A Wedding Invitation

 I stumbled on her name while scrolling insta.

“Grace Elizabeth” 

printed on a stranger’s wedding announcement.

That’s my daughter’s name.

“Nobody else is ever gonna see Gracie girl.”

Every once in awhile I want to open the box

That holds the only thing we have of you.

Not the actual box though. 

That is a weight I still can’t bear. 

I mean, every once in awhile,

 I want to remember you. 

But the idea alone buckles my knees. 

You would be almost 9 years old. 

Nine. 

Close to a decade. 

I dream of you. 

You’d be the most like Jonas I think. 

Lean and brown, 

loving being outside and swimming. 

Asking Papa to take you fishing, 

asking your Dad for any whim that crosses your mind, 

testing me with a look I gave others my whole childhood.

I thought I’d miss you less by now. 

And I can say your name without falling apart. 

I can tell others I carried a little girl once without crying. 

I can let your brothers talk about what they think you would have been like. 

But I can not remember how you left us. 

How I had you ripped away from me. 

How I only had pieces of you to bury

in a box, 

in a field. 

Maybe I need another decade to pass.

Oh Gracie girl, I ache for you to be here. Still. Almost ten years later.

Still Aching

It’s been a lot of years. But that day, those hours, are still as fresh as yesterday. You’d be 8 now. The same as Emma, who I can’t see without aching.

I still can’t visit Richmond. The heating pad we bought to ease my cramps the night before makes me nauseous every time your brothers pull it out for ear aches.

Oh Gracie girl you’d love your brothers. And your dad. And the dogs and the cat and crossing the field between us and papa and nana. You’d be in my class at cc and be friends with sweet girls named Samara and Naomi. You’d be crushing the courts with your skills and perfect form, and swimming fast and far every summer. 

I still see you in my dreams and feel I’m one kid short when we load up after summer days at amusements parks. I ache for Heaven and Jesus and you sweet girl. I wish you were with me as I ride the tide of boy hormones and filth. I wish the hole you left would fill in and let me forget a little of the way you moved to your brothers cacophony, and I wish that you were in you your dad’s arms in pictures, (he’s amazing and you’d both adore each other,) and that your feet filled the muck boots handed down to wade in creeks and snow, and amble through the woods. I wish Henry the hound slept beside your bed and Rosie the magnificent walked by your side like Aslan. 

I wish you were here right now, tucked in your bed after listening to Harry Potter and sleeping under LED lights permanently on because someone lost the remote to turn them off. I wish your feet were part of the thunderous stomps of your brothers dancing and rocking out to 21 pilots and terrible YouTube artists. I wish you were here to play Minecraft and Fortnite -and Upward basketball. 

I wish I didn’t stay awake at night feeling like someone isn’t home yet, that the porch light needs to stay on a little longer as I fight sleep until everyone is home and safe and snugly tucked in. 

I wish you were here Gracie girl. You live in my dreams and post wine slumbers, when I’m not awake and not asleep and not sure why I feel like someone’s missing.

Judah David

There’s no sympathy card for children. Not one says, “I’m sorry you’ll never play with the brother you loved even though he stopped moving inside your mom before you ever got to meet him. I’m sorry you’re witnessing the depths of your mother’s love against the chasm of your brother’s death.”

 There’s no sympathy card for mothers. Not one says, “I’m sorry that the ache in your belly that was filled with kicks and summersaults now feels like a gaping wound. I'm sorry that his missing weight has left you with vertigo and your diaphragm aches to rise and fall to the rhythm of his hiccups. I’m sorry that it will never stop aching. I’m sorry that you will replay these days a thousand times over and your heart will break each and every time.

 There’s no sympathy card for fathers. Not one says, “I’m sorry your little boy will never ride on your shoulders. I'm sorry you feel like you're on the outskirts of your wife's grief because you couldn't feel his weight, because your skin didn't move with his twists, because you couldn't feel him stir to the sounds of your family.

 There’s no sympathy card for Grandparents. Not one that says, “I’m sorry you couldn’t hold this grandson. I’m sorry you're watching your little girl break into a million pieces that all your love cannot put back together.” 

 There’s no sympathy card for sisters. Not one that says, “I’m sorry you can’t swaddle this nephew in hugs and spoil him with gifts. Im sorry your baby sister is reeling with a loss that is to much for her to bear but you can not carry for her.

One More Birth

Its a long walk to the O.R.,  gown pinched tight with one hand. Bare ass on a cold table, poked half a dozen times to numb pain you dont yet feel. Laid flat and staring at bright lights above as staff talk about the weekend. Curtain rises up 2 inches from your face and your breaths begin to rush.

 Husband sits and stands, and sits and stands watching to see if organs are removed and waiting for another son.

They hold him up, just a glimpse, and take him away so quickly. They wash and weigh while you are still, arms out and shaking, staff still talking, and every pore in your body, every bit of marrow in your bones screams for him to be laid upon your chest.

It's the best day and the worst day, as the pain meds flow to keep you numb and the memories fog in their wake.

One more time. One more son. He's living. That's enough.

Morning Will Come

This second time around
brings sleepless nights. I wake a dozen times a night to push and prod my belly, urging him to move.  I rise red eyed for good before the sun because it's easier than drifting off and forgetting, waking with panic.

When I dream, I lose him. Everytime. Sometimes I hold him for minutes and then he goes. In others he grows still  inside of me and I feel him leave. The depth of how damaged I have become unnerves me. It shows its face when I snap at his brothers; when the winter's sun dips below the horizon too early; when tears fall while peeling carrots at the sink.  Its resonates in the dullness of my voice when I comfort my son as he tells me his worries.

Eli says that his fears are too big for God to calm. I rationally explain that God is plenty big enough, that perfect Love casts out all fear, that when we seek Him we find peace, that when we hide His words in our hearts we know His peace. Yet I tremble throughout the night. I lie to myself and my son by telling him that God is bigger than his fears, but not believing that He is bigger than mine.

I know that He is. I've known Him since I was a little girl, spoken intimately with him since I was Eli's age. He was as tangible to me in my youth as a being with skin. So there is no unbelief. Just fear; so much fear. I hold so many things  more tightly than I hold Him.
Knowing His glory supercedes my wants, no matter how pure they may be, is crushing. It makes everything else futile.  I know in my bones that His Grace on the cross drawing us near is the story that matters. That Truth is the one my eyes need to seek when the sun dips low and I pine for things lost already, and fear the things that could be lost in times to come.

So today we will guard our hearts. Take every thought captive. Meditate on Truth.  Wait for the darkness to pass. "At dawn, look to the east." Morning will come. It has too.

A Letter To Myself When I'm Sad That I Tied My Tubes

Listen, you are going to want more kids. You are going to ache to feel them growing inside you, moving, hiccuping, kicking to the sounds of your family.  Babies are rad and cute and tiny and usually smell good. The good stuff is easy to remember. You wont need a reminder of the easy parts. You will dream of the good times. This is a note to remind you of why you made a rational decision; prayerfully, wisely, and unemotionally chose to do something for yourself and your husband and your four boys.

The beginning of pregnancy sucks. Once you get past the first weeks where you find out you are pregnant and the joy that someone tiny is growing inside you, you will start puking. All the time puking. And if you aren’t puking for five minutes you will feel like you are going to puke. And you dont feel better after. Its wave after wave of vomitting for 14-20 weeks. And sleepiness. Sheer exhaustion. You don't get a nap because other small people demand your attention every waking second. You will pee a lot. You will check for blood everytime you pee.  You will make up that you have to pee just to check. You will live in certainty that you are going to start bleeding and your baby will be lost.

By the time you make it to the second trimester fear kicks in. The 20 week scan will bring sheer terror and will paralyze you. This is when you lost Grace and there is no forgetting those moments, those days, those years. You will live in panic that the baby is dead. A dozen times an hour you will mentally prepare yourself for another D&E. You will walk through how you will tell the boys, how you will catch your breath, how you will keep living.  Every doppler scan for a heartbeat will leave you white faced and afraid, holding your breath and desperately hoping to hear a heart beating. Then you will smile because they find it, but the rest only lasts a second. Fear will grip you again as soon as the doppler is put away. It is consuming. You will try to hide it from everyone, but it's exhausting. You won't sleep at night which feeds the beast and you will turn to a monster by morning. You will not wake with joy. You will be angry as you get the boys breakfast. You will scream at their noise and shenanigans. You will say horrible things because the filter you once had, once prided yourself in, is gone. It was washed away by all the crying.

This is pregnancy for you. It is hard. It is painful. You are rashy and itchy and moody and everything hurts all the time. Your ribs spread. You cant wear a bra because even the skin at your upper ribs is raw and sore. You are only comfortable on your back, which is bad for the baby and for the other children running wild in the house while you recline. Then they cut you open and you have 12 weeks of healing and post partum sadness. And even though you hate it, you will want to do it again. You will ache to do it again. You have wanted 5 babies since you were little, but you only have 4. Don't discount Grace. She counts. She counts. You are a mom to five children.

Remember that God is sovereign. He knows how much you want more babies. Remember that He also gave you a vision  of loving babies and children and teenagers that you didn't grow. Pray for those faces. You have seen them in dreams. Dont forget them in your sadness. I know you will be sad and it will cover you like a heavy blanket soaked with rain and you will want to lay under it and not come out.  Come out. Find Jesus. Seek Him like you did before little boys exhausted you. Parent the way you wanted too. 

You will be emotional and cry and regret this choice. But it is the right one. Your boys deserve the best of you.  Be the best for them. Stop crying. Throw off the sadness. You have labored to grow your sons, now raise them.

Morning Will Come

This second time around
brings sleepless nights. I wake a dozen times a night to push and prod my belly, urging him to move.  I rise red eyed for good before the sun because it's easier than drifting off and forgetting, waking with panic.

When I dream, I lose him. Everytime. Sometimes I hold him for minutes and then he goes. In others he grows still  inside of me and I feel him leave. The depth of how damaged I have become unnerves me. It shows its face when I snap at his brothers; when the winter's sun dips below the horizon too early; when tears fall while peeling carrots at the sink.  Its resonates in the dullness of my voice when I comfort my son as he tells me his worries.

Eli says that his fears are too big for God to calm. I rationally explain that God is plenty big enough, that perfect Love casts out all fear, that when we seek Him we find peace, that when we hide His words in our hearts we know His peace. Yet I tremble throughout the night. I lie to myself and my son by telling him that God is bigger than his fears, but not believing that He is bigger than mine.

I know that He is. I've known Him since I was a little girl, spoken intimately with him since I was Eli's age. He was as tangible to me in my youth as a being with skin. So there is no unbelief. Just fear; so much fear. I hold so many things  more tightly than I hold Him.
Knowing His glory supercedes my wants, no matter how pure they may be, is crushing. It makes everything else futile.  I know in my bones that His Grace on the cross drawing us near is the story that matters. That Truth is the one my eyes need to seek when the sun dips low and I pine for things lost already, and fear the things that could be lost in times to come.

So today we will guard our hearts. Take every thought captive. Meditate on Truth.  Wait for the darkness to pass. "At dawn, look to the east." Morning will come. It has too.