Writing And Growing

Photo by Bookblock on Unsplash

I’ve been trying something new – a writing course. It has been hard and humbling but also beautiful. It’s something I am doing just for me. During the interview process, before getting accepted into the course, I was asked what my goal is with writing. If I’m being honest, I don’t have one. Sure, I would like to carve out more time to write but we are in a season that often doesn’t feel feasible. I’d also like to grow in my writing but that isn’t a very measurable goal. What does growth truly look like? Correcting my erred use of commas? I guess that wouldn’t hurt. 

Our first unit in the class was on “Order”. We were asked to read different pieces and then submit a personal narrative/essay. There is a lot about that unit and the critique night that came with it I still need to unpack but for now, let’s just say it was humbling in every sense. The work poured into a piece that then was picked apart by people I had only met a few short weeks before felt overwhelming. The second unit was “Story”. We read captivating pieces of fiction and short story and were asked to produce one of our own to submit. Again, I poured out and came away empty, comments blowing around in my head like a blizzard, threatening to freeze me. Then came the “Truth” unit. I had the least amount of time to devote to the required persuasive essay and yet, for the first time, my work was received with more positives than negatives. I wrote about something I enjoy. Something I am passionate about. So while the overall time spent on it had been significantly less, I knew what I was talking about. I enjoyed what I was talking about. And it showed. 

The most recent unit, “Beauty”, was one I faced down with dread. Poetry. I have harbored feelings of hatred towards poetry since my very first English class in my freshman year of college. It was that class (plus a stellar and engaging History professor) that convinced me I would be a terrible English teacher and should ditch the subject altogether in favor of History. Because who needs correct grammar with History? I can pretend I’m using Old English (pre-dictionary English)!

The poetry we were asked to read didn’t particularly move me. The pieces were fine but nothing I latched onto with the passion of the speakers. Then came the writing assignment: one Shakespearean Sonnet, three Haiku, and one Free Verse Poem. Oh dear. Over dinner one night, I joked about simply quoting Haiku out of a movie we watched years ago and really enjoyed, Hunt for the Wilderpeople (2016). An idea formed. What if I wrote my Haiku about the movie, and my experience with it? We watched the movie sometime after Verity. A season that felt very much void of joy and laughter, and yet, the movie made me laugh. Deep, belly laugh. 

I wrote these poems as a way of processing the resounding impact books, movies, and songs have had on my life. In them, I found a joy in poetry ignited again. I came away from critique night feeling the most at peace I have since beginning the course. A new layer of healing has begun. Something beautiful is emerging out of the hard and the humbling. I am growing. 

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Theme of the Collection: The Impact of Books, Movies, and Songs

Free Verse (adapted from an original Sonnet format that will never be shown because it was ROUGH) 
Title: The Resounding Depth of Words
Words linger, 
though the medium varies.
Expressions are chosen, 
then released to be found. 

Pouring from speakers, 
straight into the soul. 
Crisp pages turn gently, 
adventures abound. 
Scripts come alive, 
through soft blue-hued light. 

Each piece leaving behind
its own unique stamp. 

Deep sadness, 
pure joy, 
heart’s longing,
hope.

Characters laugh, 
melodies play. 
These things may seem small, 
but offer connection. 

Words linger, 
though the medium varies. 
Expressions are chosen, 
holding great power.

Haiku 
Title of the collection: Laughter
Movie with haiku
Hunt for the Wilderpeople
New Zealand ᐧ laughter

My soul was made for
Appreciating laughter
Amidst life’s sorrows

Surprised by laughter
In the dark night of the soul
With joy hope springs new

Free Verse*
Title: I Was Listening to a Song
If the world was ending
Wish the wind would blow me
Next to you
Safe and sound
You restore my soul

Where feet may fail
I will sing
Hallelujah anyway

Fear not
Truth is
Light’s always stronger
Always

You say
Hold on to me 
Lay it all down 
Hang on
Persevere

Look who I found

*(Let me know if you figure out what I did here!)

For a Weekend You Were Mine

📷: Lorenzo Hammers via Unsplash

8/21/23

I miss you already and I barely knew you.

For a weekend you were mine.

For a weekend I loved you and dreamed of who you might become.

For a weekend my imagination rejoiced at the thought of you playing with your sister.

The one here with us.

But instead you’ll join your older sister.

There are a lot of things I hope for in what comes after this life.

So much is unknown and uncertain.

I don’t think we’re meant to know.

I’m not sure we could handle the knowing.

But that doesn’t stop me from hoping.

I hope I get to know you.

I hope you and Verity will be right there to greet me and my arms will finally feel full again.

Because right now, no matter how much joy your sister Jovie brings, my arms never quite feel full.

For a weekend my arms were ready to hold you.

For a weekend you were mine.

It was a beautiful weekend.

🤍, Mom

Six

Photo by Erika Fletcher on Unsplash

Time is an odd thing. It can pass both exceedingly fast and excruciatingly slow. Six years have come and gone since we delivered Verity Grace. Those years have been an amalgam of moments that have felt both fast and slow and my head can’t quite seem to grasp how such seemingly opposing facts can be true. Today though, it feels like six years have gone by in the blink of an eye. Six years have passed since Verity’s “birthday” and today we celebrated “Verity Grace Day”  in what has become a tradition these past few years…by going to a zoo. 

We explored every inch of the San Antonio Zoo! We rode the train, were delighted by butterflies, watched giraffes eat, and found Nemo and Dory. We climbed on things, made animal noises, and ate birthday cake pops instead of birthday cake. On our way home we got ice cream from a new staple ice cream place and had a spontaneous dinner at Uncle Ben & Auntie Baubie’s. There was laughter, burgers, a dance party, and a sweet prayer over the life V lived with the hope of forever. 

Yesterday there was a doe and fawn in my parent’s backyard. They haven’t had deer back there since they first moved in, partially because there is a tall fence around a good portion of the property, but yesterday a doe felt safe enough to bound right in with her fawn and graze while it took a nap in the tall grass. What a beautiful, gentle reminder my heart needed of the nearness of God. He’s near in the seasons where each day feels like a crushing tidal wave and He’s near after years have passed and the hard still washes over like waves after a storm. 

While I know there is more I need to process, my heart feels full after a weekend of beautiful reminders of how fast life goes and how important it is to savor the moments. 

Happy Sixth Birthday to the daughter who first made me a mom. I love you, Verity Grace. 

Baby Steps & Mother’s Day

Photo by Lena Mytchyk on Unsplash

It’s been over a year since I’ve written. Over a year since I poured out my thoughts onto a blank canvas, processing as the words tumble out of my fingertips. More than a year has passed and I’m still not sure I’m ready to fully process all that has taken place. So instead I’m taking baby steps and writing what is on my mind today. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have more thoughts that need to be written down or maybe another year will pass, and that’s okay.

“Baby steps”. This phrase holds a whole new meaning for me. I am currently watching my almost one-year-old learn to take those monumental, extremely unstable first steps. Her little legs wobble and she grasps for things around to steady her, often finding only air to meet her fingertips before collapsing on the ground. But then what does she do? She stands up and tries again.

A few more steps.

A little more ground gained.

A victory as she reaches the thing or person she was headed toward.

Baby steps often feel small and insignificant, without much distance covered, and yet they are foundational. Before we can walk, run, and sprint our way forward we have to first learn to take those baby steps. And so, I’m taking “baby steps” back into the writing world.

In the last year and a half, our family has experienced: job changes, the birth of our daughter, death in the family, selling a house, moving to a new state, buying a new house…so…just a few things to process.

Today though I am sitting here, trying to grade essays, while also planning a list of things that need to get accomplished during nap time, and somehow finding myself distracted instead by the fact that Mother’s Day is rapidly approaching. What does this tell me? I probably need to process Mother’s Day. So here I am, putting my thoughts down in the hopes of finding better clarity.

Mother’s Day is both/and. It is both a beautiful way to honor those who work hard, day in and day out, to keep the tiny human(s) alive while also staying alive herself, and it is a day full of emotions for those who:

1. Have lost their mom
2. Have a complicated relationship with their mom
3. Have an absent mom
4. Long to be a mom
5. Are mom to children no longer here on Earth

Last year I celebrated Mother’s Day by preparing to welcome our second daughter into the world, praying the delivery process would be different than our first. Sure enough, on May 11th (a mere two days after Mother’s Day), Jovie Jane joined our family and changed our lives forever. Jovie means “joyful” and we knew, from the moment we saw her sweet, squishy face, that was her name. Our little joyful, energetic, bundle of entertainment and delight! This year I will get to celebrate Mother’s Day with a healthy, exuberant, almost one-year-old little girl in my arms and oh how grateful I am for that! But, with that joy, there is still sorrow her older sister isn’t here to celebrate with us as well.

This year we will celebrate Verity’s 5th birthday. Five years since we held her in our arms and said goodbye. Honestly, I thought it would get infinitely easier when Jovie arrived and, in some ways, it has. But, being Mom to Jovie has also shown me all the more vividly what I have missed out on getting to do with Verity. I’ve missed getting to see her open her eyes for the first time, smile when someone says her name, belly laugh at her Dad’s antics, and take her first steps. I’ve missed getting to watch her be a big sister to Jovie and play with “Buba-dog”. I’ve missed playtime exploration and bedtime stories and what it would look like to be a mom of two littles.

So, as we head into Mother’s Day, my heart needed a reminder to be gentler with myself and more aware of those around me. My community is filled with people who have lost children, lost mothers, long to be mothers, and/or long to have a healthier relationship with their mothers. My friends, I hope this year you feel loved and seen on Mother’s Day. I hope you find space to feel heard and space to simply breathe. And, most of all, I hope you find your own ways to process all that Mother’s Day holds because Mother’s Day, like much of life, is both/and.

Winter’s Lesson

Photo by Colby Thomas on Unsplash

“We often think of winter as the season when things are hard to see. Winter is when the blizzards come; it’s when the fog rolls in. We shiver and shudder, staring at the calendar, willing the page to turn. But in the desolate season of barren trees you can see farther ahead, and on through, than you can when life is in full bloom. Losing someone you love can feel like winter. A blizzard might hit, sure, but when it passes and you regain your ability to see, there’s a certain grace to see farther, even in the middle of that emptiness.”

Adriel Booker
(In her book Grace Like scarlet: grieving with hope after miscarriage and loss)

I am a person who loves sunshine; who loves the heat of a sunny summer day and the cool, crisp sunshine of fall. Don’t get me wrong, I love winter snow too but, living where I do, I mostly get rain. Dreary, drizzly rain. Torrential downpour of rain. Misting rain where you think you’re safe to go outside because, well, how bad could it really be, but come back more soaked than if you had been in a monsoon and wondering how that even happened! Sometimes there is the promise of snow and I get excited at even the possibility of sitting, sipping hot cocoa, and staring out at the perfect blanket of white that forms! And then the poor weather people have to retract their prediction because the weather patterns have changed for the umpteenth time and disappointment pitter-patters on my windowsills instead as I look out on more rain.

Clearly, winter is not my favorite thing (at least not the way Portland, Oregon does it). And, if this isn’t your first visit to my blog, then you’ll know by now neither are seasons of waiting, or bareness. I think that’s why the quote above resonated so deeply within my heart. I love the way author Adriel Booker points out how we can often see farther in the bareness of winter than we can in the seasons of full bloom. That does not mean it is easy, the blizzards still come and the loss of life in winter is still felt, but there is beauty in knowing when I look I have the grace to see farther.

We have entered a season of new life in our family as we await the birth of Verity’s little sister come spring. Spring is a season of new life, new growth, and the promise that there is good that comes out of all that rain. I am thankful for what the bareness of winter teaches me and I am thankful for the promise of hope and grace spring holds.

“Growing As I Wait”

Honestly, while I have always known/been told that grief comes in waves I didn’t realize just how difficult the healing process would continue to be. A process only intensified by our infertility journey with aching arms still empty, desperately longing to hold a little one of our own.  Living in the tension of the unknowns about whether or not we will have another little life who looks like us, having Ben’s eyes, or my nose, or his wavy blonde hair. And while we look forward to the day God expands our little family again, hopefully through both adoption and biological, our life will always hold some really hard grief triggers. 

When we got pregnant with Verity my heart instantly became attached and transformed into being a “mama’s heart”. I know this isn’t necessarily the journey for everyone, for some it doesn’t seem real until the baby is actually placed in his or her arms and for others it takes time even after that to become connected to their child. For me though, I became a mama the day the pregnancy test said “pregnant”. Since the day we found out her heart was no longer beating, there has been a large piece of me missing. It isn’t just a Verity-sized hole in my heart, it is the calling of being a mother still unfulfilled. While I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that God is still good and that He gave me the absolute perfect husband to walk through this journey with, something opened up in my heart the day we found out we were pregnant that has had to go back to trying to lie dormant. Trying, and most days failing. There is so much in Hannah’s story from 1 Samuel 1 that resonates with my heart. The longing, the bitter tears, the feeling of not getting to fulfill her purpose/calling. As much as her husband, Elkanah, wanted to be worth “more than ten sons” to Hannah, still she went to the temple in distress and prayed and begged God for a child. She begged to not be “forgotten”. She bartered, promising to give her son to the Lord all the days of his life. That feeling of being “forgotten” or “passed over” has played on repeat in my heart more times than I can count and is often an indicator of a “hard day”. There are good days, hard days, and days that feel impossible. 

On the “good days” I can get out of bed without immediately feeling as though the weight of each of the 7×10(to the 27th power…aka: seven billion billion billion) atoms in my body are impossible (not just improbable, IMPOSSIBLE) to lift. On the “good days” I can get on social media and see past the grief triggers of baby announcements, pregnant bellies, exhausted newborn parents sharing #real talk about the difficulties that come with raising tiny humans. On the “good days” I can simply celebrate with others, drop off a much earned 5th cup of coffee for my mama friends, and snuggle all the littles who call me “Auntie” without sorrow. 

Those are the “good days”. 

On the “hard days” I am a fraction of who I once was. I can’t seem to remember who I once was, who I am now, or who I want to be. I am full of doubts and “why me!?!”. I am reading the words of those who have gone before me and desperately trying not to close myself off to the rest of the world for fear the grief triggers will be too much to even accomplish one small thing, like getting out of bed. On the “hard days” doing the dishes OR walking the dog OR grading a few papers is a victory. On those days I manage to deny most of the lies telling me I am a failure as a wife, a failure as a mom, a failure as a daughter, sister, friend, human being…most, but not all. 

Those are the “hard days”.  

On the “impossible days” I am curled up in the fetal position, the irony not lost on me. On the “impossible days” I am lost, drowning in the weight of the infinite worlds created in my head of how life was supposed to be. Reading books and telling bedtime stories with our daughter.  Learning how to navigate bedtime schedules and finding the best babysitters for when family wasn’t available (as a teacher, I’ve never been too worried about this one because I have had the privilege of teaching some amazing humans!). A house full of noise and the patter of little feet as siblings chase each other around. Oh the worlds my mind creates. They are beautiful and captivating and haunting. Most of my “impossible days” don’t come from comparing myself to others, they come from comparing myself to the many different versions of my life dreamed up since I was a child. Versions I haven’t truly grieved the loss of, even though they will never happen. Versions that seem silly and insignificant when I type them out but oh so real and weighty in my head. 

But not all days are “impossible”. Not all days are “hard”. 

In this season, while there are still more “hard” and “impossible” days than I would like to have, I am learning to be thankful. Thankful for the “good” days. Thankful for a husband who is patient and kind and meets me exactly where I am. Thankful for the time and space to process through my feelings. Thankful for distance learning and jobs coming along right as we need them. Thankful for a home church who still sees one another via Zoom or socially distanced. Thankful for friends and family who love me and try so hard to understand. I am thankful for friendship hats, “Auntie Allie” dates, and pushing play on tv shows at the same time even though we are watching from our own homes. I am thankful for words of encouragement from those close to me and those who have never even heard my story. 

I started this post on July 23rd and only made it so far as the “impossible days”. There was no hope in my writing, only a blank page for me to get out my feelings of sadness and anger and sheer exhaustion from the number of grief triggers I still navigate each day. And so I held onto it, I left it sitting in my Google Drive waiting for a “good day” so that “impossible days” would not be the end. Yesterday I read two different things from people who do not know me nor do they have my same story or experiences, but still they managed to reach into my heart in a profound way. The first was in Fields of Joy by Ruth Chou Simons. Her book combines beautiful artwork with Scripture and a small sentence or two of inspiration, specifically geared towards joy. While multiple pages resounded, I was particularly struck by what she had to say on Proverbs 17:22. That specific verse says, “A joyful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.” Oh how my spirit has felt crushed as of late. To the point that normally a verse like that would simply become white noise, something that I know is playing but isn’t truly being heard. Yet because I am currently teaching a college course on child development and developmentally appropriate learning, and just wrapped a unit on neurodevelopment and the power of the brain, instead of tuning out, my heart tuned in. Simons’ says, “What we dwell on in our hearts and minds carries consequences in our bodies. The best healing your body can have will always begin with a heart glad in Him.” God has not failed me simply because my dreams do not look the way I thought they would. He has not abandoned me, nor is He punishing me. This world is broken. If you didn’t think it was before, is there any doubt left in your mind with a global pandemic and wildfires raging? Because of reading Ruth Chou Simons words I felt strong enough to get on Istagram and seek out some of the trusted voices I follow on there to continue to do the hard work of turning my “hard day” into a “good one”. The first post to pop up was Morgan Harper Nichols as she voiced her struggle in finding something “positive” to share with the world. Her words sank deep into my heart as I felt the gravity of her vulnerability and transparency. I am not alone in struggling to find the “positives”. I am not alone in feeling overwhelmed and that I don’t have the right words to say and as I scrolled through her artwork I was captivated by one piece in particular. It is a beautiful piece, simple, elegant, and only has four small words, “Growing as I wait”.  

I know now that grief will continue to come in waves, washing over me and pulling me down with the intense weight of the seven billion billion billion atoms in my body. 

I also know that I am “growing as I wait”. 

A Month of Both/And

This post originally began out of a desire to recognize the kindness of sweet friends who, in the past two days, gave me gifts I didn’t even know I needed. Their gifts reminded me of things I hadn’t known I needed reminding of. That it is okay to need grace each day and that I am not forgotten. I seem to forget these two things in the days leading up to July (okay, I forget them a lot but ESPECIALLY in the days leading up to July). The following processing is what then ensued. It is raw, it is honest, it is a bit rambly but if you know me by now you know I have a tendency to do that from time to time as I process through things. 

July is a month of both/and. 

I realize now, July will always be a complicated month for me. In my journey of working to become more in-tune with my body and my emotions, I have come to recognize I dread July’s approach, feeling the stress aptly in my body and mind. I am more quick to anger and judgment. Less likely to give myself grace on the hard days. More prone to isolation. Less likely to celebrate the beauty that has grown from our loss. 

Honestly, I thought I would be past it by now. 

But the end of June arrives and I am transported right back to July of 2017. 

July 1-3, 2017 – while camping with friends, we revealed our baby was a girl! We were overjoyed but also cautious because we had been told in our gender-reveal ultrasound that our girl was measuring small and they wanted to measure her again after a few weeks of growth.

July 7, 2017 – appointment with a perinatologist/genetics specialist to see if she had done it, if our girl had grown or if we were looking at a potentially life-long genetic disorder that would alter how we did life together. We were hopeful she had grown and we would be told all was well. We never once stopped to consider the alternative, that she was gone. Her heartbeat had stopped. 

I’m pretty sure mine stopped too, if only for a moment. My mind, on the other hand, was racing in search of answers. Was it my fault? Am I being punished? Why us, we had waited for her for what felt like an eternity! Could the doctors be wrong? Did they miss something? 

We had our last night at home with her, praying her heartbeat would miraculously re-appear the next day when we went in for delivery. 

July 8, 2017 – still no heartbeat. Instead, I labored and we grieved and felt the weight of all the things we weren’t going to get to do with her anymore. 

July 9, 2017 – Verity Grace Drake was born. We held her and cried and said our goodbyes. 

Each year, leading up to July, I am brought back to that place. The hospital rooms, the goodbye, the deafening silence that echoes in our house where an almost-three-year-old should be. 

I also know it is felt by those around me. Especially those who have walked this journey with us. But somehow I still feel alone, isolated in my grief and frustrated by my inability to just “move on”. My head still needs reminders that I am not alone, even though, deep down it’s a truth I already know. 

In the last two days, the final two days of June, as I brace myself for the start of another July, I received two perfect gifts reminding me there is grace for each day and that I am not forgotten. 

After a full weekend of laughter, bubbles, walks, Monopoly Jr. (which is the ONLY kind of Monopoly that should even exist in my personal opinion), and Mickey Mouse’s Clubhouse with two of our favorite tiny humans while their parent’s celebrated their anniversary, we were given a “thank you” gift. This gift was a combination of thanks for taking care of the girls AND in honor of Verity’s upcoming birthday. It is a beautiful sign that says, “Just enough grace for today”. Not only did this gift remind us we are not alone and have our daughter’s middle name represented, but it also serves as a beautiful reminder to me that it is okay to need grace each and every day. 

Days when I feel like I shouldn’t have such a hard time with the month of July…grace. 

Days I am frustrated at life not looking how I thought and dreamt it would…grace. 

When I am discouraged by still having unbearably hard days…grace. 

The second gift arrived today from a friend I have known since college who, although we go through seasons of silence, has always had a way of reminding me I am seen, heard, and loved. This gift arrived in the form of a Willow Tree figurine titled, “Forget-me-not” and a note reminding me that she remembers Verity with me and that she always will. For the second time, in as many days, I was brought to tears over the kindness and thoughtfulness of my friends. 

These gifts not only reminded me to have grace with myself and to remember that Verity is not forgotten but also encouraged me to reflect on the other Julys. 

July 2018 – we traveled to Austin, TX to visit my sister and brother-in-law. My sister has dealt with me her ENTIRE life. If anyone can survive my anger, tears, and dark sense of humor and still come out loving me on the other side, it’s her! So we celebrated the 4th of July and Verity’s birthday exploring Austin and eating our weight in smoked bbq, Tex-Mex, and Hop Doddy’s burgers! We flew home on Verity’s birthday and were greeted with thoughtful gifts from family members, reminding us she is loved and celebrated and she will never be forgotten. 

July 2019 – for the 4th of July we headed out to the Gatewood beach cabin for a few days with our friends (the same friends who gave us the sign). We introduced their then 3-year-old to the Tillamook Creamery cheese sample line and yummy ice cream, played with sparklers, watched fireworks and turned pop-its into ammunition (I’m pretty sure I was the favorite target, at least it felt that way…maybe it’s because their aim was way better than mine). Then, for Verity’s birthday, we went to the Oregon Humane Society just to look and came home with, what I am pretty sure, is the world’s best pup, Kili Kaleo! 

With July 2020 starting tomorrow, I am holding space for the sadness, loss, and grief AND I am also remembering to look forward to the good things I already know the month will hold. We are headed back to Texas (Buda this time) to visit my parents and my sister and brother-in-law. There will be time to relax in the pool, eat really good food, play games and just breathe in and out together, relishing the moments of getting to actually be in the same space. We will celebrate Verity Grace’s birthday AND Kili’s gotcha day, welcome our new niece, and celebrate our wedding anniversary. 

July is exceptionally hard. July has a lot to offer. July is a month of both/and. 

Till Only Grace Remains

July 9th will be the three year mark since we said goodbye to Verity Grace and has me already reflecting on all that has changed…and what hasn’t. There have been epic travels, changing of homes, “hellos” to new friends and “goodbyes” as people have moved away. There have been new job/church roles, a new puppy, a new non-profit startup. 

Yet still my womb is silent. 

Still we wait, and I feel unloved, unseen and unheard by the only One with the power over the waiting. 

Just recently a friend who is also walking…wading…trudging through the emotional rollercoaster of infertility loaned me a book titled, When God Says Wait: Navigating life’s detours and delays without losing your faith, your friends, or your mind by Elizabeth Laing Thomson. At first, it sat there, collecting dust. In my “year of rest”, after saying goodbye to a job I loved, students I love, the sense of security in knowing a paycheck would come in each month, I did very little to truly rest. I filled up my schedule and I avoided. I avoided almost anything that had to do with working through the fact that God is still asking us to “wait” for another child. 

Not wanting to keep the book for too long and become known by absolutely everyone as THAT friend (yes, Al, I do still have your Brené Brown book I need to return and no, I still have not read it), I figured I would at least skim through it. Somehow, in my skimming, God always drew my eyes to what my heart needs (and I say “needs” very intentionally because it is an ongoing process; moment-by-moment reminders) to hear. 

“The longer God’s silence stretches, the more things start to break inside” (Thomson, pg. 15). YES! Yes, THIS! I know that feeling! I feel like I am breaking. Like maybe God loves everyone BUT me, or that He doesn’t actually see me or hear my cries. 

I must be breaking because I keep falling back into “auto-pilot” and operating as though this waiting period is God’s way of telling me to “pull myself together” and figure out how to love Him and others better before He will finally entrust us with another child. I keep forgetting the lessons He has been teaching me through this journey. Lessons like: 

• Redefining my hope in Him. 
• Learning to be brave. 
• Remembering I am enough. 

(Sound familiar maybe? Like, say, previous posts where I thought I got the lesson and could move on…apparently that’s not how things actually work but wouldn’t it be nice if it was?) 

I have been breaking as I feel each setback, each moment of despair, anger and grief as if I was deserving of punishment or as if God is withholding until I figure “it” out. I have spent the last three years pinballing between feeling like I am finally getting it and like I am failing.

“The longer we wait on an answer, the more distant God feels. His silence fuels our suspicions: Does He even care? Is He unmoved by my tears, my pleas? Just as in the garden, the evil snake whispers doubt through gaps in our shield of faith. After a while, God may start to feel like the enemy. The Great Giver? Yeah right. More like the Great Disappoinoter. The Great Withholder. He is holding out on me on purpose. Ignoring me. Torturing me. He doesn’t want what’s best for me. He probably doesn’t even like me. We don’t like to admit this, lest we get struck by lightning, but the truth is, some of us get mad at God. Bitterness begins to wrap icy tentacles around our hearts – suffocating hope, strangling trust – till only anger remains. And what a terrifying place that is, when you feel resentment toward God clouding your vision, darkening your heart: not only are you wandering in the unmarked wilderness, but now you have lost your compass” (Thomson, pg. 82). 

In this last year I have felt my hope dwindling, till only anger remained. I felt unloved, unseen, and unheard by God. 

Oh, how wrong I was.

Honestly, I thought I had even learned THIS lesson before. 

Rewind to late winter/early Spring of 2019. I was teaching and college/career counseling with no idea I would be handing in my resignation before the year was out. I had finished running photocopies and headed back to my office, done with appointments for the day, headphones in, Spotify playlist doing its thing and adding new music it thinks I’ll like, and this song comes on. Not the radio version, a live, acoustic version of “Persevere” by Gang of Youths with an intro explaining the “why” behind the song. 

In his intro, lead singer David Le’aupepe says this, “We have this friend named David Andrew. He and his wife have been through hell and back. David and his wife were expecting a baby (My steps falter. I’m arrested by “were”…I know where this is going and my heart is already breaking) and then 8.5 months in the pregnancy I got a call from a friend saying the baby was gone. Her name was Emme Grace. Emme Grace Andrew. This song is about her and her amazing dad.” 

Grace. Her middle name is Grace. 

Tears already starting to well up in my eyes as I flash back to holding our little one, whose middle name is Grace. All I have to do is make it to my office and turn off the lights for a minute of peace and quiet, thankful it’s not a passing period. Thankful it’s an abnormally quiet afternoon in my office. 

I listen closely to the song’s lyrics, heart aching for my daughter. 

Heart aching for Emme Grace’s family and friends. 

“I never got to kiss your head 

Ah, Emme

And the call came the week I got divorced

I thought I had a real understanding then of loss

But I didn’t know a thing ‘til you were gone

And I’m tired of trying to find some sort of

Meaningful thing

In making sense of such unspeakable loss

But as I’m staring at your folks 

The sweetest people I know 

I get a glimpse of what it is to be strong

Just holding hands and sobbing with sunglasses on…”

There is something that feels different in the loss of a child. Something that causes people to want to search for meaning, purpose, a reason to explain why a life is gone before it has even been lived outside of the womb. And when those answers aren’t found, something that plunges you into darkness where strength looks like clinging to one another through the tears. 

The song continues. The words washing over me as I listen to the perspective of a friend. An outsider looking in. Grieving in his own way as he watches the grief of his friends. 

It is at this point I should probably tell you that I don’t only listen to Christian music/Worship songs, in case you didn’t already know that. My music is completely mood and atmosphere driven. If it’s summertime and nice outside you are very likely to catch me blasting some Hawaiin music (thank you Brother Iz!). If it’s evening and I’m winding down for the day my choice may be more inclined to jazz (ugh, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, those voices get me EVERY time!). Belting out song lyrics on a road trip it may be Lake Street Drive or Lauren Daigle or Adele. Sometimes it’s Rock, sometimes Indie, on a VERY rare occasion (aka: if I’m out at the barn working with horses/mucking out stalls) Country. You get the picture. 

All that to say, Gang of Youths is not a Christian band. They sometimes use more “colorful” words or lyrics I don’t necessarily agree with philosophically, however, God used this song, on that day, to remind me of His grace.

I’m not going to type out all of the lyrics for you, nor am I necessarily saying “go listen to this song”. I am simply conveying gratitude at the ways God reaches into the darkness to remind me of His Light. 

“I couldn’t count the times 

I’ve ragged on heaven

As an opiate invented by the weak

It’s an argument I hate

‘Coz I’m content to love the fates

But it comes up a lot with Emme’s dad and me

So I’m shotgun in the car

And we’re just shooting the _____

And predictably the talking turns to God

So I throw him forty lines

How I don’t think He exists

And he just smiles and

Takes a dignified pause

Says, ‘it’s okay to feel unbelievably lost’

But God is full of grace

And His faithfulness is vast

There is safety in the moments 

When the ____  has hit the fan

Not some vindictive _______

Nor is He _______ at His job

What words to hear” 

What words to hear…….

God isn’t vindictive. He’s not bad at His job. He isn’t withholding or standing idly by in my moments of despair, anger, bitterness and grief. 

“All my longings lie open before you, Lord; my sighing is not hidden from you. My heart pounds, my strength fails me; even the light has gone from my eyes…Lord, I wait for you; you will answer, Lord my God.” – Psalm 38:9-10, 15

When, in the waiting, He feels silent, I am reminded He is full of grace. 

In her book, Elizabeth Laing Thomson, points out beautifully that grace is not simply a small, insignificant compilation of five letters, it is not “a temporary, transient position based on our day-to-day performance” but instead it “may be the most powerful word in the world” (pg. 66).

“God’s grace lasts long enough. God’s grace never runs dry. Waiting is not a punishment from God; it is a part of life. Everyone waits for things, even the most righteous of people” (pg. 66).

I am not unloved, unseen, unheard. On days when hope is suffocated, trust is strangled, and waiting feels like punishment, God finds ways to reach me, through a book, a song, a friend and reminds me…

I am loved. 

I am seen. 

I am heard. 

Till only grace remains.

The Beauty of a Promise

This morning, as I was reminded yet again we are not pregnant, I got ready slowly and opened up the windows at the Gatewood beach cabin while waiting for the coffee to brew. This beach cabin always holds my favorite views and yet this morning, at the moment I opened those windows, I saw something I have never before seen there. Out near my favorite rocks, the Kissing Turtles, the sky held the end of a beautiful rainbow. In the stillness and beauty of that moment I was reminded again of God’s promises and faithfulness and that even though I can’t understand why we only got 22 weeks of pregnancy with our daughter and now, over a year later, remain barren and childless…God is still good. 

The rainbow faded fairly quickly, which I took as a sign it was put there just for me to see, and I drifted over to the coffee maker for some much needed caffeine. Coffee in hand I turned back to the window and was blown away by what I saw. The end of the rainbow had disappeared but the sky was lit up as the rainbow stretched across its vastness. And I stood there, tears rolling down my cheeks, in awe of this beautiful sign that even though part of the rainbow disappeared the rest was revealed and was even more stunning. It wrapped around those rocks in a giant hug and in that moment I felt seen by God, held by Him and known. 

He was lovingly telling me that even though one part of our story was fading, there is still so much He has promised for us. 

And so it’s okay. It’s okay that I can’t see exactly what He’s doing right now in my barrenness. It’s okay to both grieve the loss of hopes and dreams and, at the same time, have unexplainable peace in knowing His plans are better than my plans. It’s okay to simply be.

Redefining Hope in the Midst of “The Void”

Hope. It’s tricky. If you place your hope in the wrong thing you run the risk of entering what I call “the void”. A dark place. Where no shadows of hope are left to hold on to.

For the past three years I have placed my hope in the promise and possibility of biological children. And, oh, we were so close. For 22 weeks I got to carry that hope in our daughter, Verity Grace, and dream of what her life would look like. I loved (and still love) her with every ounce of love my heart could possibly hold. For 22 weeks she was my hope come true, my dream realized, my promise secured.

And then she was gone. Born still at 22 weeks.

But I continued to hope.

I hoped because now we knew we COULD have biological children. God had done it. He worked a miracle and created a little girl just for us. Even though she was gone, we now had the promise we could get pregnant, so of course we held on to the hope we would get pregnant again soon. Obviously it wouldn’t be easy because it sure wasn’t the first time, but we had the hope of what life could look like. Our story wasn’t yet finished.

Month after month I continued to hope that God would show Himself to be good once again. Good in the way I wanted Him to be good and kind, wrapped in the promise of another little life for Ben and I. Treatment after treatment I kept grasping for hope in things unseen, the promise that God would give us a biological child we could keep here on Earth. Redeeming our broken story. I clung to that hope, because if I couldn’t hold on to hope anymore, what would happen? What would that even look like? A dark void from which there was no return?

Each and every month, in the midst of the waiting, God brought people, symbols, and written words to help me cling to hope. To remind me that our story was not yet finished.

These reminders were friends willing to sit with us in the waiting, undaunted by the darkness that crept in. Continued sightings of beautiful deer when least expected, and the promise of hope they held. Books and devotionals shared at just the right time, as I was on the cusp of entering the deep void. Prophecies and visions shared of us holding a child of our own.

And so I thought my hope was in the right place. The promise of a biological child.

Then, with complications from my PCOS, medical options to have biological children ran out. Still not pregnant, the end of part of our story came faster than our hearts and minds were ready for. Our hope of a biological child did not come true.  

Into “the void” I dove. Sinking deeply in a place where all light seemed gone. Overwhelming darkness. I knew staying there for too long would slowly suffocate my soul, but there I was sitting in the deep void of darkness.

Our story, like many, is hard. I’m torn between wishing this wasn’t our story to bear AND being thankful for all the ways God has shown and revealed new things about Himself in the midst of it. Some days I feel shame and guilt at thinking our story is hard. When I read about or talk to people who have gone through miscarriage after miscarriage after miscarriage or as I watch friends who are still waiting for a spouse and the promise of children someday or those who have suffered addiction, abuse, loss, etc. I know I am fortunate and richly blessed with a loving family, a wonderful, caring husband, a great support system. But, I am also realizing, it’s okay to grieve my story AND grieve for those around me. My hurts are not the same as your hurts and my wilderness is different than your wilderness but minimizing my loss will not help anyone. Life is hard. Life is “unfair”. Life can throw us into shadows and darkness. The void.

There are many days I ache for our daughter. I want her back. I want to hold her and watch her grow. To celebrate birthdays and rejoice with each milestone passed. On good days, days when I can see through the shadows of darkness to what God is doing, I would not change a thing. I would not ask for our daughter back because I see the ways God has been growing and molding and shaping me. I see the ways He has taught me to be vulnerable and nurture deep relationships with the people He has put in my story. But those are shadow days, and shadow days need light to make them possible.

With the failure of our most recent attempt for biological children, I dove deeper into “the void” than ever before. For the first time in our journey, I wished our daughter had never existed. That was a painful, frightening, dark place to be.

I had all the “logic” figured out in my head as to why life would be better without those 22 weeks with her. Had she not existed we would have already closed the door on trying to have biological children, grieved the loss, and moved toward adoption. Or maybe we would already have a child because we would’ve chosen the further treatment earlier and maybe, just maybe, it would have worked. We would have finished the seasons of Chlomid and Femara and IUIs and would have an answer one way or another….instead of desperately hoping each month only to find our hopes unrealized.

Had we not become pregnant with our daughter, I wouldn’t have such a difficult time watching our nephew grow. Our nephew who was born the day our daughter was supposed to be due. I wouldn’t feel like such a horrible, neglectful aunt on days I can only be near this precious boy in small doses because he is a perfect, healthy reminder of what feels increasingly like a figment of my imagination. Had we not had our Verity, holidays and gatherings would not be such a hard reminder of our empty arms as everyone else reaches out for the things they hold dear in the “special moments”.

Instead we remain in the “waiting place”. He gave us our daughter and then allowed barrenness to visit again. And so I sat in that darkness. That void. That nothingness, unable to move forward but unable to go back either. All the while He kept speaking to others, giving them words and visions to pour over us and ignite hope again. And each time those went unrealized I plunged back into the darkness. Yet, even in that void, I knew God was there with me, shining His light, pulling me back into the shadows. But oh how endless that void can feel when I choose not to open my eyes.  

Recently I had a student share a devotional with me called, “When Hope Grows Up: Finding Hope in His Plan” by Justine Brooks Froelker. Man, I love when God uses my students to speak profound truths into my life! In the devotional Froelker talks about misplaced hope and what it looks like when hope grows up.

What if I was placing my hope in the wrong thing?

What if, with each reminder…prophecy…deer sighting, God was actually nudging me to redefine my hope?

Here is the hard part…I can only redefine hope if I let my old definition of hope die.

I thought I was hoping in the promise of God showing up through blessing us with biological children. This wasn’t a bad thing to hope in, knowing God could work miracles and might just work one in our barrenness. I thought I was hoping in Him and promises He had given me but maybe I was hoping too much in the promise of the children part, and less on the Him part.

What if, instead, I put my hope solely in His heart’s desire for my story rather than my heart’s desire?

What if my hope was in eternal things and the legacy I’ll leave behind? A legacy of loving people, everybody, always, even in the midst of hurt and pain and trusting that God is still good, even when He doesn’t feel good or seem kind to me.

In her book, Remember God, Annie F. Downs talks about remembering God even when our circumstances don’t always match what we know to be true of Him. Knowing that God is always kind and provides, even when life isn’t always kind. Even when it doesn’t feel like He loves me enough to be kind to me in the ways I want Him to be kind (pgs. 31, 46, 166).  She talks about wilderness, and the manna that God provided for the Israelites as they walked through their wilderness in the book of Exodus. Manna means “what is it” in Hebrew. It was something the Israelites didn’t recognize. It was something different, something else. Something unknown. He provided manna each and every day, just enough for that day. The Israelites made it to the Promised Land, the land He had promised and prepared for them, sustaining them with something unrecognizable to them. God doesn’t shift our lives so that we fall apart, He gives us manna to sustain us, to provide for us throughout the wilderness, or barrenness, even when we don’t feel provided for (pgs. 153-154).

And so I am learning to redefine my hope. To find God’s provision in the manna He gives to sustain me through our wilderness.

I am not giving up on hope. I am not giving up on hope as I no longer cling to the dream of biological children. I am not giving up on hope as our story doesn’t have my happy ending, with God showing up in the ways I wanted Him to show up. I am simply, painstakingly, redefined hope and our story. I am learning to change my definition of hope because clinging to my dream of biological children here on earth was, to quote Froelker, “killing my soul and stealing my light”.  It was keeping me trapped in the dark, endless void.

I am not giving up on our story.

I am not giving up on hope.

I am redefining it.

I am owning all my parts of our story, including the barrenness, and recognizing that God is not finished with it yet.

I am embracing sadness with joy, trust with longing, parts forever missing but choosing to work toward being whole. I am embracing His will, not mine (reworded from Froelker).

I am holding on to His hope for my life, even though it hasn’t necessarily turned out how I planned (Froelker).

Hope. Yes, I still believe it is tricky, but redefining hope is helping me crawl out of “the void” and into the fundamental truths of grace and love and light. And that is the legacy I want our story, Verity’s and mine, to leave behind.

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Here are a few of the resources people have shared with me that went into my processing for this post specifically.

• BOOKS:
  • Remember God by Annie F. Downs
  • Everybody, Always by Bob Goff
• DEVOTIONAL: “When Hope Grows Up: Finding Hope in His Plan” by Justine Brooks Froelker (https://www.bible.com/reading-plans/3088-when-hope-grows-up-hope-in-his-plan)
• SONGS:
  • “Rescue” by Lauren Daigle (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3U4Q2R7ZZAE)
  • “Grand Canyon” by Andy Gullahorn (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ewFyhgXdwOE)
  • “Not In A Hurry” by Will Reagan (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VeWuavHf4oY)
  • “Confident” by Steffany Gretzinger & Bobby Strand (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r32B_vLqC-Y)