Why I March

I think we come off as looking judgmental.  Critical.  Like we are condemning those who choose to do it.  We are not.  We are mourning the losses.  So many, it's impossible to place a number.  But that's just they point.  They were so much more than numbers in the first place.  Hence our fight to end this.

I have always been prolife.  Because they are people.  I was taught that truth my whole life.  And I believed it always.  I've never understood how someone can condone abortion.

But then things happened to me.  Things that made me hold and see why abortion is truly wrong.  Three times.  Three times, I've walked through hell to know that each life is precious.  Each life deserves to live.  Deserves to be protected.  That each life is sacred. 

My eldest daughter was born nine months after my husband and I were married.  She was our honeymoon baby.  And she lit up my life.  And also screamed the first five months of her life.  Along with post partum depression, this made me terrified when we received our second positive pregnancy test...three and a half months after she was born.  I was ashamed.  I was embarrassed.  Of what people would think.  The only reason we announced was because someone else began telling others we were pregnant.  We received a lot of comments.  "Get a hobby."  "Do ya'll have a hobby?"  Just as I started to get excited about that baby, just as I put my faith in Jesus that He would give me the grace for Irish twins, the worst happened.  I was thirteen weeks.  And the ultrasound was still.  I saw it immediately.  There was no blipping in that precious child's chest.  My husband missed it. He grew excited, seeing the baby.  I grasped at his chest.  Screaming something was wrong.  He didn't understand.  I was incoherent.  In that moment, we were in two different places.  Two weeks later, we buried John. 

We went on to have two more beautiful girls.  The youngest of which, we nearly didn't bring home.  Her pregnancy was hard and she wasn't growing.  But, praise God, she made it. 

Then, he left for Afghanistan when she was only four months old.  A day after another pregnancy test, I miscarried again.  It would be several years before I could admit that it was a lost baby, not a false positive. 

Months later after he came home, another positive pregnancy test.  Another journey.  We were eighteen weeks.  I felt him getting weaker.  I felt him go quiet.  It was the worst week of my life.  I couldn't get anyone to believe me.  I couldn't get any of the doctors to understand.  Until another quiet ultrasound.  Another silent Doppler.  I went up to labor and deliver, delivered my son, and buried James two weeks later. 

We've been blessed, finally, with a son here.  He's our third boy.  My first son here.  It's weird to have carried seven people.  To have grown seven lives.  And only have four to show for it.  It's saddening.  Something I try not to dwell on. 

But those three I lost, the two I held and buried--they taught me firsthand the beauty, the sacredness of life.  That little one, I call her Josephine, I carried her a week.  But, she was a person.  John--I carried him thirteen weeks.  I felt him kick twice. I felt his life.  And then he was gone.  James--eighteen weeks!  We had our big ultrasound scheduled.  People could see my bump.  I was feeling him kick from the outside!  And then I felt him go.  Slowly.  "I heard he put up a good fight!" The priest said.  I believe he did. 

Every human life matters. 

From conception to natural death. 

I believe this. 

I believe women are shattered by abortion.  Broken.  Where are the pro-choice supporters then?  Where are they when the women sit alone, in darkness, in abject pain?  Where is their "ministry" then? 

Abortion is a disserve, an injustice to women.  To humanity.  It kills people, tiny people, and then walks away.  There is no help when that sweet mama has to deal with the aftermath.  The realization of what has happened. 

It must end.  Abortion must end.  We must realize what we are doing.  The wrong, the evil of killing a human life and shattering a mother. 

Every human life matters.  Every unborn child.  And also every broken mother. 

Speak up, people.  It's time to end this evil.  End abortion. Save humanity.

Elizabeth
John +
Mary
Anne
Josephine +
James +
Joseph

I used to blog all the time. Two to three times per week.  This place was hopping.  And it fulfilled me.  Then, life happened.  (And those numbers have changed, on both sides.) And my blog went silent.  For a long time.  I couldn't write.  I was sad and I was broken.  And I was healing. 

I think a lot.  I'm really good at brooding.  So, as the New Year approached, I thought a lot the last week.  I'm not really one for resolutions.  I end up forgetting about them and then brooding about how I failed again.  But, this year, I want some change.  I need some change.  Spring is full of new life, fresh air.  I need some fresh air in my little corner. We are facing many changes this year.  A move (not sure where yet), along with many other changes--some welcome and some potentially not so welcome ones. So, I've been pondering what sort of changes I'd like to make.

I want to write more.  I love writing.  Conveying emotions and thoughts--it fulfills me.  I used to keep a journal; I'd write several times a week.  I need to start doing that again.  For me.  I want to start blogging again.  Writing and conveying thoughts.  Posting here.  It's time to get things going again. 

I need to start working out again.  My babies are easy on the eyes but not so easy on the waist line.  Time to get active again.  I need to keep up with my girls...and my son who's going to start moving sooner than I'd like to admit. 

I love creating things.  Making things.  Tonight, I went into the kitchen and made pumpkin pie completely from scratch.  Even the pie crust.  For some inexplicable reason, creating things from raw materials is so amazing.  I love to sew and crochet, to bake and cook.  It's an amazing feeling to take rudimentary materials and create something complex from it that can soothe the soul.  A blanket, baby gifts, edible goods.  I need to do that more.  For me. 

I need to spice up my spiritual life.  A prayer journal, reading.  I don't know how to do a prayer journal, so talk me through it if you've done one.  It's intriguing to me. 

I feel like my life, my heart maybe, has been a little house shut up for a long winter.  And spring is coming. Finally.  I feel spring dawning.  And I want to pull out the soft sheets and light blankets and fluff them in the air. Open the windows, prop open the doors.  Let that sweet, life-giving breeze flutter through the house again.  It's time. 

Want to join me?

1 in 4. 

That's the statistic I've seen.  1 in 4.  1 out of every 4 women has experienced pregnancy and/or infant loss. 

How many women do you pass each day? Walking through Target, doing your grocery shopping, milling around the park. 

A lot.

And, supposedly, every fourth woman has gotten a positive pregnancy test, but has no innocent face to show for it.  There's a hole. An unfinished story.  A life that barely started.  And in her heart, there is a raw wound that will never fully heal. 

1 out of every 4 women.

I am the one. 

Thirteen weeks into a surprise pregnancy, I laid back onto the table.  The ultrasound wand searched for the sound.  But there was none.  Where there should have been a wiggly baby, there was a still child.  Too still. My firstborn son was gone.  I grasped at my husband's chest.  And I wept. 

Eighteen weeks into my pregnancy, I was counting down the days until the 20 week ultrasound.  It was scheduled.  I was in maternity clothes and had a beautiful round bump.  Deep down, I knew this one was a boy.  I was thrilled.  One chilly, wet morning in March, I sat on the bed and laid back.  The Doppler wand searched for that sound.  It was silent.  I prayed aloud, begging God in broken sobs, "Please not again.  Please, please not again."  In came the ultrasound.  Where there should have been another wiggling boy, there was a still child.  My second son was gone. 

There was a third child, lost too soon.  Immediately, really.  I never saw her on the ultrasounds.  I hardly knew she was there before she was gone. 

I am the one.  Yet I have broken into a million pieces. 

Somewhere along the roads of grieving each of those lives, there was some sort of silent pat on the head, or not so silent when some told me to just get over it.  A silent pat, and societal pressure to not talk about them.  To not mention they were here and then gone.  People don't talk about miscarriage. We don't talk about stillbirth or infant loss.  We grieve quietly and then pretend to get over it. Like we don't have a raw, beautiful wound for every person we gave up too soon. 

What if I don't want to be quiet?  What if we didn't have to be  quiet? 

John
Josephine
James

"Name him!  Give him a name.  And when you do, please tell me. He was your son. He is your son  I want to do a burial service." And my sweet Irish priest did.  I wept through John's burial service. Out there in the veteran's cemetery in Killeen, standing in that big pavilion with my husband and my daughter, who was much too young to understand what was going on. We stood there, and held each other up alone while we buried our John.  I prayed it wouldn't happen again.

But it did. They came.  That wonderful family came.  The sons carried James's casket.  The daughter sang beside his casket.  And we weren't alone.  Their mother, my dear friend, stood next to me.  Her presence held me up as I buried another son.  I didn't have to be quiet. I didn't have to hide the pain and loss.  Because she wept with me.  So many wept with us. 

I will never know why I've lost three babies.  And I know that I might lose more.  I could bury more of my babies.  But just because I never brought them home, just because their presences are not in my home, does not make them matter any less. My body has nourished seven lives.  I have cradled within me seven people.  I created seven souls.  Three of them sit at the feet of Jesus, praying for me.  I have buried two of them.  I have seen darkness and pain three times.  During one of those times, I saw firsthand the depths to which Christ will go to bring comfort. It's a beautiful testament, and I'd love to share it.  But, at first, I kept quiet about it all.  I had to keep quiet for so long.  Because it was "just a miscarriage."  I was supposed to endure it "silently." 

No.

I've had seven children.  Three aren't here. 

   Elizabeth
+John+
   Mary
   Anne
+Josephine+
+James+
  Joseph

Look at those beautiful names. Of all the accomplishments I've achieved in my life, the greatest are them.  Even the ones you can't see.  I've given life to this world and saints to the next. 

Just like Elizabeth's, Mary's, Anne's, and Joseph's names are spoken within our home, so are John's, James's, and Josephine's.  They are whispered at Mass, they are spoken occasionally within these walls.  Because they were here and they matter. 

All of your babies matter.  All of my babies matter.

All babies matter.

For awhile now, without realizing it, I've been looking at those other moms.  I sometimes find myself thinking about how easy life must be for them.  How relaxing.  How quiet.  Those moms, who have most or all of their kids in school.  My life is anything but calm and quiet.

I have four kids, six and under and I homeschool.  I'm fairly certain that people think I'm crazy for homeschooling...and I am. It's something I wasn't sure I'd do permanently. And I'm grappling with the realization it might end sooner than later.  But, right now, all of my children are home.  All the time. As I watch the school children walk to the bus stop out of my back door every morning, I'm gently reminding mine to go get ready.  Those mothers' houses get quiet and less chaotic, and ours is just getting moreso because of that morning homeschool/baby-filled rush.  As their children board the bus, those moms are readying to leave to run errands alone or with fewer in tow.  I'm feeding a baby, pouring cereal for the toddler and preschooler, and calling to my first grader to check on progress as she readies for the day.  The baby screams for food, I'm wondering where I left my coffee again, and turn to see the middle two finally sitting down to eat. 

I sit and think sometimes about all the things they can do.  Work out uninterrupted.  I struggle to find 20 minutes in the day to add that habit back in.  Go grocery shopping and not worry about the Commissary closing.  I'm usually there at 6:30 in the evening, doing a Supermarket Sweeps run, nodding to the guy who's reminding me all the check out lanes are getting ready to close.  Inevitably, I forget five things.  I'm not brave enough to take my four grocery shopping.  The other moms join clubs, volunteer.  Meanwhile, I'm saying no.  Childcare is hard to come by at these events, my homeschooler has "aged out" of them, and I struggled to find a babysitter.  Especially one who will watch four young children.  So, I say no.  Again and again.  And it's lonely and hard.

Motherhood is lonely and hard.  I have been pondering a lot on that lately.  A dear friend of mine recently responded to a text of mine asking for advice saying it perfectly: "This mothering gig is hard.  So hard."  Oh, yes.  It is.  As much as we love to be surrounded by our people, mothering is difficult and isolating.  And it's easy, I think, to look at mothers in a different season and envy the silence and hard earned free time.  Every time I sit down, someone is demanding my attention.  Even during "quiet" time.  In any given moment, someone is asking me to rock them, another asking for some quality time, and then there's the trouble maker two year old who's quietly causing mass destruction in my wake.  I've been burnt out lately.  Lonely lately.  Terribly lonely. 

But, I had a thought today.  As I sat on my porch staring off into the distance, I wondered something.  I know some of those mothers look at my life and miss it.  Maybe a little.  Maybe a lot.  My life is full.  Many people ask if we will have more, are we pregnant.  (Oh, goodness.  Let me get a handle on my life with four!)  I am still adjusting to my newly expanded family.  It's loud, hectic, trying, and busy.  It's messy.

But it's beautiful.  And sometimes I forget that.

Those mothers have quiet and calm and time for themselves.  And oh, how wonderful.  But, I still have tiny feet pattering through my house.  Oh, how I will miss that patter someday.  I have four children who are desperate to spend time with me.  Imagine that.  Four people who desire my company.  Who yearn for my approval and attention.  Oh, how I will miss that yearning someday.  I have four people who are seeing the world for the first time through excited, innocent eyes.  And I get to witness that!  Oh, how I will miss that fresh excitement someday.  I get to sit down with my daughter and teach her everyday.  I taught her to read!  That is one of the greatest accomplishments of my life.  Oh, I will miss teaching her one day. 

As hard as this time is, as busy and sometimes stressful, I want to remember that someday I will miss it.  I will miss holding tiny ones in my arms, even in if they are screaming and fighting sleep.  I will miss the pattering of little feet, even if it is into my shower where I am desperate for five minutes alone.  I will miss the exposure to all things new, even if they demand to share it with me while I am finally answering emails received days ago.  I will miss teaching her, even if it's while attending to the baby who refuses to nap--again. 

Because it goes so fast.  I will blink and they will be gone.  And the tough times will be over.  The sleepless nights, the gracious but aching no to another activity or meet up.  The missed workouts, the epic meltdowns at church or the store.  But those tough times are laced with beauty too.  I must not forget that.  And for every tough moment, every missed opportunity, there is a greater blessing.  For every time a dream or vision of my life that changes abruptly, there is bigger beauty.  There, in front of my eyes are four--four--tiny people who just want my heart.  Who just want me. 

They want me! They patter, clamor, call, cry for me.  And someday, they will be gone.  In school perhaps.  Or off living their own lives. And my house will be quiet.  My life less chaotic.  There will be beauty there, too. 

But there will be no tiny people. 

"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven."

Dear [Reality TV Star],

Last night, my husband was sleeping off a fever next to me on the couch.  Which meant I had full control over the TV remote.  So, I clicked on your show to watch. During one of your interviews, you said something interesting. 

"We have to talk about things that probably a lot of couples wouldn't talk about back in the States just because...
if we were back in the States, we wouldn't have to be talking about, 'Now if you die, like, what am I supposed to do from there, you know...like, if you don't come home after you're supposed to, you know, this hour...what do I do?' It's hard to talk about those things..."

I thought you hailed from America.  Like, from the United States.  I had thought I heard you were from Arkansas.  But, there must be a different United States.  A different Arkansas. 

Because I live in America--I live in the United States.  And I know so many couples, both young and old, who's entire lives revolve around this very conversation. 

My friend Sabrina lives this conversation everyday.  She has three beautiful, young children.  A girl and two boys.  Her husband is an Oakland police officer.  Every day she sees him off to work, and everyday I'm sure she fears him not coming home.  She inspires me. Nearly everyday, I think of her.  How I would not be able endure that kind of stress, everyday. My friend Michelle lives in Georgia.  She has eleven beautiful children.  She also endures this stress everyday, as her husband is a police officer in Georgia.  She, too, I'm sure fears his not coming home everyday. 

My sister-in-law Angie lives this fear.  Her husband--my twin brother--serves in the National Guard.  Recently, he left for three weeks of intense military training, with weapons and large military vehicles. They were at Fort Hood, training in dangerously high heat.  I'm sure, everyday, she would worry about his safety.  I'm sure, at least a few times during those three weeks, she worried about him not coming home.  Because I did. 

I live this fear everyday, too.  I worry that my husband will die sometimes.  A lot of times.  We have conversations pretty frequently about his will, our wills.  About what would happen if he died on the job. 

Because my husband is an active duty Soldier in the U.S. Army.  And every wife on my street is a military spouse.  Wives of helicopter pilots, military police officers, former infantryman--they all live on my street.  As we've watched our children play together, we've talked about our back up plans, about what we would do if our husbands were killed on Active Duty.  And we all have a back up plan.  Because when those uniformed officers show up at your door with a Chaplain, you won't have time or the emotional stamina to get together a plan. 

You live in South America as a missionary.  You probably won't spend 20 years down there.  You'll probably mission elsewhere eventually.  Maybe even back in the States.  But my friends and I, the police officer wives, firefighter wives, military wives--we will spend a lifetime living in fear.  The fear you said most couples probably don't have to discuss.  We have wills and power of attorneys and back up plans, just in case.  Because we live this everyday. 

I'm happy for you that, if you were back in the United States, you wouldn't have to be talking about the what if's should your husband not walk in the door at the appointed hour.  I'm relieved for you that your life would not revolve around the possibility of him dying.  It's a hard life to live. I would wager though that, when you are home in your United States, milling around in your Arkansas, you likely are rubbing elbows with men and women who do live with this fear daily.  More couples, perhaps, than you realize. 

Because we are everywhere.  Living lives, silently praying everyday that we don't have to pull out those power of attorneys, put into action our back up plans. Hoping we never have to tell our young--or older--children that Daddy, Mommy isn't coming home that night.  That they aren't ever coming home.

Enjoy your safety in the United States.  Your comfort.  It's brought to you by a band of fearful, heroic young and old couples, silently going about our lives.  Everyday.

It's been awhile.  A long while.  I needed space, and quiet. It's been a crazy year and a half. 

A year ago, I could hardly breathe.  No one noticed.  To most of the outside world, I looked fine.  Acted fine.  But, breathing hurt.  Not physically.  But, it took effort.  Each breath.  But, I kept taking one breath at a time.  Because I had to. 

We lost him.  The pregnancy seemed fine to the doctors.  Not to me. I knew something wasn't right.  I guess moms sometimes just know these things.  And so when they couldn't find the heartbeat with the nearly broken Doppler, I knew it wasn't broken.  The couldn't find it with the next Doppler, or the next two ultrasounds.  My son was gone, and I was thrown into a swirling darkness that lasted a long time.  I was the only one there.  It was scary, painful, and lonely.  But God was there, and He took me by the hand and pulled me through.  It's a beautiful, painful story. A love story.  Because without suffering, there can be no love.

Despite it all, God promised he would "bless our family again."  His words.  On last Easter Sunday.  Those were the words I clung to as I moved through the days.  The move, the starting over, the countless labs to find out Why.  Eventually we did find out why.  Which was a bitter sweet pill to swallow.  Treatments could have saved our precious sons.  But we didn't know.

Then, it happened.  Another blessing.  "Pregnant." I cried.  In my husband's arms.  I wept from great fear and great joy.  I started daily blood thinners, progesterone, and extra supplements all in attempt to keep this sweet tiny blessing alive.  Anxiety shook me to my core some days.  There are people who talked me through intense panic, and I'm grateful.  Prayers, so many prayers. 

I knew he was a boy. 

Right away, I knew. I've been right with every pregnancy on the sex.  And I knew this was a boy again.  Which scared me even more.  I had told myself we would never have a boy this side of Paradise.  I couldn't handle losing another.  Week by week, I crawled through the pregnancy.  Each month was a huge milestone.  18 weeks came, and I had to go between appointments, just to hear his sweet heart beating.  Because I thought he was gone.  He wasn't.  Just quiet.  Our little rainbow baby was growing.  I've always thought the term rainbow baby was beautiful--rainbows are a sign of God's covenant with man.

20 weeks, the big ultrasound.  24 weeks, viability. 28 weeks, third trimester. 32 weeks, bi-weekly NSTs. 36 weeks, almost there.  37 weeks, full term. 

And then it happened.  The very moment I had convinced myself I'd never live to see.  The moment, I had let myself envision only a handful of times. 

He came.  And he was alive. He cried and nestled on my chest for an hour before they weighed him.  One of the greatest hours of my life.  I sobbed to my husband.  "He's here! We have a son! He made it! I did it!" 

I didn't do it.  He did.  Our great and merciful God.  He didn't have to.  He did not have to give me another sweet baby.  He did not have to allow that sweet baby to be a boy.  He did not have to answer my prayers about how my labor went.  Down to the very hour. 

But He did. 

My friends, though times may be so very dark that your soul can't see, He is there.  Though it seems as though the swirling grief may never end, it will.  Though it seems no good may ever happen again, it will.  After every rain, there will be a rainbow. 

Mine is sleeping upstairs. 

Weeping may tarry through the night, but joy comes in the morning. Psalm 30:5

I'll confess it. I haven't watched the videos. I can't. I cannot make myself push play. I cannot watch people sift through parts of a human baby and laugh and barter on its price. I can't watch people who callously set prices on the organs of an unborn, dismembered child.

But, it's all hitting a very sensitive, raw place in my heart.

In the next week, I should have been giving birth. Had things been differently, I would be waddling around, complaining about how uncomfortable I was and giddy that we would be welcoming our fourth. My maternity clothes would be too tight. I would be lying awake at night, unable to sleep and making lots of trips to the bathroom. In the next week, had things been differently, I'd be feeling the cramping turn to contractions, timing them, guessing when it was time to leave.

In the next week, I would have been bringing my son into the world.

But, I never got that chance. Because my son died in utero at 18 weeks into the pregnancy.

As I was scrolling my newsfeed on Facebook this morning, I saw another video had been released regarding Planned Parenthood's atrocities. The link read, "Planned Parenthood worker comments that 'It's a boy.'"

It came flooding back.

I prayed that night, while the world slept. I writhed with grief so painful that it was blistering my soul. I begged my sisters, my mother to pray. I prayed that this child that had already opened its eyes to God was a girl. I could not stand the thought of losing another son.

And his beautiful body was born

"Oh, God, it's a boy!" I wailed. "I'm sorry, Richard! Oh, God, it's a boy. I lost another son."
And I still weep.

He was perfect. He looked exactly like his father. It was precious and heartbreaking. He had the chiseled face, the square shoulders that attracted me to this boy's father. His nose and his eyes. Everything. He was all Daddy. 

And his feet.

He was fearfully and wonderfully made. And I should be welcoming him into our family this week. I should be going into labor, praying that he's healthy. I shouldn't know he's a boy. Because we always wait until they are born to find out.

But, I found out too early. And I held him for hours. I had a meal with him, as he laid on my lap. I slept with him on my chest. And it was the most peaceful sleep I'd had. I held him. I stared at his beautiful self.

I took pictures.

I so want to share them. Post them. So people see that he and his brother, lost at 13 weeks into the pregnancy a few years ago, are not a clump of cells. They were fully formed human beings. Arms and legs. Fingers and toes. A body and a soul.

But people get so offended. It's too graphic. It's too much to see. A lion is worth anger and photos. But not a child lost in pregnancy.

I am so upset this week. All these films wherein the Planned Parenthood workers laugh and barter and sell children's body parts.

I should be welcoming my son into the world. Instead, as I stand in the shower everyday, I mourn my very thin waist. As I flew to a wedding I shouldn't have been able to attend, I remembered his absence. I sat on his grave that week, and wept. Oh, the irony.

I held them. I mourn them. I miss them. I am empty. Because these are human beings. Infinitely more valuable than a lion. Than a cheetah. Than an animal.

Because they are more than an animal. These are human beings. And if one wonderful thing can withstand all of this, it's that these sweet babies all sit before the throne of God. They sit with my sons. They sit with the children of my friends, with the souls of my own brothers and sisters. They sit with all the children lost during pregnancy, whether naturally or through abortion.

Try to name your price, Planned Parenthood. These infinitely valuable human beings look down upon you praying for your soul.

And I need to remember to pray, too.

St. John, pray for us. St. James, pray for us.

To the Woman Who Lost Her Baby

I'm sorry.

You are now a member of a group of women that no one wants to be a part of. A secret, hushed club of strong, sometimes broken, always scarred women.

You may have lost your child yesterday, last week or a few months ago. Maybe you lost your child years ago. It doesn't matter.

It is your child.

People have said, "...but I was only four weeks along." "...eight weeks along." "...eighteen weeks along." Maybe you were twenty-two weeks, thirty weeks. Maybe you had made it to that blessed finish line. And something went horribly wrong. It doesn't matter.

It was your child.

People will try to comfort you. They will tell you, "Well, at least you have all those other little ones at home." Or, "You'll have more." It doesn't matter. This was your child.

There will be people who mean well. They will say horrible things, not knowing what they say is like knives to your already searing heart. It doesn't matter. There will be people who know what they say. They will say horrible, hurtful things. And they may walk away for awhile. They make walk away forever. It doesn't matter.

It was still your child.

And life will never be the same again.

You will feel those breaths that are hard and pounding. You will feel your pain rise from your depths and come out of your mouth in guttural sounds. Your heart will feel burning, searing pain. You may be surrounded by people and feel completely alone. You will do things you never thought you'd have to do.  See things you never thought you'd have to. Maybe more than once. You will wonder how you keep breathing. But you will.  Because it was your child.

If you feel every day is a swirling drowning torment of darkness, that is okay. If you only have days like that every few weeks or months, that is okay. Because it was your child. You will watch all of those moms give birth when you were supposed to. And you will feel empty. You will probably relive all of the pain again. And that is okay.

You will maybe pick a name, pick a casket, bury that child. Keep that child's name a daily part of your lives. Or you might not. And that--that is okay. Because it is your child. 

Give God what you have left. If it is the anger, the hurt, give it to Him. He will take it. Like an angry toddler that doesn't understand, approach our Father and give to Him what you have. Scripture is full of what others saw as unworthy gifts, and our Lord accepted them with beautiful gratitude. Bread that only the poor ate. A few coins that emptied a purse. A bleeding, broken body heaped in the dirt. Give it to Him. Because that is beautiful to Him. And you are His child.

Healing will come. It will take a long time, and it will require great Faith. God will supply it. He will pull you forward. Ask Him. Ask Him to show you He is there. Ask Him to take you by the hand, and He will. He is your Father. And you are His child.

Reach out. Talk to the other mothers that have walked this path. They share your grief. Just as our Lord shared his Cross with Simon, we must share our grief with those that don't walk away. That can stand those horrible, raw text messages when it feels like you're drowing. Again. Let them hunch down under that cross and help shoulder it with you. Because it was your child. And he or she mattered. 

Slowly, over time, it will get easier to bear. The pain, the scar will never be gone. Not completely. But, long after the loss, you will realize that you felt joy. Joy! It lept cautiously inside your heart. And, in the great heavens, our children rejoice for you. Because they were our children.

Making a Home into a House

The last week, I've watched my home become less and less of a home. Walls started looking bare. Pictures started coming down. Boxes began to appear. And my heart became anxious. It's time to do it again.

Time to wipe the path of caked-on toothpaste off the sink. The path that little mouths make each night, when I roll my eyes. I just cleaned that. It's gone. The little handprints on the sink handles are gone. I wiped them away. Like no one ever lived here. Like little people never made messes here.

Wiping away the memories. Cleaning up the life that lived.

Cleaning up the afternoons of finger painting when the toddler couldn't contain her creativity to the paper. When the walls and floor became her canvases. Over and over again. When she would stray with her painted fingers into other rooms, streaking her colors onto cabinets and sinks.

Wiping away the chocolate and Doritos from the sink in the bathroom. Again. For the last time. Wiping away the crayon and marker and paint streaked down into the drain, where they washed their tiny, precious hands. Wiping up the milky handprints off of the cupboard doors, where I hadn't noticed them unless I happened to be on my knees cleaning something else. 

Cleaning up the spilled flour and sugar from the baking we  did together. Little hands clumsily measuring, held inside mommy's hands. Careful. Pay attention. It's gone. The food that boiled over from meals lovingly made. Early in the morning for the husband, in the evening for the family. Sweet treats made for special days. Holiday feasts and Birthday celebrations.

Wiping away the footprints. That paced floors with a sick baby who wouldn't eat. Holding her. Tears falling. Pacing, praying. In the middle of the night, while the world slept and he was far away. Footprints from holding crying children who were missing Daddy. Or waking from nightmares. Fevers, coughs. Rocking, cuddling, praying more.

Footprints from wandering through the house, mindlessly fingering each blessed decade. Pacing because he hadn't called when he usually did. Forgetting he said he wouldn't be able to call. Remembering why he said he wouldn't call. Which made the worrying worse.

Cleaning up the banners and countdowns. Wiping up the tears of Homecoming. He's home! He's safe! No more sleepless nights of worry and fear. More footprints to clean. Praise God. More paint on the walls. Thank you, Jesus. Cleaning up after him again.

Footprints from pacing. Timing the contractions, it's almost time to go. Another sweet baby coming. A sweet, tiny baby who nearly didn't make it. So small. Waiting. The pacing fizzled out. Leaving for the hospital. Coming home with a new human person. A precious daughter. Adding to our fold. Sleepless night of feeding and swaddling. Treasuring every second. Because they grow too fast.

Wiping away the worry and then grief. Leaving for the hospital, but coming home empty-handed. Cleaning up the shattered hearts, the tears falling. Wiping the door that opened again and again, letting love and blessings come in. Hugs, friends, food, comfort. Cleaning up the realization that even death cannot reign over Love. God conquers all.

Cleaning up after all the friends and family. Aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews. Grandmothers and Grandfathers. A house brimming with love, loud with joy. Wiping up the numerous little footprints that ran through the house all weekend, and then out the front door late Sunday night.

Books and plastic bangles found behind the furniture. Forgotten, lost. Now, found. Stuffing the little trinkets in the last few open boxes. Where all of our life lives.

Wiping up until it's clean. Stark. No individuality left. Just white walls, wooden floors. Wiping away the life like it was never here. Because behind us, someone else will come. They will come in and make their own beautiful mess.

And we will continue on our journey, enter a new home. Start a new chapter. A chapter peppered with inevitable struggle and hardship. A chapter overflowing with joy and blessings. A chapter with new streaks of color. God willing, new life. A chapter with new footprints.

I supposed it all started innocently enough. Or maybe naively enough. He had orders to leave for a year, and was leaving in about six months. I started reading, researching, and talking to Army Wives about deployment survival tips. Most of them said the same thing:

"Start a hobby or an activity that will distract you while he's gone. Something to work towards." 

I knew, when I graduated with my undergraduate degree that I was not done with school. I was very sure I would be pursuing a Masters at some point. My plan was much different than His. After teaching a year of high school, I would return to the East Coast to get my Masters. But, then the most amazing man walked into my life, and my goals were happily placed on hold. 

So, when the Army wives encouraged that "hobby," I could think of nothing better than starting my degree. What did I have to lose? I decided that I would start that August (of 2010) and I would take two classes each semester, finishing up shortly after he returned home. 

Ha!

He was gone four days and I had just started my third and fourth classes when I found out about her. She had been there when my oldest and I had said good-bye to our hero for a year. We just didn't know it. And thus started my crazy ride through graduate school.

It's been quite a ride. 

Four moves, three pregnancies, two babies, two deployments and a few difficult seasons, and I am done. I never would have seen it turning out this way. 

But I finished. 

I finished because I wanted this. Felt called to do it. Because I needed something amidst all the upheaval of him leaving, him being gone, to pull my mind away from all the hardship. I needed this because I needed to prove to myself that I could do it. 

The semesters when I had tendinitis so badly I couldn't type. My husband bought me a voice to type program so that I could keep pushing through. The year that I took two semesters off, because we'd just added my second daughter, welcomed our Soldier home, and then moved a few months later. It added to the clock, but I desperately needed the break. The semester I thought I was going to lose my youngest daughter late in the pregnancy because her growth was behind and she wasn't moving. 

The semesters I made it through. I survived. The extremely gracious comments from my professors regarding my work. When I barely pulled off those A's. Last semester, when I was invited to join the International English Honors Society. 

I did it. 

When my daughters look at me someday and say, "I can't do this." I will say, "Yes. You can." Because I did it. Because I want them to look at Mommy and see that life is tough. Life kicks you down sometimes. Sometimes, it kicks you down and just won't stop kicking you. But you forge through. Because you are strong. You are capable. And you have God. 

I want them to see that, though life was hard at times for us, especially when their father was in graduate school at the same time, that we finished. We did the best we could and we made it. I want them to know that, often times, the best things in life require incredibly hard work. And they are capable of that hard work. 

I want them to know that they can do anything they want. If it's a M.D. from a prestigious school, fantastic. If they want to go to law school, they have my blessing. If it's dental hygienist school, I'm proud. If it's working towards your Masters as your house fills with blessed children and you are often alone while working on that degree, you will make it. You will succeed. 

Because life is hard. Work is hard. Big achievements take time. They take blood, sweat, and a lot of tears. Teary, heart-filled prayer. But, you can do it. 

I did it. 

Through sometimes insurmountable odds, I forged through. A year alone without my husband, but I finished four classes. A four month deployment that was determined to destroy me, and I finished another class. The loss of our son halfway through the pregnancy, and a week later I defended my thesis. And passed it. 

It's not only the degree. It's the odds I worked through. So many times, I could have walked away. I quit. Been done and gone back to just being a mother. But, I knew I needed to prove to myself that I could do this. And I did. Despite a crazy ride, I finished my Masters degree. 

But, I also needed to show my girls that we aren't quitters. Sometimes, though life is hard, we push through and finish what we started. When it all seems insurmountable: baby steps. Don't worry about next week, next month. Just focus on today. 

And, today, I'm done. I will cross the finish line in a couple of weeks when I walk the stage for my degree. My girls will look on. My husband will be cheering. My sweet family, my rock. My support. My beautiful life rejoicing with me.

Because, together, we did it. 

Because They Matter, Too

If life has taught me one thing, it's that you can't judge the story by what's in front of you.

I get it a lot: "Only girls?! You poor thing!"

"Just wait till they are teenagers! You won't be so fond of them then!"

"Your husband needs some sons."

The last one stings particularly much.

Life has thrown us a lot the last six years. Six years ago, almost to the day, I stood on the altar in a Church, promising my life to a man who is the most incredible man I've met. Full of dreams of happiness and joy, we promised our lives to one another. I promised to serve him, obey him. Because I love him and trust him. And our life together has taken some crazy turns.

We've weathered two deployments, one that took him away for a year. The second one, I struggled to keep things together at the seams as constant illness and major house issues left me on my knees, praying. We've moved four times. Both of us have worked towards our Masters degrees. The pregnancy of our third little one was tough, and at times I would wonder if she was going to be able to hang on till delivery. But she did. And her first year she practically lived at Pediatrics and was hospitalized three times, two of which while my husband was deployed.

And we lost two babies.

People see three children. People see three girls.

I am staunchly pro-life. I've come to dislike that label, though. People become critical before they even understand what it means. I have rallied and prayed four times at the March for Life in DC. I have stood outside abortion clinics, praying hard for the women entering. I have attended Marches for Life in Birmingham, Alabama and Austin, Texas, praying for people to understand the personhood present even in the womb.

For awhile I did it because my Faith said I had to be prolife. I understood that Christians define life as beginning at conception and ending at a natural death. So, I stood with my fellow Christians, defending life. Because that was part of my faith. And I love my faith.

And then I held my first son. He opened his eyes to God first, and the Blessed Mother holds him until I get to him. He was tiny. He was sweet. And he rocked my world. I know now why I'm prolife. I know why I believe in life from conception. Because I've seen firsthand the humanity in these beautiful creatures so fresh from God and taken back too soon.

I have been pregnant five times. My body has held and nourished five children. Only three would see the light of day. Only three, all girls, would join me this side of eternity. Their brothers celebrate in Heaven.

I've lost two sons.

Despite five pregnancies, I have only three living children to show for my openness to life. Three living, beautiful girls and two cold, stone markers. Two burial services. Two moments of holding my precious sons born sleeping. Only two weeks ago, I buried my second son. He was eighteen weeks. And God wanted him home.

We march for the unborn. We rally for the unborn. We pray for the unborn. We will stand outside abortion clinics, attempting to counsel women to choose life. My Christian family hopes for the end to abortion. Yet sometimes there is still a pressure to stay quiet about these precious souls that go home too soon through natural pregnancy loss.

We told our girls about the baby coming. He was to be our fourth earthly child. We were so excited. We talked to him, planned for him, prayed for him. We told family and friends. We announced it on Facebook. I started a sweater for him. When I noticed the bump and changed over to maternity clothes, I was thrilled. Because this is life. And life is precious.

And sometimes life is fleeting.

I will never forget both times that I sat in an OB office, praying that the Doppler was broken. Praying that a heartbeat would break the terrible silence. Grabbing at my husband, begging him to make it change. I'll never forget the "I'm so sorry, ma'am..." and the awful noise that came from somewhere inside me. I will never forget losing my sons.

I cherished the inward joy of all five of my pregnancies. I will treasure all five positive tests. I will value the moments of standing in the mirror, watching that bump grow. I will never forget the kicks I have felt from all five of my children. And I would go through all five journeys, as varied as they were, just to nourish those lives again. As a family, we've celebrated beautiful life and we've mourned beautiful life. Because life is a gift.

I will not stay silent about all the lives with which I've been blessed. I will not pretend like my sons never existed. Because they did. I have ultrasound pictures to prove it. I felt their flutters and kicks. I felt their life.

I have five children. I have three girls. I have two saints.

Their names are James and John. I am so proud of them.

My Darling Girls, A Letter on the Eve of Homecoming

My Darling Girls,

I know you've had it rough.  The last five months have been so hard.  Everything was starting to settle down after Baby's blessed entrance into our family.  Life was starting to fall into a routine again.  Then, Daddy got orders.  And before we could catch a breath, he was gone.

And your hearts were shattered.  You didn't understand.  You were so angry.  You cried for hours at night, and haven't slept through the night since he left.  We have endured a kidney infection, pneumonia, croup, severe dehydration.  There were two hospital admissions that split us up, and countless doctor's visits.  We had to vacate the house many times for hours each time while you all were sick, so they could break a hole in our wall and fix a busted pipe.  The same busted pipe that made the house wreak of sewage for months. Strangers walked through our house for days fixing the damage.  You watched your best friends pack up and move away right after your father left.  Your hearts were broken, your family split up, and your health compromised.

But, I hope someday, my darling girls, that you remember this time. And when you do, I hope you smile.

I hope you smile because you did it!  You survived it!  We thought we caught a break with a short deployment.  Instead, we had to earn it.  You suffered greatly in so many ways.  But you did it!  Someday, when life is hard for you and you are tired, you will look at me and say, I can't do this, Mom.  And I will say, Yes you can, because you've done it before.  Despite the struggle and the suffering, you are more resilient.  No, rather, because of it.  Because of the suffering and the struggling and the sacrifice at such a young age, you are resilient.  Stronger, braver.  I hope someday, you remember all that you have walked through and smile.  Because you make me proud.

I hope you smile, too, because we did it.  We took the negative and the suffering and made some beautiful memories.  Between all the hospital runs and sick days, we had some wonderful times.  We packed into the van one early Saturday morning, and had a picnic after feeding the ducks.  We rode the train at the zoo.  We stayed up late for fun , and woke up early to snuggle.  We danced and sang at the top of our lungs.  We took a road trip to Dallas, and had a blast!  We spent late evenings at the pool, and danced up and down the sidewalk in the rain.  We played at the park and jumped into the pool in our clothes.  We rolled around the floor, laughing until we were crying.

We made joy.  We made glee.  In spite of the deployment and all the wounds this one tried to inflict, we fended them off with unadulterated happiness. There were moments when all the stress and sadness fell away and there was just the four of us, laughing.   I felt such happiness in those moments and I wanted it to last forever.

I hope you remember how Mommy could never have survived this without you.  I could never have kept moving forward if I didn't have your faces and smiles to move towards.  Our prayers together, our life together--it kept me going, it made me feel alive.

I hope you remember.  I know you won't.  You are so young.  You will forget every thing we've done.  All you will know are the stories I'll tell you and the pictures you'll see.  But the love and laughter will live on in those precious photos.  In those precious stories.

But, you will remember how much I love you.  You will remember how much I cherish and treasure you.  Because these moments, these adventures will not end when the deployment does.  We will just gain a face in them.  

Because your Daddy is coming home.  

If you had told me last Sunday that this week would be incredibly stressful, I would have laughed.  How is that different from my new normal, I'd think.  But, stressful doesn't even begin to cover it.  Truly, Murphy has moved into the guest room upstairs and put his Law into the drawers and closet.

I fought it all weekend.  Trying to put off another emergency room visit.  Keep her hydrated.   Her fever had shot up again, and she looked awful.  It really isn't fair when someone so tiny gets so sick.  Her eyelid was puffy, her nose so stuffed that I was aspirating it every fifteen minutes. Her cough was awful.  I noticed it, too.  She would cry, but no tears would come.  She had no drool.  What's left of her soft spot had started sinking in again.  My heart was heavy.  Monday morning, I took her in.  Pnuemonia.  Croup.  Upper Respiratory Infection.  Seriously?!

"We could admit her.  Hydrate her.   It's up to you."

Up to me?!  I prayed.  Hard.  I have already done two hospital admissions with this tiny one, one very recently.  I didn't want to navigate that again.  Especially with my help-mate half a world away.

"What's best for the baby?"

I took her home, and we sat.  I fed her and fed her.  Administered antibiotics. Prayed some more.  Hospital admission was possible Tuesday.  And Wednesday.  I fought so hard.  Fought her, as she screamed and refused to take more milk.  Fought to keep her fever down.

And then the curve ball.

A major sewage vent pipe in the house had separated.  The house had smelled since we moved in.
We had reported it numerous times.  They kept ignoring us.  So we had to call in the Cavalry, so to speak.  They found a huge pipe busted, and we had to vacate the home Wednesday.  They sent us to a flex home...where the air conditioning was broken.  My sweet girls were sweating, and my tiny baby with pneumonia was flushed.  I finally stood up.  I had to leave.  We went back to our home out of desperation.  I continued to push fluids as she reverted in her recovery.

Thursday, we nearly had to vacate again, but were spared at the last second.  That afternoon, my sweet Mary's temperature soared out of nowhere.  I administered Tylenol and then Motrin with no success.  She spent most of the afternoon in bed.  That night, she woke up screaming multiple times each hour.  Again the next afternoon, her fever was high.  I was very concerned.

Saturday afternoon, she went to the bathroom.  Her urine was completely red.  My heart was fearful.  Blessedly, someone came to watch the girls, and off we went to the emergency room.  My sweet girl had a UTI that had progressed upwards to her kidneys.  As they poked her multiple times to administer antibiotics, she screamed for me to help.  Instead, I had to hold her down.  My heart ached for her.

She's still very sick, but slowly on the road to recovery.  She's still resting a lot, and is not her normal active and laughing self.

So, we've slowed down again.  We are hunkering down.

We will be okay.  I know we will.  Our plumbing is repaired.  We are healing.  My poor sweet girls are improving.

I never thought I'd be so joyful to see tears streaming down my baby girl's face, to see my two year old rejoice that going potty doesn't hurt.

We made it through.  With prayer.  With help.  With support.  God always provides when we need it.

And now, I need to go evict Murphy and his Law from the guest room.

Dear Angie,

I don't know a lot.  It has taken me awhile to learn that.  Years.  In fact, I feel sometimes that I know nothing.  I will think I know enough about something in life. Enough to get me victory over that.  And in the middle of it all, I will realize how I know absolutely nothing.

I do know that you just entered into the Army Life.  Active Duty, Reserves, National Guard--it doesn't matter.  Every Soldier in each gives so much.  Each Soldier, regardless of classification, is willing to do one thing: give everything he has, everything he is, to defend our country.  I know that is a source of great pride, but also a source of great fear.  I know that, no matter how hard the day or the week or month, you must make sure the pride wins over the fear.  Never let Fear win.

I know that you are an Army Wife.  That makes me so proud!  I know you are strong, resilient, beautiful.  Proud.  I know that you love my brother fiercely.  And that love will give you victory every time.  I know you have two families who love you dearly and support you completely.  You have a wonderful husband who will make you so proud.  Proud.  Pride.  It's a huge part of what goes into this life.  It's a humble, strong virtue that will keep you going, even when you feel you cannot.  I know you are worthy of the title of Army Wife.  I know that I am proud and comforted by you being one.  Because I have a fellow sister-in-law, a fellow sister in my ranks now.  I know you will kick butt.  I know this because you are amazing.

I know that nothing will suck your joy away like this life.  I know there will be days when you feel you cannot move forward anymore.  But, I also know you have Faith.  Faith in your Soldier, faith in our God.  A God who will never leave your side.  I know He is a God who, I believe, gives us Army Wives special graces to survive this life.  Thrive in this life.  I know, on those days when you are down, trodden, so sad, that I am here.  In prayer, a phone call, in letters, cards, cheer.  I promise you that.  I will never let you fall.  Because we are sisters.

I know that nothing will give you greater sense pride than this Army Life.  Pride in your capable, strong Soldier.  Pride in your Soldier.  Your husband.  I know that people will thank you for your service almost as often as they thank him.  You will stand a little straighter, hold your head a little higher than others when the American Flag waves, when you hear the National Anthem.  Because you know the blood, sweat, and tears that weave the threads of that flag, play the notes of that song.  You will laugh about how handsome your Soldier is in his uniform.  You will sacrifice much, because of your love and pride for our country.  And I know this will slowly but definitively make you a stronger woman.

I know he will go away.  I know he goes away today for four months.  And all you will have are letters.  You will not see his face.  Those last precious few hours will tick painfully by.  I know you will stare at his face, trying to take in every distinct characteristic of his face, his hands, his eyes.  Praying you don't ever forget.  I know this will tear you apart.  I know, as you turn away after saying good-bye, you will finally completely understand the phrase, "ripping my heart out of my chest."  I know you will cry.  You may not be able to catch your breath before the next sob.  But, I know I am so proud of you.  Because you do this out of love for him.  Something most women will never have to do.

I know you are not ever alone.  You may feel so isolated, so terribly lonely in some moments, that no one can possibly understand it.  I know this because I've felt it.  I have gripped the table, the sheets, the tissues, so tight my knuckles turned white.  I have sobbed so hard that I couldn't breathe.  Because he was gone.  I missed his face, his voice.  His presence in our home.  But, I know I am not truly alone.  I know I have God.  I know I have sisters who know.  I know I have you.  And I know we have God, where all souls are united in His mercy.  There, you will find your Soldier, because God has us all in His merciful loving heart.

I know that you inspire me.  I know that I look up to you.  I know that I am so joyful, so blessed to have you a part of our family.  A part of my earthly family, but also a part of this Army family.  I know that you have added a precious, irreplaceable dynamic to my brother's life and my family's life.

I know you will survive this.  I know you will thrive.  You will stand on the other side of this stronger, braver, more mature. You will not want to ever go through it again, but you will find yourself grateful for the woman it made you.

I know I am praying for you.  Praying for your Soldier.  My brother.  I know that for every card I send to him, I'll send one to you.  Every pictures your three nieces send to their uncle, they will send one to their aunt.  Because I know that for all the sacrifices he is making, you are making them, too.

I know I love you.

I know at least this:

You are incredible.  Charlie Mike, Sister!

The last three weeks have been insane.  No, really.  Chaotic, stressful, intense days filled with many prayers and nights full of running between children.  

It started out as it always does lately.  A fever.  The two year old bit the dust first, and oozing congestion from everywhere on her face.  Her eyes--I'd never seen that--were so gunky, I was wiping them as much as her nose.  Then the four year old fell.  Then, yes, the baby.  I was hoping she wouldn't get it.  I was paranoid  because after the last major illness hit the family, she ended up in the hospital for three days.  So this time, I fought it again.  After a week of illness, I brought all three in.  A virus.  Okay.  We went home...and then I got sick.  It was awful!  Achiness and joint pain so bad that I could hardly move!  Stuffiness and gunkiness like none other.  I was trying not to stress out.  Taking care of children and feeling disgusting is mutually exclusive.  So, I just fed them.  The house did not get cleaned, except the necessary.  

\

We were hoping to head to Dallas to see my brother and his wife.  It's about a five hour drive without stops.  Mostly the trip, aside from seeing family, was an opportunity for me to overcome fear--the fear of a roadtrip alone with three children.  Self-doubt of course was surfacing, but I was determined to prove to myself we could do it.  And we did.  We felt so much better, and hit the road.  We had such a good time! 

"Helping" Uncle Drew.

They have a sweet home and my brother is doing amazing things in updating and improving it!  It was such a blessing to have time with family.  

But, then Anne started getting sick again.  Really sick.  By Sunday, she was hardly having any wet diapers.  I began offering even more milk and water all day Monday.  Despite that, her diaper output decreased further.  Early Tuesday morning, we hit the road.  I needed to get her home and to the hospital.  We arrived home at noon, and that evening I took her in.  At 2 am, she was admitted for severe dehydration.  I had thought many times, I wonder how a mother would deal with hospitalization while her husband is deployed.  I wonder...and here I was dealing with it.  I ended up having to leave Anne at the hospital and go home to the older girls.  I felt like someone was tearing my heart out of my chest.  I desperately wanted to split myself into two people, and be present for all of my girls.  But, I had to Charlie Mike.  

Anne was released the next day and, praise God, we are all completely well.  But, the house and the stress had just left me burnt out.  I am so thankful today that I am getting three hours to myself while the girls play at Hourly Care.  I needed a refresh.  It's so crazy how fast a mama can get burnt out alone.  I have so much respect for single mothers.  

Healthy Baby! 

So, today we had an intervention on the house.  We girls teamed together and cleaned the downstairs.  I mopped the floors and cleaned the kitchen.  A dirty house makes me really stressed out. Because of this, I sat down yesterday and made a weekly cleaning schedule.  I am pretty excited.  Printed lists were made for people like me.  I found a template, modified it, and printed and laminated it myself.  It took a lot of work, but I am very happy with it.  And I think it's going to make cleaning and handling the house alone much easier.  

My new schedule! 

I am actually excited about Monday, and implementing the new schedule!  I know, I have a problem.  But at least it bears good fruit.  

Happy Friday! 

I'm struggling.

I am ashamed to even admit that.  Because it's like admitting failure.  I take pride in keeping a cheerful face, despite all odds.  I can find the good in almost anything, maintain a cheerful attitude.  I am a fighter.

But, the last few days, I feel like I am losing.

She's so sad.

At first, I chalked it up to his departure.  Really, it was so sudden.  We had little more than a month to prepare, so no time at all.  I had no support system set up, no "plan of action."  I didn't have enough time to to work through my emotions, through the sadness, then anger, then self-doubt, to finally confidence.  There's a cycle to it all.  This life is always a cycle.  Instead, I never got through the sadness and anger before he left.

Now, I'm feeling the self-doubt.

We took him to the airport that day, he was blasting the AC in the van the whole way.  Those uniforms get hot.  The van was quiet.  There was nothing more to say.  We parked, walked inside, and said good-bye.

And she wept.  Harder than I've seen her weep.  In one moment, all four of us girls were in each other's arms, sobbing.  The travelers looked on, saw him walking away, and drew the obvious conclusions.  It was horrible.

We went home, and she hasn't been the same since.  She started to improve.  There was one week, when finally everyone seemed to be finding their groove.  We were happy, despite it all.  We were laughing, playing, making beautiful memories.  I finally started to feel that peace of being in control.  We were getting there-close to "making it."  We were almost to thriving instead of merely surviving.

And then something happened.  I don't know what.  But, the floor fell out from underneath her.

And she withdrew into herself.  Stopped laughing and smiling.  She hadn't slept at night since Daddy left, but then she started waking even more.  I noticed it.  I worried, because the following week would surely kill her.

Her best friend left.  The truck showed up, and she screamed.  Over three days, the movers packed their house.  Then, that horrible good-bye.  In one quick second, I saw it.  The light went out behind her eyes.  She looked at the ground and hasn't looked up again.  The little friend's departure clinched it.

Now, she won't eat.  She won't talk.  We went to the splashpad, her favorite spot, and she sat next to me staring at the ground.  Finally, she begged me quietly to take her home.  "Mommy, please.  Take me home.  I need to go home, Mommy."  I told her it would be fine, that we had to make new friends.  She closed her mouth, and stared back at the ground.  Today, on our way to hourly care, she stared out the window, while silent tears fell down her face.  She walked in, staring at the ground.  They said she was quiet all morning, just sat there.  I've never seen her this bad, never seen anyone quite this bad.

I'm a mother.  I am supposed to have all of the answers.  I don't know what to do about this.  I have no clue where to start.  I have tried everything in my power to fix this.  Different attitude perspectives, staying ridiculously positive.  Acknowledging Daddy's absence, not mentioning him for days. Distracting them when they cry for him, or taking them into my arms and holding them.

She misses Daddy.  Plain and simple.

Please, when you ask me how long he's gone this time, don't say, "Oh! Well at least it's only four months."  Please.  Because to you, it's a quick four months.  To me, it's four excruciatingly long months.  To her, it's a lifetime.  Most people don't understand it.  But most of those people aren't four years old.

Her innocent world has fallen apart.  And nothing can be done to put it back together until he's home.

Watching her suffer to this degree hurts my heart more than words can say.  So many tears have fallen when no one is looking.  My prayers call out to Him when no one hears.

Most of the time, I can fight it.  The demons.  I can win.  God helps me win.  I can maintain a positive attitude when all the odds seem against me.  Against us.  But, right now, I am trying not to drown.  My face lies.  My heart is aching.

Dear reader, if you see this tonight, will you pray for my darling girl?  Will you pray for strength for her heart?  Will you pray for this Mommy who has no clue what she's doing.  Has no clue how to help my tiny baby's aching heart?

And, if you are family or friend, feel free to stop by, to come stay for a few days.  Come, shower her with love.  I am not enough for her right now.

After wanting to do so for a long time, this evening I was finally able to prepare and drop off a dessert for the Wounded Warrior and Family Dinner here on Fort Sam.  I had been nervous about going, because I was not sure what to expect.  This is where the Army sends Soldiers and their families live so that the wounded Warrior can finish recovery and attend any related therapy to regain as normal a life as possible.  That said, there are a great deal of amputees and burn victims, among other equally as devastating trauma victims, reside here.  Below is my letter to these fine and heroic men and women and their courageous families.  

Dear Soldier and Family,

Tonight, I was privileged with the honor of preparing and bringing a dessert to the monthly Warrior and Family Support Center dinner.  I was nervous about bringing it, because I was apprehensive about meeting you.  Because I am a coward.  Seeing people suffer has always affected me deeply.  I see you running through my neighborhood with the special prosthetic every morning.  I see you at San Antonio Military Medical Center, wheeling yourself out of your appointments with your faithful spouse.  I see you outside the Center for the Intrepid when I am driving to another Well Baby.  I would see you limping through the lobby of the hospital, as I waddled by during the latter part of my pregnancy last year.

But, the Center is where you learn to function.  You all are there.  Relearning so much.  Trying to adapt and overcome.

So, tonight, I did it.  I walked inside.  And I saw you.  The older Soldier, balancing on one prosthetic, striding your bike and ready to ride.  I saw you, the nineteen year old, wheelchair-bound outside waiting for your ride.  The gentleman, leg mangled and casted, with his wife, who offered to lead me to the right building.  You, who from your wheelchair, stretched out your hand and introduced yourself.  Asked how many children I have.  And your wife, who told me her name and how wonderful children are.  Teased you about how you are like having a second child, as you sped off to chase a friend.

I saw you adapting and overcoming.

I followed you over to the Warrior and Family Support Center, and realized there is practically a whole town over there.  Fisher homes, barracks, a park with a playground.  There is a building for you all to gather together.  I parked.  In the time it took me to walk in with my dessert, apologize for the crumbled mess that didn't bake properly, empty my bag of the coffee cake, and return to my car, you were only just getting into your wheelchair to go inside.

I fed you tonight.  What an honor.

When I walked inside, I saw you, too.  The young men, practically kids, sitting with no arms, no legs, across the room.  Laughing and talking.  With your wives.  Your girlfriends.  Your children.

As I drove away, I rolled down my window, and called to you and your wife.

"Thank you so much for your help!  God bless ya'll!"

And she said it.  It was like a kick in the stomach.

"No problem, sweetie."  She looked me in the eye.  "Thank you for all you do."

ME?!  I don't do anything.  I live here, in this house and complain about stupid things.  Roaches.  Tendonitis.  Babies that don't sleep and wail all day.  Complain about my husband, safe for now, being so far away.  I live here.  In this house that has four walls and is my own.  With my children.  Most of the time, with my husband who has come home safely three times and, God willing, will come home safely a fourth time.  I walk.  I write.  I feed myself.  I do nothing, but be selfish sometimes.

You.  You gave everything you had.  You did not want to be a hero; you just followed orders, earned a paycheck.  You threw yourself on a grenade to save your brothers and sisters in arms.  You stepped on an explosive, not knowing it was there.  You woke up lying down, bleeding and burning in wretched pain.  And today, you smile.  Some of you stand.  You walk through the pain of an artificial leg, strap on an arm everyday.  You look in the mirror that, to me, shows the burn scars of a hero, and get past the immense change of your appearance.

You let your family help you.  At first you are angry, then you accept it.  Life is different for you.  You will never go back to the normal that existed before you left this country that day.  No, you are brave enough to move through the physical, emotional, and spiritual agony and pain to regain a new normal.

A normal that I saw tonight.  The selfless help for a lost woman.  The nineteen year old who laughed when I offered to let my four year old bedazzle his wheelchair and leg brace.  Yes, you laughed, that would be awesome!  She would do great!  The two older Soldiers who rode off on their bicycles, with three prosthetic limbs between the two of them. The young man with emaciated legs, driving his wheelchair across the street to go to his barracks.

You.  You are my biggest hero.  Because you have moved forward, despite nearly impossible odds, and fought again.  Fought a personal war so horrible, so hellish, and won.  You were sitting and standing tonight, happy.  Kind.  Confident.

You were there.  What a testament.

Please.  Do not thank me.  I am a selfish, weak human being who feigns confidence from the title Army Wife.  I am no hero.  I merely support.

You are my hero.  Despite the scars, pain, and seeming impossibility, you have won.  It may not feel like it, but in my eyes you have won.  Because you are still here, smiling.  And I would bet that annoys the hell out of the enemy.

So, thank you.  Thank you for protecting me.  For protecting my country.  For embodying freedom.  Thank you for protecting my own Soldier, for whom I take every breath, get up every morning, and continue to run this family.

Thank you.  For fighting.  For falling, and then standing up to fight again.  And winning.

God bless you.  God bless your family.

I was blessed recently to receive several bags of maternity clothes from a very dear friend.  I mentioned the clothes while talking to someone, who I hardly know, and how I am excited about any future babies with which we are blessed.  That I was hoping to have at least four children, maybe upwards of six.  But, ultimately, God is in charge.

"Oh. So ya'll are going to be the next Duggars?"

I get that a lot.  And I'm never sure what to say.  I happen to agree with that family about a lot.  God, the importance of Faith.  Raising children with morals and values.  We choose not to use birth control.  I really admire them for raising a large, faithful family.  It is by no means easy.

I do want a large family.  People ask me how many we want.  I honestly don't have a number.  I don't decide that.  I really believe that--for us.  I am not one to judge; I do not make other people's choices.  I worry only about what goes on within my family and my home.  I play a role in my family's salvation, and seek to set an example of Christ for others.  I'm not always perfect, but it's what I strive to do.  "As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord."    

But, when people ask me if I am going to be the next Duggar, I'm insulted.  Not because I don't want to be compared to a large, happy, conservative family.  Rather, do they honestly look at my children and my desire for more beautiful souls merely as numbers?  Oh, 19 kids?  Oh, you want like 12?  It's not a number game to me.  They are not statistics, not points on a number line.

Each one is a precious, unique irreplaceable soul that I am humbled and blessed to return to God.  I am loaned a person to form and protect, to teach them about love and God, and then to return each to His home.  That is what this is for me.

My precious babies; my precious people.

Nothing fulfills me more than taking care of these little people.  No, it's not always easy.  I do have days where I cannot wait to get them in bed and have time to sit down.  But, I absolutely love taking care of them.  Bathing and dressing.  Playing and chasing.  Giggling and laughing.  The hugs and kisses.  I love cooking for them, cleaning for them.  Teaching and forming them.  Serving them.

I have never been more terrified of the world as I have been since becoming a parent.  One walk through the clothing department at Target or the mall gives me a panic attack.  Little girls dressed like adult woman--like woman I would never dress like.  Teenage girls and young women wearing skirts that are smaller than the length of thigh that they show.  Like it's nothing.  Barely covering their bottoms.  I get it now--what they would say.

"That's someone's daughter."

The lingerie models, the inappropriately dressed women.  They are someone's baby.  That is a soul, a human being lent from God.  I'm terrified of raising girls.  But, I'm doing it.  One day at a time.

It's pretty easy right now.  The toddler clothes are still cute and mostly modest.  I can find shirts and skirts and pants that cover and are sweet.  Innocent.  But, my oldest is dancing on that cusp.  Most of her 5t clothes fit her, and she's only four.  Next shopping trip marks a transition I've been dreading since she was born: the girls' department.

I am, at times, fearful of raising children in this military life.  Where their father--a critical role and influence on their development--is in and out the door for long periods of time.  I'm worried about what this will do to their development, if it will negatively impact them.  I need only to take one look at my resilient, independent girls to realize that we will be okay.  Even from Afghanistan, Daddy's doing everything he can to stay involved, stay engaged.

I firmly believe that God helps those open to His will for each person.  He will not ask of you something that you cannot finish.  Cannot do well.  So, I will pray and guide and lead by example.  And be open to any more souls God would like to bless us with.

I am not trying to "be the next Duggar."  I don't think the Duggars are trying to be "the Duggars.  My family is merely making the choices we feel are right for us.  Listening intently to the plan God has for us.  One baby at a time.

And I am by no means "done."

I did not encounter this with the last deployment.  There was only one, then.  And she was so little.  She would take all of her stuffed animals from her bed and put them by the door, one by one, at five in the evening.  And then she would sit there, until I picked her up and put her at the table to feed her.  She didn't cry.  Not in the beginning.  She didn't ask for him, at first.

Because she didn't understand.

Now, that tiny one understands.  And so does her younger sister.  They wail, whine, weep.  They ask for him constantly.  They bring me the iPod, bought not for music but specifically for maintaining communication, and beg me to call Daddy.  Sorry, sweetie.  We have to wait for Daddy to call us.  And they cry again.

The Daddy dolls go everywhere with us.  The last few days, one was MIA.  I could not find it anywhere.  Emotions were high.  We found him in the car this morning.  Relief.  Sweet relief.  My tiny two year old held him all the way to daycare.  And then she wept when I left her.

"I wanna go home!  Please take me home!"

I almost acquiesced.  But the sweet daycare worker comforted me.

"She'll be alright, Mama.  She'll be ok."

Will she?  I wondered the same with my now-four year old.  She was a wreck for months when our Soldier came home for the birth of her little sister, only to leave again.  He returned home again for good, and she had horrific separation anxiety for months.  Behaved, at times, like a possessed child.  It was scary and heartrending.   Eventually, she calmed down, but we struggled with behavior issues for nearly two years.  I don't know how much of that was just toddler, and how much was a deployment and four moves within a year.

Now there's two suffering.  And I hate it.

The two year old asks about bad-guys, talks about wars.  She doesn't like wars.  Wars, she says, are where bad guys live.  Wars are bad.  My heart aches to hear this come from such a tiny person.  She shouldn't know these words, be able to verbalize these concepts.

I hear the crying at night, the begging for their Daddy.  "When is he coming home?"  "How many more days, Mama?"  Weeks, my love.  Months.  I see how prone they are to sudden crying, their breaking hearts.  They won't let go of me sometimes.  So I sit.  And I love them.

But, I see a strength that most other children their age don't have.  The four year old says we can do anything.  She smiles and calls me her battle buddy, that we will get through this together.  Because we have each other. Last week, I spoke so sharply, because my own heart was aching.  As soon as the cutting words left my mouth, I felt so guilty.  Without a word, my sweet four year old came over and just hugged me.  She knew.  She could sense it.

We've held each other crying, the three of us.  The five-month old is fine--as long as somebody feeds her.  But the three of us--we are clinging to each other.  Holding on while the hurt washes over, holding fast to comfort another's aching heart.

They are strong.  

I know they will hurt, I know they will have to deal with aspects that most children won't.  A year without Daddy.  Months without Daddy.  But, my prayer is that this forms them into more resilient adults.  Makes them stronger.  More confident.  Flexible.

I play a large role in that occurring, I know.  I must be kind, loving, stable.  I must be two parents at once.  Be a model of resiliency, of confidence, too.  But, it's also okay to let them know I'm hurting,also.  That I miss him, too.  Because that's okay.  It's a lot of pressure.  But, I have prayer.  I have Him.  And I can do all things in Christ who strengthens me. 

I know, sometimes, I approach Him like my children approach me.  Targeting my anger towards Him, wondering why He's allowing all this to happen.  Why he won't stop the phone breaking, things going wrong, the children screaming.  Why He won't help me.

Because he's my Father.

And sometimes, we have to endure things that are absolutely rotten.  Because going through the hard times, the seasons that bring us to our knees, makes us stronger, more resilient.  And we have to learn that.  The sweet little ones have to learn that.  I have to learn that.  To them, I am Mommy--big, strong, grown up.  To Him, I am but another little child. His child.  And I have a great deal to learn.  My Father can't fix it, no more than I can fix it for my children.  But He is there to comfort me, show me it's okay to hurt.  Just as I am there for my children.

They will be ok.  I will be ok.
We will all be ok.

We will be stronger for this.  We will be more resilient for this.  We will get through.  Our Soldier, God willing, will come home safe and sound.  And we will have learned great lessons.

Because Christ strengthened us.

From Nowhere, From Everywhere

I had an assignment for my graduate class, to write an essay on where I am from.  Honestly, the essay was a little hard to write since we said good-bye to our Soldier again yesterday.  But I am proud to live this life.  Mostly just proud to serve and support such an amazing man.  

I come from red, white, blue.  From greens, blacks, and browns.  Olive drab.   I come from everywhere and nowhere; I have no hometown, but have had many homes.  Everywhere.  Kansas.  Texas.  Italy.  Korea.  Many more.  There is consistency in my nomadic existence.  Moving to a new place every year or two.  It’s like a clock, ticking.  You hear it all the time.  And then the alarm goes off; you feel it.  It’s time to move on.  Time for the familiar smell of cardboard, the sound of ripping tape.  Time to say good-bye to friends you made.  And likely, you’ll never see them again.

I come from places far from extended family.  Grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins were all strangers to me.  I hardly knew them.  I kept in touch with only a few, because the others didn’t respond to letters I wrote.  The letters were the only way I knew of forging and maintaining a relationship with anyone outside of my home.  Outside of my life of change.

I come from constant change.  Nothing ever stays the same.  Homes change.  Locations change.  Languages changed.  His role in our family changed.  Here and then gone, here and then gone.  Tearful good-byes, sporadic phone calls, trips to the airport to pick him up.  Again.  Watching Mom sleep alone, sit alone, eat alone, live alone, function alone.  Wondering how she did it, wondering if her heart hurt as much as mine did. 

I come from watching him serve.  Serve others.  Serve us.  Serve his country.  Our country.  Watching him leave at 5 a.m and come home at 7:30 at night.  Respond to emails and phone calls constantly.  Working out, staying fit.  Staying ready.  Ready for the call.  The call that, lucky for him, never came.  Though, it came in other forms.  Watching him lead, direct.  Implement change and good in the hospitals.  Watching him change and benefit lives.  People.  Because he saw them as people. Never did I think I would find someone as humble and serving as him.

I come from choosing to reenter this life.  From meeting him, and knowing he had that serving heart.  I come from knowing what I said yes to.  I do.  I will.  Serving him, who serves us.  So noble, so humble.  So giving to us, to his men and women in uniform.  To his family.  He loves deeply, commits deeply, gives deeply.  Inspires me deeply.

I come from constant good-byes.  For long periods of time.  From rocking wailing children, aching with separation.  From hugs and kisses.  I come from War.  I come from praying for peace, strength.  Patience.  I come from resiliency, but also from exhaustion.  I come from pride in him, in our country.  I come from knowing firsthand what we give..  Our lives together.  Our evenings, our memories that we’ll never make, our time together with our children. 

I come from lying in bed alone at night, fighting the ache in my heart, praying he’ll come home soon. Just praying he’ll come home.  Praying I’ll hear his breathing next to me again.  I come from worry—fear of death, fear of the doorbell.  I come from breaking down, giving release to hot tears, when no one is looking.  I come from Faith.  Hard, real Faith.  Because, sometimes, Faith is all I have to grasp.

I come from what we call family, though we share no real relation.  I come from those who will drop everything to come help.  Bring dinner.  Bring flowers.  Hugs.  And wine.  Who will hold you tight when you are aching and watch your children so you can catch your breath.  And I do it for them.  I come from the Family who understands what you give.  Understands separation.  Because they give it, too.  They live the separations, too.

I come from Welcome Home!  Posters, tears, hugs.  I come from the other end of, “Thank you for your service.”  You’re welcome.  I think.  From the house strewn with decoration.  With red, white and blue.  I come from trying, again, to find normal for us, a new normal.  Giving up control, letting him lead again. I come from trying to refit our lives together.  Struggle, friction, humility.  Being home.  Together.  I come from cherishing every moment—every single moment—because we don’t know when the call will come.  The call to go.  Again.

            Me?  I come from nowhere, because I come from everywhere.