March for Babies 2016

Saturday we walked. Our family of four, along with thousands of other people, and found their way to Norbuck Park at White Rock Lake in Dallas. And, honestly, just getting there was no small feat for us – getting everyone up early, fed, dressed, coated in sunscreen, driving almost an hour, riding the shuttle bus, finding the starting line in the sea of people and tents.

But then we started walking. It amazed me that so many people care so much about helping more babies have healthy starts in life. And I wondered how many stories of pain and grief and struggle were walking all around us in brightly colored shirts lifting up the babies born too soon.

Along our 5-mile route, there were signs in honor or in memory of the babies. I pointed out the first one to our 5-year-old, James, because I wanted him to understand why we were taking this “big walk.”

“Look, honey. Do you see that sign with the picture of the baby? That baby was born too early, but look – there’s another picture of them as a big kid. Isn’t it amazing how they grew up so strong!”

He seemed to get it. Then came another sign, this one with only a picture of a tiny baby, almost completely obscured by tubes and wires and gauze.

“What about that baby?” he asked.

“Well, that baby came too soon and went to God.” I could feel the tears prickle in my eyes. I looked at him to see if I should say anything else.

After all, it was just a week or so ago that I had talked to him about the big walk we were going to go on, to help other families who had a baby come too soon like his brother. And, there in the darkness of his room as we snuggled, sharing breath with our heads close together, eyes shining in the dim glow of his nightlight, he had asked, “My brother?”

He was confused. We’ve always been open and honest about Brennan, our baby who died, but it also doesn’t come up every day, so I understood. And it feels like a part of my calling as a mom is to keep Brennan’s memory alive –if I don’t persevere in speaking his name and remembering his life and telling his story, it will fade from all consciousness.

But that night, I just tried to answer simply, “Yes, you had another brother. He came too soon and went home to God.”

“Oh.”

We kept walking. The last time I participated in a March for Babies, James was in a stroller, and I had enjoyed chatting with another mom, who was pushing her twins along. And it hadn’t seemed like 5 miles. It passed in the blink of an eye and the retelling of birth stories.

But this past Saturday, I felt every step. I don’t think I had really noted that it was a 5. Mile. Walk. I had brought the stroller for Ethan, our 19 month old, but didn’t have anything available for James. Poor kid. He held up for the first mile, then we jostled our arrangements, pulling out of the steady stream of mothers, fathers, kids, grandparents, dogs, strollers, and wagons. We put James in the stroller, where his long legs nearly touched the ground, and tried to persuade Ethan into a carrier I could wear. He agreed to that for almost a half mile, then we had to rearrange again. So we settled into a rotation for Ethan between my arms or Andy’s shoulders or the stroller. James would get to ride in the stroller for a while, then walk for a while, and finally get a ride on daddy’s shoulders.

And in the midst of all of this, I was passing around snacks – raisins, graham crackers, squeezable fruit pouches, cereal bars – and water. I wondered if my family would ever forgive me for dragging them into this.

For all of our logistical difficulties, the day was beautiful – overcast and cool, with many sweet breezes to rustle the leaves of the big trees and propel the sailboats on the lake. My husband uses an app that tracks his speed and route for his bike rides and he had turned it on for our March. I feel like our 2.5 mile/hour pace was incredibly respectable.

James enjoyed grabbing water bottles at the pit stops and ended up watering a tree toward the end of the walk. I shook my head, while appreciating the ease of that task for boys.

We finally completed our loop, passing under a bridge and pausing for a family selfie before heading back through the March for Babies arch. There was music blaring and snacks offered. There were lots of teams enjoying hot dogs, hamburgers, or boxed lunches, but we headed straight for the shuttle buses since it was close to lunch time and we needed to get our crew home, fed, and into bed for naps.

That night, as James and I lay in his bed as a part of the night-night ritual, he started talking about our day.

“There were so many signs,” he said.

“I know. Too many babies are born too soon. We raised money to help that not happen so much,” I replied.

“We did?!”

“Yes. Do you know how much we raised?”

“No, how much?”

“We raised $401.”

“Wow! That’s a lot of money.”

“I know, baby. I’m very happy that we were able to help so much.”

I am so deeply grateful to everyone who gave toward our family’s efforts this year – Chuck Aaron, Martha Myre, Sue Dillon, Mary and Gary Wright, Patria Lopez, Jared Williams, Kay Anderson, and an anonymous donor. I know that there are a lot of asks out there and many good causes, but your choice to support this March for Babies helps our family do good in Brennan’s name. And for however long we are able to do that, he is not forgotten. The Dallas March for Babies raised $879,407 and you helped make that happen.

I am also deeply grateful for the less tangible, but no less meaningful ways that my community has supported our family – prayers, hugs, listening ears, shared tears.

One of my favorite gurus is Glennon Doyle Melton and she has a word for this – it’s brutiful. It’s brutal and beautiful all at once and wrapped together and that doesn’t mean it’s worth any less. By the grace of God, we take the broken, shattered things and transform them into means of grace and love. Glory be!

So, if you ask me how the walk went, the answer, more simply than this long recap, is this – It was brutiful. 

the Power of the Pack

There’s no such thing as other people’s children.

This simple, impossibly challenging phrase has been with me for a few weeks now. It’s from Glennon Doyle Melton, the spark behind Momastery, and one of my favorite gurus.

It’s been prickling my soul because on my less-redeemed days, I can roll my eyes, sigh in exasperation, and silently judge other people’s children whether their 2 or 22 or 82. 

Thinking of some as “other people’s children” gives me the imaginary distance to feel superior to them. It allows my compassion to wither on the vine. It reinforces the biological and cultural desire to care and provide for my blood kin first and foremost, even to the detriment of “other people’s children.”

That kind of thinking is what builds walls between neighbors, whether they are individuals or countries. We trade in vulnerability and connection for the illusion of safety, security, and superiority.

And we do it to our own detriment. Recently, I’ve been thinking about the amazing youth group I served at First UMC – Denton. There were a lot of things that made those kids special, but one of my favorite things was that they self-regulated. I didn’t have to exert control or correction from outside as an adult. Instead, there were such strong core values instilled in the group, that were taught and transferred even as some graduated and others middle schoolers joined, that the youth themselves kept their peers held to high standards. It wasn’t uncommon to hear a high school student say, “We don’t do that here.”

That was the power of the pack, to borrow a phrase from the dog whisperer, Cesar Millan. In his work, he would occaisionally find dogs that were so isolated, so anxious, so ungrounded in what it meant to be a dog living right here, right now, that he would take them back to his place for some pack therapy. He knew that there is no better cure for what ails us than the support, encouragement, mentoring, and accountability that comes from pack life.

What we fail to realize most of the time is that we humans are pack animals. I mean, look at us – we’re so soft and tasty. We’re not faster. We’re not stronger. We’re not bigger. Like a school of fish or a flock of birds, the original means of safety for us was life together. That and the really big brains and opposable thumbs.

But over time, we’ve forgotten the simple truth that we are hard-wired – physically and spiritually – for the power of the pack.

As a young mother, I imagine there must have been a time when women didn’t have to be taught how to give birth or breastfeed. I imagine that life together with other humans meant that you saw the life cycle firsthand and learned accordingly. Heck, you might have even helped with the process, truly living into life together.

I long for the life I imagine. To know and be known in community, where “iron sharpens iron, and one person sharpens the wits of another…just as water reflects the face, so one human heart reflects another” (Proverbs 27:17, 19).

Of course, there is danger in pack life – ask anyone who has experience with the mindset of a mob or a gang. In every form, there is infinite possibility and danger, as we know from the smallest atom to the fathomless reaches of space.

But life rightly lived is life together.

This past week was Holy Week. For Good Friday, I prepared slides for worship that depicted different parts of the Passion narrative. And, I’ll confess, Lent went by in a blur this year and I wasn’t very prepared for the work. As image after image appeared in my search of the battered, bloody body of Christ, I felt the tears come.

But the one that hit me the hardest was when I imagined myself at the cross, because my creativity stood me in the place of Mary, Jesus’s mother. I felt an echo of the surge of grief and pain that must have been hers when she looked on her son, when she touched his crucified body. “Oh, my baby!”

Because being a parent, at least for me, means always thinking of my children as my babies. I’m sure I’ll do it even when they’re old and I’m ancient. But a part of me will always remember, will always be viscerally connected to their joy and pain, will always want to provide them the shelter and comfort of my own body.

I never thought I’d think of Jesus like that.

But suddenly, he wasn’t another person’s child – my compassion had been stretched to see him like his own mother did. It was heart-breaking in sorrowful and beautiful ways. In the next few moments, as I heard the news of those injured and murdered in terror attacks, I felt that same wave of compassion flood my system. Those are our children – somewhere there is a mother, a father, a whole pack, who mourns them. And beyond that, I thought of those whose desperation, whose isolation, whose warped sense of superiority and righteousness would lead them to do such things. Those, too, are our children. Oh, how my heart hurts for them.

I pray we all find our packs, our communities of redemption, including all the children whom God loves. Life is meant to be done together.

Why I march for babies

2013 was one of the hardest years of my life. That was the year we were delighted to know that we were expecting our second baby in November. Our pregnancy was carefully planned and a joy to achieve.

Our firstborn helped me share the good news with Daddy, wearing a new big brother shirt. Then we announced our good news on Facebook. There was so much happiness and support. My husband and I both come from families with 2 children, so we’d always planned to have 2 of our own.

In late June, my mother came in for a special ultrasound appointment. In the darkness of the exam room, we discovered that our baby was going to be a little brother. I had grown up with all girls in my household, but was quickly learning how to be a boy mom. We had big, silly grins on our faces as we looked at his toes, the shape of his head, the magic of being able to see our unborn baby.

Just a few days later, my mom would be traveling back to Texas, as well as my in-laws, as it all came apart for our family. My body had given out and my baby was born too soon to survive at just 21 weeks. We named him Brennan, which means “a man of sorrow.”

I have cried so many tears since then. We did go on to have a baby brother, but one baby never replaces another.

I march for babies because every year in the United States, more than half a million babies are born too soon, almost 54,000 of them right here in Texas. Too often in our society, we make family planning difficult and provide inadequate prenatal care for vulnerable mothers.

I march for babies to promote healthy pregnancies.

I march for babies to prevent premature births and birth defects.

I march for babies to educate moms and support families during difficult times. 

I march for babies to remember my son and to declare that his life means something. Every step I take in this march, every dollar given to this cause, offers the hope that other families will not have to suffer this pain.

This year, I’ll be marching in Dallas on April 16. I invite you to join me – whether it’s with your feet, your prayers, or your dollars. Every bit of it helps. 

Are we listening?

As a preschooler’s mom, I often say, “Are you listening to me?” When my son says yes, I usually follow up with, “What did I say?” Although a logical part of my mind knows better, the busy, everyday part thinks that if my child will just listen, then he will do as I say.

Writing that makes me laugh. He is my child, and this from the woman who had a heart-to-heart with the Southern Baptist pastor who presided at the wedding to share that she was not going to say “obey” in her vows. I listen to my husband, but that doesn’t mean I obey.

Reflecting on this as a parent, I saw a Facebook post from Momastery, a blog by Glennon Melton. She wrote, “My suspicion is that we all THINK we're listening when what we're really doing is simply waiting another person out so we can say our piece. So we can bring things back to us, so we can explain why we're righter, so we can fix things and fit them to our already established schema.”

When I was training as a Stephen Minister, one of our core practices was listening. We were to receive whatever was shared with us. Most people don’t feel heard on a regular basis. But for those who are experiencing difficult transitions – divorce, loss, diagnosis – the confidence of knowing there is at least one person who is really listening is a blessing.

Have you ever known a gifted listener? I met one early on in my ministry, when I was just fumbling toward God’s calling for my life. He let me pour out my heart, never giving any indication that he may have anything else to do but hear what I was saying. Over time, I noticed that he had this gift even in crowds. He was never one to look over your head, scouting out a better networking opportunity. Instead, he was completely there, present to the moment, listening to you.

Long before we had the gift of inexpensive written words thanks to Mr. Gutenberg which led to higher literacy rates, ancient peoples told stories. Experts usually call this an oral culture, that their histories and identities were conveyed by word of mouth. But I suggest that rather than an oral culture, ancient peoples had aural cultures, based on hearing.

Early in our Scriptures, we read, “Hear therefore, O Israel, and observe them diligently, so that it may go well with you, and so that you may multiply greatly in a land flowing with milk and honey, as the Lord, the God of your ancestors, has promised you. Hear, O Israel: The Lord is our God, the Lord alone. You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might. Keep these words that I am commanding you today in your heart. Recite them to your children and talk about them when you are at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you rise. Bind them as a sign on your hand, fix them as an emblem on your forehead, and write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates” (Deuteronomy 6:3-9).

“Hear,” “observe,” “hear,” and “keep” are used before “recite,” “talk,” “bind,” “fix,” and “write.” God asks God’s people to listen first, to keep these words in their hearts, before they take any steps toward speaking, even to their children. It’s the course of wisdom, and especially convicting for this pastor who has a tendency to speak first.

Melton’s post shared some words from Mark Nepo: “To listen is to continually give up all expectation and to give our attention, completely and freshly, to what is before us, not really knowing what we will hear or what that will mean. In the practice of our days, to listen is to lean in, softly, with a willingness to be changed by what we hear.”

Imagine if we really listened that way – to God, to our families, to our friends, to our enemies, and beyond. How might we be challenged and change and grow?

So this week, I’m going to stop trying to get my son to listen to me so much and I’m going to listen to him instead. When he struggles to tell me how sad it made him when a friend wouldn’t share with him, I’ll do my best to listen patiently. I can’t wait to see how I might change by leaning in. Consider to whom you might listen. I pray it becomes an avenue of blessing.

Finding our Meaning

When you are a little kid, you don’t get to decide much about your life. At least I know that’s the way of it most of the time in my house with my 3-year-old son. His agenda is directed, for the most part. “It’s dinner time, please come to the table.” “It’s almost time for bed, let’s put on our PJ’s.” “Please hurry, we’re running late.”

As often as I can, I try to give him some decisions, letting him try out his human autonomy in safe ways. We intentionally started this after I read an article on toddler-guided walks. I have always enjoyed neighborhood walks – getting exercise, visiting with neighbors, and enjoying outdoor time. When my son was an infant, this was easy and adult-guided since he was in his stroller. But as he became a toddler, it became clear that his idea of a walk and my idea of a walk were different.

Every so often, we would take a toddler-guided walk. I put aside the frustration and enjoyed seeing the world anew through his eyes. He was eager to pick up sticks and leaves, handing me the best treasures to take home. Once we discovered a little pile of sand at the bottom of a neighbor’s driveway and spent a good 30 minutes playing there.  And I’ve had the delight of sharing some of the fun things I remember from my childhood – blowing dandelion puffs, playing with roly-poly’s, and watching the wind make pinwheels whirl.

It’s a gift to get out of my head, off of my agenda, and engage with the world in the present moment. As human creatures, we tend to live in the past, reliving old glories and rehashing old mistakes, or the future, thinking about dinner or planning for retirement. It’s hard for us to live right here, right now, even though it’s all we really have. That’s part of the wisdom in the prayer Jesus taught his disciples. “Give us each day our daily bread” (Luke 11:3). When we pray, Jesus encourages us to live in this moment, to ask for what we need this day.

When we have time, we take little boy-guided drives. On the way home, my son regularly requests to see the police cars, the fire trucks, or the house that was damaged by fire and is being repaired. On our way between the fire trucks and the house, there was another house under construction. We both enjoyed seeing the work progress and noted when it was finished.

But just yesterday, my son asked, “What did they do to that house?” “They fixed that house so people could live there. A house is meant to be lived in,” I said. Again, being in the moment, explaining this beautiful, broken creation to my child, led me to a little epiphany. We are all meant for something.

In the words of one of our newer hymns: “As a fire is meant for burning with a bright and warming flame, so the church is meant for mission, giving glory to God’s name. Not to preach our creeds or customs, but to build a bridge of care, we join hands across the nations, finding neighbors everywhere” (Ruth Duck, The Faith We Sing #2237).

This past week, I got to join hands with my Jesus-siblings from four other local churches as we built a bridge of care to feed children in our community. Krum First United Methodist Church, Christian Center Assembly of God, First Baptist Church, New Beginnings Fellowship, and Plainview Baptist Church are working together to provide weekly lunch sacks to students served by the free or reduced lunch program in Krum ISD.

 

I believe it pleases God when we set aside our differences of creed and custom to do good in God’s name. Monday mornings we roll up our sleeves, sorting food and stuffing sacks. Monday evenings we head out into our community, distributing food. Each church is handling different food items as well as providing volunteers. If you are interested in serving, please just get in touch with any of the churches. We’d be glad to have you! And if you know of a child who might be hungry this summer, get in touch with us so we can let you know where they might go to receive.

As sons and daughters of our God, we are meant for something. Connect with a family of faith to go deeper, love more, and find your meaning in this life.

Living in Community

Come Sunday at the Krum Church, we’ll remember that Easter people live in community. Not just the superficial community some of us may settle for – the wave to the neighbors, drive through downtown, smile politely but keep the deep things to ourselves stuff of over-scheduled, underfed lives. We are made to live in community. It’s what God intended! God, who lives in community within God’s own self in the eternal relationship between Father, Son and Holy Spirit, created us with the same capacity and necessity for love.

I found this wonderful story recently on Momastery, one of my favorite blogs: In carpentry, “sometimes an existing joist, which was designed to handle a certain load, becomes too weak. Maybe it was damaged by water or fire. Maybe it still has structural integrity but an addition is being constructed and the new load is going to be a lot heavier than before. Either way, now it is not as sturdy as it needs to be.

When a builder needs to strengthen that joist, she puts a new member right next to the original one and fastens the two together. Sometimes, two new joists are needed- one on either side. Do you know what they call that? A Sister Joist.”

We need our brothers and sisters and they need us. Sometimes something has happened in our lives, some tragedy or circumstance that has left us grieving and broken. Or perhaps good, new challenges have come along such as a change of job or the addition of children and the new load is heavier than before.

The common perception that Christianity is primarily about the individual and a personal relationship with Jesus Christ is an insidious, modern heresy. Like the serpent in the garden, it whispers that we can be enough on our own.

But look at Jesus’ own ministry! Jesus didn’t collect a studio of students and only teach private lessons. No, he called together a small group, knitting them together in relationship with himself as well as with one another. The small group of the disciples and their rabbi was dynamic and life-giving. It allowed for questions to surface and lessons to be taught while ensuring that when the teacher was no longer physically present, they wouldn’t be alone in this life. Not only would the disciples receive the gift of the Holy Spirit, to comfort and empower them, but they would have each other.

It’s a good thing for all of us who call ourselves Christian to echo this example. If, for today, we aren’t the joists that need shoring up, then we are the ones called to stand alongside others, to lend our strength for a season. Because it all goes around in time. Those who lend strength today will need to borrow it someday. And if we live outside a deep community, our resources in times of need will be sorely lacking.

Some of us are blessed to find our first and best community in our families. This week also brings us Mother’s Day, an American holiday which originated with Anna Jarvis, a laywoman from the Methodist Episcopal Church in Grafton, West Virginia in 1907.

While for some of us this holiday is a straight-forward obligation to call our moms or make sure we get a gift for the mother in our household, I ask us all to remember that for many, it’s not that simple. Motherhood, like any human relationship, can be a messy reality.

So, as you do your shopping or get your cards in the mail, consider praying for mothering relationships in all their forms. Those who have struggled with infertility. Those for whom motherhood was unwelcome or challenging. Those who have lost children to death. Those who have struggled in relationship with their mothers. Those who opened their hearts to children through adoption or foster care. Those who struggle to balance the demands of family life with work and other commitments.

Maybe Mother’s Day can be an opportunity to live a greater reality of what it means to be family. Jesus said, “Who are my mother and my brothers? Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother” (Mark 3:33, 35). In this simple statement, Jesus reconstitutes what it means to be a family, calling us to extend the love we usually reserve for our nuclear families much wider. So, this week, consider embracing the Creator’s blueprints and live in community.

Just a Day in the Life

I always know I find it intriguing when other folks share an average day. In my line of work, there really is no such thing as average, but I started this note yesterday morning, having no idea what lay ahead. So, here it is, just a day in the life:

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

6:30am – Andy's alarm goes off, roll over, go back to sleep
7:00am – my alarm goes off, reach across the bed to turn it off, and head to the bathroom for a quick shower
7:15am – out of the shower, head to the living room to see James, my 3-year-old son, is already up and sitting with daddy on the couch
7:30am – juice and Alphabits for James, bowl of cereal for mommy, kiss daddy good-bye
8:00am – dressed, made up
8:20am – pack up James’ lunch, remembering he needs wipes for school so I pack those, too
8:35am – pause Caillou so James can brush his teeth, then back to the couch to put on shoes
8:43am – out the door, only running a few minutes late…

9:02am – arrive at the church, put James’s jacket on for the walk in, grab my cup of tea, my work bag, and his backpack and make our way to Children’s Day Out
9:10am – make it to the church office, answer a question from our lead pastor, then head to my office to put my bag down and check some e-mail
9:20am – remember that I’m almost out of contact lenses, so call my eye doctor’s office to order more
9:30am – extended staff meeting, share the exciting things going on in my ministry areas (successful Alternative Gifts Fair, Advent devotional coming out soon with companion photo-a-day challenge that I’ve created, Advent vesper services, etc.).
10:55am – after staff meeting, touch base with a couple of staff members about some pastoral care concerns – a young woman who recently lost her baby and who I might be able to help and a young man who is homeless and in a medical crisis
11:10am – get the message from our receptionist that a representative from a Methodist helping agency has stopped by to see me
11:12am – work with a member who has dropped off their Salvation Army angel gifts, to make sure they are “checked in” although I don’t have the registration sheets…
11:15am – talk with a woman who attempted suicide last week, work to ensure her personal safety, offer referrals, pray with her, and get her where she needs to go today
11:35am – talk with our office staff regarding our big Evening in Bethlehem event coming up in a couple of weeks, promise to e-mail other staff and volunteers to coordinate details
11:40am – talk with a church member about seeing if one of our First Meal guests would be a good possibility as a house-father/mentor for young men getting out of prison
11:45am – work on my e-mails!

12:05pm – get a call from the Conference office
12:20pm – heat up my can of soup for lunch, find some chocolate cake in the fridge and cut myself a slice – take my lunch to eat with a few staff members in the main office
12:55pm – clean up from lunch, grab my things for the next meeting…
1pm – meet with our clergy, music director, and worship assistant for worship planning! We get all the way through Christmas Eve (very impressive…)
2:15pm – put my resources down in my office, then go check my mail. There’s a check for the conference clergywomen’s lunch for which I’m receiving reservations.
2:20pm – touch base with our director of communications & marketing to go over the Christmas offering brochure. Make a couple of edits. Brainstorm some ideas.
2:40pm – drop off a video to our lead pastor for his upcoming sermon series
2:45pm – get the request to write the weekly message from the pastor since I’ll be preaching this Sunday. I’m excited about preaching, but have yet to find time to write the sermon down, so this should be interesting…and I remember I’m leading Bible study tomorrow at noon on this text, so it may also be helpful
2:50pm – finally sit down at my desk again – need to finish some e-mails and follow through on some promises!
4:55pm – pack up my things and head down the hall to pick up my boy!

5:10pm – pulling out of the parking lot, singing silly songs, and heading home
5:25pm – arrive home, we watch the men across the street put up lights while we check the mail. Then we go inside and I try to figure out what’s for dinner – baked ravioli (nothing needed to thaw, easy, but takes a while to bake)
5:45pm – Andy gets home, James is chowing on some leftover macaroni and cheese since dinner is still a little ways off
6:20pm – Dinner time! James rejects the ravioli, so he gets to have as many cheerios as he would like. Argh, it’s so frustrating when he won’t eat what I cook!
6:25pm – a good friend calls. I talk with her for a moment while Andy oversees dinner eating.
7:00pm – out the door to run some errands
7:55pm – Home again, time for a quick bath for James since he also would like to watch “a little bit of Caillou” before bed
8:20pm – Little boy bathed, drinking milk, and in his pajamas. Do a quick run around the house to make sure all his friends and blankets are on his bed, nightlight and monitor on, etc.
8:30pm – James picks “My Many-Colored Days” by Dr. Seuss for his bedtime story
8:35pm – James goes to give daddy a hug and a kiss, then we go to his bedroom for prayers, night-night song, patting, and eventually, mommy leaving his room to do some chores!
8:45pm – start the dishes
9:05pm – done with the dishes, in my jammies, ready for some grown-up TV time with Andy.
10:00pm – Conan!
11:00pm – head to bed and get ready for another busy day!

Running the Course

Grief is a weird thing. I’m so glad I captured Brennan’s birth story in my previous post. Every birth story is as particular and unique as it is universal. And we don’t tell our stories often enough. Especially the ones that are painful. I realized, following Brennan’s birth and death, that I had joined another unique social group. Before the birth of my first son, women did not tell me their birth stories or give me advice, but my expanding waistline bridged that gap and I was able to hear many good and helpful (among the cruel and unhelpful) things. Similarly, this time I was opened to hear stories from those who have walked a road like this one before. It hurts me deeply that there is so much pain out there, but I have also been able to find strength and hope that life continues, often in beautiful and grace-filled ways.

So, one of the things I wanted to discuss today are the helpful vs. unhelpful things that you can do for someone who is grieving, keeping in mind that my list is not a universal list, but just a start.

DO

• send notes, texts, Facebook messages, and call.
• Even if I don’t answer, which is usually the case for phone calls because I can’t keep it together for a conversation about this, it means a lot. It means that the death was real, that it’s important, and that I’m not alone in this. And the people who continue to touch base with me, even weeks later, make me feel better. Brennan may have died, but the impact of his life and death have not been forgotten yet.
• hug.
• I’m not usually open to lots of physical touch, but in grief, this is one of the best things. Better to show me you love me than to try to explain why this happened.
• offer to help.
• I haven’t been able to figure out what to tell people to do, it feels weird and un-American to ask for/accept help, but the offers are appreciated.
• if you feel the need to say something, simple is better.
• The best things people have said to me have been: “I love you.” and “I’m praying for you.”

DON’T

• try to explain why this happened.
• Let me tell you this – there’s no good reason why this happened. Death may be a welcome friend at the end of a glorious and well-lived life, but the death of an infant or child is tragic. I can’t explain it and neither can you.
• tell me I look good or, really, any comment on my physical appearance.
• I may look good to you, but in my particular circumstance, I’m a little furious with my body in this moment. My body was a traitor, it sustained an injury without my knowledge with led to a fatal malfunction. And I’m mourning the loss of my baby, the loss of my pregnancy, and my body is a brutal, constant reminder that I am no longer pregnant. So, yes, I may be regaining a waistline, but I’ve lost so much more.
• rush me to think about the future or project a future which may or may not be
• Some people want to ask about or predict future children, as if another child will make me forget the one that I bore. Brennan was a special, unique, one-of-a-kind baby. While there may be more children for us, someday, our hearts are not ready to consider it. And nothing will diminish the loss we have experienced. 

The worst, well-meaning thing that was said to me came on the Monday following his Thursday birth. I stopped by the office with my husband, to pick up a few things, to look through my e-mail, to make sure things would be ok if I was out of the office for a while. And one of our sweet ladies came up to me and said, “I lost a baby, too. I was Catholic at the time and the priest said to me, ‘God needs little roses in his garden, too.’” I held it together for the moment, but the grief and the pain were raw! The honest response that I wanted to shout was NO! But, what I said, because I’m her pastor, was, “I understand that may have been helpful for you, but I just don’t agree. We can talk about it more another time if you like.” 

I don’t agree because I don’t think God is a monster. If I truly believed that God was a micromanaging sadist who literally caused some to die out of season, some to lack clean drinking water or food, some to be murdered, some to be raped – I would not be a Christian! To read more about my thoughts on things being all a part of God’s plan, everything happens for a reason, etc., see this blog post from last year, ironically around this same time of year. 

So I keep running this course, letting the grief run its own course in me. I keep busy. I play with my first son. I do dishes. I run errands. Most of the time, the grief is turned way down in the background. But every once in a while, it swells unexpected and I have to take a moment to either embrace it and work through another piece of it OR stifle it down and stuff it away, knowing I’ll have to unpack it later. 

Some things that have made the grief swell:

• The first time I drove by the hospital where Brennan was born…and died.
• Walking by the baby room at our church’s daycare program, where we had already put a deposit down for Brennan’s spot.
• Touching my tummy.
• Realizing there’s no reason not to eat unpasteurized cheese, drink alcohol, eat lots of fish, breathe paint fumes, etc.
• Seeing Brennan’s name in the church worship guide and a white rose on the altar to recognize his death.
• Realizing that’s one of the few places his name will ever appear.
• Knowing his name will appear for our All Saints recognition…and there’s no good photo of him to share.
• Wondering if Brennan will grow up in glory or if he will always be an infant held in God’s arms.
• Erasing my due date and projected maternity leave from the church’s long-range calendar.
• Reading a book that I should read with James to explain what has happened and knowing there’s no way I can read it to him.
• Feeling like Andy and I literally lost of piece of ourselves.

The strangest thing that happened this past week was on Saturday, when I took James to go pick peaches at an orchard about an hour away. We got out of the city, got out of our usual routines, and did something entirely different. I realized I hadn’t yet taught James where some food really comes from, like that peaches come from trees, not just the grocery store. So we walked through the high grass, scattering the grasshoppers. We picked peaches that he could reach. He carried a little bucket. We shared a bowl of homemade peach ice cream afterwards. And I felt happy. Then I felt guilty. Now, I know I should not feel guilty for feeling happy, but it was just such a strange feeling. A little glimpse of something other than the sea of ok and not-so-ok I’ve been swimming in lately. The course continues.

Rock a Bye, Baby

This is the song that I’ve been singing to our son, James, for the past couple of months. Ever since I started to clean out the bedroom full of junk that would soon need to be a nursery for our baby due in mid-November. So, the glider that I’d bought at a yard sale was moved out of that room and into James’s room. And he loves it.

Just over a week ago, I rocked James before putting him to bed and sang this song to him:

Rock a bye, baby, in the tree top

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall

And down will come baby, cradle and all 

It’s a horrible song, but it was the one that came to mind the first night I rocked him and he requested it every night after. And just over a week ago, I was the most contented, happy person as I sat and rocked my two sons – the one in my lap and the one in my womb. I sat in wonder as I contemplated the perfection of that moment, the peacefulness of the space, the life flourishing in and around me. It was amazing.

And then, last Tuesday, July 2, everything changed. Here is the disclaimer: this is a story of loss. I’m writing it for me. But I’m putting it here because another story of loss, which I came across on Facebook many months ago, helped me. So, if this can do any good in the world, I’ll put my words where they can be seen, no matter how painful it is.

That Tuesday was pretty typical – meetings in the morning and afternoon, sandwiching a quick lunch break of running errands – picking up the sonogram disk from the appointment on Saturday, buying presents for my sister’s baby shower, and grabbing a quick lunch in a drive through. I picked up James, touched base with my husband, Andy, and started a couple of side dishes for dinner when I got home. With a couple of pots on to boil and James firmly ensconced in front of the TV, I went to the bathroom. And I felt something start to come out that shouldn’t. In shock and amazement I saw and felt something like an exam glove filled with water. I heard the sizzle of things boiling over on the stove as I hurriedly tried to shove this thing – could it be my bag of waters?! – back up where it should go. Then I waddled back into the kitchen to rescue part of dinner, all the time feeling like something was wrong.

When Andy got home, he noticed the smoke in the house. I hadn’t even noticed it. I left dinner to him and went to lay down and call my midwife. They wanted me to come in immediately. I waddled back out to tell Andy and he put dinner down – unplugged, incomplete – grabbed James and off we went. It was surreal. When we got there, I went in, nervously sat on the exam table, since any movement seemed to make things want to fall down again, while Andy occupied James in the next room. The midwife took one look and said we were going to the hospital – yes, that was my bag of waters and it was not where it should be. That was when I started crying.

On the way to the hospital, we called a family friend who was amazing. She met us at the hospital, took James, went by our house to grab the diaper bag and everything else he may have needed for an extended stay, and took him home with her, where she had left in the midst of preparing dinner for her family. Then Andy and I walked into the hospital. It was an ordinary Tuesday afternoon. We were planning to go to Arkansas the next morning for a weekend filled with baby showers for me and my sister.

I knew things were bad because of the speed the team tackled me when I identified myself. I was stripped down bare, put into a gown, and put onto the bed. They started an IV, they inserted a catheter, they ordered a sonogram, they took a blood draw. All of this was strange for a person who is so healthy. Then they turned me upside down, talking around me about wanting to have gravity on our side. This is called the Trendelenburg position. It’s not comfortable, since it puts the weight of your body on parts of your body that were never meant to bear it – shoulders, neck, head. But if it was going to help my baby, by all means.

They did a pelvic exam and the midwife who had received me looked bleak. I remember someone saying that there were fetal parts in the vaginal vault. Good Lord, no! Why was my baby not up where he should be? So the sonogram came and we were all able to see the beautiful strong heartbeat, the movement of his arms and legs, and the fact that my cervix was completely dilated.

By this time, a doctor had arrived, and sat by my head to explain that this was called an incompetent cervix – one that opens of its own accord, with no pain, before it is time. I knew about this condition, I had treated my first pregnancy like a research project and was reviewing my notes through this second one. I had thought it was unkind to call a cervix incompetent, but I hadn’t thought twice about it. Now here I was. If there had even been a bit of the cervix left, they may have been able to sew it up and provide hope for a longer pregnancy and better outcome. But it was a full 10cm. Nothing left to pull together.

We called our parents. Andy’s parents drove through the night to us. My mom flew in in the morning. I sent Andy home around 9 so he could pick up James and put him to bed at home. And all the time I cried. Oh, my poor baby. I felt so sorry for all of us. The doctor had ordered a sleeping pill for me, if I chose to use it. I didn’t – as painful as this all was, I wanted to be in my right mind for it all and I never wanted to hurt my baby through using drugs – even just over the counter stuff.

I left the TV on to keep me company. I had my phone, so I texted with Andy a bit. I fell asleep around 1am. His parents arrived and he came back to the hospital around 3am. I decided we might need a name sooner than we had expected, so I looked online for something. I didn’t want to use any of the names we had been considering – solid, family names – because I didn’t want those names to die with our son. So, I searched by meaning and came up with a list. Andy and I decided on Brennan – a man of sorrow, a tear drop. That is truly what my second son became. 

The next morning Andy left to take James to play school. We wanted to keep some things normal. My mom arrived a little after 8am. We cried. My mom grilled the doctors – if I could keep the baby inside me for 48 hours, I would be transferred to another facility that specialized in high-risk pregnancies and premature babies. The doctor said my baby was pre-viable. He explained, but I knew what that meant – he couldn’t survive on his own yet. But if we could make it a few more weeks, the outlook got better. I started to ask questions about quality of life for a baby born that early and we decided to cross that bridge if/when we got there.

So that day passed. I ate a little, I slept a bit, I cried more. I asked Andy to bring James to see me that night. I had told Andy earlier how glad I was we had him – so grateful for this vibrant, smart, wonderful little boy. So James visited me in my room, although in my upside-down position, I couldn’t see him well, couldn’t hold him, and he didn’t really want to come sit with me. I can understand – hospital beds are no fun. Then they left, my mom stayed with me, and another night came. I slept a little bit better than I had the first night. I don’t know why. I think part of me was coming to terms with what was happening. I think maybe I was beginning to get a grip on the inevitable. Especially when I started to wake up with cramps. I had a feeling this was not going to end with a transfer to the other hospital…

The next day was a lot like the one before. Early morning blood draw, almost edible food, kind nurses and doctors that looked at me with compassion and sadness. I knew I was a sad case for them. I couldn’t help but ask them about the other people in the labor and delivery unit – how many babies had been born? How were they doing? I wanted desperately to know that life continued in healthy and beautiful ways around me, even if I was trapped in this pit.

Sometime that morning I felt a bit of fluid. The doctor came to see, but couldn’t tell if my bag of waters and broken or not. Regardless, I felt in my bones that this was the day. A little before noon, I felt the bag of waters slip lower. I told my mom, she called the nurse, and again things flew into double-time around me. I was so calm for some reason – the inevitable had arrived. The doctor examined me and I was right – the bag of waters was coming down and out. Somehow Andy was there and came to stand by my head. Just before noon, I was pushing, without any cue or help from contractions. The worst part of this was knowing I was signing my baby’s death certificate. He slipped from me with the bag of waters intact and I could feel the fluttery movements of his legs against my thighs. He was born breach. I pushed again and felt a pain at the top of my pelvic bone. I reached down with my hand, pushed down, and his head emerged, still in the bag of waters. “When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall. And down will come baby, cradle and all…”

The first night in the hospital, we had asked the doctor what the baby would look like if he came this early. She had said he would be a fully formed baby, but with very little fat, about the size of a can of Coke. She said that it would be up to us what we wanted to do afterwards – if we wanted to see him, if we wanted to hold him, etc. Andy and I decided we would not want to see him. It would just hurt too much. And I already knew everything I could know about my baby boy from the life he had lived within me.

Even so, when that moment came, as the doctor caught my baby and the nurse reached forward with a blanket to wrap him up – my eyes instinctively sought him out. Andy covered my eyes with his hand. And I broke. I sobbed. In that moment, I should have heard the wonderful cries of a newborn, but instead there was only the sound of mourning. My mom decided at the last moment to see him and followed the nurse from the room.  

The doctor looked over my legs to ask if I would want to have the baby baptized. I know this is an essential tenet of salvation in some faiths, but I am confident that God loves all of us, knows us intimately, even before we are born. “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you…” (Jeremiah 1:5a). So I said no because I knew that God was there in the delivery room, weeping with me, and catching my son.

Our second son, Brennan, was born at 12:08pm on Thursday, July 4, 2013. I’m not sure how long his

little heart continued to beat after he slipped from my body, but I know it probably wasn’t long. The doctors said that a baby at 21 weeks would not feel pain yet, and for that I am grateful. If there is at least one thing I could do for my son, it would be to bear the pain for both of us. And although the bruises from the blood draws are fading and the raw skin of the catheter bandage is healing and I’ve already packed away all the maternity clothes, I know the pain has only just begun.

I feel like a bit of a ghost. Sometimes I’m surprised by the woman in the mirror – her face is pale, her eyes are puffy and pink, her belly is still softly rounded, and her breasts are full of milk for a baby who died.

But this is grief. I knew it before in a professional way. I had experienced it in different, more appropriate ways in the passing of my grandparents. But this is horrible. No parent should lose a child. That is not the way life should go.

I’m going to stop here for the time being. Writing this is good for me, as much as it hurts. And, like I said, if it helps someone else, it will be for something.

Dark!

That is the exclamation I hear from my 2-year-old son when we walk through the laundry room. I try to observe lots of things to him, from the man walking to the trees along the road, so I’m sure I mentioned that it was dark as I carried him through this small room between our garage and the rest of the house at some point. It has 2 doors, one on either side, probably to muffle the noise of the laundry machines from the rest of the house, but the effect is a pretty inky darkness as you pass through one door, close it, before reaching for the other. Knowing my house like I do, I rarely flip the light switch, intuitively knowing where the next handle is.

The first time we passed through this darkness, I remember James held me a little tighter as he exclaimed, “Dark!” “I’m right here. I’ve got you,” I said. And like so many other times in this relationship, I glimpsed the heart of God in my small, mundane life. How many times have I cried out to God, “Dark!” And, if I am willing, I can feel the arms of God around me, even to the point of carrying me, as God whispers in my ear, “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

My husband, who is a musician, will often talk about people getting dark. Usually it’s a director who’s addressing the band. It was a piece of language I wasn’t familiar with the first time, so I pressed him to explain the first time he used it. For him and for the musicians he’s around, dark is when someone is being brutally honest, really telling you what the problem is – it’s critical but not personal. It’s sometimes necessary to get dark.

Well, brothers and sisters, it’s time to get dark in our faith. It’s the Thursday of Holy Week, the day when we remember Christ’s last Passover with his disciples, as he gathered with them around a table, fed them, washed their feet, while knowing the betrayal to come. It’s time for us to own our faults, the ways in which we betray God daily in our words or actions. Yet, even in the midst of these things, as I lament by failings, I know that, no matter how dark it may get, God is there.

Fortunately us, this liminal space is just that. It is a threshold between here and there, a “time to remember and move on” (This is a Day of New Beginnings, UMH #383). We don’t stand here in the in-between space any more than I stand for any length of time in the laundry room with my son. We experience the darkness, we know it for what it is whether it’s inside or outside, and we move forward to embrace the light. For nothing helps us savor the radiance of resurrection like the dark.

Word Power

I have a BA in English. I love language, words, stories. Honestly, my call to ordained ministry came out of the desire to share the greatest story I know with others. As a mother to a 2-year-old son, I'm finally putting that one semester of "Methods of Teaching English" to use. And remembering how ridiculously complicated and nonsensical my native tongue is.

My favorite new rediscovery with James is homonyms and homophones. Homonyms are words that are spelled the same, sound the same, but mean different things, i.e. "Mommy is putting the money in the bank" and "Look at those flowers on the river bank." Homophones are words that are spelled differently, but sound the same and mean different things, i.e. "Go through the door" and "James threw the ball!" (By the way, my favorite online helper to refresh me on all this grammar stuff, which was never my favorite, is Grammar Girl.)

His language skills are exploding. It's wonderful and scary at the same time. It makes me much more mindful of the things I say and, even more importantly, how I say them. Since we're four days into Lent, I guess it might be time to share the things I'm giving up/taking on for the season:

1. I will be more mindful about what I say so that fewer evil things come out of my mouth.
2. I will blog each day, with the hope that the intentional time of reflection will guide me deeper.
3. I will participate in the United Methodist Rethink Church photo-a-day thing.

I've talked before about how important I believe words to be. I don't think that it's unremarkable that Jesus is identified as the Word of God, through whom all things came into being as God spoke creation. The ancient people who passed along our sacred stories understood words to be a unit of power. Names were important because they were words intimately connected with our being (notice how often God goes around renaming folks...).

I've always liked this passage: "For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return there until they have watered the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and succeed in the thing for which I sent it." (Isaiah 55:10-11)

So, I want James to use his words well. As adorable as it is that he calls his yogurt "yay-yo" and he's fumbling his way through "hippopotamus," I want him to become a man who considers his words and doesn't fling them about lightly. And in this information age, where words populate cyberspace faster than breath, that will be a challenge. That's why this is part of my challenge to myself for Lent.

How about you? What are you giving up/taking on/feeling called to do this Lent?

Creative Christmas for the Craft-Challenged

Those of you who know me in real life know that I am not at all crafty. I appreciate beauty and creativity, but often have difficulty putting them together in a visual medium myself. But, I am a smart woman and I can follow directions. So, wanting to be one of those moms who does those things with her kids and wanting to create something meaningful for James’s grandparents and great-grandparents, I pinned a couple of simple looking crafts and got to work.

I am grateful for Pinterest. I am a better cook for it and now I’m a better crafty mama. It all started with pin about salt dough Christmas ornaments from Creative Playhouse. It looked great (i.e. easy but still pretty), but I was very glad to find this link on making salt dough in order to get started.

So, here’s our wonderful, messy process, annotated for those who are craft-challenged like me. I combined 1 cup salt (the Morton’s in the cupboard), 2 cups flour (the all-purpose in the freezer), and around 1 cup cold water. I worked with it in a bowl until it felt like dough. I will say, though, that this made a ton of dough. We only used probably half to make 12 ornaments, so I think you could safely half the recipe and still have plenty. I stuck the other half of my dough in the fridge, hoping to use it for something else another time.

Then I stuck the dough in front of James, hoping for some of that sensory learning to happen that all the moms seem to be going on about. He seemed interested, but confused about why we were sitting at the table playing with something that looked like food but obviously wasn’t food.



So we got down to business, rolling out the dough. 


This was more fun, but I was constantly flouring the table and the rolling pin to try to keep it from sticking and I have one of those supposedly nonstick pins. Ah well. If I had it to do over again, I may have skipped to the painting part for a 2-year-old, but he seemed to humor me.










Then we used some thematic cookie cutters to cut out some shaped. We did butterflies, trees, and stars.

This is where I lost him for the day. It took too long for me to pull the dough away from the shapes, get them to the cookie sheet, and reroll the dough. He did a few, then I finished up. To make a nice hole for hanging, I used a plastic straw to punch a hole in the soft dough. That worked surprisingly well!

The instructions say to bake them for a couple of hours at 100°. Since my instructor is in the UK, I figured this was Celsius, so it would be 212° Fahrenheit. My oven, thinking it knows better, wouldn’t do anything less than 300°. Since this is a craft and not food, I figured I couldn’t overbake them, since the whole point was to dry them out. I left them on one side for a couple of hours, then took them out to let them cool so we could paint. Unfortunately, my husband ruled that the pan side of the ornaments still seemed doughy, so they went back in for a couple of hours on the other side. The ornaments are done when they feel hard and a little brittle.

The next day we started painting:

 

I also bought glitter, which we applied directly to the still-wet paint to help it hold on. Here are our almost finished products:
 

I really liked the way the butterflies turned out. I was less controlling about what James did, letting him mix colors of paint and glitter. I’m constantly relearning that life turns out more textured, beautiful, and amazing when we relax our grip on our façade of control, and just let things be what they are.
 

A few days later, I was telling some coworkers about our craft project and how it just didn’t seem finished. After all, we had basically made a kind of food. Sure, it had paint and glitter on it, but if it was going to last from year to year, it seemed like there must be another step. The experienced mamas advised me to buy a spray sealant. (One of them asked me if we had used acrylic paint to which I didn’t have an answer. I used the paints that James got at some point. They had good colors.) I went to Michael’s, told the helpful clerk what I needed, and left with a Krylon crystal clear acrylic coating.

I put the ornaments on paper plates (for easy transport), took them out front, sprayed them down, then let them dry for a day. The coating did modify the colors, but I think they still looked nice.

The next day, I flipped them over, wrote my son’s name and the year with a Sharpie, then sprayed them with sealant. I’m not sure if it was the Sharpie spreading on the dough or the wet coating being applied too soon, but some of it smeared. Those I kept for myself. But some of them turned out just fine.
 

Finally, when all was dry, I tied red ribbon hangers on each one and parsed them for giving. If I were to do this again, I might make more effort with coordinating ribbon or whatnot, but I was up against a deadline.

Here’s one of the keepers on our tree:

 

I hope your Christmas was merry and bright! What traditions did/do you have as a family?