Standing on the Shore

After losing our son in April of 2015, I saw several visuals created to depict grief. Some show a line drawing that looks like a mess of tangled string; there's no clear beginning or end and no real direction. For many, that is an accurate description. Grief is different for each person, so the stages, longevity of each stage, and the order in which each person experiences each stage is different and, therefore, very unpredictable.

I also heard it described as waves in the ocean. Sometimes the swells are immense and enough to pull you under. Sometimes the waves are smaller and more manageable. However, unlike a lake or pond, the waters are never still. There will always be waves. As one waves subsides, another is building and preparing to crash.

The waves for me come on as memories play through my mind, or as I see all the photos of kids going to school or dressed up for Halloween. Every Christmas and birthday celebration floods my mind with thoughts of what Thatcher would have been like. For anyone that has lost a child, these once full-of-joy moments become reminders of what they are missing.

I've done fairly well managing my grief. Perhaps a more accurate statement would be that I've done a good job of burying my grief with the busyness of a full schedule. I realized last year that the still moments gave way to tear-filled moments of flash-backs. I dread those quiet moments. I dread being left alone with my memories. Although it's been a year and a half, the memories of that day are so fresh in my mind; they are burned into my being.

Today was a hectic morning, just like all the others. But, as I sat at a red light, flashes of the funeral home and touching his lifeless body flashed through my mind. Why? I have no clue, but I'm sure my grief timeline isn't unlike many others that have experienced the loss of a loved one. There at that stop light, I sobbed for my baby. A year and a half later and I'm still crying in the car.

Some days it feels like life is moving forward at such a fast pace. Days seem to be whirling by me and I'm working to keep my head above water. Then there are days like today sprinkled in the mix in which I am brought back to those heart-breaking moments and I feel stuck in my sorrow. Please don't misunderstand me. I'm in such a better place than I was two years ago when this sorrow began. My faith is stronger, my love is deeper, my compassion is greater.

I write these words tonight not for sympathy, but in hopes that it would encourage another mother in her journey. The days will come when you will laugh again. But days will come when the tears flow...and that's okay. It's okay to have those moments in your closet or in the car when you cry out in anguish. It's okay to have those days when you just want to sit and be with the Lord with tears streaming down your face as you remember your little one. But, as you stand on the shore, waiting for the next wave, realize that vast ocean before you is full of His grace, love and mercy. As you stare out at the great expanse of endless waters, know that His plans and story for you are so much greater than this moment of grief.

A Holy Experience

Have you ever experienced God? Not just a glance at the sunset, or at the beauty of a flower and known that there was a "higher being," but actually had an encounter with the Father of all creation; an experience that left you shaken to the core and left you without a doubt of His presence, peace and power?

I hope your answer is yes, because when you do, it is a life-altering, earth-shattering, mind-blowing event.

I've had two in my lifetime and they both were within a couple of months of each other. The first was in a dream so vivid that I woke up terrified with tears streaming down my face. I cried out to God in that moment, the deep cry that comes from the depths of your soul. In the midst of that pain, God whispered to me. It sounded as if He were sitting next to me on the bed with His arm around me and He gently told me, "No." No to the prayer of miraculous healing for my son; no to me getting to keep him here with me on earth. It was from that time that my heart's prayer changed. I knew His answer regarding my son's life, now I just wanted the opportunity to meet him and hold him before he went home to heaven.

In the early morning hours of April 17, 2015, I had my second encounter with my Savior. In that hospital room, he answered our prayers in a bold way. He allowed us to meet our son and spend four precious hours with him. We talked to him, cuddled him, kissed him, and cried over him. He cooed at us and Jake captured a video of him talking that I will forever treasure.

Shortly after, we both silently prayed over him. We told God that we were ready and he could bring Thatcher home. Minuets later, he was gone. As heartbreaking as it was to let my son go, it was the most beautifully profound moment of my life. It was a holy experience. I felt such peace and love in those moments and gratitude that God chose me to be his mom. Even in the thick sorrow of death, I felt my soul praising the Creator. A holy experience.

God has since been laying the word "revival" on my heart.  He has promised not to leave me where I was but to lift me up and more than restore my heart and soul. As spring arrived and the trees began to bud, my anticipation grew and I became more anxious to see what He has planned for my life.

"to grant those who mourn in Zion- 

to give them a beautiful headdress instead of ashes, 

the oil of gladness instead of mourning, 

the garment of praise instead of a faint spirit;

that they may be called oaks of righteousness.

the planting of the LORD, that he may be glorified."  Isaiah 61:3

Here we are, one year later. I get to sit back and look at what God has done through one little life. My life and many others are changed for the better. So many things have been done in his memory that I will never know the full extent of. What an honor to have a son with that kind of legacy. I pray that I have a fraction of the impact on the world for His glory that Thatcher had.

I will keep running this race, now that I have seen His grace, with the assurance that I will see my son again some day.

"For me to live is Christ. and to die is gain." Philippians 1:21

Depression is for REAL

It's hard to know where to begin this post. It has been so long since I have written that I feel like something in me was lost. The ground I had covered in this grieving process began to fall away and I lost my footing. I thought I had come so far, but I was thrown backwards with the realization that I was merely avoiding my grief in many ways. I was failing to confront it and acknowledge its existence. So here I am, almost nine months later, finally admitting that I need help.

Grief is such a multi-faceted thing. Each view offers a different perspective, and no two people experience grief the same way. The awful thing about grief is it keeps coming back, like waves that never cease. It washes ashore all this ugly debris that you didn't know could ever exist. Not only did I have to grieve the loss of our son, but I had to deal with "life" and it has gotten mucky. After many months of not being able to find my way out of the pit I was in, I came to realize that I was indeed suffering from depression.

Months ago, I began to notice little things: I was unable to focus, I forgot everything. Bills didn't get paid on time, laundry was left half-done, we missed scheduled events, and I wandered around the house half-finishing every chore. At the end of each day, I felt defeated. I looked around and it seemed as if I had accomplished nothing. Playing with the kids became a task that I just couldn't handle.

I also began dealing with much bigger issues. Panic attacks became a reality for me. I couldn't handle being around pregnant women or tiny babies. The sound of their crying did something to me that I can't quite explain. I began to avoid some places for a fear that I would have to run away crying, unable to catch my breath. I became very irritable, and I'm sad to say that my family received the brunt of my attitude. Every little thing the kids did drove me crazy and there were days that I couldn't stand to be around them. On top of all this, I felt socially isolated. All I thought about was Thatcher. Every moment of the delivery and his life played on a continuous loop in my mind. I desperately wanted to talk about him. Perhaps it was because I was afraid I would forget something. Friendly chats about anything else became painful to endure.

For months I tried to make do with detailed to-do lists. I broke the most basic tasks down to simple steps and I was meticulous to check off each item as I finished. I set timers for myself to accomplish tasks, including playing with the kids. I retreated from time to time (sometimes I escaped to the car for some quiet). But, after a week full of tears, what I was doing wasn't helping...I was stuck.

Last week, I decided this needed to end. Not my grieving, but my depression and self-pity. I wanted out of this pit. I love my son so deeply, but I know that he wouldn't want me living this way. I went to my doctor and discussed a plan. I am so grateful to have a support system of friends, family, and doctors that have my back. The devil will use everything in his bag of tricks to bring me down, but I refuse to let him win this battle. I know the me I used to know has been forever changed, but I long to find a new me. I long to  once again see the joy in the day-to-day.

"Count is all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness. And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you my be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing." 

James 1:2-4 (ESV)