Bad dreams

Lately, I've had some horrible nightmares and, while I'm sure that most who read this blog are ready for me to stop "wallowing,"I hope you will allow me to explore this last phenomenon.

A few nights ago, I dreampt(sp?) that I was in labor: same room, same robe, same people. But, after I delivered the boys, I was still in labor. I gave birth to six more dead children before I woke up terrified, hopeless and miserable. This week was...bizarre. To say the least. I fought with my own emotions, fought with my own thoughts and the fears that have seemed to strong-arm me into submission.

People keep telling me that I will have more babies, and more often than not, I want to look at them quizzically, wondering how in the world they would know that. Lately I sense that I am clawing my way through mud, pulling myself up a hill that I can't even see the top of. I feel trapped in a baby-less world and I am pushing myself to trust that God knows, that he somehow has a plan and that I have a future.

There is one person, however, who seems to have all the confidence in the world, and in the same way that my fear is compounded by my dreams, his hope is compounded by his. My best friend in the world - my husband - had a dream while I was pregnant. In it, he was laying on our living room floor playing with a baby girl: his daughter. She was healthy, whole, happy, and beautiful. And because of this dream, he believes that we will have a baby.

This whole dream thing has taught me something. Simply, there are times when we just don't have what it takes, even to stand. And in those moments, I am thankful that someone else does. And I've learned that, in times like these, the best thing I can do is hold onto to someone else's faith until mine has the chance to mend and catch up. So until I can dream safely again, I'm gonna trust my husband's dream. And then, when my dreams start to mend, maybe someone else will hold onto mine. All together, we can make a chain that links the weak with the strong, the faithless with the faithful. And we can hold each other up. And we can survive. And we can keep going.

So to those like me, hold on and trust. Do that, and we'll all make it.

To wonder and to wander...

Wonder and wander: these are two words that students commonly mix up. Two words with similar spellings yet two totally different meanings. Yet, as of late, I have found that these words are strangely interconnected for often, one phenomenon leads to the other.

People wonder, asking questions, seeking answers, looking for reasons that don't exist. These wonderings often lead to real and metaphorical wandering. Some wander through caverns of darkness, depression, and despair; others travel the dusty roads of questions and confusion, while still others saunter through the meadows of blind hope and light. All of the wanderings, though differently painful and unclear, can lead to similar places of restoration and deep breathing.

I do not question those who wander; I question those who don't.

How can you know faith if you have never known doubt? How can you know love if you have never known brokenhearted loneliness? The philosopher Derrida argues that the absence of something makes its presence all the more evident. In this light, does not the absence of God in some places make the presence of God all the more clear in others? It does for me; what about for you?

Perhaps I am foolish, lost in my own ignorance. But I can so clearly remember the moments of my life when I felt so empty, despised, dirty and alone that I could not do enough to convince myself of the truth of God's existence. But these moments contrast so beautifully with the times when I felt so full of his nearness that I baffled at my own moments of doubt. My life is full of both faith and doubt.

That is what makes me human; the choice to keep wandering is perhaps, what makes me divine. Not divine in the deistic sense; in no way do I claim to be a god. But there is something of God's nature that, in some small, strange and unique way, must abide in me. That piece is called tenacity. Why else -- how else -- would I keep going? How else could you?

So to all others who wander through life, plagued by the wonderings and doubt so permanently attached to our human condition, take heart. You are not alone. I wander too.

Filter this...

I was born without a filter. What I mean by this is simple: if you want to know what I think or feel, simply ask. I will be glad to tell you. In fact, many times, you won't even have to ask; I will simply offer my perspective for you to take, leave, chew on, or spit out.

Over the years, I have worked to put a filter over my mouth, trying to say what was respectable, intelligent, not-awkward, and "Christian," but no matter the filter I temporarily applied, eventually, the truth comes out. Why? Because I see the world in a special and unique way, and although my perspective is not always correct, godly, or accurate, I am a verbal processor. The more I talk/write, the better I cope/understand.

Because of this, facebook presents a unique challenge. Facebook is an open platform for often misinterpreted data to spread itself across the pages of everybody else's lives. People can then take, leave, chew on, or spit out my thoughts, feelings and observations without even knowing what I mean. And often, without even questioning to try and figure it out. I suppose this is the nature of the beast, but I wonder if I couldn't ask for a little more grace.

For example, this morning, I posted that I often felt like I was turning into a deist. Does this mean that I don't believe in God or that I don't trust that s/he is actively involved in a relational endeavor with me? No. Not at all. What it does mean is that, while I believe in God, I often wonder where the hell s/he is.

Raised in a Christian home, I have memorized and recited chapters - even full books - of the Bible. I have studied theology, though not diligently, enough to know what is true even if I don't understand how that truth operates or what it should look like. Knowing this does not leave me without questions, doubt, and often, I admit, unbelief. That said, I have been through enough in my life to know that God is ever-present; but, I have also been through enough to wonder where God is and why things happen the way that they do.

This is not sin; it is not worthy of damnation or even condemnation. It is simple, human vulnerability in its most raw and ugly form. It is the place where my filter-less mind takes me, a place of trust and pain mixed with hope and loss.

Perhaps my profound lack of filtering is my greatest weakness, and perhaps that same lack is my greatest strength. You will never have to wonder who I am or what I am all about and, while you may not always like what you see, I will at least allow the privilege of the view. So, if my comments bother you, please accept my humble apologies. I hope you will give me the benefit of the doubt, knowing that my heart and faith, though not perfect, are true and honest. And more than that, I hope you will not drop the hammer. The hammer just makes me want to hide, and the more likely I am to hide, the more likely I am to close the curtain altogether.

But for now, the curtain remains open.

Enjoy the show!

The pearl necklace

My step-dad is an amazing human being. He loves my mom, treating her with care, deference and respect and above everything, I am most grateful for that. But beyond loving my mom, he shows consistent care and love for me and my sisters too. In fact, every Christmas, he gives each of us - me, my sisters, and even my little niece - a piece of jewelry. About 4 years ago, he gave us each a pearl necklace. Mine is a beautifully thin, gold chain with a single pearl dangling from the end.

I love this necklace. I wore it in my wedding, and it was the perfect accessory for a beautiful day. And when I came home, I tucked it back in its velvet box, to be taken out for the next meaningful occasion. But lately, I seem to feel that many days are special. You see, I found out that the pearl is the June birthstone, and that realization has given my pearl necklace - and subsequently, every day - new meaning.

There is no way I could rewind the last year even if I wanted to. And quite frankly, there is no way that I would want to go through this all over again. At the same time, I don't regret getting pregnant and I don't regret having twins. Yes, I'm heartbroken at the way everything turned out and as my due date approaches, I feel that pain a little more acutely than I did before. But in it all, I can't believe that my sons were a mistake and I never want forget them. And I want to build a way to remember, a memorial of sorts.

So that is what my pearl necklace has become. It's a silent reminder that two precious, beautiful twin boys lived for as long as they did -- and they lived for a reason. So every morning that I open my eyes to the familiar ache of loss and every morning that I wake up from a dream of lost motherhood, I will put on my pearl necklace - the one that their grandpa gave me - and I will silently acknowledge that my sons lived.

Cruel People

This is not going to be one of those upbeat, hope-filled notes that you may have grown used to. Why? Because I feel like a boat parked in the middle of the lawn.

Yesterday, I had to email an adjunct to remedy some differences between the curriculum we approved and the curriculum she is using. It wasn't that big of a deal, but it sure wasn't taken that way. She emailed me back. Her email smashed me to pieces.

This woman who knows everything that happened to us this summer raked me over the coals for not being available this summer, for not responding to emails fast enough, and for not communicating at the pace I should have.

I felt like I got punched in the gut.

This is the most pronounced moment when I felt punished for what happened to us, punished for grieving my sons, and to be honest, I didn't even know what to say. But I had to respond, so I crafted a professional and concise response, had my office mate review it and I sent it off.

She repeated the insult, in more drastic a tone.

And I felt like I got beat up. For the rest of the afternoon, I was psyching myself up to keep working as I tried to keep a smile on my face and keep from crying. I kept the pretense up all the way through my class and I swear, the students couldn't tell at all that I was miserable and trying to keep it all together. Now I'm home and I feel achy...all over. And all I want to do is weep and weep and weep.

How can people be so cruel, so heartless as to assume that I could possibly stay on top of everything WHILE I was losing my sons? I did my best; I've worked hard to pick up and move on and to be honest, I feel like I've done a good job. But now, I feel deflated and lost and hurt. So, I'm going to crawl into bed, try to sleep, and wake up tomorrow to go back to work and try again. And tomorrow, when I want to curl up in a ball and hide, I'll remember the amazing people that surround me -- the generous people who care and give and support us. Those people far outnumber the cruel ones and for those people, I am endlessly grateful.

So, until tomorrow, I sleep. Goodnight, all!

The bill

Life has gone on and on and on. It's been almost 3 months since I lost my boys, and I miss them. I've even found myself pulling out their pictures, just to look at them and wonder what they looked like. Yesterday, a bill came for John Kraus; I paused and held my breath for just a moment. It was as if seeing his name on paper made him all the more real, all the more alive, all the more dead. And it hurt. It really hurt.

Today, I don't have much to say. I just want to write their names and feel like they lived. Isaac Kraus. John Kraus. They are my sons, and I hope they know that I love them.

Story time

The other night, I was curled up in bed re-reading the last book in the Harry Potter series: "The Deathly Hallows." It is one of my all-time favorite books. The story of redemption, sacrifice, loyalty and truth rings so true.

The Harry Potter series is one that I have always wanted to read to my children. In fact, I can't wait for my kids to take baths, put on their jammies, brush their teeth, and jump on my bed for a bedtime story. I can almost see us taking a year or two to make our way through the whole series, and I plan on reading it with the voices. Maybe even a hand-motion or two.

The other night as I was reading, I got the strangest feeling. It was as if I was piled under covers, sitting between two cute little boys who wanted me to read it with the voices. And strangely enough, I did. Quietly and to myself, I started reading "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" out loud to my sons. It was like they were there, with me, hearing the story of bravery and family, love and battle, hope and death. And for a moment, I got a chance to read a story to my boys.

It was a priceless moment, and as much as I know that it wasn't real, I partly feel like it was. And for a moment, I felt the hope of eternity, the hope that we have in Christ, the hope that someday, I will see my sons.

And maybe even read them a story.

Beuchner

“When you remember me, it means that you have carried something of who I am with you, that I have left some mark of who I am on who you are. It means that you can summon me back to your mind even though countless years and miles may stand between us. It means that if we meet again, you will know me. It means that even after I die, you can still see my face and hear my voice and speak to me in your heart.

For as long as you remember me, I am never entirely lost. When I'm feeling most ghost-like, it is your remembering me that helps remind me that I actually exist. When I'm feeling sad, it's my consolation. When I'm feeling happy, it's part of why I feel that way.

If you forget me, one of the ways I remember who I am will be gone. If you forget, part of who I am will be gone. "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." the good thief said from his cross (Luke 23:42). There are perhaps no more human words in all of Scripture, no prayer we can pray so well. ” - Frederick Beuchner

The autopsies

Well, it looks like the medical part of our long journey has nearly ended. Though we still have to go meet with the doctors in a few weeks, I was able to talk to the Pathologist and hear the results of the autopsies.

It is confirmed that the boys were identical: they had the same DNA and shared the same placenta. The latter is what introduced the problem. Commonly known as Twin-to-Twin-Transfusion-Syndrome (TTTS), the boys shared circulation because the blood vessels in the placenta were conjoined. This situation is common in identical twins and can be safe for both babies if the blood levels within the babies stays equal. If it is thrown off balance, the problems can be severe, and that is what happened in this case. Basically, Isaac (who died at 17 weeks) had too much blood in his body and John (who died at 20 weeks) had too little. The extra blood in Isaac's body caused him to die of a stroke. When that happened, all of the blood rushed into John's body, causing a stroke in him as well.

The doctor believes that this was a complication of having twins and is not connected to genetics whatsoever. She believes that the chances of it happening again are slim because the chances of getting pregnant with identical twins is slim. So, in a nutshell, this is the best of the worst: it's the most reassuring news we could have gotten considering the horrible situation.

Now, we keep moving forward. We are both feeling a bit more relieved knowing that we can move forward to have more children, but "the end" is sad as well: we didn't want to lose these. That said, we trust, and trusting is all we can do. We find comfort knowing that both of our sons are with God and we are so thankful for the love and support we've found as we've travelled -- and continue to travel -- this journey of grief and subsequent restoration. Thank you for all your continued prayers.

Dancing

On June 29th, my twin sons died; yesterday, a set of twin boys was born. Today, a dear student/friend/colleague died; yesterday, a beautiful little girl was born. The circle of life: one lives; another dies. There is no rhyme or reason, yet this is the rhythm that we dance to, the beat to which our feet tap: the sound of life and the sound of death. Short taps, long crescendos, ups and downs, a hiccup, a deep breath – and the hope that the circle will continue long after we are gone.

St. Theresa admonished all those who dance this great dance to trust: "Let nothing disturb you, let nothing frighten you; everything passes away except God. God alone is sufficient." For decades, the angels have joined her, whispering softly to startled audiences, "Fear not." And yet, there are moments when the crack of the snare drum is sharp and startling, causing heads to turn, feet to trip, and hearts to skip a beat or two. And yet this is the rhythm of life: powerful, loud, all-encompassing moments that are so startling and frightening that no whisper of reassurance seems to matter in the face of the beat that just keeps marching on.

And yet, if you take a moment to simply listen, you will hear that the sharpness of the snare drum contrasts so beautifully with the ever-present reminder: "fear not, for I am with thee..." And in moments of fear, turmoil, despair, and confusion, we are reminded that the heart of the song is not the beat; it is the melody of truth that lasts from measure to measure to measure, the words that bring comfort, hope, and life – the words that give us the strength to keep dancing when the beat seems aimed specifically at us.

And so, to those who dance with me, I hum the melody that governs all of our lives: "let not your hearts faint, fear not, and do not tremble, neither be ye terrified..."

Fear no evil. He is dancing too.

Hope and other dangerous pursuits

Hope always triumphs over experience...and love is stronger than death.

I forget who spoke these words initially, but that word "always" is one that I "always" tell students to avoid. It is an absolute - an unchangeable, unshakeable, fact - and nothing is truly absolute. And yet, in the uncertainty of life, I am aching for something to be absolute -- something to be unchanging, constant. And so, I decided I needed to focus on hope.

Hope is a concept that I don't remotely understand. It's undefinable to me because it is so abstract that there is nothing concrete about it. There is no hoping for something that you have, something that you can taste and see and touch. Hope, by its very definition, requires the absence of something and the deep depressing desire for that thing to become a reality.

I hope to have a baby -- a healthy, whole, living, breathing, perfect child that I birthed.

For me, this is not a reality. I understand that I gave birth, but right now, birth signifies nothingness more than it signifies something. And now, in the midst of grieving, I so long for a birth experience that brings tears of joy rather than of agony. I never expected to birth children that I didn't see. I never expected for my children to die before I did. But that is my reality. That is my absolute. But I don't want my absolute to become my always.

I want hope to become my always.

Right now, I can honestly say that I am terrified to hear the autopsy results next week. I am scared that the doctor will give us a percentage that is higher than we can risk, and in doing so, tell us that it's not safe for us to birth children of our own. I am scared to death because when it comes right down to it, all I want to be is a wife and a mom. I love my career; I love to teach. But in reality, all I've ever wanted is a family of my own. Granted, families are built in many ways and perhaps it is wrong for me to so desperately want children that come from my own body, but I do. And I'm scared that I might never get my wish.

But I hope that I do. And I so hope that for me, hope will triumph over this nightmarish experience and that, no matter the outcome, I will find some sense of calm and peace. Until then, please keep praying for us. We need it.

Happy Birthday to me

Today is my birthday. I spent the day at home, recovering from the d&c. But tonight, I am going to go to dinner with my husband, and I will be thankful for the parts of my life that are wonderful.

From the beginning of this experience, I have feared depression. I have never suffered from depression myself, but I know many who have. And of those who have suffered, I've seen many spiral into a darkness so all-encompassing that they can barely claw their way out of the pit. I have feared this overwhelming cloud and have done everything I can to avoid it. On most days, I'm successful.

Yesterday, I wasn't so successful. Today has been a bit better. My goal for tomorrow is simple: remember. Remember the wonderful people who consistently demonstrate concern and interest in my life. Remember my husband who passionately follows his heart, searching for his God, for truth, for hope. Remember my sons, who did more than just exist: they lived. Remember my God who, in the same way I love my sons who I never even saw and who did nothing to "earn" my love and pride, loves me. I will remember...

Unanswerable questions...

Yesterday, they scraped the remaining placenta out of my uterus. Tonight, someone that I love told me that I should be over this already. Tomorrow is my birthday.

I will be 27 years old, but I feel much, much older. I feel like life has made me older than I am. I went into this week hoping that I could just relax and have fun, but after landing in the hospital (again) and after being sent home to sit on my couch (again), all I want to do is scream and crawl into a corner to cry.

I don't even know how to vocalize or explain everything in my heart right now. I've tried so hard to keep a good perspective on everything that has gone on, but at the same time, I feel so strangely lost and confused, and I don't want to just skip over the events of this summer in a feeble attempt to "get over it."

We aren't the first to lose our babies and I know that we won't be the last, but I wasn't ready for this. It was one thing to fear not being able to get pregnant; it's another thing to have tasted and seen what it was like and then to lose both boys. Part of me asks why this happened; part of me is 100% sure that I don't want to know the answer because I don't think that any reason will be good enough.

But now, I'm faced with so many questions that I don't know how to answer. How do I face my life and the things that happen in my life without feeling like I'm grasping at dangled carrots that will be snatched away before I can grab them? How do I trust His good intention when I don't even know how to find him or what his plan is? How do I face the possibility of getting pregnant again when I don't think I could survive even the possibility of losing another baby?

Maybe I'm asking all the wrong questions and maybe there just aren't answers to these kinds of things, but I just need help knowing where to start. More than that, I just need to know that He hasn't forgotten about me, that He's good, and that somewhere in this mess, there is hope for the future. Right now, I need to know that it's ok that I'm not over it. I need to know that it's ok for me to grieve for a little bit longer. I need to know that it's ok for this to hurt like hell and that it's ok for me to miss my sons. And in that, I need to find a way to communicate that my grief is not my attempt to change the unchangeable or wallow in something that I can't control. It's just my way of finding healing and answers and someday, it will be my way of making peace with this loss that has moved in and made its home somewhere in the pit of my stomach.

So what...

I haven't had much to say over the last few weeks. After being gone for the last two weeks, I'm realizing how quickly life moves on. And, to be honest, I have mixed feelings about this type of progress. I'm still "supposed" to be pregnant. Seven and half months pregnant to be precise. But I'm not pregnant, and I won't be pregnant tomorrow. In fact, I might not ever be pregnant again, and that is a terrifying thought.

We are still waiting on the autopsy results and while I know that the likelihood is good that this was not a genetic/hereditary issue, I am still afraid. I SO want to get pregnant again. I want to have the opportunity to birth more children -- ones who are healthy and ok. I know that families are made in many different ways. I know that adoption is always an option, and it's a great option. But I still want to birth children.

So what happens if we find out that we shouldn't have more kids? What happens if we do get pregnant and this happens again? What happens if I have to keep watching everyone else get pregnant, have kids, grow families and we can't? What happens if this and what happens if that -- the possibilities seem endless, and my life seems full of the bad scenarios that were almost completely unlikely. And I don't know how to answer the questions that, well, I'm not supposed to be able to answer.

Sigh.

I know that no one will be able to replace my sons, and I know that future children will never make what happened "ok". I know that, and I'm ok with that. I just want to feel like my life has some sense of security. I want to feel like there are answers, like there's hope...like my life has a future. And right now, I don't feel like I have any of that.

And yet, life goes on...

Just stick around

I have gone to church all my life, and have heard pastors, preachers, leaders - people in general - tell me the importance of "loving the lost." Love the sinner, hate the sin; love them even if you don't agree with them; love them to Jesus. Let's be honest, the cliches are endless. And yet, I've noticed that that same "love" is rarely extended from one believer to another, especially inside the walls of the church. Think about it? How often do we criticize people who leave the church because "they didn't leave the right way"? How often do we roll our eyes or avoid people because they might say something about the church we go to or our pastor or whatever, and we just don't want to "be around that"? It's very easy to criticize believers who don't live, act, pray, read, love, talk the way that we do. It's much easier to love the unbeliever than the believer who let us down.

That is, until tragedy strikes.

Once life gets hard and someone goes through something that we can't possibly imagine, it's so easy to pop back up with an "I'm so sorry. I can't imagine what you're going through, but I'm here."

This sentiment puzzles me. It puzzles me because it is just that: a sentiment. It's not that I don't believe that the sympathy is real and heartfelt. It's not that I don't believe the genuine desire to "be there." It's that I don't trust the sentiment. I don't trust the emotion to last longer than the moment they heard the news and sent the email or made the phone call.

Over the last month, I've learned a very important lesson about these kinds of relationships. That lesson is this: the relationships that matter are not the ones that form around a tragedy. It's easy to grieve with people; it's hard to live life with them. It's easy to shed a tear over an episode that is truly tragic; it's hard to be happy for someone when he/she has everything that you've begged God to give you. It's hard to smile say "Congratulations! I'm so happy for you!" and really mean it. It's even harder to say that truthfully when you know that your drive home will fill with tears the moment the door shuts and the engine roars. And yet, the friends who are real are the ones who stick with it, not just when the hard times come around and sympathy pulls at heart strings, but when life is wonderful and heaven couldn't seem any more real than it does in that moment.

Even in saying this, I know that there are exceptions to this rule. There are times when the best thing you can do is pull away for a time and let God work on healing you. I don't begrudge this need at all because I, myself have felt it more often than not over the last weeks. There are other times when the smile is fake and saying "Congratulations!" is about all you can muster. The emotion behind that "Congratulations!" may take a lot longer, but at least you get credit for trying, right?

The truth of the matter is this: no relationship is perfect and there's no way anyone can be a perfect friend/wife/husband/sister/brother/daughter/son all the time. But if there was any advice I could give to someone attempting to build relationships it would be this: be there. Be there when life is good. Be there when life sucks. If you haven't been there, apologize. Believe me: that apology will be enough. And then, start being there again. Be there even when you don't know what to say. Be there silently, if you have to. Be there when it costs everything to smile and when you truly couldn't be more happy for the person.

Just do your best to get there and stay there because, when the shit hits the fan (sorry, Mom), the ones who matter are the ones who are already there, not the ones who run to show up.

Held

I've been trying to track my emotions over the last few weeks, and to be honest, I don't entirely know how to do it. I've faced so many bizarre extremes and a plethora of unexpected twists that have backed me into strange corners. So, I decided that I would simply list my thoughts and emotions, and see where that takes me.

But when I started, I realized that my thoughts and feelings are so confused that I don't know where to start.

On Tuesday at exactly 4:50 am, it will have been 4 weeks since I delivered my babies, and I've never even seen their faces. I don't know what they look like, what color their eyes were, if they had my ears like Joseph always hoped they would, and if they had his eyes like I prayed they would. I don't know my sons, and I've felt weirdly guilty about that. You see, my mom was always so good at holding me when something went wrong, and when I think about being a good mom, I think about that. I think about holding my babies when something goes wrong, but I didn't do that.

I'm sure that, at this point, I probably know what you're thinking: it was better that we didn't hold them. They were so small. Their bodies didn't look the way they should have looked. Even the doctor said that seeing their footprints would have been harder on us than not seeing. I know all of that, but it's still really hard.

I really love those boys, and I really miss holding them. I miss being a mom, and I miss the feeling of growing babies inside. Part of me wants to get pregnant as soon as possible, and part of my is afraid of what could happen if I do. I guess we will just let whatever happens, happen. We get the autopsy results on August 27th, and I those before we make any decisions.

Until then, I suppose all I can do is continue to process and grieve everything that has happened, and trust that we do have a future somehow and that my sons, Isaac and John, know how much I love and miss them.

Thanks

After we returned from our honeymoon in 2007, I loved spending time with my family and friends, specifically to hear all the wedding stories that I was too oblivious to notice. One story, in particular, stands out in my memory.

I had always had a relatively complicated relationship with my younger sister, known in the family to be a world traveler and a fiercely loyal friend. The demise was in no way her fault; let's just say that I was a bit stupid in my youth and didn't understand the full repercussions of my actions, namely how they would effect my family. That said, it turns out that she wept -- and I mean, bawled -- all the way through my entire wedding. And, as she told me about this through spits of laughter, we agreed that neither of us knew that she even liked me that much.

We still chuckle about that to this day.

Yet, the joke has rung even more true over the last few weeks, not only in regard to my family, but also in consideration of the friends I didn't even know that I had. I have received notes and texts and love from friends I've known and loved since childhood, yet haven't seen in 10+ years. I have gotten emails from pastors of churches I don't attend. I have received meals from colleagues I haven't even met. People whom I don't work with on a regular basis have bought gifts, cried tears, and extended friendship that has, as cliche' as it sounds, meant the world to me over the last weeks.

And I didn't even know they liked me that much.

I've never thought of myself as a particularly "likable" person. I am far too blunt, too straightforward. I talk too much and often, I say strangely awkward things. I am passionate about literature and philosophy. No one thinks about literature and philosophy this much. And yet, when the shit hits the fan as it has over the last weeks, people come out of the wood work - some because they have to, but most because they actually seem to care.

I feel...blessed. I feel empty sometimes. As thankful as I am for friends, I want my sons. But, I have to be realistic: that is not an option. It was never an option for my sons. And yet, seeing as I cannot hold my children, I will hold onto the friendships I've found, even in the most unlikely places.

The "Normal" Life...

I've spent this week working from home. My fabulous boss has been quite flexible and understanding - a true gift from God. Next week, I've determined that I should probably be back in the office full time. I have to be honest: I'm dreading it.

It's not my co-workers, my boss, or even the work. It's the normalcy. Even as I type I feel strange. Every fiber of my being is aching to get back to some kind of normal life. Yet at the same time, every fiber of my being feels that doing so would somehow betray my children. Is it right to move on? Do my sons watch from somewhere up above and wonder why this doesn't take me out of the loop for longer? Will they feel like I don't miss them -- like I don't care?

I know, I know...this is silly. It's right to begin moving on. It's good to pick up the pieces of my life and continue on. This is good -- isn't it?

The truth is this: I don't know what normal life is supposed to look like. It's not like I can go back to the time before I was pregnant. I'm not that person I was. I'm a mother now. At least, I think I am a mother now.

I'm a mother without children. I'm a mother who has to live as if she is not a mother. I feel like the rest of my life will be a giant stage, and as Shakespearean as I know that sounds, I don't like the script I've been given. No bedtimes. No nursing. No storybooks. No nursery. No blankets or burp rags, baths or bottles. No cries or ear infections, laughs or runny noses. My stage has not changed, and while I'm grateful for the characters who play opposite me - an amazing husband, a wonderful family, and constant friends - I feel like my stage is strangely empty.

So, how do I go back to normal life? Does anyone know? Can life be "normal," or will it be as I fear: forever lacking the babies I never held.

That is not this rain

On Tuesday, June 29th, I delivered my two precious sons whom we have named Isaac and John, names that represent a fulfilled promise and a hope for the future. Both of my sons are with Jesus, and I have spent the rest of this week at home with my husband, recovering, crying, thinking, writing, talking, praying, reading, and questioning.

It has been the most difficult week of my life.

There is no human love like the love of a parent for his/her child, and no grief more profound than when that love is asked to say goodbye rather than to embrace. I miss my boys, and yet the gratefulness I feel for the mercy that God has shown far outweighs anything else. I have faced tragedy before; I am sure I will face it again, yet the question, for me, has never been "why did this happen?"

I am pretty sure I already know the answer to that: it rains on the just and the unjust alike.

Sometimes, I think that the sky simply does not know what else to do, and so it rains. Even when the sun is aching to shine and all of humanity cries for the warmth of summer, the sky knows to rain. And so it does. Life releases the torrential downpour of unexplained pain and unfeeling circumstances. In those moments, thunder cracks and lightning splits the sky, a seeming feeling of utter alone-ness follows as the fear of what could be - what could have been - creeps into the very fiber of your being. The rain pounds, flooding those below with emotions that never seem to end.

But that is not this rain.

There are times when the sky simpy pulls the clouded blanket around, hiding itself from view, and releasing a gentle outpouring. This rain, for some reason, does not bring the same fear as did the storm, neither does it seem to never end. Though it is cold and causes those below to grab a blanket of their own, it seems to bring hope - as if we know that, without this cold, wet, gray season, we would never see the life that only grows with rain.

And that is this rain.

You see, over the last 2 weeks, I have faced moments where the loss was so overwhelming that I wasn't sure I could keep breathing. And yet, in those moments, it was as if the clouds broke for just a second and God brought me hope. It wasn't that the rain stopped; it was that the hope of what was to come was - for just a moment - stronger than the drizzle. It is that hope that I cling to. I know that God is with me. I know that life will drizzle, but I also know that it will shine, lit with the wonder of his love and the promise of his continued faithfulness.

I know that I will never "be over" the events of the last 2 weeks, and to be perfectly honest, I never want to be over them. I love my boys, and as I've said already, I miss them. But in that, I know that I didn't lose them. They aren't lost. They are with God - happy, healed, whole - and as a mother, there is nothing more I could ask for than to know that my children are ok.

And so until the day that I get to hold my sons for the first time, I will simply leave it at this: Psalm 91:2 - "I will say of the Lord, You are my refuge and my fortress, my God; in him will I trust."

The story

She cried when the doctor told her that she might not bear children of her own. She cried again when the little stick turned blue, a sign that she was finally pregnant. She cried when the radiologist told her that she was carrying twins, and she cried again when she learned that one baby had died before she even knew that he existed. She cried when she saw pictures of the baby that was living, and cried again when they told her that he had no chance of survival – he had no stomach; his body and his mind were just too damaged. But she wept when the doctor told her that it was time to push, when she felt those precious bodies leave hers, and when she realized that she would never hold them, never bandage their scraped knees, never hold them while they got their shots, never laugh, never sing, never read and never teach.

These were her boys. Her sons. Flesh of her flesh and bone of her bone. They were her babies and no amount of tears would makeup for the loss she felt in that moment. But they named them Isaac and John, hoping that the names would bring some kind of closure to this tragedy, hoping that they would point her to the promise she knew existed but couldn’t feel, hoping that they would remind her that her sons lived, that they were ok now, that they would never be in pain.

It didn’t quite work that way.

The names did bring her comfort; they did remind her that her boys had existed. But they didn’t make it better. She couldn’t help but wonder what they looked like. Did they have his eyes like she had always hoped they would? Did they have her ears? He loved her ears; she could’ve lived without them. Would they have played baseball like he did? Would they have sang with her – maybe even let her teach them how to play the piano? Would they have loved Harry Potter, spending hours reading them as fast as they could? She had. She loved to read.

She loved her babies more. And she missed them.

But she made it through the delivery. She wept, sobbing her way from one push to the next. He held her hand the whole time, tears streaming down his own face as he wondered why God would put her through this. She had already been through so much. And when it was over, they simply held each other and cried. They cried for their babies; they cried for their pain; they cried for the hope that was disappointed and the hearts that had broken seemingly one too many times.

And then they grabbed hands, and he prayed. He told God that he was angry, that he didn’t understand. He told God, though, that even in his anger, he would choose to count him faithful; he would choose to count him good. Tears streaming down her face, she nodded in agreement, and chose to believe the same.

The next days seemed endless and quick all at the same time. It was strange to feel an empty belly, and wonder if she even wanted it to be full again. She couldn’t help but ask some questions: if God had not protected these babies, why would he protect the next? Was she still being punished for the sins of her youth, the sins that had almost taken away her chances of pregnancy altogether? Would she accidentally forget that June 29th was the date they were born? Would the doctors come back from examining her dead children and tell her that it was her fault, that something in her, something she had done, had caused her children to suffer and ultimately, to die?

They were questions she felt too ashamed to vocalize; questions she didn’t want to admit that she had. But she did. And the walls echoed her questions whenever anyone left the room. They echoed her questions. They echoed her babies’ names. Isaac: the child God had promised; John: the child God had granted. These were her sons. They had lived. They had died. They had changed her life, and she was positive that she would never be the same because of them.

Whether she would have more children, she wasn’t quite sure. She was still too afraid. Whether she would know how to process the days and weeks to come, she didn’t know. And whether she was ready to wake up again in the morning, knowing that her uterus was empty and that she would never see her babies. Well, that was easy. She wasn’t ready for that, and she was positive she never would be.

What she did know is that she loved her boys, and more than the ache she felt from never seeing them and telling them of her love, she felt grateful. Her babies never had to suffer. They never had to feel the pain of their own tortured bodies, never had to realize how much they would miss, never had to die in an incubator. Her babies were ok – they were healthy and whole. They could laugh and jump and run. And maybe they could see her. And maybe they knew how much she loved them, how she would give anything to meet them and kiss them and squeeze them just as tight as she could. For that possibility alone, she was grateful.

And it was for that possibility that she said their names…over and over again she said them. Perhaps, in time, they would bring comfort. Perhaps, in time, they would symbolize hope. Perhaps, in a few years, she would look back on the last weeks and remember God’s goodness. Perhaps. But until that time, the names symbolized her sons – their lives, their existence – and her sons were more than enough for now.