The Loaded Question

We all know there are a few loaded questions in our lives, and the one we've been getting alot lately is ...How are you?

It's one of those questions when you survey the context and the situation and the relationship and maybe reply back with another question...How much time do you have?

That's how I feel right now (I started writing this post last Monday).

People have been so kind and gracious and concerned and they want to know how we are.

I appreciate that, truly.

The problem is, it's a tough question to answer and I want to answer honestly, but sometimes I don't know if the person asking can handle the authenticity and vulnerability that may come with my honest response.

And the truth is, you may get a different response depending on the day.

So today I'm going to try to answer that "How are you" question honestly, assuming the person asking the question can handle the level of real and raw that is going to be thrown at them, assuming they can handle the truth and hold space for my grief, while also fully knowing the pain and the grief do not discount my faith and trust in the Lord. He is in this story, I know He is. He has to be, otherwise I would not be standing where I am today.

But consider yourself warned, my heart feels heavy today and this is just an uncensored free write.

So here goes.

The past few days have felt rough and hard and painful, and I've found myself just questioning God as to WHY we have to walk through this, WHY has He chosen us to endure another NICU stay, WHY does this have to be part of Conor's story, part of our family's story...and my heart just aches at the WHYs.

This past weekend at church when the time came to do the meet and greet with those around you, I literally bolted up from my seat, declaring I had to go to the bathroom, which I did, but Peter asked, really? Right now? And as I walked to the bathroom, I just thought, being here feels really hard. It's hard to be in a space where I don't know every single person in the room. It's hard to see parents with their new babes, who don't know that our new babe is in the hospital. It's hard to be in a space where not every person knows our story as I don't want to pretend. I don't want to say, Hi I'm Malia with a smile on my face because in that moment I don't feel like smiling, in that moment I want to drop to my knees and cry out to the Lord instead of shaking my neighbors hand.

And this morning Ryan asked to look at photos of himself when he was a baby. So we started at the beginning with my late stages of pregnancy, to his birth, to the first few months at home, and I can't quite put into words the emotions I was feeling as I looked at those photos. It was 3 years ago, yet I'll hold onto this birth story and revel in it for the rest of my days, truly. To have a full term, vaginal birth baby after a c-section, preemie baby feels like the greatest gift, and even now after walking through Conor’s birth story, it truly feels like an even greater gift!! And I'm just filled with a tremendous amount of gratitude for that gift. To see the pain on my face with each contraction, to see the pure joy on my face after I pushed him out of my vagina (BIG DEAL people!!) and then when they placed him on my chest. The pure satisfaction and exhaustion I felt that night will stay with me forever. And then to leave the hospital literally 24 hours after having him WITH my baby is a memory I will never forget!

And I'm realizing now my experience with Ryan was a true anomaly and my normal is a c-section, not being able to see or hold my baby immediately after they're taken out of me, a lengthy hospital stay for me and a lengthier NICU stay for baby.

And I think I just figured since my second birth story (Ryan VBAC, 38 weeker) was so different than my first (Jack c-section, 33 weeker) that my third would more resemble the second.

But boy was I wrong. And what I envisioned was so far off from the reality, and that feels hard today.

My normal is truly so abnormal and that feels hard today.

Just last night the boys were asking about my owie and they wanted to see my scars. And no that is not a mistype. I do indeed have two scars, plural. Jack and Conor each have their own, lucky them right?? And I said Jack this faint one is when they cut me open and took you out and this one is for when they cut me open and took Conor out. And Ryan was like, and what about me mama? And I said, and you came out the normal way via my vagina. What a lovely teaching moment right?? Haha!

This past weekend, as we all gathered in Conor's room as a family of five, and as the boys clambered all over Conor to get closer to him, to touch him, to kiss him, to shhh him, I just thought, this is how it should be...Conor with his brothers and mama bear protecting him from his big brothers grasps. This is exactly as I envisioned it, yet this story is nothing like I envisioned it.

I envisioned I would be the one changing his diaper, feeding him (I guess technically I am, but let's be real, breast milk via a feeding tube is a little different than directly from the breast), comforting him, bathing him, dressing him.

And don't get me wrong, I've been able to do all of those things, but I'm just not his primary caretaker, and that feels strange.

And some days it all feels really unfair, yet Conor's exactly where he should be and it pains me that that place isn't in our home and in my arms.

And the truth is, sometimes I forget I have a third child, yet every few hours I'm reminded with my full breasts that my arms are empty. And every few hours as I sit down to pump, I'm reminded that my baby is not in my home.

So to answer your question, today feels hard. Today I am listening to worship music and soaking up God's promises like I need air to breathe. Today I am clinging to His faithfulness as I try to make sense of all of this. Today I am trying so hard to focus on the bigger story, on His story, as the little things like hospital visits and childcare and work logistics feel overwhelming.

Today the tears stream down my cheeks as I lift up my empty arms to the Lord, knowing that He will fill them with his love, his mercy, his grace.

And that is always enough. He is enough.

Leaning in

 

A few weeks ago I pulled all the maternity items out of my closet, well almost all of them. I did leave my maternity jeans hanging on a hanger, maybe I'm going to wear them sometime soon? I did just buy them a few months ago!

And it felt like the end of an era.

And if I’m honest, it is the end of an era really as Peter and I don’t plan on having more children, and considering my most recent history, my Dr. highly suggests we stick to the plan.

And it just felt a little painful to already be packing up the maternity clothes, taking them off hangers and putting them into bags. According to the email I got yesterday, I should still be pregnant, 37 weeks pregnant to be exact. I should still be growing that baby in utero and feeling him kick from the inside. I should still be daydreaming about his birth story, how much he'll weigh, what he'll look like, how much hair he will have, etc. But we all know Conor was born just a week or two after I'd entered into the third trimester, at 28 weeks and 4 days, and my daydreaming soon became reality. 

This past Saturday marked eight weeks of life outside of the womb for Conor Christopher. And I've spent those eight weeks just leaning into all the sharp edges, to the pain, to the empty arms.

And by the grace of God I’ve somehow mustered up the courage to show up not just physically but emotionally in various spaces.

And if I’m incredibly honest, it may have been a little too soon for my heart to enter into some of the spaces I entered into. Yet, as hard as some of those moments were, it probably made me lean even more into the sharp edges and deeper into the pain.

A few days after I was discharged I went to a MOPS clothing and gear swap event at church. It may have been a little too soon, but I wanted to show up. I had planned on going before I had Conor, and I wanted to stick to that plan as there were some items I was looking for.

So I pulled myself and my heart together and drove myself to church.

And as I walked through the doors, a part of me was wishing I was invisible. I mean wouldn't it be easier to just walk through the space, not being seen, to just peruse the piles of clothes, get what I had come for, and crawl back into my car? Wouldn’t it be easier to not enter into the grief and the pain, to just ignore it, to shove it down, to cover it with something else?

And I can’t help but wonder, is that easier or is it actually harder?

And the truth is, I think it might be harder when your pain is invisible. I mean my pain is out in the open, and those who know me at all know parts of my story if not all of it, and I get emotional just thinking about the way the women embraced me and my wounded heart and broken body that night, the way they wrapped their arms around me and offered their sincerest apologies with tears in their own eyes.

And I got into the car and just cried. It was too much.

And then a week later I found myself entering into that same physical space for our usual MOPS meeting and I thought I knew what awaited me, but I had no idea really. I wasn't prepared for just how God was going to meet me in that space, for the beautiful way He used all these woman to show me that He saw me, He saw my pain and my brokenness, and He embraced me.

I remember one friend just walking up to me and wrapping me in the tightest embrace as we both just held each other's grief and pain and sorrow as my recent birth story had brought back the pain and the memories of her own. And she just got it, and I don't know who was holding who to be honest. It was beautiful.

And then the speaker for the morning came up to me to say that she'd heard about my story and she'd had a 28 weeker of her own 20 years ago, and she wanted me to know that he's doing great today!

And baby blessings just happened to be that day, and I found myself reluctant to go forward knowing what was to come. But I mustered up all the courage I could and stepped forward with my empty arms and took my place at the end next to all the mamas with their full arms. I was the last one to introduce myself, and I felt so courageous and powerful as I stated my name and my baby's name while declaring with a shaky voice that he was in the NICU at UW. And then they prayed over those babes, and I barely held myself together as I swallowed the lump in my throat and walked back to my table. It felt so hard to be there without Conor, and even now I get emotional remembering that heart breaking moment, but I also remember just how victorious I felt to be able to step forward, to show up even amidst the pain.  

And when we went to church for the first time, I remember stating to Peter, I don't know if I'm ready to enter into that space yet, but I did. And it was hard, it still feels hard to be honest. It's not so much the Conor updates that are hard as I want to give people updates, but it's the babies and pregnant women that surround me that don't know our story. That feels hard, yet it's also a reminder that there will be another side to this story.

So I continue to show up as I know the healing happens in the showing up, in the confronting of the grief, in the leaning in to the pain. And I know there will be tears and sorrow and joy and laughter and love as we continue to lean in. 

Friends, the leaning in is hard, and it hurts, but my goodness it's so good. It's so incredibly good. And it's so healing for me to stand firm in God's goodness and His faithfulness even amidst the heart ache. 

Lean into the sharp points and fully experience them. The essence of bravery is being without self-deception. Wisdom is inherent in (understanding) emotions. - Pema Chodron

Grief and Hard Things

 

My heart feels so heavy this morning, so I turned cartoons on for the boys, made myself a cup of coffee and crawled back into bed with my computer on my lap.

Friends, this week as I have shared the loss of our baby with others and the grief that has come with that, I have heard some really hard stories, and my heart feels so heavy as I reflect on those stories.

One mom shared that they've decided to just have one child, so they were thinking about downsizing their car and remaining in their smallish home, and I thought to myself, I wonder how they came to that conclusion. And then as I shared with her about my miscarriage, she shared with me about hers. She told me about her babies, and the twin that died in utero right after the first trimester, while I looked at the one who lived as she ran around the playground with my boys. And she told me about the miscarriages that followed due to her rare blood disorder.

Her vulnerability and courage was inspiring, and her grief was palpable as her voice caught as she shared how she's still wrestling with the thought that her daughter will be her only. She asked me what it was like taking two kids anywhere and she asked about their sibling relationship, and my heart just broke. Here I am yearning for another child, a third child, and she is yearning for just two, for what I already had!

Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for - Epicurus

And then just a day or so later I heard another story, and if the first story cracked my heart a little, this one shattered it, leaving pieces all over the floor. This story began with a waiting game of a year or so of trying to get pregnant, then came the sheer joy and excitement when it happened! And I'd love to say, that baby is now outside of the womb and in her mama's arms, but that's not how this story ends or begins depending on how you look at it. This baby was born about a month ago via c-section, and her life ended just 10 days later as she was born with an unanticipated brain injury. And while that chapter in the story ends, the mamas grief lives on. One story ends, but another story of deep, deep grief and healing and restoration begins.

As I sit here in that grief, I'm just overwhelmed by all those stories that I have heard and all those I have yet to hear, all those stories of hurt, of pain, of deep, deep grief that have eventually led to healing and restoration as they live into what is rather than hoping for what will be or what could have been.

And as friends share with me their pregnancy news, I rejoice with them and the story God is writing for their family, while yearning for God to write another child into our story.

And amidst the waiting and anticipating and releasing and laying down, I'm reminded that this is what life is all about. Life is full of challenges, trials and tribulations. We all walk through grief and hard things, and our response to those hard things lies in our own hands.

We can choose whether we will turn toward Him, allowing for something new to be born, for someone new to be born, or we can choose to turn away from Him, turning inward in our grief, spiraling deeper and deeper down into the depths of despair.

Will we turn outward and pour ourselves out, revealing our hurts and aches and pains, exposing our vulnerable souls, while allowing God to transform us and heal us, showcasing His work within us to the world?

Will we cling to the hope that He promises, or will we get lost in our own grief and forget about all those promises?

Will we turn outward?

Or will we turn inward?

God is at work in all of our lives. Yet, do we truly believe this?

Do we create space to show that work even amidst the grief and hard things?

Do we open ourselves up to Him to allow Him to use our story and our grief for His glory?

These are the questions I've been asking myself.

I wrote this post about Grief and Sad things nearly 5 years ago to the day, while I was pregnant with Jack, never dreaming that I'd be the one walking through the loss of a child, never dreaming that God would write that chapter into our story. But He has, and now we get to choose how we respond to that loss, while trusting that God is at work in all of it. 

A Time for Everything.

 

If we've learned anything this past year and a half it's that there truly is a time for everything.

And I don't think Ecclesiastes 3 has ever rang more true for us.

There is a time for everything,
    and a season for every activity under the heavens:

²     a time to be born and a time to die,
    a time to plant and a time to uproot,
³     a time to kill and a time to heal,
    a time to tear down and a time to build,
⁴     a time to weep and a time to laugh,
    a time to mourn and a time to dance,
⁵     a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
⁶     a time to search and a time to give up,
    a time to keep and a time to throw away,
⁷     a time to tear and a time to mend,
    a time to be silent and a time to speak,
⁸     a time to love and a time to hate,
    a time for war and a time for peace.

⁹ What do workers gain from their toil? ¹⁰ I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race. ¹¹ He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet^[a] no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end. ¹² I know that there is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live. ¹³ That each of them may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all their toil—this is the gift of God. ¹⁴ I know that everything God does will endure forever; nothing can be added to it and nothing taken from it. God does it so that people will fear him.

Just like Ecclesiastes 3 says, There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens. There is a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time to tear down and a time to build and alot of time for everything in between. 

Let's just say 2016 was filled with lots of weeping and mourning (and dancing and laughing, but this post is going to focus more on the weeping and mourning) and I'm realizing that as a culture, we're not very good with creating space for mourning and allowing those who are mourning to just be comforted by our presence rather than our words. Time and time again Peter has heard, it's okay, it will get better, 2017 will be a different year for you. You're so talented and you have such great skills, someone will hire you! Just keep the faith, just stay positive, but the reality is, some days are really hard, and some days it's really hard to stay positive, to have an eternal perspective, and I've come to realize that it's hard for me to sit with him in his grief, to take it upon my shoulders too to grieve with him.

In fact, there was one day months ago, where he found out he didn't get a job, or maybe it was 2 different jobs, and he called me at work devastated and I just figured I'd come home and he'd be over it. I mean he had about 4 hours to process it and mourn and grieve, and that should be sufficient time right? Well how wrong was I! 

And we had a conversation that night about mourning and grief and our families and how culture may play a part in how I create or don't create space for mourning, or perhaps it may just be my family? or maybe it's just me? And we talked about how I responded to him and his grief in such an ugly and dishonoring way, those were my words. 

My husband is so very eloquent and it's been beautiful to see how God uses him in such a mighty way to humbly call me out on my stuff, to hold me accountable to a higher way of being. And this was one of those moments. Peter shared how my reaction to his grief hurt him deeply but what I loved was he also shared how I could respond in a more effective and honoring way in the future. He told me how he felt and he told me what he needed, and you guys, my mind was blown! 

And he shared it all as an analogy. He said, today, I'm like a boxer that's been knocked down in a ring and I'm just lying flat out on the floor. And you're my trainer, and I don't want you to start talking to me about my next fight yet. Today, I need you to get in the ring and lay down on the floor with me. I need you to tend to my wounds and help me recover.  Today, I need you to mourn and grieve with me, and tomorrow, you can talk to me about getting up off the floor and moving on to the next fight.

You guys, I've learned so much in this season about mourning and creating space for grief.

Mathew 5:4 states, Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

And friends, there's so much truth to that.

When you mourn, you will be comforted. And He promises to meet you in that place of mourning.

He promises to make all things beautiful.

Yet, I can't help but wonder if we believe those promises. Because if we really believed and trusted in those promises, then I think we'd be better at creating space for mourning and grief.

And I can't help but wonder, as a culture do we do that? Do we create space for mourning and grief? Or do we just want to problem solve and spout out words of encouragement and support?

Have faith! Keep trying! Pick yourself up by your bootstraps and carry on! You're so talented, you'll find a job soon!

These are all things Peter heard constantly, and while those words are really nice and affirming and very American, the words he really needed to hear were...I know this is really hard. And I'm sorry you're in this season. Know that I sit with you in your grief. Know that I'm mourning with you. Know that I'm crying out to the Lord on your behalf!

Again, I ask the question, Why do we feel the need to problem solve and spout out words of encouragement and support? Why is it so hard for us to just sit and wipe the tears from their eyes and wrap our arms around those who are grieving? Why is it so hard for us to recognize that sometimes saying nothing says everything?

Ecclesiastes 3 is such a beautiful reminder to me that amidst whatever time you find yourself in, He is in your midst. May you have eyes to see Him and ears to hear Him.

May you trust His promises and may you mourn and dance and weep and laugh, while remembering just how good He is. 

And may you never forget that He makes all the mourning and the grieving beautiful in His time.

A Historical Day - learning to let grief in

Today is a day that will go down in history.

And no, it's not because one of my boys reached a milestone or because they listened to every single thing I asked of them.

But rather because it is inauguration day.

And I feel like every inauguration day is historical, but today feels exceptionally historical, one we will never ever forget.

This is a day that will be written about in the history books in the years to come.

This is a day that many will reflect back on in the years to come.

This is a day that will be filled with mourning and grieving.

And I need you to know that I mourn with you.

And as my son asked me to turn on worship music, then to turn up the music louder, I just started weeping.

And he asked me why I was sad, and I just responded by saying, I don't know.

And the truth is, I don't know why I'm weeping.

There are so many factors at play here, but I think I'm just learning to let grief in.

Maybe it's because we leave Monday for Ireland, and you better believe all those Irish folks are going to be asking me how this day even happened?

How did America get to the place where they could elect Trump as their president?

How does something like this even happen?

And the truth is, I don't know.

And maybe it's because whenever I'm there, I feel like I'm the red, white and blue ambassador, speaking on behalf of all things American.

And the truth is, when I'm distanced from my country, I'm able to see it all through a different lens, and sometimes I find myself trying to explain why it is we do the things we do even if I don't necessarily agree with it.

And the truth is, I don't know why we, Americans, do the things we do, or why we vote the way we do. 

And maybe it's because we're coming off of MLK day and I can't stop thinking about my Let us be Dissatisfied post, and I just finished reading Between the World and Me by Ta-Nehisi Coates, and I dream of brighter days for my boys, and and I'm realizing we're still so far from it.

And maybe it’s because our Pastor preached about mourning and learning to let grief in last Sunday. And this week my eyes have been fully open to see all the grief and the mourning that surrounds me, whether that’s the mourning that comes with the job search and another closed door, or the mourning that comes with wanting to be married, or wanting to have children, or the mourning that comes with the loss of a loved one through either death or Alzheimer's, or the loss of a relationship, or just simply the loss of a dream.

And today, I think the mourning fully hit me and the tears just streamed down my face.

The truth is, mourning and grief surrounds us all. We cannot escape it. And I pray we have the eyes to see it all around us and the courage to enter into it with ourselves, with others, with our world.

The truth is, I don't know what the next 4 years hold. I don't know what tomorrow holds.

But I can tell you what I do know. 

I know that my hope is in Christ.

I know that His love never fails.

I know that it's His breath in my lungs.

I know that He is faithful.

I know that I'll continue to pour out my praise to Him even amidst the tears.

And this is my prayer for all of us.

May we come back to the simple things.

May we love deeply.

May we live fully.

May we grieve together and mourn together and shed tears together.

May we never forget that it is through this shedding of tears and sharing of hearts that Christ is glorified.

May we never forget that we are in this together and by the grace of God we are so much greater together.

May His presence reign over all the earth.

Dreams.

via pinterest

So tell me...How many of you have had some powerful dreams?  Dreams that felt so real when you awoke?  Dreams that left you a little unsettled?

My sleep has been extremely disrupted the past week, so I can't even recall the dreams I've had recently.  But I have definitely had some dreams that have left me unsettled.  I have definitely had dreams that felt extremely real.  Like this one.

When Peter and I first started dating I remember he would come to work in the morning and be mad at me ...he hadn't even given me a chance to DO anything and he was already mad.  I was so confused. And then after much prodding, I realized that he had been having dreams, terrible dreams, dreams that left him unsettled, dreams that felt so real.  All of his dreams centered around the fear of losing me.

Anyhow, a few weeks ago, I woke up from the most unsettling dream.  And I had to tell Peter about it straight away...I had dreamt that I had contracted some type of illness or disease that was extremely contagious and had put me in a coma for months.  Peter greeted me when I awoke from the coma, and I instantly asked for Jack. Where is he?  Bring him to me.  And Peter looked at me with the saddest eyes and had to tell me that while I was in the coma, Jack had died.  I had given him the illness that I had and he had died from it.  UGH...I get teary eyed just thinking about that.  Oh the grief...the sadness.  I went into a dark place...It felt so real.

And then I woke up.

I awoke from the dream so eager to realize that it was just that...a dream.  It was not my reality.   But I was unsettled nonetheless.

And as I was sharing this dream with Peter, he turned to me and said I had a terrible dream last night too.  I dreamt that you met someone else...and that you left me and Jack for this new man.

And although our dreams were different, the foundation of them was the same.  The dreams were driven by our fear, our fear of losing someone, of losing our son, of losing our spouse.

And although the dreams were extremely disturbing and completely unsettling, I found comfort in the knowledge of how far Peter and I have come.  We openly shared our dreams and the fears that were laced within them.  We openly shared the depth of emotions that spewed forth from these dreams and we captured our thoughts and we prayed. And we chose not to listen to the devils falsehoods, but to believe God.  And I have no doubt both of us started off our mornings a little unnerved, but this moment was turned into a beautiful one.

However it did leave me wondering...have I turned my son into an idol?  Have we turned our marriage into an idol? Do we live in the fear of losing one or the other?  Would we be able to stand and move on if we lost our son or our spouse?  Or would that loss break us?  Is our hope solely in those beings or is our hope in the One true being?

These are just a few of the questions I started to ask myself.  It's so easy for me to throw myself fully into my roles of being a mom and being a wife, and it's easy for me to lose sight of my role as a child of God and to live in this place of fear.

But this fear is not from the Lord, this I know, and these dreams served as a beautiful reminder to me that Christ is my lifeline and my hope is in Him. And for this I am thankful!

Blessed,

Malia

Grief and Sad Things.

via pinterest

Yes, you read the title of this post right...I didn't know what else to title it so I thought I would just go with the truth and people are then free to choose whether or not they read it.  I thought about titling it Cancer simply because I was inspired to write this after I watched the Stand up 2 Cancer telethon show on one of the major TV networks, but I thought...this post is about so much more than just cancer.  This post is about grief and sad things...ultimately it's about the loss of a child.  Cancer is an ugly disease regardless of the age of the victim, but there is just something about pediatric cancer that tugs at my heart strings.  So without further ado...

Some of you may know that one of my biggest fears is that Peter will die before we have a chance to really live our lives together.  And I truly feel as though I have slowly been working through this and wrestling with this sense of entitlement that I have.  However, now that I'm pregnant, I have to admit that one of my most recent biggest fears is that my child will die before I do, and the catch is this fear is a reality for far MORE parents than it should be.  And my heart breaks just thinking about those parents that grieve the death of a child and my heart breaks at the reality of this possibility.  

And I can't help but think about this little being that is growing in my belly.  And I can't help but think about those women that miscarry or those women that have stillborns and literally have to give birth to a baby that isn't even breathing. Imagine that...finding out your pregnant, announcing the pregnancy, a growing belly, everyone knows and everyone is expecting a healthy, baby boy come baby boy's due date and lo and behold the Lord takes this child home early - far earlier than his mama ever wanted.  Or what about the little boy that is diagnosed with cancer at the age of two?  And then goes into remission only to discover a year or so later that the cancer is back in full force...imagine what it would be like to watch your son go through that.  Or imagine your 5 year old daughter being diagnosed with cancer when you are 7 months pregnant?  The grief...and the pain...and the sheer anger at the injustice of it all!  

These stories are real and these boys and girls and their parents have names.  And as I attempt to imagine the tremendous grief and the deep, deep pain, which I can't even do justice to, I can't help but think about this baby in my belly and I can't help but cry out to the Lord...HOW DARE YOU TAKE THIS BEING FROM ME!  How DARE you!  I mean doesn't he have a right to a full life?? Doesn't he have a right to experience the joys, the tears, the trials of living? Doesn't he have the right to fall in love, to get his heart broken, to have children of his own?  I mean don't I have the right to watch him grow older, to go through these various stages considering I'm the one who birthed him?  How dare you, God, even consider taking this child from me!  I mean doesn't he have the right to outlive me??    

And then I stop myself amidst the grief and the pain that I have completely played out in my mind, even though this child isn't even born yet, and I remind myself that this child wasn't mine to start with.  This child is a gift from God - He is the one that created him, that knit him together in my womb - and He can take him whenever he chooses, but can I honestly say that I truly believe this? And when all is said and done, and if something tragic were to happen, would I not cry out to God ...how dare you?? Would I truly come to him with open arms and thank him for taking my child from me far earlier than I would have ever desired?  Of course not - I would grieve...I would be angry, this I know, but I also know that in time He would heal my heart and in Him I would find hope - hope for the future, hope from His comfort and His plans.  God is good and His love endures forever, even amidst the tragedies, but it's so hard to remember this when you are just wrecked with grief.

via pinterest

Tears stream down my face as I even type this post, and my heart breaks at the what ifs, the could bes, and I can't help but think about those families that are near and dear to me who have gone beyond the what ifs to the what IS. They have grieved, and one child lost the cancer battle, while the other one conquered it.  

The reality is that at some point in our lives we will experience some form of grief, if we haven't already,...this I can count on and it may or may not be due to cancer.  I can guarantee that someone you know has been touched by cancer in some way, whether that be an aunt, a grandparent, a friend, a child, or maybe even you.  And the question is...how did you handle this grief?  Or how will you handle it in the future?  Will you turn toward God or will you turn away from Him?  

Anyhow, enough sadness for one post.  I won't force you to read anymore, but I wanted to end this post with a song that Taylor Swift wrote for a 4 year old boy called Ronan who passed away from a battle with cancer in 2011.  She wrote the single after reading a blog from Ronan's mother who helped Taylor write the song, and she performed this song during the Stand up 2 Cancer telethon.  

I remember your bare feet down the hallway

I remember your little laugh

Race cars on the kitchen floor

Plastic dinosaurs, I love you to the moon and back

I remember your blue eyes looking into mine like we had our own 

secret club

I remember you dancing before bed time then jumping on me waking 

me up

I can still feel you hold my hand

Little man, from even that moment I knew

You fought it hard like an army guy

Remember I leaned in and whispered to you

Chorus:

Come on baby with me 

We're gonna fly away from here

You were my best four years

I remember the drive home when the blind hope

Turned to crying and screaming, "Why?"

Flowers piled up in the worst way

No one knows what to say about a beautiful boy who died

And it's about to be Halloween 

You could be anything you wanted if you were still here

I remember the last day when I kissed your face

I whispered in your ear

Come on baby with me 

We're gonna fly away from here

Out of this curtained room in this hospital

We'll just disappear

Come on baby with me

We're gonna fly away from here

You were my best four years

What if I'm standing in your closet trying to talk to you?

What if I kept the hand me downs you won't grow into?

And what if I really thought some miracle would see us through?

But what if the miracle was even getting one moment with you

Come on baby with me

We're gonna fly away from here

Come on baby with me 

We're gonna fly away from here

You were my best four years

I remember your bare feet down the hallway

I love you to the moon and back

xoxo, 

Malia