Compassion on Mother's Day

What does it mean to be a mom?

We give our time, our energy, our very life blood for our children.

For my children, whom we are adopting, it means wrapping my arms around the baggage they have brought into our lives.

There are memories in this family which I did not help to create. There are shadows in this family that hang on to my little ones. Fears rise in their hearts in the middle of ordinary days that I can only hope to understand.

The other night I headed out for a quick walk while my husband made dinner (yes, I'm a lucky girl) and the kids jumped on the trampoline with friends. I let them know I would be back in time for dinner, but the sight of me walking up the road was too much for them. My son yelled "Bye mom!" at the top of his lungs for as long as I could hear him. And my daughter cried out to her friends as she jumped, "Guys, don't you SEE my mom is LEAVING?" Their voices were high pitched, full of stress and fear. The shadow of the mother who left them and never came back lingers still.

Mother's Day is a day of loss and grieving for children who are adopted. Their birth mother is psychologically present every single day, even when not consciously acknowledged. Mother's Day is also a day of loss for so many others, whether they mourn the loss of a mother, the loss of a child, or the loss of a dream of having children. 

This Mother's Day, may we be filled with compassion for all as we acknowledge that everyone's journey is unique. May we spend time embracing the dear family and friends who are near us, even as we cry for the ones we miss. It's a day to honor motherhood in all of its many dimensions, and the deep love we hold in our hearts for mothers and children everywhere. 

Whelmed

I heard it say once that you can be overwhelmed, and you can be underwhelmed, but is it possible to be just plain whelmed?

Lately I feel like I'm living in a constant state of whelmed. Things keep flying at me, and for the most part I can take it as it comes. Helping two kids process the grief of leaving the lives they have known and adjusting to our new family takes the stuff out of you. Realizing that although they are wonderful  children, they still have a long road ahead to healing and healthy functioning, is a big chunk to swallow.

We have had major meltdowns by now. The honeymoon stage of this adoption is definitely over. I read in an adoption magazine that keys for adoptive moms to not burn out are first, to make sure you are getting enough rest. And second, to take time to continue bonding with the kids. Like many moms, I sometimes feel it is impossible to get enough rest. And the bonding thing can be challenging with a kid whose emotions are all over the place.

I'm grateful that the grief process has taught me what it feels like to be in the middle of heart wrenching sorrow. It has at least given me some perspective so I can sympathize with where the kids are at. It would certainly be challenging to adopt children without going through a loss like ours.

Is it happy, or is it sad?

So I've noticed that when I blog about adoption, I get many more "views" than when I blog about grief. And I get that, because it's hard to read about sad things, and it's fun to read about happy things.

Today, though, I want to talk about where grief and adoption intersect. You might think, say what? Isn't adoption a wonderful, loving choice? Parents who adopt, rescuing babies and children from difficult circumstances, following a path that few dare to tread. Isn't it a wonderful, happy, heroic experience?

You guessed it -- adoption is not all walking on sunshine. There are many facets of grief associated with adoption.

First, let's look at the birth parents. They will at some point experience a deep grief and loss over losing their child. Maybe they gave them up voluntarily, or maybe their hand was forced (depending on the country and circumstances). But speaking as someone who knows what it is like to lose a child, my heart goes out to the birth parents of adoptees. I cannot imagine what they are going through, and I hope and pray they will find healing and peace.

Next, what about the adoptee? Shouldn't they be grateful they have been rescued from less than ideal circumstances? It isn't really as easy as that. They have lost the connection to their family, their roots. They have lost an essential part of their identity, which those of us raised by our biological families cannot comprehend. How often in our formative years have we thought, "I'm creative like my mom," or "I'm good at sports like my uncle," or "I like to eat sour foods like my grandmom...." The list goes on, and on, and on.

Adoptees have lost their moorings, and many have spent untold time and energy to track down their bio families and try to regain a sense of self. Most of their parents love them very, very much, even if they were unable to care for them for a time. (I do not speak from personal experience, only from hearing the stories of adoptees who are now adults, so please forgive me if I have misrepresented the perspective of an adoptee. I do not pretend to lump all together in one bucket, nor should we.)

Finally, adoptive parents experience loss as well. Many of us have not been able to have our own children, or if we have, some of us have lost those children due to cruel disease. There is a strong desire hard wired in our DNA to see our offspring, to observe as our own traits are carried on through the next generation. This is a grief on a primal level, as we let go of basic expectations that most of us held for the majority of our lives.

Right now, I am extremely excited about the possibility that we may be matched with our future children soon. At the same time, though, I am sad. Adoption is a wonderful gift, but it is also a symptom of an imperfect world. While we will be over the moon to welcome our future children into our home, we also have to keep in mind the journey of grief and loss that they and their bio family members will have to walk through.

It is a mix of both: happy and sad.

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.

Advocacy and Acceptance

Yesterday at church, I saw a woman put her arm around a young man in our congregation, and it made me tear up. It touches me every time I see someone welcome and accept a person with Down syndrome, because I feel they would have accepted my daughter.

I hope you will take a few minutes to watch this video. It just says it all. I love the way Kelle Hampton advocates for her daughter and all people with Down syndrome.

I am missing my Liza Jane these days. I wish I could have seen her grow up and find out what her interests would have been.

One message in this video is to "be the change" you want to see. I hope I will have the grace to extend love and acceptance to all those who cross my path.

Ready, Set, Go!

So, for a few months now I have been procrastinating. I need to morph this blog into something beyond my grief experience, and that is a hard thing to do. For a while I think some deep part of me felt like if I talk about other things than my daughter and how much I would always love and miss her, I would be acting as if she didn't really matter.

I overheard someone on the train to Philly a few days ago say that perfectionists are among the worst procrastinators. It is the drive to do it perfectly that makes us afraid to actually start, because it is so intimidating. I won't explain this further, because if you are a perfectionist like me, it will already be making some sense to you.

A wise person once told me that as Luke and I continue to grow our family, we will not stop grieving our daughter. We may be caring for more children in the future, but the grief process will not stop once they arrive. And her memory will not go away once they arrive.

So I'm taking the plunge right here, right now. I'm giving myself a big kick in the rear, and I'm shouting "ready, set, go!" Let's do this thing.

When I started this blog, I wanted it to be flexible. Gathering Blessings is about finding reasons for joy, meaning and thankfulness in any season of life. So future blog posts here will chronicle not only grieving our first daughter, but to muse about the process of adopting our future children.

It's a new year, and it's going to be filled with learning and challenges, laughter and tears. I wouldn't have it any other way.



Happy New Year 2013 - hopefully by next year, there will be more Martin family members in the picture!

Still Learning

I'm still learning about this thing called grief and what it means.

This week I had a goal to clean out our Liza Jane's closet. It's the last thing in her room that I haven't gone through. All of her clothes were in there, neatly organized by her Mimi more than two years ago when we arranged her room in anticipation of her birth.

She never made it out of the Newborn size sleepers and into the 0-3 month size, partly because her heart condition made it difficult to eat and gain weight.

All the baby clothes she never got to wear were just one more reminder that her precious life was ended far too soon. As I folded a sweet little pair of jammies with colorful hearts on it, I cried because she never made it into the three month size range.

I remembered the stages of grief when I was six months pregnant and we learned that she had Down syndrome. People with Down syndrome tend to be small for their age, even without a heart condition. So would she have gotten big enough to fit into that three month sleeper before the weather got too warm for her to wear it? I will never know.

This task of cleaning her closet is a very necessary one, because we are in the process of adopting a sibling group of children. We don't know yet who our future children will be, but we are actively going through a matching process. And the room that was Liza's needs to be ready for our children.

Last night we had a beautiful snowfall. I had a rough time last night after meeting a friend's newborn baby for the first time yesterday. All the feelings of anger, rage, and deep sorrow came rushing back.

The tree in our front yard, covered in snow.

Ordinarily, snow like this gives me a giddy, happy childhood feeling. I waltz around the house singing "Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow," while making cups of hot tea. This time, though, I felt I was clinging onto a shred of my former self. I was sad, I was depressed, I could hardly function.

So, I'm still learning what it means to grieve the loss of a child. Tuesday will be two years since she died, and sometimes the loss is still fresh, as if it happened yesterday. She just didn't have enough time. I didn't have enough time to love her, to be Liza Jane's mommy. The pain is still there, churning in the core of my being. And it is still hard.

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.

Making It Meaningful

After losing Liza, one of the things I struggled with was the feeling that all the meaning had drained out of my life. This is a common feeling for parents who have lost a child, or so they tell me. But during the first year or so, I really struggled on many days to think of a good reason to keep going.

My stomach hurts a little bit just writing this, because I remember the intensity of the void that was left when she was gone. I physically felt the grief in my core as I groped blindly for a way to move ahead. Sometimes this feeling comes back even now, almost two years after her death, but it is less painful now. Time and working through the grief process does ease the sharp edges after a while.

Where was I going with this? Ahh yes... the struggle to find meaning. The experience with Liza taught both Luke and me to look very, very hard for meaning, at a time when meaning was less than a faint glimmer on the horizon. It taught us that we can carve meaning out of the darkness. We can create meaning in our lives, and when we do, it builds layers of richness and memories into this journey.

For me, meaning comes from the small things, many intentional acts that begin to weave a beautiful tapestry. Meaning for me comes from baking things from scratch, using recipes and techniques that have stood the test of time. Meaning comes from doing things to make holidays extra special. Every day we have is so fleeting, the time passes too quickly. I believe in living every day, every moment, to the fullest. My experience with Liza taught me this, as we tried to savor every second that she was breathing and alive.

It is my hope going into this holiday season that I will be able to weave more meaning into the path of my life, and that I will be able to savor the special moments that occur every day along the way. Now it's your turn: What adds meaning to your life? 

Two

Today, Liza Jane would have turned two years old. I woke up this morning almost exactly at the time she was born. We've had a weekend full of remembering her, crying for her, wishing we could will her back to this earth.

I'm so thankful to family members who spent time having a birthday rememberance with us on Friday night. Among other things, we made sweet heart-shaped ornaments in memory of her. My sister made a birthday cake. My almost-3-year-old niece offered to blow out the candles for Liza since she was in heaven and couldn't come to her party.

The whole night, I felt like I was seeing a shadow of a tiny two year old in the room. Since she had Down syndrome, she may or may not have been walking by this time. The low muscle tone that comes with the condition means everything takes a little bit longer. I would have been okay with her not walking yet. I love the soft, cuddly baby stage.

It's been a hard few days leading up to this. Today I think I'm just glad it's almost over. Anyone who has lost a child knows you spend a lot of time dreading the special milestones.

And now, I'm drained and ready to think about something else. So I'm signing off and saying happy birthday, dear Liza, happy birthday to you. I still love you, baby girl. And I'm glad that you are not struggling anymore.

Time to slow down... and give thanks.

Winter is the time of year to slow down. I'm more acutely aware of this as we were without power for almost a week due to the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy. Without electric lighting, our house was much darker than usual, and it reminded me that we are built to take a break during the winter months. We take more time to rest and stay warm. Summer is full of busy activities, but winter is the time to step back, take inventory, and assess where our lives are going.

Thanksgiving will be a different holiday for so many this year. In the mid-Atlantic states, we are mindful of the simple blessings of modern life. Running water, a warm house, access to roads, food preserved in our refrigerators... all of these will be on my list. And more importantly, I'm thankful that friends and family have weathered the storm without injury, and that we are starting to get back into our routines.

This is a perfect parallel for all the thoughts that fill my mind this time of year. Just a week from today is the anniversary of my daughter's birth. I remember how thankful I was that she (and her fragile heart) survived the labor and delivery process. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I held her in my arms for the first time. I thought -- no, I knew -- that she would be okay in those first few moments, that she would survive the difficult path of surgery and hospitilization. Those memories of unquenchable hope still haunt me today, as that hope proceeded to be shattered repeatedly by bad news, and my heart still has not recovered from the damage.

But I am thankful for her still. Thankful that she taught me how we have live each day to the fullest, as we never know which one will be our last. Thankful that she taught me to appreciate my loved ones, for they will not be with us forever.

She taught me to refuse to take the little things for granted. This time of year is the perfect for that - a time to reflect, to remember, to be mindful and be present. That's my aspiration for the holidays this year. I want to take this time to slow down and truly give thanks.

Every Day Love

I heard a country song on the radio this week. It was a guy crooning about his girl, and he was wondering if she didn't wake up from her sleep the next morning, would she know how much he loved her?

It was really poignant because my heart and prayers have been with a family who lost a young wife and mother very suddenly in her sleep recently. Tears streamed down my cheeks as the reality overwhelmed me.

It was stirring also as I have been remembering another family whose young son recently died in a very tragic way. Their pain and all the questions are riding on my mind.

We assume our loved ones will live to a ripe old age. Modern medicine and the eradication of many deadly diseases through vaccines and other advancements have led us to expect these things in the Western world.

It is so easy for me to forget that it wasn't this way until recently. And that for parts of the world, it still isn't this way.

But the message in the song rings oh so true to me. I'm convinced the best way we can respond is to do everything in our power to make sure our loved ones know they are loved.

Every. Single. Day.

I haven't been the greatest at this lately as the cares of this life have overwhelmed me. But I needed to hear this message. So I'm going to stop blogging now so I can give my hubby a big hug when he walks in the door.

We don't know if today will be our last.

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.

Trust in God?

I'm writing this post in the hopes that others who are struggling with something similar will take comfort in knowing they are not alone. I don't like being this vulnerable because I'm afraid of what people will think. I am afraid of being judged.

The only way I know to break through this barrier of fear, though, is to begin.

It's very hard to return to an image of a good, caring, loving God after seeing him allow something terrible to happen to someone you love.

My daughter was the sweetest, most precious little baby girl I have ever laid eyes on. Even though she is now gone, I still love her as fiercely as any mother ever loved her child. And I wish with all my heart that she were here, that I was dealing with diapers and midnight feedings and fatigue and all the things parents complain about.

The strength of my love, from the time of my pregnancy onward, made it even harder to see all she had to go through in her tiny six pound body. She had two surgeries, the first on her abdomen resulting in a colostomy bag, the second with her returning from the ER with her chest still open and a small cloth tent sewn over the hole. We could see her fragile heart beating beneath the fabric patch. It was left open in case emergency intervention was needed. It was traumatic to see my babe of under two months old lying there open, bruised from having her sternum broken and her ribs pulled apart. It was traumatic each time her heart failed, we almost lost her, and they brought her back, each time putting her on more machines to try to keep her alive.

How do people who have been through terrible tragedies return to any trust in God? I think of the victims of genocide, war, rape, torture... For many, relief from the pain and answers on this earth never come. And for me, as for many, the pain of what she had to go through continues to grind away in the core of my being, at times with a literal, physical impact.

I know the pat answers Christians provide to these questions. That God didn't cause the event; a sinful, fallen world caused the event. But I struggle with how a loving God could even so much as allow these terrible, painful things - especially to one so innocent, so small, so vulnerable.

And it makes it very difficult to trust in God, for anything at all, great or small, ever again.

Nothing in my life experience prepared me for this. And it seems like a harsh way to learn.

Grief Work

If you've ever talked to a counselor or other trained professional about grief, they will refer to something called "grief work." In my experience, this is a lot like doing physical therapy after an injury, or working out to strengthen the body.

Today I did some Pilates which always challenges my body while leaving my muscles stretched and a bit tired. It feels good to work through some of the toxins and release the tension. My muscles like feeling the "burn" as they heat up through the movements, and I've come to look forward to that sensation.

When I work out, I have to intentionally set aside time in my busy day, or it won't happen. I plan for it, I set up a space in my home, or I go to a park or other location. It takes diligence and focus to work out.

Grief work is a lot like this for me as well. If I get too busy, I simply won't set aside time to "do grief." The emotional toxins build up inside of me and slowly leak into other areas of my life. I've gone a few weeks without doing any intentional grief work. The past few days, it has meant that I'm having strange dreams about babies, about giving birth, about babies being born and then dying.

So, I've been breezing past some of the early warning signs, but now it's time to be intentional about grieving. The toxic emotions need a release. Maybe I will journal or look at Liza's scrapbook. Maybe I will visit her grave. In any case, I'm signing off here and going to do the work of grief.

Laughing and Crying

We have had a particularly stressful couple of weeks. In addition to my full time job, which has become more hectic than normal lately, I’ve also been working on the weekends for my husband’s company.

The other night as we prepared to leave for one of these work weekends, something snapped. Now, we’ve been married for 11 years and counting, so we’ve been through a lot of silly little laughs. It’s just been a while, because we’re both working hard during the day and we generally just crash in the evenings and try to wind ourselves down for sleep.

But on that night, Luke was asking me a question as he brushed his teeth. Something came over me and I squirted my toothpaste in a satisfying, 4 inch glob down the back of his shoulder. It was funny. He was stunned. I was laughing, my toothbrush still in my own mouth. We were tired, so he tried to take the high road, handed me a tissue, and resignedly said “get it off.” I took the tissue, but that’s where my compliance ended… I smeared it even further down his back.

At this point I am laughing myself silly, doubled over, still grappling with my toothbrush in my mouth. And as I run over to the sink to spit, he attacks me from behind. With his blue-green Gillette shave gel, which by the way is heavily scented, all over my t-shirt, my hair, my face, in my ear… you get the picture.

And I’m still laughing. I didn’t even try to get him back, we were both too tired. I just laughed and laughed as I cleaned up the mess and collapsed into bed, smelling strangely fresh and slightly masculine as the scent lingered through the night.

Now, you knew this was coming based on the title of the post. It’s the crying part. We’re coming home the next day from finishing the work we had to do, each of us driving in our respective vehicles down the highway with the blue sky overhead.  We're hauling our work supplies back home, and I’m listening to the radio for ambient noise and thinking about nothing in particular.

And that’s when the tears start. It feels like the weeks after our Liza Jane first died, the pain is intense and fresh and real. I feel like my heart is being ripped in half, the sensation continues for the rest of my hour and a half drive as I cry myself all the way home. Now, crying in the car can be dangerous, so I have to give a big disclaimer to say I didn’t let myself get completely overwhelmed by it, or double over so I couldn’t see anything. But I cried, continuously and softly, the whole way home. And I did this while driving because I’ve learned that you have to take grief as it comes. When the tears are ready to come out, if at all possible, it is a good idea to let them flow.

So here I am, thoroughly exhausted from work and grief and laughter. Thankful for the blessings that are in my life, but still aching for the baby girl who was taken from me far too early.

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.

Living Intentionally, Grieving Intentionally

It's summertime, and the living is... busy. This post is long overdue because we have had lots of summer activities going on - picnics with friends, family gatherings, and warm-weather-inspired fun.

I'm a firm believer in living intentionally, so while the weather is warm and the sun is shining, I've made a conscious choice to get out there and enjoy it. And I've taken my time getting back to the introspective (often indoor) activity of blogging. So here it goes...

Sometimes as grieving parents, I think we need to make a choice to let ourselves remember our children. The other day I did this by taking Liza's scrapbook, the chronicle of her life, and sitting in a room by myself. I looked at the whole book, remembering the good times and the bad times. And I cried.

A page out of Liza's book, and a page out of our lives.

This, to me, is what it means to be intentional about grief. Sometimes memories and emotions come spontaneously. Other times, I think we have to make time to let ourselves process our feelings.

The same is true about life in general. We can be intentional about the way we choose to live, where we focus our energy, where we pour out our love.

One of my choices is to remember my daughter, to spend time recalling her life. I think it honors her memory. It is also a way that I can be kind to myself by acknowledging that I need time to grieve her, I need time to love her, I still need time to be her mommy.

I'd love to hear from you... what do you like to do to "be intentional" about living?

Grief Is Sneaky

Grief is sneaky. When I least suspect it, there it is.

We were on our way to the beach the other day for a couple of days of relaxation. It was a much anticipated trip over the weekend of our 11th anniversary, and I was looking forward to a nice break in the routine.

The day before the trip, we got most of the preparations made. The morning we left, we woke up early, eager to get started. Once we were on the road, Grief caught up with me.

Maybe it was the break in the routine that did it. I think that once my mind began to rest, it started to process feelings and memories that had been lying dormant.

There they were, memories of our Liza Jane, flashbacks of some of the best moments of her life. (At least this time the images invading my mind were of the good days... not the bad days.)

In addition to the memories, I has a sudden flood of the "what if she were here?" kinds of thoughts. What would this seaside break be like if our Liza was with us? What would be the same, what would be different?

Once Grief and the memories begin to invade, it is very hard to continue as before. It is as if a giant mountain has arisen in the path ahead and there is no way around it -- the only choice is a slow, arduous climb until at last the summit is reached and I can begin the descent down the other side.

This time, though, I was able to accelerate the climb a little bit. I did this by opening my mouth and sharing with my husband, who was riding along beside me, everything that kept running through my mind. I don't always have the luxury of immediately sharing my thoughts with someone close to me, but in this case it was nice to have a captive audience, and it was really therapeutic.

To my relief, acknowledging the memories and the questions seemed to give them freedom. It allowed the images and feelings to take wings, almost, and continue on their way.

I'm sure a lot of this has to do with the fact that we're now a solid year and a half past the date our daughter died. It is a relief that sometimes when Grief sneaks up, it is no longer here to stay for days and days. Sometimes, now, it passes more quickly, like a song that finishes on a resolving note sooner than expected.

This doesn't diminish my love for my daughter, or how painfully I still miss her.

I am thankful, though, that the painful feelings are lingering less, and that I am able to spend more time in rest and joy.

We Go On

This weekend we had the privilege of interacting with some members of another family who lost a child recently. Their loss was under much different circumstances, but there are similarities in the way we moms and dads feel.

After conversing for a few minutes about our experiences of sorrow and pain, we both moved on to other activities at the picnic we were attending. Times of grief flow into motion, a choice to continue and to participate in life.

And so we go on.

The alternative to going on is to simply stop. It is tempting sometimes when the heart wrenching reality of the gaping hole is yawning within us. When a child is lost, there is an empty space in our lives that refuses to be filled.

But... stopping living, breathing, experiencing life is not an option. Choosing not to live, not to embrace life despite the pain, is the same as choosing to die.

Our children would not want that for us.

So we continue. We pause, we remember, we reflect and feel. And then we gather our scattered heart strings from the four winds and we put one foot in front of the other and choose to live.

This is how we go on.

The view from our seats at an outdoor concert the other weekend. One of the many ways that we choose to go on without our daughter. It was a gorgeous day.