I fall asleep counting my blessings

It has been widely acknowledged and repeated to us that 2019 was The Worst Year Ever™. Our friends remind us 2020 is right around the corner and a new year brings new hope and opportunity. We smile. We agree. 2019 was a cacophony of anguish, grief, and blow after blow.

I don’t mind saying goodbye to 2019. I relish it. Not that 2020 will bring in a clean slate or an unburdened heart but just, if only, for the symbolic nature of the rejuvenation and renewal a new year brings.

But I don’t want to forget 2019 entirely. I don’t want to banish it from my memory or the annals of time. Because there was so much good about 2019 I want to carry forward with me. So many moments of joy and love woven in between the moments of despair.

2019 was the year my precious Bonnie crawled into my lap to whisper that she believes the Bible, the promises of Jesus, and wanted to be baptized. It was the year we saw her stand up and testify to our entire church that she wanted to know Jesus, live for Jesus, and love like Jesus for the rest of her days. It was the year I saw her rise from the baptism waters, her eyes big, smile bigger, and knew with complete joy that she was transformed forever.

2019 was never-ending Frozen 2 dance parties with Baby K – long before the movie came out. It was excitement over ever new word Buddy uttered – even though 90% of them were food related. It was long days at the neighborhood pool and short nights ending with babies crawling into our bed, wrapping their little legs around ours.

2019 was finding the right school for Bon and watching her blossom academically and socially. It was seeing her conquer fears in the pool and catching glimpses of who she will be as a young woman. It was seeing Katherine become more compassionate as she mother hen’d both big sister and little brother. It was watching Will test every limit he could, knowing he was confident in the security and comfort of his home - his mischievous smile always looking back at us to check where we were. 

2019 was finding an amazing trainer and losing 40 lbs in between pregnancies. It was being reminded of my own strength – emotionally and physically – and going into 2020 knowing I can do it again.

2019 was my first trip to see the Braves with RB since having Bonnie. It was great seats and amazing catches and hot dogs and over priced beers. And, more importantly, it was feeling like we were finding each other again. It was a lot less discord and a lot more dating. It was comfort and excitement wrapped up in a decade of marriage and life experiences.

2019 – as silly as it sounds – was the year of UVA’s National Championship in basketball and finally taking back the Commonwealth Cup. Because there are few things as joyous and pure as almost everyone from your formative years joined together in excitement, anticipation, and celebration. And, of course, no greater song than “The Good Old Song” sung in Charlottesville as UVA takes not only the game but the Coastal Division from the Hokies.

 

2019 was the extravagant joy of trips to Disney and the theatre and the excitement both bring forth. It was the simple, beautiful joy of books under covers on a freezing morning, dogs' wagging tails greeting you after just venturing to the mailbox, never ending text message chains from friends that cause long, true belly laughs in the middle of the witching hour chaos. It was hot wheels and glitter explosions and little hands clutching beloved dolls on the right and my hand on the left.

2019 was when our friends, family, and church showed us who they were in the most compassionate, kind, and generous ways.  And when the bottom feel out again, they showed up even more with even bigger love.

2019 was the year of small miracles and great grace and being reassured over and over that our God is a mighty, present, never wavering God.

And 2019 was the year that, for a short little time, we were able to physically love on this Earth two precious souls who never made it home with us. 2019 was the year they entered our family and changed our hearts forever and for the better.

So, yes, I am happy to see 2019 go. I am happy to put a symbolic barrier between our current day to day and The Worst Year Ever™. But I go into 2020 with all the beauty that shone through the darkness of 2019 at the forefront of my mind. And tonight, I will fall asleep sleep counting my blessings.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DXKxazgio2s

 

When you don't know how to talk about grief

When Momma died, my grief , though all encompassing, was clear. My mom had died. I was sad. It was a universally understood grief. It was a grief most feared but understood was the natural cycle of life. I could talk about it clearly and succinctly because it made sense and others could relate.

In the months since we delivered Virginia, I have struggled to find the words for this loss I am feeling. A few weeks shy of being clinically a stillborn, it feels almost like I am robbing others of their grief by using the wrong terminology. Yet, a miscarriage somehow feels to not be large enough to hold my grief or describe our time delivering her. And so, when people ask what happened, I stammer around it and fumble over my words feeling helpless to find the right verbiage to both honor her life and express how deeply this has changed our entire family.

Our friends talk of child loss and glance my way nervously, unsure of where I place myself in the bereaved parents column. And I avoid eye contact because I don't know either. Some text me blogposts about grieving parents and talk about hard milestones while others smile with the hope that a pat on the back and repeating "at least you have three healthy ones" will wipe away our sorrow and take away the clouds that seem to constantly hang over our heads. All agree that they don't have "the words," and I nod because neither do I.

My Obgyn, whom I adore, who helped to safely deliver both Baby K and Buddy, who held me while I sobbed after that heartbreaking ultrasound, who I recommend to all my pregnant friends, who stayed with us much longer than needed in the delivery room to offer what comfort she could, told me at my second check up after Virginia's delivery that these "flukes" just happen. And I have never had a rage burn more quickly or more intensely because of one single word. Even my seasoned doctor, it seems, stumbles over words for a late loss. Stillborn nor miscarriage - and certainly not fluke- seem to fit, so I simply repeat that we lost her. As if one day, on this side of Heaven, we might find her again.

As much as I don't have the words to describe what happened, even more so I struggle to find the words as we move forward. It feels disingenuous to answer cheerily with "three!" when people ask me how many babies we have. Every time I have said it since April 10, my heart has hurt with what feels like the heaviest of betrayals hidden in the smallest of words. Three negates Virginia's existence. Denies that she was ever ours, even if just for a moment, or what she means to us. But four. Four violently rips off the lid I have managed to force onto my grief so I can get through the day. It opens me up to hot, uncontrollable tears and awkward moments with strangers who didn't expect the flood of emotion and personal history to follow a seemingly innocuous question. So, I dread the question as the new year begins and we meet new parents at the ball field and school and we all dance through the same "get to know you" routine.

Over and over, I cycle back and forth on the same wave of guilt. Guilt of feeling like the very least I could do is honor her memory in the way I speak of her but, for the first time in my life, finding myself speechless. Guilt in constantly measuring my grief against others' and worrying I am stepping on toes from this weird no-man's land between miscarriage and losing a living child. Guilt of wanting to do nothing but cry and grieve and say Virginia's name over and over as we approach her due date but also the very heavy guilt of knowing how that affects the three babies who wake up each day in this house, bright eyed, full of love, and needing their momma.

And so, as we are just a month out from what should be her due date, I am still speechless. I miss her. I miss all that could have been. I miss my pregnant body and all the hope that it held. And all I can do is cry out - for comfort. For understanding. For peace. And trust that my silent pleas, the wordless aching of my heart, is enough for now.

Hear my cry, O God;
Attend to my prayer.
From the end of the earth I will cry to You,
When my heart is overwhelmed;
Lead me to the rock that is higher than I.

For You have been a shelter for me,
A strong tower from the enemy,
I will abide in Your tabernacle forever,
I will trust in the shelter of Your wings.
- Psalm 61:1-4

Bring your broken heart, and I will bring mine.

Two years ago, Buddy just six weeks old, growing inside of me, Katherine having just turned one, RB and I sat on the couch in our preacher's office. It was just weeks before Christmas and our 8th wedding anniversary. We sat with our backs to one another, our bodies as far apart as possible on the small couch. And as our preacher began to ask us why we were there and what was happening, I hesitated to speak. I was afraid of what would come out... would it be uncontrollable sobbing from months of feeling like we were broken? Would it be more anger and harsh words said only out of hurt and fear? Or, scariest of all, would it just be quiet resignation?

And before either of us spoke, I replayed our relationship in my head. The first carefree days of dating when life was all new experiences and social outings and the freedom only your early 20's can provide. The first years of our marriage when we were setting up house and building a life together and everything seemed to be centered around becoming "The Buchanans." Every time we had seen a positive line on a pregnancy test and felt those first few kicks and then held that precious soul on the day they were born. And all I could think was, "How did we get here? This wasn't supposed to be us. What happened?"

"What happened?" was the first question on all my girlfriends' lips. "What happened?" There was no scandalous story to share. No second family in a different state or Lifetime movie secret hidden past. There wasn't even name calling. What there was, though, was exhaustion. And grief. And over-packed schedules. There were weeks that we didn't get more than 25 hours of sleep total and didn't have time to say more than "Have the kids eaten?" to each other. There were work frustrations and extended family stress and hard pregnancies and a miscarriage. And worst of all, there was score keeping. So much score keeping.

Slowly but surely, it all festered. There would be happy days with the tension right under the surface of every smile and kind word. The hurt from the last fight carried into the most joyful of days. No matter how much sun tried to shine into our house, the clouds wouldn't part.

So there we found ourselves. Newly expecting. Worn down. Scared. As we left, our preacher told us it was our choice. We could fight and save our family or we could find ourselves spending Christmases apart for ever, our family fractured.

We drove home in silence, staring at the Christmas lights slowly piling up around the city. We went home to our warm house with our two precious girls and we played nice while we cooked dinner and did the bed time routine. And then we started fighting. But for the first time in a year, we were fighting for each other and not against each other.

We slowed down and paused when tempers flared. We said we were sorry more and used sarcasm less. We put ourselves first for the first time in years. We stayed home and sheltered in place, doing our best to protect all that we held dear. And we messed up. We backslid. We fell back on bad habits and let pain and fear rule us rather than grace and love. But we kept showing up and fighting for the us we had been and the us we could still be.

And now, two years later, we celebrate our 10th anniversary. Not with the big party we had initially planned or the trip we planned as a back up, because life and kid and jobs. We do, though, celebrate with probably the most happiness of any of our anniversaries since the day we were married. We celebrate with the hope and excitement of our 20's combined with the comfort of our 30's. We celebrate with a house full of precious babies who give us a reason to keep fighting. We celebrate with thankful hearts for the friends who encouraged us, the family who loved us, and the very big God who taught us grace and unconditional love. We celebrate these ten years for every peak and valley that has brought us here today. Happy anniversary, RB. Thank you for loving me fiercely through the good and the bad. I know the best is still ahead.

Beloved, let us love one another, for love is of God; and everyone who loves is
born of God and knows God.

1 John 4.7

Intentional

Last January, our pastor called us to write our word for the year on a rock - a way to visualize what we wanted for the year ahead. I sat in my chair and tried to focus on what my word should be for 2018 but couldn't stop thinking about 2017. Drowning, I thought to myself. That was my word for 2017. I was drowning under a sick baby and two other littles that were healthy but still needed love and attention. I was drowning under a busy work schedule, financial insecurity, two misbehaving dogs and not enough sleep. I was drowning under the realistic expectations of being a mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend and the very unrealistic expectations I placed on myself in areas that were wholly unimportant.

And I pictured the year ahead - how 2018 would play out - and I thought I don't need a word. I need a live-in maid. And a better organization system for toys. And a to-do list that can actually be finished. I need every trick Pinterest can give me to a less stressful, less cluttered, more organized life. No, I don't need a word. I need a tangible tool.

So, I started 2018 with all the tools I thought would help me be the me I wanted to be. Would organize my life. Take out the stress. Be a good example for my kids.

Almost immediately, I learned that there is no tool that can do this. Sure, there were tricks that could make our mornings easier and decluttering that gave us a sense of serenity. But that drowning feeling kept creeping back in. There was never enough time. There were never enough hands. There was always someone needing something. Drowning. We were drowning again.

So the second half of 2018, RB and I raised the white flag. We looked around at the chaos - both literal and figurative - and realized that something had to give. We slowed down. We carved out time for us and for the kids. We learned how to say no to outside obligations and realized we didn't need fulfillment by constantly being on the go.

Christmas 2018 was our best yet as a family. It was a quieter season than those in the past. We stayed in more and snuggled and played games and didn't feel pressured to have an Instagram worthy event every moment of every weekend. It was perfection, even if Bonnie's melancholy about the lack of snow was very evident.

So, a year after fidgeting in my seat, I sat in our church and listed to our pastor talk about Fresh Starts - about the start we get at the beginning of every year but, more importantly, about the fresh start we get every day through Jesus. And again, he asked us to pick a word. To write it on the rock. To live it this year.

And my heart sang out "intentional." No, I don't want to drown anymore. I want to fly - and the only way I will do that is through intentional living.

I want to be intentional in my relationships with my children. These years are speeding by and I want to make sure the time spent with them is quality time. No, this doesn't mean each day is a huge undertaking or adventure. It does mean, though, that the time with them is quality time - where they know they are loved and heard and their company cherished. I want to be fiercely protective of my time with them so they never think they come second place to errands or phone calls or other temporary and feeling responsibilities.

I want to be intentional in my marriage. As we quickly approach our ten year anniversary, I want to purposefully pour and invest in this relationship. I want to be intentional in my words - not just spout to do lists or quick hellos at the door as we pass off kids. I want to be intentional in telling RB how loved and appreciated he is. As I covet my time with our children, I covet my time with him and want to remember throughout the year that this family that I cherish so much first started because two crazy kids fell in love.

I want to be intentional in all other relationships - both in the love and energy I invest in them and the experiences they pour back in to my life. As iron sharpens iron, I want to continue to surround myself with people who fill my heart with joy, who I value my children getting to know, and who I appreciate are willing to tell me the hard truths when I least want to hear them. At the same time, I want to intentionally be this kind of friend to those I hold so dear.

I want to be intentional with my time and realize it is one of the most precious gifts I have. It is limited and fleeting and I don't want to spend it on things that won't matter in six months or five years.

I want to be intentional in my relationship with Jesus - let His words wash over me even when I am not in the structured setting of Sunday services. I want to intentionally and truly say, probably for the first time in my adult life, "Here I am, Lord, send me."

I want to be intentional with what I bring in to my home. Is it stuff just for the sake of stuff? Does it add to the chaos or is it actually valued and appreciated? Where will it even be in half a year? And - most importantly - is it worth the cost or could that money better be spent building a legacy for my family or helping those in our community who need it the most?

I want to sit in my church at the start of 2020 and be able to say that I spent the year intentionally living. I want the year to reflect a life that is structured around intentionally loving God with all my heart, mind, body, and soul and loving others as I love myself.

The to-do lists, the organization tricks, the planning and overplanning - they are all conceived to try to give me freedom and time. I want to end the year knowing that instead of trying to constantly restructure my life to make it all fit, I focused on those things that are most important and lived a year that truly reflected an intentional life.

I am still open to the live-in maid, though.