Happy Birthday Mama!

Have you ever had one of those days where it feels like you’re just fighting the day at every turn? The kind where you should send everyone in your house, including yourself, back to bed to try again? Well today has been one of those days at our house. Nothing in particular to even complain about. Just that generalized funk that makes doing the mundane things of every day life a pure struggle. And then, I picked up my phone to check the calendar of events for today: January 26, Vicki Vincent’s 62nd birthday.

Ooof. It wasn’t even 8am and I got a gut punch. She’s not here to celebrate anymore, and since it’s been nearly 7 years since she passed, it’s not a surprise that my calendar had to remind me at 8am that today is her day. Don’t get me wrong, I knew today was coming. I heard the rumblings of my heart last week telling me to prepare for the series of hard days that winter and early spring hold for our family. And yet, it still hit me. If I hadn’t been so busy refereeing the “one of those days” moods brought on us, I’d probably have broken into a weep. 7 years is a very long time and a blink of an eye all at once.

I often think about her 50th birthday. She had been diagnosed with cancer only 3 months earlier and she had been the most brave I had ever seen a person be. She jumped into fight mode and did all the things. In 3 months time, she had completely changed the way she ate, exercised, and approached her days. Fighting cancer was top priority; well, a very close second behind clinging to God’s words. She went through chemo. She was weeks out from her double mastectomy. And her kids surprised her from all of the various places we lived, for dinner out. She was so sick. But she was so strong. And she celebrated that day as hard and as joyfully as she could muster. If you didn’t know she was sick, you would have never guessed. She was so strong.

I’m really thankful for that strength. It made watching her die so much less scary for me. I know that sounds selfish… but if she had ever acted scared, I know I would’ve been even more of a mess than I already was. But instead of fear, she prayed, she rested, and she fought. She set an example of what trusting God looked like/lived like, until her very last breath. She had God paving the way for her exit from this world. He shaped her decisions and her days. Fear was certainly something she felt, but it wasn’t crippling because she trusted God’s plan for her life and ours; the people she left behind. Her pain during the 6 years she battled cancer was not insignificant, but it was finite. And if I can remember that, then k can remember that even on the days when I miss her the most, this earthly pain is finite. But my God, he is infinite and eternal.

I doubt today will turn around. But at least the sorrowful memories of my mama on her birthday, led me to God. Not surprising, because everything leads me to Him. But I’m especially thankful for that today as I fight against the funk in the midst of sorrow, and find joy in my creator.

Quiet In-Fighting of my Heart & Head

I’ve been quiet on here lately. I’m not sure exactly why, but a good guess would be a general avoidance of facing my emotions. Lately, this last month and a half especially, my head and heart seem to be in overdrive. Always full to the brim of so many seemingly conflicting emotions, never really fully capable of understanding or processing any, let alone all, of them. It kind of feels like its time for a brain dump. But at the same time, so much has rushed through my head and heart these last few weeks, that I’m not sure I could honestly and genuinely put words to paper.

Harry Beau is nearly 18 months old. He is walking like a mad man, still not talking, and always on the edge of what could be considered suicidal tendencies; the child has only, in the last two weeks, decided that stairs are scary and should be proceeded with caution. Praise the Lord for that! We have been doing speech therapy with him since May, and while I can see the subtle ways in which he has made progress, it still makes it very hard to get through each day. It’s a circle of frustration as we try desperately to understand each other. Toddlers already have enough emotions flooding their decisions, the fact that he wants so badly to tell me what’s up and can’t (or really more likely, won’t) just makes for lots of tantrums - and often laughter on my part. I can only hope that those moments of tension release that manifest as laughter, aren’t the reasons he’s in therapy one day. Pray for us?

Audrey Nole started first grade this year and she is IN LOVE with “big kid school” and all of the new ways that they are approaching learning. Kindergarten was wonderful, truly, but she is such a goal oriented person, that the structure and box checking of first grade is totally her jam. She got the honor of being named student of the month for September, and while her dad and I are incredibly proud, she doesn’t understand why she got a certificate just for “being herself” … y’all… I melted. She can be such a pistol at home, but to know that the joyous and life giving Audrey that God gifted us six years ago shows up for her friends and classmates, it makes all the hard days seem insignificant.

We just passed the 7th anniversary of moving to Utah. Those of you that know me well, know how hard that was for me to process. I find it completely unbelievable that after all this time, God STILL hasn’t provided the opportunity for us to leave. Part of the avoidance of emotional processing has definitely stemmed from my frustration with the God whom I know to be so sustaining and steadfast, seemingly not hearing my pleas for an exit strategy. Oh the hours I’ve spent wrestling with my heart and my head and my gracious Heavenly Father. Our life is here. He has made that abundantly clear. And yet, my heart so often isn’t. Talk about dilemma. Spiritual. Emotional. Mental. Physical.

In the last few weeks, as we have settled back into a routine and gotten ourselves into the rhythm of the school year, I have felt deeply the absence of my sweet mama and son. There are days that go by when I so desperately want to call and chat with my mama. Days when hearing her voice would probably make all the things better; at least in that moment I haven’t been able to call her in six and a half years, and yet the urge to pick up the phone and dial has become stronger than ever.

It also feels like grief begets grief in many ways. Those days where I want to chat with my mom, I almost always end up in tears over the missing little boy that should be sitting in the car seat next to his little brother. Why does grief always strike when you’re driving? That is literally the most inopportune time to be wiping tears out of your eyes… So it gets stuffed. Swallowed. Put away for some other time when tears would be safer; literally, not figuratively. So, if you ever find yourself in need of a good cry, just come on over to my house. I’ve got tissues and plenty of tears to share with you. And then, after we’ve gotten out the sobs of sorrow, I will hug you and remind you that even though we are living through the consequences of the fall, we WILL BE MADE NEW at the gates of heaven. The sorrow, the sadness, the disappointments, the frustrations, the sassy children, all of it, will be made whole and new and beautiful.

All of these words tonight feel like a jumbled up mess. Perhaps they are. But even so, I needed them. Each and every one of them.

“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes and death shall be no more, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away. And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.” Also he said, “write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.” -Revelation 21:4-5

“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys, and where thieves do not break in or steal, for where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” -Matthew 6:19-21

I’m going to mediate on these words. Lord, let my treasure be You. Not perfect patience with my kids. Not getting through this grief and moving on. Not leaving Utah. But YOU and you alone.

Photo by Daniel Apodaca on Unsplash

Cherry Flavored Goodness or Fiery Cinnamon?

The other night after dinner, our whole family decided to take a dip in the little pool we’ve set up in our backyard. It’s nothing special, but even in the few weeks since we filled it, there have been plenty of wonderful memories made. From the smallest of splashes of little brother, to the constant breath holding practice of big sister, the water has filled our summer days with wonder and play. So why not refresh our bodies (and lets be honest, tire those kiddos out before bed) as a family?

As I sat in the corner of the pool, watching my son walk and splash with ridiculous confidence for a 1 year old, and listened to Audrey give directions to her daddy about where to throw the rings and how to set up her breathing practice, I thought about how perfect our little family felt in that moment. But it was fleeting. Because almost as quickly and easily as the initial thought came to my mind, it was replaced by a longing for the little 4 year old who might possibly push our little pool to capacity. And from there, for the next 20 min, I ran down the rabbit trail that so often comes when I think about George Mason.

You see, our family probably does look a little bit like perfection on the outside. That “one of each” American dream family. Isn’t that what all the books portray? Don’t we generally tell mamas how special it is that they got their boy and their girl? Well that’s us. We’ve got our girl and our boy, and it looks pretty damn perfect. And yet, its not perfect at all. Because no one on the outside can see the scars from burying our middle child. No one can see the battle wounds of infertility. No can see the grief over what we thought would be and what is. The difference from what reality looks like and what lies behind the scenes. Do you know, I think the lost dreams is probably the hardest part of all of this? I didn’t lose a teenage son, with years of memories and relationship to grieve. I lost a baby. 16 hours old. There are no memories - except perhaps of the fear of losing him for those 16 hours and 9 months - I can’t grieve who he was, so I grieve who he could have been. What our family could have been.

I can imagine him as a healthy, thriving, bulldozer of a 4 year old. I can also imagine him as a sweet and tiny, kidney patient. I can fill the gaps, where there are no memories, with whatever my heart can imagine. But there will always be those gaps. And even in the happiest, most joy-filled moments of our life, we will grieve those gaps. Would Audrey and George be thick as thieves? Would George be thrilled to have a little brother? What will graduation day look like? What about those teenage years when its so not cool to have your little brother tagging along on your “big girl” times with friends?

These lost dreams, they are part of the reason for the 3 arrows tattooed on my arm. A visual reminder, and almost warning stamp, for myself and strangers, that what you see isn’t entirely what you get. Just like a jelly bean from one of those crazy flavored packs, you might see cherry flavored goodness, but the bite just might light your mouth on fire instead.

Happy 1ST Birthday, Harry Beau!

Harry Beau,

How in the heck are you already celebrating your FIRST birthday? It feels like yesterday that we left the hospital with you in the backseat. The excitement your daddy and I felt as we drove home to introduce you to your big sister was indescribable and it those expectations have only been exceeded by the adoration that is in your eyes when you see or hear her. It has been the sweetest gift in this very weird year.

You are a pandemic baby. All you know is half covered faces and as such you are great at reading eyes. You give the biggest smiles when you recognize a smile hiding below a strangers mask. You give the greatest giggles when someone says hello. You are the happiest baby on the planet, and I know it wasn’t a mistake that it took us so long to get you; God had you in mind as the best gift during a very trying year.

You are strong as can be and have even started trying to stand all on your own. You won’t even take practice steps while holding my hands, but you’ll let go and try for yourself (rather unsuccessfully) without a second thought. You are a bit of a terror in that respect. I foresee accident insurance in your future and likely many ER visits for random broken bones or necessary stitches. Your curiosity is both refreshing and exhausting. You have zero words yet, and I’m completely ok with that. For now, all my energy goes into chasing you around and making sure you don’t hurt yourself. Walking and talking will be their own reasons for my exhaustion, so I’m happy to let them come a little more slowly.

You eat all the foods and you’re incredibly happy about it. So much so that it’s kind of hilarious that you’re such a tiny little man. You can put down more food than me sometimes - though you don’t waste the opportunity to share with the dogs when you are done. Or if you don’t want something in that moment; for example, scrambled eggs when there’s pancakes on your plate haha

It has been such a joy to be your mama for the last year (and many additional months before we even knew who you would be) and I cannot wait to see what the next year has in store for you. Keep shining bright with your smile of perfection, and keep making us laugh. We love you so very much!

Happy Birthday, little man!

Love,

Mama & Daddy

Happy 6th Birthday, Audrey Nole!

Audrey Nole,

Six. Years. Old. You are so very big and my mama heart can barely stand it. You are the most vibrant, imaginative, inquisitive little lady. You ask questions about everything. Turn every moment into a make believe game. Love the world with all your heart; except for spiders, which you gladly allow your daddy to dispose of.

This last year has been one of the strangest that I have ever experienced and I pray that it is one that you barely remember. But I have been so proud of how you have handled everything that this pandemic has thrown at you. You started kindergarten, masked up and ready to go. You took it in stride when your teacher changed. You have prayed (and shared notes of encouragement) ceaselessly for your teachers. You have built on your love of learning and have taken up teaching us about all the things.

You are coming into your voice, which has been a challenge in the parenting area... but your confidence in what you know, think, and believe is something that I pray carries you into doing great things for God’s kingdom. You have really begun to know Jesus and love Him for who He is and what He has done for you. You also have the most amazing trust in His salvation, for your place in heaven, and for greeting your brother when you arrive (when you are very old!). Watching your understanding and knowledge of God has been such a gift to your daddy and me, and I cannot wait to see how the seeds being planted today become deep roots as you share the gospel with the world.

You are growing braver when it comes to trying new things. You’re beginning to ride that bike without training wheels, and you (and the bike) both look way too big to be my baby. You love taking care of your babies and reading books to your brother. You are almost good enough to read any book Harry picks out. You are such a wonderful big sister and it has been the literal best to watch you and Harry get to know each other and grow fonder as you both mature. I always knew you’d be a great big sister, so it’s melting my heart to watch you with him. I’m so thankful for Gods providence in giving you Harry Beau.

Audrey Nole, you just keep being the spirited little lady that we have enjoyed so much over the last 6 years. We love you so!

Happy 6th Birthday!

Mama & Daddy

40 Years

Today they would have been married for 40 years. I don’t have any pictures of both them (they are most likely in boxes in my dad’s garage) but I was given this gem when I was in Florida a couple of weeks ago. Traveling back in time to before death stole life from us. Not just her life, but all of the life that she was supposed to live with the rest of us. The years and years of marriage that her and my daddy still had to look forward to. The decades of soccer games, ballet recitals, FSU football tailgates, graduations, weddings, that she was supposed to attend.

Sometimes I wonder if this day (and her birthday) aren’t actually harder than her heavenly birthday? Because when I face March 12, I face her entrance into eternity and celebrate the day that she was made whole. That’s something that is really hard to be sad about. But when I get to today, I have to face the reality of all that we are missing - all of the life that my siblings, my dad, and my kids/nieces & nephews will live without her.

On days like today I ache for my dad. For the loss he has to face every morning as he wakes up and my mama isn’t beside him. For the holidays and birthdays and births of their grandchildren that he has to go through and experience alone. On their 40th anniversary, I’m reminded of how lost I would be if Adam were gone; and it’s only been 10 years. Sure, my dad can rest in knowing she’s in heaven, but that doesn’t fix the heart break and identity crisis he is living on earth.

I pray often for the world to seem less miserable on days like today, for my dad, but for all of us. That each of the loved ones that were left behind when my mama got to hear the words of her Father “well done, my good and faithful servant” - would feel the embrace of that same Father and know that it’s ok to keep living. To keep breathing. To celebrate the highs. But that it’s also ok to acknowledge and sit in the lows. That neither the highs nor the lows define this life, but instead are just pieces of the story God has written - our identity is, and always will be, wrapped fully in our adoption as His children.

Today hit me a little harder than I expected. Maybe because 40 years feels big and maybe because my mama was such a party lady. But instead of gathering her tribe from all across the country, we aren’t celebraTing a 40th wedding anniversary, we are mourning what should have been. The example of our parents godly marriage is not an active presence in our lives anymore. Instead of looking to mama and daddy for wisdom in their experiences, we are navigating our own paths. Not alone, but not in the way we imagined. That’s a harsh reality. And a sad one. It makes me cherish my husband more than I probably would otherwise. It makes me thankful for the 9 years we’ve had so far, even if they have been riddled with grief. It makes me look forward to the next year and decade and quarter century. But it also reminds me that this marriage, this earthly existence, is temporary and fleeting. And that our duty in this life is to live a life that is for the glory of God, while knowing that in the end, our true treasure is in heaven; not in this earthly body.

11, 4, & 6

Today marks 6 years since we said see you in Heaven to my sweet mama. Its really hard to believe that its been that long, and yet as I sit at my dinner table every night, I’m reminded of all of the life that has happened since Mama went to be with Jesus. There is a loud, wonderful, creative, loving, confident almost 6 year old who sits across the table. She talks as if she has a million and one word quota to meet each day. Her zeal for life and for learning (and teaching us all the things) is unmatched by anyone I’ve ever met. She is something incredibly special; a gift from Jesus at the very time we needed her most. Then, there is an almost one year old little boy, who's life is one that we fought hard to get and very much needed. Again, a gift from Jesus at just the time we needed it.

Those gifts, my children, don’t make missing my mom any easier, but they do offer daily reminders of God’s faithfulness in times of great sorrow. They have been proof that joy is abundant in Jesus, and that no amount of grief, or trials, or hardships can dampen the light coming from our ultimate (and only true) source of joy.

As I write this, I’m reminded that my son is 11 months old and that as much as I try to be on top of documenting those things… hes a second/third child and life is hectic. 11 months old. It feels like it is impossible for him to have been alive for that long (thanks to a global pandemic and a year’s worth of isolation from all of the community and support that makes life fun) and yet his place in this little tribe of ours is solidified and perfect, and there is nothing that could make his life feel like its been any less than forever in this family unit. He is the happiest little man you’ve ever met. He smiles almost 100% of the time. Even when he’s whining - because he refuses to talk - he has a grin on his face. Where I describe Audrey as zealous for life, I think Harry Beau is much more content to just take it all in. Though he has a mean curious streak and a slight death wish as he gets into and under all the things all the time.

Watching my kids grow up and knowing that my mama will never know them is the hardest part of facing this day each year. I tell them stories about her and if you’ve ever met Audrey, you know that her eyes were plucked straight out of my mom’s face and her heart and joy in life are directly from the Vicki Vincent genes. In many ways, my kids will know her. Not in the way that I had imagined and hoped, but they will know her. It makes me more protective of her memory, but I don’t regret that in the slightest. Her memory is worthy of protecting and my kids deserve to know who she was even though they can’t know who she is.

In just a couple short weeks, my living kiddos will celebrate their birthdays. 6 and 1. It will never get easier to not see my mama on that day. It will never be ok that my children can’t call up their Grammy and chat about their life and their friends and their school and whatever else crosses their mind. But it will always be ok because God will sustain. He has showered our little family with jewels that shine in even the darkest caves of grief, because they reflect even the tiniest fragments of light and cast glimmers of hope that are often times blinding. What an amazing God we have, that preordained all of this story - knowing the deep dark parts of it would need Audrey Nole and Harry Beau. Sometimes its healing to know that my mama gets to be Grammy in heaven; that George Mason is being loved on by the best of the best. Even when I don’t understand all that heaven means, I know that there is purpose in her death and his. And all the hard stuff that has become crucial parts of our story weren’t mistakes.

People often say that God won’t give you more than you can handle. But the reality is that He has given us so much more than we could have ever handled, on our own anyway. Yet, despite the heaviest weight of the loss of a mother and a son, our family still lives and still smiles and still believes in a God who is faithful. We have lived through the proof of his faithfulness. It isn’t just words on a page in our bibles, but actual lived experience. I wish that things looked different. I wish that instead of acknowledging 6 years without my mama today, that we were gearing up to celebrate 40 years of marriage for my parents on Sunday. But instead, we rest in the peace that death did not win in my mama’s story - Jesus defeated death so that she could be made new and whole on this day 6 years ago. That cancer wasn’t the defining aspect of her story, but her identity as an adopted daughter of the Holy God of the universe. It is my prayer, on this day and every other, that God would continue to show Himself to my kids and myself. That we would all see His wonderful persistence in holding onto His kids. That no matter what the day throws at us, we would remember that his mercies are new every morning.

The last picture that I have with my mama sits in a frame on my vanity. Her and I are laughing about something and my belly is about to burst with Audrey Nole. It hurts a whole hell of a lot to know that they were so close to being able to snuggle one another, but I will forever be thankful for the time that I got to spend with her in those last few months of my pregnancy and her life. I don’t know that I will ever truly love Utah, but I will always be grateful for the way in which God brought us here to be with her in those final months. The memories made will be cherished forever.

So to all the people out there who have lost of a mother, or father, or child… God loves you so incredibly deeply. Take solace in that. Rejoice in that. Cry in those big strong arms, and then laugh as the joy creeps in and slowly lightens the darkness. “But You, O Lord, are a shield for me, my glory, the One who lifts up my head. I cried to the Lord with my voice, and He heard me from His holy hill.” - Psalm 3:3-4

Happy 4th Birthday, George Mason!

Today is George Mason’s day and it would have been his 4th birthday. Four whole years since we met him. Since he turned us into a family of 4. It’s hard to imagine what life would be like if he were running around our house and a living member of our tribe. We certainly know what it’s like to miss him! But what would it be like to have him here?

Would he be strong now? Would the years of dialysis and a potential kidney transplant be behind us? Would he be big and loud and all boy? Or would he still be sick? Still be waiting for the day when hospitals weren’t such a big part of his life? Would he be on the floor, wrestling with his big sister? Would he follow her every move? Would he go off by himself to play with trains or dinosaurs or footballs? Would there be dress up days and painted finger nails? Would there be dirt in all of his crevices? Would he love to eat like his siblings? Would he be the typical middle child, full of sass and a desperate need for attention? Would he and Harry and Walker be the three musketeers? Would he be gentle with his little bro? Would he be jealous? Would he be snuggly and sensitive or would he be decisive and strong willed? Or both?

Every day that goes by brings these types of thoughts. But on his day, they are especially poignant. We miss him all the time, but his day always makes his absence felt a little more obviously. A cake and candles for our birthday boy, but no one to blow them out. There are no presents to unwrap (even though Audrey tries every year) and yet somehow the day doesn’t end in sadness.

This was the first year since his day that we have had a little sibling to join the celebration. Its hard to imagine our life without little Harry man, but what’s harder is imagining his relationship with his big bro. I suppose that hurts the most these days. Watching Harry and Audrey and the bond that they have.... it truly fills my heart with equal parts joy and sorrow. To have a living sibling for our sweet Audrey but to see and feel the absence of the middle little boy who has left such an imprint on our hearts.

As the years go by, I realize that the firsts without him will start to feel bigger. The first day of preschool, kindergarten, highschool, graduation... they aren’t the obvious every day firsts of smiles and giggles and first steps or first foods. They are more spread out and fewer each year. But they are there and they are big. Now that the number of years between his life and today is growing, I not only imagine (and grieve) what he would be like today, but I see more clearly the big person he would be becoming. As I watch Audrey Nole take on the world, I wish she had her George to take along with her. I wish that our little man had a big bro to rough him up and show him the kind of love that can only come from a brother. George’s presence is missed. In every day and every moment. But tonight the cake has been eaten and the celebration was had - because his life is one that deserves our attention and because our hearts need to acknowledge the good along with the hard.

So happy birthday to our middle little; in heaven or on earth, this day will always be yours.

We love you, George Mason.

10 Months Old

Harry Beau,

Somehow you are 10 months old today. The last 10 months seem to have passed in a blink of an eye, yet they also seem to have been some of the longest months of my life. So much has happened and simultaneously not happened since you were born. You will always be told stories of this pandemic... once in a lifetime, they say. Well, it’s the beginning of your life and so it makes the counting of days and years a little more weird than normal.

You are the sweetest human I’ve ever met. You give the best hugs, with the most excellent squeezes. You rarely snuggle. You laugh at all of life. You giggle about everything your sister does. You smile. All. The. Time. Seriously. You are a dare devil with a death warrant. There is no fear in your eyes or mind. You LOVE food. You insist on feeding yourself and get so angry when I try to contain the messy stuff - like yogurt or tomato soup.

You started crawling this month. It’s more of an orangutan type hustle, but it’s gets you where you’re going and gives you a free hand for exploring and mischief making while on the way. You also sprouted 2 teeth in the last month, which is just adding to your adorable factor. I can see a couple more wanting to come through and I’m just praying that we finish our nursing relationship before you get too many more.

We have loved your addition to our family and the role you play in our little tribe. You are all the things that your daddy and I longed for as we planned to grow our family. Sometimes your sweet smile and jubilant demeanor make me forget the trials of the last few years. I can look into your eyes and your smile melts all the hardened parts of my heart. I can forget that you are our third child or that you should have a big brother to be rough and rowdy with you. I can forget the years of waiting and frustration over not giving Audrey a sibling. You make those things happen in the most organic ways. And yet, there are times when your curiosity and determination make me ache for the big brother you’ll never meet.

It’s a wild ride, being your mama, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Keep on laughing at your sister and loving us like you do. It only gets better with time.

We love you, sweet Harry Beau.

Love,

Mama & Daddy

Dropping To My Knees

In a year that is only 21 days old, it seems as if the comedy of errors that was the theme of 2020 is going to continue… for how long? Long enough to make even the strongest feeble. Or so it seems. If there is one thing that I learned in 2020, it was that nothing is truly in my control and that when the world around me seems to be a spinning tornado, careless of what lies in its path or what it gathers in its cyclone talons, the only left is to drop to my knees. I am not always the best about intentional prayer. I feel as if I narrate my day to God, giving Him my thoughts and my fears, my worries, my excitements, all in real time - sometimes silently as I drive to school drop off, listening to Audrey ramble on about something; sometimes out loud in exasperation or in the most intense of joys. But how often do I find myself humbly coming before the throne of the Almighty, with intentional and purposeful prayer? Whether the ridiculous amount of nonsense that filled 2020 was specifically so God could teach me to get on my knees more frequently or not, is yet to be determined. I apologize if that is the case. But nonetheless, here I am, in more desperate need of that intentional and humbling conversation with my Father.

Audrey’s kindergarten teacher had a heart attack today. Yup. You read that correctly. My mind is spinning and my heart is racing. These poor children. They have been through so much this year and have taken it all in with such grace and resilience; something that we should not take for granted, but instead be acutely aware of God’s faithfulness and provision. It came as an email. One that you would never expect from your head of school. One that makes your heart sink. Then when you’ve caught your breath, it sinks just a little bit more. We will now have both of her precious teachers in our prayers. Both for their health.

When your 5 year old can list breast cancer and heart attack on her prayer list, you can see how it could feel overwhelming. Like Satan is swirling the gates of that precious school, just waiting for the OK from God to rip apart the faith of the young souls that have been entrusted to its care. Now, more than ever, we must pray for our little ones. And not just because illness is devastating and we adore Audrey’s teachers, but because the mind’s of our children are still being molded and in the midst of a pandemic (among other things), I don’t want to see her become discouraged or disappointed in the Good God that she serves.

It was a great task to keep my emotions in check as we discussed what happened today and what she can expect over the next couple weeks. We have experienced so much loss in these last several years, that my heart can barely stand the thought of someone we admire and adore so much having to go through this; yet I don’t want to worry or frighten her. I want to be honest with her. I want to share the depths of my heart and the fears that I will turn over to God. But I don’t want to frighten her. So I will pray. I will pray for Mrs. G and Mrs. K. I will pray for our sweet Audrey. I will pray for the school that we have come to love and cherish. For the protection of those teachers that have become Audrey’s heroes. For the staff that will be filling the hole while her teacher regains her health. For satan to be told to get the heck out of here. Would you join me?

A First for the New Year

Harry went to the church nursery for the very first time this week. At 9 months old, I handed him to a relative stranger, for the first time in his entire life. Pandemic living, I suppose. It was all the emotions that you can imagine, as I placed my child into the arms of the very loving care taker, handed off the diaper bag and said, “I love you sweet boy, be good and have fun!” Then, as I walked down the hallway back towards the sanctuary, I felt my heart sink and leap all in the same moment.

It felt wonderful to be in a church building. To be able to worship around other believers. Not that we couldn’t have been sooner than now, but for all sorts of reasons, January 2021 is the fist time in far too long that we were able to worship among God’s people. Those 20 or so steps from the nursery door to my reserved seat in the back corner of the sanctuary were filled with excitement. To be able to worship as myself, as Jillian and not as mama, felt like an incredible gift; the nursery is truly a ministry straight into the heart of mothers. But as I sat down in my chair, preparing my heart to enter into worship, I realized that I would not be entirely free of my motherly duties… Harry Beau would be a constant ticker tape through my mind as the words of hymns came out of my mouth.

I was so much more anxious than I ever anticipated being. Perhaps it was simply because it was the first time I had left this little human of mine with someone other than a relative or very close friend? Perhaps it was separating my big girl from my little boy? Perhaps, it was missing the 3-almost-4 year old that should have been in that nursery with him? Whoa… things got real deep. How is it that the grief over George Mason comes so subtly and without warning? When the days have become less shadowed by the dark clouds of heart ache and instead filled with the joy (and exhaustion) of a tiny babe, it always surprises me when I realize there is more to grieve. So much of my heart has been poured into repairing itself over the last 4 years. Yes, four (4) years. I have handed over buckets of tears and rooms full of anger to the only one who can heal… and yet, even after all the hard work of grief, there is still more. God wasn’t surprised by my anxiety on this day. He is never surprised by our heartache. He knew exactly the emotions that would sweep through my head and heart as I walked down that hall.

That is quite truly the most incredible gift. To be known, and to feel it deeply into my bones, by the very Creator of the universe. That the same God who spoke the world into existence cares for my single heart, on a cold day in January, is the highest honor. Truly.

I’m afraid that I didn’t hear much of what was preached on this Sunday, and I imagine my mind will wander in and out over the next several months. But God is working even in my distracted state. He is furthering His kingdom, even as His words are preached to a room full of preoccupied men and women. The deepest parts of our hearts are receiving His truths, in preparation for whatever we are next called to do. It is good to know that God’s character, His fulfilling of promises, and His work in this world aren’t dependent on my being fully committed to listening to every word spoken from the pulpit. That even on the days when my anxiety is high and I’m utterly distracted, He is sovereign. He is sovereign over those unpredictable emotions. Sovereign over the care and love shown to my little man in that nursery. Sovereign over the things that trouble my heart in the climate of 2021.

This year is my second attempt at reading through the entire Bible. I failed miserably in 2020. I do not know if my determination will wain as time goes on, or if life will through wrenches into my best laid plans (like setting my alarm 30 min earlier to be awake and spend time in the Bible before the littles wake up, and then the littles waking up 30 min earlier…) but I intend to complete this task; more like journey. And even if it takes me longer than the 365 days that I intend, it will be worth every second. Because every word will write more of who God is into those deeps places in my heart - to be recalled when anxiety ebbs and flows. We are only 12 days in to this new calendar year, and its already proving to be as event filled and stressful as the last. So I will pray that my determination to spend daily time with God is not faulty. I will pray that despite the anxious mama heart that accompanied the joy of worshipping with fellow believers, I would continue to allow myself that space and let Harry be a baby, playing in the nursery.

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

9 Months

Harry Beau,

Writing these letters to you (and your siblings before you) has been one of the highlights of my 2020. It is a joy to recount the happenings of the last month and put them on paper; I’m not even sure if you’ll ever actually read these, but I hope you know how much they mean to me as I watch you grow; I never want to forget these fleeting moments of your childhood. As it stands, you are 9 months old today. And just as I feel like we were getting the hang of you, you’ve started to crawl. Or scoot. Or something like that... nevertheless, you’re on the move and you’re equal parts happy, proud, and frustrated. You’ll get the hang of it soon enough, and I’m sure that your infectious grin is waiting in the wings for the first time you successfully go in the direction you choose!

This month has been a fun one. You are the cutest lunch date and the most obnoxiously impatient dinner date. You LOVE to eat. Seriously. You get your whole body going as we set you in your high chair and then you positively insist that food be placed within your reach so as to make its way into your mouth, pronto. I don’t know if you’re any bigger than before, but your appetite is only matched by that of your sister - champion eaters run in this family apparently!

Your first Christmas was this month - it seems obvious to say that - and you were giving off all the feels. You loved the wrapping paper and empty boxes. You were a little apprehensive as we placed you in front of your pile of gifts from Santa... whom you were so enchanted by when we met him! But after a little plodding from your sister, you realized that stockings are kind of fun!

As I kissed you goodnight and laid you down in your crib, you gave me the sweetest grin. We are all so ready to say goodbye to 2020, as it has been full of so many challenges, but your arrival 9 months ago was the very best thing a mama could ask for in a year - so I’m a little sad to close this chapter. Tomorrow is a new day and a new year. And you are only 3 months away from your first birthday. So excuse me while I cry a little more over the next few months, because my baby is growing up too fast. I love you sweet boy. Happy New Year and happy 9 months!

Love you like the fireworks that light the New Years sky,

Mama & Daddy

Ecclesiastes 3:11

I bought a new mug a week or two ago. I’m not even sure why, because I have one of those heater mugs for my morning coffee… meaning, I use the same one every day. But nonetheless, this mug jumped out at me and so it go put in the drawer with the other mugs; that I never use. And before I could even think about using it, it got a chip in the rim. It seems fitting, and there is likely a metaphor for life in 2020 in that story, for a mug about how God makes everything beautiful in its time, would get a crack - an imperfection - yet today, as I reached for the cold coffee in the end of the pot, I pulled out the mug and stuck it in the microwave. Because even with a crack, it still holds coffee. It still delivers caffeine to the tired mind of a mom at christmastime… and its microwave safe so it doesn’t present a fire hazard while I enjoy the said caffeine.

I think that since George’s story began, there has been a lot of deeper exploration of the not so readily read parts of the Bible. Finding hope in Lamentations 3:23 and seeing God’s divine fingerprints in our story through Ecclesiastes 3:11. To the less well known psalms of lament that give validation to my despair and yet hope for the newness promised in eternity. I take refuge in the wings of my Father. I am guided by my Shepard. I can clap my hands and shout for joy because God is my God.

Its so interesting how grief comes in waves. How some days it hits hard and punches me in the gut. How other days its just a dull ache; felt in my muscles as if I’d run a marathon. And then other days, its almost not even there. Watching my kids, plural, play around the house has brought enormous joy to our 2020. And yet, as Harry gets bigger and I see him begin to interact with his big sister, I find I’m missing George Mason just a little bit more. It was easy to stuff the emotions of missing a sibling for Audrey when I didn’t really understand what I was missing. There wasn’t a tangible example of a brother sister relationship to remind me or pain me. There was just an empty house. An only child. A playroom full of dresses and baby dolls. When there were never trains or dinosaurs to begin with, its hard to fully comprehend what its like to have them taken away. Yet now, we have a brother in the flesh. And each and every time I see the adoration in Harry’s eyes for his big sister, and I see the excitement in Audrey’s as she shares the world with her little brother, I miss George in a way that I’ve not had to face before. The chaos of 3 littles, 5, 3, and 8m, is so different from the dynamic of two littles with a 5 year age gap.

Over Thanksgiving we had my siblings come to town. There are four living grand babies, the two that aren’t mine are 2 year old boys. (moms of twins, I salute you…. 2 2 year olds was a lot of 2 year olds) Watching Audrey with them and them with Harry melted my heart in the best of ways and broke it in the worst. George would be nearly 4 by now. He would have been the ring leader of the boy gang. He would have guarded the little men from the big boss, his sister, and he very likely would have engaged in and created lots of mischief; that those 2 year old boys would have no doubt loved. But, instead of that, we had a sort of calm - not really calm, because toddlers - that made it obvious there was a little boy missing. Again, in a way that I haven’t had to face before. New grief for a new stage of life.

This is our reality, I suppose, for basically forever. I’m not sure there will ever be a time when we enter a new life stage that George’s missing piece doesn’t hit us hard. We will forever miss his little soul - and as we age, even into empty nesters, we will miss the man he could have become and the woman he would have brought home, and the children he would have raised. When the McGough kids gather for thanksgiving as adults, there won’t be just one person missing, but an entire family. I imagine that will be hard for my kids one day too. Grief isn’t selective in its wake. Every person along the path will have to face it. My kids aren’t even old enough (Harry wasn’t alive) to really remember George, yet they will carry a piece of his story and the grief that comes with it, with them forever. Audrey will always have a brother she met but never knew. Harry will always be the 3rd child in a family with only 2. I don’t know yet how exactly that part of their identity will shape them as humans, but I know that God promises to make all things beautiful in its time.

8 Months Old

Harry Beau,

Today you are 8 months old and I swear you get happier with every day that passes. I honestly think you are the definition of Jolly... rosy cheeks and all. It makes your daddy and I so happy to watch your smile; especially when your sister is around. The adoration you have for her makes us jealous at times, but it also reminds me what an answer to prayer you are!

You had your first thanksgiving this month and it was SUCH a JOY to watch you! We are certainly on the path for another great eater. You sit in your high chair and immediately think food should present itself for your enjoyment. When it doesn’t, you begin a very specific whining sequence until said food arrives. It’s adorable, though annoying.

You are still not moving, though you are getting braver with how far you are willing to reach to grab a toy or food. Perhaps you’ll be crawling by Christmas, but the general consensus from your aunts and uncles is that you’re just too happy and content to crawl. It’s a catch 22 for mama... you not moving is very easy. But you not moving is also beginning to frustrate you... only time will tell!

You said “mama” this month, and though I know it wasn’t on purpose, I’m claiming it as your first word! Your daddy disagrees, but you and me know you meant it! ;) Either way, it’s been fun to watch you explore different sounds. The soundtrack that is forming alongside your many faces is quite entertaining!

We can’t wait to see you through your first Christmas season. It is mama’s favorite time of year and I have been so excited to share it with you for the very first time! So happy 8 months and the end of November. December, here we come!

We love you, Harry Beau,

Mama & Daddy

7 Months Old

Harry Beau,

You are 7 months old and still as tiny as ever. I had hopes that you would be my rolly-poly baby, but in all honesty, I love that you are bitty. It makes it seem as if this baby stage will keep. I don’t want you to be a baby forever, but this stage is just about the best.

Your snuggles are glorious. You are learning to hug; or at least that’s what I’m claiming. You have just started giving kisses but you pretty much reserve those for mama - occasionally daddy, but never sissy. Those attempts generally end up as a head bump for the both of you. You’ve mastered sitting up and are starting to show interest in moving. You are getting very brave in how far you’re willing to reach for things, especially cups. You’ve spilled so many things on me in the last 2 weeks. Let’s work on that, ok?

You have had a pretty eventful month. You took your first flight (were basically a champ!), met the last of your aunts and uncles, and all of your cousins. You went to daddy’s hometown for the first time and were a pretty adorable construction buddy as we helped Aunt Madi fix up her house. She says you can come back and stay whenever you want! You got to ride through the canals of Venice (Vegas baby!) and LOVED listening to your sister tell you all about how wonderful the big Ferris wheel is.

You have so enjoyed learning to eat. You go straight for the protein on the plate and rarely touch the fruit. Your chewing skills are progressing and food is actually staying in your mouth, though there’s still plenty of room for improvement - the dogs will be fat if you keep at this pace! I really can’t wait to see you at the Thanksgiving table.

You had your first halloween and totally killed it. You were an excellent tag along for Audrey’s Halloween festivities and you put up with the ridiculous hat and beard of your costume for a lot longer than I expected.

This has been a whirlwind month and we are heading into the holidays and I cannot wait to share my favorite 2 months with you! I love you sweet boy, it’s been a pretty wonderful 7 months. Looking forward to the next 7 and so many more.

Mama & Daddy love you, Harry Beau.

Bye, Mama!

“Bye, Mama!” is the last thing that Audrey Nole says as she gets out of the car and closes the door. She then prances, yes, prances, around the front of the car and runs down the path towards the very tall stairs that enter her school. Usually at about the halfway point up the stairs, she turns around and waves; even with her mask over the lower half of her face, her eyes say all there is to say: Kindergarten is wonderful. I look forward to the stories she tells as we drive home after pick up. Most of the time she gives me the “I forgot” answer to any of the questions I come up with to stir conversation. But eventually, she starts talking and all the things about life as a 5 (going on like 20) year old pour out. She loves school. The social aspect, in particular, has been so good for her, but the learning is pretty much a close - if not tied - second. 

This election year has been hard. Not that every election year isn’t hard, but it feels almost irreconcilably divided and polarized. It’s made worse by the vacuum of our social media feeds and the algorithms that continuously feed us the side of the story that will keep us most engaged. In many ways, it makes it hard to see that there even IS another side, let alone be open to dialogue about which side may or may not be right {or perhaps admitting that no side is right, but Christ still reigns}. Not being in fellowship with others just adds to the stress and the division.  And yet, Kindergarten strikes again. These precious lives, with sponges for brains, are learning what it is to hold an election. What it means to vote. What a privilege it is to be able to cast a vote, and how important it is that we take that responsibility seriously. (you know, by voting on which type of snack the class should have when they have their class party… spaghetti or pizza anyone?) In many ways, Audrey’s limited experience and understanding of elections is refreshing. For her, it isn’t about the complex levels of policy vs character vs power vs popularity. She doesn’t know that we are supposed to hate the other side. She doesn’t even know that there are two sides. There are just two people, hoping to be President of The United States of America; one nation, under God…. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if reality could resemble that simplicity, even just a smidgen? 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating for turning politics into something as simple as a vote between pizza and spaghetti - its far too messy and complicated for that anyway - but what I long for, is civility in the process. If you know me, you probably know which way my vote will be cast. If you don’t, I pray that you would feel loved by me no matter what “side” of this nasty war we call politics you and I fall on. Just like Audrey, I want to pray for our President and for Joe Biden. I want to remember that we are all made in the image of God, and that we are all beloved by our Father - that means Joe, Donald, Kamala, and Mike too. I want to remember that salvation isn’t dependent on politics or their party leaders. Thank God for that. I want to go into each day with the same “Bye, Mama!” enthusiasm and security that Audrey Nole has when she heads into school. I want to shout the Gospel, the by grace alone, through faith alone, in Christ alone, Gospel. I want to hug each and every weary human and remind them, and myself, that hope comes only from Jesus, not politics. That joy is something we choose in each day, and is most completely experienced in Jesus. 

Just as Audrey has blossomed in the environment of kindergarten, I want to blossom in motherhood. Just as she enters the world, fearless because she can turn around and I’m there, I want to enter the world knowing God is there. I don’t want my identity to be wrapped up in who I’m voting for or what particular sub-class of people the world has grouped me with. I want to be seen first as Jillian, God’s daughter. Then as wife, mother, sister, friend and very, very, very lastly, as a vote to be earned; not won. My life and identity will continue on after this election. I’m going to continue to remember that my identity in Christ shapes my worldview, which shapes my vote. Yet, regardless of who comes out victorious on November 3rd, the ultimate victory has already been won: Christ defeated death and paid for my sins. THAT is the hope I hold until I’m called to enter eternity. 

photo: Megan Osburn

Spilled Coffee & Longing for Heaven

Three times in the last week I’ve gotten all the way to the door of a store and had to turn around to get my mask. Baby in tow, I dig out my keys and dig through the center console to find the piece of cotton that is required to enter just about any public place. To say that I’m longing for normal is an understatement.

It’s not just the masks. It’s missing my people. Craving hugs. Longing for smiles. It’s not having to tread lightly wherever I go and with whomever I interact with, as it’s impossible to tell where anyone falls on the spectrum of normalcy and fear of this virus. It’s made even worse now that, just like everything else in the world lately, covid has been incredibly politicized. Should I be worried about where my risk comfort falls in relation to a certain political party? How do I love on my friends without them feeling judged by my mask or lack thereof? Should I invite friends over to carve pumpkins or is that unwise? Normal. That’s not really a word I ever thought would be hard to explain or navigate. Yet, here we are.

I have an almost 7 month old baby boy who has only met a handful of my friends. I have a 5 year old who faithfully, and surprisingly without much complaint, wears a mask to kindergarten every day (Audrey Nole, you are a better human than your mama...). I have missed celebrations for Easter, Birthdays, Memorial Day, Independence Day, Labor Day, and soon Halloween. My party throwing, hospitality heart is cringing under the weight of covid isolation. My mama heart is carrying a heavy burden too; not having my village is just truly heartbreaking.

Every day, every week, every whenever I have the time/desire, we do things to try and make life feel normal. Today, I took Harry out for a latte and donut. Not because my body needed caffeine, but because my soul needed normal. So we sat at our table, chatted over yogurt melts and squeaks of Sophie le Giraffe, and people watched in the most conspicuous way. It felt like perhaps this world is circling back to wide open. I won’t turn on the news and crush my reality... And just as I sat there feeling thankful for this tiny slice of normal, Harry reached over and knocked my latte all over himself, the diaper bag, the table, and my daggum mask. Oi. Back to reality.

I suppose having a fall scented mask isn’t the worst? But seriously, is anyone else just so ready to be done with 2020, or is it just me? Every time I feel like I’ve wrapped my mind around all the things, coffee spills all over the floor; today, quite literally. I’m thankful that my hope is in Jesus and that that’s enough for every day. Goodness though, it’s been a long time since this earth felt like a happy home. I suppose that’s part of living in this broken world, full of sin: we long for heaven. If nothing else comes of this year, I think an army of believers realizing what it means to long for heaven is probably a pretty good thing. So here’s to all my fellow mamas and daddies and brothers and sisters whose hearts are broken over all that’s been lost in this weird and crazy year... praise the Lord for His hope and his promise of reconciliation and redemption.

6 Months Old

Harry Beau,

Today you are 6 months old. We are halfway through your first year of life and we also happen to be in the 6th month of a global pandemic; full of isolation, depression, civil unrest, an ugly election, racial tensions, and so much more. You have been such a bright spot in this weird and tumultuous year. Your smile lights up a room and your giggle reaches deep into my soul, reminding me of the great God we serve. The great God who timed your birth specifically and with purpose. You were made to be here, in this moment, in this season. You were designed for this time, and as each the world gets uglier outside our walls, I’m so thankful for you and for the way you have already shown you were perfectly designed for right now. 

It is my prayer for you that you wouldn’t remember or understand all the ugly and crazy that has been surrounding your birth - that has taken over all the things that one would expect out of baby’s first year. Instead, I pray that you would know fully the glory of the God who made you and loves you, and you would grow to be on fire for His kingdom. I think often of Esther, as I watch you grow. Thinking about how she was so specifically made for such as time as this. I pray that as you become a man, in this topsy turvy world, that you would show the love of Jesus to all that you encounter; that you would speak the truth of Jesus’ great atoning love; that you would use the wonderful gift of your smile to shed light into the darkest crevices of humanity. 

You are just about sitting up these days - though most of the times that you fall over it feels a lot more about laziness than it does about lack of strength. (I think I’ll pray that you outgrow that too haha) You have LOVED food but are still quite frustrated that it doesn’t just end up in your mouth by jedi force or the like. Watching your faces as you taste new things is for sure a highlight to each of our meals. You. Make. Great. Faces. 

You adore your big sister, probably more than I could have ever imagined. You can hear her voice from what seems like a mile away and you instantly turn your head to find her. You reserve the biggest smiles and the deepest belly laughs for her antics. Watching you interact with her makes my heart jump for joy… and also break just a tiny bit, as I wish that your big brother could’ve been here to greet you and love on you. One day we will tell you all about him, for now, just know that in some small way, his legacy has shaped the way that we love you and has absolutely sculpted our parenting. We are trusting in the God who provides and sustains to get us through the messiness of human nature and navigating raising His children. We will probably fail you, but God never will. And if you learn nothing else from Daddy and me over the next few years, I pray that it is that. 

As we close out September, and your 6th month outside of my womb, I’m already looking forward to what the next month will hold. Will you crawl? I suppose it will depend on that laziness thing… at any rate, we are ready to cheer you on as you experience this world. We love you bud, more than you can know. 

Happy 6 Months, sweet Harry Beau,

Love,
Mama & Daddy

First Day of Preschool?

I’m finding myself turning to my journal a lot lately. I suppose its to be expected. Each new season of life brings with it a flurry of emotions and all the feels, good and bad, to process but also document. I think that has been one of the best outcomes from this little journal experiment of mine: documenting all the things. I’m not a very sentimental person, but it is truly lovely to look back over old entries and reminisce about the highs and lows of each moment in time. It is also particularly useful in reminding me of all the ways that God has provided through the most difficult decade of my life. 

So, as I wrap up the initial excitement and nerves of sending our big girl off to kindergarten, I’m finding myself needing to write. As I mostly keep myself busy, its not often that I get to really sit in the quiet of these days. Working on house projects, catching up on all the “spring cleaning” and organizing that didn’t happen because of those pesky broken ribs and a newborn, spending more intentional time with the Lord. Busy is my go to. It has worked for so many years. But it also has its disadvantages. Mainly, it becomes a way of coping without processing. So yesterday, as Harry had an unusually fussy day - more cuddles happened in the last 24 hours than I think have happened in the last 5 months - I had time to sit in the “quiet” of comforting a baby. As always happens, the emotions let loose. 

George Mason would be 3 and a half right now, and that means he should be starting preschool. There is so much to unpack in that statement. Three and a half. Its really hard to believe. Its also the first “real” milestone that he has missed. It sounds silly to say it like that. There have been 3 birthdays missed. We didn’t get first steps or first words. We missed the special moments of baptism and first Bible stories. But somehow, not being able to take first day of school pictures, or listen to him tell me all about the things he did at school, feels big. And awful. And then, in the very same breath (or lack there of…), I’m almost jealous of that sweet boy in heaven. His eternity started before he really knew the brokenness of this world. He is abiding, quite literally, in the God who formed him and knew Him from the beginning of time. He isn’t experiencing the weird season of pandemic living. He doesn’t have to grow up in a world that is divided among varying world views that clash at every meeting. He will never experience a bully or a booboo. The heartbreak of first love. 

I don’t know much about Heaven and what its like to be there while you’re loved ones live out their time on earth. I am torn between wanting my son to know me and watch his siblings grow and cheer them on, and knowing that pain doesn’t exist in Heaven. How does one know someone and not miss them? How does one miss someone without pain? Perhaps George Mason is watching us and delighting in the siblings that God gave him, yet completely absent of the pain of loss. Or perhaps he is blissfully ignorant of the people here that love him and miss him, because he is with his Heavenly Father, praising Him with the angels. Maybe it falls somewhere in the middle. 

George Mason will never again experience the pains of living in a broken world. His death at 16 hours of age completed his work for God’s kingdom and now he has been made whole. But his wholeness has left a hole in our hearts and in the dreams we had for our future. I’m thankful that his life is a part of our story and I’m equally sad that there will be no first day of school pictures, along with a slue of other firsts and lasts that make up our lives here on earth. 

A Home Built For Siblings

We spent the weekend working on our backyard upgrade/makeover. It was a whole family affair. Between nursing Harry, making sure he naps, helping Adam, and making sure Audrey keeps an eye on her brother when she says she will, it was full. It actually felt quite wonderful. The last 3 years, we have been working on this house. It was the place we escaped to after George died. When we were trying to make sense of all the pain, slamming a sledge-hammer felt pretty damn good. Adam could spend his evenings pounding out the grief of losing a son. I could spend my days dreaming of how we would put the whole thing back together. And then, whenever we are done, enjoying the fruits of our labor with our family. Not our whole family, but however many God granted us earthside. 

The house has been a lot of work. It has taken the majority of our time, money, and energy over the last 3 years. But you know what, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. It was the distraction we needed when we needed it and it has been such a great way force ourselves out of the midst of sorrow straight into family time - one project at a time. 

This yard project is no different. Except that its very different. Audrey Nole was two and half when we bought this house and started ripping it apart. We had also spent the majority of her short life fixing our previous home (albeit on a scale much less than this one) and she knew how to use a screwdriver before she could talk. So when demolition on our Mid-Century rambler began, Audrey Nole was ready to go. She would tell us how our house was broken and how we were working so hard to fix it. She watched a million and one episodes of Daniel Tiger, made countless messes in attempting to help, and put as much of her soul into the rebuilding as Adam and I did. I guess the biggest thing though, was her total independence. Aside from needing to be fed occasionally, she was so content to watch her “movies” and help when it struck her fancy, that it allowed us to focus a good portion of our time on putting things back together in our humpty dumpty house. My friends would often joke with me about how Audrey’s sibling was this house. It wasn’t too far off… she was sharing her parents with something that felt a lot like having a newborn. Looking back, it feels like God’s way of preparing her for the day when she would get to bring home a living sibling. Our only child wasn’t the center of our whole world. 

Now that Harry is here, we actually do have a newborn (well, he’s not so new anymore, but in the pandemic age, it still feels as if he’s pretty new). Can I just say how special it was to be able to look at Audrey Nole, proud big sister that she is, and watch her entertain her brother every time Adam needed an extra hand? To know that our sweet little boy was in the best hands possible when I would look up from the pile of cement at my feet and hear the most precious giggles from both big and little? Part of me knows this home was designed for Harry and Audrey. Even though the big stuff was done before Harry was even on his way, there has always been a touch of him in the planning. A home and space designed for siblings. Even in the waiting and guessing through the infertility, there was still that hope that Audrey would have a roommate in the basement. That the square footage of this house wasn’t going to be wasted on just the 3 of us, but instead filled to the brim with McGough siblings and their friends. So looking over at the two of them on the patio while mama and daddy toiled in cement, made my heart burst. Even though the 5 month old is making things go much less smoothly than our other projects over the last 3 years, I wouldn’t change it for the world. This space is theirs. From the sunny grass area, to a fire pit space where countless s’mores will be roasted, to the play set that will help to build those tiny little muscles, its all for them; for siblings. For our family. 

What started as an outlet for our grief and a space for us to look to the future, has become truly ours. Hard work, blood, sweat, and tears. There is still grief. It’s hard to not notice the 3rd set of little handprints that are missing. Or to not grieve the chaos of 3 littles. George is part of this house, even though he never lived here, in just the same way that Harry is part of this house despite arriving long after its guts were put back together. Adam jokes that we will die in this house (mostly because its been a lot of work) and part of me thinks that’s almost true… because to ever leave this home will mean leaving a part of our hearts behind. It has been a pleasure to include Audrey in our projects, in whatever way was appropriate, and I cannot wait to do the same for Harry over the years. This house, this home, are a big part of our story and the details of our lives are woven into its parts. There is no detail that is not us; all of us. All five of us.