Some Random Thoughts

My super talented husband has been working on a new blog design whenever he has a free minute outside of his very busy work schedule. And, now we have it mostly done and ready to be revealed. I'm so grateful for his help and for the fresh new feel! I feel a renewed excitement to spend a little more time writing again. Now, it's just a matter of making the time to do it. I'm hoping this will help me get back into writing - it is one of my favorite outlets when life gets to be too much. And, speaking of... I seem to be there right now...

Lately I've been so overwhelmed by sad things happening, mostly in other peoples' lives. Death, divorce, abuse, depression, cancer, unemployment... to name a few. I hear about it all, I feel the heavy weight of sorrow. I want so much to do whatever I can to ease burdens and make things better. I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to say it, but I'm so grateful for the sorrow I've experienced in my own life. My heart has no trouble feeling that sorrow again and I hope that somehow in feeling it along with someone else, that it eases the weight of their sorrow even just a little.

As hard as life's trials are, I find it so amazing how much God can do when we're pushed to our limits. He always seems to find a way to make so much good come out of the worst of situations. There's a talk by Elder Holland, Lessons from Liberty Jail, where he shares the idea that "man's extremity is God's opportunity." Here's just one tiny snippet of an entire gold-mine of a talk:

"You can have sacred, revelatory, profoundly instructive experience with the Lord in the most miserable experiences of your life—in the worst settings, while enduring the most painful injustices, when facing the most insurmountable odds and opposition you have ever faced."

Isn't that such an amazing gift?! I have to say that the year after we lost our twins was both the hardest time of my life and also the most sacred. I actually think back to that period with such tender fondness because I felt such a clear closeness to my Father in Heaven. It was such a dark time, so lonely and so confusing... and feeling the contrast of that with the relief and comfort that would come... it was just undeniable that I was not walking that path alone. My prayers were earnest and urgent. And the answers that came were powerful and overwhelming.

And, so now when I hear about others going through hard things, I wish there was some way to prepare them for the spiritual outpourings that are about to come flooding into their lives. I'm afraid it would come across as overly celebratory for trials that are not to be celebrated. But, the rescue, the miracles, the healing that will come... I'm not sure there's something better to celebrate than that!

I used to be really bothered by the thought that I'd sometimes hear expressed at church that "Jesus is my friend." It felt too familiar, too presumptuous, almost sacrilegious or inappropriate. But, after losing the twins and feeling so alone, I found the Savior to be my one constant. He was there on dark nights when I couldn't stop crying. He was there when Marc and I were grieving so differently that we didn't know how to comfort each other. He was there when I'd close up retreat to some private place to be alone. He was always there. It was so comforting to know He'd been there once in His suffering 2000 years ago and that He'd be there again to walk with me through it. That is the best kind of friend there is. So, yes, He is my friend. I love Him.

I hope that all those who are struggling or suffering through hard times will feel the same love, relief, and comfort that I've felt through life's toughest moments. I find so much comfort in the ways the Lord has always led groups of His people through years in the wilderness, until finally arriving at their own promised lands. I feel confident He can do the same for each of us in our own individual wildernesses.

Hope for the Future

My brother and his family were in town last week and we had so much fun going on lots of little adventures with them. About a week before they arrived my brother sent me an email with a short list of some of the activities they wanted to do while in town. One of those was visiting the grave site of our twin daughters.

I'm always touched by the extra thought that others give to those sweet girls of mine. I was happy to share that experience with them, but there was part of me that wasn't sure how it was going to go with their kids. I mean, going to a cemetery isn't exactly the most comfortable, happy place for most people, right? I didn't want them to feel uncomfortable or sad, so I kept things pretty light-hearted and made a couple of awkward jokes here and there to keep the mood from getting too somber.

But, now that a couple of days have passed and now that I'm facing the five year mark tomorrow, I wish I could go back to last Thursday, surrounded by my family, my parents, my brother and his crew. There are a few things I'd want them to know.

First of all, I'd tell them how I love visiting the cemetery. I love the quiet, peaceful place that it is. I love the deer who have made the place their home, who fearlessly wander through the grass with their baby fawns. I love remembering the dedicatory prayer that Marc offered on the day our girls were buried - specifically the promise that it would be a place of peace and perspective. Over the years, it most definitely has. Whenever life gets too stressful, too heavy, too scary, it is my quick escape, my go-to place to re-focus and remember what really matters in life.

Two years ago, as the third anniversary was approaching I decided I needed a new way to approach July 16th. It just came so natural to watch the calendar and the clock and relive every moment of sorrow, every feeling of shock and disbelief, every pain and heartache, that led up to the twins' early arrival. I was still healing and I knew that was okay, but I felt ready to move my thoughts from the pain of the past to the hope of the future.

Even though there will always be sadness associated with losing them, I also feel an unquenchable hope and reassurance that I'll see them again. I know they're safe and in a happy place. I know they haven't been taken from me and that one day I'll get to be their mother (and hopefully be much better at it than I am right now).

So, two years ago, with those desires to shift my focus to the hope of the future, I felt inspired to paint the picture I had of them in my mind - the carefree spirits of my two girls, happy in heaven, waiting with the same joyful anticipation to our eventual reunion. That's my painting, displayed on the left.

I want to be clear that the pain of loss is real and every year when the anniversary comes around, I feel it all over again and it hurts. Lumps form in my throat for days, until finally the tears just flow effortlessly. But, I also have to admit just as readily that healing is just as real. With every passing year, I feel it more and more. There is a phrase in a song by Mindy Gledhill that says "time is set to heal all wounds." It's true. And, I give all credit to a loving Savior who willingly suffered the pains of life and overcame the sting of death, whose sacrifice makes my hope a reality. He is the reason for my hope and my healing.

As hard as it was to lose my girls, I wouldn't have it any other way. The things I learned from walking through my own valley of sorrow, the undeniable feeling I had that I wasn't walking alone, the closeness I felt to God in the darkest period of my life... I treasure it all so much. I feel an overwhelming gratitude for the miracles that I've witnessed in my own life, evidence (if ever I needed it) that God lives and loves me.

Healing and Sleeping

My healing has drastically improved since yesterday. I had a second follow-up appointment with my doctor and she determined that my walnut-sized clot (hematoma) was all localized enough in the same area that not only was it not going away on its own, but it was the perfect timing to drain it. So, right then and there she took care of it, quickly and mostly painless.

I got up this morning with a sudden burst of energy, partly because I just felt so relieved to have that hematoma gone but also partly because my little Lucy had a six-hour stretch of sleep last night, only waking up once at 2:45am. I was so shocked... that didn't happen with Ben and Hugh until they were like six months old (or maybe even older). I have a two-week old who sleeps!! And, even when she wakes up she grunts instead of cries. She is such a little angel baby!

So, with my sudden burst of energy this morning I got up and ground some wheat and then made a batch of bread. I tried to rest a little in between some of the steps, but after about an hour I started to realize I was probably pushing myself a little bit more than I was quite ready for. Luckily my mom came over and finished with putting the bread in the oven, as well as whipping up some banana bread with my very ripe bananas that had been sitting on the counter. She has been such a huge help this week. I'm so grateful for my family!

In other news, Ben and Hugh have been fighting naps lately. After almost two hours yesterday, they finally both fell asleep and got in a good two-hour nap. We thought the same might happen today, but after more than two hours had passed and they were still talking and laughing (and kicking and screaming, too), I got them out and let them sit on my bed watching a Chuggington movie while I nursed Lucy. Hugh lost interest as soon as my mom showed up and went to the kitchen to have some banana bread. Ben, on the other hand, was fast asleep within 20 minutes and slept for an hour next to Lucy. I know they still need a nap... I just don't know what to do to help it go a little more smoothly than it has been.

There is something very sleep-inducing about a sleeping newborn. Maybe I should just let Lucy work her magic on the boys tomorrow and see how it goes. Although, I'm pretty sure chances are greater that they'll start jumping on my bed like the two little monkeys they are. And, that rarely ends well for any of us.

Patience

It's hard to believe two weeks have passed since Lucy was born (well, as of tomorrow afternoon, anyway). In some ways it feels like it was just yesterday and in other ways it feels like she's been here much longer. I'm still confined to bed, mainly for the continued healing of the hematoma. Some say it's just a fancy way of saying "bruise", but the pain at times from this fancy bruise has been worse than labor itself. On some days it feels like it's getting better, but then other days I feel like it might just be the death of me. Every couple of days, it seems, I have a little breakdown - just feeling tired and frustrated at not being able to do anything.

The one (and possibly only) upside to having these injuries that are keeping me in bed is that I get to love on my sweet Lucy 24/7. She and I hang out in my bedroom all day, napping and nursing, and staring into each others' eyes during her waking hours. Those eyes, by the way, are looking like they might just turn out to be from me, which feels only fair since Hugh got his Daddy's.

Lucy is the easiest baby. She sleeps a ton - perhaps more than Ben and Hugh put together at her age. She's super mellow, except when her feeding has been delayed by more than five minutes. Oh, and if I dare to even have a taste of anything dairy, then she screams and squirms and isn't happy at all. So, just like with Hugh, I'll be cutting out all dairy for the next few months. It'll totally be worth it to keep her happy.

I was thinking back today to last November when I first found out I was pregnant. I had pretty mixed emotions, but I feel so ashamed to admit that there was any part of me that wasn't grateful and excited. It turns out that there was this big dark hole in my life that I wasn't even aware of that has now been filled with this little light of mine, Lucy. I can't help but look at her and feel completely overcome with love. She is such a beautiful little soul.

Plus, there is something about her presence that makes me feel just a little closer to Elliana and Emmaline. And, that is such a comforting feeling.

So, healing is going slow - much slower than I'd want - but I'm trying to soak up this time with Lucy and enjoy the slower pace in these early days of her life, knowing there will no doubt come a day when I'll wish I had these slow days back. And, having my parents to take care of Ben and Hugh has made it easier on me emotionally to not be there for them as much right now. There's no doubt they love spending time with "Bapa" and "GG".

So, Patience, it turns out is a virtue... and a lesson that seems to come around in different forms much more often than I'd like. I suppose I should make her a friend and let her teach me what she will.

Blanket of Peace

Earlier this week there were a few moments of great sadness that left my heart aching and me sobbing, but yesterday - on my girls' birthday - my heart felt comforted in a way it hasn't before.

Friday night I was feeling hesitant about my decision to start the day off with the 10K race I had signed up for. I had trained for it and was ready physically, but emotionally and mentally I wasn't sure if I was up to snuff, and I don't think I'm alone in my assessment that running requires just as much mental energy and discipline as physical. But, once I paid my twenty-six fifty, there was no turning back. So, I went and I did it. And, much to my surprise, I finished fourth among the women and first in my age division. But, even better than that was the hour and seven seconds I had completely to myself to think about my girls, about my first experience with motherhood, and what the last three years have taught me.

As I was approaching the final stretch and wrapping up my unfinished thoughts for later, it was like music to my ears to be brought back to my present reality with the sounds of Hugh's very loud and distinct crying at the finish line, which I first heard at least a block away. A smile stretched across my face and I couldn't help but feel full and complete with my life as it is. For it is just as it should be, at least for right now.

(Please, someone, reassure me that there is hope for un-awkward family photos in the foreseeable future. Ha!)

A little later in the day we released some balloons at the cemetery with my parents.

We decided to save the two that Ben and Hugh would have released to bring home for them to play with, which was probably a good decision once we saw the looks on their faces as they watched the other four balloons float out of sight.

And, the boys clearly thought the grave site with the flags and flamingos (just up from the twins) was the happenin' place to gather. It didn't convince me enough to change anything about our own little site, much to their dismay.

Before they did too much damage, we relocated to the lake, where we walked along the dam and watched the boats and some ducks doing their thing. And, later, after the boys were down for the night, Marc and I had some quiet time to reflect and remember. Overall it was a beautiful day blanketed with the warmest feeling of comfort and peace.

Three years ago I witnessed things I'm still trying to process and understand, but among those things the greatest by far is a mother's love in its purest form. That love has only grown with time and separation, and I am anxiously awaiting the chance to be with my sweet baby girls again someday.

And, before I close this down for the night, I have to add a note of gratitude to my blogging friends:

I have appreciated your thoughts, your prayers, your kindness in so many forms through so many things we've been through. I was re-reading some of the comments left for us, particularly after we first lost our twins, and was brought to tears by the sweet messages we received from so many of you - some of whom we've never met in person. To each of you, we thank you with all our hearts. Your love has eased our burdens on so many occasions and we are grateful. Surely your prayers and thoughts for us added to the blanket of peace we felt this past weekend. Thank you. Thank you!

The calm before the storm?

In July 2009 when we marked the first year of losing the twins, I was a complete wreck. I was sad and scared and still so heartbroken and lost. We went camping. I needed some distraction. I needed alone time with Marc without the normal day to day distractions. It was nice and beautiful and relaxing and peaceful... until we returned home to find that the burden of grief was as heavy as ever hovering over our existence, waiting for our return.

Then, last July I had two cute boys that I thought would keep the sadness away. So, I just avoided thinking about anything related to the twins. Just for the record, avoidance didn't work. In some ways I think the sadness and grief came with even greater force when they did come.

So, this year I've been waiting and welcoming. And, I've been a little surprised to find that in some ways I feel like Grief has become my friend. I'm not afraid anymore - I've already overcome and survived the very worst it can do. And, I don't feel the need to avoid any of the related feelings - those feelings of sadness and loss actually make me feel even more alive. You can't have a heart that feels pain so intensely that it physically hurts and not be aware of how real that vital organ is.

Plus, now I'm much more aware of healthy outlets that work for me and bring me peace amid the storms. My morning running schedule has been a huge source of therapy. The cheapest therapy I've ever had. I signed myself up for a 10K on Saturday morning - six point two miles I'll run in memory of my girls. I'm looking forward to doing this with them in mind.

Another healthy outlet - a little creative therapy. I've been working on a painting. It's a painting I've wanted to do and have had the idea of it floating around in my head for some time. Monday night I finally threw all of my excuses out the window - no time, no space, not enough artistic talent, etc... - and set up my easel and canvas and just started painting. I've spent roughly three hours working on it and I think I'm actually done with it. And, I really love it. There is something about it that has really brought its own measure of healing to my heart and a new connection to the twins.

And, rather than avoiding the anniversary and the memories associated with it, we're planning out meaningful activities, with the emphasis being on spending time together as a family. And, the feelings of sadness feel much more manageable this time around. I know that could swiftly change, as the ugly side of Grief can be so merciless, but I hope being aware of that possibility will help me get through whatever is yet to come.

But, so far, I feel an incredible feeling of calm. And, even if it is just the calm before the storm, I'm still grateful for these moments of peace and the powerful reminder that comes with that peace of the reality of the eternal nature of the soul, and in my case the eternal nature of two souls that really matter to me.

Hugh's Birth Story - some final thoughts

Back in July of 2008, I remember so vividly the walk from my hospital room out to our car. The long corridors, hugging the Memory Box the hospital had given me to hold keepsakes from our twins' birth. I remembering feeling embarrassed and ashamed, wanting to hide any evidence that I had just lost my babies. I kept my head down to avoid all eye contact with any passersby. Clearly straddling the stages of denial and shock. I left there fully expecting to never walk those same hallways ever again.

When I arrived at the hospital last May to be with Hugh, and returned to that same building, the same hallways and elevators, I was too anxious to find my son to be distracted with any other thoughts. But it was clear they were there waiting patiently for me to acknowledge them. I recognized as soon as I entered the revolving doors at the entrance, that I had a choice - to either face those remaining painful memories and finally find some closure or continue to avoid them and pretend they weren't there.

Upon arrival, I just beelined it up to find my baby Hugh. I walked through one room of the NICU, seeing bassinets with babies in them and an army of nurses carefully monitoring every breath and movement. I was guided through a narrow hallway to an adjoining room and immediately upon entering I saw my boy. He was in the arms of one of the nurses I had talked to on the phone a few times.

Olivia was her name. She immediately apologized that I arrived to find Hugh being held by some stranger, to which I replied that nothing would have made me happier than to have found him being loved and cuddled like that. As soon as I was scrubbed down and dressed in their hospital attire, I finally got to hold my baby. Those three days apart were awful, but I was so relieved to find that he was no longer hooked up to oxygen or any other monitors that would prevent me from holding him. He had been in good hands and had made such great progress. He was healing and his body was stronger and healthier.

I ended up staying there for five days. Hugh was transferred to three different rooms, each move signifying he was progressing. I spent my days by his side. I slept down the hall in a closet-like room, but got up for his middle-of-the-night feeding. We bonded quickly, as if we hadn't been apart.

Every once in a while I would wander just down the hallway to get a glimpse of the room where I delivered Elliana and Emmaline. I walked through the details of that experience in my mind. Any of the remaining bitter feelings were set aside and all of the beautiful ones found their permanent spot in my heart. I imagined them being there with me, walking down that Memory Lane, helping me get past those last lingering scars. And, I felt sure of them fulfilling some angelic duty by watching over our little Hugh, their little brother.

Returning there, I didn't find the same dark hopeless place I had left behind. Instead I found a new and greater peace where I had so many unanswered questions. I found a calm reassurance that all was just as it should be. I found light and love and healing. Going back there, I couldn't have expected the healing Hugh and I would both find before coming home together.

There is a book I started reading when I was about a third of the way through my pregnancy with Hugh, called The Shack. I got nearly half way through and then got busy with my newborn Benjamin and suddenly free time was almost non-existent.

Even though I had put it down for a few months, I remained engrossed in the story, often finding myself reflecting on the author's perspective and philosophies about his own relationship with God and forgiveness and finding healing, not realizing at the time how much it would end up helping me make sense of some of my own unresolved emotions. That hospital, I would later realize was my own personal shack. If you've read the book, you know exactly what I mean by that. And, if you haven't, I would highly recommend it.

After my brief five day stay with Hugh, we were all released and sent on our way. Walking out hugging my baby to my chest this time around... there are no words. One cannot know the gratitude that filled my heart.

And, now that it is one year later and I'm still hugging my little Hugh, that feeling of gratitude is even more present. You would never know by looking at him that he had such a rough start. For that and so many other things, I am so grateful.

Feels Like Home

Last night, just before laying down for bed, I vomited all over my bed. It came so fast and unexpectedly I didn't have time to make it to the toilet or even the closest garbage can. It was pretty uncomfortable to throw up with the scars and abdominal pain that I'm currently experiencing, but my main concern was that somehow because of this the doctor would make me stay an extra day. I cried a little at the thought, but it hurts to laugh and cry right now, so I tried to keep my emotions in check and relax enough to fall asleep.

Morning came and nobody had come in to say I couldn't leave, so I started packing up. I opened the blinds and saw that the sun was shining for the first time since the day Hugh was born. It felt very fitting of how I was feeling about today. The hospital discharged me and some dear friends drove me down to The City in their very smooth ride. Marc stayed behind an extra day, but will be joining me tomorrow.

As we arrived at the hospital, I saw there was a message on my phone. It was one of the nurses caring for Hugh, letting me know that just hours before they had completely weaned him off the oxygen! That is hurdle number one. 

We got up to the NICU as quickly as possible and found Hugh being snuggled by one of his nurses. He still had some wires connected to him, but he wasn't tied down to one spot. After helping me get into a hospital gown, they handed Hugh to me.

Unspeakable emotions filled my heart and seemed to run through my entire body... and I couldn't keep the tears from coming. I was holding my baby boy, after more than three days of pure torture away from him. 

This was Home. 

We spent the afternoon cuddling. I was able to breastfeed him three times and he is getting the hang of it really fast. He slept on my shoulder while I rocked us both in a rocking chair. He is so sweet. I have another hand-holding baby boy.

I have some pictures of my beautiful boy that I'll try to post tomorrow. For now, I need to get my sleep. I just wanted to pass on the good news that Hugh is healing wonderfully and we will probably only be here for another couple of days. I owe a huge thank you to everyone for the prayers and kind thoughts offered on our behalf. I know we have been blessed because of those prayers for our little Hugh. Thank you so very much.

Seasons of Life

 May 2009, Muir Woods (in a much different season of life)

A little over a year ago I was sitting in a church meeting listening to a very optimistic woman (whom I admire) talk about how no matter what we're going through in life we need to be cheerful. I remember I was sitting alone and felt even more alone as I tried to make sense of the words coming out of her mouth. At that point I was still struggling to carry my burden of grief and loss. There wasn't any part of me that felt cheerful about what I was going through.

I knew there was some truth to what she was saying, and that part of me felt guilty, to the core. Tears filled my eyes and I found myself staring into an opened book in my lap, hoping no one would notice my sadness, especially during a lesson on being cheerful. 

But, there was this other part of me that felt like there was something missing from her well-intended encouragement. I knew the message this woman was trying to convey was only meant to be uplifting, but it just felt like there needed to be some distinctions made between different kinds of trials and different responses to those trials. 

Aren't there differences in weight and scope of trials? Aren't some trials harder and more painful than others? I mean, as frustrating as it is to lose your car keys, it's quite a different burden than losing a child, isn't it? And, in those heavier trials, isn't there a purpose to letting ourselves feel the pain and the grief? How can we properly be comforted if we don't properly mourn? Is being cheerful always the answer?

As I sat through the rest of that meeting, I turned my thoughts to the scriptures and was reminded of the Savior's response upon hearing of the death of his friend Lazarus. He wept. I'm sure he wept, in large part, because of the deep compassion he felt for those who were devastated by his death. They were mourning and his response was to mourn with them. There was no mention in that situation about their need to be cheerful. He mourned with them and then he reassured them of His own power over death and brought Lazarus back to life. It could have been so easy for the Savior to skip the whole mourning part and just display his power to heal. If the Savior felt the need to weep, even when he knew in a matter of minutes he would reverse the effects of death, then there must be some lesson there for us.

A couple of days later I found myself thinking about the famous verses found in Ecclesiastes, made more famous by this song.

1 To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: 
2 A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; 
3 A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
4 A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; 
5 A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
6 A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; 
7 A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; 
8 A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

Now, as I sit in this particular season, which is drastically different from the season I was in a year ago, I recognize even more the wisdom in allowing myself the time and the space to fully and purposely embrace the different seasons of life. I'm glad that a year ago I gave myself permission to break down, to weep, to mourn. I'm glad that I went through the stages of grief, even though at times I felt guilty and awful for some of the ugly feelings that would surface. 

There is something about experiencing the hard and the painful in their fullness that have now made the joy and the gladness that much more beautiful.

And, even though my season of mourning has gratefully been replaced with a season of joy, my heart is painfully aware of dear, close friends who are currently in a season of pain and mourning. I wish I had all the answers for why certain things happen, but this I do know... there is a time to every purpose under heaven. 

So, my dear friends, I hope whatever season you find yourself in, you'll give yourself permission to feel whatever you need to feel, without feeling guilty for whatever those feelings are. It's okay to feel sad, it's okay to cry, it's okay to mourn lost dreams, it's okay if you don't feel cheerful about the painful trials you're required to go through. And, please know that you are not alone in your mourning. Remember it is a season. It has its own purpose. It will have an end. There will be another season around the corner. A season when it'll be okay to laugh, to dance, to heal.

That joyful season will come to those who are still painfully awaiting its arrival. I had a hard time believing it myself when I was stuck in my grief, but my season of joy has come just like I was promised it would. And, I hope that my friends who currently find themselves in one of life's darker and harder seasons, that they'll hang onto hope for the season of joy that will come. Because it will come. I know it will.

Progress and Balance

I've been aware lately of others who have recently experienced devastating loss. My heart seems to break all over again every time I hear of another story. I can't help but relive some of my own heartache and devastation. In mourning with them, though, I've also started to recognize how far we've come in our own journey. 

After we first lost our girls, I remember keeping track of the cycle of grief in those first weeks... it used to be 2 days of feeling okay (or in other words, numb), followed by 3 days of uncontrollable tears. Then it gradually went to 3 days of feeling numb to 2 days of constant tears... and so on. If I had to say where we are now, it'd probably be something like a month of feeling generally happy (notice, not numb) to maybe half a day of aching for my girls. That's definitely progress. A year ago I never would have imagined coming this far - between the numbness and the tears of those early weeks, it quite literally seemed impossible.

Overall, I've become much more comfortable with living a paralleled life with my girls. I know they're in a better place, I've known that all along. I guess time, the great healer, has swayed my heart into motions and patterns, making necessary adjustments to living with our girls on another sort of plane. They are not gone far. Whenever I go into our backyard, I like to think of them on the other side of the fence. 

I've had a lot on my mind. I've recently become more aware of my need to just sit in quiet and let certain feelings and experiences soak in. I find joy in pausing to appreciate small moments that are given to me as evidence that God is very much aware of my life. I've come to value these precious moments in life that are meant to be enjoyed privately, to keep them sacred within the walls of my own soul. 

With so many social internet sites out there these days (blogger, facebook, twitter, etc.), I've found myself learning things about others that maybe aren't appropriate details for me to know. (Do you know what I'm talking about?) And, it has made me feel much more guarded in what I share and how I choose to share. I've often questioned where to draw that line here, on my blog. I never intended to share so much here... it just sort of happened as life happened. The only reason we started this blog was to help us with our hope to adopt. Little did we know the crazy turns life would take, making this window into our life reveal so much more than we ever intended.  

I still don't have the answer of where to draw the line, but I am more aware of wanting to find the balance of sharing pieces of our journey that might help another along the way, while still holding sacred the details that should be guarded a little more carefully. Hopefully I can find that balance quickly and get back to posting a little more frequently.  

In Good Hands

It's been a long, long year. I'm pretty sure the longest of my life. We've gone to some dark, scary places that have caused my heart to {almost} faint with fear and where the burden of pain has pushed me to the very edge of despair. For the most part I haven't taken anyone to those dark places of grief. It feels uncomfortable to expose people to it. I'm mostly afraid that rather than holding my hand down that path they might try to convince me not ever to go back there. But, they don't understand that going there isn't a choice for me.

Working on healing my broken heart has reminded me of Dante's Inferno - the deeper you go down the rings of hell, the more awful and scary it gets. I haven't enjoyed going to those heavy places. I dread it, in fact. I put it off, I avoid it. But, I went there this week. I had to. And, maybe for the first time I wanted to. As hard as it is to go deep into the painful crevasses of my heart and relive the births and deaths of our daughters, I want to be flooded also with the reminders of the sacred, the beautiful, the perfect moments we had with them. To remember one part is to remember it all. For now, at least. Maybe that will change with time.

For the last three days my heart has felt heavy, I would almost dare say more broken than it did this time last year. I wasn't expecting that. I thought I had been feeling stronger, I thought the healing I'd found felt more permanent. Revisiting my heart, going a little deeper than normal, I see the wounds are healing... and while that is something to rejoice in, it's clear that the gaping holes remain. Evidence of my two little girls. Their absence is felt. Daily. The burden of losing them is ours to carry. Daily.

{I wonder sometimes if the empty holes are only magnified by our childless state. I wonder if it would be different if we had other kids to focus on. Maybe or maybe not? Not that it really matters anyway.}

People of all different levels of expertise have offered to fix me; in most cases that has just meant a shortcut of some sort through grief. I'm sincerely touched to know there are people who love me enough to want to take away my sorrow. Feeling such love, even from some who don't even know me, has strengthened my assurance of one very important fact - if some imperfect human being feels that desire so strongly, then how much greater that feeling must be for one who is perfect.

There is a certain Head Physician I've come to know a little bit better in recent months. Not only does He accept all patients with all different maladies, He knows each one perfectly. He knows me perfectly and He loves me perfectly. I sense that of everyone who is pained at my pain, it is He who feels it most. I feel confident in His hands, knowing that He is the only one who can truly heal me and fix the hurt I feel. I trust He knows how {and when} to best fix me. I've learned that He is always available... for me. Even in those dark, scary places I've had to go through, I've found Him there. I've recognized that He has gone much deeper than I have or ever will, He has carried a burden much heavier than my little bundle of pain, He knows the loneliness of the path much more poignantly than I can ever imagine.

Because of all of that, even on my smaller scale, He knows how much I need Him in those scary, lonely moments. And, even though I sometimes question if I'll ever find Him there again, I have learned of His consistency. He always is. For me. It's as if I'm the only one He's there for, and yet I know there are throngs of others seeking the same healing from His hands. Still, I feel His concern and awareness of me on such an intimate level.

I've wondered lately how it would be possible to know Him, to really know Him, if I didn't have to pass through any heartache. It's that precise heartache that makes Him available on a more personal level, and more importantly makes me aware of my need to make myself available to Him. How can I be disappointed by my broken heart and shattered dreams, when the result is the chance to walk with Him? I don't want to miss that opportunity, even if it means I have to meet Him along the painful path that leads to true healing. 

I have my heart bundled and bandaged, handing it over and trusting in the care of an omniscent God who loves me as His daughter. If His love is anything like the love I have for my girls {which I'm convinced it is and then some}, then I have nothing to worry about. I'm in good hands.

Elder Maxwell said it best: "To go to the very edge is possible, of course, only when we believe in an omniscient and omnipotent God. When we understand that all things are present before His eyes and that He knows all things past, present, and future, then we can trust ourselves to Him as we clearly could not to a less than omniscient god who is off somewhere in the firmament doing further research."

The Newness of Spring

image info: the product of my labors last October

I woke up very early this morning and couldn't fall back asleep. It reminded me of the immediate days following the birth (or death, however you want to put it) of our twins when I'd wake up with thoughts of them waking me before the light of morning could do its job. It was extra dark this morning, with rain clouds hiding the moon and stars. I sat in silence for a while, soothed by the ticking of a clock. I wandered through the feelings in my heart, finding gratitude for the deepness of emotion that it now knows, while slowly watching morning arrive. It's amazing, really, to watch the very gradual change as the darkness of night dissipates with the power and reach of the sun.

This time of year has brought with it a wide range of emotions, most of them I have been anticipating. Many of the emotions have surrounded flashbacks to a year ago - the joyful tears of finding out our miracle had come, the anticipation of our dream of having a family together was coming true, the dawn was finally marking the end of a long, dark night of waiting. I wish that reminiscning back to those early moments of pregnancy still produced joyful tears... how could they though? It's hard to separate the feelings of joy and pain. I will never lose hope that one day we'll feel that overwhelming joy again... knowing it will run deeper, filling the deep crevasses of pain that have carved their way through my heart.

My thoughts have turned to the ever-constant reminders of the beauty and newness of Spring. There is evidence all around me that life continues, that winter has an end, that blossoms always find a way to bloom again. I've been especially intrigued by the bulbs I planted last October, those potential flowers laid deep in the earth, surviving the harsh, frozen ground, being so gently encouraged to bloom by the warmth of the sun. I've found joy in watching those bright daffodils bloom. And, I've found courage in the process of their growth.

Christmas has always been The Big Holiday of the year. The birth of the Son of God is a big deal, afterall. My celebrations of Easter haven't ever been as big or meaningful. But, I want that to change. I want Easter, with emphasis on its true meaning, to be just as celebrated as Christmas. To focus on the perfect Christ-child who grew into a perfect man, completing His life's missions, leading to the culminating events of His life that fulfilled The Plan. He was the only one able to overcome the two deaths that we are subject to as mortals - spiritual death and physical death. He suffered. He died. And just like He promised - three days later he broke the bands of death.

That bitter death that seems so cold and lonely and endless. He took that away. He did that for you. He did it for those you love who have died. He did that for me; for my little girls - Elliana and Emmaline. Because of Him I will be with them again. His resurrection has never meant more to me than it now does.

There is still pain, but there is also a purpose in that. As we have navigated through the last eight months, I have learned the lengths that the Savior will go to reach us in our darkest hours. Just like the sun's rays reach far and wide to break the darkness of night, the Son of God has reached us in our deepest moments of pain; He has gone into those dark corners of our hearts. I've learned confidence in His concern for me, and in His ability to bring comfort and healing to my heart. His love and perfect understanding of my pain fills my heart with warmth.   

While I've always loved this time of year, words cannot adequately express what it means to me this year.

New life.

Renewal.

Hope.

All because of Him. 

Why weepest thou - by Simon Dewey

Family Therapy

There isn't anything that helps me find healing faster than being with family. The last couple of weeks have provided many experiences with family, and friends who are like family, that have helped me get through this month. I had a chance to see two brothers and two sisters (plus their families) for a few days, as well as my awesome friend Christy and her family. I also got to spent an entire afternoon with this amazing friend learning all about making Christmas treats. I have added some awesome recipes to my favorites that I'm looking forward to making again next year. Thanks, Rachel! This month has been filled with some good memories that have helped to make the season more merry and bright.  I haven't been toting my camera around, so I only have a couple of photos.

We stopped by the Christmas Box Angel statue.




Mandi and Audrey:


Audrey with her favorite Auntie Meg (seeing as she has only one of those):

Beautiful Autumn

An opportunity came up that we couldn't refuse and, knowing that a good vacation would be good for us, Marc and I spent most of last week in New England. Autumntime is our very favorite time of year, and we happened to be in the most beautiful part of the country at the most spectacular time of the year.

Here's an overview of the loop we made through as much of New England as we could possibly squeeze into our trip:

We started in Manchester, NH. From there we went to Portland, Boston, Providence, some small town in Connecticut, then back up to Manchester. It's too bad we didn't make it to Vermont. I guess it gives us a reason to return. 

We did a lot of driving, a lot of walking... but, most important we completely jumped into the present. We didn't think or talk much about what has happened, we didn't worry about what lies ahead of us; for the six days we were away, we lived. We enjoyed each other. We marveled at the beauty of the earth. We reconnected. We found renewal. And, for the first time in three months I felt one hundred percent certain that we were really going to make it through this.

The photos that follow are just a tiny glimpse of the beauty we experienced. It's impossible to capture what we saw, and even more impossible to describe the healing effect this getaway had on us. It was exactly what we needed... I only wish it could have lasted longer or that coming back wouldn't have been so awfully hard. But, I suppose this is all part of the process.

Being Still

There are many highs and lows that we've experienced over the last couple of months... the waves of grief have been at times overwhelmingly painful and stormy, with thrashings and torment at its worst. There are also waves of grief that come more quietly and calmly, like gradual swells of sorrow that seem to flood every corner of the heart. Though they are clearly different in their intensity, I consider both these kinds of moments "high tide."

As time has gone on and we've progressed down this pathway, we have experienced more and more moments of "low tide," where the sorrow is not as paralyzing, and dare I say, even at times unnoticeable. These are moments when peace and calm fill every corner of my heart, moments when sorrow is even temporarily forgotten.

It has been in those moments of stillness, when my heart is completely calm, that I feel a stronger closeness to heaven, and thus to my little girls. While our very brief moments with them were filled with a sense of peace and calm, even wonder and awe, they aren't what I would call a celebration. For that reason, the sting of separation leaves a hollowness that is often difficult to fill. 

I've found, though, that the task of filling that hollowness is not a job too difficult for the Comforter. With that said, I've learned that it is up to me to open my heart up and receive that comfort. There are certainly moments of grief that are necessary, that are important to feel and experience. But, the faster those high tide moments pass, and the faster I can return to my peaceful low tide moments... the stronger the connection I feel to my girls. 

There was a moment yesterday afternoon when I was watching a hummingbird from our kitchen window - I shifted a little to get a better glimpse, and with that slight movement the bird was gone. A few minutes later it came back, and as long as I was completely still, it lingered. They only come around when the environment is calm, when there is complete stillness.  

Being still, especially in my heart, provides beautiful and tender moments of calm and peace that envelope me with assurance that all is well, on both sides of the veil. I'm so grateful for the moments of calm that allow for such a strong feeling of closeness to heaven.

I've appreciated the way that C.S. Lewis described his feelings about this, shortly after the death of his wife: "After ten days of low-hung grey skies and motionless warm dampness, the sun was shining and there was a light breeze. And suddenly at the very moment when, so far, I mourned [Helen] least, I remembered her best. Indeed it was something (almost) better than memory; an instantaneous, unanswerable impression. To say it was like a meeting would be going too far. Yet there was that in it which tempts one to use those words. It was as if the lifting of the sorrow removed the barrier."

Upward trend

Since starting down this pathway of grief, we have often talked about the importance of being aware of the way the pathway trends. There are highs and lows, but as long as there is a sort of upward trend, that's what we try to focus on - that the highs get gradually higher and the lows get gradually less low.

Lately, the healing we've felt has been wonderful... the latest calm has lasted longer than the other periods of calm. It has been going so well that last night was the first night in two and a half months that I was able to sleep {mostly} through the night without the help of a sleep aid. I know that might not seem like a very big deal, but it was huge for me. 

I woke up this morning feeling like I had conquered something that seemed completely impossible a month ago. It was really strange for me in those early weeks to be wide awake at 2am, knowing that I should be completely exhausted, but not being able to sleep no matter what I tried to do, unless I took a sleeping pill. My thoughts never rested, my mind constantly replayed all the restless images. I was half expecting to have to get out of bed soon after laying down, convinced I would be defeated by my attempt to sleep without that little blue tylenol pm. But, miraculously, I woke up close to 6am... a little early for my taste, but much better than what I expected.

This was huge progress... which I really needed for a day like today.

In the mail this afternoon we received a large white envelope addressed to Elliana. It was her birth certificate. I knew it was coming, but still wasn't really prepared for how to receive it. As I looked over all the details, I found myself thinking of how we'll never need to use it to get her a passport or a driver's license or whatever else you need birth certificates for. But, really my tears were mostly tears of gratitude.

This official document doesn't make her any more real in my heart, but it is one more reminder that I am a mother. And, as if that isn't enough, I'm a mother to two super incredible angel girls. I'm even more grateful for our ever brief moments with them, they are memories that become more sweet with time. They are the moments that push me forward and upward, anticipating with great excitement the joyful reunion that awaits us. That joyful day is one day closer than it was yesterday, and for now, that is motivation enough to keep on this upward trend. 

"shall we not go on in so great a cause? Go forward and not backward. Courage, brethren; and on, on to the victory! Let your hearts rejoice, and be exceedingly glad."

Creative Therapy

A few weeks ago, Marc and I volunteered to help with some preparations for a youth dating fireside that was held this past Sunday. I spent a couple of hours every day for the last week or so making some props for the fireside. And, it was incredible how healing and therapeutic it was to work on them. I enjoyed it so much and felt so grateful for the blessing it was to have a creative outlet. 

Here is the "bad date van" that was partially inspired by the Scooby Doo van (and, just for fun, I ended up painting the entire van by finger... now, that is seriously therapeutic!):

And, the cool, sports car:

(As you can see, Einstein was feeling quite photogenic, since he had to be in both photos!)

While I was painting, Marc was creating music and sound effects for the fireside. I loved watching the twinkle in his eye as he "worked" on doing something that he loves doing. It's been a while since he's played around with his music software... it made me happy to see his excitement doing it again.

I found it so timely that President Uchtdorf would talk on Saturday night at the Relief Society broadcast about the healing and joy that comes from being creative. I had already been feeling the truth of those words while spending so much time creating these props, and was grateful to have that truth confirmed during his talk.

I have been wanting to get back into oil painting again, but was struggling to get past some barriers of fear and insecurity. I think this was the perfect way to get started again... I really feel creative energy coming back. Marc and I both do. I'm so grateful for the inspired leaders (who happen to be awesome friends!) who would ask us to help with these seemingly insignificant assignments for this fireside... we're still feeling the healing effect it has had on our hearts. It has been such a blessing! 

So, next time you're feeling overwhelmed by life, just pull out the finger paints and some cardboard... it really works wonders!

Getting over it...

I've been thinking a lot about what it means to heal from a loss, what it means to "get over" a loss. The best explanation I've found has been from C.S. Lewis in A Grief Observed, which he wrote right after the passing of his wife. 

"Getting over it so soon? But the words are ambiguous. To say the patient is getting over it after an operation for appendicitis is one thing; after he's had his leg off it is quite another. After that operation either the wounded stump heals or the man dies. If it heals, the fierce, continuous pain will stop. Presently he'll get back his strength and be able to stump about on his wooden leg. He has 'got over it.' But he will probably have the recurrent pains in the stump all his life, and perhaps pretty bad ones; and he will always be a one-legged man. There will be hardly any moment when he forgets it. Bathing, dressing, sitting down and getting up again, even lying in bed, will all be different. His whole way of life will be changed. All sorts of pleasures and activities that he once took for granted will have to be simply written off. Duties too. At present I am learning to get about on crutches. Perhaps I shall presently be given a wooden leg. But I shall never be a biped again."

I really love this analogy that he gives. It feels like there has literally been an amputation of the heart... and we're just having to learn now how to live in a new way. It won't ever be the same as it was before. Everything is different now. We'll adapt and find our new 'normal', but we won't ever really 'get over it' in the sense of 'forgetting about it'... but, we will find ways to live anew.

And, actually, though the pain is sometimes intense, I'm finding that I'm enjoying the perspective and view this new life has provided. Life is simpler. It feels less cluttered, less hurried, less distracted. Just one of the many blessings that has come with the whole package of this experience.

Prayers for Amy

I've been having so many thoughts running through my mind, so many things I need to write out. But, every time I sit down to write the only thing that comes to my mind is my blogging friend Amy. She lost her unborn baby boy on Monday. Hearing her sad news has made my own wounds feel fresh and new again... my heart aches for the loss she is experiencing. 

Please keep her and her family in your prayers. I know that the prayers offered on our behalf have carried us through our darkest moments... and I know they will carry Amy and her family.

"I have heard thy prayer, I have seen thy tears: behold, I will heal thee."

- 2 Kings 20:5

Burning fevers

"Too often we are so busy checking on our own temperatures, we do not notice the burning fevers of others."

- Neal A. Maxwell

Yesterday I mentioned some words of advice I received five years ago that have helped me lately. It was actually a priesthood blessing that Marc gave me just after my miscarriage. I was promised that I would find healing as I sought out opportunities to bring joy to others through acts of service. I was experiencing such deep emotions at the time that I was honestly frustrated by those words. I hate to admit that now, but I didn't understand how I was expected to serve others at a time when I didn't feel like I had anything to give. The phrase stuck with me constantly for a couple of days, until I finally decided that I would put it to the test and see if, in fact, healing would come.

All I remember is one day making loaves and loaves of bread and taking them to some of our neighbors. It was something so simple, but the advice was exactly right... I did find healing come to me as I looked for ways to help those around me. Even in very small ways. I got out of my comfort zone, and was able to see that I wasn't the only one with challenges.

It has been interesting to go to the grocery store or to be out in public right now, knowing that all the pain I have inside is completely unknown to most people I come in contact with. There is no outward indication of what is going on in my heart. And, as I watch people now, I find myself wondering what they might be experiencing that goes unnoticed to everyone else. If I can feel such intense heartache and still appear to be functioning like a normal person, I wonder what all these other "normal-looking" people are thinking about, worrying about, what burdens are weighing them down.

It reminds me of a talk by Elder Eyring from a few years ago that has always stayed with me. Here is just the very beginning of that talk:

When I was a young man, I served as counselor to a wise district president in the Church. He tried to teach me. One of the things I remember wondering about was this advice he gave: "When you meet someone, treat them as if they were in serious trouble, and you will be right more than half the time." I thought then that he was pessimistic. Now, more than 40 years later, I can see how well he understood the world and life.

Just like I have troubles that are painful and unknown to others, I know that, chances are, most people in my life have quiet sufferings as well. As I've been thinking about these things lately, I've found myself seeking for the strength and courage to put it into practice once again. I've had small glimpes lately of the healing that comes from finding ways to help others. And, those small glimpes are motivation enough to continue seeking the Lord's direction in who and how to help. I know He knows my quiet moments of suffering, because of people He has sent to comfort me in the precise moment I was needing it. So, I know He knows who else is going through quiet struggles, and can guide me to them, if I'm open to His promptings.

I understand there are still going to be moments when I'll need to grieve and have some quiet time to myself. But, I know there is truth in the promise I received five years ago, that healing will come through service. In the midst of pain, it is really hard to seek for ways to serve others, but I'm learning that we can do hard things, with the Lord's help. And, in return, I know He will bless us in abundance for what little we give.