I’ve spent the last year working out. Really in more ways than one. I started using the My Fitness Pal app and a FitBit, and tracking what I was eating and how much I was working out each day. It actually became fun. I enjoy getting up and working out. Mainly because I’m not doing just a more series of sit-ups and squats, but instead I found Refit. It’s basically Zumba, but they incorporate positive music (Christian a lot of times) and they are just super encouraging. So instead of a boring workout routine, I just basically dance for 30-60 minutes everyday depending on how crazy my day is. Madeline usually even joins in. It’s been fun and honestly I’m wearing a size I haven’t worn in years and I feel so much healthier.
Last night while Madeline and I were doing our dancing. We started the routine to Mandisa’s Unfinished.
Not scared to say it, I used to be the one
Preaching it to you, that you could overcome
I still believe it, but it ain’t easy
‘Cause that world I painted, where things just all work out
It started changing and I started having doubts
And it got me so down
But I picked myself back up
And I started telling me
No, my God’s not done
Making me a masterpiece
He’s still working on me
As I stood there following the choreography on the screen, my daughter by my side, tears started to form in my eyes. These last few years have been hard. Very hard for me. I’ve always been the one who has believed, who has had faith and trust that God will just take care of things, and then when things fell apart, when we lost Joshua, when Patrick was laid off while we were pregnant with Madeline, when I was laid off the following year… year after year…blow after blow. I started to wonder each time where was He? Where was the God that I believed in since I was a little girl? The one that I prayed to and trusted and had faith would make all things good?
I don’t deny the blessings I’ve received. I have a beautiful and amazing daughter and a supportive and wonderful husband. We have a lovely home and we both (now) have jobs that we truly enjoy and where we feel respected. That said, you lose a child and it’s hard not to question everything you’ve ever believed in. Every bit of faith you’ve ever had goes out the window and no matter how firm you thought your foundation once was, it cracks.
So those words… I understood them.
They resonated somewhere deep within my heart and the tears came as I continued move to the rhythm of the song.
See I’ve been working out lately, but not just my physical self. I’ve been working out my emotions and my feelings towards my spiritual self. I’m not quite sure I have it figured out yet. I still believe. I do. My faith and my belief has just taken a much different shape than what it once was.
I have struggled because church and me don’t really get along anymore. Where my faith shakes out and what I often hear preached from a pulpit don’t mesh, so I don’t go. I can’t listen to a lot of what I hear preached without rolling my eyes, because when I’m told just to pray more and that will make everything work out. Or that if I just have enough faith, or if we are good enough Christians then good things will happen… it’s hard to reconcile those kinds of false and ridiculous statements against your newborn child dying in your arms while you cried out to God for a miracle. So forgive me if I don’t believe if I just pray harder good things will happen. I’ve never prayed harder than I did that February morning and I’ve never felt as abandoned as I did that February morning, so…
See me and God still have some things to work out 4+ years later.
But that’s okay. It’s just unfinished business.
For more of my thoughts on faith visit: Struggle of Faith.
“I have always considered myself a Christian.
I was raised in Sunday School. We went to church on Wednesday nights and said our prayers before bed each night. I thought I knew exactly who I was and what I believed, and then I watched my tiny first born son take his last breath in my arms.
Everything I thing I thought I knew changed.
I suddenly had questions that no one could answer. The basic Christian sentiments that my friends and family were saying all felt like stabbing knives into my already bleeding heart.” Continued at Still Standing Magazine
Mother’s Day is hard. Even with my sweet, little, beautiful Madeline, it is STILL hard. I look at her and I know that I am blessed.
I know that I am lucky because there are so many that are still longing with aching hearts and empty arms to hear the words “momma, I love you” and for that I know that I am blessed. And even still my heart aches and my soul longs to hear those words come from another little voice too.
My arms, no matter how full of hugs from my sweet girl, will always still ache at the inability to hold her big brother. I feel the weight of her body as she cuddles in each night still wanting to be held before falling asleep (don’t say she is spoiled – you can’t possibly understand the reasons we do what we do) and I feel the weight of so much more than just her tiny 26 pounds. I feel joy and grief dancing their every present tango inside my heart.
I miss him.
Often it is that simple and that complicated all at once. I just miss him. I long to be with him as much as I am with her and that is simply an impossibility this side of Heaven.
These holidays are such aching reminders of what was, what is, and what could have been. They bring up wounds that never heal. They make me cry tears that never really dry. They leave my heart feeling vulnerable and wounded.
I know I am not the only one. That makes me sad too. As much as my heart aches for my Joshua, my heart aches for your child too.
My heart aches for the ones that are still tearfully and prayerfully waiting for a positive result on a test that you take month after month just hoping that the odds will be in your favor this time. My heart aches for those who have seen those tests turn positive only to have your heart break weeks or months later. My heart aches for the ones who have watched the ultrasound machine anxiously as the doctor searched for a sign of hope. My heart aches for those who, like us, have held your tiny child in your arms as they took their final breath. My heart aches for those of you who have had to say goodbye at any point, at any age, for we all know that 15 minutes, 36 hours, 15 years, 36 years, none of it is enough time with our children. My heart aches for the moms (and dads) I know that right now are watching their little ones fight battles that are far bigger than they should have to fight. This motherhood gig is not for the faint of heart.
So today while my heart somehow feels both full and broken, I am still grateful. Grateful to the little boy who made me a mother. I miss you more than words could ever express and I love you to Heaven and back. And to the little girl who made me a momma, I love you. Thank you for helping to heal your broken momma’s heart.
I’m struggling to get out of bed today. This is the day I spend 364 days a year dreading. I would much rather stay in bed and skip over this day. The memories that too easily come and play on repeat. There are some images that a mother and father just shouldn’t have in their heads. Today is a day that is impossible to turn them off. The nightmare that never ends. I miss him. We miss him. It hurts. Today more than ever… 2/20/2013 – 2/22/2013 – 36 hours was not enough.
And then there is this…
Madeline really does know how to fill our broken hearts with joy. Four years ago I watched my husband hold our son and my heart broke as it was for the first and last time all at once. Every time I watch him with our daughter I am overwhelmed with love for him, for her, and just for the opportunity to watch them together. I love how they love each other.
Four. Today you should be turning 4. There should be balloons and cake and presents and a trip to one of your favorite places. I wonder what that would be… There should be lots of giggles and hugs and sweet birthday wishes for our getting so big too fast birthday boy. Instead I’m here, just missing you like every other day. Wishing I could give you the biggest birthday hug and tell you how much I love you and that no matter how big you are getting you will always be my baby while I cover your sweet face in kisses that I’m sure you would do your best to wiggle away from. Someday, just know we will have a lifetime of hugs and kisses to makeup. I love you, my sweet boy. I miss you. Happy 4th Birthday!
I haven’t written in awhile. Madeline keeps us busy most days.
Sunday marked one month until the 4 year anniversary of the loss of our son, Joshua Patrick at 36 hours old. We had so many dreams for him. Many of which revolved around baseball and our favorite team, the Kansas City Royals.
We had planned a baseball themed nursery. We had bought Royals onesies and already talked excitedly about taking him to Royals games and signing him up for tee ball someday. This year he would be old enough to play.
So Sunday morning while getting ready for the day, Patrick’s phone buzzed with a sports update. I quickly realized that this was more than just the normal injury report or score update. The look on his face and the exclamation out of his mouth told me that something was wrong…very wrong. He turned the phone around to show me. I read the news, Kansas City Royals pitcher, Yordano Ventura had been killed in an automobile accident. I could feel the tears start to form in my eyes. My heart hurt. For his family. For his friend. For his teammates. For our City who cheered him on and cared so deeply for our boys in Royal blue.
As the day passed on I would see updates from other players and fans and my heart continued to break. Once again my mind asks questions that I just can’t find answers to.
The weight of February approaching feels almost unbearable. The ache and grief that come with the days ahead have already begun to feel heavy upon my heart. Memories of four years ago fill my mind along with all of the wondering of what should be now.
It may seem crazy, but hearing the news of loss of the Royals player on Sunday, exactly one month away from the date of the anniversary of Joshua’s loss, seems to have triggered something for me. I don’t know if it’s just that I’m sad that a player for a team that we love to watch is now gone at the too young age of 25. Reading the stories of the man he was off the field. Thinking about his loved ones, his child…his mom. 25 years old with such a huge talent and an even bigger heart from everything I read…and now just gone. I never can understand these things. A mother should not have to bury her child no matter the age. It’s not the way life is supposed to work. For that matter a young child should not have to say goodbye to their 25 year old dad either. It’s just not okay.
Maybe it’s that I’m just sad that we never got to take Josh to a Royals game like we had dreamed of doing so many times. We never even got to decorate his nursery in the Royals baseball theme like we had planned. Maybe it’s that I realized that this year Josh would be old enough to sign up for tee ball and maybe start really understanding the game being played at the K. I can almost picture him running around in a little Royals jersey practicing his baseball while his little sister practices dancing around the yard. That was the family we were supposed to have. Those were the dreams we had. Those are the dreams that hurt now.
It was innocent enough.
A dad was talking about how much of a pain it is to have to take his kids’ coats off in order to get them in their carseats. He made a joke about it being okay if one of them froze to death since he’s got two others…
An elderly man talks about all the hoops he has to go through to get his passport renewed. He has to show his driver’s license, birth certificate, old passport, etc. He jokes that he has to give them blood and his firstborn son too…
People say things without thinking. I know this. Logically my brain understands that these people don’t know that I did have to give my firstborn son back. That I do live everyday without one of my children. They don’t get that these things aren’t funny. That these type of jokes aren’t things to joke about. My brain knows that people don’t say these words with any ill intentions, but my heart wants to shake them and tell them that their words hurt.
The truth is we all say things from time to time that can probably be misconstrued by someone. Sometimes it’s the simplest things, the things that seem innocent enough, that can sting a wounded heart.
So, this is my reminder to myself as much as it is to you, be gentle with your words. You never know what battle wounds someone may be hiding.
I’ve thought about taking a break. A break from Facebook and Instagram. A break from seeing the photos of your adorable children playing together…brother and sister. A break from the reality that we should be posting our own photos in between reminding our almost 2 year old and almost 3 year old to share on a daily basis. A break from the heart ache of knowing that instead I have to point at photos to teach Madeline about her big brother.
But the truth is that I can’t take a break from this reality. I can’t turn off the realization that February is here, and I should be getting ready for Joshua’s third birthday party, but instead I’m trying to figure out how we get through another birthday without him.
I keep thinking that at some point this will get easier. Honestly, in some ways and on some days it does feel easier, well, maybe not easier rather lighter at least. The weight of the grief three years out feels like something I can easily carry most days. Like putting on an old backpack. It’s there. I feel it, but I can still move through my day mostly unhindered by the weight of it. Then there’s those other days. Those days that bag feels like it is loaded down like my college back pack always was. Pulling me down. Slowing me down. Weighing me down. February is the two ton of bricks loaded on top of the already too heavy books.
While my instinct is to hide away and shut everything off, I’m choosing to instead make an effort to use this blog more again. I’m going to grieve out loud with the hope that others who are going through a similar feeling of loss will know that it is okay to feel the pain and to speak it out loud.
[Print by: Franchesca Cox]
Tuesday night, after work, on my way to pick up Madeline from daycare, I found myself in tears. I’m sure I’ve mentioned before that I have to pass two cemeteries on my way home each day. The cemetery where my Joshua is buried and the cemetery where my Grandma Jones is buried (along with my Grandpa and cousin). Most days I have to really just focus on the road, staring straight ahead, and refusing to let my gaze linger over where I know they are. It takes a lot to not want to stop every day and just linger.
So on Tuesday, I let my eyes drift over to where I knew they were and the tears fell hard.
These days, I’m mostly good. I usually have a moment or two that nearly breaks me each day, but I am generally able to hold it together.
Then there are days like Tuesday. Days where the weight of the loss is just far too much to bear and the grief washes over me and I find myself torn between a state of shock that this is really a part of my life and just complete devastation that this is part of my life.
Grief is such a strange thing. It is constantly changing shape and form. Some days it is easy to push aside and other days it comes at me with hurricane force winds and knocks me down.
I changed the channel on the radio. Maybe a change of song would help hurry this grief storm along.
“I am not alone
I am not alone
You will go before me
You will never leave me
In the midst of deep sorrow
I see Your light is breaking through
The dark of night will not overtake me
I am pressing into You
Lord, You fight my every battle
And I will not fear”
I was nearly to Madeline’s daycare now. I really needed to pull myself together. I couldn’t very well go inside with tears running down my face.
That’s when I saw it.
A bright red cardinal.
Right there in the middle of the street.
It’s been awhile since I’ve talked about signs from Joshua, but Tuesday, that cardinal, that was him. I just know it.
I’m barely hanging on.
I know this. It’s been like this for months. The weather got cold and suddenly it felt like February 22nd all over again. I feel like I’m stuck in my own awful version of Groundhog Day. Reliving those moments over and over again every time I’m alone for a minute.
I cry in the shower. I sob in the car. I just can’t shut my mind off no matter how hard I try to refocus.
I am so thankful for our beautiful daughter, but that doesn’t change the fact that I miss our son with every breath I take.
I’m sure its the rapidly approaching winter and the holidays that it brings with it that have worn me down.
Thanksgiving 2 years ago was the day we announced that we were having a boy. This Christmas has me acutely aware of what we are missing.