Gratitude in the midst of chaos

Today was just one of those days. It was hot. Too hot. Something about the summer heat brings out the worst in my family. My six year old, Abby,  and four year old, Josh, were at each other's throats all morning. Abby, upon waking up, looked at Josh "the wrong way" as they sat down to the breakfast table. So, naturally, in an act of swift justice Josh stole Abby's bagel and fed it to the dog. I came downstairs to find the two of them locked in some kind of wrestling death grip screaming into each other's faces. Sighing, I looked at the clock. 7:15am.

Lord, help me.

Summer vacation is wonderful and horrible all at the same time. The freedom to stay in our pajamas as long as we want without the pressure to look presentable at the bus stop is liberating. The fluidity of our schedule: pool one day, play date the next, is a welcome change from the rigidity of the school year. And yet, the sudden lack of structure lends itself to boredom, and the intense "togetherness" has us all out of sorts as we adjust.


This summer is also much different than last because now we have a baby in the family. Caleb is almost 7 months old, and throws a delightful monkey wrench into the summer schedule. Last year, when Abby and Josh were ready to kill each other I just packed them up and headed off to the pool or Chick-Fil-A or anywhere except home.  Now, we have nap times and diapers and breastfeeding and summer heat to worry about, and zipping off somewhere seems a lot more complicated than it did last year.

Adjusting to having a third child has been more challenging than I anticipated. Perhaps because I feel pressure to meet the needs of three tiny, screaming humans simultaneously on a daily basis. Perhaps because Abby and Josh are so much older than the baby and have an entirely different set of wants and needs. Perhaps because I'm still running on a deficit of sleep that no amount of coffee can offset. I would be lying if I didn't admit that it is a stressful season of life. I can often be found yelling, stomping my feet like a toddler, or locked in a bathroom for a few minutes of deep breathing.

And yet, in the midst of the chaos and my often less than stellar mom moments, there is an underlying gratitude that permeates throughout my life and gives this difficult season of life a particular sense of sweetness.  

Not a day goes by that I don't remember how exceedingly blessed I am. 

Chatting with a friend this week, she reminded me of what was happening in my life at this same time a year ago.  I had just gotten my first trimester   screening done. I was thirteen weeks pregnant and the doctors had found some abnormal fluid levels on our baby's neck and advised us to do further DNA testing. Today, right now, one year ago, I was in the middle of the worst, most stressful two week wait of my life. Having just been through the grief of a miscarriage, to hear that something might be wrong with our rainbow baby was a crushing weight. I cried every single day of those two weeks, afraid that we would hear the worst. I will never forget when the results came back and I finally heard the words, "everything looks good."

Can I just tell you how deeply thankful I am for my baby boy? Oh, the chaos adding another child to our family has brought. It has been such an adjustment. And yet, when I look at him, now even seven months later, I can't tell you how many times my eyes fill with tears at the utter gratitude I feel that I was entrusted with this little soul.

Tonight, I had the rare chance to put him to bed without anyone else at home. Ben had taken the older two to Abby's softball game. I took the opportunity to finally hang Caleb's newborn pictures up in his nursery. In the chaos of my daily life I have little opportunity, let alone two free hands to hang pictures on the wall.

I had chosen two of my favorite pictures for his nursery, and for the last seven months those two places have remained patiently blank on his walls, just waiting to make his room complete. So tonight we headed up to his room and I laid him down on his back to wiggle around while I hung the pictures. He promptly flipped over to his belly, and pushing up on his hands, proceeded to do some kind of caterpillar wriggle to grab a toy in front of him. Crawling is just around the corner.

As I looked at the pictures I couldn't help but feel a little sad that he is no longer so tiny, and that the last seven months have passed by so quickly. All those wishes made in the middle of the night for him to hurry up and grow are being granted. Can I take them back?

I stepped back after I hung the final picture, and looked around at his nursery, finally complete. Each picture, shelf, decoration chosen especially for him.  And the gratitude washed over me. One year ago I feared the worst. Eighteen months ago I lost the baby before him. But tonight,  I finished the nursery for my sweet, happy, perfectly healthy little boy.

Today was rough. Abby and Josh fought all. day. long. Caleb has some weird cradle cap thing going on and his head is itchy and he's really cranky and entirely opposed to napping. Sensing my weakness today, the dog decided to steal dirt out of my houseplants and trail it all over the floor in a muddy, half chewed mess. I burned most of dinner on the grill when something caught fire and flames shot up over my head. Not my best performance. 

And yet, gratitude. It keeps everything in perspective. There's  something about the milestones of loss and of close calls that reminds me to take a deep breath and practice gratitude.  I thought back over all I've been through in the last eighteen months, and suddenly, the half burned dinner I was standing over paled in comparison. 

If we let it, loss can make us better people. Not perfect, but better.

 Loss.  It's painful and awful and terrible, and yet, as I continue to heal and step forward out of the darkness of grief, I find that the world looks different than it used to.  I'm more present, more reflective. Colors are brighter, emotions run deeper, and I hang onto the moments of joy with clenched fists, willing them to stay a little longer. I'm grateful for all of the messiness and chaos and laughter.

Gratitude. It changes everything.

Tonight, as I put  Caleb to bed in his now finished nursery, I didn't rush to leave. I lingered over his crib, watching him sleep peacefully, his chest slowly rising and falling with every breath. And I marveled at what a miracle he is.  He is the fulfillment of a promise of restoration that God made to me shortly after I lost my angel baby. Caleb brings a joy, and laughter, and sweetness to my life that I have never known in such intensity.

This season of mothering isn't easy, or simple, or perfect. But I couldn't be more thankful for every single second. And the gratitude makes days like these bearable, and even poignant, because I know they are fleeting. When we remember times of loss, of pain, and fear, and grief, we are more thankful for days when the worst that has happened are scorched dinners and cranky children.

Tomorrow is a new day, and I welcome it in all it's imperfection, and couldn't be more thankful for it.

Baby After Miscarriage

It's the last day of February. The sun is shining into the window of my office. My three year old is contentedly watching Nature Cat on tv. Baby boy is sitting in his car seat on the dining room table snoozing in the sunshine. Big sister is off at kindergarten and the dog is asleep at my feet.  I'm experiencing a rare moment of quiet.

These moments of alone are hard to come by these days. It seems every time I turn around there is someone who needs to be fed, or held, or washed. Baby boy is not a great sleeper, so I find I'm going through the motions of my day with eyes half closed, existing in a sleepless fog. When I can catch a fleeting moment of alone-ness, I close my eyes and try to sleep before anyone notices and decides they need me again.

It's a hard season. A season where I feel like I am tending to everyone else's needs and rarely my own. Most nights I brush my teeth to the soundtrack of a wailing baby, or shower while little hands bang on the door demanding that I get out, or eat my kids' half eaten bagels for breakfast because the baby is screaming and I have to get my daughter to the bus stop in the next three minutes. There are days I reach the end of my rope and close the bathroom door, and turn on the fan, so that I can cry without anyone hearing me.

And yet, underneath all the stress, and all the growing pains of adding another child to our family, there is joy and indescribable gratitude. Gratitude for the miracle of three precious children who call me "mama."

And I've noticed that along with that joy there is also still a feeling that someone is missing and the truth that even with the birth of our little boy, I still have a child in Heaven that I long for. The pain of last year has softened, but has not disappeared.

I think deep down, I expected that with the birth of our rainbow baby, I would no longer feel the sense of loss that I carried last year.  I remember a conversation with a close friend before getting pregnant with Caleb where I confided to her that I felt like if I could just get pregnant again, maybe it would be like the baby I lost was coming back to me. Although I knew rationally this was impossible, I think I just desperately wanted to undo the loss that had been done. I wanted to make right what had gone wrong. But, as my friend gently reminded me, we know this is not how God works. Each child He creates is unique and my baby at 11 weeks is now in the arms of the Father. And now we have Caleb, who is meant just for us at this exact time.

I find that my mind often wanders to the baby that we lost.  I'll be cuddling Caleb, or watching Josh and Abby play and I'll wonder, how old would he or she be right now? What is he or she doing in Heaven? Some days, like today, I have moments when I still cry thinking about it.  Those are the moments I walk over to Caleb, pick him up, and bury my face into the rolls of his little baby neck and breathe deeply, and thank God for the miracle of my Rainbow.

Having a baby after miscarriage is wonderful, and hard. Wonderful because I rejoice over this new life, and hard because sometimes it feels like people expect my new baby to erase the grief I carried before he was born. And I'm sure some people do expect that of me, but if I'm really honest, I think maybe it's what I expected most of myself. And that expectation often leaves me feeling guilty for the moments that I hold my little boy while still thinking of my baby in Heaven. Or guilty when I complain about the sleepless nights spent nursing a fussy baby,  because they are what I prayed for most after my loss. 

But I'm finding that having my Rainbow baby is simply another step towards healing, not the healing itself. I'm reconciling the fact that I can be joyful in this season and yet still experience moments of grief.

I often come face to face with this truth when I'm asked the Question. I've been getting it a lot since having Caleb. It seems to be the question I am asked the most, especially when I don't have the other two kids with me. It comes in a few forms. People take one look at my chubby little boy and ask, "What number baby is this?" or "How many do you have?" On the outside, it seems like a simple enough question. But for a mom who has lost a child, the answer feels complicated. My answer often varies. I often just call him my third, for simplicity's sake. But I never feel quite right when I say it, because I know he is really my fourth, and somehow I feel like I'm forgetting my third baby by saying so. But to launch into how I lost a baby, which makes him my fourth, but also my third, leads to an awkward moment that I don't really want to navigate either.

I was at a mom's group the other day, and a mom innocently asked, "So, is this your third baby?"And I remember feeling the familiar twinge in my stomach as I debated how to answer. In a rare moment of courage I answered, "No, he is my fourth baby, but third in our family since I lost one to miscarriage."  I braced myself for the awkward moment that often follows.
"Oh, I understand. I lost one too," she answered, "and sometimes it's hard for me to answer that question." And I looked into her eyes, and could tell that she really did understand, and it made all the difference. She remembered her baby, just like I remember mine. And suddenly I felt less alone in navigating this new season.

Having a baby after miscarriage has changed the way I experience the newborn period in so many wonderful ways too. It makes the sweet moments sweeter, and the difficult moments easier. When it's 3am and Caleb doesn't want to go back to sleep and decides he wants to stay awake and coo at me, I take advantage of the moment to tickle him and listen to his silly laugh. When he is screaming in the evening before bed, inconsolable, and my husband hands him to me to nurse him for what feels like the millionth time, I tell myself what a privilege it is to have a healthy baby and to be the one person in the world who can calm him down.  The day when he first returned my smile with a big, toothless grin, I felt my legs turn to jello and my heart melted right out of my body. I make sure every single day to look deeply into his baby blue eyes, and remind myself how lucky I am to be his mama.

Just now, as I finish writing, I hear my little one waking up from his nap in the sunshine. It's time to feed him, and hold him, and turn on the music and dance together. And I know one day I will dance with a very special baby in Heaven too. And today I thank God for all four of my most precious blessings who call me mama.

The Arrival of our little Rainbow: Caleb's Birth Story

I can't believe it has been almost five months since I last blogged. So much has happened in the last five months that it's hard to even know where to begin. It's unusual for me to take such a long break, when as a writer, words flow through my veins, and at every important and poignant moment I find myself involuntarily writing the story in my head, rolling words and phrases over and over, itching for the moment when I can put them down on paper.

But these last few months have been filled with so much emotion that I think I've just been intensely focused on the living of those moments, rather than the writing of them. In the last five months my oldest started kindergarten, I passed the one year anniversary of my miscarriage, survived a difficult pregnancy, and lastly, welcomed our son, Caleb, into our lives.

There are so many topics I want to write about. What is it like to have a baby after miscarriage? What's it like going from two to three children? What's it like knowing that you've given birth to your very last baby ever? I find myself with little time to write these days, so I want to start with the story that is dearest to my heart. Caleb's birth story.

A birth story. It's something we moms swap over coffee, at playdates, even sometimes in the grocery store.  It's something that connects women to one another, no matter how different our politics, religion, or lifestyles might be. It's a sacred moment, welcoming a new human into this world. And there is magic in the sacred, capable of knitting us all closely together in this incredible experience of birthing new life.  And for each child we birth there is a story as unique as the little human that came forth from us. Just as no two children are alike, neither are two stories of their arrival into this world. My sweet Caleb's birth was full of it's own surprises.

Caleb was born at 2:19pm on Wednesday, November 23rd, 2016. It was the day before Thanksgiving. I had to check his announcement just now for what time he was born because, well, he's the third child. I also have yet to write anything in his baby book. Again... third child. But that's another blog for another day.

Caleb's birth story really starts on Sunday, November 20th,  a few days before his birth. On Saturday I'd been experiencing some unusual swelling in my legs, and I woke up that Sunday morning feeling a little "off." I had experienced preeclampsia with both Abby and Josh, so I knew that it was possible the swelling was an early symptom of impending preeclampsia. But when I checked my blood pressure that morning, it was still considered in the safe zone. So we got ready and went to church as usual.

I went into church that day, shook hands, greeted the other parishoners. Then worship began, and the lights dimmed as our voices sang in unified praise. And suddenly, as I sang, I heard a Voice speaking to me.  If you remember my miscarriage story, as I was driving to the doctor the day of my ultrasound I heard this same voice. It was the Holy Spirit, reassuring me that no matter what, He was with me. I would find out later that my baby's heartbeat had stopped at 11 weeks.

But this time, the words were different.  This time He said, "You will meet your son this week."

You will meet your son this week. I looked up at Ben. Had he heard the voice too? No. He kept singing like nothing had happened. But I had to sit down.  Could it be true? Did God really just speak to me? Would this be the week I would finally be restored after my loss just one year ago? I didn't tell anyone at the time what had happened. Even though I believed it to be true, part of me is always nervous to share that I have heard God speak to me.

Later that afternoon Ben and I worked to prepare freezer meals in anticipation of our baby's birth. I was adamant that we finish it that afternoon. I didn't tell Ben at the time, but I knew our baby was coming soon and we weren't going to have another chance to get these meals done. My legs were continuing to swell, and I began experiencing migraine symptoms. I went upstairs and took my blood pressure. It was up to 150/100. I told Ben and he urged me to call the doctor.

When I listed my symptoms, the doctor told me to come in immediately. I kissed my kids goodbye, and put my hospital bag in the car just in case.  I was admitted into triage, and it didn't take long for the tests to come back and show that I was indeed experiencing the beginning of preeclampsia.

In case you are not familiar with preeclampsia, it a pregnancy complication characterized by high blood pressure and signs of damage to another organ system, often the kidneys. It is a serious medical condition, that if left untreated, can cause seizures, organ damage, and possible death. The only "cure" for preeclampsia is to deliver the baby. 

The doctor said, "Looks like you are going to meet your son this week."

On Sunday, I was 36 weeks and 4 days. The doctors really prefer not to deliver until 37 weeks. This is because at 36 weeks the baby is still considered premature. The lungs may not be fully developed, the suckling reflex is weaker, and in general baby is not usually ready to come out. Even just waiting three more days would give Caleb the extra time he needed to be ready to enter the world.

The doctor gave me the choice to deliver on Wednesday, before Thanksgiving, or Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. I knew from my previous pregnancies that my condition has the tendency to deteriorate rapidly, and that by waiting until Friday it was likely I would be very sick by then. Forget the turkey and the stuffing; I told the doctor that I wanted to deliver on Wednesday. 

I was also given a choice to attempt an induction or to have a repeat cesarean. My preference the entire pregnancy was to attempt a VBAC. I was a great candidate, having only delivered via c-section with Josh because of breech presentation. However, at 37 weeks my body was not even close to ready to deliver. The doctor told me I had about a 50% chance of a successful induction and that it could be a multi-day process. Though they were willing to try it, I made the decision to have the repeat c-section. 

After being observed for a few hours, the doctor let me go home with strict instructions to rest as much as possible until Wednesday. 

Wednesday morning came and I was nervous, excited, and emotional. It's very difficult to describe the anxiety and fear that pregnancy after loss brings. Every doctor appointment, every odd twinge, every time the baby moved less than usual I found myself steeled for the worst. To have finally arrived at the day of his birth brought overwhelming relief and joy, even mixed with the nerves before surgery. I had Ben take one last "bump" picture, kissed Abby and Josh goodbye, thanked my mom for coming to stay, and we were out the door. 

We were admitted to the hospital at 11am with surgery scheduled for 1:00pm.  The nurses started my IV, and then we waited, and waited, and waited for all my bloodwork to come back from the lab, which is required before surgery begins. I was nervous, knowing that I was about to have major abdominal surgery, but having been through a c-section before, I knew what to expect. 

Finally, just before 2:00 I was taken back into the operating room. Ben was asked to stay outside the room until I received my spinal anesthesia. At this point, I was laughing and joking with the doctors, feeling calm because I had done all this before. I bent over my belly as the doctor placed the needle in my back, jumping from the electric shock of the medicine going in. They slowly laid me back on the table, put an oxygen mask over my face, and brought Ben in to sit next to my head. 

With Josh's birth, I remember my legs going numb almost immediately after the spinal was given. But as I lay there on the table this time, I could very clearly feel my legs. I waited, hoping that it was just a fluke and that the medicine was taking longer than usual. The doctors began to prep for surgery, getting out the various instruments they would be using. And then, all of the sudden, I felt a very sharp prick on my stomach. Then more sharp pricks. The doctor nonchalantly asked, "How are you doing Jenny?"

 And I said, "Well, I can feel you poking me." 

Silence. The doctor paused. Pauses are never reassuring in a medical setting.

 Then she asked hesitantly, "What does the poke feel like?"

"Like you are poking me with a scalpel."

"Do you feel it up here?" 

 "Yes."

 "Do you feel it down here?"

"Yes."

"Even here?"

"..... yes." 

The surgeon exchanged a glance with the anesthesiologist, who was positioned on the other side of my head, away from Ben. There was an entire conversation in that glance, and I knew it wasn't good news. 

They said, "Let's just give it a few minutes and see if it starts to numb."

So we waited, and they checked me again. I could still feel it, but it was no longer sharp, and felt more like a pencil eraser poking me rather than the pencil tip. 

Encouraged, the doctors said, "We are going to begin, but you let us know if anything is painful."

 And so they began the surgery. 

And I was not numb. It felt like a sharp knife sliced across my belly and cut me wide open. And I yelled out in pain. 

After that, all I remember is the anesthesiologist telling me, "I'm so sorry; we have to put you under."

They clamped a mask on my face and told me to breathe in.  Then someone told Ben he would have to leave the room, as it is against hospital policy to have a support person present when general anesthesia is used.

I struggled against them, whipping my face back and forth to avoid the mask, saying over and over, "No. Please. I don't want to miss it. I don't want to miss the birth of my baby." Tears began to flow and I heaved with sobs. In those split seconds I knew I was about to miss one of the most special and important moments of my life. 

The anesthesiologist said one more time, "I am so sorry."

And then everything went black.  

And here's the part of the story where my son was born. When he took his first breath. And they announced he was a boy. And they weighed him and measured him and took him to a special room where Ben took his very first pictures. 

And I can't tell you any of that part of the story because I missed it. I missed the birth of my very last baby.

 I awoke from the surgery sometime later, in a recovery room, and immediately began to weep. Even in my disorientation I knew what I had missed.  They brought Ben to me after I was awake enough to respond to questions. I was in intense pain, as the spinal hadn't worked to block any pain after surgery, and the doctors and nurses were working quickly to try and get my pain under control. In my groggy state Ben showed me pictures of my baby boy on our camera, but it was hard for me to be happy, realizing the first time I saw my son was on a camera instead of in person. 

After a while, I have no idea how long, as time in a recovery room is muddled and confused, they brought me my son. They wheeled him in, unwrapped him, and placed him on my chest, skin to skin. This time I began to weep for a very different reason.

He was here. My rainbow baby. Born exactly five months to the day that I was due with the baby I lost. Born just 10 days shy of the one year anniversary of my loss. The one thing I had prayed consistently for during my pregnancy was that my son would be born before that anniversary, so that on that very hard day I would have a baby to hold in my arms. 

And he here was. Caleb Landis Cowan. All 6 pounds 4 ounces of him. We named him Caleb because there is a story in the Bible, where two brave men are sent out with a group to survey the land that God had promised to the Israelite. Everyone in the group is terrified by what they see, and are afraid to go in and conquer the land except for these two men, who know that the Lord is the one who will fight for them. Those two men were Joshua and Caleb. Three and a half years ago, when we welcomed our son Joshua, Ben and I talked about how we would love to have another son one day and name him Caleb, so that our two boys could go out together and conquer the world. We chose Landis for his middle name because my dad's middle name is Landis, and so is my brother's. It was also my grandfather's first name. So it was very special to me to honor my family with that name. 

The moment they placed my baby boy on my chest, all of my pain melted away. Though I'm sure it had something to do with the fantastic pain medication they were pumping into my IV, it was also because the joy that I felt in that moment, meeting my son, snuggling him close to me, was more powerful than any pain I was feeling.  

It took me several weeks to be able to talk about his birth without a deep sense of guilt and regret. What if I had opted for the induction instead? What if I had picked Friday instead of Wednesday? Would things have been different? Even though I know it was out of my control, it was really difficult to miss such an important moment. 

But in the time since he has been born, the overwhelming joy that I have experienced far outweighs the sadness of the one moment I missed. People will often say, "As long as my baby is healthy I am happy." I can honestly say that now, two months later, I am so thankful for my healthy, happy, precious son, no matter what I may have missed on that day. In the two months he has been home, I am the one received his first smile, his first coo, and even now I sit with him snuggled warmly in his favorite place, on my chest, wrapped tightly in his Moby wrap, sleeping peacefully. 

Welcoming a rainbow baby is an emotional moment. There is joy mixed with grief, and hope mixed with pain. But at the end of it all, I am so very, very thankful for the four children that God has given me the privilege of carrying and birthing. Welcome to our family Caleb, we are so in love with you and so blessed to call you our son.

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: