Holy Hell

Never before have I been so thankful to see a New Year arrive. 

I'm not a super New-Year-celebrating kind of girl. I'm an introvert, a homebody, and someone who likes to be asleep at an embarrassingly early hour. Staying up and out late sounds like a lot of work, not a celebration. So here I am, on the couch, in comfy clothes, writing about this year. 

This. Year. 

It probably doesn't help that I'm in the "I'm suuuuuupppper angry my kids are dead," stage of grieving, but let's just call this year what it was . . . hell. 

This year was wave after wave and new, unknown level after new, unknown level of hell.

This year, I've watched humans treat other humans in unspeakable ways.

This year, I've seen the utter destruction that comes with living a lie.

This year, I watched the protector personality inside me fight and beg to be freed so as to unleash what Ray affectionately refers to as "Chisolm Justice" onto the world (Chisolm Justice, btw, is usually not what Christ would do and rarely ends well. Thus, thanks to my more grace-minded husband, it's almost always relegated to a bedroom ranting session. Seriously lucky I married a man who truly loves and follows The Way of Jesus). 

 

This year, I've said good-bye to two grandparents. 

This year, I've grown, birthed, and buried the two most precious baby girls in the world. 

This year, I've fought harder and lost greater than ever before. 

This year, I've felt the unending sorrow of a broken world, filled with broken people.

A pastor friend recently commented that Ray and I have seemed to have an unusually high amount of "crazy" come our way this year. 

This, of course, led to a late-night discussion. 

He's right. 

Why is that? 

Is it us? 

Do we welcome it? Attract it? Give off a secret, "come give us your crazy," scent?

Maybe we shouldn't wade with people so deeply into life?

Maybe our kitchen table shouldn't be a revolving door of college student therapy sessions?  

Maybe we shouldn't live quite so openly with our community,
but rather in a more surface-level kind of way?

Why expose ourselves, our family, our daughter, to the risk of another year like this one?

This. Year.

It could of destroyed us. It probably should have destroyed us. Our hearts, our minds, our emotions, our relationships, our marriage, our faith, our calling to the local Church. 

This year probably should have wiped us out.

But it hasn't. 

Why is that?

It probably helps that I'm in the "I've never felt this empty in my entire short-long life, please Great God, heal me," stage of grief, so let's call this year what is was . . . Holy. 

This year was moment after moment, breath after breath of 

Emmanuel, God has not abandoned us, Holy. 

This year, I've seen a community of Christ be brave and flexible as they heal from past pains and take-up their place in the body of Christ. 

This year, I've seen God pave the way to enable us to earn/raise $16,000 for an adoption. 

This year, I've witnessed people give "Father, forgive them, they know not what they do," 

kind grace and forgiveness. 

This year, I've watched incredibly brave people make the incredibly brave choice to live in the light. 

This year, I've experienced family walk through way too much death with endless grace. 

This year, I've seen the width and depth of the body of Christ, as thousands of people, many whom we will never know, walked with us through the last 7 weeks of Maggie and Ellen's lives.  

This year, I've enjoyed the closest friendships I've ever had, with brilliant, fun, spiritual women.

This year, I've stood in awe as my husband has taken each blow the last 12 months have shot at him with steadfast love, grace, and strength.

This year, I've known Holy in the midst of hell.

Why expose ourselves, our family, our daughter, to the risk of another year like this one? 

Because God is a God of love and love is a life of risks. 

Children are a risk. Ministry is a risk. Authentic relationships are a risk. 

Living in community is a risk. 

A life full of love is a life full of risks.

I'll be honest, I hope 2014 is a once-in-a-lifetime kind of year. The experiences and emotions I carry away from this year will keep me fully awake for some time to come. Nevertheless, if another year like this one comes my way, I hope I'll greet it with strength, courage, peace, and faith; 

knowing the risk is worth it and The Holy awaits.


Welcome, 2015.
Our God is with Us.
Emmanuel.

A Birthless Birthday

December 19th - The day I have been dreading. 
Today was supposed to be the day of Maggie and Ellen's birth. 
To again wake up to world robbed of their precious lives and
 unfulfilled possibilities seems impossible; yet here we are. 
Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy.

Our God is with us.
Oh God, please be with us.
Emmanuel.

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Dear Maggie and Ellen, 

Happy December 19th! Today was supposed to be your birthday - a day of deep joy and celebration. Unbeknownst to you - you would have shared this special day of birth with your grandmother - my momma. You don't know your grandmother yet, but let me tell you - she's the best, most creative, most loving, most thoughtful, and most fun grandmother there ever was. Not that she has favorites, but sharing a birthday with her, well, you two would have been . . . you know; we'll just keep that a secret from your sister and cousins. 

If I'm being honest (and after this year daddy will tell you honesty is the most important thing in the world), mommy has been scared of this day arriving. The closer it's gotten, the more I have become powerless to control the endless stream of tears welling up from my devastated soul. 

I miss you girls. 

I miss you more than I ever knew I could miss anyone. I ache for your little lives so deeply that sometimes I think my longing for you could bring you back to me. 

If only loving could make it so. 

Your big sister misses you too. Magellen - she calls you two. She asks for you often; keeps thinking you will suddenly arrive one day. That's hard and heartbreaking. She's a fabulous big sister and loves you both deeply. She wants to take care of you so much. The last time she visited your grave, she noticed the temporary marker was covered in dirt (she's extremely observant), and without blinking an eye bent down and said, "Oh no! I'm so sorry sisters," and began cleaning off the marker, then gathering gifts of rocks and sticks to leave for you.  

Your daddy - I can't even describe how much he misses you both. Daddy is a teacher and life-long learner, and he mourns the moments he'll never have with either of you. He longs to teach you about golf, Greek, and God. He wants play, sing, dance, and wrestle with you; just like he does with your older sister. He wants you to really understand why (not just be able to recite) Lebron James is the best athlete in the world (in his not-so-humble opinion).  

The thing we long to teach you about the most - well - you both know more about than we do. 

"And to think, when they opened their eyes, the first thing they saw was the face of Jesus."

This truth gives me strength and hope. Gives me the ability to keep breathing. To wake up every day and make the choice to keep living, not just existing. I'll admit - sometimes I'm jealous. You with Jesus - Jesus with you. You know each others smiles and laughs. You play games and sing songs together. I imagine you three, one of each side of Jesus, walking hand-in-hand. 

It makes me hurt for home. 

Sometimes I worry (mommies do that a lot) if you're being taken care of. Then I'm quickly reminded that God created mommies (and daddies), so God must be a pretty good mommy, since God made us mommies to love the way we do.

I imagine every day in paradise is full of joy and beauty. I hope that today you notice a tiny bit more joy. See, we're having a party for you both today. Some of our friends (actually more than I fear will fit in our house), who have become our family during this time of great grief, are coming to celebrate you - Maggie and Ellen - and your "should-have-been-birthday." That's how much you're loved. That's how much you're missed. That's how much you impacted this imperfect planet in the short time you were here.  

Maggie and Ellen, mommy and daddy are so proud of you. You have changed our lives. You made us forever a family of 5. Nothing will ever change that. Your place in our hearts and in our family will never diminish. 

We will love you forever. 

We will miss for always. 

As long as we're living.

Our babies you'll be.

Today's Soundtrack

I believe

-Christina Perri

Miracle of Mercy

11 Days
December 19th. The date my c-section would have been. How did it get here so quickly?

Confessions
I've had a lot of tears today. There haven't been many days filled with tears - which is unusual - as I am not one to shy away from or shove back tears.

I haven't spoken to God much in the last 9 weeks. Talked about God - yes - and often.
Talked to God . . . not so much.

Today I finally did - hence the tears.

Understanding
I'm a deeply introspective person. I like to understand why I'm feeling the way I am, where the feeling comes from, how it got there, if it needs to go or stay, be strengthened or demolished. It's like a puzzle - my feelings - that I love working to solve.

When it comes to how I've felt about the death of Maggie and Ellen in relationship God, I've had a hard time solving the puzzle of feelings.

I'm married to a seminary educated man. My parents, sister, father-in-law, and the majority of my close friends are all seminary educated people. Heck, I have half a Masters of Divinity myself. Theology - as you can imagine - is a topic that frequents many of my conversations. My understanding of who God is and how God interacts in and with the world changes as God reveals more of God's self to me and as life continues to unfold in unexpected ways.

Sitting here one year ago, I found myself a bit annoyed with God. God was inviting and encouraging me to more deeply explore what I believed about God's interaction in and with the world. Why? At that time I didn't understand. Sitting here today, I am so thankful for that invitation. Now I know God was graciously preparing me to survive 2014 and all the death, pain, and hell its brought with it.

I'm married to a seminary educated man - who is a pastor.

One of the unwritten pastor's wife proverbs goes something like this:
A wise pastor's wife keeps the intricacies of her theology to herself. 

This year, I was led to a new understanding of who God is and how God interacts with humanity.

This new understanding is the reason I haven't felt the need to ask God why Maggie and Ellen died. It's the reason I haven't felt angry with or abandoned by God.
The reason that no matter how overwhelmed by grief I feel, I can still proclaim with honesty,  "Emmanuel. God with us."

So what have I been feeling? What has kept me from bringing my deep sorrow to God?

Thankfully, a recent conversation led me to the answer.

Mercy
Have you ever begged for something; love, forgiveness, or like my daughter, just one more episode of Dinosaur Train?

The feeling of receiving something you've desperately hoped, longed, and asked for - ah - that joy could run the world.

The feeling of being denied . . . that pain . . . crushing. 

I feel like we begged for mercy. We begged, pleaded, and petitioned.

I did.
He did.
They did.  
Thousands did.

I feel like we begged for mercy and got none.

Even writing that - I know it's not the truth.
My dad, the soon-to-be General, likes to remind me that many times our feelings lie to us.

There are countless mercies we've received - my life for example.
Please hear me say that I see those mercies and have genuine gratitude for them.

Yet, as a mother, those aren't the miracles of mercy I wanted.

The mercy I wanted was in the form of Maggie Jane and Ellen Olivia Miller - alive and in my arms - 11 days from now.

The mercy I wanted was to spend another Advent growing life - not grieving death.

The truth of the moment
One of God's most current gifts of mercy is giving me the freedom to sit with my feelings; no matter how irrational or untrue they are. For the moment - God allows my feelings to be true, rational, and  justified.

The truth of this moment is hurt.

It hurts that the God I believe to be the conqueror of death allowed my daughters to die.

Even though I don't believe God is in the business of protecting people from suffering and death, I wanted my daughters to be the exception. A miracle of mercy.
   
On a flight home this week I asked a woman of another religion how her day was going. She responded that her day was good - that every day was good. She went on to explain that it was never alright to say a day was bad, because if you did you'd make the God she believes in angry. 

God sat with me today at Maggie and Ellen's grave as I cried and spoke of my hurt. He sat quietly and allowed me to explore and express my feelings and pain - the true and untrue, rational and irrational.

God welcomed me and my feelings with grace, peace, understanding, and kindness. I wasn't met with frustration or hostility, anger or unrealistic expectations.

The bearer of all burdens gently took 9 weeks worth of hurt and held that pain with me.

I serve a God who isn't afraid to enter into the mess of our world.

That is mercy.
    
Eventually I got up, wiped my eyes, and walked away from the grave; feeling empty but alive, hurt but not alone.  

That is a miracle.