“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.”  Matthew 11:27-29

Do you ever wake up sad?  A few days ago I woke up feeling this strange sense that I had spent the entire night crying.  I was weary.  I then remembered that my dreams were laden with memories of people and the love they once provided that has since vanished.  I woke up into a general sense that my life was incomplete, that there was something to mourn.  Anniversary grief does that to me.  It’s like jumping into a car on February 1st knowing the destination is February 25th but the scenic route to getting there is the rehearsal of lifetime of losses.  The grief of Anna is stored in a memory container that holds many other experiences of loss as well.

So freshly triggered in this sense of sadness I prayed, “Jesus I need you” and quickly the words came, “Not by bread alone.”

I ran downstairs, turned on my computer, headed straight for bible gateway and typed in the phrase I had just received.  The same words were first spoken to the Israelites as they wandered in the wilderness upon their exodus from Egypt:

“He humbled you, causing you to hunger and then feeding you with manna, which neither you nor your ancestors had known, to teach you that man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord. (Deuteronomy 8:2-4)

I thought to myself, “I too am in the wilderness…I am hungering…WORDS of GOD…food.”

I then came across Matthew 4:4:

“Then Jesus was led by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil.  After fasting forty days and forty nights, He was hungry.  The tempter came to Him and said, “If you are the Son of God, tell these stones to become bread.” Jesus answered, “It is written: ‘Man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.’”

I thought to myself… “Jesus too was in the wilderness…Jesus hungered…WORDS of GOD…food.”

The wilderness experience was nothing new; first the Israelites, then Jesus Christ, now me.  We all have wandered in the wilderness, weak and vulnerable.  These conclusions quickly enumerated themselves in my mind.

1.  God wants to teach me that His words will give me sustenance in the wilderness of my grief.  His words alone can satisfy me.  

2. God wants to teach me that the wilderness is a place where the tempter will come and that truth is the way to fight the lies and temptations of the enemy.

And so I prayed, “Lord what is the manna you have for me?  What words will you provide to be my food on this particular day in big, bad, February?”  Instantly my mind was filled with two cherished scriptures:

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.” (Matthew 11:27-29)

And secondly,

“Then you shall know the truth and the truth will make you free.” (John 8:32)

And there I was, in the tent, sprawled out under the phrases which were so beautifully scripted above me.  I saw myself laying there on my back, hands folded behind my head, looking up at them as you would the stars on a clear, bright night, admiring their splendor.  I smiled at the arched sentences remembering how they came to be shelter for me in the first place.  Each of these scriptures identifies a way by which to approach Jesus with our pain.  In some instances we will call on the Burden Bearer, the One who will simply lift our burdens and replace them with rest.  And in some instances we will call on the Bearer of Truth, the One who will replace pain derived from lies and give us truth that will yield freedom.  In order to give each scripture the attention it deserves, I am going to share my thoughts and experiences with Matthew 11:27-29 today and will write regarding John 8:32 later this week.

The Burden Bearer

It was a bad day, one I always tried to avoid.  It was about six months after the loss of Anna and I was alone.  Chris and I tried desperately hard to avoid these occasions.  We always felt safest when we were together.  I sat in Anna’s nursery, which was unfathomable to disassemble, and began hyperventilating.  These were the moments when Chris’s words “Breathe Kate, breathe” and his touch, were magical medicine.  But now he was gone and I was afraid this particular panic attack may be the end of me.  Who would reassure me, who would comfort me in his absence?

I’d had a recent conversation with my therapist where he’d encouraged me to call on Jesus and to ask him to bear my burden, to take the pain from me in these moments.  He had explained that pain falls into two categories.  True based pain surmounts from things like, disappointment, and grief.  They are true realities where the only remedy can be for Jesus to come and be the “Burden Bearer.” The second category is lie based pain, pain that surmounts from certain untruths we believe.  This is where the “Bearer of Truth” is needed.

My therapist was concerned that I was holding onto pain that could be alleviated if I would take Jesus up on His offer: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.”  The thought of asking God to take my burden was completely undesirable to me.  Comfort me, yes!  Give me peace and strength to endure, yes!  But take my burden…NO!  The pain acquainted me with the depth of my loss and the enormous vacancy Anna had left in my life.  What would I be saying if I asked God to take away the very thing that reinforced my love for her?  Would asking God to take the pain mean I was also ready to move on?  That was unthinkable.  The presence of the pain existed right along side of my love and desperation for her.  And so if being consumed with her meant pain, I would just need to be tougher.  No burden would be taken from me!

But in this particular moment sunken down on the floor, hyperventilating by the empty crib, desperation overcame my strange need for the pain and I cried out,

“Jesus, help me.  Jesus I need you.  Jesus, take this pain from me.”  And as soon as the plea passed my lips, my eyes were once again opened to the face, the actual presence of Jesus.  Just inches from me, He cupped my face in His hands and proclaimed, “Sweetie, don’t you know, I’m going to take the pain, not the love.”
And with that the entire room as well as my heart and mind were infiltrated by a peace so pervasive and so substantial it seemed as though I should be able to hold it.  I sat there for a moment, eyes fixed on Jesus, His words being massaged into the core of me.  When I opened my eyes I knew I had just experienced a manageable and supernatural way to be in relationship with grief.  I had just met the Burden Bearer.
“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” This scripture I had known for years seemed to lift from the pages of Matthew and wrap itself like a band-aid around my wounded heart.  Love for Anna free from the pain was a supernatural recipe I knew only Jesus could give…and I wanted it bad!

Grief is an undeniable gut wrenching sadness.  Well meaning people often say lots of things to soften the blow and take the edge off.  The goal here is fixing the unfixable.  Being able to offer a remedy to alleviate the pain, turning death on its head so the griever can conclude, “Oh, well then, now I get it.  This isn’t so bad…everything happens for a reason…now I feel better.”  These phrases are born out of desperation, and I get it because I used to say such things from a heart of deep love.  If you have grieved then you know what I’m talking about.  We learn to grin and bear it while thinking internally (if we can stand it), “That wasn’t helpful and I know you mean well but, go fly a kite!”  The beautiful thing about Jesus and grief is that He doesn’t try to explain it away or talk us into believing that the loss is somehow in and of itself good.  Yes He can turn it for good and I have watched Him do that very thing in my life, but death is just plain sad.  That is why Jesus was able to weep at the death of Lazarus.  He was God! He knew that in a matter of moments He would be giving his friend LIFE again.  But in that moment, death was sad and He knew it, He felt it and He wept.  Jesus, knowing the enormity of the weight of grief, doesn’t try to “fix it.” He instead lifts it, literally takes it off our hearts in order that we might be able to take a breather, In order that we might be able to rest.  Jesus is the only one that can do this.  So as February dawns on me I am comforted that Jesus doesn’t scold me for feeling the sadness yet once again, or give me a death pep-talk.  But rather He just asks if He can do what He does best and bear my burden.  

This particular sad morning in February was tempting me to believe that I should stand in fear of the days ahead as inevitable sadness awaits me.  But as I lay in the tent, looking up at the arched words above me, I am at peace because I can hear the whisper of Jesus inviting me once again, “Come to me Kate…let me give you rest.” My job is simply the coming.  I know that in every moment where the pain creeps in, I can call on the name of Jesus and be saved.  Is it a little strange that I now have a bit of excitement for the harder days ahead knowing I will meet the Savior in my desperation, knowing I can and will experience the magnificence of the Burden Bearer?

Does the thought of being in love with your lost one but exempt from unnecessary burdens (whatever they may be) appeal to you?  There is space inside this tent for you too.  Jesus wants you to know He will take the pain and not the love.  The love you have for your beloved dead will not be lessened by calling on the presence of the Burden Bearer.  Moving forward is not giving up.  Letting go does not mean that the significance of the loss, nor the love of the one you grieve, will go anywhere but deeper in your heart.  Jesus created that person, He is preserving that person and that relationship is waiting for you in a place called Redemption.  Asking for the pain to be lifted will not take away that which Jesus is literally bursting to restore to us.

I am full…this particular manna was a good meal for me.  I had begun to fear that I was headed for immeasurable amounts of knock-down-drag-out, all consuming, inconsolable sadness.  I had momentarily forgotten about the nature and character of my Savior.  But now I’m okay.  I’ve crawled in the tent and I know that when the sadness does come knocking again, that rest and peace is right behind it.  They are waiting in the hands of my Burden Bearer and he loves to make trades.  
So let me ask you?  Is there a burden that is weighing you down, causing you to feel pain and to weep?  Are you holding on for some reason?  Are you buying into the lie that to let go will cost you something?  When Jesus comes into our dark night, the only result can be greater peace, greater rest and truer freedom than we have ever known.  Be courageous to discover why you might be hesitant to ask for His help…and join me in the tent.  You may have to ask over and over, but becoming familiar with the One who bears our burdens is a routine that will not leave you disappointed.

This is a good moment, lying here in the tent, eyes closed, listening to the words of Jesus that almost sing above me…I am at rest.  It is February, I miss Anna with absolute desperation, but in this moment, I am at rest!

Finding Shelter in the Words of Jesus

“In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” John 16:33

This morning I awoke with this unsettled sense that something was wrong. I quickly reeled through the lists stored in my mind. One is called, “Things I could fear.” Another is called “Things we are waiting for.” And yet another is called “Things I am hoping for.” I asked myself, “Where are these lists, did I take them away from God’s hands? Am I assuming responsibility for things I certainly cannot produce, maintain or control?” And because I am admittedly a control-freak and because I am quite familiar with this cyclical pattern, I gently chided myself, “Kate, don’t forget, they have to stay in His hands or this feeling will always come, the unsettled sense that something is wrong!” I bowed my head and helplessly offered a simple prayer of total surrender and waited for the peace that I can always count on to infiltrate when I let go of control, but it did not come. “What is it?” I was growing impatient at my inability to solve my own mystery. The sense continued and even grew. “What is out of place, what have I forgotten, what is WRONG?” And then as if a small wind entered the room from an invisible opening, my ears were suddenly awakened to a whisper so gentle and yet so piercing. “February,” it answered. With that came a measure of peace simply because there was an answer to the unnamed anxiety. But then, I smelled the salty air, the bitter ocean of grief and the approaching wave that forms, escalates and descends each year at this time. So what did I do? I nodded to it, the grief as if had just opened the front door. I’ve learned to be polite. This unwelcomed visitor is much nicer to me if I’m kind. And I got up, started doing the dishes very aware that it was time to unpack my tent.

“In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” John 16:33

There are seasons in life that thrust you into the wilderness, like you have been dropped by a helicopter into uncharted territory with no way out. Sometimes, life feels like living in the woods, whether it’s a new trauma or the anniversary of a loss or tragedy, the woods is the place where living life normally suddenly feels very difficult and nearly impossible. Remember Tom Hanks from the movie Cast Away? When he was thrust into no-man’s-land, he had a choice, surrender to death or find a new way to live. For me the scariest place to imagine being lost is the woods. The pitch darkness, the unnerving sounds, the shadows, the cold air, the lack of resources, the desolation and isolation are terrifying to even think about. For me, the news of Anna’s death nearly six years ago was like being shoved out of the helicopter to land alone in the dark of a scary forest. Anniversary grief is composed of the memories of this season of time and the full awareness of how my entire being and future have been shaped by that death. I know its 2011, but the timing, the sounds and the memories are inevitable and that means so are the emotions triggered from such a reality. This is why I wrote, I know it’s time for my tent.

By being alone in the woods of my grief over several years, I like Tom Hanks have found a new way to live. Time and the courage to not surrender to spiritual, emotional death (though there was a season where I did that as well) introduced me to my resilience, to my courage, to strength and to the person that assists us in the dark. His name is Jesus and it was in the moonlight over many dark scary years that I began to see His face. When my desperation for healing grew greater than my need to hold onto the pain, I began with His help, to construct the tent by which the night time elements disappeared and I was able to rest, able to regain strength and even able to call the night a friend.

I was thinking that over the next few weeks of February I would invite you into my tent, invite you into the fabric that constructed my place of protection, this place of peace and even prosperity. I plan on camping here for the next few weeks and I would be so honored if a few grieving friends (and strangers) wanted to join me. February for me means, having the Grace to Grieve yet once again knowing the outcome will be more Jesus, more healing and simply MORE love for a sweet baby girl that belongs to me still, in heaven!

Again:

“In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” John 16:33

These words for me have become the fabric of one of the largest sections of my tent, maybe even the flap door that invited me in. The bible is filled with words. For me growing up “Sloop” meant knowing and hearing quite a few of these words all the time (preacher’s kid). But hearing words and experiencing them are two very different concepts. The bible says, The Word became flesh and made His dwelling among us (John 1:14). The “Word” is in fact a name for Jesus. A Word that can actually dwell…let’s ponder that.

When you actually hear Jesus speak His very own phrases they stop being just words. They become a living, present conversation and those words transform into medicated salve for the wounded heart, a tent, a place to dwell, a place that is safe from the rest of the unknown scary woods of grief, of life. If we read the bible as a life manual without considering that the Word is in fact a living person, we exempt ourselves from the true spiritual reality that beckons us, relationship with the Word.

That’s what happened when I heard Jesus speak His words to me. A new relationship began to form. One that was way more glorious and satisfying than the previous version. The resurrected Christ, scars and all, was erected from the print of scripture and became a person, looking directly at me…and the words became power, perspective and a candle to clutch lighting my way to eventually more truths and words from Jesus.

It went something like this…

“Katie.” (At the sound of my name I looked up to discover eyes of love piercing every layer of my pain, my doubt, my accusation and disbelief. Simultaneously this gaze held intense compassion and immeasurable strength). “Here you are. This is your season of TROUBLE (the compassion and empathy were vibrating now) “But guess what?” (Jesus leans forward to whisper…a secret was coming, a smile, nearly a smirk crosses His lips) “TAKE HEART (have courage)! I HAVE OVERCOME THE WORLD!!!” In that moment my eyes flashed to the cross, the death of Christ for every sin, every evil and every senseless tragedy we are forced to endure in this diseased world. And Jesus lifted His head for a moment, from His crucified agony, the sacred moment in history time traveling at the speed of light through centuries to get to me and He said, “This my dear, is for your pain right now…this my darling is for Anna! And I won’t be dead for long, watch, because this is for you! This is your “take heart” power to overcome.”

Did an earthquake of some kind just shake your entire soul? Jesus Christ would have died to become the remedy, the power and the saving grace for your crisis alone. His death and resurrection is the anecdote to all this cursed world has and will continue to deliver to us. Jesus Christ loves you and me so entirely, so completely, that He would have endured the worst pain ever told just for you. His death for me not only means Anna lives, it means I too can live victoriously in the pitch black woods and that there is a day when I will look Satan in the face and say, “Nice try, but no cigar,” and enter the kingdom to spend an eternity with my baby girl!

Going into the tent doesn’t mean grief ends. It doesn’t mean your questions cease or that your pain is magically carted away forever. What it does mean is that for at least this moment of pain, relationship with Jesus, God of the broken and bruised, the only one who has ever conquered death, will extend His conquering power to you and to me. “Take Heart, I have overcome the world” simply means that your story has a page at the beginning that starts with the death of Jesus and a final page that reads of forever in a world where living out your customized version of redemption awaits you. Sometimes life means living on blank pages in between, pages that feel unwritten with a million questions that go unanswered. But I have found tremendous hope and strength just in knowing that the final page has been firmly established and is covered in VICTORY and a reunion that makes me weep with joy even now!

So as February dawns on me yet once again, I am literally crawling into the tent that saved me years ago, the one where Jesus sits waiting for me. And as I enter I hear Him say….

“Kate, here we are again. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart (this is when He smiles and I grab onto his arms for strength) I HAVE OVERCOME THE WORLD!”

Are you in the woods? Are you in need of a tent? Won’t you join me?

Staring up at our five pink balloons soaring into the sky

Every night John and I cuddle for a few minutes before he falls asleep. It’s become a little tradition to share a “secret of the night.” I whisper something sweet in his ear and then he whispers something sweet in mine. Usually it’s something like, “You are so special John” and “You are so nice mommy.” Tonight like always I said, “Okay Johnny, are you ready for the secret of the night?” “Yep” he replied. “John, I am so grateful you are my little boy.” He smiled, leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Mommy you are so in love with me!” I smiled at the innocent and precious secret and I thought, He’s got it right! I wonder if he said that because I told him that I loved him and his brother one million times today?

Today I am filled to overflowing with love for my children. I wish it didn’t hurt so bad, loving her and not being able to tell her or hold her, but it does. I can’t make it go away. Yes, there are moments when I feel the supernatural peace and joy of Jesus lifting me, but the sad reality is, my daughter is dead and I ache for her.

Thank you Lord that in Christ I have the hope of telling her I love her and holding her again, and let me tell you, I am living for that moment!!!

Today I am also overwhelmed by being loved. We have been showered with phone calls, flowers,gifts, cupcakes, cards and on and on. So thank you dear friends and family for holding us. We survive because of you!!!

This morning I had a moment where I thought I would pass out from the sheer exhaustion of grief. I fell to my knees and begged God for the “something” that I needed, whatever that something might be. When I closed my eyes, I saw a little girl at a birthday party. She seemed busy and happy and then all of a sudden, she turned away from what she was doing and looked straight at me. When I opened my eyes, I wondered, can Anna see me right now, here on the floor crying in the kitchen? And then this glorious thought transformed my miserable moment into a marvelous one…”She exists.” With that, a gust of joy swept through my aching soul, reviving my weary spirit.

The next thought was, “what if she didn’t exist?” Imagining my life without her or without the hope of her was more excruciating than any hour of grief I’ve endured. Anna Kelty exists! I begged God to continue to let that truth simmer up in me to a roaring boil. I ran upstairs, slapped on some make-up, dressed the boys and headed out the door for a celebration day…isn’t that what birthdays are all about? Of course Starbucks was the first stop! As we sat in the comfy chairs sharing a blueberry muffin, Ben waddled around singing “Old MacDonald” at the top of his lungs and I watched as people turned from what they were doing to admire him. John smiled and said, “Mommy isn’t this a lovely time we are having!” I marveled at them and I thought, “my life, even today, is so full of LIFE!”

This day has progressed with joy, but we’ve continued to miss her in every moment. Knowing that we would release pink balloons tonight, John asked if he could make a special picture for Anna to tape on the front of his. He colored five roses with “John and Anna” written in classic four year old handwriting underneath. He said, I think Anna is going to tell Jesus that she has the best brother in the whole world when she gets her picure from me! Again, I marveled!

I am out of words. There is much more that I think and feel as this birthday comes and goes but I am simply too tired to lay it all out.

I’ll end with this:

Anna you exist!!! Happy Birthday joyful girl! I’ll whisper up my “secret of the night” in a bit….

Loving you like crazy….

~Mama~

“Good morning Anna girl. We cannot wait to meet you!”

That’s what I would say each morning as I walked into Anna’s nursery, rubbing my belly, turning on her soft pink lamp, the light illuminating butter yellow walls and every other carefully crafted feminine detail.

I will never forget the moment I reached to turn on the lamp in her nursery for the last time. It was 2:00 a.m. and we stood outside the nursery door as if standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing the next step would be a fall far greater than any we had ever endured. Just hours before, Chris and I stared at a monitor, revealing our daughter’s fully developed and motionless heart. Now my bulging stomach was a lie…no life to deliver into our wanting hands. I turned the doorknob, reached for the lamp, and jumped back as the bulb suddenly popped and blew out. I was overwhelmed by the irony and symbolism of the moment…. darkness had come, there was no light to be found.

Since that day, our life has really been a quest for light. “Weeping may last for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” (Psalm 30:5) I will never forget receiving these words in a hand made card from Ellen, clutching it to my chest and wishing that I could will the sun to rise, forcing our dark night to disappear forever.

“Crack the door mommy. Turn on my night light mommy.” It is night time that urges these words from my children each evening. Darkness is frightening. Shadows morph into monsters and wind taps at the window like alien invaders. Grief invites its good buddy fear into the darkness and we are reduced to children once again, wishing we could find a night light.

I remember wondering when the night would leave once and for all. Even the birth of our son John, one year later, could not push the night away. The quest for morning continued. Sure there were moments of light, like little candles, but waking to a new day did not happen for quite some time. I am sure it’s different for everyone, but for me it took three and a half years.

Now five years later, as I approach the anniversary of Anna’s death and birth, it feels like I am standing in front of a window looking out into the bright beautiful morning when suddenly a shade drops, blocking all light. It tricks me just for a moment into thinking that I should get back in the bed, that maybe it’s night time after all. And then a few moments or maybe hours later, the shade spirals up and once again I am staring into the good face of day. Randomly, sporadically, it drops, but I know I can count on a quick recover, as it will always rise again, revealing a sun which never actually disappeared.

The last few days have been like that:

Up, down…up, down goes the shade. Tears, smiles…pain, hope… back and forth. It is February 5th and I am already exhausted by the quick shifts of emotion. Night then morning in a matter of moments…it’s crazy. But it’s okay, because there is light and I know in a few weeks the shades neurotic dance will cease and a normal, livable grief will resume once again. Time has proven this fact to me. There will always be moments of darkness, I am sure as long as I live with this unquenched thirst for Anna, but I can live with the momentary darkness because I know light will dawn on the majority of days.

In the darkness I am acquainted with not so friendly feelings like busyness, fear and guilt.

Busyness: If I slow down then I am forced to have free hands, free time and a free mind to be consumed by whatever wave of grief might come my way. If I am immersed in a project, it is easier to somehow push back the approaching wave, for I am busy. “No I am sorry, I cannot be wiped out by you right now, I’m cooking or I’m cleaning, or I’m running…Go Away!” Sometimes that works, sometimes it doesn’t.

Fear: Every night after my boys are asleep I quietly walk into their room and whisper prayers for them. It’s become a sweet tradition I cherish and yet now, if I forget or if I fail to pray certain things, there is a sense of doom that slithers along beside me. As if I actually have control over their breathing. As if God would say, “Well she didn’t pray tonight, I cannot be God.” In the darkness I have to consciously remind myself that God is good and that I am not God, the sustainer of life.

Guilt, the whopper: Shouldn’t I, especially grieving the loss of a child, want nothing more than to be with my children, basking in the pleasure of who they are and what they do every second? You would think, except “Hungry Hungry Hippos” sounds like gun shots and the idea of finger paint feels like saying yes to a bucket full of mud. I want to be and feel differently than I do, but my patience and tolerance are extra thin, my imagination limited and my creativity is on empty. My brain and my heart are preoccupied and my tiredness is making me less than who I want to be…and so there is guilt.

There is also guilt over “shoulds” like, I should be able to do the scrap book album for Anna now, I should create that picture frame I have been thinking about, I should plant a rose bush, I should find more ways to memorialize, I should watch the video of the day she was born, I should feel this way…or do that, and on and on and on.

Deep in my heart, maybe it’s the seasoned griever in me, or maybe it’s the Holy Spirit, but there is a whisper that says, “Be gentle.” I know this means be gentle with myself, be kind to myself. Expect little, pray for much, and be gracious with the outcome…and so I am trying.

Yesterday morning the darkness came and invited each of his awful friends to the party. Guilt, fear, being unoccupied, they all came at once and I found myself panicking, grasping for control with none to be found. My bag of tricks, the deep breaths, rehearsing truth, the awareness of present joys, none of it worked. And then I realized, this is it, this is the moment, the scary step I have taken many times before where I let go, where I surrender, allowing myself to fall, backwards off the cliff, and then it happens. I hear my weary spirit plead “Jesus help me” and my utter helplessness and neediness ushers in the mighty hand of God to catch me. I am simply held. “And the peace of God which transcends all understanding, truly guards my heart and mind in Christ Jesus.”(Phil 4:13)

Then the strangest thing of all happens. I begin to love my grief, for it is the vehicle to the unmatched experience of being held in the nail scarred hands of Jesus. Hands that know pain, endured the most horrific darkness and conquered death for me. I love those hands. Darkness has forced me to search for light and the light I have experienced in God through suffering is a brighter light than any I have ever known. Don’t misunderstand, I am not saying I like pain or that I wouldn’t grab her back in a second if I could…but finally experiencing for myself the tenderness and strength of God by being bruised and broken is the sweetest reality I’ve ever known. And in those moments of being held, the only thing that matters is that I know I was made for another place and another day. For this I have hope.

Today is February 5th. Up, down…up, down goes the shade. But now, in this moment of light, I look out deep into the distance to the approaching hour, when night cannot come upon us and we will see for ourselves the hands that held us in the dark.

Today is February 1st.

Today I wonder what the next 27 days will hold.

Today represents so much loss and yet, I look around and see so much life on a day when I am forced to remember death.

Sweet Anna…

Five years has brought about so much healing and so many sweet experiences of God’s goodness. And yet, the last couple of days have delivered moments when I am taken back with the speed of light to February 2005. For example, last night as Benny lay sleeping in his crib, uncharacteristically on his back, I stared at his face, muscles relaxed, and I saw her. The same width between their eyes, the same thin little lips, gifts from their daddy. I see Anna in Ben. I thought, “What does five year old Anna look like?” One part of me can imagine her so clearly and yet, the other part of me cannot. I know her so well, and yet, I do not know her at all. There is a throbbing, relentless ache in my heart for this reality.

This past weekend my mom shared with me more about her own grief experience and her memories of February 2005. She had come to Kentucky to be a part of my last baby shower and was getting ready to leave when she leaned over, kissed my bulging belly and said, “I am going to be holding you before you know it, baby girl.” It was just three weeks until my due date. At the time of that precious exchange, none of us had a clue that all our dreams would be shattered within 24 hours.

I had never once recalled that tender moment until yesterday when my mom said, “I cherish the night I left you, it is among the sweetest memories of my life.” And as she said it, I was presented with the memory, like someone handed me a snapshot, and all of a sudden I couldn’t catch my next breath. As if someone had punched me in the stomach, I was taken hostage by shock and then reduced to a puddle of tears…how precious and how painful a memory.

The next day my sister came for lunch and she pulled out from her sweater her “Anna necklace,” the silver cross I had given her as a gift for throwing my baby shower. “Well tomorrow is February 1st and I am wearing this starting today to remembr my neice .” And with that I was reminded that I am not forgotten, she is not forgotten. Anna Rose Katherine Kelty left a dent in more hearts than ours alone.

This morning I was looking for a black and white photo to put in a new picture frame. I opened my top dresser drawer to find a still moment with Anna, her fingers loosely wrapped around my own, staring up at me. “Perfect,” I thought as I carried it downstairs to put in the frame. Then I realized the picture would have to be trimmed to fit the square opening. I picked up a pair of scissors and cut a thin line off each side. As I looked down at the shreds of photo to be thrown away, I sank to the floor when I realized what I was about to discard so thoughtlessly, was fragments of my precious girl. I took a deep breath and tried to recover but my best efforts were thwarted and I ran upstairs to find a good hiding place.

I kneeled, sobbing beside my bed, pulled out a couple of sacred Anna mementos, and then I heard John yelling triumphantly from his room, “Mommy!” I quickly sucked back the flood and turned to smile as John John appeared before me proclaiming, “Look what I found under my bed… Anna’s blankey!” After that I came downstairs to send an email to my friend Alicia who has also endured the loss of twin baby boys. I just needed to connect with someone who gets it without having to explain and she emailed back immediately with “So how strange is it that I literally woke up thinking of you this morning.” And then I looked at my in-box and saw an email from Julie with “February” in the message line. What proceeded was a letter all about Anna, her thoughts and prayers for me today…this month.

Jesus Christ is a present redeemer in my darkest hours. He is alive, He is dwelling in my heart and in my home and there is no doubt in my mind that today, February 1st, He prompted several of his children to tend to my grief by a hidden blanket, morning thoughts and an email.

Sometimes grief comes so unexpectedly. Like a thief, it steals your next breath and robs you of sanity. It leaves you instead with a desperateness for that which you cannot have and the momentary, irrational thought that maybe there’s a loop hole, a way to beat death. It happens so quickly that it bypasses intelligence and common sense and leads you to feel certain that there must be, there has to be, a way to fix it. It’s a sudden, crazy gust of wishful thinking. Then rational thought invades and reminds me that desperation is tricking me once again and that death is in fact, a permanent, no solutions, kind of loss. With this awful reality, depression rears its ugly head, and then fear joins in. I am left with a sense that this horrific feeling will remain forever. For me, it is in this moment of deep sorrow over the sad reality of the depths of death that the knock begins at the door of my heart…the knock of hope.

That earlier moment of desperation that leaves me feeling stupid, actually testifies to the secret embedded deep in one’s heart, that it cannot and will not be this way forever. In fact, a day will come when all this cursed world stole from me in death, will be renewed in a way far greater than my dreams could dare to dream. Hope whispers this truth again and again in my most desperate moments and then in a supernatural way that defies logic and reality, depression gives way to joy.

I remember vividly during the first year after our loss saying over and over, “I just want it to be five years from now.” Well here we are, five years later and not only surviving but thriving after a hit I thought would leave benched forever…not so. Yes, for us February belongs to Anna and therefore a certain undeniable sadness, but our life is saturated by the presence and goodness of God. There is John and there is Ben. There is marriage and there is the sweetness of knowing I belong to a God who has a plan to restore, to bless, to sustain, to comfort and heal every day along this crazy life.

Unfortunately, the past few years and even months have introduced me to new parents who have been shattered by the loss of a baby. I ache for each one and pray that as you sit, cry and whisper, “I wish we were five years from now” that my few words will give you hope that a new day is coming. I pray you have the courage to think upon your loved one lost knowing they are soaring in the heavens, and I believe, are praying and waiting for you, holding the hand of your savior. Oh what a day that will be! I pray the God you may possibly even hate right now, or feel abandoned or confused by, will present himself to you in supernatural ways as the present, comforter and that he will whisper truth to your feeble and fragile heart, a truth that will usher you into a greater freedom than you have ever known. Let today be a day when you allow yourself take one more step and cry one more batch of tears simply to make it through another day, and that will be a success. You made it. This current pain won’t last forever, it will become a livable reality at some point. New life and new joys will be born and restore your hope and faith that light can and will come again. But for now, on the bitter days at best, simply know you are not alone. Somehow the God that allowed our tragedies, is the God who saves and his tender “I’m Sorry” and gentle touch is there behind the thin curtain, the dividing wall between our world and theirs.

As I enter the gates of February I want to thank each of who have played such a precious and essential role in our grief journey. I imagine this blog will be followed by many more this month as I ride the wave wherever it may take me.

Anna, I am pondering you today, but I am living to, an answer to your prayers for me I am sure. I am loving you more and more and more each hour I am awakened to the truth that a part of me exists in eternity and is fully alive. Pray for me… life is full of hard stuff and I want to be able to trust with unwavering determination in the Jesus you love completely without question or accusation. What it must be like to look into his eyes and have all your questions answered without him ever speaking a word, simply because his eyes of loving kindness solve all of life’s mysteries. I am so glad you know him as I long too. Pray for us sweet girl and my friends in grief….

Blowing kisses your way~

Mama