I have been asked countless times how my transition into being a mama has been. "How are you doing with the big transition?" "Are you doing okay?" "Are you struggling at all?" "Are you worried about everything, its totally okay if you are, just checking in on you!" Such beautiful friends and loving questions and simply just, ah. I love my people.Read More
While Loren and I were in the thick of desiring our family to grow and it just not happening, we were praying about pursuing adoption sooner rather than later but were also confident we would still conceive and successfully carry a baby eventually, we had people who love us share stories about adoption and pregnancy following.
The stories are always frame-worked as though the adoption had something to do with the wife suddenly being able to become pregnant. It almost always sounded like this, "I have these friends who couldn't get pregnant so they adopted, and then they got pregnant. Have you guys thought about trying to adopt?"Read More
October is Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Month. I invite you to read these words from Chelsea, our last guest post for the month. Chelsea and her husband have been married for over 10 years. She loves americanos, is a notary, and is trying to radically pursue what it means to die to herself. She has walked through 4 IVF's and 6 IUI's, and through all of that a lot of pain, loss and 3 miscarriages. Meet Chelsea:
“I’m so sorry to tell you …”
All the phone calls started the same way. In some cases, I was anticipating this call, the bleeding had already started. In others, the hope levels had risen high enough in my chest to anticipate a different set of words coming from the doctor’s mouth. Either way, the outcome was the same. “This pregnancy is no longer viable. I am sorry to share that you are miscarrying.”
Numbness set in. Tears flowed. Questions started flying up to God faster than my brain could think them. My heart would pound loudly. I’d feel sick to my stomach. “This is happening. I am losing my baby.”
When Natalie asked me to write something for her blog, I wanted to invite you into this small, dark tunnel that is the days following a miscarriage. Because miscarriages happen. Not just to me and my husband, but to you or your friend or your sister-in-law or your pastor’s wife. We have walked into this dark tunnel 3 separate times, and each time, the loss and grief is unique, yet overwhelming.
I remember my first miscarriage, lying on the bed, genuinely wondering if I would ever be able to get up again. Every part of me ached. I cried over the loss of dreams, the life that we would never see. I felt physically, emotionally and spiritually strained. God, where are you? Why me?
The heaviness almost became unbearable. I could feel the weight of sadness puncturing my soul, encasing me like a thick wool blanket. I remembering feeling so thirsty but knowing that drinking water would only eventually result in a trip to the bathroom, which held a painful, visible reminder to the sorrow I was feeling.
One of the many hard parts about miscarrying was realizing that life was still going on around me. Days began to pass and with it, I had to shower, grocery shop, go to work, cook dinner, visit the doctor. The fact that people around me were smiling and laughing seemed so surreal. Didn’t they know how sad I felt?
I remember the first time my husband and I laughed together after each of our miscarriages. It almost felt disloyal to our angel baby. Were we allowed to be happy and laugh when that baby never would?
Slowly, and only thanks to God’s peace, strength and presence, the sadness got a little less heavy. It still lingered, mostly catching me off guard in small moments - observing a child at Target, watching a mom hustle a crying baby out of a church service, seeing a commercial on TV with a tiny infant. My breath would catch and my eyes would fill. I would slip in and out of present moments and into a delicate room of reflection and sorrow.
The reality is, deep grief, that kind that comes after losing a child through miscarriage, stillbirth or infant loss, can be all-consuming. Even when you believe in God, even when you know His promises are good, even when you feel His peaceful reassurance of His presence. Even then, grief is hard. Sadness is real, loss is tangible, yet Hope is at hand.
Friends, grieving takes time and there is no right or wrong way to do it. If you need to rest, do it. If you need to scream into a pillow, do it. If you want to hibernate and grieve quietly, do it. If you need to cry, rent The Notebook and sob. If you need to eat McDonald’s French fries, eat them. If you want to go to the movies, grab a drink with friends or sit in a coffee shop, go there. The truth is, there is no wrong way to grieve. Be gentle with yourself. Give yourself the permission to take care of YOU. Be cautious not to shut out your partner. Keep those lines of communication open, even if it’s just to whisper “I feel sad today”.
Put your healing first. Trust that those around you know you are doing the best you can. Sometimes it means you simply have to walk through an ocean of tears.
Healing takes prayer. It takes bringing your grief to His feet each and every day, even if you have no words left to say. God is big enough for your questions, compassionate enough to gather you in His arms, gentle enough to calm you. And even then, it will still hurt. But, in time, it will hurt a little less. The tears do slow down. I promise. Then, the heavy wool blanket of grief that covered you will start to feel a little bit more like a cotton afghan, then a thin scarf, and at some point, you will be able to separate that fabric from hanging on you all the time. The tunnel opens up, fresh air lets in, and a renewed strength comes. When that time comes, it doesn’t mean you have forgotten. It simply means you are moving forward with a new beautiful scar on your heart.
The tunnel is never easy but the words of Psalm 34:18 (ESV) encourage my heart: “The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” Friends, let’s thank Him today for His goodness even in the sorrow. And let’s remember we are never, ever alone.
With love and hugs,
Thanks for reading! I love to get to know new friends. Feel free to check out my personal blog at www.trialsbringjoy.com or on Instagram at @chels819.
October is Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Month. For the month of October, Natalie Brenner Writes will be hosting a few precious and ever so tender stories about families who have lost babies, whether through pregnancy loss or infant death. My heart and hope is to shed light on the reality, to let others know that they are not alone, and to also *hopefully* reveal some tips on ways to support someone who has lost their so loved and so wanted baby.
Meet my friend Andrea, and her beautiful family. Wife to Daniel, momma to Paige and Baby April who is in heaven. I am so honored to have Andrea share their story of losing their precious little baby. I will never forget sitting on the couch messaging her, asking her about her miscarriage. I eventually asked her what the due date was...and I began sobbing as soon as I saw it. We had shared the same due date this year.
In April 2015 we lost our second baby at 10 weeks.
I went in for my first ultrasound, so excited to be pregnant again. My doctor was having a hard time getting a good picture of the baby, she called in her ultrasound tech which didn’t have me worried. It was when she asked me to hold my breath, twice, I knew something was wrong with our little baby. They couldn’t find a heartbeat and just like that we lost that little soul. I knew all the risks and complications that come with being pregnant but I never thought this could happen to me. How could God let this happen to me. I was so mad at him. My daughter was going to be a big sister, we would have two just in time for Christmas. In those ten short weeks I had the rest of our lives planned out. It wasn’t just the pregnancy that got taken away, it was so much more.
The next couple months were the hardest months of my life. I felt like I couldn’t keep going, why keep going? I had a hard time taking care of my daughter. I didn’t work for about a month. It was hard to do anything. I remember going to the grocery store a couple days after we had found out and just breaking down. All these people were freaking grocery shopping and I had a baby inside of me with no heartbeat, it wasn’t fair. It was hard for me to see people going on with their lives like nothing had happened. I never realized until it happened to me that a miscarriage is the loss of a child, no matter how far along you are. My baby had died and I was a mess.
People told me ‘well at least you know you can have a healthy baby’ or ‘be thankful you already have a daughter’ I don’t think people were trying to hurt my feeling but those words hurt so bad. I know I have my daughter and I am so grateful for her bright personality but it’s just not what I needed to hear at the time. I needed someone to tell me it was okay to feel the way I was feeling, I needed someone to sit there and be sad with me, to be mad.
That’s what I needed.
I am still coming to terms with this whole thing. Some days it slips my mind and some days it’s all I can think about. That precious little baby should be in my arms early November. It is hard when I see ladies who are about as far along as I would have been. It is a pain I don’t think will ever go away. I talk about it and want people to know, I want people to know what my family has been through and about our loss. I want to let people know it’s okay to talk about, I don’t want to act like it never happened. It shouldn’t be something people feel they can’t talk about. I want everyone to know I have had two kids and I love them both with all my heart and can’t wait to see by baby that was too beautiful for this earth.
My life is forever changed no matter how many more kids I do or don’t have.
You may or may not know this: October is Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Month. I didn't know until March of this year. I didn't have a reason to know. For the month of October, Natalie Brenner Writes will be hosting a few precious and ever so tender stories about families who have lost babies, whether through pregnancy loss or infant death. My heart and hope is to shed light on the reality, to let others know that they are not alone, and to also *hopefully* reveal some tips on ways to support someone who has lost their so loved and so wanted baby.
Meet my friend, Josie. She is wife to Danny and momma to many. She loves netflix and is one of the best friends you could ever ask for. She is honest and she is true. They have lost two babies through miscarriage. Be blessed as she shares her heart through a letter titled, If I Could.
My very dearest friend, I was crushed to hear your news:
I lost the baby.
I never would want anyone to face what you are going through now and will continue to go through for some time. I have been there. To be 100% honest I had forgotten some of the things I went through in the midst of my loss. Time has done a lot of healing to that wound, but I was amazed at the vividness of remembrance of the pain as you described to me your pain, so it will probably always be there with you, but changed and morphed hopefully into a less constant drip of a wound.
If I could I would run ahead of you and silence all those who will say things to you that make your heart squeeze and flip. You know they love you. You know they mean well. They honestly just don’t know. They have no idea what to say and feel they must say something. We know they don’t need to, but they will. If I could I would run ahead and whisper in their ear “Just say ‘I’m sorry and I love you’ and nothing else”.
If I could I would take away the pain you feel when you see other pregnant women and babies. Then it wouldn’t be necessary to also take away the guilt that comes immediately after this pain. The guilt is worse than the pain when the woman is a friend, or a sister or a relative. I would take it away so you never felt terrible about the person you are becoming on the inside. The twist of envy and sadness. If I could I would take it away if for no other reason than because people won’t understand it, and it will hurt them, but there is no control over it no matter how much you wish there was.
If I could I would wipe away that date from the calendar. That due date. The one that was supposed to bring you all the joy but instead it brings all the hurt. I would just take that date right out of the week, the month and even the year. Even 9 years later mine echoes in my mind. If I could I’d save you from that.
If I could I would take away that anxiety of the next two pink or blue lines. I would fill you only with joy over the prospect of seeing those positive results. I would make that joy grow and bloom and overflow you, pushing out the anxiety of even breathing lest it trigger round two of your worst nightmare.
If I could I would tell all those around you that this process takes time. Much more time than you or anyone else wants it to. That somedays you will be fine and others not so much. That no amount of pushing you to “get over it” will in fact make you get over it. I’m not sure there is a getting totally over it. You may have other babies, and as those babies grow you will think of the ones that are not growing. You will think of them less, but they will be with you always. If I could I would help people understand that, because to be honest, most won’t.
If I could I would tell you how the father of this baby will handle this. Maybe he will not be affected as much as you, which at times will sting. Maybe he will be deeply affected but not willing to accept that or own it, that also might sting. You have to give him Grace, it wasn’t his body but it was his baby. He may not understand how you grieve because it is so different than how he does.
If I could I would be there to stroke your hair and hold you while you suffer the loss of something so precious. I would tell you to not be so hard on yourself. I would tell you to let yourself feel those feelings because bottling them will just lead to an explosion later. I would say it’s okay to be angry, but don’t let it grow into bitterness. It’s okay to be sad, but ask for Peace from the only One who gives Peace that passes understanding.
Here is what I can do. I can tell you that I know that pain. I have walked this road. I can tell you that for me the fact that I get to share in your pain makes me feel a sense that my pain is helping us both, and while that is not the reason for the pain it can be the good part of it. I can tell you that experiencing pain can make us much stronger, but it requires you to lean on The Bearer of our Burdens and to look for ways to express your gratitude to Him even while in the throes. For me this pain has lessened, became distant.
I don’t know what your story will be, but I will be here to hear it whenever you need.
You may or may not know this: October is Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Month. For the month of October, Natalie Brenner Writes will be hosting a few precious and ever so tender stories about families who have lost babies, through pregnancy loss or infant death. My heart and hope is to shed light on the reality, to let others know that they are not alone, and to also *hopefully* reveal some tips on ways to support someone who has lost their so loved and so wanted baby.
The first two weeks/posts, I will be sharing parts of our own story and why this is so important to us. From there, you will have the honor of hearing from a few others.
[I am about to share with you a most precious and personal story that I possess. Why I would do such a vulnerable and risky thing is because I know there are many sufferers, many victims of this, many grievers and mourners, and momma's with empty arms and broken hearts. And they, we, tend to remain silent. For a number of extremely valid reasons, we silently suffer, isolated. There is this thing within me that drives me to share my brokenness, my precious stories that are my actual heart, and point you towards He who loves and He who cares and He who sees it all. Feels it all. Weeps and mourns and grieves right next to me. Right next to you. So please, if this is for you, read it. Soak it in. Know you are not alone. If this is for a friend or a loved one...pass it along. Please. During the fresh time of raw grief, I read a few posts over and over and over again. Because there were not many that hit the home of my heart. I pray that this would hit the home of many hurting hearts.]
[Empty Arms Part 2] Written Spring, 2015
The moment those two pink lines appeared was one of those forever-changed moments. They were faint, but they were there...on five different tests. It was a moment that moved mountains of doubt and sadness in my heart, a moment that ushered in delight unexplainable, that signaled for the sirens of smiles to consume my entire body. Can your whole self smile? Because that is what I experienced. It was as though the Hoover Dam had been ripped to shreds and the river of life and hope and reality and dreams and visions of little toes and squishy cheeks and big blue eyes was flooding my whole being.
Loren and I cried tears of laughter and smiled the biggest smiles we have ever smiled. That speaks volumes if you witnessed us at our wedding. We jumped around and we danced and Loren put is ear up to my womb - we celebrated. Baby Brenner has been created - we had been waiting for what seemed decades. This was life to celebrate.
Patiently, we had done our best to withhold rearranging our second bedroom until the pink lines emerged or until we were in the thick of adoption. We had nearly moved two times hoping to welcome Baby Brenner (BB), but decided against it both times, "Let's just wait until the two pink lines emerge. Then we will make a decision about moving." A year into this "trying" thing, we stopped scheming up potential names. It hurt too deeply to discover names only to meet a newborn claiming it. We halted planning for the future, because the future was foreign and we knew we needed to live now. Presently. And presently held no promise of a BB. But when those two pink lines arrived... Immediately, dreams were dangerously and relentlessly unleashed. The desires of our souls were close, just 36 weeks away. It was more than a dream, it was reality: we would be adding a third to our small family tree.
I would swell fat with life, stretching wide and growing round, I couldn't wait to not see my toes. To need Loren to tie my shoes.
Plans began to unfold. Coffee and lunch and dinner dates planned with various family members and close friends. A list of who to tell first and how was formed. Gifts for loved ones were purchased and made, we were ready to share this precious life in special ways with all who love us. With all we love. We knew this little BB was already doused in a divine love, a love immeasurable.
Let's unleash love for him, we thought. He is worth it.
When we shared the enthralling news with my in-laws, more clear tears of salty love were shed. Tight hugs and warm embraces, ecstasy indescribable. BB would meet us in October/November at some time.
Courses of action were immediately claimed: we had yet to spend Christmas in Eagle with the in-laws. Why not this year? Bring that bundle of baby with us. A two month young at Christmas! Game plans for our home were sketched out: shelves, storage, make room for BB. My mother in law bought me a beautiful dress, one with a stretchy waistband. I looked forward to wearing it this summer when we saw them again in July; my stomach will be swelled big, round, and beautiful. I would feel fat, but Loren would see me as radiant. Because I was carrying our child. Our so wanted and so loved and so precious child.
We were coming into spring and the flowers were blooming life and all was joyful, hopeful, lively. Promising. Expectant.
When the clots of blood fell into the toilet, I felt my heart drop right with the red so bright. I stared into the bowl of contaminated water. Life froze, my heart stopped, and I experienced the heaviest emptiness possible to [wo]mankind. This can't be happening. I swallowed and begged, "Jesus, no. Jesus you are the author of life. Jesus you heal and you are good and you want this life more than I do. Jesus, make your name famous and keep this life living in my broken body. That's miraculous."
Slowly, I strolled to the living room and laid by the heater. Surely, if I lay down, BB cannot leave my body. Surely, if I am warm but not too warm, he will remain cozy in my womb. Surely, if I think happy thoughts and send oxytocin coursing through my veins, he will experience my bottomless love. Surely, if I drink plenty of water and no sugar or caffeine or anything bad, he will know how much I care and cling to my womb. Surely, Lord, you wouldn't take my child, my so wanted and waited for child.
When I told Loren I believed we were losing this life that had drastically altered ours, he wouldn't believe it. It was unfathomable. He said no and he searched and scoured google for stories of Hope. Stories of bleeding and life surviving the blood flood. Though many moms and dads wrote their victory stories for the world to see, I knew I was empty. I experienced it when I flushed my baby down the toilet to forever reside in the sewer with feces and vomit and urine.
Before the blood tests that would unravel our hearts to sheer brokenness, I said to my beloved husband, "If we lose this Baby, I need you to go there with me. I am going to grieve and be honest and I need you with me. I cannot do this alone." As if I were crazy, he said, "Of course I will be there with you. This is horrible."
It was a Sunday in March when the confirmation of death was given. It was that March Sunday that our life was, once again, forever changed by our little BB. It was that March Sunday that I knew deeper than my heart that I would feel this void until I reach Heaven.
Never have I conceived such sorrow, such desolation, such loss. Never has my womb felt so empty, so barren. November, my arms will be empty when they should be fuller than ever before.
The weeks that followed were the most painful of my small existence. My chest, my actual heart, ached. Snapped in half, part of it had been flushed down the toilet. It was raw and wounded, gaping open and obviously broken. I had always been warned by doctors that miscarriage was a high probability for me, but never had I any clue as to the deep ripping of my heart that it would entail. People don't talk much about miscarriage, about pregnancy loss, about the death of their very alive baby, and when they do it feels sterile. It is protected - I was protected. I had no idea the penetrating pain of this specific loss.
My husband and I grieved deeply together that first two weeks. We laid in bed a lot and our tears ran together, knitting our hearts more into one. We named our Baby, we ordered a custom made garden stone, I planted an entire flower bed in his honor. Our friends Ben and Bethany gifted us with a snuggly bear I will never lose, neck jeweled with a B and a dove, and a big bouquet of flowers. We were not going to pretend that this Baby did not exist. He altered our forever. The sobs echoed through life and I was heavy and empty all at once.
My ultra sound appointment remained so Dr Card could be sure there was "no tissue left." The CNA that weighed me as she has for three years now looked at me with sad eyes, "I was so excited that you were finally pregnant.. I'm so sorry." Words like, "chemical pregnancy," and "spontaneous abortion" were used. They made me feel bad, dirty, stupid, useless, barren.
"We can continue fertility treatments after your second cycle begins." As if it were no big deal, as if there was nothing to mourn; no Red Sea to walk through. Just try again. Simple as that.
But when I dared to glance into the future of this year, what once held promise and life and hope and chubby cheeks to gobble and little toes and fingers to count and poopy diapers and sleepless nights and stupid quarrels because of exhaustion...was now replaced with an irrevocable darkness. All I could see was a dark night of my soul, as I trudge through waves of grief and loss. The loss of my first baby. How could I try to get pregnant again? How could I risk losing another? And yet, at the same confusing time, I wanted so badly to conceive again. I wanted that hope and that promise. I wanted full arms at the end of 9 painful months of swelling and stretching and marking my body with scars of love.
The blender of desires were confusing. They still are. The loss of life with such potential is painful. Life that had not yet run its course, did not even have a chance: lost from my womb, our arms. Forever.
I thought other's pregnancy jokes were painful before...
I thought when people said, "Are you sure you want kids?" after wrestling theirs was hurtful before..
I didn't even notice, before, when people said, "well, at least all my kids are alive" as a funny joke that they made it through the day..
I thought seeing all-things-pregnancy and baby related was painful before...now the mere existence of my people and their plumpness and their fertility and their healthy alive babies and even my own self crumbled me to bits of fragmented pieces of flesh. It is an ugly place that I am in; I am that person that people avoid, for fear of hurting. I am broken. More broken than I ever have been. Never have I been so incredibly aware of how human, how fickle, how desperately in need of Grace I am. I thought I understood loss, but I now understand suffering and grief and agony on such deeper levels...and I know there are much deeper levels that I selfishly hope to never experience.
There are zero words to explain the depth of despair our hearts are traveling through while attempting to understand the ridiculous shift that is occurring while all of our hopes and expectations for that life is dropping out from beneath anything stable. It's an experience and loss that we will never make sense of, it is tragic and drastic and totally unfair.
- - - -
Since writing this post in the fresh weeks of losing that so precious and so wanted baby through pregnancy loss, I can say that while walking through the raw ugliness of it, I knew Jesus was with me right there, catching each tear. I knew that He would heal me over time, but I wasn't about to rush it or force it, though at times, I was frustrated at how slow the healing process felt. When people would say, "You will be whole again," I would either think or say, "But right now I'm not, and I think thats okay." I think thats okay to say and acknowledge, believing that one day we will be whole again. It's okay to not be whole, to be broken and sad, to grieve loss.
I can tell you that people who tried giving us formulas and ways to "get through it" really just ticked me off and I had to distance myself from them. I can tell you that the few people who validated our loss and our grief and our pain and the roller coaster of ugly and beauty and mourning and confusing joy amidst that brokenness, those were the people I kept close. Those who didn't expect me to resemble something I wasnt, those who didn't attempt to mold me into something I wasnt, those who loved me just as I was and brought me meals and precious memory gifts and shed tears with me, I needed those people. Those are very dear friends.
I can also tell you that I nearly punched the multiple people who said, "at least you got pregnant." Instead of violence my heart sank to below my toes and into the earth's crust, reminding me how very little I am but even more how very little that baby's life meant to others.
Please, if you have someone walking through this loss, just sit and listen and validate and hug and pray out loud with them and then shhhh. Pray for peace but also ask God why for them, because they're trying to face that question in an honest way without being condemned. He will not condemn the honest questions of our heart.
Loren and I went to Europe for 3 weeks the end of April and into May. That trip was timed perfectly. Though I had envisioned myself rounding wide while adventuring the trains and trams and hills and streets of Europe, I was still blessed to get away from our normal routine and breathe. I felt that for the first time, I could exist how I was: broken and accepted. I felt that no one had parameters and measuring sticks for me, merely because I knew no one there. It was refreshing.
I had three friends who already have their hands full with two to four kids who blessed me immensely through this process, constantly reminding me to be gentle with myself, constantly reminding me that it is okay to grieve the loss, that it has only been This Many Weeks or This Many Months and it may take a lot longer than I want. They would ask me how I was doing, they would ask me about our little BB, acknowledging that he was real and valid. They validate our baby's life and therefore our loss, and for that I am forever thankful.
It wasn't until the very last day of August and the very first week of September that my heart was able to loosen its grip a little bit and breathe, thinking mainly of our adopted baby wherever he/she/they are. There is no timeline for grief. There is no formula or strategy. I cannot express this enough.
I believe that Jesus is with us while we grieve, grieving and mourning right along side us, about this broken world that is full of death and loss and sickness. The things that God did not initially intend for. I believe that He is with me when I am grieving like a train wreck and when I am grieving beautifully, whatever that even means.
I hope and I pray that you find refuge in Him. Even if that means laying in bed, letting His warm presence wrap around your fragmented self. I haven't been able to say this all year, but right now in this moment, I can say it in full confidence: He is good. And it's okay if you can't say that right now, just know that I am believing it for you in the meantime.
The other day a super extraordinary thing happened to me: I experienced a constant and gentle joy, a pure joy that existed throughout the entire day, not touched, unkissed, by grief. I was heading to visit a friend after work and before youth group; she is a new momma, baby fresh from the womb. No sign of grief washed over me, no hint of anxiety or fear or tight-chest-edness while I drove. No sadness. No despair. Only a freeing sense of joy. Only joy.
This pure-joy-unkissed-by-grief has become a rarity for me this year. This year has been the year of tears. Tears of joy and grief all in one complex thing that makes up a Me. Grief has made me awkward. It has made me unsure of myself, wanting to claw out of my very own skin. How do I feel beautiful when the body I live in is broken and breaking? I find my way back to His word and His promises and I know they are true, no matter how ugly and broken I feel.
Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. 2 Corinthians 4:16-18.
As I parked my car in her driveway, I inhaled waiting for the sting of grief, waiting for the stabbing thought "I should be nearing my labor and delivery, over 30 weeks round, preparing to meet our little BB," waiting for the icky ugly feeling that now always accompanies the deep joy I have for the people I love most. It didn't come. It didn't threaten the joy that I have been asking and fighting for. While I sat in the most precious nursery of all time, she fed her baby girl and rocked in the cushy chair and my heart was full. Full of all-the-good-things. Full of pure joy, unkissed by grief.
It is a lovely feeling, this thing of pure joy without the ugliness that grief never fails to bring to my heart. I write this post carefully, with hesitation even, because I know that in the next moment I may be right back in the place of ugly grief begging for glimpses of grace. The place of fighting for pure joy, the heart aching for freedom and laughter and light heartedness. But I also write this post because I want to share how beautiful it is to experience those moments, moments that may become a day, maybe stringing into a week...moments of joy unkissed by grief. I want to bask in those moments and days, allowing my heart to soften and soak them in, rather than harden and protect itself out of fear for the next moment of stabbing grief.
I want to do more than set my life on default to survive, to merely exist and get through. That's more than I could have said three days ago in honesty; sometimes I feel defeated and wonder if jaded is easier. But today I don't want to live numb to life, jaded and apathetic; I don't want to give in to wounded-ness and stop chasing Jesus-joy. What relief to taste the sweetness again. I am a whole-hearted believer in sorrow often becoming a part of someone, moving in as a permanent resident, but I also believe that it can thin out over the years, stinging differently than when it was fresh. I believe that we do not have to merely exist and get through life as a giant wound for years on end. Though believe me, this year I have felt like a gaping wound. I know that gratitude and thanksgiving don't come naturally; but I believe that those rare brave humans who search for good and true and beautiful things, even in the minute and mundane, who thank Jesus for those little precious things, are those who unravel the secret of joy in the pain. I am not there, always finding the joy amidst the grief, but sometimes I do. And most of the time I am quiet about it, timid, carefully and silently seeking Him out in the little things.
This week I have not been able to stop thinking about our little baby. Not the baby we lost, but the baby we are waiting for...the baby we are planning and preparing for through this tragically-beautiful thing of adoption, the baby God is moving mountains for, the baby that will join two families into one. His/her mama has been on my mind a lot this week, too, as I go throughout my days working and spending time with people. I cannot help but wonder where she is, what she is doing, how old she is, is she married? What ethnicity is she? What ethnicity is our baby? What about gender? Is our baby 6 months in the womb or 6 days? Has our baby been created yet?
We made tamales Monday and friends...it brought me so much joy. I could be a Mexican-baby-momma. I can do this! If our baby carries a culture that tamales are a thing, count me in. I will make those. Next month we are trying an Indian dish and then an African American dish.
As I watched my dear friend snuggle and feed her precious newborn, my heart was full and I wanted so badly in the most purest, most-non-jealous way to be holding our baby right there with her. The baby that has cracked our hearts wide open for this life of adoption. I want to snuggle and smooch and kiss and love and count his or her toes. The longing is pure and light and lovely and it has been unkissed by grief for a running of nearly two days. Two days. My secret strategy? I have none. No one said the magic words to snap me out of it for a brief day, there was no magic prayer or chant or billboard or thing. I have chosen to walk honestly and search for Him, even if timidly and quietly, unnoticeably, but hunt for Him and His graces.
Something in the deepest parts of me knows that our baby and his/her momma needs us to be praying for them. It is quite possible and likely that is why their presence on my heart has weighed so heavily this week. Loren and I have been praying for our baby and his/her birth family since January; every night we spend time praying over them. But I wonder if I am being called to pray for them constantly, perpetually, ongoingly..they are not leaving my heart or my thoughts and I can't wait to be able to look back and see why. I cant wait to meet them and ask what was going on during this time that my heart would be so heavy for them.
This joy? This joy is different than the joy that Natalie Brenner is usually "known" for. This joy isn't jumpy and crazy but calm and gentle and very present. It is light. I don't know that I will wake up tomorrow with joy unkissed by grief. For months I was not sure if I would ever again experience joy without kisses of grief. But right now today I am accepting the joy, unkissed by grief, and I am counting it an immense reason to be grateful.
Thank you, Jesus, for your good gifts of grace. Teach me to see them in the mundane and every day.
I sit outside of Starbucks beneath the warm February sun, and frustration is settling in. I am frustrated because I have this itch to write, but every time I sit down to do so my brain shuts down and my thoughts are scrambled like eggs. Every day I have this longing, this ache to write words, share, reveal my heart because it will explode if I don't. But when I write what's pressing on my heart, it is vulnerable. It is raw. It is my life and heart. And that is scary; it is a risk. My deepest hope is that you find Jesus in your brokenness. In your wandering. In your stillness, your busy, your joy, your pursuit of life.
Because that is where I see Him: every where.
[My hope for Heaven and Jesus is so real to me in a physical way]
I have this chronic pain that clings to my body like a yolk resides in an egg. It exists in me; I cannot rid of it, I cannot escape it, it has decided to choose my body as its particular place permanently. I do my best to ignore it, to go to the office, to meet with people, to exercise..to live life. But recently, it has been literally eating me from the inside, effecting my outside: I cancel appointments, ministry dates, volleyball games, and life.
Being crippled with physical pain can be defeating, if not filtered through life for Christ. My heart longs to meet with people, listen to their stories and their hearts, to remind them who they are and tell them of their worth. I desire to lay hands on people and pray over them.
But as of recent, I am being forced to take it down a notch or three. No more 10-12 hour days outside of our home, spent with beautiful people. The reality that I must find a new normal is hitting me like a stack of bricks toppling onto a squirrel.
[And I don't like it]
I feel lost and uncertain. It feels like a crisis in my identity. For so long I have spent 6 of my 7 days a week working and meeting with others and leading/going to small groups and having people in our home - all the day long. SO going from being out and about working in various ways all week (and being reliable) to suddenly needing to stay home more to rest my body or sit with my heating pad is a huge shift for me. A transition that is difficult to settle, a routine that is hard to be okay with, a new normal that I am still discovering. With new normals and transitions come unsettled brains and sometimes hearts, when not filtered through the idea that life is for Christ.
What has been difficult for me is to believe the very words I share with so many: doing does not define you. Living in His presence, with and by His Spirit, walking in grace and truth, is. His love and sacrifice defines us.
My beloved friend Haley reminded me that I am not having an identity crisis. She said to me very plainly, "Natalie, you know exactly who you are. You know what your calling is." And she is right. I do know where my identity lies and what I am called to.
I have spent all of my time going and going that I have forgotten what it is like to be still and know that He is God. I have forgotten that when my days are forcefully slowing down, when I make and allow more time to be still, that He is still God. And I can know that He is God, I can experience Him. I seek His face and His presence, because without it, I grow lonely and discouraged; I feel worthless.
In my pain, I reach out to Him. I search for His promises of future glory, of healed bodies, of no pain or sorrow or weeping (Rev. 21). I don't ever think to ask Him, "Why?" because I don't believe that His plan is to keep me from suffering. I don't believe that He takes away all of our brokenness. I don't believe that this life on earth is about Natalie Brenner. But what I do believe is that He is there, amidst the brokenness. That He is present during trials and tribulations, that He is beckoning our wandering souls and offering HOPE. The God I serve is present and with me and offering a wholeness that doesn't make sense. He offers a peace and a joy that is unexplainable. Joy amidst the suffering, hope during defeat, and peace among the chaos.
As I write a little more honestly and openly about this journey of chronic pain and finding Jesus, I hope you'll join me. My desire is to not allow the trials of this life to steal the joy that Jesus gives. I hope and I pray that you will join me in FINDING HIM in the midst of whatever your thing is.
There is no better way to live life, than to live it with Christ.
As I look out to the unknowns and gaze here at the present, I know for certain that I must let those words write themselves into my heart.
Whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say
it is well
with my soul.
It is well. If I must walk the face of the earth with physical pain all of the days of my life, it is well with my soul. If I must wait years to experience the miracle of pregnancy and a full term baby being delivered to my adrenaline shaking arms as tears flow from my eyes and my husband's...to be humbled by parenting, it is well with my soul. If I never get the utmost honor and privilege of experiencing a life bud and bloom and grow and flourish from within me, a life that was created between husband and wife and God, it is well with my soul. If I am called to live a life that does not belong to me, a life that I am always giving and pouring out, it is well with my soul. As I lose loved ones to death, disease, suicide, addictions...as I hear stories of broken pasts and horrendous presents, co-suffer with those that I love because there is nothing else that I can imagine doing...it is well with my soul.
But it is not just in the bigger things of life that I crave to let this be my anthem...no. It is also in the minute and the small, the quieter and more common areas of my life, that I want my heart to sing these words. While doing the brunt of work, the lowly things that go unnoticed, the humble servant leader type of waking up early and leaving late. Or spending time in a hospital with the dying or sick. Or staying up into the wee hours of the morning praying with a hurting soul that simply needs a friend. While doing the dishes and walking through my messy home and scrubbing the floors on my hands and knees. Waiting for my computer to not ruin my day with its slowness and rainbow ring of fire. Praying for countless lost and wandering souls, sewing for those who go unclothed, and feeding mouths that eat irregularly. While listening to correction, while swallowing my own darn thick pride; whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say...it is well with my soul.
I have decades [possibly, one can never know] of life ahead of me and no idea what will be thrown at me; the possibilities are endless but His steadfast love and strength and safety will be present through it all.
When my truest anthem is His heart, life is so much more joyful and free. I want to make this true of my every day because when it is my life's song, I do not need to walk around and pout, self pitying myself. Believe me, I am preaching to myself here - it seems so much easier to give in to the bitterness, the wishful thinking that this is not the life or journey I have been handed. But in those moments are the moments of prison, the moments of darkness where He is beckoning us to come and join Him in the light of joy, the light of freedom, the light of Christ Himself.
Whatever my lot. No matter what is thrown at this life of mine. I yearn to have the courage, the confidence that only makes sense through His lens, to look to Him and cry out and say, "Because of You, because of your blood that was shed and the freedom you offer us...it is well..it is well with my broken soul and I know that I am covered in grace. I know that you are for me. I know that this life is not about me, and whatever my lot, I must believe that it is for the greater good. Because it is for the greater good, [the biggest picture], it is well with my soul. Whatever my lot, it is to spread your goodness and share your glory and reveal your unfailing love. Whatever my lot, it is well with my soul."