6.7.18

The urge to write seems to be fading with time and distance from George’s day. It’s not that I don’t miss him terribly, because I do! But it’s more that I miss him and less that I mourn him. I’ll take that as a very good thing, even though it often feels like a very fine line that differentiates those emotions. I’m sure that as moments and occasions come upon us that remind us of the giant hole in our family, that desire (and it’s necessity) to write will be back in full force. It has always been one of the easiest ways for me to wrestle with God and through my feelings. It allows me to almost step out of the selfishness required by grief and look at it with objection. It makes me focus on God so that I can more clearly see the what’s and why’s behind the tears or shouts. I don’t always - or ever really - understand God’s timing or reasoning, but when I look to Him for comfort despite my attitude towards His plan, I always find the inexplicable joy of simply knowing and feeling His presence.

I heard someone talking about being a loss parent recently. It wasn’t a godly person or from any kind of spiritual perspective, it was just raw truth and logic. This woman said that when you lose a spouse you’re a widow. When you lose your parents you’re an orphan. But when you lose your child, there’s no word for that. - it’s amazing to me that in a world full of labels, for every kind of thing imaginable, there isn’t a word for parents who have lost children. Death happens. It’s expected. We know that our parents are going to die. We know that a marriage will end with one spouse burying the other. But there’s an order and expectation for those things. When you bury your child, death stifles your sense of normal and shakes up your expectations. It doesn’t have to rule you forever, but there’s no escaping the blender like mix up of everything you once thought would happen.

I’m thankful that I’m God’s child. I don’t know how I would have survived George Mason’s death otherwise. Because when my emotions and my reality were all shaken up and turned upside down, my God was a solid foundation on which I could stand. A foundation for me to climb on and navigate this new - and unfathomable - territory. And not only was He the very thing holding me above water, he was also the hand in my hand that was guiding me through despair, frustration, anger, sadness, doubt, anxiety, and any other number of sorrowful emotions, into the comfort of His wings and right back to the ultimate source of joy: Christ.

On Christ the solid rock I stand, all other ground is sinking sand.

5.21.18

The week after George Mason died, I met community like I’ve never experienced before. While I was lying numb in a hospital bed, my house got cleaned. While I was in too much pain to care for my living toddler, she was loved on so well. And while I knew that honoring our son was important and necessary, I couldn’t find it in me to move forward past that knowledge. So my community, the people that God placed in our lives so specifically, put together the most sincere and humbling service.  Every last detail was considered and thoughtfully arranged. I didn’t have to face the harsh reality of loss over and over as I managed the logistics of a funeral. Instead, I got to show up and grieve. To cry with those who loved and love our son along side us. They even scouted out the perfect spot to watch the sunset over the mountains as we worshipped in celebration of the life of our little man. And then it rained. There was no sunset. There were instead the splashing of rain drops on the sidewalk and the giggles of all the soon to be big sisters. There was no sunset, and on that day I was awfully mad about it, but the weather didn’t matter. Because our community was there and they were every bit as warm and comforting as those last orange rays before the sun drops below the mountainous horizon.

Even the words spoken at the service were a display of our community and just how deep and wide the love of God reaches and His church extends. Because they knew and loved our son, the conversations with us and with  God were so special. I cried tears of joy and sorrow on that day. In the rain, on a hill, in recovery, God sent His people to love on and care for us in only the way that God could. After the service I asked our friend and pastor to send me the words of the homily. God gave him those words because He knew I was going to need them. Not just on that day, but on so many days since and so many more in the future. God’s Love for us is greater than death. God’s Love for George Mason is so much greater than death. While death looks and feels big to us, it is small compared to God’s Love for us in Christ. They hit my heart so perfectly on that day and I wanted to remember them. I knew that I wouldn’t, and I wanted to be able to read them when it felt like George Mason was so far away. And when I was too angry with God to realize just how much He loves me and loves my son. I’ve gone back and read those words often. They are comforting and they are also wonderfully poignant. And last year I was gifted a framed calligraphy print of those very same words. It arrived in the mail today and I couldn’t be more excited to hang them on the wall in our new home.

5.15.18

I did a thing today. I’ve been dreaming of ways to break the ice, so to speak, about my children when it comes to strangers. A way to bridge that gap between the moment when someone asks about my family and how I answer. There are certainly people in this world who don’t necessarily NEED all the details and to hear about our son, but I also never know how to bring him up. Do I tell this stranger (that I may or may not see again??) about our son and ruin their day by smacking them with a weight they may or may not be able to carry? Do I leave out George Mason’s name when talking about my family because it’s just a softer - though not easier - conversation? What if I DO see this person again? Should I have just been upfront from the very beginning? Or if I don’t mention him at first, when do I? When does it ever make sense to introduce a person who never left the hospital? When is it the right time to share the few small details we know about our son, the little boy who is never out of our minds, not even for a second?

Last summer when we were trying to decide what God had for us and thought we might be leaving Utah, I struggled with all the anxiety of meeting new people. Honestly, every time I leave the house there’s a twinge of that same anxiety. A small part of me hopes to never meet anyone new, ever again. Because the thought of someone meaningful in my life not knowing my son is horrible. Except it’s the reality. All that’s left is the stories I tell and the ways and times that I share about him.  So I placed his name, alongside his sister’s, on my arm. Visible for any strangers or dear friends. If someone asks me about it, I can share all the love I have for my children. I can also skim the surface of the sorrow,  but it will never be hidden away. There will be no avoiding his name or his story. It will force me, or more importantly allow me to gush about both of my children. Because what mama doesn’t jump at the chance to talk about their kids!? One of mine just happens to be in heaven and not in my home.

I know that the anxiety of meeting new people will likely never fully go away, but I’m glad to have an avenue through which I can share even a small part of my sons story and all that God has done in my life through the small life of George Mason.

Behold, children are a heritage from the LORD, the fruit of the womb a reward. Like arrows in the hand of a warrior are the children of one's youth.

psalm 127:3-4

Mother’s Day 2018

For George Mason’s birthday I received a locket with his picture and foot prints kept inside. I wear it often, because it’s a beautiful piece of jewelry, but also because it feels good to carry him so close to my heart. He is always there, sometimes more deeply hidden, in my mind, but to see his precious little face makes his life seem a little less distant. Almost like it’s proof that he existed; not that I need proof, but because sometimes it’s hard to remember that he really did live. Those months of carrying him in my womb were filled with stress and worries. With each appointment we got more bad news and it seemed like we would never meet our son alive. But we did. And as hard as it was to tell him good bye, it was wonderful to have held him for the short time that we did. But even those memories are fading. Not because I want them to or because they aren’t written deeply on my heart, but because 16 hours is a blip. It’s nothing in the scheme of time. And with each passing day, those memories feel more distant.

Some days I wake up and wonder how it’s been 15 months since his day. How we’ve lived on and through an entire year without this precious little person. And then some days I wonder if it was all just a bad dream. Did the horrors from 2016 and 2017 actually happen? Did we really bury our son? And the frustrating part is that the answer is always yes. Yes. We met him, held him, love him, buried him, miss him. Yes. He was born, cAme into this world, and then left us for the glory of eternity. If I wasn’t so dang jealous I might be a tiny bit angry. Adam and I are here missing him but he’s walking those streets of gold and worshipping at the feet of Jesus.

Audrey keeps asking me to open the locket. She looks at him and takes it all in. I can only imagine that small parts of his day piece themselves together for her as she stares at his picture. She tells me how handsome he is. How much she thinks he would want his blanket. And how he wishes he could’ve come home. I have to agree. He was handsome. He would have loved his soft blanket. But I always tell her how wonderful Heaven is and that even though we are missing her brother, he is not missing us, - though he loves us deeply - because in heaven there is no pain.  There is no sorrow. No tears. Just pure, unadulterated joy. The perfect and complete wholeness of each person who is there. George Mason isn’t missing us. He isn’t wishing he were here with us. Instead, he’s remembering fondly the voices of his parents and sister. Remembering the beat of my heart, the embrace of his daddy’s arms, and the gentle touch of his big sisters curious love. I imagine there is a fondness with which he reminisces about his life and his family. And I also imagine that his Grammy is telling him all about his cooky mama and strong daddy.

Today doesn’t feel very celebratory but there is always reason to celebrate God’s unfailing love. So through the pain of the empty places in our family picture, I’m going to be intentional about seeing that love. And because I have experienced the sorrow of losing my son and my mother, I can be that much more grateful for the joy that comes in motherhood. The ups are made better because of the downs. My love for my kids stems directly from knowing they are God’s children and there is nothing I can do to take that away from them. I can laugh with Audrey and cry over George Mason. But I can also rejoice in the hope of Christ’s promises and all the comfort that comes from knowing my son is in the best possible hands.

In memory of my mama and my precious son, Happy Mother’s Day.

5.6.18

Today is International Bereaved Mother’s Day. I was unaware that this day even existed until just recently, but honestly, it makes so much sense. I remember the dread that came on the first Mother’s Day after my mom passed. Those conflicted thoughts between the overwhelming joy of having my own daughter to celebrate making me a mother but also the sorrow that came with not having my mama there. It was awful. I pretty much just wanted to crawl into a ball of tears and skip any mention of Mother’s Day. And then my son died, only 2 years later. I don’t remember much about Mother’s Day last year, except that in the very same way, I wanted to skip it. To fast forward through the day that would so blatantly remind me of the missing baby in our home. Of the hole in my heart that was still oozing with pain. I remember thinking of my friends and acquaintances who were not yet mothers but longed to be. Who had lost babies to miscarriage or still birth. Mother’s Day felt like a kick in the ribs.

I was sitting here this evening and thinking about next Sunday. Adam has been asking what I’d like to do and my answer is always along the lines of I don’t know. He wants so desperately to celebrate me. To acknowledge and honor the fact that we have been blessed with two children, both of whom were made to glorify God; one for only 16 hours. I want that too. It’s wonderful to be a mother. Mama is the title that I wear most proudly. But celebrating my adoption into the sisterhood of mamas feels a bit like a lie. Or at least a half truth. Because there is part of my mama heart that is broken and will never be completely healed.

Thankfully, I serve a God who can, and will, make that big huge scar across my heart brand new one day. He will eliminate all pain and sadness. And thankfully, even in the waiting period before that day comes, He is continually working in that broken heart to show me the completeness I can have in Him.

We didn’t do anything special today, but my heart goes out to my fellow mamas with broken hearts. I want to hug each one of you. I want to cry and curse with you. I want to praise Jesus alongside you when we are reunited with our babies. And I want to remember this day, each year, so that I can cling even tighter to the God that has sustained me through this loss. Through all of the heartache. Through all of the mixed emotions and various disappointments. Through the moments when I felt like giving him the silent treatment. Because loss is part of my story. It’s one of the threads in the pattern God has woven for me. By the grace of God, I will not be defined by the sorrow that comes with loss, but I will always have it and know it. And it will always send me right into His arms.

4.26.18

I heard somewhere that people believe that when you see certain types of birds that it is the spirit of your lost loved ones paying you a visit. Now, believing in heaven and it’s perfection, there’s no way that I really think anyone’s spirit would want anything but heaven and lots and lots and lots of Jesus. But, that being said, we have this gorgeous blue jay that has begun to call our yard his home. I know that my son isn’t actually visiting, but every time I see those stunning blue and grey feathers and the regality of this stoic bird’s movements, I can’t help but think of George Mason. It’s almost like God sent this sweet bird to wake my heart, just a little bit, each day. He comes and sits in the tree outside the kitchen window. It’s not that I need a reminder of my son because he’s never out of my mind, but to have such a beautiful piece of Gods creation place itself in my view everyday is a very sweet way to be reminded of George Mason’s life, not just his death. With each new morning, as this blue jay arrives, I’m reminded to say Thank You to the Good Father who loves me. Who protects me and sustains me, and deserves every ounce - and a whole lot more - of praise and glory I can muster.

This house has been a source of stress and pain over the last 6 months but it has also been a source of joy and a very tangible reason to dream about our future. It has allowed me a bit of space from the depths of my grief. It has provided relief and distraction from the sorrow of losing our son. It has presented me with options and reasons for dreaming about what our family might look like one day. That instead of being stuck in the picture I had always imagined, and then was ripped to shreds, I’ve been able to process life now that Adam and I are loss parents. The picture of our family won’t look anything like I had imagined it would, and there will always be a hole where George Mason should be, but because of a caring God who writes in even the tiniest of details in our stories, my heart is slowly mending. It will always have the scar from the heartbreak of losing my child, but it is being made new each day, ready to face the world and play my small part in God’s greater story.

I miss my son and I know that I won’t be reunited with him until heaven, but I’m reminded daily of how much I am loved by my Father in heaven. And that’s the greatest reason I can think of to shout from the rooftops. So for today, I’ll be thankful for a beautiful blue jay that reminds me of my son and the security of my Father’s love.

He will cover you with his pinions,

and under his wings you will find refuge;

his faithfulness is a shield and buckler. - Psalm 91:4

4.20.18

I haven’t been spending as much time in my bible (or even my own head for that matter) as I would like for myself lately. There hasn’t been much of a desire to seek out a deeper relationship with Jesus. I hear that’s common in grief. I suppose it makes sense. There’s lots of anger and frustration and disappointment in facing the reality that God COULD have saved my son but DIDN’T. So when I sit down to talk with Him, a whole slew of difficult, heavy, and often undesirable emotions swell up and I don’t get anywhere but deeper into the messiness of this fallen world. It truly makes me long for heaven. For the time that no one experiences pain. For the moment when I am made new, just like my son, and can sing How Great Thou Art and really mean it. Every. Single. Word.

I’ve been busy lately. Really, really busy. It’s been a month full of all the logistics of moving into our house, finally. All of the busyness has been a good distraction from the waiting and he unknowns of expanding our family. It has been good for my heart to take a short break from the work of grief. But there’s one room (two actually) in the house that stirs up all the emotions that I often don’t want to face. The room that we have affectionately and hopefully called the nursery. Audrey says it’s the baby’s room and she is very matter of fact about it’s purpose: for the baby’s crib when they come home to live with us. - there is no baby coming home right now, but she doesn’t understand that, so she patiently waits for the day she can hold her sibling in the rocking chair in the “baby’s room” -

I’ve left this room for last. Logistics sort of made that a necessity, but the honest truth is that I didn’t really want to face it. The room that should have been George Mason’s. I already faced an empty nursery once, it’s hard to do it again in this new place. I keep trying to tell myself that by now we would have made the switch and moved George Mason into his “big boy” room next to Audrey’s. That this empty room, this nursery, isn’t his. It’s the place where all the love we can muster is waiting for the day that our next baby is welcomed home. The place where we hold out the hope that our family is meant to expand, and that the death of our son wasn’t our last experience with birth. So I’ve been avoiding it. Putting off the work so that I didn’t have to admit to myself, again, how disappointed I am with my God. And honestly, not ready to put much love into the actual work of readying the space for a tiny human to occupy it. Because when I allow myself the freedom to fully feel all of the emotions that are floating around in my heart, one of those is fear; terrified of the next baby and he what ifs.

I guess since this room has been so intentionally avoided, it’s time to move that intent into productivity. To see it through to complete. As the room where Audrey will live until her big girl room is ready. As the space that will one day be filled with cries and poopy diapers and plenty of midnight feedings for a baby that isn’t George Mason. That isn’t a replacement for George Mason. For a baby that is very much loved, wanted, and different from their big brother.

And whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through Him.” – Colossians 3:17

4.4.18

A year ago, today, I shared some of the emotions from when we first learned that George Mason was sick. I’m really glad I wrote some of those memories and feelings down, because so often the details of that pregnancy and the months of worry are just lost or really vague. But more so, I’m thankful for a record of the things that got me through each day as I navigated those first weeks and months without our son.  A verse from Isaiah was the focus. Talking about how God never grows tired or weary. Those words were a comfort a year ago, but as I read them today, they felt incredibly reassuring. It’s no secret that I haven’t been sleeping or that my mind and body are tired. Knowing that God isn’t tired of sustaining me. Knowing that He isn’t tired of loving me. Knowing that He will not grow weary in the waiting for me to stop being angry/frustrated/disappointed. Knowing. What a reassurance for this broken hearted and tired mama.

"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

As I read those words over and over, it’s easy to see (and feel) that God hasn’t stopped and won’t stop. It’s easy to admit that He will - and has - follow through with his promise to not grow weary or faint. But there’s something else. There’s more. “His understanding is unsearchable” and “to him who has no might he increases strength” ... there’s a whole lot of power in this words. Even in my most tired, literal exhaustion, my God is going to increase my strength. And when I don’t want to talk to him, or pursue him, he will understand and will love me anyway. Because his love for me isn’t dependent on anything about me. It just is. And it’s perfect.

Easter

No guilt in life, no fear in death,This is the power of Christ in me;
From life's first cry to final breath,
Jesus commands my destiny.
No power of hell, no scheme of man,
Can ever pluck me from His hand:
Till He returns or calls me home,
Here in the power of Christ I'll stand.

i just need to leaves these words here. As a reminder to myself on the hard days (and the not as hard), that Jesus commands my destiny. That there was not a minute of my son’s life that wasn’t written into his story and not a minute taken away from what God intended for him. That Jesus was there with him from the very first moment and cry, to the very last breath and when his heart stopped beating. And that there is nothing, nothing, that could ever deny George Mason his place in eternity with his Savior.  

We celebrate today because Jesus is alive. And because my son is made new because of that very death and resurrection. I know that but sometimes I need the words of much wiser men and women to remind me. 

Audrey Turns 3

Yesterday was Audrey’s 3rd birthday and today we celebrated with friends with a backyard birthday. Overall, it was wonderful. Audrey loved the birthday festivities both yesterday and today. She smiles and loves with ferocity and it comes out in higher doses on special occasions. She is a special little lady and by all accounts, she is very well loved. God has surrounded our family with people who have been immeasurably more than encouraging and supportive through our life’s tragedies. It is one of the things I am consistently grateful for and in awe off. God has been good to us. Sometimes it feels wrong to say that, but it’s truth. 100%, no denying it’s truth.

Except that even in all of the joy and celebration, and so much happiness, there is an under belly of sadness. Not overwhelming and not even really noticeable at first glance, but there nonetheless. With every moment of joy, we have equal amounts of sorrow. It’s hard to really describe that feeling, when your heart feels like it could burst from so much happiness and yet is totally and completely broken. Equal and opposite reactions to the same set of events. I had so much fun doting on Audrey Nole yesterday. Watching her take in all of the stimuli and just loving every moment and experience. She was in heaven; and so was I. But as we sat on the train or opened presents, I missed our son. He would have loved to help her unwrap that pink birthday paper. He would have been just as excited about the train ride and abundance of sugar that are the result of birthday celebrations. And as we put Audrey to bed and found ourselves able to go out for a date, it was hard to not notice that there should be a 1 year old going to bed right along side her. There should be 2 kiddos to wipe frosting from faces and tuck into bed. 2 kids to kiss goodnight and to hear “I love you too, mama” as you close the door.

I guess this is our reality. I don’t know if it’s forever, but it’s right now. Feeling each emotion with layers of complexity. Feeling joy alongside sorrow. I think that’s an improvement. Since for a long time it felt like it would just be sorrow. But God is good and sorrow isn’t going to take over. Sorrow is a reality but it will not be victorious. It will not win out over every moment. It will not stifle the good things. The wonderful things. We serve a good Father. A good God. We can have hope and we can know that things are going to work together for our good.

3.18.18

This week I had an appointment with my OB. it was just a normal, every day kind of check up. Touching base with her about how my body is healing, what the next steps are whenever we decide we’re ready to try again, and find a better solution to the anxiety that has been plaguing my days for the last 6 months. I was kind of looking forward to the appointment. It felt like a step towards healing to finally be able to talk with her about trying for another baby. She also has a wonderful way of calming me down and not looking at me as a loss mom first, woman next. She has been a continual blessing to my family during her tenure as my doctor.

As I sat down in that waiting room it hit me. All of those emotions from the last half of my pregnancy with George. All those disappointing appointments. Week after week, scan after scan, more bad news piling up. And it all came rushing up from the deep places I had tucked it away. I sat in that chair, one I had probably sat in 25 times prior, my eyes welled with tears and my heart sank for just a second. It caught me so off guard. Not that I shouldn’t have expected that waiting room to be hard, but I guess since I had been there before I just didn’t expect anything different.

I left that appointment feeling encouraged but it wasn’t without the expense of a higher than normal blood pressure and a few salty tears. I didn’t really have time that day to give it much thought. Life goes on. But as I get a little distance from that day, it’s a pretty good sampling of how the last year has gone. With every good there is a bit of bad. Each emotion is felt with immense weight and never alone. And then life goes on. The good stuff, the hard stuff, the mundane stuff, all is felt and experienced with so much complexity. We met our son which was such a wonderful thing. We introduced Audrey to her sibling. We share stories of his life. We bought a house and (for better or worse) are making memories there, both during the construction and hopefully many, many more once we are living there. We have watched Audrey’s gentle joy become larger than life. We have watched her process the life and death of her brother. We have grown closer as a family and closer to our Sustainer.

So many wonderful things amidst such deep sorrow. That is life after losing our son. It is our story. For God’s glory.

Mama’s Heavenly Anniversary

Ever since George Mason died, I’ve been considering getting a tattoo. To literally write his name (along with Audrey Nole’s) on my wrist. To have a visual reminder of his life, right there for me to see every time I tie my shoe or put on a bracelet or wash my face. To remember his life but more importantly to see all that God has done in my life because of George Mason’s. I haven’t pulled the trigger,  life gets in the way and other things feel more important. I think I will go one day and his name will get inked into the skin on my wrist; not because I need it to remember, but because I want it to share. To have his name be seen. To talk about the two little names that were important enough in my life to place them permanently on my wrist. Often when I think about what it will look like, I wish my sweet mama could have written their names. That somehow seeing her handwriting would be honoring her legacy and cherishing all of the ways that she would have supported and encouraged Adam and me through all of this grief stuff. She’s not here to do that, but I often find myself thinking what she might say or what scripture she might point me towards. Today especially.

Today is 3 years since we said “see you in heaven!” to the wonderful woman we call Mama. 3 whole years. It’s hard to acknowledge that. It feels like her passing left us with a big, dark cloud of yuck. That so much of what has happened over he last 3 years would have benefitted from her light and joy. I wish that she was here to cry with. I wish that she could yell at God with me. I wish she were here to see Audrey Nole and to enjoy her vivacious spirit (that she whole heartedly prayed for - out of spite, I think). I wish she were here to love my dad the way he needs. I wish she were here to just make things right in a way that only a mama can. But she’s not. Instead, she’s in glory. She’s cancer free. She’s been renewed and is perfect. That’s wonderful for her. It’s wonderful for me to know, because it’s better than cancer and worry and anxiety. It’s better than being a grandma - though she might fight that one a tiny bit. It’s better than anything she could have done here over these last 3 years. It doesn’t make it better for me, or my dad, or my siblings, but it’s SO much better for her.

I miss her. I miss my parents and the crazy, somewhat embarrassing, love they poured out on us. I thank God for his sustaining faithfulness in this season of loss, but I still miss her and the dynamic she added to this family. I know that one day I will see her again. One day, we will be rejoicing together. And some times, I’m thankful that she preceded  my George Mason in death, because her heart was big and I think watching her daughter lose her son would have broken it. She felt all of her emotions in a big way. She was vibrant and full of life. She was dark and sad and often scared by the responsibility of living with cancer. But she was honest with herself, and everyone she met, about her need for Jesus. For a savior who did the unthinkable so that we could be assured of God’s love for us. It’s hard not to miss her a little extra on March 12 every year, but knowing her and knowing God, celebration is the only fitting way to go about her heavenly birthday. 

My chains are gone, I’ve been set free. My God, my Savior, has ransomed me. For like a flood, His mercy rains. Unending love, Amazing grace.

I was reading her blog this morning and one of the last ones she wrote was called “Look Up!” She wrote it on February 4th. She had gotten a clean cancer scan but she was torn. She wasn’t feeling well. The news was flooded with ISIS beheadings and evil seemed so apparent and overwhelming in this world. But she was expecting to meet her first grandbaby in just about 6 weeks. She was excited but burdened by the weight of sin in this world; the world innocent children are born into every day. She believed Audrey Nole would change the world and do big things for God. Already, just shy of 3 years old, she has comforted many and been a bright and shining beacon of God’s love. My mama was right. And even though she never met Audrey Nole, I can see so much of that Vicki spirit in my daughter. I know that a piece of her legacy is being preserved and honored in that sweet, almost 3 year old.

Happy Heavenly Birthday, Mama. We sure do miss you.

I will lift up my eyes to the mountains; From where shall my help come? My help comes from the LORD, Who made heaven and earth. He will not allow your foot to slip; He who keeps you will not slumber. Behold, He who keeps Israel Will neither slumber nor sleep. The LORD is your keeper; The LORD is your shade on your right hand. The sun will not smite you by day, Nor the moon by night. The LORD will protect you from all evil; He will keep your soul. The LORD will guard your going out and your coming in From this time forth and forever. (Psalms 121:1-8 NASB)

Thanks for the verse, mama. Even in heaven, you have been an encouragement to me and so many others.

3.9.18

Audrey’s birthday is coming up and that brings with it lots of emotions. As her mama I can hardly believe that she’s made another trip around the sun yet it feels like she’s ways been a part of our lives and how can she really only be 3? It’s hard to think about her birthday without missing her brother. It’s just normal heart stuff. This grief has taught me that it’s never just sadness and sorrow or just joy, it’s almost always many layers of both. Deep and complicated. But there is one thing that has remained consistent and I know it’s a very specific gift from God: Audrey Nole’s joy and zeal for life. It’s hard to think of her without placing joy somewhere in the description. For such a tiny person, she has been the source of joy for so many people.

When my mama died, it was only 2 weeks before my due date with Audrey Nole. Our family was broken and then we welcomed Audrey Nole. She didn’t fix us. She didn’t make my mama’s death ok or right - only God is capable of that - but what she did was bring an immense amount of joy to each of the people that was grieving my mama’s life. She carries an immense burden that she doesn’t even know is hers and she’s been given abundantly more strength than she needs in order to carry it. Her God, who breathed air into her lungs, built something special in her because he knew what was coming in her life. He knew how many grown ups were going to be reliant on her reminders of His goodness. We didn’t know when we picked her name, but it means noble strength, unconquered. It couldn’t be more fitting. She is strong and courageous and oh so joyful. Another way that God has spoken His presence into our lives.

When her brother died, she was too young to really know what was going on. She was in and out of that NICU room and was probably more interested in the coloring book and stuffed animal the NICU staff had given her. But each day that passes, I see more of her grief. Except instead of looking and feeling an awful lot like sadness or depression, it looks like love and joy and curiosity. It works itself out in hypotheticals and so often has forced me to lean into dreams about the future that I would have never entertained on my own. She held my neck as I cried and told me it was ok. She rubbed my back and asked me why I was sad. We have talked about her brother in laughter and through tears. We have dreamt about (and even named) her future siblings. When I say there is something special about her, I mean it. And what I mean, is that God made her strong and joyful with an intent purpose. He knew and He made her well. He gave her to us and it was perfect and intentional. We need her and we love her. And her brother would’ve adored her. And that’s hard, but it’s sweet and wonderful too.

3.6.18

We did our taxes this morning. I’m not sure that’s ever been anything to be excited about. But this year, this morning, it was a bit of a pinch. Not a full on smack across the face, but a nasty pinch that reminds you you’re not immune to even the subtlest of feelings.  As Adam sat with his computer and opened the tax software he asked me to gather all the various tax materials I’ve been collecting and not to forget to find George Mason’s social. Dead in my tracks.

We have a red file with all of the various papers we have regarding George. The death certificate, the deed to his cemetery plot, social security card. I went straight to our file and rifled through the papers, handed him the card, and went on with making breakfast.

I don’t have his social saved in my phone along with the other important numbers and things. It’s not something I’ve ever had to use but it’s there with all of George’s things. Everything that pertained to his birth, life and death fits into a red folder; easily identified so as not to mistake it for something else... But this morning, as Adam wrapped up the e file process and handed me back the card, he said something that just made my heart sink. That this was probably the last time we’ll ever have to use that number.  Tears welled up over my pan of popping bacon.

It’s so hard to process those moments when it’s tangibly evident that his life was so short. I can still feel his little heart beating against my chest. How could it really be over a year now? I guess this is part of that whole second year is harder stuff. The good news though, is that I have a years worth of journaling, a years worth of God’s proof to me that He is sustaining us. That He isn’t deserting us. That He is very real, very present, and very, very loving. On rough days or unexpected hard or weird days, I can run to scripture because it has been tattooed on my heart over my life. I can find comfort in new passages and old, favorite pages. George Mason only lived for 16 hours and a year later we may have come across the last instance where his life requires reporting, but his life will always be impactful and important. His life forever changed ours and will always be part of our story. His life will shape our future because it changed us. We, Adam and I, aren’t the same people we were before we knew George Mason. Thankfully, God is. And no matter what we face or how our life surprises us, it doesn’t surprise God, for he named every breath and wrote every moment; even before there was time.

“Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groaning too deep for words. And he who searches hearts knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God. And we know that for those who love God all things work together for the good, for those who are called according to his purpose.” - Romans 8:26-28

A year ago, today, I wrote those words in my journal because I was struggling with the second half. I didn’t understand, nor did I want to believe, that God was going to work all things together for good. Now, a year removed from that day and the need for those words, they still hold truth. I’m not as entangled in the wrestling match that so often is my faith, but often I don’t have words. I feel the weakness of my body and just cry to my savior. So to know that God intercedes in our behalf even in our prayers, is a HUGE comfort and source of healing. Today, I’m thankful for the deep embrace of familiar scripture. 

2.28.18

We’ve made it through the first year. We survived each day of the calendar without our son. All of the holidays, birthdays, special moments. We missed him for the first time of each of those days/milestones. And now it’s year two. The milestones have mostly been experienced. It will be longer spans between times that should have been firsts. First day of preschool. First day of kindergarten. First day of middle school. First day of college. Those are all things that will be so very hard but they aren’t eminent. They aren’t staring me in the face today, in this moment. Instead, they are lingering off in the future, something to look forward to or to dread. For now, the days seem normal. Except they are anything but normal.

I sort of expected that once we got through the first year, that things would get easier. Everything I’ve read about grief says that you get through this but not over it. I wasn’t expecting the grief or the pain or sadness to disappear, I just sort of figured there wouldn’t be any more surprises. Except it seems that there are more surprises now than there were before. I knew I would be sad on the first Easter without him, or on Christmas, or thanksgiving, etc. I expected to be sad when the baby milestones came across my memory as I examined the calendar. When he should’ve started solids. When he might have started crawling. When he could’ve taken his first steps. Those ere all things I expected to mourn. But then his birthday came and passed and suddenly things began to sneak up on me. Bedtime stories with Audrey. Making a snowman as a family. Cleaning the car out and vacuuming out the car seat. (Honestly, that felt so silly and ridiculous and it’s exactly the kind of surprises I can’t even prepare myself for) Sitting in the pew at church on Sunday is even a trigger. Seeing all these babies and their siblings. It’s wonderful and terrible all at the same time.

I had heard that year two is harder than year one, but I never really let myself believe it. Those weeks and months after his death were awful. I was raw. I was heartbroken. I was wrestling with God. I didn’t think anything could be harder than that. But as the time goes by and my son would’ve been older, more mobile, more interactive, his absence becomes even more obvious. It hurts even more to know he’s not here. That my toddler is missing playtime with his big sister and dinner time with his family. That my sweet hubby is missing his guy time with the most adorable little boy I’ve ever seen (I’m bias I know). I’m starting to realize that this second year without him is going to be hard in its own right. Hard for so many reasons. Hard because it will be full of unknowns that I won’t want to face but won’t know I’ve faced until it’s here. Hard because I have to continue to give up control and trust in the God who has sustained me through the first year and won’t leave me for the next. Hard because not having my son here sucks.

2.25.18

I’ve been all teary the last few days. Everything lately just triggers sadness. Sadness over the very real absence of a walking little one year old. Sadness over missing his first steps and words. Sadness over the lost relationship with Audrey. (That one really gets me. It’s bad enough that Adam and I have to grieve his loss, but Audrey lost her brother. She lost her playmate. The person she would be closest too in life for most of her life.) Maybe it’s because there are kids everywhere I look, but there’s something so special about siblings. We were so excited to give Audrey her first sibling. Once I came out of the daily nausea, I couldn’t wait to talk with her about the new baby that was going to come life with us; except he didn’t come live with us. And no matter how much life moves on, no matter how normal things seem, or look, or even feel, there’s a huge piece of our family missing and it’s obvious in everything.

I haven’t been feeling well lately. At first I just assumed it was the the grief. Then it was the lack of sleep just catching up with me. Then I realized maybe it wasn’t just grief. So I scheduled a physical. But as I listed off the various odd “symptoms” that have been contributing to my overall feeling of crummy, the doctor just graciously listened and then told me that almost everything was likely linked to grief. That the events of the last few years have been hard and big. And my heart just sank. Because no matter where I go, this grief follows. I’m in a good place. God has been gracious and I’m surrounded by community that has loved on me well. I’m sad, I miss George Mason, but I’m in a good place. I would have never thought that all the things that have had me feeling off lately were linked to this work of grief. But then a dear friend reminded me that while my heart (and head) is resting peacefully in the embrace of my Heavenly Father, perhaps my body is trying to tell me it just hasn’t recovered from everything. That maybe its important not just to work on the grief of my heart, but also of the rest of my self.

“So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God.” -1 Corinthians 10:31

It’s convicting, those words: do all to the glory of God. He doesn’t say “do all the easy things to God’s glory” or “when you like it, glorify God”.  No, it says in everything. Everything. Even in grief. Particularly in grief. Especially in grief.

2.21.18

Billy Graham died today. 99 years of service. A life well lived.

It seems like death is all around us lately; school shootings, loss of kingdom warriors like Billy Graham, failing bodies. We can’t escape death. It’s part of this cursed world. And it sucks. Except that it doesn’t have to. God loves us. Amazingly well to boot. He died on that cross so that instead of mourning everlasting, we could rejoice in hope. He gave us truth. Things we can know, without question. One of those truths is that our death, the death of our bodies, isn’t the end. That if we have loved him, served him, accepted that we are broken and need him, we aren’t burdened with fear in death. Because as our bodies lie in the ground, our souls take their place in the most amazing place imaginable: the place where we are made new and dwell with God.

“Someday you will read or hear that Billy Graham is dead. Don't you believe a word of it. I shall be more alive than I am now. I will just have changed my address. I will have gone into the presence of God.” - Billy Graham

I hope that when faced with my own mortality, I can be as strong in my faith as Rev. Graham. He understood that our time on earth is temporary. He knew that heaven was better than anything else. But he also lived on this earth with a fire for the Lord and a passion for sharing His love with everyone he came into contact with. The anniversary of my mama’s passing is coming up. It seems the spring months are full of hard days for my heart. Her death seemed so awful. It was unexpected and she was too young. And then my son died after only 16 hours. My mama was 55. 16 hours seemed impossible to reconcile. I still struggle with his 16 hours. I wonder what kingdom work George Mason accomplished in 16 hours in a NICU bed. I hate that he’s not here with me and that I miss him. But never, not even in the worst moments, do I doubt his place with his Savior. For that, I am eternally grateful. I remind myself that his death hurts my heart. I remind myself that his death, any death for that matter, hurts God. But then I remind myself that even in death, Christ has won.

One of my journal entries from right after George Mason died included an excerpt from a John Piper sermon about infant death. I’m pretty sure I’ve written it down multiple times in the last year, but it’s so important for me to remember.  : "Gods designs for [George Mason] were decided before he was born. [16 hours] of that work were on the earth; the rest will be in heaven. None of us can even begin to estimate the magnitude of either. Who knows what has been set in motion on earth by the birth, and death, and life of [George Mason]. It would be wild and unwarranted folly to think he has not changed the world." Wild and unwarranted folly to think he has not changed the world... I don’t know if George Mason changed the world, but he certainly changed my world and I will never unknow him or take for granted his impact on my own life.

When I remember my mama’s life I always hope that I can honor her by continuing the legacy she left. I don’t have a lot of stories or memories of George Mason that can understudy in his absence, but I can honor his life by continuing his legacy and I can create memories with his family because of his story. He was a fighter. He had a fierce desire to meet his parents and his sister. Those are things that can only come from his identity as God’s child. So I will continue to share the impact he left on my life. I will take solace in the fact that his death, while it broke my heart, wasn’t terrible or scary. I know that my mama heard the words “well done my good and faithful servant” and I know that even though his work for God’s kingdom was complete in a short 16 hours, George Mason also heard those coveted words.

Audrey told me today that her brother died and that she was sad he didn’t come home to live with us. My only response to that is “me too, kiddo. Me too. But heaven is pretty awesome, and we’ll meet him there one day”

2.14.18

A year ago, I wrote a letter to Audrey Nole. A letter that I will give to her when she’s older. A letter that helped me process the events of the day just 4 days prior. A letter that I didn’t even really remember writing, but that I’m so glad I wrote. I read it today. Facebook is good at reminding me of things like that. I can’t believe how true all of the words are today. The timeline is different. The grief is the same and also different. But the truths, those are the same. They are worthy of reading again and are a wonderful reminder to my own self of the joy that one can expect and experience when doing life as God’s child. I thought I wrote these words for Audrey... but as George Mason’s Day gets further away, I think maybe these words were really meant for me.

2.14.17

Audrey Nole,

Today is Valentine's Day and even though it seems like any other normal day to you, your daddy and I want you to know just how much we love you. The past 9 months have been full of sadness, anxiety, and many other emotions that I know you don't fully comprehend. We were so excited to bring home a sibling for you and watch you grow into your role as big sister. We couldn't wait to see your face the first time you got to meet your new baby and snuggle them with the delight that only a toddler can express. When we learned in October that this new baby was going to be a brother, we were even more excited; you were going to have another football buddy, wrestling partner, and if we're honest, someone to boss around like the champion boss lady you were born to be.

Things haven't gone as anyone planned or as anyone would have hoped. Your brother was very sick and his body was struggling to grow and develop the way it was supposed to. He fought really hard to grow big enough to meet you and I'm so thankful that he was finally able to feel the gentle touch of his big sister. You showed so much love in those few moments with him. The innocent way in which you called him George Mason and the sweet curiosity you showed as you examined his tiny hands and feet were so special and I hope you will one day know just how much that meant to your daddy and me.

I know you probably won't remember much of this latest season of our lives. There will be pictures and stories, but it's not the same as remembering. Here are the things I want you to know, with absolute truth: You are so very special to us and we love you with all of our hearts. You have been such a joy in our lives and especially as we navigate these very confusing times. Your brother loved you very much. You have already shown that you are a wonderful big sister and even though your brother is with Jesus and not home with us, you will always be his big sister.  Even though Mama and Daddy are sad right now, we are so thankful for our little family and the big part you play in it.

Know that we love you and that all these things you are feeling are difficult even for the grown ups. We will continue to snuggle with you, have dance parties in the kitchen, read a million books, have adventures at the zoo, and cherish your precious light in the midst of this broken world. Mama and Daddy are clinging to Jesus right now and I hope one day you will understand exactly why and just how much Jesus loves you too.

All our love & Happy Valentine's Day,

Mama & Daddy

Happy Birthday, George Mason

It was snowing when I woke up this morning. A fitting way to start this day. Snow is silent and messy but often so beautiful. It’s really a good picture of my emotions on this day. I hate snow. And often I hate the emotions that have come with this grief journey. But when I look back, each of the emotions that have filled this last year has been beautiful in its own right as I navigate this season and this identity.

On Audrey’s birthdays I’ve written her a letter. I don’t know if she will look back with fondness as she reads the various letters saved for her after each birthday, but they are a way for me to somewhat eloquently put in writing the growth she experienced over the last year. Often I feel that way about these journal entries. That whether or not I look back on these thoughts and ramblings with fondness, I will know that his season of my life is documented. For better or worse, these memories and feelings are in writing for me to have access to when this season fades away. It feels important today to write George Mason his letter.

George Mason,

Today is your birthday and I can hardly believe a year has come and gone since you introduced yourself to us. Your daddy and I were smitten from the moment we heard your first cry. We didn’t know how little time we would have to spend with you, but even in the short 16 hours that you were ours on earth, you were (and will always be) the perfect addition to our family. Your big sister just loves to look at pictures of you and watch the videos of you meeting each other. Those are hard things for us, for me, but they are worth every tear and tug at my heart. You are worth it.

You’re in heaven now and if I’m being honest, I’m a little jealous. But even in my jealousy, I’m so beyond grateful for your place there. I hope that it’s even better than the pictures we have of it. I hope that every moment with Jesus is just beyond incredible and I’m so thankful that even though your family misses you terribly, you’re not experiencing any of the brokenness of this world. There is no pain or sorrow in heaven and that is the best gift that God has ever given me; knowing that and knowing you are there with Him.

I often walk myself through your day. I recall all the details of your time on earth. I can’t snuggle you like I do your sister, but there’s not a moment that goes by that I don’t remember what it felt like to hold you. I piece together all of your precious little features and feel the soft way your tiny body fit just perfectly into my embrace. I remember the way your daddy looked at you and the pride he had over the boy that made him daddy to a son. I will never forget that. You looked so adorable in his baseball cap.

My dear son, there is so much about your story that has been told and shared. You were a miracle. Your life was a miracle. We will never forget that and we will always share it. Boldly, loudly, unashamedly, your life is a story that has shaped ours and countless others. Your work for God’s kingdom was fast and furious and goodness I’m so grateful. We miss you passionately and your absence in our lives is obvious and deep, but you are a child of God, and that is something that we can cling to whenever we feel sad.

George Mason, we love you and we cannot wait until we meet you again.

Love,

Mama & Daddy

2.9.18

It was almost this time exactly, one year ago, as we drove to the hospital, that I knew our son was going to be with Jesus much sooner than anyone had hoped. I remember that day. Trying everything to stop the contractions. Telling myself that if I just could relax enough, he would stay put. I lied in bed for most of the afternoon. Adam came home from work early. I took a bath. Then a shower. I didn’t want to meet him yet. Why wasn’t he waiting until the 13th???

Around 6:30, after getting Audrey in bed, I called my dad and told him we needed to go to the hospital. And then I sat in silent disbelief as Adam hurriedly packed a bag. I cried the whole way to the hospital. Every time a nurse walked into our triage room, I cried some more. Every now and then I would laugh nervously as the medical staff tried to assure me that everything was going to be ok, despite the meticulous plans we had in place for the scheduled c section that was supposed to take place just 3 days later.

I never wanted to admit to myself that our son wasn’t coming home. I had to have hope for his life or my pregnancy would have been miserable. So I had hope. But on that dark drive to the hospital, my hope turned to despair; or at least a huge amount of worry and fear. As I sit here tonight, one year removed from that car ride and walk into OB Emergency, it feels almost exactly the same. Hope is being shadowed by worry and fear. Worry and fear over what tomorrow will bring. Facing our son’s first birthday without him is impossible to prepare for. Our hearts are broken from his loss but they are equally as joyful over his place in heaven. It’s a weird place we find ourselves in. God is good. We know that. But this death challenges us. It has and continues to shape our faith and our relationship with the good God we serve. I have to keep reminding myself that all of the worry and fear about tomorrow, (just like a year ago) is countered by the enormous amount of hope and joy we get from our Father.

It is my prayer that tonight I can sleep. That unlike a year ago, instead of being awake in worry and fear, that I would rest. Rest not just as a human who needs sleep, but really rest in the Father who has sustained me through all of this. That instead of fearing what tomorrow brings, I can anticipate the abundant joy that comes from being a child of God, and knowing that my son is singing Holy, Holy, Holy with the angels.