Dear Sweet Thatcher,
It's been two years. Two years of living without you. Two years of birthdays and two years of holidays, both of which are stifling. Every celebration seems tainted now; forever tarnished by your absence. There will always be an empty stocking, an empty basket, a person missing in every photo we take.
Today we will honor you by remembering your tiny feet and your soft squeaks. We will eat the cake your daddy ordered for you at the foot of your grave...the cake that I couldn't bear to buy this year. You would be so proud of the way he has taken so much on his shoulders. He has quietly stepped into the role of party planner and holiday maker because he knows I just can't function normally around these things. He entertains your brother and sister so well on the days that I need to be alone with my thoughts. Your dad is truly a gift that I don't deserve.
It's hard to put into words what two years without you has done to me. I still think about you so many times throughout the day. However, I can finally make it through the day without crying, and for that I am grateful. Although the hurt has now become a persistent ache, my memories of you and love for you have not faded. I still remember every detail about your face and your tiny body. I have vivid flashbacks of that day brought on by the cry of a baby or a certain smell. I still have your blanket we used to wrap you in my closet and I can't bring myself to wash it.
Two years of surviving has made me love you more and changed my perspective on so many things. The LORD has been so gracious to me by giving me to opportunity to carry you, love you, and grieve for you. He has gently answered my cries and opened my eyes to truths I would not have otherwise sought to find. He has faithfully been revealing Himself to me through this deep valley. Two years have brought both the bitter and sweet.
I will forever love you,
Mommy
Monday, April 17, 2017
Wednesday, November 2, 2016
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.
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.
Sunday, April 17, 2016
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.
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
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
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
Friday, January 15, 2016
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.
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)
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Confession
Let me start by stating that I might regret putting this out there. What I am about to post is a recent entry from my journal and it wasn't intended to be seen...just between me and God. However, I feel like we have a tendency to not show our true selves on the internet and it's for a good reason. There's too much vulnerability, too much risk of exposure to ridicule, judgement, or being misunderstood. However, I have come to realize just how taboo the topic of losing a child can be. People aren't chomping at the bit to open up about this deep hurt. So, the typical responses to the questions from friends and loved ones are superficial, at best. Sometimes they are an outright lie. That's right...sometimes I lie.
I've been told that I'm strong and my faith has inspired others, but let me be very honest: today, and for the last 8 months, my faith has been on shaky ground. Most of the time I feel like I'm hanging by a thread.
Here's my journal entry from a couple of weeks ago:
This has been the hardest year of my life and other than our little blog, I've kept most of my prayers and concerns bottled up deep within my soul - too afraid to say them aloud, write them down, or whisper them in a prayer. Zephaniah 3:17 says that you rejoice over me and that you are mighty save. The question stings as I read this passage: why did you choose not to save Thatcher? Was I the one that needed saving? I prayed and cried over that child more than I did for any of my other children. At this moment all the scriptures regarding your purposes and plans seem cliche. My soul needs healing from the gaping wound that his passing left. I wanted him to stay so badly and instead I'm left questioning your plans and goodness.
I'm so grateful that God can take my questions, doubt and anger because I've been full of all of them lately. I know that we live in a broken world that is full of death, sickness, and hurt. However, this just isn't an adequate explanation for my soul right now.
I pray that others that are dealing with grief can feel safe enough to open up to those around them. Grief is a treacherous road that God did not intend for us to walk alone.
I've been told that I'm strong and my faith has inspired others, but let me be very honest: today, and for the last 8 months, my faith has been on shaky ground. Most of the time I feel like I'm hanging by a thread.
Here's my journal entry from a couple of weeks ago:
This has been the hardest year of my life and other than our little blog, I've kept most of my prayers and concerns bottled up deep within my soul - too afraid to say them aloud, write them down, or whisper them in a prayer. Zephaniah 3:17 says that you rejoice over me and that you are mighty save. The question stings as I read this passage: why did you choose not to save Thatcher? Was I the one that needed saving? I prayed and cried over that child more than I did for any of my other children. At this moment all the scriptures regarding your purposes and plans seem cliche. My soul needs healing from the gaping wound that his passing left. I wanted him to stay so badly and instead I'm left questioning your plans and goodness.
I'm so grateful that God can take my questions, doubt and anger because I've been full of all of them lately. I know that we live in a broken world that is full of death, sickness, and hurt. However, this just isn't an adequate explanation for my soul right now.
I pray that others that are dealing with grief can feel safe enough to open up to those around them. Grief is a treacherous road that God did not intend for us to walk alone.
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Satan Lies
He is the master of deception. He’s cunning and is smart enough
not to use bold faced lies with us. He whispers ideas in our head that we can
rationalize to the point of belief. He loves to give us things that we can roll
around in our brain and ponder. Sometimes it can be things for our own
pleasure. Satan will tell us that we deserve that sin, or that it’s not really
a sin. Sometimes it can be ideas that bring us despair and anxiety. We deliberate
on these ideas and convince ourselves that those little voices are true and we
are undeserving of love, acceptance, and unity with Christ. It is Satan’s reward
when allow ourselves to believe that God doesn’t care about us.
I know I have touched on this before, but I’m saying it
again…SATAN LIES! He has been whispering lies in my ear for quite some time.
Initially it was the lie that God didn’t care about me or my sweet Thatcher.
Then, once I released that lie and submitted to God’s plan, Satan began telling
me that I wasn’t strong enough to let Thatcher go. When I didn’t give into that
lie, Satan began telling me that I was a weak mother for not fighting for my
son. I could have done something…anything…to save him. He has beaten me at my
weakest point, and left me crying in absolute despair.
But, I am here to tell you that our God is bigger. He is sovereign. He is walking right next to you and me through the hard stuff. He weeps with us when we are in the midst of deep sorrow. He promises to uphold us with his right hand. He loves my child and will use this terrible event for good. I have seen how many lives my little boy touched in his short time on earth, but there are many more that I'm sure I will never know about.
The waves of doubt and grief will continue to ebb and flow. Some days are darker than others, but I will not surrender to the lies that the enemy speaks. I will continue to hold onto the hope that I have in my Savior and the peace that one day there will be no more pain or tears.
The waves of doubt and grief will continue to ebb and flow. Some days are darker than others, but I will not surrender to the lies that the enemy speaks. I will continue to hold onto the hope that I have in my Savior and the peace that one day there will be no more pain or tears.
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
It's Okay To Not Be Okay
It's been ten and a half weeks since we lost Thatcher. I can't really say where I'm at on this grief journey, because I never read any books about the grief process. I avoided them because I was scared of what they would say, but also hopeful that this would not be our story. But...it is...and has been.
Most days I'm fine. My definition of "fine" is based on what I have read from others' experiences. I do cry at least once a day, but I'm able to get out of bed and do the day-to-day things (mostly without incident). I'm also able to talk about Thatcher, now, without crying every time. I owe a lot to my children that don't give me the luxury of having down time, but mostly, I owe my Lord for sustaining me the last 10 weeks.
I was proud that I was doing so well, despite the ugly hand we had been dealt. Then, I began to second guess myself. I felt as though I wasn't fully dealing with the death of our son. I haven't even been to visit his grave in several weeks.
It has become apparent the last couple of weeks that I'm not as okay as I thought. Even though my brain is telling me that I'm okay, my body is telling me that I'm not. Physiological symptoms started to appear: insomnia, loss of appetite, heart palpitations, and an infection. I've also experienced a few panic attacks when I've been around newborns. I've spoken with doctors and started medicine for my sleep loss and infection (I avoid medicines when at all possible). My NP I saw today kindly handed me some recommendations for grief counseling and told me all that I am experiencing is a likely a bi-product of my grief. To be honest, I almost feel defeated. Like the facade I had created has crumbled and my true wounds are exposed. Not that I've kept what my family has been through a secret, but that I was withholding the full truth from myself. Perhaps it's a self-preservation tactic to keep those that have experienced painful loss from cratering.
I'm dealing with this as best as I know how. Thankfully, I have a whole host of patient people around me that are showing me lots of grace...especially my husband. I'm going to start being fully honest with myself. My new truth: I'm not okay....but that's okay.
Most days I'm fine. My definition of "fine" is based on what I have read from others' experiences. I do cry at least once a day, but I'm able to get out of bed and do the day-to-day things (mostly without incident). I'm also able to talk about Thatcher, now, without crying every time. I owe a lot to my children that don't give me the luxury of having down time, but mostly, I owe my Lord for sustaining me the last 10 weeks.
I was proud that I was doing so well, despite the ugly hand we had been dealt. Then, I began to second guess myself. I felt as though I wasn't fully dealing with the death of our son. I haven't even been to visit his grave in several weeks.
It has become apparent the last couple of weeks that I'm not as okay as I thought. Even though my brain is telling me that I'm okay, my body is telling me that I'm not. Physiological symptoms started to appear: insomnia, loss of appetite, heart palpitations, and an infection. I've also experienced a few panic attacks when I've been around newborns. I've spoken with doctors and started medicine for my sleep loss and infection (I avoid medicines when at all possible). My NP I saw today kindly handed me some recommendations for grief counseling and told me all that I am experiencing is a likely a bi-product of my grief. To be honest, I almost feel defeated. Like the facade I had created has crumbled and my true wounds are exposed. Not that I've kept what my family has been through a secret, but that I was withholding the full truth from myself. Perhaps it's a self-preservation tactic to keep those that have experienced painful loss from cratering.
I'm dealing with this as best as I know how. Thankfully, I have a whole host of patient people around me that are showing me lots of grace...especially my husband. I'm going to start being fully honest with myself. My new truth: I'm not okay....but that's okay.
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