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.  

guatemala, new shoes, & Jesus.

So here it was, the day after I returned from Guatemala. I was eager to go to church, thinking I would be bubbling with excitement & stories from my previous 5 days. I wasn't. In fact, I was mad. I couldn't think of the words to describe my experience, so I replied to the inquiries with a smile and an "it was awesome, it was really good." But in my brain I was running through the crowds of perfectly manicured people in their Sunday best, shaking them and screaming "It's not ok! People are dying! People are hungry! You have to help!" 

Tears streamed down my face as I tried to convince myself that the words I was singing in the worship songs really are true. It didn't feel like it. It didn't feel like God's freedom was here...or at least the people in Guatemala didn't seem to be free. They are completely enslaved to a life of poverty, hunger, sickness, sexual abuse, grief, pain, dehydration. Sure, I can sing about God's unfailing love, never running out or giving up on me, but can those people in Pueblo Modelo or Del Rio? I felt my husband's arm around me as I sobbed, and my mind flashed back to 10 months ago, recalling all of the Sunday mornings I would barely make it through praise and worship, holding onto the chair in front of me & my husband's arm around me just so I could stand, but still forcing myself to sing His praises as both my heart and arms were empty. I thought to myself, "this was a bad idea. I just got to the point where I could stand on my own two feet, and now I'm back to square one, grieving over every single face I laid eyes on." And that's exactly where God wants me. Broken. 

I realized that in the past 10 months of brokenness, I've accomplished more for His Kingdom than I have in my entire life. God doesn't want "whole" Savannah who feels comfortable. He's saving that for eternity. Right now, He wants a brokenhearted child of God who is longing to be a vessel, pouring out His love into the lives of others. So again, I pray a prayer that I never dreamed of uttering. I pray that I'm continuously broken for Him, never content with what the world deems as accomplished, but always searching for what my God wants to accomplish through me. 

So...as hard as it is to grasp, the answer is still yes, He is faithful. It doesn't seem fair that their lives are at the mercy of sponsors and donations, but the reality is that God's love is still unfailing. It doesn't seem fair that hundreds of thousands of people are relying on God to stir up compassion in the heart of His people in order to recieve a meal. But guess what? He does. It's hard to comprehend a world where we can't take our sick babies to the doctor or go to the store for shoes. But I've never seen God's love at the pediatrician, or a servant's heart at Rack Room. So who then, is better off? Because I know those children with dirt covering their battered up feet saw Jesus in the hearts of those girls who washed away the mud, and put new shoes on them. I know the mothers of the sick babies saw Jesus in the faces of the people who held their dying children and carried them to the other side of the river, where there was a Hope of Life! 

So please, be patient with me. If you see me crying at the playground, or quietly trying to hold it together in a restaurant, it's because my heart is in Guatemala. And only my 30 cousins can truly understand. 

If you'd like to find out more, visit: 

http://worldhelp.net/sponsor-a-child/ or, 

http://hopeoflifeintl.org/

11 months too late.

It's the 4th. I hate this day. I know how I should feel, but I just don't. It's his birth date, and I should reflect on this day with joy, thinking of the happiness that was whisked into my life at 7:54 a.m.
But for me, and probably for many more people who have outlived their children, their birth date breeds anger.

 On April 4th, I was peering into a hospital bassinet, touching his fuzzy hair and kissing his soft cheeks, repeating "Hi Mama's Mans. I'm your Mama. Hi Isaiah. I've been waiting so long to meet you!"
 Only to be peering into a casket for the first time, on May 4th, where I held his hand so tightly that when I let go, I noticed I accidentally made it turn purple. 
Where I couldn't even look at his hair because they made me cover it with a hat so I didn't see the autopsy incisions. 
Where I almost threw up when I kissed his cheeks because he was cold and hard. 
Where my quiet whispers to him quickly turned into loud groans and screams, begging him to wake up. "Just wake up. Please wake up, Mama's Mans. This doesn't look like him. What did they do to him? Why doesn't he have a diaper on? He needs a diaper."
 The "mom" in me couldn't let go, even when my mind rationalized that he really didn't need a diaper...but what was worse is that it meant that he didn't need me. 

I have one month to prepare for his 1st birthday. There will be no decorations, no party, no smash cake, no pictures. Just the hazy memory of an infant's face, and a release of some sort, in his honor. There will be a month long struggle taking place in my mind, half of it thinking of what I should be doing, and the other half repeating that this IS what I'm supposed to be doing. This is my plan, my life, my story...I just wish I had known before that I'm not the Author, but only the supporting role. 

Bread crumbs for thought.

There's a box next to my nightstand. It's been there for a year, never opened since we moved. I've never wondered what is in it or thought about opening it. It's marked "Sav's night stand. Keep out." and even though I was the one who wrote it, I figured it was best if even I heeded that warning. Today, I ripped it open, unaware of what I might find, a little scared to face old memories, because for me, memories are always coupled with "what ifs." I didn't want to go there, to that place of uncertainty, where I question my purpose on Earth, God's existence, and what decision was it, what could I have done differently to change the outcome of Isaiah's fate.

 First, (and least importantly, but still really awesome) I found 5 Coach wristlets that I totally forgot I had. Score! I found my planner from 2011, the year that I found out I would become Mom to another life...a really important life that would change my entire perspective on my purpose here. I found pieces of my life that I tucked away, knowing one day they would be of importance. 

Most importantly I found a piece of me, my state of mind in my rock bottom days, yearning for acceptance and to be filled with God's love on a journey I felt I was taking alone. The only evidence of my thoughts while my precious boy was in my belly, the only window into my soul of the person I once was while I was desperate for God's grace. The tears began to form as I read my heart's deepest desires, pleading for His help, and scribbling down all of the blessings He had already bestowed upon my life.

 Only, those tears turned into gut wrenching cries as I read:

"I just can't ever imagine a time when this portion of my life will look better than the present. I pray that I never have to see that day. I pray that this storm passes, and when it does, I will come out of it a stronger woman of God, mother, & wife. I know there's a reason for all of this, & maybe digging deeper into a relationship with God will reveal it, because I can't begin to understand how my situation can be looked at as a blessing."

 I saw that God was strengthening me for something, and although I couldn't figure out what that was, I never imagined He would use a hard time to strengthen me for something much worse. I thought I knew His plan, I thought that was the deepest, darkest valley I would have to overcome, and that if I kept on obeying His commands and following His will for my life, the blessings would surely come. But instead, a darker day was looming ahead. No one ever tells us that. Growing up in church my whole life, I learned that if you were being obedient and your life lined up with God's purpose for it, your cup would runneth over. 

But the real, not so appealing truth is that God's design for our lives, molding us and shaping us like clay into the person He has created us to be, HURTS. His work in my life, strengthening me, and emptying my cup to the point of dehydration, forcing me to drink from the well that never runs dry, wasn't punishment. It was redemption. Only, I thought this was a one time deal, surely God's blessings are right around the corner, I've placed my life in His hands. Then the lightbulb in my brain turned on, and "what if His blessings come through rain drops" resonated in my heart. These trials & valleys we walk through ARE the blessings. They're shaping us to be children of the Creator, the one who knows us by name, whose ways are higher than our ways, who wants us to be equipped to accomplish all of our hearts desires that He impressed on our hearts. This way has proven that trials will indeed come, but I can welcome them, knowing that my Father has bigger plans for me than I do, and not only on this Earth, but for all of eternity. So there it is. Another "bread crumb" that was left in this valley, knowing it would nourish my soul, and leave me hungry for the next time God allows me to take a peak at this masterpiece He has started.