In My Dreams

During the day, I miss her.  My Gramma, that is.  I miss her every day.  I miss her when something is beautiful, I miss her when things get ugly.  I miss her when I smile and when I cry, and when I do well and when I fail.  When I feel like I am soaring high and when the weight of the world is crushing me, I miss her.

Growing up, she was part of every day.  Most of what I did, she was there and she was in the middle of.  I never really learned to let go of that.  The last time Derek and I drove away from their home, I said to remember and treasure that image, as it wouldn't last.  I had the idea that something was about to change, but I didn't really know at all.

I never would have guessed she was to be taken so abruptly from this world.  To think that a driver's carelessness would be the thing responsible for such a staggering loss... I just wouldn't have done it.  That's what happens to other people, not to me.  Not to her.  But despite being willing to give up everything to go back and change it somehow, with chilling finality, she was killed that day.

She's not dead though - not spiritually.  I know she lives and is rejoicing and dancing in heaven.  But until I join her there, she's gone from my world.  She can't tell me who to love or what to do or how to be, no matter how desperately I wish for her wisdom. 

But at night when I dream, I don't know that.  When I dream, she is alive and present.  Usually, in the dreams, I know she is dead and I know she can't be there... and yet, there she is.  She laughs and smiles and speaks, and we all act like it's perfectly natural for her to be doing those things.  I wish dream-hugs lasted after waking.  I wish I could retain that sense of wholeness and safety after sleep stops for the day.  Some mornings, I let myself sleep through my alarm just so I can have a little longer with her.

But in my dreams is just that... in my dreams.

The reality of it all is, the pain is real.  The alone is real.  The sadness and the lingering sense of shock and disbelief and the empty feelings... they are all real.  Even more real, though, is the fact that this isn't going to last forever.  I'll see her again, and it will be a forever reunion.  It's going to be the end of the pain, the end of the nightmares, the end of the loneliness.  THAT is the reality I try my hardest to focus on.

And in my dreams... in my dreams, I let myself have a reminder that this situation isn't exactly as it appears.

Yesterday was Father's Day.

Usually, on Father's Day, I write something for my husband.  Something to the effect of "You're the one I love and you have children who live in heaven and you're still a daddy."

And that's all true.

But this year, I'm doing something a little different.

I left yesterday noticeably not mentioned.  Because the truth is, it doesn't matter what words I use.  It doesn't matter how heartfelt or true or poignant they are.  Nothing I can say is going to change the fact that when my husband walks in the door after work, there are no tiny feet or sticky fingers or shining eyes to greet him.  There aren't any words that can fill that void in his heart and in his life.  And there isn't anything I can do to change that.

It is hard to know where the balance is.  When does "living life anyway" become "denial of reality?"  How do you know if it's "healthy grief" or "abnormal fixation?" 

What do you say when you love someone and you are literally willing to offer up your body in an effort to make his dream come true?  How do I show him how much I really would fight to change this, when no amount of fighting actually will change anything at all?

And what should a person say when words seem only to muddy the waters? 

Is saying "Happy Father's Day" really the best thing for my husband?

I have thought about it a lot this year.  Mother's Day came and went.  I was told "Happy Mother's Day" and I spent time thinking about Annaliah and when my husband gave me the beautiful card he got me, I was touched.  But I haven't looked at the card since; because it hurts.  And I know for him, it hurts when something reminds him.

So rather than trying to use words to put a band aid on the hole in his heart that was made the day our daughter stepped into eternity, I am just saying this:

"I love you.  I am in this with you.  And we'll see her soon."

And I am reminding him of the one thing that He has spoken softly, many times:
Be still and know, that He is God.

What If?

It seems like the longer I live, the more chances I get to ask myself "What if?"

What if June 1, 2006 had gone differently?  What if that ultrasound had shown a healthy, living fourteen week baby?  What if my deep-rooted fear and sinking feeling had been unfounded?

I'd have a child now; she'd be about five and a half.  I'd be thanking God for the time with her and mourning how quickly it had passed.  And she'd have had five and a half years of experiences to shape her into who she is. 

Instead, my baby went to heaven before I got to meet her.  Instead, my husband and I saw that still, silent ultrasound and spent the next day begging and praying and trying to hope that things weren't as they seemed.  Instead, we chose her name with tears and longing.  Instead, we watched her due date come and go and our arms stayed achingly empty.

What if on January 31, 2007 I had let my Gramma stay at my house to take care of me after my knee surgery?  What if she had not been in the van during that crash?  What if the van hadn't been there?  What if the driver of that milk truck hadn't chosen to use his cell phone?  What if the road crews had done a better job of spreading salt on that particular stretch?

Would that mean that today, I'd be able to ask my Gramma how to love my dying friend?  Would it mean that I'd have someone to give me the push I need to love without reservation?  Would it mean I'd have fewer nights filled with empty, silent tears?  Would my heart hurt a little less?

What if I had chosen to ignore the growing attachment and attraction I felt toward Derek nine years ago?

I'd have loved and perhaps married someone else.  And I'd have missed out on so much.  I'd have missed the laughter and the joy and the tender moments.  I'd have missed the frustration and fear and uncertainty.  I'd never have stood in disbelief as I watched my new relatives dance in a circle to weird Greek music.  I wouldn't have found myself having to choose between what I wanted and what was right as I responded to certain situations.  I wouldn't be laying on the couch with my leg in the air, knowing that tonight my husband will come home and I will be proud of how well he did today as he works a job that he is not "naturally gifted" to do.

What if in September of 1999, the person visiting me in the hospital had simply said "That is sad and I am sorry" when I told him I had to find a new home?  What if his wife had said she didn't want to start again with yet another teenager?  What if my dad hadn't been agreeable?  What if the doctors had said no?

I wouldn't have learned to love.  I wouldn't have learned to laugh, or to trust, or to be honest.  I wouldn't have experienced unconditional acceptance into a family that loved me just because they wanted to.  I wouldn't have had the foundation I needed to go out into the world and build a life.  And truthfully, I probably wouldn't have survived.

What if my childhood had been easier?  What if I'd never been betrayed, abandoned, or abused?  What if I hadn't survived things that are almost unspeakable?

I would have been closer to "normal."  I wouldn't have been living with PTSD for as long as I can remember.  I would have had less fear, less anger, less pain.  I wouldn't have had to be as strong or as brave.  I wouldn't have learned to lie about everything.  I could have "just been me."  But I wouldn't have had a reason to develop the compassion I have today.  I wouldn't have such a personal motivation to drive so much of what I do.  I wouldn't know how profoundly forgiveness changes a person.  I would never have seen the amazing transformation that happens when someone literally turns from evil and surrenders to Christ.  I probably wouldn't be as accepting of others and I am certain that I'd have less wisdom, less strength, and less hope. 

I could go on, and on, and on.  Because there are hundreds, no, thousands, of "what ifs" in my life.  In every life.  There are so many things that change the course of our lives from that moment on.  Sometimes, we get the better option.  Sometimes, we don't.  Always, we can choose to look back and ask "What if?"  Sometimes, doing so can help us.  It can give us insight, it can give us wisdom, help us make better choices in the future.  It can give us a chance to be grateful and an opportunity to embrace peace and acceptance.  But it can also hurt us.  It can make us regret things we cannot change.  It can make us grieve, it can make us angry and uncertain and afraid.  We can look back and feel slighted and compel us to make decisions that are hurtful to us now.

I have one final "what if" that I would like to ask.  One question that I think we all need to answer for ourselves, in our own hearts and minds.  One thing that needs to be settled permanently within each of us.

What if I choose to look back at my life from time to time, and ask myself how things could have been different, and then I take that perspective and use it to answer the 'what ifs' that face me every day, so that I can face tomorrow without regret?

There's This Song

And for the last five and a half weeks, it has been intermittently true.  There is someone in my life who some say, I should not love.  Some say, I should not care.  But I do, and I always will.  And that someone... is sick.   Really sick.  And for a few different reasons, I cannot be there.  I think maybe it looks like I don't want to be there.  Or like I am not comprehending the seriousness of what is happening.  Or like I am just... choosing to be absent.  And I think that is maybe giving, to some people, the impression that I don't care. 

Couldn't be further from the truth.

Being here is okay, most of the time.  But there are moments, every day, when it feels like it is tearing me into pieces.  Moments when I think of this person and I literally cannot breathe.  I think of the pain that is being endured and the battles being fought and lost, and I find myself wondering where this could all go.  In my heart, deep down, I have a pretty good idea, and I don't like it.

So if you see me and there are tears streaming down my face or I look tired or pale; or if you think I am avoiding you or neglecting relationships... that it isn't about you, nor is it even really about me.  It is about someone I love and miss deeply and fear greatly for.

This song is performed/recorded by LifeHouse. 
Lyrics are (C) State One Songs America

Broken
The broken clock is a comfort
It helps me sleep tonight
Maybe it can stop tomorrow
From stealing all my time

And I am here still waiting
Though I still have my doubts
I am damaged at best
Like you've already figured out
I'm falling apart
I'm barley breathing
With a broken heart
That's still beating
In the pain
There is healing
In your name
I find meaning
So I'm holding on
I'm holding on
I'm holding on
I'm barely holding on to you
The broken locks were a warning
You got inside my head
I tried my best to be guarded
I'm an open book instead
And I still see your reflection
Inside of my eyesThat are looking for purpose
They're still looking for life

I'm falling apart
I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart
That's still beating
In the pain
(In the pain)
Is there healing?
In your name
(In your name)
I find meaning
So I'm holding on
(I'm still holding)
I'm holding on
(I'm still holding)
I'm holding on
(I'm still holding)
I'm barely holding on to you

I'm hanging on another day
Just to see what you will throw my way
And I'm hanging on to the words you say
You said that I will be okay

Broken lights on the freeway
Left me here alone
I may have lost my way now
I haven't forgotten my way home

I'm falling apart
I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart
That's still beating

In the pain
(In the pain)
There is healing
In your name
(In your name)
I find meaning

So I'm holding on
(I'm still holding)
I'm holding on
(I'm still holding)
I'm holding on
(I'm still holding)

I'm barely holding on to you

Random Things

In the 23 days since I last wrote, it feels like everything has changed.  And also like nothing has changed.

Most of my writing and "sorting" has been done in my journal.  My paper and glue, use-a-pen journal.  Rather than try to recap all of it, I'd prefer to just... share.  A little bit of two of the entries.  Enough to show you what's been on my heart, enough to illuminate the struggle and the fight and to show you that even in those things, there is beauty.

---

God,
I need you.  I need you to consume me like a fire, burning away everything that can be destroyed.  I need you to change my heart and renew my mind according to Your will.  My own will is sinful and imperfect.  I love with hesitation and with impurity.  I speak lies with ease and I am afraid of the truth.  But part of me still wants to bend to your will.  My soul is weak and my body is dying, but my spirit is alive and cries out for You.  So fill me, change me, consume me.  Rewrite my script, and make yourself the primary role.

Save me, oh God, and I will be saved for all eternity.

"I Have Eternal Life"
Truly, truly, I say to you:  Whoever hears my Word and believes Him who sent Me has eternal life. 
~1John 5:24a

---

I need to go home.  To my family, to my Father, to my church.  I miss God.  I miss His Word.  I miss His love.  I miss His Presence.  And I miss my Pastor.  I miss his influence in my life.  I miss his protection.  God gives us so many people for so many things... but He only gives us one Pastor.  If something happens that makes it impossible for that Pastor to keep being our Pastor, God can give us another.  But it's not a matter of simple choice.  It's a matter of necessity and a gift born of love.

I have so much I am hiding.  So much shame.  But my Pastor loves me.  He really does.  He always will.  He loves me as a daughter.  And the pain of not being under his care, of not having a leader in my life, of choosing to walk away from that gift, is shredding my heart.

Today, I realized something.  If any of the kids in my class came to me, after being gone - regardless of how long they'd been gone or why they left or what they'd done while they were away - even if the things they'd said or done were so horrible that they hurt the deepest parts of me - I would run to them with open arms and hold them and tell them I never stopped loving them.  And my Pastor is better at love than I am.  So it is time to go home.

Lord, help me and give me the courage and strength that I need to do this.

Half a Dozen Roses

When I was growing up, I wasn't one of those little girls who longed for Prince Charming to come my way and sweep me off of my feet.  I didn't need him.  I had my Daddy, and I had my Grampa.  The loved me and cherished me and were the men who taught me what a man is supposed to be.

I was less than six months old on my first Valentine's day.  My Daddy didn't do anything for me - I was a baby, after all.  But my Grampa gave me a fancy card and bought me a single red rose.  He was my very first Valentine... and that is something that nobody else will ever be.  After my dad regained custody of me, when I was about six and a half, he started a tradition of buying me flowers - lots of them - and chocolate and a fancy card.  He did such a beautiful job of showing me I mattered and was loved and that he thought the world of me.  So did my Grampa.  Others did, too, but there is something special about being a little girl and being treated that way.  Something sweet that lasts.

But even though my Grampa was my first Valentine... I was not his.  My Gramma was his Valentine.  Their love is so beautiful, that it makes me cry.  And I don't cry.

On January 31st, 2007, my Gramma was killed in a car crash.  It has been six Valentine's days since then.  Six days that celebrate love.  Six days that my beloved Grampa has had to watch the world celebrate while his heart breaks. 

This morning, I stopped and bought Grampa a dozen pastel roses.  They are his favorite.  Red ones and white ones make him cry - red because that's what Gramma always got him, and white because that is what we adorned Gramma's casket with when we lowered her into the ground. 

I also bought a dozen red roses.  Red for love... that special love that long-lasting couples share.  That love that I saw between him and Gramma after 49 years of marriage.  Six, I gave to him.  One for each Valentine's day since she went to heaven.  He got a little teary when I explained their presence and why there were six red ones.  I didn't tell him about the other six.  I was already having a hard time holding my composure.  I forgot to remove the price tag from the cellophane wrapper.  I don't know if you know this, but at least around here, roses aren't cheap.  Especially not in the morning on Valentine's day.  And especially if you want them to be exquisite.  When he saw the price sticker, he blurted.  I blurt too.  I think I learned it from him.  He was amazed that I would spend "that much money just to say I love you to an old man."  Of course I would.  Of course. 

I left, and before I even put my car in gear, tears were starting to slide down my cheeks.  Hot, salty tears in the cold winter air.

I went home and did the things necessary to prepare for teaching martial arts, and then I took the remaining roses - six perfect red roses - and drove to the cemetery.

I sat in the snow by her headstone, staring at the words inscribed across the top.  "And Jesus said to them, ye must be born again."  I cried.  I said some things that I pray she got to hear... even though I'm not sure exactly what people in heaven do and do not have access to.  Then I took the first rose from the cellophane.  I broke the stem, because her absence has broken so many hearts.  I laid it on the black marble base, and thought about that first Valentine's day without her.  The rawness and shock hadn't faded at all yet that first year.  I took the second rose, broke the stem, and laid it next to the first.  I remembered how that second year, Derek and I had clung desperately to each other and were living in constant fear that something would happen and we would have to know the pain Grampa was feeling.  The third rose, the third stem, for the third year.  That year, Derek and I celebrated.  We celebrated our love.  The fourth rose didn't want to break - the stem bent back and forth several times before it cracked.  A thorn pricked the skin on my thumb, and I bled one bright red drop.  That fourth year, I was starting down the road I am still on.  The road of admitting how broken and how hurt I truly was; not just about Gramma, but about so much.  The fifth rose broke easily.  The fifth year.  The fifth year slipped past; nothing happened on Valentine's day.  I forgot to call my Grampa, and forgot to call my dad.  I didn't even think to say anything to my husband.  It was like that rose stem - stiff and insignificant.

The last rose... the sixth one... made me cry the most.  I cried because this year, I have watched so many who professed profound and everlasting love hurt one another.  I cried because if Derek and I have the sort of love my grandparents had... if we are that way 43 years from now... I cannot even fathom being given such a gift.  I cried because my Grampa is hurting and missing her and loving her.  I cried because I feel like she is the best parts of me.  And those best parts are not gone, but they are hurting.  The best parts are damaged and incomplete.  I cried because I've been trying since the day she died to figure out how to live in a world where she isn't... and I still don't know.  I cried because I actually thought to myself "Gramma will understand how I'm feeling.  I'll just call her..."

Six red roses.  Red roses on black marble, surrounded by white snow.  Broken stems for broken hearts.

And above it all... those words.  "Ye must be born again."

I cried because none of this pain is permanent.  I cried because I am redeemed, and so was she... and so anyone can be, if they will accept it.

Tonight, I have that heavy, tired, blurry-eyed feeling that one gets when one cries too much.  Every once in a while, I pick up my camera and look at the pictures I took.  I may share some day... but for tonight, they are mine.  The moments were mine, the tears were mine, and the comfort God whispered to my heart is mine.

My Precious Daughter

My dear Annaliah,
Today is your day.  The day you were predicted to be born.  The day, five years ago, when we expected your arrival.  I had picked out music for you to hear after you were born.  I had started your baby book, with a letter from me, and from your daddy, and from your grandparents.  I had felt you moving, felt the thrill of life that was separate and yet entirely dependent on me.

And then, you went to heaven.  You didn't wait until December 17th.  You met your Jesus months before that.  I know that you are safe, that you are warm and happy and not alone.  It isn't for you that I mourn... it is for the relationship I so desperately wish I had with you.

It is for sticky fingers and maple syrup kisses and sandy hugs.  If you had been granted an earthly life, you'd be around five years old now.  Do you know that at this age, I could start teaching you martial arts?  You'd still be too young for class, but on our own, I could show you things.  You could start learning the lessons that could shape your entire life.

If you were here, you would never lack for hugs and kisses.  Not from me, and certainly not from your daddy.  He would have delighted in you the way that only fathers can, and you would have grown up knowing that you were truly cherished.  If you wanted to marry, you'd have met a good young man, because you would already know what love and respect and honor looked like.

Sweet Anna, on your day this year, I am grieving more than in years past.  I used to think that maybe some day, you'd have a little brother or sister that could live with me here.  Someone who could absorb the love that is burning inside me, breaking my heart.  But I know now, that is not to be.  My body just isn't capable of doing that.  I know you've got your brothers and sisters there in heaven, though.  For that, I'm thankful.  I am glad there is such a place, for you and for them.  I am glad there is a Savior who loves you.

This year, you got to meet one of the Better Men.  You see, Anna, there are regular men.  And then there are good men.  And then there are Better Men.  Jim is a lot like your great-grandma Eileen.  Passionate for his God, gentle and generous in spirit, a person of integrity... and someone who had an unusual love for children.  Saying goodbye to Jim has been a little easier, because even though it hurts me to live here without him, I know that now, you get to be with him.  He isn't family biologically, not here on earth.  But your old enough now to start understanding that sometimes, families aren't made of biology... they are made of faith.  They are made of trust and love and loyalty.  I like to think that you know your family there... and that you know Jim and Roy, and have played with Natalie, and with Judith's babies.  I wonder if you've met my brother?

This year, I am sad as I think of all that I have lost.  All that I have missed.  But that sadness, dear child, is not all consuming.  There is also joy.  How well do you know Billy?  Has he told you how his cousin and her parents pulled me back from the destructive path I was on, and into their own family despite their horrible grief?  Do you and him share a bond - children whose mothers question their own responsibility for the end of your time on earth?  I am joyful, Anna, that you know this young man who changed my life.  Because I do not know him.

I wonder if you've met Grandpa Jean yet.  I remember sitting on his lap, as he gently traced my face with his fingers.  His eyes were unseeing, and yet he said I was truly beautiful.  I asked how he could know, and he said he could see me in his heart.  Anna, that's what I do.  I see you in my heart, and I know you are beautiful.

I'm not coming Home yet, my child.  I thought I was, several weeks ago - and the doctors did too.  But God spared my life, and I am still here on earth.  I have so many things to finish, so much work to do, so many people to love.  I long for heaven, though.  I long to hold you, to see you, to hear your voice.  I long to bow before our King beside you.  You may be physically unreachable, but you are always close to me.  And like Grandpa Jean... I know you are beautiful, because I can see you in my heart.

And I know heaven... heaven is for real.  I'll be there when it's time.  Maybe you can come with Great Gramma and meet me at the Eastern Gate.  When I get there, after Jesus, you are the first person I want to see.

I love you for always.

-Mommy

Happy Birthday, my Beloved

Today, my sweet, wonderful husband had his birthday.  I am so proud of who he is becoming and the ways he has grown.

Together with him, I have laughed and cried and sang and danced. 

He shows me the beauty around me when I get so wrapped up with myself that I can't even see.  He never responds to my griping or moaning or meanness in kind - he is gentle and compassionate.

He supports our family financially (for a variety reasons, none of which are on the table for discussion tonight).

He is better than he knows.

I am so very thankful that he chose to marry me... and even more thankful that he was born and lives. 

Take My Breath Away

Many are saying of me, “God will not deliver her.”  But You, LORD, are a shield around me, my glory, the One who lifts my head high. 
I call out to the LORD, and He answers me from his holy mountain.
~Psalm 3:2-4

There are moments in life that take my breath away.  Beautiful moments. 

Like the day my nephew Israel was born, and the first time I held him close to me. 

Or the day my daddy walked me down the aisle at my wedding.  He was wearing his flip flops and I was wearing... nothing on my feet.  I had heels but they hurt so I left them in the back of the church.  I kept looking at my daddy's face.  He'd see me looking and his smile would get bigger still.  And then mine would.  And then his would. 

And then I looked up and I saw my husband.  Derek is absolutely, without a doubt, 100% in love with me.  Do you know how amazing that is?  To have someone so loyal, so committed, so passionate?  To not have any real fear of abandonment or even harm or neglect?  It will take your breath away, just for a minute, when you realize that there is someone who feels that way about you.

Other moments... walking along a path in the woods, crying privately about the recent death of my Gramma.  Knowing I would wait the rest of my life before I could be reunited with her.  Aching and broken and trying so hard to be strong.  And there, on a snow-covered branch, with big flakes floating all around me, was a flawless cardinal singing so sweetly.

Looking to my left and seeing my dad and my Kelly and my husband and my dad's friend Charlie, all beaming.  Looking in front of me and seeing my friends and instructors.  Raising my arms up so that a black belt could be tied around my waist... less than a month after getting out of the hospital with my hand, and 8 months earlier than it was predicted I'd be able to even START training with my leg again.

Trying to teach a very happy 10 year old how to do some ground-fighting.  Trying to be serious.  Starting to get annoyed with his unstoppable laughter and unyielding smile... and finding it suddenly pouring out of me, too.  Laying next to him on the mat, just laughing.  Looking into his black, almond-shaped eyes, at his tan skin and a smile so big it looks like it almost hurts... and realizing that the isolation and resignation and sadness have faded away.

Hearing my closest and dearest friend after Derek tell someone that I am a good, good friend.  That I would be a strong place for them, that I could hold them up during a hard time.

Those moments take my breath away.

Seeing lines of clouds in a deep blue sky, with fields of hay rolling in the breeze and birds singing. 

Watching the hillside behind our house blinking with so many fireflies it seems impossible.

Coming in softly late at night, and watching my husband sleep.  All the tension gone from his face.  Gently kissing him, pulling the covers up over his shoulders.  His mumbled "I love you" that is so deeply ingrained, he says it even in his sleep.

Sitting on the back of a horse for what would be her last full-speed run... ever.  And what was my first full-speed run with a horse, ever.  And feeling for just a moment that I was somehow joined together with this animal who CHOSE to obey me, and that the world rushing by could not touch me.

Tiny, sticky arms wrapping around my waist as two young boys dash across a restaurant to greet me.  Spaghetti stains left on my shirt from their faces, and warmth spreading through my heart with their "I love you" still fresh and new.

Feeling my pocket vibrate and hearing the strumming of a guitar, telling me that my daddy - my hero, my protector, my friend - is calling me.

Those moments, take my breath away.  Not for long, but briefly.  Just briefly, I am too full of so much good, and I don't have room for air.

And then there are other moments.

Watching a young father gently pick up a tiny, tiny white coffin that holds his newborn daughter.  Watching him walk, alone, down the aisle of the church while my heart exploded with grief and love for that child's family.  Watching that man slowly sink to his knees at the back of the sanctuary as tears poured and his shoulders slumped.  Watching him rise up again.

Driving too fast for too long in order to make a cross-country trip in time to attend a "brother's" funeral.  Feeling my heart explode with new grief as I notice one of the pictures by his coffin - it was him, holding his baby girl, before she went to heaven.  Dreaming so vividly of him stronger even than he was here, with his giggling daughter, dancing in heaven.  Seeing his bride comforting those who came to mourn this wonderful man, and vowing not to cause her any more grief or hurt... knowing I would bear all of her pain for her if I could.  Hugging her and suddenly feeling the crushing weight of what she was facing, and being so unprepared that I began to cry.  Forcing a smile as I said to her, "My heart is broken for you, for your kids, for all of us who will miss him.  He is in heaven, and we WILL meet him again." 

It took my breath away.  So intensely that I wouldn't have been surprised if I had physically turned blue.

Standing with a camera, as requested by my Grandfather.  Taking pictures silently, as he bent to kiss my Grandma goodnight.  Hearing him tell her she was beautiful.  That he loved her - that he'd always loved her, from the first time he met her.  Watching the back that had always been straight and the shoulders that had always been square slowly droop.  They've dropped further in the years since.  And when I look at him, it takes my breath away.  This man has known death, has known grief, has known financial hardship, has carried personal burdens that he is afraid to put down... and what did he choose for the inscription on the grave site he will someday share with his wife?  "But you MUST be born again."

I relived that moment when the film came back.  All you can see is the flowers around the coffin.  The middle of the pictures is completely white.  It takes my breath away.

Seeing a still, perfectly formed but not-beating heart on the ultrasound screen before the technician turned it away.  Falling to my knees in the bathroom of a convenience store on the way home, and crying out to God in sheer, broken anguish.  A month later, getting "lost" in the Black Hills with my husband.  Still waiting for my body to release its hold on our daughter.  And being filled with a gentle peace that did not remove the sadness, but made it easier to bear, as we sat beside a mountain stream surrounded by millions of tiny blue flowers, and tiny blue butterflies.  Anna's flowers. 

It took my breath away, to be so broken and so at peace and surrounded by both beautiful life and ugly death.

Watching my friend be blasted financially, physically, spiritually, and emotionally.  And seeing no end in sight.  Knowing I cannot fight this battle for him, I cannot take it on his behalf.  And loving him so deeply that I would.  I would take every last bit of it, if it would take it from him.  Watching that friend give up over and over... and over and over, renew his fight, renew his vow to NEVER give up.  Knowing that I am so blessed... to have my husband, my daddy, my friend... men who treat me with respect and love and honor and gentleness, and who defend not just me, but everyone around them.

Walking into a nursing home and having tears start welling up and my throat clamp shut when I see a strong, intelligent man curled up like a baby in the bed, having shrunk drastically in such a short time.  Wondering if that day, he'll know who I am or if he'll once again thank me for being kind enough to "visit a stranger."  Kneeling down to hug him, and feeling his hands soft and warm gripping my hand and around my neck, holding on with every bit of strength left in his failing body.  Feeling his tears wet against my cheek, and hearing him whisper thank you.  Trying to stand strong, maintain composure on the way out the door.  But unable to stop the ache inside, and unable to stop myself from imagining that it will be my dad in that bed some day.  Breaking inside for him, and for his children, for his wife.  Knowing that the burden he carries, the aching and sorrow that come when a parent buries a child, aren't fading along with the rest of his memories.  Knowing that soon, he'll be with his son in heaven... and that his other son will be here on earth and will be more broken than he's ever been.  And knowing I'm powerless to do anything more than be present.

It takes my breath away.

Watching my husband walking the same difficult path I walked down myself just a few short months ago - the path of genuinely and fully grieving the fact that all of our children live in heaven, and not here.  Facing the very real probability that we will not raise any of our biological children here on earth.  And hearing his stifled sobs as he does what I've been doing... and reads a childrens' book about heaven.  As he gets the truth of eternity ingrained more deeply into his heart, giving him the strength and courage to feel the temporary loss here and now.

Seeing so vividly that it seems as if it's playing out in front of my eyes, an image of that daughter who went to heaven.  Seeing her holding my Gramma's hand and beaming as they wait for me at the Eastern Gate.  Remembering Gramma's soft promise, made each night that she tucked me in.  "Make sure you look for me in the Rapture, Jenn.  It will be beyond description.  But if I beat you to heaven, I promise, I will meet you at the Eastern Gate."  Aching for that day with every fiber of my being.

Knowing that in Heaven, there is so much.  And loving my life.  But wanting so much to just be done.  To go there, and be with my Jesus.  To see my Grandma smile, to hear my childrens' voices.  I wonder if my uncle Paul is a carpenter there?  I wonder if Gramma takes care of kids who get there before their parents?  I wonder what it's like to truly and eternally be free of oppression.

And it takes my breath away.

And when I have no breath, when life squeezes the air out and I am at the end of myself... I remember these words from Job, chapter 33.

"The Spirit of God has made me, and the breath of the Almighty gives me life."

No Words. Just Tears.

Heavy heart this past week, and it's not for me.  So much going so wrong for those I love...

SO tonight, I am going to share so much going so RIGHT for so many. 

And I freely admit, this makes me bawl my eyes out.

Colossians 3:1

Since, then, I have been raised with Christ, I set my heart on things above, where Christ is, seated at the right hand of God.  I set my mind on things above, not on earthly things.  For I died, and my life is now hidden with Christ in God.  When Christ, who is my life, appears, then I will also appear with Him in glory.

I remind myself of this today.  Today, I am not the only one missing a child.  I am not the only one who knows my child is in heaven, but does not know the color of his eyes or the texture of his hair.

I have a friend who is missing his child today, too.

It is a secret, painful ache.  One that people don't run around talking about.

"Hey, Bob, what's up?  Me... oh, well, I'm just thinking an extra lot about my dead children today."

Right.  When is the last time someone admitted such a thing to you?

That's what I thought.

So today, rather than talk about my friend or his child, I will talk about me.  Because if you know about me, you will know about my friend.  And you will know about Suzie and Matt, and you will know about J. & C., and M. & J., and S. & J., and R. and J., and T. & E., and L. & F., and so many more - and these are just people in my life.  I am sure there are just as many in yours.

There are parents who knew their child.  Who looked into his or her eyes, who stroked his or her hair, who prayed desperately to not have to say good bye.  Parents who have stood before a tiny coffin, tears streaming. 

There are parents who have paid all the fees, filled out all the papers, been approved on every level... and who must spend the rest of their earthly lives knowing their child (or children) will never come home because for whatever reason, the adoption never came to fruition. 

There are parents who met their child briefly... tiny babies, babies too tiny for life in the world.  Babies with beautiful souls and eternal spirits and no breath.  Babies who spent minutes, hours maybe, here on earth.

There are parents who have not met their child.  Parents who knew the child was on the way, and parents who didn't.  Parents who found out later, or who knew right at the moment, that a tiny life was leaving this planet and going to "a better place."

Some of these parents have children on earth, and are told to "just be thankful for the children you do have."  As if they do not have, and never had the child or children that are already in heaven.  As if one child replaces another.

Some of these parents do not have children on earth, and are told to "just be thankful you don't have to do the work of parenting.  Be thankful you can do whatever you want."  As if raising their children would have been hurtful.  As if they didn't want to raise their child.  As if pain and sadness were what that parent really wanted.

Today, I ask you to do something with us.  With these parents who have children who don't live on earth, but live forever in heaven.  You may or may not be one of these, but that doesn't change my request. 

Picture us in heaven, with our children.  Don't worry about getting the hair color or eye shapes or smiles all right.  I suspect that in heaven, these things are not going to be so important.  Just picture us together.  See that in your heart.  And remember this togetherness, in perfection for all eternity.  Remember this is what His perfect will is. 

I leave you with this... an image generated by a just-for-fun website.  If aging were to proceed in heaven as it does on earth, our children would be four years and seven months; four years and two months; three years and nine months (twins); three years and four months; and our recent twins were due in August of this year. 

Truth is, it hurts.  It always hurts.  But when I close my eyes, and picture our family of nine walking through eternity together, it hurts less.

In Devotion...

There's a song I've liked since the first time I've heard it.  "Our God Reigns" by Brandon Heath.  We've recently started singing it in our church sometimes.  I don't like to sing songs, though, without thinking about what they mean... about what's coming out of my mouth.  What I'm truly saying.

There is a line that I haven't thought about though.  A line I just sort of brushed past, thinking "Yep, know all about that."

In devotion, to His bride.

I guess I sort of let it slide because, well... God is perfect.  Jesus is perfect.  I'm not.  The devotion, comes easy for Him, right?  And even though I'm not perfect, I'm not terrible (at least not always). 

Today, I had an appointment with my doctor.  Nothing major - just needed a new prescription for the pain in my leg and to have him re-check my swollen, clotted, and recently un-infected hand. 

I thought I was going to explode with love, and appreciation, as I sat in the waiting room.

I was a half hour early (not because I'm super-punctual, but because I forgot what time my appointment really was).  As I sat in the chair, my mind sort of drifted to different things.  I watched with disinterest as an old classmate came in with her son (he's almost eight; how does time go by this fast?), and as an irate man came and demanded to see a physician who actually hasn't worked there for nearly a year.  I laughed when the receptionist started giggling on the phone.  Not because I knew what she was talking about (or hearing) but because her giggle is infectious.

Then the elevator doors opened again, and a dapper, older man (I'd put him around 70) came out pushing a wheelchair.  And a tiny, tiny wisp of humanity was folded in that chair.  Literally folded.  In half.  Chest resting on knees, head lolling to the side, tongue protruding.  There were stumps instead of fingers on her left hand, and the right hand was gnarled and curled.  She wasn't wearing shoes.  Her right foot was visibly swollen, even through the heavy wool socks she wore.  Her left foot was clubbed, and I'm reasonably sure there were no toes left.  Her hair was tangled and gray, skin wrinkled.  Her skin was nearly transparent, but she was still clearly of Mediterranean decent.  Her brown eyes were vacant and unfocused, and her face without expression.  There is no way she weighed any more than about 70 pounds... and that's if her clothes was maybe not as baggy as I think.  She looked to be about 200 years old... or more realistically, probably the same age as the man.

She was, in so many ways, not what I picture when I imagine a beautiful woman.  Bear with me here... I'm not being rude, or mean, or prejudiced.  I certainly didn't view her as ugly - far from it.

The man pushed her chair to the desk, and was quietly checked in and handed a pager.  As he slowly wheeled the chair in my general direction, he started talking.  He told her how he felt the doctor would help her today, that he thought this would be a good day.  He told her that her blanket was folded up in the pocket of her wheelchair, so it wasn't cold when he wrapped her up in the car.  He took her over to the fish tank they have there... it's full of very large goldfish and a couple plicostomouses (I know I butchered that spelling, by the way).  He knelt carefully beside the chair, angled toward the woman just a little.  I had wondered up until then if he was close to the woman, or merely providing transport.  I noticed that he was wearing a wedding band on his left hand... and a smaller one on a chain around his neck.

He began to talk in earnest to the woman, as if he expected a response.  I tried not to stare, but I couldn't help it.  As he looked at her, it was enough to melt any heart.  Such love.  His eyes danced as he told her about the fish, about what kind they were.  He started talking about a trip he'd taken, to Australia.  He'd gotten to go scuba diving, and saw "the most beautiful, beautiful fish you've ever imagined.  Thousands of them."  As he talked... an amazing thing happened.  The woman's chin lifted just a little.  Her eyes opened a tiny bit wider and began to shine.  Her tongue quit moving side to side.  A dimple - an actual, real dimple - appeared in one cheek.  The man held her hands - the one gnarled and useless, the other missing all five fingers - and spoke to her, leaning close.  I watched as saliva started to run down her chin... and I hated it.  I hated that something so basic, so natural, was interfering with the beauty of this moment.  The man never paused.  He released her left hand, and used a towel that was folded carefully in the woman's lap to wipe her face.  He let the towel fall, and cupped her chin in his hand.  Gently, sweetly, he kissed her forehead.

He began to talk to her about his plans for having the men in their youth group stay overnight one Friday, and the women the next.  About how a particular speaker had agreed to do both weekends for them.  About campfires and sleeping bags and s'mores.  Her eyes shone even brighter, and that dimple reappeared.  So did the saliva.  She must have felt it - she grimaced.  He wiped her face again, gently, carefully.  His fingers caressed her cheek.  He asked her if the medicine he'd given her at home had tasted okay, or if it was really terrible.  I didn't see a response, didn't hear anything... but he did.  He laughed - a deep, rich laugh - and said "It was that bad, was it?  But at least you didn't get sick in the car, right?"  The dimple reappeared. 

This man knelt there, in front of this folded up, mangled, helpless woman, and told her he was going to take her camping.  Because she always seemed so happy outside, and he wanted her to see all the beauty he got to see.  He was going to ask the doctor what extra things he should bring.  He told her how they'd put their tent near the water, and he'd set their air bed up with extra pillows so she could see outside while he built a fire.  Then he would hold her, and they'd have marshmallows and watch the fireflies and the stars.

The buzz of their pager interrupted my (probably somewhat rude) observations.  The man stood, slowly.  He pushed the chair toward the hallway, and the nurse smiled and said "How are you both doing today?"  The man gave another of his laughs, and said "We are doing very well today.  It's a beautiful world, and I get to spend the entire day with my beautiful wife."  He laid one of his hands on the woman's back.  I caught one last glimpse of her face - eyes once again blank and unfocused, tongue protruding and moving slowly side to side, no expression... nearly resting on her knees.  He smiled down at her then... rubbed her back and squared his shoulders.  And said to the nurse, "Isn't she lovely?"

In devotion to his bride.

Think about it.

Great Love.

You might remember this post from a while back.  After a lot of reading and praying and looking carefully at what is actually being done by each program, our choice was narrowed down to one region, one center.  At that center, we chose a child to sponsor through Compassion.  I have said before that they are excellent stewards of the funds they receive.  I've looked at a lot of sponsorship programs, and Compassion stands out as making a tangible difference, with a focus on enabling the children and their families to be independent.  And they stand out in consistent expenditures.  I've seen programs where as little as 40% of what is donated goes toward anything that actually impacts the child.  Compassion is, and has consistently been, much higher than that.  When you look for a child to sponsor, you can read what it's like where he or she lives, as well as see what, exactly, will be provided by their local program.  It varies at each location. 

Back to our child.

We chose her region, her center, because they provide basic food supplies, medical procedures, exams, and treatments, school supplies, and tuition.  All of that... but most importantly, they teach her the Word of God.  They will tell her of His love, of His provision.  They'll teach her, as she grows, to be able to support herself.  They will help her family, too, to be better able to provide.

Our child's name is Marpendo, which means Great Love.  She is beautiful, and I love the meaning behind her name.  In the way she holds her body, face pointing at the camera but eyes averted, an empty smile... she seems so love-starved.  I don't believe her family is depriving her of love... but if she's not had His love, she's starving.  We'll get that fixed.  She reminds me of my Rico that I sponsored so long ago... he had that same face, the same expression.  Over that first year, her smiles started to get more genuine.  Light appeared in his eyes.  I loved seeing that change, and I am so excited to witness (and be a part of) that same change in Marpendo. 

I pray that Marpendo would grow in stature and wisdom and knowledge of Him.  I pray that the love of God would be undeniably present in her life, and that the ministry she will be receiving will overflow to the family member who takes care of her.  Marpendo's parents are no longer living on earth.  I pray that my God would help to heal her wounded heart.  Fill her with hope and expectation... that she'd learn that He has plans for her, good plans, plans to give her a hope and a future.
I'm just so excited and feel so peaceful, choosing to finally go back through the door God never closed.

Stars. And Him.

Last night, I spent some time with a good friend and my husband.  Then my husband went home and I got to chatting with said friend and ended up staying pretty late.  Then I had the 35 minute drive home.

It was so quiet... no other cars (I saw one, in 35 minutes.  A county sheriff on patrol who followed me for the last 5 minutes of my trip.  I assume to run my plates out of boredom.).  The sky was so clear, with little patches of steam and smoke rising up from houses.  No lights other than in the one tiny town I went through. 

The stars were so bright.  It was so cold and so still that they didn't really even twinkle.  Everything looks bigger that way.  And there were meteors.  Lots of them.  Just as I reached the top of the final hill, a particularly large and bright one flashed into view and trailed further than usual.  It was one of those rare moments when you look up at just the right instant; one of those moments that burns vividly into memory and can be recalled at will.  Or maybe you need to think in pictures for that to happen?  Regardless, it did.

I got to spend those 35 minutes worshipping and praying.  "God time" is the most special time... to be able to communicate with the One who created the entire universe is just so... humbling, and beautiful, and amazing.  It is a time when I can express myself, yes.  But more than that, and better, is that He can communicate with me.  Peace.  Joy.  Hope.  Assurance.  Correction.  Rebuke.  Love.  Most of all, love. 

Do you know how amazing that is?  That One who can created everything, Who knows all, sees all... that that One loves me?  It is something that is irrevocably true, and yet... and yet, I cannot wrap my mind around it.  HE loves ME.  Wow.

Psalm 8
LORD, our Lord,

how majestic is your name in all the earth!
You have set your glory
in the heavens.
Through the praise of children and infants
you have established a stronghold against your enemies,
to silence the foe and the avenger.
When I consider your heavens,
the work of your fingers,
the moon and the stars,
which you have set in place,
what is mankind that you are mindful of them,
human beings that you care for them?
You have made them a little lower than the angels
and crowned them with glory and honor.
You made them rulers over the works of your hands;
you put everything under their feet:
all flocks and herds,
and the animals of the wild,
the birds in the sky,
and the fish in the sea,
all that swim the paths of the seas.
LORD, our Lord,
how majestic is your name in all the earth!

What I Want For Christmas

I was asked by my step mom (who I think is fantastic, by the way) what Derek and I want for Christmas.  Every year, that question is harder and harder to answer.

This year, what I want and what others can give me are very far apart.  And yet, so much of what I want I already have.  And what I need?  Yep - got that too.

Anyway, as I considered that question, I came up with the following answers.

I want a home, a good husband, and something meaningful to do in the world.  I have a home that is nearing completion... we'll have it done before spring.  I have a husband who loves God, who loves me, who works hard, and has done so much to make me proud this year.  Meaningful contribution?  That's there too.  And not in just one way. 

I am blessed.

I want to be able to pay off our debt.  All of it.  I really do not like owing money to anyone - be that a person or institution.  We're not in a position to eliminate our debt right now, but we've whittled away at it this year.  Finances are improving, and I am so thankful. 

I want to pay off the debt our church has (nothing bad, just a mortgage that's already paid years ahead of schedule; but there's still a chunk left). 

I want to pay off the debt a close friend has on the building he runs his business out of.

I want someone to rent the second half of said building.

I want to bless people financially, especially in these times when people are hurting so much in that area.

I guess what I want is lots of money... but not to buy things with.  I want it to give.  Since I don't have that... I will give what I can give - time, prayer, love, support; I can set my hands to work and I can do it cheerfully.

I want to be a mom.  Not going to happen before Christmas, obviously... we'd either have to be significantly pregnant or in the final stages of becoming a foster parent or in the very end stage of adoption.  None of those are true.  Besides that, nobody could give that to me.

But my heart?  My deepest longing, the thing that others can do? 

There are children everywhere who are hoping, praying, longing for love... and there are children everywhere who have given up on it completely.  They don't know what it is, they don't have any in their life.  Nobody has loved them, or it's been so long that they can't remember.  Nobody tells them about God.  They don't know who Jesus is.  They don't know what it feels like to be safe and warm and get a big hug.

I have no official connection, nor do I have any other motivation to promote, Compassion.  For years, I sponsored a little boy named Rico.  I do not know what became of little Rico; he withdrew from his program.  But in the years I sponsored him, I watched him grow so much.  From a shy, under-nourished and fearful child to a strong boy who wrote to me about his dad's job search, his adventures at school, and always included a tracing of his little (but growing!) hand on his letters.  I don't know if he moved or if his family's status changed; I don't know where he is or what he is doing now (he'd be 14).  I only know that he is a part of my heart for the rest of my life.  And I know that Compassion is a well-established ministry with proven results.  They are excellent stewards of the financial support that is channeled through them.  And most importantly, they are using love and the meeting of needs to show Jesus to children everywhere.

The Christmas gift I would truly like to see is this:  for each person who reads my blog and can afford the $38 each month to sponsor a child through Compassion.  That's less than $10 each week.  One trip through the drive through for a couple - if they eat cheap.  Would you consider doing that?  If you cannot - if it is beyond your means or if your financial situation isn't stable - would you consider donating once? 

As I said, I have no connection to Compassion other than the knowledge that what they do is good and the little boy that I sponsored.

That is what I'd really like for Christmas.

Top Secret Information

**If you have requested an invite to my fertility blog and have not received it, please check your junk-mail or request another invite.  I have over 30 open invitations right now, so I know not everyone has gotten theirs.**

First, if you want to read my fertility blog, you will have to either email me or leave a comment as it is now protected.  It will stay this way for at least the next few weeks, as we go through retrieval, fertilization, and get "the news."  It's not that I want to hide from the world... it's just that I want to have a way to update people, but not have the added stress of nay-sayers.

Now, on to the Top Secret Information I have for you. 

Truth is, I have been holding out on you guys big time.  There was a big thing that happened back in September, a thing that we didn't want anybody to hear about second-hand.  We also didn't want to tell certain people until we had a resolution to said thing.

Derek was working, and he made a statement to a customer that seemed perfectly acceptable at the time - both to Derek and to the customer.  However, the manager monitoring the call felt that Derek was trying to avoid helping the customer and chose to terminate his employment.  We were truthfully terrified.  Especially me.  He was more ashamed than afraid, I think.

But over the days and weeks following, I was prouder of him than I've maybe ever been.  Like me, he's still imperfect.  Because he's still human and trapped on earth.  In the past, I've ached for him to step up and be the leader I believe God has called him to be.  For him to be decisive, firm.  To lead our family.  And it hasn't always happened (don't get me wrong - there have also been times I've chosen not to follow or submit, which is in my opinion probably more dangerous).  But this time, he didn't back down. 

He told me what we were going to do.  He stuck to his word.  He worked so hard to get a new job - and had one 3 days after he was informed that he was fired.  Not a great job - not the best fit for him, poor wages and no benefits.  But better than starving, right?  He worked at that job diligently, all the while searching for an alternative (I helped, but the spotlight here is on Derek).  He's applied at so many locations, but as many of you know, the job market just isn't the best right now.  There was one job he was promised that never came to fruition.  He was so disappointed when the date he should have started came and went.  He wanted to work for that company - still does.

Then, last week, he got a phone call informing him of a different, unexpected opening at that company.  It pays $3.60 more per hour than the job he originally wanted, and is in the IT field (something Derek really wanted to break into).  His position right now is officially temporary, but will hopefully be made permanent in January.  Meanwhile, at the other job he was working, he asked if he could go part time.  They were disappointed - they were planning on promoting him very shortly after he completed training.  They said yes though.  So he is staying there part time, with the knowledge that if he were to return to full time, the promotion is waiting for him. 

Can I just say, I am proud of him?  I think he's acted very honorably and very much the "man" in all of this.  Thank you Derek, for leading our family, for loving me, and most of all, for loving God.

Repetition

They say that repetition is a great way to learn things.

I am trying to learn my beautiful nephew Israel.  So I have spent more hours staring at his face, feeling him breathing against my chest, breathing in his sweet baby smell. 

And of course, more pictures.  Mom says she's not ready to make me leave the camera in the car - yet.  :)

Captivating.

That is the word I would choose to describe Abi.  Her strength, her character, her integrity, contagious joy, generosity, her compassion, devotion, and sold-out passion for her God... they go together, and are captivating.

Spent Thursday and Friday enjoying the wedding of one of my favorite people.  Love each other well and without reservation.  Congratulations, Abi and Caleb.

1096 Days.

1096 days ago, at this time, I was in a car. A little red '95 neon that was somehow still on the road. (For those who are unaware, neons are commonly referred to as "disposable." They're not made to last.)

I was in said car with my wonderful husband. We'd been married for a whole three and a half hours. We were driving to Chicago to catch a plane to Mexico. Our marriage was still, in most ways, made up of dreams and expectations.

1096 days ago, we had no idea that within two years we'd see ourselves with five children in heaven. 1096 days ago, we had no idea that we'd only get to celebrate one anniversary with my grandmother, before she went on to heaven.

1096 days ago, we believed that we'd build our life together. We pictured ourselves restoring a home in which to raise the children we'd simply "believe and try for" and then have. We had no comprehension of the financial, emotional, spiritual and physical obstacles we'd face.

1096 days ago, we kissed for the first time. 1096 days ago, we were eagerly anticipating our "first time together." 1096 days ago, we had the worst sex we've ever had. That sounds awful, but it was. Ask any couple who were virgins when they married - that first time is a doozy.

1096 days ago, we were in love.

731 days ago, we celebrated our first anniversary. We rejoiced that we'd "made it" this far. We were mourning the still fresh loss of our child, and plunging ahead with fertility treatments. 731 days ago, we talked about maybe looking for a house to buy.

731 days ago, we were in love.

366 days ago, we celebrated our first anniversary "without her." We rejoiced in two years of marriage. We'd had 730 days together. We took a big vacation. We saw things too beautiful for words. We stood together dangerously close to a wild grizzly bear. We watched a coyote catch and reject as food some sort of small animal. We made a crazy dash back across the country for the funeral of a friend.

366 days ago, we were in love.

1 day ago, we celebrated our third anniversary over two hostess cupcakes. We rejoiced in three years of marriage. I marveled at how quickly time has gone. I felt a little sad that we've not had any "earth babies" yet. We went to church.

1 day ago, we were in love.

Today, we start our fourth year of marriage. I am still being amazed by the depths of God's love for me. I am almost as amazed by the depths of Derek's love. I am thankful for his patience, dependent on his patience. We're walking together on a journey I thought I'd never have to take. I tried when I was younger, and failed. But now, I've got someone by my side who gives me the courage and strength to do this. I am blessed to have the best husband on the planet. Sorry ladies, I know you think your man is great, but as far as I'm concerned - I got the best one, by far. :)

Today, we are in love.

He Stands Alone

We drove away slowly. I looked at the two of them, standing there. Light gently illuminated their faces. He had on arm around her waist, the other raised in farewell. She was smiling not at us, but up at him. I turned to my husband and told him to remember this. To remember it well, as I didn't think we'd be driving away to that sight many more times at all. There was a sense of impending sorrow. I wanted to remember them this way - together. Click. A picture frozen in my mind.

They walked out my front door together. Medication clouded my mind and my head. I thought about how I wished she could be without her sling. He put his arm around her shoulder and smiled. Click.

My dad walked in the door of our church. Service was over. I thought it odd that he'd show up too late. He asked to talk in private. I was scared something had happened between he and Kelly. The door closed. Derek and I stood watching him. Tears streamed and he said "Jenn, Gramma and Grampa had an accident. Grampa's in ICU, not doing very well. Gramma didn't make it." The room spun. Tears flowed. Heart broke. Click.

My Pastor walks in. I turn to him, desperate for comfort. He holds me close. I step back and see the sorrow in he and Paula's face. I see my husband barely standing. Click.

He's lying in the bed. His face is pale. His eyes are half closed. Blood speckles his face and hands. He's moaning from a pain far beyond physical. Monitors beep, people stare at the floor. Nurses hush as they approach the room. I go to him, so thankful that he is alive. As broken as his heart. Click.

The last people file past her coffin and out the door. It's just "us," the family. He approaches her, tells her goodnight and he loves her. He puts his hand on the coffin and stares one last time at her face. Every inch of his body is slumped in brokenness. He stands alone. Click.

Cold. Snow blowing on the ground. People huddled in black. Silence. He is staring at the box that contains her body. He stands alone. Click.

It's time to go home. We've been here all day, trying to fill this empty house with something other than sorrow. As we pull away, I look back. In the doorway, I can see him. Hand raised in farewell. Shoulders slumped, head ducked. He stands alone. Click.

It's Christmas. Her favorite. We are packing up, ready to go home. We've laughed and cried today. Managed to move past the ackward moments and enjoy each other. I look up. He's there, in the living room doorway, leaning on the door jam. Tears flow freely, and his face contorts with sobs held in check. He stands alone. Click.

There's only one person in line ahead of him. His face reflects the joy of the occasion. His eyes hold love for his new daughter-in-law. But there's sadness. It's deep, painful. He's waiting his turn. He stands alone. Click.

Parent picture time. Father, mother, daughter. Son, Father. He stands alone. Click.