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.

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.

Why me?

Why me?  That is the question that has often been on the forefront of my mind as I have lived through the loss of my baby girl. Usually I ask it while shaking my fist at the sky, wondering why God couldn't just allow me to have the one thing that I wanted more than anything in the world: motherhood.

This is a very natural question to ask when tragedy strikes. And I'm not advocating that we stuff these emotions inside, denying the way that we feel.

I usually find, though, that when I start going down the "Why me?" road, I quickly get stuck in the mire of self pity which causes a downward spiral of depression. That isn't a fun place to hang around.

On the way to work I often listen to our local NPR station, and today I heard a short interview with Dan Gottlieb, Ph.D., who is a family therapist. I thought he had some really insightful things to say about surviving grief and trauma this morning. You can listen to the short interview here.

What struck me was that Dr. Dan, who has been through far more trauma than I, has learned the same lesson that I'm walking through. Changing the frame of reference of that question, "Why me?", makes all the difference. I've written about this before, but he re-stated it yet again in a new and refreshing way.

We should be asking "Why me?" all the time. When we look into our pantry and see it full of food, we should look up and say, "Why am I blessed with such bounty?" When we look at our home which provides relief from the elements, we should ask again, "Why me? Why do I get to live in such security?" The list can go on and on. This is a habit I hope to cultivate in my life - one where my thoughts naturally lean toward gratitude, where I am continually gathering the blessings around me and sending my thanks up to the heavens.

I would love to hear from you. What blessings are you thankful for today?

An Ordinary Day

Today is special. It is a gift. Especially if it has been… boring… uneventful… tiring, even, in its monotony. Living an ordinary life, full of ordinary routine days, is precious.

 

Too often I motivate myself by focusing on an upcoming event, such as dinner with friends, a family gathering, a favorite holiday, a vacation. It is so easy to forget what a blessing the non-eventful days are.

 

I was reminded of this poem that I stumbled upon when I was pregnant with Liza Jane, wrestling with her diagnosis, grieving over the fact that my baby girl would have to struggle to draw breath, go through painful surgeries, and may not ultimately survive. I was longing for the simplicity and innocence I had before I knew about her illness.

 

“Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are.  Let me learn from you, love you, bless you before you depart.  Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow.  Let me hold you while I may, for it may not always be so.  One day I shall dig my nails into the earth, or bury my face in the pillow, or stretch myself taut, or raise my hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, your return.”

Taken from Mary Jean Iron’s Let Me Hold You While I May

 

The imagery in that last sentence rings so true of the grief process. It is a strong, disturbing picture of someone who is walking through a very non-ordinary season of life, and longing for the calm, routine days of the past.

 

It’s easy for me, when walking through grief, to feel like ordinary life is futile. The book of Ecclesiastes really resonates with me in this season. Everything is vanity, everything is meaningless.

 

There is nothing better for a man than to eat and drink and tell himself that his labor is good. This also I have seen that it is from the hand of God. For who can eat and who can have enjoyment without Him?

Ecclesiastes 2:24-25

 

There is grace, even in the midst of tremendous pain, to be able to enjoy the routine of ordinary days. Solomon, whom God gifted with extraordinary wisdom, knew that there is nothing better than to enjoy the fruit of our labors on these mundane days.

 

I am thankful for this ordinary day. I do not know when some new tragedy may befall my family, my friends, this country, or our earth, that will cause all of us to dig our nails into the earth, to bury our faces in the pillow, to stretch ourselves taut, or raise our hands to the sky and want, more than all the world, for this ordinary day to return.