11.12.17

After George Mason died my sisters very carefully hid away all of the blatant triggers. All of the nursery got dismantled and baby clothes got hidden away. They tried to make sure that the stuff, all the reminders and pieces that accumulate when you’re having a baby, were there when I was ready but weren’t there until I was ready.  At some point (getting a house market ready kind of swung me into a state of “ready”) I had to start going through some of it. One of the things was a series of children’s books about bringing home baby and being a big sister. When my friends all started announcing their pregnancies I dug out those books and passed them on.

Well, in the process of moving, there was one “big sister” book that managed to be a little bit more hidden and has now shown up in Audrey’s book basket. It’s one of her favorite books. I think we’ve read it at least 4 out of the last 7 nights before bed. There was a time when I couldn’t have handled that. I would have broken down in tears and told her to pick a different book. But now, I’m finding myself ok with it. I don’t particularly long to or look forward to reading this book, but it has facilitated some sweet little discussions with Audrey Nole. Tonight as she carefully picked out her bedtime books, the big sister book found its way onto the list. “Read the baby book, Mama. It’s George Mason. A little girl is holding him” My mind tells her silently that the little girl was supposed to be her.

I asked her where George Mason went since he didn’t get to come home with us like the baby in the book. She thought about it for a second and then excitedly claimed he “went to heaven!” And when I asked her who he was with in heaven she said “Jesus and Grammy” Melt my heart... I told her how much George Mason loved her and that as much as he loved her there was someone who loved her more.

“Do you know who that is?” “Ummm..... I don’t know”

“Jesus. Jesus loves you so so much, Audrey Nole.”

“He died on the cross”

“Yes he did. That’s how much he loves us!”

“God needs to give me a sister. Ok mama?”

“You ask him, sweet girl. Just keep asking him.”

Moment over. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about growing our family. When it hit me on Friday that it had been 9 months since George Mason’s day I realized that as long as I had with him I’ve now had without him. And that on the very same day, we were 9 months from getting the doctor’s ok to try again. 9 months is the theme of this week. And 9 months brings up all those thoughts and desires about babies. I want more babies. We want more babies. This family needs more babies. Audrey clearly wants there to be more babies. But when I think about the reality of having more children, I’m honestly terrified. What if it’s another boy? What if this happens again? How will I survive an entire 9 months of worry and fear? How will I handle all of the firsts that should have been George Mason’s? All of those father & son moments that are so special? And then I quietly beg my caring Father to let the next baby be a girl. Because when I think about all the things that are going to be so hard about having another baby after losing a baby, I don’t feel strong enough to be mama to a little boy that is not George Mason. And then I feel guilty for asking for anything but a healthy baby. And then I feel silly for thinking that the strength I need to parent a baby born after George Mason is going to come from anyone but God.

Audrey asked God for a sister tonight in her prayers. She will likely ask again tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. I’m going to let her keep asking. And as a friend told me so eloquently, we have a God who delights in giving His children the desires of their hearts. I’m going to hold on to that thought as we inch our way to that 18 month mark. I’m going to trust that God put the desire for more children on my heart and he’s going to delight in seeing me through however that plays out. If there are more babies,  I will be strong. If there are more boys, I will be strong. If there are more girls, I will be strong. Not because I am strong, but because God is the strongest and he is so gracious in his relationship with me. It’s a good reminder to myself to not be terrified of the what if’s. To trust that, just as He has proven time and again, God is not just off in the distance letting me figure this out for myself, but down in the trenches, leading the way.

9 Months

Today my sweet George Mason would have been 9 months old. It has been 9 whole months and it feels like an eternity and a blink of an eye all at once. A series of questions from a dear friend has me sitting right back in that hospital room on George’s day. I don’t usually like to think about the list of things I would change or the ways I’m specifically disappointed in that day, but God has brought me there today. Tears, laughter, anger, frustration, disappointment. He has me there. So I’m going to dig in and peel back a few more layers. 

I hated everything about his day. He was supposed to come in a very controlled, planned, thought out way. He was supposed to come when his doctors were ready for him. He was supposed to come in the most relaxed, stress free way possible. Supposed to. But instead he came on his own. I labored through an entire Thursday. Drove to the hospital that evening - in hopes that they would do something to stop the contractions - labored some more, and delivered a baby at nearly 5am on Friday morning, via c section. My doctor wasn’t there. His doctors weren’t there. Adam and I hadn’t slept. It took everything in my body to not just close my eyes and sleep. Except I couldn’t sleep. I was too worried about my son. I was too excited to meet him. But then the excitement became worry. And then the worry became fear. Hours passed before I got to even see a picture of him. And hours more before I got to be in the same room with him. And then hours more before I was able to hold him. 

I hated everything about that day. 

I sat at my dining room table on February 9th, across from a friend, and kept finding myself out of breath as another contraction would resonate through my body. I remember her begging me to call the nurse. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to admit that the end was nearing. I didn’t want to face the reality that my son was going to be born, which meant that he was going to die. I had spent the whole pregnancy wishing he would just be born. Because if he was born, if he was in a NICU, there were medical treatments they could give him to fix him. As long as he was inside my womb, it was a crapshoot. He was alive, for now, but they didn’t know for how long. They didn’t know how good or bad the situation was. They didn’t know anything except that things looked rough, to say the least, on ultrasound, and that he was going to be a very sick little boy for an indefinite amount of time. So when those contractions came on that dreary Thursday in early February, I wished and prayed them away. I did everything I could think of to get them to stop. Audrey and I laid in bed. I took a warm bath. I took a shower. I made Adam come home from work early. I didn’t want him to come. The end of my pregnancy most likely meant the end of his life and I wasn’t ready to face that… I’m not sure I would have ever been ready. I’m certain that more sleep and less contractions would have made a difference in my experiences on his day but they wouldn't have made me any more ready. I’m certain that I would have been a heck of a lot less nervous going into that OR if my doctor and his doctors had been there. But there was nothing that could have changed the outcome of that day. The numbers on his tombstone would have been different… but the day would have been the same. 

This is why I don’t like to think about the changes I would make. This is why I don’t like to go back and visit my frustrations and disappointments. At the end of all of this, there were so many people that had to say good bye to a perfect little boy. There were so many people, who despite the medical prognosis, were rooting for that little boy. There were so many people who watched Adam and me say goodbye and cried out in disappointment with us. God heard every single voice that called out that day and those months leading up to it. God heard every moment of silent fear and anxiety. He heard every deep breath and heavy sigh. He heard every tear fall from my eyes. He heard even the deepest, most intimate worries and desires of my heart. I’m disappointed in that day. I’m disappointed in the outcome. But when I look over all of the things about that day (and any day for that matter) I can’t say that I’m disappointed in God. I don’t know why He let things happen the way they did, but I know that He worked, and is working, in that day and in my life. I know that He mourned the life of my son along side me. I know that he rejoiced when he welcomed that precious little boy into glory. I know that he heard me and that he answered me with the most resounding “I will love him for eternity. He is in good hands, Jillian, you don’t worry about him. You grieve him, but you keep living. You cry over him, but you keep telling my story. You will have good days and bad days, and I will be there with you through all of it. Your son is perfect and he loves you very much. And I love you oh so very much.”

The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork. Day to day pours out speech, and night to night reveals knowledge. There is no speech, nor are there words, whose voice is not heard. - Psalm 19:1-3

11.5.17

Today has been a hard day. Not because the grief is overwhelming or the memories of George Mason are vibrantly sitting in the forefront of my brain. No, today has been hard because I’m the midst of this journey, I have a defiant two year old. Today has been hard because even though it felt like life shouldn’t move forward without my precious little boy, I’m still mama to Audrey Nole. I’m still parenting. I’m still raising a child (hopefully) in the way she should go; in a way that will make her strong and independent and desperately aware of her need for Jesus. So today was hard, because she wanted to go in exactly the opposite direction.

As I struggled with her defiance today, there was a moment of tenderness that hit me. A moment where, whether she understood exactly what she was asking or not, I  couldn’t provide. As I walked into her room after her much needed nap, she turned and looked at me and said “mama, we need to go buy a sister.” Wait, what? Can you repeat that please... when I prompted her to answer why exactly we needed to buy a sister (such an obvious answer to her problem of being an only living child) she slipped back into her busy toddler body and deflected the question. There’s such truth revealed in her statement. All of her little girlfriends are having siblings. The whole little group of gals are becoming big sisters. They are holding their babies and fighting for their parent’s attention. I knew this season would be hard for me but no one prepared me for it to be hard for Audrey Nole too. I know she doesn’t understand it, but her brother was the first. He was the oldest of this “wave” of kiddos. He would have been the guinea pig sibling that all of the little girls would have watched and learned the role of big sister on. Some day she will know that and understand that and it makes me sad that a whole new phase of grief will enter her life. It makes me sad that grief of any kind has to enter her life (as I’m sure any parent would feel). But scripture tells us over and over that this world is broken and while it’s not the way it’s supposed to be, it is the way it is.

So thankful that God assures us that things will be made right in the end. So thankful that even though we experience death we don’t have to be afraid of death. So thankful that I don’t have to have the perfect answer to every question that comes up in Audrey’s inquisitive mind. So thankful that God is deep in the trenches with me through and for all of it. So thankful for the constant blessing, though sometimes disguised, of Audrey Nole and of George Mason.

And my God will supply every need of yours according to his riches in glory in Christ Jesus. To our God and Father be glory forever and ever. Amen. - Philippians 4:19-20

11.2.17

November brings with it lots of reminders to be thankful. It’s a month dedicated to gratitude and everywhere you look, people are sharing and displaying the things in their life that make them smile. I want to make sure that this month of this particular year, I’m not forgetting about gratitude. It seems it’s one of the truest ways for me to re center myself and remember that God isn’t some evil dictator holding my emotions hostage. Instead, it reminds me that He is very much for me. That when I look around and am intentional about looking for the things in my life that are so so good, I find a million plus one things to be grateful for. Sure, this year has been full of disappointment and sorrow. Sure, my son will not be joining us at the thanksgiving table. Sure, there is an empty nursery waiting for a child to shelter. Sure I could live in despair and focus on the gloom. But beyond the obvious reason to be sad, there is a great and caring God who has promised over and over that He means it when He says He isn’t going to just leave us hanging.

In my attempt at being grateful, one of the things that has spoken so deeply to my heart over this last year is social media. It is such a comfort to see things like that quote as I scroll through a newsfeed. In a world full of reasons to be worried or afraid, one simple sentence, one simple bible verse, can point my head and my heart back to the one thing that should be occupying my time/days/mind/heart. I’m so grateful for ministries that utilize social media in such a convicting way. In a way that turns off my desire for Instagram and turns on my need for digging deeper into the scriptures that breathe so much life,that give so much comfort, and that are oh so sustaining.

This grief journey has been hard. It has tested the limits of my heart. It has tugged at all of my humanity. I often am exhausted both emotionally and physically. I struggle daily with anxiety that plagues even the smallest decisions of motherhood. But it has also drawn me closer to the God I serve. It has pushed me beyond my capabilities and forced me to see the NEED, the deep and predictable need, I have for my creator and savior.

Lord, thank you for not leaving me to go it alone. Thank you for being ever present. And thank you for the millions of way you show and remind me of that fact.

So if there is any encouragement in Christ, any comfort from love, any participation in the Spirit, any affection and sympathy, complete my joy by being of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. -Philippians 2:1-2

Happy Halloween

I’m not particularly fond of Halloween. It’s probably not even on my list of top 10 things/reasons to celebrate. But after Audrey Nole was born, Halloween became one more reason - not that I needed one - to fawn over my tiny human. It became a day where there could be memories made and tons and tons of pictures taken. She was almost 7 months old for her first Halloween. We dressed her up as Minnie Mouse and took her to Papa’s house for dinner al fresco and then she went to bed. It was adorable and I have plenty of pictures of my little Minnie Mouse.

George Mason would’ve been almost 9 months old for his first Halloween. If he was anything like his sister, that means he would’ve been itching to walk and cruising on everything in site. I highly doubt I would’ve gotten him to sit still for the hundreds of pictures I would have wanted to take. We’ve been so busy this last month with our move that I’ve been dreading Halloween and costumes and trick or treating with Audrey, but as I put her down for her nap today (in costume, of course), it really hit me that I won’t have those adorable first Halloween pictures for George Mason. I’m not sure what he would’ve been this year. Probably a gnome, complete with beard and hat and rosy cheeks. I can imagine him crawling and tripping over that silly beard. I can imagine the hilarious and equally precious pictures of my Cinderella and her garden gnome. I can imagine a wagon with a blanket and some hot glued flowers, a yard for the gnome is a must, and an eager two year old ready to pull her brother.

Except that’s probably not what our life would’ve looked like if George Mason had lived. The trick or treating would have likely been door to door in the children’s hospital, if at all. George Mason would’ve probably been hooked up to tubes and monitors and any costume would’ve needed to accommodate those life preserving things. That’s one of the hardest parts of this grief journey. It’s so easy to imagine what life would look like with two healthy kids, to think of George Mason as a little boy who was just like his peers. It’s doubly sad. I want my son here, he should be here, but then I snap back to reality and realize his life, our life as parents, would’ve been so different from my dreams and imagination. It makes me thankful for a gracious and merciful Father. One who saw what my son’s suffering was going to look like and called him home to glory. It’s hard to even type that out without melting into a puddle of tears, but heaven is for real and heaven is wonderful. Oh how thankful I am to know that. My sweet son is not in pain. He is no longer broken. And he doesn’t feel an ounce of the sadness that I feel from losing and missing him. Because of Jesus, my son’s death isn’t scary. Because of Jesus, my son’s death is a love story of redemption. Because of Jesus, my heart can rest assured in knowing all the wonderful things that come with a death that leads to Jesus’ arms.

For to me to live is Christ, and to die is gain. -Philippians 1:21

I don’t know all the details of Heaven, but I’m going to imagine my mama is taking my son trick or treating through the streets of gold. 

10.27.17

It’s been a week since we left our house. A week that has not been without its share of emotions, but honestly, mostly good. For the first time in a long time I’m genuinely excited about the season of life we’re in. Yesterday, we closed on our new home; a project house with great bones. The process of buying was a lot more smooth than selling and I’m thankful for the months of distraction this new project is going to provide. Every day further from saying goodbye to our son is one day closer to the day when we could possibly welcome a new child into our family. Knowing the timeline of waiting and then the unknowns of fertility and conception, makes the days long with anticipation and memory. It will be good to dive into something with my whole self. It will be good to build something for our family that isn’t already tainted by grief and loss. A fresh start and a wonderful distraction. Just one of the ways my caring God cares for me.

I’m not sure why, but I’ve been thinking a lot about George Mason’s grave today. I even texted my sisters and asked them to place some flowers. It’s very out of character for me to be that way. It’s out of the ordinary that I would have any thoughts at all about a cemetery marker, but when I think about it, everything about this last couple years has been out of the ordinary. There is almost nothing that has gone as one would expect or plan. A mother isn’t supposed to die at 55. A positive pregnancy test isn’t supposed to end with an empty cradle. A family isn’t supposed to be missing a person after only 16 hours of life. Our time here in Utah has been extraordinary - probably why I have such mixed feelings about being here - all of the things that aren’t supposed to happen have happened. I suppose it’s not all that strange for me to be thinking about my son’s grave. The one constant in all of this has been our loving God. In every low and every high, God has been here, holding tight to us as his precious children. I find myself often recalling the lyrics from one of my favorite songs: oh no, you never let go, in every high and every low, Lord you never let go of me. I sing those words because there is no greater comfort than knowing that no matter what, no matter how, no matter my belief/faith, God is ALWAYS there and there is nothing that will change that about Him.

My sisters didn’t think twice about my request and asked if I wanted real or faux flowers. That’s the amazing thing about how God works and loves us. I’ve had an extraordinary year and my thoughts and request today are in keeping with that. But God has placed wonderful, kind, loving, understanding people in every aspect of my life. Because He is good. So, so good.

10.20.17 - Closing & Sunsets

Yesterday we said good bye to the house that we have called home for the last 2 years. It has been a much anticipated day. One that came with 2 years of stress and frustration. We have not had the best of times in that house and some of our worst, most awful memories, are tied to that house. But there have also been some pretty wonderful things happen in that house, and that doesn’t even include all of the blood, sweat, and tears that we poured into making it ours. We moved into that house when Audrey Nole was just shy of 4 months old. She learned to sit up in that house. She learned to crawl, and walk, in that house. She had her first taste of food in that house. Her first Halloween, Christmas, and Birthday were in that house. So many truly wonderful memories are wrapped up in the walls of that house. But that house is also where she learned that her brother went to heaven instead of coming home. It is the place where a nursery sat empty, waiting for a baby that would never come home. It is the place that holds buckets of tears and countless worries. It is the place where grief could just let loose. But despite all of the pretty awful things in our life over the last 2 years, that house was incredibly hard to leave. 

I have been stressing over the day we finally got to hand over the keys and move on to the next part of our life. I didn’t think it would come. One of the nasty perks of postpartum hormones is anxiety. Needless, endless, anxiety. Mix that in with grief, and the recipe is perfect for always living in a state of thinking the sky is going to fall; that what can go wrong will, and the worst case is always to be expected. So when things didn’t go smoothly with our HOA those few months back, I honestly didn’t think we would ever get to leave. And then things started to look like we were going to leave. And then we signed the papers and in the same moment I let out a huge sigh of relief and welled up with tears. 

As I watched what was left of our furniture and belongings leave that house, I couldn’t help but be sad. Then as I went back through and cleaned the house, preparing it for its new owners, those dreadful ugly tears just kept on flowing. As much as I was ready to move on, leaving that home is hard. There are all the good things, intricately intertwined with all the bad things. Neither can be separated from the other, and so there were tears as I closed the garage door and drove away for the last time. But something pretty awesome happened as I was driving away and towards the place that we will call home for the next few months: the most gorgeous sunset painted the sky in all the colors of warmth and delight. The deepest oranges and vibrant pinks. Golden yellows and deep purples. It was stunning. The clouds were scattered perfectly along the mountainous horizon, and the colors saturated the skyline in every direction. The mountains to the east were even lit up in the most wonderful pinks as they reflected the stunning canvas of God’s vast sky. It was as if God had put that there just for me. 

There is something so incredibly comforting about sunsets. The night my mama met Jesus, there was a sunset to rival all sunsets. The week after George died, there were sunset after sunset, each one better than the night before. God gives me sunsets and it reminds me that the storm may not be over, but even in the worst of it all, He is still there; that even the worst has to take a break and bow to God’s glory. What an awesome God I serve. 

I don’t know what our future holds. I don’t know when, or if, things will ever feel calm and good. But I know, without a doubt, that my God is for me. I KNOW this. I KNOW that my God is with me. He is loving me. He is guiding me. He is sustaining me. And with every sunset, even the most bleak, I am reminded of all of those truths. If God can give me sunsets on the days when he knows I need them most, how much must He care for me??

 “Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And which of you by being anxious can add a single hour to his span of life? And why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you, O you of little faith?”(Matt. 6:26-30) 

These next weeks and months are likely going to be difficult, but I’m going to hold tightly to the things I know to be true and I’m sure God will give me plenty of reminder sunsets. God has got this. 

10.16.17

Tonight as I put Audrey in her bed, I hugged her a little tighter, a little longer, and took in all the feelings of being her mama; the sounds, the smells, the way her hair is always out of control. I just sat on the bed next to her and held her tight, holding back tears, and told her how much I love her and how much God loves her. This last year has been so hard on all of us but as Adam and I grieve our son, it’s easy to forget that our 2 year old is grieving too. She doesn’t really understand it, but her life has been turned upside down. It will never be the same as it was supposed to be. She doesn’t know it, but she lost her best friend in February. She doesn’t know it, but George Mason was born and died and his short life completely changed how she will go through life. Her experience with death in her toddlerhood is going to shape her faith, her love for others. It is going to make her so strong in ways she never knew she would need to be strong. It is building a layer of her personality that she didn’t know she had. She will never remember what life was like before George Mason but she will also not remember what life was like after him.

My heart breaks when I think about all of the ways that her brother changed her. As I hugged her close tonight, after a very long day of parenting, those tears welled up because I forget that she’s grieving. She’s smart. She’s observant. She doesn’t necessarily know what she’s seeing and hearing and picking up on, but she is feeling it. She is feeling the anxiety that consumes my days. She is feeling the stress that plagues her Daddy. She is feeling it all and processing it as best as her toddler mind allows. Knowing and seeing her grief in whatever form it takes makes me so incredibly thankful for the God I serve. This grief can be crippling. It can eat you up. It can tug at every emotion and then some. Those are hard things for even the most self aware grown up... let alone a toddler. So yes, I’m thankful for this caring and mighty God. I’m thankful for songs like “my God is big, so strong and so mighty, there’s nothing my God cannot do” because it reminds me - and teaches her - that this grief isn’t going to cripple her. Instead, this grief is going to strengthen her. It is going to point her to Jesus in a very real and necessary way. She may not know yet what it means to really love Jesus. She may not understand what it means that George Mason is in heaven with Jesus. She may not even know what it means when she hears that God loves her. But all of those things are truths that she will come to know and understand with a complexity well beyond her years. All because God, her God, cares for her.

I miss my son. I hate that his death is part of our story. I hate that my toddler knows the things she knows. But I love that God is at work. He is working in this broken mama even on the days where my patience is non existent and my anxiety is through the roof. He is working in my husband even when life is stressful and providing for and leading this family isn’t easy. And he is working in the precious heart of 2.5 year old Audrey Nole, as she takes in and takes on this life as big sister to a brother in heaven.

“For God is carefully working in you both to desire and to do that thing which you desire” - Philippians 2:13

8 Months

Yesterday marked 8 months since George Mason’s day. It also marked the first time in those 8 months that I wasn’t haunted all day by the fact it was the 10th. It’s not been an easy 8 months. Honestly, it’s not been a very easy 2 years. Even on the very best of days my heart is broken so deeply. I’m very thankful for the moments when life seems normal again. I’m thankful for the fact that yesterday wasn’t a downer. I’m thankful that in the midst of this sorrow, there are things that can excite me enough to distract me, even if momentarily, from all the reminders that George should be here.

We sold our house and are in the process of a buying a new one. Yesterday, we met with a contractor about making this new house ours. It was a much anticipated meeting. It was the time when I got to throw all of my big dreams for what our home should look like out into space. Yesterday, October 10, was the only day this contractor could meet. I know that many people would call that coincidence, but I’ve come to realize that it was a very special gift from a God who loves and cares for me very deeply. The only opening on the calendar was the day that I always dread. The meeting that I so anticipated and that ultimately brought so much joy, just happened to be on the one day each month that usually has me in tears. My mom would’ve called that a kiss from God. I’m going to take it.

I know that as time moves forward there will be more and more days where I almost forget that I miss my son. I know that time is healing the wounds and fading the scars that were left behind when George Mason died. I know these things and sometimes they feel like good things to know and sometimes it just feels wrong. It fills me with guilt when I think about the days that I don’t miss him actively in every second. But when I step outside of the irrationality of sorrow, of grief, of a broken heart, I realize that God has got this. He will never let me forget my son. He gave me my son. So today, instead of letting guilt win the battle to occupy my mind, I’m going to rest in the arms of my gracious Heavenly Father. I’m going to be thankful for the gift I received yesterday and I’m going to celebrate my son’s life and salvation. I’m not going to be afraid of what time is going to do to my memories of my son. I’m not going to be afraid of living this life without him. I’m simply going to keep living for Jesus and thanking my God for the precious gift of George Mason.

10.9.17

​I was reminded this morning that it was on this day last year that Adam and I shared with our world that the baby that would make us a family of 4 was a little boy. It was the day that our son became George Mason and not just baby McGough.

I was thinking about that day and all of the emotions that I had swirling around in my head in those days leading up to it. It was October 4, 2016 that we got George Mason’s diagnosis. We didn’t know on that day what exactly his diagnosis meant for him or for our family, but we knew it was not going to be the same as with Audrey Nole. After a couple days of debate with myself, I took Audrey down to the local grocery store and ordered a gender reveal cake. I wasn’t in the mood to celebrate - how could I celebrate when my heart felt so broken for my son - but I knew my son deserved that. I knew that if I looked back on that season of my life that I would be sad if George Mason’s entire existence was full of gloom and frustration and worry. So I ordered the cake. I set up the camera and we took pictures. Audrey Nole had no idea why there was a cake in front of her or why I was taking pictures of her eating it, she was just happy to have cake. But it is a memory that I will always cherish.

I didn’t feel like a celebration of my son’s gender was appropriate on those first weeks. It felt like the bad news was only going to get worse and instead of frivolous pictures we should be learning about his diagnosis. Instead of sharing his name and gender we should be begging for prayer that this was all just a bad ultrasound. But if I had followed the initial instinct to mope and climb into my black hole of Dr Google, I would have missed out on one of the most precious gifts I’ve ever received. I shared my son’s name. I celebrated his  life. And in doing so, I introduced him to the thousands of people who faithfully prayed for him; who loved, no, love him fiercely. Name or not, those people would have loved just the same, but the gift to me was in hearing his name for all those months. The gift to me was in feeling like my son was as much a part of his community as any person could be. He still is, in fact. So as hard as it is for me to see the picture revealing our son’s gender, it is equally wonderful that I have that memory.

“I thank my God in all my remembrance of you, always in every prayer of mine for you all making my prayer with joy, because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now. And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.” - Philippians 1:3-6

10.8.17

Today is not a very good day. It seems that everywhere I turn/look something is reminding me of my empty arms. Reminding me of the baby that should be crawling around the house. Reminding me of the crack in my heart from the last year of disappointment. Some days I feel like I’ve got this whole life after loss thing down. I’ve got the smiles and the “I’m ok” or the “it is what it is” answers ready. I don’t cry in my sleep or break down in sobs at random moments anymore. I’m holding myself together nicely. But that’s a big fat lie. I’m not holding anything together. I’m a huge mess. It’s only by  the grace of my loving Father that I’m up and out of bed everyday. It’s only by the  mercies He shows me with each new day that I’m functioning as Audrey’s parent, and Adam’s wife. It’s days like today, where it seems I can’t escape the heartbreak, no matter how hard I try, that I realize just how much I’m relying on my excellent Savior.

Audrey has been hyper focused on the story of Jesus’ death on the cross the last couple weeks. She opens her children’s bible and finds the illustration of Jesus wearing that crown of thorns and begs me to read it. She tells me, “Jesus died on the cross, Mama, read it” she points to his wounds and tells me his booboos must have been like George Mason’s, too big for bandaids. Even the story of the most amazing gift makes me long for my sweet son. Audrey doesn’t understand yet that those holes in Jesus’ hands and the big wound on his side are the reason her brother is in heaven. She doesn’t understand the massive amount of grace that was poured out on us in that moment. She just knows that Jesus died and for whatever reason it made the highlight reel of the story of Jesus. I know that her focus on this particular story is a gift in this season of my life. As I get further from George Mason’s day, I easily forget how much I need my God, but reading the depiction of his death on that cross over and over makes it so abundantly clear how much I need him. It makes me run toward that cross when all I think I want is to turn away. It makes me see the cost of the grace that assures me my son is in the most amazing place. It reminds me that my son’s life was precious, so precious in fact, that if he had been the only person who needed grace, Jesus would have still died simply for him. Except George Mason wasn’t the only person that needed grace, and Jesus was the perfect, and final payment for all that grace. As a mama who can’t hold her baby and teach him about the cross, I am beyond thankful for that story and for what it means for my baby who was gone from this earth far too quickly.

I’m trying not to have a bad attitude about losing my son. I’m trying to grieve his life while also rejoicing in his salvation. I’m trying to be respectful of his life and my needs in this grief while also continuing in my calling as Audrey’s mama, as Adam’s wife, as friend, sister, daughter. That story, this cross, reminds me that I can’t go it alone. That it is impossible for me to be all the things to all the people. But what is really exciting, is that God is exactly that: all the things to all the people. AMEN TO THAT.

Today is a bad day, and that sucks, but it’s not the end of the story. Today, my heart hurts and there are tears welling up in the crevices of my eyes, but God is gracious and He has never not been exactly what I need.  Exactly enough. No, abundantly more than enough. God is going to wipe these tears. Maybe not today, or even this year, but He promises that one day there will be no more tears, and that until that day, He will be my Shepherd.  My son is in glory. He is spending eternity with his good and excellent savior. That is something to be joyful about on even the gloomiest, most emotional, heavy of days.

“For the Lamb in the midst of the throne will be their shepherd, and he will guide them to springs of living water, and God will wipe away every tear from their eyes.” - Revelation 7:17

Though his ashes rest in the ground, his soul is with his Savior, what a wonderful gift.  

10.1.17

It was this week last year that our hopes, dreams, and plans for our baby boy got shattered. It was this week, the first week of October, that all of the joy and innocent expectations of a trouble free pregnancy and healthy baby were crushed in the time it took for the doctor to say one sentence: "Your baby has something called PUV, and we are very concerned."

When we went into the ultrasound, I was just shy of 20 weeks. It was the routine anatomy scan for a normal and healthy pregnancy. I was just starting to feel "recovered" from the 14 or so weeks of constant nausea and vomiting. I had finally started eating foods other than French fries. I was excited to know if the child growing inside my womb was a little boy or a little girl. Honestly, I never considered there would or could be a problem. Every doctor appointment up to that point had gone so smoothly. This unidentified baby was growing and thriving. He or she was prayed over and loved. We had a name picked out for each gender, and as soon as the person with the wand revealed to us baby's gender, that baby would have their name; their unique identity and place in our family. As we walked into that cold, gray room, I never could have imagined what would follow in the coming hour.

I don't know if it's just me or if every parent feels this way, but that tv screen projection of the tiny human developing in utero doesn't look like anything. In fact, it looks more like that static from old school cable outages than it does any kind of human. I say that to say that as I watched the tech take all the pictures and point out the sweet baby feet, the heart, the head etc, I began to have a sinking feeling in my stomach. There was no real reason for it. The woman with the wand was very professional. She never let on that something was terribly wrong, but when the screen started to have large black sections, something struck me as off. When she was finished, she gave her normal two minute description of what comes next: review with the doc, take more pictures if necessary, print pictures of the tiny human that looks like tv static. Sounds simple enough. But 45 min later, when there was no sign of the doctor or the tech, Adam and I couldn't help but think that something was wrong. And then the doctor walked through the door and uttered those words. All I heard was "blah blah blah PUV, blah blah blah concerned, blah blah blah see you in 3 weeks for a follow up"

I think she probably asked us if we had any questions and then gave us the information we needed to schedule the various appointments with specialists who could better walk us through this diagnosis. We left in silence. No tears. No laughter. Just numb, shocked, silence. We drove back home and Adam had to go to work. I don't remember much about the rest of that day. I just remember the funk that filled the rest of that day and week. I remember how overwhelmed and sad I was. I remember the desire to celebrate and announce our SON. I remember walking into baby gap with Audrey and thinking if I just buy an outfit, maybe this will all seem less daunting. Maybe having something blue in the house will help me want to celebrate this precious life, this little BOY. I think I bought a shirt and hat but I don't really remember. Suddenly this pregnancy was more about learning medical lingo and preparing for the NICU than it was celebratory. I couldn't wrap my head around Audrey having a baby brother because all I could focus on was that this baby, George Mason, was going to  meet his doctors before he met his parents.

Three weeks later we went for another ultrasound and the news got worse. There were more specialists, longer NICU expectations, and even less interest in celebration. I didn't know at that appointment that we would also be preparing to lose our son, but the heavy weight of his condition and diagnosis was all consuming and very depressing. How could this be? Pregnancy is supposed to be the easy part. Growing the human in your womb is supposed to be natural and your body is just supposed to know what to do. You made a baby, now it's supposed to just grow and develop for 9 months and then you hold it and feed it and listen to it cry. Right? I had no idea in that moment that 1 in 4 mothers loses that baby. I had no idea that 1 in 4 mothers questions her body. I had no idea that 1 in 4 mothers experiences loss either of their pregnancy or of their infant. There's a whole month dedicated to awareness and I still had no idea.

October is that month. October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss awareness month. I didn't know that before I lost my child, but I certainly will never take for granted that pregnancy is going to lead to a healthy birth. I will always and forever pray for mothers everywhere who have experienced loss. I will hold deep in my heart those mothers that never held their baby. I will thank God that I did. I will hold the utmost respect for mothers (and fathers) who have said goodbye before they said hello. I will cover those parents in prayer, those whose names I know and those I don't, as they live out a life without their child; as they go through anniversaries and birthdays without their child.

I hate the brokenness of this world. I hate that sin came into the world and screwed everything up. I hate that there are parents who need love and prayer because they are grieving their child. I hate that I'm one of those parents. I hate that what should be isn't always what is. I grieve because my son's life was much too short. I cry because I miss him and because I never got to know him. I curse this broken world and my broken heart. And I cling to Jesus because this is hard. It's really, really hard. But I know that the Lord makes all things new. I know that my son is singing Holy, Holy, Holy with the angels. I know that even when I'm mad, sad, frustrated, broken, or totally lost in this world, that my Lord is right there with me, getting me through the worst and the best. He is there in the celebrations and the disturbances. He is there in my weakness and is the reason I have strength. So as I continue to live through this grief, as the 1 in 4, it is my prayer that I would always run to Jesus. That I would see, recognize, and admit to my complete dependence on Him. And that I would live out my commitment to pray for those parents who have lost their children. That I would be able to love on them, share Jesus with them, and trade stories and memories of our precious babies, no matter how long we knew them.

Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil; hold fast to what is good. Love one another with brotherly affection. Outdo one another in showing honor. Do not be slothful in zeal, be fervent in spirit, serve the Lord. Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer. - Romans 12:9-12

9.28.17

The movers are here today. I'm sitting here in the kitchen, supervising what goes where, and wondering if at the end of all of this I will be relieved, or excited, or sad. I'm not sure what emotions have been lingering through this process. Most of the time it feels like only the really bad ones make any kind of actual appearance. I'm beyond ready to move on, settle in, and prepare our hearts and minds for what life looks like as we contemplate growing our family in the shadow of this sorrow.

We are going through a lot of change and nobody every really enjoys change... but Adam always tells me that I do. I guess if honesty is the goal, I really do. I like to solve the puzzle of continuity and stability, balanced with the unknown and all of its adventure. God knows us. He knows our personalities. He knows are strengths (they are His gifts to us) and our weaknesses. He delights in seeing us share those gifts and he mourns with us as we mourn our son. As we mourn not only his breath, but the hopes and dreams we had for him. One of my grief books said that is the hardest part of losing a child: that not only does the person leave a void in your story but all of the things that could have been - the things you imagined for them - also leave a void. You lose out on everything. As I watch all of our stuff get loaded into a 16x8 foot box, I'm seeing all those things that George never got to do pile up alongside those boxes.

Its hard to walk past the room that should have been his nursery every day. It's hard to not be using the crib or the swing or the breast pump. It's hard to imagine our new home without a nursery for our newest addition. And it's always hard to look into our future and see all of the variables and the what if he was like this... but here we are, in this place, facing this reality. The only explanation is one we likely won't get this side of heaven. The only sense that can be made of losing our son after only 16 hours is knowing that God is sovereign. That even though we don't understand and it's painful, God is control. He is good. He is love. He is caring. He is perfect. He never once lost control. He could have saved my son, and I wrestle with why he didn't, but I am comforted knowing that my son and his wonderful 16 hours outside of my womb, was and is a child of God who was very much working towards God's glory; NICU tubes and all.

So as I watch my stuff get loaded into a storage box, I'm feeling many emotions and facing this reality of living forward and doing life through this lens of grief. God knows. He understands because he was man once. And even if I curse him in a moment of frustration or question his goodness in all of this, he still (and never will stop) loves me with a ferocity that I can only beg to fathom. That is the amazing thing about God and the even more amazing thing about doing life as his child; I can know and feel those things in a very tangible way. And whatever the feeling when we close the door for the last time at this home, God will be with me. Forever and always.

9.22.17

It's gloomy outside. Rain, clouds, cold. It's the first day of fall and the weather so closely resembles the emotions of this last month. It seems like it has been one of the most emotional, and particularly sad, couple of weeks since those early days after his death. We buried his ashes on September 2nd. We went on our first family vacation without him. We sold our house and are packing and purging. I dropped off the last of the baby things this morning at the local Pregnancy Center. It's weird. I'm not sure what I'm feeling actually. Whenever Adam and I talked about kids, we always assumed our kids would be close in age. We assumed that the things we purchased for our first child would be worn and tattered by the time they were unpacked for the last child. We assumed that for the first portion of our parenthood journey we would be deep in the throws of infants and diapers and potty training.

All of those things might have been a reality. All of those things were supposed to be a reality. From the very first glimpse at that positive pregnancy  test, our plans became reality. We were on track to join the 2 under 2 club. We would have a house full of chaos. There would be laughter, tears, anxiety. There would be a big sister and her baby sibling. There would be jealousy. There would be learning to share and learning to be gentle. There would be so much love. I guess in a way those things are still true. We did have a baby. We did have 2 under 2. There are siblings. There has been laughter and tears. There is a big sister and there is so much love. The only thing is that those truths look so much different than I thought.

I know that 2 years from now if there's a new baby, I won't regret donating all of this baby stuff. I know that 2 months from now when I'm unpacking boxes in our new home, I'm not going to regret not finding baby stuff. I know that this weird week of purging is healthy and good. This has been a very weird week and a very hard 7 months but God has been with me every step of the way. We, adam and I, are in the very best possible hands of the God who loves us so deeply he was willing to watch his own son die on a cross so that we could be set free. Set free from death. Set free from the pain of this broken world. Set free from worrying about our son. Yes, I miss George Mason so incredibly much. But I also know that heaven is a pretty dang awesome place, and so, in the absence of physically caring for my sweet son, I can rejoice that he has a place in the most glorious place ever imagined. A seat with his Heavenly Father.

This is a gloomy day and an emotional week/month but we are so loved. We are continually upheld by the strength of the Father who promises nothing less. Praise hands for days for that one.

Then the angel showed me the river of the water of life, bright as crystal, flowing from the throne of God and of the Lamb through the middle of the street of the city; also, on either side of the river, the tree of life with its twelve kinds of fruit, yielding its fruit each month. The leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. No longer will there be anything accursed, but the throne of God and of the Lamb will be in it, and his servants will worship him. They will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads. And night will be no more. They will need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light, and they will reign forever and ever. - Revelation 22:1-5

9.19.17

I started the process of packing up our house this week. It's tedious but we seem to do this a lot, so I'm very calculated in my approach. I'm not sure packing is something that anyone would brag about being good at, but it seems to be unfortunately becoming one of my skills; I'm good at packing... I wonder if I should be proud or embarrassed by that? Anyway, I've been trying to figure out, over the last several weeks, what items to pack and what items to purge. It seems like the question of whether or not keep all of our baby stuff is coming up again. After George Mason died, I told my sisters and the various other people in and out of our home to help, I wanted to get rid of everything. If I couldn't even begin to try for another baby for 18 months, I didn't want to stare at all of the things that should have been being used. It felt like storing all of the things that had been saved from Audrey for her future siblings was the most terrible idea. At least that's where my head was in those initial hours after George's day.

In an effort to respect my wishes and also prevent me from regretting ridding myself of all the stuff from Audrey's infant life, all those helpers just stored the baby stuff away. Out of sight. {hopefully} out of mind.

Well, here we are 7 months later and I'm faced with the same question: to get rid of the baby stuff or not to get rid of the baby stuff. The decision has mostly remained the same, get rid of it. Donate it. Consign it. Do anything but keep it. It seems hard enough to have to sort through it to pack it, I don't want to open boxes a month or two or three from now and be reminded yet again of the baby that didn't come home. It seems like the closet full of baby things (economical as it is) was and is a constant reminder of all the disappointment. The disappointment when we found out our baby was sick. The disappointment when we realized just how sick. The disappointment when we learned that the NICU would be our baby's home for an indefinite amount a time. The disappointment that our son's childhood, particularly his infancy, would be so very different from his big sister's. And then the ultimate disappointment of having to say goodbye and see you in heaven to the baby boy that we had fallen so deeply in love with.

It feels strange to even talk this way about stuff. Generic, not super sentimental stuff. But it's the reality I'm facing and is why I took a trunk load of baby stuff to the local children's consignment shop today. I dutifully, and unemotionally, loaded my trunk and drove to the shop. I brought it in, talked them through whatever questions they had, stood there while they judged whether or not my babys' stuff was good enough for resale. I did it all with a straight face. I did it with a smile even. I took the cash and dropped what they wouldn't buy into their donation box, and took Audrey to the car. And that's when it hit me. The tears that never really came. That weird tremble in my upper lip that always comes when I want to cry but can't. I drove down the interstate back to our half packed house on the verge of tears and I've been in a funk ever since.

I didn't want to open boxes in our new home and find a storage closet for our disappointing memories. I didn't want to have to go through the grief of our son over and over again with each smile and coo of the new baby as they played on the activity mat that he should have played on, or as they refused a bottle just like Audrey did. Those baby things were full of disappointment and getting rid of them was supposed to be a good thing. I think it was. But I also think it was one more piece of this grief journey. I guess there's no way to really know if it was the right decision or the best decision or whatever. But it did unveil another layer of processing. As I sit in the haze of this funk, only one thing is actually certain: God is always good. Despite my experience with the brokenness of this world, God is still God and that means he is good. It means he is working. It means that this horrible piece of my story is working towards His glory. His promise that I'll come out of this with a greater love for Him has already proven true. I do love Him. I long for answers to this death, but even if I don't get them right away, I so deeply love my Father in heaven. The theological answer is that He is all I need on days like this but it doesn't always feel true. But there is a very large part of me that only wanted Him as I drove through those almost tears. There is a very large part of me that knows, and feels, that He really is enough. So haze/funk or not, to my Father I turn and lift my gaze. Today was hard but today was another day that He gave me strength.

I saw in the night visions, and behold, with the clouds of heaven there came one like a son of man, and he came to the Ancient of Days and was presented before him. And to him was given dominion and glory and a kingdom, that all peoples, nations, and languages should serve him; his dominion is an everlasting dominion, which shall not pass away, and his kingdom one that shall not be destroyed. - Daniel 7:13-14

9.17.17

Driving home from church today, as we approached this one particular intersection just a few blocks from our house, this vivid memory from February 11, hit me. I don't know if or when I've ever written down what it was like to leave that hospital without my son, but as we sat at the stop light waiting to take a left I remembered. I remembered the awful pit in my stomach when we signed the discharge papers. I remembered the incredible pain I was in. Every sneeze, cough, even swallow, reminded me of delivering that precious baby boy and was an oddly perfect picture of my heart. Every muscle in the front of my body hurt but if you were just to look at me, I looked fine. My heart was broken but no one could have known that just by looking.

We walked to the car from my hospital room, just me and Adam, and we did it in silence; slow and labored and silent. As Adam walked ahead to go get the car so I didn't have to walk any farther, I couldn't make sense of what was happening. Yesterday I had delivered a baby. Yesterday I was holding a baby. Today, I was leaving the hospital and there was no baby. There never, would ever again, be that baby. There was no car seat in the car. No inspection for correct installation. There was just me, a c section incision, and my husband. I didn't even cry. I couldn't. I just stood at the entry to the parking garage, numb, waiting for Adam to pull around with the car. I remembered carefully climbing into the car with the help of my hubby. I remembered the very matter of fact discussion of which route to take home for the smoothest ride... the pain was no joke. And then, as the car pulled out of the parking garage, I grabbed Adam's hand and in silence and through tears, we drove home.

The only words from either of us were at the intersection that started this memory... "please go up the hill so we don't have to go over the curb onto center street."

Adam and I never expected we would bring George Mason home with us when I was discharged from the hospital. Ever since the diagnosis, we knew the NICU was going to be our baby's home and that our sweet George Mason wouldn't be joining us on the ride home like his sister did. Leaving the hospital without our baby was what we had prepared ourselves for. But leaving the hospital and never seeing our baby again, that was not someone anyone could have prepared us for. When I think back over those initial days, most of it is a blur. I was numb. We were numb. Our world had been rocked and we knew we would never be the same. Our son's life, George Mason's life, changed ours forever. God gave us this precious tiny human and the responsibility to care for him as long as he lived. That wasn't nearly long enough. Now, we are left with loving him for the rest of our lives, even though we can no longer physically care for him.

That drive home and the vivid way it came back to me today is such a reminder that this world is broken. This is not the way it's supposed to be and we are seeing and experiencing that in such a deep and crappy way. But for every memory of our sorrow, there are as many or more of our incredible joy through Jesus. The first verse I clung to when George was diagnosed reminded me that God will never grow tired or weary and that he would give me the strength to survive day to day. I've seen in a lot of ways how he has given me strength, but as I get farther from George Mason's day, I'm starting to see how important it is that my great God will not grow weary.

"Have you not known? Have you not heard?The Lord is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He does not faint or grow weary; his understanding is unsearchable. He gives power to the faint, and to him who has no might he increases strength."

⁃Isaiah 40:28-29

9.15.17

I was reading with Audrey tonight before bedtime just like we do every night. Most nights she picks the same 3 or 4 books and I go into auto pilot and count the seconds until she climbs in bed and I'm not reading "belle beast" for the 5,000th time but tonight was different. She must have dug deeper in her box but she brought me a book that I love but doesn't make the cut very often. The book is called "I'd know you anywhere, my love" and it's just the sweetest. It talks about knowing someone even if they spontaneously became a rhinoceros or suddenly decided they wanted to be a blue-footed-booby. It gives reasons why the person doing the knowing/loving would be able to know and love; the shape of their grin, or the sound of their roar... Audrey has the cutest roar, she whispers.

I don't know why, but tonight as I was reading this book to Audrey Nole I felt the tears fill my eyes as I fought the flood gates.  I suddenly pictured myself reading this book to both of my kiddos. I began, between pages, to take note of all the ways I would know Audrey Nole if she suddenly was a giraffe or rhinoceros. I came to the conclusion she's a pretty unforgettable kid. But I also began to think of all the ways I wished I knew George Mason enough to see him through the disguise of his imagination. I will never read this book to him. I will never hear him roar like a lion or hoot like an owl. I will never see him argue with his sister over who can flap their wings better or who can hide from mom more effectively.

I will never get to spend any more time with him. I won't get to write down silly things he's said or done. I won't get to document his first teeth or his destructive toddler boy years. Those are the realities that hit me like a freight train as I was reading this adorable book to my daughter. This must be what grief is going to look like long term. That in the most unexpected or random moments of our daily lives, I'm going to miss my son like crazy. Sure, there are going to be days when life feels so normal and his absence in it isn't at the front of my brain. I'm 30 years old... there will probably be decades where life seems so normal. But no matter how normal life seems, in any given moment on any given day, those memories I didn't get to make and the huge piece of my story that isn't here with me, is going to be the only thing I can think about.

As I finished the book and kissed Audrey goodnight, I realized something: I may not have the rest of my life to get to know George Mason, but I WOULD know him anywhere. Thank you Jesus for that precious boy: earfolds, curls, button nose, long fingers, skinny feet, and the perfect addition to our family. Thank you Jesus for your unfailing love as I struggle through this life and this grief.

"For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven" -Ecclesiastes 3:1

7 Months

Today my sweet son would have been 7 months old. That means 7 months without that precious little boy. 7 months since I held him. 7 months since I smelt that addicting new baby smell. 7 months since I felt his last breath on my chest. 7 months since I said hello and goodbye to George Mason. These 7 months, and the several leading up to his day, have been some of the hardest in my entire life. Facing life, this reality of being a mama to a baby boy in heaven, has brought me to my knees in a puddle of tears. I have cried out to my God. I have begged him to tell me why. I have struggled with understanding how a God I know to be caring and loving could have let me son die. I have tried to run away from him. I have run straight to him. I have been all over the map emotionally and spiritually. This has been a trial that I never would have imagined possible and yet here I am; here we are, a family of 4 that is missing it's 4th person.

We have spent the last week running from hurricane Irma, one of the biggest storms in recorded history. She dampened our beach days. She placed us in hours and hours of traffic. She canceled and rearranged our plans multiple times as we found ourselves disappointed and reorganizing our trip. It's been a week of disappointment and frustration. We are thankful to not have been in any real danger, and we find our hearts heavy for the state of Florida and its residents. In a way, it has been a good distraction from the harsh reality of our first family vacation without our son. There is nothing about Irma to be thankful for, but as I sit here today on the 7 month anniversary of my son's day, I realize that this world is broken; so very broken. My son died 7 months ago because this world isn't the way it's supposed to be. There are millions of people today and this week who are facing the total destruction of their homes and the power of this storm is because this world isn't how it's supposed to be. But when I take a minute to breathe and talk to my God, I'm reminded of the many times he tells us it's all going to be ok. That maybe we will never understand why infants die or why hurricanes don't just stay in the ocean, but we can know that God is always working for the good of those who love him.

I've been meditating on Colossians 3:15 the last several days. "And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in one body. And be thankful." It's so easy in the face of disappointment to be mad or start along the path of woe is me... but when I read those words I really am thankful. I realize I have so much to be thankful for, my son being one of those things. My family will always be missing a piece of its heart, but we serve and love a God who fills that void by giving us his peace. I hope to never forget that. I hope and pray that even as I miss my son I can always be thankful. Because I may have lost my son, but I couldn't have lost him if I'd never had him, and I can't imagine never having him. So today, 7 months since George Mason's day, I'm thankful for him. I'm thankful to have grown him and carried him. I'm thankful for the doctors who cared for him. I'm thankful for the people in our lives who loved him and prayed for him; and ultimately mourned him. I'm thankful to have met him. I'm thankful to have been able to hold him. To have been able to take in all of his features and commit them to memory. I'm not thankful for his death, but I am thankful for the assurance of his salvation. That his life wasn't years of suffering.  I'm thankful that God is someone I know and have continued to pursue. I'm thankful that even on the days that I don't want him, he wants me. Praying the words of Colossians 3 today.

Happy 7 months, George Mason. Mama, Daddy, and Audrey Nole love you so very much.

9.4.17

Since we are on the east coast for George Mason's burial service, we decided to make the most of our travels and share a few of our favorite places with miss Audrey Nole. Today, it was Boone, NC and the campus her daddy called home for 5 years. It's so fun for Adam and me to share the places we have such fond memories of with her. By all accounts, today was a very good day. We walked through downtown, bought a little too much paraphernalia, and took pictures with Yosef, and watched the ducks swim and play. I'm thankful for good days like today. It means we are settling into this new normal. It means that even though we are missing our sweet son, we are living life and finding peace in the day to day, sometimes ordinary, sometimes extraordinary, goings on of life.

On one level, it feels good to be able to say we are having good days. It is a major accomplishment that any day is a good day. It is a huge blessing that after one of the worst days in a long time, we had a good day. A day full of happy memories and the joy of doing life as a child of God and with the people He placed us with. Any time our family has a good day, I'm so very thankful. But as I sit here this evening reminiscing about today, I feel my heart strings tugged toward my son. It was so normal today to do this life and make these memories with just Audrey Nole. It was comfortable to be the 3 of us; to ask for one high chair at lunch and to not be lugging around an infant car seat. Everything today was so normal and that makes me a little sad. George Mason should have been there. His daddy should have been able to take both of his children to his alma mater. But instead it was just Audrey Nole. So as I slow down for the night and move my thoughts to the to-do list of tomorrow, I wonder what grief is going to look like as our new normal gets more and more comfortable?

I don't want to always be sad. I'm happy to be moving forward and being able to see the sunlight peeking through the storm clouds. God is good and I knew even at the beginning of this stormy season in our life that it would eventually end. That just like God promised Noah, there will be a rainbow at the end of this storm. It's a weird, and if I'm being honest, scary, place to be. Knowing that time and distance from George Mason's day is healing the wound of his loss. Knowing that my life and my family are moving forward and that my son is getting further away from the present of this story is hard. But I also know that mourning his loss isn't going to be a permanent fixture in my everyday life. I realize that God understands the pain of loss and hates death as much as I do, but that He knows death isn't scary and isn't the end of the story. I don't have to be sad in every moment to love my son well. I don't have to be afraid of forgetting him or losing him because I'm not crying during every new memory. My son wasn't with us today and that sucks. I was aware of it but it wasn't debilitating. My pain over his death didn't hinder my joy in sharing this new experience with Audrey. My son's life isn't less relevant because I enjoyed myself and my family today.

I'm grateful for a God who gives me the peace to be simultaneously happy and sad. I'm grateful for a God who provides strength and new mercies every day. I'm grateful for a God who cares enough about me to ordain even the littlest things in such a way that they are noticed and appreciated. We buried our son on Saturday. We celebrated my mama on Sunday. And we introduced Audrey Nole to her second favorite school on Monday. The only way we got through all of that was because He was with us. He is always with us. That is the ultimate promise. He is my joy in the sorrow. He is my strength in the moments when I feel like I can't. He is my comfort and protection in the depth of the storm.

And God said, “This is the sign of the covenant that I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for all future generations: I have set my bow in the cloud, and it shall be a sign of the covenant between me and the earth. When I bring clouds over the earth and the bow is seen in the clouds, I will remember my covenant that is between me and you and every living creature of all flesh. And the waters shall never again become a flood to destroy all flesh. When the bow is in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is on the earth. - Genesis 9:12-16

9.2.17

This morning was the hardest day in a very long time. We buried the ashes of our sweet George Mason this morning. I knew this day would be hard. I expected tears and sadness. Death sucks and all the pieces of the closure process are so necessary but are equally as emotionally draining.

It feels good to have laid his ashes to rest in a permanent place where there is respect for his life, short as it was. There is a place with his name on it, for people to see and know. A place where his life is honored not just in our memories,  but physically and tangibly.

Our son only lived for 16 hours but he left a legacy of hope and assurance. His precious life had me on my knees more times than I can count. He brought me closer to my Lord and gave me so much joy in carrying him. He is our first son, perhaps our only son. He made Audrey a big sister. He grew our family by one. His life was the most amazing and the hardest thing I've ever experience. All of this realities rushed through my head as I walked to his little space in that cemetery. As I stood there, facing his grave and listening to the words of scripture chosen for this occasion, I couldn't help but face all those truths. All the joy and the sorrow that are the result of his life. I'm so glad we laid him to rest. I'm so glad that we gathered as a family from all over the country to place his ashes in the ground. It was good. It was hard.

Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you. -Deuteronomy 31:6