A little late to the Mother's Day party

Another year goes by and it’s Mother’s Day again. But it's taken me days and weeks to process where I am this year. The retailers tell us that Mother’s Day is supposed to be filled to the brim with flowers, yummy meals and family time. Or, maybe relaxing alone time --- but that's not my personal preference. ;) For me this year, the day included church together followed by our traditional family picnic at the park and then a pedicure with Avery in the afternoon. We spent some family time outside then cooked dinner and watched a movie. It was a good day by any measure because I was with two of my greatest loves – Jeff and Avery.

Although I’m surrounded by love and dare-I-say admiration, I can’t help but think about the baby that is missing from my life. Lucy is not here. I know she’ll always be here in our hearts… but that’s not enough at times. As Avery told me one time, “I just want Lucy to get OUT of my heart!” Thinking she meant she didn’t want to talk about Lucy any more, I asked her why she would want Lucy out of her heart. She told me that she just wanted her to get out of our hearts and come back from heaven to be with us. Once again, Avery hit the nail on the head. Having her in our hearts just doesn’t cut it sometimes.

A special moment in my motherhood journey was captured in the above picture (the day before Lucy passed away).
 ~July 24th, 2011~

I have imagined what my life would be like raising two little girls for almost two years now. I stop and stare at families with two girls sometimes thinking to myself 'That should be me.' I’ve imagined my daughters relationship with one another and how it could and would be. I think about MY sisters and how they have influenced my life. I worry that Avery won’t have that same sister bond with hers.

Maybe it’s the current pregnancy that has me feeling self-conscious about motherhood in general. I’m sad when people mention “baby #2,” referencing the baby inside my belly. I’m sad because that automatically takes Lucy out of the picture. And it’s not just strangers. It’s happened with people I know that just don’t think about it (and likely mean no harm by it).

When I reconnect with old friends that may not know about Lucy, I feel like they can’t see the full picture. I am confused at how to portray myself as a 'mother of 2, almost 3' children when I don’t have a second child to show. How do I make myself look different? I feel so different and strive to include her. I talk about Lucy. And in my mind it’s awkward and totally weird sometimes because I don't always know what to say. I just hope she’s up there and can feel my love. I wonder if she feels my efforts to include her. I worry all the time about making Lucy proud since I don't have the opportunity to do it in person.

This year I spend Mother’s Day with my first child here beside me, my second child up in heaven and my third child growing and blossoming inside me. It’s strange how these siblings will always be connected -- yet they seem so far away from each other right at this moment.

A couple weeks ago I went in to pray over Avery as she slept one of her very last nights in her toddler bed. As I prayed for her, baby boy started kicking and moving inside me (a feeling that still surprises me and amazes me). And then, as true as anything I’ve ever experienced, a cool, crisp and very real presence was felt. I felt Lucy’s presence. Baby girl was with us. My children were all there with me in very different ways. God’s children that he entrusted to my care. I imagine I'll always be a bit mystified when I think about how He has gifted the role of mother to a girl like me. A girl who hid from Him at times in my life. A girl who ran desperately from Him at times. A girl who even doubted Him for moments, and used His name in vain, and denied Him once upon a time. I feel so unworthy at times.

I’ve shed plenty of tears through this journey of motherhood. I’ve had plenty of laughs, too. My heart has swelled so big that I think it’s full and then it expands again. I’ve felt the pain, heartache, worry, joy and love of motherhood.

I remember a conversation that I had with my mom early in my pregnancy with Lucy. I was worried about how I could love another child as much as I loved Avery. It just didn’t seem possible. My mom described it to me using an image from the animated Grinch movie I watched at Christmastime when I was a kid. She asked if I remembered the part where the Grinch’s heart grew – “In Whoville they say -- that the grinch’s small heart grew three sizes today.” She said – “Your heart just GROWS.”

I know it grows, but I still worry about having enough love to go around. I often don’t feel worthy of the life I carry inside me – my son. I can sometimes convince myself that don’t deserve him and I worry I won’t be a good mother to him. Have I spent all my love? I haven’t, I’m sure, but I worry about it nonetheless.

I love being a mother in the greatest possible way. The job makes me thankful and happy and feel blessed beyond belief. Being a mother makes me feel alive in a whole new way and I have a deep hope for those who desire to be mothers that they may feel this one day. I will fail at certain things but I will not fail at love. I can do this "love thang" from near or far.

A Dream

I woke up Sunday morning to a beautiful, moving sky. Pops of pink clouds drifted through the bright blue sky - it looked like like cotton candy. I walked outside alone to take it in and was reminded of God’s smiling spirit and the beauty of His creation... great joy and appreciation fills my heart just thinking about it.

 That same day I had woken up with a dream on my mind that I had dreamt probably a year or so before...

I am rising, rising, up, up. Sights and sounds are indistinguishable. I have no idea what is going on or where I am, but I am feeling comfortable with the sensation. I am floating, light as a cloud. Content.

As I slow down I arrive in a very bright place, filled with light coming from all angles. I wonder how that’s possible. I am blinded by the light – it fills up every shadow, every fold of darkness. I am warm.  I am happy.

Then seemingly from nowhere I see her. She running toward me arms outstretched. A little girl, blonde with ribbons and dress swinging behind her. She runs confidently and surely at ME. As she reaches me with her embrace, I fall to my knees and into her arms. I embrace her back. We are inseparable. My angel, my Lucy, my daughter. I am with her. My heart is full. This is love.

And when I woke up from that dream I knew I had just gotten my first glimpse of what a heavenly reunion with my little girl will be like.

As we approach what I consider is another milestone in my grief process (Lucy would have been 18 months this week), I think back on this dream and seek comfort and peace. Today, Avery who is currently into Cinderella, asked when "her dreams would come true." When I asked her what her dream was she said, "That Lucy would come home with us." I have no idea how she senses these things, but it's like she just KNOWS what I am going through.

Despite the pain, I'm thanking God today for where I've been and where I'm going. I know I can continue to dream big dreams and have the highest of hopes. But most of all I know I am able to find satisfaction in a simple moment and peace in a plan and purpose that is greater than my own.

The day before Lucy

One year ago I was 38 weeks pregnant. I walked into my high-risk OB’s office and sat through what felt like “just another ultrasound”– I had been getting them so frequently they were just feeling like routine at this point. They would check the baby and from time to time tell me something I didn’t want to hear… then they would say “see you in a couple weeks” and I’d leave. But this ultrasound/sonogram took too long. And the doctor and the tech were quiet – too quiet. They seemed to be communicating without saying a word and I remember screaming in my head, “Will somebody TELL ME SOMETHING?!” Instead, I asked some nervous questions that probably made no sense at all and tried to keep the mood light. Then the doctor grabbed my hand and said “I’m recommending induction to deliver…”

‘Oh, okay,' I thought… 'When do we want to schedule it…? I’m 38 weeks, so maybe next week?’ I stared, searching her eyes, ‘This week?’

Before I could offer MY suggestions she continued, “…TODAY. You’ll be induced today. I’m going to make a call to your OB right now and see how soon we can get you in.”

It hit me… something was wrong. And I didn’t know what to ask and I didn’t know what to say. She told me something about how the blood flow between baby and placenta was very low and the baby had stopped growing… and, well, they needed to deliver baby. She came back in after calling the regular OB on duty and told me to be back at the hospital in 4 hours to start the induction process. GULP. The baby would be delivered the following day.

Within an hour my parents had jumped in the car to make the 8-hour drive to be with Avery as we prepared a bag and got ready to spend the night at the hospital. Jeff was to pick Avery up and stay with her until they got there.

I despised the thought of being induced and was scared. But after I got used to the idea of the induction process, I became quite excited too. I remember thinking ‘I finally get to meet my baby! And dang it, my baby is going to prove you all wrong. My baby is going to be just perfect, you all just wait and see!’ We spent the evening being nervously excited, but there was a looming fear. We were told that an entire team from the Neonatal staff would be in the delivery room to check the baby when he or she arrived.

I think back and it’s surreal. That was the final day of my life before meeting Lucy. We joked, we read books and watched TV. We prayed. We were worried, but everything still felt “normal.” It was a perfect balance between hope and fear. I had to trust God – I had no other option.

Sometimes I wish I could have kept Lucy safe in my belly forever. Yet, I’m so grateful that they chose to induce me that day. It may have made the difference of how much time I got to spend with her. And, well, if 5 ½ days seemed like too little, then less time would have been even more heart-wrenching.

Last night I got to have dinner with my sister-in-law Jeanne (I picked up the Lucy Love Project blankets and will have more on that soon!). It always amazes me to hear others talk about when Lucy was born and describe how things were once she passed away. There is a sense of clarity to others’ experiences that was not there in my own experience, so I appreciate hearing it from someone else’s perspective. I want to know everything that was happening on and around her birth, and I want to hear how others processed what happened with her, with us. Because the moment Lucy was born, everything as we knew it changed.

I’m missing my baby girl today, but feeling blessed for the renewed hope and the focus on purpose that has been restored in my life through this journey. I don’t know how I would have slept a wink that night in the hospital (the night before Lucy’s birth) if I would have known just how her story, our story, would unfold. But I slept… peacefully, comfortably and secure in God’s loving embrace. And in the morning, I rose to meet the day that I would bring a very special little girl into the world. And even though the story wasn’t what I expected, she did prove them wrong. She was perfect.

I’m still resting and waiting for You, Lord. My heart still feels so broken, but I will use this brokenness to make a difference in the world.

“Why don’t you break my heart til it moves my hands and feet?” – Lyrics from the song “Love Come To Life” by Big Daddy Weave

Faith and Following

This blog entry is an excerpt from my personal {handwritten} journal. I wrote it just over a year ago (6/1/2011) as we had learned information about Lucy in utero that concerned us greatly. I wanted to share it because this was written when I started realizing that Lucy may not make it. So weird looking back and reading these words... I was just over 31 weeks pregnant with her.

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Yesterday (at our ultrasound with Dr. Stephenson) we learned that the baby appears to have an extra digit on the left hand. As an isolated anomaly they would not be so concerned but the obvious overtone of the visit was that this, combined with the cleft lip and the IUGR could be another sign toward something more serious being wrong with the baby. They would like me to consider a late-pregnancy amnio to test for genetic disorders, such as Trisomy 13 or 18, which are considered lethal and even if the babies with those disorders "make it" through labor and delivery, typically they have pretty severe mental retardation, medical issues, etc and can live only hours or days.


Though I understand why they are giving me these options, I guess there is part of me that enjoys being in this space of not knowing too much. It protects me from having to deal with the greater ethical and medical decisions that they seem to want made. The thought of losing this baby, our baby, is paralyzing and traumatic. But it's tough - I also don't want our baby to suffer or go through too much if he or she will have no quality of life. Choosing to "not know" makes me also feel like I'm living in denial. That part of me that says, "If the technology is there, use it... they are offering it for a reason."


There is so much running through my head right now. I just keep feeling like I could lose this baby at any moment. Every kick, punch, flutter - each and every movement I feel baby make is noted with a mix of happiness and sadness, as well as fear. Great Fear. But feeling baby also strengthens my faith that God's master plan is in action and reminds me that I have to trust in Him to provide peace and strength. This baby makes me a mother twice over - I am blessed.


Yet, my dear friends are throwing me a baby shower next weekend and I'm finding it hard to get excited. I almost want to hide away & protect myself from possible loss. I can't help wondering "what if there isn't a baby to bring home and swaddle...?" I feel ashamed thinking this knowing that the baby may still be fine. Hoping the baby will be fine.


Dear God,
Let your love pour down on me and my family. Let your healing touch be with this baby and let your will be done. I pray that you continue to unveil your plan & purpose for our lives. Please prepare us for what is to come and let Jeff & I draw stength from you when we are feeling lost. Help us to support one another and focus on our blessings. Let us remain faithful even when it feels like hope is failing us.


This child is YOURS, and I pray that you use him or her for Your work. Should I have the opportunity, I promise to raise him or her teaching and sharing Your message. Should I not get the opportunity, I pray this baby feel our family's unconditional love regardless of the time we get to spend together.


Please be with us always and remind us of the miracles that are possible when we remain faithful. Thank you for the gift of family - for Jeff, for Avery, for baby and for our family members near and far. I will continue to follow if You promise to show me the way.


In your Son Jesus' name,
Amen.

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As eerie as some of the words seem to me now, there is so much comfort in looking back with the perspective that God has given me. Let us remain faithful even when it feels like hope is failing us. I desired to remain faithful no matter what. I will continue to follow if You promise to show me the way. I promised to follow God and let Him lead the way.

“I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”

~ John 8:12

"I urge you to live a life worthy of the calling you have received. Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love. Make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace."

~ Ephesians 4:1-3

Last words to Grandpa

Dear Grandpa,

Hey, it's Kate! Oh, how I wish i could be there right now to see you. I am writing this because there are a couple things I want to say. And since I don't know that I will be able to get up there as soon as I want to I figured I would write it in an email. (I actually bought a card earlier today, but then decided not to give "snail mail" a chance either!)

I want to say first that I love you. I love your loud voice that echoes and rings brightly (that you passed along to my father). I love your knack for being able to fix ANYTHING and EVERYTHING. I love that you picked on us over the years and thickened our skin a bit. I love how you'd sit at the end of the table at Christmas dinner and throw rolls and get us all riled up. I love the wrapping paper fights and the laughter. All that laughter - my fondest memories are filled with lots and lots of laughter! I love the way you have swooped in to save and support when I needed it most. I love that you love me and I've never questioned that for a minute.

One thing my daughter Lucy taught me is to not fear death. When the Lord says it is MY time, I will go. And I feel good about being able to say that. When dad told me that you said you were ready to go to heaven last night, I knew everything was going to be okay. (Now, we also know that Grandma Parker said that for years, so you just never know!) I felt compelled to write to you because I needed to tell you at least one more time that I love you.

Now, I feel like I share a special bond with you since we both have lost a baby. I know that was a long time ago for you, but when I consider the fact that we get to see those babies up in heaven one day it warms my heart. If you get there first, please give my Lucy a big hug for me (and maybe teach her how to fix a thing or two).

I always think of you when I eat ham and pineapple pizza - I have no idea why. It just reminds me of you coming to visit us in Charlotte!

Please know you are in my thoughts and my prayers. I love you very, very much.

Love,

Kate

(Letter to Grandpa, written 6/22/12)

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June, me and Grandpa on my wedding day - August 26th, 2006

I just love this picture of Avery (6 months old) with her Great Grandpa Bricker

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My father called me last Thursday night to tell me that he and Grandpa had a "coming to Jesus" talk that night in the hospital. Grandpa said he was ready to go to heaven. Over the last few years he had been diagnosed with a blood disorder, congestive heart failure... and more recently acute leukemia. While he was a truly a fighter, his body was just shutting down. But, what really struck me was that he was ready. Whew, it hit me like a truck. He was READY. It was unsettling to here those words, yet a huge relief swept over me. Saying goodbye isn't as difficult anymore, because my faith in eternal life is steadfast. From here on out I guess I look at it as the grand family reunion waiting for me in heaven.

I emailed the above letter to my dad last Friday at 4:18 p.m. when I realized I probably wouldn't get up to Ohio in time to see my Grandpa Bricker one last time. My dad read this letter to him late that night. The next morning when Dad called me to tell me of Grandpa's passing early Saturday morning he mentioned how ironic it was that one of Grandpa's friends brought ham & pineapple pizza to him Friday night for dinner (he ate it too - an all too appropriate last meal). As Dad sat with him on Friday night, he said Grandpa was in and out of sleep. He was "at a construction site" - asking out loud for brackets & speaking as though he was jimmying parts and pieces together.  He was hard at work... must've been building his ladder to the heavens.

Grandpa was a carpenter by trade and a fixer by nature. When he'd visit our house in Charlotte in more recent years he'd stay up late fixing stuff I didn't even know needed fixing. In fact, he carried around a full tool kit just about everywhere he went. When I think of Grandpa I think of a man who enjoyed going to baseball games and singing a cappella at church. He was a family leader, yet a kid at heart. Oh, and he was pretty bossy. And really loud. When I was in high school (I was a teenage girl - need I say more?) he used to come to the house to see Dad at 7 am and they would stand around the island in the kitchen chit-chatting. From up in my room it sounded as if they were literally right beside me - I used to open the door to my room, scream "BE QUIET!!!!" dramatically and then slam the door of my room. Grandpa would only get louder, I swear. He also used to torment us when we were little with the fact that he lost a finger years before. As kids we were both terrified and intrigued. These memories make me smile.

I had to giggle when I heard that Grandpa wanted to buried in a flannel shirt and a hat. Oh, that's my grandpa. Never wanted to live by anyone else's rules. And what does it matter anyway? We're trading in our casual duds for grand robes in the sky.

I'll miss you Grandpa... I really will. But I have confidence in that family reunion in the heavens.

I'll be seeing ya...

The music of ACCEPTANCE

Ever find yourself just singing because it feels GOOD? You just feel comfortable and at ease in a moment and can sing out loud happily?

I used to be that person who sings all the time. While I'm in the shower, or tasking about the house... in my car, and in my head. In high school I was in chorus and show choir, performing on stage in front of people. I loved to be in the spotlight. My family used to sing on road trips. I've pretty much been surrounded by music my entire life and it always has come very easy to me.

I recently realized that after Lucy's death last summer I stopped listening to music as much, and I stopped singing. I especially stopped the mindless, happy singing. Even the humming had ceased. You know what made me realize that? Listening to my daughter sing her heart out. She does the "happy sing" thing that I LOVE. She just hums and bobs her head all the time, no matter what she is doing. If you say the word "nobody" in conversation, she will instantaneously bust out the Avett Brothers "Nobody knows what lies behind... the days before the day we die..." lyrics. Appropriate lyrics for an almost-three-year-old? Probably not. But I find it intriguing that she knows these lyrics and seems to sing them when I need them.

Over lunch with friends one day, Avery started singing "Lucy in the Sky" and one of the girls sitting near by (who didn't know about Lucy) said - "How cute, she's singing 'Lucy in the Sky!'" I just had to tell her about our Lucy - that song means so much to us, and it's more than just lyrics. I wanted Avery to know it's ok to talk about Lucy - even with people we don't know so well. The psychedelic daze of "Lucy in the Sky" kind of describes what portions of the last year have felt like in a way, too. Thinking back to even a couple months ago can be so trippy. Of course, Avery has the habit of inserting other words into songs when she wants, and I have overheard her singing "Lucy in the Sky... with angels." She just sings, she has no idea how these things affect me. I worry about what others will think sometimes, but from here on out, we will just be... different. And different can be special. I'm finally at a place where I find being different a more welcome commodity.

One of the things I loved to do with Avery when she was teeny was to dance around our family holding her and singing. I'm sad I was never able to do that with Lucy. One night a couple weeks ago, I was driving at night and I just felt Lucy's presence. And I just started SINGING. I sang out loud to Lucy hoping she could hear me. I wanted to just hold her, but I couldn't. I wanted to rock her to sleep, but I couldn't... so I just sang. And then an (albeit sad) sense of acceptance washed over me. I know she is safe. I know she is fine. It's just tough... me here on earth missing her.

I talk to Lucy all day long, in my mind and in my heart. It's actually kind of comforting knowing that I not only have my Jesus to talk to at every moment of every day, but I have my Lucy too. I sometimes even feel that I have an unspoken confidence I wear because of her constant presence in my life. I want to make both of my little girls proud.

I never knew I could do what I've done in the last year... If someone told me a year ago that I would lose my baby, I would have looked at them and said "I WILL NOT MAKE IT THROUGH." Now I've not only lost a baby, but I've reached a point where I can be "ok" with the sadness that lingers. I never want anyone else ever to go through what we have gone through. The grief, the pain - no, no one should ever have to go through it. But they will. I'm sure I've mentioned it before... the emotional impact of going back to Lucy's grave and seeing a new gravesite near her headstone is wrenching. To know that those parents are where we were months ago is just so sad. All they want to do is close the curtain and hide away for a bit, but there is a spotlight shining on them.

Remember that spotlight that I loved so much in high school? Well, when Lucy died I was thrust into a different kind of spotlight, and it was against my will. At the time, a client of mine who had been through something similar told me that people would be looking to me to see how I handled things - that people would just naturally look to me to see what I was made of.  I started realizing that people were talking about our family (even in nice ways), and I was SCARED. I didn't want to be in the spotlight and I guess I had a serious case of stage fright. I opened my mouth to "sing" and nothing came out. I had to dig very, very deep. I still have to.

I don't know what others see in me. Some say they want my kind of faith, and to those people I say, "you can have it - it's always available." It doesn't have to take a sad and traumatic event to get you there. This experience has allowed me to sit back and let God take the reigns a lot more than I ever have before, but that doesn't mean it's easy. I don't think it's supposed to be easy. Without the challenges life brings us we may not feel as much need for God, and we wouldn't have to rely on our faith.

As I get to a point of acceptance in my life, I've been trying to add that music back in. Music allows tears, and it allows unabashed happiness, too. It allows you to express yourself. I think I've been frightened of the emotions that come with putting all that back in my life. I've been suppressing the pain, or been feeling guilty of the smiles. In the car, 9 times out of 10 I was listening to pure silence. If I flipped on the radio, there was a chance I'd lose it. A word or tune could release the emotional floodgates. Or, even the "normalcy" I could hear would enrage me. Yet I'm finding that when I let my emotions go a little bit, even when it surprises or embarrasses me, there is healing.

Singing takes some effort now. It's not something that comes so naturally for me anymore, and I can be self-conscious. But, I've found myself humming tunes aloud, and it feels warm and familiar. I will allow myself to sing. I will allow myself to heal. And maybe, in a way, my writing has served as a way for me to pull back that dusty curtain back and give the performance of a lifetime... by simply sharing a piece of my soul with you. It just wasn't the final performance I set out for in the beginning.

In my heart

When I picked up Avery at her sitter Donna's one day this week, Donna said "we had a confusing situation at lunch time today."

Apparently the "situation" was that one of the other girls at Donna's used the Lord's name in vain. Donna had a conversation with the toddler about how she doesn't really want her using the phrase ("Oh my G__") in her house. She said after overhearing the conversation Avery quietly said, "I talk about God at my house." Avery clearly thought she was going to get in trouble by saying this, and Donna then realized that the conversation had been confusing for her. She said, "it's okay to talk about God, I just don't want His name to be used in the wrong way." Donna said Avery looked at her with big eyes and said, "God is in my HEART."

I realize that Ave is only 2 1/2 years old and does not understand the full scope of faith (does anyone?), but the simplicity of these words struck me. There is so much truth in those few words:

God is in MY heart.

I have started a bible study by Beth Moore this month and have been led to scripture about God dwelling in our hearts through the Holy Spirit. We often think about religion in a complicated way, but what we miss at times is the true simplicity of faith. Even when we try to do everything just right, we can miss the crucial step of allowing God in. And what happens when God sets up residency in our hearts? We can do things (through His power) that we absolutely could not do without Him.

I remembered a phrase at church a couple weeks back that had struck me and went on the hunt to look it up in my journal. The worship leader had said, "May we live so extravagantly that the light of the Lord shine through us." On first thought, it does not sounds like something taught in church --- extravagance. But she didn't speak of living extravagantly in a way of having excess materials and worldly items, she spoke about living life with extravagant love. Uninhibited, generous and deep love for others. I want to live like that! How do we fill our hearts with this extravagant love? Beth Moore describes a process of cleansing oneself as a "pouring out," "pouring in," and "pouring forth."

The idea is to pour out the questions and concerns in our hearts (worries, anxieties, fears, insecurities) to God and then to fill our hearts with the Holy Spirit so that all we do, think, and say is a reflection of God's love. If we can do this it will allow us to pour ourselves forth into the world to connect with others and show God's great love in all we do - yes, even in our greatest moments of impulse (which is very, very, very challenging no matter what way you spin it - I seem to feel some form of envy EVERY day, and it will hit me out of nowhere and make me say/think things I don't mean).

I am not perfect, nor will I ever be. I am weak, and I cave to impulses that are definitely not of the Holy Spirit. But, I am going to start implementing this exercise into my daily life - pour in, pour out, pour forth. It makes me very aware of what I allow in my life and where I tend to falter. I'm going to try to fill up on the "good stuff." I want to respond without questioning - "God is in my heart," and mean it with my WHOLE heart.