I’m Running Away From Home Today
I’m running away from home today. Three years ago today I gave birth to my son, Sammy. It was an unexpected home birth. I was alone. And Sammy was stillborn. I can still remember the feeling of stunned disbelief as I realized he was coming NOW. I had no time to call anyone or prepare anything. He was just suddenly there, in my arms.
I had known that he couldn’t survive outside of my womb from the minute the words “incompatible with life” entered my world. But I had chosen to give him every moment of life within me that I could, to savor every kick and tumble, to share my life and body with him until it was time for him to leave me. The movements had stilled, though, some hours before he came into and out of the world, and I knew that he was gone. But this, this unexpected, solitary moment of birth and death, this silent entry into heaven, this I could not have anticipated.
I remember the soft warmth of his body as I held him, waiting for the afterbirth to deliver. I had no scissors to finalize the separation between my son and my body which had given birth and brought death all in the same moment.
I remember staring at his tiny profile and being scared to turn his face fully to mine, afraid of seeing my other children’s features reflected in his still, small face. I remember my husband finally coming and the look of shock and grief on his face as he realized what had happened. I remember the gush of blood, the tiny box, the rush to the hospital, the emergency surgery. I remember the surreal feeling of returning home, to the place of family, of ordinary days, of life and love, and feeling both wrapped in the warm comfort of familiarity and struck by the stark reality of loss.
And so on this day, as the memories crowd close, I will take my earthside children and run away. We will go somewhere that is not here and we will stand beside swaying reeds and feed toddling ducklings. We will ride our bikes under tall trees and marvel at the newly hatched turtles tumbling over each other on the banks of shining waters. We will stop at a little pizzeria and get a market street pepperoni pie and sit outdoors in the sunshine and eat and talk and laugh. We will celebrate each other and life and love, and then we’ll come home and it will be home again. And I’ll be okay…until next year.
Happy Birthday, my little Sam-I-Am <3
Related posts:
Suffering in Silence~A Mother’s View
Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support and Resources
Motherhood~The Timeless Tapestry
The old preacher’s slightly shaky voice and once-hearty arthritic hands spoke of life and experience and hard-won wisdom as he held up a dusty tapestry with the backside facing us. The tangle of threads that seemed to go nowhere and snarl of multicolored knots gave no hint of the picture on the other side. “This is what we see,” he said. Then he turned the tapestry around to display the intricate, painstakingly crafted, exquisite picture on the front side. “And this is what God is doing.” He looked around the room, a kind and gentle understanding in his
age-dimmed gaze. “Faith is trusting that your Father’s hands are carefully weaving a beautiful life’s story, even when all you can see is chaos.”
I remember this story often when life feels overwhelming, when big things like layoffs and sicknesses hit, and when small things like cranky toddlers, piles of laundry, and broken a/c units annoy. What feels to me like an endless cycle of dishes and diapers, punctuated by the odd disaster, must look like brilliant threads of golden perseverance, scarlet sacrifice, and soft blue-grey shades of faith, all woven tenderly into my life’s tapestry in my Father’s skillful hands.
I imagine life feels this way to my children, as well. As I try to teach and guide and nourish and encourage my children to grow into the beautiful humans they were created to be, they may not see the picture I am trying to weave.
They may not understand why they’re gently redirected when they try to crawl up the stairs or why bugs don’t make a good afternoon snack. They may not be able to fathom why their new dragonfly ‘pet’ isn’t allowed in the house or why they can’t hide in “the best hiding place EVER” in a hot car on a steamy Florida afternoon. They may not agree with the no-social-media rule and lack of a cell phone in their early teen years when “everybody has one!” And they may not fully get why the mall is not an approved hangout spot and why periodic texts to check in when out with friends are part of our family rules in their later teen years.
But, while these things may seem like meaningless threads or even unnecessary knots and tangles in their lives, the trust we share helps them to accept what they don’t understand, knowing that I have a purpose for each of these things even if they can’t see it.
It is that trust, that faith in my motives, my wisdom, my love, that makes gentle parenting possible. I don’t have to enforce my ‘rules’ with punishments or control my children with threats or intimidation because they know that I have their best interests at heart and that I will always, always listen to their concerns, even if I can’t change things or give them what they want.
I start building that trust from the moment my children are born and continue building it throughout their childhood. I respond quickly and consistently to their cries, whether they are eight days, eight years, or eighteen years old. I meet their needs as fully as I am able, whether those needs are a clean diaper, a full belly, a listening ear, or a warm hug. I respond gently and thoughtfully to their behaviors, whether they are having a meltdown, whining, tattling, questioning, or even challenging me.
And, perhaps most importantly, I’m honest about my own imperfections, am willing to apologize when I make one of my many parenting mistakes, and don’t expect perfection from my very human children.
Life is messy. No one has all the answers, at least not earth-side. But we can all trust that this sometimes bewildering, sometimes joyful, sometimes flat-out painful chaos called life has meaning and purpose and beauty beyond the scope of human sight. And as we carefully and gently weave the strands of our children’s days into a beautiful childhood, we can trust that our Father is thoughtfully and tenderly doing the same for us.
On a somewhat side note, my stillborn son, Sammy’s, birthday is coming up in a couple of weeks. 
While he’s always in my heart, as his birthday approaches my heart tightens in my chest a bit more each day until the ache becomes almost unbearable, and then finally the day passes and I can breathe again. I wonder how tragedy must look from Heaven’s side. I wonder about my Sammy and my other lost babies, gone before they even had birthdays. What colors did they add to my story? What eternal beauty did they bring that would have made my tapestry incomplete if they had not come and gone, so heartbreakingly briefly, into my life? While I feel holes in my heart, one for each much-wanted child, and an aching cavern of loss for my Sammy, would my life have been complete without them? I can’t answer these questions. I won’t even try. But I imagine that is where faith stretches its silken blue-grey threads across my story like the fragile gossamer wings of a butterfly.
“Now we see through a glass darkly; then we shall see clearly, face to face. Now I know in part, then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.” 1 Corinthians 13:12
Related posts:
A Boy, A Girl, and A Baby~Journey to Gentle Parenting
Bubble-Wrapped Kids? You bet!
[By L.R.Knost, author of Two Thousand Kisses a Day: Gentle Parenting Through the Ages and Stages now available on Amazon and through other major retailers.]
There is a lot of debate in the blogosphere about Helicopter Parenting and
Bubble-Wrapped or Cotton-Wool Kids. I make no apologies for protecting my children. They say crime is down. Maybe per capita it is overall down. Maybe there are less arrests or convictions or whatever. Or maybe there is less shoplifting and littering and other non-violent crimes. Or maybe ’they’ are wrong. I don’t know, and I don’t care.
Walk into a Wal-Mart and look at the wall of missing children, and you’ll see new faces nearly every day. Turn on the news, and you’re almost guaranteed to hear about a new heinous crime against a child. Misspell something on Google, and the sites that will appear in your search results will sicken you.
But if none of that were true, I’d still be the protective parent that I am. I’d still be that parent because of one sweet little local girl who was lost forever to a fiend. When I hear the name Jessica Lunsford, my heart shivers to a blood-curdling stop for a brief moment, and I have to catch my breath.
I remember the days after she went missing. I remember praying for her safety, praying for her family, praying for the rescuers and volunteers who were searching day and night for her. I remember checking for news updates multiple times a day, a silent prayer in my heart, begging, “Please, God, please.”
And the whole time I was praying, the whole time rescuers, family, friends, volunteers were searching, she was mere yards from her home being kept in a closet by a depraved monster who abused her and then buried her alive.
So, yes, I do guard my children closely. Outside play is free, muddy, messy, regular…and supervised. Bike riding is a family activity. Public bathroom trips are on the buddy-system. Sleepovers are almost exclusively at our house.
My children are homeschooled, but the oldest two started out in public school. For those few years, I drove them to and from school. I chaperoned field trips. I volunteered as a teacher’s aid.
There is more history to my journey, of course. There are happenings in my childhood I won’t share. There are people in my past who did what they should not.
And there are other things that led me here, to this place of mama lioness guarding her young fiercely, to this 5’1” person who could and would take on the most ferocious of threats to protect her children, to this gentle mother who will face the vileness of the world fearlessly and boldly to guard her little ones’ hearts, minds, and bodies. There is more, so much more I have seen and heard and experienced, but that will remain unsaid.
I will not apologize for protecting my children, no matter what the newest label or theory or study shows. My children are free to climb trees, hang from monkey bars, and play king-of-the-mountain on huge dirt mounds. But they aren’t free to hang out at the mall alone. They can scavenge their daddy’s workshop for scrap wood and other ‘treasures’ and use his tools to build…well, whatever their incredible imaginations come up with! But they can’t walk to the store by themselves. They can troll the beach for shells and explore the rocky inlet for sand dollars and sea urchin. But they aren’t allowed to surf the internet without supervision.
Freedom to explore. Freedom to grow. Freedom to discover. Freedom to become who they are meant to be. All within the boundaries of parental guidance and protection. That is how it is in our home. And our home is truly a happy and safe place to be.
Related posts:
The Measure of Success~Chinese Parents and French Parents Can’t BOTH Be Superior!
Tots to Teens~Communication Through the Ages and Stages
Babes and Boundaries~A Gentle Parenting Perspective
Into the Looking Glass~Teens and Self-Esteem
Eyes To See
Joe glared at the rows of tuna cans in front of him, willing the wailing child in the cart at the end of the aisle to just SHUT UP ALREADY! Seriously, where were the kid’s parents anyway? He snatched a couple of cans and dropped them in his cart with a clatter, then pushed his cart down the aisle toward the noisy troublemaker, intent on giving the negligent parents a pointed stare as he passed.
As Joe drew up alongside the child who was now kicking and flailing her arms in addition to that awful caterwauling, he noticed a man with the same towheaded curls as the child standing close by her side. Surely, he thought, that’s got to be the father. Why doesn’t he DO something?
Joe watched in anger and disbelief as the father gently stroked the little girl’s arm and whispered soothingly. What?!? The kid was throwing a fit in public, and all her father was going to do was comfort her? Joe gritted his teeth and tried to escape the irritating pair, casting a disapproving glance at the duo as he sailed by.
A few aisles over, the crying was muted, and Joe sighed in relief. He continued his shopping in peace for a while, grabbing his bottled water and some frozen mackerel, but then found himself confronted by the pair again three aisles later when he landed in the snack department at the precise time the child almost knocked over a stack of Oreos with her flailing.
Joe shook his head in disgust when the father merely cradled her into a loose hug and scooted his cart further away from the cookies. Joe stomped by, barely missing a Fig Newton display in his haste to get away from the fit-throwing child and weak-willed father.
Pitching fits in public, he grumbled, rattling his cart noisily toward the checkout lanes. People don’t know how to control children anymore, he muttered under his breath as he stood in line.
He stiffened as he heard a deep voice he recognized coming from the next checkout lane. He couldn’t see over the tall displays separating the lanes, but he’d recognize that father’s voice anywhere!
“Daddy’s got you, Nina,” the deep voice was saying. “Just lay your head on my shoulder, and we’ll be home soon.”
“Wan’ mama,” whined a little voice tiredly.
A soft sigh reached Joe’s ears, then a choked voice, “Mama lives in Heaven now, baby girl. But Daddy’s got you. Daddy’s got you.”
Be quick to hear, slow to speak and slow to anger…(James 1:19)
Related posts:
Communication vs. Miscommunication
The Seven Wonders of the World of Childhood
Beautiful Old Souls
An aged beauty tips her face up, and her elderly companion leans down out of life-long habit to catch her soft voice. His old eyes see past the ever-deepening lines to the vision of youth he married decades earlier. His hands reach out to steady her fragile, but oh-so-familiar frame, and she smiles the same smile he’s woken up to and kissed goodnight his entire adult life. Theirs is an old love, subtle with wear, ripe with age, its rich beauty lost to those without the palate to plumb its boundless depths or the senses to delight in its warm bouquet. They are a living love story, two hearts time-stitched into one, beautiful old souls stepping in tandem toward eternity.
Truly, love does have many seasons and faces, each revealing its own power, its own purpose…
Young love shouts from the rooftops and expresses itself in passionate displays. Its flames are brilliant, stoked with newness and fueled with idealism, but at times it burns itself out with its own heat or through lack of care and tending.
Old love whispers quietly, “I’m here. No matter what, I’m always here.” It is a silent glance, a hand clasp, a timeless commitment.
Young love, blind to the rich time-tested tapestry, deaf to the wealth of meaning in quiet companionship, lost to the supple oneness of hearts in accord, often looks at old love and calls it dead.
Old love sometimes looks at young love and smiles with fond remembrance, but ofttimes shakes its head and declares it foolish.
Each has a place in the world, a purpose, a time, and a season.
And then there are the other faces of love…
The exhausted young mother tenderly cradling a brand new life in the early morning hours. The 
middle-aged man getting up at four o’clock in the morning for another backbreaking day of work to support his family. The teacher spending her meager pay to make sure her students have pencils. The pastor visiting a convicted felon just to play a game of cards. The teenager stopping to help a stranger push their stalled car to the side of the road…
Each speaks love in a different language, but the message is the same…love is alive.
There is another Love, a living, breathing, timeless, endless, lavish, inconceivable, unconditional, sacrificial, unlikely Love. His Name is Love because He is Love. He and I have an old love, a stalwart and enduring love, a time-tested, unraveled and rewoven, wounded and healed, shattered and renewed love.
In the beginning, when I was newly in love with my Love, His passion fueled mine and I was consumed. I flared white-hot and brandished His Name like a sword, intent on conquering the world all on my own and presenting it as a treasure to my Love. I scorned the quiet love of my elders as a burned-out relic, not fit for my King.
Then time passed and life happened. My Love clung to me fiercely through the storms, even as my own grasp weakened and slipped. My Love held me close in the dark and never let go even when I kicked and flailed and railed at Him because I couldn’t see Him through my tears.
And my young love grew into an old love, deep and rich and still. Our old love is a stunning tapestry of life and loss, triumph and tragedy, joy and heartache, woven from the tattered and torn remnants of our young love.
Now, in place of conquering the world, I let Him love the world through me. Instead of proselytizing, evangelizing, and sermonizing for my King, I let His love permeate all I do like the subtle fragrance of rain as it washes clean the earth. Rather than feverishly working to present My Love a treasure, I bask in His presence knowing I am His treasure.
And our beautiful old souls step lightly toward eternity…
To Everything…Turn, Turn, Turn
There is a season…Turn, Turn, Turn
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven
A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep
To Everything…Turn, Turn, Turn
There is a season…Turn, Turn, Turn
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven
A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together
To Everything…Turn, Turn, Turn
There is a season…Turn, Turn, Turn
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven
A time of love, a time of hate
A time of war, a time of peace
A time you may embrace, a time to refrain from embracing
To Everything…Turn, Turn, Turn
There is a season…Turn, Turn, Turn
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven
A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time for love, a time for hate
A time for peace, I swear it’s not too late
Related posts:
The Story of Us~25 Years and Counting!
It is Time
I’m not big on making New Year’s Resolutions, mainly because statistically they are almost certain to fail. While failure is a normal and even healthy part of life, setting myself up for failure seems illogical to me. Instead, I prefer to start each new year by evaluating my long-term goals and where I am in relation to those goals, and then plan the reasonable steps forward in the new year toward accomplishing those goals.
Or at least, that’s what I used to do.
Then came loss. One miscarriage after another, each knocking the wind out of me, shaking my faith, draining a bit of life with all its zest and hope and glory from me. One, two, three…nine miscarriages, the last with triplets, three babies lost at once. I was crushed. But I survived, bruised and bloody and scarred, yes, but not broken.
And then came my Sammy. His twin was lost at nine weeks, but Sammy lived on, waving and bouncing around at every ultrasound as if to say, “I’m here, mama! I’m still here!” What a tough little guy.
A tough little guy with a death sentence. A random mutation, incompatible with life. But he did live. With my body playing a most willing hostess, my little invited guest grew and thrived, kicking and rolling and LIVING. I enjoyed every moment of his life, treasured every movement, stored up every memory. It was all I would ever have of him, so I drank deeply of the days and saved my tears for the nights when all was still and the knowledge of death pressed too hard to ignore.
And then one day my Sammy unexpectedly slipped into and out of the world, still and silent and beautiful, bearing the imprint of his siblings on his tiny features.
And I was broken.
And I have remained broken. Someone in a similar situation asked me how I ever got over losing my son. My answer, “I didn’t.” There is no getting over the loss of a child. There is moving on. There is healing. And there is living. But I am forever changed. A part of me will always be broken while I live on the underside of Heaven and my son awaits me topside. That is a fact of life and loss. I have moved on. And I have healed.
But living is another matter altogether. Living, really living, is embracing life in all its fullness, laughing and loving, twirling in dizzying abandon in the rain with my little girls and playing a sorry game of basketball with my boys while they alternately chuckle at my crazy aim and earnestly try to help a lost cause. Living is cuddling on the sofa with my hubby watching midnight movies while he snores in my ear. Living is feeling and hoping and stretching and experiencing. It is breathing in all the joy and breathing through all the hurts. It is planning for the future, the unknown, brilliant with possibility and studded with thorns.
Living is not hiding. It is not stale and distant and cold. Living doesn’t cower under covers or behind locked doors…or in front of computer screens.
I thought I was done, that I’d handled losing Sammy to the best of my ability and moved on and healed and started living again. But as I stopped to take stock of 2011 before moving onto 2012, I was brought up short. The incredibly sharp rear-view-window vision of hindsight revealed a startling fact to me. I had moved on, and I had healed, but I was functioning, not living.
I do love, and I do laugh, but hope, that most basic of human needs, is transparently thin and unutterably fragile in a heart afraid to live like mine. The future, that great unknown, brims with more pain than possibility when viewed through a veil of tears. Fear reigns, and life suffers under its dictatorship. Life abundant has become life restrained.
And planning for the future is too breathtakingly daring to even consider.
Until now. I have felt the pull back into life this year…in the tiny hands of my one-year-old miracle baby tugging me to follow toddling steps into adventures untold…in the never-give-up attention-seeking of my five-year-old dirt magnet…in the budding womanhood of my daydreamer-artist twelve-year-old…in the endearing, emerging solidness of a man of character in my seventeen-year-old…and in so many more ways that I can no longer hide from the message, “It is time.”
And so, though my first response was to cringe and retreat when I read the One Word 365 post about a one word focus for the coming year, a seed was planted that quickly sprouted into a word, my word, my theme for the year 2012. I won’t be making resolutions, and I won’t be going back to my former pedantic planning just yet. I’m still too fragile for that. But I will take a step forward. I will let God show me the fullness of meaning He intends for this word, the impact He plans for it to make in me, the transformation and liberation and newness that can come from embracing one single word.
For 2012, my word is…LIVE.
Related posts:
Suffering in Silence~A Mother’s View
Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support and Resources
Bizarre Anti-Cosleeping Ads in Milwaukee a Red Herring?
In Milwaukee, the local government has declared war on cosleeping. Billboards and signs with scary images of babies next to huge knives, surrounded by mounds of pillows and comforters, no adult in sight, proclaim that cosleeping is dangerous. Of course, the signs belie the message since there are no adults actually sleeping with the babies in the pictures, just knives and suffocation hazards and babies sleeping on their stomachs, all fear-triggering images for parents.
This campaign against cosleeping was launched after the release of the 2010 Fetal Infant Mortality Review (FIRM) Report detailing the statistics behind Milwaukee’s shocking infant death rate. According to Milwaukee’s Commissioner of Health, Bevan K. Baker, “The infant mortality rate in Milwaukee is worse than in almost any other developed country.” (pg 4) The idea that an American city could have such a tragic distinction is certainly staggering. Looking at the statistics reveals some sobering facts:
Infant Death and Stillbirth in Milwaukee
2005–2008 Stillbirths and Infant Deaths
- Of the 807 infant and prenatal deaths from 2005 to 2008, 308 were stillbirths and 499 were infant deaths from all other causes combined.
- 38%, more than a third, of all of the deaths were attributed to one cause, stillbirth. Poor medical care was cited as the overriding contributor.
- Of the 499 infant deaths, 53.7% were due to prematurity. Poor medical care was cited as the overriding contributor.
- More than 77% of the total deaths were due to stillbirth or prematurity with poor medical care cited as the overriding contributor.
- More than 85% of the total deaths were in the African-American community with poor medical care cited as the overriding contributor.
- Of the remaining deaths, 19% were due to congenital abnormalities, 18% to SIDS or accidental suffocation (refers to the sudden unexpected death of an infant due to overlay[adult accidentally smothering an infant], positional asphyxiation, or mechanical asphyxiation, [pg 2]~no breakdown of the numbers of SIDS, positional asphyxiation, or mechanical suffocation vs. overlay were provided in the report), 4.4% were due to infection, 2.4% to murder, and 2.4% to other.
- Note: The report’s ‘Findings,’ or summary, provided at the beginning of the document transposes the 18% of infant deaths from SIDS and accidental suffocation with the 19% of infant deaths from congenital abnormalities. (see pg 6)
- Of the 499 infant deaths, 329 were in the African-American community, and of that 193 were due to prematurity, 65 to congenital abnormality, 39 to SIDS and accidental suffocation, 16 to infection, 8 to murder, and 8 to other.
- Note: The report’s glossary defined accidental suffocation as “… overlay, positional asphyxiation, or mechanical asphyxiation” but throughout the rest of the document used the phrasing “SIDS, overlay, or accidental suffocation.”
- In summary, in excess of 85% of the total deaths were in the African-American community. More than 77% of the total deaths were due to stillbirth or prematurity. Poor medical care was cited as the overriding factor in these deaths. Of the 807 total deaths, 88 were due to either SIDS or positional asphyxiation or mechanical asphyxiation or overlay with no distinction in the causes provided.
- Note: Risk factors for stillbirth, prematurity, SIDS, etc. were listed and provided in multiple generic tables, but no tables or statistics about actual risk factors found in the Milwaukee deaths were provided.
So, with no actual numbers of how many of the 88 out of 807 deaths were due to ‘overlay,’ or adults laying on top of and smothering an infant, and with the overwhelming majority of deaths being related to poor medical care in their own report, the local Milwaukee government launched a multi-faceted campaign to…blame the grieving parents.
Not only are they spending taxpayer money to pay for advertising, consulting, billboards, etc in their attack on cosleeping, effectively shifting the limelight away from the real issue, but they also blamed smoking and maternal obesity for the extreme numbers of deaths due to stillbirth and prematurity. Their report, in contrast, showed maternal infection or medical condition to be the primary culprit (read-poor medical care).
Why the red herring? The report, while clearly skewed (see notes), still offered a look at the real issue plaguing Milwaukee: POOR MEDICAL CARE. The report recommended increased access to medical care and improvements in the quality of that care, and yet the focus of the economic and personnel resources of the city in response to the report have been blame-shifting, fear-mongering, and slight-of-hand. Without access to the city’s internal records, we may never know what really brought about Milwaukee’s dangerously substandard medical care implicated in the Fetal Infant Mortality Review, or discern the cause of the extreme bias toward African-American babies dying in Milwaukee, or discover the root of the subsequent bizarre publicity campaign by the local Milwaukee government against cosleeping, but we can be sure of one thing, “Something’s rotten in Denmark…er, Milwaukee.”
Here are some cosleeping research and safety resources:
Cosleeping safely~Is it possible? Decide for yourself!
Dr Sears Addresses Recent Cosleeping Concerns
Cosleeping: Fear Mongering, Flawed Research and How to Cosleep Safely
Co-Sleeping – Sorting the Truths from the Myths and the Downright Lies.
And a petition to remove the offensive ads:
Milwaukee, remove the fear mongering co-sleeping ads!
Suffering in Silence~A Mother’s View
Sammy
The world never knew you, but I held you under my heart as long as I could, treasured every kick knowing that was all of your life on earth I would experience, and delivered you into my arms for a moment, into God’s arms for eternity~L.R.Knost
~~~When God says ‘No’ ~~~
I started this with the intention of updating ‘The List’ (below) from my miscarriage/stillbirth blog, which I was able to do, and then I was going to talk about the times God has said ‘No’ to me, the miscarriages, the stillbirth…but I can’t. I can’t go there right now. It’s still too fresh.
Samuel Robert Knost~Born into the arms of Jesus June 5, 2009
So, here, instead is this beautiful memorial butterfly, created by I Am A Mother To An Angel in memory of my stillborn son, Sammy. It links to my miscarriage/stillbirth blog. You can click on it and read about my journey through many, many losses. ‘The List’ is a part of my journey.
~The List~
I have a list of people I pray for every day, children, adults, even several babies, and they are all fighting for their lives. Some of them, a precious five year old little girl, a sweet mom with breast cancer, an infant with spinal cancer, and another baby with a rare brain disorder, lost their fight for life. My heart is broken for their hurting families. I can’t imagine what they must be going through. I don’t even want to try. Others are just starting their fight, like a seventeen-year-old boy, seemingly healthy and strong, who just went in one week for a routine sport’s physical…a mass was found…brain surgery followed quickly…pathology reports came back…cancer. Another is a friend waiting for a kidney transplant. And then there are is the newborn baby boy born with half a heart, the one-year-old who recently had a liver transplant, the four-year-old boy whose body is riddled with tumors, and so, so many more. My thoughts, prayers, and hopes are never far from these small people and their heroic families.
For my part, the struggles and losses these families are enduring press themselves deeply into my soul. I am in a constant battle with fear. I am all too familiar with how fragile life is and how suddenly life can change. I am filled with joy at the blessings God has given me, but my joy is often stolen by fear. My
heart waits for the next bad thing to happen, always secretly wondering what will be taken from me next. I know God doesn’t want me to live that way. In First John 4:18 God says, “Perfect love casts out all fear.” Since God Himself is ‘Perfect Love’ He is saying that trusting Him is the key to overcoming fear. I know in my head that this is true, but it is my heart that keeps me awake in the darkness, locked in a battle with fear. God gives, and God does take away. I need to be at peace with that, trusting my Father’s perfect will. But I am afraid. I am so afraid.
I wish God never said ‘No’ when the whispered prayers of scared Mommies and Daddies reached His ears, when a child’s desperate prayers for a sick parent are sobbed in the night, when hearts and voices storm the gates of Heaven on behalf of a beloved friend. But He does say ‘No,’ and His ‘No’ is the right answer, even though I’ll never understand it this side of Heaven. I wish I could understand, though. I wish I could sit and talk and reason with God…but that is prayer, and so I will sit, and I will talk, and I will reason…and I will learn to trust. I will battle the fear and withstand the pain and cling to the Cross in the storm. And I will 
learn to trust. Or maybe I won’t, not fully. Maybe that is faith, not really trusting, not fully, because the heart is human, after all. Maybe faith is choosing to wait, to hold on, to struggle, never fully trusting, but always believing and always remembering that God even said ‘No’ to His own Son in the Garden of Gethsemane…and He did it for me.
Related links:
Pregnancy and Infant Loss Support and Resources
30 Days of Thankfulness~Day 10~Hardship
I am thankful for hardship.
Life is hard. That’s an intrinsic part of its breathless beauty. What joy would there be in a rollercoaster with no steep climb? What triumph in a race with no competition? What accomplishment in an endeavor with no risk? What motivation in a life with no death? I don’t speak lightly of hardship. Hardship involves suffering, and I have suffered more than I am willing to share. But I choose to embrace the beauty, to rise to the challenge, to submit to the fire…because that is where life in all of its rich, messy, glorious fullness is found.
C.S.Lewis~A few quotes from my favorite writer
I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else.
A man can no more diminish God’s glory by refusing to worship Him than a lunatic can put out the sun by scribbling the word, ‘darkness’ on the walls of his cell.
Affection is responsible for nine-tenths of whatever solid and durable happiness there is in our lives.
Don’t use words too big for the subject. Don’t say “infinitely” when you mean “very”; otherwise you’ll have no word left when you want to talk about something really infinite.
Miracles are a retelling in small letters of the very same story which is written across
the whole world in letters too large for some of us to see.
Education without values, as useful as it is, seems rather to make man a more clever devil.
The future is something which everyone reaches at the rate of 60 minutes an hour, whatever he does, whoever he is.
The safest road to hell is the gradual one – the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.
There are two kinds of people: those who say to God, “Thy will be done,” and those to whom God says, “All right, then, have it your way.”
With the possible exception of the equator, everything begins somewhere.
Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art… It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things that give value to survival.
God cannot give us a happiness and peace apart from Himself, because it is not there. There is no such thing.
Humans are amphibians – half spirit and half animal. As spirits they belong to the eternal world, but as animals they inhabit time.
No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.
I gave in, and admitted that God was God.
What we call Man’s power over Nature turns out to be a power exercised by some men over other men with Nature as its instrument.
If the whole universe has no meaning, we should never have found out that it has no meaning: just as, if there were no light in the universe and therefore no creatures with eyes, we should never know it was dark. Dark would be without meaning.
Reason is the natural order of truth; but imagination is the organ of meaning.
You are never too old to set another goal or to dream a new dream.
You don’t have a soul. You are a Soul. You have a body.
Loss Support~Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness
This is a site where you can go to share your story and read others’ stories. There are linked pages where you can join communities of women who have been where you are and can offer support and a listening ear.
HopeXchange Shining Light on Pregnancy Loss
Active online community of women who have suffered loss in many forms. There are separate threads for different issues.
Song by Jessica Andrews and a video that many grieving parents have used in sevices to honor their lost little ones.Whittier
October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month
For every mother who has carried and lost the precious gift of life…
Every mother who has suffered loss locked in silence…
Every mother who has not been comforted because society tells her that what she lost was not a child…
Though the world may not listen, we know…
birth; the pressure and anguish of countless women and girls who are driven to abortion; and a cheapening of our respect for the human person and the sanctity of human life.
A September to Remember: Unraveling What I’ve Knit Together
Here’s my very last ~A September to Remember~ guest post! I’ll be sharing a wrap-up soon of all the wonderful ‘vintage finds’ shared by these awesome writers. So enjoy this last, but so very not least, post from a very raw and honest Zoie @ TouchstoneZ. (Loss mentioned)
~~~~Unraveling What I’ve Knit Together~~~
I have early memories of feeling wrong within myself. I may have been four years old the first time I can recall believing I was bad. I know I didn’t have the words to identify the feelings, but I had them. I have never felt that I had the right to be alive. My entire life, I have had this little doubt that crept into every experience and tainted it just enough to keep me from holding it fully to my heart-the belief that I was broken somewhere inside.
I found this poem I wrote fifteen years ago:
Since Puck is Taken
If I show you my poetry
You will see inside of me
Core of polluting coal
50 pack lung-seeming soul
Craven, cowering
Rotten bulb flowering
So I will never show
And you will never know
And it dawned on me why the circular thinking of PPD was so appealing to me. It felt like a comfy wool sweater that was well-worn and familiar. I could slip it on like a protection from the elements of my life that felt raw and chafing. I had worn this sweater before. The only time I can recall taking it off was after the birth of my first child. I felt so empowered that nothing could make me un-love myself.
Then I got pregnant for the second time. And that pregnancy ended in a stillbirth. And I pulled my old sweater on without even noticing. I didn’t take it off for the birth of my second son. I zipped it up and added a hood when I got PPD for the first time. Then, the PPD was a bit better and I took off the hood. I mourned the lost time from the PPD haze but wasn’t ready to take it off yet. It wasn’t until after the birth of my third son and PPD returned that I had had enough. I didn’t want to lose more time to this.
I decided that this time, instead of periodically trying to rip off the sweater and throw it away (because that always ended up with me digging frantically in my mental garbage bins to put it back on) I would caress the sweater. Enjoy its fine knit and excellent fit. I made this sweater. I placed each stitch of wool in myself. It is lovingly crafted to protect me and I honor it for what I have made. I honor myself that at least some small part of me has always been able to see the true me and wrap it up in warmth and protection.
For the first time, perhaps in my life, I feel ready to address a lifetime of depression. I can notice it because of the skills I have been working on: sitting with uncomfortable feelings and holding them. Just holding them.
Grief
Grief over the loss of my daughter. Grief over the loss of all the parts of myself I never allowed. Grief over the childhood, teenhood, and adulthood that was black with this belief.
Grief
Grief over how things are not the way I want them to be. Grief over the loss of time and closeness with my children and my husband. Grief over not living my life the way I wanted and for not being as loving with myself and others as I want to be.
Grief
I’ve been allowing grief to arise. I’ve been putting my arms around my heart to hold me together because I’m afraid I’ll fly apart if I even look at these feelings. I’ve been noticing them, crying over them, and watching them come and go as I need them to.
And Anger. There’s a lot of anger underneath the grief, and I’m terrified of anger. I don’t know what to do with it. So, I don’t do anything with it. I sit with it. I can always put my sweater back on if it gets too scary. It’s folded up in my lap for whenever I need to hide.
Don’t forget to head over to check out Zoie @ TouchstoneZ!
A September to Remember: Too Beautiful for Earth~Heaven’s Newest Angel Baby
As I wrap up ~A September to Remember~ with such a grateful heart to all my friends who shared their ‘vintage treasures’ with me, I’ve chosen a final few posts to share as a lead in to October’s Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. Here is a touching post from Theresa at NurturingtheNaturalMama. Be aware that loss is discussed. Be blessed, mamas.
The Doctor said I had been “struck by lightening twice”- I have now conceived twice while on the pill. And I get it, with so many women who struggle with infertility out there, how is it that someone like me conceives TWICE on the pill? I have no idea. First time I can chalk it up to perhaps imperfect compliance, this time- I have no explanation. Nonetheless, it happened.
So just as anyone who thought they were being “safe” that finds out they’re pregnant would do, I freaked. I had a complete and utter panic attack. I have a nine month old, I’m still on medication for PPD (the label for which says it can cause birth defects), I’ve been taking the pill, and drinking alcohol! EEK! So I go to the Doctor, who draws some blood… assures me I’m probably early enough where it won’t matter… and talks me down of my stress-cliff. I go home more self assured and semi- ready to try and explain this to my husband.
Needless to say, by the next day the thoughts have sunk in and we’re ready to dig in our heels and make our growing family fit into our tiny apartment, and even spent well into the night before chatting about names and the other idle chit chat that goes along with the beginning stages of pregnancy.
That’s when we got the call.
I would need my bloodwork rechecked the following day at my OBGYN’s office. When my OB called, the conversation started with “I am so sorry…”
What?! You’re sorry about what???….
My HCG levels had dropped, and I was told if I hadn’t already, I was having a miscarriage.
“This is not a viable pregnancy.” What does that even mean? Simple translation: Your baby is dead. Now I get it, to some this seems dramatic- especially for someone who was probably only 6- 8 weeks pregnant. But my baby’s heart was beating. My baby was alive, and is now dead.
The few family members we had told have attempted to console us with the ever popular “something just wasn’t right”, or “your body just wasn’t ready”, or “everything happens for a reason”- and while I can appreciate all of that, it still means my baby is gone. And what makes me feel the worst, is that s/he was so tiny at such an early gestation…. I get a lump in my throat even just THINKING about typing this… that s/he probably got…. gulp….. flushed down the toilet.
I, for all intents and purposes, could have flushed my baby down the toilet.
This devastates me most of all.
But the biggest lesson I have learned from all of this, is that miscarriage is such a silent and lonely struggle. You don’t tell anyone because you don’t want people to think you’re just seeking pity, but then everyone around you is going on with their daily lives, talking about the night out with friend A, or their trip to the bar with friend B, and you were just told your baby is dead. And no one ever knew your baby even existed.
How do you get support? Who do you talk to? You’re certainly not going to go around asking ‘hey, have you had a miscarriage? I just did and I’m not sure what to do next’.
I have at least found the following links which have either brought some peace/support to me, or I feel could help others:
My Forever Child: Memorial Jewelry
We Were Gonna Have a Baby, but we Had an Angel Instead
Bethany’s Baby from Bethany’s blog
And I have found much needed solace in my husband, and in our Church. And tonight, as I rocked my baby A to sleep, I held her a little tighter, kissed her forehead a bit longer, drew in a deeper breath of her warm baby smell, waited for her own breathing to even, and then laid her down and watched…. and then did what I haven’t done in … well, I think my whole life… I prayed. I prayed to whoever this God is, that my other babies stay safe. And that I wanted to thank Him SO much for the blessings I DO have in my life. My two existing, healthy, happy babies… my wonderful husband.. my beautiful step daughter… my family…. my friends…
and then I asked Him, pretty please, if He could just take tonight, to rock my baby to sleep…
Thanks for Theresa for sharing, and don’t forget to check out her site at NurturingtheNaturalMama!
Wishes Week 2011~Wrapping it up & putting a bow on top!
Thank you to all of my awesome guests this week for Wishes Week 2011! You gave me a very special birthday gift I will never forget by sharing your wishes with me. Here’s a ((hug)) for each one of you! And now, the ‘wrap up’~
Glimpses My opening contribution to Wishes Week 2011~Glimpses of hope and healing
Meanderings by Rosemary Jones Gritty urban prose by one of my favorite writers…powerful!
My Parenting Wish: Through A Child’s Eyes A beautifully intimate look at compassionate parenting by The Hippie Housewife. Love this!
Birth Wishes Thank you to Becoming Crunchy for this powerful and heartfelt look at birthing options and empowering women…awesome!!!
I wish that I were the Mother that I play at the grocery store. Here is a quirky look at the realities of mommyhood by Jessica, author of Parenting Wild Things!
“What I Wish Every Mother Knew About Babies and Sleep” This wins the prize for most viewed post of the week from Adventures in Mommyhood over at Instinctual Mamas. This is a passionate, informative, and convicting article on meeting babies’ needs gently. Beautiful!
Mommy Wishes From one Mommy’s heart to yours~Mommy Wishes by The Mom: Informed
When God says ‘No’ ~ Wishes Week 2011
~My closing post for Wishes Week~
Thank you to everyone who joined me for Wishes Week 2011! Your comments and ‘presence’ (lol) were much appreciated!
When God says ‘No’ ~ Wishes Week 2011
I started this with the intention of updating ‘The List’ (below) from my miscarriage/stillbirth blog, which I was able to do, and then I was going to talk about the times God has said ‘No’ to me, the miscarriages, the stillbirth…but I can’t. I can’t go there right now. It’s still too fresh.
Samuel Robert Knost~Born into Heaven June 5, 2009
So, here, instead is this beautiful memorial butterfly, created by I Am A Mother To An Angel in memory of my stillborn son, Sammy. It links to my miscarriage/stillbirth blog. You can click on it and read about my journey through many, many losses. ‘The List’ is a part of my journey.
~The List~
I have a list of people I pray for every day, children, adults, even several babies, and they are all fighting for their lives. Some of them, a precious five year old little girl, and a sweet mom with breast cancer, and an infant with spinal cancer, lost their fight for life. My heart is broken for their hurting families. I can’t imagine what they must be going through. I don’t even want to try. Others are just starting their fight, like a seventeen-year-old boy, seemingly healthy and strong, who just went in last week for a routine sport’s physical…a mass was found…brain surgery followed quickly…pathology reports came back yesterday…cancer. Another is a friend waiting for a kidney transplant. And then there are is the newborn baby boy born with half a heart, the one-year-old who recently had a liver transplant, the four-year-old boy whose body is riddled with tumors, and so, so many more. My thoughts, prayers, and hopes are never far from these small people and their heroic families.
For my part, the struggles and losses these families are enduring press themselves deeply into my soul. I am in a constant battle with fear. I am all too familiar with how fragile life is and how suddenly life can change. I am filled with joy at the blessings God has given me, but my joy is often stolen by fear. My heart waits for the next bad thing to happen, always secretly wondering what will be taken from me next. I know God doesn’t want me to live that way. In First John 4:18 God says, “Perfect love casts out all fear.” Since God Himself is ‘Perfect Love’ He is saying that trusting Him is the key to overcoming fear. I know in my head that this is true, but it is my heart that keeps me awake in the darkness, locked in a battle with fear. God gives, and God does take away. I need to be at peace with that, trusting my Father’s perfect will. But I am afraid. I am so afraid.
I wish God never said ‘No’ when the whispered prayers of scared Mommies and Daddies reached His ears, when a child’s desperate prayers for a sick parent are sobbed in the night, when hearts and voices storm the gates of Heaven on behalf of a beloved friend. But He does say ‘No,’ and His ‘No’ is the right answer, even though I’ll never understand it this side of Heaven. I wish I could understand, though. I wish I could sit and talk and reason with God…but that is prayer, and so I will sit, and I will talk, and I will reason…and I will learn to trust. I will battle the fear and withstand the pain and cling to the Cross in the storm. And I will learn to trust. Or maybe I won’t, not fully. Maybe that is faith, not really trusting, not fully, because the heart is human, after all. Maybe faith is choosing to wait, to hold on, to struggle, never fully trusting, but always believing and always remembering that God even said ‘No’ to His own Son in the Garden of Gethsemane…and He did it for me.
Meanderings by Rosemary Jones
I wish there was someplace less than 30 miles away that could make me a good macchiato. But nooooo. Seattle is the only home of decent coffee. Not li’l ole Everett. I wish baristas wouldn’t ask “Like, a caramel macchiato?” when you order your drink.
I wish we could live in Seattle. The pawnshops, the boarded up pay-by-the-hour motels, the dirt of our surroundings wears on me at times. But then I see the dirt of Seattle, and know that there are hurting people and disease of the soul and ugliness everywhere and that the only utopia will be after this life. And then I come home and see the beauty of our culturally diverse neighborhood; projects yes, but a dozen countries represented, children tearing about in the nearby parks hollering at each other in a dozen different languages, and I know our multi-cultural-ministry hearts are planted here for a reason.
I wish Jesus were here in the flesh so I could ask Him a whole load of questions.
I wish my little section of heaven would include my CuteBoy best friend ever, a truly free spirit, texture and color and beauty yet unseen, somehow the perfect blend of a rich, heterogeneous urban dwelling with galleries and street musicians and food hawkers on one half and the other half an endless ocean, the waves crashing, the salty seaweed scent soothing, and the ability to switch between the sounds of the urban and the sounds of the sea at my will. I would wish for the assignment of food, food, food, glorious food. Heavenly food, access to anything
and everything, each era, each region, each culture on earth and in heaven represented on my menu; no burnt fingertips, no pots boiled over, no underdone bites. I’d serve a dozen courses to Esther and Vashti and Hagar and Jael and every other fierce woman in Biblical history. I’d serve them to my dear Ruthie, my Ugandan sister I wish to see this side of heaven. I’d serve them to my grandmother and my sister… the older sister I was supposed to have, who was taken to heaven too soon, I’d serve them to my babies I never got to hold. And of course Jesus in the flesh so I can ask Him a whole load of questions. We would eat and drink and talk and never grow full or tired or bored or annoyed because someone said something stupid.
But chances are, He’s laughing at my wishing imaginings of heaven ’cause His unknowable plans are a whole lot better. I wish I had a home big enough for all of these babies.
I wish for the day we take our family to that Great Horn, the source of the Nile, the land that holds the best food in the world to finally meet the rest of our babies I know God has for us.
I wish I saw children spoken to with the respect they deserve more often than I do.
I wish I knew how to say more than “Where’s the post office?” in Russian. That was an expensive class.
I wish Every Single Person would take the time to listen to this man’s story. Really Listen To It.
And while you’re at it, read this book too.
I used to wish for bigger breasts, critically eyeing my 12-year-old body, wishing for justthatmuchmore and now I wish for a flatter stomach, critically eyeing my 32-year-old momma body, wishing for justthatmuchless. Which my husband reminds me is absurd, it’s sexy because it’s an empty pocket where our daughter grew and how much more beautiful is that? I now wish my daughter will not be subjected to our culture’s obsession with physical perfection, and if necessary, has her own husband to remind her of her true beauty.
I wish I always knew what was going on in my BabyGirl’s head and how to translate her sweet babblings and raspberries into words I understand.
I wish I knew how to make a killer hollandaise sauce. And a sexy poached egg. And perfectly crisp hashbrowns. Then I would never have to go to another diner again.
I wish I could bottle the scent in the crook of my daughter’s neck. But it’s so much more than the scent… It’s the sensation of her hair grazing her earlobe and the tip of my nose, it’s her giggles when I kiss her, it’s the peace of breathing her in after she’s asleep. That’s what I wish I could bottle.
I wish Every Single Child was parented with intentionality, with grace, without violence, with the closest thing we can possibly achieve to the perfection of our Heavenly Father.
I wish every heart, including mine, would expand to defend and provide and rescue the orphan. That every heart would break for the things that break His.
Only I don’t have to wish. Because I serve a God who hears my prayers and does as He sees fit.
Which even though I don’t understand it, is usually better than my wishes anyway.
