Even here.

“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o’er wrought heart and bids it break.”
-William Shakespeare, Macbeth

Aaron and I took the entire month of December off of social media. The original purpose was a challenge from our pastor during Advent: turn down the noise and recapture the wonder of the season. But knowing our hope for another baby, it felt like something entirely different for me — it felt like quiet preparation and silent reflection. It felt like taking a step back to steep in gratitude once more before diving into something entirely new.

One month doesn’t seem like that much time. And yet it’s enough time to watch your grandma slip into eternity. It’s enough time to celebrate the hope of Christmas that we all so desperately needed this year. It’s enough time to wave goodbye to one year and usher in a brand new one. And it’s just enough time to find out you’re pregnant… and then, one morning, find that you aren’t anymore.

I figured I was probably pregnant based on how I had felt in the previous couple of weeks but I tried not to think too much about it. I didn’t want to be overconfident and then be let down. I took a test on Christmas Eve that initially showed up negative. I told Aaron about it and said, “I think it’s wrong.” And sure enough, over the next couple of hours, a faint second line started to appear. Since it took so long to appear, we decided to take another test the next morning. Christmas day. What a gift it would be to find out about our baby on Christmas! How fun!

So I took another test and we wrapped it up and it was our last gift to open that morning. And we opened it to see the one word that instantly instills massive hope with a twinge of healthy fear. Pregnant.

When we found out I was pregnant with Nixon, I tried not to get my hopes up. Pregnancy after loss just brings about a different kind of anxiety. But this time – pregnancy after the birth of your son – well, it felt safe to be excited. It didn’t feel like needlessly getting our hopes up. It felt like answered prayer and immediate joy. I cried tears of excitement this time. We told Nixon all about how he would be a big brother. We excitedly shared our news that evening at my family’s Christmas gathering.

But I was pregnant only long enough to call my doctor to make those initial appointments. I was pregnant just long enough to dream about whether Nixon would have a brother or a sister. I was pregnant long enough to make a million plans in this mama heart of mine. And then in a moment, just days after we found out, I knew it was over again.

My doctor had me come in for labs just to be sure, but I already knew. I knew what my body was doing. It had done this before. We’ve done this before, which is why it seemed so impossible now. My body was supposed to know how to do this already — how to hold on to a baby it was busy creating without my knowledge. I was supposed to be (I thought) past this hurdle. I know a lot of women who have had one miscarriage. But two or more? Well, our club is smaller.

I wasn’t quite as far along this time. Many women might not even know they were pregnant. And part of me wishes I would have never known. But I do know. I know because that one word showed up on that stupid little stick. I know because the second line showed up. I know because my doctor called and told me that while my numbers were consistent with a miscarriage (meaning lower than they should have been), I still had the numbers — the numbers that tell you another life was growing in your body. The numbers that tell you a human being was being formed in your body and now suddenly it wasn’t anymore.  

So here I am, deep in this grief I never wanted to experience again. Here I am with the same questions – why and now what? Here I am telling you about it so that you might not feel alone if this is your story as well. I’m here too. Wondering. Sad. Fighting off lies and clinging to shreds of hope. I find myself just wishing to be pregnant again — that there was somehow, some way losing the baby could be untrue. That I would wake up and find that the loss wasn’t real. I know I won’t feel this way forever — I know it will get better. But right now, right here, I’m in the grimy thick of emotions and hormones.

When my grandma died, I had a hard time with it. I still am to be honest. I still think about it and cannot believe she died — I tell Aaron as much every other day. I can’t believe she’s not here on earth anymore —that she’s not just down the road at her apartment, sitting in her blue recliner. But when she died, I heard a song on the radio and sent it to my family group text. I don’t know if you tie music so closely to moments like I do, but there are songs that have defined different periods of my life. There are certain songs I could hear and be transported back to an exact moment in time. The one I heard on the radio is called, “Hallelujah Even Here” by Lydia Laird. It felt like an anthem we could sing in the midst of loss. It felt like something to hold on to in those days. And at the time I had no idea I was about to experience loss on top of loss. In a year that felt like so much was already taken — I had no idea I still had more to lose.

I have put that song on blast in my ears every day since our baby left me. I have to sing it at the top of my lungs so that maybe the truth of it will osmosis into my bones and I’ll feel better somehow —that the sentiment will wrap me up and hold me close when I really don’t feel like it is well with my soul like she sings. I have to remind my heart of the truth every day so that I don’t sink to despair.

One thing I don’t remember feeling last time was wanting proof that it happened. I want some kind of proof to hold on to that this wasn’t just a dream – that this baby was real, that two weeks ago, I really was pregnant. Last time we had a doctor’s appointment and we bought a onesie and we had a few weeks with our baby. This time it happened too fast. Last time I hung on to my doctor’s notes that said the reason for my appointment was “loss of pregnancy” just so I could hold on to something. This time I don’t have anything. There are no markers on a woman to show just how many children she’s carried in her body — and how many she now carries in her heart.

But I’ll know. I’ll know in my heart and my mind. I’ll know in my soul that I have had three babies in my body. And God knows. I don’t know what he is doing here in this part of my story, but he knows I am walking this road again. It feels unfair and ridiculous, to be honest. I feel embarrassed and angry. I feel sad. But I know that this part of my story will be used just as each part always is – to grow me, to mold my heart, to fill me with compassion and empathy. To help me become who he wants me to be. He wastes not a single moment of our lives here if we’re willing to join in what he’s accomplishing. So I’ve asked and prayed that he use this too, in my life and in the lives of whoever needs to hear that they are not alone in this acute kind of grief — in the astonishing and bewildering hurt of a shattered dream.

In September I wrote about resting even in the storms because we know who holds our hearts. How often I come to you here with lessons I think I’ve already learned and then God turns around and walks me right back through them again. In Bible Study Fellowship, the weekly group I am part of, we are studying Genesis and the story we talked about just this week was Genesis 20 where Abraham and Sarah are back at the same place they were a few chapters before. They’re learning the same lesson again. And here I am rereading that post I wrote because it seems I need to know again. That post is for me now. To know that even when it feels bumpy —even through the choppy water and roar of the engine – even here, God is the strength of my heart. He is holding me up and pulling me in close. Even when it doesn’t feel like it – because to be honest, it doesn’t really feel like it. I don’t have a warm, fuzzy, oh-wow-God-is-so-near kind of feeling. I don’t see him. But I trust him. And that is what will propel me forward to sing ever louder, “Hallelujah even here.” Even here when I am devastated. Even here when I don’t know what’s next. He is worthy. Even here.  

__________

A friend texted me the very week I miscarried (unbeknownst to her) to ask about resources I had from the first time I miscarried. She wondered if I had anything to share that might be helpful for those experiencing this kind of loss. So I’m sharing here in case they might be helpful to you as well.

The Other Side of Grief with Angie Smith — on the Made for This podcast

Trusting God with Our Children: An Interview on Faithful Motherhood with Nancy Guthrie — on the Risen Motherhood podcast

Infertility, Miscarriage and Motherhood with Courtney Reissig — on the Risen Motherhood podcast

Rich and Dawnchere Wilkerson — Our Infertility Story

It’s Not Supposed to Be This Way by Lysa Terkeurst

Also, I put together this playlist that I’ve been listening to the last couple of weeks. Maybe music helps heal your heart and hold fast to hope the way it does mine.

A very merry blog birthday!

I started this blog five years ago(!!) with my inaugural post on Christmas Eve. At the time I had been writing short little essays like these for almost a year and didn’t know what to do with them. On New Year’s Eve 2014, I was with some girlfriends and we talked about our goals and dreams for the next year. I said I wanted to do something with my writing but didn’t know what – didn’t know what it was supposed to look like or who would read it. God had put the idea of a blog on my mind a couple of times but I pretty much said no, as I had been so prone to do at the time. I felt like I was too late to the blog game – that I didn’t have anything new to say and plenty of people were doing it better than I could and, on top of that, I was listening to the critics in my head. I knew exactly who would think it was dumb that I was starting a blog and instead of listening to God’s whisper to move forward, I was listening to the ideas of what I thought this small group of people might say to me or about me behind my back.  

But then I realized that what other people said about me behind my back was none of my business. And it actually said more about them than it did about me. And did I really care about their opinion anyway? Well, to be completely honest, yes. I did and still do sometimes. Ha! It’s hard to hear criticism and we all want to be liked. I still feel completely inadequate and vulnerable and sweaty before I hit ‘publish’ on these little posts of mine. But almost every time I do it feels like an act of obedience to God. He asked me to come here to share what I’ve learned and it’s up to him who reads it or needs it.

And so today I just want to celebrate what God has done here with this little space. Through my ramblings about life and love, my stories about dating and marriage, babies and miscarriage, my thoughts on death and faith, God has brought me new friends and new connections with old friends. As of today, my blog has had readers in all 50 states and in 98 countries around the world. This site has been viewed nearly 50,000 times. I am stunned. And humbled. And thankful. Maybe those numbers don’t seem all that big to you – I mean I know some people get that many likes per day on their Instagram photos —but when I started this, I was convinced my mom was the only one who would read it so God did something bigger than I ever planned or thought possible and I am grateful to be part of whatever he is doing here in this space.

So to all of you who have been here and encouraged me and cried with me and laughed with me – thank you. Just thank you for being here. For coming with me on this journey toward God and life to the full. Thank you for sharing these words with the people you know and love. Thank you for reaching out to me and letting me know that these words meant something to you.

There’s a quote on my “About” page from Henri Nouwen and it sums up why I have come back here time and again for the last five years to share with you – because I want to share what God has done in my life so that it might encourage you. That it might spur you on to greater faith. That it might help you see some light. That it might inspire you to turn to God for the first time or turn back to him for the first time in a long time. I’ll lay my life here for you that you might see Jesus in it. That you might feel a moment of, “Hey, me too — I’ve felt that/seen that/done that.”

I’ve learned and grown so much over the last five years. I’ve shared a lot with you through my joys and sorrows. When I started this blog I wasn’t even dating Aaron and here I am married with a toddler. A lot can change in five years. Here are some of the greatest hits on my blog in that time:

This is was my first post about Christmas Eve five years ago. It seems to be possibly even more relevant this year than it was then!

This post has remarkably been in my popular content count for the last three years. I don’t know what draws people back to it, but this letter I wrote to my grandpa before he died has been shared and read many, many times.

This is another one that frequently shows up in popular content. It’s the story of the baby I lost two summers ago before Nixon came along. It’s my sincere hope that those who have walked through this type of hurt find consolation and hope here.

This post of my engagement photos makes me so happy and nostalgic for life in Hawaii.

Is there something you’d like to see here in the next year on my blog? Please feel free to reach out and let me know. I want to come to this space more often in 2021. That’s my goal. So if there are things you want to know or something you’d like to read about, please let me know. A woman I know wrote me a message on instagram and I turned my response into a blog post. It has been in popular content repeatedly as well. You can read about feeling too old right here.

So five years later, I’m here to say don’t let those voices in your head hold you back from what God might be calling you toward. On the other side of obedience is greater blessing. And I’m more interested in that than a cheap comment about how dumb my blog is. So I’ll be here sharing until God calls me on to something else. Until then, thanks for joining me.

Love you guys. Peace and joy to you this Christmas season. 

Defining moments.

I was wearing a yellow shirt that I thought was super cute when I stood in a parking lot and got my heart broken. I never spoke to him again. I also got rid of that shirt.

My heart pounding in my ears was the only sound I could hear in the moments before Aaron asked me to marry him. I was all tears and adrenaline for the next half hour.

I was staring at my hands in my lap when my doctor told me we had to deliver the baby that day. I squeezed the Kleenex in my hand and cried and said okay.

Defining moments. It’s so interesting what our hearts and minds latch on to in those moments –the moments where there is a definitive before and after. When the world seems to shift ever so slightly —but just for you. For you, it’s all different. It feels different. For everyone else, it’s just a regular Wednesday.

Nixon and I went to the library yesterday and after roaming the aisles of books back and forth, he noticed the cars driving by on the street outside the window. He toddled over and pressed his hands against the cool, wet glass and watched them pass by. He was wearing a camouflage beanie and a black shirt and I stared at him for a moment before joining him at the window. We watched the cars swish by in the rain and I thought how interesting it was that it seemed like just a regular day – traffic rolling by, the sounds of the library hummed in the background, a man read the newspaper at the table nearby. And yet as they all went on so normally, my life hangs on the edge of a before and after.

My grandma is about to meet Jesus. She’s mere hours from eternity. I hope my grandpa meets her at the gates the very moment she approaches. I hope they immediately sit down to enjoy the presence of Jesus and some dessert. Probably a cup of coffee also.

Meanwhile, here on earth, in this realm, it will feel a little more empty. A little less like normal. An extra reminder that we were not made for this world.

We went to visit her a few days ago. I held her hand and told her it was going to be okay. Told her I loved her and that her pink painted nails looked really pretty. It was a gift to be able to go see her. In these strange times we’re living in, many people don’t get to say goodbye so I’m thankful we had the chance. But it was hard to see her that way. Sick and weak.

“It’s never good. Death is not how it’s supposed to be,” my sister reminded earlier this week. It is an awful thing to watch the human body struggle and finally slip into eternity. But that’s what we’re all doing, essentially, just at different paces. On separate time tables.

I read one time that Americans don’t do well with death or grief. We don’t sit with it like we should so we don’t learn to accept it as a part of life. But I don’t want to accept it as part of life. I don’t think we’re supposed to. I mean, we have to, obviously, in one regard. We cannot outrun it. But this isn’t what it was meant to be. God didn’t create us for death. He created us for life. Everlasting, beautiful, abundant life. And that’s what I have to remind myself when I stand at the kitchen sink peeling carrots and realize my grandma will never do that again. She won’t eat again. She won’t pick out her clothes for the day. She won’t get up from the bed she is laying in. Not here she won’t.

But there. There in Heaven she will dine at the King’s banquet table. She will be dressed in the finest clothes as the Father invites her to his feast. The tears will be wiped from her eyes and her pain won’t even be a memory. It will be no more. She will be whole and healthy and full of life and love. That’s what I have to remember when I start to think about all that will be different when she leaves this body, this life.  

I read a quote from Charles Spurgeon, a Baptist preacher in the 1800’s, that said, “The Christian need not dread sickness, for he has nothing to lose, but everything to gain, by death.” My grandma has everything to gain when she takes her last breath. Everything. I believe it in my bones. It doesn’t make it easier to let her go now. It doesn’t make me hurt less. But I can hurt with hope. At least I want to. At least that’s what I will remind my heart in the coming days.

But it’s hard. And I feel sad and scared and that’s just the honest truth. I know Christians always say stuff like this – that we grieve with hope and that we know we’ll see them again, etc. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel wrecked right now. That I don’t mourn right now. That I don’t feel sad. Because I do. But thankfully, Jesus says, “Blessed are those who mourn.” Blessed. Because “They shall be comforted.” And I know this to be true as well. So I will throw myself again and again at the feet of Truth when my heart feels weary of this world as it does now. Because that’s the only thing I know how to do. 

I’m waiting for the phone call. The one where I hear she’s gone home. The anxiety of waiting to know has mounted all week in my heart and in my body physically. I haven’t felt well. It’s the waiting and the not knowing when the world will shift again, for me and my family alone. When it will tip ever so slightly toward eternity again. When there will be a distinct before and after and my mind will hang on to a weird memory of sight or smell or sound and it will all feel less normal.

But maybe it will feel a little more like it should – where we long for eternity and seeing her again. Maybe we’ll long a little more deeply and truly that His kingdom would come and all would be made whole –which is a perfect way to enter this Advent season. The word ‘advent’ is Latin and means ‘coming’. A reminder that we await his coming. Christ is coming. Eternity is coming. And we are longing, hoping, waiting for their arrival. For my family this season, we wait a little more expectantly, knowing who awaits us in glory. I just know she’ll serve us up the best dessert.

Sleeping on the boat.

We all scrambled on to the boat from the dock as the sun was setting lower on the horizon. After a few failed attempts, the boat roared to life and we took off across the lake. My one year old, Nixon, had been on a boat one other time in his little life but he loved it, so I knew he would enjoy the ride. Nixon has always loved loud noises – the mower, the vacuum, his sound machine – so the growl of the boat was nothing to him. He looked expectantly out over the water as the wind blew in his hair.

After the first time around the lake, I took Nixon from Aaron and held him in my arms as we continued to cruise around. The wind had a cold edge on it so I wrapped Nixon up in Aaron’s jacket and put the hood over his head to offer some protection. He cozied into my arms as we bump, bump, bumped over waves left by the wake of another boat. And as he sat there, jostling back and forth in my arms, Nixon slowly fell asleep. 

I took in the scene – wind blowing, motor growling, boat jumping over rough water along the lake – and a thought came to me: this is a little bit like our lives. We encounter wind and waves, bumps, unexpected jostling, a few moments of calm and then another unseen wave. But, when we know who holds us safe, we don’t have to fear.

Nixon wasn’t the slightest bit afraid on the boat – not of the noise, not of the bumps. And certainly part of that is because I wasn’t afraid. Had I been on higher alert, he may not have been able to relax, but since he felt safe, he was able to fall asleep. It was so beautiful. He was secure in my arms. He could rest.

When we know who holds us, we don’t have to fear. Do you know who holds you today? There’s a new song by Matthew West and the lyrics that pricked my heart the other day go like this:

Do you remember singing
Back when you were younger
He's got the whole world in His hands
Well, that's still true

I hold your family, all your friends, and all your loved ones
And even when you're barely holding on
I'm holding you

He holds us close. The Creator God — God of the mountains and the oceans, the trees and the bees, the God who is in control of breath and being — he holds us. He goes before us. He knows what we will encounter and he walks with us in it. He holds us through the bumps, through the noise, through the whipping wind. And he won’t let go. Even if we feel scared. Even if we can’t sleep. Even if we fight against his loving grasp. He holds us safe.

Do you know the story of Jesus in Mark 4 when he was on the boat with his disciples and the storm came up? The wind was whipping, the boat was being tossed by the waves and all his friends were like, “Hey, where’s Jesus?” Where did they find him? Sleeping in the boat. Confident in who held it all together despite the wind and the waves — despite what may have felt chaotic to his friends.

You know what has felt a bit chaotic? This whole year. I mean, honestly, take your pick, I think we’ve all felt a little out of sorts since, oh, say, March? If ever there were reasons for anxiety, it would be this year. Many have lost jobs and loved ones and homes and health. There is no shortage of unrest this year. But, in the midst of it all, there is one who holds us close. He knows. He sees what we’re up against and he says, “I’ve got this.”

While I believe what I am writing to you today, there have certainly been times throughout this pandemic where I wasn’t trusting who held it all together. I wasn’t relaxed enough to take a nap on a cushion in the back of the boat. I have been sitting up straight trying to anticipate what’s coming next – holding on for dear life to the side of the boat, wondering what wave will come and try to drown me. I have felt that if I just research enough, I could see what was ahead and it would be less scary. If I just read enough, talked to enough people who agreed with my opinion, and found enough evidence that there was no reason to fear, then I would be okay. I have been caught hoping in myself and my own understanding thinking that would give me some sort of peace, when instead, I could hand my fears over to God and go take a nap.

Let me clarify something here – I don’t mean we should sleep in the boat as opposed to taking action where God calls us to action. I don’t mean “sleeping” as a hall pass for laziness and passivity. What I mean by sleeping in the boat is a confident assurance of who holds your hand and your heart. Who commands your very breath. Who walks with you in each circumstance. You can let go of fear and anxiety because you know in your gut that someone with your very best interests in mind is guiding you every step of the way.

Have you ever seen someone walk into a room with a quiet confidence – they kind of command the room with their presence and warm smile? That’s what I mean. It’s that despite it all, no matter what seems to loom, there is a peace about them. A calm. An assurance that no matter what, it’s going to work together for good. You can rest wherever you are today, regardless of what is happening around you, because you remind your heart, “God goes before and behind me. God holds all this together and wants good for me. God knows what I need. I can take a nap over here in this boat because he’s at the helm.”

You can’t create that kind of peace on your own. That has to be given. A “peace that passes understanding “ that comes from the One who is our peace. He says, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.” Isn’t that refreshing for your bones today? He is the peace our hearts are searching for in this year, in this pandemic, in this life. He will give us the peace we all need if we just turn to him and say, “Jesus, I need the rest and peace that you alone offer.”

Certainly, it’s easy to write these things now, when my own life hasn’t been impacted in many difficult ways through this pandemic. So I write this now when things are going well so that when they aren’t — when we inevitably hit the next set of bumps — I can remind my heart again of these truths. If we are diligent to teach our hearts this refrain in the good times, the melody will come back to us again while we navigate the next set of waves.

So next time you’re feeling a little tense and anxious, son or daughter of God, remember that you can fall asleep in the boat because you know who’s holding you. You don’t have to fear. I don’t have to fear. We can be as cozy and confident as Nixon sleeping in the boat, safe in my arms, because we know in our heart of hearts, regardless of circumstances, God’s got this.