Springtime and Noticing Miracles

Dear Friends,

This has been the hardest year of our lives; we were devastated when Mia died.  Deep sadness still occasionally engulfs me.  It creeps up on me at the worst possible times.  I am thankful that with the New Year, the rawness of my constant grief mostly wore off.  That’s why it takes me unaware when it does sneak back up on me, leaving me ill or temporarily frozen for a couple days.

Grief ambushed me when we recently needed to drive seven hours to pick up Mia’s memorial stone… I thought I would be fine.  I was happy to do something major for our daughter.  I thought I would be happy to finally have her grave marked for family and friends to visit.  For months, Derrick and I talked about what we wanted to put on her memorial stone.  So why did I melt down the Friday night before we needed to make the trip?  I rocked in the glider in our nursery and cried for hours.  It felt exactly like we were burying her again.  Except that, on June 12, 2012, I was in major shock and felt almost nothing.  I guess the trauma had merely been delayed until eight months after her death.  Times like these remind me that I will never be rid of the crushing sadness that my daughter is not here. 

With this lingering grief, I have a very real need to open my eyes to the miracles within the tragedy.  I cannot miss the beautiful things that God is doing to bless me and to teach my heart during this time.  Uncontrollable grief will likely always be a reality, but self-pity is in my control.  (A friend just wrote about this on her blog; you can find this excellent entry here.)   

God continually surprises me- like when Mia’s tulips bloomed red on my dining room table for Valentine’s Day.  Or how her outdoor tulips fully bloomed for Noah’s birthday.  Or how they stayed gorgeous all the way until her memorial stone was set on her grave.  I had expected them to bloom a light pink, so it was almost like God was tangibly reminding me that His ways are better than mine.

I continue to have a very difficult time without Mia; there are hundreds of ways that losing her will always feel very cruel.  But I lift my eyes to My Helper who has all things in His very good control.  He is filling me up, healing me, and is daily renewing me.

Thank You, Precious Savior, for the tender ways that You show me Your loving care.  There is none more gentle and persistent in loving me.  I don’t really understand what has happened or what continues to happen to me, Lord.  I trust whatever You will bring in the future.  You hold and sustain me through it all.  I love You and need You.

Mia's memorial stone s

The boys and I planted bulbs on her grave in the shape of a heart.  Further below are the tulips we planted in our backyard.  Here is what they chose to write on her grave when we were finished:

A Wonderful Christmas... and the Aftermath

I usually find that my pain is the best impetus for expression in writing.  I had a wonderful Christmas that was truly joyful, although it was preceded by weeks of dread.  It gave me the rare opportunity to spend the entire time home with my little family.  During that time, my hope in God was peace-filled and was a great relief.  I had been told that expecting Christmas for weeks would be harder than the actual day, and that was definitely true for me.  Here is my prayer days afterwards as my heart struggled with sadness again:

December 29, 2012

Dear Lord,

I'm so glad that I made it through Christmas, and I even had a wonderful time at home with Derrick and our two boys.  And now the baby boy inside me is joyfully kicking at my insides.  He is blissfully unaware of his mommy's unpredictable sadness.  This year without Mia, Christmas was quiet, stress-free, and surprisingly joyful.

I think You want me to do my best to be joyful despite the deep pain that, although it may lesson over time, will never completely go away.  Rebelliously joyful.  My lingering question is: How do I balance rebellious joy with this pain?  How do I keep this joy real and keep it from becoming surface-y and fake?

Strangely, it can be tempting to choose to be only joyful and to slip back into denial.  Choosing joy is easier for me and for others around me.  Grief is not a comfortable place.  When I'm joyful and "doing fine", I'm protected from being misunderstood or avoided.  A couple days of feeling that the weight of Mia's absence has lifted can lead to a week of taking comfort in earthly means.  Earthly comforts, however, just don't fill my heart, and it's time to come before You in my broken state again.  Then it's time to be honest with You about how I'm doing and to ask You to help healthy tears to come.

Healthy tears express my sadness- the emptiness where Mia is.  Healthy tears open my wounded heart to Your comfort.  They don't wallow in hopelessness or sink into self-pity.  They don't entertain lies meant to discourage me.

I can go on in my own strength with a heart that seems strong.  Sometimes I can ignore the desire to hold and admire my sweet Mia.  Oh, to feel her vulnerable body in my arms and to put my face in her neck.  That would be a dream.  To have stroked her smooth belly while dressing her for church on Christmas... maybe one day.

I miss so much.  It can be easier to shut off this part of me that feels too much.  It isn't healthy for me to go on for too long pretending that I'm healed-like I'm ready to move on.  Like all these missing things don't bother me.

This week I started to feel truly joyful but then inexplicably sick.  I had a lingering headache and my stomach was not at ease.  I ground my teeth so hard the other night that I woke myself up with a start.  My dreams became scary and filled with stories of death.  Is this my body's way of telling me that I'm out-of-balance?  Being too strong for too long becomes unhealthy.

Thank You, God, that I know now that Your comfort is readily available.  You have taught me over the past six months of disorienting pain that I can rest in Your familiar comfort.  I can open my emotions and thoughts to You.  After waiting quietly, You have always been faithful to give the only deep calm that satisfies my weary heart.  You inject me with new hope.  You sing Your steadfast love over me.  You strengthen my legs for my journey.  You alone bring this brand of comfort.

I haven't yet figured out how to balance the sadness and joy, Lord.  Please remind me, as You have been, when I am trudging along again in my own strength.  Bring me close to You when my heart tries too hard to deny the pain and it becomes too hard to continue.  Staying open before myself and before You can be a vulnerable place... It's the only place that works.  Please help me to stay away from denial and to store up this love for Mia in my heart.  Bring healthy tears when I need them.

How I love her!  I smile and ache at her memory.  I won't ignore the precious gift she was and continues to be to me.  Mia has driven me closer to You, Lord, like no other person or circumstance ever has.  I bless Your Name for showing me such deep and thorough and real love through having her and through not having her.  You have crowned me with Your faithful mercies. 

I trust You with my heart, Great Healer.

Amen

Letting Go

Sometimes grief for Mia feels like an elephant is standing on my chest.  It grips my heart, and I find it hard to breathe.  I wish I had more words to explain the strong emotions that wash over me at unexpected moments.  There has to be many grieving people who wish they could shake those around them who seem to act so casually, like everything is normal.  Like their lives can be controlled... when yours feels like it is just about over.

Before my daughter died- before she was gone from this life forever- I had never really experienced grief.  That's not to say I had never lost anyone I loved: both sets of grandparents died, my aunt died too early from cancer, my "adopted" grandparents died.  Losing Mia, though, that grief has been a hundred-fold harder.  I've been astonished by it.

Before Mia died, I remember a common theme uttered by grieving people.  A common thought is often that everyone else has moved on while they can't.  I used to think this sounded legitimate and lonely, yet I'm ashamed to say that I might have believed this person needed to move on if they milked it a bit too long.  It would make me uncomfortable.  I really didn't know how deep grief could go.  I had been fairly naive to the impact of a deep loss up until now.  I am so sorry for that!

My inexperience with grief has caused me to wonder, Why does this hurt so much??  It even surprises me now to think that it took me about three months to even accept that Mia had died.  I texted a friend that I just can't wrap my heart around it.  Her death was unspeakable.  Unimaginable.

Why does it hurt so much?

A good friend just explained it to me this way: "She was part of you, Ruth. A baby is an extension of her mother."

That statement explained so much of the hurt.  I had to let go at a very unnatural time- at the closest point of my bond with Mia.  I've had three conversations in the past couple weeks that illustrate the "Letting Go" of motherhood:

A friend who had decided to stop nursing her child reminded me of how difficult it is.  When a mother is nursing her baby, she is the only one who can meet that need.  She spends countless hours skin-to-skin with this precious one.  Oxytocin rushes through mother and baby, bonding them together with mutual love.  Her baby watches her every move, knowing from whom its life-giving food comes.  When that stops, anyone can care for your child.  A mother loses her exclusivity.  Baby doesn't wake up as much at night to share those isolated feeding times.  Through her tears, this friend helped remind me how difficult that separation is.  She's had to let go of that close physical bond with her baby.

A few days later, another friend told me that her boys seem to be bonding more with their dad, her husband, lately.  They aren't glued to her side anymore; they're also in school.  She feels like she might have forever lost that influence a mother has over her young child.  Although she's glad they gravitate towards her husband, she was hurt that they care more about what their father thinks than what she does.  She's had to let go of her powerful influence over her children.

Another friend(who also lost her baby to SIDS) told me a similar, yet much different story.  Her child died five years ago.  Every birthday she had planned a loving celebration to remember him with her family.  This year, a loved one told her very honestly that he didn't need to have a special party to remember their son anymore.  When she told me this, my heart broke.  I could imagine how much it must hurt to have to let go of that remaining remembrance of a child with her loved ones.  We talked about having to cherish memories in our mothers' hearts, even when others don't take the time to talk about them.  Years later, she has to let go of memorializing her child with her family in this way.

At some point, mothers need to let go of their close bond with their children.  The bond changes; new ways of bonding occur.  Children become more independent.  Parents watch them grow, achieve, graduate, get married, have their own children.  This process was meant to happen over years- a lifetime.

Mia was ripped away from me when she was closest to me.  It hurts deeply.  One of the most hurtful and raw feelings I have had was that of missing out on raising her.  What if I finally get to see her again, and she's an adult? What if I never get back this time?  Early on, that thought would send me into a near anxiety attack.  Randy Alcorn, author of the book Heaven, says that we might be able to make up missed opportunities in Heaven.  Will I be able to watch Mia grow up and develop?

I have no nice way to wrap up these thoughts on the loss of a child.  It is so nice to hear people talk about Mia and validate the value of her life.  A friend wrote me early on about her tender observations while holding Mia- her skin, one of her legs that wouldn't stay in her blanket.  Those memories are so precious to me.  I'm not ready to let go of her memories.  I will always store them up and love her in my heart.  Oh, I'm not saying I always have to be sad.  But I can imagine a little bit of what the Bible means when it says in Luke 2:51 that Mary "treasured up all these things in her heart."  

From the time a mother carries a life in her body, her bond with her child is deeply formed.  It can hurt so much to let go at any stage.  God gave Mary the strength to watch her son suffer a cruel death.  He will give me the strength to let go while I still treasure up Mia in my heart.

Yielding

I haven't written anything in awhile.  I've been pressing on as best I can, figuring out how to deal with my new reality as best I can.  There are many times I think, "Oh, this would make a good writing topic."  But taking care of my beautiful boys usually wins out.  So instead, I sit down and make a LEGO creation or snuggle a grumpy boy or try to conquer the pile of laundry while clearing the clutter of the day's many other activities... or try to recover from those tasks while this new little boy grows inside me!

Lately, thoughts have been coming together more cohesively.  The holiday season has brought a wave of fresh pain to the surface.  Days of extreme grief make me dig deep for answers.

The other day, Gavin and I were sitting on my bed singing songs and talking after his nap time. He is able to communicate with me more all the time.  During this one conversation, he asked me to sing "He's Got The Whole World" song and motioned with arms cradling an imaginary baby.  So as I began singing, "He's got the itty-bitty babies in his hands," this darling big brother held his arms to tenderly rock an imaginary baby.

All I could imagine was the baby that he held back in April, May, and June.  Heartache pierced me again, and the feeling of having her near mixed with the reality that she isn't here came rushing back.  About an hour later, I was sitting on the couch staring out the window.  All I could do was sit still with my arms weighing a thousand pounds.  My heart searched the sky for answers, unable to tell God how I was feeling.

Noah sensed my mood and asked me, "Mom, what are you going to be doing?"

So I answered him honestly, "Nothing. I'm feeling sad, Noah."

"Are you sad about Mia?"- a question he's asked many times.

"Yes, I am," and I couldn't stop tears from falling.

Later that evening, he seemed very angry.  His heart was all twisted up with anger towards his family, the floor, the house... just everything.  So I took him to his room and asked him what he was feeling.

"I'm feeling sad.  You shouldn't have your daughter die."

So there it was, and I'm glad he said it.  That's how I was feeling.  Except, I wouldn't say that I feel just sad.  I feel mad.  I feel mad at the way things are.

I prayed with him after Noah and I talked.  And instead of thanking God that He will one day destroy death, I said, "And thank You that one day You'll give death a great, big punch in the nose." Noah laughed from his belly, his whole body curled up as he held his stomach.  And I couldn't help laughing, too.  I think it was a relief for us to remember that God was going to get His revenge.

I'm angry.  I could say that I'm just angry at how things are.  That I hate death.  That I hate not having my Mia with her Mommy.  But the final authority and the responsibility for her death is God's.  He authorized her death.  For many good reasons, He allowed her to die.  He is using this pain for very good things.

So, do I bend to His molding me?  Or do I grow distant from Him?  Distant from my only true source of comfort... My dad reminded this morning that Aslan in The Chronicles of Narnia, who C.S. Lewis meant to represent God, is described this way: "He isn't safe... But he is good."

A verse from the hymn "Have Thine Own Way, Lord" comes to mind:


Have Thine own way, Lord! Have Thine own way!
Thou art the Potter, I am the clay.
Mold me and make me after Thy will,
While I am waiting, yielded and still.


I've sung those words before without much experience.  This is what is being asked of me right now- being yielded and still.  I am constantly being reminded of the absence of my beloved Mia.  Grief grips my heart and brings me deeper pain then I had ever imagined.  And God approved and ordained Mia's death.  He did it, in part, to shape me as His clay.

At times I have allowed my anger and pain to bring distance between us.  Without saying it outright, my subtle attitude of rebelling builds... until grief and deeper pain drive me back to a place of searching Him for answers.

I searched for the word "clay" in the Bible and came up with these verses.  I'll let these words speak for themselves.  I'm sure that, like many people today, the writers of these words felt molded in many painful ways:

"But who are you, O man, to answer back to God?  Will what is molded say to its molder, "Why have you made me like this?  Has the potter no right over the clay, to make out of the same lump one vessel for honorable use and another for dishonorable use?" Romans 9: 20-21

"For this light momentary affliction(and Paul knew pain!) is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen.  For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal." 2 Corinthians 4:17-18

"Therefore, if anyone cleanses himself from what is dishonorable, he will be a vessel for honorable use, set apart as holy, useful to the master of the house, ready for every good work." 2 Timothy 2:21

Something that tipped-off this series of my thoughts about yielding my desires to become God's desires was a speech by trusted author and speaker Nancy Guthrie.  I spotted a series of three blog entries on the Girltalk blog this week, which is really worth checking out here.  If you have time and want to be greatly enriched, listen to her 58 minute speech: "Pain That Can't Be Prayed Away".

Nancy and David Guthrie are having another Respite Retreat this weekend, as I write these words. Please pray for the parents who will be attending- that, like us, they will find Comfort and Truth.

Oh, and pray for us during this Christmas season.  That as we are reminded of precious Mia in many ways, we will yield before our Maker.

Reflecting...

So I knew that Thanksgiving and Christmas were heralded by other grieving people as especially difficult. I saw it coming; they warned me. I guess I didn't understand why this time of year can put emotions under a magnifying glass.

I have always enjoyed reflecting on the many blessings I've enjoyed in the past year. I love remembering God's goodness for myself and I love telling God "Thank You" for the ways He has worked in my life.  He has held me in difficult times or granted me peaceful moments of joy. I realized weeks ago that I needed to be very intentional about remembering the things for which I'm grateful. With the beginning of this season, I felt myself begin to tumble down a gradual slope into a steady valley of grief.

I don't want this time of year to be like this- concentrated on the unspeakably hard things we've had to do this year:  This year I had a beautiful baby girl. This year I cared for Mia for 8 God-given weeks. This year I found my baby not breathing.  This year I left my daughter at the hospital. This year I had to pick a funeral home. This year I am unexpectedly thankful for our tender funeral director. This year I donated Mia's abundant supply of frozen milk to the most precious premature twins.  This year I miss her so much my heart physically hurts...

This year, I have seen God's hand working in all these things.


He introduced to me to my daughter.
He gave me many, many pictures and videos.
He directed my hands through those traumatic events.
He gave me the words to say to the police and EMTS.
He upheld me while I met with the coroner.
He let His light shine.
He healed me from false-guilt.
He stilled the flashbacks.
He settled peace into my soul when it shouldn't have logically been there.
He led us to people who cared for us and for Mia.
He orchestrated a beautiful story between two families.
He continues to bring healing to us and to other people through Mia's story.
He has helped me fight the battle raging about me that is riddled with lies.
He has protected me from self-pity.


It is vital for me to focus on the very good things that have come about from this hardship. I remind myself of God's incredible blessings. It's easy for me to see the ways He has worked through pain to build His character traits into my person.  He doesn't do this because of any attractive qualities in me; He has the universe at His disposal.  He hasn't forgotten about me, though.  I'm a rough work-in-progress with a long way to go. 

I have been anticipating how to make this Holiday time as successful as possible so that I can show my thankfulness and enjoy this time with my family. 

Please pray for me that through all my plans, my heart would be protected from self-pity.  That I would not believe subtle lies to which my tender heart is vulnerable.  That I would remember the simple truths that give every person who trusts completely in Jesus tremendous hope.  Eternal life is certain.  I will rest in God's goodness until my last breath.

Looking forward and backward

Recently I was connected with other mothers whose healthy babies had also died from SIDS and who had also attended the Guthries' Respite Retreat.  We were given each other's e-mail addresses, and shortly thereafter a Facebook group was started.  Since then we have shared stories, photos, and questions.  Within the group, Mia is the most recent baby to graduate to eternity.

This group has been a tremendous blessing to me already.  As I've heard their stories and read some of the things that they have learned, I sense the character that God has formed through their pain.  These women are not moping about, stuck in depression.  They are tenderly caring for their families.  They sound sensitive, loving, and even hopeful.  This gives me hope for how others have come through the monumental pain of losing a child.

When I see others who have traveled through this valley and yet seek to comfort others, it gives me hope that this pain and pressure is possibly also making me better- more compassionate and sensitive to suffering.  Of course, this thought was not that encouraging in the first few months- to think that this tragedy of losing Mia could be used to help others.  However contradicting it is, though, one of the only things that comforted me was seeing other people in my church who had been through similar trials.  There is one couple in particular that gave me hope.  Their daughter died suddenly when she was hit while walking along a road.  This happened many years ago, and yet her father vividly recounted for me a few weeks ago where he was when he learned of his daughter's terrible accident.  He told me that many years later, important dates still tear apart his and his wife's hearts.  A few days after Mia died, I connected their obvious care for others with the tremendous pain they had experienced. 

I can now pray that as I emerge from a season of acute pain and of being the recipient of comfort, I want to be able to offer the same comfort to other suffering people.  Serving God sounds so good.  I want to serve God because that's what I would want Mia to see.  Her brief life continues affecting my life.  God uses her to change me everytime my heart is pierced with grief- everytime her sweet memories play in the theater of my mind. Or when the pain of losing her makes me cringe.  That pain leaves me with a longing for eternity where I belong- in Heaven with Jesus, my Savior and Shepherd.  They increase my love for Him.

It's strange which things bring back powerful memories.  I don't get to choose when grief takes over.  Several days ago, I froze when I saw a commercial for Madera Children's Hospital on TV.  It passed and strangely didn't bring much pain.  Last night was much different: I saw a commercial for a different hospital and I was immediately transported back to walking out of the hospital without Mia.  Derrick and I simultaneously swallowed the lumps in our throats, as he looked at me knowingly.  He must have felt the same reaction.

I'm still not sure how I actually made it home from the hospital that day- shock played a big part, I'm sure.  I remember watching others' faces as I wondered if they saw that my world had just been forever changed.  I felt like I had padding protecting my bloody heart, like a thick layer of bandages that would take months to unwrap to even start the healing process.  I'm thankful that God is now slowly healing my heart. 

As I deal with the pain and tend to my heart honestly, powerful memories are replayed and doubts are resolved.  God's truth changes the lies that my heart tells me.  If I didn't know God's truth from the Bible, I don't think I would ever heal.  Some people can deny their pain and stuff tragedy down to where they don't deal with it.  I can't imagine that not dealing with grief is easy to do.  In fact, I don't think I have the capability of "stuffing" my grief as I've seen others do.  I am too familiar with God's freedom to not deal with my grief.  He says, "Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls"(Matthew 11:29)."  I'm so glad that His truth sets me free.

I am willing to "go there" and be honest about my pain not because it's easy but because of this promise that God made to me.  He will give me rest.  When we take His yoke upon us, He shares the burden we carry.  We don't have to carry it alone!

The way He is healing my heart is still a mystery to me.  I couldn't recount for you how God heals.  I can only assure that by experiencing the pain with Him, He will heal you gradually... by laying it at His feet, trusting in Him, placing your hope in Him...  I'm not doing this perfectly at all. 

So many people have remarked about this new baby that they hope the experience of having another baby will bring healing.  For awhile I've scratched my head at this.  Maybe he will bring healing through this baby- I'm not sure.  However, what I do know is that having a baby is a lot of work(yes, it will be joyful work).  I think I will need to wrestle with very real and legitimate worries when letting this one out of my sight even for a few moments.  I think that caring for three children while continuing to grieve Mia may be very taxing.  I'm preparing myself by memorizing verses about worry and about God's all-powerful control to remind myself in those first few months of his life.  I could use a lot of prayer as I anticipate this little one. 

Now, as I look forward to raising a new child that I will fall madly in love with, I look back with gratitude on the time I had with my daughter.  It is so strange to have had Mia's life cut so short; if she had lived, she would be seven months-old.  And to God, she must have been nearing perfection for Him to decide that she was completed.  I will continue to store up her memories in my heart.  <3

 

My Heart for Mia

Two nights ago I started to feel this little one in my belly kick for the first time.  He is only 17 weeks in the making.  This blog entry is not all about him, although I was very excited to start feeling him move.  I’m so glad that new life is growing within me.

I have heard that with every child, a parent grows a new heart.  As I mourn Mia not being here and rejoice over this new little one, the feeling that I have multiple hearts couldn't be more accurate.

Before bed that same night, Derrick was listening to and deleting voicemails on our phone- he didn't know I could hear them.  As he went further and further down the list, some messages were from the days right after Mia died.  One was from a dear friend offering help.  Another from a friend who had just learned of our news.  And the messages kept playing as my wounded heart for Mia was torn open again.

All the feelings of her death, of having her in our home, of not having her in our home... came rushing back.  It felt like someone was wringing the life out of the heart I have for her.   What is the world record for tears shed?  I'm pretty sure God knows, as He holds me every time my heart is torn open and collects those tears I cry.  He knew how many tears I would cry long ago.

I found that night that when my heart hurts so deeply and minutes of heart-wrenching tears turn into hours, the only hope I have is to talk to God, my Comforter.  He understands pain and suffering.  He is the only One who is with me during every terrifying moment.  He has heard every hurtful comment that has prodded my heart.  He feels my isolation.  He gives me hope, reminding me that I will be alright.

And that thought finally came to mind, You will be alright.  I relaxed a little and sensed God was telling me, It isn't over yet, loved one.  He was right.

The past few days have felt like hurts piling on top of hurts.  My aching heart cries out again at her death, which feels like extreme injustice.  How can this be right?! And yet, this has helped me love my Savior more than ever and has powerfully drawn me to Him like nothing else.  For that, I rejoice.

I also understand that He is teaching me to mirror His grace.  When it feels like even the dearest person does not begin to comprehend my hurt, I have no choice but to exercise grace.  When a well-meaning person has no idea how hurtful their words are, it feels good to exercise grace.  What other choice do I have?  I can easily see how hurt people turn angry.  But I don’t have the energy to be angry… or the right to be angry.

My heart for Mia will never be removed.  I also don't think it will even shrink over the years and feel less hurt.  Instead, somehow with God's help He will get me through this.

Oh, please Lord, help me to enjoy being gracious.  I know I don't deserve Your grace.  Help me to offer it up joyfully to those around me.  Forgive me and make me supernaturally more like You.  Turn my hurts into love for others.

Fill my heart with your Love and bind up my wounds yet again.  When I feel alone, turn my heart to You.  Help me to remember that You are the only One meant to satisfy me.

Let me be thankful.  Help me to rejoice in Your goodness and in Your gifts to me.  Show me how to honor my daughter’s life.

Teach me how to live without Mia.