when Jesus tells you my story

 

When I open my eyes in the morning, there's this moment where my mind believes all is right. Then reality settles on me and I feel like I may suffocate. 

My belly is empty, my arms are empty, your bed is empty. You're still gone. 

Your brother fills our bed and hearts as best as he can in your absence, but there will always be a missing piece. For him, for your daddy, and for me. 

I know I have to get up, get dressed, and get through yet another day. I know I have a little boy who depends on me, my smile, my faith, and my love. I know your daddy needs his wife back. Her smile, her laugh, her confidence, and her sunshine.

So many days I just want to stay there in bed. Let the weight of my brokenness bear down with all its might, crush me into dust, so I can be with you. There have been times the Enemy sneaks his way into my thoughts and whispers things. Things that make my faith shudder. Things that my worldly self can't help but think but my faith knows aren't of God. The Enemy knows when to strike and he strikes at my weakest moments, in the early light of morning when the uncertainties of the day taunt me. 

"God cares? How can a loving God take your baby?"

"This isn't fair. People abort healthy babies every day, and God still allowed your child to die." 

"God can't be perfect, because this has to be an awful mistake." 

People tell me I'm strong. People have said I'm amazing. People have told me that I am inspiring. I wish those words helped, but they make me feel like a fraud. I am far from any of those things. If these people could see me in the mornings, if they could hear my early thoughts, they would know that I am so very weak. So overwhelmed. 

So broken. 

I have this image. You're a little boy, with strawberry-blonde hair, climbing into the lap of Jesus. You spend your days in Love and Light, but still you want to know about your earthly mommy. 

So Jesus tells you my story. 

And when I have moments where I feel like the weight of it all is going to suffocate me, when the Enemy sneaks his way into my thoughts, I choose Joy. Because I am going to live my life in such a way that you can both be proud of me when Jesus tells you the story of my life. 

I choose to be thankful for the short time we were blessed to have you, rather than bitter because our selfish hearts wanted more. 

I choose to be fearless and walk by Faith, rather than fearful of what else this world may hold. 

I choose Joy.

I choose Victory. 

I choose Grace. 

So when people see me, mother of two with only one child to hold, I pray they understand that it's not me that's strong. It's Christ in me that's strong. 

And when people see me, mommy with an 'inspiring' faith in the face of unimaginable heartache, I pray they would also have a faith in Jesus so strong that it could carry them through the difficult parts of their own stories. 

And when people see me, a woman who chooses to let Jesus's light shine through every crack in her broken heart, I pray they will, too, choose to be a beacon for His Light in this dark world

2 Corinthians 12:9-10

[9] But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. ” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. [10] That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

Reader, 

If you were 'inspired' by my letter to my sweet Luke, please be so inspired that you take action in some way. In any way. Do not let this inspiration stop at words. If you don't know Christ, choose Victory. Call to Him and He will save you. If you don't know how, ask me. If I can't help you, I know who can. 

If you do know Christ, be the Light. Choose Joy and choose Grace. Choose to give and receive Grace every day. And choose to share Christ with those around you, so that when Jesus tells your story He can do it with a smile on His face. 

 

the day your heart stopped and mine kept beating

You were born on a Tuesday.  

I'd had 39 weeks and 2 days to hold you safe, perfect, and protected in my womb. You'd been all mine, but I couldn't wait to share the sweet soul that I already knew you had with your daddy and brother.

Your birth was as perfect as any mother could ask for, and you came out as healthy as any doctor could have guessed. I'd prayed for your safe delivery, knowing too many mothers who had seen their baby die long before what we'd believed was their time. And my prayers were graciously answered. I held you, you knew me, and I rejoiced in God's perfect grace. I could see every ounce of His grace and love in your tiny little face. I had no idea at the time but I was catching a glimpse of heaven itself. 

We'd had three days filled with your perfect love, snuggles, and sweet angel kisses. Your brother surprised us with how naturally he slipped into his new role as your big brother. He quietly crawled in daddy's lap at night because he knew you needed me more. Maybe he already knew your time was short, and that maybe I needed those snuggles with you while I could get them. 

I knew you were sick on that fourth day that you were with us. 

Christmas Eve. 

The day you died.

You were just four days old.

I had no idea how sick, but I knew you were sick. Everything happened so fast. Everyone in our path that day was placed there by God, I know it now. The second doctor's son shares your name. And when I found that out I saw God wink at me. He worked on you like you were his own baby, and I will forever be grateful for the care he showed us and you. He cried for us, for you, and in hindsight I know that he knew you were much sicker than we understood. Then the flight crew came. They let me love on you as much as I possibly could, but eventually had to take you away. You flew in a helicopter to better doctors, doctors that I just knew could heal you. I prayed for your safe arrival nearly every minute of the four hour drive to the bigger, better hospital.

God graciously answered those prayers as well. We were still one and half hours away when you arrived at the hospital, but the doctors kept us constantly informed. When we built our house, I wrote bible verses on every header. I didn't know yet what child would live in your bedroom, and I remember having a difficult time choosing the verses for that room. I distinctly remember choosing Psalm 91:4 because its beautiful words had always brought me peace. So I prayed over that verse. No matter what would happen, I knew God would cover us with his feathers. I still know that. 

When we arrived, you were alive and I had yet another answered prayer. We prayed silent prayers for your healing constantly over the next three hours, and the doctors worked tirelessly to save you. They never tried to give us false hope. They told us it was critical. They told us you were a very, very sick baby. They told us we couldn't yet talk about long term care for you until we made through the next few hours. They told us the truth. 

But we knew God could heal you, and we kept our faith. 

And God did heal you. Just not in the way our mortal hearts had hoped. 

The doctors tried so hard to save you, but your little heart stopped beating. 

I'll never forget the moment they stopped working on you. We had been standing in the room watching every doctor, nurse, and support personnel in the PICU work to keep you alive. In the moments leading up to your death, we were in full panic mode. But the moment they gave up I was at peace. Now I can't help but think of my favorite movie. In Steel Magnolias, M'Lynn says "I just sat there. I just held Shelby's hand. There was no noise, no tremble, just peace. Oh God. I realize as a woman how lucky I am. I was there when that wonderful creature drifted into my life and I was there when she drifted out. It was the most precious moment of my life." Before this all happened my naive mind had always wondered how a moment like that could be deemed as "precious," I always thought it would be better described as "heart-wrenching" or something more painful. I remember when a distant cousin of mine lost her little girl to cancer, she mentioned this quote from Steel Magnolias. I remember it because it was so hard to wrap my mind around at the time. But now I understand because it was so very precious. I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I was acutely aware of my own heart beating, and when your daddy held me to his chest I heard his heart beat louder than any sound in the room. Maybe because I knew I'd never hear the sound of your little heart beating again.

I longed to hold your little body in my arms one more time. I knew you weren't really there, but I needed to hold the shell of the sweet soul that God had blessed us with for four short days. And the doctors gave me all the time I needed. I held your tiny body for over an hour in the PICU, and I was able hold you all the way back to the funeral home in our hometown. I kissed your little head, even though I knew you weren't really there. I held your little hand, even though I knew you were in the loving arms of Jesus. I stroked your little feet, even though I knew you were walking the streets of gold. 

We arrived at the funeral home very early Christmas morning. A man named Donny lovingly took you from my arms with tears in his eyes. He was placed there by God just for us. He promised to take very good care of your sweet body, and I knew he meant every word he spoke. 

The next two days were unbearable as my body reminded me constantly that I'd birthed a baby while my empty arms reminded me that you'd left us too soon for our earthly hearts to understand. We made the arrangements. We received family, friends, and food. I cried in our bed. I smelled the clothes you had worn. I looked at picture after picture of your sweet face. And I questioned God, not in anger or in fear, just because I needed answers for what good would come from such pain. I needed to feel God's presence because I had never in my life felt so separated from Him. 

And then you were buried on a Tuesday. 

Your uncle officiated the service. The same man who married your daddy and I, baptized me, and helped us dedicate your sweet big brother to the Lord. It made perfect sense. It was evident that you'd touched a lot of hearts in the four short days you lived on earth, you could see it clearly by the number of people who helped us lay you to rest. 

As we received family and friends after your service, a sweet student and her mother came by to show their love and give me a gift. She'd bought it a couple of weeks before in anticipation of your birth, even though she knew it wasn't really a baby gift. It was a simple gold bar necklace with a single feather and the packaging had the verse Psalm 91:4 on it. The very same verse I'd prayed over when you were so very sick. And God winked at me again. The tears stopped for a moment because I felt the Holy Spirit as evident and as real as the breath in my lungs or the sun in the sky. God put that sweet student in my life four years ago in preparation for that one moment in the cemetery. He spoke through her, and I will be forever grateful for her obedience to Him the day she bought that necklace. He used her to remind me that we are covered with his feathers, and that no matter how difficult this part of our story may be that He is forever faithful. 

When we came home, your daddy and I sat together on the front porch swing and watched the sunset. I told him that I wanted to plant a magnolia tree in your memory. I knew it didn't make much sense to plant a magnolia since they flower in the summer but you were born and died in December. Magnolias have just always made me happy, as you did. When I was pregnant with you and waiting to know your gender, I even toyed with the idea of naming you Magnolia had you been a girl. Magnolias are evergreen with very long lifespans, and I felt like that was an appropriate nod to the everlasting life that I know you slipped into so peacefully. 

Three days later we came home to a magnolia tree on our porch, mailed four days earlier, ready to be planted in your memory. Your third cousin, a mommy to her very own angel baby whom I'm sure you've already met in heaven, had sent it to me knowing the pain of losing a child. She had no idea what I'd wanted to do for you, and somehow she'd chosen a Magnolia tree to send to me. And God winked at me again. It took my breath away to feel His presence so sharply. Tears came, but these tears weren't of sadness. I cried in amazement of His Grace and Faithfulness. 

Four days is all we had with you in our arms, but you will forever be in our hearts. We learned so much about ourselves, our faith, and your big brother through those four short days. I saw prayer after prayer answered. And maybe the most precious answered prayer is that your daddy asked Jesus into his heart and now wants to be baptized. You had a purpose, sweet Luke, you just fulfilled it so quickly. Your physical presence brushed our life as delicately as a feather, but you made an impression on us that will last for the rest of our lives. 

I'm so grateful that God trusted me to be your mommy on this earth. 

And that in itself brings me peace. 

Reader, 

Please don't be inspired by me. Please don't think I am strong. Please don't call me amazing. All of my strength comes from Christ. Read this, and let me explain. 

Psalm 91:4 

He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.

Handle it

The man on the motorcycle

It was just after one of those summertime thunderstorms. You know, those late afternoon storms that seem to come out of nowhere and stick around just long enough to cool off the hot, sticky south Alabama air. I had just left my parents house with a belly full of grilled chicken, potato salad, and baked beans. And the sky was just dark enough to need headlights but still bright enough that you could make out what was going on around you.

I turned onto another in a series of county roads that I drive between my house and mama's, and I caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of my eye.  It was a motorcycle. Parked in a gravel pull-off on the side of the intersection. Naturally, because no one would just stop on the side of the road, I assumed that the rider must be having problems with his motorcycle. Until I looked closer. The rider was just propped, arms crossed, on his bike, and he was watching something on the distance very intently. I looked out into the field trying to see whatever this man saw, and then I realized exactly what he was watching. 

Like I said, it was nearing dark so I couldn't exactly make out what the man looked like, but I'd like to imagine him as one of those big, burly, tattooed bikers with a braided beard and long hair tied up in a bandana. Yep, that's what I'm going to say he looked like. Anyway, my eyes filled with tears when I finally figured out what this guy was looking at. 

It was the sunset. 

He pulled off on the side of the road just to sit there and enjoy one of God's most beautiful creations. One of the creations that most people usually never take a moment to really savor. And in that moment my heart was so full of admiration for this man that I don't know and will probably never meet. 

I don't know his story, but I don't need to to know that he's a man that has really figured out how to enjoy the little things. And I think that's exactly what our country needs right now. 

We, as a nation, need to learn how to sit and enjoy a sunset. I don't mean catch a glimpse of it and think "what a pretty sky" as you're driving down the road. I mean to really and purposefully stop what we're doing to watch the sun set. Not only that, we should all make a point to remember all the simple things that inspired awe in us as children. You know, like the way our toes squish in the mud. Or the way stars sparkle when you get out in the country. Or how soft a puppy's ear is and how plushy a kitten's belly can be. Have you ever watched a child enjoying a new food? They close their eyes and really enjoy it.

We take so much for granted as a nation and we just keep wanting more. 

Best medical care in the world? Give us free health insurance! 

Universities that people come from all over the world to attend? Give us free college educations! 

A country that people risk life and limb to get into? Let's ruin it by being fooled by carefully and intentionally orchestrated racism. 

Maybe, just maybe, if we stopped for a few moments to watch the sun set every now and then we would be able to see how good we really have it. 

Heavy Love

It's hard to love like Jesus does. He loves everyone. Every. Single. Person. And He all loves us all the same. He loves us so much that he died to save us from our own weak, sinful selfs. Think about that kind of love for a second, and tell me that you can love every single person on this earth that way. 

Love every single murderer, rapist, and pedophile that way. Jesus does. 

Love every single racist, radical Islamist, and Neo-Nazi that way. Jesus does. 

Love every single homosexual, heterosexual, Democrat, Republican, black person, brown person, white person that way. Jesus does. 

Love every single sinner on this planet that way. Jesus does. 

He loves us. All of us. And there is not a single string attached. All we have to do is accept Jesus Christ as our Lord and Savior, ask Him into our heart, and live our life walking closely with Him. 

That kind of Love can be heavy. 

I've watched it become so heavy that I can no longer tell who has that kind of Love in their heart and who doesn't. Even when I'm sitting inside a church. We shouldn't have to play a guessing game to tell who follows Christ and who doesn't. It should show with every word we utter and with every step and breath we take. 

I've watched while a country, who should be rallying around and comforting each other, break out into social media wars over gun rights and presidential candidates. Our job is to spread the Gospel, not anger. Get out there and do your duties. Love your fellow man, all of them, and show them the Love that changed your life so that it can bring them the same Peace it brought you. 

I've watched Christians assign weights to different sins and arrogantly decide that they are somehow better than others because their sin doesn't show quite as badly. Visible sins are not greater than invisible sin, and invisible sins are not invisible to God. They're all the same, and you'll never be able to love like Jesus if you can't see that.

I've watched finger pointing and read meaningless arguments over whether Christianity is more or less violent than Islam. We shouldn't have to argue it or prove it if we're showing it. And sadly, a lot of us are not showing Love. We're not showing anything. 

I've watched Christians spin a moment in which they should've been sharing the Gospel and spreading a message of Hope, Peace, and Love into a moment that's prime for arguing over the reasons why. It's not 'us against them,' it's 'us against the devil,' and we let the devil win every time we choose pride or fear over sharing the Love of Jesus. 

These attacks. These disasters. These horrible, terrible things that happen to our people, the American people, are not a surprise to God. Each and every one of them is opportunity to serve, love, and teach our fellow man. 

Get out there and do it. 

Dear Students: What I Really Want to Say But Can't

Dear students,

There are so many things that I've wanted to tell you all year but I just couldn't say. Whether the reason be legal, logical, personal, or whatever, I just couldn't tell you what was on my mind. 

Well, I've never been very good at keeping my mouth shut, so I am going to tell you everything I've wanted to say. Right here. Right now. 

#1 

There is a such thing as a stupid question, and you, my dear, just asked one. Close your mouth before you do any more damage. 

#2

If you're going to choose to be dumb, you need to at least be pretty...or funny...or really athletic. You're none of those things. Pick up the dadgum pencil and let's do this!

#3
I die a little inside when you do the thing that I, just seconds ago, told your classmate not to do. I think the energy drained from trying not to yell in these situations has aged me at least a decade.

#3
I do not fail you. You fail you. All I do is deliver the information and mark your assignments when you turn them in. It does not make me happy to mark answer after answer wrong on your tests. I feel like a failure each and every time that I have a student fail my class. And yes, I guess I could just 'bump you up' that few points every semester to get that grade up to passing, but then I really would be failing you. And I refuse to do that.

#4

High school has absolutely nothing to do with your ability to solve a quadratic equation. It's not really about learning the causes of the Civil War. And no, your knowledge of covalent bonds will not affect you in the "real world." What you're really supposed to be learning is how to do crap you don't want to do while working with the people that you don't necessarily want to work with. You're supposed to be learning how to think critically and problem solve. What you're really supposed to be learning is how to survive college and the workforce and hopefully one day be a productive citizen. Many of you are failing. Miserably. Congrats. Now change it. It's not too late; try when you want to quit, be kindness when your world stacks up against you, and be humble even when you feel like a superhero. 

#5

The teacher that snapped on you that day that you didn't bring anything to class may have just found out that her sister has to start chemo tomorrow. That teacher that was less than patient that day that you just couldn't get MAC factoring may have just gotten a picture text from her husband of the headstone she recently had to design for her baby. Your teachers are only human. We have bad moods, we have bad days, and we sometimes make poor decisions. Give us a break every now and then. We both know your teachers have given you the benefit of the doubt more times than any of us could count. 

#6

Contrary to what you think that office referral, Saturday school assignment, or parent phone call may mean, I really do care about you. The only reason I discipline you is because I care about you. Trust me, it would be a whole lot easier if I just ignored that bad behavior or just 'let you fail.' (See #3) There may be times when I don't particularly like you, but I always, always care about you. The moment you stepped foot into my room, I worked to help you grow just like you were my child. Sometimes that growth requires some hard lessons, like summer school. Sometimes that growth required an abundance of grace, like the day you couldn't gather your emotions so I let you retake the test when you were feeling better. Every decision I made concerning you came with the subconscious thought, "What if he/she were my child? How would I want this handled?"

#7

This one is a biggie. This one was on the tip of my tongue every day, every time I saw your cuts, your tears, or your silent (and sometimes not so silent) cries for help. But I could never say it because...well, because we live in a broken world that has decided that your teachers can never, ever talk to you about this...

Jesus loves you. 

And even though your world and heart may be broken, in Him you will find only Peace. I desperately hope you find Him. Sadly, I can't lead you to Jesus with words, but I hope you witnessed His Love through me as you sat in my classroom.

Love,
Mrs. Rich

The Blank Basket: It'll Still Hold Eggs

I had a familiar feeling come over me yesterday while driving to my sister's house. As I crossed the 'four-lane' (as we southerners like to call it), I suddenly remembered that I had forgotten to get J's Easter basket monogrammed like I had totally planned to for weeks. I even bought his basket in February so that I could take it to my monogrammer in plenty of time for Easter. In the middle of my pity party for myself and my forgetful brain, I had another startling realization -- I forgot to get Jasper an Easter outfit, too! I had even had whole conversations with coworkers and friends about Easter outfits for our children. After this realization, I had an avalanche of unchecked To-Do's flooding my brain, and I got very overwhelmed with life.

When I finally got to my sister's house, she mentioned that she'd be going shopping later that day and asked if I needed anything. I asked her to pretty please pick up something for J to wear to church, and we began a conversation about all of the stuff that I forgot to take care of for Easter. I told her in my best whiny, poor me voice that (gasp!) I forgot to get Jasper's basket monogrammed. In a way that only she can do, she looked at me with what I can only describe as "loving disgust" and told me in no uncertain terms that I was being ridiculous. She said, "But guess what?! It'll still hold eggs."

I laughed in response and went on my way, but her comment started me thinking. Okay, so yes, between raising a little boy, building a house, nurturing a marriage, rocking my full-time career as well as my new part-time job, and trying my best to walk with the Lord every day, I guess that I forgot to do and buy all of the 'stuff' that I've been brainwashed to think I need to have for Easter. But does any of it matter? Yes, those adorable knee socks and a darling little heirloom Easter basket would make for some precious pictures, but does it really matter? No.

Do you know what does matter? The fact that I asked my two-year-old if he knew why we were going to church this morning, and he responded, "Jesus!" No, he doesn't yet understand that Jesus died for our sins; he doesn't yet understand that he died and on the third day arose from the dead; and he doesn't yet understand that Jesus' resurrection is the cornerstone of Christianity...but he will. And that's what really matters. 

So, yeah, I'm the mama who picked her child's Easter basket goodies at the very last minute. I'm the mama who, because of a very busy schedule and slightly poor planning, had to stay up late to get Easter goodies ready. We're the family walking in to church ten minutes late because we had to turn around twice for forgotten things. We're the family surreptitiously pulling tags off of new clothes in the middle of a sermon because we didn't buy said clothes until the last minute and are always so rushed on Sunday mornings that we forgot to pull the tags off. I'm the mama who is just as likely to forgot the basket at home and force her son to hunt eggs with a grocery bag. 

But we're also a family that is overwhelmingly thankful that God hold us to a standard of Grace. And we will do our best to make sure that our son understands that Easter is less about your Sunday best and hunting eggs and more about a celebration of God's Unending Love and Amazing Grace.

By the way, we did hunt eggs using that blank Easter basket, and my sister was right...it did still hold eggs!