< let it shine >

Bedtime is my most favorite time. While I'm sure that most (especially moms) can relate, our reasonings are vastly different. Sure, I love my sleep. (If you've ever woken me up before, I apologize for the death stare.) Of course, there's the satisfaction of a quiet house. Yes, crawling into a cozy bed underneath a warm yet airy down comforter with 3 fans blowing at a medium speed, (yes 3!) is my kinda Heaven.

But those are just a bonus.

I love tucking my kids in. After all of the "I thought I told you to get your school clothes out!" and the "You need what signed?"...the last trips to the potty, the one more drink, the "can't I just sleep with you?", the search for the missing favorite doll....there's Bible stories & prayer.

It took me a long time to want to do this again. A lot longer than I'd like to admit. But only hours before Isaiah was gone from this world, our routine was strikingly similar to the one above, and I just couldn't find it in me to repeat it. Partially because of weird superstitions or whatever you'd like to call them. Partially because I was mad at God. (Don't worry, He knows & we've come a long way.) But mainly because I hated the questions that would undeniably commence at the mere mention of Heaven or God's love. How could I explain it when I didn't even know if I believed it?

"When is Isaiah coming back?"..."Will I die?"...."Heaven sounds so good, I wanna die too!"...."But why did He take Isaiah? We loved him!" And many more hard questions that I was so angry for having to answer.

As much as it seems, I really didn't shut God out. I clung to Him. I prayed and I searched His Word and I cried and I saw His goodness in the smallest forms and I counted every last passing butterfly a miracle. But I didn't trust Him with my babies anymore.

I don't know that I can pinpoint a moment when I began to again. While I have had many "ah-ha" moments during my struggle with grief, most times, post-tragic-event life resembles that of a candle you accidentally left burn for too long. You gather your hands around the still moldable wax and smoosh it into place. You try to smooth over the fingerprint indentations. In the end you take a step back, and decide, "It's not pretty, but it'll still light." And that's what happened. We just melted back into the normalcy of it all. Not always pretty; but still, a glimmer of hope.

And so tonight, of all nights, (Wait for it) mine & Jetta's bedtime routine involved five different stories. One of which talked about David being chosen out of all of his brothers. "God doesn't care if you are short or tall or have blue eyes or brown, it's about the love you have for Him in your heart." I playfully put my ear to her chest and said "I hear it! You have the love in your heart!" But instead of a laugh, I was met with a worried expression. "I don't ALWAYS have that love Mom. Sometimes I do things that aren't lovely. But, I think I've done more love things than more bad things." I scooped her closer and hugged her tight. "Sweetheart, I know. Sometimes we don't make the best choices, but even when we make bad choices, God sees our heart...and besides that, He sent Jesus to cover those bad choices, remember?"

Her worried face began to disappear but not before a look of inquisition took over. "Why didn't God see your heart when Isaiah died? You have so MUCH love!"

The breath escaped my lungs and I rummaged though mental filing cabinets trying to find the words...any words, even if I didn't believe them. Part of me wanted to say "I know! He made a mistake! I still have so much love and it isn't fair!" Wait. David's life was hard. God CHOSE him for that. Lightbulb. "Jetta, God DID see my heart. He knew this love could change lives. He knew this love could move mountains."

So today, (yes, this exact day) as I reflect on where I was five years ago, gawking at two pink lines...I can rest in the assuredness that despite the heartache and pain, goodness abounds with just a teeny bit of faith, a Mama's love, an 8 pound baby, and a big God.

It's one of "our" days, Mama's Mans.
I'm gonna let it shine.

{4 Years Closer}

Remember how I couldn't wait to see your face? As April drew near, your upcoming arrival was evident in the way I could no longer button my pants or tie my shoes. I would place my hands on my belly, which seemed to grow horizontally each day, and I would pray for you. 

"God, please let Isaiah know how much I love him. Right away, I want him to know." I was the questions and the answers in a one sided conversation, unsure on who I was even speaking to sometimes. God, myself, my son. It didn't matter. My logic wrote the lyrics as my emotions penned the instrumentals; and day after day I became lost in the music...heartfelt gratitude for new life entrusted to me, coupled with a Mama's protective prayers for her boy. 

I'm not sure if it was the pregnancy hormones or the realization of how precious your life was due to the early on complications. Maybe it was God's way of creating an inseparable bond before your first breath was breathed because He knew your days were numbered. Maybe it was His way of preparing me for so many more out loud, emotion filled conversations that He knew we would all be a part of in the months to come. 

All I know is that I would end those conversations with swollen eyes, exhaling all of the built up worries, and a "Mama's Mans, I'll see you so soon. If you don't know who I am once you're here, just look for the lady crying. That's sure to be me."

And I did. I held you close and I spoke gentle assurances, letting you know that you were safe. I squeezed close my eyes as your body melted in my arms. You knew me. Overcome with feelings of joy and relief, tears escaped my eyes as soft sobs prompted nurses to ask if I was alright. 

"He's everything I prayed for. Everything. He knows me, he REALLY knows me." I said aloud. 

Over the past four years, I have prayed for much of the same...the outcomes may be a little different, but the prayers have remained. I still plead with God to see your face, though I know it will only be in the form of a hazy dream. And I still hold out hope that you know me. Though, I'm aware that I'll have to wait to find out. 

Sadly, my dreams don't allow an escape from reality and your death is always imminent before I wake, jolting me upright much like the night I heard my name being frantically screamed from the other room. 

I've sat frozen watching friends throw you from a balcony. I've been held back by people who won't allow me to jump in the water to save you. I've frantically clawed at blankets that were suffocating you to no avail. I've dug through the mud, your body sinking deeper every time I thought I had a grip. 

Logically, I know I couldn't save you that night. But a protective Mama and logic don't coincide. There's a part of me that will always feel like I failed you. And while it hurts to live with the guilt, warranted or not, it would be worse to live without it. 

Without it, I wouldn't be reassured of how fiercely I loved you. And then I wouldn't decide that our bond was something even death could not break. 

So while I subconsciously dream of your perfect face, if only for a moment before you slip away from this Earth once again...I consciously dream of the day you melt into my arms and say "I know you Mama. I REALLY know you." 

Heaven has been that much brighter for 4 years. 

I'm one year closer to holding you close. 

Four Isn't Just A Number

Mama's Mans, 

It's been four years since I nervously waddled into the doors at Health Park. Luggage in tow and a video camera on record behind me, I laughed "Get ready world, when I come back out these doors, I'll be a Mama of FOUR!" 

You wouldn't be able to tell from the video that we had actually already walked up to the hospital, but in my attempts to document your life from the very beginning, I requested we walk allll the way back to the truck because I forgot to have the camera rolling. Once we arrived inside, I held my arms outstretched over my head and stood under the sign that read "Birthing Suite". My heart aches when I see that beaming smile of mine, remembering the anticipation of meeting you...wishing I could tell that girl in the picture to press pause for awhile, wishing she knew how quickly twenty five days is here and gone. 

I felt like a seasoned professional in the pre op. If there was one thing I knew, it was how to have babies. I knew what to make them aware of. I knew what to ask for. I had no idea that the next time I rushed into a hospital, I wouldn't need a video to replay those moments that would be forever etched into my memory. I felt so lost in those moments. I didn't know what to ask or think.  I didn't know the look on the doctor's face would be so grim. I didn't know the nurses would scatter and refuse to make eye contact. 

The first time I held you, my world stood still. Excitement of new life was buzzing through the room as the nurses worked. But they faded into the background when they placed you in my arms and it was just you and me, sweet boy.  "I'm your Mama. It's me, Isaiah. Mama's Mans, I've been waiting for you." were the first words that I spoke as I kissed your forehead and breathed in the smell of new life.  Twenty five days later, I placed a chair in the hallway in front of Trauma Room 1 and while law enforcement stood guard on either side of your doorway, I once again felt like we were the only two people in the world as I yelled to you "I'm right here. Mama's Mans, I'm right here! It's your Mama. It's me. Wake up, baby. Please, baby boy, PLEASE!" When they finally gave me the ok to enter the room, feelings of terror jolted me to the core. I wanted desperately to hold you, but as I stood over your tiny body, the look of death so real upon your face, I inched back into the corner and I couldn't bring myself to pick you up. You weren't you...and in that moment I knew that I would never be me.

And that was really the only thing I knew for sure that day. 

If you had never lived, then you would have never died. And if you never died, then I would have never have seen how heartbreakingly beautiful life is. 

I recently saw a quote which read "I wish I could go back in time, not so I could change anything, but because some moments are worth reliving." You are worth reliving. 

I can't go back and scoop you into my arms like I have dreamed of so many many times, but I can move forward and wake up each day reliving April 4th; with outstretched arms, I can find joy - knowing that the sunrises and sunsets until I see your face are numbered; and to make the time in between them count.

Happiest Fourth, Mama's Mans. 

Even in your absence, I love you more every day. 

Peek A Boo > Xanax

I drove past the doctor's office three times before I finally found my turn. "Who schedules a doctor's appointment at 7:30 in the morning?", I asked myself as I ran up the steps at 7:33, all the while thinking of the coffee I left sitting on the kitchen table.

I was thankful this wouldn't take long because I wasn't even fully awake at this point, and I was even more thankful for the words "you've lost weight since I've seen you last" as I stepped off the scale. 

"I just have to update the system so I need to go over some patient history."

And just like that, the 5 pounds that I lost were suddenly found in the form of grief that was dumped on my lap while I struggled through explaining why I only have three children alive if I've been pregnant four times. 

The more calm I try to act, the more my usually well spoken words are jumbled. I feel like a stubborn toddler trying to pour milk into a glass. I can do this. But the white knuckle grip on my words makes my voice begin to shake, and before I know it, incoherent sentences are spilling out and I'm just left with the messy answer of "my baby died." 

She walked out and I could feel the relief replace the grief. "Thank God that's over. It's in my chart. I've answered this before. Why do they have to ask me so many times?" 

A doctor that I haven't seen before walked in & introduced himself. He had asked about past complaints that I had and how I was doing with those. "Impressive", I thought. "He actually read my chart before coming in here." 

"And while I was reading, I noticed that you had a son who passed away, what... in 2012? So not that long ago. How are you doing with that?" he asked. 

It's like a punch to the stomach and a hug at all at once. My mind plays tug of war with giving the "right" answer and giving the honest answer. But the honest answer is the right answer, I determined. 

"I'm..I'm OK I think. Grief isn't good and it isn't bad. It just is." 

He continued to look at me until I gave him something more, something to let him know that I was in fact ok, and that I didn't need any antidepressants that they always try to push on me. 

"I go to Guatemala. I get to rescue babies there. I write a lot. I cry too, but not as much as I laugh. Some days I'm driving and I let my thoughts wander to that night and I can still hear the terror in my ex husband's voice as he screamed my name, and it hurts so much that I pull into a parking lot and cry until I can no longer see the world around me to even care what anyone thinks. And some days I'm driving and the windows are down & I'm ridiculously singing with my three favorite backup singers & our laughter drowns out the noise of what anyone else may say. I love Guatemala though. I traveled last August with a medical team and we were able to treat hundreds of patients...."

He went back to typing as I trailed off, and so I imagine that my answer was sufficient. 

But all day long I went back to his question. "I'm ok, right? Do I need any help? Do I need to lay on a couch in a dimly lit room and talk about this regularly to a stranger who's responding with "mmhm's?" 

I've done it. I've sat in that chair and I didn't find any comfort...in the chair or in the insight I was given. 

Maybe that works for some people, but it doesn't work for me. 

What works for me are those instances when I have the chance to interact with a three year old little boy. Soaking up every last second of what my life would be like right now if Isaiah was in it by playing tag or listening to the noises trucks make or playing peek a boo while one toddler eyeball is peering out from behind a tree and they're sure you can't see them this time.

What works for me is holding tiny new life. Sure, my heart might ache when I look down at that sweet baby perfection and wish I could go back to the last night I got to gently rock my own to sleep...but I'm reminded of how precious new life is. I'm reminded that God is bigger than all of this and how He not only creates life but overcame death. 

What works for me is reading new developments in SIDS research. If no parent ever has to frantically try to breathe life into what was thought to be their healthy baby's lungs, my own would breathe a giant sigh of relief. 

What works for me is the hope of having another boy to love one day. And while this comforts me, it simultaneously terrifies me. Because I don't know that's God's plan. Which again brings me back to, He is bigger than this...and so I reluctantly have to hand those hopes and dreams and worries over. And so I'm left with peace. 

What works for me is all of the work being done in Guatemala and my pure anticipation of the moment I get to step foot there again. Knowing that if Isaiah had lived I would have never loved these people like I do is the greatest form of therapy. They make it hard to feel like I'm missing out on life, when they've impacted mine so much. 

Life works for me. The pain, the tears, the laughter, the friendships, the promise of seeing Isaiah again, the sunsets, the dreams. Yes, there are days when the reality of his absence catches me off guard and I feel myself becoming consumed with anger, gasping for air while I try to make sense of why he just stopped breathing. But there are so many more days when I'm consumed with pure joy, knowing I couldn't see the abundance of God's goodness in hearing a three year old rattle off the food he will nott eat (bwoc-oh-wee is always a top contender), or in the glow of a new mom's face, or the gratitude that's felt in an impoverished village if I hadn't ever seen pure calamity. 

Grief isn't good, and it isn't bad. It's only given me a reason to find the good in the bad.

And that's OK enough for me.