Almost Three Years

Hi, it’s me. (The strange girl that used to keep a blog here!)

I have some thoughts I need to share as we approach another birthday without my sweet daughter Lucy. It’s hard to believe that it’s almost been three years since we met her. I see other babies and I still wish she was here. That her fate would have been different. That her purpose was to live here on Earth for a while with the rest of us, instead of being swooped up to heaven within her first week.

A friend of mine’s almost-three year old is building sand castles on beach trips and playing in the dirt. I wish I had my little almost three year old and her extra set of dirty little finger nails to scrub. My almost-three year old nephew is talking up a storm and is a master of breaking toys. He’s like an adorable mini-Incredible Hulk. I wish a could carry on silly (and sometimes completely irrational or repetitive) conversations and tend to a game that doesn’t work like it should because someone didn’t use “gentle hands.” I just love the 2- and 3- year old age of discovery. So if I stare at your three-year old for longer than I should, know my mama heart is grieving, and also receiving. I'm taking in all the goodness, and sweetness, and maybe even rottenness that three can bring.

So, here’s something about the almost three year mark: I still struggle with how to talk about our family. When I go somewhere with Avery and someone asks me, “Is she your only one?” I pause, my palms sweat, my heart races. How would that person know that they asked me such a loaded question. In one fleeting moment I analyze everything about that stranger – and decide how much I share. Now that I have a third child it is very easy to gush about my beautiful 10 month old son. Because, well, he envelopes all that is good, and joyous, and fun. But it hurts to not include Lucy. And it hurts to include her too. It is painful to open up my heart and soul to a stranger -- for me, yes, but also because it feels like I'm dropping a bombshell on that person. I tell them I have a daughter that I lost as a baby… and then I sit back silently asking them to choose a reaction – and plead that they make it good and acceptable to a grieving mother. That’s not how I FEEL, it’s just what it feels like.

Recently my 5-year old daughter taught me something. She taught me how easy those conversations can be if I allow them to be. She was chatting to a neighborhood girl much older than she when she just said, “I have a brother AND a sister.” She continued after thinking for a minute, “They are both babies. But my sister is in heaven. She came second but she will always be a baby.” The older girl said, “You know, that’s ok.” And my daughter said, “Yep,” and then continued on to the next topic. This was so cool to witness the ease and confidence.

Also, one day Avery’s Pre-K teacher told me about Avery coming up in the middle of an activity and said that she really missed her sister Lucy. Kathy, her teacher, said she pulled Avery up into her lap and told her all about her own daughter, who also went to heaven a long time ago when SHE was a baby. The tears fell from my eyes as she shared with me about how close to home our story hit. About her own sweet daughter that never got to live here on Earth. And she said that though it had been a long time ago, Avery opened her wide open – the feelings were still deep and the void was still there. It hurt less all these years later, but the pain was very real. She confided in a friend of hers how this little girl in her class had brought her back to a time in her life that she so rarely shared anymore.

Then Avery's teacher Kathy shared something else with me. It was about one of her living daughters. Her grown daughter had told her recently how much it affected her life knowing that her mother lost that baby all those years ago. She told her mom that she thought about her missing sister a lot and imagined how life would be different growing up with her. She mentioned what an impact it had on her life and how she lived.

When I worry about my kids not having their sister here to share a bond with, I will remember that THANKFULLY there is no line between heaven and Earth that keeps love confined. When you keep someone’s memory alive, you are doing incredible things for others and connecting with people in unexpected places. You are creating a space for your children to think and imagine and dream. And hope. And pray.

I don’t know that it gets “easier” to talk about your family when death is a part of your story. So, we will see how it goes. No matter the choice I make in that split second when someone asks about my kids, I will make the one that is right for me at that very moment. It doesn’t always make sense, but that is a part of what makes me, me.

I’m so blown away by what my kids… all three of them… have to share with me, and the world. Share on, my little ones. Shine so bright that the whole world can see! I will continue to learn from you.

My son

I'm going to share a little secret, which may not be such a secret to those close to me. The first 24 hours in which I found out I was having a boy this time around I was shocked, and pretty sad. I felt sad and then of course horribly guilty for feeling sad. I asked "why" and I told God that baby wasn't supposed to be a boy. I felt jaded and abandoned. I felt crazy for those feelings I was having and keep repeating in my head and out loud "what is WRONG with me?" Even after I wrapped my mind around the excitement of it all, I still was beating myself up for days and weeks just thinking about how upset I was initially and how that wasn't fair to my son.

How selfish and cruel and rude and ignorant of me. After LOSING a child who had a tragic genetic condition, how dare I be upset that this new little healthy life inside of me was a boy. Obviously I knew the most important thing was that baby was healthy and things were going smoothly. Shouldn't I be celebrating? Shouldn't I be joyous? Shouldn't I be thankful? Certainly not emotional, desperate and scared.

I've been processing these strange feelings and I'm realizing more and more that those feelings were related to grief of what I have lost, rather than directed at what our family is gaining. Having not found out the sex of our babies the first two pregnancies, I KNEW that I needed to find out the sex this time around. I needed something to KNOW. Something to feel certain about. I needed to be prepared mentally and emotionally.

Yet, my expectation was that I would have another little girl and then I would finally be able to experience what it felt like to raise two little girls - like how it would have felt to raise Avery and Lucy together. I desperately wanted for Avery to have another sister... not just one in heaven, but one on earth that she could love and bond with and KNOW in a real way. I felt like I needed another girl to fit into that picture I had for my life. On top of that, the pregnancy felt the same as Avery's, and I assumed I was having another girl. I didn't want to be wrong. I couldn't go through the whole pregnancy guessing and assuming incorrectly. The truth of the matter is, though, even if the baby was a girl this time around I'm sure it would have been just as emotional of an experience.

I had to get real with myself. I AM celebrating. I AM joyous. I AM thankful. I'm just those other crappy emotions too. And they can all exist simultaneously, side by side. The loss will still always be there. I'm not afraid to admit that, though I try to hide how it breaks me down sometimes.

Now I'm in a better place, which is why I can finally admit all of this. I thought about writing these words before and was ashamed. What if my son saw these words one day? What if he thought I didn't want him? I was sick.

But I want my son to know how I feel, because of what I've been learning in these weeks of pregnancy, as we bond (one swift kick at a time). One of the greatest examples of family love is exposing the truest, rawest parts of love - and sometimes they don't look pretty and perfect. Love is a feeling. It's not passive, it's always active. It's given and accepted.

See, God has been working on me. He has been displaying before me great examples of His love, and asking me to put my trust in Him. Only in Him. My son is chosen. He was chosen before I could ever dream him up in my pea-sized brain. He is God-known and planned for. He has great purpose. I'm in awe at the greatness of God's love and that he would allow me to be the vessel to bring this child into the world. That I might get the opportunity to love him, and worry about him, and teach him.

I can't rely on this baby boy to heal my grief wounds, and that is not his job. But his life brings us so much hope and his arrival will show our family a whole new way we can love.

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.

More than a diagnosis

This past Sunday I reflected on where we were one year ago... that day might have been (officially?) the worst day of my life. After a stressful couple of days, we got Lucy's diagnosis of Trisomy 13 and very quickly learned that her condition was "not compatible with life" (even as she still lived and breathed before us). It slowly sank in that I could have lost her at any moment I was pregnant with her. I've said it before, and I'll say it again... I'm SO thankful God let me meet and know her. 

Sunday was a rough, rough day for me emotionally. I had prepared & braced myself for Lucy's birthday last week but I had not thought a lot about the diagnosis day. And it hurt. I just kept thinking "I'm so sorry, Lucy. I'm so sorry there was nothing I could do."

I found an article yesterday that I want to share. It is written by Dr. Keith Barrington, a Neonatal Doctor who has some advice for doctors & medical staff handling these kinds of Trisomy 13 or 18 diagnoses. We were so thankful to have the care that we did... a doctor who prayed with us and provided comfort, nurses who cared for our little girl and smiled genuine (yet pained) smiles when they saw us. Those people made it clear that our daughter mattered. Many families with trisomy children have NOT gotten this kind of care and love from the medical professionals they have encountered, and it's disturbing to me. They have even had people refer to their baby as a "T-13" baby and not use the baby's name. I'm thankful for Dr. Barrington (who wrote this article, "Our children are not a diagnosis") and I think he delivers sound advice to other Neonatal doctors and caretakers.

These Trisomy babies are absolute blessings to their families, and I am here to say that I wouldn't trade my "T-13" baby for any other baby in the whole wide world. The love that Lucy has taught us is helping us to impact others.

Yesterday was of course an emotional day, too. Exactly one year ago, Lucy went to be with Jesus. Yet, I think back and remember that it was a surprisingly peaceful moment in my life. Time stood completely still, and the world was perfectly quiet.

We held her, we bathed her, we made her foot imprints and snuggled her "one last time" before we left the hospital. I remember looking at her body and thinking, "She's not there anymore. She's somewhere better." I'll never forget walking out of the hospital the morning that Lucy died into the sticky July heat. I felt like the air was closing in around us, suffocating us. We drove home during morning traffic. I saw the people on their way to grab coffee, or heading into work and thought, "For these people it's just another day." For me, everything looked different. Everything felt significantly different. The day was sunny, muggy, sweaty and hot. I suppose I will never forget how it felt. I feel the intense heat sometimes, and that day comes back to me clearly.

There have been so many memories swirling around in my head lately and I've had a tough time expressing what I'm feeling. It seems like I have second- and third-guessed everything I have done. I know this is another piece of the grief process, and I'm just trying to heal like I need to. Thankful I have connected with other mothers who have been through this too, and I know it will continue to get easier.

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

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.

Kicking and Screaming into 2012

["Wow, almost a week in to this New Year already. I can hardly believe it. And I STILL have to do a Christmas update"] Just to give you perspective on how intensely busy this year has been already, the preceeding sentences were the original beginning of this post. And now it's February! Seriously!? So here are the rest of my thoughts now that I can focus my freak out a bit better than I could then...

Ah, the New Year. Here it is. I’ve been cleaning and purging, making promises to exercise more (anything more than “not at all” seems doable, right?), pledging to do some charitable work this year and to also complete a re-org on how we manage our finances. Blah, blah, blah... in some ways it really doesn’t matter if it all happens like I want it too, but it seems productive to set some reasonable goals. Am I planning any big goals? Sure, I have a few I’m keeping to myself for now as I take it one mini-step at a time. It’s not likely that all three of my "bigger” goals will happen this year, so this is a year of planning and re-prioritizing. Sounds exciting and invigorating. Of course, because I’m somewhat of a people-pleaser and perfectionist, also sounds stressful.

The fact is I’m terrified of letting go. I entered 2012 kicking and screaming. 2011 was the year of Lucy – a year that changed everything for us. A game changer, a life changer. And honestly 2011 was a really, really special year. I was and am holding onto it with all my strength. The more time that goes by, the more I am grasping to it. I don’t know exactly where I think it’s going to go, but somehow it feels like it’s going to evaporate.

My paranoid side thinks people are saying in their heads that for us 2012 has “gotta be better than the last year, right?” (not that anyone has actually said that to me!!!) Maybe it sounds odd to some when I say that I look back on 2011 fondly. Less than six days is all I will know of Lucy in this lifetime yet her life has let me redefine mine in so many ways. Sometimes I find myself being so angry about that. What do you do when you just don't want to be redefined? Yet, when it is forced upon you, you adjust. So, even though I have to leave 2011 as it is (they haven't figured out how to change the past yet, have they?) I'm going to try and get excited about 2012. I know I'm a month and a couple days late, but I will try to stop worrying about changing things or doing things different. I will start building on what I’ve learned to produce positivity and light. I want to use the energy that I put into Lucy (all of the loving and grieving combined) to spread love and possibility, future and hope to other families that may be filled with worry, doubt and fear.

Jeff and I are thinking of some things we can do this year to honor Lucy's life, and to continue weaving her legacy into our future. We need to do this for us as individuals, for our marriage, for Avery... and for others that may be touched by Lucy's light.

If you have any ideas that may help us do just that, we would love to hear them!

Thanks, as always, for your love and support.

One giant pile o' problems

"If we all threw our problems in a pile, and looked at each other's, we'd grab our's back!"

As I have explained my sorrows and recent life issues to others, many times I also in the same breath will say something to the tune of "but they are my problems, and I would choose them over someone else's." And most of the time, when I think of things in a bigger sense, that is true.

There are also times that I say "what the H-E-double hockey sticks? I don't want this life! Why was I chosen for this? Why did this happen to me?! Everyone else gets it so good."

Several people have shared with me the imagery of what I'm going to call the Giant Pile o' Problems. Basically, the thought is that if everyone in the world threw their problems into a massive pile and we saw what laid in that pile of problems, we'd be VERY quick to grab our problem back. I can get on board with that philosophy. It definitely personalizes our problems and shows us that we tend to find ways to manage what we've been given and have a hard time imagining how we would handle someone else's issues.

But think on this... wouldn't it be more amazing if we could all stand in a circle around that giant pile o' problems and said in chorus: "good-bye, problems... we release you to GOD."

Yes, there are daily worries and daily challenges that we must deal with, but what if each day we could let go a little more? Maybe we don't want to just throw our problem in a pile to stare at it and compare it against others, but instead we want to raise it up and let it go. Let's admit we are not in control! I want to release my firm grip on all of this "stuff" I try and control day in and day out. The anxiety is just not worth it and life has much more to offer.

Life Inspection

Time flies... it just does. Whether you are having fun, whether you are in a bad mood, whether you want to crawl into a hole and hide, or shout from the mountaintops.

Yesterday marked 6 months since Lucy was born.

SIX MONTHS!

And yesterday was ONE OF THOSE DAYS.

I actually woke up yesterday feeling inspired and strong. I thought - man, I'm feeling good. Much better than last month and the month before.

Then, while on the way to Avery's sitter's house I got pulled over by a policeman telling me that my registration is expired. I had tried to pay the renewal fee a couple weeks back and got a letter this week telling me I needed an inspection first. I should have just gone and gotten it done right away, but alas I did not.

DOH!

There is something about being stopped by a cop that makes you feel stupid and vulnerable. I was literally shaking and Avery was so confused, both of us on the verge of tears ("I jus' wanna got to Dooonna's!"). After he spent what seemed like an hour in his car with my license, he came back and delivered (thankfully) only a stern reminder: GO GET AN INSPECTION. Ok, ok, yes, yes, thank you, thank you. After that the cop softened and gave a little wave to Ave in the back. I went from being sad she had to see me cry to happy that she may have just saved me from getting a ticket.

After that experience I was a bit paranoid and planned to go get my car inspected on my lunch break. But on the way there I went by a flower shop. It was one of those hole-in-the-wall places that have about 15 fresh flowers you could pick from. I found myself pulling in and picking up a fresh gerber daisy.

I went over to Lucy's grave and laid the pretty little simple flower beside her headstone (it's in the ground now and looks great!) and just had some moments to reflect.

Where was I six months ago?

Where am I now?

Where am I going...?

Definitely wasn't making it to get the car inspected at lunch, that's for sure. But maybe I needed the time for my own life-inspection. Time is just flying and I can't control it. We just keep on living our lives. We surely do not know what is next on our grand timeline, do we? NO. But we know God has something better for each and every one of us when everything here is gone.

"For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens."

"So we are always confident; even though we know that while we are at home in the body we are away from the Lord - for we walk by faith, not by sight. Yes, we do have confidence, and we would rather be away from the body and at home with the Lord. So whether we are at home or away, we make it our aim to please him."

~ 2 Corinthians 5:1-2, 6-9

I am by no means implying that I want to leave this earth, but yesterday made me think about what happens when our registration for life is "expired." In desperate attempts to "get it all done" do we ignore ourselves and what we really need? When do we need a LIFE inspection to renew our zest for living? When do we need to do some self-maintenance to get us back to where we need to be in a faith-full manner? God was sending me a message yesterday. I need to be confident in his care for me while I am here on this earth and aim to please him with my words and actions. I've been angry, bitter and sad lately. And though in some ways I feel I'm entitled to it, I know that I need to snap out of it.

I think about what Lucy would be doing now if she were here with us. But Lucy wasn't meant to be here yesterday, or today. She wasn't meant to be here tomorrow. She was a borrowed gift from God and was never "mine" to begin with. The memory of us welcoming her into our lives is 6 months old. It's a beautiful memory - one I am grateful for, one I am proud of, one I cherish. I get to hold on to that memory forever, no matter what amount of time passes.

Oh, and don't worry, I'm still planning to get that car inspection done so I stay out of trouble. Ticket or not, it is NO FUN being pulled over. But, in a way, yesterday might not have been so eye-opening without that stern reminder.

I am and will continue to be a work in progress, and today is a new day.