Fighting Hard Battles

Hannah

There is a saying we have probably all heard at one time or another that goes something like this: “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.” Compassion being one of the gifts I have been graced with, this quote always struck a cord with me and helped focus my thoughts on some important perspective through my early years. No situation has brought a more resounding agreement with these words however, than the one that hit closest to home.

His friends saw him become disinterested and standoffish; he started declining play dates in favor of spending time by himself at home instead of being the outdoorsy social butterfly that everyone was accustomed to knowing. They did not know that he was battling a suffocating depression.

His teammates saw him gain a lot of weight and struggle with his endurance and speed, and they teased him. They did not know that the medication that is keeping intrusive suicidal thoughts at bay has caused him to put on the weight.

He got in trouble for picking on one of his peers, and he was labeled as a bully and a “ring leader.” They did not know that he was relentlessly being bullied day in and day out and was keeping it to himself.

His classmates noticed him disappear and started sharing rumors that he had been expelled. They did not know that he was experiencing such toxic levels of stress that something was going to give, and so we stepped in to offer him the solace of homeschool; where he is now thriving.

His teachers saw him not give his full attention and best effort, and assumed he was unfocused and not willing to work hard. They did not know that nearly every minute of the day he was being tormented by the fear that today would be the day his mom’s terminal illness would take her away for good.

He got scoffed at for being too tired to go on a bike ride or run around outside. They didn’t know that for his entire life he has been sleeping on the floor by his mom’s bed to make sure she is ok, and it doesn’t provide the most restful sleep.

They saw his gruff, sarcastic exterior and chose not to pursue friendship; they did not know that those are just the masks he wears to protect one of the most tender, intuitive, and compassionate hearts they’ve ever known.

How many times do we jump to conclusions instead of loving big and giving people the chance to show us the beauty that lies behind the hard battles that we each fight? I am guilty of it too. Let’s not miss another opportunity to know someone incredible because we are too quickly assuming we know their situation. Take a chance; offer acceptance. You might be missing something big.

**This was posted with permission from my little man— one of the strongest warriors I know.