The Picture of Heartbreak and the Eternal Okay

This is the picture that breaks my heart. 

It reminds me of a person I didn’t get to be and a person I didn’t get to know. 

Tomorrow will be 4 years since Josh and I received the most heartbreaking news a parent can hear. “There is no heartbeat.” “Your baby has died.”

I remember the start of that day. It was a Wednesday. I had just finished my last project for Josiah’s nursery. His bassinette. I sewed a cover, canopy, and skirt to match the rest of his Very Hungry Caterpillar room. It was a beautiful August day in Iowa. Blue skies and a nice breeze, temperatures perfect enough to leave the windows opened. I remember I had spent the morning, and much of that summer, listening to the 70s Folk station on Pandora – those songs and the warm breeze of fresh summer air flowed through the house and it felt like a perfect summer day. And I felt ready. The last project was done. The house was clean. I knew we were in the “any day now” stage. I had been feeling what I thought was him moving but turned out to be Braxton hicks contractions. But I did not know that until minutes before finding out what the day actually held for us. 

That morning, Josh was out with a friend from church at a shooting range. When he got home, we went to our 37-week check-up. I don’t remember walking in or what I was thinking about. I don’t remember what anything felt like at that place before our worlds came crashing down. But I will never forget the moments of the crash. Seeing his beatless heart on the ultrasound and knowing this was happening. Still in shock and having to be told again. And then realizing, I still had to deliver him. While I asked for a c-section to spare myself any further trauma, the midwife informed me that while it was an option it was not the best one for my own healing, recovery, or having future kids. While I began to grasp what was ahead of me, in a 15-minute span of having a normal check up to finding out our baby had died and I would still have to deliver him and then go home empty, I was doubly shocked that she would suggest that I would have more kids. Because while I don’t remember what I thought walking in, I clearly remember walking out and the only thing I was sure of is that I would never be here again. I would never put myself in a place to love someone and have so much anticipation and joy to meet them and love them for their whole life only to be told that it had ended before it could begin. I could not change what had happened, but I had to protect myself from allowing it to happen again. 

And that lasted about 24 hours. 

As the initial shock began to wear off, we weighed the few options we had. I could wait until I went into natural labor. But I didn’t think I would mentally, emotionally, and physically survive drawing this out until my body decided it was time. The c-section option was out because despite the immense pain I was in, I knew I had to love a baby again. My call to motherhood was not something I could protect myself from, even if it brought the caution and reality of loss. So after a day and a half of mourning and shock, we started labor the next morning.  Active labor began the following day and he was born after a relatively short labor. (And drug free – I’m proud of that fact! And have since gone straight for the epidural. But yay for my one!) The evening of Saturday, August 25, 2012, Josh and I, and our parents got to hold the baby we had waited so long – in the months of gestation and the hours of death. It was a glimpse of new life. Even through death. The 24 hours we spent with Josiah were filled with joy, beauty, and love. We had a naming and blessing service for him, took pictures, and held his little body. 

In the days ahead, we were surrounded by love and support (and food!) from family, friends, and the Wartburg community. We received cards of care, compassion, and shared heartbreak in the loss of Josiah’s life. We received notes even from people we knew, including the man Josh spent his morning with, and those we did not know who knew the pain of the death of a baby and we didn’t feel so alone as we joined the worst club ever. On August 31, we had a funeral for Josiah. I looked forward to this as a symbolized end of this stage of grief and at the same time deeply grieved the movement of time, putting more hours and days between the time that I had held Josiah. I could barely handle walking down the aisle and I remembered the pastor saying something to us about the times in the service where we say “stand as you are able” and that it is okay if we are not emotionally able to stand, and the rest of the people gathered will stand for us. And it came to the time when the Gospel was read before the sermon began. The story was from Mark 10, and the disciples tried to keep some children away from Jesus. Jesus is pissed (or indignant, as Mark more eloquently puts it) and tells the disciples and the crowd “Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.” As I heard these words, I felt an overwhelming presence of God. I cannot explain it other than knowing we would be okay and having a sense of peace like never before. 

The days, weeks, months, and years that we have lived after Josiah have been hard. There is always a sense of someone missing and that our family is just not complete. I dread when people ask me how many children I have because I honestly want to answer 2 out of 3. I hate denying Josiah’s life and death. 

As I look at the picture, I see a girl who had hope, excitement, and anticipation of the joy we were to meet. 

I still am part of that person. But I know things that I didn’t then. I had experienced death, grief, and the pain of missed loved ones. But nothing like this. There was no way to make it feel better with the clichés I had used before. I don’t believe that Josiah’s death was God’s plan. God’s plan is that we may have life and have it abundantly (John 10:10). I don’t believe that God needed another angel because frankly that makes little sense to me and is not in the character of who I know God to be. I don’t believe ‘everything happens for a reason’ similarly to why I don’t believe this was God’s plan or that Josiah had to die for some unknown reason. The reason he died because something physically happened to cause him to stop living. 

But somehow amongst all of the things I don’t know or don’t believe, I still know we are going to be okay. 

This okay I’m talking about is different than I think most people tend to understand. Obviously, Josiah is still dead and that will never feel “okay.” And I know someday we will all die, I know I will have to grieve the deaths of many more loved ones. And I lay awake at night most nights worrying about the things that could happen to the 2 of my 3 that are here, anything from something life threatening to someone being unkind to them. None of that is “okay.” But yet we go on. 

The okay I feel is eternal. The okay I feel is the comfort, peace, and hope that God is with us in our grief. The shortest verse in the Bible is “Jesus wept” and I think it says it all. I take comfort knowing that Jesus knows this pain and weeps with us. I also am reassured of God’s love as I dwell in the truth of the words from Josiah’s funeral “Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.” This kingdom of God holds God’s children, welcomes them, and loves them all. 

And that is more than okay. 

Whose Beauty Is It?

Yesterday something odd happened. I was at Panera and thought I was ordering my food. The cashier made a few corny jokes and then before I left said: “I hope your day is as beautiful as you are.” I didn’t say anything and just walked away a little puzzled about what had happened. (and also without my order number because he was too busy hitting on me to do his job) So as I sat there waiting for my sandwich I thought about what just happened and that has continued until now. 

Honestly, when he first said it, I felt creeped out, but I tried to be nice about it. I tried to tell myself, just take it as a compliment and go on, what’s it hurt to have some tell you you’re beautiful? 

When I was leaving I was validated in my gut feeling to be creeped out and somewhat violated as I ran into the gentleman again (he was coming back from break as I was leaving) and he saw me, smiled, and said: “fancy seeing you here.” Again I said nothing and walked away quickly thanking God that it was the middle of the day with people around and hoping that I never see this guy again. 

So now I’ve thought of this from many angles. Maybe he was just trying to be nice or trying to flirt with me so I’d be interested in seeing him again (so maybe he didn’t see the ring on my finger also). Maybe he took my niceness and smile as something more than me being a kind person. And maybe, or definitely, I should have said something back, because that is the part I have control over. 

Maybe I should have said something like “My beauty is not yours to comment on.” Because it’s not. I did not dress this way (a loose-fitting, high-collared shirt with a sweater) so that you may look at me and make an opinion. I did not fix my hair or put on make-up so that you could make lame jokes and then use a quick line like it should get you somewhere. 

Here’s the thing, my beauty is not yours to comment on and I am not an object for you to decide at face-value, beautiful or not. In mulling over this for the last 24 hours I’ve realized, beauty is an intimate thing. It’s mine to feel when I catch myself in the mirror between chasing after my two small children. It’s my husband’s to feel in those moments when you look at your love, amongst the mess of your day-to-day life and realize how much love you have for that person and how much beauty they bring to your world. It is my children’s to feel as they play with my hair, giggling as they cover and uncover my face to play peek-a-boo. It is God’s, as I am another part of creation, which was lovingly created in the image of God and in beauty and brokenness gets to be called child of God. 

It’s not for someone who doesn’t know my gifts, my passion, my love, or even my name. 

So later today, I will kindly call the manager to ask him to tell the cashier that I did not appreciate this, it made me uncomfortable, it was completely inappropriate, and I hope that this does not happen again, to myself, or others. 

Transitions, Grief, and Life

Transitions are hard. Grief is hard. Sometimes, life is just hard.

:: TRANSITIONS :: Recently my husband and I happily accepted calls to serve a congregation in Little Rock, Arkansas. We have been excited about this call and congregation since we first heard about them and still are. We feel this is where God is calling our family and has prepared us to use our gifts. One thing I seemed to forget in all the excitement is that no matter how right the transition is and how wonderful the new thing will be, transitions are hard. We are used to transitions. This move is my 20th move, the 7th city I have lived in, Noah’s 3rd state to live in in his 18 months of life. I am used to moving. I am used to new. I am used to transitions. I probably overly romanticized this one, likely because we have been in transition since we got engaged over 5 years ago. We knew at that point that seminary was on the horizon for Josh (I was still an unknown) and we were preparing to leave the life we had grown to love, the ministry we loved, and the place we became us, let alone it is the place I called home.  We moved to Iowa for seminary. We moved to family housing after our first year because our family was growing. We moved to Chicago our 3rd year for the opportunity to learn from the experience of ministry internships. And our final year we were happy to move back to the campus that became our home away from home and to being one step closer to being sent out. While each of these transitions offered new joys, each also was difficult in its own way. This last move to our first call was one I’d been waiting for anxiously with joy for a while. We would finally get to live somewhere that 9 months in, we wouldn’t feel like we should start pulling out the boxes and sorting what comes and what goes. We could start to feel at home. And for some reason, the excitement of that whole idea made me forget that no matter how great the opportunities are waiting for you, the road to get there is not easy.

:: GRIEF :: As many of you know, but some of you may not, 3 years ago today, our first son, Josiah, was stillborn at 37-weeks. When I think back to this time in our lives it is hard to even fully remember it. I remember many of the details, but the sequence is a blur of a week of the greatest joy, to hold our son, and the greatest sorrow, to know that was all we would get to spend with him and he was not there. There are certain senses that are triggered and bring it all back as if I was living it now. That is the odd thing about grief 3 years out. I knew it had to get easier because everyone told me at some point everything of your life stops being so hard, I think it was best explained as, it doesn’t actually get easier to not have that person with you, but the rawness of the heartache gets less. You never get over your baby (or anyone!) dying. You don’t really move on. You just keep going because the days don’t ask if you are ready or feel like it, they just come and amongst the death you are feeling and living, life somehow continues.

:: LIFE :: Last night, I was talking to a good friend about how difficult transitions are and how much I just want to feel settled. I was telling her how I feel kind of ridiculous for feeling like this is the most stressful time in our life (two new jobs, new city, new apartment, trying to buy a house, Noah starting daycare, baby on the way, and more, but you get the picture) so I felt overwhelmed with my life and pointed out that 3 years ago our baby died, and somehow right now things seem more stressful and that is ridiculous. I am grateful for good friends in times like these, because she reminded me that this is a stressful time and even though our baby died 3 years ago, we are still allowed to just have regular bad days.

So in a roundabout way, this reminds me of the advice given to Josh and me about 3 years ago, advice that I found so helpful and begging of reminder that I named this blog after it, yet somehow still always forget. But here it is: be gentle with yourselves.

Be gentle because life is hard. Be gentle because sometimes you just need a break. Be gentle because it won’t always go as easy as you thought it would, but it doesn’t mean that it is not still something God is calling you to. I would even add to this advice, at least to myself for now, be honest with yourself also. Be honest that it’s not easy.

God does not need you to beat yourself up about the things that trouble you and God also does not need you to lie about how it’s going.

Gardener to God (a sermon on John 20:1-2, 11-18)

This is a short sermon which I wrote and preach at Redeemer Lutheran Church in Hinsdale, IL on June 25, 2014 on John 20:1-2, 11-18 

In today’s text, we find Mary in the midst of grief, confusion, and loss. In John’s account, Jesus has died and Mary is going to the tomb, but rather than finding the body of the Lord, she finds the tomb has been opened.

In a panic, Mary runs to find some of the other disciples. As they return to the tomb, they are greeted by angels in the place where Jesus’ body had been.

Mary is still weeping and the angels ask her why. She replies “they have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.”                   Mary thinks that someone has taken Jesus away from her, but that is not true, Jesus is right next to her, only she doesn’t see him, she sees a gardener.

I think this is a very relatable feeling.

Many times in life we are feeling hopeless and despairing,             we may try and seek Jesus but only find seemingly empty tombs.       

Like in the early stages of writing this message.                   I kept searching for where God was in the text, trying to find what the Holy Spirit was leading me to and as I could not find the words, I felt as if I kept seeing the gardener, not the Lord.

Or maybe the more serious times in our lives.              

You may or may not know this, but Noah is not our first child.

In August of 2012, our son Josiah was born, stillborn 3 weeks before his due date.

Throughout Josiah’s pregnancy, it was easy to see God. I don’t know that I have ever had a greater appreciation for creation or the Creator than the first time I felt Josiah’s kicks.

Josiah was a very healthy baby          until he wasn’t.

Without warning or a cause known to us, he died.

This may be something like what Mary felt.

Jesus ministry and movement was growing and going well, there were alleluias and hosannas in the highest all over the place,       until there wasn’t.

Then it happens. Jesus has died and has been placed in a tomb.

Days later, Mary goes to the tomb seeking the lord and cannot find him.

I remember the days after Josiah had died. I felt lost.

I prayed that God would heal Josiah, I prayed that God would undo this death and let him live.

I was probably much angrier at God than Mary Magdalen is in the text, but God was not where I thought he was supposed to be.

Mary thought Jesus would be laying there                and he wasn’t.

He was instead standing next to her in the tomb.

My expectations were met in a similar way,             Jesus was not undoing Josiah’s death like I thought he was supposed to, but he was standing next to me.

It happened in a reading at Josiah’s funeral.

It was from Mark and it was a text where Jesus says, “Let the little children come to me; do not stop them; for it is to such as these that the kingdom of God belongs.”

Just as Mary knew the Lord as he called her name. Jesus went from gardener to God as I heard this gospel promise and I knew Christ was with us and also with Josiah. It was not how I thought it was supposed to be, but there was Jesus.

This is the part we often overlook about Jesus.          We share stories of how Jesus loved the outcasts and healed the sick. We celebrate him in the bread and wine. We acknowledge that he has taken our sin so that we may be forgiven and have eternal life. We confess but don’t often discuss that when Jesus died on the cross, he descended into the dead, he took on sin, the very thing that separates us from God, and took on death, the very thing that separates us from each other.

Through Jesus’ redeeming work on the cross, he conquered their powers so that they may no longer separate us.

Yes, sin and death are still very present in the world but know that when you encounter them, the one who conquered them encounters them with you and will continue to stand by you.                 

Amen. 

From Dust You Were Made and to Dust You Shall Return

Ash Wednesday is the start to my favorite time in the church year. The time spent in Lent has been one I have loved since I started attending church in high school. To love this contemplative, alleluia-less season means many things. Maybe I love it so much because I’ve never actually followed through on the giving up something practice that so many take part in. I think I gave up pop one year, but I was allowed to drink it on Sundays because someone had said that Sundays are not included in the 40 days, and because it’s the Sabbath and self-denial is hard work! Work – and you aren’t supposed to do that on the Sabbath, so go to church and enjoy a Dr. Pepper at your post-worship Olive Garden lunch and rest the day away– that was my theory then anyway. Nevertheless, I don’t think my denial of pop brought me any closer to God, prepared me for Easter, or even helped to understand temptation (I don’t think I lasted the 40 days either). The aspects of Lent that I have participated in are traditional in other ways – soup suppers and Holden Evening Prayer – how can you not love soup and Holden? It is such a beautiful service and I especially love this practice because it is one I’ve taken part in since I knew Lent was a thing. As soon as the familiar songs begin, it brings back memories of past Lents and triggers a reflection which continues through the season. It feels like adding a ring to a tree’s growth every time we encounter these 40 days. The songs and prayers from this service are a way to touch and revisit each of those rings from years passed. Ash Wednesday is the kick off to the whole thing.

Ashes to Ashes / Dust to Dust

On Ash Wednesday, I had a whole mix of emotions as I looked down at my sleeping 1-month-old startle as he received ashes in the sign of the cross on his forehead and heard the words “from dust you were made, and to dust you shall return”. I thought of my love of Lent - where my life had been in previous years and where it is now. I thought of Noah and wondered how will he take on these practices in his own life. I think most of all I was overwhelmed by looking down at one of my sons with an ash cross on his small face, and thinking of my other son who sits in ashes in a marked box in our bedroom.

From dust you were made, and from dust you shall return.

I think Noah’s response to this reminder of our mortality was one we should all have. Startle. Yes, death is a part of life and one day it will happen to us all. So be startled. This startle is not fear. This startle does not petrify us. This startle is a brief wake up from our comfortable on-going lives. This startle is a chance to reflect and ponder where our lives are because, at any unknown time, it is dust which we shall return. Now I doubt that is what Noah was doing at this time (although I am his mom and I think he is brilliant, so I’m not totally ruling it out). His following response is also more than appropriate – he smiled and returned to his nap peacefully. 

This startle should not upset you. Put this startling news to good use, so you can smile and happily return to your life when your Lenten journey ends.

My Startle – My Lenten Journey

For Lent I have decided to take on a new practice. Be gentle with yourself. It is the name of my blog which suggests that I think it’s important and do it all the time, right? Well no, that is a lie – not the importance part, but the actually doing it. These are not words of wisdom that I came up with, so I should explain the namesake. When Josiah died and a new semester of seminary started the next week, Josh and I met with one of our professors. While discussing whether or not we should start classes and how to live in our new reality, this was his advice: Be gentle with yourselves. If you are having a good day, allow yourself to have a good day without feeling guilty and if the next day is a bad day, let it be a bad day and not feel like the good day was a lie.                  But beyond this life circumstance, shouldn’t we all be gentle with ourselves at all points in our lives? On the good days, the bad days, and the days in-between, be gentle with yourself.                          

I am startled. I am reviewing my life, knowing, like with Josiah, that we never know when our time here is done. I am startled. I am using this Lenten journey to give up the things that keep me from being the best me because they distract me from who God created me to be. And I am being gentle with myself in preparation for Easter. Easter is the time which we celebrate the hope we have in Christ. We also celebrate the grace God has for us. And this is why I am taking on the practice of being gentle with myself – here’s the thing, when you are not gentle with yourself, not only do you get in the way of being your best self, but more importantly you do not allow yourself to accept and experience God’s grace. You will be too busy with why you should have been better, why you need to do more, why you are not enough – but I mean really, if God can forgive all, if God extends limitless grace to all, can’t we give ourselves a little?

I am practicing being gentle with myself already because obviously Ash Wednesday was 9 days ago – so I will let the time that has past go, and start here and now.

I will be doing this journey with somewhat of a format. Each week, I will be gentle with myself with a focus I have chosen which I deemed as “problem areas” for my self-gentleness (okay I thought I’d try out that phrase but it sounds weird so I won’t use it again). Each week will have goals that go with that week’s focus and I will blog about them each which. (Much of this journey came to me while reading Rachel Held Evans A Year of Biblical Womanhood – read it, it’s great!)

The focuses are:

-Be gentle with yourself, with a discerning spirit 

-Be gentle with yourself, with a realistic attitude

-Be gentle with yourself, with flexibility

-Be gentle with yourself, with intention 

-Be gentle with yourself, with forgiveness

-Be gentle with yourself, with real presence

From dust you were made and to dust you shall return – so in the meantime, be gentle with yourself.

What's in a Name?

In the last few years I have realized there is a great significance to a name – maybe not even just the name, but the actual act of naming. I have realized this in a number of ways – through grief, through joy, through anger, through confusion and numbness. Naming is so powerful because it is the point of which you are ready to recognize a thing, you give it importance or at least assign the amount of value you see in it with its name. Other people may not give something the same name. A good example of this is every time I go home, I assign myself the task of throwing out everything, hm, no, cleaning…no... simplifying my mom’s closets, garage, or attics. We both may start at naming the items as ‘stuff’ but as the project continues the names change – I tend to call it ‘junk’, ‘crap,’ or more colorful words as the day goes on, while my mom names it as ‘not that bad’, ‘still good’, or by the memory it is tied to. She also does not name my self-appointed task as simplifying – but you get the point. Names show value and feeling. (Note- my mom is not a hoarder or anything – I just really like getting rid of stuff)

The act of naming is at least equally as important. It is the process of acknowledging the thing – then calling it what it is – at least what it is to you in that moment. There is such power in that act alone – because once you acknowledge and name something, you can begin to understand it and the relationship you have with it (‘it’ could be a thing, ‘it’ could be an event, ‘it’ could be a person or relationship with a person.) The act of naming also allows you to claim something – to claim your feelings, to claim what it is that is happening, to claim it and name it – not just let it blindly happen to you. Once you have named the thing, you know what to call it takes away some of the power it has over you – you can face it and call it by name. I would imagine this is largely why groups like Alcoholics Anonymous (irony in the anonymous organization being a good example of the importance of naming – but anyway)  start out by saying “I am my name and I am an alcoholic” Two powerful things happen here – first you recognize who you are, you value first that you are you, not just a condition or your brokenness, you are not a nameless victim overcome by your problems, because you are claiming first and foremost – I have value and I have a name bigger than this. But you do not ignore the brokenness. Instead, you name it. You face it. You don’t make excuses or try and sugar coat it – you call the thing what it is so you can begin to overcome it and reclaim your power. Because before you can name it – it is naming you, and generally not very nicely.

So far, I have spoken of naming mostly from a ‘power’ standpoint or how beneficial it is in situations of conflict or negative relationships with a person or thing – but it is much more than that. In the first chapter of Genesis, we learn of how God speaks things into creation and names them as ‘good’. From the start, God has seen all creation as good. In the second creation story (yes, literal creationists – there are two creation stories in Genesis – and they aren't the same! But that's another story - haha get it?) But anyway, in the second story God does the whole creation thing, we are in the garden and God gives the man the job of naming every living thing. From the beginning – or just after the beginning began – God gave us the privilege, honor, and great responsibility of naming. So what do we do with it?

As I am now pregnant with my second child – naming has been on my mind for a while now! Naming a child is one of the greatest responsibilities a parent is first given. Throughout both of my pregnancies, I have focused on names since the beginning – actually since before the beginning, when we even thought of having kids and probably before that – I have thought of names. There is a scene from the movie Where the Heart Is that always comes to mind when the naming process starts. This is not word for word, but the pregnant woman is asked by a stranger what she is going to name her baby. She responds something like “I was thinking Wendi – with an i” and the man is not pleased. He tells her she needs to give that baby a strong name. She ends up naming her Americus. I’m not going for that name – but the name has always had to have meaning for me. (I should include, my husband, Josh, is included in the naming process, but he does not obsess about it from the moment we see the lines on the stick, or start thinking of having a baby. He is sure we will figure it out by the time we need to and doesn't wake up in the middle with the perfect name.) Josh and I come up with very different names. Mine probably fall more into the Wendi with an i categories, and his are more Americus sounding...neither work out too well! His general reply to my name suggestions are also “that is not a name, that's a word” and sometimes "that's not even a word" and he likes to (jokingly) suggest things like Jebediah or other Old Testament horrors that I refuse to let happen. It truly amazes me we ever agree on a name – but when we do, we both love it and it is as if that baby has always been named that and we finally discovered it.

Josiah seemed to always have his name. Here are few things we loved about the name Josiah. 1) It’s biblical – and has a pretty interesting story of a boy who became king at 8 years old and restored the Kingdom of Judah to God. 2) My husband’s name is Joshua, his brother’s name is Jeremiah – Josiah is like lovely combination of the two!                       His middle name comes from his grandfathers. Josh has both his grandfathers’ first names as his middle names (Alfred Ted). The problem we came across with Josiah is that my dad’s name was John – and our last name is Johnson. Josiah Dale John Johnson sounds like a racecar driver’s name and I was not about that. So we went with our dad’s middle names – Josiah William Claude.

There have been many things that have come up since naming him that have been lovely reminders that this was most definitely what his name was to be. One of these occasions was the night that Josiah was born. Josiah was stillborn at 37-weeks. Hours after he was born, we had a blessing and naming service with our parents and pastor. Part of the service includes a reading from Jeremiah that talks about how before we were formed in the womb God has known us. The verses right before this reading talk about King Josiah.

While searching for Noah’s name, I looked up what Josiah means. I had to laugh when I saw the meaning. God heals. At first it felt like tragic irony – luckily I have a great sense of humor for this sort of thing (it’s a gift of grief.) But for Josiah to mean God heals. God heals?! Heals my baby that died before he was born. It did not often feel like God healed him. I can’t say how many times in the days to follow the news of Josiah’s death that Josh and I prayed for God to heal. Our prayers for healing were to make this not have happened – undo this – Lazarus this situation or something! But in reflecting on our journey of grief and growth since these days – I think the name is perfect. Healing does not mean cure – it is one of the great and painful misunderstandings when reading about all of Jesus’ miracles after you have suffered great loss. (I’m not claiming that a physical cure didn't come with Jesus’ miracles – but the importance is the healing) Healing in Jesus time was about restoration. Restoring, wholeness, and meaning. Jesus healed the lepers because they were restored to community – during Jesus’ time, life centered around community – it was not the individualistic world we like to try and live in today. So Josiah was our healing – God may not have healed Josiah in the physical way that we wanted – but God healed us through Josiah.

Now for Noah. When we found out that Noah was a boy, we first liked the names Jacob, Isaac and Isaiah – but landed on Jacob – for a couple of days. We both really liked the name but then a few days later we looked at each other and agreed that we did not think this boy’s name was Jacob. Or Isaac. Or Isaiah. So we were back at square one. I was driving to work about a week later and the song Don’t Stop Believin’ by Journey came on and I was talking to the then-unnamed Noah, telling him how his brother loved this song when I was pregnant with him and he would kick and dance the whole time the song was on. Suddenly while talking to him I felt like I knew his name – he was Noah. I shared this with Josh and he agreed that this was Noah. Noah’s middle name is Kenneth – which is my grandpa’s middle name and Josh’s best friend’s name. (Clearly we have a pattern – first name: biblical, middle name: family)

So what does Noah mean? Comfort. I couldn't believe it when I read it. (Now I laugh because I can tell you that 2 weeks from my due date – comfort is not in the top 100 words I would associate with this kid! But I do think it fits him – once again, in a non-physical way.) Being pregnant with our second child, again a son, just 9 months after the death of my first child seemed like anything but comfort – anxiety, stress, complete fear and constantly being terrified of just about everything, occasionally trust, hope and joy – but I would not name much of this as comfort overall. When I look back on our timeline, it felt like 3 pregnancies. I was pregnant with Josiah for 9 months. Then there was 9 months between Josiah and Noah. This pregnancy was the worst. It was the hardest – it was a pregnancy without a child, but with fear, with loss, with grief, with reoccurring loss of hope with each negative pregnancy test or each reminder that Josiah was gone. It was a pregnancy of growth that I never wanted to endure. A pregnancy of finding the new me and fighting it much of the way. Through a child was not born from it – many other life changing things were and I would not be the same without that time. And then we have my pregnancy with Noah – my pregnancy of comfort – while it started with lots of anxiety and fear, as Noah grew and it became more real that hope can come after loss and that good things can still happen.

Just as God’s healing was felt through Josiah, God’s comfort has been felt through Noah.

(I do worry a little I may be subconsciously putting a lot on my kids with their names – but I tend to view it more as a subconscious celebration of God’s presence in our lives.)

I am Grieving

I am grieving the innocence I had before great loss. I have experienced some of this loss when my dad died nearly 4 years ago. He was young, I was young, there was so much life that he was supposed to be here for, and I had to learn at 22 that what was supposed to happen doesn't change what has, and only makes the new reality more painful. I had to learn early that the world can have much more pain than we think we can handle, and after that, we cannot see the world the same. While some of the innocence can slowly return as time helps to scab the raw wounds we endure with loss, but there is always a small part that knows that the scar is still there, the pain life can give and you can’t fully trust that there is much goodness as you remembered. You can no longer say ‘well that only happens to those people, for this reason, ….it can’t happen to me’ but now you know better, now you know it can, and it does, and it doesn't care what else has happened in your life, how old you are, how good of a person you try to be, or any of it, it happens, and your innocence is gone.

I am grieving the excitement I had before great loss. This follows the innocence, and in many ways it is very much the same, but also different. As soon as I saw those two pink lines on the stick, there was never anything that could go wrong, the first time. We got pregnant with Josiah rather quickly and as soon as we learned of his existence, we were nothing but excited. This excitement was present at every appointment, whether a general check-up, an ultrasound or even the less comfortable appointments. There was always excitement with Josiah because we did not know anything could ever go wrong. We never believed it could happen to us, and honestly did not think that stillbirth was still a thing that people have happen, with all the medicine, technology, and care, we didn't think it could happen. This reality was crushed as we learned that our healthy baby boy was no longer alive. Even as they searched for his heartbeat at our 37-week appointment, I still did not know this could happen, as we walked down the hall to check the ultrasound, not being told yet of what the facts were pointing to, I remember being excited that we would get to see him again. I was excited until they turned on that screen and my heart broke as we saw the still picture. No flicker. No sound. No movement. He was still. He was gone.

Now I am pregnant with Baby #2. We have had some excitement, but it is accompanied with a fear. This excitement and fear have been present with each pregnancy test, especially all the ones that were negative. It is hard to only be excited when you know what can happen. We know what could happen. I don’t want it to seem that we are not excited about this baby because we are, and we are very happy and excited about this baby. But we know what we could lose. This partnership of fear and excitement are also present at every appointment as well.

I am grieving the hope I had before great loss. Again, this is similar to the grief, of innocence and excitement, but it is different. Tomorrow is our ‘big’ ultrasound with baby #2. I am 21-week along. Tomorrow we get to see the baby, for the 3^rd time (once at 11 weeks and again at 17). Tomorrow we get to start to call the baby, he or she, instead of Baby or it. Tomorrow is also the day that our hearts could be broken again. This ultrasound is more extensive and looks at the baby’s organs and how everything is going. There is no reason we have to think that anything should come up showing that the baby is unhealthy. There is also no way that this ultrasound could tell us that what happened with Josiah would happen with this baby. We think Josiah died because of a cord accident. An ultrasound could only prevent death in this instance if you were having an ultrasound as the accident happened. Maybe the worst part is also that there is no way this ultrasound can restore all the hope we've lost. It can bring some, but until I have a crying, breathing, healthy baby in my arms, I can’t know another reality.

I am grieving the loss of the family I don’t get to have. I grieve that this baby will not know its brother. I grieve that Josh and I don’t get to know Josiah more than we did. We do not know what our son’s cry sounds like, what his eyes look like or see his small chest rise and fall as he breathes. These are things that we will get to experience in the first moments with this baby, and we will grieve for a lifetime with Josiah. I grieve that I will always cringe when people ask me how many children I have. I grieve that I will never have a family picture with my whole family.

I am grieving, but I give thanks for that which I had before and have after great loss.

I don’t want to seem like there is no way I will ever have innocence, excitement, or hope again. I will, and each come back a little at a time, but I am grieving what will never be again. I will take hope in the promises of God and God’s presence and healing. I take excitement knowing that good things can still happen, even after horrible things happen. And I regain innocence as I trust in things that bring me excitement and hope.

While I grieve, I give thanks. I give thanks for the time we did have with Josiah. I give thanks that we are here again, about to see our little one and I give thanks that though I grieve, it is not all I do.