She is not forgotten

Sitting in the weak, autumn sun, eating my lunch, I opened Facebook and saw a message from a friend, who had been in her garden and smelled the jasmine my mom gave her to plant. The occasion had been my own daughter's funeral.

And just like that, the old pain rose up in my heart, spilled out of my eyes; a pain so great it felt that my very bones quaked, my poor pressure rose so that My ears could hear nothing, my lungs could not draw breath and my heart quailed. The world seemed, once more, to stop spinning, to implode upon itself.

But like a wave that has crashed retreats back down the shore, the grief receded. And so, now I sit with damp cheeks, damp eyes, a runny nose, a clenched and raw throat, exhausted, yet alive, knowing that life goes on, and so must I.

And that, perhaps, is the hardest thing of all to bear.

Gratitude day #18

We had some friends over for dinner last night, one of whom did not know the story of our loss of Zoe, or of te support group we run, Born Sleeping (check us out on Facebook - BornSleepingZA - or our website, Bornsleeping.wordpress.com), so we were telling him our story. Being a medic type, he was fascinated by my APS, and we were chatting about my symptoms and treatment (or lack thereof). In the re-telling and discussion, I was reminded so clearly of what a miracle it is that both my children are alive; that instead of having all of my children in heaven, I have two of them on earth with me. I am grateful to God for the lives of all my kids, living and dead, but I am all the more grateful to have two living. I am grateful that I am able to experience them, know them, love them, watch them growing and developing, and that I am able to feel their love in return. What a blessing and privilege!

The first signs of new life

Spring is such a thrilling season. In countries where there is a vast difference between summer and winter, particularly countries in which there is snow in winter, spring is a time of celebration - a time when there are the first indications that life is returning.

Years ago, I felt I had a close relationship with God, when I was able to hear him speaking to me easily, and frequently. Then I suffered a series of disappointments, including Zoe's death, and I found myself in the valley of the shadow of death. At the bottom of the valley, I felt I lost my connection with God. I couldn't hear him, and that feeling of isolation has been incredibly difficult to manage or work through. These past 5 years have felt like the hardest, darkest, longest winter of my soul. It's felt like the winter in Narnia - I've known what spring and summer feel like, what the warmth of the sun feels like, but can't really remember what they felt like. Over the past year or so I've felt the gradual thaw, but spring still felt like a long way away.

This past week though, it feels as if spring has finally arrived. I had a moment of celebration earlier in the week when I heard God speak words into my mind for me to share with someone else. It has been about 5 years since that last occurred. What joy! To hear my Saviour's voice again... For whatever reason, he's decided I'm ready again, that this ordeal is at an end.

My celebration and relief were short-lived though.

Back in the late ninties (I think it was in '99, but I can't find the exact journal entry to confirm it) I felt that God had given me a passage of Scripture as the direction for my life. At the time, I believed God told me that this passage would be the mission of my life, that this was his calling on my life. The passage in question? Is 61: 1-4:

"The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me, because the Lord has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favour and the day of vengeance of our God, to comfort all who mourn and provide for those who grieve in Zion - to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of   mourning and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendour. They will rebuild the ancient ruins and restore the places long devastated; they will renew the ruined cities that have been devastated for generations."

It was confirmed for me several times since then that this IS God's calling on my life. In the darkness, when I was questioning everything, I tried to hold onto those previous moments when I felt God confirmed this for me. Today, God confirmed it for me again, but not in the way I would ever have anticipated.

It struck me, on this occasion, that when Jesus spoke these words in Luke 4, he hadn't yet been to the cross. The cross was still to come - and Jesus knew that. He knew that in order for him to bring good news to the poor, to bind up the broken-hearted, to proclaim release, etc, he would need to suffer and then die. What's more, even as he said those words, as he opened the scroll and read them, he knew that that was what would have to happen.

It then struck me that when God has made this passage the calling over my life, he knew that in order for me to fulfil it, I would have to share in Christ's suffering. I would also have to experience a death, an isolation from the Father and a grief. I, too, would have to be wounded. Where in the past I have focussed on the positive aspect of the words, without thinking about how I would get there. Today,God revealed to me how this long night of the soul and the disappointments of the last few years have all been part of God's plan for my life. Even Zoe.

It struck me that even before I was born, God knew that Zoe would die. He chose not to remove this grief from me. He chose to allow it. He made her death part of his plan for my life. Paul had his "thorn in the flesh". 3 times he asked God to remove it, and 3 times God's response was that His grace was sufficient for Paul. While Paul's thorn may have been physical rather than spiritual, the principle remains. God allowed him that grief, that wound, in order to use him to bring God's good news to the Gentiles.

As I reflected on this, and on the passage, instead of seeing the positives, I saw the pain. How do I bind up the broken-hearted? By having my own heart broken and allowing myself to weep with them. How do I preach release to the prisoners? By sharing my own journey of release. How do I comfort those who mourn? By having mourned myself. For each of the promises, where before I saw myself in a position of strength reaching out to help the weak, now I see that God's plan was always for me to be in a position of brokenness sharing my life with fellow sufferers. And how would he achieve that? By breaking me. By isolating me. By leading me into the valley of the shadow.

My reactions were multiple. First and most overwhelming was my shock. Zoe's death was purposeful. There it is. In my face. How do I carry this cross? However, fortunately, that was not my only reaction, which in itself says something. It struck me that God didn't have to reveal this to me. The fact that he did tells me that He thinks I've come far enough on the road to be able to handle this piece of news. Wow. Wow. Overlaid on this are my reflections on how I handled her death in the first place. 

In grief, some Christians are able to maintain their joy, not to move into the blame game. I was not one of those. So, as I was reeling from shock, I deliberately chose to take it to God, to continue to honour him. I was able to thank him for revealing this to me, for trusting me with this information; praise him for moving me on from where I was.

That I was able to do so was some comfort. Her death has not been in vain. It has helped to mature me. But it hurts. It really hurts.

Moving beyond my pain, after crying my way through a good deal of the service, I have come to a place of acceptance. Her death is not something I will ever get over, partly because it is only in this place of grief that God can fulfil the calling he placed on my life. It is only as I allow my heart to be turned from stone to flesh, to be wounded by the woundings and brokenness of others, that God's words over my life will bear fruit.

Jesus had to be crucified in order to bring shalom into our lives. I had to lose Zoe.If God had revealed this to me beforehand, I think I would have walked away. Jesus, in facing the cross asked God to take it away, if he could, yet submitted to God's plan to save human kind. My role on this earth is FAR from being that far-reaching or vital. Having had my own "cross" to bear, I can still choose to walk away, to say this is too much to bear.

All this was running through my head during the service. There were tears, and lots of them. Yet, I have chosen to walk this road. Why? Because God spoke to me. God spoke to me! If I have to go through another grief like that, then I'd rather do it with God on my side, than not. Being isolated from him has been hell. Sheer hell. I can get through anything else if God is at my side.

Spring has sprung, people!

My song is love unknown

Funny how life has a habit of creeping up on you when you least expect it.

March is always a tough month for me. As the days tick by, I keep a mental note of how many days there are until the 24th. I try really hard not to reflect on the events that took place during this month five years ago. I try hard to just keep busy.

Because I know that if I stop, if I pause, the walls will come crashing down again and I'll be useless to anyone for a while.

They say time is a healer. Since that fateful day, five years ago, I've maintained that's absolute trash. Time's not a healer - it just puts enough distance between you and the event that you can go on living and pretend it never happened.

God is the only healer, and what healing I've seen in myself as He has worked in me and with me! Yet the pain is still there. I still bear the scars, and like a physical wound when the weather changes, my metaphysical scars are aching. I can feel the dull ache, throbbing quietly, threatening to become full-blown, all-encompassing pain unless I do something.

But what can I do? Nothing will bring her back. There's no balm, or salve, or tonic, or potion, or pill one can take to heal this broken part of my heart. She's gone.

She would have been in Grade R this year. We'd have been teaching her Letterland, and how to hold a pen, how to ride a bike without training wheels....

Zoe, I miss you, my sweet darling. Your tree is flowering so beautifully this year - it's seemed so feeble in years gone by, but this year it seems to be pulling out all the stops. Maybe it's all the extra love and care I've been giving it; maybe it's a reminder to me that you are always with us. Your sister is so keen to celebrate your birthday - she wants to hold a party for you. How do I explain to her that others will see that as morbid? Your brother has at last learnt your name. I can't wait for him to be old enough to understand that you are his other big sister. He loves to take all our family photos and make me kiss them - kissing yours is always a little heart-sore moment for me. I hope, as Margie emailed me today, you'll be at the wedding on Sunday in some way. I hope your little ginger curls haven't turned too blonde. I know we'll be together again one day, but how I miss you now, sweetheart! How I miss you now. Happy birthday, my love!

A grief remembered

I've just returned from attending Trevor's funeral. I deliberately chose not to attend the viewing of the body in his home because I knew I wouldn't manage it very well. I was feeling fine as I sat in the pew, until the casket was wheeled in. Then the grief hit me full force.

My first thought was 'my God, he's in that box'. My second thought was 'just like Zoe was in hers', upon which I started crying.

I remember carrying her tiny coffin into the church. I was so blinded by tears I could barely see where to walk.

I stood in the pew and watched Trevor's mother enter behind his casket, supported by her mother (I presume) and sister (again, I presume). I watched this poor, broken woman and my heart broke afresh. I know her pain. I know the hell she is in now. I also know that there is nothing I can say or do that will make it any better for her.

It struck me that his little sister won't remember him - she's only about 3yrs old. While I know that Nellie doesn't remember Zoe actively, I know that she understands, and we still talk about her often - how we wish she were still with us, how we miss her, how we know we'll see her again one day. But Nathan doesn't know any of that yet. I know he doesn't understand. I don't know how to tell him, or when. I guess I'm hoping that as Nellie and I talk about it he will just imbibe the knowledge by diffusion.

I remember sitting in the church, listening to Stephen preaching. I don't remember a word he said. I remember thinking that his words were beautiful, and comforting, but I don't remember a word. I hope Thelma can remember the sermon today - it was perfect. It said all the things that needed to be said, without minimising the tragedy or the grief, but equally without softening the truth in any way.

This grief never leaves you. The pain and suffering never end. You just learn to live around it, or to ignore it for a while. But it never leaves. Give it half a chance, dwell on it for a moment too long, and it's almost as fresh as the day it first entered your life.

I don't know whether I was crying for Trevor, for Thelma, or for myself and Zoe, or both. There were times when I wanted to moan - I know those were mostly for myself and Zoe, but I also know that part of what I was experiencing was a sharing in Thelma's grief. I know her heart continues to break, and I know both the feel and the sound of that tearing of the soul.

In that regard, the preacher was also spot on. He didn't offer platitudes. (Thank God for small mercies! I think I might have had to leave the church to throw up if he had!) He didn't offer false comfort. What he did say, though, is that NOTHING can ever snatch us out of God's hands. That doesn't mean God makes us immune to suffering. Instead, it means that we are never alone, we never die alone, and that God is with us through and in our suffering.

In all likelihood, Trevor died in pain - both from his stab wounds and possibly from being suffocated as he lay bleeding to death. Yet, he did not die alone. He was held in God's hand through it all, and God took him away to a place where there is no more pain, or suffering, or crying. I was oddly comforted by that.

It struck me that although I wasn't aware of exactly when Zoe died, she didn't die unnoticed. God was with her, and God knows the exact moment she crossed over from this life into the next. My baby girl has never known loneliness, because she has always been surrounded by God's hands and his love.

As horrible as Trevor's death was, we do not grieve as those with no hope. He is in a better place now, and we will see him again. I will see my precious Zoe again. Till that day, I know that they are both in a place of peace and love and joy. That is the comfort that God brings.

Mother's Day

I know it's after the fact, but I wanted to record something of what took place yesterday, because it felt like such a significant day.

Between the rush of church and family gatherings, I scarcely had time to think about some things that cropped up for me.

Just recently I've found myself thinking a lot about Zoe. Mother's Day obviously brought her to mind in a big way, but I've caught myself looking at her photo a lot in the past few weeks, and talking to her again. I haven't done that in a long while.

Did I tell you about the painting I saw at Kirstenbosch recently? There's a permanent art display near the nursery up at the top gate, with rotating art by local artists. G and I decided to go and see it while we were there recently. While there, I saw a lovely little painting of 3 blonde kids playing in the surf: two girls with a little boy. Their ages looked correct for Janel, Zoe and Nathan as they would be at the moment. It's a fairly simple painting, but it captured my heart. Maybe that's why she's been in my thoughts so much of late... I've promised myself that if we have enough money left over after our current renovations & G's op & a few other essentials, that I'll go back to see whether it's still there, and if it is, I'll buy it.

But getting back to Mother's Day. The sermon on Sunday morning was on.. wait for it... "Is God in control?". I know, not the sort of topic you would expect for Mother's day, but there you go. Given the place my heart is in right now, it was a timeous topic. This is one of the things I have always struggled with since Zoe's death. Why didn't God save her? Was it because he wasn't able to, didn't care enough to, or was there some other reason? I've come to accept that it's the 3rd - that there was another reason for her death. However, this sermon really helped me to firm up that foundation, to remind me of how I can know that God IS always in control, and that he continues to care, but that his purposes & plans are bigger than me and my little life. It was one of the best sermons I've heard in a long time - and I wound up in tears. (Now doesn't that sound familiar????) I'd recommend you listen to it. (Click this link to download it from the church's website.)

Then, my mom and I had such a fabulous talk - HOURS long - about all sorts of things, both trivial and meaningful. We haven't had an opportunity to talk like that in a very, very long time. I've missed it. It was so awesome to connect with her again.

All this following on from pancakes in bed for breakfast (my man is the BEST!) and special pictures from my kids made this Mother's Day a special one to remember.

4 years, and counting

I can't believe that on Thursday Zoe would be turning 4, if she had lived. Four. How different life would have been having two little girls, instead of a boy and a girl, and two children so close together, instead of 3.5yrs apart.

Part of me is still devastated to think about it. Part of me still wants to howl with frustration and longing. But most of me has come to accept it - it's just the way things are.

On Friday I went to hear R.T. Kendall preach. (WHAT a blessing - that man is SO gifted!! How I wish I could have been a congregant at Westminster Chapel while he was there.... It felt like a once in a million chance to do so - I mean, how often does someone of his calibre come to Cape Town?) He preached on the miracle that Peter and John performed when they healed the lame man. You know... "Silver and gold have I none"??

Peter and John went to pray.
they met a lame man on the way
He asked for alms and held out his palms,
and this is what Peter did say:
"Silver and gold have I none,
but such as I have give I you.
In the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, in Jesus’ name rise up and walk.
The man went walking and leaping and praising God,
Walking and leaping and praising God,

“In the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, In Jesus’ name rise up and walk”.

(Doesn't that song just take you back a generation or so?)

R.T. posed an interesting question - given that Jesus must have walked past this guy hundreds of times in his life, and certainly several times during his ministry, and given that he healed the lame at the Pool of Bethesda, why didn't Jesus heal this guy? Then R.T. posed another question - do you ever thank God for unanswered prayer? R.T. went on to explain that sometimes God choses not to answer our prayers because he has a better plan for us. In the case of this lame man, the better plan was to give Peter and John the opportunity to heal him, to give the fledgling church a platform from which to begin preaching, to increase the spread of the gospel.

It got me thinking. I've always wondered why God chose not to answer our prayers; why he chose to allow Zoe to die. Maybe the answer lies in what R.T. was teaching. Maybe it's because God had a better plan. I'm not sure what that plan might be, but I'm in a place now where I can accept that maybe her death was for the best.

I still miss her though. I guess I always will.

On the wings of a butterfly (video)

Grief strikes when you are unsuspecting. Over the weekend, while I was getting dressed one morning, both kids were in our room. We have a dresser on top of which are some photos, including a photo of Zoe, taken shortly after her birth. It's the only photo of her we have in the house.

From time to time, Nellie asks who the baby in the photo is, and every time I tell her the story of her precious sister. (While it hurts a little bit that she doesn't remember, I can hardly blame her - she was only 14 months when Zoe died.) The amount of detail I give varies each time, depending on how much time we have available to talk.

I heard her take the photo off the dresser, and prepared myself for her usual question. To my surprise, instead, she got down on the floor with Nate and showed him the picture (Nate ADORES pictures and photos, almost more than toys).

"Look Nathan. This is Zoe. She's our sister. She died and now she's in heaven. But we still love her."

Although I tried not to show it, my jaw hit the floor, a full second before my heart splintered again. On the one hand, I was thrilled to see that Nellie has taken Zoe's story to her heart. I was also so proud to see how she's taken it on herself to teach her brother about his other big sister.

But it breaks my heart that we have to tell Zoe's story. It breaks my heart that Nate will never know his sister. At least Nellie met her. I know that she doesn't remember, but we have photos of the 4 of us together. She gave Zoe a teddy. She touched her and kissed her. I have the memories of those precious moments and can share them with her. Nate will never have that.

Of course, had she lived, he wouldn't be here, I know that, so they would never have met anyway. That's not the point. The point is that the black hole in our family that is Zoe's death continues to have an effect on our family life. Part of me wishes we could just forget. It would be easier that way. But I can't ever forget her. I could burn her photos, scatter the last of her ashes, chop down her tree or burn it, give away the last of her toys and clothes I've kept, erase every reminder of her in our lives, but I could never erase the memories of her, nor would I want to.

I was reading a friend's blog earlier (she's also lost a baby), and she made a comment about how different her two girls were in utero. I suddenly realised that I couldn't remember the details about Zoe's pregnancy - about her movements, the way her personality expressed itself. And that realisation was like a fire through me. How could I forget the only memories I have of my baby girl while she was alive? Thank God for this blog. At least I can go back and read what I've written about her before, remind myself about her.

I know that my memory is atrocious - I make no bones about that - but the fact that it has finally betrayed me in this area of my life is ... traitorous.

Zoe

Yesterday was 2 years since her death.

There is so much that I could say, but I don't have the energy.

I still miss her. I still sob buckets over her. It still sucks that she's not here.

And it's still so difficult to be around other babies and pregnant women. I know it's "stupid", because I've had Nathan, but it is what it is. I'm getting better at hiding my pain and being able to rejoice with them though, so I guess that's something.

We chose not to mark the day. I'm not sure it was the right decision, in retrospect. However, I had been thinking about her a lot more this past week, and in my heart I acknowledged her birth. I guess that's what really matters most to me.

Thanks to those who knew and emailed/ sms'd/ FB'd. Even though I couldn't reply at the time, it was good to know we were not alone in our remembrances.

Resignation

I found this on a blog I read, of a woman who recently lost her baby. It just seems so appropriate at the moment.

Resignation
from The Seaside and the Fireside
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(1807-1882)

There is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howsoe’er defended,
But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers
May be heaven’s distant lamps.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition;
This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead,–the child of our affection,–
But gone unto that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,
Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead.

Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild
In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child;

But a fair maiden, in her Father’s mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;
And beautiful with all the soul’s expansion
Shall we behold her face.

And though at times impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed,
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest,–

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay;
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
The grief that must have way.

Zoe

Zoe, my baby girl. I miss you. I envy those who have the courage to sit and pen a poem to their lost angels. I can't do it. It hurts too much to think about you for the length of time it would require of me to do you justice.

Life with your baby brother is now so busy I feel I hardly have a moment to think of you. He brings me such joy, you know? He's the complete opposite of your big sister. She's so pensive; he's so full of joy. I wonder what you are like?

I was struck afresh this evening that my hunger for you will never vanish. What I wouldn't give to have you hug me, or smile at me, or laugh with me, or to have one conversation with you.... Of course, only one of any of those would never be enough - in fact, it might make my longing even worse, but I'd still gladly pay whatever price was demanded for it.

I miss you so much, baby girl. I can't explain it to anyone who hasn't lost a child. They just don't understand. I'm not even sure I do. I'm not sure how one continues to grieve for a person you never knew, but I do and I know that I always will.

Those 9 months were all too brief, and I know I didn't pay attention to you the way I should have, the way I did when I was pregnant with your sister, or with your brother. With her, she had my attention because the whole experience was so new. With your brother, he had my attention because I was so terrified I would lose him like I lost you. But you, sweet child... I lost out on you, and you lost out on my love as a result. I was so busy looking after your sister, working, and hurling my guts in the loo it never even occurred to me that anything might be wrong. I'm so sorry. I really am. I wish I could do it over and love you the way you deserved to be loved.

And now, even though I have your brother to hold and cuddle, tonight I still feel the empiness you left behind. And there are no words for that. I miss you. I ache for you. I love you - please never forget that.

I hope and pray that we will meet again, and that we will celebrate Christmas as one big happy family one day. Until then though, however happy and joyful our Christmases are, I know that part of my heart will always be sad, because you aren't with us and I wish you were. I wish you were.

I wish I could see your smile, hear you laugh, watch all your 'firsts' - rolling over, starting solids, pushing up on your arms, crawling, learning to hold your own bottle, taking your first step, saying your first word... I wish I could watch you sleeping, with your arms spread wide and your breathing even. I wish I could get scared because your infant breathing was so shallow it would seem you weren't breathing at all. I wish I could blow zerbits on your tummy, and feet, and in your neck. I wish I could how much pleasure you derived from the life around you. I wish I could watch you develop your skills - would you have been a painter, or a writer, or a musician, or a sportswoman, or a baker? I wish I could have held your hand as you stepped out into the road. I wish I could have taught you how to ride a bike and swim. Much, much further down the road, I wish I could have watched you graduate and get married.

I miss you, darling child. And I grieve for all the things that parents are usually privileged to experience with their kids. I grieve for not seeing your beautiful face, or smelling your sweet baby smell....

... and nothing can put that right or bring you back.

and yet the longing continues. It is easier now than it was in the beginning. I can usually talk about you now without even feeling a twinge of a tear. I can think about you without crying.

But still, it's the unexepcted grief that side-swipes me; the little things. Like tonight and watching that movie. Absorbed in another's story, I often don't realise how open my heart is, and how vulnerable, and then a line is delivered like that one, and because my heart isn't guarded, the pain rises again to the surface.

Crying helps, oddly. Even though it's hopeless crying, because I know that the pain remains after I have no more tears to cry, it still helps, somehow. It feels good to acknowledge once again just how precious you are, and how much I miss you, and how much I love you.

One day, my precious, we will be together again. I know that. But the waiting seems to go on for so long.

Yet I dare not speed it up, or hurry it along. Your brother and sister still need me. My heart would break afresh if they had to grow up without my love. I pray that God spares me until they are old with children of their own, so that I may love them fully and completely, the way children are supposed to be loved. But making that choice also means that I choose to prolong my private agony. I guess that's the sacrifice of being a parent to you. Every parent makes sacrifices for their children - sometimes the sacrifices are for all the kids, and sometimes they are for an individual child. This is my sacrifice for you - that right now I have to put the living before the dead.

And as if he knows - your brother is stirring. I love you, sweetheart. Always. Merry Christmas.

First day back, Zoe makes an appearance

It went rather uneventfully, except that my laptop won't talk to the network at all. In fact, the experts can't get it to work, so I've got to back it up later this evening and then they're going to reformat it tomorrow.

Joy.

It was odd being back. I think the fact that we've only got 2 weeks of lessons before the kids are on final exams is part of the problem - I'm struggling to motivate myself to figure out what to do with them. I'm also struggling to get my head together again - thinking in blocks of 43, 44 or 45 minutes just isn't normal. And, to my horror, I discovered that I've forgotten a lot of the kids' names. Thank God for seating plans!!

Being without Nathan wasn't as bad as it could have been. I've been working my way up to today - leaving him with Priscilla for long stretches of time (a whole morning, or a whole afternoon). In that respect it wasn't bad at all. But I did miss him. I think it's the fact that I couldn't just go home anytime.

Coming home was horrible though - I just wanted to snuggle with him, to the exclusion of all else, but Nellie was being whiney and jealous, so I couldn't, and then he got tired and wanted to go to bed. *Sulk!*

What has really messed with my heart though, is reading about a book launch for a book called 'Notes left behind', which launched in Oct. It's a collection of notes and journal entries about a 6yr old girl who died from cancer. It was initially created for her younger sister, Grace, so that when she grows up she would know about her big sister. It's a tragic, heartbreaking story, even if there is some positive redemption at the end.

I really should know better than to watch or read stories about kids who die. I really ought to. Needless to say, I balled my eyes out, then proceeded to beg God (again) not to take my two remaining kids from me. It's really not fair that little kids are victims in this way. It's not fair that they die. Every time I read a story or hear about a child who dies like this, my heart breaks. I know this. So why do I go there? You would think that I would learn, but apparently that part of my brain is dysfunctional.

Speaking of Zoe, we're finally getting around to commissioning a painting to remember her by. We've selected an artist we like, and in Nov/ Dec we're going to get together with her to talk about what we want. It feels poignant, somehow, that we're only doing this now that Nathan is here. I find myself looking at him and wondering how she would have been at his age...

But, back to the story. I'm tired. I'd forgotten how exhausting it is managing a class of teenagers. Thank God it wasn't a full day. I'm still flying by the seat of my pants for the next few days, and probably, just as I get my head in gear, it'll be time to go on exams. Isn't that just typical?

Anyway, I'm going to head for bed just as soon as my laptop is backed up. Hope we all have sweet and pleasant dreams tonight.

Choices

Being at home, and having to be sitting down as much as I do (feeding Nate and all that), has given me a chance to look for some new people to follow. I can't remember how I found Julia, but I think it was through Tertia. From Julia I've also discovered Cecily. This morning I read Cecily's post about how upset she'd been by a marketer's failed attempt to get her to help them out. In the process I discovered that she had fertility issues, then managed to fall pregnant with IVF, only to lose her first pregnancy, with twins, because of severe pre-eclampsia. So severe, in fact, that she had to terminate the pregnancy at 22 weeks.

Just stop for a minute and think about that. You want kids, but can't have them. Then you manage to fall pregnant, only to lose them. And not only that, but YOU actually have to make the decision to terminate. Terminate is such a bland term. As a mother, when you terminate, you know that what you're actually doing is choosing to kill your kid/s. So here is someone who desperately wants a child choosing to kill one. Or rather, being forced to choose.

I'm not for a moment about to go down the route of the usual pro-lifers arguments. If I were in her shoes, I would have made the same choice. I'm just stunned, shocked, appalled by the choice she had to make. The babies weren't viable, one had already died in utero, and then she had to make the choice of whether she lived or whether possibly she AND the baby died. Not a great set of options there.

As I went back and read her archived story about those horrible days, I could picture it all so clearly. Although our circumstances were so very different, we experienced such similar emotions. I remember what it was like when I couldn't feel Zoe move - the panic and terror, the confusion, and trying to quash those feelings. I remember the moment when I was told there was no heartbeat. The sense of incredulity. The last ditch attempt to hold onto hope and sanity. The feeling of overwhelming panic and the deepest, coldest, darkest fears bearing down like a physical weight. Then grief so deep and physical I started to vomit. I cried as I read her story. I can only imagine how her grief at losing two precious children was compounded by the knowledge that she had been forced to kill one.

In life we are faced with so many choices. Some are of little consequence (unless you buy into the butterfly flapping its wings in Brazil causes a hurricane in Africa theory); others are life changing. Some aren't really choices at all, it's just choosing the lesser of two evils.

In the past few weeks since I've been home with Nathan, I've found myself having the same reaction I had after losing Zoe. As I held her in my arms on that horrible day, one of my first thoughts was that I wanted another child. I wanted to try again immediately. I didn't want my last experience of pregnancy to be one in which there was no positive outcome. As it happened, we had to wait nearly 18 months for financial reasons. Not a week went by in that time though, that I didn't think about our deadline - Oct 2008. No-one believed me when I said we were going to fall pregnant in Oct 2008, but I wanted a baby so badly that I wasn't going to wait a second later than I had to to fall pregnant. Lucky us, we have no issues in the 'getting pregnant' department.

Since Nate was born alive and kicking, despite scaring me nearly to death along the way, I expected that I would be satisfied. You all know how horrid my pregnancies are. (Did I blog about crying in Canal Walk a week before his birth because I was in such pain I couldn't walk and nearly stopping a passerby to ask them to ask at Information for a wheelchair? I can't remember now.) My body is not built for pregnancy, despite what God intended. I vowed that after Nate, there would be no more pregnancies for me. I know that my body simply can't handle another one. If I were to fall pregnant again, I think my body would literally fall apart at the hips.

So why is it that since Nate's birth all I really want is to be pregnant again with another baby? Is it just some innate biological urge? Or am I still feeling the void Zoe left and trying to fill it? (It's a good thing I can touch type cos I'm crying so hard right now I can barely see the screen...). The thought of never having another baby breaks my heart. I know I'd be completely brain-dead to put myself through it again. I know we can't afford another child. I'm barely coping with two kids despite having an incredible hands-on husband and a maid - how would I cope with 3 or 4 or 5????

None of that logic changes the way I feel though. I want a host of children, and not through surrogacy or adoption (although I do want to adopt a child one day - but that's another story for another day). No, I want to be pregnant and give birth myself to a host of children. I know, I know! If I were to go ahead with that, I'd be condemning myself to a lifetime of serious puking and pain. I know it's ridiculous to want to go there again. But I'm not satisfied with only 2 kids. Greedy of me, I know - some people aren't able to have even one, let alone two kids, and here I am saying I want more when I know it's completely out of the question for us on SO many levels.

I can't face sterilisation - either for me or for G. That's just too final. Pragmatically I know I must not allow myself to fall pregnant again though. So next week I'm off to the gynae for an IUD. (I can't take the pill anymore because of my APS.) I'm not thrilled about it. Far from it. It's not like I can just wake up one day and stop taking the pill and "accidentally" fall pregnant (not that I would do that to G!). This is hard core. The only reason I'm gong ahead with it is because it's not as final as sterilisation. It can be removed. It only lasts for 5 years. There is an 'out' for me, at least emotionally. Maybe in 5 years time I will feel differently. Maybe by then I won't have this inexplicable desire to put myself and my family through hell again. (Because let's face it - me when I'm pregnant? It's hell to live with me and it's hell to be me.)

But am I making the right choice? In 5 years time, if we decide we really DO want another baby, I will be 38 and G will be 43... Yes, I know that women over 40 are having babies nowadays quite successfully (Tertia being a case in point). Yes, I know that 38 is not old, except that biologically it is. What if we decide we DO want a baby and we can't fall pregnant because our bodies are actually too old? (New research suggests that the man's age is just as important as the woman's in terms of having a healthy child and pregnancy.)

All of this emotion of mine makes me stand in awe of Cecily even more. She is quite clear on one point: she is very happy with just her one daughter. She is perfectly happy with a small family. How did she get to that point, I wonder? Her experiences were traumatic, no doubt about it, and that has probably played a big role in her decision. Yet...

I stand in awe of the peace she has about only having one child, about the decision she has made not to have any more children. I wish I could be in that place right now. Maybe in 5 years time I will be. That's the problem with choices. You never really know whether they're right or wrong until it's too late to change your decision. Let's hope this is the right one for us.

The problem of pain

There's a popular worship song which has a line in it that sticks. I was reminded of it this morning by a friend who blogged about a particularly difficult situation she's facing. The line is "You give and take away, you give and take away, still my heart will say: Lord, blessed be your name."

Two years on, I still can't sing that line. When it comes up in worship, I think about Zoe, and I wonder. I couldn't bless God then, and I've only recently got to the point of being able to that God is still good. When I do, I still feel the gravity of what I'm actually saying - that even though God chose to let Zoe die, even though he took her away, even though he broke my heart forever, even though he permits horrible atrocities to be perpetrated against the innocents (children) he is still good.

The fact that others seem to be able to sing that line so glibly sometimes annoys me, because it seems they obviously have either forgotten, or never really experienced, a Job* moment, or that the suffering of children and those who love them is of little consequence.

I don't think there are any answers to the problem of pain, despite what C.S. Lewis and other luminaries say. It just is. And God is still good. I know people think Christians are crazy for believing that in the face of the suffering and cruelty in the world. Yet, in the words of Peter - Jesus has the words of life, to whom else shall we go?

* Job is a character in the Bible who lost all his children (if memory serves - 12) in a natural disaster, suffered a horrible skin disease (so much so that he was the outcast from society) and lost all his possessions. Even his wife gave up on him. He sat in the dirt and blamed God. Yet, he was still able to say that God was still sovreign and therefore worthy of praise. After quite a long time, and an encounter with God, he was healed and got on with his life - recovering his wealth and having another 12 kids. I often wonder though whether he ever stopped grieving his first brood, or wondering why God allowed it to happen. We, as the readers, are told the reason, but he is never given that luxury.

Mixed up

It's one thing when you know that your pregnancy is high risk. It's quite another discovering that a friend is in trouble. For one, you feel so completely helpless. At least, if it's me, I know what the situation is minute by minute. With a friend, you've got to wait for them to sms you (since their phone will mostly be off while in hospital) or call you and let you know progress.

A dear friend has been having problems with her pregnancy just lately - blood pressure stuff. She went into hospital again this past weekend because she was having difficulty breathing & her blood pressure was doing really weird things. After a battery of tests, pre-eclampsia has been ruled out. So has the possibility of an embolism and pregnancy diabetes. Baby is doing absolutely fine. So far so good.

However, they still haven't been able to figure out why her blood pressure is all over the place. She's had to basically cancel her holiday plans (she will still go away, but to a place just over an hour away, rather than the original exotic holiday planned) and now is worried that they will have to induce early. She's about a week ahead of me in terms of gestation.

Praying for her, and worrying about her, over the weekend it struck me afresh how Zoe's death has affected me. I sometimes still struggle to hold other people's babies, and to get excited about them. With this dear friend, my heart was completely in my throat all weekend at the thought that she might have to suffer as I did. Last week, when our deputy head's wife gave birth, I was over the moon about it. Yet, I still struggle to hold family babies... and there are several of them around. Graeme's cousin is also currently pregnant, and I'm finding it really difficult to feel excited for her, yet I'm really excited for my colleague at work (who is 2 weeks ahead of me).

I'm thoroughly mixed up. I can't explain why with friends and colleagues I'm fine, but with family I'm not. It's just so weird. I wish I could though, it would make it a lot easier to deal with.

IMO Zoe

Today, 2 years ago, I gave birth to my second daughter, who had died in utero the day before. While time doesn't heal the pain, it does make it easier to deal with. If Zoe had lived, I wouldn't be pregnant now. Instead, I would have two gorgeous little girls - one with white blonde hair and one with strawberry blonde hair. They would both be at nursery by now, and Zoe would be potty training. Instead, I have one beautiful daughter and a son on the way.

If I could, would I go back and change things? Before I fell pregnant, that would have been a very easy question to answer: yes. But if Zoe had lived, we would not have tried to fall pregnant again, and this little boy would not be here. So now, trying to answer that question is like trying to decide which of my children would live and which would die, and that's an impossible choice to make.

Similarly, if Zoe had not died, then G & I wouldn't have started Born Sleeping, we wouldn't have met the people we have, or made some of the friends we have. While I miss Zoe, sometimes almost more than I can bear, I know that her death was not in vain.

Goodnight sweet darling. I look forward to the day we meet again.

Out of the blue

Today we went to Matt and Claire's wedding. Congrats guys! Awesome wedding! Wish you all the best for your future together.

As special as the day was (I was green with envy at how beautiful and meaningful their wedding was! Wish I had been that creative with ours.) I found it very difficult to sit through. One of the most difficult things about losing Zoe is that I never know when grief will strike. It struck fairly early on in the service, during the worship at the start, making it incredibly difficult to share in their joy.

There was a line from a song (I can't even remember the song now) which spoke about how God destines all our days, from the first cry to our last breath. As I sang those words, something within me cracked again. Surely God destines our days from the moment of conception, not just the first breath? Because if it was only from the first breath, then that means God had no plan for Zoe's brief life, and that the life she had was outside his power or will or something. Although I still struggle to accept that God allowed her to die before she was born, I have to believe that every moment from her conception was in his power, that he had amazing plans for her life.

Of course, the moment I had started thinking about her, I couldn't help myself thinking about all I will never share with her - particularly her wedding to some amazing man. I will never have the honour and privilege of giving her away. Needless to say, I spent a good portion of the wedding frantically wiping away tears and trying not to break into sobs. Thank God we were in the back row, so no-one would have noticed anyway, even if my mascara had run all over my face.

One of the passages read, which was rather obscure for a wedding - at first glance anyway, was from Nehemiah. It spoke about the fact that time of mourning and weeping has come to an end, and that now the time for rejoicing and laughter is here. Over the past few days I have been coming across verses that, in various ways, have encouraged and exhorted me to leave my grief behind, trust God fully, rejoice in him fully, and move into the next season - which is joy.

On the one hand, I am very pleased by this. I would love to be able to leave this heavy heart behind. I would love to stop crying and mourning.

On the other hand, the thought that I might forget Zoe really scares me. I don't want to forget her. I don't want to stop missing her. I don't want to pretend that it will ever be okay that she's not here.

So how do I bring these two extremes together? How can I possibly experience the full measure of joy, laughter and a spring season in my life when my daughter is dead? I know that I have good days, days filled with laughter, and I rejoice that I am able to have those, because I know that to remain in grief for ever is unhealthy for me. However, I just don't see how I can go from this current space where Zoe is often on my mind, where the very thought of her makes me cry, to a space where when I think of her it is only with joy and thankfulness, with no hint of sorrow or longing.

Then again, maybe I'm completely misinterpreting these verses.

There is no doubt in my mind that if this child survives, my heart will be full of joy and love for it. There is no doubt in my mind that this child, if it survives, will make me laugh and smile, and will make my heart feel so full it will want to burst. But none of that can erase the pain I feel that Zoe is not and never will be with us here on earth. No matter how much joy this 3rd child of ours brings us, I just don't see how that joy can overpower the grief and pain in my heart that comes from missing Zoe.

I've realised that the comfort God offers does not wipe away the pain. The comfort he brings is that our pain is not pointless, or meaningless. The comfort he brings is that one day we will see her again, and that her death can bring about hope & help for others. But it does not wipe away the pain. I always thought it did. But God didn't wipe away Jesus' pain on the cross. In the Garden, the Father did not wake away Jesus' fear of the cross. Rather, he gave him the strength to do what had to be done despite his fear. The Father did not abandon his son on the cross, but neither did he make the pain any less to bear. God's comfort does not mean pain is wiped away - at least, not here on earth.

One day, all injustices will be righted and vindicated. One day, all pain will be healed, not just comforted. But that day is not today - at least, not for me. I look forward to the new spring season of life that God seems to be preparing for me. I look forward to the birth of this child. But I doubt that either will miraculously heal the pain in my heart. Rather, I live in hope of that day when all sorrows will cease, all wars will end, and shalom comes in the full glory God always intended.

The search for perfection

Since Zoe's death last year, we've been struggling with our faith. It's been really hard to reconcile the idea of an all-loving God, with one who would allow our child to die. For this reason, we've struggled to be part of a community of worship, because we haven't felt able to worship, and it's rather difficult to want to rage in a place where everyone else seems to be so peaceful and joyful. Needless to say, our church attendance has been rather sporadic.

While we sorted out jobs and home stuff, we decided to just return to our 'old' church, for the sake of at least having something stable in our lives. It was lovely seeing familiar faces, but the whole experience felt incredibly disjointed. We are different people (as one would expect after 8 years), and the church is different too in many respects. We used to be evening service people, now we have to be morning people. That in itself is a huge change.

But after a year of trying to make it work, we've decided that it just isn't. We've made some good friends through our cell group, and we will miss them if we leave. The problem is that our 'old' church, while being wonderful and having a lot of stuff we want to be involved in, just doesn't 'fit' with us anymore, or we with it.

It's too far away, for one. Living down the road from our church for so many years now, we've learned the benefit of being part of a local community. We want that again. The service times were also falling across Nellie's nap time, which made it very difficult for us to take part in the service (and their cry room facility leaves a lot to be desired). Being different people, it was very hard to be treated by many of the familiar faces as the people we were when we left. Of course, that's a natural reaction, and I'm sure we treated them as if they were the same people as when we left. It was also very difficult having to explain Zoe all the time when our grief was so raw, and most of them knew about her through someone else. Nellie also didn't like the creche, which meant that one of us never got to the service anyway.

Since we're planning another baby, we decided that we really need to find a church we can settle in for a few years - a place that will provide us with stability and support in the coming months. We will need that if we have another stillbirth. So a few months back we took the decision to start church shopping.

When you go church shopping, what do you look for in a church? Most people will agree - good teaching, good worship, good fellowship, good opportunities for service & mission-orientated. So far so good.

But then come the more difficult issues. Which doctrines are central for you? Which doctrines would you be willing to accept a different interpretation of Scripture on in order to attend? Some things are non-negotiable for us: Christ-centered, Bible-based, Holy Spirit inspired. But that still leaves a lot of room for manoeuvre.

Tonight we attended an introduction to the church we are considering joining. Everything sounded really good, but there were two issues raised for us:

1) Infant baptism vs believers' baptism by full immersion
2) Women in leadership

I want to discuss these in some detail, because I think each warrants a proper discussion, not only in terms of doctrine, but in terms of the importance of that doctrine to the big picture of becoming members (or not) of this church.

However, right now, my husband is waiting for me. Tonight I'm going to fall pregnant - I can feel it in my bones! And to be honest, that is more important, so this lovely discussion will have to wait for another time.

Sleep well, everyone!

Circle of life... take 2

Here she is - Ariana and Mommy. Apart from being the name of a Tunisian city and a brand of Bulgarian beer, Ariana is Greek for 'most holy' and Welsh for 'silver'.

In reading last night's post, I was struck by how bitter I sounded about Ariana's birth. It's so hard to explain to people how two completely different emotions can war in your heart simultaneously. On the one hand, I'm absolutely thrilled at her birth and I can't wait to meet her. On the other, I'm left feeling bereft again. Ariana isn't Zoe, so I can rejoice at her birth and her life. Yet, her very presence reminds me of what I have lost.

A while back, I believed that it got easier with time - dealing with the birth of any baby. I struggled not to be offhand with women on the baby loss forums I'm part of who were 5-10 years down the line who still struggled in this way. I just thought they were deliberately holding onto their grief, or something. I'm learning that nothing could be further from the truth.

I'm realising that every birth will be bitter-sweet for me, and learning that I'm just going to have to find a way of dealing with that. I don't want any new mother feeling she has to pussy-foot around me to spare my feelings, or that she needs to be less excited or less joyful around me because I've lost Zoe. On the contrary! The more joy, the more excitement, the better. I'm just going to have to remember to make time to cry and release my sadness so that it doesn't wind up souring the joy I, and they, feel.

And now for the other part of the circle...death. Tonight I discovered that the guy leading my Louis Group business course (Bruce) lost his daughter last year. She was 25, and had 2 small kids. Bruce & I chatted very briefly this evening about the pain of losing a child. His loss is compounded by the fact that his grandchildren are now motherless. We also talked about how grief like that really complicates matters in terms of faith - how both of us are really struggling to make sense of our loss.

And now back to life... Before my life fell apart, I was really trying to develop my leadership skills. I even managed to attend a course (back in 2003) in the USA, at which Bill Hybels spoke. (If you don't know who he is, it's worth Googling him and doing some reading.) I also read as much as I could get my eyes on, including a book by John Maxwell called 'Courageous Leadership'. That's a really inspiring book.

Last week, one of the first things Bruce said to us was that it was not an accident that we were on the course. My ears pricked up at that, because I hadn't expected to encounter God at a place like that. It made me wonder what God had in store for me.

Anyway, when my life fell apart, I forgot a lot of the basic principles I had learnt. It's very hard, for example, to get balance in your life when you're struggling to make the decision to live. In tonight's lectures, Bruce referred to both Bill Hybels and John Maxwell, and the influence they had had on his own leadership journey. Everything Bruce taught was straight from what Bill and John had written about or taught. It was all VERY familiar to me!

Hearing all that good stuff again made me realise a few things. Firstly, just how much I have to relearn. Secondly, just how badly I am leading myself at the moment (let alone leading my department or my family... or my business in time to come). Thirdly, that it really isn't an accident that I'm on this course. For whatever reason, God intends to meet me in that conference room, in those discussions about balance sheets and business plans. God has a plan for my life, and he wants me to be an effective leader. Since I'm not in church much, and since I don't really have the time to read books of any nature at the moment, this is the only way God is going to get me back on track.

As I was chatting to Graeme about it this evening, it also struck me that having my life fall apart was not a diversion. It was not a side-track, or an alternative route from A to B, nor was it an accident that should not have happened.

Rather, God deliberately led us down this path - not to harm us, but to develop us. God blessed us with Zoe, and then blessed us by taking her away. It's not the kind of blessing that results in spontaneous joy and laughter - quite the opposite. However, it was a blessing, none the less. Of that I have become certain tonight.

I can't tell you what it was that made me see that, and I can't explain how I know, but I know. Losing Zoe is an integral part of God's plan for us. Without her, God's plans for our lives will not be fulfilled. We will not become the people God intends us to be, nor will we be able to fulfil the roles he has picked out for us. And I will never become the leader God has designed me to be.

As I continue to learn the lessons of grief, God has started building back into my life the lessons of leadership that I thought I'd learnt before. The question now is: what will I do differently tomorrow because of what I have learnt (been reminded of) today?