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Round Two

Ethan’s Mom: “Many people find that the second year is harder than the first.”

I remember hearing these words from a grief counselor at the Amelia Center after the first anniversary of Ethan’s death, and they knocked the wind out of me. How could anything be harder than the year we had just (barely) survived? How could anything be harder than the confusion upon waking, the fog throughout the day, and the extreme fatigue brought on by just doing the basic activities of living each day?

I am not sure that it was more difficult, but only because it is one of those apples vs. oranges comparisons. I can say with absolute certainty the second year was extremely difficult in different ways. I thought I was past being in shock a long, long time before I really was, and I had no idea how much it served as a protective barrier against the full weight of grief. The whole first year was a bad dream. Every “first” was horrible and surreal. At the end of all those firsts, I felt like we had earned a reprieve. Does the offseason start now?

No. No, it doesn’t.

Because as soon as you get past all the “firsts,” you immediately start in on the “seconds.” Then it hits you: the seconds are followed by thirds and fourths and you never cross the finish line. I had been so focused on getting through the milestones, not realizing that things weren’t going to feel any better on March 11, 2018. Nothing was going to be the same for the rest of my life. In the second year, our loss felt more permanent and even more profound than it had before.

I have been thinking about that a lot in the last few weeks as the news of the delta variant and its resulting surge in COVID-19 cases is at the forefront of everyone’s mind. It’s another facet of the pandemic that has seemed eerily familiar to me. Over the past 18 months, we have grieved individually and collectively, and while grief is wildly individual, it is also strangely universal.

Loss of control. Heightened anxiety. Confusion at how people don’t understand how completely the world has changed. Questions without answers. Worrying about how this will affect your children in the short and long term. Anger that their childhood is being affected by this thing at all. Anger in general. Chafing at the new restrictions you are living under. A deep desire that things would just go.back.to.normal. The crushing realization that they never will.

Does any of that sound familiar?

As we are looking at another surge, we are seeing all the “seconds” coming right on the heels of all the “unprecedented” events of 2020. All of the sudden everything seems more permanent and more profound to me, and I don’t think I am alone in that. We are all dealing with an unsettling awareness of the fragility of human life and our lack of control over ourselves, our environment, and other people. As my counselor says, “no one is the best version of themselves right now.”

Beyond that is where we start to see different reactions. I think part of all the conflict and craziness is that people are grieving our collective losses in very different ways. Reminders that everyone grieves differently show up in all the books, podcasts, and blogs related to this topic. Fathers and mothers can grieve very differently, even when they both lost the same child. Some can’t get out of bed, and others have excess nervous energy. Some want to return to work as soon as possible, and others don’t want to return at all. Some need to talk more, and some need to think more. I could make a long list of very different behaviors, all of which would be considered normal for grief, although almost none of them are normal behaviors in and of themselves.

I don’t really know what to do with this realization, but I felt better after having thought about all the craziness in these terms. I am not suggesting public policy should be shaped by emotions or science should be ignored. There may well be correct ways to proceed at this point, and we may need to do things we do not want to do. I think my point is that we are all doing things we don’t want to do. Again. So let’s all just be kind to ourselves, love our neighbors, and know that “many people find the second year is harder than the first.”

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A Purpose in Prison

File:1627 Rembrandt Paulus im Gefängnis Staatsgalerie Stuttgart anagoria.JPG

Ethan’s Mom: This summer, I was contacted by the leader of our BSF chapter after being recommended for consideration as a group leader for this year’s study. For those unfamiliar with BSF (Bible Study Fellowship), it is a worldwide interdenominational Bible study that follows a specific format in all of its local chapters. Members interact with scripture in 4 ways each week — personally answering questions regarding a scripture passage, discussing their answers in a small group, listening to a lecture from the local teaching leader, and reading notes on the passage published by BSF. The study usually concentrates on a single book of the Bible over the course of a school year. I started BSF in 2016, and my first study was on the book of John. I could write a whole separate blog post on the ways I have seen and heard God work in my life through the blessing of BSF over the past 3 years. If you have read any other blog posts, you have heard us mention it before. I truly love BSF, and in many ways, attending small group and lecture has been easier for my broken heart than church services on Sunday morning.

But nowhere in the world is totally safe for a mother who has lost a baby. A sight, sound, or comment can bring me right back to the trauma resulting from Ethan’s death or the twins birth in a heartbeat. (Case in point — even typing the phrase, “in a heartbeat” carries such painful connotations for me, and I tried for a minute to come up with another phrase.) This is also true of BSF. Our class has many wonderful older or middle aged women in attendance and leadership, but a significant proportion of class members are young mothers who come and bring their infants and preschool children, who attend an excellent children’s program while the ladies are in group and lecture. After losing a baby, it can be very painful to see and/or interact with pregnant women or those with babies. Sometimes the things “normal people” express anxiety over or complain about seem so trivial in the shadow of the tragedy we’ve experienced. I see those moms that bring twins to class and think how I should be able to chat with them about the unique struggles of raising multiples, but I’m not technically doing that. I admit that it is difficult not to resent that those moms got to keep both of their babies.

Because of this, I prayed and discussed my concerns with Ethan’s dad before committing to lead a small discussion group. I felt like this was something that God wanted me to do, and truthfully, I was very excited about being involved with the leadership team and attending their weekly meetings in addition to our class meetings.

Then I received my class list. 13 young moms, 11 who had registered babies or preschoolers in the children’s program. When I called to introduce myself, I found out at least 3 will be bringing infants to group with them. In my mind, I started picturing these cute, stylish young moms with their perfectly delightful babies and toddlers in tow while I bring two boys and the shadow of someone missing.  These moms don’t need me and my messy theology.

The next day I attended the BSF Summit leader training simulcast with the other area classes. The day was filled with prayer and teaching, and at the very end, they showed a video. I admit, when it started, I wrote it off as cheesy BSF propaganda. The video was a dramatization of Audrey Wetherell Johnson founding BSF in the 1950s. Ms. Johnson had been a missionary to China, even suffering as a prisoner in a Chinese concentration camp during WWII. The video shows her in the camp, sick and cold, explaining to a fellow prisoner that all she wants is for people to love the book in her hands (the Bible) as much as she does. Then it flashed forward to a speech she gave to a ladies mission society after she had returned to California. She frets about what to wear, noting that she didn’t have to worry about being stylish when she was teaching pagans. After the lecture, five women ask her to lead them in a Bible study.  She returns home and complains to a friend that these women didn’t need her, they already knew the Bible. However, her attitude and demeanor betrayed her heart — she didn’t think those California housewives really needed her when so many others had “real” problems. “Why am I to give more to those who have so much?” she asks. The answer comes in a flashback to the concentration camp — a Chinese woman says, “I thought all you wanted was for people to love that book.” So she says yes, still unsure why the setting of her story changed from prison to the suburbs.

But God had a bigger plan. He grew the small Bible study into a worldwide movement that now has over 350,000 class members in more than 40 countries, including her beloved China. She couldn’t see the outcome in her lifetime, but God was faithful to honor her heart’s desire for the Chinese people as a result of her obedience.

My heart’s desire is for Ethan to be remembered, valued as a person and part of our family, and used in God’s kingdom, just as I pray that my living children will be. I don’t see how sharing him with people “who have so much” accomplishes that, but maybe I won’t know in my lifetime. Maybe God will use Ethan in ways that no one could even imagine today.

As He tends to do with important things, God brought this point home again soon after the summit. My mother-in-law gave me a wonderful book, “Perfectly Human: Nine Months with Cerian” by Sarah C. Williams, a professor at Oxford. The author’s daughter, Cerian, received a life limiting diagnosis of skeletal dyspepsia at a 20-week ultrasound. Near the end of the book, Sarah describes an eye-opening moment after Cerian’s loss at a lecture on “the gift of self” given by a Catholic theologian. She had intentionally avoided inviting a colleague who had earlier insisted that not terminating the pregnancy was irresponsible and questioned if her husband was pressuring her to give up her “right to choose.” Sarah runs into the woman on the way to the lecture, and she decides to come along. The lecture sparks an intimate moment between the two women, in which Sarah realizes the reason her colleague no longer believes in God. She goes on to say:

“I realize looking back that I was in danger at that time of getting locked in my own sorrow and grief and cutting myself off from other people. My colleague showed me something important, and her friendship drew me out of myself. Everyone hurts. We all hit the boundaries of our capacity at some time or another.”

Honestly, it can be tempting to cut myself off from other people. Many times it actually feels like I was cut off from people through no choice of my own. Grief is incredibly isolating.  People have avoided us and made ridiculous small talk to avoid mentioning anything about Ethan’s death. I have found this to be true of acquaintances as well as close friends. But I know that refusing to acknowledge the joy or even the pain in others’ lives is no way to live. It is hard not to play the my-pain-is-bigger-than-yours game, but who wins?

I was starting to feel pretty good about all of this when I found out through a seemingly random chain of events that one of my original group members had twins. I asked the leadership team for details, saying that sometimes twins are hard and I would do better if I was prepared. Turns out, this lady has twin boys almost the exact same age as mine. I had to grab onto the counter to steady myself when I received the message. This was my biggest fear – that someone in my group would have twins, 2 year old boy twins at that! The leaders offered immediately to change her to another group without anyone knowing why, so all that was resolved before I talked to her. After the initial rush of emotions that brought up, I realized that God brought that to our attention prior to class time because it was beyond what I can handle at this point. “A bruised reed he will not break” (Isaiah 42:3).  I am pretty sure that would have broken me.

This whole roller coaster was leading up to this week, when our actual first BSF group Tuesday. My mental pictures weren’t too far off, actually. I’m sure they all graduated high school after Y2K and have never heard the distinctive sound of a dial up modem. I felt so old!

It was awkward to introduce myself as the mother of 5. One other woman has a child in kindergarten this year, the rest have kids 2 and under. Two women had babies with them. Two are pregnant, and both are also the mothers of toddlers so the statement was made that they would just be lining everyone up for diaper changes. Before I knew it, I commented that it wasn’t terribly long ago we had three in diapers. Adding in my head, “but that only lasted two months and then we had to donate the stockpile of size 1 diapers.”

So I came home again feeling the weight of balancing being honest and real vs. sharing too much with these women. I’m sure they don’t want to hear about a baby dying of SIDS; it just hits too close to home. I thought I had softened my heart towards them and was ready to be a shepherd to this group, but I didn’t feel very shepherd-y later that afternoon.

I couldn’t seem to pull myself out of the funk. People asked how it went — OK, not great but OK. It was a comfort to pull out the familiar format of notes and questions to start on at home, just like always. Then I read this in the very last paragraph of notes:

Ask God to grip your heart with the truth that He is fully in control and fully good. When trials come, remain in God’s Word and with God’s people. Ask Jesus to draw you close to Him and turn you outwards to others. How might your “prison” be part of Gods plan to make Jesus known and loved to the ends of the earth?

The prison reference is in regard to Paul, but it stopped me in my tracks. One of the comments I made several times in the early days of overwhelming grief was “I feel like I have been given a life sentence in prison for a crime I didn’t commit.” The rest of my life stretched out in front of me like an endless march of identical dark days. There was no time off for good behavior. There was no hope of freedom.

Knowing that, read the quote again. It starts with that tricky tension in reconciling God’s goodness with his sovereignty, a persistent theme in our blog posts. I knew the part about staying in God’s Word; that is what I thought the structure and in-depth study of BSF brought to me. I hadn’t considered that BSF is also a way to remain with God’s people. My experience may indeed feel like a prison, but prisons didn’t stop Paul from shepherding his fledgling churches. The only way I can proceed to turn outwards to others is with God’s provision, one day at a time. That is a recurrent theme as we walk in the Shadowlands, but provisional grace is a lot easier to write about than to trust. So I will leave us with this song/prayer for tonight:

“Give us faith to be strong
Father, we are so weak
Our bodies are fragile and weary
As we stagger and stumble to walk where you lead
Give us faith to be strong
Give us faith to be strong
Give us strength to be faithful
This life is not long, but it’s hard
Give us grace to go on
Make us willing and able
Lord, give us faith to be strong

“Give us peace when we’re torn
Mend us up when we break
This flesh can be wounded and shaking
When there’s much too much trouble for one heart to take
Give us peace when we’re torn
Give us faith to be strong
Give us strength to be faithful
This life is not long, but it’s hard
Give us grace to go on
Make us willing and able
Lord, give us faith to be strong

“Give us hearts to find hope
Father, we cannot see
How the sorrow we feel can bring freedom
And as hard as we try, Lord, it’s hard to believe
So, give us hearts to find hope
Give us faith to be strong
Give us strength to be faithful
This life is not long, but it’s hard
Give us grace to go on
Make us willing and able
Lord, give us faith to be strong
Give us peace when we’re torn
Give us faith, faith to be strong”

Faith to Be Strong by Andrew Peterson

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Lament for the End of Summer

Ethan’s Mom: In one week, my children here on earth will go back to school — all four of them. As I have mentioned in a previous post, back-to-school time is difficult for me, and this is the year when I will send Ethan’s twin brother to preschool for the first time. There was no decision on whether to place them in the same or different classes (I would have totally advocated the same class for as long as possible). They won’t be known as “the twins” to their classmates’ parents. There are no matching backpacks waiting to be filled with lunchboxes. Would Ethan have loved PB&J as much as his brother or would I have to pack them different food? How cute would our three musketeers have looked marching down the preschool hallway together to their 2K and 4K classes?

Summer is drawing to a close, and I am sad to see it go. We have had a nice balance of fun adventures and lazy times this summer. Nothing makes me as happy as being with my people, even though they often drive me crazy.  I am not ready for it to end.

I don’t want to fill out all the back to school forms listing siblings and ages. I don’t want to make small talk at parents’ night or meet the teacher. I don’t want to leave Ethan further behind.

But I just recently realized that it’s not just back to school looming on the horizon. I’m at the top of the hill on the roller coaster, closing my eyes before I hurtle down and wishing I never got on this ride.

The hot days of August will fade a little bit and we’ll arrive at my husband’s favorite season — FOOTBALL. We will all dress in our matching college football fan gear, except Ethan. Ethan bear will have to represent on his behalf. The glorious sunshine of October is next, and the leaves on Ethan’s trees will turn colors and fall. The talk will turn to costumes and candy, and I will miss dressing up one precious little boy. The decorations and scariness I hate about Halloween will return. Then we slide into November with its Thanksgiving feasts and handprint turkeys, but the only handprint I will ever have from Ethan was made at the funeral home. Then Christmas and all that holiday cheer, balancing the desire to celebrate with my family here with my need to grieve Ethan’s absence during the “most wonderful time of the year.”

Then the calendar will roll over to a New Year, another one without my little caboose. Winter marches on, and I will cringe every time the weather forecast includes the chance of ice or school is cancelled for snow. We will celebrate the twins’ birthday, full of joy for the gift of their lives even though one was far too short. Finally, the final drop through the 63 days until the anniversary of the worst day of our lives. At the bottom, I will need several weeks to catch my breath and feel the adrenaline dissipate.

Guess what? That puts me back at summer. I miss my baby every single day but there are less of the emotionally intense dates to deal with during the summer. I think that is really what has been bothering me. I am not ready to face any of it again. The first year was, as you would expect, agonizing. People warned me the second year would be just as bad, and it was. But it was bad in totally different ways. I don’t know what to expect in year three, and I don’t like surprises.

I first listened to the music of the Gray Havens at the inComplete Retreat I attended last fall. I laid on the pier in the sunshine with my legs dangling into the lake as the music washed over me that afternoon. I have been reminded of this song over the past week. I can’t get off the roller coaster, but I know one day it will end, even if the ride seems endless now. I am getting better at recognizing the provisional grace given to us along the journey, and I have to believe more is coming our way in the months and years ahead.

Take This Slowly by the Gray Havens

“If I took all that I got
And spread it out on this table
It might not seem like alot
A once glimmering joy
Slowly fading from view
All the change in my pockets, not enough
And this picture of you
Still I’ve heard all that I have
In the moment is hardly a sign
Of everything coming my way
I believe when I need it, it will be mine

So let’s take this slowly
All I need is coming
But it’s just beyond what I can see
So if my eyes press forward in fierce alarm
Just turn my head back to see
To see how we got this far
And I’ll be alright

“I’m not asking for mountains of riches
No silver or gold
Don’t need fame or fancier things
I can’t take when I go
I’m just asking for grace
Grace to carry on
Grace to take joy at my place at the table
And the rock that it’s standing on
Still I’ve heard all that I have
In the moment is hardly a sign
Of everything coming my way
I believe when I need it, it will be mine

So let’s take this slowly
All I need is coming
But it’s just beyond what I can see
So if my eyes press forward in fierce alarm
Just turn my head back to see
To see how we got this far
And I’ll be alright

“And even when I’m broke down
Even when what I’ve got now
Is falling faster down beneath the cracks
And I don’t know when it’s coming back around
Even then I’ll be calling out louder
Loud enough to wake ’em up
Believing I believe I will see it done
I believe what I will hold
What I hold will be enough
Will be enough

“So let’s take this slowly
All I need is coming
But it’s just beyond what I can see
So if my eyes press forward in fierce alarm
Just turn my head back to see
To see how we got, got this far
And I’ll be alright
It’s gonna be alright
It’s gonna be alright
It’s gonna be alright.”

Addendum 8/7/19:

We met the teachers today, and there was grace for that. I am sad, no doubt, but not despairing to the point I cannot also hold the sweet excitement of my 4 kids that had teachers to meet and classmates to greet. It went better than I expected, and I have hope that tomorrow and Friday will as well.

While this grief journey truly changes from moment-to-moment, God’s presence with us does not, no matter how it feels on any given day. Isaiah 43:2 was the “verse of the day” in my email this morning. “I will be with you when you pass through the waters, and when you pass through the rivers, they will not overwhelm you. You will not be scorched when you walk through the fire, and the flame will not burn you.” There truly is grace for each moment we walk in the Shadowlands. I want to end this post with another sweet song of God’s provision, Enough by Sara Groves. I pray you know somewhere down in your soul that God’s grace is enough for you today and there will be enough tomorrow.

“Late nights, long hours
Questions are drawn like a thin red line
No comfort left over
No safe harbor in sight

“Really we don’t need much
Just strength to believe
There’s honey in the rock,
There’s more than we see
In these patches of joy
These stretches of sorrow
There’s enough for today
There will be enough tomorrow

“Upstairs a child is sleeping
What a light in our strain and stress
We pray without speaking
Lord help us wait in kindness

“Really we don’t need much
Just strength to believe
There’s honey in the rock,
There’s more than we see
In these patches of joy
These stretches of sorrow
There’s enough for today
There will be enough tomorrow.”