···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.

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.