To My Daughter on the Night Before Kindergarten

Dear Daughter,

Tomorrow is the big day. The day that just five and a half years ago I never dreamed would come so quickly. Tomorrow you will wake up, and we will begin a whole new chapter. A chapter I am so excited about, and yet so not ready for.  I know from your jitters, excitement, and tears over the last couple of weeks that you feel the same way. You, in all of your five and half year old wisdom, told me that you have "mixed feelings" about this whole kindergarten thing.  Me too, baby girl. Me too.

Tomorrow morning I will help you get ready, feed you breakfast, and put on that pretty new dress we picked out together. You will twirl and ask me if you look beautiful. And as you spin, I will see all of the beauty of the last 5 and a half years. Five years of stories, and cuddles, and firsts. First smile, first steps, first words. And then we'll walk to the bus stop together, and your little brother and I will watch as your tiny self takes a deep breath, drawing up all the braveness that slender little body can muster. You'll climb those tall steps until you are swallowed up in that big yellow bus.  We'll wave goodbye, and watch you ride off into the big, wide world.

I know you're ready. You're ready to spread your wings and test them out. You're going to do amazing things. You're smart, and funny, and witty, and so, so kind. I'm excited for the friends you will meet, and the ways that your light is going to shine.  I watched you closely just the other day at Kindergarten Orientation. I saw the apprehension on your face, wondering if you'd fit in, know what to say, know what to do. It was just for an hour, but you had to do it without me.  And then I saw you after you went on your very first school bus ride, just for practice, and you were beaming with joy. "That was AWESOME mom!!!" you told me with a grin on your face.

And part of me was happy it went so well. And part of me was sad. Because with every new step, you become a little bit more of your own person, and a little bit less mine. And that's good, and how it should be, but it's hard too.

Now, it's true, you won't be gone very long. Just a few hours in the morning, and then back home in time for lunch. But it isn't so much the hours that you're spending away that are making me emotional; it's that you're starting a brand new chapter of life, and there is no going back. It's like we're jumping on a train and it just keeps going faster and faster, no matter how much I try to slow it down. It's that I remember my very first day of kindergarten, and now here you are getting ready for yours. It's that it feels like I'm sending you off into the real world for the very first time, and I'm nervous, really nervous.

Though I try to push it away, my own self-doubt creeps in, just like yours is tonight. Have I done enough for you, baby girl? Have I hugged you enough? Kissed you enough? Let you know just how very, very special you are? Have I helped you develop your sense of self so that you can be brave when hard things happen? Because I know that starting now, as wonderful as this new chapter will be, hard things are going to happen too. Kids will be mean sometimes. People will misunderstand you. Or use you. Or ignore you. And I won't be right there, ready to defend you, to shield you, and protect you.  Have I done enough so that you will always know how wonderful you are? How your kindness, compassion, and sensitive spirit are exactly what this world needs? Have I fostered bravery in you? Have I made sure you know that I am always a safe place to land?

Because I am, my sweet girl. No matter how many eye rolls, and sassy words, and all the other ways in which you make your independence known to me, I am your safe landing place. No matter how hard it get sometimes, I hope you'll always feel that.

I'm praying you have the most wonderful day tomorrow. Praying you'll make some wonderful new friends, learn new things, and have more fun than you can imagine. I'm praying that as soon as you step off that big yellow bus, and back into my arms, that you'll be chattering away about your day because it went so well.

You're ready baby girl. So am I. Though tonight neither of us wanted to admit it. The great wide world awaits. And you're going to knock their socks off.

Love always,
Mommy

Black Lives DO matter

I hesitated for a long time to write this post. Lately, social media has been inundated with so much political "back and forth" over a host of issues, and I asked myself if I really wanted to enter into that kind of charged conversation, where, honestly, it seems most people are more interested in standing on a soap box than really listening to one another.

And then again, the world, the real world, is so much bigger than social media. And it seems like for many of us, myself included, reposting or retweeting a well articulated thought is easier than really doing something different in our real lives to further any kind of tangible change in our communities.

But the more I read the "back and forth" on a number of pages the more I feel like there are some things that need to be said.

I haven't posted anything, ever, on either the Black Lives Matter movement, or on the recent police shootings. There are a couple of reasons for that. First, I've been doing a lot of listening. Listening to both sides, trying to make sense of an issue that, frankly, feels so big and so wide and so deep that I cannot begin to really and truly understand the many layers and years of hurt, distrust, and mistreatment that has brought us to where we are today.

But, the other reason, is that it makes me uncomfortable to put my opinion out there in such a charged environment. It is a sure way of getting into heated debates, and little makes me as uncomfortable as a heated debate. Some people thrive on it, but I just end up sweating and wishing there was a giant rock to hide under. I think hidden under that is a fear of being wrong. Of others seeing flaws in my logic and honestly feeling afraid to change my own way of thinking.

I think we are seeing a lot of that lately. People who are afraid to listen, and to enter into this conversation in a meaningful way because of a fear of being wrong. Perhaps a fear of a history of wrongs. And if we just don't talk about those wrongs they don't really exist.

But they do exist.

And as I have sat in silence, listening, straining my ear to try and understand, there are a few things I think we, meaning white Christians, need to acknowledge.

1. Ignorance does not confer innocence. 

I am a white woman in a white world of privilege. I live, mostly in ignorance, of what the real struggles are that blacks, and other minorities face on daily basis. I do not know what it is like to live in a community that fears police, rather than trust them. I do not know what it is like to live in a community where a disproportionate number of sons and fathers are incarcerated. I have never, as far as I know consciously, seen racial profiling occur. I do not live in a neighborhood that is stuck in a cycle of poverty. Overall, I live in ignorance of these truths. But they are truths for millions of people. And my ignorance does not absolve me from doing nothing about it. My ignorance does not mean I have not in some way, even unconsciously, participated in it. My ignorance needs to change. I need to do more to understand these truths that others face every single day.

2. Agreeing that Black Lives Matter, does not mean that white lives don't matter. 
This is something I have heard more often than makes me comfortable, that somehow getting behind the idea that black lives matter is marginalizing whites.  I read something written by one of my favorite authors, Glennon Doyle Melton, and I honestly cannot think of a way to say it better than she does:

In Florida, panthers are endangered. So every so often I'll see a sign on the road that says: SAVE THE PANTHERS.
We also have dolphins in Florida. We love our dolphins as much as we love our panthers. But we don’t have SAVE THE DOLPHINS signs on the streets. Because in this moment in time: FEWER PEOPLE ARE SHOOTING OUR DOLPHINS.
So nobody stands next to the Save the Panthers signs yelling: WAIT! IF YOU WANT TO SAVE THE PANTHERS THAT MUST MEAN YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT DOLPHINS! WHAT ABOUT THE DOLPHINS???? ALL ANIMAL LIVES MATTER!
We don’t do that in Florida. Because we understand that since every life is equally precious- we must hold up endangered lives and demand that we FOCUS UP until they are safe and free. We understand and honor this simple concept when it comes to animals.
Then why don’t we understand Black Lives Matter?
Because we don't truly understand that black lives matter.

Now, we could get into a debate about statistics here. About how many people of each race are being shot and so on, and whether more whites are shot than blacks. But here's the thing, statistics are tricky and can be easily manipulated. What numerous studies, across the country, have shown, is that blacks are far more likely than whites to be the victims of force by police. And we need to pay attention to that. We need to do the hard work to change that. 

3. All lives matter to Jesus, but even he called out specific groups for us to love and protect in a special way. 
Jesus talked a lot about orphans and widows in his time on Earth. He talked about loving and protecting them as a way to show obedience to God. Why? Because in his culture they were the most marginalized and vulnerable people in society. They bore the brunt of poverty, abuse, and a system constructed against them. We still have those groups of people today. We can say as Christians that black lives matter without taking away from "all lives matter." As a matter of fact, by truly believing that black lives matter, we acknowledge that God is close to those who face oppression, and that to really bring His kingdom to earth we must do our part to end a system that is stacked against certain groups of people.

4. There is no perfect "movement." The actions of some members do not always imply the underlying beliefs of all members.
Claiming that we, as Christians, should not support Black Lives Matter because some people who have affiliated themselves with that movement  have engaged in violence, in my opinion, comes across as looking for an easy excuse to disregard the real issues at hand. I've heard people say that they are hesitant to show any support for BLM because of the recent violent events, and that they don't want to affiliate with an organization that might have a hint of evil.  However, that argument ignores the fact that by and large, there is no organization on the planet that has not been tainted by sin. Even Christian organizations. Sometimes especially Christian organizations, where we operate under a false sense of security that because we are with other Christians everyone must have the best of intentions. I've been reading posts by those who are not believers, and they are pointing out the hypocrisy. The instances of abuse within the Church, the history of oppression furthered by the Church itself. There is no perfect movement. There is no perfect way to deliver a message. People are hurting, and they are doing their best to make their voices heard in a society that is having a hard time listening.
There are thousands and thousands of people who are part of the Black Lives Matter movement. What this says to me is that there is something they are saying that is worth listening to. There is something they are saying that we, in white privilege, have not wanted to listen to, and so their cries grow louder. And yes, there have been actions by some who affiliate with that group that are unjust and without excuse. The killing of police officers is inexcusable and needs to be addressed within the movement. But the actions of those few do not excuse us from turning a deaf ear to the cries of those thousands of people.

5. We must be wary of rank and file Christianity. 
A friend of mine posted about her disappointment over how some visible Christian leaders have been mainly silent over the deaths of people like Treyvon Martin and Philando Castile, but were quick to vocalize support for the fallen police officers. She had some responses from Christians that were quick to defend the actions and words of those highly visible church leaders. Some even chastised her for calling them out. But there is something to what she is saying. We, as a church, cannot be silent about the deaths of those black men and yet cry from the rooftops about the deaths of the police officers. If our gut response to a critique of Christian leaders is to defend their actions without thinking through what their silence might look like to millions of people, we need to check ourselves. None of us is above reproach.

BOTH  instances of killing are tragic. They highlight a deep divide, a loss of trust, and an issue that will not go away until we start to make real changes.
We should not be first and foremost loyal to our Christian leaders. We first and foremost should be seeking truth and justice. And sometimes that will mean pointing out errors in our own Christian community. We should not be afraid of this kind of critique. It does not show our weakness, but rather our authenticity,  to acknowledge that our silence in response to the cries of the Black community are inexcusable.

6. We can support Black Lives Matter AND the police
Stating support for Black Lives Matter does NOT mean I condone the killings of those police officers. My heart breaks for those fallen officers and their families. I have seen many posts of people bringing cards, food, and personal thanks to their local precincts to show their support. I think this is a wonderful way to support our local officers. I even thought about doing this myself.
There are lots and lots of police officers and precincts that are doing things the right way. They are upholding honor and justice and seeking to build the trust in communities where trust has been broken. Those people deserve to have their efforts recognized.

However, I also wondered what I could do to show my support for the Black community, and that was a harder question to answer. In my world of white privilege, how can I reach out to the black communities grieving for their sons and brothers? How can I show my love for them? I honestly don't know the answer to that question, and it bothers me deeply that I do not.

7. We could all do a better job of listening. 
We've all be doing a lot of talking lately. A lot of fighting and finger pointing. But what has come of it? Have we changed anyone's mind? Or have we simply stayed inside our safe and comfortable boxes? Have we really listened to the hurt that exists in the black community? What I am writing comes after weeks of quiet thought. But that doesn't mean I have articulated everything perfectly or that I have come to all the right conclusions. But I am willing to keep listening. I am willing to look in the mirror and ask myself how I can do better. If I really want to be part of the solution, I need to be willing to change some things about my real life. I need to do more than post on social media. What does that look like? I honestly don't know. I live in a world of white privilege, and until I can step outside of that in some way, I don't know how to do my part to bring healing and justice to those who are hurting. I do know this, however: my answer cannot be silence.


I am sure I have not articulated everything perfectly. I am sure there are parts of this post that could be said better. I have a lot to learn. I know, for certain, that I need to listen more than speak. However, there is also a time for speaking out. There is so much work to be done, we must not turn a blind eye, or remain in our safe bubbles. We must be willing to admit culpability, racial bias, and the reality of white privilege.

I don't know if this post will just end up as part of the cacophony of social media. I'm not sure it matters. But it is a step. A step towards changing my way of thinking and way of living. In many ways, this post is far less important than what I will do after this post. The real proof of what I believe will be in how I live my life AFTER I share this post. I feel a bit blind, uncertain, and nervous. I have so much to learn. But it's time to step out of the safety of silence.

Due Dates and Dreams of What Might Have Been

Today is a summer day like any other. Warm, a little on the cloudy side. Too cold for the pool, but perfect for playing outside in between short rain showers. A completely ordinary day.

And yet, today, June 23rd, isn't totally ordinary to me. Today is the day I was due with Baby #3. Our surprise Disney baby. Our baby who was born in our hearts, instead of in our arms, in December.

I've been sort of dreading and looking forward to today. For some reason it feels like there is some finality in the date. There are no more milestones that "would have been." A strange mix of sadness and closure.

I planned a down day with the kids. I wasn't sure what emotions I'd be feeling today. We've just been home, playing in the basement, doing laundry, "normal" stuff. They don't know today has any significance to me.

I woke up at 5am today, feeling the strongest flutters I've felt during this current pregnancy. Up to this point I'd been feeling small bubbles, but nothing definitive. This morning Baby Boy was doing a dance so wild it woke me up. I think he knows what today is. He's reminding me of the hope ahead. And maybe his new little baby soul just came from the place where Baby #3 is right now, and he is reminding me that my baby in Heaven is close to me today.

I pushed away the thought of today's date for most of the day. Even when a friend sent me a message asking how I was, I didn't even mention what day it was. She knew, of course, but didn't make me talk about it.

Then, a few hours later, the doorbell rang. A man with a bouquet of roses stood at the door. "Jenny?" he asked. Yes, that's me. I wondered who in the world would be sending me flowers.

I opened the card. That same friend, the one who gently messaged me earlier, had sent me the flowers. Her note had a Bible verse and the words, "still praying for you and your angel baby."

I burst into tears. Abby and Josh looked at me like I had 3 heads.

I think sometimes that we assume that a woman who has had a miscarriage just "needs to get pregnant again" to be ok. That somehow all the pain of the loss will be erased if another baby is on the way.  I'm finding it doesn't quite work that way. Certainly being pregnant again has given me joy. But today is the day that I'm thinking about another baby I loved very much. 

All it took was someone to acknowledge what this day means. To validate me and my angel baby. I think I needed that permission to grieve today. I didn't quite grasp how close to the surface my grief was today until I read that card and the tears just wouldn't stop. And I realize now that a part of me will always grieve that loss.  And that's ok.  And these flowers in front of me were exactly what I needed. Permission to be sad today and to remember my angel.

My friend who sent the flowers had been due a week after me. Her baby was just born a couple weeks ago, earlier than expected. We became close when we both found out we were pregnant at the same time. And with each milestone, even after I lost my baby, she has been a rock for me. I went to hold her new baby last week. It was the strangest feeling, holding this little life, created at almost the exact same time as the baby that I lost. He is beautiful, absolutely perfect. And holding him, I thought about what might have been. I thought about how I expected to be holding my own baby right now, this summer.  And yet, as I held him I looked down at my growing belly,  and I had a sense of peace.  Peace that my baby is in Heaven, and we will meet again. And peace that this Baby Boy inside of me is part of my healing process. Peace that there is meaning behind my loss, value in the life gone too soon, and hope for joy ahead.

June 23rd. A day that will always be my "what might have been."

Thank you, my dear friend, for acknowledging me and Baby #3 today. And for reminding me that it is ok to grieve, even in the midst of the joy filled news of a new baby on the way.

Trusting God: Rainbows and Storms

It's been a few months since I blogged. There are a couple of reasons for my silence. First, I've just been living. In my last blog post I talked about grief, and how I was walking through grief in my own time. Something about that post set me free. I no longer felt like I had to pretend everything was fine, and instead could just be myself. Once that happened, I felt a burden lifted from me, and I began to see with new eyes, and my heart began to heal. I saw how much the Lord had done in me and through me because of my loss, and I felt a renewed sense of trust in His plan.

The second reason for my break from blogging is one that I have been waiting to share with you. In early April, just after my last blog post, I found out that Ben and I are expecting again. Our baby is due in early December, and if you've known me for any length of time, you probably will find that hysterical. Abby's birthday and my mom's birthday are both in December, about a week before Christmas. December in our house is a crazy time of year. Birthday parties, family gatherings, Christmas, end of year insanity. Not to mention a cold month to have a baby. I have sworn since Abby's birth that I would never, ever, have another December baby. That's why Josh was born in April ;)

But, I should have known. "Many are the plans in a man's heart, but it is the Lord's purpose that prevails," Proverbs 19:21 tells us. In other words, good luck trying to tell God how it's going to be. And so here I am, expecting a new life in December.

They call a baby after loss a "rainbow baby." The rainbow, we know, is a symbol of hope and peace after a storm. This new baby, though it does not replace the one we lost, reminds us of the miracle of life and of hope for our future. I had hoped we would conceive again quickly, and every month that passed when I hadn't felt like a thousand months. I prayed hard, and the Lord said to me, "Do you trust me?" It wasn't until late March, when I finally relinquished my pain, and said, "God, however long this takes, whatever the plan, I trust You." It was just a few days after I prayed that that I found out we were pregnant again.

This pregnancy though, has been unlike any other I've ever experienced. With my first two babies, I can honestly say I took the entire experience for granted. Though I had small worries whether or not everything would be ok, I was blissfully unaware of the reality of loss, or of any serious problems with the baby. I would look forward to every ultrasound and appointment, excited to see the baby and hear the heartbeat.

This time, I know loss. I know the pain and heartache that follows the loss of a baby. Instead of joy and anticipation, all I felt for those first few weeks was dread. Dread that the worst would happen again. Dread that I'd have to go through miscarriage all over again. I told myself not to really believe I was pregnant until we saw the heartbeat. I remember calling my parents to share our news, and realizing in that moment that I wasn't telling them because I was excited. I was telling them so that they would know in case the worst happened again.

People around me that I shared the news with encouraged me to think positive. To hope for the best and realize the risks of another loss were microscopically small. It didn't help. You see, I already know that the worst case scenario can happen, and sometimes does. And it had already happened to me. So talking in terms of "risk" means little, because I was already in that small percentage, and now it is forever a part of me.

You see, once you lose a baby, you realize that sometimes really bad things happen. Sometimes you're that person in the 1% who gets the very worst news. It doesn't matter how good you are, kind you are, honest you are. The rain falls on both the righteous and the unrighteous. And life since my miscarriage has been learning how to live with the knowledge that there are no guarantees. Most of us can say we know that, but until you have lived it, you don't really know it.

I wanted to blog about the pregnancy right away, because I'd been so open about our loss. And because the anxiety that I was fighting every single day felt crushing at times. Almost as crushing as my grief. I am not one of those who necessarily subscribes to the "wait 12 weeks" mentality. For me, a baby is a baby, at 4 weeks or 12 weeks.

However, there is one little person in my life dearer to me than anyone in the world, and I wanted to protect her heart. My sweet 5 year old daughter had a hard time with our last loss, and I simply couldn't put her through that again until we had some assurance that things would be ok this time. So I made the decision to keep our pregnancy quiet until I had been through a few ultrasounds.

We had our first ultrasound at 6 weeks. The doctor let me come in early because she too has suffered miscarriage, and understood my anxiety. It was one of the hardest mornings of my life. I was reliving in vivid detail the last time, when she searched and searched, in vain, for a heartbeat.

This time, I went in prepared to hear the worst.

But this time, the worst didn't happen.

It didn't take long for the "whoosh whoosh whoosh" of the heartbeat to come loud through the speaker, and to see the flickering heart on the screen.

Our baby was alive. And growing well.

In that second, I felt relief. But it didn't last long. Ben seemed so happy, and all I felt was scared. Scared that now that I had seen a heartbeat, if we ended up losing this one, that I would really be undone. I couldn't even give myself 5 minutes to take in the happy news. We had told those close to us about our appointment, and the texts came in one after another. "Is everything good?" "Did you see a heartbeat?" I answered them all with pretended joy. "Yes! Baby looked great! Heartbeat was good!" Most said, "You must be so relieved!"  I wish that was what I had felt.

Every single day of this pregnancy has been a wrestling match. My fears of loss want to steal my joy and hope. I want to believe that things will be good, and yet I'm so afraid of another loss. And the Lord keeps whispering, "Do you trust me?"

We had another ultrasound at 10 weeks. And again, I was a nervous wreck leading up to it. But again, the worst did not happen. I felt the Lord say, "Be strong and courageous. I am with you." The baby looked great and had a strong heartbeat. The doctor told us we were now in the "safe zone." 

We went home that day and told Abby and Josh. Josh, being three, lifted up my shirt to "see" the baby, and seeing nothing, walked away, disappointed. But Abby, our baby-loving 5 year old was speechless with joy. She was so happy she almost cried. "A good seed Mommy!!!! It's really a good seed this time!!!!"

After that ultrasound, we made an appointment with the perinatal center. They handle all high risk pregnancies, as well as genetic screening. Since I have some medical conditions that require medication, and a history of preeclampsia, they wanted to see me at 13 weeks to establish that my arteries and blood vessels leading to the baby were working well. Since I had to go in for that anyway, they also took all the measurements that they would take if I had opted for early genetic screening.

With both Abby and Josh, I opted out of any genetic testing. I believe that any prenatal testing is completely a personal choice, and with the last two, I felt that as long as I was monitored with ultrasound, I didn't need additional screening. The screening tests for chromosomal abnormalities like Down Syndrome, and a few Trisomy syndromes that can cause potentially severe birth defects. I have friends who felt that they wanted to know as much as possible ahead of time to be prepared, so they opted in for the screening.

Today was my 13 week appointment. Again, I was a nervous wreck. Would the heartbeat still be there? Was the baby still alive? Those were the thoughts running through my mind this morning.

We went in for our ultrasound and the tech started working on all the measurements. Right away I saw the baby moving, and knew it was alive. In fact, it was putting on quite a show today, standing on it's head, doing flips, turning away from the probe and making it hard to get measurements! For the first time in this pregnancy, I allowed myself to believe that this baby would be ok, and the tears began to come.

Part of the ultrasound at 13 weeks measures something called "nuchal translucency." It is the amount of fluid behind the baby's neck. They use this measurement to help determine risk for chromosomal abnormalities. When you are above the "normal" threshold of fluid, the risk for the baby increases. I noticed the tech taking a lot of those measurements, but not making any comments about them. I've become very good at reading the facial expressions of people taking ultrasounds. I knew something was off.

The doctor came in and introduced himself, and said he was going to take a few measurements of his own. The baby was uncooperative and sick of having pictures taken, so he had to go off of the first tech's measurements. He explained that the fluid behind the neck was above the threshold of "normal," which meant we were at a higher risk of a chromosomal abnormality.

Time stopped. I felt like my heart stopped too. 

I hadn't anticipated this. I had been so worried about a heartbeat that I never considered something else could be wrong.

The doctor started to talk about elevated risk of Down Syndrome, and the options for further testing. My world started to spin. I took a deep breath, and in that moment, I heard the familiar voice of the Holy Spirit. "Do you trust me?"

I listened to a sermon this Sunday on Pslam 139. The pastor said in that sermon, "What you fear the most, is the area in which you trust God the least."

"Do you trust me?"

I thought about what I'd been through in these last 6 months. The pain, grief, and loss, but also the healing, grace, and joy of bringing comfort to others. And as the doctor talked, I had my own conversation with the Lord.

"Lord, I trust you. No matter what happens, I trust you."

And I do. And trusting Him doesn't mean I trust that all will be 100% perfect, or easy, or what I imagined it to be. It means I know He has given me this child. He has chosen this child especially for Ben and I. He has chosen us to be this baby's parents. No matter what.

After talking through everything with the doctor, we have opted for some non invasive DNA testing. It will give us within 90% accuracy an answer as to whether or not our baby has Down Syndrome. That way, if it does, the doctors will be able to keep a closer eye on the baby as it develops. We will get the results in a week or two.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared. I think it's really just the unknown that scares me more than anything else.  But I am also joyful. Joyful that I saw a baby wriggling around on that screen today, waving and dancing and alive. My rainbow. Even though right now it still feels a bit like it's raining.

I do not know what tomorrow holds. But I know Who holds tomorrow. And I know He is the author of life. He gives, and takes away. He heals, comforts, and draws us in to himself.

The last time I was pregnant, I took pictures of the kids holding signs announcing the pregnancy. I never got to share those pictures. I've also learned in the months since my loss that those kinds of announcements can sometimes bring pain to people who have recently lost a baby, or who have been trying for a baby and haven't been able to conceive. I have learned a lot about compassion since my miscarriage.

I do want to share an announcement picture, because this baby is my rainbow. And I want to celebrate this little life. However, I want to be sensitive to those who may feel pain in seeing an announcement. I may not know who you are, but I want you to know, you matter, and your pain is seen. I pray that God meets you exactly where you need Him. Just as I pray that He meets me in this moment of anxiety and mixed emotions.

I thought about waiting until we had our test results to share our announcement. But, this baby is a gift and a miracle no matter what those test results show us.

Lord, I trust you. Imperfectly and sometimes only minute by minute, but I trust you.

So here is our joyful news:

Dwelling in Grief

Well, I have returned from my Facebook hiatus. It was a good one. I felt the load on my shoulders get a little lighter. Maybe because I didn't feel the pressure to post pictures of my happy kids and pretend like everything is totally fixed and normal and good again.

I took the break because, on a really dark day I was having, I counted at least four pregnancy announcements in my Facebook feed and I have to be honest, it sent me to the edge of my sanity.

I told the Lord, "I just can't take this anymore! No more announcements! No more ultrasound pictures! I am logging off!"

I felt so wise in my decision. I thought to myself, "I have the solution to my problem! If all these announcements are causing me pain, then I just need to look away."

So I started out on my month of healing.

And guess what happened?

My brother in law and his wife told me they are expecting.  And then a close friend, who has walked a very similar path of loss told me she was expecting. And then another person close to me told me she was pregnant too.

The Lord never lets you walk away from what He is trying to do in your heart. 

With each announcement I shed tears, and asked God, "Why? Why did I have to lose my baby? Why do all of these people get to be happy, while I am stuck in this place?"

And yet, I love each and every one of these people who shared their happy news with me. I want to be happy for them. A part of me is happy for them.

But an equally big part is just hurting.

When I hear these announcements, it just brings me right back to the day I lost my baby. A day filled with so much hope for our first ultrasound, and then that moment of greatest loss. And I see and hear the excitement in these women, and I want to share it, but I feel like a piece of my heart has been lost, and it aches.

I feel a lot of pressure to move on. To put away the grief. To shove the sadness back inside.

I wrote a piece about my miscarriage and it was published a few days ago by MOPS International (an international mom's group). It helped me feel like I was reaching other women, like there was a purpose behind my loss.

After it was published I received a message from a family friend. She said she was sorry for my loss, and was praying for me. And then she gave me the advice to focus on what blessings I have, and not dwell on what I lost.

Not dwell on what I lost.

Those words took me aback. Is that what I am doing? Dwelling on my loss?

She meant well, but the words cut me to the quick. 

I've come to understand some things about grief in the last three months. In our society, grief is accepted for a time. And then, when people have determined that you have grieved long enough, they expect you to move on. My mom calls it "the microwave society." Push the button, zap it, and it's done.  People are understanding for a while, but then it's time to zap it and be done.

This is the thing about grief though:  it takes as long as it takes.

I decided to look up the word "dwell."  It means to linger over, to live, to reside.

And you know what I realized? I am dwelling on my loss. I am lingering over my lost child. I am residing in hurt.

But it's not because I choose to dwell on it.

It's because I am still grieving. And every single day, whether I want to or not, I think about what I lost.

Oh, if only you could understand how badly I want to move on, to dwell somewhere else.

I spent the month of February trying to be as intentional as I could being thankful for what I have. I spent my days playing Candyland with Abby, closing my eyes to listen as she giggled when I drew a bad card and had to start over again. I'd grab my little boy while he ran naked through the house, just to squeeze him, breathe in his baby smell and look deeply into his blue eyes. I'd sit on the floor and stroke my puppy's fur, feeling her warmth under my hand. I'd remind myself to be thankful, to experience joy.

But it's still there. The missing piece of my heart. I feel it. It whispers to me even in my joy,  of what might have been and what is not.

The weather is warming up. My baby was due June 23rd. As we approach spring, I can't help but think about what the summer was going to look like. How different this summer is going to be now.

You see... I am dwelling in grief. Not by choice. But because I have suffered a great loss.

If you only knew how many times I have confessed to good friends, "I am tired of being sad." I mean it. I am tired of grief. I wish it would go away.

But that's not how grief works. Our society tells us that it works that way. It tells us that if we grieve for too long that there is something wrong with us. It tells us that sadness is something to run from.

Well, I tried to run from it. For a whole month. But it found me anyway.  Because, for now, I dwell there.


And, I have learned, that no matter how hard I run, no matter how tightly I close my eyes, no matter how much I try to block it out, I cannot escape my grief.

So, now, instead of running away, I am trying to learn how to dwell in grief. What can I learn in this place? About myself? About the world? How can I reach outside of my own grief to extend a hand to someone else?

For starters, I'm going to speak up and say this: Yes, I am still grieving. And this grief is going to take as long as it takes, and there is nothing wrong with that. There is no ticking clock on grief. Grief doesn't mean you are sad every minute of the day, but it does mean you carry a deep wound.
And let me say this too... you can be grateful for your blessings and at the same time be in pain. You can have hope for the future and still be grieving now. Grief is not an indicator of a lack of faith. Grief is not an indicator of ungratefulness. Grief is an indicator of a love deeply felt and now deeply missed.

When my article was published on my miscarriage, I went onto the site and read every single comment that someone left after reading it. I cannot tell you how many people said, "This is what so many have experienced and felt.  Thank you for sharing."

Miscarriage is a taboo subject. So is grief. I'm not going to stop talking about either one. I can't. Because for now, I dwell there. And I am learning to embrace that, to live with my grief, to try and make something beautiful out of it. Because I can't run from it, hide from it, or wish it away. Just love me in this place, and know, as I do, that it won't last forever. But it will take as long as it takes.

Dear Facebook: It's Not You, It's Me

Dear Facebook,

We need to talk. I know, no one ever wants to hear those words. But, we've been spending way too much time together lately. Way too much time. I'm sorry. I just need some space to clear my head. I've been going through some rough stuff, and you just keep bringing up painful things I don't want to think about.  I think it's time we go on a break.  It's not you. It's me.  I hope we can still be friends down the road.

Love,
Me

Ok, I'm kidding. Sort of. The past few months have been pretty rocky. My miscarriage shook me way more than I wanted to admit to anyone.

I hate being sad.  I just want to get over it. I plaster on a smile, joke with friends, play with my kids. I obsess over having another baby. But it's still there, the loss, hanging out right over my shoulder.  Tomorrow it will be 2 months since my miscarriage and some days I feel like I have moved 10 steps forward, and other days I feel stuck in the same old place. Milestones pop up when I least expect them. This week, for example, would have been the week we found out if we were having a boy or a girl. I've spent every morning this week sobbing in the shower.

 I just don't want to feel sad anymore. But I've been learning that there are no shortcuts to grief and loss. As much as I wish there was a shortcut, sometimes we just have to walk that road until we reach the end of it. I've been doing my best to keep it together and bottled up, but some days it just spills right out. It finally took a good friend saying point blank, "Jenny, you lost your baby. That's not something you just get over." She's right. You don't get over it. You walk forward, but you don't get over it.

Being a stay at home mom, I am alone a lot of the day. I'm with my kids, of course, but there's not a lot of peer to peer interaction going on. I mean, I can only talk about the most recent episode of Bubble Guppies so many times before I feel like my head is about to explode into a billion pieces.

So it makes sense that I'd be on Facebook a decent amount. There are some days where Ben is working till late at night that literally the only interaction with other adults that I get is through Facebook. I can post about the crazy parts of my day, like the time Josh threw chili all over the dining room, not once, but twice, in the span of 5 minutes. I was home alone at the time, and could not believe what he had done. I posted the insanity to Facebook, and when people commented on it, I felt like I was not so alone in the craziness of motherhood. 

I've heard that back in the day, people lived closer to one another in tightly knit communities. Moms shared the responsibility of raising kids closely with family and neighbors. I don't know when that day was, but it definitely seems different today. People are busy with their own stuff, me included. So that's where Facebook comes in. It's like a pseudo-community. We post pictures, celebrate success, and sometimes share needs too.  I remember posting that I needed clothes for Josh once, and within 3 hours I had multiple bags of clothes dropped off at my door for him. There's a lot of good that social media can do.

But there's a dark side to the social media too, that a lot of people don't want to talk about. In fact, there is more and more research being done about the negative effects it can have on our lives. This research has actually linked higher episodes of depression to people who frequently use social media. The reason? Social comparison. It's the phenomenon that happens when we look at other people's lives and compare them to our own. The more we compare, the worse we feel.

It's not a new thing. In fact, there's a good reason why the 10th commandment is "thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife." Whether you're pining for your neighbor's wife, or maybe just his life in general, comparison never does anybody any good.

Comparison is a happiness killer. It doesn't matter whether you come out on top or not in the comparison game, someone is always on the losing end.

And, if we're honest, there is a lot about Facebook that is one big comparison game. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't think there is any reason why we should not share our joy and successes on Facebook.  Genuinely celebrating one another is as close to godliness as it gets.

But, how many of us tailor our posts to paint the most perfect picture of our lives? Our kids smiling angelically, us wearing our "skinniest" outfit, pictures of our "perfect' marriage.

A lot of times, it's just an image. An image carefully crafted and presented to the world.

Because, come on, who wants to look like a hot mess in front of everyone? Not me, that's for sure.

But guess what? For the last 2 months, I have been a hot mess. Oh yes, I might post like I have  my crap together, but I don't.

So, this is why I'm breaking up with Facebook. At least for the month of February. A month to reset.
Why? Because ever since I lost my baby a whole lot of other wonderful ladies have gotten the joyful news that they are expecting a baby. Most of the ones sharing lately are due within just a few weeks of when I was due.

And I have to get real with you now: when I see an ultrasound picture, or a cute picture of siblings sharing that they are getting a new baby, my heart breaks just a little bit more.

Don't get me wrong. There is nothing wrong with posting joyful news. Part of me rejoices with those friends. I am truly and sincerely happy for them. In all honesty, I hope I have a post like that to share someday soon.

But for now, seeing those posts over and over again isn't helping me heal my own broken heart. And after clicking "unfollow" more times than I can count in the last few weeks to try and hide those kinds of posts, they still keep showing up.  And I find myself comparing my situation to theirs. "Why me? Why did this happen? Why do they get to have so much joy while I deal with all this pain?"

So it's time to stop pretending that everything is fine. And it's time to stop putting myself in a position to play the comparison game.  Like my friend Michelle reminded me, "Jenny you just lost your baby. You don't just get over that."

She's right. I'm not over it. And comparing myself to others is only making my grief more painful.

Maybe you have been there before. I've heard that what you want the most is what you notice others having more than anything else. Like how if you want to get married you constantly are bombarded with posts sharing engagement stories. Or if all you want is a bigger house, you notice all your friends who have bigger and better homes than you. Or me, I keep noticing all the babies.

Comparison. It's a soul killer.

So I'm doing the only thing that I know how to do. I'm taking myself out of the comparison game for a while. My goal is to refocus, live in the moment, and be more content.

God has a plan for my life. What it is, I don't always understand. Or trust. Or like. But it's there. And I believe it is a good plan. It's no one else's plan. Just mine. But if I keep comparing it to His plan for somebody else, I'm never going to be happy.

So, Facebook, we're going on a break. Don't take it too personal. It's not you, it's me. And when I'm ready, I'll be back.

Miscarriage: One Month Later

It's been one month since my miscarriage. In some ways, its been the longest month of my life. In other ways, I can hardly believe it's already been a whole month since it happened.

A lot of people have been asking how I am doing. It's a hard question to answer because the answer is a fluid one. It changes weekly, daily, sometimes hourly. I'm doing ok, but I'm grieving.

I think one of the hardest parts about miscarriage is that after it happens, nothing changes.  My life after the miscarriage looks exactly like it did before it happened. I'm a mom to two kids. I take care of them all day. Ben goes to work. He comes home. We argue about housework. We say "I love you." We laugh at the kids. We eat dinner as a family. I yell at the dog.

Nothing is different.

Except it is.  I'm carrying around a wound that no one can see. It's a wound that runs into the deepest part of my soul and yet remains buried under my smile.

Grief.

It's an isolating experience, grief. It's like a broken arm, but there is no visible cast for people to recognize and extend empathy towards.

A few days after the miscarriage, I decided I needed a break from being home. I wanted to get out and breathe fresh air, and do something "normal."  So I took Abby Christmas shopping with me. I did pretty well in the store. Even when we walked past the baby clothes, and she asked if we could get something for our next baby, and I had to gently remind her that the "next baby" isn't happening for a while, I kept it together. I was feeling like, "Ok, maybe I'm going to handle this thing."

And then, all the sudden, we were in the checkout line. I was paying for Ben's gifts, and the woman at the cash register was making pleasantries with me, chatting about the busy holiday season. And I was looking at her, and I was suddenly thinking "I don't care about anything you are saying. None of this matters. I wish you knew how sad I am." Tears, out of nowhere, began to well up and I desperately wanted to blurt out "I just had a miscarriage" to this woman I've never met. I wanted to say, "I'm grieving. This is so hard." I had to bite my tongue and force myself to take some deep breaths. Thankfully, for both our sakes, I didn't say it. I can only imagine how awkward that would have been.

But that's the thing about grief. It isn't constant or predictable. It comes in waves. Sometimes small ripples, sometimes giant tsumanis that threaten to crush you on the spot. You never know when they're coming. One minute you're buying your husband some sweatpants. The next you want to hug a Kohl's cashier and cry your eyes out. There's no pattern to it, and there's no choice but to ride whatever wave comes next.

I've read that there are 5 stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I have grieved a lot in the past year. More than I would have liked. And I can say I think calling it "stages of grief" is entirely misleading. To me, the word "stages" suggests that we somehow move through them in a forward motion. Like you move from denial, to anger, and eventually acceptance, leaving the other stages behind you as move onto the next one.

Grief is not like that. Grief is more like a huge ball of tangled threads. You start to untangle one knot, only to discover that it doesn't lead anywhere, so you begin to work on another knot, not knowing if you're making any progress at all, and at the end of the night, you might have a slightly less tangled mess, but it isn't fixed. 

I'm a slightly less tangled mess than I was a month ago. 

I've learned a lot, though, about miscarriage.

I've learned that miscarriage is not so much an event, as it is a process. Yes, your pregnancy ends quickly, whether through a natural miscarriage or through a D&C. But the process of becoming un-pregnant takes a whole lot longer than that. Even after I lost the baby, I couldn't fit into any of my pre-pregnancy pants. I was already in maternity clothes by the time I miscarried. I found myself digging through my drawers to try and find the pants I wore after the births of my other two children. The "in between" pants. Only this time, I had nothing to show for the pounds I'd gained. And every time I tried, prematurely, to squeeze into my regular pre-pregnancy jeans, I was reminded of what I no longer had.

Becoming un-pregnant is whiplash for your mind. You go from avoiding alcohol, avoiding sushi, taking prenatal vitamins, to waking up the next day and the rules are out the window. You can do anything you want. Except you don't want to do any of them. Because you'd rather still be pregnant.  My dear friend came to visit just before Christmas, and she took me out to dinner. And we ordered champagne. And the waitress asked me, "What are you celebrating?" I stared up at her. Speechless. My friend quickly jumped in with some vague answer. But there I was. Looking at the waitress. Thinking, "I'm not celebrating. I'm grieving." 

I've learned that grief is complicated. Sometimes it looks like celebrating. I've been celebrating a lot lately. Celebrating what I do have, so that I don't drown in the grief of what I don't have. Every morning, for a couple weeks after the miscarriage, I'd make coffee, put on Christmas music, and the kids would put on wild dance parties for me. They'd sing, make up words, dance around, make me laugh. And I soaked it up. And I joined them. Laughing and twirling with my beautiful babies. Their joy being my joy when I couldn't find mine. Celebrating them. Wishing I still had my third baby inside me as I danced. Grieving. All mixed up at the same time. 

I've learned that I am not alone in this experience. Did you know that 1 out of 4 women has had a miscarriage? Think of the 4 women closest to you in your life. I'll bet one of them has lost a baby. I'll bet even if you don't think any of them has lost a baby, it's likely that the one of them who has just keeps it closer to her heart, and hasn't told others about her loss. After I posted my blog last month, I can't begin to tell you how many private messages I received from other women.  Messages saying, "I don't share this with many people, but I've lost a baby too."

Messages not filled with advice. Or pat answers. Or false hope. Or perfect responses. Just messages saying, "Me too." 

"Me too." Two of the most powerful words in the English language. Simple words, and yet more powerful in bringing me healing than any other. Me too. It means "I know your pain." It means "There is hope for tomorrow." It means "I can't fix it, but I am here."  

The day I took Abby Christmas shopping, my grandmother called me while I was walking to my car. I hadn't been answering the phone for anyone for a few days. But when I saw it was my grandma, I decided to take the call. My grandma is one of the toughest women you'll ever meet. Mother of four, head nurse at a hospital, lived through the Great Depression. Even in her seventies she'd hike miles away, cut down her own Christmas tree from the field, and drag it back to her house single handledly. She never wastes, or minces, words. When she talks, it's because she really means what she's saying. 

So I answered the phone. She said that my mom had told her about my loss, and then she began to tell me a story I'd never heard before. She told me that many years ago, she also lost her third baby. Just like me, the first three months had gone just fine. Until suddenly, she went to the doctor, and things weren't fine anymore. "Just one of those things," the doctor told her. She said it was hard. And then she told me something remarkable.  She said, "It was hard. But I waited on the Lord. And after I waited a while, patiently, He rewarded me with another baby. And that baby was your mother." 

"Me too."

My grandmother lost a baby, and then became pregnant with another. And that baby was my mother. And had she not lost that baby, she perhaps would not have had my mom. And then perhaps you would not be reading this blog.

I've learned that God is working out this situation. Just as he worked out my grandma's. He is working it out in me, though it is a painful process. 

I have happy moments. Happy days. I have incredibly sad moments. Sad days.  I've connected with old friends, and new friends, because we this share experience, who walk with me through all of those moments. 

I'm doing ok. I don't know what tomorrow holds, but I know what I have today. And for now, that's enough. 

And if you are walking through this now, or you might walk through this one day, I want you to know something. 

Me too. I am here. I'm with you. And I know your pain. 

His mercies are new every morning.