Thankful for a Picture

I had planned on spending Thanksgiving in the NICU next to my precious girls. 

Thankful to be surrounded by family on this day that is filled with so much love and heartache. 

Thankful for Maggie Jane Miller and Ellen Olivia Miller,

who would have been nearly 33 weeks old today.

They touched so many parts of the earth they knew for only a few moments. 

A Season of Thanksgiving and Hope

Great Grief - it is so much more than an emotion. 

I've found that many times it feels like a physical battle. 

Me vs. pain.

Me vs. sorrow. 

Me vs. the darkness of death.

It ebbs and flows - this great grief. At times a nearly unnoticeable hum of discomfort; other times a weight so engulfing I am certain it will crush me to my very core.

As the week of Thanksgiving and the season of Advent nears, I have felt the weight of sorrow increasing. Increasing weight adorning an unwanted necklace that continues to pull me into the depths of sorrow. 

I like the way Elizabeth Gilbert describes great grief:

“Deep grief sometimes is almost like a specific location, a coordinate on a map of time. When you are standing in that forest of sorrow, you cannot imagine that you could ever find your way to a better place.” 

Though this forest of sorrow I currently inhabit is thick and full of trees, beams of hope and thanksgiving still shine through the foliage. 

There is so much to be thankful for. 

-My life and health

-My incredible partner and best friend 

(We've survived a lot.)

-The people who have been brave enough to stand in the forest of sorrow with me

-My miracle of a daughter

-Those who continue to pray and give encouragement

-My local body of Christ

-Ministries like Hope Mommies and Hannah's Hope where our story can be shared and strength can be found with people walking the same road

-The many books that help educate us on what this road may hold

-The pictures we have recently received from Maggie and Ellen's first and last day on this earth

-The moments my daughters were alive and in my arms

There is so much to be hopeful for.

The season of Advent is a time wrapped in beauty and anticipation.

A time to prepare and wait in great expectation - for Emmanuel. 

Yes, Emmanuel came, long ago to a teenager in a barn. 

He came - God with us. 

God with us in the light and in the dark.

God with us in the joy and in the sorrow. 

God with us. Always. In all things.

God with us - to bring us the Good News. 

The Good News that the God who came still comes.

The God who spoke still speaks. 

There have been many Advent seasons in which my heart has not been prepared and I have not waited in expectation for the arrival of the One who still comes. 

I imagine that will never be the case again. 

This season brings hope.

And I wait this year expecting to receive hope.

Hope that I will never be alone.

Hope that this sorrow that seems so sharp now, will not always. 

Hope that one day this baby redeemer - this Emmanuel will come make all things right.

Hope that God is truly with us.

I pray you also wait in great expectation this Advent season.

Wait with hope, for hope.

The one who came is coming.

 He is Emmanuel. 

God with us.

 

You May Have All this World. Give Me . . .

The Tattoo.

I've always wanted one but never had much of a reason to put myself through the pain and foreverness a tattoo requires. 

Now I do.

I wasn't completely sure how I'd feel about it once it was done. 

Let's hope I like it, right? 

I do.

I've had several pieces of beautiful jewelry honoring Maggie and Ellen gifted to me. Over the weeks I've found myself feeling quite guilty if I wasn't wearing them or if I wanted to wear something else. As a result I haven't worn much other than my wedding ring. 

Though it may seem odd, this tattoo makes me feel like I'm honoring Maggie and Ellen all the time. 

And it helps me remember. 

I need help remembering. 

Emmanuel.

God is with us.

Even when I'm lost. Even when I'm angry. 

Even when the pain is so real and heavy it's hard to function. 

Emmanuel. 

God is with me. 

I needed that reminder as I sat in church this morning. 

A choir from Oklahoma Baptist University led our music today. And during a version of Give Me Jesus, similar to this one, I began to weep. 

The music created a vision. 

All of a sudden I saw Maggie and Ellen, about Abigail's age, 

singing this to Jesus as he tucked them into bed.

They were happy, loved, and singing to their true parent. 

They love Jesus with such an innocent and pure love.

Emmanuel. 

God is with them.

I sat and watched this in my mind and found myself overwhelmed with grief.

I want to hear their voices. I want to listen to them pray. 

I want to tuck them into bed each night and teach them to sing Give Me Jesus.

Although there is a place somewhere inside me that is deeply grateful Jesus is caring for His girls, today I found myself envious that Christ knows Maggie and Ellen and I don't. 

He knows the sound of their laughter, the look of their smiles, the warmth of their hugs.

They will always be His girls, but they were mine as well. 

Oh what I'd give for but a moment in their precious presence. 

Thank you, Lord, that when I'm jealous, in pain, and can't bring myself to sing 

"you may have all this world; give me Jesus," this truth remains - you are Emmanuel. 

God is with us. 

God is with me. 

God is with them. 

God is here.

Grief 101: The Question

Not long ago I had two very good friends ask how people could best walk with us in our new, unwanted reality. One answer came to me several days later during a conversation I had with Ray.

The great grief of losing children seems to be pretty unpredictable to me. I'm up, I'm down, I'm (in the words of Matthew McConaughey) "like a frickin' one woman circus" (name that movie).

People who know me, probably know I have not been gifted in the art of masking emotions. I am who I am and feel how I feel and I rarely, if ever, have the ability to hide that. I'd be a horrible Brit and find myself deeply envious of those who have this masking talent. Possessing this gift would make being a pastor's wife so much easier y'all. What I would give to be able to plaster a smile on my face, say "I'm good," and have people believe it! Seriously - jealous of all the masker-masters out there.

One thing I find hope in, concerning grief, is that there isn't a rubric on how to grieve. Yes, of course there are the dangerous, unhealthy and/or unhelpful ways to grieve, but for the most part - it is how it is and goes how it goes. No wrong way or wrong time - it just is.

I'm learning, everyday, how to grieve. What's good for me may not be good for my husband or sister or friend. It's different for everyone - everyday.

As I learn how to walk this road, many of you learning how to walk it with me (us).

So - how can we best walk this road together? I've had a few thoughts on the matter.

Our own Grief 101 class.

We can learn together.

The Question

It's one of the most difficult moments to navigate - for many reasons.

Who's asking the question? What kind of relationship do I have with him/her? Do I have time or energy to be honest? And then the worst internal dialogue of all "Oh no, what is the answer to the question?"

You know the question - the simple question that Ray and I have discovered is nearly impossible to answer.

"How are you doing?"

The four most difficult words to, at this point, try and form an answer to.

First of all - which Sarah am I in this encounter?

Numb Sarah is probably fine. Numb to world and going through the motions - so probably not an awkward or uncomfortable encounter there. Whoo - safe.

Sassy Sarah (also known as angry, anxious, or depressed Sarah) just wants to fight. Fight with the world, fight with an inanimate object. Heck - sassy Sarah wants to join a MMA gym and beat the junk out of something or someone. Forget flighting - sassy Sarah just wants to fight. This is the most frightening mood to be in when receiving the question. Poor, unsuspecting person who just wants to love on me but everything inside me is screaming "my girls are GONE - how do you think I'm doing?!!" These moments are the most difficult for me as I awkwardly stumble around for a kind and appropriate response.

Genuinely OK Sarah - Will probably smile, shrug, and say "I'm OK today."

"So, Sarah, what am I supposed to follow 'Hello' with?"

Great question, my friends, great question.

It depends on the depth of our relationship and how brave you are :)

Sticking with "it's good to see you," and a hug is wonderful. We never tire of hearing you're still praying for us. We need it, friends. Or just celebrate that we chose to get out of bed, get dressed, and keep living that particular day. It sounds comical, and we'd probably respond with a laugh, but let's be honest - some days making those three choices is a huge victory.

Want to talk about Maggie and Ellen? FANTASTIC! So do we! They are our children. We are proud of them and love them dearly.

We created identical twin girls.

That. is. incredible.

Maggie and Ellen were beautiful and precious and we love to talk about them. Don't fear that speaking their precious names will suddenly remind us they are gone and make us sad. Their absence isn't something we ever forget and the sadness comes when people are frightened of saying their names, not when they do.

Grief. It's unpredictable. We will continue learning how to walk this road together. Grace for me. Grace for you. All the while deeply thankful that even in grief, our God is with us. Emmanuel.

Grief: I'd Rather Not

Grief.

It's hard and weird and annoying.

It's like its own version of the movie Groundhog Day. 

You wake up every morning and for one glorious second you don't remember the painful reality that is your life.

mmmmm. What's today? What's on the schedule? What should we eat for breakfast?

And then . . . BAAM . . . it hits like a taser to the chest. 

oh yeah . . . my kids are dead.

Who cares about a freaking schedule? What does it matter what day it is? Every day brings the same unbearable reality; I should be pregnant with identical twin girls and I'm not.

I'm not pregnant. They're not here.


Grief.

It's the unwanted gift you get to unwrap every day. The gift you'd give anything to not receive upon waking every morning and yet it's the one you have to open lest you ignore it and suffer the severe consequences months down the road (think an unopened howler from Harry Potter).

Well hello, Grief.

Which version of you will I be in for today?

Numb Sarah? Angry Sarah? Anxious Sarah? Depressed Sarah? So-fatigued-id-rather-stay-in-bed Sarah? Or genuinely OK-for-the-moment Sarah (who probably feels a bit guilty for feeling OK. Is it OK to be OK? Who knows.).  

For the most part Ray and I do our best to welcome each day understanding that some level of grief will walk with us.

The trick is to welcome grief while walking with grace. Grace for ourselves, grace for each other, grace for those trying to figure out how to walk with us or at least not be too awkward in their avoidance of us.

Grief is rough. It's unpredictable, always present, and usually (at least this early on) painful.

Grief is a gift. It reminds us Maggie and Ellen were here. They were here and they were real. Real girls, apart of a real family, who really really loved them.


I had someone, who loves me very much, not too long ago ask - beg me really to consider a medical procedure that would prevent me from ever getting pregnant again (don't worry - this wasn't my husband).

"I'd rather not see you go through this pain ever again."

I get it. I really do.

7 children - only one living; the grief just seems too much.

But great grief means there is great love.

As  I write this, a tiny, nearly three-year-old had rests on my chest.  This hand is attached to the life that has taught me about love. This love, this life-altering, never-ending, I will move heaven and earth for you love, comes with great risk.

The risk is grief.

This grief - the one I wake up to every day and reluctantly walk with.

Even though I'd rather not walk with this great grief, one look to my left and the beautiful sleeping face next to me says it all . . . She's worth the risk.