Movement

 It is 1:45 AM. I am up nursing my sweet three month old baby and I want to write. 

Last night while Blair was snuggling Ana and I was with the big kids encouraging them to pick up Ellie asked me if I would read more of our big chapter book to them. 

After a long day of co-op, dinner, little girls…I didn’t want to if I’m being honest. I told Ellie that. 

“Ellie I’m tired tonight I still have to clean the kitchen and try to get some sleep before Daisy wakes up and fold that last basket of laundry.” 

My seven year casually says, “can’t you make Daddy do it?” 

I said “Well Ellie I don’t *make* Daddy *do* anything. I ask for his help and he helps me because we’re a team and we love each other. But some days Daddy is even more tired than Mama.”

Then we talked about wirk and why Blair goes to work. Every now and again my kids do this, they get sad Blair can’t be home with us and mention that they wish he could be home. When that happens, I like to remind them *why* Blair goes to work. 

Them. He works because he loves them. He makes sure we can pay our bills because he loves us. 

Usually then the conversation shifts to what I do to show them I love them. I mention clean laundry, food made, hush when they’re hurt, or even just that I wake up some days when id rather not. 

Or I read an entire chapter sitting on their floor watching Ellie inch closer and closer to me because she so invested in what we’re reading. 

Motherhood, parenthood, is so messy and requires so much Grace. And so much action. It’s an *active* love. 

I thought about that today when at co-op my friend got up and went across the room to help a two year old who was just so excited to play with friends, but was so excited right when we were trying to eat our lunches. I’m a “yell across the room” type of Mama but after being friends with her, watching her connect physical and take action to discipline or distract I’ve adopted some of her ways. 

To change the behaviors it took action. Movement. Physically getting up and DOING. 

Lately one of my best friends has mentioned that she is not good at waiting, but wants to be doing something while waiting. Or taking steps forward while waiting. She has so much love to give…that love seeks action. Movement. 

As I sit here in the quiet listening to this three month guzzle and snuffle and curl into me, as I hear the low hum of the still going ac unit and Blairs feet shifting in his blanket, I am just so thankful for the way love manifests and moves. 

I think for the past five years I have, overall, felt so paralyzed by so much. Heart surgeries, medications, a colicky baby, brain cancer, death…I have been non-stop flight or fight for nearly five years. More if I’m being honest. 

I have been brought to my knees in grief over the loss of my babies. I have begged God to let Dean live. And I watched my Daddy slowly and painfully, die. I watched my best friend in shock over getting the news no one, ever, wants to get and I have marveled at her as she has done the hard work of grief. 

Watching her made me realize how much of my own grief I have tampered down. 

For the first time in six years I realized I can’t get through these struggles without more professional help. The anxiety that manifests as rage, the tensing of my shoulders, the sheer panic I feel knowing I have to leave my house (even when I’m doing things I love), the way I’ve made my lip bleed biting it when I’m angry…it’s not good. 

So I put actions to me saying “I’m trying.”

Trying means I sought actual medical help. Trying means I step away when I get irrational. Trying means I let go of what in”should” do in favor of what I “could” do. Trying means we pick nurturing our kiddos hearts over yelling about things needing to be cleaned. Trying means I say yes to one more chapter and I go to bed when the kids go to bed to make sure I’m getting *as much* adequate sleep as I can. 

Trying means I start taking a medication for anxiety. Trying means talking to a therapist. 

Love means I don’t stay in this place in my mind anymore. It means I get help. 

It means movement. 

Record Keeping

I’m not honestly a good writer. I tend to get lost in my thoughts a lot and finding a quiet moment around here these days pretty much doesn’t exist. I’m also the worst at grammar (god bless my homeschooled children) but, I do love to write. 

There is something so special about taking a moment to actually record things. Thoughts, memories, the sound Ana makes outside my window when she’s screaming at one of her siblings. There are so many things I would have forgotten if I hadn’t written them down. 

All day I have been thinking about what I want to write today. I got the itch and it must be honored. 

I worry though about how insignificant my life must seem. I write for mostly myself and a handful of good friends who are willing to read, but this will never make money, it will never go viral, no one will pin this on Pinterest. 

And why should they? I’m offering no advice here, just an observation of my own life. Mostly to just make my own brain feel less cluttered. Just as I declutter my house at times my mind clutter must be cleared. 

Daisy is over a month old now, nearly two months. She is by far the easiest baby I have ever had, or maybe we’re just better parents, filled with more grace. Maybe I’m a different mom because I know I never am doing this again. 

And I am, never doing this again. Steps have been taken. 

Even saying that feels weird. Because we got a lot of feedback. Some positive some negative. Lots of opinions. Lots and lots. And that’s ok, I don’t mind them. Especially when I know we did the right thing for us as a family. 

I don’t think I’ve actually felt like myself for two years…plus some change. Ana had a really tough newborn stage, and once she got out of it, Daddy was sick and then there was death and death and death and another pregnancy. 

I’m not always so sure who I’m looking at when I look in the mirror some days. I just feel like a small fraction of Maddie. 

This feeling comes and goes. It’s not constant which is why it feels so strange to even entertain it. I often remind that person in the mirror how good she is actually doing given the pregnancies, trauma, heartache, and grief she has endured. There are times when the heart can’t convince the brain of the truth, and times when the brain can’t tamp down the feelings of the heart. 

It could just be the week I’m entering. Tomorrow, if my Dad were still alive, we’d be celebrating his 60th birthday. He’s dead though. And the idea of what we could have done to celebrate as a family has taken residence in the back of all my thoughts. 

We kept busy all weekend, but eventually things slow down, or there is a catalyst, or the baby wakes up SUPER early and you haven’t slept well which sort of skews all your thoughts. Maybe that right there is the catalyst…

See I’ve been thinking about all the thoughts I’ve had stored up in my head since Daisy has been born. Some are hilarious, some make me sad, and some just need to take a hike so I can carry on with my life. 

Most of the time I look around at this life I’ve created and love it. I love the chaos and the loud and the hard and the teaching and stretching that Motherhood demands from me. There are many other days however, where I make it to the end of the night, look around and wonder, what the hell happened? 

Those are the nights when the dishes don’t get done and the laundry baskets mock me and the dirty kitchen floor laughs at me while I shuffle around in my slippers. Those are the nights the baby doesn’t want any one but me and her siblings are too loud for me to be able to put her down. Those are the nights when sheer exhaustion defeats me and we pile in my bed for a show while I nurse the baby and beg the big kids to be still. 

By 8 o’clock if the kids are in bed, I am too. Laundry and dishes and dirty floors forgotten in favor of crawling into my bed. 

Daisy gives me the best stretch of sleep first thing. So from 8/8:30 until about 1/1:30, I get sweet blessed sleep. From 1:30 on though, it’s touch and go. I never know if she’ll sleep well in the early mornings or if I’ll be up on and off with her. The person I am when I don’t sleep well is not a person anyone should meet. 

Yet my husband and kids meet that person daily. Ellie has reminded me what we “used to” do, the park, Mimi’s pool,  play dates. I remind myself comparison is the thief of joy and turn my phone off  

There’s so much good here in this house too. Ellie drawing the Mystery Gang, her drawing of Scooby Doo honestly blew me away and I think she’s an absolute genius. Dean with his worn out graphic novels, following the words with his fingers. Ana with her scrunchy nose demanding to hold “my Daisy”, the way this sweet baby loves to be around people and loves her biggest sister…I don’t know what I’d do without Eleanor. She’s my “secret weapon” on the hard days. 

I see all these silly things I do post-partum that I’ve done with all the kids. For example, do you know that scene in Finding Nemo where Nemo is in the fish tank? And the other fish decide to initiate him? They come up wearing their leaves going “wah-he-ha-he-ha-oh-oh-oh-oh”….I burp my babies to that pattern. I have with every single one of them. I play a mental game with myself where, when I throw dirty diapers to the trash can, if I make it, it means we will have a good day and if I don’t I mutter under my breath about how the day is just shot for good now. 

I remember these things right now because they are silly and get me through these long days. The weight of motherhood and nurturing and teaching and organizing it pulls me down some days. Then other days it reminds me of who I was and who I have become. 

The duality of emotions has always fascinated me. Our capacity to feel so many things all at once, knowing that what we say and think might sound like one emotion yet be because of a different emotion. 

My capacity to both love and hate these long days, chaotic noises, and constant need for slippers because the floor never does stay swept, continues to surprise me. 

So the record keeping continues. Even if it takes me days or weeks to finish one blog post, I always seem to come back to it. Each time trying to finish a different thought or wrap up what I’ve been thinking. 

I think I can safely finish this particular rambling up with this: Motherhood has both brought out the best and worst in me and I continue to let it shape and mold me. Keeping these records of both the hard and the easy, the joy and the frustration all paint a beautiful picture. 

One I do not, ever, want to forget. 

Daisy’s Birth Story

 It’s always been important to me to record important things. Writing things out helps me process them, it’s why I wrote so much when Dean was born, it’s why I tried so hard to write when my Dad was diagnosed. 

It’s why I don’t want to wait too long to write out Daisy’s birth story. There’s so much…just like there always is. The entire time I was pregnant with her I kept reminding myself each story is different, just as each baby is different. I knew too, this one would be incredibly different. 

Finding out a week after Daddy died that I was pregnant again made me angry. I was already grieving and now I had to keep myself from sinking into a dark place of hurt and loss. Pregnancy is already hard for me…add in occasionally needing to stop and sob because a smell, a memory, or a text reminding me Daddy wasn’t here…the next 40 weeks felt daunting. 

From the start I just kept telling Blair, I don’t want to do this again. Usually the thought of labor excited me, it meant the end of the constant nausea and throwing up! I couldn’t envision the end this time though…and I knew the work I needed to do to prepare my heart and mind for this baby’s arrival would take work. I was already tired…

July 22 I was 41 weeks pregnant according to ultrasound dates. My mom had been living with us since July 2, and I felt like we were taking advantage of her love and support. Why was she even here if I wasn’t even in labor? Every night she would say “text me if you need me” and I’d think “I’m never having this baby I’ll never need to text you.” I went to bed feeling defeated and huge and frustrated and exhausted. I would pray and beg God to let labor start. Every. Single. Night. 

We made an appointment for a post dates ultrasound, made plans to see our midwife and talk about labor stimulation, I avoided people and I cried a lot in the shower. I went to bed Wednesday night feeling “off”, I could not even tell you why or how, I just didn’t feel good and I wanted to be in bed. Even though I figured it was nothing I made sure my midwife knew and I crawled into bed. 

Around three AM I woke up and had a few contractions. Good ones, strong ones, but nothing consistent. I took a shower and prayed…and cried. Woke Blair up because I was breathing deeply through some of these and he decided not to go to work. We tried to time a few, but nothing was consistent. I decided to go back to bed, I was convinced these were not real. 

We got out of bed and came down the stairs in the morning, got the kids fed and talked to my Mom. Had a few more contractions, was in touch with my midwife. I couldn’t fathom an hour long car ride to this appointment with these contractions, so we cancelled it. 

I sat on our living room floor with a cheap henna kit and doodled on my belly. I did some on each of my kids too. We watched Balto and I laughed at the stupid goose. I kept praying the contractions would become more consistent and for the right time to call my people. 

I have this terrible fear of wasting peoples time. I couldn’t stand the thought of asking my midwife, photographer and best friend, and my other people to come to my house, set it all up, only for my labor to stop, again, and need to send everyone home while I was left to look at birth supplies we once again wouldn’t use yet…

My midwife kept texting me and reminding me I was not an inconvenience. She would come a 100 times if I needed or wanted her there. I think, at some point after 12:30, I decided maybe we should mobilize the troops. 

I have no concept of when people actually got here. Of what time Blair set up our birthing tub in the living room. I remember squatting and feeling these long hard strong contractions but still being convinced it wasn’t real and trying so hard to rest whenever I could. 

I remember hiding in the kitchen bouncing on my birth ball talking to Blair and asking everyone else to leave me alone. I remember hiding in the bathroom, praying my water would break ir even that I would lose my mucus plug. I remember my midwife checking me and telling me I *had* dilated more and that my body *was* working. 

I remember my friend Amber coming. Amber who six years ago on July 22 gave birth and then said goodbye to her son Tucker. She helped distract Ellie and Ana. Dean had gone for a play date with a friend (who is now a best friend and locked in for life!) who has three boys, it was a special thing just for him. Ellie played on the switch for a while before being picked up by Chelsea, she insisted she didn’t want to spend the night and made sure she would be coming back. Ana stayed home with us all day. Blair went to put her down for a nap while I continued to labor. 

We rocked and sat and watched my favorite episode of Archer. We laughed and talked and did belly lifts to encourage baby girl to get on my cervix. I listened to music and the Christian Hypnobirthing app. I did my best to breathe deeply. 

Then I felt just this well spring of emotion, right under the surface…and I knew I needed to listen to *that* song. At Daddy’s service we sang O Come To The Alter. For months after his death I couldn’t listen to it. One day though it came on the radio and the lyrics “bring your sorrows and trade them for joy/from the ashes a new life is born” resonated down to my soul. 

This was the work I’d been avoiding. The trading. The recognizing. The acknowledgement that though my Dad was gone, God had given us a beautiful new life to love. I rocked as I felt the contractions and cried. My mom gently touched my arm. I just let myself, in that moment, say goodbye to my Dad and hello to our baby. 

I don’t know what time, but I asked Natasha to come do a check for me. I made it up the stairs and laid on our bed. She checked, didn’t say anything, but told me to rest. I laid and felt more contractions. Then I heard people coming up the stairs saying “She can get mad at me, I don’t care, it’s not like she can catch me if I run anyways.” 

My best friend of ten plus years came into my room with her camera and a big smile. Our friend Amber, who somehow ended up being an intricate part of this story, also came into my room. Amanda said “Babe.  You’re 8 cm dilated. You have to get up and get moving. It’s turns to walk and get this baby out, let’s go.” 

I remember being simultaneously so annoyed, amused, and scared out of my mind. 

And then, I knew I needed to call my big brother. 

I sat on the side of my bed with heavy contractions, tears on my face, looking absolutely insane, and Facetimed my brother. He reminds me so much of my Daddy. His voice sounds like Daddy’s. I told him I didn’t want to do it. I told him I didn’t want to have a baby that doesn’t meet Daddy. 

And he told me I had to. That he was praying for me. That it was time. That he loved me, that Daddy loved me, that I could do it. 

I made my way downstairs where I rocked, walked, and prayed. I stood on our back deck while Ana played outside and I worshipped. I asked God to help me surrender to this. When I came back inside Natasha checked baby’s heartbeat. It was a little fast for her liking. I told her I wanted in the tub and she warned me if baby’s heartbeat didn’t come back down I’d have to get back out. But I knew it would. I knew she would like the water. 

Immediately when I got in the water I felt huge surges. The contractions were intense. I was very vocal. I kept moving around, changing positions. Ana kept circling the tub, calm and happy as could be. She was never scared of what was happening. 

Between contractions I did my best to just let go and be lose. I kept drinking water, holding onto the sides, I could feel her moving down. I kept telling her to move down, I kept trusting to say yes. Natasha’s birth assistant asked if she could pray for me. She spoke a beautiful prayer over me and baby, even while I vocalized through more contractions…I figured Jesus would understand. 

At one point between contractions when my body was resting, Natasha told me a beautiful story about her own Dad who she had recently lost. We laughed with her at his antics…joked about the number of kids families chose to have. It felt like his spirit was there with us too. 

It was such an interesting and strange experience, the amount of grief and joy surrounding this baby’s birth. Even as I write her story there are so many mentions of death. I grieved my father and my kids godfather, thinking of them both often while working to bring her here. My friend Amber grieving and missing her son Tucker. My midwife missing her own Father…all these men who weren’t here with us, waiting for phone calls of “Maddie had the baby” or waiting for a Mama to come home. They all were well loved and welcome into my space as I continued to work. 

Natasha and I talked about my cervical lip. She told me she could push it back, she had with Ana, but that it would be intense. I said yes, let’s try that. For a couple of contractions she pushed that lip back and I bore down hard with each contraction. It was incredibly intense. I was still waiting for my water to break or even to lose my plug. 

Natasha got my cervix back far enough she thought I could do it on my own. I remember leaning forward and feeling that pop and I said “my water finally broke!” At the same time I started losing more of mucus plug. 

I kept laboring. Resting between contractions. Bearing down with them. I was very tired and very ready to be done. Natasha did one more check and told me “Maddie the lip slipped back. This next contraction I do NOT want you to push.” THAT was HARD. A contraction came soon and goodness yes I wanted to bear down. Natasha kept me focused on her telling me to breathe and “blow me away Maddie, blow me away”…after it ended, Natasha said “I think I need to get you out of the water and see if I can push that lip back. We can stay here by the water and get back in if you want to, or we can go upstairs, it’s up to you.”

I knew, I knew if I got upstairs I wouldn’t be having this baby in the water, like I’d wanted. I knew I might not be able to catch her, like I’d wanted. But I also knew I was tired. And I knew I needed to be done. 

“Let’s go upstairs.” I said. 

Movement and chaos and everyone was in motion. I stood up and I just knew I had to get up to our room, quickly. I beelined it man. I don’t remember anything else except concentrating on getting ip the stairs. Natasha and Blair came with me, the team and everyone else followed, Ana was still here and watching everything. 

Once we got to our room things happened very quickly. Blair sat at the bottom of our bed and I grabbed onto him and told him not to move, he said “Don’t worry I’m not going anywhere. I’m stuck here.” I felt activity behind me and heard Natasha say “I can’t I have sterile gloves”…I’m not sure why my mind picked up on that one sentence from her. Maybe it’s because I knew it meant she thought I would have this baby soon. I got down on my knees, felt my midwife behind me, and cling to Blair as if I was falling off a cliff. 

I remember Natasha pushing my cervical lip down and hearing her to tell me to push down onto her fingers. And it just took all of me to bring my baby here. I bore down and tried still to breathe deeply, knowing she and I needed the oxygen. I could tell it was working. I knew I was so close. 

I always wished I was one of these women who peacefully breathed my baby into the world. Those videos always look so calming to me. It’s not how I birth my babies though. 

I roar them here. It’s a deep guttural sound from the bottom of my toes. It feels primal and otherworldly. 

I heard Natasha tell me to put one leg up, she knew was Ana’s birth weight had been and was worried I was going to be birthing a larger baby. She told me later she was worried about shoulder dysctocia and wanted to be preventative. But. Once Daisy was crowning, and I felt that tell tale ring of fire, I did something I’ve never done before.

I reached down and felt my baby. 

I could feel her hair and her head. I could feel myself stretch. I knew she was nearly here. I knew I needed to take my time and give my body a moment to accommodate her. 

The next thing I knew I was pushing her all the way out and I heard my midwife say, “Maddie reach down and catch your baby.” 

And I did. 

I caught that slippery just born little baby in my hands, rocked back onto my heels, went to sit back and heard “the cord snapped”….

I looked down and realized Daisy’s cord wasn’t attached to my placenta and it was bleeding freely. There was so much blood. I knew, somewhere in my mind, in my relief that I had finally gotten her out of me, that this wasn’t that great. It wasn’t an emergency yet, but it did need to be addressed and quickly. 

I saw Natasha clamp her cord and felt her reach in me to find the other part of it. I never once felt like I or Daisy were not safe. 

In those first moments after birthing your baby, there’s so much that happens that you hardly ever know about. Conversations, people, activity…it all happens around you while you are just inexplicably obsessed with the tiny human you are hopefully holding in your hands. 

I kept saying hello and rubbing her messy little head. She looked so much like Dean and I was so relieved she was finally here. I was finally done. 

My last pregnancy was finally over. 

As we moved to our bed where I was massaged, cleaned up, cared for, and cuddled, Blair and I just looked at this little girl. Our third summer baby. These Jaques girls and their little noses. The absolute miracle of what I had just accomplished. Laying on my bed surrounded by my Mother, by my two year old (who witnessed every part of this birth), my best friends, my midwife and her team…by my husband…it was just such an amazing experience once again. 

Four babies. My body had nurtured and carried to term four babies. And I have been able to birth all four naturally. To feel each one of them pass into this world from somewhere secrete and sacred. This…this holy work that I partnered with God to accomplish. 

After so much grief and heartache this year…after so much loss, here in my arms was life. 

Daisy Rebekah Lee. Daisy like sunshine and spring and coming out of dark places. Rebekah because the Bible tells us what a comfort she was to Isaac after his mother’s death. Leaning into this tiny beautiful girl being a comfort and a joy to so many. Lee for John. John Lee Cunningham. A goddaughter named after him. I hope she gets his joy for service, his unwavering love for the Lord. I will always be able to tell her about her Uncle John, and how much he LOVED her. 

Experiencing grief and love and birth this way was an all new sensation. Frequently those who had been grieved were brought up during Daisy’s birthday. We cried listening to Daddy’s song. I texted Katharine in tears missing John. My sweet friend Amber quietly talking to her son Tucker. My beautiful human midwife telling me the sweetest story about her own recently passed Dad. 

These stories are entwined now forever with my sweet Daisy. Her birth helped me close another chapter of my own grief. And brought me so much joy. 

Don’t misunderstand me either, I think I’ve cried once a day since she’s been born because my Dad isn’t here to meet her. Or because Uncle John isn’t here accidentally breaking something and then fixing it like when Ana was born. The memories and desire to see their faces and show them this precious girl are still there. They always will be. 

But I am in awe of the story God wrote for this sweet girl. In awe of what my body is capable of. 

And so. So in love. 

After her birth my Mother being the amazing woman she is, jumped right into clean up mode and laundry and made me the most glorious breakfast bagel of my life. Ellie came home and was just enamored with her new baby sister. Dean came home and sang to her. We ended the night with all four of my babies cuddled up on my big bed, while I nursed Daisy, and read a chapter of the BFG to the big kids. It was beautiful. Absolutely just beautiful. 

Daisy Rebekah Lee, July 22. 2021, 8 pounds 6 ounces, born at home at 7:29 pm. 

So Will I

 Today I woke up thinking what I think almost every day, “Is today the day our baby comes?” 

As I was thinking about this in my day to day I suddenly realized why this feeling feels so incredibly familiar to me…

Waiting for someone who you know is going to be born…is the same feeling as waiting for someone who you know is going to die.  

For weeks every day I woke up wondering “Is this the day Mommy calls me to tell me Daddy has died?” Until she finally did call me…and I felt the world shake. 

The waiting, the knowledge that it’s coming…it messes with your head. I don’t want to wish these last days away. I know this is the last baby I carry and I know she completes our family. My mind and body are exhausted. I feel like I am somehow letting people down by not showing this picture of this beautiful baby girl who is on the outside of me instead of the inside. 

Every day I wake up and read an affirmation that “Gods Timing is Perfect”. My brain doesn’t believe it, but my heart does. 

In my brain I am angry at Gods timing I am angry that Daddy isn’t here for the not one but two grandchildren he’s not holding. I am angry that he’s not trying to convince me to come to the house or that he’s not asking “When you gonna have that baby?” I am angry that only a week after he died I found out about this pregnancy. I am angry that I carried grief and life all at once. I am angry that He took my kids Godfather from them…I am angry that my son is struggling as much as he is because two of the most important men in his life are gone. 

And all this anger does nothing but paralyze me. I know it’s not worth my time. 

As I wait for our baby I just think about the days I was waiting for my Daddy to die. The unknowing.  The suspense. Every text and phone call striking a sense of panic in my heart…all over again. 

Once again I’m drawn to the song “So Will I (100 Billion X)”…the lyric “If you left the grave behind you so will I…”

I have felt Death the whole 39 and a half weeks I have been pregnant. Not just my Daddy’s death…but others. It’s hit me harder. Made me weak in the knees. I have cried more. It knocks me out and for the day, I’m just done. My mind can now understand the pain and anguish you feel and I cannot brush past it. 

The end of this pregnancy…means…

Life. And Joy. And. Mercy. Peace. It means…there’s not just death in this world. 

She doesn’t erase the past nine months. She doesn’t stop me from missing these men who have meant so much to me, but she signifies a new chapter. And I desperately need a new Chapter. It will never stop my heart from hurting over these losses, but it will help me close out a chapter I have hung onto for a while. 

I wake every morning and go to bed every evening wondering if today is my baby’s birthday. And it reminds me every day about my Daddy and his life. 

Life and Death…that juxtaposition. We all think about it. But I feel I have had a unique experience to see both play out in such an interesting and heartbreaking way. 

Either way, I’ve been thinking…both can be a gift. 

My Daddy’s body hurt and his death meant Heaven, a gift from the Lord. Just like this baby is a gift from the Lord, a burst of sunshine after a storm. Death and Life are both a gift. 

Jesus left the grave behind Him. 

So will I. 

A Hug

 More than anything, you taught me to love Jesus. 

I know you didn’t do it well and oh man did you ever fail sometimes. Your heart was in the right place though, I always saw that. 

Your Bible sits on my shelf where I can see it every day. It’s falling apart, the mark of a well loved book. 

It hurt today not being able to call you or send a Polo or a goofy meme. It hurt missing your voice. It hurt that you weren’t with one of us, grilling things and convincing Mama to make you some sort of dessert. You would have wanted us to bring the kids over, you always wanted us to bring the kids over. 

Grief feels heavier today. It threatened me to drown me. Honestly planning a party kept me afloat but here now, in the winding down of the day, I miss you. Baby is rolling and kicking and Ana is asleep and I miss you. 

I hurt for those hurting. I hurt for the tidal waves of grief that feel like blow after blow after blow. Sudden death or long drawn out death, it doesn’t matter. Absences makes itself known.  

I know Heaven is better. I know they wouldn’t chose to come back given the choice. What I know and what I feel though are still disconnected...the thread is thin, it threatens to snap. 

And I feel...over all of it, even in all of it, the love of my Father. My Heavenly Father. The one my Daddy turned to and prayed to and loved. I feel His strength carrying me. I feel able to put one foot in front of the other to deal with every mundane task that felt insurmountable. I saw His love in the swept kitchen floor and food that got put quietly away. In friends and their fellowship and baked cupcakes and community, in the way we were quietly loved. 

The older I get the more I see the different ways God shows His love to us. It’s not always loud and miraculous. It’s not always a big story. 

It’s day to day life. Small sacrifices. Friends who bring other little girls to birthday parties. Men who make a point to befriend my husband. Sitting in the deep grief with a friend. A text. A phone call. 

Daddy’s love was so amazing and life changing because I know he loved the Lord. Today I got to see that love woven tightly into my everyday life. 

It felt like a hug. It felt like he was here with me still. 

None of it took away the sting of death, but it did lessen the blow. 

That’s the legacy my Daddy left me. 

Thoughts on Leaving

 I left all of it. 

The clean dishes in the dishwasher, the dirty dishes, the messy table, the unwashed kitchen floors, the two loads of laundry waiting to be folded, the laundry in the basement waiting to be dried, the stencils scattered on my art desk from today’s lesson, all of it. I left it  

And I crawled into bed. 

I write from under my gray blanket, my babies all safe and tucked away, already with heavy eyes from a busy day. The extra window unit hums loudly lulling me to sleep. My hardworking and loving husband also already asleep. 

It is 8:19, and I will follow them to sleep soon. 

There is a time when self care is cleaning the kitchen. Or folding the laundry. Or stepping into a hot shower. Then there is a time when self care is recognizing your limits, telling the to do list to wait a little longer, and snuggling into the rest your body craves. 

Each day I watch myself get bigger and bigger. At least once a week I spend some time sprawled on my bathroom floors, crying while my body loses the nourishment I’ve given it and our baby. Gravity pulls this sweet baby down and my hormones wreck havoc on my mind. 

In the routine of bedtime when I read to my two big kids, she pushes on them and me. A constant reminder that when I am doing nothing I am doing something. 

We are waiting. 

Waiting for a big girl to turn seven. To dive into reading which I know she is at the cusp of it. Watching her develop into a person I wish I could be. Drawing strength from her and worrying I ask too much. 

Waiting for a big boy to hit a learning curve. To see him become more brave than he is even now. Watching each cautious jump and another go down the big slides. Encouraging him to play with kids his age, use his manners and maybe not yell so much. 

Waiting for a little girl who thinks she’s big to turn a whole whopping two years old. Her personality very distinctly hers, never will she be outdone by her siblings. Watching her repeat words, try new things and feeling our hearts quicken when she does something that maybe we aren’t sure she’s ready for. 

All of life going on around me. The demands always there. The work always there. 

And I left it all tonight. 

I feel called to a deep rest. An introspective calm, going inward to a peace that I can’t explain. Oh I know, I know in the morning it will all still be there. The work. The dishes and laundry and cleaning. The grief and the changes. It’s always there. And it will all get done, it will be processed. Deep in my bones I know this. Because it always gets done. It always gets the attention it needs  

It is ok to leave it though. And enjoy this quiet for a moment. To rest in it. To enjoy it. I feel this is a thing not enough people know how to do. 

Walk away friends. From the mess and the constant doing. Snuggle next to your beloved under the covers. Watch the sunset. Make a sand castle. Blow bubbles. Say yes to one more chapter of the book. Sing the extra bedtime song. Know that just as easily as your feet can carry you through jobs and work, they can help you walk towards beauty and rest. 

Make room for both. 

Sometimes, just leave things and crawl into bed. 

Rest. Blessed rest. It is sweet. It is necessary. 

And you have permission to do it. 

When Sunday Feels Far Away

 I had the biggest expectations. 

I have been hyped up for Easter for weeks. Literally all of March I have been looking forward to Easter. We studied and learned and planned. The girls have cute dresses, Dean has a cute polo. I stuffed the baskets full of fun things: coloring books, regular books, play doh, sun glasses, all sorts of goofy fun things. 

We celebrate the empty tomb. We celebrate victory over death. We celebrate redemption. 

And my heart feels none of it. 

Maybe I was trying to pretend it wouldn’t hurt. Maybe I was trying to *do* enough that I’d forget. Maybe if we did enough projects, went enough places, were busy, maybe I’d forget...

There is a body missing. A text. A phone call. A “are you bringing the kids to see me?” A “what are your plans? Are you coming over for dinner?” 

And nothing we do fills that. You cannot busy away grief. You can’t ignore it. It makes me uncomfortable and annoyed that I can’t just celebrate. I can’t “just” be happy. I can’t ignore for one day, this is is the first Easter without my Dad. And it hurts. And I wish it didn’t. 

Christ’s tomb was empty, his body that was so broken risen. 

Today it still doesn’t help me when I look up to the corner of the bookshelf where I keep my Dads ashes. 

Today Death still Stings. 

It doesn’t have any victory, but it still stings. 

It won’t always. The farther out we get from October 29, the better I function. Each “first” stings, and I cry, and sit in the ashes for a moment. But it doesn’t knock me down the way Thanksgiving did. Or the way it did when I found out I was pregnant a week after he died. 

I find myself snappy and cranky  unable to shake a bad attitude towards my husband and my children.  All my expectations for an Easter together ruined by a baby with a cold who is quite miserable and keeps hitting me. I am tired of how consistent I have to be with her, I am tired of how “hard” things are.  

I am tired of grieving. 

I picture the empty tomb in my minds eye, the women walking up to it, their complete and utter shock to see it empty. What a thing to witness. What a story to be told. What conflicting emotions after two days of loss and pain and grief.  

I have found more comfort in the grief of Good Friday, more than I have in the Joy of Resurrection Sunday. Because it is still hard to feel the joy when the grief is fresh and raw. 

I don’t think though, that Jesus would mind, that He does mind, that I’m still a little sad today  That the joy doesn’t reach my heart. 

I think He recognizes and understands the deep grief, the kind He felt in the garden. 

Sunday comes. 

And I know, eventually, I’ll feel that in my heart  

When Life Slows

 I wish I had learned to make soft pretzels a long time ago. 

I wish I had made you real mashed potatoes every chance I got. 

I wish I could call you to ask about how to fix the running toilet or send you pictures of the drywall repair I did on my own. 

I wish I recorded you talking more. 

I wish you could make fun of me for letting my kids get a cat. 

I wish you were here to laugh about me having another baby girl. 

I wish you were camping with Mommy for the weekend, asking me to go look after Mommys cats. 

I wish you could FaceTime with Dean, so he could tell you he’s five and all about his lego game. 

I wish you were here to let Deano crawl into your lap at the computer to watch old Looney Tunes. 

I wish you were here so you could find me after church and insist we come over for dinner. 

I want to sit with you while you watch absolutely anything on the TV, including football. 

I want to hear you rant about the current anything...I don’t even care, anything. 

I want to ask to borrow the truck for something and hear you tell Blair you can help him or that you want his help. 

I just want to hear your voice. To hear you call me Madalynn again. 

Some days, I don’t think about any of this. And some days it’s all I can think about. 

When life slows down, when Ana goes for a nap, when Dean and Ellie are still and quiet and cuddly...my mind wanders Daddy. 

And I just miss you. 

Ashes, Bye 2020

 It’s the New Year.

So many people taking time to reflect and talk about the blessings of this year, despite everyone acknowledging the Dumpster Fire that is 2020. 

Every time I start to maybe even possibly consider reflecting, I get this sick feeling in my stomach. Every time some one says “We know this year was hard, tell us one blessing/good thing that happened” I pause and realize:

No one wants to hear me reflect on this year. 

Truly I don’t think you want to. 

See a year ago I was at Chuckie Cheese with my kids while my mom was at the hospital with my Dad. While sitting there eating my cardboard pizza and listening to my kids play, I got the text that Daddy had Stage Four Brain Cancer. 

And it all just kind of went up in flames from there. 

Honestly, call me callous, but I didn’t care about the Pandemic and the virus and the Quarantine. I didn’t care about Ellie having to quit her first year of school or Dean leaving his preschool. I didn’t care that I had to wear a mask, we’d already been wearing them. I sent Ellie away when she had the flu. The virus was just another thing and I just didn’t have the space or the energy to care. 

I still don’t. 

When I think about this year I think about making food for my Dad. Planning dinners and breakfasts and lunches and reminding him to take smaller bites. I think about the way he snapped at me, the kids, and my mom. The way the cancer in his brain spread and changed his personality. 

I’m not ready, yet, to count the blessings. I know they’re there. I know we were blessed. I know we have so many who love us. I know so many loved and respected my Dad. I know everyone hurt watching him die. 

But I had a front row seat. As did all of my family. 

And all I see right now when I reflect on this year is the hurt and the pain and I just feel...angry. 

My soul is still sharp and ragged. The corners of those pieces tear holes into others. My inner monologue wants to tell people “Shut it. It wasn’t so bad. Knock it off. If I can watch someone die slowly I think you can handle wearing a stupid mask.” 

Grief has been all consuming. I can’t see past it to the blessings. 

This begs the question: why do I feel the need to soften the edges of my grief to accommodate the world?  

Actually, why does it feel like there is some unspoken rule that we have to see the bright side? 

I don’t see the good is my Dads dying and his death. I don’t see the good in the way he suffered. 

And right now, I don’t have to. I don’t have to focus on the blessings, I don’t have to see the good. 

I am allowed to hurt. 

I. Am. Allowed. To. Hurt. 

So I brought in the New Year in a quiet house, snuggled up next to my husband. Glad to see the end of 2020, refusing to count my blessings and sitting in the ashes for a moment. Because it feels like my life has gone up in flames...and all I am left with are cool ashes, that is where I am  the ashes  

Maybe tomorrow I will be able to count my blessings. Maybe it will take a week, a month, another four years before I can admit to the Good that was in 2020. 

But not yet. 

After all, while Jesus was dying a painful death on the cross, I don’t think anyone would have asked him to see the blessing. Didn’t He ask His Father why He had been forsaken? 

Jesus was allowed His pain. 

Just as I am allowed mine.