Last night your daddy walked past the nursery 45 minutes after I put Molly to sleep and heard the lamb mobile playing. Molly woke up at 3:30 this morning for a bottle. As I sat feeding her, the mobile once again came on.
I just have to wonder if it was you in there. Playing with your sister.
The mobile has been giving us quite a bit of trouble. Frankly, we can't get it to play. These are the only two times that it has played on its own, coincidentally when we are very close to Molly and the nursery. We would have heard it on the monitor if it played any other time.
So it just makes me wonder. Are you in there with Molly? Are you watching out for her and playing your little sister sweet lullabies?
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
Every baby is a miracle.
Every baby is a miracle.
Our friend was leading the children's message at church. He was talking about how ordinary people perform miracles and how lots of miracles were happening in Haiti. Somewhere in the midst of his message one line struck a cord with me. "Every baby is a miracle."
A woman my parents age, who I look to as the 'church mom', reached over and squeezed Molly's foot. My heart instantly went to not the one in my arms, but the one I held only once, who our church knows of only figuratively. What does it mean for a baby to be a miracle? Was Cara a miracle? Even though she didn't make it here breathing, alive? Of course I believe she was a miracle, for it was my body not hers that failed. She, she was perfect.
What is so intoxicating about a (living) baby? I watch how people respond to Molly and how enthralled they are with her. When does all of this change? When do they (we) become less innocent, more infiltrated by the hurt and brokenness of the world?
I smile at Molly's innocence. How big her smile gets when I look at her. How desperately she wants to talk to me, I just have to glance her way. The ease with which her life takes. It must be so fun to be her right now.
Tim and I sense an unspoken message when people communicate with Molly. There is tons of attention heaped on her, but behind it, although rarely spoken we hear something else, their love for Cara and regard for the beauty of her life and death. It is tender and it is appreciated. ::thank you::
Our friend was leading the children's message at church. He was talking about how ordinary people perform miracles and how lots of miracles were happening in Haiti. Somewhere in the midst of his message one line struck a cord with me. "Every baby is a miracle."
A woman my parents age, who I look to as the 'church mom', reached over and squeezed Molly's foot. My heart instantly went to not the one in my arms, but the one I held only once, who our church knows of only figuratively. What does it mean for a baby to be a miracle? Was Cara a miracle? Even though she didn't make it here breathing, alive? Of course I believe she was a miracle, for it was my body not hers that failed. She, she was perfect.
What is so intoxicating about a (living) baby? I watch how people respond to Molly and how enthralled they are with her. When does all of this change? When do they (we) become less innocent, more infiltrated by the hurt and brokenness of the world?
I smile at Molly's innocence. How big her smile gets when I look at her. How desperately she wants to talk to me, I just have to glance her way. The ease with which her life takes. It must be so fun to be her right now.
Tim and I sense an unspoken message when people communicate with Molly. There is tons of attention heaped on her, but behind it, although rarely spoken we hear something else, their love for Cara and regard for the beauty of her life and death. It is tender and it is appreciated. ::thank you::
Friday, January 8, 2010
Another Year
Flip. The page turned on the calendar and thus we find ourselves in a new year.
All I have been able to think about is we are nearing Cara's birthday. The day two years ago that my life blew up into a million pieces. Months later I stood there most of the pieces having flown away, trying to grasp at the few still swirling around me.
This week has been particularly draining for me and Tim. We have started the daunting process of interviewing nannies. Besides the fact that it is every night of having someone come into our home, it's also choosing who is going to take care of Molly, a decision we do not make lightly.
We had the absolute pleasure of interviewing a lovely British nanny last night. I say 'lovely' because she says lovely. And 'what is your Christian name?' And 'I once offered care to a Lord and Lady.' In our effort towards full disclosure, I shared with her that we lost our first little girl. In turn, she shared that they had lost their first son at 5 years old to cancer. It was not what I expected to hear at all, but instantly felt that she understood us. She also talked about going to Compassionate Friends meetings in the UK. (CF actually started in England 40 years ago.)
This woman shared with us how her last job was for a mother who had just given birth to twins. She told of how the woman had to stay in the hospital for quite some time and that when she came home she stayed in bed all day. The nanny eventually shared with us what I was already suspecting, the mother suffered from postpartum depression.
I just couldn't help but think how sad. Here this woman has two healthy children who need her and love her and need to be loved by her, and depression has stolen that very special time from all of them. I couldn't help but think about my own situation two years ago. How I would have loved to get out of bed and take care of a child, but there physically wasn't a child to care for.
January brings for me a lot of sadness. Many would say it does for them as well. We come down off the holiday high to find ourselves in houses that darken early without the magical twinkle of lights and enchanting smell of pine. Tim and I reflected numerous times during the holiday season how this year it felt a little less magical for us. We loved having Molly with us and making Christmas special for her (although she was completely unaware.) But the entire season just felt a little 'off'. As Tim finally put it one night, "the innocence is lost." Exactly the words that my incongruent emotions were longing for.
And so back to where I started, we find Cara's second birthday looming in just the near future. I'm again faced with how to celebrate (is it even called celebrating?) another birthday. Another year without her.
All I have been able to think about is we are nearing Cara's birthday. The day two years ago that my life blew up into a million pieces. Months later I stood there most of the pieces having flown away, trying to grasp at the few still swirling around me.
This week has been particularly draining for me and Tim. We have started the daunting process of interviewing nannies. Besides the fact that it is every night of having someone come into our home, it's also choosing who is going to take care of Molly, a decision we do not make lightly.
We had the absolute pleasure of interviewing a lovely British nanny last night. I say 'lovely' because she says lovely. And 'what is your Christian name?' And 'I once offered care to a Lord and Lady.' In our effort towards full disclosure, I shared with her that we lost our first little girl. In turn, she shared that they had lost their first son at 5 years old to cancer. It was not what I expected to hear at all, but instantly felt that she understood us. She also talked about going to Compassionate Friends meetings in the UK. (CF actually started in England 40 years ago.)
This woman shared with us how her last job was for a mother who had just given birth to twins. She told of how the woman had to stay in the hospital for quite some time and that when she came home she stayed in bed all day. The nanny eventually shared with us what I was already suspecting, the mother suffered from postpartum depression.
I just couldn't help but think how sad. Here this woman has two healthy children who need her and love her and need to be loved by her, and depression has stolen that very special time from all of them. I couldn't help but think about my own situation two years ago. How I would have loved to get out of bed and take care of a child, but there physically wasn't a child to care for.
January brings for me a lot of sadness. Many would say it does for them as well. We come down off the holiday high to find ourselves in houses that darken early without the magical twinkle of lights and enchanting smell of pine. Tim and I reflected numerous times during the holiday season how this year it felt a little less magical for us. We loved having Molly with us and making Christmas special for her (although she was completely unaware.) But the entire season just felt a little 'off'. As Tim finally put it one night, "the innocence is lost." Exactly the words that my incongruent emotions were longing for.
And so back to where I started, we find Cara's second birthday looming in just the near future. I'm again faced with how to celebrate (is it even called celebrating?) another birthday. Another year without her.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Christmas Eve 2009
This morning, I keep thinking back to the past two Christmases we've shared as a family.
In Christmas 2007, Cynthia was just going into her third trimester with Cara, and carrying her so beautifully. It was a really nice Christmas together. And while we enjoyed that Christmas together, we spent most of our time dreaming about next year's Christmas and what it would be like to share all our traditions with Cara. I can still here all the "next year with Cara's" when I think back to that Christmas. One special memory for me was the Christmas Eve service. As some of you might know, our church has its Christmas Eve service outside. This year, we were out in the middle of a field, next to a few farm animals and a tiny manger. I was up in front of the congregation playing guitar for the service while Cynthia with Cara in her belly was out in the crowd. I know it wouldn't seem like a special memory for everyone, but for me, playing guitar at such a beautiful service with Cynthia and Cara there meant a lot. It was one of those memories of sharing music and the miracle of Christmas with Cara that I'll never forget.
Last Christmas, we were pretty much in a completely opposite place. Instead of experiencing joy, hope and peace through the holidays we were finding deep despair. Just a few months ago we had lost hope from the miscarriage, and at the time we were hoping that we'd get pregnant very soon. The one bright spot of the season came through our trip to the mountains. We knew we had to do something different to take care of ourselves over the holidays and getting away for a couple days to the mountains was the perfect fit.
This Christmas again seems almost like a complete reversal. With Molly here, there is more hope and joy in our lives than there's been since our pregnancy with Cara. As we've written before, Molly is a gift to our family, and in a way a gift from Cara, and with her here there is a physical, tangible sign of life and hope in our family again. But this Christmas season isn't all roses. Very often as we've put up the tree or gone to Grandma's house for cookie day we've grieved Cara's physical absence from those traditions. It's heartbreaking to think that Cara should be here, and if she was she'd be a beautiful little one and a half year old getting into all kinds of trouble.
Tonight, we'll gather with our church again outside in a barn. It will be quiet, dark and cold. I'll be up there again playing guitar, thinking about Cara and looking out into the congregation for my beautiful wife and daughter.
We miss you so much, Cara. We wish you could physically be here. You would be a beautiful, dark-haired little toddler by now and it would be so fun if you were here. Help us feel you close to us this Christmas season. You are our angel. We love you always.
In Christmas 2007, Cynthia was just going into her third trimester with Cara, and carrying her so beautifully. It was a really nice Christmas together. And while we enjoyed that Christmas together, we spent most of our time dreaming about next year's Christmas and what it would be like to share all our traditions with Cara. I can still here all the "next year with Cara's" when I think back to that Christmas. One special memory for me was the Christmas Eve service. As some of you might know, our church has its Christmas Eve service outside. This year, we were out in the middle of a field, next to a few farm animals and a tiny manger. I was up in front of the congregation playing guitar for the service while Cynthia with Cara in her belly was out in the crowd. I know it wouldn't seem like a special memory for everyone, but for me, playing guitar at such a beautiful service with Cynthia and Cara there meant a lot. It was one of those memories of sharing music and the miracle of Christmas with Cara that I'll never forget.
Last Christmas, we were pretty much in a completely opposite place. Instead of experiencing joy, hope and peace through the holidays we were finding deep despair. Just a few months ago we had lost hope from the miscarriage, and at the time we were hoping that we'd get pregnant very soon. The one bright spot of the season came through our trip to the mountains. We knew we had to do something different to take care of ourselves over the holidays and getting away for a couple days to the mountains was the perfect fit.
This Christmas again seems almost like a complete reversal. With Molly here, there is more hope and joy in our lives than there's been since our pregnancy with Cara. As we've written before, Molly is a gift to our family, and in a way a gift from Cara, and with her here there is a physical, tangible sign of life and hope in our family again. But this Christmas season isn't all roses. Very often as we've put up the tree or gone to Grandma's house for cookie day we've grieved Cara's physical absence from those traditions. It's heartbreaking to think that Cara should be here, and if she was she'd be a beautiful little one and a half year old getting into all kinds of trouble.
Tonight, we'll gather with our church again outside in a barn. It will be quiet, dark and cold. I'll be up there again playing guitar, thinking about Cara and looking out into the congregation for my beautiful wife and daughter.
We miss you so much, Cara. We wish you could physically be here. You would be a beautiful, dark-haired little toddler by now and it would be so fun if you were here. Help us feel you close to us this Christmas season. You are our angel. We love you always.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
A Service of Lessons and Carols
I found a new love this morning. The Methodist service of Lessons and Carols. Our church brought in a professional storyteller to weave the journey of Christ's coming to the world. The congregation sang hymns between the passages of scripture from the Old Testament Prophets to the Good News of the New Testament.
As I sat rocking Molly singing one of the hymns, Tim and I caught eyes. He smiled at both of us and tears welled up in my eyes. I could have just as easily been rocking Cara. It made me miss her so much. The finality of her absence still hits me at times.
As the service continued, a beautiful member of our congregation stood to sing Breath of Heaven, Mary's voice in Jesus's coming. The woman is one of those refreshing untrained voices, who simply listens to the song and hears the notes. Even more beautiful was knowing she carries a son, and that as she placed her hand on her belly, her 20-week old baby was likely bouncing inside.
It was a completely divine moment until I heard soft sniffles beside me. How could I have forgotten? My dear, dear friend should be just as pregnant, their due dates days apart. She should know the joy of a new life growing within her womb. And she did until two months ago when it all came to a painful end.
I held my little Molly close with one arm and wrapped the other around my friend. I heard the sniffles become louder, the shakes more violent, and in that moment I learned what it meant to be in the shoes of those who sat next to me so many Sundays. The friends who sat there as I cried through sermons, as babies were baptized into the church, as pregnant women were celebrated around me. So many times I had the gentle touch of a friend's hand on my shoulder as I sat and wept.
Today I felt completely and utterly helpless. I wanted to take my friend's pain away. I longed to absorb all the pain from her, to take it as my own. I knew my friend was hurting, and in that moment I was also hurting so desperately for her. It made me realize what my friends must have felt all those months.
I suppose this is what it means to be body of Christ, to share in one another's brokenness and desperately pray for redemption. This world is broken, but I'm eternally thankful for family, friends and church, who have walked this painful journey with us as we seek to find healing.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Post Traumatic Stress
"Do you check to see if she's breathing," they ask me. Then before I can even answer, they say, "of course you do, every parent does."
True, but does every parent convince themselves that their child is dead? Does every parent look across the room at someone else holding their baby and believe the child isn't breathing? Or look in the bassinet and only see an ashen-colored baby when really there are rosy cheeks?
I recently told Tim about these experiences. It was a few short days later that he saw one play out. I was holding Molly in public when I felt I couldn't hear her soft breathing in my ear. I tried moving her and she felt limp. (Of course she was, she was completely asleep.) But nearly paralyzing fear played out for me as I tried to rouse her, to see some movement of life.
Tim looked at me and said, "It just happened, didn't it?" In the car on the way home, I asked what he saw. He said it was evident I was scared and fearful.
I guess it's post traumatic stress. I suppose it comes with the territory. I just wish it didn't have to be my reality.
True, but does every parent convince themselves that their child is dead? Does every parent look across the room at someone else holding their baby and believe the child isn't breathing? Or look in the bassinet and only see an ashen-colored baby when really there are rosy cheeks?
I recently told Tim about these experiences. It was a few short days later that he saw one play out. I was holding Molly in public when I felt I couldn't hear her soft breathing in my ear. I tried moving her and she felt limp. (Of course she was, she was completely asleep.) But nearly paralyzing fear played out for me as I tried to rouse her, to see some movement of life.
Tim looked at me and said, "It just happened, didn't it?" In the car on the way home, I asked what he saw. He said it was evident I was scared and fearful.
I guess it's post traumatic stress. I suppose it comes with the territory. I just wish it didn't have to be my reality.
Monday, December 7, 2009
21 Months Later, A New Season
"This is going to be the best Christmas of your life," they tell me. Do they say this because it is a line society delivers to every parent of a living child that first Christmas? Or do they say it because we just lived through the worst Christmas of our lives?
As we have taken Molly to various holiday parties and introduced her to friends and family for the first time, Cara is drawn to my mind more and more. As people ooh and aah over Molly I find myself wanting to talk about Cara. Do they wonder what she looked like? Yes, Molly looks exactly like me, but I long to share how Cara was clearly her father's with Tim's dark, silky hair and distinctive nose.
When they tell me how perfect Molly is, I wonder to myself if they think Cara was any less. It was not her fault she died, I long to tell them. It was me, my body failed her.
I even struggle with my own inner battle as I deliver lines to Molly like, "You are the most beautiful baby in the world." She is, but her sister was too. I end up feeling guilty as though I have forgotten Cara's beauty, because I am not face to face with it every day.
The reality is we still continue to learn how to navigate this unexpected life of losing a child. We lived through many firsts in the last year and a half but there are still many more to come.
How do you sign your Christmas card? At first it was just our last name, but then we opted for our three names with Cara's absent. We hope the nature of the card we chose draws to mind the one who is missing.
Does Santa only come for the living children? Yes, but we have chosen to donate to First Candle in Cara's memory the same amount of money we spend on Molly.
As these new life scenarios play out, we pray we are being faithful to both our daughters and our little family of four.
As we have taken Molly to various holiday parties and introduced her to friends and family for the first time, Cara is drawn to my mind more and more. As people ooh and aah over Molly I find myself wanting to talk about Cara. Do they wonder what she looked like? Yes, Molly looks exactly like me, but I long to share how Cara was clearly her father's with Tim's dark, silky hair and distinctive nose.
When they tell me how perfect Molly is, I wonder to myself if they think Cara was any less. It was not her fault she died, I long to tell them. It was me, my body failed her.
I even struggle with my own inner battle as I deliver lines to Molly like, "You are the most beautiful baby in the world." She is, but her sister was too. I end up feeling guilty as though I have forgotten Cara's beauty, because I am not face to face with it every day.
The reality is we still continue to learn how to navigate this unexpected life of losing a child. We lived through many firsts in the last year and a half but there are still many more to come.
How do you sign your Christmas card? At first it was just our last name, but then we opted for our three names with Cara's absent. We hope the nature of the card we chose draws to mind the one who is missing.
Does Santa only come for the living children? Yes, but we have chosen to donate to First Candle in Cara's memory the same amount of money we spend on Molly.
As these new life scenarios play out, we pray we are being faithful to both our daughters and our little family of four.
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