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