Trial by Fire

Five months? Wow. Hard to believe it's been that long since I wrote a blog entry. It's a pretty good indicator of what life has been like at our house as we go through the process of adopting older kids. I'd like to promise that I'll be posting more frequently, but for now we'll just take it one day at a time.

Our kids are in elementary school. They came to us nearly eight months ago with strongly established preferences, likes and dislikes. They had a strong bond with some members of their birth family (our preferred term for their biological family), which can make bonding with a new family difficult. They also came with a set of behaviors that were ingrained deep inside them during their formative years of life.

Adopting older children is more like a new marriage than welcoming a new baby. Our challenge as parents is to get to know these new family members and find the right balance of high expectations and healthy compromise to make our fledgling relationships work. It ain't easy.

The first six months or so since the kids joined our family, we were on lockdown. As we approach the eight month mark, I feel like we're emerging from a long, dark tunnel. I'm starting to see the light on the other side. We are figuring out what works and what doesn't work for our newly merged family. We're figuring out how attachment and bonding work at this age too.

I'm thankful for everything our kids have taught me about myself, like letting go of perfection. If I don't prioritize connection over perfection, the whole thing unravels. I have a tendency to worry about what people will think of our kids' behavior rather than focusing on the joys we can experience in the midst of the chaos.

So it's been a trial, one of the most stretching things I've undertaken. In my core, I believe it will be worth it. We are already seeing the results of our hard work, but it's not an easy road to walk. It takes more compassion for myself and others than I could have imagined. And I hope to be back on the air waves again soon to share more of our journey.

P.S. - If you know our kids, please don't use their names in this public forum. Thanks!

For they shall be comforted

When someone dies, they are gone. Whatever our beliefs about the afterlife, nothing prepares us for the harsh reality that the person we knew and loved is not here on earth anymore, for the remainder of our natural lives. The finality of this is shocking and intense, at least it was for me when I experienced it.

Friends lost a loved one this week, and the familiar feelings are all haunting me again. The vacancy, the hole. The impossibility that a person can be here one day, gone the next. It is a reality altered, our world unhinged. It is a great mystery of the universe, how a life can profoundly impact others so greatly, yet be gone in the blink of an eye.

It's been over two years since Liza passed. And yes, I am still processing her death. In our society I could be blamed for wallowing, but friends, our society isn't so good at grief.

A book I'm reading featured this quote.

"Healthy are those who mourn. Only very recently have we begun to realize that to deny grief is to deny a natural human function and that such denial sometimes produces dire consequences.

"Any event, any awareness that contains a sense of loss for you can, and should, be mourned. This doesn't mean a life of incessant sadness. It means being willing to admit to an honest feeling rather than always having to laugh off the pain. It's not only permissible to admit the sadness that accompanies loss - it's the healthy option."

- Donald L. Anderson, Better than Blessed

Sometimes when I read the Sermon on the Mount, it brings feelings of anger. "Blessed are those who mourn," Jesus said. Mourning doesn't feel like a blessing. It brings about some of the most painful feelings I have ever experienced. It has been one of the darkest seasons of my life.

It seems to be an essential part of the human experience, though. It is necessary in a fallen world where things are far less than ideal. So I'm clinging to the second part of the verse, "for they shall be comforted." Whether in this life or the next, I believe there is comfort for all who mourn. And that is worth holding onto.

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.

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.

Something Different

This week we have been busier than normal with our jobs. So for this post, I don't have a lot of time to reflect on the grief process. I do want to share the following blog though. Hopefully you will take a moment to read and share... on your blog, Facebook, Twitter, e-mail, or good old fashioned Pony Express if you desire.

Click here: A Different Sort of Fairy Tale

I'm thinking calming thoughts today in the midst of stress...

Have a beautiful week.


P.S. - I'm not getting anything for sharing this, or entering the drawing that is mentioned - just want to help spread the word.

The Butterfly Circus

The greater the struggle, the more magnificent the triumph...

I love this short film.

It's such a good story of how each of us has value, no matter the circumstances that biology or life have thrown at us. And it's a wonderful look at how we can overcome adversity and create something wonderful out of the ingredients life has given us.

I hope you will watch... I did, and it made me really appreciate the specialness of everyone around me.

Things like this mean so much more to me after having and losing a daughter with Down syndrome.

When people acknowledge and celebrate the unique qualities of every human being, it is a benefit to us all.

Click here to watch.

Remembering with Love

This week I'm thankful for all the little loving ways we got to remember our baby girl. I caught pictures of two beautiful butterflies who visited our yard over the past few days. After all our efforts to attract them with our butterfly garden, it's so nice to see them come around.

Eastern Tiger Swallowtail

Eastern Tiger Swallowtail (female - black form)

I saw a monarch, too, but didn't get my camera in time -- that little guy was moving fast!

Last night we spent an evening in Philadelphia. A good friend noticed this lovely ring as we walked through an outdoor craft fair there. It is a lovely way to remember and to acknowledge how much we will always love our sweet daughter.

As a parent, I always appreciate it when people remember our Liza Jane and the things that are significant to us because they remind us of her. This weekend I've been blessed with a couple of friends that have been willing to acknowledge what a significant impact our Liza Jane has had on our lives. And for that, I am thankful.

Less Alone

I spent the last week in training for work. During the group introductions on Day 1, I realized that there is an often silent minority of individuals in our society who may wish to have biological children, but do not.

As we went around the room and gave introductions, those who had children shared about them as a central part of their lives, as they should be. I was sitting there thinking and wondering if I was the only one in the room who wished they could say the same, but could not.

Our baby girl gave us her first and only hint of a smile on the way to her heart catheter procedure, which would be the first in a domino series of events that would ultimately end her life.

Whether due to infertility, miscarriages, a child being stillborn, losing a child later in life, or simply not finding the right partner, I am realizing there are more of us out there than meets the eye. This is because we often don't talk about the loss, the missing piece, the disappointment. Even Facebook is a microcosm of this issue: many people seem to post about the highlights in life and bury the low points.

As I walked back to our training room from lunch one day, I heard one classmate talking to another about their plans for the holiday week. The first woman said to the other that her 14-year-old son had been adopted via an open adoption process, so he was visiting with his birth family for a few days. Looking at this woman, I never would have guessed that for whatever reason, she ended up adopting her son. Admittedly, I am making a giant assumption that this woman chose adoption because biological conception was not an option -- but given the cost of adoption, allow me this luxury for the sake of argument.

I think it is easy to assume we are the only ones who have struggled with some loss. It helps, though, to know that we are not alone. There are often others who are walking similar roads, and they are closer than we may think.

When we have enough courage to open up about our challenges, the results may surprise us. For me, at least, it has resulted in feeling less alone on the path of life. And feeling less alone is worth the risk.

Having Compassion... for Ourselves

Guilt is a common struggle for people going through the grief process. We often blame ourselves for the tragedy that has struck a loved one, or review events in our minds over and over again to see if we could have done anything differently.

The reality, though, is that we could not have stopped the disaster if we wanted to. Still, our minds seek someone to blame, and too often we turn that blame on ourselves.

Lately I've been working on forgiveness - forgiving other people, but more importantly, forgiving myself. This isn't necessarily tied directly to the events that led up to my daughter's death, but it has more to do with my general outlook and mindset about the road I'm on.

The sweet baby girl whose life, and death, have forever changed me and the path I am walking. Here, Liza Jane is surrounded by the many accessories our kind hospital nurses used to prop her up and make her comfortable. She's making one of her cute fishy faces in this photo - a rare occasion when she felt well enough to be awake and a little bit playful.

Compassion toward myself has never been my strong suit. I'm someone who has been motivated to do things out of a sense of duty, obligation or guilt for much of my life. I am grateful for some close friends and confidants who have been challenging me in this area lately.

As I have been struggling with the grief process, and trying to learn how to go on with life since my daughter died, I have often been really hard on myself. One trusted friend said to me a few months ago, "Can you step back, look at yourself and have ANY compassion for yourself right now?"

That was a turning point for me, although I didn't realize it at the time. The expectations that I have set for myself based on what I assume God wants from me, and what I assume others expect from me, are at best unrealistic. At worst, they are downright harmful.

So I'm walking down a new path where I am learning to be compassionate toward myself. It is incredible how many times a day I catch myself being really harsh toward myself. And I'm working on doing just that: catching it. I am catching that thought and reconstructing it. Instead of thinking "you idiot!" when I make a mistake, thinking "I'm a human being and I make mistakes every day. It is okay."

The truth is, we all need compassion. We need to shower forgiveness on those around us, and importantly, on ourselves.

*****

On a somewhat related note, check out the new "How to Help" link at the top of this blog. If your friend or loved one is struggling with grief, this may provide some insight into the things that they will appreciate hearing at this time.

(For all my friends who read this blog, this is not me trying to give you a not-so-subtle hint! Just wanted to share with others who may be struggling to know how to support someone who is going through the loss of a precious child.)

The Least of These

There are important things happening at an orphanage in Bulgaria this week. I don't have much to say in this post except to point you to this blog entry and ask you to help spread the word.

These orphans have been treated horribly for many years, and we have a chance by contributing to their medical care to say that WE CARE for the least of these, that we are a voice for those without a voice.

I'll stop now and let the story do the talking. Thank you for listening.

"I know just what you are going through!"

I love it when people share their own stories of grief, suffering, and loss with me. There are many things I can identify with in the stories that others share. It helps to know that I'm not alone, that other people wrestle with the same agony and questions that I'm going through.

Having said that, there are some circumstances that just don't compare. For example, a co-worker recently shared with me that he understood what I'm going through, because his wife lost their first child due to a miscarriage somewhere around 3 months gestation. I appreciated the fact that he was trying to reach out and sympathize, but the way he did it just grated on me. He acted as if the experience of pregnancy loss is the same as the loss of an infant. No doubt, both are painful in their own way. However, losing an infant that is 7 weeks of age is not the same as a miscarriage.

One of the things that people who have walked through the most painful kinds of grief intuitively know is that they don't know exactly what anyone else is going through. The deepest losses sharpen our sympathies and cause us to realize that we really cannot compare the uniqueness of our situation to anyone else. A dear friend who has been following this blog knows exactly this - she and I have unique and different situations, and yet there are similar emotions involved. We can express how sorry we are for each other's experiences, and ask the other what are going through. And then we can listen. Because beyond that, it is not fair to say we have been through what they have been through. We haven't.

One woman in sharing about her grief after her husband died described eating alone at home a lot, because she wanted to avoid going out and feeling exposed. I can truly identify with this feeling of exposure. People ask the most innocent of questions when I'm in public that feel like sandpaper on a raw and open wound.

For the woman who lost her husband, "are you married?"

For the parents who lost their only child, "do you have any children?"

This kind of exposure becomes even more acute when someone, usually a perfect stranger, claims to know exactly what you are going through. "Oh, you lost your baby at 7 weeks of age? I know just what you are going through. My grandmother, who practically raised me, just died last year at 82 years of age. I know how hard this is for you."

No, my dear fellow human being, you do not know. People's grandmothers are supposed to die when they get older -- it is the natural order of things. People's children are not supposed to die. You are supposed to die before your children, watching them grow strong into their mid-life years as the flame of your candle waxes dim.

I've come to believe that avoiding this kind of exposure during the most painful times of grief is okay, that it is a healthy form of self-preservation.

At the same time, there are times when human contact can't be avoided, and that is okay too. It teaches us (or at least me) to be patient with others, to give them grace, because Lord knows I have probably made the same mistakes. An innocent attempt to identify with what someone is going through can instead create a sharp contrast that clearly highlights the extent to which I don't know what they're going through.

And so I've learned that the best response to someone's expression of a terrible experience is, "Wow, I cannot imagine what you are going through. I am so sorry. What is this like for you?"

And then... I just listen.