Three Months Later: How We're Coping

It has been nine months since I wrote my last post. Nine months ago I was grieving, empty, fighting daily to find joy and hope in a world where our precious first baby no longer existed.

Nine months later, I hold the gift of healing, of answered prayers and silent tears wiped away. When we buried our baby God gave us a name: Hope, a "confident expectation of good." We had no idea what came next in our story, if we would struggle to conceive or never have children or immediately get pregnant again. But we knew that, regardless of circumstantial outcomes, God was GOOD. And just two months after we said goodbye to Hope, I was pregnant with our Elissa - "promised of God." Now she is here, and perfect, and we love her more than we ever thought possible. We couldn't know it at the time, but she is the good that God promised in our time of despair.

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I typed these words on September 30, 2014, five days before my husband was killed by a drunk driver going the wrong way on the interstate. He had been working night shift and got sent home early, around 3 am, to enjoy his day off with me and our newborn baby girl. He didn't suffer, the sheriff told us - one moment he was on the highway and the next he was standing in the presence of God. My world has been shattered. What I've always known to be true about God is no doubt still true, yet it has been unspeakably difficult to connect what I believe to what has happened to me.

When I initially started this blog, I spent weeks thinking of a creative and meaningful title. One day the name "Taste and See," came to me so clearly that I knew it was God-inspired. Psalm 34:8 says, "Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good! Blessed is the man who takes refuge in him!" I so named my blog and started posting away, with no idea that my belief in and acceptance of God's goodness would soon be tested to the extreme.

I spent much of 2013, a year defined by dashed dreams, relearning what the definition of God's goodness really meant. My last blog post, written over a year ago, describes the fight for hope after our first baby had been laid to rest under a memorial stone in our back garden. Yet in the wake of our baby's death, Nate and I found comfort and genuine joy in just being together. Our favorite saying that year became, "at least we have each other." Now, under this cruel and crippling loss, I can never say that again. I don't have him. He has been taken from me, and I am left to assemble the broken pieces of our life into some crude and horrifying new normality.

I've largely avoided deep and intimate conversations since October 5. I dread questions about how I'm doing. Trying to put a world without Nathan into words feels ludicrous and trite; the most apt phrases are gross understatements. My world is a sea of constantly fluctuating emotions; one minute I feel okay and the next I have no idea how I will keep breathing. Many days I wake up and all I have to look forward to is when it will be time to sleep again. I both dread and anticipate time's passing: in one sense I hate the relentless days and weeks that move Nate further and further into my past, into "what once was." In another sense time flies so quickly and each new day is another step towards that final cliff I long to walk off of into an eternity with him. 

The future takes my breath away in its numb bleakness. Life, which held all I wanted as long as I had my Nate, now seems like a long dark threshold that must be crossed before I can be with him again. Yet in the midst of my sorrow, the unfairness of being left on this earth without the better part of my self, there are things that I know that I know that I know to be true. These truths enable me to make it through the next five minutes, to love my daughter and fight the fears of losing her, too. These truths lift my eyes from the dreary road I'm left to walk alone and offer me hope if I choose to grab hold of it:

- On October 5, the day Nathan was killed, the verse of the day was Psalm 34:8. 

Taste and see that the Lord is good.

 God intentionally reminded me of His unchanging character and goodness when my life lay in broken pieces at my feet. God is who He says He is. My personal circumstances do not alter His character and His promises.

- Nathan, at this moment and for every moment of eternity, is being overwhelmed by Love. And God doesn't love him any more now that he's in heaven - that same unconditional, all-satisfying Love is available to me now.

- Nathan is not dead. He is alive in heaven, waiting and interceding for me, and he is completely free. He is uninhibited by sin and human limitations; he is fully himself as he was always meant to be and fulfilling the eternal purpose he was created for.

- God has never promised me answers. He doesn't owe me anything (when Job's life was shattered he reasoned, "shall we receive good from God, and shall we not receive evil?"). I will never grasp with my finite human understanding why Nate was only given 26 earthly years. What God has promised me is a peace that will surpass all understanding.

- Nate's early dismissal from night shift did not surprise God. Neither did a drunk driver screaming down the wrong side of the highway in his lane. All his days were divinely ordained, before one of them came to be. And God never turned His back - He was right there, with open arms, welcoming Nate into Paradise.

- Nathan is home. He has everything he ever wanted, and infinitely more. He was created for fellowship and union with God, and when I join him on eternity's shore we will be in the presence of God together, forever.

These truths don't annihilate the pain. Every day is a fight to believe and to trust when I just want to sleep and wake up on the other side. I've had to make decisions regarding my grieving, my perspective, and my relationship with God. On January 2, Nathan's 27th birthday, I chose to press into the Lord when it felt the most unnatural. The circumstances surrounding Nathan's departure from earth were not random; they did not happen by chance. They were allowed by a God who has surgically removed so many things from my life already. On October 5 He cut out my heart. It makes no logical sense for me to run into His arms. But if I push Him away, this loss will destroy and define me. I am doing my best to imagine Nathan's now eternal perspective and adopt it as my own. If he could say one thing to me now it would be, "just wait, this is all so worth it." He would tell me to finish strong, to never give up, that God is so much more wonderful then anyone could ever imagine. Nathan spent his birthday worshipping in the presence of the Lord, so we did too. His family and closest friends and me, united by our pain, laid our souls bare before the Lord and worshipped - like Job, who, when his entire world was torn from him, fell on his face and worshipped.

Elissa Rose both breaks my heart and comforts me. She has so much of Nathan in her, and I can't begin to imagine raising his child without him. She will miss out on so many traits that made him the best man I've ever known. Thank God that He promises to be a Father to the fatherless. And, in her own baby way, I think she knows. Every picture that she's ever seen of Nate she talks to, reaches for and kisses. She will grow up to bedtime stories of her daddy, and his face will be the first thing she sees when she wakes. She has given me purpose in a world now largely devoid of meaning; she is a tangible piece of Nathan's legacy and will grow to do amazing things. Already she is my dream girl - content and happy and full of personality and so beautiful. We are the best of friends and I am so grateful for her. I just hope Nathan can see how much comfort he has left me through her.

Every ounce of my "normal" has been obliterated, yet I am keenly aware of the ocean of prayers that has borne me up with a supernatural buoyancy. I am floundering, but I have not drowned. I am crippled by grief, but not destroyed. This is in no way of credit to me. Navigating a cross-country move, mothering a newborn, dealing with a mountain of financial and practical and legal matters while trying to wrap my head around my new role as a 26-year-old widow is not humanly possible. Elisabeth Elliot said that those whose loss is greatest receive the greatest share of grace, mercy and peace. This has certainly been true in my case, and much of that grace has been in the form of prayers and gifts (of time, money and practical assistance) from countless friends and strangers. God knew that I could not do this alone, and He has rallied the troops to surround and lift me up in ways that I could never have imagined. Friends, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.

He Hears, and He Answers.

"When Jesus restores such a loss, He gives a fulfillment that is a

little bit of heaven - a peace that passes all understanding. 

From our side it is only necessary to surrender." 

~ Corrie ten Boom

Hope is found in the little things. Life is turned upside down, earth-shattering events and circumstances stab mercilessly, senselessly; yet the tiniest whisper of a prayer is answered with the assurance that He hears me. I do not cry aloud to empty air. The God who spun the universe out of nothing counts the hairs of my head; catches the tiniest sparrow before it falls to the ground. He feels the unspoken longings in my heart, and He answers. Always, He answers.

Days after we heard the news of our sweet baby's death, my kitty and faithful companion for 12 years had to be put down. We didn't know what was wrong with her, couldn't fix her, had done all we could. As I tore her paws from around my neck (literally), forced her into a white box and surrendered her to the anesthesia technician, I had just one brokenhearted thought: Maybe someone will see her and love her and not want to kill her. A few days later we got a phone call. The vet at the shelter had seen kitty, taken pity on her and wanted our permission to treat her. She was still alive! After a week of unsuccessful treatment Tigger was put to sleep, but my grieving heart was calmed. The Lord had heard my prayer, had sent someone to have mercy on my kitty and try to do what I couldn't. I was at peace knowing that she really was sick beyond repair and I wasn't a horrible kitty parent for putting her down.

He cares for the sparrows. He cared for Tigger. He cared for my aunt's chicken who wandered off in 10 inches of snow and, miraculously, was found alive and well the next day. He cared for my tiny baby and for me; while Hope was not granted life, He answered my prayers for a natural and uncomplicated delivery at home - even when doctors told me I was insane for waiting indefinitely and not taking surgical or medical action.

This has been a year of disappointed dreams. We are in a new house, in a new place, searching for a new church, with job uncertainty and future uncertainty and so far away from the people we love. Our baby is gone, our kitty is gone, and once more Nathan faces the grad school application process and hopes for a better result. As I think of how we had wanted things to be right now, I am reminded that not a single prayer of ours has gone unanswered. So often we define God's nearness, His goodness, by our version of what we want - how we think He should intervene. When we get what we want, God is good! He loves us! When life appears to be spinning out of control, the rug of security is ripped out from under us and suddenly we are tormented with questions of all we ever believed in. Where is God? Why doesn't He answer us? If He were good, wouldn't He step in and stop this?

I look back over this past year and am reminded that God ALWAYS hears. He ALWAYS answers. He is a near and present help in trouble. He may not answer in the way we hoped, but that answer is simply "no" - it is never no answer at all. This year I have had to surrender so much - even having a "right" to know why God did what He did. All I can do is trust. And rest. I am safe in the arms of my Shepherd; no matter what storms are thrown at me, He WILL carry me through. "When He has brought out all His own, He goes before them, and the sheep follow Him, for they know His voice." We hear His voice. We follow the path laid out for us through gentle, guiding "yes's" and "no's." We lay down our insistence to understand. And we are at peace.

He Makes All Things New

"May the God of hope fill you with all joy

and peace as you trust in Him."

~Romans 15:13

  This morning I laid out Christmas dishes for two. I looked at Facebook posts of friends posing in the snow with pregnant bellies and radiant mommy smiles. I saw the holiday tribute to our little one, Hope, on the mantle surrounded by twinkling lights and holly. My heart sank, and I felt no hope. This is a Christmas season that I looked forward to with such anticipation – not only because it is my very favorite time of the year, but because I fully expected to be one of those glowing mamas-to-be standing under falling snow, bursting with a dazzling joy.

The tree is up, holiday baking complete, presents bought, decorations out in full array. And my belly is empty. We buried our baby after 16 weeks of waiting, hoping, pleading for a miracle. It is hard to go through the motions of Christmas cheer. Hard to find joy when my longed-for little one lies under a tree in my back yard. Hard to give freely when inside I feel empty, and broken.

This morning I sat down to my quiet time. I opened to my bookmark for today’s assigned reading, Psalm 103. “Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless his holy name! Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits, who forgives all your iniquity, who heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit, who crowns you with steadfast love and mercy, who satisfies you with good, so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s.” “The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.” “As a father shows compassion to his children, so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him.”

In the face of grief and disappointment, giving thanks feels shallow, and forced. I try to be grateful for what we do have, then wonder if it somehow “doesn’t count” because I don’t feel grateful. I don’t feel contented or joyful. 

But the list in Psalm 103 is not contingent on feelings. Whether or not I “feel” the weightiness of these truths does not affect the fact that they are TRUE. The Lord has forgiven me of all my sins. He healed me from all miscarriage complications (a testimony in and of itself), He has redeemed me, set me apart for Himself, sealed me with His love and mercy, given me everything that is good in Himself. He is merciful and gracious. He does not treat me as my sins deserve. He is compassionate, and present. He hears every longing cry. 

The Lord does not promise to fulfill our desires with things, or circumstances, or relationships. If He did, we would have little reason to cling to Him every moment.

In this season of emptiness I am reminded that I have all I need in Christ. 

My greatest need has already been atoned for, and on this earth I am simply passing through to a place where indescribable glory awaits. “This slight momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen.”

 Belonging to Christ is truly the only way that I can survive in a broken, grief-stricken world. Without the hope of eternity suffering is senseless. It is only in looking at tragedy through an eternal lens – this is not how it was meant to be, but someday all will be well – that I can lift my head from the grave of my baby and worship the God who has ultimately conquered death.

This Christmas season, the gospel has taken on a new meaning for me. All I have is Christ. In the words of Noel Piper, “the reason for Christmas is the same as it ever was, and nothing is more essential to our lives than the incarnation. Trees are nothing. Feasts are nothing. Lights are nothing. Music is nothing. Only Jesus matters.”

 Every day I fight to cling to my Savior. I long for heaven, where Hope is waiting for us, whole and perfect. 

Even now I am filled with joy as I think of these two things: Jesus, and heaven! What more could we want or need? Anything else is an undeserved gift that was never meant to distract us from the Giver, but to bring us more deeply into relationship and dependence on Him. It is only through Him that we have Christmas, the day that our souls’ most poignant need was satisfied, completely, forever. 

And so, truly, Merry Christmas. This season we rejoice in a God who makes all things new.