little things

If you are just joining me, start here for some background on my recent miscarriage:

One [finding out and initial grief]

Two [people showing up for us]

Three [our grief journey and naming our child]

I don't plan on writing a lot more specifically about this loss, though I know it will come up in lots of cracks and crevices and in other stories. However, I did want to mention a few specific gifts and tangible things that were given to us during this time that were beautiful and simple and meant so very much during the rawest time of our grief. 

Like me, I'm sure you have known many friends or family who have experienced this type of loss. It can be hard to know how to navigate, but I would simply say: Please navigate it with them. Say something, or give them a hug if they are huggers. Because I've been in your shoes, I know what it's like to not know what to do or say. Nothing will fix it. Nothing will take away their grief. But showing up in big and small ways will shoulder some of it for them and with them, and it will be the breadcrumbs and breath that lead them back to the Bread of life and that will breathe life back into the valley of dry bones. 

That being said, I wanted to share a few specific things that were meaningful to me during this time in case you are wondering what you can do for someone else:

> Cards<

 Every trip to the mailbox ended up being sweet balm to my soul as I would receive another note or card from friends-- some very close to me and others who I may not see or talk to for years. Some wrote their own words, others simply signed a sympathy card, and that was enough. It was enough just to receive something that told me they were aware and "in" the grief with me. [Facebook messages were also good, but I'm old fashioned ;)]. 

>Flowers< 

I received a couple of different arrangements from friends and family. To put them in my kitchen and living room-- to fill a space with something beautiful-- felt refreshing.

>Gift Cards<

Friends and family sent me a handful of gift cards to my favorite places to eat. They lived out of state, but wanted to "show up" for me in a real and tangible way. Providing a couple meals for my family was very thoughtful, especially during a time that cooking is the last thing on my mind. I wasn't always hungry, but my family had to be fed. And providing me with giftcards to my favorite place [Olive Garden!] insured that I would eat too!

Also, I think an iTunes gift card would be a wonderful gesture as well. I bought an album during this time that someone had pointed me to [Ellie Holcomb's Red Sea Road], and it ministered to me in deep ways. 

>Meals/Favorite Snacks<

Similar to the above, but from friends who were near. Not only is grief a good time to show up for people in this way, but I hadn't realized or thought about the physical side of a miscarriage much. But there is pain involved. Sometimes surgery. And not having to be on my feet and making meals was a blessing in so many ways. Plus getting to have people come and drop them off and/or eat them with me was what I needed. I also had a friend just drop off some Oreos, a card, and a box of kleenexes. It was perfect.  [You know your friends, some of them may not want people at their house for long, others may want you to pull up a chair. If you don't know which they are, ask. And then leave or sit.] 

>Lullaby of Hope box<

A sweet couple that I went to college with send me a "Peace box" from the non profit, Lullaby of Hope. She volunteers for them, and I cannot explain how beautiful this package was. I just sat with it for awhile, looking through all the perfectly thought-through gifts inside. The book that was in the box, "Grieving the Child I Never Knew", has also been wonderful. Please, go to their website and check them out-- they have boxes for miscarriage, infertility, and the loss of an infant. 

Lullaby of Hope website HERE

>Jewelry<

I had a few different friends who gifted me jewelry of some kind and I love these as a way to remember this baby's life. 

One friend gave me a beautiful bracelet from The Jones Market. 

It came packaged beautifully with a print and, bonus, this jewelry is made to be tugged at and chewed on by children. 

Another found this beautiful shop on Esty [MinMac] and gifted me this necklace: 

 She also sent me this screen shot in a text, and told me it was my necklace in the seller's hand when she wrote that post. Incredible. 

I have birthstone rings that I wear for each of the girls, so I wanted to also have this baby's birthstone [due in February]. My sweet online friend, Bonnie, happens to have the perfect shop [Hey June] for what I needed. I ordered one for my mom and my mother in law as well. 

I love this necklace and have worn it daily since it came in the mail. 

>Willow Tree<

I'm sure most of you have seen Willow Tree figures, and they were such a touching and perfect gift during this time. I was given these two figurines, which were both perfect for this specific loss:

"Remembrance"

"The Guardian"

>Handmade bear<

My aunt has made a bear for each of my girls when they were babies. She is insanely talented. I couldn't even tell you the first step at making a bear... buy fur? Regardless, she gave me a bear for this baby, Jordan, as well. Maybe you don't make bears, but there is something thoughtful or meaningful like this that you could do as well? [My aunt does sell these, by the way ;)] 

<<<|||>>>

I have probably forgotten something. People were just so good to me. Just check in. Say something. Send something. Show up. Know your friend. Maybe they don't want to talk about it, but your presence could be part of their healing. Maybe they don't want something sitting on their shelf to remind them, but a good meal in their belly will start turning ashes to beauty. 

Also, remember. Remember their loss for them. Remember the baby that was but never was but will always be. Just remember. And let them know on the hard days [holidays, mother's day, the due date], that you remember. 

Thank you to those of you who were present in this with me. The big and small things, the in between stuff, and the remembering have meant so much. 

What do these stones mean? part ii

"So when the people broke camp to cross the Jordan, the priests carrying the ark of the covenant went ahead of them. Now the Jordan is at flood stage all during harvest. Yet as soon as the priests who carried the ark reached the Jordan and their feet touched the water's edge, the water from upstream stopped flowing. It piled up in a heap a great distance away, at a town called Adam in the vicinity of Zarethan, while the water flowing down to the Sea of Arabah [that is, the Dead Sea] was completely cut off. So the people crossed over opposite Jericho. The priests who carried the ark of the covenant of the Lord stopped in the middle of the Jordan and stood on dry ground, while all Israel passed by until the whole nation had completed the crossing on dry ground." 

Joshua 3:14-17

A month ago I was standing at the river's edge. It was at flood stage as well. I had just miscarried our fourth child. 

Miscarriage seems too soft a term; my baby had died in my womb. And when I looked out, all I could see was water rising. The shores on the other side of grief could not be reached on my own. I kept coming back to this passage in Joshua, praying that God would stop the flow and, not just let me slop through the mud and mire and barely reach the opposing shore, but that He, in His goodness, would allow me to cross on dry ground. 

I stepped to the water's edge carrying not the ark of the covenant, but the New Covenant-- a covenant that was ushered in when my Savior rose and gave me new life. A Savior who knows all about prayers from the gut in the middle of the night that sound like "take this cup from me". I was carrying a covenant that was grounded in the hope of an empty grave. And with that new covenant in me, when my feet touched the water's edge of my grief, the water upstream stopped flowing. I was, in fact, standing on dry ground. 

Grief is a process and it comes in waves, but those waves never broke the damn that He had built around me. Every so often, even now, it comes. It sounds like rain and I can let the fear of rising water choke out the truth. This time it will surely over take me, I think. 

And then I look down. 

Dry ground. 

Just like the Israelites, I am so forgetful. And needy. They had faced a large body of water before, and God had made a way. They had wandered in the desert, and God had provided manna. And like them, when I face more water, I can forget of His previous faithfulness and His promised provision. 

And, like them, I can taste the manna He generously gives me and wish it tasted more like donuts instead of lost dreams. But the dry ground reminds me I can trust His provision; it reminds me He will make a way.   

I am writing this at a literal water's edge. Fish are splashing, water snakes are lurking, and a Blue Heron is perched awaiting its next meal. It's a small reserve of water. I can see the other side. But I couldn't get there without a boat, or without getting extremely wet and cold and filthy [not to mention, I'm no Michael Phelps]. To get an entire nation of people [about forty thousand!] to the other side? Forget it. 

But God did not forget the Israelites, even though they repeatedly forgot Him. 

And He made a way for them to enter the land promised to them. 

When I last wrote about this, I was in the thick of it. But God kept pressing this story into my heart. 

"When the whole nation had finished crossing the Jordan, the Lord said to Joshua, 'Choose twelve men from among the people, one from each tribe, and tell them to take up twelve stones from the middle of the Jordan, from right where the priests are standing, and carry them over with you and put them down at the place where you stay tonight.' 

So Joshua called together the twelve men he had appointed from the israelites, one from each tribe, and said to them, 'Go over before the ark of the Lord your God in the middle of the Jordan. Each of you is to take up a stone on his shoulder, according to the number of the tribes of Israelites, to serve as a sign among you. In the future, when your children ask you, 'What do these stones mean?' tel them that the flow of the Jordan was cut off before the ark of the covenant of the Lord. When it crossed the Jordan, the waters of the Jordan were cut off. These stones are to be a memorial to the people of Israel forever.' "

Joshua 4:1-9

 So Brent and I started collecting stones from the bottom of the river bed that, in His sovereignty and grace, were exposed. [Many of those stones have your names on them.]

We've always kept our children's names a secret until after delivery. It's one final surprise and joy we get to share with others. We had already decided this little one, if a girl, would be named Jordan. If a boy, Jordan would be the middle name. Jordan... after the river where the miracle of dry ground was seen. Jordan... after the river where Jesus was baptized. 

The river Jordan flows into the Dead Sea, the lowest body of water on earth. I love that this is where Jesus chose to be baptized, a symbol of the old life dying and being buried, the new life being resurrected; a symbol of the very acts He would perform on our behalf later. The reason I think it's so beautiful that He chose that location is that when "the old life is buried" under the waters of the Jordan River, it carries that old life to the lowest possible point. New life has come. Resurrection indeed. 

And for those reasons, we wanted our fourth child to carry the name Jordan, to remind him or her that we serve and love a God who provides and is faithful, who buries our old life and gives us new life in Christ.  

 

Jordan. 

God knew this child's story. He knew the name we would be planning, and He knew the story He would keep pointing me to in my grief. 

He knew our Jordan, and He knew He would carry us to the other side when all we could see was water. 

We wanted to do something in memory of this child, but also to remind us of our God who is always near and who tells us, "Your strength will equal your days" [Deut. 33:25]. We wanted to remember our baby we will never meet, but also to remember our God who promised He will never leave or forsake us [Deut. 31:6]. 

We decided we wanted a rock for our yard, the perfect reminder of our baby, Jordan, and our God. 

I won't go into it here, but how we found and were given the rock was another one of those provisional stories so full of the things of God. This rock also came from the bottom of a river. And now it is in our yard, beckoning us to remember our dry feet, even in our grief. 

We will always wonder what our lives with Jordan would have been like, what new rhythm our lives would have found with this baby in them. There are still a lot of unfilled in parts of the story for me. My body still feels like foreign territory. But I have to look at the manna that is straight from Heaven, even if it wasn't my first choice for a meal.  Provision in the dessert.  I have to look down at the dry ground I am standing on and remember I am walking forward into the promised land. 

What do these stones mean? 

They mean we experienced loss deeply.

They mean we love our Jordan we never fully knew, but who was known intimately while being knit in my womb. 

They mean that the God of the Old Testament is the God of today. 

They mean He is faithful and true and worthy of all our trust and praise. 

These stones mean that no matter where we walk there is always hope and we can always rejoice, for we have a God who will get us to the other side on dry ground.

breadcrumbs & breath

There is not a square inch in the whole domain of our human existence over which Christ, who is Sovereign over all, does not cry, Mine!

-Abraham Kuyper-

If you have not been updated on the loss of my pregnancy, you may want to start here.

The past three days have been met with a lot of waiting, a lot of physical pain, and a lot of out-of-our-control. I'll try and spare most details, but my body did not respond completely to the more natural methods of delivering this child's body from my womb. We waited awhile in those first initial days, needing time and space and quiet and The Word, more than we needed doctors and pills and interventions. But there comes a point in this process when it's time. Pills for a natural labor only worked enough to throw me into deep laboring contractions, but not quite enough to actually do their job. That was my first choice, for my own reasons, and there was so much purpose in that pain-- heartache, and hurt, but also meaning. But finally there came a time too, for my own safety, to move forward with surgery. God knew I needed a week, and He was orchestrating His own great gifts in it all. 

This post is not really about the medical side of this, though I will let you know, I am safe and well. Recovering. Tired. But safe and well. 

No. This post is about breadcrumbs that He leaves in the dark forests we have to walk through. 

Let me back up for a minute to paint with a broader brush: 

Last Spring I was tired. I was spent. Run dry. Relationally I felt like I was manic. 

On any given day, I was texting 20-30 people, checking in, genuinely caring, pouring out, asking, praying with. My circle had gotten so big, beyond my town, beyond my state, beyond this country! And I loved them all. So text, text, text, call. Text, text, text, email. 

I'll admit now, some of it is excessive. But time after time I take those personality tests and leadership skill tests and color tests and the results are always the same: "You're good with people! People feel comfortable sharing their stories with you!" 

I'm not saying this because I think I'm super awesome and you should be my friend, but because for some reason people DO share their stories with me, and then I think they are super awesome and I want to be their friend. We will get on a plane, and two hours later when we get off I'm telling Brent all about the lady I sat next to and how her daughter just got married and how hard that was for her in so many ways and don't-worry-I-got-her-email-because-I-want-to-check-back-in-with-her. 

Yes. I go off the rails a bit. 

And if people share food with me, coupled with their stories? 

Forget it. We're in this for life together. 

All that to say, it had all started feeling a little dry. 

I started to want to retreat more than I wanted to invest. 

Satan was attacking me at the core of who God made me. 

And then I got pregnant. And before I could process any of that, I was deep in the throes of my first trimester funk, in which I become some Jekyll and Hyde version of Kelsey-- I can't read and I don't want to be around or talk to people. The opposite of all things me. So I just set that part of my heart, that was feeling more stone-like than flesh-like, on a shelf. 

And then I was thrown into the valley of dry bones. 

And in my grief and pain and sadness and loss, God started rising an army up out of those dry bones. 

If you're unfamiliar with the story of The Valley of Dry Bones, you've got to read it in its entirety. It's nestled towards the end-ish side of the Old Testament, interestingly enough tucked away after the book of Lamentations. 

Kelsey-cliff-notes: There is this huge valley, and Ezekiel finds himself there among the ruins of dry bones. For those of you not raised around a lot of dead animals like myself [a completely different story for a completely different time], dry bones have been around awhile. Picked clean. Not just death, but somehow very beyond death. And then God shows up and starts telling Ezekiel to tell the bones to get up, put on flesh, and walk. He says He will breathe life into them so that they will know He is the Lord. And then the bones...the dry bones... they "came to life and stood up on their feet--- a vast army." [vs 10]. You can't make this stuff up. You can't make our God up. 

Later the Lord speaks and says, "I am going to open your graves and bring you up from them...I will put my Spirit back in you, and you will live..." 

As I walked out of that doctor's office on Tuesday, my heart was heavy, as if there were dry bones laying around. Some from the news I had just heard--from the heartbeat I hadn't, and others that were very, very dry from other busted things. I didn't even know they were there. 

And listen, when your heart starts to fill with dead bones, your hope can start to dry up too. 

And before my feet even found the parking lot on that day, a friend was jumping in her car to meet me at the clinic where she could do an ultrasound. Before my feet even found the parking lot on that day, God's breath started its movement into that valley in my heart. 

It came deeply, and like a tidal wave at times through His presence. So near. So True. So Permanent. 

But when the grief would come and my throat felt dry, not from my weeping but from the dust of the bones in my heart, God's breath was most evident in His people, in my people. That ever widening circle that I just wanted to and needed to invest in, started closing in on me. And each one that stepped forward, that showed up, that prayed, that said "me too", that said "whatever you need", that sent flowers, that mailed cards, that sent texts, that dropped by... each one was the breath of God. Breathing. Breathing. Breathing into my valley of dry bones. 

Friends who didn't hesitate to offer their couch, their spare-bed, and ordered pizza. 

Friends who hugged me and cried with me and prayed over me. 

Friends who reached out to Brent. 

Friends who watched our girls. 

Friends who offered to drive over 6 hours to just come sit with me, a lost art in grief. 

Friends who consistently checked in and gave me advice, encouragement, wisdom. 

Sisters who wept with us and prayed for us: one who covered the time we were asleep in prayer as she was awake half a world away.

Friends who said, "Let's go kayaking, if you're up for it, and sit on the water and talk."
A friend who said, "In sickness or in health," and has shown me he meant it with the gentle way he has sat with my soul, even in his own blistering pain. 

Friends who walked through their own grief again, just to enter into mine with me. 

Moms [and dads] who, in their own grief and exhaustion, kept showing up and watching girls and being anywhere we needed them to be. 

Friends who brought lasagna.
A boss, who has given Brent the time to be present in all of this with me. 

Friends who said, "Whatever you need," and meant "absolutely, whatever you need."

Breathing. Breathing. Breathing. 

Through others, God was breathing into the deepest recesses of my heart, gathering up dry bones, and commanding them to come alive. Out of dust, out of ashes, an army was rising. 

Yesterday we stayed with some friends while we waiting for a process that never really started Slept in their home praying for a procedure that would come today. And it was breath. 

And then today, all throughout the hospital I did not want to be in, God kept depositing breadcrumbs that kept leading me back to His faithfulness, reminding me of His goodness and the depth of His love for me. 

Breadcrumbs. Breath.

My nurse, who had the day off but called me from her personal cell phone just to see how I was and if I had any questions and asked how things were going.

Breadcrumbs. Breath. 

In a friend who just showed up, in her scrubs, not on my service but offering her hand of comfort in the operating room. A hand of comfort when I couldn't be with Brent, as I was put under anesthesia I had never experienced and was anxious about. A hand of comfort, a friend who loves Jesus, a squeeze and a rub as I cried and fell into that deep, dreamless sleep. 

Breadcrumbs. Breath.

And then, waking up and foggily looking over to see the giant smile of another nurse friend from our church, who made sure he was the one with me in the recovery room. Comfort. Who retrieved Brent as soon as possible. Who wheeled me to my car. 

Breadcrumbs. Breath. 

My friend who let us stay the night kept joking about all the people I knew, all the connections, all the "right people in the right places." 

And it's the first time I thought back to this spring. 

To the lies Satan was telling me. To the self-preservation I thought I needed to instill in my life by setting more boundaries and closing my circles. 

But here is the truth: Relational investments rarely return void. 

Instead, God takes what you pour into others, and He fills others with His very breath to breathe back in to you when dry bones start to settle in your heart. 

God puts others as these little breadcrumbs in your path, as answers to prayer you didn't even know you should pray for. 

When you fight for community when you don't feel like you need it, God will use that community to surround you when you're in the valley. He will use that community to speak to your heart.

Over the last week others, without knowing, have spoken to my valley of dust and said, "God is going to open your graves and bring you up from them." 

You know when the Samaritan woman went to the well thinking she needed water? [John 4]

And Jesus showed up and said, "Water? Psshhh. Here's some living water. Here is me." 

He is in the business of offering the exact and only thing we need. 

Himself. 

Often that comes in the quiet, still small voice of the wind. Of His presence. Through His word.

But so often He pours that Living Water through His vessels and into the spaces that are empty enough to be filled.

This grief will keep coming, prickly and tangled up in strange places. But so will the waves of mercy. The Living Water. The Breath and the Breadcrumbs.

"Just as a body, though one, has many parts, but all its many parts form one body, so it is with Christ....There are many parts, but one body...there should be no division in the body, but that its parts should have equal concern for each other. If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it." 1 Corinthians 12: parts of 12-26]

 Christ is our ANCHOR in the storm. Not rescuing us out of it but keeping us secure and holding us through it. And when our tether lines gets a little long and tangled with grief or unfilled in parts, He uses His body- our friends and family- to pull us back in, to shorten the tether for us and remind us our Anchor is secure. 

So if it has been you: thank you for being a breadcrumb, broken off from the Bread of Life.

Thank you for breathing the very breath of God back into this valley of dry bones.