When You're Doing Your Best Just to Enter the Sanctuary

So Mother's Day is this Sunday. One can hardly miss it, what with the explosion of pinks and florals in every store. Its a great holiday that technically everyone should be able to celebrate... after all, none of us would be here with out our moms. I love my mom, mother-in-law and grandmas. They are all wonderful, amazing women of God, whom I am so thankful for and I appreciate the Hallmark holiday of an opportunity to let them know how much I do love them. Its one of the few times I year I actually send out snail mail! But there's another side to Mother's Day and all the hoopla that surrounds it that causes my heart to break when I see the frilly displays of cards and Whitman's Samplers. Its the reminder that I am a mother who has lost her child. While that is part of my daily reality, of course, special occasions and holidays such as this one are even stronger reminders of the emptiness in my arms. 

Many people may not understand this, since I now have two adorable little girls. Empty arms? Aren't my arms (and hands) full with a toddler and an infant? Just ask anyone who saw me at the grocery store this morning, both kids in tow, my little stroller basket overflowing with much needed groceries as one baby cried and the other ran along beside me "trying" to calm her down. The looks of pity were enough to slay a kitten. Yes, my hands are full but my arms still feel achingly empty at times. While I love Gia and Joanna more than I ever thought possible, I still miss Whitney tremendously. Having children after a loss will not replace the baby who's gone any more than adding salt instead of sugar will sweeten your coffee. Something, some one is still missing.

A lot of churches have a Baby Dedication Sunday usually in the same week or month as Mother's Day. While I understand that this completely makes sense, its kind of like a double whammy for a heart that is already grieving. The year Whitney was born, I didn't go to church the entire month of May-- I just couldn't handle it. And when I was at church, I wanted in and out with as little interaction as possible. I was doing my best to enter the sanctuary. My absence was not met with compassion or understanding, rather criticism and judgement. God-forbid I miss the Hallmark sermon, and the gift afterwards of a carnation and Bump-it. (yes, they gave away Bump-its to moms. No, I am not kidding.) What I would have given to have been met with open arms, understanding and good gracious, grace! We are no longer at that church and I'm thankful we are now serving at a wonderful church, full of grace and caring people who love us deeply.

But my point in sharing all this is not so you will feel sorry for me. Its to give you permission. Permission to grieve however you damn well need to grieve. And permission to do whatever the hell you need to do on Mother's Day. Nowadays, I don't mind Mother's Day so much. I enjoy going to church and even accept the pangs of longing I usually feel... longings for Heaven, where death is conquered and eternity with Christ is reality. Where I'll get to hold my baby girl again, and she will praise our mighty God alongside her sisters. I enjoy the day as a mom of three beautiful daughters, for whom I am so deeply thankful to God. Its definitely one of those bittersweet days. But I can't help thinking of the many people who are struggling on Sunday. Who are just doing their best to enter the sanctuary. The daughter who's mom died this year after a fierce battle with ALS. The couple who just had another negative pregnancy test after years of infertility. The man who's mom died when he was 16. The young woman who's mom was emotionally absent and chemical-dependent. We all enter with wounds that can only be healed by the wounds of Jesus. (1 Peter 2:24; Isaiah 53:5)

So if you're a mom (or even a grandma, aunt, dad, etc) who is dreading this Mother's Day because your baby is missing from your arms, know that you are not alone. If your relationship with your mother is more complicated than the commercial cards you can find at Kroger, you're not alone. If the only address you have to send a Mother's Day card is "Heaven," you are not alone. And please know that we won't judge you if you want to stay home, or if you need a "bathroom break" when all the babies go down front, or it just gets to be too much. Know that I am praying for you, from the depths of my soul to the feet of Jesus, praying his grace and mercy on your heart. I am praying that the God of hope will fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit (Romans 15:13), even in your seasons of grief. 

And if you are doing your best but still can't make it into the sanctuary this Mother's Day, please know that's ok. Because our God is so big, he will come to you. He will meet you from wherever you are seeking him-- broken heart, shambled soul, empty arms, cried-out eyes. In fact, he wants that part of you, because he wants all of you. No need to pretty it up for Sunday. Don't cake make-up over your tear-stained cheeks. Run to him who is able to do infinitely more than we could ever ask or imagine (Ephesians 3:20). Give him your grief and accept his grace, which is so much more than sufficient for all of our needs (and even made perfect in our weaknesses- 2 Corinthians 12:9). And know that you are loved and I am lifting you up in prayer. And if you happen to be at my church tomorrow and need an extra hug, let me know you're doing your best just to enter the sanctuary and I'll know exactly what you mean.

Where there is Life

I saw this tonight while I was, you know, browsing Pinterest and it stopped me in my websurfing tracks. "Where there's life, there's hope."  YES! This immediately made me think of Whitney... even after her fatal diagnosis, her heart was still beating. There was still life. And because there was still life, there was HOPE. Hope for healing, hope for a miracle, hope for the sake of HOPE. And now, having come through that time in our life without the healing, without the miracle that we were hoping for, I can still say with all the certainty in my heart, that HOPE was not wasted. Hope is never wasted... In fact, its because of Whitney that I have learned hope is a gift. It teaches us to long for and believe in something bigger than ourselves. And even when that hope doesn't unfold like we, well, hoped it would, I am still grateful-- oh, so grateful-- for it. So yes, where there is life, there is hope. Is your heart beating? Is there a glimmer of green beneath the cold, dead ground in your life? Then There. Is. HOPE. Don't be afraid of it... run towards it, embrace it, believe it-- Believe HIM with all your heart. romans 15:13 tells me that God is a God of HOPE-- yes, that is my God! And that is my HOPE. We could have chosen to end Whitney's life, but her heart was still beating... and there was still hope. Even now, as her heart is not beating in this life (or even in the next), I still have hope. I carry a piece of her with me always ("I carry your heart, I carry it in my heart...).  My hope in her healing was fulfilled and because of Christ and the fact that my hope is ultimately in Him, this HOPE I have will never return void. 

Welcoming the Waves

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I've gone about today in pretty much the same way I've shuffled through the past 6 weeks or so. Wake up earlier than I usually would to feed a squirmy ball of love and delight. She's been sleeping such long stretches at night that I usually have to pump a little bit of milk so I don't overwhelm her when she nurses.  Rock her back to sleep. Try to sleep again myself. Wake up again to a usually happy squirmy ball of love and delight. At some point in the day (usually just before bed) I will pour the precious ounces of liquid gold sustenance into a baggie to freeze for later use. I'll pull apart the pieces of the pump's plastic and plunge them into hot, soapy water. Scrub. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Routine.

But this afternoon, my routine was interrupted. That strange, ugly monster who's been graciously silent for quite some time, reared his ugly head again. Grief. As I disassembled my pump, I thought back to life 4 years ago. There was no sink full of soapy water. No bleary-eyed late-night feedings. Instead, there were frozen peas and ice cold cabbage stuffed into a sports bra that was two sizes too small. Whitney had passed away, but apparently, my body didn't get the memo. My milk came in just as it would have if she had been there to receive its nourishment. And it hurt. It stung. It burned. My body was betraying me, a constant reminder of my baby who was not in my arms. As I wept from the physical pain and the raw emotion of her loss, it seemed that even my body was weeping too. 

The wave of grief washed over me, I felt something new and strange towards the familiar, ugly monster of Grief: I welcomed it. I steadied myself with wet hands on the side of my cold kitchen sink and let salty tears fall to my cheeks. I let myself feel the squeeze of loss as my heart physically ached. Moms who have empty arms know just how real this kind of physical heart ache is. For that moment, I welcomed every bittersweet memory and emotion Grief threw at me. The tide rolled in, and faster than real time, the tide rolled out. "They" (whoever "they" are) always tell you Grief is a journey. (Here's another post from a few years ago about this Grief journey.) Four years in, I'm beginning to learn what that means. And I'm learning with greater clarity what it means in 1 Thessalonians that we do not grieve as those who have no hope. I'm learning its okay to grieve, to miss what should have been-- the birthday candles that will never be blown out, the gifts that will never be opened... well, the list of "should have been's" is endless. But in my grief, I can't forget the future that I know will be. And I know that it will be far greater than anything we're missing out on in this life. As it says in The Message translation of 1 Thes: "Since Jesus died and broke loose from the grave, God will most certainly bring back to life those who died in Jesus."

Tomorrow, Whitney would have been 4. We've all been a little busy lately, what with a newborn and all. When we haven't been busy, we've been hopelessly snowed in. I haven't had time to plan much at all for Whitney's birthday... no special planned acts of kindness, no gifts for the hospital nurses- I haven't even bought a cake mix yet. (Yes, keeping it real- cake mix.) I'm trying to practice giving myself grace in this area this year. Its hard to picture what life would be like with Whitney... Gia is only 2, so I don't know what its like to have a 4 year old running around. I'm only just learning what its like to have two kids... some days I drift off to Neverland, wondering what we'd be doing as a family of 5. There's always Neverland... a place where time stands still, and Whitney is whatever beautiful age I imagine her to be. But in reality, I know nothing of that life what should have been. I only know what is true for now, the life we are given and living for real. So tomorrow, we will bake a cake, sing happy birthday, and blow out a candle for our first born girl who is in Heaven. I'll stumble over words as I try to explain Heaven to my 2 year-old. I'll shed a few tears as we look at her pictures, and tell Gia its ok to be sad sometimes. I'll hold Whitney's bunny and try desperately to remember the tiny details of her face, her hands, her hair, that time has slowly erased. I'll remember the supernatural goodness of our Lord and the unbelievable graciousness in his provision. And I'll remember the Reason for our Hope. As waves of grief sneak up behind me, I'll welcome the warmth as they wash over me. The waves remind that Whitney is real, she was here, I held her in my arms, and she is worth crying for. The after that, I'll go back to the sink full of soapy water and continue to love my babies more each day. Love. Hug. Kiss. Cuddle. Repeat. Routine.