Even So

Three years ago today, we wrapped our second sweet baby boy in a soft blue blanket, kissed his perfect little baby cheeks, told him that we loved him, and walked away forever. It was by far the most traumatic day of my life, more traumatic even than our first goodbye just two years earlier. I left a piece of me behind as I walked away that morning. My heart very nearly died. And as I awoke this morning, my body remembered. Deep nail marks embedded into clenched palms, head pounding, muscles tensed. With no conscious thought of the significance of this day, while still bleary eyed and unfocused in my mind, my body already knew. As did my soul. You see, the mind is pretty good and shoving things aside, at avoiding, at moving on. Not so the body and the spirit. No, they do not forget.

 

Three years later. And I miss him. And my heart aches. And I don't understand. Three years later, and I don't have all of the answers. I don't have any of them, really. Three years later, I haven't learned just one perfect shiny life lesson that I can put up proudly on display somewhere as I smile and say, "See? This is the reason. It all makes perfect sense now." Not even close.

 

Even so, it is well with my soul.
 

There is a gift in knowing that you do not have all of the answers. There is a gift in knowing that healing doesn't always mean sunshine and rainbows. And there is a gift in knowing that sometimes life DOES give us more than we can handle. Far, far more. Three years later, these things I know for sure...

 

I do not have all of the answers. I probably never will. That is why I rest in the arms of the One who does have the answers. Because I do not labour falsely under the delusion that I will ever figure it all out. There is peace in that. It gives my mind rest.

 

Healing. Sometimes in this world, you can be healed and still live with pain. Imagine for a moment that I am an amputee, having lost both of my arms. While the wounds have closed over and the bleeding has stopped, there are still phantom pains where those limbs used to be. And though I have adapted, and become fully capable even with them gone, I would still do anything to have them back. I am a better person than I was before I lost them. God has moulded me. Changed me. And I wouldn't trade that for anything in the world. But the fact is, they're still gone. And every single thing that I do in life is impacted by that. And it hurts. And I'll miss them. Forever.

 

And last but not least - in this life, we are sometimes given FAR MORE than we can handle. Before losing my boys, I embraced the delusion that "God won't give you more than you can handle". It was a lie that I bought into innocently. But it was a lie. Nowhere in scripture is such a promise found. If you do your research, you'll discover that it's true. How ridiculous it seems to me now to think that I could handle ANYTHING life happened to throw at me. How arrogant I was. The truth is, I have been given far more than I could handle. Twice. And I can take none of the credit for surviving it. None of the credit for seeing my life transformed for the better in the midst of pain beyond fathoming. No, all of the credit goes to the One who carried me. Who walked me through fire. Who kept my feet from slipping. Who didn't let me drown. Without Him, I would not be breathing.

 

As we prepare to move to a new home, I have shed many tears about leaving this place. This is the home that we carried our sweet Michael into, snug and cozy in his infant seat, wrapped in the family shawl. This is the home where we rocked him and cuddled him, bathed him and dressed him. And as we prepare to leave this beloved place behind, I knew I needed something to honour those memories to be placed somewhere prominent in our new home. So I have been searching for paintings or wall hangings with the words, "It is well with my soul." And as I searched, I stumbled upon just one that was a little different. "Even so, it is well with my soul".

 

Even so.

 

Even with questions. Even with pain. Even when life gives you more than you can handle.

 

It's been a hard day. I miss a little boy who was once mine.

 

Even so, it is well with my soul.

 

Three

Somewhere in the world, a little boy turned three today. A little boy who was once mine. He does not hold a little place in my heart, as I think that most assume. I was his mommy. He was my child. And therefore, he holds all of me.

Five Years

Five years ago today, our lives changed forever. In one moment, all that we had been was shattered. In that moment, a stranger laid her hand on my pregnant belly and told us that you were going to die. Tears in her eyes, her first words were not explanation or diagnosis. Just a whispered, “Poor, poor baby,” as life as we knew it came to an end.

And I remember in those early, agonizing days stumbling upon a small stack of photos. Some candid  wedding shots. One of daddy, laughing as always. And me, smiling in the sunshine. And I remember weeping for those two people, the people we once were. My heart hurt for them as they smiled back up at me. They had no idea what was to come.

And yet now, I think back on those two smiling faces, and I do not regret the path that lay ahead of them. I look back on the people that we once were, and I am so glad that you came to change us. Loving you, my Owen, transformed us. Loving you made us the people we were meant to be. You taught us more in your brief time on this earth than we could have hoped to learn in a thousand lifetimes. It is because you were different, my sweetheart, that we are different too.

In the past five years, there has been more heartache and more joy than we could have fathomed living in a lifetime. More tears than any parent should ever have to cry. Losses beyond our comprehension. Five years. Four children. Two goodbyes. Four blessings. And a path more beautiful than any we could have chosen for ourselves. Each and every day, we thank God for this journey. Because the light is so much brighter when reflected through lingering tears. And the gifts that we’ve been given outweigh every fracture of our hearts.

Your daddy and I are so grateful, my sweet Owen. So grateful for YOU. And for the path that began that day five years ago, when our lives changed forever.

Happy Birthday

My precious Owen, you are four today. My heart hurts missing you. I love you, my sweetheart, forever and ever.

Numb

Today, I am numb. And in my ceaselessly analyzing mind, I have battled with that fact. I do not believe that numbness, at least not extended periods of it, is healthy. I have worked hard to disallow numbness in my life. Worked hard to feel my true feelings, as difficult as it has been.

I believe in crying. In talking. In writing. I believe in mourning the loss of my children wholeheartedly and honestly, to the best of my ability. Following the loss of my first son, I threw myself passionately into the work of grieving well, believing that was one way in which I could honour his memory. I knew that my little sweetheart in heaven would want his mommy to be healthy and well. And that the only way that was possible was to be mindful and intentional in the way that I faced my grief. And as strange as it may sound, I am proud of the work I have done and continue to do in grieving the loss of my first baby boy. And I know he is proud of me too.

But then I lost my second baby boy. And his loss was so vastly different. So traumatic. So un-final. And though my experience with grief did help in many ways (what a strange thing to ever have to say), there is no such thing as a road map for grief. Every journey is different. And mine have certainly been. In this second journey, there have been more moments of numbness. More moments of burying memories, avoiding pain, and stifling tears. It has been, in part, because of the different nature of this loss. And it has been, in part, because of my need for survival. My need for normalcy in a life that has of late taken sharp turns away from normal.

Today was an anniversary day. The anniversary of a day I will never forget, regardless of the pain of those memories. And though all week I have fought waves of grief, today I clung to numbness. I know that as time progresses, I will continue this work of grief. But for today, I will give myself permission to be as I need to be. I know the tears will come. But perhaps not today. For this moment, I am numb.

And as I write, even through numbness, God is still gracious and He still speaks. And as I write, I am reminded of His constancy. His never-ending presence in the midst of my grief. Through my tears. Through my trauma. And even through the moments when I long to just shut it all out, shut myself down, and be numb…Still He is there. I do not understand the mind of God, or His purpose in allowing such heartbreak in my life. All that I know is that He has never left me, even in those moments I could not feel Him there. I am so grateful to serve a God who is so gracious and so forgiving. Who loves me in my times of utter weakness. Who holds on to me in the moments I can no longer cling to Him. He has walked with me through the fire and prevented me from drowning. He holds me, even when I am numb.

Those who know your name will trust in you, for you, Lord, have never forsaken those who seek you. (Psalm 9:10)

One

Somewhere in the world, a little boy turned one today. But I was not able to give him birthday kisses on his chubby cheeks. I was not able to plan his birthday party, or to decorate his birthday cake. As hard as it may be to imagine, remembering the birthday of my little boy in heaven is so much easier than this. At least with my first son, I know that the celebration he is having in heaven is far more beautiful than any I could plan on earth. While I miss both of my little boys desperately, the loss of my second son is so much more complicated to grieve.

I know not one other soul who has endured an adoption loss. Not one person who can guide me, or tell me what to do. I did not know how to mark this day, so I waded through it as best I could. And thanks to the love and support of my angel mom friends, the blessing and joy of my beautiful daughter, and the constant and unwavering companionship of my husband who walks this road with me, I survived the day.

Earlier this week, I drove by a party supply store. And as images of balloons and loot bags in baby boy colours flooded to mind, I dissolved into torrents of tears. The anticipation of this day has let loose the floodgates of grief held at bay by the need to function normally in my busy, complicated, and in most ways happy, joyful life. Today there has been no holding back the tears. Because today is not what it should have been.

Yes somewhere, my little peanut, you turned one today. And though I can’t hold you or kiss you, I can love and remember you. I can pray for you, and treasure my memories of you. There is a space in my heart that will always belong to you, my little Mr. Smiley. And that space feels bigger than ever today…

Mothers' Day

How is it possible for a broken heart to hold so much love? For a heart shattered and re-shattered to both shed tears and bubble over with joy? There could not be a more complicated day for me than Mothers’ Day. Joy, laughter, and thankfulness coexisting with sorrow…

This is the fourth Mothers’ Day I have faced with a child missing from my arms. But it is the first after having lost two. My heart aches for both of my little boys today. And I know that it always will…

Yet this morning, I awoke to the sounds of my little girl singing cheerfully. And I had the blessing of experiencing mommyhood in its simplest form, as I wiped and re-wiped a runny little nose, cleared sticky breakfast dishes, and buttoned up a polka-dot raincoat. I breathed in the joy of my little munchkin today, holding her closely and cherishing each baby-scented kiss…

Pink helium balloons greeted us at the entrance to the cemetery this morning. The parking lot was crowded, and the cemetery full with adult children remembering mothers. But somewhere quietly in the crowd I know there wept mothers mourning children, mourning along with me. Kneeling in the rain-soaked grass, I remembered my two boys as my daughter laughed and danced. And as the sun tried it’s best to peek through the rainclouds, my heart both wept and rejoiced…

My journey of mommyhood has not been an easy one. But never before I embarked on this journey could I have imagined possessing a heart so rich with love. Perhaps it is that infinite network of breaks and shatters that allows my heart to expand so widely. Perhaps it is only because of those painful fractures that my heart can now be filled with such love, appreciation, and thankfulness…

 

Thank you, my beautiful babies, for blessing me with mommyhood. I love all three of you more than words can express. And whether in heaven, in my arms, or in my heart, I am so blessed to have been given the chance to love you…