Gifts

Someone back home was kind enough to send me the flowers pictured in the last post.  After I quit laughing at my older girls who were gushing over how nice it was of the FedEx man to bring them to me, my pragmatic side kicked right in.  Before I even opened the box or read the card, my first thought was why anyone would waste their money on “something that was just going to die.”  And then I heard a still small voice whisper, “Enjoy the Gift.”

 

So that’s exactly what I’ve been trying to do.  I can’t tell you how many times those roses have made me smile this week.  Every day they unfold a little more and I find myself captivated with how they look from this angle (or that one too).  I’ve found myself picking up my camera numerous times because I wanted to remember a bloom exactly as it was at that particular moment.

 

 

And every time I’ve found myself in one of those moments, I’ve pondered what it means to “Enjoy the Gift.”  I think it’s a lesson that directly applies to my life.  Even before we had children of our own, I had seen enough of life to realize that family planning isn’t as cut and dry as one would think.  I had friends that had unexpectedly become pregnant in a very inconvenient season of life and I had others who struggled with infertility.  I quickly realized that we don’t have as much control as we often think we do in these matters.  So I entered into the realm of parenthood with a distinct appreciation that children were a gift.  And even though it’s happened five times now, I’m always a little surprised when that little stick confirms that we are indeed pregnant.

 

Our Sweet Catelyn

Since I lost Catelyn three and half years ago, my biggest frustration has been how to remember My Gift.  Although no one has actually verbalized the sentiment, I’ve often felt like others are wondering when I’m going to get over it.  I feel like people look at me with a sympathy that conveys that my life would be better if I could just move past the pain.  When one miscarries a pregnancy, I think others only remember that agony they felt when they found out the news.  When I remember Catelyn in particular, I think of so much more.  The other innate problem with losing an unborn child is that nobody else has had the opportunity to build a relationship with that tiny person.  In some ways it has felt like I’ve lost an imaginary friend, and yet there was nothing make believe about her.  She was really here.  Amazingly enough, Catelyn’s pregnancy was my most vibrant.  She made her presence known.  I felt her move.  I laughed over her antics.  I prayed for her.  I loved her.  And I didn’t need an ultrasound to confirm when she was gone.  I knew.

 

Our Other Precious Gifts

 

Although we tend to think there is supposed to be a natural order of children burying parents in old age, none of us is guaranteed any length of days.  I truly believe the value of a life cannot be determined by marks on a calendar.  We live in a world where bad things happen.  And just as I had a decision to make about my flowers that were “just going to die,” each of us has a decision to make about how we’re going to enjoy our gifts.  All I know to do is make the most of the time I have with the ones I love most.  And despite what anyone might think, I’m going to remember the gifts I’ve lost because God gave them to me for a reason.  I still don’t know what He had in mind with this last little babe, but I know He used Catelyn to change me for the better.  He needed to work in my life and even beforehand He knew it was going to hurt.  So He gave me a gift, one that was a precious reminder that He loved me when nothing else made sense.  I try hard to seek calm when interacting with others, but I don’t want to have to hide my gift in the shadows because it might make people uncomfortable.  I want to remember her and hold tight to the many sweet memories, because I wouldn’t be the person I am today without her.

James 1:17 ~ Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above…

More Okay Than Not

Thank you!!!  I don’t think I can accurately describe how much your sweet notes of encouragement have meant to me.  Just being able to put words to the events and emotions of the past two weeks was like a breath of fresh air or a weight being lifted off of my chest.  Thank you for caring, thank you for reminding me that I’m not alone (I forget this frequently ~ slow learner here), and thank you for letting me be honest.

 

That honesty thing is like a tightrope walking act, at least for me.  Even now, a part of me is concerned that I have caused others to worry.  I want to be real, but so many factors make that difficult.  In no way, shape, or form do I want to air out dirty laundry that would cause other people to be hurt.  In trying to be sensitive to those closest to me I sometimes feel like I give off the wrong impression of having things more together than I really do.  Bad things happen here too and sometimes life is exhausting.

 

Living with things that can’t or shouldn’t be talked about is almost unbearable.  I honestly believe that it’s one of Satan’s most overused tools.  Once we feel isolated and alone, we become incredibly easy to defeat.  We’re like sitting ducks once we believe that “nobody else could possibly understand” or even worse yet in the church, “real Christians couldn’t possibly struggle with this.”  Part of the reason I wrote the last post was that I spent months feeling lonely and discouraged after I lost our third daughter just 10 weeks before delivery.  There is much more to her story, but I knew I didn’t want to walk that road again.

 

Like I mentioned before, I also needed people to understand.  I needed them to understand why I hadn’t found time for our usual phone calls, or why I skipped out of church so early my first Sunday back, or why I wasn’t volunteering to help out with different functions.  Simply uttering the words “I’m sick” just didn’t seem to suffice when I felt like I was dropping the ball left and right.

 

For those who are still concerned about how I’m doing, I can honestly say I’m okay.  I had to reach some level of togetherness before I was even able to write the last post.  I’m not just trying to sugarcoat things.  The past week was truly one of my worst in recent years, but I’m not there anymore.  I guess that’s the good thing about putting one foot in front of the other; it’s impossible to stay put, no matter how slow it takes to move forward.

 

To be more specific, I think the actual process of waiting for and then enduring this miscarriage has been way harder physically than emotionally for me.  There was definitely an emotional component that seemed magnified by weak physical health, but having lost Catelyn gave me a perspective that's different than most.  When I was pregnant with her I was given a very up close and personal look at what having a child with disabilities would look like.  We spent hours upon hours analyzing, discussing, and preparing for her birth and then subsequent treatments and surgeries.  We were ready to whole-heartedly embrace her needs, but the thing that scared me most was how I was going to adequately also care for the two children I already had.  So while I’m sad to have lost this little person that I eagerly read development updates about each week, I have peace that this was not meant to be.  Contentment doesn’t always mean having things exactly as hoped for or planned.  For now I’ll rest in the knowledge that the One who holds the future has never left me or forsaken me.

 

Romans 8:37-39 ~ Yet in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us. For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Not Fine

“She’ll be fine.”  Those words, when recently uttered in reference to one of my girls, were enough to send me into an emotional tailspin.  The truth was my daughter was sobbing and not fine, but the chord that was struck resonated deep within my own soul.  Living 2000 miles away from all of our family makes it incredibly easy for people to assume that my life only consists of the happy moments reflected in the pictures posted on social networking sites.

 

I’m not sure if my family even realizes that my natural bend is to be an introvert.  I can think of many times in life when the task of upholding my end of a conversation seemed nothing less than hard work.  I also stink at accepting compliments, encouragement and, as I’m realizing this week, sympathy.  I truly struggle with how to juggle those sentiments when they are tossed my direction.  It can be plain stressful.  I've often felt the need to encourage the other person when I’ve had to relay bad news of my own.  The option of remaining quiet and placing one foot in front of the other simply seems easier.  The end result is a false impression by some that I’m strong or that life’s bumps and bruises somehow don’t hurt me as much.

 

The real kink in my plan is that while it’s easier to verbally keep mum, my emotions tend to dance across my face like characters on a stage.  More often than not, my expressions can be read like an open book.  What’s a girl to do?  Well, this one tends to lay low, keep conversations short, and let everyone else assume that I’m busy.  It’s an incredibly lonely predicament.  After examining the situation backwards and forwards, I think I’ve finally figured out what I desire most.  I WANT TO BE UNDERSTOOD.  I don’t need to hear the words, “I’m sorry.”  I don’t need someone to jump on a plane and come take care of me.  I just want people to realize that my life isn’t always easy; sometimes it’s just plain hard.  I want them to understand that sometimes the very little amounts of my time are all I have to offer.  I want them to understand that I’m doing the best I can.

One look in the mirror accurately reveals the transformation that’s occurred over the past two weeks.  Just 17 days ago group photos with our families captured a glow of happiness and my yet to be announced pregnancy.  Now the reflection in the mirror is weak and pale, which my doctor confirmed is a result of the substantial blood loss during my miscarriage ten days later.  All I’ve been able to convey to my family and most of those around me is that I’ve been sick.  There never seems to be a good time to interject the truth into our conversations.  Very few know what's transpired the last two weeks; most that do were out of necessity.  I suspect some will be hurt at the notion that I couldn't or didn't confide in them when in reality my silence has nothing to do with how I feel about anybody.  These types of discussions just consume time and energy that I don't have at the moment.  The truth is I’m drained.  Returning home from a 5,000 mile, 4 week road trip right before this happened hasn't helped much either.  So for now, I’m taking my vitamins.  I’m resting when I can.  I'm drinking a little more caffeine than normal.  (I also get cold more easily and I'm dropping things left and right.)  I’m missing adult meetings and opting for those that benefit my kids (who still don’t know why mom’s been so sick).  I’m placing one foot in front of the other, but please don’t assume I’m strong.  I’m merely doing what has to be done because I have no other choice.  In the depths of my soul I recognize that even this was filtered through the hands of my loving Savior.  I know I will be fine another day, but for now I’m simply tired.