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.