To Age Is To Be Beautiful

I'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.

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?

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.

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.

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. The kind of beauty you get from only be worn from years spent living and being loved. 

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, I just miss the times that became memories. 

I look at my children and I grieve how fast the time is speeding by. I want to slow it down.

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.

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.

And then I remember a friend who will never grow old.

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.

I think of a quote I have seen many times:

Do not regret growing older. It is a privilege denied to many. 

Unknown

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.

I realize the years spent, the children growing, the creeping lines and the color changing hair is all a gift.

I am not promised tomorrow. I am not promised my next breath. I am not promised that my children will out-live me.

The ever ticking of the clock, the ever changing me and my children are a gift I need to embrace now . . . in this moment.

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. They reflect memories, smiles, laughter and years of loving and living. 







Stephanie

Rainbows

I never knew there was a name for a baby that was conceived after the loss or death of the baby that came before them.

There were a lot of things I never knew before my sweet Emmerson and Vivienne lived and died.

A baby after the loss or death of an older sibling is referred to as a Rainbow Baby.

I didn't like it at first. I have rarely referred to Little Man as my Rainbow Baby.

Rainbows. Are they not a beautiful display of creativity that the storm is over? Something beautiful left after the pounding rain and raging winds?

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.

But there is a rainbow. There is beauty.

Rainbow Baby

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.

~ Unknown ~

Stephanie

The Beautiful Side Of Grief

Grief is ugly and hard and everything messy.

Source: fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net via Xan on Pinterest

But there also lies hope in the pain. Smiles in the tears.

Grief . . . it just sucks! It is just plain shitty! Sorry, but there really are not enough words to explain how awful it is.

We got dealt a crap hand. We really did. And it just didn't stop with our babies dying. This past year has been one blow after the other. I am starting to wonder if we will ever be able to pick ourselves up off the floor and stand on our own two feet again.

But I refuse to let this stop us from enjoying what we have. I refuse to stop trying to get up off that dirty floor.

Grief sucks but you still have to move forward. And in the moving forward you start to notice small little glimmers and then cracks where light is trying to creap in and then you see windows in the darkness that are filled with nothing but the sun.

There is a beautiful side to grief.

It is knowing and feeling that Heaven is real. It is knowing and feeling that it is very close. Heaven has never felt more real to me than it does now.

It is feeling a renewed purpose to living this life. It is knowing that the purpose is so much bigger than you.

It is realizing that everything is a gift. Every moment. Every event. Every situation. It is all gift. Because it is all from Him.

My girls are a gift. I would not trade all this suffering for the gift of them. I have been blessed. Some people live their whole lives never knowing or experiencing the kind of love I have for Emmerson and Vivienne. I would not trade that.

When it comes to love, we gamble big. The stakes are always high but always worth it!

The beautiful side of it is knowing and treasuring all the smaller things that I missed before that are now, and always were, so huge and important.

The beautiful side of grief is knowing my Saviour and trusting Him like I never did before.

It's knowing there is so much more to this life than big houses, nice cars, and all those material things I wanted to possess before.

It is knowing and resting in the knowledge that my girls are safe. They are happy. It is knowing that I will see them again and I will know them and love them just the same.

It is knowing that there is a purpose in the pain and beauty in the broken.

Source: iheart-stolenimages.blogspot.com via Marie on Pinterest

Stephanie

I Want To See

She spoke so sweet. From the silence that rarely occurs, she sweetly spoke.

On a crisp, clear winters day, her voice broke the silence.

"I see Daddy in the kie (sky)! Do you see his aipane (airplane), Mommy?"

"Yes, sweetie."

"Hi, Daddy!"

Some more silence then . . . "Is Jesus high in the kie like Daddy?"

"Yes, but higher and also everywhere. He is in the sky with Daddy and He is here with us."

More silence. A couple of minutes more and then this . . .

"Daddy's in the sky so he can get Vivienne and Emmewson. Okay, Mommy?"

The sweet sound of those words brought tears to my eyes.

Even she is trying to make this make sense.

A few days later, we were all in the car together. Again, there was silence from the backseat. And again, very strange.

The sun had already started its descent, closing yet another day. The evening sky was beautifully splashed in oranges, yellows and pinks.

I was staring at the sky, lost in thought, thinking about Emmerson and Vivienne. Wondering what they were doing at that exact moment. Wondering if they could see me. Wondering if they had a part in making the sky so pretty.

From the back seat, "Look! The kie!"

"It's beautiful, isn't baby?"

"I see him!"

"You see Daddy? But he's right here."

She says this a lot whenever she sees an airplane in the sky. So you could understand my confusion.

"No. I see him!"

"Oh! You see Jesus?"

"NO! I see them! They wight there!" She proclaims with some frustration mixed with excitement as she is pointing into the sky.

And then she sweetly says this, "Hi!"

She then proceeds to talk about anything and everything, just like a two year old does.

I am left speechless yet again.

Why can't I see them?

How? How is it so easy for my two year old to acknowledge them and talk about them and see them but it doesn't leave her hurting more? Asking more questions? She is satisfied with the little knowledge she has and the glimmers she receives.

How and why is it so easy for her to accept? To accept that they are gone? To see and acknowledge the morsels of peace and know them for what they are?

Why does it seem that this is easy to accept for everyone?

Everyone but me?




Stephanie

NOW

I am an impatient person. It is one of the qualities about myself that I don't particularly care for.

I used to pray for patience. I stopped. I stopped because, well . . . there just became too many circumstances which required my patience. I didn't like it because it requires patience to tolerate the time and energy it takes to develop patience.

While I am doing one thing, my mind is on the next. I am always ten steps ahead of myself. I am not patient enough to just be in the moment.

I am either looking back or looking ahead. I am rarely ever looking at what is in front of me in the present moment.

I have been doing that a lot lately. I am either looking back to what was or I am looking forward to what will be. I don't want to open my eyes to the now. I don't want to be here! I don't want to be in the mist.

It is so very hot in the now. It is so very painful to be present in the now.

I want the healing to be over because the healing hurts. I want this grief process to be done quickly because I don't have the patience for it. I want it over. I want to be better. I don't like the rawness, the still weeping wounds.

I am trying to be grateful for all that I have and all that I have had.

The rawness of the pain has caused me to open the eye to see. I have noticed things that I never did before.

When I am in a moment with my daughter, I see how immersed in the present she is. I am delighted to see that joy in her. She is not thinking about what she was doing earlier, and how that was better or worse. She is not thinking about five minutes from now. She is just in the moment and she is enjoying it!

I try to meet her there. I try to be ever present in that moment with her and for her. I breathe in deep and give a thanks for just that moment because that is all I am able to give thanks for. Just that one singular moment . . . like she is doing. Even if she doesn't consciously give thanks with her mouth, she is giving thanks by being present in the moment and enjoying it. I think that is the best way to give thanks.

In giving thanks for a moment, I have become more in tune to everything. EVERY emotion that penetrates the heart and makes a demand to be noticed. Every emotion! The good, the hard, the ugly, the joy . . . all of it. So much more now then I did before.

By taking notice, I have realized how I cannot be impatient with the now. EVERYTHING is in the now. All of it!

God is the God of I AM! I don't think He dwells on what was, what should have been or what will come.

He is here, NOW! If I want to truly seek Him and find Him, then I need to be in the now.

If I search for His healing ways, for Him to wrap me in His arms of comfort, then I need to be patient enough to be in the now, to wait for Him. Because, that is the only place I will find Him and rest in His healing. His peace. His comfort.

I cannot expect the wounds to stop weeping if I am constantly looking beyond, but never giving them the care they need now. I cannot expect to fully experience the depths of joy, the grace of a moment, if I am constantly looking for what goodness I believe will come.

I need to learn from my daughter and just live in the moment I am living. To be grateful for it and enjoy it. And be thankful for it.

I have to be here. I am expected to be here. This moment, this now, is my now. It is where I am. It is where I breathe and where my blood circulates. I have to  notice it for what it is. The now is what I have, regardless of it being hard and ugly, it is what I have. It is all I have. It is where I have to live. It is where He is and where He offers grace. And where there is God and grace and mercy, there is beauty!




Stephanie

It Shows

On one of my previous post, I decorated it with pictures of my daughter's room. There was a famous doll sitting on the bed. I looked at the picture and was thankful that all the dirt and stains on her were not obvious in the photo.

Baby gets a bath (put in the washing machine) once a week. First I pre-treat her with a stain remover and sometimes I let her soak in my ever-present "soaking bucket" in the laundry room.

I feel the need here to pat myself on the back and tell you that I am pretty amazing at getting stains out of clothes. I really perfected my stain removing abilities after I became a mother. I used to be The Laundry Princess but in the last two years, I have had some upward movement in my company and have a new title now, The Laundry Queen. I wonder why with my new title I have not also received more pay? I guess that is a whole other post.

It is getting to the point with Baby that no matter how much I pre-treat her, soak her, or bathe her, she no longer becomes completely clean, free of the stains.

After I took those pictures, I thought back when to Baby first became a member of our family. She was so clean. There was not a speck of dirt on her and both bows on her dress were intact.

Now she has stains and one of the bows is missing.

I have tried in vain to make her like new again.

It never works.

She has been my daughters most adored companion. She has a lot of dirt on her.

She has been kissed, hugged, slipped under the covers with my daughter and kept her company while she dreams sweet, innocent dreams of a child.

She has been everywhere my daughter has been. Baby gets examined and receives her immunizations by the doctor before her forever friend.

It shows. It is evident that Baby has lived. That Baby has been loved.

So, the dirt and the wear and tear on Baby isn't really dirt at all. It is love made visible.

Love made visible . . .

". . . But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams

Stephanie

Promise Made

I see a husband and wife fresh and new on this journey of life together. I smile and wish them well. I smile and say a prayer that sorrow will not step into that life. I hope and pray that their worst day, their day of ugly is the day they said I Do. I hope nothing but beauty and good lies before them.

I see a newly married couple and I think of the day I glowed with love for My Love. I smile and think, what a wonderful day that was! I really believed that our life would appear as I had always dreamed: Love, Home, Laughter over dinner, Arms wrapped around in comfort, Cries and Coos of babies, Pitter-Patter of little feet, Those same little feet knowing of the love of child, Silver hair rocking on the front porch staring in awe at the sunset.

I had always wanted to be a wife, to be a mother. I wanted the simple but the grand. I wanted a simple life with My Love that held my dreams. I wanted the simple life but the grandest of loves.

My life has held those things, those desires and dreams but also has held hurt and sorrow and nightmares.

When I Do is sung on the lips of two promising forever, the breath that gives voice sound is the dream of good.

The promise of forever is framed with a smile and is swollen with love. The promise is made with the dreams and hopes of beauty and laughter.

But this is life. The weeping is as much apart of life as is the dancing.

When the music fades and the dance ceases, what is left?

Isn't that what the promise if for?

The promise of forever is to hold it all. It is there to wrap one up in love, in the certainity that you are not alone when the lights dim, the sparkles are gone and the music is dead. It is there to double the laughter, brighten the smiles, and to hold the hand, the eyes in a sweet dance.

A few days after goodbye was spoken through tears, I laid curled up in My Loves arms and together we cried. I was overwhelmed with my love for him. I was overwhelmed with sorrow and regret. I regretted that he had to feel this hurt. That My Love was now a man that lost two pieces of his heart.

I looked up at him through a sea of tears and told him how sorry I was for his pain. That I hated seeing him hurt like he was and still is. I whispered to him through choked breath how thankful I was that I had him to walk this road with me. How blessed I am that he is still here to hold my hand.

I understand the beauty of the promise now. After eleven years, I understand. The promise is not for life to always glow in beauty, but to be that sliver of light, of forever, when life grows dark and ugly.

The promise is to grow in beauty, together, through it all.

That is what the promise is for.

And that is what The Promise is for...

Through it all, the weeping, the dancing, the laughter, the tears, He will hold us.

Stephanie

What a Child Sees

You sad, Mommy? I hear those words at least twice a day now. I don't think my daughter even had the word, sad, in her vocabulary three months ago. Now she asks about my emotional state multiple times a day.

We arrived home from Cincinnati on a Friday evening. Our friends had our daughter playing in the front yard when we pulled into the driveway. Our daughter got a huge smile on her face and started running towards the car.

I was excited to see her but once I did, it was like being stabbed in the heart with a dagger. It hurt so deeply to see her and to hear her talking.

She ran to me when I got out of the car and I picked her up (against medical advice).  I was sobbing. She took one look at me and terror swept over her face. My face was swollen, red and covered in tears. She had never seen me like that and it completely terrified her. She immediately reached for my husband.

The rest of the evening, she remained concerned. She wanted to be in the same room as me but she didn't want to get too close.

It hurt me so much to look at her. I hate to admit this but for the first two weeks after we lost Emmerson and Vivienne, I didn't like to be around our daughter. I am so thankful for our family members and close friends that would take care of her and love her when I was incapable of doing what she needed me to do. The twins resembled their older sister and every time I looked at my daughter, all I could see was all that I would never have with the twins. I would never see them walk or call me Mommy and it killed me all over again.

To say that she saw me cry multiple times everyday for the first six weeks would be an understatement. I would cry at the drop of a hat.

A few days after we returned home, some family members brought dinner to us and we sat around the table and ate. Well, they ate, I think all I did was stare at my food. There was laughter and normal conversation. By normal, I mean conversation that would have taken place before I lost my twins. After I lost them, nothing was normal. I suddenly had this very strong feeling that Emmerson and Vivienne were just sleeping in their bouncy seats or swings. This was a scene that was to take place after I had them and brought them home - people bringing us dinner. This feeling was so strong. I looked up and expected to see them but I didn't see bouncy seats or swings. I saw no baby gear anywhere. I couldn't find my babies and I started sobbing.

My daughter saw me crying and became concerned. A family member instantly removed her from the dinner table and started to take her out of the room. She began screaming hysterically, I want my Mommeee! My husband got up and took our daughter out of our family members arms and brought her back to the table. Our family member did not feel like she should be seeing this, her Mother heartbroken.

My husband repeated to her what he and I had since we had arrived home that Friday evening. Remember how Mommy had babies in her belly? Well, they are now with Jesus. That is a very good thing but we are sad because they are not here with us and we miss them. It is okay to be sad and to cry. It calmed her. Every time.

The family member did not feel it was appropriate that we were letting her know what was going on.

I felt it would be inappropriate to not be honest with her.

Children are very receptive to what is going on. She knew something was not right and she would have sensed if we were not telling her the truth. I couldn't and still am unable to know when I am going to breakdown and start crying. It is not like I can schedule my "sad" times. They come when they want.

While I was pregnant with the twins, my daughter would give the babies their vitamins. We all took vitamins every morning and she felt the babies needed to take one as well. She would walk up to me and pretend to put one vitamin in her hand and use that hand to touch one side of my belly and then she would do the same to the other side. Then she would say, there babies, you have your vitamins now. Grow big. She would lift up my shirt sometimes and ask to see them or hold them. I would let her know that for a few more months, they had to grow on the inside but that she would be able to hold them soon. After that, she became very vigilent that the babies got their vitamins.

She asked about the babies on a daily basis while I was pregnant. Once we arrived home from Cincinnati, she never asked about them.

Then one day, about six weeks after we lost them, I was eating dinner with her. My husband had just left for a trip so it was only her and I that were home. During the meal, she asked where Baby was. Baby is the original and unique name of one of her cloth dolls. She is attached to this doll. She can never be more than a few feet from it and if she is, she wants to know her whereabouts. I informed her of where baby was, she looked and saw her and became calm. She then looked at me and asked, where are your babies? This threw me! I was shaken. I collected myself and replied, they are in Heaven with Jesus. She says, no, they are in your belly.


I lost it and had to retreat to another room.

Just a few weeks ago, as life slowly and painfully has resumed a new "normal", my daughter and I were on the floor playing basketballs. Basketballs is really anything that involves a ball but it usually consists of sitting on the floor, across from each other, and rolling it back and forth. While we were playing, she did or said something that made me laugh. She stopped rolling and asked, Mommy, you sad?

No, baby. I was laughing because you are so funny and silly. 


She thought about this for a minute and then replied, No, Mommy. You sad.


Now I was the one who had stopped to think. I had run everything I had said and did that day with her through my head. I couldn't recollect any thing that would make her think I was sad. Specially after I just got done laughing! Then I realized, there is always a part of me that is sad now. I am different and she knows that.

Other people have judged us and criticized us for being honest with her and not protecting her from this. For the first time in my life, I don't really care what they think. My husband and I are sticking to our guns with the belief and assurance that children are way smarter and more intuitive then adults give them credit for.

After she told me that I was, indeed sad, I stopped to think. I thought carefully about my response to her. By this time, her game of basketballs had been put on the back burner. She was sitting on my lap while attempting to wrap me up in her arms.

You know what, baby? You are right. There will probably always be a part of me that is sad. I miss your sisters and I will always wish that things had turned out differently. The fact is, they are not here and they never will be again. But they are in Heaven and I am so grateful and thankful for that.


She's looking up at me with her huge, dark eyes,  nodding her head yes and then she says, with Jesus! We resume our game of basketballs.

I know as Mothers and as parents we foolishly believe we can protect our children from anything harmful or hurtful. But here is the honest, ugly truth. We can't. We never could.

My parents are hurting and grieving too. My Dad cried with me one very dark day. With tears spilling out of his eyes, he tells me, I miss them too. But what really kills me is seeing you like this and knowing there is nothing I can do to make this better. I have always been able to make things better for you. I am so sorry that I can't!


My Mom worries about me. She has been angry and has asked a lot of questions. She wants to take my hurt away and she can't.

I know it is completely natural to want to shield your child from the worst ache, the most dreadful pain. But what do you do when you can't?

My job, my duty as my daughter's Mother is to prepare her to become an adult. She has learned something a lot earlier than most children and a lot sooner than I would have ever wanted her to. She has learned that things and people break in the worst way. She has seen hopes and dreams come to a crashing halt.

One thing she has learned because of all of this is that it is OKAY! It is okay to be sad. It is alright to cry. It is okay to ask why. What she has witnessed through all of this, is that her Father and I still love our King. We still praise Him for what we DO have. And because of that, she has seen hope live on.

We all have been far more blessed than we haven't.

Stephanie

Chipped

On the right front tooth, there is a slight chip at the corner. It is one of many things that endears me to my husband.

Years ago, while we were still dating, he asked me, do you think I should get this fixed?


I did not. I do not.

I sometimes can only focus on that tiny chip when he is talking. I often have to ask him what it was he just said. I realize that all I have done was stare. I stare at something that once was complete, but by and through life, it was broken. Broken but so beautiful.

Other times I catch a glimpse of it when he smiles at me and I am captivated, pulled in his direction to let a kiss rest on his lips.

All because of the slight chip in one of his teeth.

To me, it is beautiful. It is just a small piece (or lack there of) that makes him, him. My husband. The father to our children. A child of God.

Years ago, when he asked me if he should get it fixed, he saw it as an imperfection. I saw it as beauty.

Are the imperfections what makes life beautiful?

A chipped life is imperfect but it is beautiful and since it is beautiful, it is made perfect.

Through pain, tears, cries, heartache, there are smiles, laughter, joy.

From the cracks and holes and weeping wounds, there is more clinging to what is good. What is joy.

Would those not be beautiful and perfect if there were no imperfections?

Through the cracks and the holes and the weeping wounds, He comes and feels them and then fills them with His glory. His perfection.

He makes everything perfect. Everything joy. Everything beautiful.

Only by the imperfections of life is anything made perfect and beautiful.

I love that chipped tooth.

I am learning to love and appreciate all the chips.




Stephanie

Broken

I love stained glass windows. They are so pretty with their different shapes and various colors. Even as a little girl, I was mesmerized by the way the light penetrated through the glass, casting the different colored hues on whatever was on the other side of the light.

My husband broke one of our plates the other day. When he revealed to me what he had done, he said, here, I thought you might like to put it back together. 

No! I want to break something! I want to watch something shatter just as my heart as been! Why didn't you let ME break it? You know how much I have been wanting to break something. 


After we had returned from Cincinnati, I saw my medication (the medication that was going to help my girls) and I went to the garage and got a hammer. I returned to the kitchen where my husband and daughter were and retrieved the bottle that contained the "magic" pills. My husband very gently asked me what I was doing. I informed him very matter-of-fact like that I was going to hammer the hell out of my medication until there was nothing left. Very calmly, he took the hammer from my hand and caught me as I fell into him and sobbed.

In the past, I would have gathered the broken pieces and tossed them in the trash but instead, I gathered them and laid them by the sink. Later that day, as I stood at the sink washing dishes, I thought as I looked at the brokenness, it can still be used.


That night, I laid all the broken pieces out on the counter, trying to figure out which pieces went together. I gave up in frustration. I contemplated throwing the pieces away but they remained on the counter.

For a week, the pieces, all broken, stared me down whenever I was by the sink. It can still be used.


Broken! Shattered! Some large pieces, some small. All of them having purpose.

I got out the glue and I went to work.

Pain doesn't always stop with the breaking. There is pain in the process of fixing. It continues with the mending.

In the process of repairing the broken plate, precise pressure was required. A lot of time needed for just two pieces to be sewn back together. After the pressure, came waiting. Time was needed for just those two pieces before anymore could be added.

I am broken. Shattered.

With the breaking and the broken and the fixing is a process and a purpose.

A stained glass window starts out with many pieces.

Some of those pieces have been uniquely cut by the maker. Others have been broken.

They are put together for the making of something beautiful.

The light shines through, and the beauty is to be held.

I am broken but I can still be used.

I'll leave the fixing to the Maker. I hope all the pieces are put together with His precise vision.

Let the Light shine through.

Stephanie