Broken

October is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month (among a host of other "months"). But this is the awareness that sits closest to my heart.

I have lost four babies, in varying stages of pregnancy.

I also have two living children. They are the absolute light of my life. They can drive me batty at times, it's true. But I absolutely love watching them grow and learn, testing their curiosity and their questions, learning how to use new words, figuring out how things work, and just the sheer wonder at nature. It's like everything is magical.

I love my family the way it is. Now that my son has just turned two, I feel like I'm finally starting to get a little bit of "me" back. I feel the haze of infancy and nursing 'round the clock and crazy hormones drifting away, and I am finding that I can think more clearly again, reason, use logic even, instead of using words like "thingy" for, well, everything.

But here is my dilemma. I feel I am at a crossroads. My husband and I had always intended to have at least three, maybe four, children. We technically have six, though only two of them are here with us. But the two we have would likely have joined their brothers and sisters had it not been for some extreme medical intervention. I had surgeries to keep my babies in, and surgeries to take my babies out. I was on bedrest. I was prodded for ultrasounds every two weeks during one pregnancy for at least half of the pregnancy. While my pregnancy with my son had the fewest complications, his birth had the most. I was quite literally traumatized. When you're strapped to a table shaking uncontrollably because your body is going into shock from loss of blood, and there's a blood transfusion waiting for you a few feet away, and the doctors tell you they're waiting to close you up until some specialists arrive because the tearing was so odd they want to make sure it's done right...and all the while, your husband has no idea why you're not out of surgery three hours later... You might be traumatized. Maybe.

Because of everything that happened during my son's birth, I've come to absolutely fear my body. I had already doubted its abilities, having lost three children (and nearly lost one) before he was born. But his birth sealed the deal: I was officially broken. Might as well just slap an "out of order" sign on my uterus. We're done. No way my body can handle any more of this.

Even though I felt this way, there's still this debate going on in my head. "Maybe we could have another. Maybe it would be healing. Maybe there's a chance..."

And then I think of life with an infant. And I kind of shudder. I don't know that I want to go through that again. And I especially don't know that I want to go through birth. Like, EVER again.

And yet, for some reason, I feel guilty for this, for wanting to be done.

I think the biggest thing is just feeling like my body is a failure. I couldn't have even gotten my two living children into the world by myself. I am just...broken. And I think that's what I'm having a hard time coming to terms with. That I'm broken, and I may not ever be "fixed" enough to actually have a kid "the right way." My experiences, sucky as they are, might be it. And that...just really sucks. Really.

So that's where I am right now. I don't mean this to be a downer post. I just need to process, and I want to be real. And I'm sure there's someone, somewhere out there who is in a similar place.

I'm just on this journey now to accept my broken pieces for what they are:

Pieces of me.

Not the whole of me.

Worth

Some days just defeat me. Today was one of those days.

I'm visiting with family right now for a particularly joyous occasion: my sister, who is a missionary in Peru, has brought her new husband to the States to meet the family. And so we are celebrating their marriage with a big family get-together and a Blessing of the Marriage service at my grandmother's Episcopal church tomorrow.

This is a happy time for a number of reasons: we are welcoming an awesome person into our crazy family; my sister is actually HERE, in the United States (I probably won't get to see her again for at least a year and a half, if not longer); my other sister is pregnant with her second baby; and family members who haven't been together in years are coming together this weekend to celebrate and reconnect.

Happy times, happy times.

But also a wee bit stressful.

We are all dealing with less elbow room, summer heat, lots of bodies crammed in one house, different ideas of how things should happen...typical issues when planning big gatherings.

And so, on occasion, a random, stray phrase - said with no harm intended - might slip from an unaware mouth.

This is what happened today. Something was said that seemed (to me) to make an inference about my housekeeping skills (or lack thereof). Now, I'm normally a pretty sensitive soul anyway, but when you add that to crazy hormones and a houseful of different, occasionally conflicting personalities - well, let's just say it wasn't pretty.

Of course, I'm not the type of person to blow up at someone on a whim. No. I'm the kind of person who sulks and mutters and cries, secretly hoping that someone will come down and see me and pity me and ask what's wrong, only for me to bitterly say, "Nothing, I'm fine."

(Come on, I know some of you have been that person too...)

So I went downstairs and I sulked and muttered and cried while picking up things and folding the laundry I had done earlier but left in a pile so that I could spend more of my precious little time with my family.

In reality, I *knew* that no harm was meant by what was said earlier. But in my fragile emotional state, I allowed it to eat away at me. I allowed it to dredge up all the hurtful, negative, degrading, demeaning things that had ever been said to or about me. I focused on those things. I *believed* those things. Things like, "You're less of a woman because you're not as neat as your sisters." Or "You're less of a person because you couldn't even get scholarships to college." Or "You aren't good enough at music to pursue it as a career." Or...fill in the blanks.

Many of these things were, first of all, complete falsehoods. I *know* that my value and my worth does not lie in my ability to keep a house spotless, or to get perfect grades in school, or to sight-read music the first time I see it. I know that my value is not determined by how others see me, but rather by how God sees me.

But many of these hurtful things have been said over the years by family. Family who is supposed to love me no matter what. Family, whose opinions I highly value. Family, in whose eyes and heart and mind I have placed my worth.

It is unhealthily easy for me to get tangled up in worrying about what others think of me. I have spent most of my life worrying about what my peers thought of me, and I have placed my value in their (often presumed) ideas of me.

And today I did it again.

But I am so glad that what matters most (or rather, the only thing that really matters) is this right here:

The Lord your God is in your midst,
a mighty one who will save;
he will rejoice over you with gladness;
he will quiet you by his love;
he will exult over you with loud singing.
[...]
And I will save the lame
and gather the outcast,
and I will change their shame into praise
and renown in all the earth.

(Zephaniah 3:17, 19)

Dreams

Today, I am at home, sitting in my messy living room as my children play with random toys and the folded-up boxes I have leaning against one side of our couch in preparation to start packing and sorting things. I am also facebook-stalking old classmates and wistfully thinking about what might have been.

I went to an arts school in 9th and 10th grade. My family had just moved from Middle-of-Nowhere Pennsylvania to Charlotte, NC the summer before 9th grade. So in one fell swoop, I was suddenly 600 miles away from my friends, in a new city, going to a new school that was much more liberal than the conservative, sheltered home that I'd grown up in.

Ninth grade was a little rough emotionally, to say the least. How was I - an overweight, shy, average-grades, four-eyed, self-conscious girl, supposed to fit in with kids who knew they could act/sing/dance/paint - who knew they were destined for Broadway, or Hollywood - destined for greatness? I didn't even know what I wanted to be when I grew up. All I knew is that I loved music, loved singing. And this arts magnet school would give me the opportunity to be surrounded by music all the time.

I awkwardly shoved my glasses up the bridge of my nose as I walked down the hallways past dancers in tights and leotards, actors who created their own unique wardrobes, and even a girl who claimed to be a witch, and wore a silk cloak to school. I fought with myself when it came time to answer questions in class, I derided myself for weeks if I sang a wrong note in my musical theater class, and don't even get me started on how I handled my most-of-the-school-year crush on a boy who turned out to be gay.

I was surrounded by people I simultaneously looked up to and couldn't understand. How could they feel so comfortable with themselves, with who they were, while I was standing here wanting to crawl out of my own skin?

I will never forget the day that I threw a fit before school because I had "nothing to wear." So I haphazardly put together some kind of shoddy combination of a white-and-blue plaid crinkle skirt, a blue college sweatshirt, navy blue tights, and these hideous Xhileration sneakers from Target. I was so embarrassed, but I ran into my crush in the hallway and he stopped, smiled, and told me how nice I looked (!). For a sliver of a second I clung to hope that maybe...maybe... And then I laughed. I looked nice? Ha!

I only started realizing that people actually noticed me at all at the end of my 10th grade year. I was not going to be coming back to the arts school the following year, as I had felt that both my faith and my grades were slipping. (Not cool when you get As in all the classes you sing in, and Ds in Algebra 2.) As one of our last class sessions for a leadership class I had (we were sort of the student government), my teacher had us all sit in a circle and, one by one, we all had to sit in the middle while everyone else either gave us constructive criticism or told us what they admired about us. There were several seniors in the class whom I greatly admired but thought they didn't really know who I was. They teared up as they told me how they admired me, for being so true to my faith, for singing beautifully, for doing any number of things I thought no one had noticed that year. I was so shocked. That day is one that will stay with me forever.

I left the school after that year, but I always thought back on my experiences, wondering what everyone was up to now, wondering what I might be up to now.

Well, apparently half of my class from that school now lives and works in the great New York City, pursuing and living their dreams. I mean, Broadway actors, dancers, directors; celebrity hairstylists; you name it, they're living their creative dreams.

Where am I?

Nashville. In a messy living room. With kids who fight over baby carrots and flashlights.

But you know what? I am living my dream. Because my dream was always - even if I didn't fully realize it or understand it at the time - to be a mommy and a writer. Sure, it may be fun to perform on Broadway, to sing and act and get standing ovations and have my name in lights. It may be fun to make music, go on tour, and have thousands of fans screaming my name. But I couldn't possibly leave these two beautiful, amazing children at my feet. Just thinking about it makes me sad. I don't even like to be away from them for a whole day. (Alright, there are some days I'm okay with being away from them for the whole day. But not frequently.)

And I am currently working on the first draft of the third book in a trilogy I'm writing. And even though it's not published yet - even though no one out there knows yet how this story has moved me to tears,  how the writing of it has changed me - I know that they will. Someday soon. Because these words are my dream. These pages are my stage. And though right now I only have an audience of one, I know that one day, this dream will go live.

And when it does, I'll have my husband and my two awesome children by my side.

What dream could be better than that?

 

Sunbutter Cup Recipe

So, I'm not typically the overly domestic type. My house is always a work-in-progress. I do not have constantly sparkling clean counters. I don't remember the last time I dusted my blinds. My living room floor needs to be picked up and vacuumed daily, thanks to my children, who like to spread toys and crumbs EVERYWHERE.

However, every once in a blue moon, I get into a semi-domestic kick. Baking has always been a draw for me (though I've been getting better at cooking over the years). And so, when my friend (whose daughter is severely allergic to peanuts) was going to come over for a girls' night tonight, I took it upon myself to make her one of her favorite treats - with a twist.

She adores peanut butter cups. But that poses a problem. If she eats peanut butter, she can't be near her daughter. So that only ever happens when her daughter is out of town for the weekend at grandma's house. But because it was supposed to be a relaxing, fun girls' night, I really wanted her to have that "peanut butter cup" experience, minus the peanut butter.

So I searched online for a recipe, and I found this. So I bought the ingredients and immediately started following the directions. It's a fabulous recipe, but I did tweak it a bit. Below I will give you my step-by-step instructions, as well as photos. (Seriously, this is WAY more pinterest-y than I EVER get. So enjoy it while it lasts.)


What you'll need:
1 12 oz. jar of creamy Sunbutter (sunflower seed butter)
2 c. confectioners sugar
2 11-12 oz bags of milk chocolate chips
2-3 tbsp water
mini baking cups

1. Slowly heat the chocolate chips in a small pan/pot on the stove. (I started just below medium, to get the pan warm, and then turned it down to 1/simmer to keep the pan warm enough to keep the chocolate melted but not hot enough to scorch it.)

2. While the chocolate is melting, empty the Sunbutter jar into a mixing bowl. Add confectioners sugar and 2-3 tbsp of water (as needed). Mix until blended well. (It does not have to be super smooth, but the water comes in handy as the sugar makes the mixture quite dry.)

3. With a small spoon, dollop out enough chocolate to coat the bottom and sides of a mini baking cup. Use spoon to smooth around edges. Repeat for as many cups as you want to make. You may want to split up your batch into several smaller batches, i.e., place 12 or so cups on a plate at a time.

4. Place your cups in the freezer for about 15 minutes so the chocolate can harden. (This is why it's easier if you put the cups on a plate.)

5. Once the chocolate is hardened, use a spoon to scoop out the Sunbutter mix into each chocolate cup. Press it down (with your thumb or the back of a spoon) into each cup.

6. Dollop enough chocolate onto the top of each cup to cover the Sunbutter. Once all the cups have chocolate on top, place them in the freezer again to allow the chocolate to harden.

7. If you have odd amounts of chocolate and Sunbutter mixture left over, but not really enough to make any more cups, you can toss the remaining Sunbutter mixture into the pan with the heated chocolate, mix it around, and have a bit of "unofficial" chocolate-Sunbutter fudge. :)

8. Store uneaten Sunbutter cups in a container in the fridge.

A Call to Action

It usually seems appropriate to start a blog post with some kind of witty anecdote or deep, meaningful quotation. But no amount of wit or mask of implied depth would be an appropriate introduction to the topic of slavery.

It has been fairly easy up until the past few months to a year to believe the false assumption that slavery in the United States died with the thirteenth amendment. I mean, we all learn about the Emancipation Proclamation, Abraham Lincoln, the Civil War, and the abolition of slavery.

If you're like me, whenever you heard the word "slavery" you immediately conjured up mental images of ships full of African natives, reminiscent of scenes from Amistad. And yes, those scenes did happen. There were hundreds of thousands of innocent people ripped away from their homes and families and sold to the highest bidders, only to find themselves in a strange land with strange people, strange language and strange customs. Not to mention the horrible ways they were treated, being beaten, raped, and even killed for not pleasing their masters.

But slavery runs so much deeper than merely being an issue of black and white. And despite the best efforts of our forefathers, slavery is still very much alive today, in America and around the world.

I knew this, of course, in a vague, distant sort of way. The sort of way that doesn't really touch me if I don't look at it.

How many people have suffered because I turned away?

God sent me an eye-opener this week in the form of a film called Trade of Innocents. The university I attended for my freshman and sophomore years hosted an event on Monday night in which they held an exclusive screening of the film as well as a question & answer time with the screenwriter/director Christopher Bessette afterward. Not to mention the fact that they had tables set up in the lobby for their social justice department and several organizations that fight human trafficking here in Tennessee, including End Slavery Tennessee and Abolition International. I scooped up several pamphlets, information sheets, and even purchased a bracelet from To Be Free, an extension of Abolition International that sets up and supports after-care for women and girls who have been rescued from sex slavery.

And this was all before I saw the film.

I found my movie buddy and we sat down on the bleachers in the campus church's gym. After some brief introductions of students who worked on marketing the film, the movie started.

Aesthetically the film was beautifully made. The scenery is lush, the music is lovely, the actors are phenomenal.

But beyond that, it tells the heart-wrenching story of girls - some as young as five - who are stolen from their homes and off the streets of Cambodia and sold as sex slaves to "sex tourists." I cried for probably half of the movie.

At the end of the credits, the director of the university's social justice department introduced Christopher Bessette, the film's screenwriter and executive director. He answered questions as to his motives behind the film, why he did certain things creatively, and resources for more information on human trafficking today.

One of the things that struck me most was his description of the moment he knew he had to make this film. He said he had gone to Cambodia and visited a former-brothel-now-safe-house and stood in what used to be called "The Virgin Room," looking down through a barred window at children playing in the street below. He thought, "Sometime, not too long ago, a little girl might have stood at this very window, looking down at children playing, and thinking to herself, 'Why can't I be down there too?'" And he said he got chills and breathed the prayer, "Oh, God, help me tell her story."

That is what he did with this film.

And the only way we can hope to abolish human trafficking - slavery of any kind - whether it is sex trafficking, labor trafficking, or something else, is by telling the victims' stories. There are so many people in the world right now who are like I was a year ago - untouched by this issue because they fear to get a good enough glimpse at it.

But we can't afford to turn away any longer.

According to End Slavery Tennessee:

*Every minute, two children are trafficked (worldwide).

*There are currently around 27 million slaves in the world. Of those, half are minors and 80% are female.

*The average age of entry into prostitution in the United States is between 12 and 14 years old.

*One-third of runaways will be sexually exploited within 48 hours of leaving home; 90% will end up in commercial sex trade.

These children are in our neighborhoods, on our doorstep, in our back yards. You don't have to go to Cambodia to find human trafficking. It's happening right here, right now. When will we stop looking away and finally do something?

God lit the fire under me this week, and the wheels have been turning as I've been trying to discover how I can best use the gifts and talents God has given me to help put a stop to this horrific monster we call slavery and human trafficking. I have some ideas.

What about you? What will you do? Will you look into the eyes of the Innocents and reach out your hand to help?

Or will you turn away?

Now

O to grace how great a debtor 
daily I'm constrained to be! 
Let thy goodness, like a fetter, 
bind my wandering heart to thee. 
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, 
prone to leave the God I love; 
here's my heart, O take and seal it, 
seal it for thy courts above. 

("Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing," Robert Robinson)

The giving of one's testimony - or the story of how Christ saved a person - is an important part of most Christian circles. It is common to give one's testimony in a church service, or to share it with a group of friends in some kind of bible study setting. Usually it refers to the story of how a person came to know Christ - commonly, the events leading up to that particular incident which, in much of Christendom, is the end-all/be-all event of one's life.

However, I have come to realize in recent years that a testimony is not - and SHOULD not be - limited to a single life event, but rather is something that should be lived out daily.

When I was baptized in the Nazarene church, I had to publicly answer a series of questions regarding my faith in Christ, including this one:
     "Do you acknowledge Jesus Christ as your personal Savior, and do you realize that He saves you now?"
"...saves you now" it says.

Now.

As in, in this very moment. In every moment, Jesus saves you, is saving you, continually. I of course responded with "I do." But I did not fully understand at that time what it meant that Jesus "saves me now."

When we talk about Jesus saving us, we tend to refer to a particular frozen moment in time - a moment that seems wistfully and distantly removed from where we are now. There always seems to be a zeal and a spark connected to that moment of saving grace that somehow never made it to this present moment. I used to hear people's testimonies of how Jesus saved them from lives of alcohol, drug, or sex addiction, how they had been in prison, on the streets, at rock bottom, and Jesus swept in and rescued them, removing the need for anything but Him.

I secretly used to wish that I could have a rock bottom.

I know. You're probably thinking, "Are you insane? Really?"

But I did. Because those people always seemed to have so much energy and abounding love and gratitude when it came to Christ. And I, having grown up knowing Christ from the time I was a child, had the monotony of one who knew all the right answers but for whom they held no depth of meaning.

There is a phrase in Chris Daughtry's song "Home" that goes "Be careful what you wish for, 'cause you just might get it all, you just might get it all, and then some you don't want."

It started back in 2003. I was just about to start my first year back at college when my parents announced they would be getting divorced. This struck me hard. Divorce went against everything my parents had said they believed, and so it was difficult to reconcile the whys with belief. I became, for a time, a go-between messenger, hearing "you tell your father blah blah blah" and "next time you talk to you mother tell her blah blah blah." It was emotionally exhausting, and eventually I had to remove myself from that situation.

During the same time, my husband was going through some stuff that made our marriage more of a hostile
desert environment than a blossoming oasis. The gravity of this combined with the emotional stress of my parents' divorce wore me down, and I ended up on a trial of anti-depressants for a while.

One evening, after getting off the phone with one of my parents, I was in tears. My husband began arguing with me, saying that their divorce wasn't even my concern, and I shouldn't have to bear the weight of it. His parents had at that point been married for 42 years. I yelled at him that he had no idea what it was to go through his parents separation and divorce. And he yelled at me that I shouldn't even be upset about it.

This was the beginning of the emotional rift.

At that time, there was a certain young man who had been a decent acquaintance. When I disclosed to him that my parents were getting divorced and how it was shaking me emotionally, he immediately offered comfort, saying he understood exactly what it was like as his parents had also divorced while he was in college. He offered me a shoulder to lean on at a time when I most needed my husband, who had offered me nothing but bitterness and anger.

I toed the door open ever so slightly.

Over the next two or so years, I entertained lively fantasies in my head of this man, while simultaneously sowing bitterness toward my husband, who continued to battle his own demons. Instead of trying to support one another and grow closer, our lives seemed to be pulling us apart.

I recognized for a long time that I was suffering from depression and I realized that I had allowed my heart to grow so distant from my husband that I was ready to leave him if this other man were to give me any indication that there was a reason to leave.

I also knew that this was not what God wanted for my life. I still loved my husband, deep down. But that love was buried beneath layers and layers of hurt and anger. I knew that in the emotional state I was in, I would not be able to dig myself out of that. But I wanted to be free of it.

I felt so tiny, so small, buried inside myself. There was this huge swirling mess of tangled emotions, depression, lust, heartache, fear. And somewhere deep inside was that little spark that was still me. And that little spark knew that the only way out of this mess was by giving it all over to Jesus.

And so I prayed.

Anytime my thoughts or emotions felt bigger than me.
Anytime I really wanted to give into those fantasies.
Anytime I wanted to yell and scream at my husband.
Anytime I thought about taking the whole bottle of pills.

I prayed.

And little by little, the darkness grew less.
Little by little, my burdens got lighter.

I slowly, steadily made progress, learning to forgive, learning to heal. Learning to stop blaming other people for the mess I had become.

And learning to stop hiding.

Because when you grow up Christian, and your life falls apart, it's hard to let other people see you as you are. I had been trying so hard to put on a brave face, to make everything seem okay when it really wasn't okay.

I found that I still had friends who cared about me, people who took the time to pray with and for me. And they didn't think I was a horrible, terrible person for all the things that had been going on in my head and my heart. They thought I was human.

I was finally making headway, coming out of that dark place in my life. My husband was making progress as well, coming out of his dark place.

And then, in 2008, we discovered that I was pregnant.

We were ecstatic! Joyous! Thrilled!

Now that we were together again in spirit, we would finally have a living testament to our oneness in the form of a beautiful baby.

Everything was going well.

Until my water broke at 5 months.

I remember the car ride to the hospital, my lungs heaving, trying to find air, as my entire body was wracked with uncontrollable chills from the adrenaline rush that told me I was losing my baby. I watched the midnight city lights rush past my window in a blur of color, not paying attention to anything but what my body was telling me as my husband slammed on the gas, veering around slow-moving traffic to get me to the hospital as quickly as possible.

As the nurses attached monitors to my body and probed my womb with ultrasound scanners, they told me that I had no amniotic fluid left. My baby was okay for now, but without the amniotic fluid, her lungs would not develop properly.

After a while, I was alone, in a dark room surrounded by the beeping of heart rate monitors for the baby and blood pressure and contraction monitors for me. My bed was slightly inclined at the foot to try to counteract any evil plot gravity may have had for pulling my baby from my body.

The uncontrollable shaking had still not stopped. My jaw quivered as I gasped out the only prayer I could think of: "God, I just want my baby to be safe, whether that's in my arms or in yours."

The shaking stopped and for the first time in hours, I felt a warm peace creep through my body. And I was somehow able to sleep.

Days went by and not much changed. I clung to the hope that my life would continue thus for the next few months, boring and dull as it was to be trapped in a hospital bed. I hoped that my sweet baby girl would stay safely tucked away in my womb until her lungs were developed enough that she could breathe on her own - or at least with the help of a machine.

But she had other plans.

After two weeks in the hospital, it became obvious that our sweet Genna's birth was imminent. With nothing to keep her in my womb (the amniotic sac having been compromised when my water broke), Genna's little feet began pushing through my cervix. It would only be a matter of hours before I would have to birth her.

I never went into labor, never had contractions with her. She just gradually made her way out until I was forced to push her fully into the world.

Upon the last push, there was no loud baby cry, no joyous intake of breath at her baby cuteness. Rather, there was a quiet and focused determination as my doctor snipped the cord and the neonatologists rushed her across the room to try to get her hooked up to an oxygen machine.

And as she came out of my body, I shuddered a gut-wrenching sob that forced all the air out of my lungs. I knew she was going to die.

My doctor came over and just stood next to me, holding my hand as I cried up to the ceiling.

It was only a few moments before my husband came over to me and told me that the neonatologists had done all they could do for our sweet little girl. And so they wrapped her up in a receiving blanket - which was so huge around her tiny, one-pound-three-point-nine-ounce body - and we held her.

She was so tiny that her eyes were still fused shut - she never got to see me. But I know with certainty that she knew who I was. At one point, as I cradled her miniscule body close to mine, I reached down and touched her spindly, fork-prong-sized fingers with my seemingly gigantic pinky finger. And with those tiny, spindly fingers, she gripped my pinky with all the strength she could muster.

It was the only hug I ever got from my first child.

And I will never forget it.

In the months that followed, I spoke all the right answers, but I did not feel them. I grew cynical and distant. I stopped answering phone calls - partly because I kept getting calls from a healthy pregnancy program through my insurance company, who kept leaving me messages asking about my due date and cheerily stating they hoped all was well.

I hated them. I hated a lot of things. And, okay, probably a lot of people. But I buried it. I tried not to show it.

It was desperately difficult to go to church, where my husband was youth pastoring a youth group in which there were two pregnant teenagers, both of whom had uncomplicated pregnancies.

I asked God why. Why had I done everything right, and my baby died? Why were these girls "living in sin" and yet their babies were fine? It wasn't fair. None of it was fair at all.

I ended up stepping down from my position at work, which was the Children's Department Lead at a bookstore. It was too difficult coming into work and reading stories to groups of happy toddlers, helping mothers with tiny, healthy babies find books on parenting, and seeing young families laugh and play together. I just couldn't do it anymore.

All the while, I wondered why. Why, God? I had just finally started to feel healthy and whole inside again. And then you take my baby away? I just couldn't grasp it.

I stoically did not let myself grieve until that September - a whole four months after my sweet Genna left us. I went to a women's retreat with my church, and there, while perusing some books in their bookshop, I saw a couple books about grieving the loss of a child. One of the books specifically dealt with stillbirth, miscarriage, and neonatal loss.

I bought the books and devoured them. It was a little difficult to read through all the tears. But it was cathartic. I finally allowed myself to face my grief head-on.

And I began to realize that God didn't just let my baby die, and God didn't steal my baby away from me. God was grieving right along with me. Every step of the way.

I have never gotten over the loss of my first baby. I don't think it's possible for any parent to "get over" losing a child. Ever. But gradually, the days and weeks get easier to bear. My husband and I have had two healthy living children since then (though we have also experienced three miscarriages besides the loss of our sweet Genna).

And I thank God daily for my beautiful daughter and son, that I can hug them and hold them and cuddle with them. That I can take them to the park and the library. That we can read and sing and play together. That they can breathe with no difficulties. That they are not chronically ill and have no health issues whatsoever.
My life has gotten infinitely better. Sure, my husband and I argue from time to time. (Sometimes several times a day.) But it's not the kind of argument that threatens a marriage. We end up laughing. We have learned to communicate. To forgive. To love fully.

Does that mean that we are without troubles? Without temptations?

Certainly not.

I will freely admit, there are still days when faded memories of a certain young man come drifting into my mind, or when I may feel a bit of attraction for someone rise to the surface, or when I feel depression setting in. But now I am better equipped to swat them away with the swift hand of Christ's purity. Am I always successful? No.

But Jesus saves me now.

Now.

In this moment.