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.

Learning to Trust

I've been "radio silent" in blog land for a while because we just went on a vacation to St. Martin. It was really nice to see some friends and relax on the beach.

We took a beautiful journey by catamaran (white boat in the distance) to the coast of Anguilla. Other than this one snapshot, I did not get my camera out at all. It was a "soak it all in" kind of day.

The beach is one of the most relaxing places on earth to me. When I'm stressed out, I do deep breathing and picture my breath flowing in and out of my belly like the waves of the ocean.

Every time I fly somewhere, I get a little bit afraid when I think about that plane being suspended in the air. I notice that I send more brief, staccato prayers up for safety during that time than I normally would.

It made me think about trusting in the Lord. Since my daughter died, I've had a difficult time trusting him like I used to. My faith was more simpistic before, and now it is complicated. Seeing your own child go through a difficult illness and then succumb to it has a way of making you question things.

Being on that flight, though, made me realize that I trust God all the time. On a moment by moment basis, I trust him to sustain my breath and to keep the fragile muscle of my heart beating in my chest.

We really are just dust, as the Psalmist says. And God knows. He understands. On the journey of grief, it is good to have moments of realizing that our lives are still safely held in his hands.

So, don't get me wrong - I still have some serious questions about belief that are not worked out yet. But for the moment, I am thankful for a respite of peace, a moment of trust.