It was exactly 3 years ago last Friday, April 20th, that our world swiftly tilted. 

So last Thursday, April 19th, I paused.

I tried to recollect how I was (who I was?) before April 20th happened. I imagined myself going about my day that was probably nothing far from ordinary. Was I happier? Smile more? Worry less? Calmer? Because that was all before. Before the madness. Before the shatter. Before I ceased to be who I was and started to become who I am now. 

And I think about God, the God of April 19th, and who I thought He was. 

Or more like, who I had made Him out to be.

The God of April 19th looked something like this: He would allow bad things to happen to good people, but not super-terribly-crazy-bad things to happen to anything-above-lukewarm-Christians. Crazy, I know. I probably would not have admitted to believing that, but reaction to circumstance is pretty indicative of what I (and people in general) believe. He was kind and good and somehow it was so much easier to believe because the really ugly-gives-you-goosebumps-nightmares only happened to "other people".

Until they didn't.

And then I was "other people".

And I have come to realize, among many other things over the last three years, that the God of April 19th not only doesn't exist, He never did. I had made for myself a graven image, God as I know Him, instead of the true God that He really is, despite what I want to believe Him to be. And since then, my relationship with Him has become much richer, deeper, and more intimate than I could have ever thought. Suffering takes your heart to places with God that can not be reached in any other way. 

I remember a phrase that I somehow repeated to myself in that ultrasound room when I thought I would die right there of a broken heart: He is still the same...He is still the same...He is still the same. 

And He still is.
 
 

Big Enough

In nearly 48 hours from now, my little brother will be getting married. His bride-to-be is a wonderful young lady, who happens to share my exact first and middle name! I have had the privilege to get to know her over the last several months and will proudly stand beside her {in my guava colored bridesmaids' dress} as she marries the love of her life, my little brother.

I pray that He restores my joy and infuses my heart with happiness before Saturday.

Because life just doesn't stop. My brother will get married. My bestie from high school will wed her man only a few weeks from now. Another BFF is pregnant and is due only 10 days before I was. We shared only one day of joy and giggles over being pregnant together, which I am truly thankful for. She hesitates to share happy news, knowing that my heart is still broken.

But I think I am big enough.

Big enough to know that the world keeps on turning even when we're hurting.

Big enough to love & put other people first and be happy for them, even if I am only smiling on the outside. Because grief and joy do mingle.

Big enough to remember that I will not always feel the way I do today. Time will pass. My heart will heal. I will hope and laugh again. Joy will be restored.

Big enough to believe that He is BIG ENOUGH for all my sorrow, even if my heart forgets it sometimes. He is BIG ENOUGH to handle it all.

And that's the most important big enough of all.

A Tiny Blessing

I hesitate.

I hesitate to put fingers to keys, feelings to words, to give heartache a voice. Should pain be kept private? I remember reading once that a loaf of bread will feed only one, but broken, it will feed many. I do believe that allowing our brokenness to be shared can bring healing to other broken hearts, knits us together who have gone through similar trials, gives us courage to continue on the hard road.

I had a tiny blessing. We were expecting our fifth child! I was cautiously excited as this was our first pregnancy since our precious Olivia died. Time passed. Days. Weeks. We told our families. We told our children.

And then lightening struck. Miscarriage.

I had felt immune, I think, as if I had already endured enough horror and trauma with Olivia's diagnosis and death. Like I had used up all my allotted Bad Stuff and had only Good to look forward to. But the Lord gives and the Lord takes away.

Sometimes much quicker than we prefer.

I am awestruck at the faith of my daughter and my future sister-in-law. Praying for miracles! Maybe all hope had not been lost! Not just faith to move a mountain, faith to move an entire mountain range. I am blessed by their belief and pray for Him to increase my faith, as it seems so little in comparison. I realized that when I heard the doctor's words on Sunday, verifying that there is no longer life within, that even I too had been holding onto hope. Maybe my faith is a little bigger than I thought.

There is comfort in knowing that Olivia has been joined by a sibling. Big sister and little living together amidst His glory. A strange sort of comfort which leaves in its wake...an ache. That I am mother of five, but parent to three. That I have children (plural)....children whom I will not know on earth. That I have a large family, although it might not appear so to the naked eye. 

And I grope to find Him. I try to convince myself of His continual goodness, even if my earthly eyes struggle to see it. I desperately search for His kind hand at every turn. I can not even begin to understand the "why" and the "what for". Maybe you are there too, friend. Crawling through the valley. Trying to make sense of the seemingly senseless. Hesitating to give feelings their voice.

Know that I am there with you. Hurting. Healing. Hoping?

Praying that we can find Him together,

Lessons from a Horse

The movie Seabiscuit isn't just about a racehorse. It's about being broken and finding healing. It's about the underdog. It's about being down-and-out and someone giving you a chance. It's about loss. It's about optimism when facing an impossible situation. It's about "choosing life". Maybe it's because May has swiftly come and is nearly gone, bringing with it the second anniversary of Olivia's death, that I'm feeling particularly...thoughtful.

When Seabiscuit's owners first find him, they, along with the horse trainer, take him for a run around the track to see how Seabiscuit performs.

"He seems fast."
"In every direction."
"He's so beat up it's hard to tell what he's like."

And sometimes people can be the same way. The are so broken, bruised, and beaten down that it's hard to tell. Hard to tell who they really are underneath the layers of pain. Hard to tell what strength and beauty lies beneath. Hard to tell how wonderful they might be to get to know or to embrace in a relationship because all we see is the hardened, prickly exterior.

"He just needs to learn how to be a horse again."

I think sometimes as people, we need to relearn how to live again, especially after suffering or trials. We need to rediscover joy, remember our blessings, risk love again. Time has been a healer for me, but sometimes we don't allow ourselves the room to mend. We jump right back into life's chaos without stopping long enough to reflect, to bring our wounds to God and soak in His healing salve.

"You know, you don't throw a whole life away just 'cause he's banged up a little."

I am fond of quoting this movie line, time and again, because I don't believe that any person or any circumstance is beyond redemption, even if all seems lost and beyond repair. If there's life, there's hope. It might seem naive to some and foolish to others, but even after all that I have gone through, I still believe in miracles. I believe that He can change anyone and anything. I am willing to look beyond the exterior and see to what could be.

"You know, everybody thinks we found this broken-down horse and fixed him, but we didn't. He fixed us. Every one of us. And I guess in a way we kinda fixed each other too."

Thawed.

I vividly recall last winter. Driving down country roads cocooned in grey clouds. Overcast skies matching a slightly frigid heart. I clung to winter knowing that Spring represents life, cheer, sunshine and the last thing I was feeling was sunny. And now, it's happening again. Change. The thermometer slowly creeping up, the world around me thaws. I thaw. Slush and mud will soon turn to green teeming with life that has been hidden within and beneath. Blue skies reappear, although, they've been there all along. It's just that now the clouds are parting.

And this year I've found that I'm clinging less. I did relish the last grey day. My bits of melancholy will always find a home in the winter. And although with Spring comes haunting memories, I am looking forward. Ahead. To another season, more growth, blue skies, and blinding sunshine. To a full heart, joy unexplainable, blessings aplenty.

I'll probably even smile and put on my sunglasses.

A Choice

Friday marked 20 months since we said goodbye to Olivia, our third daughter, our fourth and last child, thusfar. That might seem like a long time to most, but there are moments when it feels like it all happened not that long ago. Time is a good cure, but it does not heal all wounds. After much reflection on the subject, I've come to believe this one simple truth: healing is a choice.


Some physical wounds are shallow and nearly inconsequential, take a paper cut for example. It might hurt for a few seconds, but then you scarcely notice it even happened. Other wounds require more attention, but probably can be handled on your own, like a scraped knee. You wash it up, apply a little antiseptic and a bandage, and you're out riding your bike again in no time. Some injuries require professional help, like broken arms and deep lacerations needing stitches. And other situations, say a severe car accident, might need surgery, a hospital stay, and months of rehab.

I think emotional wounds are somewhat similar. Some are shallow and quickly forgotten. Others might require a little more attention. And still deeper wounds....need work and maybe even professional help.

I've often wondered why some people that I've encountered still seem truly bruised, battered, and broken, even years after their loss. Their personal pain appears raw and fresh. While others, although forever changed by their loss, seem to be working towards healing and reclaiming their joy. I remember feeling angry that after all I had endured, I had to actually work towards mending my heart and spirit. WHAT?! It just doesn't seem fair. But fair or not, I believe it is what is required.

One month after Olivia had died, I remember reading something that convicted me into making a distinct choice: I would focus on Christ instead of on my suffering. And it is a choice I have had to make again and again.  

A choice to heal. 

A choice to live. 

A choice to find joy.

Praying for the choices you face,

the Easy button

Sometimes the only way out is through.

How many times in life do we just wish we had an Easy button? Press it and POOF! You are on the other side of the trial, obstacle, or difficult season. I know I have. I remember early on after losing Olivia and being in constant emotional pain, my mom wanted to do something, anything, just to have me feel better. Something to just stop the torrent of grief and pain. She was even willing to pay my way on a vacation, bless her heart, if it meant that I would feel better. But in grief, just like in many difficulties, the only way out is through.

There have been times when I've come along willingly on this journey. There have been other times when I have proverbially kicked and screamed my way through each day. I don't think I will ever learn to embrace suffering or trials, but I do think I can embrace whatever God wants to teach me along the way. Had I pressed that Easy button, I would've missed it. I would've missed my heart becoming more compassionate. I would've missed all the opportunities to share my heart with other broken-hearted people. I would've missed depending on Him like ever before. I would've missed the confidence that comes with knowing that He can get me through.

Because sometimes the only way out is through. And I know that it is just as true for you as it is for me.

One Year Ago: Repost

This post was originally published one year ago, September 14, 2009 and it seems just as appropriate today as it did 365 days ago. I have only changed the words to reflect how much time has passed

It has been sixteen long months.
Sixteen months...
...since Olivia left us....
...of snuggling and sleeping with a baby blanket, instead of with a baby...
...of painful memories...
...of trying to put back together the pieces of all that has been broken...
...since the miracle we hoped for was lost...
...of longing for Heaven like never before...
...of spoiling our other three children on earth...
...of trying to make sense of that which just can't be understood...
...of sleepless nights and tear-stained pillows...
...of wondering what Olivia's legacy will be...
...of running to God and running away from Him...
...of imagining how things could've turned out differently...
...of dreaming of how Olivia looks in her Heavenly body...
...of missing the joy of another daughter.

Oh, Olivia. Mommy still cries great big tears for you. How I selfishly wish you were here. It seems like forever since I felt your little fluttery kicks. My heart still aches to have you near and hold you in my arms. Will our family ever feel complete while we are separated by eternity? Will my heart ever feel whole again? I miss you, sweet baby girl. I miss you something awful.

Only when

“Only when we understand that God has ordained our suffering
can we begin to make sense of it.
Only then can we be certain that He has a purpose in it.
When tragedy comes, when adversity strikes,
we will not be shaken.
Yes, we will cry. Yes, we will grieve.
But we will move on confidently
knowing that God is on His throne,
that we are in His hand,
that our circumstances are His doing,
and that He is working them for our good.”

~Terry L. Johnson, When Grace Comes Home

He Carries Me

In Honor of one year without Olivia (05.14.09) ~

There were photographs I wanted to take; things I wanted to show you....

:: my niece and daughters, except for Olivia ::

:: an (almost) family Christmas picture ::

People say that I am brave but I`m not. Truth is I`m barely hanging on.
But there`s a greater story, written long before me, because He loves you like this.

So I will carry you, while your heart beats here.
Long beyond the empty cradle, through the coming years.

I will carry you, all my life.
And I will praise the One who`s chosen me to carry you.

Such a short time, such a long road. 

All this madness, but I know 

 that the silence has brought me to His voice and He says....

I`ve shown her photographs of time beginning, walked her through the parted seas, 

 angel lullabies, no more teary eyes.

Who could love her like this?

P. S. These words are taken from the lyrics of the song "I Will Carry You" by Selah based on Audrey Caroline's story, which you can read about at Bring the Rain. I think these simple words sum up the course of this last year better than any earthly words written by me could.

A Tilted Planet

I am in a renewed season of mourning. Kind of like renewing a lease. Only worse. Now that you know, I don't have to explain why more than a third of the month is gone and this little blog has been too quiet. I guess know it's because April 20, 2009 was the date we had our level 2 ultrasound and my world shifted on it's axis. (My true north was no longer near the pole anymore, but maybe more like somewhere in Canada.) And the anniversary of that date draws near. The memories are still nothing but painful, although now more of a dull ache instead of a raw piercing.

I have the best of intentions when it comes to making new blog posts. I get inspired. I take pictures, trying to find the best light. But when I imagine myself trying to sound giddy happy pleased about, oh, I don't know, a new recipe let's say, it just seems hollow. Because the grief has settled in again, following me wherever I go. 

Don't mistake me, there are moments of sweetness. I have been happy (at times) about Spring. I have felt swollen amazement when I look up at a crystal clear sky full of stars (no more winter cloud cover)! I have felt tickled at using my grill on warm Spring evenings and thinking about new and tasty grilled foods and side dishes. I have been totally inspired by my discovery of Foodzie (where have you been all my life?), which is like etsy, only for tasty, hand-crafted, natural artisan foods. I have enjoyed digging in my plots of earth  and planting little seeds. Tatiana and I were over-the-moon to get a box full of school books for next year. I even took pictures! 

But last year's memories linger, like a broken tooth that your tongue just can't seem to leave alone. Especially on days like Friday, when instead of my mail lady bringing books to my door, it was a slightly confused trucker with a small granite headstone on his dolly. 

Apparently, this delivery trucker usually takes his loads to the cemetery, not to a little white house with a homemaker nervously waiting at the front door.

"Do you get this kind of delivery here often?" he asked, slightly puzzled.

"No, sir..... Hopefully it's the only one I'll ever need."

And even that one has been almost more than I could bear.

P.S. Keyboard Soup. (Mom, you know what I mean.)

Clinging,

The Winter Past

Many people are eagerly anticipating Spring. Small children, gardeners, warm-weather lovers, lanscapers, normal-people-who-enjoy-decent-weather. And I used to be one of those people, opening my windows on the first day when the temperatures rose above 50° F. I have come to realize though, that because of my grief, I actually enjoyed winter. Winter just seemed fitting during that season of my grief. Desolate. Frozen.  Icy and beautiful at times. A gloomy cocoon at others. I would look up at the gray-white blanket of low lying clouds and feel insulated. It was as if nature was giving me a nod and telling me it's okay to have a time of frigid slumber.

I never would have guessed in a million years that I would ever not want Spring to come, especially being prone to seasonal-affectiveness like I am. These last few weeks I have been mentally, emotionally, and spiritually preparing myself for Spring's arrival. I'm sure it's no coincidence that the most recent book I read had the following verse as it's theme:

For behold, the winter is past, The rain is over, it is gone:
The flowers appear on the earth; The time of singing is come...

(Crazy how God can use something like a novel to reach our hearts, isn't it??) I'm not sure I'm going to be doing any singing, but it will be a time of reflection and remembering. The days when we first received Olivia's diagnosis are quickly approaching, as is the day of her birth. I remember many blue skies during those days. And those same blue skies are coming again. The earth will be celebrating. The laughter of children will float through my window on warm breezes. And I....I will be missing Olivia for one full year. I will be thawing out. I will find new ways to enjoy life. I will grow and I will grow something. And hopefully by the time next winter comes, I might not enjoy it as much.

Preparing for flowers,

Just a Box

I'm sure it must've been a lovely sentiment at the time. In all honesty, it could've been I who bought the item to stash away until the appropriate season. Whoever it was is irrelevant, I suppose. It's just another insight into how something so seemingly harmless as unpacking Christmas decorations can reduce a fully-grown woman to tears.

What should've been Baby's 1st Christmas, as the ornament in the photo suggests, will be the first Christmas without our baby. People say that the first holiday is the hardest. I sure hope that is true.

It's difficult for other people, especially some that love us best, to understand why we are taking a different approach to this Christmas season. But it's because of things like unpacking a ornament or a family photo that doesn't quite feel complete or wondering if Olivia will even be remembered around the Christmas tree, that give us pause. And pause we should, if we are not to miss the true meaning of the holiday.

And as I sit here, blurry-eyed with tears, God gently reminded me that along with being heart-broken about a box, I can be heart-filled about a different box. The one that held a baby some two-thousand years ago. And so, I guess that is just what I'm gonna try to do.

Thinking about a box,

Mingled

Grief and joy can co-exist.

I wouldn't have thought so before Olivia because, at least to me, they seem like polar opposites. But I have found, that even on the darkest day, there is joy to be found. At first, it was probably mostly grief with little bits of joy mixed in, but gradually the days have changed to not include so much grief. There is more joy now, with bits of grief scattered here and there.

The two lessons this teaches are these: just because I'm grieving does not mean that I never smile and just because I am smiling does not mean that I never grieve. I think most people probably realize the first to be true. If you've ever been to a funeral where you're remembering the loved one who has passed, and reminiscing about their antics or stubborn streak brings you to laughter, you'll know what I mean. I know that the second lesson might be a little trickier to understand as many people may see the smile and assume that I am 'over it' or that there are no longer tears lurking beneath or that I have moved on. Which isn't exactly true.

It's freeing for me to realize that the two, grief and joy, aren't mutually exclusive. I don't have to choose between them. I can have a sad day with smiles sprinkled in or I can have a great day with a sudden bout of tears.

And it seems that the one makes me truly appreciate the other.

Agree?

Praying for YOU

In honor of Pregnancy Loss Awareness Day

I am thinking of and praying for YOU today.  

YOU, who have no living children, yet have the heart of a mother.  

YOU, who while pregnant after a loss, have a heart of fear; loving your child within yet still longing for your child in heaven.  

YOU, who feel you have been robbed of the innocent joy that a pregnancy can bring, knowing all too well that sometimes things don't turn out the way you plan them.

YOU, who are still suffering in your grief after the death of your child.  

YOU, who heard the words, "I'm sorry. We can't find a heartbeat." 

YOU, who had a baby shower, decorated a nursery, picked a name, yet did not bring a baby home from the hospital.


YOU, who don't know how to answer the casual question, "So, how many children do you have?"

YOU, who have part of your family living on earth and part living in heaven.

And while I pray for YOU, I pray for ME at the same time. And I thank Him for YOU, for being my friend and for walking the hard road with me.

Missing for Five

I think this quote I stumbled upon says it best:

For a short time, I had your body in my body.
I carried your belly in my belly.
And now, though I have your heart in my heart and feel your soul in my soul,
I will never have your hand in my hand.
I miss your life in my life.

I have been missing Olivia for five months now. Missing the way she would've fit into our lives, the way she would've been growing, the joy she would've brought, the sleepless newborn nights and endless warm snuggles. Missing her life in mine.

Quatro Meses

It has been four long months.

Four months...

...since Olivia left us....

...of snuggling and sleeping with a baby blanket, instead of with a baby...

...of painful memories...

...of trying to put back together the pieces of all that has been broken...

...since the miracle we hoped for was lost...

...of longing for Heaven like never before...

...of spoiling our other three children on earth...

...of trying to make sense of that which just can't be understood...

...of sleepless nights and tear-stained pillows...

...of wondering what Olivia's legacy will be...

...of running to God and running away from Him...

...of imagining how things could've turned out differently...

...of dreaming of how Olivia looks in her Heavenly body...

...of missing the joy of another daughter.

Oh, Olivia. Mommy still cries great big tears for you. How I selfishly wish you were here.  It seems like forever since I felt your little fluttery kicks. My heart still aches to have you near and hold you in my arms. Will our family ever feel complete while we are seperated by eternity? Will my heart ever feel whole again? I miss you, sweet baby girl. I miss you something awful.

Missing at the Zoo

       Dear Olivia,

       Today would've been your first trip to the zoo. If things had gone as I had planned, you would be only a few weeks old by now. With that considered, you probably would've slept through most of this outing! I found myself missing you a lot today. Maybe because today fell into the 'special family outing' category and so my motherly heart just felt incomplete without you here. While driving to Madison, I even looked back several times in the mini-van, trying to imagine your little car-seat there, amongst your brother and sisters. Would I have had to 'shush' them so as not to wake you up? Your big brother would not have understood. Maybe by now, you would have adjusted to his screeeeches and learned to sleep through them.

       We traveled with another family, some of our nearest and dearest friends. While stopping at a restaurant on the way, Mommy's friend let me carry their one-year-old baby girl inside. I loved unbuckling her from her little carseat and the feeling of her weight of against my body. That was a gift to me. I managed to croak out some words of thanks, but I'm not sure my friend could really understand that gift of just letting me hold her daughter. It made me miss you more and less, all at the same time. We used the double stroller at the zoo, although one seat remained empty for most of the time. I thought it fitting though. You should've been there, Olivia, in that empty seat.

       Your sisters were so excited to move from exhibit to exhibit. Your brother though, was just anxious to find a way to get out of that stroller! I think he was tired of being strapped in. I know you wouldn't have minded though, being so little. Would we have taken the snuggly along for you to ride in? Or maybe the baby sling? It was such a beautiful day. Perfect weather for a newborn, really. It was kinda ironic in a way, because it was raining and drearily miserable at home, but mildly warm with sunny blue skies at the zoo. In my version of Heaven, the weather would be just like it was today.

       Your dad and I read many of the signs that accompanied each exhibit, trying to fit in some learning for your sisters along the way. At one particular stop, we watched an American Black Bear roaming around his fake habitat. At about the same time, both Dad and I read that the black bear babies are born weighing less than a pound-and-a-half. I cradled my arms and cried out, "That was about the size of Olivia!" It was amazing to look at that big black bear and think that once upon a time he was just so itty bitty.

       We built some nice memories as a family today. Even though you were not physically here, sweet girl, you were ever present, my thoughts of you intertwined with those memories being made. On our way home, despite some lingering sadness, I remember looking out the window, sunglasses on, warmth on my face and being reminded of my devotional this morning on Deuteronomy 30:19 about a choice that I have. A choice that has been so hard for me to make, to just keep on living and not let myself wither away inside. But I think you would've been proud of me as your Momma today. Because in that moment, even though I was missing you terribly, I said to myself, "I choose life." And that was a great moment, I think. It is only more evidence of how someone so small (you!) has had such great impact, even beyond the grave.

       I'm sure your day was perfect today, as I would think all days in Heaven are. Just know that even though you are gone from this earth, you are not forgotten and are still missed dearly. Especially on days like today.

       Love,

       Mommy

Shoulda been

I have scheduled and rescheduled this post so many times that I've lost count. I wrote this not too long after Olivia died, but at the time felt that it sounded very much like I was wallowing in my sea of grief and almost seemed just too sad to publish, if you can gather that. I decided to save it and have actually read it time and time again for my own benefit. So, I am posting it today, August 2, 2009, in honor of Olivia's due date. Even if I am not consumed with the Shoulda beens as much as I was in the early days, I still think it gives excellent insight into the type of grief I've experienced. Here is the post, in it's entirety, which has been waiting for this day:


Once upon several weeks ago, Hubs was having a really bad morning. He was truck driving, but not driving the 'usual' truck & just couldn't figure this 'new' one out. The thing just wouldn't cooperate. So he calls me for some prayer. At 5:58. AM! {You mean people are actually awake & functioning at that hour? But I digress.} Anyways, I pray for him for awhile, then fall back asleep. He calls again at 6:21 AM for more prayer. Yes. It was that shocking to my system that I remember the *exact* time. I told him if this continued all day, I'd have to hire a nanny just so that I could effectively be his prayer warrior. This time, he had gotten the gears figured out {praise God!}, but was upset about how much time had been wasted. He should've been so much farther along than he was. He shoulda been way down the road, but he was only not-as-far along. And what did I have the nerve wisdom to say?



Don't worry about where you should've been. All you can do is focus on where you are now.



I've thought about that morning from time to time, what I told him {those words stayed with him for the rest of the day}, and boy does that medicine taste pretty yucky now! Sometimes my thoughts are filled with Shouldas, especially on Sundays when the 'new' pregnancy week would have started. So this last Sunday it was 'Shoulda been 33 weeks pregnant'. Shoulda been bringing up the bassinet & cleaning up the car seat. Shoulda been planning a co-ed nursery, picking out paint, sewing new curtains. Shoulda still been working on Olivia's middle name {we never did end up giving her one}. Shoulda been getting back massages from Hubs due to pregnancy back pain. Shoulda been cherishing little kicks and bumps and tumbles from Olivia. Shoulda been feeling excited, nervous, happy, anxious.

And then I remember my own advice. There is nothing I can do about where I Shoulda been. Nothing. All I can do is focus on where I am now.

I guess the hard part about doing that is that so much of what I am grieving is what Shoulda been. Since we didn't know Olivia outside of the womb, it is not even so much that I am grieving her, just grieving over.....what Shoulda been, but never will be. I think ahead to her first Christmas. Shoulda been. I think ahead to May 14, 2010. Shoulda been. To all the games of "attack the dad" where there Shoulda been four little bodies piled on top, instead of only three. To girly times together where one of my girls will always be missing. A million Shoulda beens.

Focusing on now means coming face-to-face with the idea that I will forever have an Olivia shaped hole in my heart. Until the day that I die. And that thought is just so, so painful. But it also means, trying to enjoy this moment. Hugging my babies here on earth. Crying when I need to. Laughing when I can. Praying that joy, for me, is right around the corner.


Longing for what Shoulda been~

On Sunday Morning

I had to leave the room.

I'm not exactly sure why. Everyone around me was worshiping and praising. I was just crying. I thought it best to just excuse myself before I really started sobbing and began to distract other people. The songs were, I would say, more devotional than they were uplifting. {What's the opposite of uplift??}

You know how 'they' say that your greatest strength can also be your greatest weakness? Well, sometimes when I start thinking along a certain track, it is very difficult to switch tracks. Sometimes this is a great asset for those tasks that require a lot of focus. Sometimes it is just inconvenient and difficult when the timing is wrong. It's especially difficult to 'change lanes' when that line of thinking involves Olivia. Now, back to my story.

So there I was, already on the Olivia track, with these emotionally intense songs offered for worship, and it was. Just. Too. Much. I quietly left the room and headed for the car. I do have to mention that the Husband, much to his credit, did come after me to make sure I was okay. I wish I could've had better reasons for him, but I could hardly understand myself at the moment.

The weather was so perfect. There was a really big tree in front of me that was somehow calming to look at and I could hear the birds singing. Little did I know that as I appreciated the serene surroundings, He was setting the stage for my own personal time of worship. I opened my Bible to make sure the verse I have come to love was still there. Yep. It was.

I believe that I shall look upon the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living! Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage; wait for the Lord! (Ps. 27:13-14)

I love to personalize that Scripture for myself, praying it back to Him and did so that morning as well. HE then led me to 1 Corinthians 15.

...You foolish person! What you sow does not come to life unless it dies. And what you sow is not the body that is to be, but a bare kernel, perhaps of wheat or of some other grain. But God gives it a body as He has chosen, and to each kind of seed it's own body....There are heavenly bodies and earthly bodies, but the glory of the heavenly is of one kind, and the glory of the earthly is of another...So it is with the resurrection of the dead. What is sown is perishable; what is raised is imperishable. It is sown in dishonor; it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness; it is raised in power.

Even now, as I type, my eyes are flooded with tears at these thoughts. I sat there, riveted, imagining Olivia. Coming to life because of her death. My bare kernel. If you could have seen how broken her little body was, you would be able to truly understand how much these verses mean to me. Her body which perished in my womb...now imperishable. Sown in the ground in weakness. Raised to heaven in power. A glorious heavenly body.

And I received comfort there. Reading and rereading. Immense comfort. When I left for church that morning, I never expected Him to meet me there. But He found me. Sitting quietly in the front seat of a rusty mini-van.