green

Yesterday I mostly finished my belly book for the little man bouncing around inside me. All I have left is one more weekly update and the details of his arrival. I then waddled over to the shelf where I keep all the Belly Books, and I slid it in its place-- right next to the other four. On each spine I had numbered the pregnancy for easy reference: #1, #2, #3, #4, and this one, #5. And for the first time in awhile the discrepancy between the number of books on that shelf to the number of children in my home looked me in the face.

I remember putting that #4 book up on the shelf last year-- remember stuffing it with cards so many friends and family had sent during that loss. I printed out the reflections I wrote during that time and pasted them in next to the sonogram pictures of our baby at eight weeks in the womb, another at 11 weeks. And then I taped in the final sonogram, at 14 weeks, our baby clearly formed but with a heart that had stopped beating. And after that? Weeks 15 through 40 remain blank.

Putting that book up on that shelf last year seemed like another little step in the large grieving process of losing our baby. But now I realize that, while there were no more pictures of my belly growing and swelling with baby Jordan inside of me, I could have filled that book with so much other growth inside myself and inside of my family.

A few days after my miscarriage was confirmed, I wrote about the Israelites crossing the Jordan River and building an altar with rocks from the bottom of that exposed bed. And they said that when people asked, "What do these rocks mean?", they would be able to tell of God's faithfulness; of His deliverance and guidance and sovereign love and kindness.

A couple months after I miscarried, we got a large rock for our yard. And when I look at it, I am reminded of those very things the Israelites were reminded of, and we get to tell our girls, our friends, and our neighbors. We get to tell them of God's kindness to us; of his deliverance even in the midst of such grief and loss.

Last August 15th I was met with news I never expected-- news I wasn't prepared for. And that news brought me running to scripture. My soul felt like the valley of dry bones in Ezekiel and I needed to read about life being breathed back into them. I remember reading Hebrews a lot during this time, as well. I read about a great high priest-- Jesus-- who reminded me I could take hold of hope set before me. Hope in the midst of pain. He was an anchor keeping our souls firm and secure in the midst of the storm-- not removing us from the pain but giving us an anchor to hold onto through it. And in Hebrews four I was reminded again that God's Word is alive and active-- that through it everything is uncovered and laid bare and I asked God to give me the humility to always welcome the counsel of scripture, especially through our loss.

And that's when I saw them, out in the margin on that very page in Hebrews: the lyrics to a song [by Aaron Ivey] that had struck me and so I had scribbled them down several months prior:

May you plant us in your mercy. May your words supply the branches, so when the fire comes you'll keep us green. 

And there I was, in the fire, but being kept green by the Truth of scripture and the comfort of the Spirit.

You know the story of Jonah? He runs from God and should be dead but finds himself in the deep, dark belly of whale. And while still in the belly-- not rescued yet, just sitting in the stench-- Jonah says, "You raised my life from the pit, Lord my God." And that's what I felt like last August. I was still in the belly, but I was praising God for the already and the not yet-- for the rescue that had already come through Christ and the rescue that I knew was coming for my grief.

That whale spit us out on the shores, but our time in the belly was raw and real and hard. And yet, our time there also revealed the goodness of our God in ways we had not yet experienced so tangibly, and reminded us anew that when the fire comes He will keep us green. Last night as we laid in bed, Brent wrapped his arms around me and asked, "How are you feeling about tomorrow?" And my answer was, "I'm really good."

"Me too," he responded.

And we are. We are good. We are good not because I have another baby ready to join us [at any moment!]. We are good not because we already had three little girls when we lost our baby Jordan. We are good not because our days are mostly happy.

We are good because we have a God who was in the belly with us.
We have a God who said, "Me too" when we were grieving and who says "Me too" with us now in our joy.

That number four belly book is just one of the many reminders we have of the baby we lost. Blythe asked just last week why baby Jordan is in heaven and baby brother got to stay in my tummy. And there is no answer to that question except that God is good and kind in both scenarios.

That's what the rocks mean, after all.

And today, please know: Whether you are in the deepest belly-of-a-whale-moment. or high on a mountain, or somewhere in the large space between-- whether you are recovering, or reeling, or rejoicing-- you are already and forever rescued from the pit by our good God who sees you there. He is a good God who wants our screams and our tears, but also wants our hearts to remember the Truth of His character. Your current circumstances will never outweigh the His eternal promises to you. He sees you. He will make a way through the river for you, too. 

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.

What do these stones mean?

This is the blog post I never wanted to write. 

But there is a passage in Psalms 107:2 that says, "Let the redeemed of the Lord tell their story..." 

And this is now forever interwoven in my story.  

Tuesday I went in for a 14 week appointment for my fourth baby. I have done so many of these appointments over the years, I knew the routine well. I chatted with the nurses and my doctor. And then she got out the fetal doppler to hear the heartbeat I had already heard and seen twice. She searched for awhile, and said she didn't want me to be overly concerned, as I had an inverted uterus and it may be difficult to find. So she decided to get the portable ultrasound machine. In that space between, I prayed, "Lord, please," but also somewhere deep, I knew to pray the more difficult prayer, "Lord, prepare." 

More cold jelly. More probing. And there on the screen was my baby. 

But there was no heartbeat. 

My own was beating heavy and thick, fast and chaotic. She was saying something about ordering an ultrasound...better machines...couldn't completely confirm... 

As I dressed I called Brent, the tears choking out. 

The waiting room was full of other expectant mothers and I couldn't make eye contact with them because I was trying to not completely fall apart. I wanted to protect them and their hope that they would get to hear the racing, microphoned beat behind the door I just left. 

It was late and I would have to come back the following day for the ultrasound to confirm. I nodded my head in half-hearted understanding and fumbled my way to the door. I immediately texted my friend who works at a pregnancy clinic and asked if she would, if I could possibly ask this big hard thing of her. She responded immediately that she would meet me there in five minutes. 

I drove a few miles, Brent praying on the phone, and within ten minutes I was on another table, staring at another black screen. It filled with a picture of my baby. And my friend, who knows the sting of loss as well, so gently and so graciously confirmed that there was no heartbeat. She printed me pictures, saying I would want them. She asked if I was ready before turning off the screen. And then she held me and cried with me. As I dressed she found her co-worker the only other soul in the empty clinic, and we huddled in a lamp-lit room and she prayed for me. 

She said the name of Jesus, and as my tears dropped on the black and white pictures in my trembling hands my heartbeat finally stopped its chaos. Jesus. There's just something about that name. 

 The next day I had a few hours to pray, and grieve, and journal, and read Truth. I opened my notebook to the very last page and the first line I wrote was, God, I want to start in the back of this notebook and write forward and watch you redeem this. I want to write from sorrow to joy. From ashes to beauty. I know you'll make a way through these waters. 

And I kept writing. And praying. And reading. My tears blotted the page, but before I had even reached page two I had written You are good four times. And on page two I started listing great joys and sweet blessings I have already seen in this pit of despair. Page two! I remember reading 1 Thessalonians 5:18 as a naive middle schooler, marking it up neatly with neon gel pens. Yes! Rejoice in ALL circumstances! But then I became an adult, and the world just seemed more busted and broken and when I would come across that verse I wondered what that would be like when walking through the valley. But there I was, page two, rejoicing in God providing me my friend at the clinic. Rejoicing in timing that I had first questioned, because bringing Blythe to Kindergarten the following morning ended up being the joy-in-the-morning we needed in the midst of our sorrow. I rejoiced in the three children I get to love here on this earth. I rejoiced in an aunt who, knowing the sting of this kind of loss, called me and gently spoke truth into my hurting heart the night we received the news. I rejoiced in all the people who were surrounding us, carrying us, praying over us, bringing us Oreos; rejoiced in the reminder that relational investments never return void. I thought of the line in "No Longer Slaves" that says, "I am surrounded by songs of deliverance," as others reached out.

"Consider it pure joy my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything" [James 1:24]. I am rejoicing through tears but with unclenched fists and the prayer that this perseverance will finish its work. 

I continued writing:

God, you welcomed this baby already. Please help me say goodbye now. I am claiming the truth that you are near the brokenhearted. Because my heart is breaking. As you help me deliver this child, I pray that you would also deliver me through this. I know you never promised me a life without pain or loss, and I have not questioned why I am here. I just thank you for being here too. 

Thank you for never leaving me. You are the God of the big picture, and just as you were faithful then, you will be faithful now. 

Oh Jesus, thank you for the Word. For your Spirit inside me at this time. Hebrews 6:19 says, "We have this HOPE as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure. It enters the sanctuary behind the curtain where our forerunner Jesus was on our behalf." Spirit, I hold the hope of your presence now AND the hope of heaven then.  

My sails feel so torn right now, the wind knocked out of me... but in the midst of that, I feel you anchoring me. The sea billows are finding solace and this strange peace that I don't understand is you. Whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say it is well with my soul. 

When I blogged a letter to this precious baby, I wrote: "I had learned at the end of myself was this great chasm that I didn't have to leap over on my own, but that God would carry me through in beautiful, sometimes tear-filled, but always grace-filled ways. A space where I had to face my inability with God's ability every single day. And as I thought about a fourth, as I thought about you, I knew that God would meet me at the chasm again." 

And He has. I didn't think the chasm would be here. I didn't think the chasm would be so deep. But I know I don't have to leap over this on my own. He is carrying me through in grace-filled ways. 

In that same letter I wrote about the Sara Groves song that says, "I'm strangely ready for what comes next. It's hard to describe because it makes no sense, but I am strangely ready." 

I don't know if I am ready. No one thinks about delivering a lifeless baby at 14 weeks when they see that pink line. But I know that God is ready because I know He is already there in that moment. He hems me in behind and before. I know His presence will be evident, and I pray that somehow there is joy in even that moment. Joy knowing this sweet one will never know the busted ways of this world. Joy knowing Jesus was the first one this child saw. 

God does some of his best work among the lowly. Among the brokenhearted. Because in His story, the other side of death is always, always resurrection. 

And just like a song I am currently listening to says, "He is here in the healing that hasn't happened yet."  We are promised in Psalm 34:18 that "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit." He is. So present. So near. So very, very here. And I know He is resurrecting. He is taking hold of my fragile idols and shattering them and reminding me to be satisfied, soul-deep, in Him. There is no rock like our God. [1 Samuel 2:2]

My grief, my loss, is not proof that God is absent.  "Though he slay me, yet will I hope in him" [Job 13:15].

In 1 John 5, John writes, "We accept human testimony, but God's testimony is greater because it is the testimony of God, which he has given about his son...and this is the testimony: God has given us eternal life, and this life is in his Son. Whoever has the Son has life; whoever does not have the Son of God does not have life." 

And in this story of mine I see the hand of God, and I pray that others look beyond my testimony and to the testimony of Him. Because it never fails. I know not everyone can or wants to publicly talk about their miscarriage; everyone's process is so different in this. Some don't want to talk and they need others to believe for them and pray the words they cannot pray.But I think it was a severe mercy that we had already announced this pregnancy: because He knew part of my healing would come through writing, and through pointing to His greater story in this. It's easy for me to zoom in right now on this little slice of the story. But my story is in Him. And it started with In the beginning and its theme is faithfulness. My testimony is His testimony and His testimony is redemption. His testimony is beauty from ashes. His testimony is life from death. 

Most people know the story of God parting the Red Sea. But the story I keep coming back to is in Joshua 3 & 4. Same Israelites. And God stops the flow of the Jordan River so they can cross to the other side. AND THEN, He tells them to select stones "from the middle of the Jordan" and build an altar. And Joshua told them, "In the future, when your children ask you, 'What do these stones mean?' tell them that the flow of the Jordan was cut off before the ark of the covenant of the Lord." 

And I keep thinking of that altar made from rocks from the BOTTOM of the Jordan River that never should have seen the light of day except through His sovereign hand of deliverance. So I am taking these rocks and trying to build an altar to remember how God met me, even here. Even now. Even in this. 

 Thank you for your prayers for Brent and for me and for our girls. For our families who also had already pictured new little feet pattering around at Christmases in the future. There will be remnants of this lost life everywhere-- when I put away the "Belly Book" I never got to finish; when the maternity pants I ordered the day before my appointment show up; when the due date comes and goes; when Nan has a birthday and is not a big sister. This has changed every single thing. And yet it has also changed nothing. And there is still a journey in all of that ahead for me. For us. This healing will be a process, and I may need to write more about it. I may not. But thank you for granting me space to do this. My prayer is that He uses this space and this story for His glory; that He will redeem this brokenness in our lives, but that the redemption can extend beyond what we could imagine. 

Someday others will say, "What do these stones mean?" and I will get to recount the story of a faithful, healing, and redeeming God. 

I've never tried videos on here, but these songs are speaking a lot of my truths right now. If they don't work just you tube Ellie Holcomb's "Red Sea Road" and "Find You Here."

for my fourth

June 24, 2017

I'm sitting here sipping coffee with the windows open at the end of June. The air is cool, humidity free. A Colorado day that we are having here in northwest Missouri. This is a rare day, and so are you, a fourth child.

A couple of weeks ago I found out you were growing inside of me, a little person forming in my womb. I had a suspicion and the faded pink line confirmed and my eyes grew wide with many emotions: surprise, fear, excitement. Surprise, as we had finally said yes to a fourth in our hearts but hadn't with our feet just yet. Fear, as the number four seemed big and beyond me, and I knew others opinions may not be in our favor. And excitement, as I thought about welcoming another life into our midst.

After we had Becks, I wasn't sure I would have more. Two girls seemed so complete to me. And then we prayed, and along came Nan. And we had always said two or four, but once we had three we realized just how big that number was. Odd or even, a family of five had become our jam. Nan's pregnancy was really hard on my body. Your dad had contracted zi.ka in the middle of the pregnancy which meant some unknowns and extra ultrasounds, which fortunately resulted in nothing unusual. My pelvis had separated towards the end and it took a long time to heal and be able to walk, stand, and step normally.  Plus the transition to three kids, which was just a lot in so many big ways. I couldn't really think about a fourth for awhile. It's not even that I didn't want to think about a fourth; I didn't have the capacity to even go there. 

But slowly, like a spring garden bursting forth in the heat of the summer sun, my heart began to open to the possibility bit by bit. I had learned with Nan that God could stretch me and grow me far beyond myself. I had learned that at the end of myself was this great chasm that I didn't have to leap over on my own, but that God would carry me through in beautiful, sometimes tear-filled, but always grace-filled ways. It was a space I would have never found with only two children; a space so bursting forth with goodness and rawness and realness. It was a space where I had to embrace my inability with God's ability every single day. And as I thought about a fourth child, as I thought about you, I knew that God would meet me at that chasm again.


But just because I knew that, it didn't make me want to again. Not yet. I thought of the pain I would endure again. The possibility of my pelvis literally ripping at the seams again. I thought of less time with each of my children. I thought of more days in the infant phase. I thought of another year I would have to spend nursing. I thought of longer years until I could return to teaching. I thought of less people being willing to help out [four kids is pushing the limits of what people want to step into]. I thought of my body going through the trauma of growing another human, and delivering him/her into the world. I thought of limits on what we could do as a family.

 So I started to pray. And once I prayed I heard God clearly say, "You're not making this decision. I gave you Brent. Let him lead you." Woah. Little one, you will learn early that it is hard, hard work for me to sit back and be led sometimes.  I thought of that little word that packs a punch: submit. And while I was praying about the possibility of you and praying through my fears and excuses, God called to mind a little radio interview I had heard this past year.  I only caught a portion of it before your sisters requested "their songs",  but I remember clearly it was a husband and wife, and she said something like this: In life there are very few times I'm going to have to totally submit to a decision my husband makes, because usually we are on the same page. And making a decision with him, that I fully support, isn't submission, even though I wish it were. And in our 40 years of marriage, there have been very few times that we haven't been able to reach a decision together; where submission to trust his decision is required of me. But submission is only submission when it isn't a decision I would have necessarily arrived at on my own. That is paraphrased, but that little snippet really spoke to me, and God brought it back to my mind like a sledgehammer when I really started praying about the possibility of you.

It was a beautiful spring evening and we were out for a walk. We had parked the strollers and were letting your sisters crawl around on some steps and rocks, and I said to your dad, "I'm going to trust you to lead me in this. I trust you to seek God and make this decision for our family." And your dad took that seriously. He prayed and read scripture and prayed some more. And when he said he knew I was supposed to get pregnant, and if I couldn't get pregnant then that meant we were to adopt a fourth, I trusted him, even though my knees were knocking at every turn.

We went on a little family vacation with your dad's side of the family in late May, and I didn't know it yet but I was pregnant with you. On our drive I listened to a new song by Sara Groves called "Strangely Ready." She sings:

I'm strangely ready for what comes next
I'm strangely ready
It's hard to describe cause it makes no sense.
I'm strangely ready for what comes next.

Count it faith, I got up.
Nothing left for me yet but a longing with trust.
Was it faith? I don't know.
You just lifted and led me and I had to go.
Now I'm strangely ready.

A vision in the sky
A fire in the night
You said you'll do your part if I'll do mine
Now I'm strangely ready

 As I listened to those words I asked God that, if He were to give us another child, that I would be strangely ready. And while there is so much unknown out here on the edge, He just lifted and led me and I had to go.

I have to think of those first, quiet dream-like hospital days. Adrenaline still pumping through me, the magic dust yet to settle. A nursery staff and nurses bringing me iced water around the clock. You as a brand new bundle of fresh, soft skin. I think of getting to do that again-- hard, hard labor-work followed by that moment that is ethereal when it is as if God Himself has handed you to me.

But the reality of heading home after that? The transition back to our house and day-to-day living?  There have been times already where I nearly crumble under the weight of what that may bring. I know a lot of people, after three kids, say, "Oh, what's one more?!" But my sister said, "Well, it's one more." It will be a lot more. More diapers, more sleep lost, more pediatrician appointments, more fears, more food to cook, more schedules to manage, more carseats in the van, more school programs,  more disciplining, more, more, more. But it will also be more hugs, more laughter, more pudgy toddler hands, more first big moments, more "push me higher, mommy!", more innocent prayers around the kitchen table, more siblings to care for one another in old age, more smore sticks around a campfire, more Johnson & Johnson cheek kissing after bath time, more books read in my lap, more praying that you will know Jesus early and deeply. More, more, more.

 God said He will do His part if I do mine. And I am strangely ready for what comes next. I am strangely ready for you, my fourth child.

Love,
Your mom