Category: life & everyday

A Kate Story  12

A few weeks before Christmas, we took the kids to a live Nativity.  They were wide-eyed as the Wisemen explained they had seen a new star in the sky and a new King had been born.  From there, the Roman soldiers demanded silence as we signed our name for the census.  Kate was especially quiet and still (if you know her in “real life”,  you can understand how I considered this a Christmas Miracle!).

We proceeded through the Marketplace, watching as some merchants huddled around the fire sipping hot chocolate in styrofoam cups (ok, ok it was really cold).   There were lots of animals to pet and children trying to sell us their bread and cloth.   And then we saw the inn.  William asked the man, “Do you have any room?”  He said no, he didn’t, but there was a stable up the hill.  We turned and found Mary, Joseph and the baby (who was, thankfully, a doll . . . did I mention it was cold!?), along with shepherds, and more animals– a camel, cow, sheep and donkey.

We stood there in silence.  I marveled, watching William and Kate experience the story that changed the course of history.  Eventually the cold won over William and he went with Peter into the warmth that waited.  But Kate wasn’t finished.  “I’m still looking,” she replied to my whispers.  Tears came to my eyes as I watched her, realizing how deeply meaningful it was for her.  I hadn’t expected this.

And then I heard it.  My bubble, that is.  Bursting.

In all her three year old glory she stated, “I’m just waiting for that cow to poop.”

Ah, the true meaning of Christmas.

Thoughts on a Tuesday night  5

There’s a line from a Christmas song that keeps rolling around in my head this year. It’s tucked into “O Holy Night”.  You’ll recognize it, I’m sure.

. . . the weary world rejoices . . .

Some days I’m just overcome with the weariness of this world. The weight of sadness that so many experience daily. That I experience daily.

And yet, I rejoice. Why? Because God is teaching me so many things as I work through my grief. Because He is good and has blessed me far beyond what I deserve. Because He is using me in spite of my very elementary understanding of Him.

Job stood up and tore his robe in grief. 
 Then he shaved his head and fell to the ground before God. 
 Job 1:20

I studied this verse this morning. Job lost everything, all at the same time. His wealth, his family, his health. And yet, in his grief, he worshiped.

“Is it realistic to think that you and I can worship God, not after we’ve figured it all out, but as our initial reaction to loss in our lives? Job shows us it is. Worshiping God does not require that we understand or approve of what God has allowed into our lives; it simply requires a heart that desires to trust God and a will that is bent toward obedience to God regardless of our feelings. We worship God because he is worthy, not because we necessarily feel like it. And as we worship in the midst of our pain, we are able to gain perspective on that pain. This is a costly worship– which makes it all the more worthwhile and precious to God.” — Nancy Guthrie from her book Hope, p. 34 (bold mine)

This Christmas I am weary.  I don’t understand the path that my life is taking.  But I do trust Him.  Even though I don’t understand and even though it takes every fiber in my being to reach out to God in my pain, I will worship.  I will rejoice.  I will sing.

Since Jesus went through everything you’re going through and more, learn to think like him.  Think of your sufferings as a weaning from that old sinful habit of always expecting to get your own way.  Then you’ll be able to live out your days free to pursue what God wants instead of being tyrannized by what you want.
1 Peter 4:1-2

Today.  8

So today is my birthday.

I’ve graced this earth for an entire thirty years.  Hard to believe.

About a year ago I sensed God wanted to do something big in my life.  Something that would change my life and would deepen my walk with Him.  I found myself preparing, without knowing what it would be.

I remember sitting in the little conference room at the hospital on September 22.  It was the day we told William and Kate that Annie was going to die.  I remember William’s sobs as he said, “It can’t be true.” And deep in my soul, I begged that it wouldn’t be.  “It can’t be true, Lord.  This, this, is the ‘Something Big’?!”

And so today I turn thirty.

“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

I’ve never had a birthday quite like this.  I was thinking about how incredibly, insanely changed my life is today as I was changing the sheets on the kids’ bed.  A normal thing I do each week.  I cleaned out the dishwasher.  Folded a few loads of laundry.  Colored and read with the kids.  Sent them to their rooms a few times.  A new Annie-less routine.

Oh, what I would give to have a birthday, filled with the extra monotony of my life a few months ago.  An extra sheet to change.  Bottles and baby spoons in the dishwasher.  An extra pile of laundry.  Little chubby hands reaching out for the book as I read, my lap too small to hold all three.

“I am  dying from grief; my years are shortened by sadness.  Misery has drained my strength; I am wasting away from within.  But I am trusting You, O Lord, saying, ‘You are my God!’  My future is in your hands.”
Psalm 31:10, 14-15

I was in town this morning, working out.  A few other ladies were there and they were talking.  One remembered it was my birthday and asked how old I was.  I told her.  Another lady, one I’d never met, responded, “Oh, I was knee deep in babies then.  Those were the best years of my life.”

I felt like she had punched me in the stomach.  It was no fault of hers, of course.  But it brought my reality front and center.  I doubt that I’ll look back on this time as my best years.  Sometimes I think I’m mourning the death of that dream in the midst of mourning my Annie.  Instead of enjoying being a mom, I’m trying to figure out just how to take care of a grave site, reading books on grieving children, watering plants from a funeral instead of baby-proofing a house.  I’m ordering a stocking that will always be empty and staring at sweet tiny clothes that still hang in the closet.

“You saw me before I was born.  Every day of my life was recorded in your book.  Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed.  How precious are your thoughts about me, O God!”
Psalm 139:16-17

I was talking to the kids the other day.  I was telling them that we need to choose to trust God with our family.  We’ve been entrusted to travel a road that is not easy or fun.  But we cannot fear what He has in store for us.  William and Kate have great potential as they allow the death of their sister to shape their lives.  I was saying all of this more for my benefit than theirs.  I knew it was a little over their five and three year old heads.

That is, until William piped up.  He told me about a book we have . . . “The Berenstain Bears Get Stage Fright”.  (For the record, Peter and I groan when they pull out those books.  They’re so l-o-n-g!  We try to keep them at Nanna’s but she mysteriously keeps sending them home with us.)  Anyway, he said, “Remember when Sister was scared of getting up on stage? Mama told her some things in life you can’t practice . . . you’ve just got to do them.”

Over and over I’ve thought of that with tears streaming down my face.  God has been preparing me, and I’d sensed it over the last year.  It doesn’t make it any easier.  It doesn’t take away the pain.  But God will see us through.  He is faithful.

“God has made everything beautiful for its own time.  He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God’s work from beginning to end.”
Ecclesiastes 3:11

P.S.  As I recounted the “Stage Fright” story to Mom over the phone, she said, “You tell William he is wise beyond his years.”  So I told him.  “What?!”, he said, “I’m wise behind my ears?!”

Folks, We Have a Three Year Old!  6

Let’s take a break from all this sad stuff, shall we?

Because this girly girl turned 3 last week!

Kate kept asking, “Where is my birthday?”
We celebrated as best we could, and were glad to have Grandad and Nanna come for the weekend.

This girl is one of a kind, let me tell you.  She keeps us on our toes, to put it mildly.  She has a spark in her eyes, a spring in her step, and something brewing in her brain constantly.

When my parents were here in September, they stayed in a camper in our backyard.  Kate liked to take her afternoon naps with them in the camper.  But she’d wait until my parents were napping and then would get into mischief.  The first day she found a mousetrap and figured out how it worked (by that I mean she caught her own finger in it).  The next day she successfully unlocked Grandad’s cell phone and proceeded to call 911.

I did manage to potty train the poor girl.  Cold turkey.  No diapers, no pull-ups allowed.  I know everyone says that when they’re ready they’ll do it on their own . . . I just didn’t believe it.  It’s true, though.  I don’t even have to remind her to go and we haven’t had an accident in days.

Kate misses her sister desperately.  The other night she woke up sick.  I got her situated on the floor beside my bed and she started crying.  “I want a toy,” she said.  I went against my better judgment and asked her what toy she could possibly want at 2 a.m. after puking.  “A rattle,” she said.  “Annie’s rattle.” And I realized that she  missed her sister.  As my heart broke in two, I gave her Annie’s rattle, along with Annie’s baby doll the kids had named Peanut.  Now Kate is not a doll-kind-of-girl.  She does not need a lovey to go to sleep.  She’ll play with her stuffed kitty or a baby doll every once in a while, but has never been glued to anything.  Until ‘Peanut and Rattle’.  Rarely is she without them.  In the middle of the night, I’ll hear her shaking the rattle.  “When will Jesus be done with Annie?” she’ll ask me.  Tell me, how do you explain that to a three year old?

But this was supposed to be a happy post.

One last story.  Kate loves band-aids.  Especially princess ones.  She is so accident prone, she really truly needs one most days.  But some days she’ll see a miniscule scratch and start screaming for a band-aid.  “Snoooow White.  I neeeedddd  a Snoooow White band-aid.  I’m bllllleeeeeeding!!!!” she’ll cry.  I’ll bring her a band aid and ask her where her scratch is.  She’ll proceed to check each finger carefully.  “This one.  Nope.  Uh, this one, I think.”  Eventually, she’ll find it.  So dramatic.

And the real reason Kate has bangs?  Every time I cut her hair, I contemplate growing them out.  But inevitably there is a big bruise on her forehead.

Oh, Kate Lillian, how could we love you more!?  You make our lives so colorful!

** Thanks to our friend, Crawford Ifland for the amazing photos!  We love you, Crawford!

Joy and Sorrow  1

“Sorrow is one of the things lent, not given.
Joy is given; sorrow is lent.
Sorrow is lent to us for just a little while
that we may use it for eternal purposes.
Then it will be taken away and everlasting joy
will be our Father’s gift to us, and the Lord God
will wipe away all tears…”
-Amy Carmichael
I’ve thought about this quote a lot.  And I think it’s true.  How I pray that our sorrow will be used for eternal purposes!  And how I long for the day of everlasting joy!
More on Amy Carmichael . . .  here
More on The Macs (who originally posted the quote and lost their own 11 month old daughter)  . . . here

1 Corinthians 13:12  6

We spend a lot of time at the Cemetery.

It’s right across the street, actually.  I can look out of my front window and see it.  I love it and hate it all at the same time.

The day after we got home from the hospital, we walked over the the Cemetery to see Grandpa Sam.  Grandpa Sam is a surrogate Grandparent to the kids.  He’s the one that brought a pony over for William to ride on his first birthday and who dutifully feeds my children chocolate donuts on Sunday mornings while I’m in Worship Practice.  He’s also in charge of the Cemetery.

And so we walked over to see him the day after Annie died.  William wanted to ride his bike over, so he did.  And then we cried because we didn’t want to talk to Grandpa Sam about where to bury our daughter.   He didn’t want to talk to us about it either.

In the end, we received a beautiful gift.  You see, in 1954, Grandpa Sam and Grandma Donna buried a sweet baby of their own.  Her name was Jane Ann.  And right beside little Jane was an empty plot.  That’s where our Annie Jane is now.

There’s already grass growing at her grave.  It’s so green.  I guess I take note of the green-ness since everything else around us is turning brown.  I hate that the grass is growing there– a reminder that time is marching on without our Sweet Girl.  But the green grass also reminds me the God has not abandoned me.  There is new growth on top of death.

The price we have paid is oh, so high.

I have to admit that as I hear of lives being changed, of ways that Annie’s story is impacting lives, I have a hard time being glad.  I mean, I’m thankful and grateful.  But couldn’t there have been a different way?  Sometimes I find myself asking God why He couldn’t accomplish His purpose by doing a miracle instead.

But God will redeem it.  Someday I will know the full story.  It’s the waiting between now and then that is so hard.

“Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.  Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”
 1 Corinthians 13:12

Annie’s video  7

Thanks to our dear friend, Chris, who created this slideshow of our girl. We shared this at her funeral.

My Three.  7

The bond between these three was strong.  Is still strong.  These are some of the last pictures I took.  And I am more than thankful.

I am so proud of my Annie.  In these pictures she had a great big ugly tumor in her brain.  We just didn’t know it yet.  Yet look at her.  Bright-eyed.  Smiling.  Beautiful.  Ephesians 6:13 says, “Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand.”  She stood then and she stands now.  Satan did not win, my friends.  That evil tumor is gone.  She is with Jesus, fully and completely healed.  She fought and won.

God has shown Himself to us in countless ways.  Someday I will share with you all.  Right now, I feel a bit like Mary did.  I’m pondering it all in my heart.

One of the things I’ll share now is a picture Kate drew while we were in the hospital.  She did not know that her best sister was going to die.  The picture she drew is not that impressive . . .  but she dictated to my Mom what she drew.  I quote: “Mom and Dad and Annie– I love you all day and all night.  And the sun went down to a earth and then came up.  And then went up.  And it grew hotter and hotter.  And Jesus help us.”  Sometimes I feel like my reality is getting hotter and hotter.  But Kate is right.  Jesus will help us.  One moment at a time.

Amen.

Only words and no pictures  11

I’ve been praying about sharing some details of our story . . . and while some details are best written in my journal, I can’t help but think of so many of you who have prayed us through these few months not even knowing anything.  And then I think about the hundreds of Google searches I did, trying to figure out what was wrong with my sweet girl.  If only I had found something, maybe, just maybe the ending to our story would have been different.  So, I will write for our prayer warriors who continue to cover us in prayer and for the other Moms, who like me, are desperately looking for an answer.
_____

Peter and I tried to be brave one night in mid-August.  Annie had always slept in a pack-and-play in our room.  She was supposed to start sleeping with Kate and was doing well sleeping through the night, but we just loved having her with us.  So we tried to be brave and we put her in her crib.  But when we went to bed, we just couldn’t do it.  We scooped her up and brought her in with us.  The next night we tried again.  Around midnight, Kate cried out and as I went in to check on her, I realized Annie was throwing up.  I slept that night with her on my chest so I could hear her little tummy start rolling.  I figured she had the flu and started mentally preparing for it to go through the whole family.  Poor Annie had never even been sick, not even a head cold.  But a few days later, she was still throwing up and no one else was even feeling a little bad.  She still remained happy and would seem to “snap out of it” and go for hours without puking.  My “Mommy radar” started going off . . . something was not right.

When we went to the Doctor, we discovered she had lost a few ounces over the course of six weeks.  Our doctor ordered an ultrasound for a few days later to check for pyloric stenosis (at this point, we thought it had to do with G.I. stuff).  Pyloric stenosis has to do with food not getting into the intestinal track, so instead of pooping, babies throw up their food.  All her symptoms matched except that usually babies are diagnosed when they are brand new, not when they are 6 months.  I clearly remember the ultrasound tech saying, “She is working down there.  You’re glad that it’s not pyloric stenosis.  Babies have to have surgery to correct it.”  If only our solution would have been that simple! Over the next few days, my happy girl returned.  No more throwing up, she started sitting on her own a little and reaching out to grab our faces, our hair, her pacifier, still developing normally.

And then the throwing up returned.  Not as much as before, but it was still there.  We had an appointment with a pediatric G.I. doctor scheduled for a few weeks down the road, but I was not satisfied.  Annie started getting more and more lethargic.  She would lay her head on my shoulder almost constantly.  I’d find her in bed, awake, but laying still.  She was just so tired all of the time.  We went to see my parents over Labor Day and they were quite concerned.  As much as I had been searching for symptoms, I spent too much time with her to get a clear picture of how she was changing.  That was the week that I got this knot in my stomach that didn’t go away.  I’d wake up many times in the night to check her, crying out to God.  Something was wrong and I couldn’t get any answers.  I “googled” my brains out, praying for something, anything to come up that would give me a lead in what was wrong.  I kept taking her to the doctor, but didn’t seem to be getting through to anyone that I was quite concerned.

So we went to the ER.  It was the day William started school– his first day ever.  I pray that he never puts all of that together.  We had to drop him off early.  I didn’t even get pick him up that first week.  I wasn’t the sappy Mom I’d envisioned being . . . didn’t even cry at all.  We snapped a few pictures that didn’t turn out and hurried out of there.  Annie was quite dehydrated when she got there and didn’t bounce back like they thought she should.  So we ended up spending the next five days there.  Eventually they diagnosed her with Gastroenteritis– basically, a bad stomach flu.  I wasn’t convinced.  None of the rest of us had gotten it and while she had some symptoms,  I didn’t think she had enough to merit a diagnosis.  But I could see that we were at a dead end, so when she showed some spunk, they released us.

At that point, I was ready to start some homeopathic remedies.  We put her on some probiotics and Slippery Elm, which stopped the throwing up all together.  We thought we were on the road to recovery (albeit a slow one).  We had friends come over to lay hands on her and pray for her.  The knot in my stomach was bigger than ever as I watched her become more and more lethargic.  She was supposed to be rolling and sitting and giggling but instead would just look at me with sad eyes . . . I’ll never know why numerous nurses and doctors didn’t see it, why my google searches didn’t have the right combination of symptoms, why the order of our steps were this way.  That is where I simply have to choose to trust God.

My very dearest friend Jamie knew minimally what was going on.  I just couldn’t write to her or call her– she’s had her share of pain in the “Mom category”.  But on the day I noticed Annie’s eyes crossing, I lost it.  That was the day the knot in my stomach erupted and I definitely knew we were dealing with more than the flu.  Without my knowledge, she bought a train ticket and was on her way to see me that night.   I shudder to think of how events would have played out if she hadn’t come.

Saturday morning as she watched Annie, she told me it looked like she was having mild seizures.  I’d never seen a seizure, but I knew as I watched her that Jamie was right.  Peter and I headed to Mott’s Children’s Hospital in Ann Arbor as fast as we could.  I’ve never had such a feeling of assurance– I knew what we were doing was right, but I knew it was going to be bad.  Doctors later told me that Annie probably wouldn’t have made it through the day at home . . .

The doctor in the ER didn’t even introduce herself.  She came into the room, felt Annie’s soft spot on her head, left and returned with a team of doctors and nurses.  At the very first doctor’s appointment a month before, I had brought attention to Annie’s soft spot, but was brushed off.  Since then, I had tried to alert numerous doctors that I thought Annie’s soft spot was raised, and they had all assured me that she was fine.  But within thirty minutes, as I watched my sweet baby on the hospital bed, I heard the door click shut.  With tears in her eyes, the doctor told us there was a large mass on Annie’s brain.  The size of a man’s fist.  In her tiny head.  That’s when my world stopped.

From there, it’s fuzzy.  There are lots of details that don’t matter really.  Like the fact that the pressure in her brain was 50 when it should be under 15.  That first night they fought and fought for her life.  But really, my baby was gone by then.  She never opened her eyes again.  Her movements were strange and she had so many fluids and medications in her she didn’t even look like herself.  You know, I’ve never even known anyone with a brain tumor.  It was awful.  A million times worse than the worst dream I could imagine.

We prayed.  We believed.  We cried.  We rallied the troops.  You should’ve seen my facebook page.  Hundreds of thousands of people were on our knees praying for us.  Nurses and doctors were crying with us.  Our family was there, our friends were there . . . we touched her, put lotion on her, kissed her, slept with her and sang to her.

In the end, we were so proud of her.  Her body was healthy.  It was just this big, ugly thing in her head that took away her life.  In spite of it, she had been happy.  She had fought and fought even when we didn’t know she was fighting.  And our beautiful girl went from our arms straight to her Jesus.  It was  Tuesday night, September 22,  just over a month from when the throwing up started.  The doctors believe that was when the tumor formed.  So quick, yet it was a month of exhaustion like I’ve never experienced.  Just like that, she was gone.  We barely even had time to wrap our minds around it.

And now what?  I don’t know.  I don’t know how to grieve.  I don’t know how to adjust to just two kids.  I don’t know what to do with her play mat behind the couch and her pacifiers in the drawer and a thousand other reminders of her.  I don’t know what to tell my kids.  I don’t know what to do when I lie awake at night, imagining how it could’ve been different.

William has this song.  It’s “his song” as he says.  There’s a line in it that says, “You (God) give and take away.  My heart will choose to say, ‘Lord, blessed be your name.'”  I’m choosing each day, each minute, to say that.  Little did I know five years ago when I became a Mommy that I would sing that song over all of my kids– and how hard it would be.  But I am choosing, in spite of the unfairness, the questions, the doubts, to bless the name of my Lord.
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And that, my friends, is the beginning of my story.  You’ve convinced me to keep writing.  As I can, I will.

A New Chapter  12

How can I even write the words I know I have to write?  My life seems to be on a “permanent disconnect” right now.  I’m sitting here, with “Clifford, the Big Red Dog”  on the TV in the background, only to have William crawl up in my lap and ask, “Mom, can we go over to the cemetery?” to which I answer, “Whenever you want to go, I’ll go with you.”

We will visit the cemetery to see William’s sweet sister.

My Annie Jane.

It was just last Saturday that we sat in the Emergency Room in Ann Arbor after being there only 10 minutes.  With tears in her eyes, the Doctor said, “There is no easy way to say this.  Your baby has a large mass on her brain.”  A tumor.  My baby.

And so we said good-bye.  We told her about Jesus and Heaven.  We told her how much we loved her and remembered the things we had done with her in her six short months with us.

We grieve, oh yes we grieve.  But we grieve with hope.  Hope that she is safely in the arms of Jesus.  Hope that Jesus will give us strength to endure each minute.

I’m not sure what direction my blog will take now.  I guess I’ll just see.  Everything seems quite new and unknown now.

But I do know this:  God is faithful and He is true.  I will sing because His mercies are new every morning.  I will praise Him for His goodness.   I will cling to His promises like I have never clung before.  He is my peacemaker, my fear taker, my storm-smoother.  And I need Him like never before.