Spoiler Alert: 2015 Will Suck Too

So every year, around this time, the complaints start rolling in.

"2014 was the worst year ever, 2015 please be good to me." Ew. Please stop.

I'm not even sure how a year is capable of being good to someone, because last I checked it was the measurement of time in which the Earth makes a rotation around the sun, but whatever, we get your point.

I'm sorry, but the year didn't suck, your view sucks.

I've had quite a few conversations about this topic as we embark on this new year, and every time, I walk away thinking, I haven't had the best year ever, but I'm not sad about it. Should I be sad? Should I get on the 'blame a 365 day rotation around the sun' bandwagon? Why don't I feel like I'm ready to say goodbye to this 'dreadful' year and hello to a new rotation around that glowing sphere, which will surely bring me better luck?

Because I like who I am more at the end of this year than at the beginning.

Throughout the 12 months of learning to raise kids without the support of a spouse, financial difficulties, parting ways with friends, breakups, grieving a son as well as a life I had envisioned, valued possessions stolen, physical ailments, countless tears, holidays spent alone, not having a home, and on and on...

I learned so much. I overcame. I can walk out of December 31st and into January 1st feeling excited, not because I have this delusional idea that in this 29th year of my life the stars will align and my dreams for owning a home, and being financially stable, publishing a book, working in the missions field, a husband, traveling with my children, bringing a baby boy into my life, and seeing Taylor Swift in concert (yes, you read that right, dreams aren't always mature, people) are going to fall into my lap.


I'm excited because I'm closer to achieving my dreams. I'm closer because I actually have a better grasp on how to get to said dreams. (No, not Tinder). I'm excited because I know what I do and don't want. I'm excited because God knows what I need. I'm excited because the more I have walked through these unexpected happenings in life, what I want is more in line with what God has for me. (God loves Taylor Swift too, I just know it.) I'm happy because this year hasn't been bad, although bad things have happened. I'm hopeful that I'll do better next year. I'll still faceplant once in awhile (hopefully not literally), but my rebound time is like a nanosecond compared to when I'd spend months replaying the "what ifs".


I take risks, and I have fun, and I work hard, and I 'mom' like me instead of what all the books tell me to do, and I know how to be terrible at relationships which hopefully means I know how to not be terrible. I know what to steer clear of when renting a home, and that arguing over matching socks is silly, and why paying off hospital bills is important.

And at the end of 2015, I'll know more than I do today.

Stop blaming the Earth's orbit around the sun for your inability to accept negativity with a positive attitude. 2015 won't be any better if you don't learn, change, trust, forgive, get back up, and then say thank you. It just won't.

Let it go & shake it off.

Like I could resist ending this end of 2014 post with lines from the two most beloved songs. Notta chance.



I love you Mama's Mans. Happy New Year!

#nofilter

Shiny gold paper. Perfectly tied bows. Stack all of the presents just right. Take a picture. Not perfect enough, edit. Ok, just the right amount of glow. Ready to post, need a catchy caption...something that says I'm humble but look how much I love my kids. Something that says Jesus really is more important to us than the gifts, but we just had thousands of dollars laying around to spend, so why not on them?

Matching outfits. Christmas dinner. Visit family. Click. Snap. Edit. Come up with caption. Post. Look at us. The perfect family. I proved you wrong. My life has meaning. My life is good. 

That was me. That was my Christmas. Fast forward. 

Christmas Eve dinner as a broken family of five. One of our chairs was a hamper turned over so we could all sit down. Reindeer food out and Santa tracked. Kids tucked in bed. Barely wrapped second hand gifts thrown under the tree. Staying up late with my ex husband. He hands me a gift. No, I want to wait. Just open it, he sighs. Butterflies, a shiny silver candle holder with butterflies engraved holding a blue candle inside. Hold back the tears. It's perfect. Phone call from someone who needed a friend. Finally get back to the house to find three wide eyed children awake at 4:15 am. Who says what time we have to open gifts? Let's do it. No pictures. No videos. Just us. Just myself and my ex husband and our three kids at 4:30 am enjoying the moment. Back to a half asleep state while I listen to them play. So they leave. Their family awaits for more Christmas to be had and I sit in a robe and watch The Price Is Right. And here I am. 

Alone. On Christmas. No family portraits or fancy dinner. Just the prospect of going on a run, or to the cemetery, or driving around or doing nothing at all. 

And I'm happy. A little lonely, a little feeling out of place, a little reminiscent of the Christmases where I felt I had it together. But it's just a season. Seasons change. People change. God does not. 

Throughout this great transformation of my life, He has continued to give me just enough. I never dreamed I'd be happy with a candle holder, presents opened at a ridiculous hour, in my ex husband's home, with no proof to be edited and posted, and the still, quiet moments for my heart to be able to recognize the abundance of the goodness in this season. 

Another season awaits. Winter can only last so long before once again my world transforms. May I be just as grateful for the blooms in the spring. May my heart still be able to recognize that the facade of perfection isn't as beautiful as the reality of what is deemed unconventional. 

Merry Christmas, Isaiah. Your life has brightened my winter. 

I Can't Go Back

Having good manners sometimes just means extending grace to those with bad manners.

That used to be an impossible feat for me to accomplish. If you know me, really know me, you'd probably till this day label me, in the nicest way possible, a feisty chick when it comes to rude behavior.

I would let you know just how I felt about the way you hastily threw my glass objects in the plastic bags, the tomatoes on my salad that I asked you to take off because "it's your job, not mine!" *eye roll*, and how your lack of customer service was going to get you fired. And sometimes I even got you fired.

Yuck.

Who was that girl? The one that met misery with misery. Who thought the world owed her something. Who felt entitled to everyone making sure she was happy. Why?

It hit me shortly after Isaiah died. I would go out in public and be at the mercy of other people's miserable attitudes. I was trying my best to hold it together and get through a store without hearing a baby cry or spotting something that reminded me of what I was missing, and no one noticed.

Everyone was so entangled in their own messy life, no one saw me drowning.

I needed patience. I needed compassion. I needed to remember what I even needed because the thoughts of what I was missing were taking me down.

But I was met with short glances, empty "how are yous" and cold silence.

I remember wanting to return something of Isaiah's, only to be met with exasperation and the "can't you do anything right?" look, when I explained I didn't have the receipt. I wanted to scream "MY BABY JUST DIED! HOW CAN YOU TREAT ME LIKE THIS?!"

But I kept quiet, I swallowed back the lump in my throat and I blinked away tears and I knew right then and there that I would never be the same woman.

I can't undo what his precious life & sudden death have allowed me to see so clearly. I can't unlearn how to meet adversity with love. I can't forget my darkest days of wishing someone extended grace. I can't go back to rushing through my life while I inadvertently shut out those desperate for a simple act of kindness.

Be the good you wish to see in the world. The people who seem the least deserving of your love are the ones who need it most. Cliché, maybe. Life changing? You bet.

Happiest Holiday season.

Thanks Mama's mans.

Not My Funeral

I have a problem with conforming. Listening to the advice of others, that part is easy. I nod and tell myself they're probably right...but then, I don't take it. That has earned me the title "thick-headed, stubborn, naive, ignorant" and probably other expletives at one point or another in my life. But I just can't. I have to know how it all plays out. I don't like "what ifs", I think either "I knows" or "you were rights" are more my style. 

I have been wanting to go back to the funeral home for a long time now. Specifically, THE room. The one where my tears were so plentiful, they eroded any hope for a normal future. Where I buried my soaked face in his casket and breathed in the smell of embalming fluid instead of four week old baby. Where his rubber like hand was held so tightly that I shuddered at the sight when I let go. It looked nothing like the hand that would flail past my face while he ate, somehow always finding my hair and grabbing hold. Where I read him scriptures and repeated "this is not goodbye. It's not." But that dimly lit room with dark red draperies and brown wood paneling taunted me. His funeral was over, but this was surely mine. I would never leave this cold, dark, uncertain space. If it wasn't for my then husband telling me it was time to leave, I might still be sitting there today. I would have waited an eternity because as long as his body was there, I reasoned there was hope. 

So despite the attempts of loving friends and family who told me I should never return when I would casually mention the idea of going back, I knew I would do it eventually. I couldn't ignore the curiosity within me. "Maybe it would help? Maybe I will feel him close to me. I'll never know unless I go." 

It was an insignificant Wednesday. I parked my car across the street from the funeral home, and I looked out the window, wondering how many more lives were being held captive in that place. I had only meant to walk into the sub shop across the street, but I looked at my passenger seat and saw his bag of things, all of the things the funeral home had given me. Every final memory was sitting next to me, and I knew it was time. I felt a little foolish, and wondered if I would even be allowed inside. From the outside I boldly walked across the street, on a mission to put my lingering curiosity to rest. But on the inside, I started to listen to those words of warning I'd been given. "What if I don't come out? What if walking into that room undoes two and a half years of hesitantly yet consistently putting one foot in front of the other. Even with nowhere to go, I knew I had to keep moving. What if I'm stuck?" 

"But what if I run?" 

I held my breath and opened the door, knowing the smell, that distinct smell of hopelessness and tragedy and heartache was about to punch me in the face. 

I scanned the entryway expecting to come undone as a flood of memories that room held came rushing back...but they didn't show up. It had changed.  

(Before I continue, if you don't know, you should know that Isaiah's "colors" worn to his funeral were brown and blue, which is an entirely different story in itself, as well as a blue butterfly holding so much significance in his short life, in the butterfly release at his funeral & in the years that have followed.) 

The place was like a dream. Brown and blue everywhere. I felt a bit like Belle on Beauty and the Beast, tiptoeing through silent halls, curious and filled with enchantment. I saw butterflies. Blue butterflies everywhere I looked. Sculptures and paintings, tissue boxes, and slideshows. My eyes started to fill with "God, why did I ever doubt you" tears when I saw a man walking towards me. The last time I saw his face I must have looked much different, as he didn't recognize me. "Glenn, it's me! It's Savannah! You know, um, you took care of Isaiah for me. I'm his mom." 

He happily obliged my requests to sit in that room, and so I nervously carried my son, a bag of his final memories, and a thankful heart towards that door. 

I laid his things out carefully on the floor and I sat down Indian style looking around, bracing myself for the flashback of pain. But instead I felt peace. 

I spoke to Isaiah like he was sitting on my lap. I whispered and I cried and I smiled and I laughed inside at the blatant metaphor. 

It's been two and a half years and everything has changed. That room didn't keep me there. It set me free. 

Thank You, Isaiah ♡

I'm thankful for my son dying. There, I said it. I know you won't understand. You can't.

But before you go thinking I'm a delusional mother, hear me out. 

I used to be thankful for a lot of things. Good things, too. Like my family, friends, health, etc...you know, the things that we all rattle off, not knowing what it's like to go without them, and not wanting to imagine a world where we'd have to. To be thankful for something, to truly, deeply know that emotion, you have to know what it's like to go without. How can I realllyy be thankful for a meal when I've never felt hunger pains? How can I be thankful for a roof over my head when I've never felt the sting of homelessness? How easy it was for me to sit around a table and express my gratitude while healthy loved ones laughed and ate until their stomachs hurt.

But then something beautiful happened. This boy changed my world. A messy, painful, tear filled two and a half years have followed his death, and I feel honored to have been chosen to walk this road less traveled. That doesn't mean I don't miss him with every molecule of my being, or that I don't still lay awake some nights until 4 in the morning trying to grasp how he was breathing one minute and gone the next. That doesn't mean that I don't sit in the cemetery and envy all of those people whose names are etched into pieces of concrete, knowing they are closer to him than I.

I love my son. I love him enough to embrace his absence, sometimes with a smile, and sometimes with tears, but always, allll.ways, with a grateful heart. Because in lieu of what was sure to have been an adventurous past couple of years, I've been gifted with a lifetime of changed perspective.

I found a girl who pays for groceries for a young couple with the last few dollars I have. I found conversations with my children as opportunities to never pass up. I found extending grace to those who make mistakes. I found people asking me for advice because they knew I couldn't and wouldn't cast the first stone. I found out what it's like to greet strangers with a smile. I found out what happens when I take a moment to go above the surface level hellos and engage in conversations. I found love where I wanted to hate, and forgiveness when I wanted to be angry. I found boldness where I would have been meek and compassion when I would have walked on past. I found me. I found the person God created long before the world got a hold of me.

I missed out on so much good in the world when my world was good.

Happy Thanksgiving, Mama's Mans.

●Empty Boxes, Leprechauns, and 90's Hair●

Packing is the worst. The.worst. I've had to do this far too many times in my life, and if it wasn't for the fact that I was such a sentimental person, I'd gladly walk out and hand over the key, leaving everything I own. Only this time, it's different. You know those "3 things that you'd grab if your house was on fire"? Well mine were stolen a couple months ago, along with a hundred other items I was most attached to. I had more like 300 things. Mostly heirlooms that were passed on, which I'd hoped to be able to continue to pass on to many more generations of women who would follow after my grandma and mom and myself and my daughters, giving them a piece of these courageous women who had stared adversity in the face and kicked back.

So I was looking around thinking about "the important stuff", maybe it's just me, but I feel like I need all of that in one place during a move, for fear of it being lost. That box is riding shotgun with me during the move kind of important. I don't care about the price tags, most of these things are actually worthless to anyone else, but to me, they're irreplaceable. 

It's funny how a little 8 pound person can change my entire outlook on what I carefully wrap in newspaper and place in a box labeled "IMPORTANT, DO NOT BREAK, DO NOT TOUCH WITHOUT PERMISSION UNLESS YOU WANT ME TO CRY AND BREAK YOUR ARM."

Maybe that's an exaggeration, I'd probably just end up giving you an Indian burn. 

What can't I live without? I'll tell you about 3.

The empty blue box covered in fingerprint dust, the one that used to hold a necklace I was given for Mother's Day, from my own mom, just a week after Isaiah died. The teardrop shaped diamond was worn for a year straight, reminding me that God has counted every tear I've cried grieving the loss of my tiniest boy. The stolen necklace doesn't change my attachment to that time in my life, and the empty box will forever remind me of all of the ways I overcame empty arms. 

A list scribbled in blue marker, on the back of an essay about a leprechaun. The last list I made before I understood the value of life. Nowhere on that list was "Pick out flowers for Isaiah's funeral, pick out pictures to showcase his short existence, have your cousin shove a breast pump on your boobs before they explode because your son CANNOT be dead, he's going to come back at any time and need to eat." It reminds me that what I have planned isn't THE plan. Embrace each day. 

A picture of my family in an ugly gold frame that was probably purchased in 1992. My sister and I were in matching Christmas dresses, my brother had buck teeth, and my parents both used copious amounts of hairspray. I was around 4. My parents are divorced, and most people probably think it's weird to showcase that, but not me. That's my family. Regardless of where everyone is in life, those are the people who were there and helped shape who I am. Sometimes, walking alongside me while I figure it out on my own, and other times coming to my rescue when I've made a mess of life. 

I'm so thankful for these completely invaluable reminders of who I am. I have walked out countless instances that should have made me wave a white flag of surrender. But I smile. I don't have a new home yet. I have close to nothing of value. And yet, I can smile. I know who I am, and I know a God that has graciously provided me with much more than I deserve. And I know a family who stands by me. And I know that I don't need to worry about a tomorrow that isn't promised.

So I pack, and I smile, and I sing Taylor Swift like it's nobody's business.

Happy Saturday.

Love you Mama's Mans. 

911 Days Late

Some people come into your life, just to teach you how to let go.

Holding on to things is an endless struggle in the mind of a grieving parent. You never win, you only try to justify why said object or emotion is worth holding onto. The tangible has become easier to let go of over time, frankly because I don't have the capacity to tote around an entire nursery of "what ifs".   But the emotions...the guilt and regret and anger and sadness and blame, those are very much attached, like extra limbs that I don't necessarily want to part with, for fear of not knowing how to function without them. There's this paralyzing fear that if I have no one else to blame, it falls on me. Babies don't just die. Someone needs to be held accountable.

On the one year "anniversary" of Isaiah's death, I faced two fears; getting a tattoo and reading his autopsy report. (I will have you know that I wasn't afraid of the pain of getting a tattoo, I'm just too indecisive.) The autopsy was sickening. The descriptive narration of exactly how his body was taken apart and looked at, much like a science experiment, made my stomach, the very place he was knit together for 9 months, turn.

But worst of all, the very thing that could have saved him, the epinephrine which was supposed to be administered intravenously was said to have been "laying loosely in his leg". The people I was so thankful for this entire year, the first responders who ran in while my world was collapsing as I quickly came to the realization that my feeble attempts at resuscitation weren't working, they were now to blame. As I huddled over my lifeless boy, my eyes met my daughter's, who despite my pleas and screams to go back to bed, witnessed what complete desperation looks like; yet we shared a hopeful unspoken moment, when they carried Isaiah out of the room. They knew what they were doing, I thought. They could surely save him.

But it was in black and white. The words on that paper didn't lie. The improperly placed IV placed my blame elsewhere.

There have been hundreds of conversations between myself and three little people who question what more could have been done, and I've always reassured them there was nothing, everyone did the best they could...but secretly, I didn't believe that. I don't want them to know a world where they question the expertise of emergency responders who they deem their heroes.

And now, coincedentally, 911 days later, I finally believe those empty words I've been speaking. Sometimes you meet people who inadvertently and unknowingly bring closure to a place you didn't realize was still so wounded. I never thought about the men who were most likely sleeping while I scrambled for my phone at 4:08 in the morning, who jumped up and met me in my darkest hour, and even for the briefest of moments, gave my family hope. Their presence was enough. It's safe to let go.

P.S. I love you Mama's Mans.

Why I Didn't Light A Candle For My Son

I'm no good at facades. I wish were, because grief requires some sort of make believe every so often in the hopes of not appearing psychotic. I'm supposed to be this strong, yet honest figure of what it looks like to continue to live after a part of you dies...or at least that's what I've told myself. I don't have a choice on the part of me dying scenario, that was just handed to me, much like my lifeless baby being not so gracefully placed on my lap at 4 in the morning. 

I didn't light a candle this year. I didn't post anything about my sweet boy. It's not because I've forgotten him, or because I don't hurt. It's not because I don't believe in spreading awareness about infant death. It's because I'm sick of it, at least at this moment in time. The only candle I want to light for my precious, beautiful son is the one that sits on top of a birthday cake. 

Sometimes, actually most times, I can go about my life with as much normalcy as I am capable of. But there are also these grand moments of defiance. It's like being a teenager, without all, ok most, of the acne. You know when you're over that particular sport that you beeegged to sign up for? The one that your parents spent a bazillion dollars on, and now you hate it? You cry and whine and now beg your way out of said sport, but your mom is all like "you are sticking this out. You are not a quitter. I've spent a lot of money on this, and you will go, because I'm your mom and I said so." But you don't want to play badminton anymore, so you purposely start sucking in the hopes that mom will see what a waste this is, and you'll be off the hook. 

Sometimes I just want to suck at being in the dead baby club. Maybe if I'm not good at it, God will be like "hey, you're clearly not cut out for this because you didn't light a candle and post a picture of it on Facebook, so, surrrprise, here's Isaiah, you can have him back. You did good for awhile, but now I see that you're over it." *pats me on the back* 

See what I meant about having to put on a front in order to not appear psychotic? Because this is crazy. But it's the real deal. 

So here's to the moms of gone-too-soon-babies who suck at honoring their babies sometimes. Your lack of public announcements doesn't equal a lack of love. Don't feel obligated to grieve any other way but honestly.

*Disclosure, this may seem insensitive to some, but I assure you, there's nothing more in the world that I'm most sensitive about. There's no way to sugar coat infant death, and even if there were, I'm just not cut out for wrapping ugly things with pretty bows.*

Broken Noses Fix People

Healing through brokenness. It always works that way. Only this time, a broken bone is what led me closer to forgiveness. My Elijah got in the car after baseball and with a very matter of fact tone, said "Mom, I'm pretty sure my nose is broken." Making sure I didn't make the same mom mistake twice, because at one point he may have told me of a broken finger, and I may have told him to suck it up. (In all fairness, he stepped on his own finger. Who BREAKS a bone like that?!) But this time, I knew of a face plant earlier that day on the basketball court at school, and upon further Dr. Mom medical assessment, I determined he was probably right. To the hospital we go.

But it's April. And it's 6 days away from the 29th. And if I even see that man that pronounced Isaiah dead, I might need to be the one hospitalized. I grew to hate that man. The one that took any ounce of hope I had, and crushed it. He didn't even try. No procedure, no further attempt at keeping him here. Just waltzing in the room to look at him and pronounce him dead. How can someone I would give my own life for be just another number to someone else? I went into that hospital 3 times since. He didn't even recognize me. Not my face, not my name. I've thought about his face a thousand times over. Thinking of his name makes me nauseous, remembering the hospital bills we got in the mail with his name stamped on it, like I owed him anything, let alone thousands of dollars, all for him to tell us what everyone already knew. And the way he said it to the nurses. "Yep, he's dead." The sound of his voice has played back in my mind, everytime it wanders to those awful hours of my life, and I wish that the shock would have left my body long enough for me to scream horrible things at him. Maybe then he wouldn't have forgotten my face. 

Two years of holding someone personally accountable for Isaiah's death. Two years of wondering what more they could have done. Two years of wishing I could tell him how much he's hurt my family. Visions of myself storming in there with pictures of three siblings, and the drawings that their hearts have etched on paper, yearning for four. "You didn't just let one life end, a part of all of us died that day!"  He didn't get it because he didn't see it that early morning. Innocent children were still tucked in bed, unaware that they would wake up to friends of family and police officers quietly shuffling around in their home.

The hospital was unusually packed for a Wednesday night. And for some reason, it seemed Elijah had been bumped up on the list, for what was actually something quite minor. We didn't get done with registration before the triage nurse came and got us, all while a packed waiting room glared our way, because I'm sure some of them had been sitting there for hours. A couple of questions later, I look up to see him. "It's your lucky day! I'm gonna expedite this process and save you a few hours." Why was a doctor coming in the triage room? Why was he helping us? He knelt down next to Elijah and joked with him about broken noses, talked basketball, and made an attempt to make him smile.

Don't you talk to him. Get away from my child. You are the reason he doesn't have a brother. This time I would make sure he knew it, too. If he couldn't remember my face, he was going to remember the face of a 7 year old boy who waited 9 long months to play with a brother, only for him to have 25 days of playtime before it was ripped away by his hands.

I directed my sentence to Elijah, all the while, making sure he got the message. "Buddy, this is the doctor that saw Isaiah go to Heaven. He was the one that  gave him a check up when the  ambulance brought him here."

All eyes  turned to me.  And I planned on feeling justice. Finally, I got to make him look into the blue eyes of one of my children, and see the hurt. But instead, his head dropped into his hands and he looked up, dropped back down, and looked up again. He saw the tears that started to escape Elijah's eyes, and he said "I'm sorry. I remember. That was a really hard night for me too."

He remembers? It was hard for him? The vindication that I wanted to feel, that I deserved to feel, it didn't come. I looked around and tears were streaming down the cheeks of all four people in that room. And all of the time I had spent playing judge and jury came down to this one moment. I spent so much time holding that noose of unforgiveness, waiting to kick his feet out from under him, yet instead, I was the one being choked out and left speechless. He hugged Elijah, telling him that it was ok to cry, and looked at me with sincerity, and said "I wish I could have done more. You have a great kid, and I'm sure Isaiah would have been no different." And there I was, hanging in my own guilt and
shame, hoping that my half smile would mask the disappointment I felt. The disappointment in myself.

And so I'm reminded once again of the journey Isaiah's life has taken me on, and how God has used him to continuously humble his Mama. I'm happy a broken nose wasn't all that was fixed, because an unforgiving heart was causing much more pain. And maybe, hopefully, next time I won't wait two years.

Jerks, John Wayne, and Jesus

So here I am going about my day. Pretty much one of the worst days I've had in months, so really, I was dragging myself through the day, but nonetheless still going. And then it hit me. Talking to an acquaintance, casual conversation, she says "I was talking about you to "Jane", and she didn't know who you were, so I was saying 'you know, that chick whose son died', and then she knew."

Come again.

I didn't hear much else because my mind transformed into the Grand Canyon, allowing those words to bounce back time and time again, turning the echo of one statement into a thousand more negative titles I've been given throughout my life. Exhausted from the emotional beat down that the day handed me, I didn't even try to fight back the tears. Just let it go, I said to myself, there's no use fighting it any longer, accept the defeat. And while the years of "you're not good enoughs" and "you're too outspoken" bubbled back to the surface and began to reopen those wounds, I looked down and saw an invitation to an Easter Egg Hunt. (Like a real one that my kids brought home, this isn't a metaphor.)

I smiled, and I crushed thousands of titles with just three words. BUT THE CROSS. 

All of the titles that people try to stamp on my forehead don't even come close to the one that Jesus stamped on me with that selfless, heroic move. Redeemed.

Because of that, I'm called by name. The world can try to categorize you by your actions, or tragedies, or past, but Jesus is all like "Um, excuse me ma'am, but I already bought her name tag." (Jesus sounds like John Wayne in this interpretation because being matter of fact in a southern drawl sounds more polite.)

So to "the chick who has three baby daddies" or "the pastor who had an affair" or "that one guy whose wife died" or "that kid with the speech problem"...the hands that have penciled those reminders of us in our minds are NOTHING compared to the hands that were stretched out and nailed to a cross. It is finished.

Oh, and Happy Easter.

Counting Gifts, Not Babies

Be brave.
I can almost hear you whispering that to me as I open my eyes this morning. Not audibly of course, but in the way that you've spoken to me all along, as every piece of your life has collided with mine to string together a messy, graceful, courageous ballad...and it's up to me to write the lyrics.

I would prefer the role of cheerleader, holding your hand, encouraging you, standing on the sidelines. But cheerleaders never feel the sting of defeat or the exuberance of victory. I didn't ask to be taken off the sidelines and thrown into the game, and most days, I'd give anything for a seat back on the bench. I wouldn't have to feel. Only spectate.

But August 5th, 2011 was a game changer. Two pink lines catapulted me off of my cozy seat and into unknown territory. Defeat seemed inevitable.

Be brave.

August 19, I told Planned Parenthood I chose life, and cancelled my appointment. Victory.

On April 4th, I thought I had won. The healthy screams from the lungs of new life told me I had. Victory, I smiled.

But April 29th was only twenty five short sunrises away, and the absence of breath coming from your tiny body was deafening. Defeat, I screamed.

Be brave, you said.

Looking at the faces of my confused children through swollen eyes, I could barely choke out the words. Defeat, Savannah.

Picking out the outfit that a stranger would dress you in one last time. Defeat.

Walking down the aisle of soft sobs and tear filled stares, to greet a body I didn't recognize. The white casket lid would surely seal my fate along with your body. Defeat, it taunted.

Be brave, Mama.

Pulling my babies closer than I ever had before, recognizing the abundance of what I've been given in the simplicity of scribbled drawings, chests rising and falling while they sleep, and squeaky voices praying for their very wounded Mama. A glimpse of victory, I thought.

Waking up on the living room floor, scrambling to your room, only to find an empty crib surrounded by flowers and cards. Defeat, it laughed.

Keep going. Be brave.

Picking up a paintbrush. Victory. Picking up a pen. Victory. Stepping on a plane bound for the mountains of Guatemala. Victory.

Every visit to the emergency room, when my throat is closing in and my legs are weak, when everything goes black, and the only indication that I'm alive is the pounding of my heart so intense that my own thoughts are being drowned out. Defeat, defeat, defeat.

Be brave, I'm right here.

The 120 days that I've gone without taking a pill to numb the pain or silence the thoughts that have tried to send me over the edge. Victory!

Every time someone asks about you, and I get to share your story. Even if it's only to say your name. Victory, sweet boy.

The isolation that's crept in when the people have stepped out. Defeat, it seemed.

The ones that didn't leave when it wasn't glamorous to be there anymore. Victory.

So much heartache, yet so many moments of joy. I don't think I'll ever be content with the feeling of looking around at the playground and only counting three babies of mine... and that's ok. I don't want to become numb to the pain or ever forget what it's like to feel defeat, because then I'd never understand the victorious feelings that followed when I stop counting children and instead count the other gifts that God has allowed me to see more clearly.

Happiest 2nd Birthday, Isaiah Trent.

Be brave, Mama.

I Run to You

"3We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials, for we know that they help us develop endurance. 4And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our confident hope of salvation. 5And this hope will not lead to disappointment.." Romans 5:3-5 

Sometimes (and not as often as it should be, per my New Years Resolution that states a minimum of 5 times per week)  when I run, I pretend. I am not yet to the point of enjoying the feeling of someone stabbing me in the side, pulse resounding in my head, trying to breathe normal as people pass by, only to open my mouth and suck every molecule of oxygen from the air as soon as they are behind me, while my legs insist on doing something all their own because I can assure you that my brain is telling them to run gracefully, but I'm almost certain they take on the form of cooked noodles by the end of mile one. I'm holding out hope for the day I enjoy that feeling, solely because I want to do a Color Run, and not look like a peg leg returning from war when I cross the finish line. 

So, I pretend. I tell myself that Isaiah is waiting for me. If I just keep going, I'll get to hold my son. I picture scooping him into my arms and kissing his face. "I'm here Mamas Mans, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." 

He's never there. I know he won't be. It just keeps me running the race. And then a pang of guilt hit me. 

"What if I treasured Jesus as much as I do the son of mine He bought and paid for? The very person who sarcrificed His life in order for my sweet baby to live eternally is less important to me than Isaiah.  What would my life look like if I ran the race thinking about my Savior waiting for me?"

Visions of reuniting with Isaiah are beautiful, wonderful, joy filled thoughts, but if I take Jesus out of the equation, there's no reunion to be had. I never want Isaiah to replace the very One who entrusted me to be his mother. 

So I'm working on that. And 54 other New Years Resolutions. Luckily the other ones involve things like "taking time for myself", which translates to "taking a nap" in Mama language.