tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35905597176756765862024-03-14T03:16:58.879-04:00A Mother Lost ...My journey through loss and healing.Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.comBlogger139125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-54122993307536440942014-05-29T18:10:00.000-04:002014-05-29T18:10:18.989-04:00AgainIt was the looking back in wonderment of the time that was . . . disbelieving that all those days unfolded into years and those years signifying a time that had passed. And anyone who has lived some can fully grasp the understanding of how the days . . . the years . . . can rush and crawl all in the same breath.<br />
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It was the asking . . . the needing to know . . . <b><i>would you do it all over again?</i></b><br />
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<b><i>It was a hushed question in the stillness.</i></b><br />
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It was a hushed question I had asked myself many times months ago.<br />
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Would I do it all over again? If someone had told me everything that would happen - the good and the bad - if I took the steps in the direction that would lead me here, would I do it all over again?<br />
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When the pain cut fresh and sharp my answer was an anguished, regrettable no.<br />
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When the grief gave me nothing to see but endless black, I would have given anything for the pain to not have been and so my answer was one where the head shook as tears fell.<br />
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When the clouds started to part and light glimmered through, my response changed.<br />
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I had an overwhelming need to know what he would have done had he known.<br />
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Would he still have chosen me if he knew the pain and struggle that would come in doing so?<br />
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<b><i>Would the good times make it worth it?</i></b><br />
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Would he do it all over again?<br />
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<i>I wouldn't have believed them.</i><br />
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Because who when they are young and starting to really live their life believes that things will be hard?<br />
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We promise for better or for worse but who believes the worse will happen? I've learned that the promise isn't for the better. <b><i>The promise is for the hard.</i></b> If it isn't for the promise, what else is there left to cling to? Who believes that they will be the ones to sit across from a doctor and be told that the probability of having a child is extraordinarily slim? Who believes that marriage will become incredibly hard and you're left wondering if its really even worth it? Who believes that instead of going to their daughter's dance recitals, they will visit the graveyard instead?<br />
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<b><i>Who would have believed them?</i></b><br />
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I'm so thankful for his response. His response lit up a dark corner of my mind and reminded me of the naivete and fairy tale dreams I used to possess and entertain.<br />
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<b><i>Who would have believed them?</i></b><br />
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And isn't it better that we didn't know? In the bliss of not knowing there were dreams that got the chance to live and dance and there was faith that got un-caged and soared.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-48876672580168938922013-12-15T22:26:00.001-05:002013-12-15T22:32:55.028-05:00Ask What . . .My fists had pounded that table with each anguished why that cried.<br />
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Why? Why? Why?<br />
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Why! Why! Why!<br />
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Those arms that ached with the heaviness of emptiness was a visceral pain.<br />
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All that pain gets clinched up, the emotions ball up and then out they come with a pounding of a fist, a guttural cry of why.<br />
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My husband so gently took that clinched, pounding fist, covered it with his open hand and said, <i>"I know your need to want to know why. Trust me, I do. But that may be a question that never gets answered. At some point, we need to turn that </i>'why'<i> into a </i>'what'<i>. What are we going to do with this? What are we going to make of it?"</i><br />
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Slowly, those why's reduced themselves one by one as the days ticked on.<br />
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Slowly, the smiles started out weighing the tears.<br />
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Slowly, you start living again not because you have to but because you want to.<br />
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And slowly, the 'what' starts unfolding, naturally, just as the moon unfolds itself to the light.<br />
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There is a love that reveals itself when you give birth to life. It's a true, organic, all the way through kind of love that never dies.<br />
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Love in and of itself is a mystery full round but there is a mystery that lies within, there is a need . . . a longing to care for your baby that you no longer get to hold.<br />
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<b><i>Even when your baby dies you are a mother who aches to mother.</i></b><br />
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That first Christmas was rough and hard and seared all the way through. The mother in me refused to stop mothering. We continued with traditions. We bought ornaments for all three of our girls and hung them on the tree. Christmas stockings were still stuffed.<br />
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<b><i>The 'what' slowly started revealing itself.</i></b><br />
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There was a need to fill those two stockings to two little girls. What do you do with material things that the ones they are intended for are not here?<br />
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<b><i>The 'what' slowly started revealing itself.</i></b><br />
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The second Christmas, we started thinking broader.<br />
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The ache to mother two little girls I don't get to hold never dies, it continues to grow.<br />
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That ache to love has been stretched right through, pulled tight and over to ache to love others. To care for other mothers and fathers who ache over their babies.<br />
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The ache to love revealed the 'what'.<br />
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<b><i>And so, EV's Christmas Stockings, out of cries over death, was breathed into being.</i></b><br />
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EV's Christmas Stockings provided a stocking to each baby in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at Riley Children's Hospital.<br />
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Some people have said what I have done is "amazing" or "awesome".<br />
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I don't deserve those praises.<br />
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What I have done was born from pure selfishness for the memories of my daughters to keep on living. I don't want people to forget two little girls who made such an impact on my world.<br />
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<b><i>It's my mother's selfish love that made me do what I did.</i></b><br />
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It's that desire . . . that longing to care for and love two girls whom I physically can't. So that desire has been placed on others who need to be cared for, loved for and remembered.<br />
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I thought I was the one giving. I thought I was the one bestowing the blessings.<br />
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There is no way to describe the appreciation and gratitude one has when they receive something completely unexpected.<br />
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<b><i>I received more than I gave. I was blessed more than I blessed.</i></b><br />
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It was a very emotional day for me. That morning, as I gathered all the Christmas stockings, I cried. After months of working, I was finally still enough to absorb the weight of it and my emotions overcame me.<br />
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I called my husband upstairs and had him look at all 65 stockings and through tears I said, <i>"look </i>what<i> they have done! Look </i>what<i> our two little girls have done!" </i><br />
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I would never have dreamed that Emmerson and Vivienne would be able to touch so many. They were only here for a short while but look at <i>what</i> they have been able to do.<br />
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Trust me, if I could, I would change it all to have them here. Nothing will ever take that away. After all, I'm still a mother who longs to mother all four of my children.<br />
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But, wow! Look <i>what</i> they have done!<br />
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We will probably never have our answer as to why but now, we know, what we can do with what we have been given. And that is simply to love . . . <br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I have found the paradox that if I love until it hurts, then there is no hurt, but only more love. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">~ Mother Teresa ~</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black; font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span></span></div>
Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-50412952673290317912013-11-16T15:34:00.001-05:002013-12-15T22:16:28.809-05:00You Surprised MeThose muscles fibers pulled tight in the middle of the night and I thought if I sipped water, repositioned, let the magic of water relax as it flowed, those fibers would let go.<br />
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For twelve hours I tried to believe it to mean something different. Because sometimes the obvious isn't so obvious. <b><i>Sometimes the obvious sits in silent whispers, just still enough to leave room for doubt.</i></b><br />
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I wasn't ready to let go. I knew it was too early to let go.<br />
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I needed to hold on.<br />
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My fears raged for seven months straight. Those tightened muscles that medicine had a hard time relaxing confirmed my fears that I would have to let go . . . again . . . in a way that no mother should ever have to let go.<br />
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I needed to hold on tighter just a little more.<br />
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For four weeks, those fibers pulled tight enough and often enough and just enough to keep my fears dancing.<br />
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<b><i>But you surprised me.</i></b><br />
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Those fibers tightened once more, with more time that had gone by and at the right time, those fibers tightened and I needed to let go. One slow breath at a time.<br />
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I let go and you entered our world.<br />
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You entered with lungs full of life. A sweet surprise . . . a sweet sound that interrupted the deafening silence of doubt that raged deep within me.<br />
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Four seasons have come and gone. <i><b>Time has a way of letting go to let more be.</b></i> Infant grunts and sighs let go for smiles and coos to full on belly laughs. Lying still in arms to rolling over to pulling up and moving on.<br />
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<b><i>You surprised me.</i></b><br />
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I didn't think my broken heart was capable of filling up once again. But you came and it over flowed.<br />
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<b><i>You surprised me.</i></b><br />
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My cup runneth over and my heart spills through.<br />
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By nature, I want to hold on. It's a mother's reflexive response. I want to hold on because it is so hard to let go.<br />
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A full year has come and gone. You have transformed a little body into a giant personality.<br />
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My heart fills up and overflows.<br />
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My soul needs to sit in the reverence of the bittersweetness of motherhood.<br />
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Motherhood is full of laundry, dirty dishes, washing dirt off feet, reminding them for the hundreth time to say please and thank you <b><i>but what wears a mother out and fills her up all at once, more than anything else, is trying to perfect the art of holding on and letting go.</i></b><br />
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Motherhood is full of muscles pulling tight but the pain ensues when we let out those long slow breaths. Those breaths we learned to breathe in and out to ease the pain of childbirth are the very breaths that hurt after.<br />
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We were designed to hold on to that which we desire to keep. But that's an illusion. <b><i>We have to let go so we have something to hold on to.</i></b><br />
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I need to grieve the newborn onesies that have been folded, the blankets that swaddled and the sweet scent of new on you.<br />
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<b><i>I need to inhale deep and then let it go so more of you can be.</i></b> So I can breathe in worn out knees in your jeans, building forts with those blankets that swaddled and the scent of dirt, mischeviousness and you exploring the new.<br />
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I need to let go so you can be.<br />
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<b><i>I may grieve the time that has gone by but I know I can only grieve because it was. I am grateful that I had it at all.</i></b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-47242686369889989252013-10-15T23:24:00.001-04:002013-11-16T15:33:35.133-05:00When Your Baby DiesWhen you lose a baby . . .<br />
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You don't lose a baby.<br />
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You lose your car keys, one sock to complete a pair, a tube of lip gloss. You <b>don't</b> <i>lose</i> a baby.<br />
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Your baby dies.<br />
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When your baby dies you lose a huge chunk of yourself. A gaping hole lives inside of you.<br />
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You don't know if you can smile again or if you even will ever want to.<br />
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It feels as if your muscles are suffering from amnesia. It's hard to remember how to smile . . . how to laugh. You forget what its like to move without feeling like you are trying to walk on the bottom of the ocean floor.<br />
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When your baby dies, you feel that you have too. You wish it had been you instead and you just can't understand why its wasn't. You have lived, they never really got to and where's the sense and nature in that?<br />
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When your baby dies because your body went into pre-term labor, how do you ever trust your body again? It betrayed you in a way it never should. How do you ever trust it again?<br />
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When your baby dies, there is a distinct line drawn. A line that separates your life into two parts - a before and an after. A line that has separated you into two - the person who you once were and the person you are now . . . whoever that is.<br />
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When your baby dies, you wish you could go back to the before, if just for a day so you could hold onto that lightness, joy and innocence a little bit tighter in the hopes you could remember everything about it for your life in the after.<br />
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When your baby dies you wonder how you will go on. You wonder if you will ever again possess the desire to go on at all.<br />
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When your baby dies, you are scared that the grief will become you. And you are scared that it won't. Because if it does, that means life is forever colored in shades of black. If it doesn't, you are scared that it means you have forgotten your baby.<br />
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When your baby dies and you smile again and not in a forced manner to falsely assure others that you are "fine" but truly smile and it registered that you did, it instantly throws you back and you wonder if that means you have forgotten. And that is the worse because if you forget, everyone else will too.<br />
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When your baby dies, you wrestle with everything you believed before. You don't want to believe in a God that allowed you to bury your child. You believe in the hope of heaven so you can't deny the God who created it.<br />
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When your baby dies, you wrestle. You struggle. You fear. You grieve.<br />
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When your baby dies, your heart still contracts and your lungs still take in air. And you eventually learn that the contractions and the breathing in and breathing out don't betray that your baby lived. It's a way to live . . . to speak . . . to remember . . . to honor them.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span><br />
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<br />Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-69209280753727468272013-09-13T15:07:00.001-04:002013-10-15T22:55:32.249-04:00A Million Pieces<i>Enjoy it. It goes so fast . . .</i><br />
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The smile that could give way to the quiver of the lips and the smiling eyes belying the grief of a time gone by. I believe its more of a statement uttered in disbelief, of trying to still grasp how fast it all went then advice to still-young-parents.<br />
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I know those words will fall from my lips. Even in the days when its hard and I feel every sluggish minute wearing me down, I know, even then, that those words will haunt me.<br />
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Motherhood is a teeter-totter that's never able to balance right center, perfectly parallel to the ground and to the sky. It's that constant tug-of-war between meals, dishes sitting dirty, clothes that refuse to stay clean with stories read while lazily sitting against a stack of pillows and the littles on your lap, giggling over nothing and everything and swinging high just to see if your toes really can tickle the sky.<br />
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<b><i>This mom thing is hard and it hurts. Why do so many people act like labor is the most painful part of motherhood? The true labor of any mom begins after that swaddled bundle has been placed in your arms. In a million ways and a million times, you will break right in two.</i></b><br />
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I know I will look back and remember more when my tongue cut sharp and sighs heavy with impatience were released but I hope . . . I pray they remember the "I love yous", reading long past bed-time and impromptu hide-n-seek more.<br />
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<b><i>I hope they remember more when I let go and let them be.</i></b><br />
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I know I will look back and will be unable to comprehend how fast it really went. Wishing I could have had more. More ice cream melted over hands just so I could hold those small hands once more. More tickling just so I could I relish in the laughter that is light as air because the world hasn't weighed them down.<br />
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Motherhood is heavy and the weight of the responsibility can be terrifying and paralyzing. <b><i>There are a million ways to mess up and break them right in two.</i></b><br />
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I want them to be smart and have friends. I want them to be kind and for life to be easy. But I know beauty can only be birthed from pain. And oh, how I want them to be beautiful people!<br />
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I want them to be the kind of beautiful that is kind even when everyone else is telling them its wrong.<br />
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I want them to give even when they are tired, weak, broken and penniless.<br />
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I want them to bleed with compassion but I know that you can only bleed only if you've been hurt.<br />
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More than any other prayer and hope is that they know how to drop to their knees with folded hands, look up and to trust God.<br />
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<b><i>It breaks me . . . the weight . . . the responsibility, it breaks me in a million different ways.</i></b> I know they will learn only by how we have lived. I hope they have witnessed that love isn't always a fairytale and sometimes . . . a lot of times, requires hard work. I hope they see two people who work together, live together and love together. I hope they witness that even with broken hearts of our own, we still care and that even when bone tired and financially poor, we still give.<br />
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<b><i>Motherhood is hard and it hurts and the labor never ends and if we are doing it right as best we can, it hurts more, breaking us into a million pieces.</i></b><br />
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<b><i>The miraculous thing about a Mother's heart . . . any heart . . . is that even when it's broken, it still continues to beat. </i></b><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I wondered if I was alone or if other parents felt the same way I did - that everything involving our children was painful in some way. The emotions, whether they were joy, sorrow, love or pride, were so deep and sharp that in the end they left you raw, exposed and yes, in pain. The human heart was not designed to beat outside the human body and yet, each child represented just that - a parent's heart bared, beating forever outside its chest.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">~D. Ginsberg~ </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-12359950101521047972013-08-16T13:05:00.002-04:002013-08-16T13:05:53.471-04:00Slowly, Ever SlowlyYou, the one sitting stone still, staring at nothing . . .<br />
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You, the one who feels like you have aged a 100 years . . .<br />
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You, the one with swollen, red eyes . . .<br />
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You, the one who wonders if you will ever be able to truly live again . . .<br />
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Slowly, ever slowly, you start waking in the morning and that overwhelming dread of having to live out another day starts to lift.<br />
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Slowly, ever slowly, you find that you have smiled at some one or over something and it wasn't forced.<br />
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Slowly, ever slowly, you find that you are looking forward to one thing . . . one event.<br />
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Slowly, ever slowly, the darkness lifts.<br />
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The grief and sadness never go away, they just change form . . . you learn how to live with it . . . how to cope. Just like someone learning to walk again after they lost a limb, you learn how to live with the grief, how to reign in the tears when they dare to consume you in the middle of the grocery store or while picking up your other child from preschool. The walking doesn't negate the loss of the leg nor do the smiles and the living negate the area of your heart that is empty and torn.<br />
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<b><i>It isn't something you ever get over. </i></b>You are not suppose to because you can't. <b><i>You can't get over something that defies nature.</i></b><br />
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It isn't something you ever get over, it is something you go through. Everyday you will walk through this. <i>Every. Day.</i> Right now, though, it is thick and heavy. Ever slowly that fog will lift and it won't consume every part of you. <br />
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<b><i>You get through it by slowly, ever slowly going through it. There is no other way.</i></b><br />
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Don't let anyone tell you how to grieve.</div>
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Don't let anyone tell you how to cope. </div>
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Don't let anyone tell you enough time has passed. You don't know when enough time has passed to smile again. You don't know until you feel that foreign motion of the lips curving up. And even then, there are still soul-crushing, take-your-breath-away, bring-you-to-your-knees moments and days. </div>
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Don't let anyone tell you to be thankful for the child(ren) who are living.</div>
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Don't let anyone tell you that having another baby will fix it.<br />
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<b><i>Nothing can fix this. Nothing can make this better.</i></b> </div>
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Give yourself grace. There is no blueprint for this. Everyone does this differently. Don't let anyone tell you that you are grieving <i>wrong</i> because so-and-so had a similar experience and it didn't affect them like it's affecting you. </div>
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Don't let anyone tell you that things could have been a lot worse. The ones who say that, never buried a child so they don't have a right to define <i>worse</i> for you. They don't know what worse is. <b><i>When it comes to your child dying before you, that encompasses worse.</i></b> Worse <i>is</i> worse.<br />
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Slowly, ever slowly, you realize you are alive.<br />
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Slowly, ever slowly, you enjoy living.<br />
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Slowly, ever slowly, you find hope. And you find that <b><i>you hope in hope again.</i></b><br />
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<b><i><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">There is, I’m convinced, no picture that conveys in all its dreadfulness, a vision of sorrow, despairing, remediless, supreme. If I could paint such a picture, the canvas would show only a woman looking down at her empty arms.</span></i></b></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">~Charlotte Bronte~</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span><br />
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Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-46378008203211689352013-08-10T13:11:00.000-04:002013-08-16T12:27:55.442-04:00To Age Is To Be BeautifulI'm really starting to feel the effects of aging. I don't know if it's due to the littles I am caring for and the energy and time they consume, if it's from everything that these last two years have thrown at us, my age or a mixture of all of the above.<br />
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I'm starting to really feel the affect of the years gone by and it's crazy because wasn't it just a few days ago that I was a teenager thinking those teenage years would last a lot longer than they actually did?<br />
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I'm in my thirties and those lines are creeping in and creeping deep, a white hair has sprouted and the pounds don't drop as easy as they used to and the energy I had ten years ago has disappeared and I'm left wondering where I lost it.<br />
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Some days I look in the mirror and feel so much older than the reflection says and other days, I stare back and wonder how so much time has already been spent.<br />
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Everywhere I look, I'm reminded that this world I live in prioritizes beauty and youth over everything else. Over wisdom that only years spent living can bring and beauty . . . the true kind of deep beauty. The beauty that can't be bought, applied or worn. <b><i>The kind of beauty you get from only be worn from years spent living and being loved. </i></b><br />
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I grieve those years that are already gone . . . never to be had again. I grieve the person I was then and wish I would have appreciated that time more when I was in it rather than now that it is gone. I need to live in the moment but I am human and at times, <b><i>I just miss the times that became memories. </i></b><br />
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I look at my children and I grieve how fast the time is speeding by. I want to slow it down.<br />
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I flash forward to ten . . . fifteen . . . twenty years from now and I can already feel myself aching for this time that will soon be gone.<br />
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I want them to stay sweet and innocent and pure. I want to always have energy to run miles and run after them. I want my skin to stay smooth and my hair to stay the color it is now.<br />
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And then I remember a friend who will never grow old.<br />
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And I remember two of my babies that I don't get to hold anymore. I think of them and all I'm left with is to wonder who they would have become . . . what they would look like now and at five . . . sixteen . . . twenty-five.<br />
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I think of a quote I have seen many times: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><br />
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<div style="color: #a3d979; font: 36.0px Snell Roundhand; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; text-align: center;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Do not regret growing older. It is a privilege denied to many.</span><span style="font: 24.0px Snell Roundhand; letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Unknown</span></div>
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I realize that decreased energy and those lines do not deny me anything. They are proof that I have been given a lot and I have had the privilege to live a lot.<br />
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I realize the years spent, the children growing, the creeping lines and the color changing hair is all a gift.<br />
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I am not promised tomorrow. I am not promised my next breath. I am not promised that my children will out-live me.<br />
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<b><i>The ever ticking of the clock, the ever changing me and my children are a gift I need to embrace now . . . in this moment.</i></b><br />
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Those glossy magazines, those reality TV shows that claim to reflect real life are all an illusion. You can't compare yourself or your life to an illusion because an illusion doesn't exist. Years gone by, gray hair, those lines that creep and rest around your eyes and mouth are real. <b><i>They reflect memories, smiles, laughter and years of loving and living. </i></b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span><br />
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<br />Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-8602243987863330942013-07-23T22:28:00.001-04:002013-08-10T12:58:30.870-04:00Dreams Are Still MemoriesThere are some memories that never got a chance to be played in real-time . . . only thought up in my head in played in my heart.<br />
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There are those memories - real memories - of the morning we found out we were expecting for a second time and the shock and joy that surrounded.<br />
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There are those memories - real memories - of seeing two babies on the screen and the smiling and laughing that filled my soul as I watched Emmerson kick Vivienne and Vivi acting as if she could enjoy the rocking caused by her sisters kicks all day.<br />
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There are those memories - real memories - of planning the nursery, shopping for everything in twos, and shopping for mini-vans.<br />
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There are those memories - real memories - of my husband and I being in shock while basking in the glow of thankfulness.<br />
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There are those memories - dream memories - of coordinating outfits for two identical babies, a baby in each arm, and three girls playing together.<br />
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There are those memories - dream memories - of birthday parties, halloween costumes, and the first day of school.<br />
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There are those memories - dream memories - of first loves, broken hearts, proms, wedding days, and Father-Daughter dances.<br />
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There are those memories - dream memories - of my babies expecting life, seeing them hold their babies, witnessing the women they became.<br />
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All of these memories to be played while watching in amazement of the unique relationship between identical twins.<br />
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<b><i>You see?</i></b><br />
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It wasn't just that my babies were born too soon. It wasn't just that there was something wrong.<br />
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I loved them with a Mother's Love before I ever got to hold them in my arms.<br />
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<b><i>You see?</i></b><br />
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My babies died.<br />
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There are also those memories - real memories - of the air standing still and hushed, mumbled whispers while staring at a screen.<br />
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There are those memories - real memories - of a conference room, highly specialized doctors and words. So. Many. Words. Of shivering, uncontrollably and someone placing a blanket around my shoulders.<br />
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There are those memories - real memories - of a pain wanting to split my body in two, worried glances, an ambulance, more worried faces, no one looking me in the eye and me pleading with my God.<br />
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There are those memories - real memories - of <i>"I'm so sorry . . . "</i>, tiny fingers and toes, kisses and swaddles and snuggles and me still pleading with my God.<br />
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There are those memories - real memories - of flowers that were too beautiful and sweet, cemeteries, funeral homes, a casket and a too-big-hole in the ground.<br />
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<b><i>You see?</i></b><br />
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It wasn't just that my babies were born too early. It wasn't just that there was something wrong.<br />
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I have memories and dreams and all of them are bittersweet. All of them carry the same weight because they all occupy a space in me.<br />
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<b><i>You see?</i></b><br />
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It wasn't just that our babies were born too early. It wasn't just that there was something wrong.<br />
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<b><i>We lost pieces of our hearts . . . members of our family.</i></b><br />
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It wasn't just that our babies were born too soon.<br />
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Our babies died. While holding them, they died.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span><br />
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<br />Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-7742600564338961702013-05-22T14:15:00.000-04:002013-05-22T14:15:24.700-04:00It Is OkayThey say time heals all wounds.<br />
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It doesn't.<br />
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I don't know who <i>they</i> are but they have never been more wrong.<br />
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Some moments . . . some days it is unfathomable to me that this hurt is with me until my last breath. I don't know how to do it.<br />
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In a world of contradictions, in a place where two opposing emotions dance together, it is okay.<br />
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Well, not okay but okay because there is no other word to describe that it isn't okay.<br />
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It is okay because there are two names I can speak of.<br />
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It is okay because I got to hold them.<br />
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It is okay because I got to kiss them.<br />
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<b><i>It is okay because I live in a world where they once were instead of never at all.</i></b><br />
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It is okay but it's not.<br />
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It is okay because I don't know how else to answer when someone asks - truly asks - how I am doing.<br />
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It is okay because I don't know how else I'm supposed to feel. I am extremely blessed because I have two littles to care for here and I am extremely blessed because I got to hold them. But at the same time, I am extremely angry that all four of my babies are not here, right now. I am extremely angry that all I got were moments and not years.<br />
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And so, I am just okay because I don't know another word to describe it. I am just okay because I don't know how else to balance two opposing emotions . . . two opposing extremes.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span><br />
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<br />Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-7532385720333624982013-05-09T15:56:00.002-04:002013-05-22T14:03:43.907-04:00Grace Is Greater<div style="padding-bottom: 2px;">
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I thought and was lead to believe that those who gave in and gave up didn't stand a chance.</div>
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We weigh sins and then we place them in order from least to greatest. When in reality, they all weigh the same. All great. All small in comparison of this Gift of Love.<br />
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<b><i>They may be great but grace is bigger.</i></b><br />
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<b><i>Source: <a href="http://www.juxtapost.com/site/permlink/c17f1cf0-c512-11e1-b757-3313bf2aa484/postsimilar/rain_boot_vasecute_centerpiece_idea/" style="color: #76838b; font-size: 10px; text-decoration: underline;">juxtapost.com</a> via <a href="http://pinterest.com/dabenyabel/" style="color: #76838b; font-size: 10px; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank">Danielle</a> on <a href="http://pinterest.com/" style="color: #76838b; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank">Pinterest</a></i></b></div>
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<b><i>
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I used to believe that giving in and giving up meant you didn't stand a chance.<br />
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And then it touched close. Someone who loved deep and whole, someone who loved The Love that gave it all, gave in.<br />
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My world shifted and I started seeing differently. My belief changing. Is grace and forgiveness like a gold ring - strong and endless? Immeasurable? One from which there is no beginning or end?<br />
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<b><i>How can my small mind try to box that in? Define it with my vocabulary?</i></b><br />
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And then . . . it touched even closer. The giving in and giving up grew deep within. Uncontrollable. Without conscious thought.<br />
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Thoughts and visions seared sharp and I did not know from which it came.<br />
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The pain was too acute to even take in a deep breath. The pain was too black and I couldn't see. <b><i>I wanted to give in and to give up.</i></b><br />
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That seemed more beautiful than the ugly that surrounded.<br />
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<b><i>But that grace that I can't contain and I can't define, saved me.</i></b> I don't know how and I don't know why, but it saved me . . . here.<br />
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I don't know how those that give in and give up don't stand a chance. I don't know how blind they were, how much they did and didn't feel all at the same time.<br />
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<b><i>They stand the same chance that any of us stands.</i></b><br />
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Because the grace that can save here, can save there too, can't it? Who am I to pretend I know anything about grace but other than what I have received?<br />
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If grace and forgiveness are like a gold band then we don't know from which it starts or from which it ends, then how are we to know from how it covers?<br />
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<b><i>Life can be messy and life may hurt and sins may reap many and great but grace is bigger.</i></b><br />
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<b><i>Grace is greater. </i></b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-16214253870192749632013-04-19T22:31:00.001-04:002013-07-23T22:09:42.152-04:00I Am Not Hopeless There is darkness that overcomes and overwhelms.<br />
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There is darkness that consumes.<br />
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Darkness can descend in many ways.<br />
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It can leave hopelessness and despair in its wake.<br />
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I have two little girls whom I will never hear giggle as the grass tickles their bare feet.<br />
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The despair of their death can cause the darkest of black to consume me.<br />
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<b><i>But I am not hopeless.</i></b><br />
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I appreciate the death died on that cross and the empty grave like I never did before. I should have but I didn't.<br />
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Consuming the bread broken and the blood spilled causes the consuming darkness to flee.<br />
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Life can bring new perspectives. And for all the pain that was brought and remains, I wouldn't change what my heart can now see.<br />
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The mission. Those who followed. The disbelieving. The accusations. The denial. That kiss.<br />
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Darkness prevailed in the days that followed.<br />
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Unbelievable darkness.<br />
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Unbelievable hopelessness.<br />
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Unbelievable reality.<br />
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For those who loved and followed and believed, they battled with an overwhelming hopelessness.<br />
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<b><i>But that grave stood empty.</i></b><br />
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<b><i>I am not hopeless.</i></b><br />
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The pain in the persecution didn't persist. The grave couldn't contain. His death didn't define him.<br />
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His death didn't say <i>this is the end</i>.<br />
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<b><i>There was more.</i></b><br />
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<b><i>I am not hopeless</i></b>.<br />
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That grave is empty. The earth stained offers promise. He suffered a death for life. <b><i>He rose so Heaven wins.</i></b><br />
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The enemy who tries to win by threatening me with the death of my girls loses.<br />
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<b><i>Heaven wins!</i></b><br />
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There is a cross consumed with the fibers of death and a vacant tomb. There are two pierced through hands that offer the promise of Heaven.<br />
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<b><i>I am not hopeless.</i></b><br />
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He's alive! My girls are alive! Their feet are tickled by the blades of grass. They giggle. They delight in the joys of heaven.<br />
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I don't get the privilege of raising them and the joy of delighting in their giggles. I am sad but I am not hopeless. Their death doesn't mean <i>never</i>. It just means <i>wait</i>.<br />
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<b><i>Wait . . . the best is yet to come.</i></b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-68882907521842637592013-03-20T18:32:00.002-04:002013-04-19T22:26:19.619-04:00What You NeedI didn't want to be pregnant again. I wasn't ready for it. I don't know if I ever would have been.<br />
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I was terrified of being pregnant. It wasn't the bliss it had been. I walked in a cloud of fearful doubt.<br />
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Pregnancy didn't mean the beginning of dreams. It meant the end of them. The death of innocent and new.<br />
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With my first two pregnancies, I didn't care about the gender of my three babies. I just wanted healthy and whole.<br />
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But . . . with the third pregnancy, I desperately wanted a girl. I felt I needed a girl. I selfishly believed God owed me a girl.<br />
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I was nervous for that anatomy scan. Nervous for so many things I couldn't put voice to. So, I took all that anxiety and wrapped it up, only focusing on the gender.<br />
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Then we learned it was a boy (even though I already knew down deep) and I tried not to cry as my husband smiled. And no matter how hard I looked at the screen with all that gray movement, I only saw one baby, not two.<br />
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Even a year later, it still felt like a dream. My babies didn't really die?! If I could just wake up there would be two. Two figures, two heartbeats, four legs kicking me.<br />
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It was a boy and I was upset. More upset that he wasn't them and I couldn't even pretend. More upset that the nightmare was real and there was nothing to wake up from, blink and it all goes away. Funny how through it you have all these things to let you know you are awake but it still feels like a dream. <b><i>Like someone else's life.</i></b><br />
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The day of the anatomy scan was the last day I stopped believing I dreamt it all.<br />
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I felt I deserved a girl. My husband prayed for a boy. Not because of the typical <i>daddy wants a boy so he can throw a ball around with him</i> but because he didn't know if his broken heart could look at a baby girl and not see Emmy and Vivi.<br />
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Here's the thing about God: <i><b>He gives you what you need, not always what you want.</b></i><br />
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I needed a boy. For reasons I can't explain, I needed him.<br />
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I struggle hard somedays has I hold him. I struggled hard with guilt when we brought him home. I rock him and feed him and stare at him as he sleeps in my arms. I get to do all these things with and for him but not them.<br />
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I wanted to. I wanted to do all these things for and with them and I didn't get to and somehow, someway, I feel guilty for not being able to.<br />
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His little head has caught the pain of missing his sisters as it falls from my eyes. I'm holding him and snuggling him and I can still feel the weight of those empty arms.<br />
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<b><i>I still feel the weight of them. </i></b><br />
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I get to hold close and breathe in the weight of him.<br />
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<b><i>I get to love them all, all in a different way. </i></b><br />
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I'm trying to navigate being a mother to children in two different worlds. No matter what the differences may be, I am a mommy to all four of them. Nothing changes that.<br />
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Not even death.<br />
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Source: <a href="http://www.diamondintherough.com/" style="color: #76838b; font-size: 10px; text-decoration: underline;">diamondintherough.com</a> via <a href="http://pinterest.com/meganhuneigh/" style="color: #76838b; font-size: 10px; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank">Megan</a> on <a href="http://pinterest.com/" style="color: #76838b; text-decoration: underline;" target="_blank">Pinterest</a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-8075263081465608622013-01-23T18:10:00.001-05:002013-02-27T02:15:31.404-05:00A Promise To My DaughterWe are in the trenches of what is known as the wonderful three's.<br />
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I've been getting frustrated, exhausted and hopeless when it comes to some of the behavior my daughter expresses.<br />
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I love her to pieces but this stage is HARD!<br />
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I don't know why people complain about the terrible two's. They were easy. She was easy. But now. . . now almost everything is a battle. From brushing her hair to getting dressed to eating.<br />
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She is wonderfully creative and smart. She is independent, persistent and determined. And while I absolutely love these traits she possesses, the combination of all of them with this stage is exhausting.<br />
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I'm constantly trying to think of new ways to react, discipline and connect because what may have worked in the past doesn't necessarily work now.<br />
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And then some days (okay! most days) guilt gnaws at me. I feel like the only memories she will have from this time in her life is me telling her no, reminding her constantly to use her manners, to not interrupt when someone is talking, to not talk when her mouth is full of food, watch the attitude, don't scream at me, pick up your toys . . . your clothes . . . your shoes. And I wonder at the end of each day, did I laugh with her, did I get on the floor and play with her, did I praise her, did I make time just for her?<br />
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I don't know if I did. <b><i>I don't know what will slip into the void and what she will carry with her.</i></b><br />
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And so I did what seems to be the only thing I know how to do when I have emotions and important things to say that I have a hard time expressing verbally . . . I wrote. I wrote her a letter. If she does have some not-so-pleasant memories from this stage or any stage, I hope when she reads this letter and she knows she was always loved.<br />
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I don't usually make the letters I write to her public but this one I will.<br />
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Alexandria,</div>
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I've heard it said that when raising little ones the days are long and the years short. I know this to be true because wasn't it just yesterday we brought you home from the hospital? I also know this to be true because some days just drag on and on and on.</div>
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There are going to be days where laughter comes easy and smiles readily found. There are going to be days where you are going to need to entertain yourself because I'm going to be busy. Sometimes we have to do the things that are not always fun. Sometimes we need to take care of the little things as well. It's called responsibility. I'm going to clean the house, fold your clothes, brush your hair, make your meals and <b><i>I'm going to make mistakes.</i></b></div>
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The making mistakes makes me swallow hard. <b><i>I don't want to.</i></b> I have a Type A personality. I strive for perfection - don't fall into that, you'll end up like a dog chasing its tail, it doesn't exist - and even though I know this, I still strive. Habits die hard. <b><i>I don't want to.</i></b> Mainly out of fear of scarring you. I will though. I'm human.</div>
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You are human. You will make mistakes. And you know what? <b><i>It's okay.</i></b></div>
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Through the mistakes made and the living and the forgiving, I hope you learn something. I hope you learn about grace. I hope you experience grace. And I hope you learn something extremely beautiful about the human race: <b><i>we are all just trying to do the best we can.</i></b></div>
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<b><i>I'm doing my best.</i></b></div>
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I can't promise you that I won't make mistakes. That I won't lose my patience when instead I should have taken in breaths deep. I can't promise you that you will always see smiles on this face of mine. You've already seen so many tears fall, haven't you? I can't promise you that you will be shielded from hurt. You have already witnessed and lived the unexpected hurt.</div>
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Though you are still little, you have lived a lot. You have some experiences I wish you didn't. You have witnessed how life can turn in an instant. And from living, you have learned that death is apart of this life. You have questions. So many questions that most three-year-olds never have to ask. Questions that most adults don't even ask. I may never know just how much this hurt has affected you. In the midst I prayed that God protected you. I still do. I hope you witnessed and learned that even when pain cuts sharp, that God is always enough. <b><i>Always.</i></b> I hope you learned that death doesn't mean the end and that love doesn't stop.</div>
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<b><i>I hope you saw that I didn't give up.</i></b></div>
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I can't promise you that I will never disappoint or hurt you. I will. I am human. I hope you learn a thing about forgiveness through my mistakes. I hope you learn to say <i>I'm sorry</i>. I hope you learn to be kind to others even when the hurt they inflict is intentional - you don't know what kind of mountains they are struggling to climb.</div>
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I can't promise you that I will never disappoint or hurt you. I will. I am human. I am your mother and you are my daughter. <b><i>It is such a beautiful and complex relationship</i></b>.</div>
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What I can promise you is that I love you deep and true. I promise you that when I look into the deep brown of your eyes, I will always be amazed. I promise you that I am doing the best that I can. I promise to get down on the floor and play with you. I promise to dive into that deliciously creative imagination of yours and get lost with you. I promise that I will let you play in the dirt and let you play with make-up. I promise to listen to you talk and tell me about your day. I hope you still do that with me years down the road. <b><i>I promise memories.</i></b> The kind that are rich and warm you on a winter's day. The kind that are sudden and cause eyes to smile. The kind that are remembered first from the heart and make you feel like home.</div>
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I wanted and prayed for you long before I ever saw that first flicker of your beating heart. <b><i>I loved you then. I love you now. I love you forever . . . no matter what . . . cross my heart.</i></b></div>
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<b><i>I promise!</i></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino;">Love, Mommy</span></div>
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Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-50076403692099872722012-12-17T16:57:00.001-05:002013-03-20T17:31:13.491-04:00Light Slices Through The Darkness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My Mother-In-Law handed me the piece of paper that held the darkest of black ink. I never finished reading all the words. I read the names of myself and my husband and then the names of my sweet Emmy and Vivi. I sat it down and quickly walked outside - foolishly thinking I could run from the reality.<br />
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The reality that I would never see their names on a report card, an invite to one of their birthday parties, a graduation announcement or on their wedding invitations hit me with great force.<br />
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I would see their names in the darkest of inks in the section of a newspaper no parent ever wants to see their children's names and I would see their names carved in stone.<br />
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<b><i>There are some realities that are just too real to accept.</i></b><br />
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And so, I say their names often, in the middle of a conversation, in prayer, in talking to my children about their sisters. I write their names as often as I can here and other places.<br />
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<b><i>They are so much more than black ink and cold stone. </i></b><br />
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Twenty children died the other day. Seven innocent women died along with them. Some of those women were kids themselves, just beginning their lives. Those women were daughters, sisters, mothers and wives.<br />
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Twenty-seven innocent people died at the hands of evil.<br />
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<b><i>I can't wrap my head around it.</i></b><br />
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There is a lot I can't wrap my head around anymore.<br />
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They deserve to be honored. Their families that are left in the wreckage deserve for them to be honored.<br />
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Their names will be bleeding in that black ink and carved in hard stone.<br />
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Sadly, to me, their names are also linked to that horrific event that took place on a Friday morning.<br />
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<b><i>They are so much more than that. </i></b><br />
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Whose name will be uttered more in the media? The names of those innocent twenty-seven? Or the name that will sadly be remembered longer?<br />
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Their names will be linked to a horrific event and their names will be uttered along with agendas and policies as a way to defend someones stance.<br />
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It angers me. Unless the parents, spouses, or children of those twenty-seven choose to connect their loved ones names with such a stance, we, the general public, should not. We should not take it upon ourselves to use their names as a way to add weight to what we believe to be "right".<br />
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<b><i>They are so much more than that.</i></b><br />
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Each one of those twenty-seven innocent were anxiously awaited for. Their parents watched them take their first breath. There was joy and excitement over first words and first steps. They were held in the middle of the night through bad dreams and illness. They were pushed on swings as their parents delighted in laughter that filled their worlds. Tears rolled down the cheeks of those parents as they watched their child march into school for the first time.<br />
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For six more, there were middle school dances, first dates, proms and high school graduations. More tears rolling down the cheeks of those parents as they dropped them off at college. There were college graduations. There were first loves to wedding days. And for some, there were babies.<br />
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I want them to be remembered for the people that they were and the people they wanted to become. I want their parents and loved ones to have that freedom.<br />
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I pray that the ones left behind are given the space and the freedom to grieve in their own ways.<br />
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I pray that the media leaves them alone.<br />
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These individuals were living their lives. They didn't ask for this. They didn't ask for their loved ones to be ripped from their lives and then be sensationalized.<br />
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<b><i>They are so much more than that.</i></b><br />
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The reality for them is that their loved ones names will bleed black ink on a newspaper page, be carved in black stone and also be connected to the shooters and yet another school shooting.<br />
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<b><i>How do you wrap your head around that?</i></b><br />
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The innocent twenty-seven deserve to be honored. I want to honor each individual. I was reading another <a href="http://momastery.com/blog/2012/12/16/vigil/">blog</a> yesterday where I found the way in which I will do it. For the next twenty-seven nights, from 8:30 pm to 8:40 pm, I will light a candle and remember and pray for one of the innocent each night. I will write their names down on a sheet paper and place it next to the lit candle.<br />
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<a href="http://www.foxnews.com/us/2012/12/17/officials-release-names-victims-in-connecticut-elementary-school-shooting/">Here</a> are the names along with some words to help us know who they were if you choose to join me.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Charlotte Bacon 6 </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Daniel Barden 7 </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Rachel D'Avino 29 </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Olivia Engel 6 </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Josephine Gay 7 </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Ana Marquez-Greene 6 </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Dylan Hockley 6 </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Dawn Hochsprung 47 </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Madeleine F. Hsu 6 </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Catherine V. Hubbard 6</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Chase Kowalski 7</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Jesse Lewis 6</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">James Mattioli 6</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Grace McDonnell 7</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Anne Marie Murphy 52</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Emilie Parker 6</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Jack Pinto 6</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Noah Pozner 6</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Caroline Previdi 6</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Jessica Rekos 6</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Avielle Richman 6</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Lauren Rousseau 30</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Mary Sherlach 56</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Victoria Soto 27</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Benjamin Wheeler 6</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Allison N. Wyatt 6</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f;">Nancy Lanza 52</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;"><br /></span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-17610935119541118432012-12-14T23:52:00.000-05:002012-12-17T16:28:58.966-05:00Another Ordinary DayInhale.<br />
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Exhale.<br />
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The heart pumps with each contraction.<br />
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I've been there. I may not have been standing outside a school waiting . . . hoping . . . praying that my child would walk out but I have been there. <a href="http://amotherlostblog.blogspot.com/2011/07/our-story.html">I have been there</a> waiting . . . hoping . . . praying that the unimaginable outcome would not become real.<br />
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For twenty-seven families today, <b><i>their hearts are left bleeding heavy.</i></b><br />
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Why . . .<br />
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How . . .<br />
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What if . . .<br />
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If only . . .<br />
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<b><i>Just another ordinary day</i></b> with half eaten breakfasts, shuffling to find that other sock, making sure teeth are brushed, grabbing backpacks and counting down the days left until Christmas break. <b><i>Just another ordinary day that turned itself inside out and became extraordinary.</i></b> Extraordinarily awful. Extraordinarily horrible. Extraordinarily unexplainable. Extraordinarily painful.<br />
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So many want answers. So many want <i>something to be done</i>.<br />
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Answers will come and things will get accomplished.<br />
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But for those left in the wake of all this . . . those that have had their normal lives destroyed in a flash, the answers will sit empty. Never satisfying. <b><i>Never truly answering the questions that don't make sense.</i></b> The things that will be achieved will not be good enough because all the works and deeds will not be able to accomplish the one thing . . . <i>the only thing</i> they desperately want . . . that of their child walking out of that school and wrapping still growing arms around their parents neck.<br />
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How do you explain something that defies any realities?<br />
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How do you accept that you can't turn back the clock?<br />
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How do you learn to live a life that was a part of your worst nightmares?<b style="font-style: italic;"> </b><br />
<b style="font-style: italic;"><br /></b>
<b><i>How do you learn to live again?</i></b><br />
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Inhale.<br />
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Exhale.<br />
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May the heart pump with each painful contraction.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span><br />
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<br />Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-17069684534257720322012-11-30T17:37:00.000-05:002012-11-30T17:37:08.601-05:00An Overflowing Breaking HeartI have been busy - having a new baby will do that. It's left me with little time to do much else. I'm not complaining. I'm trying to enjoy every second. Even those where I need toothpicks to hold up heavy eyes and those where my body is screaming for sleep.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtEcxxEyy800w_PUKLGbeV1zPnbrBXPx4G9JZfA0fGMN5HQoLiVamFWRh1t28GMglVSgLWc5xJF4GXXBi0Eha0z0d4yWqCxf4JiH0gRZvxwmBfSC505mqiEkqckmDhFJZb_DPQlqdYnrA/s1600/Nate's+Newborn+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtEcxxEyy800w_PUKLGbeV1zPnbrBXPx4G9JZfA0fGMN5HQoLiVamFWRh1t28GMglVSgLWc5xJF4GXXBi0Eha0z0d4yWqCxf4JiH0gRZvxwmBfSC505mqiEkqckmDhFJZb_DPQlqdYnrA/s400/Nate's+Newborn+7.jpg" title="Property of Julie Davis Photography" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Property of <a href="http://juliedphotography.smugmug.com/">Julie Davis Photography</a></td></tr>
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I've had a range of emotions since Little Man arrived almost two months ago. Some new, some old, some happy, and some full of grief. All of them I have wanted to share but have had little time to do so.<br />
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Here I am again, sharing the hurt and the questions. To look here, one would think I'm always sad. That is not the case. I smile, I laugh, I celebrate moments but this . . . this has become my safe place. This is my place of safety to come to release those emotions that gnaw at me and cause this ache to hurt so sharp.<br />
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My Little Man is here and oh, how I love him! How I delight in him and relish him just a bit more. How I hold him a bit too much . . . a second longer than needed. How I smother him in kisses and then give him just one more. I talk to him - all the time talking. I tell him what I'm doing, what I should be doing and what his silly sister is doing. I watch him all the time. I watch as his baby blues observes and takes in the world around him. I watch him as he smiles and I become excited to see who he will become. I get excited over the opportunity and privilege to watch him grow. And then, in that moment - that moment full of excitement and joy - I am hit all over again with grief. Grief over the loss of my sweet Emmy and Vivi. Grief over the loss of knowing who they would have become. I find that I am lost, not knowing how to feel.<br />
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They should be here! Running around. Being loud. Making my days crazy!<br />
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But they are not and I realize once again, that I have not accepted that fact. I don't think I ever will. How does a mother ever accept the fact that her babies died? <b><i>My mind can't make sense of it and my heart can't grasp it.</i></b><br />
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<b><i>I miss them!</i></b> It's so simple and yet so complicated. I miss them and I ache so desperately for them. There are no words to describe it. I have tried. For seventeen months I have tried to describe the chest crushing, breath stealing hurt and I can't. I can't because babies are not supposed to die! There is a word for one who has lost both parents and a word for one who has lost a spouse <b><i>but there is no word for one who has lost a child.</i></b><br />
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They should be here! I want them here!<br />
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Little Man is here and I am so thankful! He doesn't make any of this easier and he has not helped me heal. He is my baby. He is not an eraser for my pain or a doctor to mend my broken heart. He is my baby . . . my son.<br />
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<b><i>He doesn't negate the death of his older sisters and Emmerson and Vivienne don't negate the life and love of and for him.</i></b><br />
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But it can still be all so hard and confusing. During those middle of the night feeds, while gazing at him through hazy eyes, I let out a sigh of relief that he is here and I get to hold him. Though bone tired, I say a prayer of thanks that I get to arise in the middle of the night to feed and cuddle him. And during the darkness and sleepy fog of night, I wonder how I would have done it with two babies. I wonder and I try to picture what it would have looked like. And even though my arms are full, they feel so empty.<br />
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Some one said to me that had the twins lived, Little Man would not be here. Now when I question and try to picture the life that never was, I feel guilt. So much guilt! Wishing Emmerson and Vivienne were here doesn't mean I wish Little Man wasn't. How do you rectify this? How can I wish for Emmy and Vivi to be here when he is?<br />
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I don't know. I get confused. I get lost. I find that it's this delicate balance . . . it's this place, a time that doesn't exist. A place where you can look forward to today . . . to tomorrow, but one where you are also looking back at what might have been. Looking back at those moments that never were and trying to get them into focus.<br />
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This is my life. I'm teetering this line of acceptance and regret, this line where I am looking through the same lens at what is and also at what might have been. <b><i>I am pulled in two different directions, between two different worlds.</i></b><br />
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ea9999;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">They say that time in Heaven is compared to "the blink of an eye" for us on earth. Sometimes it helps me to think of them running ahead of me through a beautiful field of wildflowers and butterflies; so happy and completely caught up in what they are doing</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">that when they look behind them, I'll already be there.</span></span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ea9999;">~ Unknown ~</span></i></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-72375626348132699922012-11-05T16:22:00.000-05:002012-12-14T23:44:04.174-05:00MomentsLife is full of moments.<br />
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<b><i>Moments . . .</i></b><br />
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<b><i>. . . So big . . . So full . . . So fleeting.</i></b><br />
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All precious in their own unique design.<br />
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Some of those moments I let slip right through my finger tips when we brought our first born home. I let that upside down feeling of my new life get the best of me to be able to fully embrace all those precious moments.<br />
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It was those same moments that I let slip through that I found myself so desperately wanting 16 months ago. All those sacred moments that I didn't get and that I will live the rest of my life wishing I had . . . those moments that were taken from me. The ones that I wanted the chance to hold on to with white knuckles.<br />
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Now? Now I am holding on tight with hands wide open.<br />
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I'm clinging to all these seconds . . . minutes . . . hours while I try so hard to keep my hands open so I can receive more.<br />
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<b><i>I want more.</i></b> It is selfish, I know. But I do, I want more. I want more of those delicious lips formed in an 'O'. I want more of those blue eyes searching for mine when he hears my voice. I want more snuggles. I want more of him forming himself in a ball as he rests on my chest.<br />
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It goes so fast. I'm going to blink and it's going to be over. And I just want more moments of him right as he is, right now.<br />
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I wanted more moments than the ones I did get with Emmerson and Vivienne. I wanted to bring them home. I wanted both arms occupied with the weight of each of them. I wanted to see their older sister interact with them. I want to see them interact with their baby brother. I want all four of my children <i>here</i>.<br />
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<b><i>I want more.</i></b><br />
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I wanted more than what I got and because of that, I'm embracing each second. Cherishing it. Relishing it. Loving it.<br />
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I just want to live in the now and bask in the glow of the gift that was given.<br />
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Bask in the glow of all four gifts . . .<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-2461145582361614902012-10-16T16:21:00.000-04:002012-11-30T17:19:13.646-05:00He Is Here!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Nathaniel Stephen</div>
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October 5, 2012 @ 2:39 pm</div>
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5 pounds 15 onces </div>
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18 inches</div>
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He is here! There is no way I could have been prepared for the moment and the emotions.</div>
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So much of this pregnancy was consumed with grief and guilt. So much of this pregnancy was spent expecting the worse . . . believing I would come home from the hospital with empty, aching arms.<br />
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The last time those contractions brought forth life there was a stillness and a silence in the room. I didn't realize how much those moments affected me . . . haunted me. </div>
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I didn't realize how much those moments caused me to fear the ones to come.</div>
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And then he was here. He was here, in that room that was quiet and he filled it with those precious cries of life. </div>
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I fully expected to hear that deafening silence again. Those cries were a gift, a sweet salve to my heart. There was no question of when he entered the world. There was no question if he was alive or not. Those cries were a gift . . . </div>
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He is here! And he is alive!</div>
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My heart split open. My heart, the one I thought was closed off to new love, split wide open. I finally let go of that breath I had been holding for 36 weeks and I fell in love.<br />
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He cried. He moved after he was placed on my chest. I looked up at my husband, disbelievingly proclaimed, <i>"He's crying! He's alive!"</i> And the tears flowed.</div>
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There are two worlds that can and do exist in the same room. I feared ever being able to feel that new love again after Emmy and Vivi. I feared I couldn't or wouldn't be able to. But then he arrived and cried and moved and my heart swelled with newness and love.</div>
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He is everything I never knew I wanted again. He hasn't taken their place (no one ever will) but he has shown me it's okay to be open to the new in life and new love. He has shown me that moving forward doesn't mean forgetting, it means living and loving life as you do. He hasn't healed me but he has taught me that there is still hope and beauty in the pain.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span></div>
Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-5805874621509455982012-10-15T16:06:00.000-04:002012-10-16T16:18:36.271-04:00My PromiseEmmerson and Vivienne,<br />
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Today is a day where you are remembered. October 15th is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. A day where women who have lost pregnancies, have given birth to sleeping babies and/or have had an infant die are acknowledged and remembered. One in four women will experience this kind of tragic hurt. </div>
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I don't care so much if people remember me and my hurt. I don't want people to act as though this hurt isn't carried with me always but it is you . . . you are the ones I don't want people to forget or ignore or pretend never lived. </div>
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<b><i>It is you.</i></b> </div>
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<b><i>It is you I speak for and love.</i></b></div>
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Because of you, I promise you, you will ALWAYS be remembered. You will be remembered with love and the sweet newness of your skin. I will remember the way you looked exactly the same, but the way that I knew, you were completely different. Completely and distinctly unique. </div>
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I promise you, you will always be acknowledged. Your life, your death and what you meant and still mean to us will ALWAYS be acknowledged.</div>
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I promise you, you will always be counted. Because of you two, I now have four children. I have given life to four precious beings. I will always count you. You will always be my babies. You will always have a place in our family. </div>
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I promise you that your sister and brother will know about you. Your sister already does. She has days when she tells me she wants you two to come visit and play with her. She doesn't fully understand . . . one day she will. </div>
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I've already told your baby brother about you and I promise I will continue to do so. There will never not be a time when he doesn't know that he has three older sisters. </div>
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I promise I will always speak your names. I will talk about you to complete strangers. I promise, even in the discomfort, that your names will be on my lips. <b><i>I will always speak your names. </i></b></div>
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I promise you that you are not taboo. You shouldn't be taboo to anyone. I promise that I will try to my dying day to make the life and death of you NOT taboo. </div>
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You were here. You were alive. Your heart beat and your limbs moved. It shouldn't matter how small you both were. You were a person. Deafening silence shouldn't be met when I speak of you.<br />
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You were here. You were loved. You were wanted. A life is precious no matter how brief. Eyes refusing to meet shouldn't be met when I speak of the love that was shared.<br />
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It is just not today but everyday that I think of you . . . that I love you.<br />
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<b><i>I promise, I will always speak of you. I will always remember you with deep love. </i></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>"There is no footprint too small that cannot leave an imprint on this world."</i></b></span></div>
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<b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #6aa84f; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Unknown</span></i></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span></div>
Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-9753537650924731912012-09-26T12:55:00.000-04:002012-10-15T14:15:24.679-04:00Does He Know?I was sixteen when that boy-man became a close, trusted friend.<br />
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I was eighteen when I started to fall.<br />
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I was twenty-one when I promised forever.<br />
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Twelve years later and we are still holding on to each other. Still loving one another.<br />
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Somedays its the overwhelming emotion of love that we ride and others . . . well, others it's a choice.<br />
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Nothing in life is always a hundred percent easy.<br />
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Does he know? Do I let him know it enough, all the small ways that I love him?<br />
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<b><i>Does he know?</i></b><br />
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All those years ago, when we became fast friends, I respected him immensely. Trust and respect were established on that mile long walk of friendship.<br />
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My heart always felt like it was going to explode in those early days of falling whenever I heard his voice or saw him with that blue baseball cap on.<br />
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I can still feel the crisp winter nights air and hear those fireworks from the night he asked me to be his wife.<br />
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I feel blessed because I get to see him when he is sweetly asleep with those dark lashes of his laying still on his face.<br />
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My heart melts when I see with my memories eye him holding our three girls shortly after birth. Do they know how lucky they are to have a daddy like him?<br />
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Does he know how I hope and earnestly pray, each time he leaves us for the sky, that he is returned home safely to us?<br />
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Does he know that I call him when he's on a trip not because I have anything to tell him but just because I want to talk to him? That I need to hear his voice?<br />
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Does he realize how much more I panic when I can't get ahold of him now then I did 14 months ago?<br />
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The course of our lives have changed. It has changed him. It has changed me. I know this. We are still holding on. Still choosing to love each other with each unexpected, hard blow.<br />
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Does he know that he even now, I would still choose him? I would do it all over again . . . with him?<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-64192088604963661362012-09-20T11:44:00.001-04:002012-09-20T11:44:10.474-04:00He Matters TooI saw it. I heard it.<br />
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All those hushed questions, <i>how is she doing? is she doing any better?</i><br />
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It hurt me. Why wasn't anyone asking him how he was doing?<br />
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Why was everyone so concerned about my mental and emotional state but few were concerned about him?<br />
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It hurt me. But I was so consumed by grief and sadness that I never spoke up.<br />
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<b><i>They mattered not only to me but to him as well. He matters too.</i></b><br />
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Very few people asked him about . . . him. Very few people took the time to spend time with him. Very few people took the time to listen to him.<br />
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A lot of people asked him about me.<br />
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The day after they were born and then died, before I was even discharged, he was on the phone attempting to make funeral arrangements.<br />
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He was fielding many phone calls.<br />
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He got out of bed every morning (the same bed I would spend days on end in) and would take care of our daughter, prepare meals, go to the grocery store, do the laundry, all the things that I not only lacked the desire to do but forgot how to do.<br />
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He went back to work.<br />
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He loved me through it all. All the while juggling his own heartache.<br />
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<b><i>Silently. And alone. </i></b><br />
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He held us together. He held me together. He became so incredibly stronger than he ever thought he could become. He became stronger than he realizes. He was my glue.<br />
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Carrying his own grief, his own sadness, his own loss of dreams and love, he still pushed forward, living each day, carrying me through hoping I would make it through.<br />
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Living each day where his wife had become a zombie and he was left wondering if she would ever get out of that bed and resemble a person again.<br />
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He pushed forward and still no one asked him about him. I don't know if that hurt him, all those people asking him about his wife but never once concerning themselves with how he was coping.<br />
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Did he ever want to scream, <i>they mattered to me too! I love them too!</i><br />
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I sat one night, sobbing, voicing all those dreams and all that love gone, so consumed with my own sadness that I couldn't think outside of self. I looked up and he was crying . . . sobbing really . . . and that's when I realized that his pain ran just as deep.<br />
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He put voice to his lost dreams . . . his lost loves. He would never get to take them on a Daddy-Daughter date. He would never get to walk them down the aisle and give them away. He would never get to dance that Father-Daughter dance at their wedding.<br />
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He loves them like only a father can love his little girls. He had dreams for them. He wanted them. They were not only my daughters but his as well.<br />
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<b><i>They mattered to him so he matters too.</i></b><br />
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</i></b> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span><br />
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<br />Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-56366080826749958912012-09-18T11:30:00.001-04:002012-10-15T16:55:14.178-04:00RainbowsI never knew there was a name for a baby that was conceived after the loss or death of the baby that came before them.<br />
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There were a lot of things I never knew before my sweet Emmerson and Vivienne lived and died.<br />
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A baby after the loss or death of an older sibling is referred to as a Rainbow Baby.<br />
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I didn't like it at first. I have rarely referred to Little Man as my Rainbow Baby.<br />
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Rainbows. Are they not a beautiful display of creativity that the storm is over? Something beautiful left after the pounding rain and raging winds?<br />
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And while I know that this baby is something wonderful and beautiful, I have a hard time believing the storm is over. I ache everyday. I miss them every minute. Every second, I wish things had turned out differently. Rainbows are beautiful. This baby is beautiful. Even though the rain doesn't pound me down everyday, those dark clouds are always looming in the distance.<br />
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But there <i>is</i> a rainbow. There <i>is</i> beauty.<br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #c27ba0; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><i>Rainbow Baby</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #c27ba0; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><i>A rainbow baby is a miracle baby conceived after the loss of another child. "Rainbow Babies" are the understanding that the beauty of a rainbow does not negate the ravages of the storm. When a rainbow appears, it does not mean that the storm never happened or that the family is not still dealing with its aftermath. What it means is that something beautiful and full of light has appeared in the midst of the darkness and the clouds. Storm clouds may still loom over but the rainbow provides a counterbalance of color, energy, and much needed hope.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #c27ba0; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i>~ Unknown ~</i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">S</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">tephanie</span><br />
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</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-47028507672071758392012-09-12T22:10:00.022-04:002012-09-18T11:31:57.528-04:00When Reality Becomes RealThis whole pregnancy I have been guarded. I have been reserved. I have been slow to move forward with any planning or preparation for this baby.<br />
<br />
That is so unlike me.<br />
<br />
Others have shown and expressed more excitement than I have. It is so strange to be in that place where others are beaming at your news and you are the one sitting in the corner, not displaying really any emotion.<br />
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I don't know if this is normal after what I have been through. I have questioned it and criticized myself for feeling and being this way.<br />
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<b><i>I have no idea if this is normal.</i></b><br />
<br />
My husband and I had started to shop for Little Man's bedding and items to decorate his room. It was done more out of not wanting to have to do it after his arrival than any force driven by excitement alone. As we were marking things off of our list, a part of me wanted to let out a sigh because things were getting done. The other part of me had to hold back the overwhelming urge to scream. I wanted to scream as things were getting marked off because what if, in the end, we are left with another room fully ready to welcome our baby but it too, sits empty?<br />
<br />
<b><i>I wanted to scream with fear.</i></b><br />
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And yet, at the same time, I still hadn't fully acknowledged that we may be bringing a baby home. It goes with the territory of being guarded.<br />
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It's fight or flight and I guess, more times than not, I have chosen to take flight during this pregnancy.<br />
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Last week, at 32 weeks gestation, I went into preterm labor.<br />
<br />
My body left the flight mode and instead chose to throw down all forms of barriers and fight.<br />
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I have wondered so often if I had fallen in love with Little Man. I have wondered so much if I have bonded with him.<br />
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Those questions were answered. The reality became real. I am going to have another baby! And I want to fight for him.<br />
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I am bored. I would love nothing more than to be able to enjoy this (finally) wonderfully beautiful weather. I would love to be able to clean my home and prepare for Little Man but I can't. I am now on bed rest. And while I sit and lay around I am going crazy because I can't do for myself, I remind myself that I am fighting for Little Man. Fighting for some more precious hours . . . days . . . weeks for him to stay where he is safest. Where, for now, he is meant to be.<br />
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<b><i>I am fighting because I love.</i></b><br />
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I love this baby. I know without a shadow of a doubt that this little guy is loved. I would do anything for him.<br />
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When I feel the urge to complain about the boredom or not being able to do what I really want, I stop myself because I would have given <i>anything</i> to have been able to do this for Emmerson and Vivienne.<br />
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I wasn't given that opportunity and I would have given anything to have been able to do that for them.<br />
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I don't need to be reminded of a different outcome. I know how different it could be. How different it was.<br />
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So this? This is an honor.<br />
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<b><i>And I am thankful.</i></b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">S</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">tephanie</span><br />
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Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-44666267033367189822012-09-10T20:55:00.004-04:002012-09-20T11:49:22.201-04:00Mending Is Never EndingFor five days, those five days between that fateful appointment and the day that held the confirmed diagnosis, were the longest five days of my life.<br />
<br />
For five days, I prayed - demanded really - that He <i>fix</i> my daughters.<br />
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I didn't say please, I didn't even ask, I <i>told</i> him to just. fix. them.<br />
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I didn't plead for healing. I was too scared. I was too much of a coward to pray for that. I know He can heal one of two ways and one of those avenues for healing I didn't want because it would mean goodbye.<br />
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Two days after the consultation, one day after the surgery that was supposed to have fixed everything, goodbye was whispered . . . uttered . . . cried out in anguish.<br />
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<b><i>Goodbye.</i></b><br />
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He healed my girls. He fixed my identical twins, Emmerson and Vivienne.<br />
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He didn't do it the way I wanted. The way I had pleaded endlessly that He would.<br />
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<b><i>It hurts.</i></b><br />
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I am now broken. Shattered. Crushed. Hurting . . . everyday hurting. Heart left open to bleed.<br />
<b><i><br />
</i></b> <b><i>Everyday.</i></b><br />
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I don't know why He didn't perform the miracle I had asked of Him. Somedays, that angers me.<br />
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<b><i>I don't know why.</i></b><br />
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I still believe He is a healer. I still believe He restores, repairs, renews . . .<br />
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It is me . . . crevices of my life that I never knew existed . . . are being healed.<br />
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<b><i>He is mending me.</i></b><br />
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It's only been 14 months so I am still in the mending process. And 14 years from now, I will still be in the process of being mended. More progress will have been made but it is still a process. 44 years from now, the mending will still be the present action.<br />
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I don't believe I will ever be completely healed this side of heaven. I don't believe my shattered, crushed, aching, bleeding heart will ever be completely mended while I am still trodding this earth.<br />
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Heaven is where the complete and whole lie.<br />
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However, 14 months later, with a different lens to look at life through, I can see how He has slowly started the mending process.<br />
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Because I ache, because I hurt, because I bleed, I ache for others . . . for complete strangers in a way that I never would have been able to before.<br />
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I have a passion . . . a fire burning within, to do for others, to make beauty from these ashes. It is slow moving, but it is moving. And I hope the moving causes change.<br />
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I can see that the moments I did get with Emmerson and Vivienne and the love that was given to them is far more than some ever receive in 80 years of a life lived. They were loved! I was blessed.<br />
<b><i><br />
</i></b> <b><i>I am blessed.</i></b><br />
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There will always be this heart of mine that hurts and bleeds. I know this. I am accepting this. I don't want pity because of this. This . . . them . . . they are apart of me and I would never trade that for a sky that rained down diamonds. Because I got to carry them and hold them and love them, I am blessed. What mother would trade moments with their children for anything of this world?<br />
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And because of this forever ache, I can see more clearly the hurt in this world. I can see and feel and just be when another is hurting.<br />
<b><i><br />
</i></b> <b><i>I can comfort another.</i></b><br />
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Is that part of the mending? That the thorn in your flesh or the cross you carry can cause you to extend comfort?<br />
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I am weeks away from welcoming our fourth child (our first boy) into this world. The whole pregnancy has been one of hope, fear, and trying so hard to trust The One who seemed to let me down 14 months ago. I feel like a lot of this pregnancy has been one where the wounds have reopened and new ones have appeared. Maybe that's just my perspective. Maybe it has all been apart of the mending process.<br />
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Some have told me that this Little Man will help me heal. Little Man will heal me in ways I never could have dreamed.<br />
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I don't know about that. I am not hoping for that. As much as I want to be healed, I don't want the weight of that responsibility to be my son's.<br />
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There was a Son already born who beared that weight.<br />
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I want my son to be born with love and dreams and hopes. I don't want him to be born with the job of fixing his mother.<br />
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That's not his job. He can't fix me. He can't heal me and I don't expect him to.<br />
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There is only one who can. There is only one who can be called the Mender.<br />
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<i>This post was part of a link-up with <a href="http://angiesmithonline.com/">Angie Smith</a> and supporting the release of her third book, </i>Mended<i>. If you are interested in purchasing it you can do so <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Mended-Pieces-Life-Made-Whole/dp/1433676605">here</a> or <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/mended-angie-smith/1111318078">here</a>.</i></div>
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</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">S</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">tephanie</span><br />
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</span>Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3590559717675676586.post-91093687741772973302012-09-06T10:20:00.000-04:002012-09-10T19:26:52.483-04:00To Miss A Love . . .Everyday, I think of you.<br />
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Even if I don't say your names aloud, the whisper of them lies in my heart.<br />
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There's no way anyone can possibly know how much I think of you. How often your names enter my mind and the love I have penetrates deep.<br />
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There's no way anyone can possibly know how much I think of you. How many times I wonder what you would being doing now. How many times I wonder what you would look like and how long your hair would be. Would it be long like your older sister's? How many times I wonder if your laughter would be the same or if I would be able to tell the difference between you two by your giggles. Would you even look the same to me? Or would you look completely different to me as you were different in personalities?<br />
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I miss you terribly.<br />
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There's no way anyone can possibly know just how much I miss you.<br />
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There's no way anyone can possibly know just how much my heart hurts because of the forever hole that now exists.<br />
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This ache is all too familiar and yet alien at the same time. <i>Will it always be this way?</i><br />
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Will the hurt always surprise me in new ways? It is just so unnatural to lose a child. How do you ever live the same?<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Zapfino; font-size: large;">Stephanie</span><br />
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<br />Stephaniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12437880949660876740noreply@blogger.com0