My Letter to Grief

I got the idea for writing a letter to grief from Kate Motaung, who encouraged readers to write their own letters. I began this letter several weeks ago, but it got to be too raw, and I had to back away for a bit, but I came back today feeling ready to tackle it. So here goes.



Dear Grief,

Over the past nine months I have tried holding you at arms length. I have tried bringing you in for a snuggle session. I have tried ignoring you and trying to pretend you were never there. I have gotten angry at you. I have coddled you like a newborn kitten and fed you until you became a tiger who nearly turned to devour me. I have researched you. I have tried to plumb your depths. I have ridden out your waves, even when I nearly drowned. You could not take me under.

Grief, you came into my life that early morning in the Emergency Room of the local hospital when I stared at the screen of the ultrasound machine, eyes searching for my wiggly baby and only finding a still stone instead. Strange that there should be a stone there. Where was my baby? Was she hiding? There must be some mistake. And then when I should have been hearing the delightful wild-stallion cantering clip-clop of her precious heartbeat, there was only silence. And I knew. I knew she was gone, and you crept in and made yourself known. An unwelcome guest in a place that should have been filled with hope and reassurance. You showed your ugly head that morning.

 You weren't through with me yet. In fact, you were only getting started. You embraced me as I was caught in the throes of contractions which should usher forth life, but instead were only bringing forth death. You held me as my precious daughter slipped into this world silent and still, when the only cries were that of a mother whose heart was ripped in two.

You were gracious to me those first few weeks. You let me ignore you for a bit; hold you away from me. But slowly, slowly, bit by bit you wormed your way in. You twisted into my heart and left it open and raw and bleeding. Scabs have formed now, but every so often you like to come and rip the scabs off as well, bringing up all the pain all over again.

You've been a constant shadow to me these nine months, sometimes almost disappearing for brief times when the joyful sun shines so brightly straight ahead that I can ignore you for a while. At other times you stretch large and spooky and make me want to hide under the covers like a frightened child. Especially now, that new life is growing in my womb. Now I am scared of you more than ever. I know your full power, and I don't want you coming close again. And yet I am powerless to stop you.

But I don't have to. I can live with you. I can let you come and go, ebb and flow, because I know that there is one in me who is greater than you or anything else in the world. He beat death. And because He beat death, He will one day banish you, grief, forevermore.

So I can close my eyes tonight, snuggle with my pillow, and sleep in peace knowing that though you can be so all-encompassing some days, you are merely a constant companion until the day I see Jesus and He strips you off of me and clothes me instead in pure joy.

Until then,

A Grieving Mama choosing to live by FAITH, not fear

Day 31 and FMF:The God who Never Leaves

GO:

I will never leave you nor forsake you.

Some people ask, where was God? Where was God when I was hurting, sick, in pain? Where was God when my loved one left this earth too soon? Where was God when my heart was shattered into pieces?

I know my God is here. I know He never left me nor forsook me. I know He was holding my tight the night my world fell apart.

Some ask what kind of God would take away a baby that was loved and wanted and precious and perfect?

I know that God works all things together for good. I know He always has a plan. I know my babies are not suffering, but are rejoicing and worshiping around the throne of heaven! What kind of God gives us that opportunity to be with Him in glory!?!

He has never left my side. He has never let me down. He has never forsaken me. He has held me when I cried and filled my heart with peace and joy when I thought I would never feel those things again. True healing can only come from the great Physician.

I read in a novel the other day that there are 5 kinds of healing: healing of our immune systems constantly fighting off illness, healing through medical treatment, truly miraculous healing, healing of our hearts and attitudes even as our bodies continue to suffer, and finally the ultimate healing of dying and being given a new glorious body that will never be in need of healing again. My babies have been given ultimate healing, while my grief is being healed in the fourth way - my heart and attitude are slowly but surely looking more toward Christ and less at the horrible pain left behind after loss.

STOP.

Just a note - I found a new doctor. I love my new doctor. Seriously, even though he is expensive, he is worth every penny. He has ordered a whole new set of tests to try to find answers, and has given me a game-plan for what to try even if we don't get any answers, he's ready to throw everything he's got at me in hopes something will work. And after basically being told it was all a big fluke so we'll just watch and see, someone who is willing to DO SOMETHING is a breath of fresh air! And, since I just started my first cycle after losing Selah, it's time to try again! Praying that God will give us the desire of our hearts soon; praising Him in all things.

The Hurricane of Grief

I know a lot about hurricanes. I have lived the past 7 years on an island that is vulnerable to hurricanes, so I have had to become educated about them. I have learned that along with the high winds and heavy rains, storm surge is an often overlooked danger during a storm - the fact that the ocean water will rise up higher than normal, which when coupled with heavy rains causes additional flooding. I have also learned that in addition to the well-known "eye," the rain and winds in a hurricane come in "bands." There will be times when the wind is gentle and the rain sprinkling, followed by pouring rain and thrashing winds, over and over in a pattern.

I feel like my experience with Mikayla and Selah has been very much like a hurricane. When I began bleeding with Mikayla, it was like when the weather forecasters see a storm forming way out in the ocean. At that point everyone is wondering which direction it will really go. Will it come right at us for a direct hit? Will it miss us entirely, or fizzle out before it hits land? Or will it skirt by us giving us lots of wind and rain, but leave us with little or no damage?

With my hospitalization and my water breaking, it was looking more certain that the storm was coming our way. There were still no guarantees - we've seen several hurricanes that looked like they would hit us dead-on that have curved at the last minute and spared us. It was time to fill up the pantry, batten down the hatches, and put up the shutters. In spiritual terms, it meant filling up on gospel truths and God's faithful promises, and sending up prayers and petitions.

When I went into labor at not quite 22 weeks, I knew the storm was centered right on us. With a hurricane, this would be the time to fill up the bathtub and sinks and all available containers with water, and pull out the candles and flashlights. With a stillbirth, this was a time of crying out to God to spare me if possible, and to fill me with His presence and His light to bring me through the storm and its aftermath.

Just like the wind and rains, the grief comes in waves and bands. It will ease up for a bit, and then out of the blue hit me like a tree branch and knock me on my knees.

Not everyone in a hurricane will pass through the eye. Only where the hurricane passes directly over will there be a true calm in the midst of the storm. They say the most dangerous part of a hurricane is directly after the eye passes. The reason for this is two-fold. First, the strongest winds are in the eyewall just behind the eye of the storm, and second, some people will be lulled into a false sense of security by the calm blue skies outside as the eye is passing over, and they will venture out of their shelters and begin assessing the damage that has been done only to be caught unaware by the remainder of the storm.

My pregnancy with Selah was a bit like being in the eye of the storm. I could see the sun shining outside, and blue sky peeking through the clouds. Thankfully I knew enough to stay inside my shelter of the Almighty's arms even during this calm. I did not let the prayers stop, or give up on feasting on the Word of God.

When the eyewall hit of losing Selah, it was a double grief. A grief for the loss of another precious baby, and the loss of the calm and hope I had experienced during those weeks I knew Selah was with us.

I am now passing through the back side of the storm. I don't know how much longer it will be until it passes over. The grief is still coming in bands, some stronger, some calmer. My heart is still being battered and bruised.

But I know I will make it through the storm. Because my life is built on a firm foundation, and is capped with God's mighty hand, it will not fall. Even before hurricane season, when building a house where hurricanes may blow, they must be built on a firm foundation, with proper construction and a strong roof to withstand the winds and the rain and the surge. Without that foundation, the house would be washed away.

Clinging to my rock.

Selah - Waiting for us in Heaven

Well, it happened.

The day I feared would come ever since I got a positive pregnancy test.

On Monday, I started bleeding.

At first I tried to write it off as just irritation from a combination of having a yeast infection and having been intimate, but then the clots started coming.

I never had any physical pain. It was over quickly and peacefully, at home. No emergency room visits and cold, hard hospital bed and insensitive doctors. From the time the clots started until it was all over was only about 2 hours. I am grateful for that.

I am also grateful knowing where my baby is - with big sister Mikayla, and our Heavenly Father. I don't know if this baby was a boy or girl as it was too early, only 8 weeks, so I chose the name Selah.

Selah.

A pause. A rest. A time to reflect on what has come before and anticipate what is to come next. A time to praise God for His goodness and faithfulness that endure forever.

Selah. A reminder that God in on His throne.

And so in place of a lingering rainbow I am plunged once more into the midst of the storm, but I know where to look for my lighthouse. I know where the buoy is that will lift me up and keep me from drowning. I know a loving Father who will shelter me under His wings until the storm has passed, and then whisper His tender mercies to me as I huddle in my cave in the after-math until I have found the strength to venture forth again.