Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial, because having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him.

James 1:12

It’s hard to believe that one year ago today I only had 2 days left with Eden. A pathetic 48 hours rather than 48 years as expected. I’ve beaten myself up this year thinking about how I spent those final hours. I was deep in the trenches of potty training both Aspen and Cambria. I was distracted and impatient. Nothing was going as planned. I let Nathan get Eden ready for bed while I sat on the bathroom floor with Aspen pleading for her to poop on the potty before bedtime. I’ve regretted that so deeply. Why was I pushing Aspen? Why did I give up that time with Eden? She needed me too. And when I was with her that last evening, I was too busy lamenting about my epic potty training fail. I wasn’t savoring my final moments. If only I knew. My god. If only. I can’t begin to imagine how different that time would have looked.

In Other News…

Here she is in all her glory, our beautiful rainbow after the storm. What I’m learning this month with our new baby is that regardless of their beauty, a rainbow in no way fixes the destruction created by the storm. It is merely a symbol of hope. That is what you are my dear Marigold Grace, your beauty reminds me that there is hope. Love has indeed grown. You are my promised crown of life personified here on Earth. We didn’t bring you in to this world as a tool to fix our pain, you do however give us one more reason to do the work and use our pain as a teacher.

“Pain is a professor, and it knocks on everybody’s door, but only the wisest ones say, ‘come in and sit down and don’t leave until you have taught me what I need to know’. The journey of the grief warrior is to rush towards her pain and allow her pain to become her power.” Glennon Doyle

I didn’t want to use Eden as her middle name. Eden is her own person and Marigold is her own person. And in the same way, the grief I have surrounding Eden doesn’t affect the joy I have for Marigold. And the joy I have for Marigold doesn’t affect the grief I have for Eden. Even though Marigold’s life is a response to the loss of Eden’s life, my love for her occupies a different chamber in my heart. One that wasn’t there before. Just like every child we bring into this world; our heart doesn’t divide but instead multiplies.

I spend a lot of my nights holding Marigold close. Swaddled like a cocoon, her cheek pressed against my chest. I feel her tummy rise and fall against my body as she breathes. And if she is in her bassinet, I place my hand on her chest for yet another fix of comfort and sanity. She’s ok. So many of those times I am transported back, 1 year ago and 2 feet from where I lay in bed, on my bedroom floor. I held Eden’s tiny foot and begged God to bring her back. The intensity of the situation the morning of July 29th gave me unusual focus, I was not hysterical. I fixed my eyes on her chest, I waited for her to miraculously inhale, so I could finally exhale. But she never did, and in many ways I feel like I’ve been holding my breath ever since.

An excerpt from my journal- (I wrote down all the events of that morning just days after we lost her.)

“As I was shouting out to God I was gaining hope, with every plea. I started to think, my God can do miracles! He can bring her back!! They put an oxygen mask on over her mouth and started to manually pump oxygen into her lungs. In the stillness I suddenly heard a squeak coming from her mouth. It was the sound of my baby coming back to life! My heart jumped and I leaped up. No one else seemed to be reacting. With despair in his eyes, the EMT told me “that’s just the squeak of the oxygen mask gaining suction to her face”.  And with that, all hope was lost. I soon realized the calm in these first responders’ actions was not incredible composure in the midst of a desperate situation. But instead, I believe they knew she was gone, and they were just going through the motions. Protocol. Everything they could do, but realistic about the likely outcome.”

I have read a few times now that the second year of grief is often harder than the first. The first year you are “white knuckling” it through every day, just getting by. Just surviving. The acute pain of having her ripped from me has slowly subsided, and now it’s a different pain. Ever evolving, my pain today in part, is caused by looking back on what we have endured, the year Nathan and I survived. I look back on myself with pity, sympathy, empathy & compassion. Not one to throw a “pity party” I struggle to allow self-compassion.  There is a world of difference between Pity and Compassion – and I need to remember that. Self-compassion is so important in my healing journey and I am forever trying to remind myself that I am worthy of it.

Pity: Oh no! You poor thing. That’s awful.

Sympathy: I’m so sad that you have to go through this.

Empathy: I understand why this is so difficult.

Compassion: I want to help you navigate this pain & grief.

Compassion requires action.

This sympathy, empathy and compassion is a third person experience. I see a mother rocking her baby moments before she hands her over to her husband – who hands her over to a stranger, who takes her away forever. I am experiencing it the way you all did. And I’m thinking “I can’t imagine” the way you all did.

How did I survive that? She was here one moment, and then she was gone forever. Her bottles, her sleepers, her crib- all suddenly obsolete. My round the clock responsibility just vanished like vapor. My love for her had nowhere to land. The painful details. Like the trip to Mexico that Nathan and I planned to take with just her in Fall 2018 which never happened. The passport that came in the mail August 10th, and the death certificate that came just days later. The way you all held your babies a little tighter, I clutch Marigold in my arms now and think, “No, Never, I couldn’t, I couldn’t bear it.”  How did we survive it?! How am I still surviving? How did I survive a pregnancy on top of parenting and grieving!? I have loosened my grip on this world, knowing how small our earthly lives are in comparison to what awaits us. But I haven’t loosened my grip on my children. That wasn’t the challenge. That would be impossible.

 

 

 

After the Storm

‘And after the storm,
I run and run as the rains come
And I look up, I look up,
On my knees and out of luck,
I look up.

Night has always pushed up day
You must know life to see decay
But I won’t rot, I won’t rot
Not this mind and not this heart,
I won’t rot.

And I took you by the hand
And we stood tall,
And remembered our own land,
What we lived for.

But there will come a time, you’ll see, with no more tears.
And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.
Get over your hill and see what you find there,
With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.

And now I cling to what I knew
I saw exactly what was true
But oh no more.
That’s why I hold,
That’s why I hold with all I have.
That’s why I hold.

I won’t die alone and be left there.
Well I guess I’ll just go home,
Oh God knows where.
Because death is just so full and man so small.
Well I’m scared of what’s behind and what’s before.

And there will come a time, you’ll see, with no more tears.
And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.
Get over your hill and see what you find there,
With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.”

We named Marigold Grace after the imagery here in this song.

There will come a time where love will not break my heart the way it has in this life, through divorce, miscarriage and death. Perfect love will dismiss all fear, and cannot be found of this side of the veil. Working my way over this ‘hill’ I have found grace in my heart and marigolds in my hair.