Category: hope & grieving

Eight.  2

Eight years ago I started out on this thing called “Being-A-Mama”.  It’s quite the thing isn’t it!?

When I gave birth, a month early, five weeks into living in Michigan, I had no clue.

My post-birth glow quickly turned grey when they told me that William would have to be transferred to the NICU in another hospital.  I stubbornly told them I would be going with him.  They tried to tell me no.

It didn’t work.

I spent the next week on a fold out couch, only because they’d kick me out of the chair next to his bassinet.

That first week was terrifying to me because it was my first glimpse of how very little control I would have in my life.

The NICU is a scary place.  I had no idea places like that existed.  Up until that point, I had assumed that babies were born and then they went home.  That was the plan, anyway.

In those short eight days, I learned a lot.  I heard nurses singing sweet songs as they rocked babies.   I saw babies who didn’t have one visitor.  My tears for my new son combined with my tears for all the tiny babies who were fighting much bigger battles than we were.

It was good for me to have my eyes opened up to the world of sick babies.  It marked me in a big way. And now I know, well, that was just the beginning.  Little did I know that a short stay in the NICU, later bringing home a healthy, pudgy baby, would get lost in the shuffle of much scarier, heart-breaking things.

So it seems right, somehow, that William ushered us into parenting.  After all, aren’t all first borns the guinea pigs of the family?  If only he knew that the parenting really has more to do with us– his Mom and Dad– than it has to do with him.

The other night, as I put him to bed, he asked me, “How do you know when God has called you to something?  How do you know it’s really God?”

And I couldn’t help it.  I flashed back to the tiny bassinet with cords and IVs stuck in his arm.  I saw Kate and her tantrums that end in deep sorrow.  I pictured a small room where we sobbed and told the kids that their baby sister was going to die.  And I watched myself give birth a fourth time, barely able to breathe until I heard that cry.

I told him, “You know God has called you to something when you can’t imagine doing anything else.  When, in spite of your fear, in spite of your sorrow, in spite of your mistakes, you still press on.  That’s when you’ve been called.”

He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.  I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.’
  Psalm 91:1-2

Thinking on Tears  4

You keep track of all my sorrows.
    You have collected all my tears in your bottle.    
You have recorded each one in your book. Psalm 56:8 (The Living Translation)

Have you ever thought about how we enter this world . . .

with a cry?

Do those tears count?
Those very tears that cause others in the room to cry out in thankfulness, in relief, in joy . ..  .

Are they our very first tears in our very own God-bottle of tears?

You’ve kept track of my every toss and turn 

                                                       through the sleepless nights,    

Each tear entered in your ledger,      
 each ache written in your book. 
Psalm 56:8 (The Message)

And what about our growing up tears?
The ones we’ve cried when we’ve been left with a new babysitter?
Or the ones that spring to our eyes when we scrape our knees or drip a tiny drop of blood?

Have you thought about the tears that you’ve cried that seem unwarranted?  The ones that could be easily fixed?

What about the tears you’ve cried over things that don’t break the heart of God?  Do those make the cut?

As we get older, we control our tears a little more, don’t we?
Keep them in check.
Angrily hide them when we’re embarrassed of what brings them to our eyes.
We save them for “what really counts”.

But if the promise is true . . . .
every. single. one. is precious to the One who records them.

And not one tear of ours falls without notice.  And the One Who Notices is never impatient or angry with our tears.  He simply collects them and loves us.

Just something I’m thinking about today.  (For me, as I cry.  And for me, as I listen to the many tears that fall from the rascals that I’m Mama to.)

P.S.  Bonus points if you can name the cry-er in each picture.  Grandmas are not eligible.

Birthday Pancakes  5

Last Friday was Annie’s 3rd birthday.  I expected the words to flow freely onto this blog, as they usually do on the hard days . . . but it just didn’t come.  And that’s okay.  The longer this grief thing wears on, the more I realize that there is no “expected”, no “normal” to these days.  They hit hard each time, in a different way then before.  It is exhausting.

And so we ate pancakes.  Funky Monkey pancakes, to be exact.  How I love the ways in which God blesses us and the ways He reminds us that He cares.  Often I am sad that we have so few things that we knew about Annie . . . what her favorite color would have been, her favorite food, what her voice would’ve sounded like.  Birthdays bring that sadness out in me because I always make something special for the kids, as so many Moms do.  But with Annie, I don’t know what to make since she only really ate rice cereal (and I can’t imagine my family being too excited about that for breakfast.  Ha.).

I was flipping through a cookbook and I found a recipe with a note:

 “Mom made these for us when we brought Annie home from the hospital”

Instantly, I was transported back in time.  I remember carrying tiny Annie Jane into our house for the first time.   I was slightly traumatized at having two rambunctious kids running circles around me, begging to see, kiss, hold, suffocate their new sister.  And then the smell of banana muffins hit me.  Mom had made muffins, timing it perfectly so that they were coming out of the oven just as we walked into the house.  I cannot tell you how good they tasted to me.

That little, powerful memory has allowed me to have a “favorite” to celebrate Annie.  Seems a little silly, but nevertheless it’s something.  When we miss her we make banana muffins.

And on her birthday we tweaked it a bit (because muffins have too many steps for me to process in the mornings) and made banana pancakes instead.

It went over quite well.

Happy Birthday, Sweet Girly.  How we miss you.

P.S.  In our grief, I’ve found that finding ways to celebrate Annie regularly has been very, very important.  These rhythms that we’ve built into our life help us to look forward to something, to share it with each other, and to process her death.  The next day, we took a trip to the hospital, as we do each year, to deliver cookies to the PICU.  One of the most powerful ways to heal is to bless others . . . it may sound strange, but it’s true.

P.S. #2  I have the best Mom, don’t I?  Here she is attempting to teach Will and Kate how to be quiet and gentle with Annie (FYI: It didn’t work)

Her Baby Book.  14

If I know you, Friends, many of you will be checking in on this little blog, knowing that this day is a hard one for the Damaska house.

Because two years ago, we took William and Kate into a small room and told them that their sister was going to die.  It is a memory that haunts me.

Several hours later, we held her as she left this earth, straight into the arms of Jesus.

This morning, Eliza found all of the baby books on the bookshelf in the corner.  She (of course) pulled each one out.  And when I went over to her, she handed me Annie’s Baby book . . .  the half-filled out book that I so wish was bulging with memories like the others.  She had no idea what her pudgy little hands on her sister’s book did to my heart.

I found this letter I had written to her:

*********************

January 25, 2011
My Sweet Annie girl,
I have been missing you so much lately.  You would be almost 23 months old now and for some reason today I just wanted to get out your book and add a little more to it.  I find myself choking back tears as I flip through the pages and I think, “We were so happy.  I wish we were still happy like that.”  But the truth is, your life has changed me so much.  And my human wishes aren’t God’s Plan for our family.  So I continue to trust Him.  He has been so faithful to us.

I wanted to put these pictures on this page because my most important wish for you came true.  You, My Girl, are with Jesus!  In His Real True Presence!  How I long for what you have!  I miss you so very much, but I love to think of you worshipping Him.  I picture you in His arms, safe and secure.  And Healed.  My wish for you.

I love you,
Mommy

**********************

The verse we chose for Annie before she was even born was Isaiah 30:18:

“Yet the Lord longs to be gracious to you; He rises to show you compassion.  For the Lord is a God of justice.  Blessed are all who wait for him.” 
Isaiah 30:18 (NIV)

Little did I know how much I would need the very next verses in the months (and years) that have followed:

“Oh yes, people of Zion, citizens of Jerusalem, your time of tears is over. Cry for help and you’ll find it’s grace and more grace. The moment he hears, he’ll answer. Just as the Master kept you alive during the hard times, he’ll keep your teacher alive and present among you. Your teacher will be right there, local and on the job, urging you on whenever you wander left or right: “This is the right road. Walk down this road.” 
Isaiah 30:19-21 (The Message)
May you see “Grace and More Grace” in whatever you face today.
Thank you for praying for our family.
P.S.  Here is the post I wrote about those two very, very precious pictures of Annie in her highchair, with her plastic baby Jesus.
P.S. 2 And here is my favoritest post I wrote right after Annie was born.

Grace on a Wednesday  3

As I listen to August crickets outside, the pot starts to boil.

I add two dozen ears of corn to the rolling water and check this blog.

The end of this post has a video, and I decide to watch it.


This was grace – short film from Andrew Laparra on Vimeo.

Something about that man?  He looks so familiar . .. who is he?

And suddenly I gasp.

Last winter, we attended a Pastor’s conference.  This man was there.  We had attended a break-out session with him and at the end, for some unknown reason, he sought us out.

He asked our names.  Asked our story.  We were drawn to him.  Before we knew it, we were telling him about the loss of Annie, the ache in our heart, the difficulty of ministry in the midst of grief.

Right there, in the middle of a crowded hallway, he grabbed our hands and prayed for us.  Not only did he pray for us then, but he wrote down our names,  promising to hold us up in prayer regularly.

So today, I watch the video and I learn the life he lives.  And I wonder, who am I that he should pray for ME?  Who is he, that in the midst of such enormous trials, he would be so compassionate and caring for strangers?

That, my friends, is grace.
And it is Christ at work.

There is simply no other explanation.

As I recount our lives almost two years ago, the tears seem to slip down my cheeks more often than they have in awhile.  I am healing, but I am still broken.  But my Jesus knows just when to remind me of His grace on my journey.  He gives me such good gifts.

This precious treasure– this light and power that now shine within us– is held in perishable containers, that is, in our weak bodies.  
So everyone can see that our glorious power is from God and is not our own.
2 Corinthians 4:7

Thoughts on Healing.  8

I’ve been writing this post in my head for weeks now.  It’s kept me from writing some of the more mundane happenings of our household.  Sometimes I’m just afraid that my words won’t adequately portray my feelings.  Or they’ll just make something profound sound plain silly.  But I have to write.

So write I will.

A few months ago, Peter and I received an invitation from the Hospital where Annie died.  It was for a Memorial Service they hold each year for parents of babies and children.  It was not the first service they’ve held since she’s died, but for whatever reason, we’d turned down the rest.  This time, though, we decided we should give it a go.  So we sent in the RSVP and tried not to think about it any more.

I didn’t realize until the night before the service that there was a bit of significance to the date.  I changed Eliza’s diaper and sang to her as I got ready to put her in her  bed.  And I counted the days.  I clutched her a little tighter when I realized we’d be taking our new baby to the hospital for a Memorial on the day we had taken her Sister to the hospital where she would eventually die.  (I know, it’s a little confusing.  Stick with me.)  We found out Annie had a brain tumor when she was six months and nine days old.  We took Eliza to Annie’s Memorial service when she was six months and nine days old.  For some reason, the knowledge of those similar ages heightened my sensitivity to my surroundings.

Friends, the past twenty-one months have held a lifetime of pain for me.  But they have also held a lifetime of joy.  And I discovered the most beautiful, meaningful truth as I sat in that service.

Jesus heals.

I sat there, surrounded by hurting, grieving people.  I sat there and listened to meaningless words and meaningless songs.  Not once did I hear the name Jesus uttered.  In that service, as I watched and listened and prayed, I saw how the world grieves.  I didn’t like it.

We will not heal without Jesus.  He alone can work in us and through us to bring Joy into our mourning.  Without Him, we are still broken.

I still hesitate to share this because I’m not sure my written words portray how deeply this penetrated my heart.

When I listen to a song about rainbows, it is nice.  It’s sad.  But it doesn’t heal.
When I read a poem about death, I resonate with it.  But it doesn’t restore me.

But when I read my Bible?  When I sit and pour my heart out to Christ?

I am healed.
I am restored.

There are no words like Christ’s words.  The truth of His Words bring me comfort and power and perspective.  I am not left with a wistful, sentimental feeling.  I am changed and renewed.

On that day, as I held my sweet Eliza, longing for the touch of my Annie-girl, I felt like Jesus lifted the fog of my life a bit.  He showed me my pain.  And He showed me His grace on this journey I’ve been on.  I saw His presence in my life and the way He has gently held me in His arms.

He heals us.
He is healing me.
He will heal you.

I’m the first to admit that I haven’t “arrived”.  I struggle with the weight of my grief daily.  I feel clumsy with my words and feelings a lot of the time.  But I pray my life will be one that shows joy and grace because of the restoration Jesus has brought to me.

O my soul, bless God. 
From head to toe, I’ll bless his holy name! 
   O my soul, bless God, 
      don’t forget a single blessing! 
He forgives your sins—every one. 
      He heals your diseases—every one. 
      He redeems you from hell—saves your life! 
      He crowns you with love and mercy—a paradise crown. 
      He wraps you in goodness—beauty eternal. 
      He renews your youth—you’re always young in his presence
Psalm 103:1-5 (The Message)

P. S.  I read this the other day.   It was really good.  Sometimes I trick myself into thinking I have to “have it all together” before I write.  But that’s not true, is it?