Tidings of Comfort and Joy

Some old Christmas carols have been giving me so much comfort this year. Thought I would take some excerpts and compile them together in a post. It's a meditative exercise for me, and I hope it brings you comfort and joy too.

Come to Bethlehem and see
Christ Whose birth the angels sing;
Come, adore on bended knee,
Christ the Lord, the newborn King.

See Him in a manger laid,
Whom the choirs of angels praise;
Mary, Joseph, lend your aid,
While our hearts in love we raise.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining.
Till He appeared and the Soul felt its worth.

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

Truly He taught us to love one another,
His law is love and His gospel is peace.
Chains he shall break, for the slave is our brother.
And in his name all oppression shall cease.

Now to the Lord sing praises,
All you within this place,
And with true love and brotherhood
Each other now embrace;
This holy tide of Christmas
All other doth deface.
O tidings of comfort and joy,
Comfort and joy
O tidings of comfort and joy!

Merry Christmas, from our house to yours.

White Horse for Christmas

The other night while I made dinner, I heard a song called "White Horse for Christmas" by the group Over the Rhine. It's a wonderful lullaby that we played for Liza Jane while she was in the hospital. You can listen to it here.

The song took me back to the night in early December 2010 when we played it for our three-week-old baby girl. At the time she was doing fairly well, and although we knew she would need some difficult surgeries soon, we were still optimistic.

I held her in my arms that night in her hospital room, and later we gave her a bath. Those moments were and still are so precious to me. And I had no idea the horrible ordeal we were about to experience, culminating with having to remove her from life support several weeks later and say goodbye, as we sent her into the sky to meet Jesus on his white horse.

As the song played, I cried for missing her. I also cried for myself in that moment, because at the time I was still so innocent and unaware that I was about to lose her. And I cried because my baby is riding her white horse through the sky now, and I cannot be with her.

This past week there was a terrible tragedy in Connecticut. My heart is going out to the mothers there. When they packed their kids' lunch that morning, bundled them in winter coats and dropped them off for kindergarten, they had no idea they were about to lose them in a terrible massacre.

I pray for those mothers, that somehow their broken, shattered hearts will survive through this Christmas season. We never know if the moment we have with our loved ones will be the last one we will ever have on this earth. And this was a terrible, unfair way to learn.

I'll close with the words to the song, "I want to speak with the angel who said 'do not be afraid.'" It is a small comfort that we must not fear what comes after death. Those words, "do not be afraid," are what I cling to, now more than ever.

Sadness at Christmas

Sometimes, Christmas is sad. I notice the sadness comes in waves. Don't get me wrong, it's a holiday that I have loved since childhood, and I continue to really enjoy and embrace it today. Christmas helps me to get through the darkest season of the year. It is about warmth and love and family.

As much as I enjoy the holiday, though, I have found myself feeling sad over the past week. I've been thinking about the loss of my baby girl some. I've also been thinking of all the families who are having a less than ideal Christmas this year. Maybe there isn't enough money for gifts, or maybe there isn't even enough money for food, heat or shelter.

Other families are facing serious illness, or the recent death of a loved one, and they are wondering how they will get through this Christmas.

My experience with Liza taught me that I cannot take the blessedness of an ordinary day for granted. It also taught me to be very aware that many people are not having quiet, ordinary days. Too many people are dealing with loss, heartache and suffering.

I feel accountable to my daughter to keep this in mind, and to act upon it. She lives on in eternity, and I know she is watching to see the choices I make going forward. I hope and pray that my actions will honor her memory.

So I'm making small choices this Christmas to reach out beyond myself and begin to act. Baby steps seem to be working for me right now, so I am not trying to save an entire country or change the entire world. But I'm being intentional in giving to some causes that I believe matter.

I want to let the sadness that haunts my heart always, and even more at the holidays, propel me forward to do what I can to relieve the suffering in this world. And I know my daughter looks down from her place in the great cloud of witnesses, and she cheers me on.

The Looming Holiday Season

It's that time of year again. I am really looking forward to Thanksgiving and Christmas, which have been two of my favorite holidays since I was a small child.

This is also a very difficult times of year since Luke and I lost our baby girl. For one thing, she was born just a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving, and she died on New Years Day. So all the major milestones of her life happen during this holiday season. And secondly, any holiday is difficult for parents who have lost a child, no matter when they were born or when they died.

So, it's time for us to decide how we want to remember her birthday (November 12th). And it's time to face the emotional rollercoaster of the holiday season in general. It is so nice to have extra time to spend with loved ones, but every time we are together as a family, her absence looms large in front of me.

There is a hole in our family where a little Liza Jane should be. She would have been right in between my two sisters' kids ages. I love my niece and nephew, but every time I see them, I cannot avoid the painful thoughts of her.

What helps is when people talk about her, when they acknowledge her absence. One of the fears that comes up when somebody dies is that we will forget them. So when people remember her, it makes such a difference.

And I think that's something that makes us human: we remember people after they are gone. It's a way to honor the preciousness of each and every life.

So as we work our way through the emotional rollercoaster of the holiday season, I hope we can appreciate how precious our loved ones are, both those who are here, and the ones who have gone before us into the next life.

Welcome, guests...

Our society isn't very good at talking about the not-so-sunny side of life. Maybe it's our altruistic American optimism, but I've found that people just don't know how to deal with grief, loss, or suffering very well.

Since I wrote this depressing Christmas entry, I figured I had better explain a bit more just exactly what is going on with this blog. This blog is about the truth of the grief process. It's about feelings that are hard to talk about, so people avoid them, stuff them, put them on the shelf.

This blog is not about a pity party, though, or wanting others to see just how hard my life is. Far from it. There are plenty of people in the world whose circumstances are much worse than mine, I have a lot to be thankful for, and at the top of that list is my husband and family. People who know me, though, would probably say I'm a very private person. I don't tend to wear my emotions on my sleeve, and I tend to have just a few very intimate, close friends, rather than a crowd of casual ones.

So, I am sharing these things at my own risk. And for me, it is a big risk, because I am being vulnerable and "out there" far beyond what makes me comfortable. We left comfortable behind a while ago, folks.

I am putting this out there in cyber land because I know I'm not the only one. You are out there too, and you are feeling the pain of a loss, or suffering, or questions as well. I hope that this will help you to be brave and start a dialogue with others. I hope it will help you to know that you are not alone in what you are feeling as you walk in the valley of the shadow of death. I hope it will help you know it is okay to mention to a casual friend or acquaintance that this week will be hard for you, because it is the anniversary of an important milestone in that precious person's life.

I did just that today - with my hair stylist, someone I have known for over 10 years. (There I go again with only opening up to people I am really intimate with - gotta work on that.) She asked what we were doing over New Years, and I told her we are meeting up with good friends of ours in Las Vegas. She got really excited and told me about when she went there for her 10th anniversary. After a while, I gathered the courage to share a little bit more. We are going there with our friends more specifically because they are concerned about us this coming holiday. You see, January 1, 2010, was the day that our 7 week old baby girl slipped away from us while we held her in our arms, weeping, at the hospital. So our friends wanted to make sure we wouldn't be alone on the holiday and that we would have something to do. Side note: We are not really casino people, but Vegas is a halfway meeting point for all of us, and it just worked out this time.

So this blog is about being real. I'll do my best to share honestly about what it feels like to have lost a child. And I'll probably stray along the way to other subject matter, too. It is my hope, my prayer, that this will help another who is going through the same thing. Because we are all out there, and the more we realize that we are not alone, that we are not going crazy, the more we will be able to heal.

Christmas without Her

When a child has died, Christmas feels like empty arms. It feels like a big black hole, a missing puzzle piece.

I have had a similar feeling at holidays in the past, during the nearly two years when we were trying to get pregnant and nothing happened. There was emptiness and a longing for children then, too.

Friends on Facebook post about their holiday woes as they try to juggle caring for young children with all the work of getting ready for the big day. And I am glad they share, because I want to be connected with them and be a part of their families' lives.

However, for we who have struggled with infertility, or miscarriages, or the death of a child, we long to experience those holiday issues. Or at least I do. Days before Christmas, I sit with all the presents wrapped, the house decorated, the baking done, and wish that I was behind. I wish that there was a little one bugging me so that I couldn't quite get the cookies made, couldn't quite wrap all the presents, couldn't get the floor cleaned on time for company to arrive. I long to have the happy chaos of a little one making messes that interrupt my day.

Without Liza Jane, though, all I have is stillness and quiet. I have done every Christmas task I can possibly think of to keep my arms busy, and still they ache with longing to hold her again.

I try to find warm spots to fill the void. I have learned that a person has to come up for air sometimes while grieving. Make that a lot of the time. So Luke and I find things to do that bring happiness, like making a favorite meal together or enjoying a new movie.

As often as I can, I try to turn to our God for comfort during this time. Sometimes, though, that is not as easy as it sounds. Putting my trust in God often feels like putting my trust in a paper shredder. There seems to be only pain in a place where there was once blessing and comfort. Other times, I am able to sense the comfort of God's presence.

And in between those brief moments of solace, I find reasons to keep living. Because surviving the death of a child is just that... a fight for survival. So here we are, surviving the day after Christmas, hanging on to any shred of hope that we can find.

We remember her by putting ornaments on the tree that remind us of her. We remember her by visiting her grave and placing flowers on the place where her ashes are buried in the little wooden box her daddy made. And we remember her with our tears as we cry with aching and longing to see her again, to have her close to us.

Nothing will feel quite right as long as she is gone. Which means... the rest of our lives.