Reason.

It's cold here.
Today I strapped on my shoes, bundled up, put my music in my ears and went for a walk. I love going walking. The fresh air- the time I spend with myself. Time with my thoughts. Time with God. Most of my 'moments of pause' happen when I am walking. Today was no different.

Recently I read something that stuck with me.
"Not everything happens for a reason."
It made me sad. And yet I understood it.

What reason is there for suffering? What reason is there for the death of a child? What reason is there for hope and then having it snatched from you- right beyond your grasp? There are so many things that I do not know the reason for.

I think that the quote was right. Not everything happens for a reason...

But then again... It can...

I could have chosen to take my feelings of loss and despair and keep them to myself. I could have chosen to deny Andrew's existence- most of the people I know now would have no idea that I had a son- that I lost a son- even my children would not know had I chosen to keep this pain to myself.

And I did ponder it... though only for a moment... Would it be easier if Joe never knew he had a twin? But then what about his birth certificate? What about those pictures of me pregnant- with two full term babies...

And yet I had a choice. I could have kept it. I could have 'crossed those bridges' when they came. I could have chosen to deal with "it" in other ways.

But I didn't.

The night that Andrew was born- the moment I kissed him that last time and turned away as they took him from me- that silent night- I knew. I made a promise. I would give this reason. I would say his name so that everyone I knew would hear it. I would not forget that baby. And I wouldn't let you. I decided to give it reason- though at the time I had no idea what that reason would be- how it would look- what it was.

Isn't that life?
We choose what to give reason to and what not to? We can choose to hold on to pain- or to let it go. We can choose to share our grief with others- or keep it to ourselves. We can choose to say their names- or simply feel them in our hearts. And it is our choices that make us who we are and how we choose to impact others.

No. Not everything has to happen for a reason. But he did. He happened. And because of him...

I know pain.
I know love.
I know forgiveness.
I know grace.
I know peace. True peace.

Because of him...
Twins are born before their (40 week) due dates.
Families who have lost a twin will have a picture of their twins together.
Parents in this journey will be able to meet someone who has been there and can walk with them through this.

Because of him...
I have three other children who would not be here.

Because of him...
I am wiser.
I am kinder.
I am more patient.

Because of him I have met some of the most amazing people who have walked this earth. People I would not have known, had I not chosen to share him.

Because of him...
I am a better wife.
A better mother.
A better teacher.
A better friend.
Better.

Make reason.
Give meaning to the life that has changed yours.
Don't keep it to yourself.

Over my years, the reasons keep coming and I can share a smile with heaven knowing I got that from them. Do I miss them? Yes. Do I think about them still? EVERY day.

But 'tis the season to give.
And today I give you my reason.
My reason for living and moving and waking up each morning.
They have shaped me and made me who I am and- though a work in progress- I will embrace it.
And give it reason.

My Baby.

It was a baby who was sent to save the world.

It was a baby who was sent to save my world.

Sometimes no words need to be spoken.

Sometimes it is the actions that speak louder.

Wishing you peace and strength this season.

To watch this on YouTube, click HERE.

The First Christmas

For many this will be the first Christmas.
The First Christmas without their mother.
Their Father.
Their Brother.
Their Sister.
Their Friend.
Their Child.

Perhaps the person they are missing has been gone for months- time for the outside world to go back to 'business as usual'- back to 'life as we know it'- back to 'normal'.

But for most of those people- the first Christmas will be anything but normal.

It may be the anxiety of wondering what they will feel on that first Christmas. The hole left from the person who was for so long- a part of the gatherings- or the person who was dreamt of- who would be there amidst wrappings and laughter- the first Christmas.

For me that first Christmas happened only months after he was gone. I hardly felt like celebrating but I went through the motions. I felt I had to. After all, I had much to be thankful for- there would be one more stocking added to our mantle... but I had wanted two.

Two.

I hardly knew how to feel- happy- sad- blessed- cursed- And though I tried to get a grip on my emotions, I look back now- eight Christmases later- and I wonder why. Why did I have to 'understand'- why did I have to try to 'feel' something- for hadn't I learned- even in those few months that had aged me more than all my year's previous, that feelings are not right or wrong- they simply are?

A man approached my husband recently. His wife had lost a baby. As my husband was telling me the story I winced when he said, "It was early- only ten weeks or so..." And instead of jumping on what he had said- sharing with him that it does not matter 'how long' I simply asked, "What did he say?"

"He said that they had lost the baby a while ago and that he had recalled us losing a baby(E). When I asked how he was doing, how she was doing, he said, 'She's getting better. I think she'll get over it soon.' to which I replied, 'Really? I don't think I'll ever be 'over it'."

And so I got to thinking... what makes us so different? What makes one grieve a lifetime and another's world start suddenly spinning again?

I don't know.

But I do know that though you may not see it. There is a chance- that that first Christmas- and perhaps even that eighth Christmas- they may be thinking- wondering- dreaming of what it should have been like- what it could have been like-

That First Christmas.

Thinking of you on your First Christmas- your 91st Christmas- and all those Christmases in between- missing them.

Thankful

I have been asked-
If you could have chosen for Jonasen to be a singleton so that you would not know the pain of losing a child, would you?


It's an easy question. One that I can answer without skipping a beat.
No.

Jonasen grew with his brother. My heart grew for Jonasen and his brother. For them, I am thankful.

It is an odd thing to say that I am thankful, so I feel the need to clarify. I am not thankful that I never was able to see the color of their eyes, soothe their cries while holding them to my breast, laugh at them as my heart burst with pride... because those are things I will never have.

But early on in this journey, I made some conscious decisions. I decided that I would thank God for what I do have, because for twenty minutes on that fall night, the doctor had told me what I didn't have. He told me that I had lost them both. But he was wrong, and for that I am thankful.

I am thankful that Andrew and E have made me pause. I can see the beauty around me, and I know there is a God. And I know He has my children. Prior to being their mother, life went fast. They have allowed me to slow, to remember, and to be thankful.

For every second, every day, every moment that their heart beat in me was a miracle. I am saddened that for some they didn't even have that- though they dreamed of it still.

Driving home from church today, I was quiet. Thinking of all that I am so thankful for- my sweet angels included- when I thought of him. Wondered how he was. It had been years.



I remember hearing about it. A man had lost his wife and son. She had died in childbirth. I remember being at a loss. A complete and utter loss. I spent two days thinking about him non-stop and finally grabbed a pen, looked in the phone book, found his name and penned a card. I felt I had to let him know, that I was thinking of him, praying. Though my words seemed so small, I had to do something. I signed the return address, "A Stranger Who Cares".


Two days later, my phone rang. The voice on the other end was one I did not recognize. When he said his name though, my heart stopped. For I had just written his name on an envelope. After stating his name, he said, "You were wrong. You are not a stranger." As we spoke, I learned that he lived next door to a friend growing up. Suddenly I pictured a young blond boy with a head full of curls. I remembered.


He spoke, and I listened. Tears streamed down my face as he spoke of his wife. She was so excited. It was their first child and she was beautiful. Pregnancy suited her and she glowed when she entered the room. He remembered how she looked that morning, the look on her face. She was concerned. She could not use the bathroom and so late in pregnancy, she found it odd.


They went to the hospital and it was there that they learned. She was sick. Something was terribly wrong and there was rushing and efforts made. He stayed with her still. And then they told her. The baby was gone. He told me of the tear that fell from her eyes. He knew she'd be going too. She could not let her baby go alone. And she did.


I found it hard to breathe. The way he described- it was the ultimate love story. He spoke of how he imagined them together. He never did see his son. He could have, but figured he should stay with his mother, in the place that had been a safe haven for him for those days, months, and moments when he kicked, and grew and listened to their voices, felt their love. They were buried together.

And though his world had suddenly changed more than anything I could imagine, he spoke so highly of his wife's love for their son. In that moment, he did not focus on his grief, he focused on her love. He was so proud. He was so thankful. For she was grace, she was beauty, she was an amazing mother.

So this week, as I reflect and think about all that is good in the world. I think not of loss and sorrow- but what can be left in spite of it. I think of strength, of healing, of grace. I hope that it finds you this season.

And I hope that despite your sorrow, you can look to those heavens, know there is love- know they are safe- and know they are there- just a whisper away.


Thank you Andrew.
Thank you E.

You have opened my eyes to a grace that is given so freely that sometimes I feel that it overflows to those around me. You have made me a member of a community where I have met the most amazing and inspiring people. You have changed my life.

For the Better.

And for that, I am thankful.

Dear God.

Dear God,

Today we were talking (as You and I often do) on my way into work. It was such a beautiful sunrise and the way the sun broke through the fog was breathtaking- I sometimes lack words. And I did- silence- but the tears said it all and I know you read my heart, felt my exhale. Of course it made me pause- and made me think of him, of them, of You.

I sometimes wonder, why me. Not why you chose to give me Andrew or E, or why you chose to take them away (though that of course is a question...) but I was thinking about my faith, and I wondered, "Why me?"

When I listen to others who are struggling with You, angry with You, crushed with You... I nod. I understand fully and completely. I know that You nod too. You've felt it too. You felt it when it was me.

But I sometimes wonder why me? Why was I able to be so angry with You, scream at You, and then in moments feel that sweet release? Feel as if You scooped me up off that floor and held me. Feel as if You carried me. Why me? Why not them?

I wish somehow I could tell them to wait. That it's ok. That You will be there for them tomorrow, in a year, or in a decade. I wish somehow they knew that the best thing about You is that no matter how angry we get, how furious... You are always there waiting, feeling what we feel, ready to embrace us again, and carry us.

So tonight Lord, there is someone out there. Someone somewhere who is ready. They are beaten and battered and they have nothing left. I pray that You would find them and scoop them up off that floor, like You did me, on so many dark nights.

And if they aren't ready for You, I pray that You would send them someone. Someone to listen and feel. For a child's absence can feel so suffocating, so lonely, even though You are right beside us.

I feel Your peace tonight. I pray that they feel it too. If only for tonight. Sometimes that is enough.

Amen.

Soup for the Soul

This morning as my children were eating breakfast, I ran upstairs to get something I had forgotten. I noticed that Jonasen has left the light on and so I stepped in to turn it off. It was then that I glanced at Jonasen's fish tank and noticed that his beloved fish, Rocky, was dead.

I didn't say anything at all. I simply went downstairs, kissed my children goodbye thanked my mother for watching them and left for work. I phoned my mother when I got to the car. I told her the news and asked her to take care of Rocky after she got the kids on the school bus. She did.

I thought about Rocky all day. I thought about Joe. I dreaded breaking the news to him and ran a million ways that I might tell him, through my mind.

There wasn't a good time to break the news to Joe. While playing after dinner I finally couldn't take it anymore. "Joe," I said. "I have some sad news. Rocky died." "He did?" To my surprise, Joe didn't seem very upset. I breathed a sigh of relief and said that perhaps we could get a new fish soon, since he really did such a wonderful job taking care of Rocky while he was alive.

Our night continued as usual.

And then I heard it. Sobs. Coming from Joe's room. I ran up the stairs and saw him. Head on his dresser next to an empty tank. Sobs. I gathered him in my arms and carried my seven year old to the glider in his room and just held him as we cried.

I remembered. I went back to the emptiness of the room. The crib being gone, and the chair. I remember how it sent me into uncontrollable sobs. Uncontrollable heartache. I watched him cry and I knew how that felt. And while it was 'just' a fish. Sad is sad and my dear son's heart was breaking.

Joe couldn't talk. He tried, but the words wouldn't form. And so we prayed. We thanked God for Rocky the fish. We thanked God that he was such a good fish to Joe and we asked God to take good care of Rocky. And that is when Joe's sister asked if maybe God could give Andrew Joe's fish... perhaps he would like to watch a blue Betta. Suddenly I had an image of another seven year old, head in his hands as he watched a blue Betta flutter and glide. I wondered if Andrew would have liked a fish. If he would have chosen a blue Betta like Joe's... Another question I will never know.

And as my mind was going to that place, Joe's sobs subsided and he said, "Mom? Do you think I could write about it?" I was so completely shocked that for a moment, all I could do was nod.

Joe has no idea that I have been writing letters to his brother. He has no idea that it was through my writing, my letters to Andrew, that I found my way. It was through my writing that I learned about my grief, found my way, found my peace.

And so I watched as Joe took his pencil and began to write. He wrote in silence for a while, drawing pictures and then forming his thoughts into words. As he began tears steamed down his face still, but I watched as after a while his breathing calmed and his pencil flowed. I watched as a smile crept across his face, remembering... dreaming...

He found soup for his soul in the form of a pencil.
And tonight I found soup for my soul in the form of a seven year old writer.

One.

In seven years I have met so many.

So many.

My heart always hurts when I see a new face- hear a new name. I am happy they have found us, and yet so sad that they are part of "us".

Us.

Some of them I see again and again-

Others I see once a year- or once a lifetime.

But still we are connected.

All of us- united in one common bond.

Loss.

The loss of a child.

And it is a bond. A bond of acceptance. A bond of understanding. A bond of kindness. It is a bond that spans ages, genders, towns. It can happen to you no matter your financial situation, your religion, your lifestyle. It can happen. It happens still. It happened to me.

And yet I am thankful. Thankful to be here for you and thankful you are here for me. We are a community. We are one. When you are weak, I will carry you. When I crumble, you pick me up. We are in this together.

One.

Tonight we gather around the world to light a candle and remember those lives that left us too soon. Tonight we remember. Do you remember? Perhaps it was a heartbeat that was gone before you could see it- perhaps it was a baby you held in your arms as he flew away-

Tonight I remember. I remember them, and I remember you.

Who do you remember?

Write their name so the world will see.

We are everyone.

We are one.