Stumbling Towards Perfect

It's the phone. The one I was so blessed was forgotten and left at home on Wednesday, October 24, 2012. Avery's phone. I am so grateful to have the 87 photos of our cat and the 20 pictures of landscapes and her friends and the singular photo of us together, smiling direct into the camera. I watch her videos. There are only a few. In one she introduces the viewer to her brand new trombone. ( She only had a few lessons .) In another she proudly shows off her volleyball uniform. ( She was so excited to play! ) In another she watches Brody play the piano, encouraging him to sing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star along the plucked out tune. ( He had just turned three; it was totally unrecognizable .) In two of the videos she's singing Christian songs I have never heard before. The screen is black, as if covered by her hand, or turned face down on a table, as if to stress to the viewer that it was the words that were most important, not the face of the person singing it. And I hea

"Blame is a vicious card to play, and like guilt, generates useless emotions. But nonetheless, blame rears its head when there is no plausible reason to attribute to devastating loss. Blame robs you of objectivity and assigns fault where there is none. Anything, anything at all could have and would have changed that fateful day. The fingers were pointed everywhere, and none gave us the reasons we so needed to hear. When you lose your child, there is no reason good enough for their death." - Maria Malin, author of When You Just Can't Say Good-bye, Don't As a grieving mother, I have purposely chosen how I would like to move forward in my healing. Understand, it is not the way you might grieve, or you, or you, or you. In fact, everyone grieves in such a personally, uniquely intimate way that I do not expect anyone to have ever before grieved the way I have, nor do I expect anyone to grieve this same way in the future. I have chosen to see joy and light and goodness.

I've been struggling writing lately because, well, because I'm scared, is why. And I could really just use some prayers for my little family - for strength mostly. For patience. And for the ability to absolutely trust God in what's coming around the bend. So, instead of writing, I've been reading... because sometimes the right words strung together can strengthen a heart. And this that I'm about to share -- this strengthens. Enjoy. Words For Those That Remain There will come a time, a day, a moment when words are not enough. When the letters hooking to other letters and tying themselves to each other, the trains of vowels and consonants chasing each other out of my mouth just won’t do justice to the avalanche that you’re struggling through. If this is that day, if these are those moments I will not speak, but I have no choice but to leave you with these attempts, as futile as they might be, for words are all I have to offer and the only curren

"A sister is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost." ~Marion C. Garretty There is an interesting phenomenon that happens when one person dies; there are, simultaneously, a multitude of relational deaths. What I mean is, I lost a daughter. But at the same time Jadrian lost her only sister. And Brody lost a big sister. My mother lost a granddaughter, my sister a niece. A cousin was was lost, a friend, a classmate, a teammate, a neighbor, even lost was just a name once mentioned in passing one long ago evening. How many times those first early weeks would I say over and over again, "thank God for my sister . I don't what I would have done without my sister . I couldn't have gotten through this without my sister ." Grateful words spoken honest from my heart, but which were overheard by the shattered soul of the innocent child who had just lost her one and only sister. My words must have felt like daggers. There is a s

There is a song that is so hauntingly beautiful it crushes my soul every time I hear it called Holy is The Lord by Andrew Peterson. It's about the biblical story of Abraham, who is told by God to take his only son, Isaac, and offer him as a sacrifice. Abraham, although distraught, obeys. "I waited on The Lord and in a waking dream he came Riding on a wind across the sand He spoke my name Here I am, I whispered And I waited in the dark The answer was a sword That came down hard upon my heart Holy is the Lord Holy is the Lord And the Lord I will obey Lord, help me I don't know the way So take me to the mountain I will follow where You lead There I'll lay the body Of the boy You gave to me And even though You take him Still I ever will obey But Maker of this mountain, please Make another way" (Don't worry, in the end, God didn't make Abraham sacrifice Isaac.) Anyway, since I first heard that song years ago

Make no mistake, I am a mother full of grieving. Sorrow seeps in between the joints of my bones and I breathe weeping. I am a mother without. I have lost two of my four children: one who was 11 years old and one who never got to be. My mind runs away with numbers: counting the number of people wearing red in order to disappear from the sudden crippling anguish that threatens to suffocate my soul; running calculations: 50% of my children are in heaven, 50% of my children are on earth; playing odds: the even children have died. Avery was #2, the unborn would have been #4, if we have another it will be #5, the odd numbered children are alive, the odds are in our favor. And yet, this grief that has colored my soul isn't a permanent darkness. I am aware of this. I am not stuck. I could be, but I'm not. Not in this moment. I'm aware of what the mind can seduce you into believing, that it can be full of lies so comforting, like a fluffy down blanket that beckons you to close you