Even There...

Even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast. --Psalm 139:10

It's 1am and I awake to the pain of contractions.

No, I think.  Not again.

I am 18 weeks pregnant and yesterday there was spotting.  Immediately I know I am losing this baby.  Experience tells me this, for 3 years ago, I had a similar loss.

I don't want to leave the warm comfort of my bed, confirming what I already know.  If I can just lay here a little longer, I can delay the pain I know is coming, even if only for a few minutes.

I'm no longer pregnant.  There was no kicking yesterday, along with the spotting.  The little life inside of me has already slipped away.

I know what I must face, so I will myself out of bed to the bathroom, preparing myself for the sight of blood.  My husband is at my side as the precious still-warm lifeless little body slips out.

My boy.

My perfectly formed, tiny soft boy who fits perfectly in my hand.  Eyes closed, mouth in the shape of an "o"-- like an angel singing God's praises.


He's up there now singing praises right along with the angels.


I grapple to understand how just the other day I felt the flutters, the gentle nudging of legs and arms squirming about.  I know that life is fleeting, I have lived sudden losses before.  Will it always be this way, I wonder?  Will loved ones just keep slipping away without warning, death like a thief in the night?

Even there...

We go to the hospital for there is lots of bleeding now and I bring my boy with me in the car.

How odd, I think, to be bringing my baby to the hospital and not the other way around.  In a daze I welcome the sympathetic care of nurses and doctors around me.  Here, in the ER, they know sadness like this.  They witness trauma, the faces of the bereaved and bewildered each and every day.  These kind faces know all too well the fragility of life and the faces of the grieved.

God knows this grief, too.  He watched His only Son suffer and die, a lamb to the slaughter.  He knows this pain, the pain of a lifeless child.  There is comfort in that.

Even there...

The priest comes to the hospital so we can baptize our little boy.  He's all wrapped up in a tiny blue hat now, a hat knit with love for newborns to wear home.

But my little boy won't be coming home.  

This sweet little hat serves another purpose today.  Fitting perfectly as a blanket, my wee one still wearing his "o" mouth, tucked snugly in all that baby blue.

We need to pick a name.  Brendan was a name we always liked, and Kevin reminds me of the story of St. Brendan the Voyager who sailed his way to the Isle of the Saints.  It's perfect.

Our little boy sailed his way to the saints, too.

The priest pours the water three times, only the smallest droplets needed for his tiny little head.  And still he goes right on singing, that perfect "o" mouth set in endless song.  We recite the familiar words, the words I've said all my life: the Our Father, the Baptismal Promises, though it's hard to get them all out because the tears are coming hard now.

Even there...

I recieve Jesus on my tongue and the words the bible run through my mind--the ones I've heard hundreds of times at funerals (I used to be a music director and have sung at many many funerals), the lyrics I've sung again and again, run through my mind like a melody of comfort: In the eyes of the foolish they seemed to have died, their departure was thought to be an affliction...but they are at peace...may Christ who called you take you home, may angels lead you to our parents side...give eternal rest O Lord and may your light shine on Him forever...even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.

I thank God for these words of truth.  I cling to them.

The words of eternity and Truth are branded into my heart, and I didn't even know I had memorized them all until now.  The feel the hope and peace wash over me, right here in this hospital bed of grief and pain and all that red that just keeps coming.  Lord help me get through this long and awful night.  Knowing my Brendan has sailed his way home makes this pain more bearable.

Even there...

After a long and sleepless night we are home.  

Home without him. 

I want an image of St. Brendan to view, so I search online.  And I find this:

photo source

The words--the words along the border are the very same words of comfort I had recited to myself just the night before:

Even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.

I read the entire psalm and of course it's all so perfect, so fitting:

You have searched me, Lord, 

 and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise;
  you perceive my thoughts from afar. 

 You discern my going out and my lying down;
  you are familiar with all my ways. 

 Before a word is on my tongue
  you, Lord, know it completely. 

 You hem me in behind and before,
  and you lay your hand upon me. 

 Such knowledge is too wonderful for me,
  too lofty for me to attain.

 Where can I go from your Spirit?
  Where can I flee from your presence? 

 If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
  if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. 

 If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
  if I settle on the far side of the sea,

 even there your hand will guide me,
  your right hand will hold me fast. 

 If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
  and the light become night around me,” 

 even the darkness will not be dark to you;
  the night will shine like the day,
  for darkness is as light to you.

 For you created my inmost being;
  you knit me together in my mother’s womb. 

 I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
  your works are wonderful,
  I know that full well. 

 My frame was not hidden from you
  when I was made in the secret place,
  when I was woven together in the depths of the earth.

Your eyes saw my unformed body;
  all the days ordained for me were written in your book
  before one of them came to be. 

 How precious to me are your thoughts, God!
  How vast is the sum of them!

Were I to count them,
  they would outnumber the grains of sand—
  when I awake, I am still with you.

 If only you, God, would slay the wicked!
  Away from me, you who are bloodthirsty! 

 They speak of you with evil intent;
  your adversaries misuse your name. 

 Do I not hate those who hate you, Lord,
  and abhor those who are in rebellion against you? 

 I have nothing but hatred for them;
  I count them my enemies. 

 Search me, God, and know my heart;
  test me and know my anxious thoughts. 

 See if there is any offensive way in me,
  and lead me in the way everlasting.

The Lord knows me, He knows this pain.  I am precious to Him and was knit in the secret place, just like my Brendan. He had a plan for my boy all along. I cannot outrun His love, for even the night is like the day.  He will keep right on pursuing me to offer His comfort, dispelling the darkness. He will carry me through. 


I know I have, once more, encountered a thin place.  I've known thin places before--the precious sacred spaces, the spaces between heaven and earth, where you feel God's loving touch so powerfully you can almost reach right out and touch heaven.  I thank God for this newest thin place, and know I will be ok. I will thrive, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.


Even there.

 

Autumn Marks Change...

It's been a long time since I last posted. As summer draws to a close, hints of autumn begin creeping in with leaves changing ahead of schedule and the cool sharp air of early morning chilling my cheeks. Autumn can be a sad time for some, a happy time for others. For some it marks a closing, to others new beginnings. It's a little bit of both for me this year for, sadly, I lost a baby 3 weeks ago. My 4th child on-the-way was just not meant to be here on Earth. In my 14th week of pregnancy I experienced a placental abruption, and my sweet little one went to meet Jesus. After a difficult hospitalization resulting in a D&C and 2 weeks of bed rest, I'm happy to say that I'm back on my feet again.


Fall activities bring a rush of busyness; the manic energy of new groups forming, school supplies being broken in and the sense that its time to...move on. Time for brighter days, for learning new things and embracing fresh experiences. In the midst of all of this newness I find myself learning something new-- learning how to move on from a pregnancy interrupted. While my family picks apples and eats corn off the cob, I'm packing away my hopes and dreams for what wasn't to be. The dreams of holding my newborn in my arms and hazily adjusting to life with 4 kids is no longer a reality, and I am left with a...space. I can't quite call it a void, because I feel truly fulfilled with my 3 sweet children and my loving husband. In more ways than I can count I have been blessed with abundance and grace, for which I am so thankful. Yet in learning that my little one is now with God, there remains a space to fill. New dreams to dream, a different future than the one I had expected.


While I mourn the loss of my child, I find myself in an odd place. I find myself somewhere halfway between joy and sorrow. My days are filled with the happy flutter of caring for children and still I find myself pausing at times to wonder, "What new dreams do I put in this space?" Sure I can pour myself more fully into the many groups and projects I'm a part of, which is time well spent. But I suppose I want this season of my life to represent something. I feel this sense that there is a lot to learn from this experience, and I'm open to making the most of it. I believe that God wants us to learn new things from seasons of suffering, and I want to be sure I learn all that I am supposed to from the loss of my little one.


One thing I have come away with from this experience is a renewed sense of gratitude for the many blessing in my life. And as I pray to the Lord and to my little one in heaven I am filled with a sense of hope. In this time of sadness and time of forming new dreams the Lord implores me to embrace the hope that He brings. Hope for the future. Hope in Him. Hope that new dreams will come and that this feeling of loss in time will transform into something beautiful and bright.


And so I move forward with all of the hope that I can muster, trusting that the Lord will guide me through this season of change and make new paths known to me.

Uncertain Landscape
by Helen Fahrbach

The day begins in hiding,
the lake lost in fog.
Mist winds around trees
where birds scold about
damp nests. Fence posts
poke through a grounded cloud
and the road is a mystery.

Around noon, when the sun
burns off the haze, obscure
landmarks move into place
the way familiar stars come out
in evening skies.



"And now, Lord, what do I wait for and expect? My hope and expectation are in You."
--Ps. 39:7

O Death Where is Thy Sting?

It's been 6 days since mom killed herself. With rope tethered to basement beam, last breath choked out, mom strangled away the paranoia, the depression, the bottomless well of despair that gripped her for untold years. Gone from this world, no warning, no goodbye.


For two days no one knew she was gone. And yet, hadn't she already been gone for years? When was the last time she had smiled her beautifully contagious smile? Laughed her laugh so full and loud you wanted to cover your ears and join in all at once? How long had it been since a conversation wasn't bloated with manic monologues of conspiracy, mafia tormentors, government schemes? When exactly did that sparkle of light leave her eyes?


Departure of personality is an insidious thing, slowly creeping in day by day, year after year. You begin to mourn without even realizing exactly what it is you've lost, the changes occur so slowly. But at some point you know that a gaunt hollow shell has taken over, invaded the life force of the one you love and you are powerless to stop it, though you try and you try. You cling to faded hope that somehow, someway the tunnel of madness will end in light. Tired and weary you pray on your knees that the carousel of hospitalizations, medications, depression and paranoia will cease spinning round and round. Dizzying centrifuge of eroding hope, of "solutions" that never work.


But still, I never thought it would come to this.


Six days ago the phone call came. The burning words of my sister, brand of fury and shock,


" She's dead. She killed herself. She's gone."


The words ring in my ears. Like a wild animal I want to claw at something. Scratch and tear my way free from the gaping wound in the pit of my stomach. Inexplicable feeling of nausea, light-headedness, heart pounding. Shock numbing my brain, rendering me incapable of forming thoughts or words. Like a stranger outside of myself I slam shut the torrent of pain.


I can't fall apart.

Not yet.

Not in front of the kids. I must shield them from this. I will shield my children from this pain. From the lingering haunt of my broken childhood that follows me here, to this place of unspeakable grief. She killed herself. She's gone.


Moments later my husband rushes through the door. He already knows what has happened, sparing me from having to say the words. The words that play on loop in my head, "She's dead. She killed herself. She's gone." My husband takes care of things. Makes the necessary phone calls, whisks kids away so I can be alone.


Alone to grapple with the thoughts of death and of ropes.


She's gone.


I can't cry. It feels so wrong to not cry. Why can't I feel anything? Like a grief-stricken zombie I wander into the backyard. It is dusk. I stare into the darkening woods with the realization that mom is no longer in this world. Gone from this night fall. Gone from this moonrise. How can everything look so normal when nothing is normal anymore? How does the sun still set as if nothing has happened? Birds chirp and merrily search for worms in happy oblivion while I am here in this yard, in these woods while policemen with blue gloves conduct investigations take down mom's body.


My sister and I zombie-walk through the necessary arrangements. There are decisions that need to be made: Casket, flowers, prayer cards, scripture verses. These decisions feel oddly easy. Casket: light wood, cheerful. (Cheerful? Why should anything about this appear cheerful?!) Flower arrangements: Peonies, Mom loved those. (Why should flowers even matter when Mom hadn't thought of gardening for years?!) Prayer cards: Prayer of Saint Francis. (Prayer cards? Where was mom's faith when she decided to give up on life?!) We make decisions to create the illusion of natural, peaceful death while the reality of the situation is anything but peaceful or natural. Mom hung herself. This is the reality. What are we even celebrating here? These questions run through my head, but no answers come. With suicide, the answers never come.


The funeral director discusses obituary and calling hours and I am blunt when I ask about an open casket,

"What about her neck?"


"It depends on what was used: electrical cord, rope, chain-"


"Rope."


"There will be marks, you'll have to cover those. A scarf should do. With this type of death, sometimes the jaw breaks, and there's swelling. But we'll do our best. I haven't seen the body yet."


The body.


Mom is a body.


And the thoughts come. Dark thoughts. Thoughts you can't stop yourself from wondering.


Did she struggle?

Did she change her mind when it was too late?

What were her final thoughts?


More questions without answers.


We go to mom's house to select an outfit, an outfit with a scarf. The house looks like she's still living in it-- as if she had just stepped out for a walk. Bills on the table. Leftovers in the fridge. Laundry hanging to dry.


Hanging.


But there are other things. Strange things. Boobie traps. Scraps of paper with paranoid scrawl. Binoculars by the window.


Oh Mom.


Why couldn't we save you? Why wouldn't you move out when we pleaded with you? Why couldn't you realize the paranoia wasn't real? Why? Why? Why?


We go to the basement, to the spot. There's the lawn chair she used-the one we had sat in at countless family gatherings and picnics. There's a hole in the beam where the hook had been. And there's a shoe. All that is left from this suicidal scene is a lawn chair, a hole and a shoe. Somehow these ordinary household things seem strange to me, as if some foreign items belong in this scene of dark questions without answers. Because you just don't expect something so extraordinary to occur with ordinary household items of lawn chairs and ladder hooks.


We look for clues, for notes, for anything that might give us some answers. We come up mostly short, but we do find a message written on the envelope containing her will. She writes that she wants us to be happy. To live and enjoy our lives. She tells us she will look down on us from above. And she writes something else. A verse from scripture, just two lines,


"O death where is thy victory. O death where is thy sting."


Despite everything my mom endured-the pain, the suffering, the paranoia, the depression, the dissent into madness, she longed for immortality with God. And although I'll never have the answers as to what went through her mind on that fateful day when she took her life, I know she ended it with the full belief that she would see God's face.


And then the tears come. The tidal wave of pain. The gut-wrenching grief over a life wrecked by mental illness, ending in a lawn chair, a hole and a shoe. I cry over the boobie traps and I cry over binoculars. I cry over the loss of hope and the lack of goodbye.


My mother, so beautiful, so loving, so tormented by her own demons. She tried to protect us from her madness our entire lives, but could never quite conceal it fully.


My sister and I cry and we hug and we hold on tight to the memories of who mom was beneath the madness. We hold on tight to the memories of chinese checkers, of county fairs with cowboy hats, of trips to the mall for orange juliuses and greasy pizza. Because that's who mom really was. She was a woman who adored her daughters and adored the happy simple aspects of life. And so we cling to these things and cement them in our minds to keep her alive in our hearts. We cherish these things because that's what mom would've wanted. She'd have wanted us to remember the happy times. And we comfort ourselves with the knowledge of mom's faith. The faith she carried her entire life--the faith she passed along to me. My most cherished gift of all is from my mom.


Though I cling to the happy times, the days of grief are tough. Nights are especially hard. Dark thoughts plague me in the night and I sob into my pillow.

Will mom truly meet God?

Isn't suicide an unforgivable sin?

Will God show her mercy because she was mentally ill?


These thoughts plague me night and day and I cannot escape the worry that Mom is not with God. I need to know in order to make peace with this horrible death. I need to know that she is ok. I need to know so I can be there for my boys who need me. I beg God each night to help me. I pray fervently for Mom's soul. I pray for her soul and I pray for sleep and for peace and for the healing of this gaping wound in my heart.

God hears my prayers. And He answers them.


One week later I dream. I dream the most beautiful dream:


There's Mom and she's in heaven and there's flowering trees and green mountains and she's wearing white and laughing and eating coconut cake at a picnic. She's glowing with joy and she tells me there's no pain. She tells me there's only joy and assures me that life never ended for her. She shows me there was light and peace and she is happier than words can express. She tells me I don't need to miss her because she is always there with me. She wants me to be happy. She looks so amazingly beautiful--the pain of mental illness completely gone from her face. She walks so gayly, so free! My heart sings with gladness and my soul rejoices.


She is with Him!


I awake in such a state of glee. My heart is so light, still basking in her joy. And I know then and there that everything will be ok. Better than ok.


Everything will be amazing.


Only God can take a nightmare and transform it into day. Only God can heal the heart of a broken-hearted daughter. He gives us exactly what we need. He knew I needed that dream, and He gave me that amazing gift. The grace and the love of the Lord knows no bounds. He made the world in 6 days and healed my shattered world in just as many. Nightmare ended, peace restored.


O death where is Thy Victory, O death where is Thy sting?

**********************

Today is the 3 year anniversary of my mother's suicide. I share my story in the hope that it might find someone out there who is mourning, that they, too, might know the peace that the Lord can bring. In the face of unspeakable tragedy there's a wellspring of amazing grace that we can dip into whenever we need it. The Lord gives us that and more. I am eternally grateful for the gift of faith my mother passed to me, the gift that helped me through the tragedy of losing her. I could not have gotten through those darkest hours without His grace and love. Pour your heart out to Him and trust in Him. He will meet you there.

Mom on my wedding day in 2003