An Open Letter to Baby Chance's "Mom"

Kristen,

You'll probably never read this, and I pray you don't because that would mean you are not sitting in a jail cell where you belong...but on the off chance that the justice system fails, I want to tell you something. No, these aren't ways that I think you should die or how you disgust me, although I can't say those thoughts haven't crossed my mind.

I don't have any questions for you. My mind has gone over the "whys" countless times...and there's just no answer that could validate your complete disregard for human life. I want to scroll past the news articles regarding your precious son much like the way I drive past the funeral home where I last saw my son's body. I want to pretend like it doesn't exist because the reality of the situation leaves my soul feeling empty and my eyes full of tears. But a mixture of facing my fears and curiosity gets the best of me and so I click on the newest stories and I read what you have done and I want you to know that the news of your son's death has ripped open the scars that my own son's lifeless body left on my soul, and branded you for the time being, my enemy.


You're no stranger to enemies at this point. Your only saving grace from the thousands of infuriated locals is the fact that you are sitting behind bars. I'm not the only mother who has cried over your son.  I am a mother, however, who can identify with the death of a child. And because you seem to be completely in the dark about what being a Mother entails, allow me..


A Mother fights for her children. From the moment they learn of life inside of them until the moment they take their last breath, they will endure countless attempts of the world trying to steal, kill and destroy a part of their child. They don't stand by and watch. They protect.

This isn't exactly a newsflash. That's what every Mother does. It's no secret that there is no stronger, sacrificial, more unconditional love than a Mother's.

But what happens when a helpless Mama is forced to look death in the face and it's too late? They do not run. They do not hide. They.still.protect.


They reach one arm across the bed, frantically trying to find their phone in the dark bedroom while the other hand is underneath a baby who is just flopping around as she tries to wake him up by gently jostling him around. She screams and she prays and she follows the dispatchers instructions. She calls her own Mama and she blurts out in despair "pray Mom, please pray, he's dying." She wants nothing more than the protection of her own Mother's presence while she refuses to leave the side of the boy who needs her.


She runs into a hospital and she searches the faces of the staff praying she heard wrong. She asks why they can't continue CPR, she wants them to do more. Use the defibrillator, use more epinephrine. Do something! She walks into Trauma Room 1 and she kisses his forehead, but it's cold. He needs a blanket. Someone needs to get him a blanket.


She sits on the phone with the receptionist at the Medical Examiners office and she sobs asking how he is and she listens to the soft voice tell her he's okay, and while she realizes that he's not actually in this place, it takes everything in her to not race across town and be there with him because he's a baby and he needs his Mama.


She waits for the call from the funeral home and she rushes to meet him as soon as his body is prepared. "He doesn't have a diaper, he needs a diaper" she says.


She looks up the address of the crematory and she debates going there. Even while his dead body is being burned to dust, she longed to at least be present.


She hesitantly packs up his nursery one year and two months later, and she wonders if she's making the right choice because in her mind, she never loses hope that this was all a bad dream and he'll be back and wonder where his room is.


She sits three years and six months later and she looks over from her bed to an entire wall hosting totes of his belongings from floor to ceiling, items that she isn't ready to part with. Pieces of his life that she still holds close.


She carries a tiny wooden box of his ashes with her whenever she leaves home for more than a day, because that's her baby.


She would have laid down her life and given him his if she had the chance, but she didn't. And while she can't go back to that awful night when the world stole a piece of her heart, she is a Mama to the core, and she will never stop protecting him even after he's left this world.


I want you to know that my human nature wants to hate you. I want you to be my enemy. I wish you could understand the depths of my love for my son because then maybe you would understand how much it pains me when I heard about Chance. A life that didn't have to end. A preventable tragedy.

And then it hit me. Hating you doesn't hurt you. You, after all, have no idea who I am. I have struggled long enough with the pain and guilt of a tragedy that was not preventable. I have gone over the "what ifs and if onlys" and I have seethed with hatred at myself for all of the things that I didn't do but "could have saved his life." I am done hating.

The bars you sit behind may keep you safe from the threat of death, but there is no wall indestructible enough to keep out the torture that awaits, living with the guilt of a preventable tragedy. And I'll be praying for you. Not because I feel bad for you...the hell you will inevitably endure at the hands of your own conscience is deserved. I just can't let the hatred and disdain consume me.

I have thought often about Chance, and about my own son Isaiah, and after the lump in my throat subsides and after my tear streaked face has dried, I smile...because I like to think that as Chance took his last breath, my 3 year old held out his arms, much like an excited big brother would and he welcomed him.

And I hope that Isaiah tells Chance about a Mother's love. A real Mother.

Sincerely,

Isaiah's Mama


I'm not 1 in 4.

I'm not 1 in every 4 women. 

There's only one me. 

My child is not 1 in every 4 babies. 

There is only one Isaiah. 

I understand the need to draw attention to miscarriages, stillbirths and infant loss...I do. I understand that it may feel as though shining a light on just how often this happens can empower the 1 in 4 women to speak out about something that the general population feels is taboo. A part of me wants to take part in honoring my son by standing on the social media platform and shouting statistics...but he's not a statistic. He's my son. 

He only had one Mama that carried him for 9 short months. Only one who dropped his lifeless body onto her lap as she screamed. Only one Mama set up his nursery, making sure everything was perfect for his arrival. Only one Mama tore it down. Only one Mama craved nachos and apple juice every night for dinner. Only one Mama was unintentionally starving herself as she pushed away her meals.  Only one Mama smiled every morning when she would awake to his face. Only one Mama opened her eyes in the morning and would hold her breath as she opened the nursery door praying it was all a dream. Only one Mama read him the Bible. Only one Mama searched those pages for answers as to why. Only one Mama would talk him through middle of the night tummy aches. Only one Mama cries out to him when she's alone. Only one Mama gave him life and only one Mama's life was forever changed. 

Only one Mama will take her last breath with a hesitance to leave this world and an excitement of the boy that waits for her. Only one little boy will come running into her arms. 

While miscarriages, stillbirths and infant death are worthy of speaking out about, we aren't numbers. We are people, with our own unique, heartbreaking, life changing stories. You are more than 1 in 4. Your child(ren) are more than 1 in 4. 

I love you Mama's Mans. Until we meet again. 💙 

God Hates Mismatched Socks

I'm not a clean freak. I can own up to that now because there are so many more things that I AM that I decided I would rather be remembered by anyways. I don't want "organized-fresh-linen-scented-home-germaphobe" on my head stone anyways. I don't live in filth by any means, just organized chaos. We live here. We eat off of dishes that need to be cleaned and sometimes I don't feel like cleaning them. We wear clothes that need to be washed and sometimes I let them pile up and I don't feel like washing them. We have places to put things away but it seems that they never get to their destination. Just yesterday we searched the ENTIRE house for Jetta's shoes only to decide she had to wear other shoes and upon opening the shoe bin, we found said missing shoes, where they technically do belong but no one even bothered to check because WHY WOULD SHOES BE IN THE SHOE BIN?!

I used to feel ashamed of having dishes piled up or toys scattered through the house. In my beginner mom days where toddlers were finger painting vacuums with peanut butter or muraling the walls with sharpie, I would pray that no one would need to come over in the midst of that mess. Please Dear God people will think I'm the worst mom if they saw my home right now. But I wasn't the worst mom, I just liked to plop myself next to them (or under them) and yell out "swiper no swiping!" and watch their little eyes light up when Swiper would exclaim "oh man!" and run off empty handed. I loved watching their look of gratification thinking they had actually made a difference in the outcome...even if it was the 97th time they had seen that episode. Who knows where Dora would be today if Ava and I hadn't sat together on pillows and blankets in the middle of the floor and yelled that louder. 

And then we entered the world of social media, where you all needed to see my adorable mess makers... But in order to post pictures of my darlings, I needed to at least make it look decent. In one corner. If you ripped a picture out of Home & Garden magazine and the front page picture of a newspaper after a major catastrophic natural disaster and put them side by side, that was what my home looked like. 

And my life too. 

It wasn't until recently that I came to the realization that I was not alone in this "clean a corner of the living room to take a picture of my kids" battle. This whole time, I thought I was the ONLY one with a mess. 

So if there are people who can relate to the literal mess in my life, there must be people who can relate to the metaphorical mess in my life, I determined. 

& again I find I am using my mess to understand the message & I've been thinking a lot lately of how God wants to use me going forward. It's going a lot like:

Me-"ahhh, this mess is so cozy. I know where everything is. I'm fine. Totally fine...I mean if anyone saw what I was actually going though, I would look a mess but I just won't let anyone close enough. They can text me." 

God-"Let me handle it."

Me-"No, God. I can fix this. Shoot, someone is asking me really personal questions. They're getting closer. Whoa, back up. Back up back up! You'll see my mess! Aagghhh, let me just clean a corner and let them in. Ok, ok. That was close."

God-"Give it to me." 

Me-"No, I told you, I'll take care of it. Look, this is going well...see this corner is, er..it was clean. I was starting to fix it! I had some things taken care of, but it got to be too much and now you can't even tell that I did anything."

God-"Let me in, I'll take care of it all."

Me-"Let me just think about it for awhile. I know what you would have me do, but hold on, I can't just let you come in here and start throwing away all of these things I've been holding onto. Let me just figure out my next move and THEN I'll let you in."

God-"I already figured it out for you, if you would just.."

Me- Faceplants. Mess exposed. Square one. "God, help! I messed it up again! I just needed a little more time to figure it out and now it's even worse than before and I need you."

God-"Finally." 

Rewind & press play like a thousand million times and that has been my entire adult life. 

Maybe it's yours too. Maybe I'm not the only one snapping pictures in the pristine corner of my life. Maybe we can start handing it over sooner. God is bigger than every single laundry basket full of mismatched socks we're hanging onto "just incase". 

The next is directly connected to the now. I pray we can be more obedient in the now so that He can equip us for the next. 

I'm Too Small for Guatemala

It's been a little over 2 years since I first braced myself for the week that I would spend in Guatemala. 

I looked out the tiny airplane window at the spacious unfamiliar land I was about to step foot on. Brown, rocky, dry, barren. I thought of my measly suitcase somewhere beneath the plane. I had stuffed it full of essentials for babies...bibs, blankets, clothes..I could barely carry it to the baggage counter, yet once I saw that vast, poverty stricken world around me, I thought "this isn't enough. How can I possibly make a difference?" Visions of the faces I would meet, the malnourished babies close to death filled my mind and I quickly snapped back into rescue mode. "If not me, then who?" 

But as my naïve first world eyes peered around the rickety villages strewn together with ropes and cardboard, I continued to shrink. Everywhere I went, the problems were bigger than what we could offer.


Even if we scrubbed a thousand cracked and blistering feet before putting on a thousand new shoes, the sense of accomplishment was fleeting as I looked out the window on our drive back to Hope of Life and saw other villages with barefoot babies running along the road.  

Even after watching children abandon the task of sifting through a burning pile of garbage to run to us for a hot meal, I saw the food disappear from their plates one by one and realized their hunger would return by tomorrow. 

Even after filling the containers, dirty containers held by shaking outstretched arms...I felt tears struggling to escape as our eyes met and even the largest language barrier couldn't stop us from communicating. We didn't need to speak, our eyes said it all. One of us saying "I'm doing all I can" while the others brown stares with a sense of urgency pleaded, "Please let there be enough for me". I knew that could only last them a day in the scorching Central American heat before their frail bodies would signal that they are indeed dying of thirst. 

I go back in less than a month. I have the chance to once again feel so small in a big destitute world where my meek attempts at making a difference in their hunger & thirst & malnourished bodies will only last them so long. 

I recently spoke to a friend, who lovingly poked and prodded at my passion for these people. 


"You're only one person, you can't change the world. You going over there and risking your health and life, it won't change anything." 


I started to get angry, understanding that I'm too small to eradicate 3rd world hunger and disease...but my annoyance dissipated when I remembered that my God is not. 
He.is.bigger. 
And while I may not be able to stamp out poverty, I CAN change lives. 
How?


Because I carried a tiny 4 pound boy down a mountain, I held his bony body, screaming with all of the fight he had left, while his mother's hopeful eyes searched me for answers. "Will he be okay, can you save him?" And I remembered that look. The one I had when I locked eyes with a first responder who stormed in my bedroom in the middle of the night. He frantically worked on my son's lifeless body while I searched his face for hope. "Please, do something. Please, save him." 

If just one mother doesn't have to know what it's like to face the long quiet nights with empty arms, if just one mama doesn't curl up in a ball and listen to the groans escaping her body while the flood of grief takes over, if just one mom doesn't know the feeling of trying to crawl into an infant sized casket refusing to let go of her child's cold, hard, rubber like body...then I have changed the world. I've changed her world. 

You don't owe me anything. You don't owe anything to the people of Guatemala. I realize there are many people with needs in many corners of the world. I realize that you yourself may be struggling to get by, and that it seems like you are too small to make a difference in anyone else's life when you can barely survive on your own. 


But, here I sit, my eyes searching your face for hope. "Will you help us?" 

The last installment of my trip is actually past due, & any amount will help make a difference. I'll be updating (as the Guatemalan WiFi allows) with exactly what your dollars have done. I promise you, from one small person to another, you will change their world. 

Also, if you'd like to send tangible goods, I am starting to collect items to fit inside my 50 pound suitcase. I'll be posting more details as to what exactly I am asked to bring. I will be working with doctors and nurses, setting up clinics in remote villages in order to offer health care to those who don't have the opportunity to see a doctor. 

I am so thankful in advance for each and every person who finds it in them to donate money, supplies, or keep us in your prayers.

I'm most thankful for my son Isaiah, whose body left this earth over 3 years ago, yet still makes an impact on my life and the lives of others every single day. May God continue to use his short life & my ever aching heart to accomplish big things in this world. ♡

I love you Mama's Mans. This side of Heaven will forever be changed because you lived.


Follow this link and donate here!

♡Held♡

Not my plan, but yours.

I took today off of work well over a month ago. I knew I couldn't pretend on a day like today. Most times when the grief hits me out of nowhere at work, I turn my office chair to face the corner, pretending I'm jotting down notes...but really the corner I face has a picture of 4 babies. 4 alive babies. And I take in quick shallow breaths & I mouth "this is the plan, this IS the plan" and my tears are more of a sun shower now than a full blown torrential downpour. The sunshine is plentiful in my world these days...but every so often, a cloud passes over for just long enough to let me remember the depth of my pain and all of the ways that I would have never seen the rainbow without the rain. I look at the 4 faces of the children piled atop each other in the photo & I promise not to stay in this place.

He's both in my past & in my future, but I don't know that he understands just how much he is in my present.

I spent most of last night crying about the past. The 28th always feels like a time bomb is about to detonate. I look at the time & I think:

"I was making dinner. I didn't know. I didn't know it would be my last time sitting at a table and thanking God for all he's given me without silently pleading for what He allowed to be taken."

"I was reading kids a bedtime story. I was reading them the Bible. I didn't know I would never read those same words without thinking of how Isaiah is being told the same stories by the people themselves."

"I was feeding him before bed. I didn't know. I never imagined that would be the last time he would need to eat. I didn't know that his feeding times would turn into painful reminders both physically and emotionally for weeks to come."

"I got up to shut off the lights. I didn't know that would be the last time I walked through a home at night feeling safe. But deadbolts and block walls don't lock out SIDS. I used to be the one to reassure children they were safe. I didn't know I would spend countless nights needing someone to tell me I was."

"I kissed him & thought it was a matter of a couple hours before he needed me. I didn't know that while I happily walked to an empty bedroom, it would soon be filled with screams...pleas...strangers."

"I laid my head down & all of my worries bubbled to the surface. I went through the mental checklist of potential things I needed to fear. None of them were dead babies. None of then were funeral arrangements. None of them were coaxing siblings into a room as they fought to stay with their Papaw. They knew a missing brother, police, and parents with swollen eyes meant the conversation we were about to have would be something they couldn't come back from. I didn't know that my worries paled in comparison to spending years assuring Ava, Elijah & Jetta that their brother is safe, but he's not coming back."

And just like this day 3 years ago, today I had a plan. And today went nothing like I planned.

But it was still so, so beautiful. A visit from a friend who knew I could use a smile, and ended up giving me so much more insight as to how far I've come. Texts before I even woke up from multiple sweet, dear-to-my-heart people telling me they remember. The most amazing guy by my side to help me navigate through my pain & tears.

So I remind myself of what it's like to have a plan. And I smile thinking of Isaiah sitting on the lap of my Savior as they watch my plan unravel while THE plan unfolds and it shapes me into the woman He intended all along. He's not just holding Isaiah, but his Mama too.

I love you to Heaven & back, Mama's Mans.

The moment I stopped holding you was the moment I found out that this is what it means to be held.

I'm three years closer.

Happy 3rd, Mama's Mans

Mama's Mans,

I think the person who came up with the term "terrible twos" must have been a Mama like me. She must have not been able to rock her growing-more-independent-by-the-day, yet still baby faced boy to sleep. She must have hid in the aisles at Kohls and secretly cried when she witnessed another Mama rushing a potty training toddler to the bathroom and for the first time in her life, she was envious that her shopping trip would be uninterrupted. She must have walked through toy aisles and longed to say "maybe for your birthday" as her toddler excitedly asked her for every single toy on the shelf. She went out to dinner & didn't have a pile of food under the table that she felt obligated to clean up before leaving. She didn't watch the same movie multiple times in a row all year long. No one was found with baby powder or lotion or a sharpie disaster.

She must have felt the sting of two the same way I did. Silence & empty arms...there's nothing that could be more terrible than that.

But without the pain, I couldn't have experienced the love. I hope you have witnessed the amazing people who have been there when your two year old self couldn't be.

I hope you are able to tell God all about the kindness that people have shown your Mama and I pray that if I'm not able to repay them, that God would surely bless them.

Whether they've listened to me cry on a random Tuesday during my lunch, met me at the cemetery just to sit in silence, hugged me on top of a mountain, helped me find the right people to thank for responding to your call, gently carried the totes of your belongings while we moved, sent me an encouraging message to let me know they haven't forgotten you, or have just given me the opportunity to say your name....these people have carried me through. Some family, some friends, and some strangers.

And today, they will help me celebrate you turning three. And while they hold me up on a day that I would have otherwise felt like giving in to the sadness, I pray you are able to feel even the tiniest bit of love that they've filled my heart with when my arms were empty.

Two wasn't so terrible when God has given me so many other people who love me in your absence.

I'm three years closer to celebrating with you. But sweet, sweet boy...I'll never stop celebrating without you.

Happiest 3rd Birthday, Isaiah.

I love you to Heaven & back.

Love, Mama

··The Fear of Flowers··

“Do the thing you fear the most and the death of fear is certain.” –Mark Twain

 I recently read an article written by another grieving soul. In many ways, we had a lot in common. SIDS had crept into both of our lives and stolen the opportunity to spend a lifetime making memories with our deeply loved boys. There was no warning, no medicine, no treatments, no time to try; though we surely would have failed anyways, to process the information that we would have to bury a baby.

While I understand this woman, while I know that pain…our lives, they’re different.

 You see, I get the heart pounding, adrenaline rushing, paralyzing fear. I have those feelings. I just don't live there. 

My last "normal" night was spent reading the bible to four healthy children. I had just tucked three older innocent kids in three separate safe and cozy beds across the house from where I would lay my head. I had planned out tomorrow’s after church Pinterest project. I smiled as I kissed my sleeping boy’s cheek and I laughed inside at how content he was sleeping on a snoring daddy. A sleep deprived & happy mama got to climb into an empty bed. There’s few instances more peaceful to a mom of 4 than a quiet house, daddy on newborn duty, and an empty bed.

 But my peace & quiet came to a deafening halt. SIDS replaced my peace with frantic pleas for life, a 911 operator’s voice, sirens, police radios, and loud, overwhelming from the depths of my soul cries. SIDS replaced my peace with fear. SIDS doesn’t just steal babies, it preys on parents in their most vulnerable moments and it steals away their sanity by replacing their peaceful life with the fearful unknown.

 I don’t fault anyone for grieving the only way they know how. I can’t. I know every situation and person is different. I don’t think the way that I have picked up the pieces of my life and hastily thrown them into a bag to haul around with me everywhere I have been the past three years is the only way. I’ve let it weigh me down more than I care to admit…but I’ve also dug through the junk and made it a point to toss what wasn’t allowing me to move forward.

 But this Mama, she hasn’t gotten there..yet. It pains me to know that living in fear has become the new normal for many parents who have been blindsided by their child’s death…because I’ve been there.

 After April 28^th, no one slept in their own beds. My living room transformed into what looked like a homeless shelter. Pillows, air mattresses, and comforters were my new décor. Not a child was out of sight. The sleep I got was filled with nightmares, but being awake was worse. My mind was a never ending barrage of demands, convinced I would suffer the death of another child if I didn't comply. Check on them, make sure they’re alive. Don’t let them play outside without you standing right.there. Don’t drive past anywhere that reminds you of Isaiah. Don’t go in his room. But don’t get rid of anything either because he might come back. Don’t do anything for your own well being, the last time you did that, your baby died. The kids are more important than you. You CANNOT let this happen again. 

Until I decided that living in fear was killing me.  

I don’t know that there is one particular moment that changed my life. Maybe I was predestined to punch fear in the face (Jon Acuff shoutout), after all Isaiah was named after the exact verse that commands me “Do not be afraid”. Or maybe it’s because I’m too stubborn to be a conformist. The socially accepted grief process says fear is normal. Fear is ok. But I’m not normal & I don’t like settling for “ok”.

I made a choice.

I drove the exact route that I rode to the hospital that early morning.

The smell of flowers would take me back to the weeks of that pungent odor emanating through my home while I listlessly sat until the moment I couldn’t take it anymore and in a fit of madness threw all of those thoughtful well wishes out into the back yard while a terrified husband looked on. I started buying flowers. I will like the smell of flowers.

I have gone to every restaurant that I carried Isaiah into. I have sat in the same booths and I have eaten the same food and I have made myself enjoy those memories instead of driving past and suppressing those thoughts.

I have went into the funeral home & faced the room where I spent my last moments with his body.

I have slept in a bed, alone..with children tucked in their own.

I have forced myself to look at the hospital every time I drive by, and thank God for the friends who came to my rescue that day.

I have taken a deep breath, climbed the steps, and demanded myself to sit in the back of an ambulance and face the memory of his tiny body almost as white in color as the sheet on the stretcher.

Anytime I have the chance to face something I want to run from, I do it. And it’s not because I’m strong, but because I know what it is to be confined to a life of fear. I was so afraid of death that I stopped living.

I could not be an example to my children, I could not recite Isaiah 41:10 when they are afraid, and then tell them “We can’t go to Sonny’s because we were there with Isaiah and it’s just too hard for Mama.”

Other Mamas, other scared, overbearing, living in fear Mamas...you have a choice. I hope you choose life. I hope when everyone else runs, you choose to stay. I hope you think of your sweet gone-so-soon child & you imagine of all of the ways you would have taught them to face their fear of riding a bike, or the doctor's office, or trying new foods that are most likely veggies...because nothing is more terrifying to a toddler. I pray you don't embrace the normal grief process, I pray you break the mold. 

Ava, Elijah, Jetta, Isaiah...I'm thankful God made your Mama with the tenacity to march towards fear and be an example you deserve. I thought you were my reasons for fearing this world & instead you've shown me that you're my reasons for living. 

···Dreams Come True···

April 28, 2012, at around 4 a.m.

It was the middle of the night, I opened my eyes and began to search around the bed for my sleeping baby. He hadn't cried in awhile. Where was he? I pulled back blanket after blanket. Why are there so many blankets? "Troy, Troy! Wake up, I can't find Isaiah!" Half awake he turned over to look at me and tried to make out what I was saying, but before I could speak another word, I heard myself scream. A pale, lifeless, limp child was in the spot he had just rolled off of. My eyes panned the room but my body couldn't move. I began to scream and plead and pry his eyes open looking for life, but there was none.

I loudly gasped in a giant breath and sat straight up in bed. Wide eyed, I looked over to see my sleeping boy next to my snoring husband. It was just a dream. It was just a bad dream. With tears in my eyes, I picked him up and held him close. "Thank God you're ok, sweet boy. I'm right here. Mama is right here." I soothed and whispered that more to myself than to him. 

Little did I know... Only 24 hours later, that dream became my reality.

Ever since I can remember I've had dreams about things that ended up happening the next day. Never anything that seemed vitally important. Just a piece of my day that I can recall thinking "this is so weird, I dreamt about this last night." 

And I was never angry about it. Until April 29th. Was this some sick joke? I awoke to a real life dead baby being handed to me, and I thought for certain it was another nightmare. Why would God allow that? Why would God allow me to have those feelings of fear, a mother's worst fear, and then sit by while it unfolded into a reality? Was it a warning? If it was, couldn't He have said something in my dream, like "beware, this is what could happen if you try to get some sleep by yourself tomorrow and leave Isaiah to sleep with Troy."

*disclosure* that is not at all how Isaiah actually died. He was sleeping ON Troy's chest, on the couch, and it was ruled SIDS on the autopsy. 

So I've held onto this angry bitter feeling because it just isn't something a loving God would do, am I right? I've went back and forth on the reasoning behind it, and I got nothin. No plausible idea on why it was vital I freak out about a dream, reassure myself he's ok, spend the night holding him close and thanking God for his sweet life, for that same God to be like "gotcha!" the next day. 

I wish I had an amazing answer. I wish God came down, in all his glory, took me to Starbucks and sat me in front of a PowerPoint presentation about why this was ok to do. But the truth is, I feel like one of my legs stands on the solidity of knowing my unchangeable God has a purpose in this so I shouldn't question it, and one leg is twirling my foot atop quicksand demanding an answer before I abandon His plan and let my doubt take me under.

I don't have an answer. I don't know that I will ever have an answer. I only have the ability to choose and I have this truth.

This truth that has always found its way into the deepest part of my heart.

Isaiah's story, despite my questions, the anger, the despair...it rips me to the core. It allows God in more even when I'm trusting less.

If I'm being brutally honest, and I am, because what other purpose do I have in writing if it isn't the real deal, I hate letting God into this place. I like the quicksand. It feels like home. It's cozy. I get to spend months feeling justifiably angry towards something or someone. And if I don't hold onto that, I become...

...free.

But freedom is uncomfortable. Imagine being in a jail cell, handed three meals a day, and always told what's next. Then, one day the gates open and there's this huge world staring you in the face wondering what you're about to do with this new found freedom, and you freeze. Sometimes you're a repeat offender, because let's face it, being enslaved to your mistakes is eerily comfortable.

Yet other times, you decide that your freedom to choose is empowering. So you dive headfirst into unchartered waters, and you open yourself up to the possibilities of being exposed and vulnerable and you risk the comfort of closing off the mess, in order to understand the message. You were made for more than a life of hiding behind the pain.

I was. I am.

I have two choices and it's a daily one. Either let the uncertainty of the mess hold me captive... or take that sinking foot, place it on the solid ground, and run steadfast and hopeful with His message.

If God lined up all of the truths He has shown me over the years, and I got to choose just one, it'd be that he lets me choose.

And if God lined up all the little boys in Heaven and He let me pick just one, it'd be the one He chose for me.

I love you Mama's mans. You were chosen for more than this world, and so was I.