Approaching a Year

It seems like so many of my thoughts are consumed with Aaron lately, especially as his one year earthly and heavenly birthdays are fast approaching. I find myself longing to remember every detail of those days...every detail of him, and still wanting answers to calm the lingering questions in my heart about his last moments here. 


I sat down this evening and flipped through last years calendar, looking at today...one year ago, wanting to remember the specific details of this time last year.  We started the day with a non-stress test and OB appointment at University Hospital, a regimen that had become the all-too-familiar twice weekly routine. I wasn't admitted to labor and delivery for observation that day, so Aaron must have tumbled around enough to make the nurses happy and allow me to go about my normal day of work. Flipping to the next week, my calendar is filled with typical doctors appointments and work patients, all scheduled along with a NICU tour, Labor and Delivery Tour, and meeting with neonatologists. Each Friday counting down to Aaron's due date is neatly circled and numbered in happy, yet anxious anticipation. 


This time last year, I remember thinking that in just a month or so, our son would make his arrival into this world.  We planned what little we could, but memories of the stillness of that ultrasound room filled with our tears only two months earlier always lingered in the forefront of my mind as a reminder that our best laid plans are often futile...we are not in control.


Those appointments that filled our calendars and days would never actually happen. During the time that we planned to spend anxiously awaiting Aaron's arrival, we would actually welcome him into the world, place him in the arms of surgeons, watch him slip from this life into eternity and plan his memorial service. In a small, private room of the CICU, I held him for the first time after the doctors let him go and in a quiet room of the funeral home, I held him for he last time. My heart knew that it was merely the shell of our sweet little guy, but how do you hand over your child when you know that it is the last time you will see him, most likely, in a very long time?  The next several weeks in the calendar are blank as is my memory of much of that time.  It still feels surreal.


Here I sit, almost a year later and on some days I am still in disbelief that our son was here...that he cried in the OR, that I got to peer into his eyes just once, and that we had him here with us for three whole days. On other days I struggle against the traumatic memories of the night we said goodbye.  Images I can't get rid of...nurses performing chest compressions, Aaron's blood covering the floor around his isolet, 'those words' spoken by our surgeon and the heartbreak and disbelief that this was our reality.  Mostly though, are the days that God lifts the burden of grief from my still broken heart. Over the past year, I have run the spectrum of clinging to Him with every fiber of my being to pushing away in anger, frustration and emotions too confusing for words. Yet He still extends His grace and love, compassion and guidance to me...me...me, who comes before Him with a heart that is understanding yet questioning, loving yet angry, soft yet calloused and bruised, healing but still broken. 


He reminds me that through suffering grows an enduring hope, a steadfast heart and a reliance on Him that I had never before known. I revel in the moments when His love and presence wash over me and quiet my aching heart, and once again, for awhile anyway, I am comforted that Aaron is healed and Aaron is home. 

Three Little Words.

I can't tell you the number of times I've sat down over the past couple months to write a post, just to end up sitting and staring at the screen, or typing and deleting...typing and deleting. No words seem right.  It's not that I don't have anything to say; truly, in this journey of grief there is no lack of thoughts, emotions or experiences to share. Honestly, I miss coming to this space for Aaron and pouring out my heart... I try to write, but only three words seem to make it onto the screen...I miss him. That's it. That's my heart. Those three simple words. They are just that, simple, yet it is so difficult to put into words the depth of hurt and sadness that those three words still encompass. I miss him.


Since my last post, Aaron's eight and nine month earthly and heavenly birthdays and the one year anniversary of his diagnosis have all come and gone. On these days, we have celebrated and remembered quietly, in our own way. It seems that this solitude in my grief is what my heart has needed lately. This privacy and quiet time, mixed with happiness, laughter, prayers and still some tears continue to restore my broken heart.


I received the link below from a wonderful friend today (thanks Jess!) and it inspired me to get back on here and to share it. I never knew that this incredible testimony accompanied this worship song that I love...her words speak so much truth into continuing to worship in the midst of tragedy and on this journey through grief...

 We miss you, sweet boy. 

Love you, always...

Someday

As the days get longer and the warmth of the sunshine is stretched well into the evening hours, I miss our son even more. I miss the evening walks as a family that should have been. I miss our first spring days together in the warm sunshine and cool, crisp Colorado air. I miss watching him sleep soundly in our arms. I could go on forever...all of these "should have been moments" that we never got to experience with Aaron... I miss them as if they were a part of our life for as long as I can remember. 


They say that time heals all wounds; that it makes loss easier. I disagree. It doesn't heal the gaping hole that your child's death leaves behind. It doesn't make it easier, it makes it different. The longing, tears and sadness that used to consume every minute and every thought of every day after Aaron died are replaced by the true realization of what we are missing...of who we are missing. The grins, giggles and busyness of a sweet seven month old boy that should be filling our days never will. For some reason, now more than ever, this reality is setting into my heart... and it hurts.


A promise is all that carries me through this hurt. A promise that someday I will see this sweet face again. Of this, I am sure.

(Aaron at 1 day old...I think he would have enjoyed a pacifier from the looks of it. Thank you for the video Steve and Amy!)

Dreaming...

"Imagine a love so strong that saying hello and goodbye at the same time was worth the sorrow"

-Author Unknown

My heart is aching lately. I feel so broken. I miss Aaron. Everywhere I turn, I am reminded of him and of what we are missing. This sorrow isn't always evoked by something in particular, but this time it has been and I know the trigger all too well. I drifted into a dream. A dream of a future family and a healthy baby. I wondered what it is like to have a twenty week ultrasound with the words "four chamber heart" and "completely healthy". Of holding our child for the first time, alive; a child that we would actually get to bring home, love and experience.


...and then reality crept in... waking me up with a slap in the face... breaking my heart.... reminding me...


Just because we've been through what has felt like walking through hell and back over the past several months, we are not promised a perfect road ahead of us. At times it is easy to slip into the mindset that just because we have been through something that feels almost impossible at times, that the rest will be easy. Not true. God is faithful, but He doesn't always promise easy. Certainly, we look to the future with great hope and pray for these things...healthy future children, a family... but we are not naive. Nothing is guaranteed; we are not exempt. I see pregnant women in their often naive bliss (where I once was for a short time, as well) and to be honest, I'm slightly envious. I want that. I don't want to know what the other side looks like, but I do...all too well. I know that on the other side, babies die. Parents have to say goodbye to the tiny life that they have anticipated for months and have only just met. They experience the greatest joy and deepest sorrow almost simultaneously. It's not fair, but they do. 


I realize that I may come across as quite the pessimist in this post... I am not. These thoughts are simply the result of loss, grief and a step into a world which I was once oblivious to. We truly do look to the future with hope, but through a lens that has been permanently altered. I think about a future child and I am instantly taken back to the overwhelming joy of having Aaron and the sudden heartbreak of losing him. I know that God hears us in our brokenness, but the void that Aaron has left has nearly crushed me in the past several months. Can I handle that again if God calls us to walk through it? Can my heart be open and vulnerable to that depth of love once more, and possibly, that depth of heartbreak again? 


This is the uncertainty with which we face the future.  We drift into these dreams, yet in this grief, we find that even our dreams aren't safe from reality. 

Heart Work

It has been a long while since my last post in this little corner of the world. For those of you who still drop by for a read, thank you.  Intentionally lately, I've been quiet.  Although life has been anything but quiet, I've been trying to consciously give myself something I've desperately needed on so many levels...rest. Rest for my heart, for my mind and my body. Unfortunately, it doesn't mean that I've had an opportunity to take a hiatus from the responsibilities of life, but instead of publicly writing and being constantly surrounded by social media, I've spent more time reflecting, praying, focusing on our marriage, working out, (working), sleeping, reading and just being. Rest. This rest has provided me time to grieve privately....to let my emotions linger for a short while...to figure out where I am. Right here. Right now.

This respite from blogging doesn't mean that I'm moving on from Aaron or his absence in our life; it doesn't mean that I no longer miss him. In fact, those statements couldn't be further from the truth. For us, life looks and feels drastically different than it did even two months ago, but I miss him the same. Deep anguish and mourning now come and go rather than being ever-present on a daily or hourly basis; still, I desperately long to hold him and see the 6 month old boy he would be today. To hear his giggles...or his screaming and crying...would be music to my ears. Days of more sorrow than joy and the accompanying meltdowns still manage to make their appearance here and there, and it is in these times that I so selfishly want him here. But, in this rest, God has been fervently working on my heart.

During the past six months, so many of our prayers consisted not only of pleading for God to take our pain away, but simply to be able to feel His presence in our darkness. At times, it was unquestionable, unmistakable, that He alone was holding us up. During other times, I wondered how many more weeks it would be until I'd see His hand reaching down to pull us up for air from the storm in which we were slowly drowning. I look back and can see that God has been faithful, upholding His promise, and that in this rest He has been working on quite the project. He has been slowly...very, very slowly... healing a very broken heart. My own.

In this healing, I feel that He has melded a tiny part of my broken heart back together. Inscribed in this little piece is acceptance. No, not complete, consistent and pure acceptance that our son died, but a peace about this path that we walk. A peace in knowing that Aaron is not and will not suffer through this life which, no matter how many ways you attempt to look at it, would not have been easy, or fair. Acceptance that we prayed for healing...and that God chose the method. I'm learning what it is to ask for God's guidance, accept His answer and follow the path that He lays before us, regardless of the anger, fear, disagreement or heartbreak that may accompany it.  Even several weeks ago, I thought that achieving this feeling of acceptance...of peace and surrender... would forever be impossible. Yet, if even for only a short while, God has brought us to this place and given us a glimpse. He is faithful. 

As I drove home from work tonight, I thought about that night, six months ago, when we looked sweet Aaron in the eyes for the first time and said hello and, shortly after, held him as we said goodbye. While reminiscing, this song came on the radio and tears ran down my face...because of the words and because of the memory. Almost weekly during youth group worship in the many months that I carried Aaron, he heard me sing this, my hands on my belly, feeling him move and loving every minute of it. This song brings back some of my favorite, intimate moments with him... the closest I ever got to holding him and singing to him while he was on this earth. God gave us our beautiful son, and despite the road that he chose for us to walk... He loves us.

Oh, How He Loves Us...

To listen, first pause the music player on the right-hand side of the screen.

His Name in the Sand

Just in time.


As the anniversary of Aaron's death comes and goes each month, it is hard not to relive the events of that night...the trauma and complete heartbreak. The devastation. This month I made a promise not to dwell on that, but instead, to focus on what a blessing it was to have three whole days with him. And, to think of it not as the day that we lost him, but as the day that heaven gained him....the day that his heart was made whole as he woke up to the magnificence of heaven and the glory of his creator. Isn't that the marvelous day that each of use should long for...

Well, his anniversary this month was still difficult, but I smiled as I remembered Aaron in a beautiful way....through a beautiful gift. Although his name had been on the wait list for quite some time for To Write Their Names In The Sand, it came in God's time...perfect timing, of course. Aaron's name was written under a beautiful sunset on the evening of January 28th, his five month anniversary, on the shores of "Christian's Beach" in Australia. It may not seem like much to others, but the acknowledgement of your child and act of remembrance by others is truly cherished. 


His name in the sand is so serene...it brings peace to my heart:  

CarlyMarie provides an amazing ministry to parents who have been touched by child loss and has written almost 10,000 names in the past couple years. Check out her story and inspiration behind To Write Their Names In The Sand here.

5 Months

I began writing a post as a reflection of the past five months...the days since we first said hello to Aaron. As I read it back, it truly was a reflection of the past five months; a reflection of our grief and heartbreak. Yet, as I look back to that single day, August 25th, I decided that the post wasn't appropriate. It doesn't capture the feelings of that day at all. In fact, it was quite the opposite. 


Five months ago, today, was one of the happiest days of our lives. For a brief moment in time, we were able to forget that we were terrified...forget that we had spent the better part of the last year on our knees praying for a miracle...forget that our future as a family was completely uncertain.  Five months ago we heard the most beautiful cry and kissed the sweetest cheeks that were ever known to us. If only for a short few seconds, God graciously lifted our anxiety and fears and in that moment allowed us to experience unreserved pure love and pure joy...that of our son. He was perfect. And today, five months later, he is perfect...healthy and healed...perfect, as God planned.  We only wish that we could experience his healed body here on earth, rather than waiting for our eternity. 


I wonder so many things about you, Aaron Matthew. What you would look like, all the things you would now be doing, your personality? I wonder what you are doing now, what heaven is like, if you understand how much we miss you? Some day, Aaron. I know that we will have all these answers, and more importantly, that we will hold you once again...not nearly soon enough, but some day. Happy five month birthday, son. We miss you and love you more than you'll ever know sweet boy.   Love Always, Mommy & Daddy

...He said to them, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these...  ~Mark 10:14

Stage Two

Anger. It is somehow labeled as "stage two" of grief, yet it doesn't logically fall between stage one and stage three...more like it sneaks up after four, again before one and again after three. Really, anytime it pleases. 


Anger. This word seems to adequately describe my emotional disposition lately, and it is an emotion that is generally so easy and straightforward for me to acknowledge, understand and address. However, it has been just the opposite, bringing about frustration and confusion as I attempt to dissect it. It is an anger that seems to constantly change directions although it is not directed at God, or at anyone or anything in particular, other than our current reality that Aaron is not here and never will be. My hands are tied. I can't bring him back, I can't change the situation, yet, I can't seem to let go of this anger that I have recently found brewing and churning in my heart. An anger with no purpose...frustrating.

By nature, I am a logical person. I’ve learned to turn off emotions that are unproductive and unpurposeful. What I mean is, if the anger won’t change anything, or won't/can't lead me to change anything, then why spend my time and waste my energy being in that state? As I've walked through this trial, a trial greater than I ever fathomed would become part of my story, I've learned that logic doesn't cut it.  These emotions are too big; I can’t just turn them off. I want to let go of this anger; I don’t want to hold onto it, but it is holding onto me. At times I feel I may collapse under the strength of it’s grip. I don’t want to feed it or give reason for it to dig its roots down further into my heart and take foot, changing the core of my being in ways that I do not want to change. 


As this anger bubbles up and slowly turns into sheets of tears that burn my eyes and soak my face, two things always fall from my mouth: I hate that our son is not here and, during most days, I hate watching life go on around us. Hate. It's a strong word and one that I seldom use, yet, it is the truth.  

This gripping anger; it remains after the tears have come and gone. It leaves me weary and frustrated. It blurs my vision and keeps me from seeing the change and perspective on life that God is calling me to see through this trial. 

Father, I miss him. Please, take this anger, open my eyes and be gentle with my heart. 

Reflecting and the next 365...

The exit of 2010 and entrance of a new year is bittersweet. I thought I would be ready to happily bid 2010 goodbye, but with the bad...awful...unbearable events that it brought, some of the greatest memories of my life will always belong to 2010. I remember...


... the day Dyna (our dog) looked at me dumbfounded and with his head cocked to the side as I jumped up and down, giddy and overjoyed with a positive pregnancy test in hand...January 7, 2010.


....the smiles on both of our faces the first time we saw our little one's heartbeat on an ultrasound screen. A perfect heartbeat, even from a broken heart....January 12, 2010.


...hearing those words, "guess what that is?...He's not bashful!" from the ultrasound tech when we learned we were having a son. Pure joy!...May 5, 2010.


...the perfect moment when I heard Aaron's tiny little cries and kissed his soft warm cheeks as he made his abrupt entrance into the world...August 25, 2010.


...the words from our surgeon "He did wonderful; his heart looks great...97% chance he'll be going home by next week." Music to a mother's ears...August 27, 2010. That is the last time I remember feeling true happiness and joy in 2010. 


Yes, much, well most, of our world in 2010 revolved around Aaron Matthew, and we wouldn't change that for anything. Birthdays and anniversaries marked the calendar as well, bringing laughter and happiness, but nothing paralleled the anticipation of him. I am still amazed at how a tiny little boy changed everything. 


We received the greatest gift ever and became parents. We learned of a love we never knew existed...and loved without reservation. We experienced pure joy, true sorrow and every emotion in between. We learned more about loss than we ever cared to know. We cried gentle tears of joy and sobbed tears of deep heartbreak into exhaustion. We gained a new perspective on life. We spent more time on our knees than ever before...praying, thanking, questioning, pleading. We learned the meaning of complete surrender. We grew to know our Father in a deeper, more intimate way. 


I wouldn't trade any of that, but what I would give to have him here. (Yes, I know, quite the oxymoron).


We will see what the next 365 of 2011 brings as we continue to learn to incorporate life without Aaron into our lives. Hope resides with the longing that each new day brings. 


And, I think I will even settle for a somewhat "boring" 2011...

Oh how I miss that sweet boy... 

Ornament I made for Aaron's little evergreen memory tree.

Thankful in the Storm

Today is bittersweet. 

Happy Thanksgiving Aaron Matthew.

You would be three months old today, sweet boy.

We miss you.

Today should be our first family holiday...one with a three month old in tow. Instead, it is our first family holiday without him. Today, on a bittersweet day of giving thanks, I know this much...

photo credit

I am blessed.

In the midst of this storm, I am blessed.

Through the best times and worst times of life, I am blessed. 

Although our son is gone, I am blessed. 

I thank God daily, for I am blessed... 

...with family

who have loved us as Christ loved. How do you ever repay those who have become the hands and feet of God to you? Those who did our laundry, cooked our meals and kept our life afloat when we merely had the energy to open our eyes, take a breath and climb out of bed each day. Those who rearranged their lives, made themselves available every minute of every day and planned a memorial service for a grandson, nephew and son without being asked because even the smallest decisions seemed insurmountable to us under the weight of grief. For getting involved in the "mess" of our lives and loving us when we are unlovable. To our family... thank you seems such an understatement to show our appreciation and gratitude for all that you have done...there aren't enough words to thank you for loving us, caring for us and walking with us through the best and worst days of our lives. We love you.

...with friends

who have also been there with us through the best and worst days of our lives. To those of you who encouraged and prayed us through our pregnancy, rejoiced with us after Aaron's birth and wept with us as we said goodbye. To those who have sat with us as we've cried,  who have listened to stories of Aaron for the umpteenth time over coffee and who have managed to bring laughter and joy back into our lives when a simple smile seemed impossible. For the meals, the flowers, the listening, the talking, the cups of coffee, the encouraging text messages and e-mails...thank you.  Thank you for standing by our side as we weather this storm. We love you all.

...with a new Perspective

that has changed my life. I would give anything to have Aaron back, anything. Through his loss, I have gained a new perspective that has changed me to the core of my innermost being. I may not be a better person or parent than someone else, but because of his brief life, I will be a better person and a better parent in my life. He has taught me that life is short and delicate, to truly appreciate the small things, to love without reservation, to enjoy more and worry less, to give without a second thought, to not take people for granted, to show kindness, love and respect to everyone...you never know what storm they may be weathering. I am thankful that I have learned these things that others may never truly understand until there has been a change in their perspective.

...with a loving Heavenly Father

who gave His one and only son to die on the cross for us, so that we may have eternal life. So that we can have hope that we will, one day, see our Aaron Matthew again. Thank you Father. 

...with the basics of life

that every human being should have, but many do not. I have a roof over my head to keep me dry and safe from the weather, food on my table to keep me nourished and healthy, and clothes on my body to keep me warm. For this, I am thankful. 

 Father, thank you for all of your blessings in my life. Thank you for my son, his life and the chance to know him. Thank you for your love and grace. I will continue to praise you in all that you've done and all that you do. Thank you for your beautiful son. I love you. Amen.

Happy three month birthday Aaron Matthew. I miss you little one, more than words can say.

Harsh Reality

Harsh, harsh reality; I am weary. Please go away.


Over the past few months, this blog has transformed from a means of updating our family and friends on Aaron's life and story to an open window, allowing the world a view into our journey through grief. I wish I was sitting here, writing that the harsh days of grief are easing and that the weight of our recent journey is beginning to lift from our shoulders, but...I can't lie. The past couple weeks have been hard. Very hard. It has been emotional and challenging for both of us. The emotional energy consumed by grieving added to the grind of daily life and work has left us exhausted... drained... spent... weary. As I wrote in my last post, the shock of the whirlwind and trauma we experienced with Aaron is slowly wearing off and the harshness of our current reality is hitting us; settling in around us, finding its way into our lives and seeking out every nook and cranny of our existence to make its presence known.


I open my Bible and Aaron's newborn picture, my "bookmark", catches me off guard. Those predetermined three days... his entire life... seemed so long, medically speaking, yet were so very short, far too short, in the minutes and hours we were blessed to have with him. At times, I stare in awe at my sweet, beautiful boy and wonder "were you actually here little one?" It feels like a dream, or rather a bad nightmare. I walk by our refrigerator; I stop and I stare at those 20 week ultrasound pictures that I cannot bring myself to take down. They fill me with the love and joy of finding out we would be having a son as well as the horror and terrifying knowledge that something was terribly wrong. Although I see these reminders every day, they strike me at times as if I've never before seen them; as if I've just laid eyes on them for the first time all over again. In awe that he was here. In awe that he is gone. 


I want this process of grief to be over....I want it to be done....I am frustrated....I am tired....I am exhausted. I know that it never truly ends and this is not something we will simply "get over"; we will just learn to incorporate life without Aaron, life without our firstborn child, into our lives.  I don't want to forget him or any detail of his existence, but I want to be on the other side, looking back and wondering how we made it through rather than standing here and wondering how we are going to make it through.  However, I know it is just that, a process. A road that we must walk down in order to, once again, find joy in life... while remembering our son.


I miss you my sweet, sweet boy. I wish you were here. I dream that you are here. Sometime I forget...that you are not here. 


Harsh, harsh reality, please go away.

A Week in Pictures...

I was a bit late in getting this post up from last week:


Reminders...
They are everywhere....
...Just when I need them.


Busy seems like an understatement of our life over the past couple weeks. Between work, youth group, church, reconnecting with friends and trying to figure out how to integrate our "new" selves into our "old" life, moments to breathe, reflect, remember and to just be have been scarce. The days have begun to travel by with the slightest essence and semblance of a routine; of a return to normal life. As life has been changing and grief has been changing, all I can say is thank goodness for the reminders.


Aaron is never far from my mind, but these reminders are there when I feel like I am forgetting his smell, the silkiness of his hair, his soft skin, the size of his tiny hands and feet, his beautiful face...him. Our son and what we have been through has changed me, forever. These things I now truly understand: Life is short. People are delicate. You can never get back lost time or moments. Life is fragile. Rarely do we get the opportunity for re-dos, do-overs or mulligans. Love while you can; it may be the only or last chance you get. Take in the details around you. Hold your spouse, children and family close. God is strong. God is loving. God is good. And, I am thankful that He has deeply and richly blessed me.


Throughout the past week, God has placed these glimpses of Aaron and reminders of his life in the midst of the bustle that I know as my daily routine. They are good; they are reminders of him and of milestones we joyfully celebrate, would rather forget, or will never get to experience. These glimpses are a welcome interruption and remind me of him and what is truly important in the midst of this busy life.

Monday...

Today would be his two month birthday. I believe that those of us who have lost little ones place more weight on these small markers of life as they are a constant reminder of what would have been. We always struggle with the question 'why?', but these seemingly insignificant dates bring up the whats? and woulds?. What would he look like now...chubby cheeks, rolls on his arms and legs? Would he be smiling, cooing, holding his head up?...


Homemade cupcakes just sounded good on Monday night, and since it would have been his two-month birthday...all the more reason to make them!

Tuesday...

We received a surprise call from Children's, saying that they had casts of his hands and feet ready to be picked up! We didn't even know they had done any! It was mentioned the night that he passed away, but with the whirlwind of events that evening, I just assumed it was never done and it fell off my radar. We have so few tangible things to remember Aaron by, that I was nothing short of thrilled to get this news and pick them up.

Wednesday...

On my way home from work, I stopped by Target to pick out a "Thinking of you" card for a friend. As I poked my way through the cards, the one above caught my attention. For some reason, dandelions blowing in the wind have always been one of my special reminders of Aaron...even long before he was born. I picked up the card and almost lost it in the store when I opened it up and saw the message inside. So perfect.

Thursday...

Today, we remember the day we said goodbye, two months ago. I don't necessarily like to remember the specific details of that night, but they are there and I do...all too vividly. Although they may mollify over time, I imagine that this date every month will bring up the very real, very raw emotions of losing him. This is now what we look at on our mantle. No urn yet; we can't seem to choose one. How do you pick an urn for your child...no matter how perfect, they all seem inappropriate.

Friday...

I remembered you, little one, as we volunteered at Flatirons' trunk or treat and saw each sweet, bundled up newbie with the cutest Halloween costumes on. I couldn't help but think of how perfect you'd be in the giraffe costume that I had pick out of the hand-me-downs from your cousins...the one that is now neatly folded and tucked away in your room...it was waiting for you.

Saturday...

Saturday, there is no picture, but it was the day with some of the greatest reminders and a welcome "interruption" in my week. For dinner, we had the privilege of  joining a wonderful couple from church who experienced the loss of their newborn daughter a little over a year ago. It was so special to spend time just exchanging stories, sharing memories and reminiscing about our little ones with others who can truthfully say "I completely understand"...I understand the loss, I understand the grief, I understand the heartbreak...been there, done that and still dealing with it. 

Sunday...

On another mother's blog I read this..."We may have had limited time to make memories WITH our babies, but we have limitless opportunities to make memories in HONOR of them."  That's all I need to write to explain the pumpkin.

Goodness & Faith

Better pull up a chair and grab a cup of coffee...this post ended up being a long one...


Today has been a rougher morning and I'm not sure why. Our Sundays usually begin with church, but not today (as we are going tonight), so maybe that has something to do with it. I walked into Aaron's room this morning with hopes of finishing a couple more little things and it hit me. All of a sudden, the pain and the fact that he was gone was once again very fresh, very real and very raw. I find it odd that during some days the pain is so great that we feel as if we said goodbye just yesterday and other days it feels that it has been so much longer than the past two months. This morning, it felt to me as if we are still waiting for him to come home, all the while knowing that he never will. I can't tell you how much I look forward to the day that we will be together with him again.

On that note, there is something else I've struggled with over the past several weeks. I've heard and seen the phrase "God is good all the time, and all the time God is good" many, many times since Aaron passed away and to be honest,  it ties my stomach in knots when I hear it. I get frustrated. I want to scream and cry. At times, my response would be "that's easy for you to say, your son didn't just die." Now, I'm not having a pity party, but it feels similar to times when I've been having a rough day dealing with Aaron's death and I happen to run into the 'always happy, overly joyful, I just found a leprechaun and a pot of gold today' type of person who says "come on, smile. Nothing about your day can be that bad."  All I want to say is "let me tell you what today the last two months of my life have been like..." It is these same feelings I've had when I hear that phrase "God is good all the time, and all the time God is good". 

If you read my last post, or many of my previous posts for that matter, you may wonder if I've had a change of heart. I hope that you don't get offended and stop reading. Please, continue on as I stumble through some reflecting that I've done over this...

Because of my faith and the relationship that I have with God, I am honestly unsure why I've had this negative attitude and response to this saying/phrase, so I spent some time reflecting on it yesterday. One thing I am sure of is that with all of my heart and every ounce of my being, all  I've ever wanted to be other than a wife is a mother. I enjoy my career as a physical therapist and I always strive to do my best at whatever I do, but it doesn't hold a candle to my desire to have a child, have a family and be a wife and mother. Yes, I am still a mother; I have a son, but right now, I have no one to mother. I want him back... I want him here... I want him, and only him, in my arms. In conversations with God, I've asked "If you are good, why did you take our child, our son; a child who was so deeply and desperately wanted and loved from the moment we knew we were expecting? Why?" I know I will never have an answer; not on earth or in this lifetime anyway.

Through this journey, I've realized that it is alright for me to have frustrations and questions for God; it actually keeps me talking to Him...a lot. I've also come to the realization that it is human nature for us to define His goodness with how closely His plan lines up with our wants and desires. It would be easy for me to say that God is unloving and that He is not good all the time because He took our only child from us or did not stop our son from being taken from us... however you'd like to look at it. He is the great physician; His hands perform miracles everyday; yet, we didn't get one on that night that we hit our knees and begged and pleaded and cried out to Him to save our son. We never got to change a diaper, feed him, snuggle him, hear him scream and cry or bring him home.  From the minute he was born, he was poked and prodded, sedated and cut open. And although I pumped religiously every two to three hours because it was the only way I knew to help him, he was never fed...not a single drop. I walk through life carrying this weight and knowing that we signed the consent forms; and after it was all said and done, his poor body endured being cut open again, only so doctors and science could "try to figure out and learn from what went wrong". The only time I ever got to hold my son, his body was lifeless and cold...he was already gone. However, we carry these burdens knowing that we listened to the doctors and that our intentions were rooted in nothing but love and hope so that he could have a chance at life. Had we known the outcome, I wouldn't have done any of it. His short time on earth would have been spent in our arms, surrounded by his family and knowing and feeling that he was so very loved. I hated watching Aaron suffer and feeling so helpless in doing so. Honestly, I do have trouble seeing the goodness in all of this.

As I have spent some time reflecting, praying and reading the bible, I realize that maybe, just maybe, what we are walking through right now is good. Maybe this...the tears, the frustration, the deep sorrow, the anger, the longing for our son...maybe all of this is a small part of God's goodness. Maybe it is all part of the bigger picture that we cannot see. Maybe those three days of suffering would have turned into years...years of frequent hospitalization, surgeries, constant struggles and poor quality of life...years of wondering if each day would be our last day with Aaron. Cardiac kids are fragile. At some point, he would have required a transplant and we would be left wondering if he would receive a heart. The future holds so many unknowns. I have no doubt that God could see what his life would or could have been and maybe he made His decision. It wasn't a decision defined by our wants and desires or that lined up with our plans, but maybe He couldn't bear to watch His child suffer. Honestly, in that, I can see His goodness.

I journaled everything above prior to going to church tonight. As I've said before, the ways in which God speaks to us at times amazes me. Our pastor preached on Saul (Paul) in Acts 9 tonight and one thing he said really spoke to me...

  "The bible teaches that God does not do evil things or bad things to people. We could argue all night long about whether God caused that or allowed that...at some point, you have to throw that question out the window. The truth is that something happened; something big, something life-changing and it knocked me flat. Is that tragedy in my life that brought me or someone else back to God a good thing or bad thing? It's still a bad thing. How about this...it was a bad thing and God redeemed it. God used it. God refuses to waste the mess in our lives. God took a bad thing and used it for good; just like He promised those who love Him." 

I gained a lot of clarity through the sermon tonight, even though it wasn't speaking to exactly what we have been going through. The tragedies  that happen to us in life can't be classified as good simply because they brought us or someone else closer to God, but God is Good. He uses these situations and "the mess" of our lives for good and although He never said that life would be easy, He said that we wouldn't go through it alone. He is always there. He is ever present...holding our hand, walking through it with us and redeeming it for good and for His glory. We must throw the "whys?" out the window and trust in Him. We must have this thing called faith.

So, with trust and faith that God is using this storm, this tragedy, this mess in our life right now, I can say, with confidence, that "God is good all the time, and all the time God is good".