A Short, Sweet Season (but a LONG post)

The Sunday that my placenta tore, I was riding in the car with my husband and son to have dinner at Don's parents' home. I was tired. Not sleepy, but exhausted from always running and trying to do one more thing, like most of the moms I know.

"I think I need to get some rest," I told my husband.
"You can rest tonight when we put William down."
"No, I think I need some real rest, like enough time to slow down and not be rushing around all the time."

He shrugged his shoulders.

I have been thinking about that conversation more and more these last few days. Now that I have been on bed rest for 8 and a half weeks. I think of how God knows what we need and how He delivers it in the least expected ways. How He uses bed rest for teaching and hurting for healing.

I am being completely honest when I say that I TRY to glorify God every single day. I am also being completely honest when I say that I FAIL daily, repeatedly, day in and day out. These last two months, He has made it easy for me to think of glorifying Him.

He has kept our littlest child healthy and strong, despite the odds. Despite APS. Despite our doctors' initial expectations.

Yesterday Joshua weighed (via ultrasound measurements) 1 pound and 14 ounces, ahead of the game for his age. His heart beat was strong and perfect at 154 beats a minute; he has no idea that a battle has been waged against him, that God is winning it for him, for me. I am still at home, though initially I was scheduled to move into the hospital at 23 weeks. Joshua now weighs more than they told us he would weigh at birth! It now looks as though I will carry him all the way to 37 weeks, though initially they weren't sure I would make it to 24.

(Littlest son, know this to be true: The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still. Exodus 14:14)

For now, I can say with my whole heart that this time of bed rest has not been a curse, but an absolute hands-down blessing for our family. It has been HARD on everyone, especially for my parents and Don's parents, who have so selflessly given up half of their weeks to come spend the night at our house and take care of William and make sure I am not climbing on top of furniture to hang pictures and sanding and restaining Craigslist purchases in the back yard. It has been hard for me, but it has been so amazingly beautiful, too.

William has developed even closer relationships with all four of his grandparents.

Don and I have developed closer relationships with our parents. Daily I think of how blessed we are to have two sets of parents that offered to help us in this huge way, and how this has been a time for us to overcome any differences and to love each other.

I have learned (though it took at least 4 weeks) that it doesn't matter if my kitchen is perfectly organized or if there are toys on the floor. Or if my mother likes to use seven different dishtowels at the same time.

I am learning to be still, to trust Him above all else, and to be still. Did I mention that I am being still?

In lighter news, I have also learned to embroidery. My mom taught me on Monday and I love it. I ordered the fabric in the pictures above to make a blanket for Joshua, but I've been embroidering it now before I quilt it together.

A Broken Hallelujah

Sometimes the truth is hard to hear.

Sometimes trusting God is something I can only do with my eyes squeezed shut because I am too scared to look at what lies ahead, though I trust He will see me through it.

Sometimes, when I lay on the table at the maternal fetal specialist's office, my husband's hand closed over mine is the only thing holding me down to earth. I imagine that if he let me go, I would float off and over the roof of the hospital and end up dangling from the moon.

Sometimes, though, God says, "Enough."

Sometimes, He says, "You have to trust me. I will fight for you. You need only be still." (Exodus 14:14)

I have been still for six weeks and two days. I have had no choice. And today, lying on the exam table, my growing belly and sensitive rib cage already stretching to the max, the sonographer looked confused.

"I don't see it," she said. "The tear. It's gone. I honestly can't even see it."

Wave after wave after wave of grace. I tried to keep my head above the water. How does He decide when to apply salve to wounds and when to let fresh scars tear open? I have no idea. I have been on the receiving end of each, but today was a day of salve. A day of balm and comfort and healing and happy happy joy joy bursting through my heart.

A day so different than April 3, when I felt the blood drain from my heart and evaporate, my fingertips and face turn numb as the doctor spoke to us slowly, reaching out and gripping my arm to keep me from falling backwards.

What does all of this mean? It means that today Joshua is strong and healthy, big for his age, moving and kicking, totally unaffected by the dead part of the placenta. It means that the tear is gone, though our specialist won't say it's healed since that part of the placenta is still blank and unresponsive, though it doesn't seem to be impacting either Joshua or me.

It means that today I ordered the most beautiful and perfect crib bedding I could afford. If you are a mother who has had a miscarriage, you know how significant that is. 

We ordered crib bedding today.

God, I have said it when it stung, and I say it now in joy, too: my heartfelt HALLELUJAH!

"God is in the midst of her. 

She shall not be moved. 

He will help her when morning dawns."

Psalm 46 verse 5

Heartfelt Ramblings

It's 5:50 pm. This is the time of day I am normally filling our plates with homemade dinner, wiping down the counters with lavender-scented Method spray, microwaving peas for William, looking forward to the next hour when I can flop down on the couch with a book and my husband or walk across the street to Brandi's wooden swing, hanging from her ancient live oak.

Today is different. I am 23 hours into mandatory bed rest, and my hands and legs are itching to stand up and stretch, to put the kitchen back in order, to clear the dining table, to make something. Rest does not come naturally to me today.

Yesterday was a normal day, with a meeting with new friends in the morning, lunch at home, and while William napped in the afternoon, I boiled half a dozen eggs that my sweet in-laws bought us at the farmer's market by the river. I made homemade bread and homemade pickled cucumbers. William woke from his nap and then, just that quick, a spot of blood. Again. On shaking legs I walked to the kitchen to find my phone and called our fetal specialist. She said to come in. 

I was barefoot, in shorts and a tank top because it's already 90 degrees in Austin. I picked up William, who was also barefoot and groggy from his nap, and opened the door to see if Brandi was home. She was getting the boys out of their car seats, home from school. I walked barefoot across the hot street and handed my barefoot boy to Brandi, who took him in her arms without questions and told me not to worry about him. 

Several weeks ago, when we learned we were having a boy, we chose the most beautiful name we could think of -- Joshua, after Joshua 1:9, "Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be terrified; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go." His middle name is Aiden, which means fiery one, because at each of the ultrasounds, Joshua has been so active that the sonographers have had a hard time capturing pictures of him.

Yesterday during the ultrasound, I cried and cried. Both Don and the sonographer told me to stop, that Joshua was doing fine and had a great heartbeat and was moving around. But I knew something was wrong.

Because of the blood clotting disorder I have, a large blood clot developed between the uterus and placenta, eventually ripping my placenta open by 25%. Our sweet boy is doing well, measuring large for his age and with a strong heartbeat, but the only treatment available is for me to be on bed rest and sit as still as possible. This will hopefully prevent the tear from widening. Once I am 23 weeks along, I will be admitted to the hospital for constant monitoring, and if we can make it to 28 weeks, we have a good chance of having a strong little baby who will live.

In the meantime, I am sitting still. I am counting blessings, because there are many. I am not dwelling on the hard things, the sad things, the fears and the restless legs. I am resting and waiting, on Joshua and on God. This is my best; this is all I have to offer. A broken heart that hopes, a torn open womb that still nourishes. This is the best I can do.

"The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise."
-Psalm 51:17

My Uterus Has the Gift of Hospitality

Let me explain.

The King is enthralled with your beauty; 

Honor Him for He is your Lord.

Psalm 45:11

Last week, I won (yaaaaaaayyyyy!!!!) a Naptime Diaries print from Ellen's Handmade Recess giveaway. Ever since, I have been thinking about this verse (written above), which I had never read before.

I'm not sure my own husband is always enthralled with my beauty...is it really true that God could see me as beautiful? 

Me and our fourth baby, March 15, 2012

My goal here is to be encouraging to you specifically. With that in mind, I am going to be totally honest and it's a little uncomfortable and a whole lot of embarrassing. I am vain. I care a lot about how I look and how other people perceive how I look. As I've grown as a woman, a wife, a mother, and most importantly, as someone who believes God is real and His promises are true, I have tried to replace vanity with a gentler, more loving, kinder spirit.

I have struggled with this especially during this pregnancy. Apparently, my uterus has the gift of hospitality. As soon as it realized a baby was coming to visit for 9 months, it renovated itself and stretched out to a luxurious, welcoming size. "Come on in!" it seems to say. "Make yourself at home! There's plenty of room to sprawl out!" What? Doesn't your uterus have spiritual gifts?

Did I mention that it did this overnight? That overnight I went from comfortable in my regular jeans to requiring the dreaded up-to-your-bra-strap maternity jeans? I tried to hide it. My little sister saw me and said, "Look! You're showing already!" I sucked in my stomach and told her I was just bloated.

I asked my doctor about it. She confirmed that yes, a uterus has muscle memory and will sometimes expand more quickly after multiple pregnancies. I whined to my husband and to Brandi. I considered wearing only very baggy t-shirts. And then I won the print above and, for the first time in months, came to my senses.

Last year, Don and I lost two babies in a matter of six months. We had to wait to try to get pregnant. I have to stick needles into my pregnant tummy every evening to keep things going smoothly, and all of our prayers and pleas and doctor's visits have resulted in this amazing, miraculous, beautiful blessing. A pregnancy. A healthy pregnancy. A baby who is growing and measures large for his age, ahead of the game, who moves and kicks so ferociously that the sonographer couldn't capture his face on the camera.

Is it possible that I could be beautiful to Him, to the one who knew me all along, even when I denied He was real and opposed Him as often as I could? I have counted our losses as His grace. I count this newest child as a gift from Him. Swollen face, bruised belly, and all, I have to say that I am finally, finally, finally, starting to see that I am beautiful to Him. And, at the risk of sounding vain, to myself, too.

Grow Where You're Planted

When Don and I decided to buy our first house in 2009, we knew we wanted to live in a very specific neighborhood. Austin's east side is a booming place where cultures, tradition, and the hip kids meet. Years earlier, when I was a grad student in social work, I had a field placement doing grief counseling with students at an east side junior high. I was drawn to the people, the neighborhoods, to the cross sections of culture that buzzed within a short walk from Austin's neon-lit downtown. I wanted to live there.

We found several tiny, partially dilapidated, in major need of repair homes that we knew, way deep down, were definitely meant for us. They were all perfect.

So we prayed. We connected with a great realtor (who thought we were crazy). We put offers down on houses.

And we got in bidding wars on almost every house. It was a nightmare. We thought we would never find the right place.

After lots of agonizing, we decided to humor our realtor (and parents and friends and colleagues) and at least look at the houses located miles from the glittering, paint-chipped east side.

On the second day of looking, we had an appointment to see a house at 10:15. We met our realtor at the address and I was immediately smitten with the enormous ancient live oak tree that shaded the entire house and front yard. A wooden swing hung from the lowest branch, and I felt a glimmer of hope that we might be able to live in dreaded suburbia after all.

The owners told our realtor they needed an extra 15 minutes before we could view the house, and as we waited in their front yard, we noticed a small "For Sale" sign at the house across the street. Our realtor didn't know the house was for sale, but saw that it had a lock box on the door. He unlocked it and we went inside.

Immediately it happened. Don and I both knew that this was our house. It had never shown up on our online searches because it was well out of our price range, but our realtor called the selling agent and learned that the current owners had reduced the price that very morning by $20,000, due to the economy.  It was within our price range. It was perfect. Shortly after, it became our home.

Even though we loved the way it looked and felt, all new and shiny, I couldn't understand why God (because we believe in listening to God through prayer and that He has specific plans for us, including where we live and grow roots) didn't want us living on the east side, renovating a falling down house and being close to our church and friends. I looked at our new home's extremely safe streets, picturesque playgrounds, and overbearing HOA newsletters and felt stunned that we were actually living in suburbia, where we had never intended to live.

Why would He plant us here?

The next week I learned that I was pregnant.

The next year I became best friends with Brandi, who owns the house with the ancient oak tree that we originally came here to view. We have spent a thousand hours swinging and talking under that tree. I am so glad we didn't buy her house and that she still lives there!

And then my dad realized that my cousin and his family (our families have never been close) lived six houses up from us. We invited them for dinner and reconnected just before they moved out of the neighborhood. They are wonderful people and I am so glad to know them.

And then I met Mrs. B, who is 74. She and her miniature chihuahua came over for a short visit and she told me all about her son, whom she loved with her whole heart from the day he was born until the day he died at 48 of a progressive illness. I cried with her. I am a young mother. I only have a toddler. What can I offer her? I apologized for the toys strewn all over our entire house, the sippy cup leaking drops of milk onto our floor. "Do you know what I would give to go back to these days, honey?" she asked me. She finds comfort in our slightly overgrown grass, in our untidy living room.

And then yesterday, I went to a park outside of our neighborhood and met a new mom. We talked about how much we want to be connected in our neighborhood. She asked me where I live and I told her. We live exactly two houses away from each other.

I am starting to get it. Finally. He has a plan for us here. I don't know all of the details. I don't know why He chooses some people to meet and connect on the east side and some people to connect in south Austin, but He does.

We are growing here. Here is home.

This Time Around

This pregnancy, there are pills to swallow and shots to give.

 Lots of shots, in fact.

I am amazed by the magic that is contained in 4 ml of clear medicine. It looks like water, benign and odorless. A nothing shot, so small it almost doesn't exist. Yet, for my littlest one, it is life-saving.

With William, I craved salty things and bitter tastes. With this baby, it is entirely different. I dream of lettuce leaves and homemade caesar dressing, scrambled eggs and homemade veggie burgers. It feels strange to crave lettuce, but it has inspired me to grow our own.

And with this pregnancy, there is a fast running 20 month old to corral.

 He is a tangle of sweaty cherubim curls and questions.

 And baby feet stretching into boy.

He imitates everything, including rubbing kleenex onto his lower tummy and using his finger to pretend to give himself a shot. He is so precious to me. I love chasing him around. It hasn't gotten tiring yet, though I'm sure, in the coming months, it will.

One of his favorite toys is Kanga. It has been so helpful. Mommy has a baby in her tummy, just like Kanga has a baby in her tummy, we tell him. William nods his head as though it's the most sensible thing in the whole world, and then he runs to me and lifts my shirt. "Baby! Baby!" He can barely contain his excitement sometimes, pointing to the bruises covering my belly. A friend of ours has a newborn and while her baby slept, William and I peeked at him. "We're going to have a baby like that," I told him. He buried his head in my neck and hid his face. I wonder what will happen when he feels the baby kick for the first time.

With this pregnancy, I have no expectations. Or, at least, I try not to. I don't spend time looking at nurseries on pinterest, or shopping for newborn outfits online. I am pregnant, my baby is perfectly healthy right now, and that is enough for today. 

I have hope that, come the end of August, we will have a second child here on earth, but I don't really expect it yet. It's not that I don't trust God, or that I have a negative outlook. It's simply that I cannot predict tomorrow, or even what will happen later today. I believe that God is faithful and that He keeps His promises; He will guide me through whatever may come. 

I hope for another baby here on earth. But, if not on earth, I look forward to meeting my little ones later. 

A few weeks ago, for the first time, I was not sorry about losing two babies. If I had the chance to change things, I wouldn't have. I say that in all sincerity. Isn't His plan more perfect than mine ever could be? Our babies, all of them, are tiny pieces of a puzzle I can't see in its entirety.

I am so, so, so happy God has blessed Don and me with another pregnancy. I am pregnant today, and that is enough grace for me.

On Happiness and Joy

I think about these words often, the differences between them. The absolute chasm that divides them. They are opposite sides of the river. One that is near and one that is far.

Happiness is a feeling, free as a bird. She comes and goes as she pleases.

Joy is a state, a platform way deep down in my heart, made of faded wooden planks with nails and splinters and places where happiness might never think to flitter.

I feel happy when my husband cleans the kitchen. I felt happy when I received my first big paycheck. I feel happy when William behaves in Target and everyone stops to tell me how beautiful he is.

But happy can't sustain me. Sometimes my husband will leave a trail of dirty clothes and shoes from the front door to the bathroom, and I resigned from my pharmaceutical research job to raise a family full-time (and the paycheck for this is non-existant). And once, OH THE HORROR, William had a tantrum and slapped me on the face in Target. Happy wasn't with me then.

But joy? Deep down, there in sorrow and happiness alike, with me always and forever, even when marriage feels hardest, or raising a child is monotonous, or the sting of multiple miscarriages feels too much to bear, joy in Him is with me. Joy that Christ is real, that He promises something better than this life. He is something I can cling to when happy circumstances have flown the coop and left me standing wondering what the point was in the first place.

I said it, and I know you might turn away, or roll your eyes, or wonder how someone with a master's of science can believe in something so unseen, but the peace and joy that come from knowing Christ are only a mystery before you believe. Outside of Him, friend, no peace like this exists. When you are shaken to the core, where can you go that cannot be shaken? Can't husbands and wives and church buildings and synagogues and mountains all come crashing down?

I try, in my happiness, to always feel my joy. So when I say that I choose joy, I don't mean that I put on a sunny smile if I am hurting, or that I push back tears, but that I remember this as they fall:

My heart is glad and my tongue rejoices; my body also will live in hope, because you will not abandon my to the grave...you have made known to the me the paths of life; you will fill me with joy in your presence.
Acts 2: 26-28

Celebrating from the Inside Out

This time last year, I had checked off every item on a thorough cleaning/decorating/baking/shopping/gift wrapping list. It was a little bit crazy, and included things like, "Finish Christmas shopping by December 1." We were hosting Christmas for both sides of our family, and I wanted it to be really special. My husband and I both love having people over and providing a place for people to relax and recharge, and I thought I could make things "perfect" for everyone.

It's amazing how much things can change in a single year, isn't it? This year, while I still like making things with my hands, my shoulders slump under the weight of so much grace. I am undeserving. Yet here I sit, happy heart in my home, with a new understanding and insight about what it means to celebrate this season.

What would I have said, I wonder, looking at pictures of myself at Christmas last year, if I could tell her that soon, in just a few months, she would learn what it is like to lose? What if some magical visitor from the future had touched my shoulder gently as I served my homemade cinnamon rolls and said, "Next summer you will bury your baby." I wouldn't have believed it if someone told me that I'd lose a second child in the fall. Two in one year.

But here I am, these things came true, and still my cup runs over. He gave me enough grace. Grace enough to get through it. Grace enough to see with newly washed eyes. As beautiful as handmade gifts can be, as inviting as the smell of freshly baked pastries, perfection on the surface is just that. It's on the surface. It can be scratched away.

This year, we are only half-finished painting our house. You should see our guest room: it's like a craft supply bomb exploded in there. I haven't made those cinnamon rolls yet. But I wish I could show you my heart.

It's a garden of Eden in most ways. Like all the love and grace and tender care I never knew I would need left seeds when they rolled through my life this year. Laid seeds and tilled the soil and harvested the crops and cultivated heirloom roses, too. Two deep cracks can be seen running through it, my heart, but they are cracks out of which lilies grow. The kind of cracks that break in the soil of the soul before bulbs can shoot forth into flowers, or vines into fruit. Wellsprings of longing and joy.

This year, in this season of advent, I let the shopping and the decorating and the baking fall gently to the bottom of my list. Like the cream rising to the top, what is most important to me now is clear. I teach my little one about the truth, the lamb, the word, the grace God himself has given me and Don. "Where does Jesus live?" I ask William. He points to the sky, "Yee-sus," he says. Then he takes his hand and pats his little chest. "That's right," I tell him. "He fills up our hearts, too."

Life Goes On

I know I talk about it a lot. More in these journalistic posts than in real life. Violet. I can't help it. I know about choosing joy when I am given the choice, and I know about seeing God in all that is around me. But I have to say: there are times when a beautiful sunset cannot touch your hurting. I don't think God intends it to. We aren't supposed to be fully satisfied on earth, because it cannot be all-satisfying.

Today would have been her birth day, had she not been miscarried. Last night, I felt sad that I didn't give birth to her alive, and Don reminded me, "You did give birth to her, MB, and she was born straight into the kingdom of God." 

And she was! That is something that has gotten me though this day. That and being with family and friends and my sweet boys. And grace. Lots of grace.

I Carry Your Heart

In the flow of my daily life (stumble to nursery, pick up crying child, return to bed for 15 minutes of trying to doze while laughing child pokes my eyes and sticks small fingers in my mouth and ears, etc.), a new five-second ritual is added. My iPhone alarm sounds at 8 am and I stop, swallow the tiny yellow pill above, chase it with water, and continue on my way. I will do this every day for the rest of my life.

This pill is the simplest solution to my biggest problem. I got a call last week following the round of blood tests I had after I miscarried for the second time in five months. My blood carries an antigen that causes, more often than not, miscarriages. If you have three miscarriages, you are diagnosed as having the syndrome. I have had two, so I am not technically diagnosed. I hope I never get the official diagnosis. 

What about William? I asked the nurse. How was I able to carry him full-term with no complications? A fluke, she answers. But I know better. 

The next time I am pregnant, I will give myself a shot three times a day, every day, until I give birth. The research that has been done says this will give me an 80% chance of having a successful pregnancy. I am trying not to dwell on the other 20%. My God is bigger than statistics. I beat the odds once before.

I look at these little pills, so tiny, the raised outline of a heart on one side of each pill. I swallow a little heart every day. These pills thin my blood, help it to pass easily, clot-less, through my arteries to my lungs and eventually my heart. 

I erased Violet's due date from my calendar months ago. I thought maybe I wouldn't remember it without a written reminder. How silly of me. Two weeks away, and I feel myself thinking about it throughout the day. These little yellow heart pills, they are a reminder.

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows

higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

-EE Cummings, "I Carry Your Heart With Me"

Joy in the Making

Guys, thank you for praying for us. Our little baby died. I had a miscarriage. Don and I have felt such amazing peace and quiet in our hearts that we know it can only come from God. I'm doing BSF for the first time this year, and part of my homework last week was to list the biblical names of Christ. In Acts 3:15 He is called "the author of life." What an amazing comfort this has been to me: what I might see as the meaningless loss of our little life is actually the ordained life and death of a child created by the author of all life. This little life was intentional, had a purpose, has met his or her maker.

Our tears? We are letting them fall, but we are buoyed along by joy. I didn't know it was possible, but it is. We are comforted in our grief.

"While the child was still alive, I fasted and wept. I thought, 'Who knows? The Lord may be gracious to me and let the child live.' But now that he is dead, why should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I will go to him, but he may not return to me." 2 Samuel 13: 22-23

Joy is a Choice

"Believe me when I say it's not about your scars, it's all about your heart."

- Mindy Gledhill, "All About Your Heart"

Little one, tiny being, smallest bundle of cells and light,

If I were to listen to many around me, I would not call you by name. I would not let myself feel the connection, imagine the bustling of cells toward your embryonic shape, send love your way. For the first few days I knew you were here, I was tempted to guard my heart. After losing one baby, my heart is sometimes shy.

But now that I have had dozens of needles in my veins to prove your presence and halted growth, listened with your father at my side while one nurse tells us you certainly won't stay long and one doctor says that maybe you might, your father and I have learned (through our tears, deepest intakes of breath, and restless sleep) that we already love you. You are our child, undeniable and real. In my eyes, you are already a miracle. 

Little baby, tiny miracle, I hope against hope that you will stay, though it is not up to me to decide. As your mother, I promise to give you my very best until your time comes. I will rest, I will be healthy. I will not run, I will not exert, per our doctor's orders. I will hold you in my heart, I will give you a name. 

And above all, I will be joyful. I will praise God for making you fearfully and wonderfully. He sees you now, even when I cannot. He designed you with a purpose and a plan, a plan to help you and not to harm you. You have a sister in heaven and a brother on earth, and though I don't know which one you will meet first, I am confident that one day I will come to you. 

In our short weeks together, you have taught me something so important. You have taught me that joy is a choice. I choose joy because I know that struggles on earth remind me that joy does not and cannot come from circumstances. It comes from hope in Him. I thank God for you, little being, and in doing that, I let down the walls to my heart. I will not let my dried tears become a moat, I will not pretend you aren't real, and I won't let losing you define me. I will carry you in my heart, even if I can't carry you in my womb.  Like she says in the song, it's not about your scars. It's all about your heart. Tiniest baby, you have helped me make my heart a garden.

Love love love,

Your mama

Searching of Heart

There's an empty baby bassinet in Don's office. I planned on recovering it with new fabric and making it as adorable as possible, but I don't need to do that now. It takes up space, and I should probably move it into the attic, but I don't want to do that either.

I am waiting.

And thanking God, hard as it is sometimes. Thank you for taking my child before I really knew her, thank you for sparing her a life of heartache and soul-searching. Thank you for letting her be big enough that I know how it felt to hold her.

My hands have been so busy that I know it's time for my heart to be still. Does that make sense? Just like a baby cries the loudest when he is exhausted, my hands work the hardest when they are running from stillness. Because if you take away the innumerable play dates, the lunches, the bakery that is my kitchen, the restaurant that is my dining room, there should still be reliance on Him. And I am sad to say, but saying honestly, there isn't. Right now, there is fear of the unknown, discomfort in waiting, and impatience.

So it's time for me to do what I know I must. What I must because I choose Him, because I believe in Him, because I know so deeply what I am without Him. It's time to seek Him first. Yes, first. First, before my morning cup of coffee, before I check younghouselove, before I turn on the news at 6:30 am, before I plan dinner or go on a run.

I cannot offer Him a knit hat, or a carefully curated Pinterest page. What I can offer him right now is an empty bassinet, hands that keep kneading bread and typing away when really they should be empty and lifted high.

So here goes.

Here it is, God.

Take my empty bassinet and my searching heart and make them Yours.

The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart, O God, You will not despise.
-Psalm 51:17

Coming to Terms with a Miscarriage (at Hobby Lobby)

This morning, I took William to Hobby Lobby to meet my friend Brandi. Both William and Brandi's son, Gideon, sat sweetly in the carts, munching on crackers and watching us discuss ribbon. The woman at the fabric counter joked with Brandi and said, "You'll have to keep having babies until you have your girl." Then she looked at me. "And you," she asked, "when are you having a girl?" 

I just smiled and kept rifling through the ribbon. I didn't feel like explaining that I already had her. That I had her and that the good Lord took her (because she belonged to him anyway, didn't she?) and I was left with a teeny tiny body to bury. My buried treasure in the Texas soil. I will see her again, one day.

My mother gave me a ring last week. Just to borrow for awhile, if not to keep. A very special ring. It belonged to my grandmother and it's a tiny violet. She pulled me aside at my sister's birthday party to give it to me, and I started crying (in my Jersey Shore outfit, no less...what a waste of eyeliner!). "Honey," she said, "I didn't mean to make you cry." "No no," I told her. "Mom, even when I'm 80, I will probably still cry for her sometimes." Not every day, but some days. 

I am an over-planner but a procrastinator. Even though I won't act on these plans until December, I've been thinking about making Christmas stockings for my boys, and it occurred to me that because she came between winters, Violet will not have a stocking. She will not have anything, really, save for a linen covered box with unworn baby clothes and cards from friends, congratulatory cards when we became pregnant and their condolences when she died. 

I want to say this: there aren't many physical reminders of Violet's brief weeks on earth, but I will ALWAYS carry her in my heart. And the next time someone asks me how many children I have, or if I'd like to have a girl, I will tell them the whole truth. It's the least I can do.

When I was pregnant, I showed William pictures of what our new baby looked like each day.

Everything Has Changed

Each time I open this page to write, I falter. I hesitate between writing something like I might normally write and writing something that is more truthful and personal. Here is my compromise.

On the surface, everything looks the same. I am dressed, wearing make-up, caring for my boys, having girls night out, taking pictures, paying bills. Three mornings a week William and I can be found walking our loop at Town Lake, feeding the ducks. And dinner has miraculously appeared on the table most nights, and our clothes are clean, and on a nightly basis Don makes me laugh so hard I almost cry. Almost.

But beneath the surface, beneath my heart, there is a river whose depths cannot be guessed at, save by another mother who has already navigated them herself. See, in my sparkly Target flip flops and my new haircut, I am navigating the rapids. I am not alone, far from it, but my company watches for me from the shore. Here on the water, on my own private river, it is just me. Just me who birthed a baby who wasn't ready yet, just me who felt her go.

I am so blessed, most definitely by my own mother who came and spent ten days with us in case I felt like crying. I am so blessed to have Don, my rock of a husband. I have come to believe that husbands who are spiritual leaders are few and far between, and I feel rushing gratitude that he is my partner. And I am so blessed to have my sisters, Catherine and Melanie, and my best friends, the kind of friends who didn't call before they came, who just showed up unannounced with lasagna and champagne and chocolate.

So, please understand if, when you ask me how I'm doing, I brush right through with, "Fine. And you?" It's not that I don't want to talk about her, the loss, it's just that there's too much to say. And for the record, I'm doing great. There is real and true joy in my life. There is also longing. I have a child whose face is hidden from me, whose cheeks I cannot touch. I'm as fine and sorrowful as that.

This hurts, and God is still good.

Dear Violet, baby of mine, baby two, little green,

I have carried your name since I was a little girl. Violet, a flower, growth, love, beauty. A treasure of a name, I tucked it in my pocket and waited, knowing one day I would get to use it. What a sweet day it was for your daddy and me when we saw you for the first time. A squiggly little bean on a black and white screen.

Violet. Sometimes it's hard for me to say your name, but how can I not say it? For all those weeks, I carried you in my womb, and for a short, bittersweet moment after you died, I got to hold your little forming body in my hands. You were so small that I couldn't believe it, a miracle in the palm of my hand.  The most heart-breaking 4 inches of my life. I won't turn you into a silent "she," or worse, a nothing. Your little life has become a placemarker in mine. A dividing line in the short timeline of my days. There were those days before you, and the days that come after. I believe you are in heaven, but I will carry your name in my heart until I am an old woman standing at a kitchen sink, grandchildren scattered at my feet, love all around me, and I will pull your name from my pocket just the way my own grandmother used to pull a tissue from her blouse. It will be vibrant and new, just like you.

Some people grieve losses by mourning for things that never were. I understand that, but I am not one of those people. Today, my heart hurts for what I had that is lost to me, the thrill of a second baby on the way, the bliss of carrying another child for the husband I adore, the small joys of choosing baby clothes and thinking about decorating a nursery. 

Tiniest baby of mine, our time together was good. We went to yoga, we ate well, we spent many hours laughing with good friends under the oak tree across the street, and we rocked your big brother to sleep a hundred times. Our time together was full of hope and assurance in Him. Even when I saw the first tell-tale signs that I was losing you, the smear of bright blood where none should have been, the sharp pains in my side, I was filled with hope that He would take care of us.

And you know what? He is. Each time that I start to float away from the love that surrounds me, He pulls me back. 

Little daughter, dream baby, child I held only once, please know that I have so much love for you, and that I always will. No matter how many children I have or don't have, you were my second child, the child for whom I prayed. You will always be my answered prayer.

Lovelovelove,

Your mama

"For you created my inmost being, you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well."

-Psalm 138: 13-14

Comfort Me with Cinnamon & God is Good

"I Will Always Love You" by Amy Swagman, Birth Artist

My hands hover above a tray of peach melba shortbread, sifting powdered sugar that falls like snow flurries over the browned almond top. And they gently lift the egg whites from the very bottom of the mixing bowl, willing the egg whites to rise and rise of their own accord. And my hands are cold as I pull the frozen strawberries from the sheet pan, after I quartered and cored them before freezing so that my family can eat in-season strawberries all year round. And I pat the biscuit dough into a neat fluffy pile before I smack it gently down with a rolling pin. A hundred memories of my hands in the kitchen, of cinnamon settling on my hair after I poured too much and a cloud of flour and sugar erupted from the mixing bowl. I don't want soup, and I don't want comfort food, but give me some butter and flour and I will comfort myself with baking.

These are things I thought about as I laid on the table this morning. This morning, the day after our baby died. No more little heartbeat, no more swimming bean. No more little green shoot, no more garden womb.

It wasn't me, it was her. A fluke. Something was just wrong with the baby, according to our doctor. She never would have lived. This is really personal to write about, but I will absolutely not have a secret baby. A baby whose name I never say, a baby who we don't talk about. I saw her heartbeat, she made me queasy for hours on end, and last week I went through two whole jars of Klaussen pickles (the cold kind), so I just can't roll over and pretend like I didn't grow a baby for the last 14 weeks, like I didn't dream about her and think about her and pray every night that God would put a hedge of protection around her. We named her. Her name was Violet. And there is an empty ivory-colored velvet baby snow-suit hanging in William's closet that I bought just for her. For my little winter baby who is not really ever coming. 

And even though I am so sad, and I just don't understand God's reasoning for giving me a baby that could only live a few short months, I know this much: God is good. And God is enough. Even when my baby's heart stops beating, He is still enough for me.