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.