Friday, August 31, 2012


                          Source: via Cheryl on Pinterest

My daughter will never again be that six pound bundle I welcomed into the world.

In the last three years, she has changed. A. LOT.

She went from rolling, to crawling, to pulling up, to walking.

She went from cooing, to babbling, to uttering one word, to forming sentences and then conversations.

She will never again be that six pound bundle. She will never again be what she is today.

She is ever changing.

And so I am.

People have made statements like, you'll start feeling like your old-self again. It will just take some time.

My old-self?

Who was that? How do I find her again? Do I want to?

How can your life completely change but not you?

When you uttered an anguished sob of a goodbye, a goodbye that no mother should ever have to say, how do you not become someone completely different?

My old-self? She's gone.

I have a new-self. I am a new me.

Ever changing just like that six pound bundle I was blessed to welcome into the world.

Linking up today for a Five-Minute Friday with Lisa-Jo.


Wednesday, August 29, 2012


It's been a busy time. It's that time of year. I have been busy and distracted but still, those memories and wonderings have surfaced. Exposing that raw pain.

I don't know what it is that has caused these emotions, memories and wonderings to rise to the top.

Maybe it's that this time last year, the reality was truly settling in. I stopped believing there was a way to turn back the clock and undo what had been done.

Maybe it's that I have been feeling them near me so much.

Maybe it's that my husband and I shared our story last Sunday at church. All those precious, terrifying moments relived.

Maybe it's that now, Emmerson and Vivienne would be walking and talking. I watch  Alexandria play by herself and I wonder how the three of them would interact together. They would have arguments but they would also keep each other company.

I wonder what my family of five would look like living the daily life.

Maybe it's that I have had a few dreams about Emmerson and Vivienne and in those dreams I got to spend a few more moments with them but they always end with me telling them it's okay to go. That we love them immensely and we will miss them just as much but that it's okay.

And maybe it's just how this grief thing works. Coming and going, never knowing when it is going to sit with me awhile, exposing that raw pain.

I find that I have several moments throughout the day when I feel like I am suffocating. Finding it hard to breathe because the pain is just too heavy. I want to scream that I miss them when I am in public. I find that I am suppressing an overwhelming urge to cry. I want to grab the nearest stranger and inform them that my family is not complete. There are two precious girls not with me.


And I wonder, why do some babies live and some babies die? Why are there arms left heavy and empty? How does God choose which babies get to go home with their parents and which ones will take their last breath in their mommies arms?

How does He choose? Can some one explain this to me?

I miss them! I want them back! I've already missed their first year of life, now I am missing the stage of wonderment and discovery.

I want them back.


Thursday, August 23, 2012


This is such a strange time, such a strange place for me to be. By nature I am a planner. I am a doer. I get things done.

I have less than nine weeks until my due date arrives and I have done nothing to anticipate his arrival.

Okay, that's a lie. I have relocated some pink blankets. And I just recently (and by that I mean with in the last couple of days) started looking at some things I could use to decorate his room. Last week, I started making him a quilt.

All of those things have been done in a cloud of fear. I get all anxious knowing I need to prepare but then I become paralyzed.

That whisper of what if sings in my ear. Resonates throughout every cell.

I am holding my breath. I have a sigh I long to release.

I just can't yet. It's not time.

I have less than nine weeks until his arrival and I have just now started to feel those little sparks that some identify as excitement. He kicks or jabs and I smile.

I can't do this.

I have spent the last seven and a half months guarding and protecting myself.

I can't get excited because what if?

I long to release this sigh. I crave to exhale.

But I am so scared.

I have scars that run deep. I have scars that hurt everyday. I don't want more.

Little Man gets the hiccups and I catch myself wondering if he will have those after birth as well. He kicks and I smile. Without trying I wonder what he will look like, who he will be.

I long to hold him. I long to hold them. I long to know who they would have been. And everything gets tangled.

I am anxious to know what his arrival will mean. I need to know.

I don't know if I can continue to wonder and anticipate if the ending will be one that results in ragged scars. If it will result in more lines on face etched by tears.

I don't know how you balance guarding your heart and falling in love at the same time.

I don't know if this tangled mess of my emotions will result in damage I cannot undo.

I don't know how to do any of this.

How do I fully submerge into this moment, in this blessing when I still ache to be in the moments that came before? How do I embrace the wondering and longing when there is so much of me still longing for what I so desperately miss?


Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Hard Not To See

When you open your eyes, it's hard not to see.

Not to see all the pain all around. 

Not to see all the people who miss and who ache.

There is hurt and ache and pain . . . deep searing pain and . . . death.

And people just want answers.

That awful, tragic question . . . WHY?

Violence . . . senseless violence. Horrific acts for seemingly no reason.

Car crashes that change the course of one's life.

Addictions stake claim and consume.

Cancer invades and persists.

Mommies and Daddies die before they get to see their children grow into the people they are to become.

Cradles sit empty.

When you open your eyes, it's hard not to see.

Not to see all the pain all around.

Not to see all the people who miss and who ache.

And it makes me wonder. We were never meant for this world. We were always meant for something more. Is this unsettling hurt . . . the seemingly senselessness and the question "is this all there is to this life?" . . . makes me wonder. Do we experience the pain, the loneliness, the bone-searing ache because we are meant to have a longing for something more? Something more holy? Something more complete? Something so beautifully perfect?

When you open your eyes, it's hard not to see.

Not to see all the pain all around.

Not to see all the people who miss and who ache.

But it's also hard not see that mercy and grace and beauty triumphs.


Wednesday, August 1, 2012

It's A Struggle

Source: via Joelle on Pinterest

On June 29, 2012, I woke up and was scared. He wasn't moving! He always moves in the morning. June 29 . . . The year before on June 29 I went into labor with the twins.

He wasn't moving!

Not again!

I got up, moved around, changed position, went downstairs for some water, laid back down . . . nothing!

Not again!

Over an hour later, he started moving in all his crazy glory.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

Two weeks ago, at almost six and a half months pregnant, I started cramping, feeling a tightness that would come and go in my lower abdomen, intense lower back pain, and pressure. So much pressure.

Even after being in labor three separate times, I still wasn't for sure if this was labor or if it was the changes that occur with pregnancy.

I tried resting, feet up, warm showers, fluid, but nothing was diminishing the pain.

I called my doctor and she got me right in.

She did a thorough examination. Everything was fine. I was to take it easy for a few days.

I kept reminding myself of the age of viability. He was there now. A bigger milestone than that foolish 12 week one where everything is supposedly safe after that mark. When is anything safe? Who decided that after 12 weeks gestation, the baby was safe?

But who wants their baby born too early? Who wants to see them struggle under the weight of all that life-saving medical equipment?

I didn't need to remind myself that babies die. I know that they do.

And that's a fear. A very realistic fear.

It's a struggle. This whole pregnancy. I second guess everything. Every twinge. Every ache.

It's a struggle to prepare. We did go into that room two weeks ago. That room that our sweet identical twin girls would sleep had become a four letter word and then a storage space. We went into that room and started cleaning out. I started with all those girl blankets. I moved them and then I started weeping. We still have a room to clean out. It's a struggle.

I want to reach the end of this pregnancy. For so many reasons. I want the end to be here. I need to know the outcome now. I need to know that I will get to hold this baby. That I will get to feed him. That I will get to secure him in his car seat and take him home. That I will awake in the stillness of the night to his cries and get to comfort him.

The heart automatically guards against a hurt that caused everything to shatter. I shouldn't be judged. No mother who has lost a child should be judged for the way the heart guards.

It's a struggle when all innocence has been lost.



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