On my heart

So many things are on my heart right now.  I've wanted to write them down for a few days now, but just didn't know where to start.  If this ends up being a "popcorn post" (all over the place), that's why.

My mom

We leave for Iowa soon to see my mom's side of the family and bury her ashes next to her parents.  I've been so consumed with the effects of Kristen's death on the four of us living in this house, I just don't feel like I've really grieved for my mom yet.  Of course there have been moments of grief, tears, missing her, but the process of healing from this particular loss doesn't seem  like it's really begun.  Maybe it's just different from what I've experienced with Kristen, I don't know.

Celebrating my 4th birthday

It may seem odd that it's been nearly a year since Mom died, and we're just now getting everyone together to say goodbye.  There was a memorial service for her last August.  It took place just five days after Kristen's service and 500+ miles from my home.  Sweet friends offered to drive me there and back, but I just couldn't do it...emotionally or physically.  But now, Mom's side of the family...her stepfather, her brother and two sisters, all of her nieces and nephews, her granddaughters and her daughter...will be gathering to say goodbye to her.

My mom and I weren't as close as I think a mom and daughter should be.  There are a lot of reasons for that, and the many miles that separated us is not the only one.  We talked fairly often and always had a connection, but it just wasn't the mother-grown daughter relationship that I hope to have with my own daughters.  Regardless, she's still my mom.  I love her, and I miss her.

The last couple of weeks have been full of moments that remind me of the anniversary that approaches.  Remembering Kristen's CT scan last July and believing that this test would prove to the surgeon that we wouldn't need him after all.  The x-rays and ultrasounds done on Kristen after her birth didn't show the mass in her chest.  We just "knew" that the CT scan would be evidence that God had healed our baby girl.  But, it wasn't to be.  The mass was still there and had to be removed.  As straightforward as the surgery sounded (though certainly not a routine procedure by any means), it didn't turn out as any of us had imagined.

I'm still struggling so much with feeling out of place in situations and relationships where I once was so comfortable.  Every part of my life has been affected by the death of my daughter.  Nothing feels "normal" anymore.  When we were on vacation in Colorado a couple of months ago, I remember actually feeling, for a couple of very brief moments, pretty much like I did before my life was suddenly turned upside down.  Perhaps it was the change of scenery or the company we were with or just being able to step out, even for just a minute, from underneath the cloud of sorrow that follows me around. 

My dear sister-in-law's due date approaches, and I find myself still so very torn between being happy for her and so very sad for me.  Every week that goes by seems to get harder.  I think what I worry about most is that Kristen will be forgotten by the rest of the family once my niece arrives.  I've been told that's silly, but the thought is still there.  I am praying for extra grace in that area.

As I continue to mull over these things (and several that I didn't include here), I know beyond all doubt that God will reveal something in each one that I need to learn.  I'm doing my best to pay attention to Him, to glean the good from such difficult times.

Puzzle Pieces

You know when you're working a jigsaw puzzle, and you find a piece that looks like it belongs in a particular place?  The colors and patterns seem right.  The shape seems right.  It looks like it was made to fit in that spot...but it just doesn't.

I'm discovering some parts of my life that are a lot like that.  Things that I was very much involved in before Kristen's death just don't seem like they "fit" anymore.  I had chalked those awkward feelings up to being so consumed with grief.  And maybe that's still the case, but after a statement in this week's GriefShare video (Session 12), I have to wonder if there's more to it.  The statement made was regarding easing back into church (#9 in the "Top Twenty Lessons of Grief") and how the groups you were a part of before the death of a loved one may no longer be a good fit.  Though the video spoke about church specifically, it seems that the lesson would certainly apply to other areas of a person's life as well.

Grief changes you.  Those changes occur at such a deep level within your heart and soul that the outward portion of your life can't help but be affected.  Despite how much my life today looks like it did prior to finding out I was pregnant with Kristen, I know it to be so very, very different.  Those differences are things I cry over and rejoice about...sometimes at the same time.

I suppose it makes sense that relationships will change because I'm not the same person I once was.  Friendships seem different (some strengthened, some fractured), family relationships seem changed (again, some for the better, some not), areas of my life that I've poured my energy and talents into seem forced, new things seem hollow.

Nancy Guthrie shared on that video that deep sorrow actually expands a person's capacity for great joy.  That is truly a beautiful observation, one that I'm sure will become more and more obvious as I gain more distance.

Yes, grief has changed, and is changing, me.  I may not "fit" into the puzzle where I thought I did, but there is a place for me.  Just as it's best to keep hunting for the right spot rather than to jam a puzzle piece into the wrong place, I must be watchful as God reveals to me that place where He wants me to be.  Changes are going to happen to all of us, and some of those changes will not be ones that we would ever willingly seek out.  Because of Who He is, God can, and will, use them all for good.  We just have to continue to trust Him.  We may see a piece or two of the puzzle, but He's got the box lid and knows where every single piece goes.

For a season

I had a complete meltdown the other night.  I'm talking fall-in-a-heap-on-the-floor meltdown, complete with uncontrollable sobbing.  It was an absolutely anguish-induced episode.  I had been bombarded by so many things that had made my grief raw, yet again.  My heart ached.  Sadness engulfed me.  A number of different situations had come at me from all directions, and as I was getting ready for bed Sunday night, I melted into a puddle on the bedroom floor.  I felt so emotionally fragile that I was certain I would break before long.

My sweet husband of nearly 20 years came in to check on me.  And rather than try to "fix" things (as is his normal way of dealing with such a situation), he sat down beside me on the floor and just let me cry.  He listened as I went on and on (and on) about all that was weighing so heavily on my heart.  He listened, and he held me close.  He prayed with me and in doing so, assured me, yet again, that God had brought me just the right man so many years ago.

We are grieving so differently, my husband and I.  I've had emotional meltdowns before, and have endured them alone, sometimes because no one else was around and sometimes because it was just too difficult for him to reach out to me.  The tenderness in his voice, the gentleness of his touch that night soothed those places deep in my heart that were inflamed.

God is the ultimate healer, but it seems to me that sometimes He uses people who are willing to let Him work through them to help us heal.  Perhaps by letting God work through them, not only will they help someone else, they will experience something intimate and precious as well.  Maybe as they respond differently to a situation than they normally would, they will see a new aspect of their own character, and of God's.

Grief has stretched me in ways that I would just as soon not know.  But, I do.  I know that it's up to me as to how I respond to that.  And I pray for strength to respond in a way that pleases God.  This particular season of my life is not an easy one.  I don't know how long it will last, but I am grateful for the rays of sunshine that occasionally break through the clouds.  They let me know that I'm not stuck here.

Compassion

Lord God, Your unfailing love and compassion for me are amazing. Even when I rail against You, You love me just as much. Show me how to have Your compassion for others. Amen. 

This came from a recent GriefShare e-mail.  It made me think about my own compassion for others.  Has the grief I've encountered over these last 10 months changed me for the better?

In some ways, it has.  I am much more aware of the difficult anniversaries that those who remain on earth have to face, and I do my best to let those who have lost loved ones know that I am thinking of them, that I am remembering with them.  Until you've been down that road yourself, I don't know that you can fully understand how hard it can be to face dates that remind of your loved one.  It's painful to think about your baby's milestones that will never be.  Or that it's been so many months since you heard your mom's laugh.

A dear friend, though she has not experienced the death of a child, dared to step into my world and remember those anniversary dates early on.  She knew the 7th and the 17th of those first months were emotional days for me.  She knew that Sundays were difficult for months, and she faithfully let me know that she was thinking of me.  It didn't take away the pain I was feeling, but it let me know that I wasn't as alone as I felt.  I knew that I wasn't the only one remembering Kristen.

There's another side to that compassion that I am struggling with now.  It's the side that takes me right back to the PICU at Children's Mercy Hospital.  It's the side that remembers how it feels to sit helplessly in a hospital room, unable to do anything to change the circumstances.  I heard just a couple of days ago about an 8 year-old girl in NC named Ellie Potvin.  She lost her battle with cancer today, and I wept aloud as I read the CaringBridge entry in which her mother shared that her sweet daughter had breathed her last breath on this earth.  I had never heard of the Potvin family before this week, yet I have been touched so deeply by their loss.

A cousin on my husband's dad's side of the family had surgery last Friday and never regained consciousness.  We just got word this evening that she passed away.  My heart has been with the family throughout the last few days as they have waited for test results.  I remember waiting for test results.  I remember looking for those small signs that Kristen was going to be fine.  I remember.  And it hurts to remember.  And my heart breaks for Ann's family.

Could the memories of such a painful experience be useful?  I expect they can and will.  Perhaps one day God will use me to reassure someone else that, despite their circumstances, God is still in control and God is still good.  Because He is.

And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love Him, who are called according to His purpose. -Romans 8:28

Joyful...Patient...Faithful

 
Romans 12:12 is a verse that God planted firmly in my mind many weeks before Kristen was even born.

Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.

During those uncertain weeks as we waited for news on the mass in Kristen's chest, after each sonogram and specialist visit, I did my best to be "joyful in hope" and "faithful in prayer."  It wasn't always easy.  There were times I would leave the doctor's office and cry the whole way home.  I wanted  someone to tell me my baby would be fine, that the mass they had found was shrinking.  There were times that I did hear that, only to hear something very different from another doctor.  Those many weeks in early 2009 were a very literal roller coaster ride.

As difficult as those weeks were, they were completely overshadowed by the pure joy of Kristen's safe arrival in May.  My faithful prayers of asking God to give me the strength to deal with whatever might lie ahead were followed by grateful prayers of thanksgiving.  Little did I know that the middle part of the verse that I had written on a sticky note and placed on my side of the bedroom mirror would one day call out to me.  "Patient in affliction" began to call out to me quite loudly last fall.

This season of grief has stirred up some strong emotions in me.  Patience hasn't really been one of the qualities that has come about as a result.  I've lacked a patience with friends, with my family, and with myself.  Perhaps I've hidden it well, but I've been anything but content and without complaint.

I know I don't have to like what's transpired since last August (and I don't), but I do have to continue to trust that God knows what He's doing (and I do).

Right now, I'm asking God for patience.  And if you're in a season of grief and not feeling especially patient, either, I pray that He grants you an extra measure of patience, too.  May we learn to be patient with those around us who say the wrong things (or don't say anything).  May we learn to be patient with those closest to us, realizing that each day is a gift to be treasured.  May we learn to be patient with ourselves, understanding that grief knows no time line and our journey through it is as unique and different as each one of us.

I've since replaced the sticky note with a more permanent version.
(Love the Cricut vinyl!)

Better than a miracle

It seems that everywhere I've looked recently, I find stories of people who faced serious medical challenges that doctors did not expect them to survive, yet they did. It's perfectly logical to me to label situations like these as miracles, because I know that with God, all things are possible. I have no doubt in my mind that He heals people. And hearing of such situations brings joy and smiles and praise. For me, though, it also stings a little.

In my humanness, I saw a perfect set-up for a miracle last August. I found myself in a situation where a miracle would have been been the perfect ending to a long and bumpy road that began with a routine sonogram. I prayed fervently for that miracle, as did so many others. Yet, the miracle in my mind, the one that I so desperately longed for, was not what I got. That perfect ending turned into an ache in my heart like I have never known.

Still, God is God. He is the same now as He was when Kristen was born. He is the same as He was when she went in for her surgery. He is the same as He was when we had to say good-bye to her. He is the same, and He is good.

For years now, Emily, Grace and I have listened to "Adventures in Odyssey" on the internet during lunch. The girls have always loved the radio show, and we've all enjoyed the lessons learned in each episode. It's fun to imagine what each character might look like, and we've all voiced a wish that there really was a place like "Whit's End" right here in Great Bend. A couple of days ago, we listened to an episode about miracles.

A little girl remained unconscious in the hospital following exposure to carbon monoxide. Her brother was searching for proof of miracles and traveled in the imagination station to find answers. The very wise ice cream shop owner, John Avery Whitaker, told little Grady a couple of things that I needed to hear. First, sometimes we pray for someone to be healed, and God doesn't answer our prayers the way we hoped. In cases where our loved ones AREN'T healed, maybe God has in store for us "something better than a miracle." Second, after facing the death of a loved one and seemingly unanswered prayers, it can help you to pray differently. His thoughts are not my thoughts...His ways are not my ways. God's will has certainly become a more prevalent part of my own prayers.

Part of what makes hearing stories of people in dire situations so difficult is that they bring back my own memories of being in the hospital, feeling helpless to do anything to change the outcome. Another part, the part that really pinches my soul, is hearing all the praises to God when miracles do happen and wondering if those praises would still be there if God had something better than a miracle in store.

Distance will change the perspective, and I look forward to the day when I have enough distance to see what God has in store for me.

Celebration

It's been a little over a week since we "celebrated" Kristen's birthday. That just doesn't seem to be quite the right word for it.  It certainly wasn't the celebration I envisioned a year ago.  We did, however, spend the day remembering our sweet baby with a few loved ones. We released pink balloons and had cake and ice cream and looked at pictures of Kristen.  We smiled as we wondered whether Kristen would have daintily picked at her cake like her sister, Emily.  Or if she would have worn most of it like her sister, Grace (who ended up with frosting in her ears!)  From the beginning, Kristen seemed the perfect mix of her two sisters. In looking back at some of her pictures (which I put into the Smilebox scrapbook below), I definitely saw a hint of orneriness!

Celebrations bring to my mind pictures of all that is happy.  I think of smiles and laughter and gathering with loved ones.  While we had all those on May 7, there was a sadness over not having our guest of honor with us.  She got to celebrate in heaven, and as a friend wrote to me, birthday cake there has to be delicious!

To celebrate is to remember, to honor, to glorify.  I celebrate Kristen's life and in turn honor and glorify God when I remember who I am and whose I am.  God chose me to be Kristen's mom, and I will always be a mother of three.  More importantly, I belong to Him who was, who is and who will be.  I can't even begin to wrap my human mind around all that God is, but it does bring a peace to my heart to know that my youngest daughter is in His care.  She may not be home with me, but she is home with Him.  And that in itself is cause to celebrate.