Falling forward

Ganma insisted B needed fall accoutrement in her two month picture. 

If you couldn't tell by the brisk 85 degree weather outside here in Georgia, today is the first day of fall. More than any other season, fall always feels like the start of something new to me. Maybe it is because for so many years my life was regulated by the school calendar and now is again as the mother of a student. Or maybe it is because growing up in Coastal Virginia, there always really only felt like there were two seasons (flip flop or boot) the whole year. Regardless the reason, the start of cooler nights and shorter days always invigorates me. Even though the temperatures are falling, somehow the whole world seems warmer and more inviting to me.

Today also marks three years since I last saw my momma before her stroke. Three years since I woke up in the house I grew up, secure in who I was and my role in the world and the safety of it all. Three years since I saw her in her best role - as the Ganma with the shining eyes at the sight of her grandbabies, the loving, gentle hands, the uplifting and encouraging voice.

Fall with her favorites

Molly and Albert would have many more. My daddy another two months. But today marks the start of the end of my story with her. And it is fitting that the first day of fall would be my last day with her. Fall was always our season. She and Molly had spring to talk about plants and flowers and all their green thumb glory while I nodded respectfully. She and Albert were both creatures of the summer growing up, more tolerant of the sun than anyone else, basking in the hot Virginia weather. Fall, though, was ours.

Both of us inherently planners, we spent the weeks with heads bowed over Southern Living and well -thumbed cookbooks, constructing the perfect holiday meals. She planned my birthday with love and care just as I did hers. We both planned and whispered and plotted for my daddy's. We talked mums and craft fairs and each year enabled the other to start decorating "just a few days" earlier. She sent B holiday outfit after holiday outfit, never questioning if there was possibly such a thing as "too many."

Thank you, Pinterest. 

The fall of 2012, I saw her every three weeks despite our being three states away. She came down; we went up. She experienced B's fall firsts and I felt comforted in her presence.

Our last fall together, our trips were scattered and infrequent. There were many reasons for that - both good and bad - but there were no plans for visits from her surprise party in September to Christmas three months later. Though there were no more pictures to be had, no more quiet moments of rocking or enjoying her house while it was still hers, we still had our fall connection. The daily calls and emails and Facetime sessions to discuss what B would be for Halloween and did I love mom's new topiary and where in the world could we find green crystal to match the Christmas china united and bonded us. Little did we know all this planning would not lead up the Christmas and family time we had hoped, but rather to hospitals and condolence cards and immeasurable grief.

Giant fuzzy pumpkin outfit courtesy of Ganma

Two falls have now slipped by since she passed. The first was the obligatory season of checklist grieving. Her first birthday with her gone? Check. First Halloween she won't trick or treat with Molls' kids? Check. First fall acutely feeling her absence every hour of every day? Check. Check. Check. Every day and event felt forced and holiday merriment was manufactured.

The second fall brought the joy and chaos of a new house and a new baby. It also brought the very real new grief of leaving the last house my momma knew me in and visited. Of having a precious child she would never meet or hold. Our lives continued and grew and changed, just as our grief did, the two continuing forward hand in hand.

B's first pumpkin patch

And so now we start our third fall with her gone. The next few months are all marked for me by the lasts. The last package. The last Halloween she oohed and aaaahed over pictures. The last email. The last Facetime. The last. The last. The last. 

But, as in the years before her death, this fall will also be the start of something new. A marked changed in the year for us. B has headed back to school. Baby K grows and develops and changes every day. We head into the most family orientated time of year missing our matriarch but carrying with us her traditions and lessons and memories. I welcome fall this year. And with every falling leaf and wooden decoration, with every pumpkin pie and pecan bar, with every quiet night under a warm blanket sipping hot chocolate, I will think of her. I will feel her love. I will remember all the falls we did share. And for a minute, the cold nights will feel that much more more warm.

Momma's last picture with all her babies. 

There is a time for everything,
    and a season for every activity under the heavens:

2     a time to be born and a time to die,
    a time to plant and a time to uproot,
3     a time to kill and a time to heal,
    a time to tear down and a time to build,
4     a time to weep and a time to laugh,
    a time to mourn and a time to dance,
5     a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
6     a time to search and a time to give up,
    a time to keep and a time to throw away,
7     a time to tear and a time to mend,
    a time to be silent and a time to speak,
8     a time to love and a time to hate,
    a time for war and a time for peace.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Happy Fourth Birthday, My Bonnie Love

     Somewhere between "nothing good happens at this time of night" and "o'dark thirty," last night, two little fingers jabbed me repeatedly in the face. In my half-awake, no contacts haze, I could just make out two big eyes and curls swishing in front of me. The words came tumbling out, in that excited cadence of hers. "MOMMY. AM I FOUR?" she whisper-yelled. "IS TODAY MY BIRTHDAY?"
   
And thus my sweet girl kicked off her fourth birthday much how she spent every day of her threes. With exuberance and a genuine excitement for life. With joy and a desire to share her happiness with those around her. With a strong love of any good party. And with little recognition that most humans need more than a cat nap every night.

     Three, in my mind at least, was the "Year Of All The Changes."

New house.
New church.
New school.
New sister.

But more than all the tangible, external changes in her little world, the big changes in B came this past year. Three was the year she shed those last vestiges of babyhood and fully became a little girl. Pass the Macallan, please.During three, there was a little less snuggling and hand holding during social events and a lot more bravery and friendships and exploring on her own. "I can do it myself" became a running refrain in our house, especially if that "it" was something she had seen a cousin - her role models for kid-hood - do. Less and less did I see her turn her head in music or ballet to make sure I was still there. To connect to home base. More and more, I saw her confidence lead her into a room, excited to be there. Sure in the knowledge that fun lay ahead. 

As she grew taller, she became more self-sufficient and capable. Less often did a little voice call for me to hand something down and more often I saw long legs on the tips of their toes, stretching our little ballerina farther and farther to reach their destination. Occasionally, with that devilish twinkle in her eye, she used this to her advantage. "I am eating the cookie because I could reach it" or "I am coloring with the Sharpie because my hand could touch it" seemed liked perfectly logical excuses for all manners of infractions. More often, she used her growing capabilities for good. I am embarrassed to admit how many times those sweet little hands reached up to fill up a cup of water for me during those awful first months of pregnancy. After the morning sickness finally subsided and Baby K was here, those legs and hands were used for fetching baby sister all the diapers, toys, blankets, and books a newborn could want. B did it not because she was asked but because she instantly fell in love with her baby sister and loved nothing more than to make Baby K laugh.

Three was the year her vocabulary expanded rapidly. A stronger language grasp meant fewer tantrums due to an inability to communicate. On the flip side, however, the larger vocab introduced us to Bargain B. I don't know if it is her eternal optimism or general strong-willed nature, but every plan or comment was up for negotiation in her mind. Three books before bed? How about seven?  Seven is better than three. That would be a good idea. Momma, say it would be a good idea. Say iiiiitttttttt.  

What could I have for breakfast? Not cereal. Not fruit. Maybe something... hmmm... what about something cold? And white? With chocolate chips in it? Maybe ice cream? That could be cold and white with chips. That would be a good idea. 

Her new vocabulary also allowed her heart to shine through more. There wasn't a day that went by that Baby K wasn't told she was the sweetest baby in the whole wide world. Or that B let her Daddy know she was proud of him for emptying the dishwasher. Or that her family makes her heart happy. Sure, sometimes it also meant she told the dogs they were "the worst of ever of everything." And occasionally she told strangers that Baby K's favorite thing to eat was trash and Daddy loved to poop. But mostly, during this year, we heard love and affirmation. Affection, kindness, and a real heart for others constantly poured out of those precious three-year-old lips.


Three was also the year her imagination took off in full force. Every construction site wasn't going to be another Starbucks strip mall. No. It would be a castle, tall and steadfast, flags billowing from the turrets, princesses peeking out of every window. Princesses and Santa and the Easter Bunny were all very real to her this year and filled her with wonderment and glee.  A new imaginary friend appeared in March and now we can't do a thing without her, right there, asking for chocolate or a pony or taking the blame for some wrongdoing. No car trip - no matter how small - is complete without a "puhtend" game of Go Fish or B's animated retelling of a classic story.

Three, of course, was the year B became a big sister. Though I worried about how the sudden arrival of a new little would rock the Queen B's world, she took to it with grace and aplomb. There is nothing that delights her more than helping get baby sister out of the crib in the morning. B is all smiles as she greets her little sister, telling her it will be a wonderful day and that she is so, so loved. B introduces K proudly to everyone we see - even our friends who have met her a million times by now. "This is MY baby sister Katherine. She is a girl. She is the sweetest baby in the whole wide world." Though B may sometimes rage about little sister touching her toys or looking at her books, B is fiercely defensive of K. If B feels that K has been crying too long, we will surely all hear about it - even long after K has been comforted and calmed.

With her new found independence, B also became fiercely aware that she could control (within limits what she wore). Rarely could we leave the house without two dress changes, trying to find the most pink, "most fanciest" thing in her closet. She requested everything have a "BBK" and asked other littles at the park where their monograms were, bless their hearts. We laughed at her insistence that she only visit Kroger in full princess regalia, mainly just so we didn't have to admit we created this clothing monster.

In some ways, three was a hard, hard year in the world around B. A rough pregnancy. The upheaval and complete chaos of suddenly doubling the number of little ones dependent on you. Continued mourning.

But watching B as a three year old was a beautiful thing. It was a joy every day to see her grow and learn. To hear her laugh, easy and unencumbered, pure joy. To feel those hands around my neck for good night snuggles and hear those feet running down the hall to greet me. To see her mind develop and expand. To witness her excitement at a new book or beautiful flower or dog with it's shaggy head outside a neighboring car. To see how easily loving her neighbor comes to her. B hasn't met a soul that she hasn't tried to make family. She showers strangers and friends with love. Much like her own sweet granma, she makes whoever she is with feel like they are the most special person in the world.

Yes, three was a complete joy. Despite the occasional diva comments and #threenager fits, it was a joy. So, we say goodbye to it with a little bit of sadness. A little touch of melancholy that this year - with these moments of innocence and wonder and new adventures- has passed. That another birthday has come without my momma - her ganma - here to celebrate or bear witness to who this little girl is becoming.

But we also say goodbye to three with a lot of excitement and anticipation. Four will surely be another year of growth and love and adventure and pure fun. I am excited to see where four takes you, my darling girl. You are a ray of sunshine that brings more joy than I can ever express. I am so thankful to get to be your momma. Happy birthday, my sweet Bon Bon.

Raising little girls

I saw her before I could hear her. Head slumped forward, curls damp and covering her tear-stained face. As she got closer, I saw her little shoulders heaving with each strained "Momma. Momma. Momma." She crawled into my lap, hugging fiercely onto my neck. Her voice, muffled from being buried into my chest, slowly choked out "She says she is not my best friend. She's not my best friend. She said she has a new best friend."

We had only been at the park for about an hour, meeting one of B's preschool friends -  a girl who B has spoken about with love and reverence since the first day of school. When I have visited the classroom, they have been constant companions - holding hands on the playground, sitting by each other at lunch, hugging goodbye in the carpool lane. Today, though, a third girl was on the playground and suddenly B found herself on the outside of a friendship triangle. And as her heart broke, so did mine.

It is startling to me that already, at the tender age of three, the cliques and friendship ranking has already started. It was just six months ago the babies didn't care who they played with and now we hear frequently about who is "best friends" with whom and how the playground hierarchy fell out that day.

I want to wrap B and her sensitive soul in a bubble. Protect her from the onslaught that is coming. Because if it is like this now... how will middle school be? High school? There is no bubble to be had, though. And I know I can't fight her battles for her. The best I can do is guide her - to be confident in who she is, to love herself, to love others around her even when it is hard.

I wince thinking of all the times I have felt left out or friendless. I spent most of my high school years feeling like a complete misfit, not sure where - if anywhere - I fit in. Girls could be mean and those teenage friendships were often fraught with unnecessary drama. I wince even harder thinking of my role in it all. When I was unkind. Or uninviting. Or unforgiving. I think most women, looking back, will tell you they were both victim and aggressor, they dished it out even though they knew intimately how horrible it was to be on the receiving end.

So now, here I am, 31. With friendships that are decades old, tried and true. And new friends that have battled mommyhood with me, forging our bond in the fire of sleepless nights and teething babies and lost pregnancies and the constantly changing roles of who we are at this stage of life. And I think, for the first time in my life, I feel truly content with who I am and the relationships I have. But every now and then, I feel that awkward little girl creeping back in. Reminding me that not everyone wants to play. Not everyone wants to be my friend. That fundamentally there must be some flaw in me.

And I look at my precious girls and want more for them. I want more than insecurity and self-doubt and cattiness and striving to measure up to self-imposed, ridiculous standards. Every morning we sit in carpool, B and I pray the same prayer together.

Thank you for this beautiful day, for the opportunity to go to school and learn. Please help it to be a wonderful day - for me to learn and have fun. To be safe. And please help me to feel Christ's love and also be an example of Christ's love to others. 

Silently, I pray my own prayer for my girls. That they would learn kindness and compassion far younger than I did. That their skins would be thicker but their hearts bigger. That they live an inclusive life, always being a friend to the friendless. That no matter what comes, they remember they are perfect and loved in the eyes of not only their parents but of their Heavenly Father. That somehow, in some way, as I battle my own tendencies and insecurities, I can be a positive example for them. And that if anyone ever does create a bubble to protect their little hearts, I can be first in line to get one.

On becoming a mother of two.

     Four days after giving birth to Baby K, I found myself in a stifling hot high school choir room. Throngs of little girls in beautiful Christmas ballet costumes paraded by my still bruised and battered body, giggling and twirling as they prepared to go on stage. With strict orders not to lift anything over 20 lbs, a 30 lb toddler I had never met before sat on my hip, crying uncontrollably because she wanted her mom and none of us backstage moms were a worthy substitute. Trying to ignore the overwhelming pressure to either nurse or pump, I absentmindedly joined in the other moms' idle chatter.
Isn't this weather crazy? It is so warm for December. 
Nope, almost finished Christmas shopping but not totally done. 
Oh, I have one other daughter. Her birthday was Tuesday.
- Tuesday? How fun! How old did she turn?
Oh, no. I mean literally she was born on Tuesday. 
...
- You have a four day old? And you are here?
Yep. 
- Girl, you are crazy. 

    And thus began my introduction to being a mom to two. We hadn't even planned on going to the recital, but at the very last minute the mom guilt reared its ugly, unfair, unrelenting head, completely overwhelming me. I found myself packing B into the car and racing to the high school for her three minutes of fame, leaving RB somewhat astonished and dumbfounded, holding baby K and a freshly pumped bottle, still unsure of what had just happened.

     Would B have known she had missed the recital? I doubt it. And even if she had, she would have forgotten it within a week. Did Baby K realize she was asleep in her daddy's arms and not mine? Probably not. And even if she did, his arms are still just as loving and kind as mine. So maybe it was the hormones or maybe the huge shift in our family that was less than a week new, but I felt like I had to go. And also felt a deep sense of shame and regret that I was abandoning Baby K so soon. I was driven to keep B's life as it had been while simultaneously also making sure Baby K was loved and pampered and spoiled only like a newborn can be. Having two - at least for those first two months - felt like constantly having my heart divided.

    Every time I asked B to sing quietly or please just be still so she won't wake baby sister, I felt like I was crushing her spirit. Every time I let Baby K cry that gut wrenching newborn cry because B was in a potty crisis or attempting to climb to death-defying heights, I worried I was permanently damaging her psyche. To my own horror, I could hear myself like a robot - just hold on, just hold on, I am coming, I am coming. To commit the cardinal sins of English majors - it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.


   Maybe I had a little bit of the baby blues - I know I had a lot of the missing my momma blues - but those first few weeks felt like a never ending cycle of guilt and exhaustion and never living up to my own expectations. Even with the world's most supportive husband and three doting grandparents, it felt like I could never be enough to my girls. Someone always needed mommy and most likely both needed me at the same time.

   I over-scheduled to try to keep B entertained and happy. I cancelled everything thinking we just needed down time at home. I made to do lists. I finished nothing. I nursed and changed diapers and found missing princess shoes and rocked two babies at once and kept a running tally in my head of all the ways I had failed that day. I asked more of B and did less for Baby K. I cried out of exhaustion. I prayed for patience.

   And then, one night, with RB at work well past the girls' bedtime, the house a disaster, and the dogs not fed, I found grace through the eyes of a three year old. I was as over-tired as the girls were, stumbling around trying to force my wild child firstborn into bed. It had been a hard night of broken glasses, loose dogs, battered egos, and many tears - both the girls' and mine. Finally, with teeth brushed and books read, we all laid in B's bed. Baby K asleep on my chest, B curled up and hugging my arm as tightly as possible. I asked her what she wanted to pray for that night, bracing myself for the usual litany of obscure blessings - Ariel and Prince Eric, the doggies even though they are bad, ice water. Half asleep already, she whispered softly "For Mommy and Daddy and baby sister. They make my heart happy  every day. I love you Mommy."

     In less than 20 words, the weight of the world lifted off my shoulders. I held back tears and snuggled in deeper under B's quilt, hugging my sweet girl a little tighter. Baby K settled in, touching both me and the big sister she adored. And we all fell asleep there, content with one another, mother and daughters intertwined.

    I woke up the next day and nothing really had changed. There were still meals to be made, books to be read, noses to be wiped, attention to be paid. In the light of the new day, though, it felt different. I allowed myself a little bit of the grace B had given. Grace to realize that it was okay to not be everything to everyone at all times. Grace to understand that this time of extreme neediness would pass. The girls will grow. Our rhythms will settle. This too shall pass. Grace to realize that the most important thing I can give these sweet babies is love - not a perfect house or a Pinterest life or even, on some days, matching socks - but love. Unconditional, unwavering, agape love. The kind of love that makes a three year old's heart happy and a 10 week old coo when she hears your voice. Grace to allow myself to believe that I am enough. Though it rarely feels like it, I am enough. I am their mommy and they are my babies and that is enough.

    It has been a hard two and a half months, but also easily, the sweetest of my life, so full of grace and love undeserved but thankfully and joyfully welcomed. It almost makes me ready for #3. Almost.

 

Passing the Advent Candle

Two weeks after we said goodbye to our momma, Molly and I sat across the kitchen table, dumbfounded and staring at each other. Somehow, we were in charge of Christmas. We had always helped with Christmas and of course organized our own kids' gifts and special events. Christmas, though, was still her domain - the matriarch of the family running the show.

So there we sat, trying to make a list of food to cook through the grief of fog, and we realized we didn't know how to make stuffing. Not a clue. Neither one of us had ever been in charge of it and we had foolishly always thought we had more time to learn from her. With few options, we did what any one would do in 2013... turned to Facebook, snagged a recipe from a cousin, and shouldered on. For the kids. For our dad. For our husbands. That was our first Christmas without her. Our first Christmas as the moms - the only moms - in charge of producing all the Christmas magic.

My sweet daddy has always been involved at Christmas, just as RB has, but moms really run the show. They are the rememberers of your favorite candy for your stocking and which dessert makes which (totally grown up and capable of cooking it on their own) child happy. They are the late nighters who wrap all your gifts to perfection, even if you have reached the age where you know exactly what you are getting, just so you have something beautiful to unwrap come Christmas morning. They are the cheerleaders who remind you that you don't have to do it all to make your children have a valued, memorable Christmas and constantly remind you of the real reason for the day. They are the arms that hug and spoil and cherish your babies just as much - sometimes if not more - than you do. They are the magic makers who somehow make it all seem full of wonder and perfect, even through the burnt turkeys and accidentally wrapped empty boxes.

It is a weighty challenge, this planning a Christmas as a motherless-daughter. It is constantly walking on a tightrope - your heart bursting with love as you see your own babies enjoy the magic of Christmas while simultaneously breaking because your own mom isn't there to witness and enjoy it. Taking on your own role as planner and baker and magic maker while feeling completely unready and unprepared and unfit to fill her shoes. Establishing your own family traditions while honoring those that were carried out so lovingly and faithfully your entire childhood. Loving this new time in your life as you see your own babies grow and flourish while wishing desperately to turn back the clock, even just a few years to have her for one more precious holiday. No matter how old you are or how long she has been gone, I think Christmas is always a little less without your own mom. There is always something slightly wanting.

So to the other motherless-daughters, those who share in the sisterhood of grieving with me, I hope you feel your moms this Christmas every step of the way. That you see her in the ornaments that she so lovingly helped you to hang while you guide your own precious little ones' hands as you decorate. That you remember the long, often hilarious, sometimes trying, hours in the kitchen with her as you see her handwriting in your well-loved cookbooks. That you feel her in the hugs you give your babies as you put them to bed with the same tenderness and love with which she used to tuck you in on Christmas Eve pasts. That you see the pictures of her young and smiling, new babies resting on her hip, and remember that she too had to start somewhere with the magic. 

Merry Christmas to all our friends and family - may the love of the season surround and comfort you all year long. 

On the eve before preschool

My Facebook feed is littered with back to school photos today of our Virginia friends and families sending their little ones off to school. Brand new lunch boxes and shiny smiles, heartfelt messages from the mommas who are both so excited and also a little heartbroken as every year seems to pass a little more quickly.

We have one more day of having a non-school kid. One more day. And then tomorrow morning, which has come all too soon, we will pack our sweet girl up and, with some tears (probably mine) and a lot of excitement (probably mostly her daddy's) start this next chapter in her childhood.

I know, I know. It is just preschool. RB has remarked several times over the past month if I am this dramatic crazy nostalgic about preschool, I will probably need a strong sedative for when B leaves for Charlottesville. And I get it. This is the logical, prescribed next step. For just a few days a week, not far from our house, she will have an opportunity for new friends and learning. She will explore a safe new environment for a few hours and then return home to us.

Clinging to our last days of summer

But selfishly, I am going to miss our lazy mornings in our jammies, curled up in her bed sleepily reading the books of her choosing. Making breakfast together while we sing to the bad dogs and discuss options for the day. Having her in the backseat of the car to talk about the weather, or traffic, or when we drive by the cow pasture. Seeing her face firsthand as she experiences something new. Witnessing all the joy and wonder that is being three. Just sharing in each moment of her little life. During the day, she is mine and I am hers and it has been like that for three magical years that have been nothing short of a gift.

And, also, with the fear of a mother's heart, I wonder what will happen all day. Whose hand will she grab if she is afraid? Or is not feeling well? What if she calls out for me and I am not there? Will it break her heart or mine more?

The truth is, I have full faith in her teachers and their love for children. And though I know she is brave - probably braver at 3 than I am at 30 - she is still a baby. My baby.

I know it is my job to raise her to leave one day. I want her to grow up strong and confident, excited about all that life can offer, hungry to experience this huge, amazing world around her. I want her to taste, feel, learn, and live to the fullest extent possible. So, with a lot of prayer and a little trepidation, tomorrow we will put on our first day of school outfit. We will kiss the bad dogs goodbye. We will head out, ready for this new adventure.

I am pretty sure, when the first day is over, B will hop into the car bursting to tell me about her new friends and show me what arts and craft she completed that day. If it is anything like Sunday School, she will immediately ask when she can go back and catalog all her new friends for me with big eyes and love in her voice. My heart will sore at her confidence and love of this new adventure. Honestly, it will also probably break a little more too as I realize my baby girl is ready for this next step without me and it is just the very beginning of the steps she will take all on her own.

Much love and prayers to all the mommas and babies (no matter how old) starting a new phase this year. "Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying 'This is the way; walk in it.'" - Isaiah 30:21

A Summer Eucharisteo

I woke up this morning to what has now become my 4 am alarm clock. Baby Katherine announces she is done with sleep with energetic kicks and flips, her insistence that the night is done and it is time to start the day scarily matching the fierce intensity with which her big sister will begin the day in just one short hour.

I laid in bed this morning, of all mornings, and gave thanks to God for the healthy life, the wonderful check up she (and I) received yesterday, the growing baby that is just two days short of 26 weeks. When we found out we were expecting last December, I circled this date excitedly in my calendar. August 18th. Baby #2. I back tracked through the months, writing in trimester start and end dates, filling in each week advancement. August 18th. Another summer baby. A baby that would share my brother's birthday. Or maybe RB's mom's.

For the next few weeks, our lives revolved around August 18th. Travel to that wedding? I will be 36 weeks. Nope. By the time RB is 33, he will be a father of two - even if the youngest is just two weeks old. It was always the first thing we told our friends "We are expecting! August 18th!" and the one concrete piece of information we had about the little one.

The pregnancy didn't last, though, and the baby we were planning for was lost. Our lives rerouted once again, I still couldn't erase all my writing on August 18th. It stayed in my planner, circled and in huge letters, the happy anticipation felt in the marks dreamily penciled in months before.

Just two and a half short months later, there we were. Another pink line staring back at us on stick after stick. A new date shaped in our minds. November 26th. A fall baby. The perfect way to celebrate Thanksgiving and a time of year that has become synonymous these past two years with loss and grief.

Those pink lines weren't a replacement for the baby lost. They weren't an instant bandaid over the worry and sorry and heartache from the past few months. But they represented hope. And a second chance. And grace. Grace undeserved and unearned, but welcomed and cherished. They were the start of our very own rainbow baby.

Shortly after my momma's death, a dear family friend sent me Ann Voskamp's book One Thousand Gifts. In the chaos and turmoil of returning back to Georgia, unpacking and resettling our lives in this new normal of my motherless world, I had forgotten about it. Days before the miscarriage, I found it again while looking for Christmas stamps. I read a few pages, entranced by her words and her outlook and her seeking of God in all things. Returning home from the hospital, I threw myself into, finding solace in her writing and her purpose.

"I have lived pain, and my life can tell: I only deepen the wound of the world when I neglect to give thanks for early light dappled through leaves and the heavy perfume of wild roses in early July and the song of crickets on humid nights and the rivers that run and the stars that rise and the rain that falls and all the good things that a good God gives. Why would the world need more anger, more outrage? How does it save the world to reject unabashed joy when it is joy that saves us? Rejecting joy to stand in solidarity with the suffering doesn't rescue the suffering. The converse does. The brave who focus on all things good and all things beautiful and all things true, even in the small, who give thanks for it and discover joy even in the hear and now, they are the change agents who bring fullest Light to all the world. When we lay the soil of our hard lives open to the rain of grace and let joy penetrate our cracked and dry places, let joy soak into our broken skin and deep crevices, life grows. How can this not be the best thing for the world? For us? The clouds open when we mouth thanks.

This thanks for the minute, this is to say the prayer of the most blessed of women about to participate in one of the most transformative events the world has ever known. Mary, which embryonic God Himself filling her womb, exalts in quiet ways 'My soul doth magnify the Lord' (Luke 1:46 KJV).'

So might I; yes, and even here.

Something always comes to fill the empty places. And when I give thanks for the seemingly microscopic, I make a place for God to grow within me. This, this, makes me full, and I 'magnify Him with thanksgiving' (Psalm 69.30 KJV), and God enters the world. What will a life magnify? The world's stress cracks, the grubbiness of a day, all that is wholly wrong and terribly busted? Or God?... I say thanks and I swell with Him, and I swell the world and He stirs me, joy all afoot."

So today, I give thanks. On this August 18th that isn't what we originally planned or hoped or prayed for, I give thanks. For every kick and wave of nausea calming my fears and reminding me that life is beautiful and miraculous. For the smell of the rain and the curls of B's hair as the humidity overtakes her. For the dogs getting further underfoot with each loud clap of thunder and the warmth of our home to wait out the storm. For the baby who gave us so much joy though we never met him. For the ability to draw closer to God and one another with each tear shed. For the grace to even experience today and cherish each minute of this long summer. For a God who is good, all the time. I give thanks and thanks and thanks.

“That which tears open our souls, those holes that splatter our sight, may actually become the thin, open places to see through the mess of this place to the heart-aching beauty beyond. To Him. To the God whom we endlessly crave.”  - Ann Voskamp 

“The practice of giving thanks...eucharisteo...this is the way we practice the presence of God, stay present to His presence, and it is always a practice of the eyes. We don't have to change what we see. Only the way we see.” - Ann Voskamp