Braking for Butterflies

Self-care has been the topic of conversation in the homes I visited this week.  As Mother's Day approaches, I felt it was timely to remind these new and young mommas to put themselves first - at least once a day.

That's not easy for most moms.  It's natural for us to want to help and care for others and put ourselves last.  But, if we are running on empty, we aren't offering anyone our best.  Practicing self-care is the one time in our day it is ok to be selfish.  Mommas, you need this time.  

It doesn't have to take long or even cost money.  In digging online to find nuggets of inspo for my visits, I found two great resources that I'll share with you too:  31 Quick Self-Care Tips and a Self-Care calendar.

I also found a list of Affirmations I'll challenge each of you to print and read to yourself as you begin or end every day.

In my final visit of the week, as we were painting butterflies with tiny baby footprints, a mom made a suggestion that changed my day.  She mentioned that if I drove a different direction home, I'd come across a spot where butterflies liked to play.  Little did she know how special those tiny flying creatures are to me.

Butterflies, specifically yellow ones, have been a sign from Austin since we lost him in 2008.  He's sent them at times there can be no other explanation than to know it was heaven-sent.  For instance, we've been visited by butterflies in the middle of winter, upon freshly fallen snow.

As I headed out her driveway, I began to make excuses as to why I didn't have the five extra minutes it would take to go another direction.  But a persistent little butterfly cut in my path and demanded my attention.  It danced in front of the car as if to say, follow me!

I'm so thankful I listened.

What a difference one turn or choice makes in our day.  Within moments, it felt as if I was on Butterfly Drive because I had to slow down, just to prevent hitting them from fluttering across the road.  Easily finding the spot she'd recommended, I pulled over to take in the scenery.

They were very camera shy so I didn't capture any to share.  Honestly, I was so mesmerized and at peace, I didn't think to take any until almost ready to leave.

I did pause to take a photo of a nearby creek because it was also breathtaking and stilled my soul.

Though I stayed only a few moments, it was sustenance I didn't even realize I needed.

Upon leaving, I broke down in tears and found myself in prayer the remainder of my drive.  Mother's Day weekend will always be bittersweet.  When you have lost a child, it changes the holiday forever.  And although I am beyond blessed to have a towering gentle giant still at home, I will never forget the one who made me Mom first.

Though I prayed for peace and strength as I face the weekend, what I found is that most of my prayer was gratitude.  For the 14 years we had with Austin...for the way God has healed us through this journey...and for the sneak peaks of Heaven he allows when Austin sends us whispers of love.

If you are facing this holiday with loss, whether from a baby you never got to meet, a child gone too soon, or even your own mother's passing, my heart goes out to you.  Be extra gentle on yourself this weekend.  Allow tears to fall.  Embrace the memories.  And if one dances by, brake for butterflies.

Still Standing: October

Life sure has a way of knocking you down, while you're down.  At least that's how it feels around here sometimes.

Before we've even had a chance to catch our breath from a bumpy summer and unexpected change in our family, we receive more unsettling news this week.

We're really not at a place where we can share just yet, but prayers are appreciated, especially for my husband.

Though the future is uncertain we're holding on to the One who holds our future.

October is among my most favorite of months, but I'm realizing a trend that makes it difficult to love it fully as I used to.  It's very much a month of before...

I captured what I called the "Calm Before the Storm" in my first post as a contributing author for Still Standing Magazine.

Thanks to Timehop, I was reminded that I've had the honor of writing for this beautiful place of support for those facing child loss exactly two years ago.

My latest post with them has received a response I wasn't expecting.  Often it is those pieces I pour out quickly, which seem to resonate the most.  While the loss of a child is as unique as the person grieving, whatever my heart shared a few days ago met and matched many.

If you've faced such a loss, perhaps you'll find comfort that however you're feeling, you're not alone.

Who is a Grieving Mother

All that to say, sometimes I have to look back to see how far we've come.  No matter what temporary trial we are enduring, we've already faced the unimaginable.  And yet...

we're Still Standing.

Just a Day

Mother's Day.

Two words that evoke so many emotions.  Immense joy...deep sorrow.

A day I looked forward to while carrying my firstborn.  My first Mother's Day would find me eight months pregnant.  Expectant with anticipation.

Now, it is a day I tiptoe through.

I awoke this morning to cloudy sunshine.  Overcast.

 Fitting, as it matches my feelings.

The joy I feel from being a mom, on this day especially, 

is overshadowed by the sorrow of losing a child.

Grateful for the 14 years I had with my firstborn but longing for more.

Blessed to be celebrating the 15th with my baby.

A mom torn, with a foot in both worlds.

Most days I can live in the present.  

Joyful for the moments of each day.

But this day forces me to pause, to remember, to think about what was gained

...and lost.

I tell myself, it's just a day.  A date on the calendar.  

But one of the hardest to face when you're missing a child.

On this day I'll allow myself tears for what was, for the memories treasured.

But I'll also welcome laughter and joy, thankful for the time that is now.

Today is just a day.

365 days a year for the past 20 years is my Mother's Day.

Every day I've been a mother has been a gift.

Not just today.

My greatest accomplishments in life call(ed) me Mom.

Prayers for those of you who...

have lost a child

longed for a child

are missing a child

May your heartache find some peace today.

When December is Hard

Maybe you've faced the start of Advent with more of a feeling of hopelessness than hopefulness.
Perhaps the joy of the season just feels a little too overwhelming.  And the smiles, scents, and sounds of the holidays are more than you can muster.

It's ok.  I have been there, friend.

Sometimes, like a few days ago, I am there still.

We "made it through" the 29th better than I expected.  When Sunday came and the fog rolled in, it actually took me by surprise.  Joy was nowhere to be found and it took everything I had in me just to get to church.

Sometimes grief hits us like that.  One step forward...twelve steps back.

I expected it to come on the anniversary of our loss, but it didn't.  In fact, it was a beautiful day filled with family and giving back, of remembering him.  There were many signs from Austin letting us know he was there, which was a comfort, as well as the prayers and texts sent from those who haven't forgotten.

When night came, there was a peace that surrounded us and we went to sleep without the horrible flashbacks and painful memories.  Tim even grabbed my hand before we drifted off and said,
"It's been a good day."

Six years of healing will do that, or so I thought.

When morning dawned, it was the only brightness to be found.  There was a hurt I could not shake. Tears kept welling up in my eyes, for no reason other than to blind and sting.   Instead of the message bringing me comfort at church, it brought more pain, as our pastor shared a message of hope.  Of miracles and prayers of healing.

For a mother who prayed fervently for her son to survive one November night, it was difficult to hear.  Not this weekend.  Not now...

Evil hissed in my ear and brought back the flashes of my son that didn't come back.  Evil told me my prayer wasn't heard.

Though we had family activities and busyness the rest of day, the heavy coat of grief would not let go.  It made the process of putting up the Christmas tree, our final activity with Austin, even harder to bear.

The next two days played quite the same.  Murphy's law came for an unwelcome visit and lingered.  Monday night found me sobbing in the laundry room, after everyone had gone to bed.  Though it was hateful words said from an uncaring soul that broke my spirit, having an already broken heart allowed for the easy fall.  That night made up for Saturday's lack of tears, I guess - and then some.

This is how I welcomed December.  No tinsel and merriment, only heartache and grief.  And for a moment, I feared this is just how this month would be.  That this Christmas would somehow disappear into darkness.

But as God often does, He found ways to send me hope each day I found despair.  Sunday, a ding on my phone brought a hug to my heart, in an unexpected message from someone who found a RAK.  Their daughter holding a toy from the reverse shopping spree and filled with joy.  Monday random check-ins from family at just the needed moment and more messages of RAK recipients.  In all the years we've done the reverse shopping, we've never heard back from those who found them.  I guess God knew we needed it this year.

And Tuesday, exhausted and spent from the hours crying the night before, I entered the house to find a package on the doorstep.  Hand-addressed to me.  Priority packaging.  Whatever could it be?  Though the gift was visible, the card was the first thing I grabbed, although tears (happy now) soon made it impossible to read.

A friend, remembering Austin and knowing my love for butterflies, sent a beautiful afghan.  It arrived at the perfect moment.  I dropped everything, went to the couch, sat under the lights of the Christmas tree and wrapped myself in love.

This afternoon, home early, found me on repeat.  Sitting in the quiet of the living room, the soft glow of the season all around me, I realized joy had returned.

In truth, it never left because He never leaves us.  Grief can cast a shadow but The light will always find a way to overcome darkness.  And for that I will forever praise Him!

So, if you're facing loss this season, I'm lifting up a special prayer for you.  Whether it has been five minutes or fifteen years, I know grief knows no timeline.  There is no magic ending, no pill, or therapy, or neat little bow to wrap it up and put on a shelf.  If I've learned anything in this walk, is it to be gentle with yourself, to allow tears to fall when they come, and to let God hold you through the journey.  He will bring you to joy again.  I pray it finds you this Christmas.

Faithful Friday: Forgive

Day 24: FORGIVENESS. Today let us open our hearts to forgiveness. Even if it is just a conversation that we have with ourselves. You may not be ready to forgive someone today and that is okay.  True forgiveness can never be forced so if you are not feeling it – then you are not feeling it! But we can still plant a seed. Forgiving someone may take years. It is a process. When you forgive another person you are not condoning their actions, you are just releasing yourself from them. When you hold onto anger or resentment for too long, you only end up hurting yourself. It is an easy thing to know in your heart that forgiveness will help you but to actually feel that is a whole other story. 

What are your thoughts on forgiveness? 

Have your had to forgive someone in your life? How did you do it? 

How did you let go of resentment? 

- - - - - - - -

Two years ago I wrote about this topic, specific to forgiveness in child loss.  Reading it again, I had to give praise to God for where I am now.  In 2012, I was still hurting, healing, processing the forgiveness needed to move on.  Now, I can't even pinpoint who or what that post was about.  And I know, without a doubt, any forgiveness I gave came from and through Him.  What a wonderful feeling when your soul is free from anger and resentment!

Today, I thought I'd focus on forgiveness of self in child loss.  Guilt is common with losing a child, no matter the circumstance.  As parents, we feel a responsibility to keep our children safe, happy, healthy.  When that goes wrong and life turns upside down, we blame ourselves.

For so long, it seemed, that night was on auto play in my mind.  I relived the moments leading up to Austin's death over and over and over.  Was there anything I could have done to prevent this?  Should I have made him get his flu shot that year?  What if I'd said no to the bike ride?  Should I have postponed his tonsillectomy, even though he'd begged to wait until after Thanksgiving so he could taste all the family's traditional foods. Why didn't I help Tim with CPR instead of sitting there sobbing, screaming, holding Austin's hand?

Would any of it have mattered?  Would anything turn back time and return my son?  

Months later, when we discovered the true cause of his death and heard the medical examiner assure us there was nothing before-during-or after that would've changed things, it helped.  Somewhat.  A piece of the guilt we carried went away.  But, I just replaced it with other reasons to not forgive myself.

Did Austin know we loved him?  Should I have not shopped on Black Friday and spent the day with the boys instead?  How many times that last day did I hug him?  Was I good mom?  Did he realize how much he meant to us?  to everyone?

And even now, six years later, I still find myself wishing, wondering.  I still have moments of guilt and areas I haven't forgiven.

I look at his little brother, now the same age but stockier, taller.  He fills up the queen size bed in his room and my heart cringes, remembering that Austin was still in a twin.  He'd grown faster than we'd ever imagined and the bed seemed to shrink beneath him overnight.  Though we'd talked about buying a bigger size, we hadn't yet.  And I think about whether his nights were uncomfortable, or if his back hurt in the mornings from being cramped in a small bed.  He never said.

Or that I never bought him the Iphone he wanted.  Perhaps I didn't spoil him enough.  Guilt has caused me to do so more with his brother, I know.  We never went on that trip to New York.  Or to a concert to rock out to AC/DC.

Your mind is continually filled with coulda/shoulda/wouldas when you've lost a child.  You wonder if you made the most of the time you had with them?  If it - or you - were enough...

There's no cookie cutter response to forgiveness, whether it is to yourself or others.  Each situation, every hurt or wrong or regret comes down to time and prayer.  Time helps anger and guilt fade.  Prayer erases the pain and replaces it with healing.

Thankful I'm not where I once was, hopeful I'll continue to grow, and laying it at His feet to help me.

Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you. 1 Peter 5:7

Faithful Friday: Unanswered Prayers

For six years I've struggled with one very personal factor of losing my son.

God said no to my deepest, most heartfelt prayer.

While I would never wish this pain on even the most evil in this world, in the early days of grief, when I heard of other's answered prayers - of healing, of miracles, a part of me would twinge. Sometimes, if I'm honest, a part of me still does.

Why not my son?  Why not my prayer?

It's the question that's crept doubt into my faith.  Why I felt anger brimming on the surface, even from the ER that first horrible night.  What turned me away from church for awhile.  And why I tried to push God out of my life.

I couldn't understand how He could let my husband and me survive a motorcycle wreck, but take my son while simply riding his bike around our neighborhood.

Nothing made sense anymore.

Our wreck had changed me.  It was a stop sign for our life.  During the days that followed, I appreciated moments more.  Sunrises and sunsets had meaning.  I treasured every moment with my family because I knew how precious time was.

And I shared it with others, frequently giving praises to God for saving us.  Helping others see the special in every day, was what I thought my purpose was.

So when God pulled the rug from under my fairy tale dreams, nothing made sense anymore.

What more could he want from me?  How much more did I need to suffer on this earth?  And how could I ever share the good news when so much good just left this earth?

I know now our wreck wasn't just a stop sign - it was a gift.  Those three years after were the closest our family ever was.  We made the most of every single day, packed more "I Love Yous" than ever before, and created sweet memories, not realizing a countdown was ticking away in Heaven.

Somehow we came through the darkness that comes with child loss.  Eventually, slowly, joy returned.  And my relationship with God strengthened beyond measure.

Yet, in the background hissing now and then was the reminder that God didn't hear my prayer.

At least not the one that mattered most.

To this day it is something I've fought with, what I've internally pushed aside during moments that required my faith to stretch and reach.  Though I tried to ignore it, that question was always lingering.

And then, in His perfect timing, He sent me a message that changed it all.

Last Sunday, our pastor spoke the words God knew I needed to hear.....

Even Jesus had unanswered prayers.

Wow.  That single sentence weighed heavy, bounced around the corners of my mind, and settled into my heart.

In the Garden, on the evening before Jesus would die for my sins, he prayed his deepest, most earnest prayer to His Father.  But even in his distress and agony, God couldn't answer His prayer.  His own son's.

Even knowing the pain it would cause, there was a purpose and a plan.

 Then Jesus went with his disciples to a place called Gethsemane, 

and he said to them,
“Sit here while I go over there and pray.”
He took Peter and the two sons of Zebedee along with him, 

and he began to be sorrowful and troubled. 

Then he said to them,
“My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. 

Stay here and keep watch with me.”
Going a little farther, he fell with his face to the ground and prayed,
“My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. 

Yet not as I will, but as you will.”

The Firsts of Fall...

 There's been a crispness in the air this week.

And though the fall season will always be bittersweet, filled with memories and nightmares, I'm clinging to the good that comes.

Because JOY shines a light upon darkness and shrinks its power.

This past weekend was a whirlwind.  The type where you go-go-go and hardly have a chance to catch your breath.  My cupboards are bare and the house is a mess but, oh the fun we've had.

Friday night found us at the football field to watch our girl dance.  We've only had two home games so far this year.  The first was sweltering, even with the sun down.  This past was the extreme opposite.  Hubby and I snuggled under a blanket, side by side, and shared our first-first of fall.

A caramel. apple. funnel. cake.

Yes, can we please take two of my favorite things and mash them together?  It was heavenly!
Sharing it with my sweetie though made it even better.

We arrived home to a cool house and fell asleep to the crickets and a breeze blowing through our bedroom windows.  One of my very favorite things about the season.

Saturday morning, though my bones wanted to remain snug in the bed, they were drug out early for a jam-packed day.  Over the course of 12 hours we'd watch two soccer games with lots of smiles & giggles from the littles, a family reunion, complete with a low country boil, a birthday party, a movie marathon for the kids, and an evening out for adults with our Lifegroup, which included time at a barn and gathered round a bonfire.

We hugged.  We laughed.  We prayed.  And, of course, we ate!

Here's a snapshot view of my first fall weekend.

breakfast of Champions

 

Redneck Choo-choo Train

Hello Fall!

For a regular dose of joyful pics, follow me on Instagram.

Goosebumps at the Ballpark

Celebrating someone’s birthday once they're gone is a bittersweet and often difficult thing to do.  Your heart doesn’t always feel like rejoicing when it is feeling the weight of the loss.  Especially when it is your child.

Austin’s birthdays have varied since losing him.  The first, after he passed, we spent the day away from the house, just the three of us, and planted a memorial tree in our backyard.  What would’ve been his 16th, we had family over, a gathering just like he always loved.  In other years we’ve sent balloon letters up to him or floated sky lanterns in his memory. Most have been somewhat somber and heavy.

Yesterday was his 6th birthday gone.

I hadn’t planned anything leading up to it, figuring I’d let our emotions dictate what we did to remember him.  And then Tim called one afternoon telling me he’d won tickets to a ballgame.  We both teared up once realizing the date.  July 8th - Austin’s birthday.

Baseball and Austin went together like peanut butter & jelly.  They just fit.  

From the time he was tall enough to hit off a T, a passion was sparked.  Spring to summer our family spent our days (and nights) at the ballpark.  Once he grew old enough to enjoy watching it on TV, he was hooked even more.  Bats and gloves littered my house, so much so that we still keep one of Austin’s bats by our front door.

One of our favorite things to do as a family was go to a minor league ballgame.  At one particular park, they had fans come to the field in between innings to play games.  Without fail, Austin would always get picked. He won pizzas, gift cards, and shirts, including one of his beloved Ts that is now included in a quilt on the back of our couch.

When he passed, it was hard for us to love baseball again.  For awhile, it hurt too much being on the field.  In fact, Noah even stepped away from the sport for a couple years, coming back just in time before he aged out.  Last night, sitting behind the home plate, we all realized again how much we missed it.  The Blairs just need baseball!

As if winning tickets to the game on his birthday weren’t enough of hug, 
as always, our boy came through in very big ways.

The weather report was plain ick for the day, actually calling for hail storms and torrential winds.  I was worried it would be so bad that we couldn’t even drive the hour to the field, as the timing called for it to hit late afternoon.  While at work and driving around, I sent up a little prayer that we might have a rain free evening to enjoy the game and remember Austin.  God delivered big time…

Checking the weather again later, I noticed the 85% chance had disappeared to 0% and the hour by hour only included a very small chance of rain, way into the evening.  Wonderful!  We arrived to sunny skies and high 80s in July – picture perfect.  In fact, it wasn’t until we got home late last night and headed to bed that I heard the rain hit.

Getting to our seats (which were amazing  - 2nd row, right behind the plate), our family was met by the park photographer, offering to take a group shot.  Asking about our shirts, Noah shared his brother’s love for the game.  Before he walked away, the guy tossed him a ball to have as a souvenir.    And later he caught a fan shirt during a toss out.  His big brother was certainly shining down on him.

Settling in with an array of fried goodies on our laps, I look up to another goose bump moment.

For the first pitch, the catcher bent in front of us in a blue jersey with #23 printed in bold white – Austin’s number.  Every year he ever played, #23 was Austin’s jersey and even before he passed it was a special number for our family.  Since he’s been gone he uses it to send us hugs and this was just about one of the best ever.  It was all I could do to keep from bursting into tears.

Such a special moment!

The rest of the night continued to be a home run.  We felt Austin’s spirit with each swirling of dust and ping from the bat.  All of us shared memories and stories of baseball days and family trips to games. Things we loved (and missed) about him.  It truly was a celebration of Austin’s life.

Not a feeling we’re quite used to on this grief journey, but one I’m grateful for.

Happy 20th birthday in Heaven, Bub.  

Thanks for the hugs from above.

360 Degrees of Grief Book Launch

Today is the day!  The beautiful compilation project I was asked to be a part of is now available.

360 Degrees of Grief is a Selah Press Anthology filled with stories, poetry and songs. Sixty-four authors contributed transparent stories written with open hearts reflecting hope to the reader. These authors have lived through the complete spectrum of life—from ecstatic joy to the darkest grief—and share the lessons they learned along the journey.

A piece of Austin's story and our journey is included in this book.  By purchasing the book with this link below, a small percentage of the proceeds comes back to our family.  Thank in advance!

It is a book about grief but blessings of hope comes from reading the stories shared.

Click icon below to purchase 360 degrees of grief:

In Grief: What Mattered Most

There are many posts out there about what to do and what not to do if you know someone who is grieving.  I've thought many times about writing one from my own perspective, but didn't know if I had anything extra to add.  Or, I was fearful I'd leave something or someone out.

However, in the sudden loss of two teenagers this month, so many memories have been dug back up and I am reminded of that early grief, the raw pain, and yet, the moments that really mattered.

In the chaos of our loss, there are many things that stand out.  Acts of kindness that meant something, even today.  These are the things that mattered most when we lost our precious son...

Your presence matters....

Austin's passing was unexpected, tragic, and late at night.  It was a holiday weekend, Thanksgiving, and we gave him the rare treat of riding his bike around the neighborhood at that hour because the weather was unseasonably warm.  When I think back to the mass number of people that put their festivities on hold for us, it is humbling to this day.

There are moments I can't forget, that no amount of time or wishing will take away, memories so painful my heart breaks all over again.  And yet, there are also points of time I can't place.  How I got into a vehicle to follow my sweet boy in the ambulance is one of them.  I most certainly was in no condition to drive and I will always remember the kindness of the person who not just drove me, but prayed with me, for me, over me, the entire drive.

Or the cop and neighbors who, without hesitation, ran to our home to stay with Noah while we raced to the hospital.  They sat and talked to Noah about our newly hung Christmas decorations until my Mom could get to him.  They stepped in as family until ours could arrive.

Upon walking in to the ER, I was again met with people.  None of them were necessarily close friends.  At this point, we didn't know what was wrong with Austin or imagine he wouldn't survive.  Most of my family hadn't made it anywhere, some didn't even know yet.  To have those people there, so that we weren't alone, meant so much.  Even the crowds of people upon our leaving the hospital that night, though I didn't see or remember every face, was such a support to us.  And that support continued at our home.

Your prayers matter...

Shock planted me on a gurney and I was surrounded by more willing souls who wanted to pray.  They gave me strength to stand and enter the room to face the nightmare no parent should have to endure.

Our former pastor was soon at our side, there but in the background praying without ceasing.  He continued this practice throughout.  I remember him coming up to me at the start of our visitation to tell me he'd be in the back praying and how comforting that was to me.

There were - and still are- innumerable prayers said for us.  Aside from God, they are undoubtedly what carried us through.  The prayers said by people we didn't even know, or barely knew, spoke volumes to us.  The unexpected cards (so very much appreciated) that arrived in the weeks and months after with words of prayers held us.  People who reached out and specifically asked what they could pray for will forever be remembered.  I could write an entire post about the power of prayer.  Never doubt that your prayers make a difference to someone grieving.

Your attendance matters...

Until Austin, I never realized the importance of being at the funeral home.  I felt it was saved for close family and friends; and that I was taking up space or intruding on a personal, private moment.  But from the first face that greeted and hugged us, to the very last person who stood in line for hours - I cannot stress how much that meant to us.  People I haven't seen in years, those who drove hundreds of miles, ones I barely knew, to those closest to me were all so touching to see.  God granted me peace beyond understanding but it was those unexpected few that brought me to tears.  Show up because YOU matter to them.

Little things matter....

Meals, notes, hugs, flowers, keepsakes, calls and texts were all helpful and meaningful in our journey.  I remember all those calls, even if I didn't have the strength to answer them.  For me, talking on the phone was the hardest, but I thanked God for every ring because it reminded me someone cared.  But the little things, like someone stopping by the house before the funeral and asking for a list of things we needed was unbelievable.  Neither of us wanted to leave the house, I couldn't for weeks.  Having someone pick up toilet paper and stamps was beyond helpful and appreciated.  Think of ways outside the box or nontraditional to show you care.

Donations matter...

We were blessed to have life insurance on Austin, something I never imagined using, but it wasn't enough.  It barely paid for the service.  We were grateful for even the small amounts of cash given, so that we didn't have to go to the bank, could grab something for dinner once the meals ran out, or hand someone a grocery list with money.  There were times I would forget about a bill, from the fog I was in, and would regularly mess up our budget, yet somehow exactly what we needed found its way to us.  But what we'll never forget was the fundraiser given by former volunteers, which helped pay for his headstone.  To this day I can cry in gratitude for that gift.  And as time went on, donations to Austin's scholarship fund, whether direct or through purchasing a t-shirt or at a cornhole tournament were a hug to our healing hearts.


Friendship matters...

No, your friend will never be the same after suffering a tremendous loss, especially that of a child.  Don't think it is something you did or didn't do.  Don't rush their grief process.  Don't feel like you can't mention the one who is gone.  Even if tears fall, it means so much to know they are remembered.  Don't worry about what to say or not say, just be there.  While it added to our grief to lose some friendships after Austin, those that remained and blossomed through it are treasured by us.

Memories matter...

One of the greatest fears in losing a child is that they'll be forgotten.  We truly want to hear your memories about them, funny stories, what you miss about them, pictures you may have of them, etc.  One of the most special things we were given at the funeral home was a wrapped box full of letters from students/friends of Austin.  Even those who took the time to write but didn't know him well was so meaningful.  Those memories added moments we didn't know about his life.  They were a peek inside his world we were grateful to share a part of and they are a keepsake to this day.

Timing matters...

If I had only one tip to share in helping someone who is grieving is that time doesn't move at the same pace for them.  Grief doesn't stop after the funeral, in fact, it gets worse.  There are swarms of people, support, food, and help in the first week or two after a death.  And then, it dramatically stops.  Those who continued to call, send a card, or even stop by helped us heal.  Don't forget about them as time passes.  Anniversaries matter, whether it is the day they passed or their birthday, or even holidays like Mother's/Father's Day.  A hug or a text, letting them know you are thinking and praying will mean the world to them.  Those who still do an act of kindness to remember him on November 29 lift us up and let us know Austin still matters.  And that matters most of all.

Good News: Great JOY

Have you ever been so excited to share something good that it feels as if you may burst keeping it contained?  As if you can just feel the bubbles of joy spilling out from you?

Even the word JOY brings forth a smile, remembrance of past experiences, happy moments...

Are you there this season, friends?
If not, I know...
there was a time not long ago, joy seemed nearly impossible. 

As I set out on the journey of blogging through my grief, joy was the furthest thing from my mind.  When the whisper of finding joy came to me, it seemed so foreign at the time, but I didn't question it. I knew in the moment it was a God-nudge and he's guided me through it every step of the way.

 

"Weeping may spend the night,but there is joy in the morning."  Psalm 30:5

 

And this journey has been transforming.  Looking back at where I was in 2010 to where I am now, the only explanation I can give someone is that it has been of God.  He's the reason for my joy.

"the joy of the LORD is your strength!”   Nehemiah 8:10

In the beginning, I thought it was just about seeking out joy.  Staying positive.  Finding the good in any situation.  Attitude, as they say, is everything.  But it didn't take long for me to realize there is no joy without Him. 

It is ok to have joy in your life, no matter what you're facing.  You are allowed to smile, even laugh.
If you're still needing inspiration, pull up a chair and browse here awhile.

This week of Advent season, my wish for you is that your heart is open to overflowing JOY that God has to share with you...

"Behold, I bring you good news of great joy!" Luke 2:10

Faithful Friday: Daily Thanksgiving

November 29th will always be crazy difficult, a tornado of emotions, a mixture of new memories mingled with painful reminders. 

I spent the morning in quiet time, allowing the kids to sleep in, while Tim headed out for work.  Surprisingly Noah, my sleeper, awoke first and came straight to me with a gentle hug.  He lingered and though nothing was said our hearts spoke.  His fingers traced my hand and we just sat in the peacefulness of the moment. 

The day was filled with a wavering.  Of laughter and tears.  Of longing and knowing.  Of wanting to be alone and glad the house was full of family.  Of what could've been and of gratitude for what is now.  Of missing him and yet feeling him in everything.

#23's more than I could count.  Giggles from the spaces of this little house, filling up the empty and erasing the aching.  A three month milestone on the anniversary. 

 

Our tiny newest blessing.  More hugs than normal from my sweet guy.  Noah knew this momma needed extra loving, I guess.  Even snuggles on the couch before bed.  And restful sleep, something that hasn't come with other anniversaries.  Prayers from friends no doubt filling the night and bringing us peaceful dreams.

We took things slower.  Stretched out RAK even to today.  It allowed Tim to be a part of the reverse shopping spree for the first time.  The three of us doing it together.  Healing and changes.  And today, two days after Thanksgiving, just like five years ago, we began decorating for Christmas.  Phases.  Some old, some new, some still hard, some bittersweet.

This morning, this last day of November, I paused to write my last thankful post of the month.
I'll share it below....

Today, as I think back over November, my list of gratitude abounds. And I'm glad thanksgiving is not just a day, or even an month for us, but how we try to live every single moment.

I am thankful we are at a place that, despite the pain we've faced, we still find joy and give thanks. I am grateful for family and friends who haven't forgotten our sweet boy, who remember him through helping others. I am touched by the prayers which continue to be said for us to this day. And I am knees bent at God's overflowing mercy and grace, which whispers to my heart that this is not the end.

Making it through...

The Monday after Mother's Day. 

A sigh of relief.  The letting go of held in breath. 
Of pinching yourself so you wouldn't cry.  Of brave faces. 
Of broken hearts.

Mother's Day is not the same for any of us from days past.

How I treasure those early years of chubby fingers bringing me dandelions from the yard.  Of hand-print poems framed for the occasion.  Of clip on ties and crisp white shirts little boys wriggled in.  Of bear hugs and wet kisses.

Life is different now in our home.



Me & Mom - Mother's Day 2013



I inhale the sweet embrace of my towering teenage boy and say prayers of thankfulness for the son who remains.  Smiles come from seeing him help his dad cook dinner for me and sweep the floor.  Touched by the thoughtfulness of Tim pre-ordering me a made from scratch red velvet cake, my favorite.  Surprised by the rose and card from my loving momma, even though I arrived at her church to give the surprise.  Thankful for a meal provided by my sister's in-laws, who opened their home and shared the day with us.  Combined families, new faces, changes in tradition.  Heart tugs from the quiet but loving "Happy Mother's Day" from my niece with my good-night hug.

I'm grateful for the simpleness of the holiday, because life isn't a Hallmark commercial, and honestly, simple is easier on everyone.

Because here...

Mothers long for their babies, whether they've left this earth too soon, were never given the joy of being born into this world, or are grown but paying for mistakes and not around. 

Here...

Children long for their mothers, whether they've earned their wings from wrinkled age, or made bad choices that separated them. 

Here...

Mother's Day includes visits to a graveside to say I love you.  To a graveside that also includes a son and a momma's heart is broken over watching her husband waiver in grief and longing for what can't be.

Here....

There is silent pain in a little girl's eye.  Of what was and wasn't all at the same time and of what will never be.  A girl who always holds her breath in life, waiting for the next shoe to fall.  Who is afraid to let go and hit a pinata at a birthday party because every joyful moment she has was followed by chaos and pain.  Who's afraid if she breathes and lets go, this new life she's grasping onto will change again for the worse.  And an aunt who hasn't quite figured out how to fill that gap and patch up the hurting holes, so she treads lightly, but desperately wants to heal her pain.

Here...

We pray without ceasing through the day.  We're grateful for the blessings. And we soak up every joyful tidbit.  We laugh harder, when it comes, and tuck it away with gratitude. 

But here... we're glad when Monday comes.

Birthday Blessings

My birthday will always be shared in a way with my son, Austin.  And that's why it's bittersweet.

You see, my birthday (Jan 8) is six months from his birthday, July 8.  As such, he deemed this day his "Happy 1/2 birthday" years ago and it stuck.  It was a running joke every year.  Never mind it was my day, or that Noah's was a mere 11 days away, it was the kickoff to his birthday.  I gladly share this day with him, I just wish he could be here to celebrate with me.

I try very hard to live in the now....to celebrate TODAY'S joys.

To be grateful for the surprise breakfast in bed, cooked by my hubby,

who breaks out the skillet only about once or twice a year.

For the precious moment of snuggling with Noah

on the couch this morning as he chomped down his cereal.

The sweet "Happy Birthday!" from Tina as she frolicked out to catch the bus.

For the many well wishes this morning from friends and family.

The anticipation of the yummy steak dinner we have planned tonight.

But it's hard to not think of him on this day.  To not wish, for a moment, to have him here with me.  And so I'm celebrating with him in the only way I know how.  By giving back.

My sweet boy was known for helping others.  It was his legacy.  What many may not know about him was his great love of books, something else he shared with his momma. 

I began reading to him while he was still in my belly.  After he was born, we spent family time in the bed each morning, and it included reading a book.  As he grew older, our nightly ritual contained a bedtime story. I still recall his proud face the first time he read a book to me on his own.  As a young child, we'd increase the size of the books with his age.  He loved big chapter books because it meant more one on one time with mom.  And I remember fondly as he grew into a teen and we began to share and recommend books to each other.  I loved discussing books with him, listening to them on tape in the car, and quietly reading next to him on the couch.

It's no surprise that he had a large collection of books.  He'd saved every book he'd ever owned since birth.  After he passed away, and we transitioned his room for Tina, I stacked most of those books into totes for storage.

Something whispered to me when cleaning over Christmas break that it was time to find those books new homes.  Austin would want them to be shared.

This is how I'll spend my birthday this afternoon.  Donating over 100 books, from chunky wooden toddler stories to thick, dog-eared novels.  Each one being sent with love - and a big Austin hug from Heaven.

Happy 1/2 Birthday, sweet boy.

Faithful Friday: Holding onto Heaven

I'll love you for forever, I'll like you for always,

as long as I'm living my baby you'll be.

Before Austin was even born, I whispered this to him.

Sitting in his nursery to be, hands on my belly, I gently rocked back and forth.

Months later I would repeat this same story, only now looking down on the tiny face

of the beautiful gift God had blessed us with.

Fourteen years later, gently stroking his jet black hair, I whispered those words,

but to only the shell of his broken body. 

My baby was gone.

How does a mother go from the joy of having a child
to the pain of losing one and survive?

Much less, to find joy again?

My joy comes from God.  In knowing Him.

My joy comes from believing my forever exists...someday. 

My joy comes from knowing one day I'll hold my son again
and can sing those words to him. 

Forever.

This knowledge has me holding onto Heaven.  It is how I live each day.  Not for this world, but for Heaven.  And, it is how I survive.

I'm comforted in knowing the mother we remember this season
endured the same joy and pain. 

But that because of her son, we who know and love Him, will all enjoy forever...

Then Mary said,

“I praise the Lord with all my heart.

I am very happy because God is my Savior.

I am not important,

but he has shown his care for me, his lowly servant.

From now until the end of time,

people will remember how much God blessed me.

Luke 1:46-48

While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, 

and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son.

She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger...

Luke 2:6-7

Near the cross of Jesus stood his mother...

John 19:25

Jesus told her,

"I am the resurrection and the life. Anyone who believes in me will live, even after dying.

John 11:25

For those families in Connecticut, I pray...

for strength...

for peace...

but mostly,

for salvation.

So they may know forever too.

I'm Still Standing...

Twice on Monday, I was taken aback.  First, it was pleasant news to find out that an article I'd submitted to an online magazine on the topic of "Finding Peace" would be ran.  Second, I was asked to exclude (or rather reduce) my religious tone and sections about God.

Wow.

This brought me great pause.  Instinctively my initial reaction was to say, "No God, no deal," but I prayed and thought more on the situation, and ultimately agreed with their minor tweaks.  Might I add that I'm in no way speaking poorly of the magazine.  I understand their reasoning for the position they have to take, even if my personal beliefs are different. And I was and am honored to be featured.  My allowance came from knowing not everything I had written about God, and how he's healed us through great loss, would be taken out. 

If even one sentence could make a difference, change someone's heart, then I was ok with that.

Maybe that one sentence would provide someone hope, or courage, to seek out God in the midst of their pain.  I honestly do not know how one would survive such a tragedy as child loss without God's help.  Truly, it saddens me to think of grieving parents out there who don't have Him in their life.

This adds to the concern I've had all week, after our pastor shared a scary statistic on Sunday.  85% of our county - a small, rural "everybody knows your name" kind of place - do not attend church.  On any given Sunday, 20,000 people are doing something else.  My town, which I've lived in my whole life, chose to raise my kids in, love and feel safe in... is not churched.  This makes me sad.

Have I been among the 20,000?  Yep.  I've been lazy, undedicated, lost.  I'd convinced myself for awhile that I didn't need church - that it didn't factor into the relationship I had with God.  Have I tried to reject God?  Tearfully, yes.  Anger welled inside me from the moment they called time on my precious son in the emergency room.  But I fought it.  I crawled myself out of the hole and reached for God, even through anger, because I knew in my soul He would be the only way I'd survive. 

In case you're curious, here's my original post.  Really, when I compare them side by side, there wasn't a great amount of change.  Still, those words meant something to me when I wrote them - and still do today.

Our continual restoration comes only from the Master Carpenter. God is the only answer I can give as to why we've survived all this time without Austin. Only through Him did we find peace, strength and hope. .....how true those words are.

And, the only reason I am Still Standing.

Faithful Friday Rewind

My mind is not on writing a post about joy today.  The weather reflects my mood...gloomy with misty tears. 

I'm about to head out to the funeral home for the first child visitation since losing Austin.  Lord, give me strength...

I thought I'd take you back to former posts that I leaned on for inspiration today.  Back before I began Faithful Fridays.

Power of Prayer

Timing

and

Holding onto Heaven

My apologies for the hiatus.  Please pray friends.  Pray for Tim and I have to have strength to comfort friends.  Pray for the family saying goodbye to a sweet child taken too soon.  Pray for this community.  Prayers, prayers, prayers.

When the Unimaginable Happens.

Our community has been shattered by loss as of late.  It seems nearly every other day we hear of another heartbreaking story. 

Life is hard.  Life is unexpected.  Life is short. 

Loss is loss to whomever is grieving.  It matters to them and in those first few days is all-consuming.  To those unconnected, life continues without pause.  When the loss involves a child though, it is as if time stops for everyone.  If only for a moment.

A child should never die.  It goes against everything we believe.  Fairy tales have happy endings.  A child should never die.

I remember all too painfully well the night our world stopped.  Life as we knew it ceased to exist.  Austin was gone.  There were no answers that made it right.  No words that made it better.  Just shock, gut-wrenching pain, darkness and complete sadness. 

How my heart aches for so many living this new world right now.  In my backyard.  Some I know, some I don't, but all I feel for.  I know.  I remember.  I cry for them.
And then I do the only thing I know to do...

Pray.

In this moment, there is nothing else that matters. Right now, they are numb and they are raw with emotions, all at the same time.  To some, it may seem overwhelming to know what, if anything, you can do to help.  My best advice, from someone who lived it, do something.  Anything.  Just be there for them.

I remember those who reached out.  Even if I didn't reach back. 

So many phone calls, texts, emails, hugs, tears.  I remember them all.  They spoke volumes to me.  It didn't fix the broken inside of me.  Nothing anyone did or didn't do healed me.  But it meant the world at the time and those gestures, acts of kindness, will forever remain with me.

A friend I've never met, but joined this unwelcome club of bereaved parents, wrote the best collection of thoughtful ideas that I have found.  I encourage you to visit her blog and read this post:  What you can do to help a grieving family.  Her story is haunting but beautiful, as is her special boy Jack. 

And, as I'm a little further down the path than she, I'll add a final thought.

Don't stop.

One of the greatest fears for parents who've lost a child is that they'll be forgotten.  What I've learned is that they are not.  But never hesitate to mention the child.  Even if it brings tears.  We mommas don't mind crying in remembering our child.  They are thankful tears that tell us, yes my child was loved and is missed.

I call those "Austin hugs" now and welcome them.  Especially when they're unexpected, like yesterday.  In the midst of my normal daily rounds at work, I pass a young man at the hospital.  I've seen him before and we always exchange hellos.  One of us is normally rushing though and I don't think we've really ever talked.  Until yesterday.  On my way out, he says, "I think I know you."

This makes me stop.  I'm curious.  "How do you know me?" I respond.  He chuckles, somewhat taken aback at the question.  We swap names and families, jobs and other connections. 

"Aren't you Austin's mom?"

Now I freeze.  There was a time tears would be welling now.  This time I smile and proudly say, "Yes, I am.  Did you go to school with him?"  Internally I am gauging his age to be what Austin would've been by now - 18 or 19 and graduated.  I'm trying to search his face for resemblance of a younger version, to see if I can recall him.  Disappointed I cannot but we're both grinning now remembering him.

Back out in my car, though a piece of me aches for what could've been, my heart is smiling because of the memories of what was, and because I know Austin will never be forgotten.

It doesn't ever take the pain of losing him away - nothing will - but those "Austin hugs" sure do help me get through it.  And even still, lots and lots of prayers.

Faithful Friday: Blessings in Disguise

When we lost Austin, there were a lot of comments from others that took me back.  Some that made me downright angry.  I don't believe that any of them were intentionally hurting me, in fact just the opposite.  When the unimaginable happens, people grasp for words - anything - that will bring comfort.  Sometimes they say the only thing that comes to mind, and because they've never experienced such a loss, they can't fathom how it might be perceived.

One comment that haunted me then, is healing for me now.  

Someone mentioned then about my job and how this experience may help me relate more to parents with children diagnosed with cancer, especially those who lost their battle.  They mentioned how this would allow me to comfort them.  At the time, honestly, it ticked me off.   

I didn't want to lose my son to help others.   

I couldn't see ahead to the next hour, let alone where we are today.  All I felt at the time was the raw loss and pain that comes with child loss.  To think of any type of blessing or good that might come from Austin leaving was impossible.  

Yet from the beginning I was reaching out to other parents of child loss.  As I searched for answers and support, it was only natural to offer a prayer and listen to their story.  Along this journey I've even been blessed with new friendships, some from miles away, from women who share this unwanted bond.  Gentle whispers seem to guide and connect me to others walking this path.

He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others.  When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.     2 Corinthians 1:4

Now, it seems the news of another child with cancer comes more often than I remember.  Maybe I'm just more in tune, but over the past year I've met more families than I'd prefer to count who face a parent's worst fear.  Some have seen the fear become reality, some still bravely fighting, and one family is gracefully preparing for it.  

Lane Goodwin is a little hero who's captured the hearts of not just our local area.  Nearing 100,000 likes on Facebook, Lane's story is touching the world.  His family has been in our prayers since hearing of their battle.  I've especially been drawn to his mother, knowing the pain she hides, and to Lane's younger brother.  Seeing the photos of them together tugs at my heart, thinking about Noah's journey in this loss.   

Watching their story on the news this week, something just spoke to me to reach out them.  Actually, I'm pretty certain it was someone.  A peace just washed over me and I could sense Austin pushing me to send them a message.  It was one of thousands, as messages, prayers and hundreds of photos from others giving Lane a "thumbs up" are being sent to them.  But mother to mother I just had to send our thoughts.  

In so many of the families we've met on this journey, any comfort we've given has come back to us tenfold.  Truly, we feel blessed and are better for knowing them.   

I don't look at our loss as something God caused so that good might come, but that through the loss and because of His comfort, good has naturally progressed.  Child loss will never be a club I'm glad to be a member of but comforting others makes the membership somewhat easier.  

If you don't have Facebook, you can follow Lane's story here.  Thumbs up, sweet boy.

Holding onto Hope

There was the smallest of gestures in our pew today that almost brought me to tears.  Noah grabbed my hand, then his dad's, and connected our three hands on his lap.  In an instant I was brought back nearly four years, to the beginning of our grief journey, shortly after losing Austin.

It was something Noah did often then; grab both his parents hands and force us to lock, placing his between and around.  Solidity.  Strength.  A Family Bond.

Tim and I didn't necessarily drift apart in the loss, and in many ways it brought us closer, but there were walls, rawness, tangible pain.  In the beginning all of us walked on an endless road of eggshells, never quite knowing where to land, wondering if a misstep would cause us all to fall.  Though we tried to put on a good front, even a child of eight could sense the weakness.

In every opportunity he could, Noah pushed us together.  Silently, but the unspoken need shouted to us.  STAY TOGETHER.  BE STRONG.  LOVE ONE ANOTHER.  Once easily grossed out at signs of affection, he worked then to cause them.  Looking back now, I can see he was just trying to hold on to what was left of our family.

There's a statistic I read more than once while pouring over books on grief and spiritual help.  The divorce rate for parents of child loss is staggeringly high.  It scared me because I could see how easily one could just throw it in, give up, walk away.  When life as you knew and loved it ceased to exist and crumble around you, would you be strong enough to piece it back together?  Crazily it's something I recall even as far back as the night Austin passed.

Tim and I were at his side in the ER, chaos swirling, my heart pleading for time to just stop.  It was over and the room was cleared except for us.  Our sweet boy, hair of jet black, seemingly sleeping beside us. Our firstborn was gone and pieces of me would forever go with him.  My world was slipping, beyond my control.  I grabbed Tim up, placing my hands on his either side of his face, locking eyes.  We were close enough to kiss - and I'm not sure why I needed him in that position - but I needed our eyes to connect, our souls to listen. 

"This cannot break us."

Silence was deafening.  I will never forget that deep, sorrowful pain in my husband's eyes. 

"Tim, this cannot break us.  Promise me," I repeated, knowing the simple word of promise would speak volumes to him.  He nodded.  We sobbed into each other, time no longer a concern.  Letting go and holding on. 

The past three and a half years have been a rollercoaster, filled with days of uncertaintity, tears, prayers, and hope.  The constant has been that the three of us have never given up.  Even on days we maybe wanted to. We've held on to each other - and to God.

What's amazing to me is the role Noah has intentionally played.  So many days I pulled myself up and on - for him.  Never would I have imagined though the work he would do, like the soft gesture of placing our hands together all those days ago in the pew.

That symbol today, of a family united, was a breathtaking moment, an unplanned trip through tortured memories, and a sign of how far we've come.  While we'll forever have a hole from Austin's leaving, the gap is continually filled with our family's and our Father's love.