Being There.

Today is my wedding anniversary.

My husband and I went out to dinner.

We reminisced, laughed and talked about everything we could in the few hours we had with just the two of us... our spiritual beliefs, our kids, what we've gone through in our marriage and then we talked about him.

Andrew.

We talked about that night.

How I had such a strange peace about it.

That my baby was safe.

That it was the one time, I was absolutely sure.

God was there.

He didn't have that peace.

He had just sorrow.

Just sadness.

Just emptiness.

I wondered aloud why that was.  How two people so present in that moment could feel two totally different things.

He told me there will never be another moment in his life that will hurt like that did.  In his words, The first cut is the deepest.  He had that ache when E died, but it was just the opening or a scar that had already been there, one he'd come to know so very well.

I imagine that the waitress thought we were crazy, two people out for beer and nachos (nothing fancy for us), but with tears in our eyes.  On the verge of breaking, but we know how to hold it in. How to put on a smile and change our emotions in an instant.  We've been doing it for years... almost 10. 

We've been through this. 

together.

We've been together 12 years now.

He grabbed my hand and told me that he felt those years.

That he's grown in those years.

And he has.

And we have.

I know marriages that have not survived the loss of a child.

I know marriages that are never the same after the loss of a child.

Ours was one of the latter.

It was hard at first for me.

I am a talker by nature. A thinker. A writer. Someone who needs to GET IT OUT!

He is quiet. Reflective. One who needs time. Space.

I remember wanting more.  Wanting to hear how he ached.  Wanting to hear how he missed him. Wanting to hear how he thought of him every day.

But I didn't.

But what I did get were quiet signs.

Lyrics he had written for a song he had penned.

A mention that he had stopped by his garden, "as usual."

And today... "You know I was thinking of him today..."

That's all I need.

That's what changed our marriage.

That is what made me fall deeper in love with him than I ever thought I could.

He loves our son.

He loves our children.

He loves me.

I asked him what made him think of Andrew and he couldn't quite place it... He was "just there".  I didn't need him to go further.  I understood.  There are times I will be sitting there as he weaves his way into my thoughts, like a warm, familiar breeze. 

Living there. 

Walking in his brother's shadow. 

Sitting on his sister's laugh.

Present in that scar that is always there, but has become a reminder of what we are.

What we have.

I miss him.

We miss him.

But we thank him too.

For being there.

Always.

Just. Get. Better.

I have someone in my life right now who is hurting physically and they are on my mind constantly... Every word I say seems to be underlined with this person's name. My urgent prayers.  I keep thinking 

Just.

Get.

Better.

That's all we really want isn't it?  

To be better?  

No matter what it is...

Sure, there are times when you're stuck in your bed and there's no where you'd rather be than tucked deep into the comfort of your pillows and blankets, but there comes a time when you want to be well.

And others want that for us too.

While I was thinking of the person who is hurting physically, my mind also has drifted on and off to someone whose physical pain and scars have healed.

But isn't that the easy part?

The pain of childbirth~ my physical pain of what my body was forced to go through, was almost unbearable, but nothing, NOTHING compared to the emotional pain that followed.

The body has an incredible way of healing.

The heart is a different story.

I know there was a time when I worried my friends.

I worried my family.

They wanted me better.  They wanted me laughing.  They wanted me back.

But I died that day.  The "me" they knew.

I know it hurt them.

They wanted me to 

Just.

Get.

Better.

I said Andrew's name constantly, put his pictures and name around my house. I cried. I rocked. I wrote. I screamed. And I did it again.  And again. And again.

I talked to someone.

But it didn't do anything...

Not really.

Well meaning people will try to push you.  

To coax you. To plead with you. To threaten you.

Just. Get. Better.

But what they don't know, what they simply can't understand is that right now you need to be in your bed~ amongst the pillows and the sheets. As much as you want to be back, the "you" they knew died that day too. And you need to find out who is left.  Meet her. Embrace her.  And that takes time and you can't be there for those who want you back.  You need to take care of YOU.

And 

That.

Takes.

Time.

Give yourself that.  And to those people, there is no timeline... but there will come a day when you're buried in the comfort of your sheets that you'll open your eyes and see the sun.  You'll place one foot on the ground and then the other.  You'll find your footing and you'll stand.

It can be wobbly and scary, but you're not in this alone, and you never were.

There is a community out there who understands this road.  Who walks it with you.

And so tonight,

I want that person to know that she's not alone.

And while the world (and perhaps she too) wants her to 

Just. 

Get.

Better.

It's just 

Not. 

That. 

Easy.

So I will not pull you out of that bed.

Out of those sheets.

Through that fog.

Instead I'll meet  you. 

And walk with you through it.

(((hugs)))

L

Two lives.

A thought popped into my mind recently (as they often do).

Ten years ago (right now) I was pregnant.

That feels a lifetime ago.

I imagine most women have some sort of 'thing' they do when they're pregnant~ They read a story to their baby, sing a certain song, eat a certain food~ and I'm sure that book, song or food will sometimes trigger that memory. Bring them back to that time.

I was getting out of the shower and as I looked at my stomach (a sad, sorry mess from the way Andrew and Joe left it), it occurred to me.  It's been ten years. Ten years since they grew and stretched and kicked and breathed inside me. Ten years.

How does that happen?

I looked out my bathroom window and there was snow on the ground.  I opened the window, closed my eyes and took a deep breath in.  I inhaled slowly and let that single breath go to every ounce of my body and I remembered.

When I was pregnant with them, my auntie (a doula) said to me, "Laura, remember that every breath you take is also a breath for them."

That was a lifetime ago.

For some reason that stuck with me.  I had a window in the shower of the house we lived in ten years ago and I would open that window while the water ran down my back and take the deepest, fullest breath and imagine it traveling to my babies.  Imagined them dancing and full inside of me from that extra crisp, cool breath from the morning air.  I did that nearly every morning.

I do it sometimes still.

More often than I thought I would.

And sometimes I feel he gets it.

Gets that breath from me and that it fills him up.

Still now.

Ten years later.

A lifetime ago.

We were watching a favorite family movie the other day (The Natural) and a line I had heard so many times before just sort of hung in the air for me.  

"I believe we have two lives.  The life we learn with and the one we live with after that."

I had my husband pause it and play it again.  

I told him that I really liked that line.

He told me he did too.

Our eyes met and I knew we were thinking the same thing.  We are living our second life.

So much has been given a new breath for me because he never took one.

But I will breathe it for him as I always have.

I will learn from it.

I will live with it.

I will be better for it.

And I will live this second life knowing it.

A bird on a wire

Have you ever noticed a bird on a wire?

I never really noticed them.  I never took the time to look up, but my son did.  He'd point them out to me and up I'd look and sure enough, there they were~ birds perched up there looking down at all of us.

I look for them now.

They slow me down.

They remind me to look up.

I sometimes feel like that bird on the wire, watching things from afar. I'm not in the thick of it anymore. I don't wonder if my next breath will come.  

I simply breathe.

But there was that time that I was there. 

wondering.

wishing.

praying.

That somehow I'd find a way out of this.

Fly away.

And I did.

It took a long time, but I left it.

I left it behind.

Left the intense moment-to-moment pain.

My smile came back.

My laughter came back.

But that old me was never seen again.

She flew away.

I didn't know it, but she flew away with him.

On that September night.

I didn't even notice, but just like that

She was gone.

And that's OK.

The girl who was left behind is stronger.

She is braver.

She fuller.

She is you.

Give yourself permission to say no.

To not be strong.

To not be brave.

To not understand.

Give yourself permission to let her fly away.

And see who remains.

In time, you may find you like her more than you ever thought you could.

I do.

~Peace~

You Remembered.

Holidays are hard.

Especially for those who have lost someone in the last year...

The parties. The gatherings. The laughter.

Sometimes you wonder if they remember.

The Christmases have gone by for me.  10 of them now.

I have gone to the parties. The gatherings. The laughter has been mine.

Still sometimes I wonder if they remember.

My birthday is on Christmas Eve.

A day where I know I will sing, Silent Night and think about the greatest gift, and the gifts He gave me.

And I will think about that silent night when he was born.

The silent delivery room.

The silence when he arrived.

I will sing, as silent tears fall.

Every year.

Like Mother's Day, I have mixed feelings every Christmas Eve.

This year, my mom handed me a bag with two boxes in it.

I opened the first and saw a beautiful necklace.

A family of birds sitting on a branch.

2 big birds.

4 little birds.

I couldn't really look at it.  Are those two things on the end of the branch butterflies?

My mom shook her head no.

"They are just leaves."

"I think they're butterflies."

"They're not."

My heart hurt a little and I choked back tears.  Ten years but certainly she remembered.  My mom who has listened to my journey~ walked it with me.  My mom who once answered that questions "How many grandchildren do you have?" with, "My son has two and my daughter has four 'at home'."

Yes.  I heard.  I hear it all.

We all do.

How could she forget.

I wanted to cry.

And then I opened the next box.

A pair of earrings.

Two birds.

Two birds that left the branch.

And flew away.

Too soon.

I love them more than you know.

I love more that you remembered.

Thank you!

Broken Road

I know broken.

I know numb.

I know empty.

I know sad.

I know despair.

I know guilt.

I know anger.

I know release.

It has been nine years since we last laid eyes on our son and still it was a moment that will forever be frozen in time for me.  I remember my husband.  How he lost his voice.  He couldn't talk for two days.  He just sat. And stared. As tears rolled down his face.

Broken. Numb. 

I remember going through motions as the time passed.  I heard people's laughter, but couldn't find my own. I couldn't smile.  It hurt too much.

Empty. Sad.

I walked along quietly. Often not knowing how I got from one place to another.  Wondering how I would get out of bed.  I would cry in the shower. Scream into my pillow. Sink to the floor.

Despair.

I went back in time.  Looked at my calendar. Replayed the days.  Was there a change in movement I didn't feel?  Why didn't I ask to be induced earlier.  Why hadn't I let her strip my membranes to get things going.  Why did I wait?

Guilt.

He shook his fist at God.  Went toe to toe with him.  How could He take our son? He went through the motions, went to church to appease me, but he wasn't really there.  He turned his back for two years.

Anger.

And then one day it came. I didn't cry.  And I cried because of it.

He went to the garden.  I heard his guitar sing. 

Friday's events brought back many of those feelings for us as I am sure they did many in this community.  That night as we drove to a Christmas party, we hardly felt like celebrating.

"How could God let this happen?  Where IS He?"

He was angry.  Furious. Broken.

I reminded him of the release.  Of our road.  Of the God that got me through.  Got US through!

He yelled at me (at Him), "Where is He now?"

We stopped talking.  Went through the motions of the evening.  Put on our smiles.

Where is He?

He's with them.  He's next to them in the silence, as the tears roll down. He walks with them in their haze as they cry in their showers, scream into their pillows, sink to the floor.  He's beside them as they wonder why they sent them that day.  He's facing them as they scream and curse His name screaming WHY?  WHY DID YOU LET THIS HAPPEN?

And one day it will happen.

They will feel His presence.

They will have that sweet release.

A feeling of peace that covers you when you're ready.

Falls down over you like a flood.

That knowledge that they are OK and so too will you be.

You are not alone, they've left you with something you didn't think you'd ever find again.

Hope.

On Saturday he apologized.  He held me.

On Sunday he stood before our church and before he strummed his guitar he pointed out a lyric.

One that I had sung many times, but had never resonated with me like it did in that moment.

He spoke,

"And I will walk by faith, even when I cannot see.

Because this broken road, prepares Your will for me."

We have certainly walked a broken road.  A road that at times I crawled.

But that road has helped me.  It's shaped me. Prepared me.  And I am so proud that I can call myself Andrew and E's mom.  I can call myself blessed.

They won't get over this, but they will get through it.

These lives will not be in vain.  They have shaped a parent. a sibling. a neighbor. a teacher. a town. a state. a country. the world.

And we will be blessed.

Heart Sick

My Dear Children,

I wanted to write you about today but like I have shielded you from some of the details of the pain I went through when I lost Andrew and E, I know you aren't ready (nor should you be) to know about the horrific details of today.  Still I know that today is a day that will go down in history and so I wanted to share with you my thoughts on it not on our family blog that you sometimes read but on the blog I imagine you will learn about one day, when you're ready.

On Sunday, we will sit you down and tell you that some very sad things happened in a school in another state.  That some children died.  We will pray for their families and I will tell you that I know that there may be some children that will talk about it in school but that some of them may not know the whole story and that sometimes they say things that aren't true.  We will also tell you not to believe what you hear but to ask us and talk to us about it if you ever want to.  And I hope you will.  I also hope that you will not talk to others about it.  That this can be scary or sad and that it is something children should talk about with their parents.

You have all (especially you, Jonasen) been very forthcoming with questions about sadness and sorrow and death. I pray that I can follow your lead as I have in the past.  That God will give me the words I should tell you in a way that is appropriate for what your young hearts can handle.  This has always been a fine line for me as I often wonder what my poor old heart can handle.

The sad truth is there is sadness in this world.  As a teacher, I have heard some things that have made my heart sick.  Losing your brother and sister made my heart sick and learning that there are so many more families grieving their children tonight makes me heartsick.

It makes me sad.

A coworker first asked me if I had heard the news.  She told me there had been a school shooting and I assumed it was a high school somewhere.  Then I learned of the number dead.  Then I learned of the ages.

Kindergarten.

Zach.  You are in kindergarten.

When I came home you wrapped your arms around me and told me you loved me and you'd never let go.  I told you that you could stay that way forever.  Today I felt that you could.  Knowing that someone in this world would never have those five year old arms they felt just that morning wrap around their neck again, nearly broke me, but I didn't let it.  The odd thing about sorrow is you are given just as much strength as you need to get you through a moment. Just enough to breathe in and out.

I haven't seen any pictures from today.  I haven't heard any news stories.  I'm not sure that I want to.

I also want you to know how fearful I am of guns. How the idea of having them in my school scares me.  How having them in your school PETRIFIES me.  I often wonder what is happening to our state, our country, the world... I sometimes wonder what God wants us to do with this. I hold my hands out and am still.  I am used to having questions go unanswered.  But still it makes my heart sick.

Last night we painted ornaments for Andrew.  We painted ornaments for E.  We painted ornaments for two other babies you and I had hoped would stay but left too soon.  Life has some tremendous sadness and if you aren't careful, it can swallow you up.

That is what I am afraid of.  I am afraid of the sadness and the anger that swallows you up.  Because when it does, you are lost.  I don't know, but I imagine those who commit such horror have been swallowed up.  Lost.

So be kind to others.  Smile often.  Hug.  Don't underestimate the power of a loving touch on someone's shoulder or asking someone how they are~ if you see someone getting swallowed up, hold out your hand.  Rescue them.  Just like there are tragedies in this world, there are also miracles. You were all a miracle to me.  You can be a miracle to others.

Just like one lost soul can change the world, so can one brave soul. You can change the world by reaching out and saving someone.  By being an ear.

The children are OK.  They are in heaven and whole.  Their families are not.  They are in a lot of pain and will be for years and years to come and for that I am heartsick.  

I love you,

Mom