Thoughts on life, death, suffering & hope (while holding a newborn baby)

 

It hit me hard.

Like a punch in the brain and the heart at the same time. 

My newborn son is going to have a last day on the earth. This 5-pound treasure who has taken over our lives with sweet awe, deep thankfulness, & a fresh perspective of life - he will die. 

My husband looked up to find me sobbing. This isn’t unusual, as declines of progesterone and estrogen and surges of oxytocin and New Mom Love have all been working together to create a crazy tornado of feelings which have been busting out of me for the past two weeks. 

But this cry was deeper than the others.

Through heavy weeping gasps, 

“Boone is going to die some day.”

Husband moved across the couch and held my head against his chest. I stayed there, crying all over his t-shirt, tears for my son’s death. Then my thoughts turned to all the suffering this beautiful innocent baby will face through his life…the heartache, sick days, dark moments. And I’m helpless. I can’t keep his pain away. I can’t fix the hurt that will find him. This incredible tiny human is going to suffer. 

Husband’s shirt is getting soaked. 

“But that’s not the end of his story. You can’t forget resurrection.” Husband shines the words down on me like a spotlight. Oh yeah. Resurrection.

Husband continues preaching the Gospel to my roller coaster new mom heart. Boone will die. But that’s not his end. Only his beginning. 

A family down the road just lost their mom to cancer. A friend from high school is fighting for his life against tumors that have invaded his brain. While I’m holding my baby, other moms are grieving theirs. Every baby post I make on social media causes some women to think about their own baby-less arms as they continue trying to conceive. 

Life is tragic, for everyone. There is no way to avoid the brutally hard days. Not for me, not for you, not for Boone. 

While husband holds me on the couch, true Heaven words continuing to flow out of his mouth all over me, I look down at the open Bible laying on the couch. My eyes land on the two words I need. The two words Boone needs. The two words all of us heartbroken mourners need. 

“Jesus wept.”

The shortest verse in the Book, God only needs two words to lather our broken hearts with hope. 

Jesus entered our tragedy. 

And He’s still here.

God became a man to join us in our pain. He finds us here, falling apart in our living rooms, and He joins us in our weeping. Like a gentle husband who holds us on the couch. 

Jesus wept. 

Not because He was hopeless.

Not because He forgot about Heaven for a second. 

Not because He stopped believing in miracles. 

But because pain is real and that good King feels it with us. 

He sees Boone’s hard days, his doubts, his hurts; He has chosen to enter it all. He will be with him, weeping alongside my son. 

And when Boone’s days on earth are done, that same Good Weeping King will escort my son into eternal life. Where only love lives. Where family continues. Where death is no more. Where his twin and his Poppa Randy & his Grandma Nita will be thrilled to squeeze him. Resurrection. 

Hope. Hope. Hope. 

“Before you fall back asleep, you should come see this sunrise.” 

It was the next morning. I staggered out of bed again, after a night of little sleep and much baby feeding, and followed husband east through our house. 

We stood in the nursery and stared out the window at the hot pink sky, bright orange sunlight splattered across it. We held each other and my thoughts again filled with hope. Resurrection. Sunrise after night. Hope after heartache. Joy after mourning. Peace after storm. Life after death.

Grieving your Baby, Dad, and Grandma: hard days and hope

There were twins in my belly. 

But now there’s just one.

 

“I’m pregnant. And there’s not just one, there are 2.” 

At which point I’d raise two fingers in the air. Like a peace sign. Like a victory wave. Two babies. It was the most exciting sentence to ever come out of my mouth and every time I announced it, thrill filled my heart. 

Our trailer was going to be crammed full of life and I was ready for it. Two sets of all the clothes, two sets of all the blankets, two cribs, two kindergarten backpacks, two two two. 

When that little baby moved to Heaven, only one heart beating on the big ultrasound screen, declaring my two was now one, I grabbed my husband’s hand, stared at that big screen in heartbroken terror. I could see both babies. 

One big with heart beating. 

One small with only stillness. 

I miss my Daddy. And my Grandma. And being pregnant with twins. 

Dad was always there. 

Even when I flew across the world, he was at every airport drop off, every airport pick up, counted down the days until he saw me again. At home, every morning he was there, making coffee and giving me his genuine interest in my day. Every evening, telling stories and playing with grandkids and loving us. Every day, throughout the day, calling each of his daughters, just to chat. 

He was always there. 

Now he’s not. 

Grandma was my constant rock who lived two miles west of town. She didn’t waver. Her love was constant, steady, full of the best food ever made, birthday cards, Christmas presents, fresh flowers, phone calls, stories, life lessons, hope. 

But she’s not there now either. 

Those three family members who’ve died in the last seven months; I miss them awful. Sometimes the hole where they were seems so huge, I’m sure I’ll fall into it. 

God’s never once admonished me to hurry up and get over it. He doesn’t say words like, “Stop crying.” He makes space for grieving. Big broad space. And He stays with me here. In the pain. There’s fellowship with Him in the suffering. 

He’s with us in our pits. 

Looking at photos of 7 months ago, I look older now. Not 7 months older, but years older. These months have aged me. 

When you lose people who were big foundation stones of your life, and then you lose a little baby; what are the next months supposed to look like? I don’t have a formula. 

But I keep painting sunrises. 

My husband’s been going to work with the admonition; 

“Stay here. Do whatever you want.”

And the sun keeps rising.

As I sob for baby, Dad, and Grandma, heart broken in pieces all over the living room floor, God manages to wedge hope in. 

God’s always wedging hope in. 

I started painting again on Dad’s birthday. Grieving him and celebrating him and sobbing for him, I picked up a paintbrush and was soon face-to-face with a sunrise. 

Now husband keeps coming from work to find me perched in front of a canvas; “Another sunrise?” Yeah. Because I don’t want to paint anything else. I think I’m currently working on sunrise number nine. It’s messy and bright and dark and lighting up a nighttime woods. 

An authentic love relationship that’s made of our honest hearts staring at each other—it’s what God wants. So here we sit. 

There's this strange tight tension between celebration and mourning and I don't know how to live in it but God's with me so we're getting through. This new depth of grief I'm trying not to drown in, with its lack of everyday phone calls from the man who raised me and the missing excitement he and the lady two miles west of town would be sharing with me about this pregnancy and that I'm no longer pregnant with twins, all mixed in with this new marriage with the man of my dreams and this new son growing in my womb and today I felt him move for the first time. 

Life gets hard for all of us. It’s inevitable. But but but God is good. And with us. We can trust Him. 

I trust Him that He’s taking care of my baby, Dad, and Grandma. Trust Him that the end is going to be good. Trust Him that the sun is going to keep rising. Trust Him that together wins. 

Democrats, Republicans, And Loving Our Neighbors

I've got one friend who lives near my new abode who's a liberal Democrat. One. So I have her over for coffee as often as possible so I can breathe deep the fresh air of diversity.  

 "LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOR" Jesus answered very clearly in response to the world's most essential question; "What's the most important part of life?" This profound answer was spoken second, right after the number 1 most important part of life: "LOVE GOD." 

So there they are, the two most important parts of life--love God, love people. 

Good news! Love is still God's top and only priority. 

For the first decade of my adult life, my days were full of Buddhist people in Thailand, women working in prostitution in Hong Kong, kids singing Telegu songs in India, and more recently, new friends on drugs, getting off drugs, or done with drugs in Kentucky. The point is, there was variety. 

Now I live in a single-wide trailer in a cornfield in southern Illinois, and as I look around at the people who now fill my daily life, I see right-wing Republicans. That's great, because Jesus has told me to love right-wing Republicans. But know who else Jesus has told me to love? Liberal Democrats. And pacifists and green partiers and Libertarians. And folks from other lands who don't know or care about America's politics. 

Humans vary in numerous ways; religion, history, bloodlines, age, personality, politics...

Maybe there's a way, but I haven't figured it out yet, how to love someone without sitting at a table with them, sharing a meal with them, and listening to them. It seems loving a person requires being with them, exchanging eye contact and perspectives. 

If you've been wondering how to love your neighbor, or who "neighbor" is supposed to be, I've got more good news. Jesus tells us that clearly, too. 

Jesus says my "neighbor" should be a person very different than me. In the story He told to hit this point home, He used a Samaritan and a Jew; two people with different cultures and world views who usually hated each other (it's in Luke 10:25-37 if you want to read it--I'd recommend every day). 

Jesus indicates if we surround ourselves with people who think like us, believe like us, vote like us, look like us, we're missing huge aspects of love. During His stay on the earth as a Jewish man, He was always hanging out with and teaching about Samaritans.

So in the story He tells of how we're supposed to love our neighbor, a Samaritan is the hero. The "Good Samaritan" who helps the Jewish man who was beat up and laying on the road--he didn't preach at him. Didn't tell him how wrong he was or try to correct him or start an argument about their different views. He just picked him up, put him on his own donkey and took him to a hotel, paid for his stay, and paid for his medical bills. 

At the end of the story, Jesus says, "So go love like that." 

My Dad has been in Heaven for 103 days. Our days continue to involve mourning him and celebrating him and as I'm asking God to teach me how to succeed at the 2nd most important part of life, He keeps using Dad to teach me. 

Dad was always putting his arms around people who spoke different languages than him, with different colored skin than his, with varied cultures and orientations and incomes--and then calling them family. 

Because Dad was a lot like God. 

If we take a survey of the individuals filling our days, what do we find those humans to be like? Quite similar to us? Are we actively be-friending anyone who believes, acts, looks, votes, talks differently than we do? 

Jesus, teach us how to love. 

"Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?" The expert in the law replied, "The one who had mercy on him." Jesus told him, "Go and do likewise." 

-Luke 10:25-37

Cheers to you, Dad

I introduced him to everybody because I wanted everybody to know him. Never once in my life did I wonder how Dad would treat someone I introduced him to.

Like his family. 

I always knew that's how he'd treat them. 

I watched Dad take men addicted to drugs out to eat and treat them like sons. I saw Dad show women working in prostitution the pure love of a father. I listened to him joke with Muslim men. Amongst people who live in trash in the Philippines, Dad scooped kids up in his arms and made them laugh. No matter who Dad was with, he was loving them.

He once summed up his life advice in two words; "Love much." 

There's an obvious lack of good dads in the world. So Dad did what he could to love as many people with good dad-love as possible. 

 A missionary Dad loved in Thailand writes, “He loved my family well, let my kids call him Grandpa Randy, sent gifts to my children, sat at our dinner table and told great stories. He was the perfect example of the love of God: humble, kind, gentle, and abounding in love...The loss of your dad is felt around the world.” 

A friend who spent a summer at our house in junior high remembers the clothes Dad bought her, the love she felt from him as he treated her as his own.  

A lady from Uganda who Dad helped move into a new home on a hot sweaty day; “Can't just forget that day. We were very tired but Dad was always making us not feel it. Jokes were his nature. RIP Dad."

He made people feel seen, important, loved. 

For the three of us lucky enough to be raised by him, we never once wondered if he loved us. He made it clear every day. 

A week before my wedding, Dad asked, “What if I don’t want to give you away?” He was joking, sort of, and after a discussion, he decided it was best if he let Dylan have me. 

When he walked me down the aisle, he escorted me with his left hand, while with his right, he held my hand that was tucked into his arm. 

That’s a good picture of how he made me feel all the time. 

Held. Protected. Safe. 

He took me scuba diving in the Philippines, on a father-daughter vacation to Mexico, he made multiple trips around the world to visit me in Hong Kong and India, and he stayed by my bed while I recovered from a brain injury in Thailand. 

The big adventures with Dad were gifts God gave me, but so were the normal everyday days.  

The handholding, the coffee dates, the pulling out my phone to jot down the clever funny thing that had just come out of his mouth so I could share it with my brother and sisters. The everyday is what I miss the most. 

Dad was an everyday wonder. In a simple but most wonderful way, he made every day better. Consistently, day after day, calling his daughters, taking his family to the movies, chasing his grandkids through the house while yelling in a deep very non-scary monster voice then tackling them in a tickle fit, the early morning notes scribbled on paper plates left for us on the kitchen counter saying things like this one I recently found, "I'm going to get my oil changed. Love love love you!", the sincere and constant interest he showed in us, the recent cute thing a grandkid had said that he'd replay in his mind on repeat, talking about it with all of us several times; I feel wonder at having been given such a Dad. 

Every year on his birthday, we’d read his birthday Psalm together. His last, birthday number 63, we read Psalm 63 while we drank coffee. 

His relationship with my mom.  

Like a comic book and fairytale mixed together in a real life romance. “Where’s mom?” and “What’s your mom doing?” are questions that came out his mouth about 65,000 times. “Look at that Jennie!” are four words he repeated for years, exclaimed every time he saw something that interested him (and everything interested him). 

He appreciated the stars. 

And American history. 

And architecture. 

And every word that came out of his grandkids’ mouths. 

He was so good at conversation. His word choices were creative and descriptive and entertaining. I often looked forward to what he’d say next. 

I drug branches to Dad’s backdoor from all over the earth and asked him to make earrings out of the wood. He always did. I then handed them out to friends all over the earth. 

He never met most of the people he made earrings for. Ladies in Uganda, Thailand, South Africa, China are wearing earrings made by Dad. One such earring receiver in LA, “It just seemed like he had no prejudices. Like he loved everyone.”

My kids won’t meet my Dad. 

That’s one of my saddest thoughts. 

He was thrilled that I’d moved back to my hometown a few months ago, 6 miles down the road from him. He talked about it often. And man, he was going to be real thrilled when I started having him some grandkids that he could hold every day. 

I'm discovering I'm no grief expert. "How are you doing?" gets answered by me muttering something about being sad and I'm usually crying by the time the sentence is over. So. I'm not sure how I'm doing. But I'm together with the rest of my crying family and we're loving each other and eating a lot of food. And I keep asking God to show us what Heaven's like. And to help us think about Heaven all the time. 

My Grandma Nita made it to Heaven last week, too. And she was also a rare and wonderful human being. I'm guessing she's hanging out with Dad and they're probably discussing how they somehow managed to enter Heaven within 27 hours of each other and asking God to help all our hearts recover. 

Forever. 

We're here for a forever rendezvous with our Maker. Dad's rendezvous has begun. So has my Grandma's. It's my best thought these grieving days, and the other non-grieving days; God wants forever with us. That's why we're alive. 

Thankful Dad did such a grand job living his life. 

Thankful he did such a grand job showing me, and many others, what God is like. 

I hope you have a very merry Christmas, think often and true thoughts about Heaven, remember that life is short, squeeze your family often, and know God became a Baby so we could be with Him forever. 

God is the hope that holds me and the Stronghold to shelter me.

-Psalm 91:2

p.s. here are a few quotes from the "Dad" section in my phone notes. 

“What are we doing today? Should I just wear this? So people can see me?” (as he posed in a neon shirt) 

“They say you can smell better when you’re pregnant. Couldn’t prove it with me. But that’s what they say.” 

“When I was in school, the Cold War was going on. So we had drills for a nuclear attack. Get under your desk. Like that’s gonna help."

“Minks will chew your face off. I ain’t kiddin' ya.”

“It’s tasty. Really tasty. They make this stuff to taste, to really taste." (at Wendy’s)

“It’s something I really look forward to” as he dipped his honey out into his coffee

"Thanks for calling and telling me things."