2.5.18

February 10 is coming. It’s coming whether or not I’m ready for it. It’s coming whether or not I can wrap my head around the fact that it’s been a whole year since I held our son. It’s coming and there’s no avoiding it. Some days, I wish time would jump forward and I could just be through it. Cross it off the list of “firsts” without George Mason and be on my way. There’s a lot of unknown about his day until I’ve been through it at least once. I don’t like unknowns and yet it’s been a whole year of unknowns. I’m dreading his day. I want it to be a good day. I want to be intentional about celebrating.  about mourning. About allowing myself, and my family, to cry or laugh or stomp our feet. To be and feel and do whatever makes sense and is necessary to get through the day.

My mama went to be with Jesus on March 12, nearly 3 years ago. That was a horrible day but it ended with hope because we know that death isn’t the end of our journey. As the first anniversary of her death approached, I felt many of the same things. I was terrified of what that day would hold for me. I didn’t want to face that day, much like I don’t want to face George Mason’s day. Except the first March 12 without my mama was actually really beautiful. God is so good and so caring. He gave me exactly the mercies I needed for that day and I can trust that he will do the same for every February 10 for the rest of my life.

I don’t know what his day holds for me or my family but I know that my God is good. And that’s something that can take away all of the fear and anxiety out of the waiting. Something that I am extremely grateful for. And something that I will cling to in the days that lead to George Mason’s day.

2.1.18

Today is the first day of February. A month that will forever be changed in my mind. It’s the month that was previously full of hearts and arrows. The love month. The month dedicated to celebrating love and all the people in your life that are special to you. It also happens to be the shortest month.... perhaps we should reevaluate what it really means to celebrate love. But February will never just be the shortest month or the month that holds Valentines Day. February will be the longest month. The month that’s hardest to write the date during. 2/_. February is the month that we met our son. It’s also the month that we said see you in glory. It will never be the same.

Today, the sun is shining. Blue skies, warm temperatures, and very likely a trip to the park; because somehow playgrounds make everything better for this mama and her sunshine little girl. I said it the other day, everything is a trigger head days. The very fact that the skies are blue shot me back to February 2017. I don’t remember the weather. I think it was kind of gloomy. But I didn’t see the outside of that hospital from Thursday evening to Saturday afternoon. I have no idea what February 10th looked like. I don’t know if the sun was shining or if the weather matched the mood of our hearts. I don’t know if God gave me a sunset as I kissed my son for the last time like he did with my mama. In my head it was a rainy and gloomy day. A day that would have otherwise been spent curled in front of a fireplace and snuggled under a blanket. But I honestly don’t know. Sometimes that’s hard, because weather is such a game changer for my heart. But sometimes, I’m thankful that I don’t really know what was going on with the sun on his day. Because if it had been sunny and wonderful on the day that is one of my hardest ever, I would’ve been a little angry with God. I can imagine myself saying something like “way to go God, the world doesn’t deserve sunshine and blue skies today. Didn’t you get the memo, this day sucks!”

Today is hard. Not because I’m an emotional wreck or because I miss George Mason so much I can’t breathe (all true), but because it’s the first day of the first February without my son. It’s the first February of so many Februaries in this lifetime that I will face George Mason’s day. Every year I will have to make a choice. How will I celebrate my son and his day? How will I acknowledge his life and mourn his death as life moves forward without him. Just like Christmas (and every other milestone without him), I probably won’t get it right this first time - or even ever - but I’m going to remember how God works out everything for the good of those who love him. Stressing over Christmas got me nowhere but I’m a tizzy. Stressing over this upcoming birthday will be the same. So I’m trusting in God’s goodness. I’m trusting that he will be steadfast in his promises. George Mason’s death is hard for me to understand and reconcile with those characteristics of my good good Father, but even in that messy set of emotions and feelings, God is good. And he’s good at being God. Amen to that.

1.29.18

It doesn’t even seem possible, but literally anything and everything can be a trigger that shoots me right back into the emotions of his day. Sitting at a res light, my mind will wander... remembering how painful that bumpy ride home from the hospital was after my c-section. Or walking through target and seeing all the valentines baby things; I brought a little valentines outfit to the hospital for our boy, his birthday was supposed to be the day before valentines. Almost anything these days sets off that adrenaline that allowed me to survive that day.

It’s been a teary winter and I’m sure it will be a weepy couple of weeks. Except tears very rarely fall. It’s more of that quiver in my lip. The pain of loss doesn’t carry me off into solitary sadness or ugly tears very often, instead it has me longing for the day when somehow, some way, this new normal we are living actually seems normal. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t miss my son. There’s not a day that goes by that his absence isn’t felt. I know that will likely be reality for as long as I live, but maybe someday it will feel less like a bad dream that perhaps I’ll wake up from and more like an extremely valuable part of my story.

I counted 15 Park days with Audrey Nole in December and we have likely had just as many in January. It’s such an odd number for winter, but this mama’s heart is ever so grateful. I didn’t see it in the depth of those days, but as I look back over the last 2 months, God’s goodness is astounding. The protection he offered my heart during this unusually warm winter has not gone unnoticed or unappreciated. He is good. That’s hard to believe as truth sometimes, but there is no denying it when I look back. It’s clear as day. So as I sit here at the park on another sunny and warm winter day, I want to remember that. Cling to it. Because I can feel the tears coming. They are going to be my reality for the next couple of weeks. And with every moment of sadness I want to remember this: God is good. God is good to me. God is good at being God.*

For the word of the LORD is right and true; he is faithful in all he does. 5 The LORD loves righteousness and justice; the earth is full of his unfailing love. 6 By the word of the LORD the heavens were made, their starry host by the breath of his mouth. - Psalm 33:4-6 

* https://instagram.com/p/BeiPi2fAysC/

1.23.18

Today was a milestone day. It started out pretty ordinary but then I remembered I had forgotten to finish filling out the enrollment application for Audrey Nole to go to preschool next year. That’s no big deal. It’s a form with name, address, birthdate, contact info, etc. I don’t remember why I didn’t finish in the first place, but I remembered randomly so I pulled up the computer and started back at it. It was fine until it wasn’t. There was the question that I’ve been dreading answering. The question that doesn’t have an easy black and white answer. The question about whether or not Audrey has any siblings...

I’ve somewhat dreaded this question and somewhat anticipated it. It’s one that takes some gentle navigation but it’s one that allows me, even requires, to  talk about my son. It gives me the opportunity to share, even if only briefly, his name and a tiny part of his story. So even though this particular question feels slightly like what I imagine being hit by a freight train feels like, it also sparks that innate motherly joy when you get to talk about your kids. This morning was about like that. I looked up from the computer and asked Adam if I should answer yes or no. Both of us kind of felt like it could go either way. In the end, I checked yes. Yes, always yes. Even if it’s hard. Even if it’s going to sucker punch the unsuspecting person on the receiving end of the answer. Yes.

Yes, because I have 2 children. Yes, because Audrey has a baby brother. Yes, because it’s the truth of my story. Yes, because George Mason existed and his life, even though short, is worthy of being shared. Yes, because if nothing else, Audrey’s grief is silent and evolving as she matures, and those that are tasked with caring for and instructing her need to know this part of her story.

I thought that answering that question this morning would ruin my day. Except instead of ruining it, it allowed me to think about George Mason. It gave me a reason, beyond being his mother, to say his name and share his story. That was heavy and a decision I didn’t make lightly, but it was a decision I’m so glad I made. And I hope, that the next time I’m faced with this question, I remember the odd joy it brought me today to answer yes.

1.22.18

Take delight in the Lord and He will give you your heart’s desires. -Psalm 34:7

Sometimes when I find myself reading verses like this one, I’m tempted to run down a rabbit hole of asking myself what I did. I think things like “but I delight in the Lord, so shouldn’t that mean that He would have given me a miracle. George Mason would be alive today if...” ... I guess it’s fair to admit that I’m not perfect and to realize that in these moments when I fall into that temptation of doubting His goodness (and wrestling with the meaning in this outcome) I’m forgiven and I’m still very much loved. But I also see those words and realize just how important it is to run to Him.

As we get nearer and nearer to the anniversary of George Mason’s day, I feel this grief changing. I’m not entirely sure what that means,  but it’s happening. The pain is still raw and fresh as if all of this happened yesterday, but it’s also dulling. As it becomes less of an object at the very front of my mind, I don’t want to forget just how much I need Jesus. I want to really, honestly, take delight in the Lord. I want that to be the theme of this next year. Delight. In the Lord, most importantly, but in everything. Along with choosing Joy, I want to delight. In the small things, in the big things, in the mundane things. I need to paint that verse on my wall. Tattoo it on my arm. Repeat it over and over until I can’t forget. Sure, the desires of my heart would be a wonderful gift... but the better gift, the more sustaining gift, would be truly delighting in my Heavenly Father.

I know that my son’s death wasn’t because I wasn’t spiritual enough or as payback for some kind of sin I committed. I know that if he had lived it wouldn’t have been because I had perfectly delighted in the Lord. His death was his death. It was awful to me, it was awful to God, it was a result of sin; just not mine specifically. I know that God could have absolutely saved my son and given me the miracle I prayed so eagerly and faithfully for. I know that this particular miracle wasn’t beyond his capabilities. I will always wonder why he didn’t save my son’s life but I will never doubt that he could have. I hope that along with that confidence in who He is and what He’s capable of, I will not just know He is good, but I will believe it. I will delight in Him.

1.19.18

Joy in the midst of sorrow. That has been my “words to live” by this last year. In every moment, experience, and milestone, I have remembered those words and repeated them over and over until it was truth. Joy. Sorrow. They are happening simultaneously in my life almost every minute. If I weren’t intentional about seeing the joy, however, it would seem like a whole lotta sorrow.

There were two things my mama used to always say, that have stuck with me in all of the overwhelming moments of this last year: you can’t trust who you don’t know, and choose joy. In the worst of the pain and deepest moments of sorrow, I have to draw closer to Jesus not farther away. I can’t trust him to heal my wounds and get me through my sorrow if I don’t know him. And I’d certainly have no quality of life if I didn’t make it a point to choose to see the joy in the moment. Because God is good, and even though it’s hard for me to wrap my head around his goodness when I’m sitting in the pain of death, his goodness is revealed in the tiny pieces (and often not so tiny) joy that are shining through the worst of days.

I had an ugly cry the other day. I had taken Audrey to the aquarium to see her friend Hank (she named the octopus at the aquarium) and to play on their indoor playground. Her and I were testing each other’s limits and some playtime and wonderment seemed a good idea. As she ran her little heart out through the obstacles in the playroom, I sat there and stared at my calendar. We are only weeks away from what should have been George Mason’s Birthday. Weeks. It’s not even something I can comprehend. How the heck did 365 days come and go? February 10, 2017 seems like it was yesterday, yet here we are in the middle of January 2018. I don’t even know how we got here. I started stressing about how we would celebrate. I started worrying about all the perfection that my human mind wants and needs - because it gives the illusion of control - and I just got lost. I was sad. I was anxious. I was relieved that Audrey was occupied and I didn’t have to explain my tears. And then as I got in the car to drive home, the ugly stuff just came.

I know that nothing I ever do on February 10, will be perfect, because George Mason won’t be here. After a good cry, I realized that. I’m still going to stress over the things that help me feel like I have control, but the difference after that cry was the anxiety. I will stress but I won’t be anxious. God is in control. I will work out the things that I need to see happen on that day, but only God will get me through it. I will likely weep. I will likely be angry. I will likely feel the relief that only Jesus can provide, when I think about heaven and how wonderful a place it is for my son to be. And I will remember my mamas words and will choose joy, because God is someone I know and can trust. I want his day to be joyous. I want it to be a celebration. I don’t want it to be all pain. I want there to be joy in the midst of sorrow.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. -Matthew 5:4

1.15.17

What do you do when your heart and your brain don’t agree? How do you reconcile something you KNOW to be true but don’t FEEL to be true? I think that has been one of the hardest parts of this grief journey. No matter the outcome of any trial - in this situation the death of George Mason, my sweet son - God is good. God is always good. But sometimes, like in the death of someone you love, it doesn’t feel like he is good. It feels like he should’ve (and could’ve) healed my son, because that would have been the good and decent thing to do. It feels like I should be carrying around an 11 month old little boy and preparing my home for its second little walker. It feels like there shouldn’t have had to be tears and sorrow these last months. But what I know to be true about my God doesn’t fit with my feelings of anger and disappointment. God is good. There is no doubt about that in scripture. He is good because he is perfect. He is good because he is never changing. And yet, I have a broken heart and an empty nursery... those two things don’t seem to reconcile with one another.

I probably won’t ever be able to truly reconcile God’s goodness and my son’s death. I imagine that it’s one of those things that won’t have a complete answer until Jesus returns and the world is made new. That’s part of this journey. Wrestling with God’s goodness despite my son’s death. I have told myself countless times that God is who he is regardless of my feelings on the matter in any particular instant. He doesn’t change but my feelings do. Emotions and feelings, they ebb and flow like waves on the beach. The water rushes in and pushes sand into the beach and then almost instantly retracts into the vast ocean, taking with it some of the very same sand it just deposited. God warns us not to build our house on sand and I think it’s not a large leap to assume we can’t build our faith on emotion either. Until God makes this world whole and right, my son’s death is going to seem awful and often unfair. Thankfully, even though my head and my heart don’t always agree, the truth about my Lord is always true and never changing. When I’m feeling blue or {frustrated, angry, disappointed, sad, etc} I can run into the words of my Father and be comforted.

“If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask him!" Matthew 7:11

“And Jesus said to him, “Why do you call me good? No one is good except God alone." Mark 10:18

11 Months

Today our son would’ve been 11 months old. Did I really read the calendar correctly? Are we really just one month from celebrating his Heavenly birthday? His day is so vividly imprinted in my memory and on my heart that most mornings it feels as if it was yesterday that I was holding him. I’ve lost a lot of the sensory memories from that day... I don’t remember what he smelled like or what his skin felt like. I don’t really remember what he looked like. I remember seeing so much of his daddy in his face and I remember his little ear folds perfectly, but beyond the details, the big picture is fuzzy; except that it feels like yesterday. Every day, no matter what, my arms remember holding him. My heart bursts with the overwhelming love I had and have for him. I remember the sound of his heartbeat and those little coughs as he was slowing down and taking his last breaths.

It was less than 4 hours from the time the dr told us there was nothing more they could do for him and when we kissed him for the last time. His whole 16 hours is a whirlwind of doctors and nurses and updates.... but those last 4 hours were gut wrenching and hard. They were filled with tears and this sense that I was outside my body looking in. Wondering how we got here. Begging God to prove the doctors wrong and let this little boy live. Why did God give us this fighter only to have to say goodbye? I remember calling my dad to let him know it was time to bring Audrey Nole to meet her brother. Something we had hoped wouldn’t happen for nearly 4 months. From the moment he was born, we had hope and all the adrenaline that goes with hope. But when we made that walk into the NICUs private room, the hope was gone; or at least changed. We were no longer hopeful that our son would survive, but instead filled with the hope that comes with knowing Jesus and what would come next for our precious baby boy.

I don’t particularly look forward to these 10th days of each month,  but once I get through them and look back, I’m so thankful for the (somewhat forced) opportunity to intentionally remember our son. To relish the few memories we have of and with him. To be grateful for the time we had with him. To be honored by the gift of being his parents. And more deeply examine the details of his day in a way that I can write them down. It’s usually through tears, of joy and of pain, but he is worth every tear I’ve shed and every tear I will ever shed. He is worth all of the pain because the joy he brings to our family is so much greater than the sorrow that followed his death.

This week last year, we were anxiously awaiting our son’s arrival. He had defied so many odds and though his prognosis was grim, he was alive and well in my womb. He wasn’t supposed to live, but he did, and that was such an incredible gift. When I was looking back at my journal from this time a year ago, I was clinging to the words from Psalm 139. They were fitting then and they are fitting now.

George Mason, God knew you before you were even the faintest idea in my heart. He formed you perfectly and intentionally. You were made in His image to carry out His work. As hard as it is for your daddy and me to have said goodbye so soon after we met you, it’s wonderful to know you are God’s child and that He entrusted you to us for the 9 or so months that He did. Your heavenly birthday is going to be hard for Daddy and me. But son, I’m going to spend the next month imagining what the celebration in heaven is going to look like. Because I imagine things like that are pretty wonderful.

"For you formed my inward parts;

you knitted me together in my mother's womb.

I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.

Wonderful are your works;

my soul knows it very well.

My frame was not hidden from you,

when I was being made in secret,

intricately woven in the depths of the earth.

Your eyes saw my unformed substance;

in your book were written, every one of them,

the days that were formed for me,

when as yet there was none of them." Psalm 139: 13-16

1.7.18

“If you’re not enough without it, you won’t be enough with it.” - Cool Runnings

I never wanted kids. I was perfectly content keeping my ballerina body and my adulthood freedom. But then I got married. And God planted the seeds of motherhood delicately in my heart. It wasn’t a longing desire that just had to be fulfilled, but more of an adventure that might be worth pursuing. Once. Maybe. And then I met Audrey Nole and everything changed. Those delicately placed seeds suddenly sprouted and they had deep roots in my very being and identity. I was so in love, in a way I never fathomed possible, and my whole outlook on motherhood and children changed; literally in an instant. Suddenly, I wanted to be Mama. I wanted to love, raise, and mentor a whole slew of children. When I heard those words today, a quote from a movie no less, I realized that often my happiness is wrapped up in being that mama to lots of babes. That if I were to examine my grief over this last year, so much of it is wrapped up in the fact that not only did my baby die and I miss him, but that I’m having to wait even longer to add more babies to our family. God gave me this desire for lots of kids so obviously that means he’s going to make fulfilling that desire a top priority; and one of ease. Except that’s never been promised to me. And when I think about my identity - a mama of two, but only one you can see - it pains my heart and makes me angry. So what does that mean? I can focus all of my everything on filling bedrooms in my house with all the babies I imagined, but if I can’t rest in Jesus and know that he’s enough, right now and always, he still won’t be enough when I’m stressing over 2 or 3 more kiddos. And him being enough has been one of the themes through this journey. I can say to myself that he’s enough. I can write it down. I can plaster it on any surface I’d like. But do I believe it? Do I know it to be true? This is what I want to gain from this journey. Knowing and believing that Jesus is enough, no matter how many babies are in my arms. That doesn’t make the pain of losing George Mason any less, but it does make the grief over my own mental picture a whole lot easier to process and heal. 

1.6.18

Journaling seems redundant lately. Like I only have one thing to say, over and over, but in slightly different ways: I miss my son and I hate that life has to go on without him but God is good. I guess in many ways, that’s true and relevant to this journey. It would be a lie to say that those things aren’t true every second of every day. I do miss my son. I do hate living this life without Him. My God is good anyway. All true. All hard to reckon with. All pieces of my story that are undeniable in shaping not only my faith but how I will experience this life.

Ive been in a bit of a funk lately. I think that between the thanksgiving and Christmas holidays and the rapidity with which February 10th is approaching, I’m all over the place. Our community has welcomed several new babies in recent weeks; some boys, some girls, but all would be peers of sweet George Mason. Each time we gather with Audrey’s little group of friends I get that tingling sadness and grief over what George could and would have had. God has been good in surrounding us with people to do life with. They are raising families along side us. Navigating parenthood and all of the peaks and valleys of that adventure with us. But one of the most precious gifts we’ve been given in these last few years is also one of the most obvious reminders of what we have lost.

It makes me wonder why God kept us here. Then in the very same breath I am deeply relieved to not have had to start completely over. There’s a safety in having everyone around us know and love George Mason. There’s a comfort in that. And even though there will always be hurt linked to knowing And loving on this next round of babies, I’m thankful to know that our sweet son won’t be forgotten. And selfishly that I won’t have to face the reality of sharing our story with complete strangers for a little while longer. George isn’t a name thrown out into oblivion, but instead a name with roots deep in this community. Of course, there will always be people who didn’t know George Mason and who will learn his story (and mine) as they get to know me, but for right now, I consider it a gift to not have to share that grief unless I want to. And until the time comes when I’m in a new place and starting a new community, I won’t take for granted the people who love my son. I will say his name and talk about him as much as feels right and as much as they’ll indulge me.  I will take every ounce of grace bestowed upon me by my loving friends whenever I find myself stuck in a rut. And I will always praise my Lord for his faithfulness in this journey; even when I can only see the pain and the grief, he is there, the ultimate source of joy, radiating through the dark fog and filling my soul in the way only He can.

For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,” has shone in our hearts to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ. -2 Corinthians 4:6

12.30.17

2017, oh how you have tested me. You have made me fully aware of my desperate need for not only my Savior but all of the sustenance that He gives. Every day of this year has had its own share of hard stuff. There have been days that have reached as high as the mountains, full of SO MUCH JOY. And then there have been days that have reached the deepest of valleys in the sorrow they brought. There have been ordinary days and extraordinary days. Days where breathing felt like an accomplishment worthy of celebrating and days where laughter was infectious and necessary. I owe everything to my Lord. For without Him, there would be nothing and as I look back on the last year, there is so much to be thankful for in the midst of the sorrow that has settled in on our family. Our God is good and I’m especially grateful for his steadfast reminders of that; especially since it’s been pretty easy for me to forget.

I had myself all in a tizzy in the weeks (and even months) leading up the Christmas. I wanted this first Christmas without George to be perfect. I wanted to have it all figured out. Every detail, every possible scenario, I wanted to see and feel and acknowledge George Mason. I cried more times than I can count and stressed more times than I’d like to admit over things like stockings, ornaments, and christmas cards. It didn’t feel right to do any of the usual Christmas things if my sweet son couldn’t participate, but it also felt so wrong to not celebrate at all. Obviously that meant that I needed to have everything figured out and decided, right now this year, for how our family would handle the holidays for the rest of our lives. Obviously I was completely rational about this. And obviously not of those tear inducing traditions got “figured” out this year. Despite all my worries and stresses, christmas was ok. I might even go as far as to say it was wonderful. I had nothing to do with that. I also have the rest of my life to figure out how to include and acknowledge my son at Christmas - or any of the many, many other times he should have been here for - and hopefully I’ve learned that my son will always be acknowledged and included in our celebrations, simply because he is our son. Because George Mason McGough was born into this family on February 10, 2017. We became a family of 4, and even though he died, he existed. That’s all that I need to know. The rest is just details and if I’m really willing to trust my Lord, then I would know that’s those details will work out perfectly, exactly when they should.

Tomorrow we say goodbye to 2017 and tomorrow night when we go to bed, we will awake to a new year. I’m trying to think less about closing out the year my son was born and more about how God’s mercies are new every morning. And if they’re new every morning, they must also be new every year - because a year is just 365 new mornings. So as this year was tough, awful, and wonderful, and God got me through it, He will be right there in 2018. He didn’t promise to be there for every morning of 2017 and then leave me to go it alone. No, he said his mercies are new EVERY morning. Every. Single. Morning. For as long as time goes on. 2017 was a year of choosing to find joy. Choosing to be grateful. Choosing to know that the pain of loss is awful but that God is bigger, and stronger, and more comforting than the worst of any pain could offer. There were days when I failed at my attempt to choose those things but God followed through anyway. There were days when my broken heart lied convincingly enough that I felt abandoned by God, but He was there anyway. Every moment, regardless of my belief or acceptance of His goodness and truths, He was there. 2018, by definition, will be a new year with new mercies. New and specific to what I need - often that I won’t even know I need. What a God I serve. It won’t be easy to get through that final countdown as we end this year, but as much as I’ll be sad to see it go, I’ll be happy and excited to bring it to a close.

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 21:5

Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas. It’s a term that I’ve used for my entire life without any thought whatsoever. This year though, using that term comes with a twinge. A twinge of guilt over feeling slightly merry in a time that is often anything but. A twinge of doubt as I wonder if the person receiving my greeting is perhaps in a storm much like my own. By all accounts, our Christmas celebrations have been wonderful. From the community we call family that loves us so well, to the pure and innocent joy that wrapping paper brings to a toddler, our home has been full of so much merriment in the last 48 hours. My how thankful I am for that.

I slightly dreaded today. I was worried that my deep (and dark) desire to skip the day and all of its traditions would take over. How could I enjoy this day for Audrey Nole when I miss George Mason so much? How could I smile and laugh and get excited over a bike and stockings when my heart is so broken? The reality is that I can’t. I. Can’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t. There was nothing about the joy and excitement of this day that I did anything to prepare myself for or survive - and even thrive - through. Every ounce of good that came of today was because of my Savior; the birth that we celebrate. The “good tidings of great joy” has never felt more relevant to my life than it does right now, in this moment.

My God is good. He is Wonderful Counselor. Mighty God. Everlasting Father. Prince of Peace. I need to say that one again: Prince of Peace.  Peace. That’s exactly what I felt today. I was humbled to feel peace in the midst of these circumstances. Peace that gave me the freedom to fully feel and experience the very real and wonderful joy that came from today. There were no tears on this first Christmas without our son. There was only abundant gratitude for knowing that he’s in heaven. Knowing that he’s at the feet of the very one we are here celebrating. That he is no longer in the long season of advent, but instead has been renewed. That is the greatest gift ever given; to me as his mama and to him as the recipient of the salvation that came of that birth (and death) all those years ago.

Merry Christmas. It may seem like it’s not quite fitting to this season of life we are in, but honestly, there’s nothing more fitting. Thank you, Lord, for the gift of peace today and your perfect mercies for December, 25, 2017.

“For to us a child is born, to us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder, and his name shall be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.Of the increase of his government and of peace there will be no end, on the throne of David and over his kingdom, to establish it and to uphold it with justice and with righteousness from this time forth and forevermore.” Isaiah 9:6-7

12.23.17

Today is Adam and mine’s anniversary. 6 years ago I walked down the aisle and promised to love him in all of it; the good, the bad, the sick, the healthy, the prosperous and the times of want. I meant it. He meant it. But neither of us had any idea what that would mean in practice and details.

Last night we went out to celebrate. We ate nachos and cheese fries and we laughed. We laughed for hours on end. It was one of the best days we’ve had, likely in the entirety of our time together. What a gift from our good Father. Last night we went out as husband and wife. We celebrated. We smiled. We laughed. We reminisced about our 16 hours with George Mason. We even joked about how Adam is destined to be surrounded by girls for the rest of his life - not a joke I would have expected in our circumstances and grief, but a joke that was welcomed  and made us both giggle. We weren’t loss parents last night. We weren’t grieving parents who were taking a night out. We were husband and wife CELEBRATING our marriage and ALL of the things that have brought us to this day.

As I sat across the table from him and laughed my way through a glass of wine and a pile of nachos, I felt so completely grateful for the partner he is to me. God gave me him. He placed this man in my life, knowing all of the details of our story, and graciously leads us through all of those things we vowed to stick with each other through. Neither of us could have expected to have lost a mother or a son, but we have and we’ve survived. Not because we are strong or dedicated or determined, but because God is faithful and totally, utterly, steadfast to his promises.

I’m glad and grateful to have had an evening full of laughter. It felt like a normal day. I hate to think of our life as having a BG and AG, but so often it feels that way. It feels like there will never be days like there were before George; that there will always be this fog over even the happiest of days. That perhaps some days it will be so high that we don’t even notice it until the sun goes down and we can barely see the stars, but nevertheless it’s still there. And then there will be the days where it’s thick and low and hard to breathe. I guess in many ways that is kind of how this life will be. God is gracious and my life won’t be defined by the death of my son, but the death of my son won’t be completely righted until Jesus comes back. And until then, there will be a new lens through which I experience His grace and this life. And when I think about the future, I’m thankful for my hubby and my partner and I’m thankful for our children; both of them.

Thank you Lord for the mercies that are new every morning and are tailored to the needs of that day. Thank you for the laughter over dinner. Thank you for my godly partner in this journey. Thank you for being you. For being who you say you are and nothing less. You are abundantly more than I could ever fathom. Because of You and your Son, I am capable of laughing and I am assured of my own son’s place in eternity. There’s nothing more I could ever ask for. And there’s nothing more worthy of celebrating. 

12.17.17

I’m not a big cemetery person. I’ve never been to visit the graves of deceased relatives. I actually don’t like cemeteries at all... but as we found ourselves with the ashes of a 7lb baby boy, I began to understand the purpose and importance of cemeteries. I still haven’t quite figured out what my relationship with George Mason’s grave is going to look like - and since it is 3000 miles away from where we call home, I probably won’t have to make any decisions in the near future. Will I be the mama that visits the grave religiously on specific days or times? Will I visit alone? Or with Adam? Or out of guilt? I don’t know the answer to those questions. But this weekend, not one, but two of our family members, separate from one another, visited George Mason’s grave to place flowers.

It melts my heart to know that my son is remembered. Often the hardest part of this loss is he fear that this little boy who only lived for 16 hours will be forgotten, and I’ll (and Adam) be left with the burden of remembering him alone. Sharing his name only when it feels appropriate, not when it feels right. Wondering if by holding tight to his 16 hours, and recalling them with all the fondness and ugliness they encompassed, if I’m stalling my healing. How ridiculous. I’m certain that I won’t be the only person to remember him. I’m certain that it shouldn’t matter how often I say his name. How often I replay, retell, and relive those 16 hours. God gave us George Mason for 16 hours because the 9 months leading up to meeting him had me on my knees more times than I can count and because the last 10 months I have had to draw closer and dig deeper into the character of my Savior. George Mason had to work to do here on earth for his mighty God. That’s not something that anyone can or will forget. And the pictures of the flowers at the grave were such a wonderful reminder of that.

Today has been tearful. Not in a bad way, just in the way that life can tug at your heart strings. From the words of my mama’s favorite hymn to the pictures from George Mason’s grave, there are lots of bittersweet emotions running across my heart. I’m thankful for the people God has placed in my life that, whether knowingly or not, awaken those heart strings. I’m thankful for hearing George Mason’s name. I’m thankful for a God who loves me and listens when I cry out in sadness or in joy. I’m thankful for the complete strangers that have ministered to me brought their own journeys and experiences; and for those that have reminded me how awesome this Christmas season must be in Heaven, where my sweet little boy can be held by the very person who was born all those years ago.

12.14.17

Despite the circumstances and grief that have filled my days over the last year, today was a wonderful day. It was a day that has left me feeling special and loved. A day where I can see my great God at work in each of the little details. It could have been a pretty crappy day (and I was prepared for such), but I have a Good Good Father who made sure it wasn’t.

I miss my son today, as I do everyday, but instead of sinking low into that deep sorrow of this loss, I was joyful. Audrey helped me open my present - a quiver necklace that represents my children, (Psalm 127) - we watched classic Christmas movies, decorated a gingerbread house, and ate Mexican food and birthday cake. It was as ordinary a day as any birthday and for that, I am so very thankful. I never expected to have a child in heaven. I never expected to be in this season of loss and waiting. I never expected that 31 would leave me with an empty nursery. But it has. And while it’s hard to honestly be thankful for these circumstances, when I step back, I am forever grateful for the path that has lead me to today.

As I listened to my sweet daughter sing the words of the Happy Birthday song, I remembered how incredibly loved and adored I am by the God I serve and love. I remembered how beyond thankful I am for my husband. For the support and partner that he has been and continues to be in this crazy season of life. I remembered that birthdays are for celebrating, even those that don’t seem particularly celebratory. I remembered that in just about 2 months, there will be a birthday that we will need to celebrate, even when it seems so hard. And that in a little less than 2 weeks, we will celebrate the most important birthday ever; the birth that gives me hope, and peace, and joy, and assurance, and comfort.

10 Months

It hasn’t been a very good couple of days. Yesterday was my first ugly cry in months. It’s like the weight of Christmas and all the traditions and celebrations just hit me like a freight train. We had our first Christmas party of the season last night and I cried the entire drive there. My son is glaringly absent from all of the growing families in attendance. My son should be 10 months old today. He should be crawling and chowing down on every piece of Christmas cookie he can manage to get his hands on. I think as I drove to that party, I just lost all of my ability to grin to and bear it. I pulled the car over and I just cried. I yelled at God. I cried some more. This sucks. It’s not the way it’s supposed to be. And for the last 10 months I’ve been living without a piece of me.

I thought to myself how unfair this all is. I just cried. I’m not often mad about this. God has been gracious and while I’ve experienced a variety of emotions, anger is the rarest. I’m sad. I’m frustrated. I’m disappointed. I’m jealous. I’m grateful. I’m comforted. I’m confident. Yesterday, in that car, I was mad. And that’s ok. Because as I buried my face into the millionth tissue of this last year, I was reminded that my God is big. He is so, so big. He has saved my precious George Mason from the pain and brokenness of this world and things are right. I am feeling this pain - and all the other things that come with loss, especially the loss of a child - but George Mason is in glory. He is perfect and whole and made new. The baby boy we celebrate in the month of December was born and died so that could happen. Words will never be able to express my gratitude and comfort in that.

December is in full swing and it means the end of 2017 is closing in. These next few weeks are going to be filled with moments and milestones without my son. They are going to be hard, but they won’t be without so much grace from my Father. They will be days and moments when my heart bursts with joy over the kisses from God that are so precisely placed in my life. This last 10 months has been quite the journey. Finding joy in the very real grief. Experiencing God in ways I never imagined I would. Drawing close to Him because there is nothing else. Hugging Audrey Nole a little tighter. Keeping scripture tucked close and held deep in my heart. It’s a journey I never expected to travel but one that I can’t deny has been full of so many reasons to love my God so much more deeply.

Im sad today. There are tears just waiting to fall. But I’m forever thankful for that darling little boy that was born 10 months ago. I’m thankful for the 10th day of every month and the reminder it is to me to celebrate his life, not just mourn his death. As time passes I’m finding ways to quietly remind myself of all the joy George Mason brought me. Ways to include him and remember him in the mundane. Ways to acknowledge him in the special days. Ways to mourn him with less sorrow and more hope. And in all of the things, each moment, whether fleeting or lasting, I’m pointed back to my Lord who is the ultimate source of all joy and all hope. Today, that is enough. Tomorrow, that will be enough. For the rest of my life, that will be enough. In tears, in laughter, in anger, in frustration, in disappointment, He is enough.

But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. - 2 Corinthians12:9

11.30.17

I’ve sat down almost every day this week to write. Each day with the same blank page after 20 minutes of typing and deleting. There are so many things going on in my head and my heart it doesn’t seem like I even know where to start to get them out. It’s a jumble of grief and nostalgia and both bring with them sadness but both also bring joyful memories.

I wasn’t sure how to “deal” with Christmas this year. Nothing seems like the right answer and the perfectionist in me wants to get it right, no perfect, the first time. It felt like every little thing I did or so this year would set the precedent for how every holiday would go. That if I didn’t find the perfect solution for honoring, acknowledging, and including George Mason in our celebration, I would be set back for every year until who knows when. But then I looked over and saw Audrey Nole and the sheer wonder in her eyes at the first signs of Christmas lights, and I knew that even though I hadn’t come up with the perfect solution for this holiday season, I had to do it. So we went and picked out a tree and a few ornaments - since all of our stuff is in storage - and embarked on the first milestone of this season.

As I was driving home from the store with my seemingly pitiful little tree and generic ornaments, I thought back over all the christmases growing up with my mama. I think it was required that the 6 of us watch “The Preacher’s Wife” on a loop as we carefully decorated the tree(s). Since the thought of putting up our tree this year was so overwhelming, I got home and searched my iTunes for that movie; the one that brings back instant delight and warm memories. One that my mama loved and that I can now love with my own daughter. So I hit play and Audrey and I got to work. She meticulously placed the ornaments on branches with lights that matched the color of her ornament. She even went as far as to tell me I was doing it wrong. I’m not sure she watched a single second of that movie, but with every second of Whitney Houston’s voice, I was filled with nostalgia. And in that particular moment, it was so much better than grief.

There still aren’t stockings hung or Christmas cards designed. I guess I’m taking baby steps towards carrying out my Christmas traditions. I’m not sure which of the traditions that our little family has will be the most helpful and healing and which ones will be the hardest, but I’m trusting that my gracious and loving God will continue to walk with me as my heart navigates  this season. God knew from before I was even born that in this moment I would be the mama of a little girl on earth and a baby in heaven. He has prepared me for this day and these moments for my entire life. There is nothing that is beyond his reach and the things that seem so hard to me, he knew about and was ready for. I haven’t watched The Preacher’s wife since my mama died, but God knew on the day I put up my tree, I would need those wonderful memories.

I’m thankful for nostalgia. I’m thankful for the memories I have of my mama from the traditions she worked so hard to make happen every year. I’m thankful for the strength that she had but never claimed as her own. I didn’t know how much her example of that would impact me or just how much I was going to have needed that example. Every time I start down the path of memories, it gives me one more moment to remember my son. I know there isn’t much to remember, 16 hours isn’t all that much after all, but just the act of remembering him is so good. Sometimes it hurts, a lot, but every single time it reminds me that God gave me George Mason and that wasn’t a mistake. It gives me a wonderful reason to say thank you to my creator for the honor of being able to call myself George Mason and Audrey Nole’s mama.

This particular holiday season will likely be full of many more days or moments when I need some good memories to help me escape the grief. But that’s ok. It’s ok because I can trust that God is absolutely going to keep his promises. He is absolutely going to carry me through this and the strength I need for today will be there today. And what I need for tomorrow will come tomorrow. His mercies are new every morning. Amen to that.

And in the same region there were shepherds out in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And an angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were filled with great fear. And the angel said to them, “Fear not, for behold, I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be a sign for you: you will find a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger.” And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying,

“Glory to God in the highest,

and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased!” - Luke 2:8-14

11.25.17

This week has been hard. Every moment of every day felt like I was in the middle of a marathon. I don’t run, but I can imagine the tired muscles at the halfway point, knowing that you can either turn back or go forward, but the distance is the same and you can’t just quit. I don’t want to turn back. Looking back only causes more pain. But the thought of moving forward often causes equal amounts of pain. I don’t really have a choice anyway, as life moves forward regardless of my state of mind about it, but sometimes staying right in this moment feels like the only possible way to go.

Giving Audrey a bath the other night almost had me weeping. Her brother would be old enough now to join her in the tub and play her silly little games. Making her plate for the thanksgiving spread left me breathless. I can only imagine that George Mason would have been in love with stuffing and gravy like his daddy. Walking through the zoo and watching Audrey tell us all that she knows about each of the animals made me long for those moments with George Mason that I will never have. Everything we’ve done this week has been a blatant reminder that we are missing our little man. He would big enough now that he would be interacting with us. His life would be more than just lying on blankets and nursing. It would be giggles and curiosity. It would be total adoration of his big sister. It would be the excitement of counting down to his first Christmas.

Instead, I’m finding myself wanting to skip Christmas this year. There is this deep and intense desire to honor, acknowledge, and include our son in our earthly celebrations of Christmas and yet there is nothing that seems to quite fill that desire; because nothing is the same as having my sweet George Mason here. I love Christmas. The tree, the lights, the scents, the colors, the story, the make believe, the wonder, the merriment. You name it, I probably love it. My mama used to joke that I came 3 weeks early because I was the poster child for a Christmas baby. December is my month. My birthday and anniversary. My college graduation. Everything happens in December and I love every single minute. But this year I wish I could just skip December. It doesn’t feel right to celebrate the birth of a son when my son died.

Except that the son we are celebrating is the most important son ever born. He is the very, and only, reason that I have any hope in this life after loss. I don’t want my life to be defined by the loss of my son’s life. I don’t want people to look at my story and only see George’s death. Certain days it seems like that’s all I’m capable of seeing, but when I take a step back, I know that God’s story is so much bigger than this loss. I just have to remind myself that. I’ve been wearing this key a lot more often lately. It’s a key that was given to my mom when she was diagnosed with cancer. It is inscribed with the word STRENGTH.  It was given to her with Psalm 138:3 - On the day I called, you answered me; my strength of soul you increased.  - It was passed around to a couple of people before it ended up being given to me, with the same verse. It has been a reminder that my strength to get through each day isn’t coming from any place of my own. It’s coming from my Lord and Savior. It’s been a reminder that God has not left me to do this alone and never expected me to handle the burden of grief and loss without him. It’s a reminder to re center my thoughts on the only begotten Son, and not on my own self pity or seemingly overwhelming circumstances. It has calmed my broken heart and pointed me back to the source of all joy.

I know that we won’t skip Christmas this year and that it’s impossible to just skip an entire month, but it also means that I’m going to have to be that much more intentional about giving all of these emotions and thoughts to God. I can’t survive this month without Him. I can’t survive this life without Him. Our Christmas might look a little different than it has in years past or what it will look like in years to come  but it will never not be a celebration of the perfect Son. My grief is reminding me of that in a weird, roundabout way. The gifted key is reminding me of that. The tears and anxiety that have riddled my days over the last months have reminded me of that. And for that, I am thankful. I’m hurt and missing my son, but I’m thankful. My mom at some point felt like she didn’t need that tangible reminder of where her strength came from and she passed her key along. In fact, every person who has ever been gifted that key got to the point where they were secure in their source of strength and passed it on. It’s just one of the ways that my caring and loving God has shown me that this won’t be forever. That one day I won’t need that key as much as I need it today. My prayer is that when that day comes, I will celebrate and praise the God who was my source of strength and joy, and prayerfully pass it along to the person who needs it more on that moment than me.

Thanksgiving Day

The theme in this grief journey has been finding gratefulness; intentionally examining my life and finding the things that God has graciously and abundantly given to me. There has never been a time, even in the worst of days, that I couldn’t find at least something to say a great big Thank You  about. Today is not any different. I’m overwhelmed with sorrow. There are two empty chairs at our thanksgiving table, each one leaving a big hole in the festivities and in our hearts. My sweet son won’t be joining us, covered in sweet potatoes and gravy. The dogs won’t be lying under his high chair just waiting for the next piece of half chewed food to drop. My loving mama won’t be telling her exaggerated stories. Her infectious laugh won’t fill the room. Those are huge things. Those are the biggest of losses to cope with on holidays. And yet there are always things to be thankful for.

I’ve been quiet today. I’m surrounded by family and all the hustle and bustle of meal prep and celebration, but I’ve been quiet. The truth is that I’m holding back tears. I’m anxious and sad but I’m also so full of gratefulness. God has given me a family that I love so dearly. I’m sure that as the day progresses the tears will be harder to hide but the laughter that always comes at family gatherings will likely disguise them a little bit. I’m sitting here while Audrey Nole naps, silently reflecting on all the emotions of this day. Missing my son and wishing he were here to have watched the parade with us. Wishing he were here to chase the dogs around the house and to bring those precious little baby giggles to the soundtrack of football, chopping, and dice rolling.

Days like today test my endurance in living for Jesus. I want to be, and in some ways I likely am, mad at God. I want to scream and shout and tell him how profoundly unfair it is that I’m missing anyone on this Thanksgiving. I want to make sure he knows how much I trusted that healing was coming for both my mama and my George Mason. I want him to know how disappointed in him I was when I had to say goodbye. I want him to know that the things he’s given that I’m so thankful for, don’t make up for the intense hurt I feel. Maybe I should? Maybe I should just yell and scream. The best part of my God is that he’s big enough to handle it. He can take it when I need a punching bag. He is more than mighty enough to let me scream and pout. He is more than enough. Period. But him being more than enough doesn’t take away the hurt. It just changes it from hurt of despair to hurt with hope and purpose. It sucks that we have 2 empty chairs this year. (It sucked when we only had one) Its literally the worst. But God is the literal best. And God is going to hear those silent screams and see that broken heart and he’s going to embrace me with all the love and tenderness of a good good Father. He’s going to wipe the tears away from my swollen eyes and tell me it’s all going to be ok. And he really means it. Things really are going to be ok. Not today, not tomorrow, maybe not even in my lifetime, but someday.

Make a joyful noise to the LORD, all the earth!

Serve the LORD with gladness!

Come into his presence with singing!

Know that the LORD, he is God!

It is he who made us, and we are his;

we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture.

Enter his gates with thanksgiving,

and his courts with praise!

Give thanks to him; bless his name!

For the LORD is good;

his steadfast love endures forever,

and his faithfulness to all generations.

-Psalm 100

11.19.17

I was driving to church this morning and a song came on the radio that had me almost pull over. It was about a boy. Growing up, fist fights, first kisses, football games, driving too fast, etc. It was adorable, predictable, and just about every word made me want to just burst into sobs. I don’t know what George Mason would have been like as he grew old. I don’t know if he would have been shy or outgoing; confident or self conscious; big and loud or small and quiet. I do know, though, what his daddy would have expected from him. And I know that if he was anything like his daddy, he would have had a very large personality and an affinity for football. He would have fallen head over heels in love quickly. He would have a strange collection of something that would mean the world to him. He would be decked out in Black & Gold on Saturdays (despite his mama’s best attempts at making him a Seminole) and Carolina Blue & Black on Sundays. He would take his hat off for eating and he would insist on opening the car door for the women in his life. Those are the things I can know and those are also the things that can make me oh so sad.

We are quickly approaching Thanksgiving without our baby. One of my absolute favorite memories from Audrey Nole’s first year is her first Thanksgiving. She LOVED everything about that day. She ate a ton of food. I think she gained a full pound on Thanksgiving day. There are the most precious pictures of her chowing down on all the wonderful foods that show up just this one time every year. If she could remember, it would probably go down in history as her best day ever; even better than birthday cake. Those memories are flooding my psyche the last couple days  - probably because they are some of my fondest - and they are making this next week seem overwhelmingly hard. I’m so sad and broken over the fact that George Mason won’t get that day. He won’t experience those first tastes of my mama’s stuffing. He won’t be covered in sweet potatoes. But then the realization hits, he’s in the most perfect place with the most delicious feasts and celebrations and its not him who’s missing out… its ME. Its sad for ME to know that he won’t have those moments, but really what I’m sad about is that I don’t get to share those moments with him. There won’t be pictures for his baby book of overstuffed cheeks and a bulging belly. There will just be the pictures from his day; in that awful hospital room with poor lighting, swollen, tear filled eyes, and the most preciously terrible snuggles before he took his last breath and went to be with Jesus.

One of the most comforting things has been knowing that all of this pain and sadness that I’m feeling, that everyone who loves us is feeling, is not being experienced by George Mason. That he is in glory with his Savior. He isn’t knowing the pain of missing me or thanksgiving. He isn’t in physical pain and his body isn’t riddled with brokenness. That is the most perfect gift from my caring Father. Assurance that the pain of this loss is earthly and that eternity didn’t and doesn’t hold tears of sadness for my son. And that while my pain over this last 9 months and for the rest of my life hurts a lot, its not the end of the story; its not even the biggest part of the story. Its just a footnote to the glorious work of the Lord in my life and my son’s life and the lives of everyone who misses George Mason alongside us.

Therefore let us be grateful for receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, and thus let us offer to God acceptable worship, with reverence and awe, for our God is a consuming fire. - Hebrews 12:28-29