On the Occasion of Your 4th Expectation Day

(I acknowledge to remember the joy and the grief that is always present while not necessarily debilitating.  We are so grateful for the lives that have blessed and influenced us.  Because we are no less grateful for this one's existence, we remember and acknowledge the significant dates that surround his sweet presence and the fact that we will miss him until we are finally reunited.)  

I'll Love You Forever

I never anticipated that I would love The Great Gatsby, but there's something achingly beautiful about a book that acknowledges our need to move toward the future while often and unexpectedly being drawn to the past.  And while it's true that dwelling creates an unhealthy emotional environment for the dweller, it is also true that remembering can sometimes soothe the dull ache grief hollows in our hearts.

Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day.

Today so many of us are grateful that we had the capability to "beat on" but we will never forget what was and what might have been.  We whisper names that were never written.  We look at children living and wonder what similarities and differences would be obvious at this point.

And while I've been blessed to hold two in my arms, I cradled three in my womb.

We never forget, but today we remember aloud those who are missing and the continual ache that comes from that absence.

And just as much as I mean it for my living children, I also mean it for the one I never had the chance to hold:  I'll love you forever; I'll like you for always.

Mommy

October 15th: To Remember

Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day.

This year should feel different for me because 2013 has been a big year for us.  What I'm about to tell you doesn't change how blessed I feel to have Ryan, though:  we still hurt.

Favorite and I both believed we would feel differently about loss after we held Ryan in our arms, but I think the truth is that loss is more poignant now.  We are aware of what we missed--what we are still missing.

My life is no longer saddled in grief.  I don't agonize over what could have been.  But I am aware of what was and what is, and that awareness is often a daily realization.  I think that's why days like this are so important.  We need to remember.  Remembrance is the very thing that changes the core of who we become in response to pain.

In recent years, I've become aware of how common miscarriage is.  The statistics say twenty-five percent.  My experience says either the statistics are wrong, or I am surrounded by all twenty-five percent.  Each of these situations has been different.  Some have handled the loss very privately, some openly, some with tears, others with shrugged shoulders.  What I've realized, however, is these were all tangible losses--even when that isn't obvious to the observer.

So I remember.  I remember the blessing and the joy and the excitement.  And I remember in order to respond with compassion, forgiveness and grace.

PAIL

For those of you still interested in participating in the #100inJuneChallenge, I will probably post updates on Mondays and Fridays.  Maybe that will create some sort of accountability for all of us!  (On a side note, I realized last night how difficult this is going to be with a not-always-agreeable infant.  Nothing like making a commitment before counting the cost, eh?)

Today, I have the privilege to be featured here.  While there are few topics I shy away from here, infertility and loss aren't subjects I approach regularly outside of the blogosphere. 

That said, I'm thankful there was a community that could easily connect me to other women who also struggled with many of the same issues.  I've heard a friendship is born when someone says, "What?  You too?  But I thought that was only me..."  And that's promising for any woman who has felt the isolation infertility and loss can cause.

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day

Today is pregnancy and infant loss awareness day.  It's difficult to articulate how a loss changes life and even more difficult to state how keenly aware I am of that loss in light of our current miracle.  On one hand, the joy of this child doesn't cancel the possibility of the first; however, my grief is tempered with a strong sense of hope and joy--things that were absent in the two years since we said goodbye.

The knowledge of both experiences makes me unabashedly grateful for where Favorite and I are, but breaks my heart for those still waiting, hoping and grieving. 

For more information on October 15th or how to comfort a grieving family, click here.

But above all things, remember.  It's the best gift anyone can give to someone who has lost.

"Weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning" (Psalm 30:5, NIV).

Let My Life Song Sing Part 2

Part One

Last night, I dreamed it again.  I was in a sloppy sweatshirt and some pair of stretchy pants walking down my driveway.  I was lost, or at least I felt like I was lost, and I was looking for Favorite.  I kept saying his name and sobbing because I couldn't find him.  And then I was aware of a suffocating emptiness. 

When I wake up, I know it's not a dream.  I can relay the emotions of that day and the days before with alarming clarity.  I don't necessarily remember events in sequence, but I haven't forgotten the way it felt.  In short:  suffocation.

The real days that followed might as well have been a dream--hazy, undecipherable nonsense.  I cried and learned, for the first time, that not all tears are satisfying.  They came in unpredicable, seizured outbursts--a response to pain I couldn't identify or treat.  If I could've spent them like currency, I would've bankrupted myself in the first few hours with the hope of washing my hands.  Finished.  But they budgeted themselves.  And even now, they demand to be used as payment when I believe the account to be empty.

My prayers were wordless sobs.

Then there was the antagonistic swirling in my mind.

If I shouldn't fear and if I belonged to Him, why did this happen?  He could've stopped it.  Almighty God holds dominion over death; therefore, this situation didn't need to exist.

Since it does, what now, God?  What do I do now?

Then there was that story:  the disciples were on the water; Jesus was sleeping.  There was a huge storm.  Waves swept over the boat.  In a panic, the men woke Jesus and (I imagine) yelled, "Lord, save us! We’re going to drown!" (Matt 8:25).

On the black and white pages of scripture, my prayer existed.  We were drowning.

I whispered that prayer before laying my head on my pillow.  I whispered it when I got up in the morning and when I brushed my teeth.  I whispered it on the drive to work, when I turned off the ignition or took another breath before walking into my classroom.  I whispered it before every church service and after every song.  It was every inhalation and exhalation of my body.

Lord.  Save us.  We're going to drown.

One evening, when the tears were spent for the time being, I opened the Word to read my life verse.  I needed reassurances because I was drowning in grief.  Instead of starting in verse one, my eyes drifted to verse two of Isaiah 43:

When you pass through the waters,
I will be with you;
and when you pass through the rivers,
they will not sweep over you.
When you walk through the fire,
you will not be burned;
the flames will not set you ablaze.

I prayed, "Lord, we're drowning.  Save us from drowning."

He responded, "I'm here.  I see the water.  But you're not going to drown."

Those moments are replete with an intense needing.  I can remember the water and the waves and I dream about the suffocation and the needing and the desperation. 

Some days I think about those waves and how scared I was when we were just trying to keep the boat afloat.  I think about His direct response to a specific prayer and I wonder why I don't spend more time in the river laying my heart bare in front of Him.

"We didn't count on suffering
We didn't count on pain
But if the blessing's in the valley
Then in the river I will wait"

                                                            --Delirious, "Find Me in the River"

I'm waiting here.  For You.

On Your First Birthday

I'm seventeen pages finished with a paper I can't expand anymore, because I keep thinking of you.  Tomorrow is your birthday.  Today is the first time I've recognized that fact without crying.  OK, I take that back.  I'm crying now.  But not for the same reasons I've cried in the last year.  I'm crying because I'm just a little bit proud of myself.

I'm proud of myself because I never thought I'd get here.  A couple of months ago, a place like this didn't exist for me.  Without meaning to, I would relive moments I didn't want to forget and find myself in the same angry, hurt place I had been since our unplanned goodbye.  Even though I haven't heard it for a year and a half, I never have had any problems hearing your heart beat in my mind, and I certainly don't struggle to remember the statistic that said you had less than a 5% chance of dying once we heard that sweet swish-swish that indicated we had experienced a miracle.

I still remember those things, but they don't sting the way they did.  You were.  I know that, and that is, perhaps, the most important part of this story.  Ultimately, I'd like to think that your short existence has made me a better person--more compassionate, more appreciative, more aware.  Those things weren't true every day of the last year and a half.  Baby steps.  Surely that's something you understand.

Somehow, I'm less uptight than I used to be.  You'd think the opposite would be true, but the experience of you and everything afterward has been a tangible reminder that some things are simply beyond our control.  I've never been able to admit it, but you were beyond my control.  I wanted to take responsibility for what happened, but I can't punish myself forever for something that was never in my hands.

Tomorrow, and for every day I live after that, I will remember every single part of our experience together.  I won't forget you--not just because I can't, but also because I don't want to.  Even though I'm moving to a different place, I will carry you with me.  How could I not?  You are a blessing.  Likely, the only one of your kind in my life. 

In the last two months, your father and I have talked about you every week.  We don't know where we will be on your second birthday, and we're finally OK with that fact.  Sometimes it's best to forget anticipation and enjoy the blessing of the moment.  Tomorrow, that's exactly what we'll do.  You didn't get your first birthday, but we do.  And I want you to know I won't waste it.

I'll love you forever; I'll like you for always.

Mom.

Long December: Another Post on the Month That Will Not End

I wasn't going to post tonight, but then I was all "What if my faithful readers really want to hear about trauma narrative and how it's grossly under appreciated in the high school classroom and that severely affects our interpretations of pieces like Elie Wiesel's Night and causes our students to think they understand events like the Holocaust when they actually only understand a gross misrepresentation of an event that can't be articulated?"

When I had that thought I just knew I needed to come and talk with you. 

I really appreciated your kind comments on my last post.  (Though, it would be nice if a few of you would attach email addresses to your accounts.  Normally, I would email you back if you comment on a post.)  The holidays are tough around here.  I told Favorite I feel selfish admitting that, because there are worse traumas taking place and I need to keep that in mind.  What he said reminded me of something I quoted in an earlier post:  "Your cancer doesn't fix my broken back."  I guess I forget that grieving is a process that everyone goes through, and it takes a different form for everyone.

There are just a lot of days when I wish this process was over.  Or, even better, nonexistent.  Thousands of women have walked in my shoes, but I find myself frustrated because my standard dictates that I'm not supposed to be here almost two years later.  I'm supposed to be moving on, in a different place, working through, insert your own "working-it-out" phrase here.  Instead, I do stupid things like look at birthday cakes made to mimic the book The Very Hungry Caterpillar and sing "Long December" and laugh at the part "maybe this year will be better than the last."

The narrative in my head sometimes convinces me that part of the healing process is knowing that the one stint wasn't it for us.  The logical side of my brain (which doesn't function often) says there is no reason to court hope when every sign points to the fact that my body is irreparably broken--there's a "feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls."  And then there's just me--no logic, no narrative--that doesn't want optimism or pessimism.  I just want to accept what is and move it to the back of the closet.

I've come to admire the women in my life who do a lot of side-along support.  They're sneaky in their encouragement--popping up when you least expect them and turning the subject to something worthy of a belly laugh.  It's weird, but I don't hear "Let's have dinner" when they talk.  I hear "I haven't forgotten you."  While I'm in the process of shoving all of this junk to the back of the closet and praying for invisibility, there's something in me that just needs to be seen.  Not praised.  Not justified.  Not even comforted.  Just not cast away. 

Last Sunday, Pastor Josh talked about peace.  He pointed out that, as Christians, we are called to be a people of peace, but that can't happen if we can't find peace with God.  I've started to think that may be the theme of this holiday for me.  I'm not talking about finding peace with what has happened.  Instead, maybe I need to seek peace for what will never be.  But I'm trying to savor the lesson and trying "to tell myself to hold on to these moments as they pass."

Thanks for giving me an outlet to work through them.

Silent December

It's December.  I used to look forward to December with great anticipation.  All good things happened in December when I was a kid.  Snow.  No school.  Christmas.  Family.  Presents.  And, honestly, the world just seemed a little bit cozier in December.  (I really feel the same way about football season in my small town.)

But now I dread it.  I dread the first day because it leads into a second, and the pattern continues.  I dread it because of what didn't happen and what can't be fixed.  There's still snow and family and no school and presents, and I still love those things.  But there's something else that lurks behind all of those things that makes it just a little less sparkly than it was in the past.

There's more hope this month than in any other month in the calendar.  And I will simultaneously thank God for that hope and curse it under my breath, because unfulfilled hope has a way of stinging like a slap to the face.

This month, in the back of my mind, I silently celebrate the birthday that won't come and will go unremembered.  I light imaginary candles for nonexistent people and pray for this month to go as fast as possible and be as silent as possible because I can't really muster enough joy to share it with the world.

But I could do with a few silent nights.

The Local Church

The local church raised me.  My parents are great people, and they were active and present in my life.  But they made a decision when I was young:  they would raise their children in church.  Part of that committment meant putting me and my two brothers in the capable hands of other congregants and knowing that those people were just as committed to directing us down the path of righteousness as my parents were.

Those people introduced me to the concept of salvation.  Children's Bible Quizzing gave me a venue to learn more about scripture.  At the time they may have been simple trivia questions, but down the road they were words I couldn't turn to the right or left without hearing.  More recently, Women's Bible Study and the high school Sunday school class changed the way I related to others through the Word.  And Tobie?  Tobie reminded me that it's possible to overflow and be loved unconditionally whether you deserve it or not.

The local church has been far from perfect.  There are disagreements and struggles.  Often, I have cultivated a bad attitude or opinion about something when I should've been minding my business.  I would get aggravated when opinions differed with my own.  But down deep, my desire wasn't really to make problems.  I wanted to know Christ more.  I wanted to know Him as best I could.  I needed to put Him in context with the ministry I was in or the situation I was facing.  But underneath it all, I loved my church for giving me a place to do those things.

So leaving my church was the hardest thing I have ever done.  Favorite and I felt it was the best decision we could've made at the time.  I was sad to learn that the relationships I valued didn't necessarily translate outside the doors of our local church. 

 My desires for the local church are still the same.  I hope people come to know Christ and serve Him deeply.  I hope attendees serve one another with genuine concern and hearts that are set on Christ alone.  I hope that my absence in the congregation means fewer roadblocks to truly loving one another.

But you should know I miss you.  I want my heart to break with the things that also break God's heart.  Right now, the fact that you're facing anything at all breaks my heart.  The fact that there are difficult decisions to make in the near future hurts.  The fact that other congregants may not make it out of this mess still a part of your congregation makes me cry.  Because whether you believe it or not, I didn't make my decision based on me.  I made it because my other members of my family may not have made it out with a relationship with Christ still in tact.  And I don't want to see that happen to anyone else, either.

I hope you do rebuild.  I hope you find your footing beside a Jesus who wholeheartedly believes in redemption and forgiveness.  I found it in Him.  I hope that you struggle with Him, but I hope He comes out on top.

Gone or not, my heart still breaks for you.

You were my church. 

On Finding A Church Home

Tomorrow, Favorite and I are visiting another church.  The thing is, we aren't really looking for a church.  We're looking for a home.  It's hard to articulate the particular set of needs that goes with finding a church home or a church family.  Like most people, I think it's like love--you know it when you get there.

Choosing to find a new home was difficult--not just the place we would choose, but making the decision to choose at all.

We just found ourselves in a set of life circumstances that couldn't be anticipated.  First, when doctors told us to adopt because we'd never have biological children.  Secondly, when we miraculously found ourselves pregnant and then failed to see that heart continue beating.

Those circumstances aren't rare.  They aren't special.  But something broke when those things happened to us.  And to be honest, it was difficult to believe that God could possibly be good when what looked like a miracle literally died in front of our eyes.  Those may not be good or healthy thought processes.  But they were real. 

Dark.  But real.

For the last year and a half, we haven't just coped.  I would certainly use that word to describe the first few months, and it makes an appearance on what would have been major milestones.  But the word I would use is grace.  They have been grace-filled moments of God sweetly drawing Favorite and me to Himself. 

Ministry is usually described in a vocational light.  But we came to understand that the real ministry during this time period came from the people who called to see how we were.  People who came over and watched movies.  People who remembered our loss and acknowledged that loss is loss--no matter the time period.  People who taught us to smile and laugh again.  People who were consistently tender and understanding--even a year in.

Those people fed us.  Now we're looking for a home where the same thing can happen--and where we can do a bit of feeding ourselves.

We're still broken.  Healed doesn't mean the cracks aren't visible.  But unanticipated situations have a way of letting the light shine through the cracks.  And that's just enough light to walk in.

Show Us Your Life: Announcements

Welcome Kelly's Korner :)

I feel like I have allowed myself to become a victim of taboos that shouldn't be allowed to own me.  Today, I'm taking one of those back and talking about something that meant the world to me--even though it didn't end the way I would've preferred.

By the time my husband and I found out we were pregnant, we had been trying for more than five years and had been married for more than seven.  People no longer asked fun questions like, "When are you two going to have a baby?" and moved on to a reminder that we were no longer as young as we used to be, and we wanted to be able to keep up with our children when they were young.

Truthfully, WE had started to believe it wasn't going to happen for us.

That weekend, as a means of relaxing, we took a weekend trip.  I was sure I was getting sick because I just couldn't keep my eyes open.  Anytime Favorite would suggest a particular activity, I would have to pull myself off the bed in order to get going.

By the time we got back home, I started to realize that I wasn't sick in the traditional sense.  My body was just different--in a way I'd never noticed before.

So like any good wife, I waited until my husband left the house and I immediately peed on a stick.  Then I stood at the front door for 45 minutes and waited for him to come home.  Stood.  The entire time.

He was flabbergasted.  We made a trip to Walgreens for a digitial (you know, just to make sure).  (Ok, ok.  It was actually 3 other tests.  It was nice to look at a positive as opposed to all the negatives we'd seen in the past.)  It also gave us that magic word we'd been waiting to read:  pregnant.  I took a picture of it on my camera (because carrying around a pee stick is gross).

A few days later, I took my mom to lunch to show her the picture of the front door on my camera, because Favorite and I were currently building a house.  As she scrolled through the pictures, the "pregnant" stick showed up right behind the red front door...and her face matched the color of the door once she realized what she had read.  She was thrilled.

For Favorite's family, we wrapped up baby frames.  We also gave some people large Hershey bars wrapped with a label that said

He or She

TBA December 2010

Finally, my father, who still didn't know, received a tape measure (because he'd been helping with the house).  When it pulled it out, it said, "We're adding two extra feet to our house."  He didn't understand why we were only adding two feet to a 3600 sq. ft. house, but when it hit him, he almost cried.

I know we went to a lot of trouble to give everyone a different story, but we'd had a lot of time to plan.  And it was so great that everyone was excited--my little brother whooped across my aunt and uncle's driveway when we told him. 

And those are the things I want to remember when I think about my son.  I want to remember how happy and excited we were.  I want to remember all the hope I felt then, because even though we lost him, that baby has been one of the best things that ever happened to me.  And frankly, I think that's worth talking about.

Wicket: In Loving Memory

Yesterday, our family dog died.

We got Wicket when I was about 19.  He was the sweetest puppy you could possibly imagine, and even resembled his namesake in puppyhood.

When Favorite and I got married, I was so upset about leaving Wicket at my Mom and Dad's that Favorite bought Barky.  That's how I ended up with my very own tiny shih tzu.

Of course, tiny has always been a joke.  Wicket wasn't supposed to be over 10 lbs.  So when he reached his massive 20 lb state, we were a little shocked that our "tiny, little shih tzu" might have actually been a giant.

He died in my dad's arms yesterday.  And while I'm really sad that it was time for Wicket to leave, I just can't help asking:  when do cycles like this end?

Broken Records

Sometimes you can't explain the ache.  It's constant.  Sometimes it's so strong, and other days it's just a nagging whisper.  But it doesn't go away.

It doesn't matter if the people around me hope I'll get new subject matter or just stop talking about it.

And I wonder how many people are plagued with an ache they just can't smother.  The circumstances may be a little different--loss of a spouse, loss of a friend, loneliness, displacement, uncertainty, etc.--but the ache is probably similar.

There's no talking it away, and some days I wonder what I would say anyway.  The last thing you want to be is a broken record, but when your heart is broken, it seems to skip back to the same tune.

Some days, other people say it better than you ever could. Today, Katie Rowe said it for me: "My eyes are wide open to what I do have, but they are also wide open to what I'm missing. Last night as I was looking at a picture of us with Reese I asked the Lord, 'How is this ok?' I immediately felt in my heart His answer. 'It's not. And it won't be until we are all together in Heaven.'"

Are there titles that suit this sort of thing?

No one ever wants to be one of THOSE people, but I fear I've reached that status in a lot of respects.

First of all, I hate to make people feel badly.  Even though I come across with an I-Don't-Care attitude, I am truly bothered if I think I've insulted someone or put them in an awkward position.  An even more *awkward turtle* situation is to put them in an awkward position just by virtue of what you are. 

There are few people who can swing through the monkey bars of understanding on one side while remaining unapologetic for their current life situations.  I'm not one of those people.  I feel guilty for things over which I have no control.  So when you announce you are pregnant and I cry, I feel like a douchebag.  And that's totally not your fault.

On the flip side, it's not my fault either.  I didn't choose to cry.  It has become a spontaneous reaction to an announcement I've come to anticipate from any other breeding human being on the face of the planet.  I've even practiced my I'm-happy-for-you face in the mirror (it's scary).  But the funny thing, and the thing I have the most difficulty understanding myself, is that I'm generally VERY happy for those announcements.  I LOVE babies.  I'm excited that people get the opportunity to move into this stage of life and I understand it's scary, exhilerating and wonderful all at the same time.  I'm just sad for me. 

I haven't shared this information, but I feel like it's practically starting to ooze out of my pores so it's easier to lay my feelings out on the table instead of trying to bottle them in so they explode when I least expect it.  That gets a little too messy...especially in public...and it never happens when a restroom is available.

A year ago today I had one of those moments.  There were angels singing, shining spotlights and dozens of rainbows.  I was wearing a gorgeous sparkly gown and my husband danced into the house in a beautiful tuxedo and dipped me just before...Ok.  Wait.  It didn't really go down like that.  But there was a stick.  And that stick said "Pregnant."  So there might as well have been spotlights, rainbows and singing.

I've always wanted to be a mom.  I naturally believed it would come not long after Favorite and I married.  But it took more than five years for us to get that stick to show in our favor.

We had our first ultrasound at 7 weeks and heard a perfect little heartbeat.  Our twitterpated brains believed the baby to be a boy so we anticipated baby boy names and primary colored nurseries.

Our next ultrasound, at 10 weeks, showed a perfect baby head and arms, but no heartbeat. 

I'm not sharing this story on my blog for sympathy or dozens of comments that indicate love and support.  I'm sharing it because I don't feel like it's something I should be ashamed of enduring.  I've felt guilty because I want children.  I've felt guilty because I cry even though I'm happy for my friends.  I've felt guilty because I'm terrified of pregnancy announcements and excited for them at the same time.  And, sometimes, I feel guilty for hoping that this would happen to me, too.

I've complained about it quite a bit in the past.  Obviously, little of that has made it on here.  But I don't want this post to be about complaining or whining or anything of the sort. 

I read some old journal entries the other day and I was shocked to see how far God has brought us in this journey.  We haven't just survived.  Favorite and I have thrived together.  We've learned to function as a team and support one another.  Of course we cry.  Of course we get frustrated.  There are even months when I feel completely forgotten by God.

Recently, that's how I felt--forgotten.  That's when I found those entries.  That's when God showed me how far we've come.  Waves of gratitude, ya'll.  Waves.

Sometimes I travel down the "What If I Would've Carried Him" road.  The newest roadside sign there is that my son would be three months old this month.  It doesn't make me angry as often as it used to.  It mostly makes me sad.  But there are also road signs on the "What If I Didn't Have God" path.  They are much more grim than my current circumstances.

I hope I won't have to do this for six more years.  Favorite and I know our limits and I'm not sure if that will affect our overall outcome.  Actually, there are a ton of things I don't know.  And I'm not coming through this experience with some sort of weird serene expression on my face.  I'm scarred.  I'm generally tear-stained.  Sometimes I scream just because I have no words for my frustration (But I'm thinking of taking up boxing.  Anyone want to join?).

I think I've just realized that this is life--you know, what happens while you're busy trying to overcome loss and infertility (a sort-of quote from John Lennon with my apologies).  Mostly, I want to live that life as honestly as possible so others can see Christ in the here and now.

When you pass through the waters,

I will be with you;

and when you pass through the rivers,

they will not sweep over you.

When you walk through the fire,

you will not be burned;

the flames will not set you ablaze.

                     --Isaiah 43:2

October 15th

Friday is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. 

While you may not be aware, about 16% of all pregnancies in the United States ended in miscarriage or stillbirth.  That's a startling number, but one that may not make much sense without actual numbers.  According to the pregnancy and infant loss website, "[According to a 2004 survey] 1,003,000 of the 6,401,000 pregnancies in the United States ended in either a miscarriage or a stillbirth." 

That's an absolutely devasting thought.  Unfortunately, it may be difficult for us to imagine the range of that particular statistic.  It's likely that we will only imagine the loss of a million babies and the devastations their parents face.  What we will fail to understand is that miscarriages (and infant losses) affect would-be parents, would-be grandparents, would-be aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, etc.  There is a ripple effect that serves waves of grief to all parties involved.

More than likely, few of us can prevent the loss of a pregnancy or an infant.  We can, however, prepare ourselves to respond to those who will face this horrific event.  This website gives several great suggestions regarding what you can/should say.  I won't pretend that it's not awkward, but saying something offensive can make an awkward situation even worse.

Do not under any circumstances expect these women to "get over" their grief in a matter of months.  It just won't happen.  Unfortunately, there is no alarm that sounds when it's time to quit grieving.  The best thing you can do is allow your friend to grieve and talk when s/he feels the need and then go about life as normal. 

Do not tell the couple they can have another baby.  That's insensitive.

Do not tell the couple that it was for the best or that the baby is in a better place now.  While the couple may have a strong faith in God, that particular sentiment is really difficult to swallow when you can't make heads or tails of a horrible situation.  Be sensitive to those struggles of faith.

There are more suggestions from those websites, along with ways to get involved.  Mostly, just be willing to remember.  Be willing to pray.  Be willing to put your arm around someone so that survival doesn't feel empty.

Personally, I am taking this day to offer some personal recognition to a girl who lost her baby at 20 weeks.  I want her to know that I care about her, but that I haven't forgotten her loss. 

All pregnancies are special.  Don't forget.

Alex: Updated

Alex died this morning.  He was my rescued puppy.  So now, I'm sitting here typing this when I should probably be using my planning period to grade papers.  I guess my mind is a little too occupied.

Part of me feels really stupid for being so upset.  But, as the students in English III pointed out this morning, dogs become like a member of the family.  And Alex was certainly a member of ours.

I don't know what kind of life he had before he came to our house.  I do know, at some point, he was mistreated and suffered from some ailments due to his mistreatment.  He never did have very many teeth, and always looked a little pathetic as far as dogs go.  But he had the sweetest demeanor anyone could ask for, and didn't even offer to growl at my neice when she wanted to feel his eyeballs.

I hope his life with us was a comfort to him.  He gained weight, his coat started to shine and he played with toys and his buddy, Barky.  He never did quite get the hang of only pottying outside, but if that was his only downfall, he was a pretty good dog.

I knew he was sick last night.  I didn't realize how sick he was.  This morning, he started seizing so Favorite decided to take him to the vet.  Unfortunately, he took his last breath on the trip there.

I'm going to miss him.  How do you not miss something that's been so much a part of your life for the past 4 years?  Thankfully, Favorite will be burying him by the new house before I get home.  We wanted to bury him in the dirt he liked to roll in.  I know that sounds stupid, but I guess you do stupid things when you're just a little heartbroken.

I want to remember his high-pitched bark that we didn't hear until he had been living with us for a year.  I want to remember how he would shake a toy, let go and then try to figure out where he had thrown it.  I've dreaded walking through this house knowing that he isn't going to be here anymore.  Mostly, I just know that we are all going to miss him a great deal.

Farewell, buddy.

The Inadequacy of Time

I hate the phrase "Time heals all wounds." I hate that stupid phrase because it's a lie--plain and simple. Time doesn't heal anything. Time just puts more distance between the memory of what was and the actuality of what is. And if that's healing, we're all in for a world of hurt.

There's nothing wrong with putting distance between yourself and a hurt and allowing that distance to take your mind off of it. It keeps us from dwelling on the unfixable. The problem is that distance will sometimes sneak up on you. All of a sudden, the senses take over and the realization of hurt and/or loss is tangible again--as though weeks and months haven't passed at all.

So as far as healing is concerned, time is useless. And you can quote me on that.

I guess the one thing that time might provide is a renewal of hope. So as the minutes pass, like they are meant to, we have the opportunity to reach for the possibility instead of the might-have-been.

I guess I just wonder what you do with the might-have-been in the meantime?

A dichotomy of tears

It's been a horribly surreal two weeks. I've mostly felt like I was dreaming, or haven't felt much like doing anything, saying anything, being anything. It comes with the territory, I guess.

Today was the last day of school. As a teacher, I only had to go for an hour while report cards were distributed, pick up my paycheck and go home. In the last 15 minutes, I received a very unexpected phone call froma parent who will never know how much her words are appreciated.

She praised me over and over again for the things I had done in my classroom over the last few months. She asked questions about what she could do over the summer to help her child, and then, she asked if I was in danger of losing my job and what she could do besides call her legislator.

For the last two weeks I've cried because I'm so overwhelmingly sad. Today, I cried because I was overcome with thankfulness. She can't possibly know what her call meant to me.

But I sure do.

Full

Most people get really excited over the prospect of a beginning. It must be the promise of possibility, or maybe it's the hope of change or fulfillment.

Ends are different. I'm not sure what the band was referencing, but Semisonic was certainly on to something when they penned the words "Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end." But most of us hate the idea of closing the book on one chapter--even with the hope of another ahead.

And some chapters bleed into others.

When bad things happen, I think there is always a fear of disbelief--that faith will cease to exist and other things will take its place. For me, pain is the result of faith coexisting with disbelief. I can't understand, but I can't disregard what I know about God.

I won't lie. My heart is broken. I am broken. My brain is cloudy, and sometimes it takes me ten minutes to register things that normally process very quickly. Mostly, I'm just going through the motions without a lot of thought or regard for the result of those motions.

Often, I feel like I'm going to be suffocated with grief. Breathing is spasmatic and I can't see because my eyes are full and so is my head. Some days I think that I can't do this anymore, and I hate the sun for continuing to bring other days when I'm not sure I can get through this one wholly. On those days, I don't have any room for any other sort of feeling, but today I have a small space to be thankful...

And I am for a lot of things: For Chris who I have probably never appreciated the way he should have been appreciated. Love is knowing where someone is and being willing to go there with them and ease it in whatever way you know how. Success, babe. Total success.

For my family--particularly my mom--who can't know but is willing to try. I tell my students all the time that dependability is far more important than intelligence. I guess that works outside of regular employment.

For my friends who don't know what to say but cry anyway. Grief shared is not grief divided, but it's a little less suffocating when someone else can cry with you.

And I'm still thankful for redemption and grace, although I'm less verbal about it right now. Like anything else, some days they seem a little more obscure. But there is a declaration to "Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine" (Isaiah 43:1). So there's a promise of ownership.

I don't know when this will end. I don't know if it will ever end. I'm not even sure what I'm supposed to be doing or learning through this process. To be quite frank, I just plain don't understand why it happened at all. A beginning isn't supposed to be followed by an end. There's got to be a middle somewhere...

I guess right now I'm in the middle of an end and another beginning.
But every new beginning...

"And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away" (Rev. 21:3-4).