Remembering

Today at church I talked with a friend who knows this road I am traveling. She told me how as time goes on, I will find that I must actually have to stop what I am doing to grieve. It will not always be something intertwined in my day.

I am beginning to see little glimpses of what that must be like. I do not fully understand this thought because the grief of losing Emmy still follows me all day long and into the night. But this past week, I had one day. It was a day that I shed no tears. It was a day in which I was able to look at her picture and smile.

A part of me felt a stab of guilt over this. Shouldn't I always grieve and grieve hard? Shouldn't I always shed tears at the thought of her? Was the fact that I could smile at her precious face an indication that I was forgetting her? But, of course, none of these things are the truth. The Lord offers me peace, and I should be thankful for it, not troubled by it:

"Peace I leave with you; My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you. Do not let your heart be troubled, nor let it be fearful." ~John 14.27

You see, I am not forgetting her, I am remembering her with smiles instead of tears.

To Everything There is a Season ~ Clarified

I wanted to quickly (because I am limiting my computer time ;) ) clarify on my last post...

I have certain places on the internet that have become a struggle for me. They are not inherently "bad" places, they are just places I have allowed to control me...my time, my energy, my brain power. They are places that I need to re-learn how to be at. They are places that I need to regain control over. But for now, they are places, I must set myself apart from.

This blog is NOT one of them.

This blog can be done at any time. It can be saved as a draft and come back to at a later date. It does not control me...I control it. So, therefore, it is a place I can be. :)

To Everything There is a Season...

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 gives us a description of our entire lives with the preface of:

To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven.

Everything that happens in this life happens in its season, never hidden from God, never beyond His control. While our lives seem to be spinning out of control, we can always be assured that whatever is happening in our lives is a season, a God-ordained season. We often do not understand, but the Lord can always see the forest for the trees:

except that no one can find out the work that God does from beginning to end. (v11b)

We also have responsibilities during these seasons:

I have seen the God-given task with which the sons of men are to be occupied. (v10)

It is of these responsibilities that I write today...

I have known for quite some time that the Lord was leading me down a path that I was rather resistant to...a path that I knew would lead me away from certain people, places, and things that I felt I could not do without. Initially, I did not want to take that path at all. Finally, after much prodding, I stepped one rather hesitant foot on the path and begged the Lord to let me stop there and rest awhile from the great effort it took just to take that one little step.

Little did I know He was using that time to prepare me for Emmy's death. It was during this time that I wrote the now infamous article, "The Me-Time Myth." Within a few days of writing that article, Emmy became sick with an illness that would eventually take her out of my arms and into the Lord's...a time to mourn.

As we mourned, many mourned with us. But, now the Lord is prodding me to continue down the path I began at the end of 2007. He is asking that I refocus and recommit to walking down the path He has laid before me...a time to heal.

As I mentioned earlier, part of walking this path involves walking away from certain things. One of those things is the internet. Not the internet in its entirity, but the forums and other sites that consume much of my time...not because they mean to, but because I allow them to.

The computer has always been a pitfall for me. It is a place to which I escape, and it welcomes me with open arms. But, as I sit engaged in other people's lives, I am disengaging from the lives that matter most...those the Lord has entrusted to me.

So, I am walking away from those things that I cannot seem to control...those things that seem to control me. I am putting the internet in its place...the place of a "tool" and not the place of a "crutch." I am stepping back, so I can redirect, refocus, and rededicate my steps to the path the Lord has set me on. I am engaging in my children, my husband, my home, my Father. There are hearts to be healed, there are children to be raised, there is a home to keep...a time to plant.

Resurrection Day

"O Death, where is your sting? O Hades, where is your victory?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This story really touched my heart today...

"In the summertime when the grass in the lower valleys withers and dries up, the shepherds seek to lead their sheep up a winding, throny, and stony pathway to the high grazing lands. The sheep, reluctant to take the difficult pathway infested with dangers and hardships, turn back and will not follow. The shepherds make repeated attempts, but the timid sheep will not follow. Finally, a shepherd reaches into the flock and takes a little lamb and places it under his arm...Then he stars up the precipitous pathway. Soon the mother sheep start to follow and afterward the entire flock. At last they ascend the torturous trail to green pastures."

~from Death of a Little Child

I pray that others follow b/c little Emmy led the way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I miss her so much. In fact, the pain is so much more acute than it was in those first days. I feel it deeper and stronger and with more clarity than I did a month ago. But, I am also able to feel the happy moments w/ more clarity than I did before.

It's as if the Lord shielded us from the full extent of the hurt by clouding our vision...the "fog" I spoke of several weeks back. And as this fog lifts, He allows us to feel the pain, but He also gives us a more vivid picture of beauty to go along with it.

In fact, the weather we are experiencing here today is a perfect illustration...It is bitterly cold today, but the sun is shining bright. Despite the pain we feel, the Lord is still shining mercy and love on us. Though we are chilled to the bone, we have hope of warmth in days to come.

So, yes, we are hurting. And often it is a desperate hurt. A hurt that makes me feel as if I'll never be okay. The tears are never far from the surface. And there are many, many times I see, or think, or feel something that takes my breath away for a moment because the pain is so overwhelming. Because of this, my beautiful, sweet baby girl is never far from mind...and in many ways I am thankful for that.

God bless you all this Resurrection Day.

A Memory Box for Emmy's Things

I was given the name of a ministry that specializes in creating beautiful things to remember your deceased child by. The volunteers for Heavenly Angels In Need create buriel clothes, bracelets, and memory boxes, all at no cost. Although it was hard to ask for it, I really wanted something beautiful to put some of Emmy's things in. A gorgeous, hand-painted box arrived in the mail today. I have been so blessed by this ministry.

Our Irish Supper

I am half Irish and half German. My children know the German side of me best because we often have German dishes throughout the year and I know more about that side of my heritage. The children know dad was full-blooded Irish, but we never did much to celebrate that side (other than listen to a lot of Celtic music ;o) )

Well, this year, I decided we needed to have a "green" supper, so I cooked:

Corned Beef Brisket
Cabbage, Potatoes, Carrots
Irish Soda Bread
Irish Cream Cheesecake
and my 7 year old made a cake w/ frosting and green sprinkles!

All the recipes were from an ebook put out by Urban Homemaker. Everyone had a great time! This is also the first meal I cooked on my own, so that in and of itself was cause to celebrate.

One Month

Today is March 10. My baby girl left this world one month ago today.

We went to her grave today. I put indigo delphiniums and baby's breath on her grave. We read Scripture. I tried to read Ps 30 out loud, but dh had to finish it for me. I could not find my voice through the tears. Ty and I and the children stood in a circle and prayed over her grave. We prayed for strength in the days to come and we prayed for the day we would all see Emmy again.

I spent a lot of today remembering. Remembering the endless ups and downs of her time in the hospital. Remembering how she looked up at me from that hospital bed w/ those beautiful blue eyes. Remembering how we "broke out" of the hospital on Christmas Eve so we could be together as a family on Christmas Day. Remembering how 2 weeks later, we were back in the hospital very scared for our child who now weighed at 7 months what she weighed at 7 wks. Remembering how we thought all was well despite the lack of weight gain. Remembering all the things we "thought" we were going to be doing w/ our little girl. Remembering how she was the belle of the ball that night before she died.

I also remembered before she was sick. Our vacations this fall to South Dakota and Colorado. Remembering how I made a necklace in a bead shop in Creede w/ Emmy nursing the whole time. Remembering how I would blow on her tummy when I changed her diaper. Remembering how I would wake up every morning to Emmy...wide eyed and eager to nurse.

The memories are painful, but necessary. I continue to grieve in snipits. I will have moments where I ache beyond belief. And I never grieve quietly. There is a primal quality to the cries. They well up w/in me and come out in sobs and moans. But, then they are gone. It is almost as if there is an on/off switch to my grief. Sometimes I "tape" the switch down, pushing back all the things my heart wants to feel, but my mind won't allow. Other times the switch is on and I mourn deeply. Then, the switch is off and life resumes...my life w/ my remaining 4 children and my husband. During those times I can remember Emmy and smile and laugh and love her completely w/o feeling sorry for myself as I stand here empty-handed, b/c although I may be empty-handed, I am not empty-hearted.

Ps 30:11a ~ "You have turned for me my mourning into dancing"

I may not be fully dancing yet, but I can hear the music.

Fading ~ December 27, 2005

(Blog Notes ~

7 days after Emmy died marked the 1 year anniversary of my father's death due to Alzheimer's ~ February 17, 2007.

This blog entry is a transfer from the Homeschoolblogger Blog. It is one that I wrote the day we moved Dad to the nursing home.

As someone so wisely put it, "When you lose a parent, you lose your past. When you lose a child, you lose your future." I have done both in less than a year's time.)

My father sits,

A blank stare steadily

erases the sparkle.



I watch him fade

from himself

to no one.



I am fading too.



No longer the man

He is the disease

A death he does not deserve.



Soon I will be forgotten.

-2003



Today we placed my father in a nursing home. He was diagnosed with Alzheimer's in early 2003. I began grieving then.



Actually, I began grieving 11 years ago when he turned 70. It took me nearly 3 years to come to grips with his mortality. Ultimately, it was a college level creative writing class that forced me to face my fears. With the poetry came healing and acceptance of the inevitable--someday he would die because we all die. Five years later the feelings resurfaced with the diagnosis and once again, I wrote through the pain and anger and frustration.



When something like this happens you can easily scare yourself with the thoughts that run through your head.

I wished it would all end right away. I didn't want to wait it out. I didn't want him to gradually fade. I didn't want to gradually fade.

I was angry. Why this? He had always been such a rock, so independent and strong.

I was sad. Sad for him, for my mother, for my children, for myself. There would come a day when we would no longer be individuals, but a confusing collective mass of people who waltzed in and out of his day.



For two years all seemed ok. Not great, but ok. Then the disease began to take over. It became more than my father could hide or shrug off as simple, harmless mistakes. He couldn't finish sentences. He couldn't dress by himself. He began to hallucinate. My mother worked round the clock keeping him safe and comfortable, but soon she was worn out.



So, with much heartache and guilt and fear the decision was made to place him in the nursing home behind their little cottage. And once again, my emotions took me aback.

I was relieved. What had been sneaking up behind us for almost 3 years finally stared us full in the face. I would no longer have to wonder if he was safe at night after mom had taken out her hearing aids and became oblivious to the world. Mom could come to visit me again, something that had stopped once it became clear dad could not travel or be left alone.

I was fearful. What if he was angry we put him in the nursing home?

I was guilty. What if this is the wrong decision? What if he's still perfectly fine at home? Aren't we supposed to take care of our own? Shouldn't I move back home and help out?

I was sad. My father had become a shell of a man. The only thing that remained was his quick wit. He couldn't hold a serious conversation, but he sure could smart off with the best of them! However, most of the time he just sat and stared.



As I walked down the halls of the nursing home, I kept peering into rooms and thinking, "He's not like that! He's not that bad!" But, when we stopped at his room and took him in and told him this was his new home, his reaction was one of child-like complacency. He said it would be ok. He said he would take care of everything. It was then I realized I had faded. When I wasn't looking, when I wasn't paying attention, I had stopped being me.



So, I will take my place in the collective mass. I will bring my children to see Grandpa at the nursing home and remind him of their names. I will give him hugs and make small talk. I will reminisce with him about things he doesn't remember simply because I need to remember. Then I will leave him in his little room and drive home. And for a while, I will cry--not because he is no longer the man I remember, but because I am no longer me.

In Her Eyes

I received this picture from my aunt today...



This morning was very difficult for me. Somewhere between sleeping and waking, I held Emmy as she nestled up to me, I ran my fingers through her hair and tucked it behind her ears. But, you can never stay in that state of consciousness for very long. Far too quickly, I was snatched from that world that becomes hazy the moment you leave it.

After a routine morning of breakfast and cleaning and caring for the children, always feeling the grief welling near the surface, I opened the card that contained this picture and was unable to stop the tears that had been begging to be cried all morning. I know my aunt was worried the picture would be too painful, but she also knew I would want any picture of Emmy I could get my hands on. Now that I've had a good cry over the memories that picture holds, I can look at it, study it. And I see what I have seen in many of her pictures...something that has been pointed out by others time and time again...her eyes.

In her eyes I see a knowing look. They are eyes wise beyond her years. I wonder just how much my little one knew of her Creator while she lived here. Was it enough to be able to look at all of us who would be left behind here on earth with that look? The look that says, "I know a secret...a secret I hope all of you learn."

Out of the Mouths of Babes

Our 3 year old has had a profound understanding of all that has happened these past 3 weeks. We have been amazed, and often comforted, over and over again by the words she speaks. Tonight was no exception...

As she sat eating a piece of peanut butter pie in her little purple jammies, she suddenly said, "Where is Emmy?"

I hope the sound of me sucking in air was not audible, but both my husband and I looked up at her, startled. My husband said, "She is in Heaven."

To which my daughter replied, "She's not at the hospital. Jesus was at the hospital, and then He took her to Heaven, and He's holding her in Heaven."

"Yes, dear, He is."

"She's not sick anymore."

"No, dear, she's not sick anymore."

We stare into her eyes and we see Emily. Those big eyes that know so much. They are Emmy's eyes in a slightly different shade. And she speaks Emmy's words...

"I'm not at the hospital. Jesus was there and He took me to Heaven. He's holding me."

Lord, hold my child close to You,
And if You will, I plea,
That as You hold her close to You,
She remember when I held her close to me.
~A.R. 3/2/08