< 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. 

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.

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. 

911 Days Late

Some people come into your life, just to teach you how to let go.

Holding on to things is an endless struggle in the mind of a grieving parent. You never win, you only try to justify why said object or emotion is worth holding onto. The tangible has become easier to let go of over time, frankly because I don't have the capacity to tote around an entire nursery of "what ifs".   But the emotions...the guilt and regret and anger and sadness and blame, those are very much attached, like extra limbs that I don't necessarily want to part with, for fear of not knowing how to function without them. There's this paralyzing fear that if I have no one else to blame, it falls on me. Babies don't just die. Someone needs to be held accountable.

On the one year "anniversary" of Isaiah's death, I faced two fears; getting a tattoo and reading his autopsy report. (I will have you know that I wasn't afraid of the pain of getting a tattoo, I'm just too indecisive.) The autopsy was sickening. The descriptive narration of exactly how his body was taken apart and looked at, much like a science experiment, made my stomach, the very place he was knit together for 9 months, turn.

But worst of all, the very thing that could have saved him, the epinephrine which was supposed to be administered intravenously was said to have been "laying loosely in his leg". The people I was so thankful for this entire year, the first responders who ran in while my world was collapsing as I quickly came to the realization that my feeble attempts at resuscitation weren't working, they were now to blame. As I huddled over my lifeless boy, my eyes met my daughter's, who despite my pleas and screams to go back to bed, witnessed what complete desperation looks like; yet we shared a hopeful unspoken moment, when they carried Isaiah out of the room. They knew what they were doing, I thought. They could surely save him.

But it was in black and white. The words on that paper didn't lie. The improperly placed IV placed my blame elsewhere.

There have been hundreds of conversations between myself and three little people who question what more could have been done, and I've always reassured them there was nothing, everyone did the best they could...but secretly, I didn't believe that. I don't want them to know a world where they question the expertise of emergency responders who they deem their heroes.

And now, coincedentally, 911 days later, I finally believe those empty words I've been speaking. Sometimes you meet people who inadvertently and unknowingly bring closure to a place you didn't realize was still so wounded. I never thought about the men who were most likely sleeping while I scrambled for my phone at 4:08 in the morning, who jumped up and met me in my darkest hour, and even for the briefest of moments, gave my family hope. Their presence was enough. It's safe to let go.

P.S. I love you Mama's Mans.

Why I Didn't Light A Candle For My Son

I'm no good at facades. I wish were, because grief requires some sort of make believe every so often in the hopes of not appearing psychotic. I'm supposed to be this strong, yet honest figure of what it looks like to continue to live after a part of you dies...or at least that's what I've told myself. I don't have a choice on the part of me dying scenario, that was just handed to me, much like my lifeless baby being not so gracefully placed on my lap at 4 in the morning. 

I didn't light a candle this year. I didn't post anything about my sweet boy. It's not because I've forgotten him, or because I don't hurt. It's not because I don't believe in spreading awareness about infant death. It's because I'm sick of it, at least at this moment in time. The only candle I want to light for my precious, beautiful son is the one that sits on top of a birthday cake. 

Sometimes, actually most times, I can go about my life with as much normalcy as I am capable of. But there are also these grand moments of defiance. It's like being a teenager, without all, ok most, of the acne. You know when you're over that particular sport that you beeegged to sign up for? The one that your parents spent a bazillion dollars on, and now you hate it? You cry and whine and now beg your way out of said sport, but your mom is all like "you are sticking this out. You are not a quitter. I've spent a lot of money on this, and you will go, because I'm your mom and I said so." But you don't want to play badminton anymore, so you purposely start sucking in the hopes that mom will see what a waste this is, and you'll be off the hook. 

Sometimes I just want to suck at being in the dead baby club. Maybe if I'm not good at it, God will be like "hey, you're clearly not cut out for this because you didn't light a candle and post a picture of it on Facebook, so, surrrprise, here's Isaiah, you can have him back. You did good for awhile, but now I see that you're over it." *pats me on the back* 

See what I meant about having to put on a front in order to not appear psychotic? Because this is crazy. But it's the real deal. 

So here's to the moms of gone-too-soon-babies who suck at honoring their babies sometimes. Your lack of public announcements doesn't equal a lack of love. Don't feel obligated to grieve any other way but honestly.

*Disclosure, this may seem insensitive to some, but I assure you, there's nothing more in the world that I'm most sensitive about. There's no way to sugar coat infant death, and even if there were, I'm just not cut out for wrapping ugly things with pretty bows.*