Walking A Gracious Road

Pregnancy after loss: the day Joanna was born

It was just after 2:00 in the early morning of May 7, 2018, the day that I had a C-section scheduled for 11 a.m.  I woke up to light pains just like I had had many other nights. They never lasted long, so I picked up my ipad and began passing the time lettering a Bible verse.  I sometimes struggle to find the right verse to letter. This time I picked the last verse that showed up on my facebook feed, and I don’t even remember which friend had shared it.  So I lettered and created until I reached the point where I had to break during the contractions. I decided to get up and use the bathroom to see if that would help lessen the pain.  

And just after 4:00 a.m., my water broke.  

How do you know when your water breaks while going to the bathroom?  I don’t know. You just do. So I gently called to Blake, “Hey, honey, I think my water just broke.”  Wow, did he shoot out of bed! This wasn’t the plan. There was a schedule. Not because I wanted it, but because that is what the doctors thought would be safest for me and this baby.   And by only a miracle, this sweet baby had waited patiently inside me through six weeks of hospital bedrest for preterm labor and then nine weeks of home bedrest. Nothing else about this pregnancy had gone as planned so why should the birth?  

I was thankful my water broke.  I didn’t want a C-section, because I wanted this baby to be born on God’s timeline, not a day I chose.  I had put everything about this pregnancy in His hands when it all had gone awry, and I hated the idea of picking a day for this baby to be born. So I was thankful that May 7th was also the day God chose.  

I was calm that morning.  Too calm. Maybe I didn’t quite understand the urgency of everything.  I told Blake he could take a shower–we had time, and maybe I should do my hair.  He decided not to be calm. He decided we still needed to be urgent. That was a good decision.  We were out of there in twenty minutes.

4:22 a.m.

We had made it.  We had made it full term.  We had made it to the day this baby was to be born.  We have made it so far and yet, while driving to the hospital, the idea of holding a baby in our arms still felt so far away.  Pregnancy after loss was one of the hardest journeys we had walked. It had wreaked havoc on our marriage, on our emotions, and our family.  There were so many possibilites of heartache around every corner. We knew that heartache all too well, and what we didn’t know was if we could survive it all over again.  We were still fragile. We were still broken. We were so unsure if our hurting hearts could bear the weight of leaving a hospital without a baby in our arms again.

God has promised us many things but a baby is not one of them.  Many times when I was so afraid and I confided to those around me, I was given a response of “you just need to have faith.”  Faith in what? That is what I wanted to ask but never did. Faith that my baby will be born healthy? Faith that this pregnancy will not end in loss? Faith that everything will be ok?  None of that is promised to us. My faith would not bring me a healthy baby. My faith is in God and His promises, but that did not mean that I would end up holding a crying baby in my arms.

So what should I put my faith in?   Where do I turn in the moments of fear and doubt?  How does one survive nine months of anxiety that grips at a heart?  His promises are written in His Word. He keeps His promises. I can have faith in that.  What were God’s promises to me?

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;  
and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
 when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,  
and the flame shall not consume you.”  Isaiah 43:2

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” Matthew 11:28-30

“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted    
and saves the crushed in spirit.”  Psalm 34:18

“We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair;  persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed” 2 Corinthians 4:8-9

 “And if I go and prepare a place for you,
 I will come again and will take you to myself, 
that where I am you may be also.” John 14:3

He does NOT promise good things, happy days, or healthy babies.  

He promises that we will not be consumed by the flames that might threaten us.  He promises to save our crushed spirits. He promises to give rest to our souls. And He promises a place for us that He will take us to Himself.  

My heart may be fragile, but it will not be crushed.  I WILL NOT BE DESTROYED. He promises that. He promises to be with me no matter what this day holds.  

Joy or sorrow, He is with me.  

So we walked into maternity triage, and it wasn’t long before bells began to ring and anxieties were flowing.  There was meconium in my water. They were not going to take their time getting this little one out. We didn’t even wait for a wheelchair.  I walked straight up into the O.R. and sat down on the table. Then the alarms went off. The heartbeat had plummeted.

I had listened to the heartbeat so many times.  The sound of a baby’s heartbeat is so comforting and beautiful.  During my six-week stay in the hospital, they had monitored the heartbeat three times a day, and I always asked them to leave the volume up.  I have listened to a monitor before and not heard a heartbeat. I do not take the sound of a heartbeat for granted, and it is always beautiful.  

So I know what a heartbeat is supposed to sound like, and, oh, how the heartbeat in that O.R. on the morning of May 7th sounded so very wrong, so slow and faint.  I remember the lump forming in my throat. I remember the nurse screaming to the anesthesiologist, asking what was the right code to call. Then I remember the alarms going off.  I remember the nurses and doctors running in. I remember them asking if I was numb yet so they could begin cutting. I remember reminding them to go get my husband out of the hallway.  Blake walked in at 6:04 a.m. I told him the heartbeat was low. And he said, “Ok.” I told him I was scared. And he said, “I know.” He walked in at 6:04, and she was born at 6:06. A beautiful baby girl.  


Joanna Grace.  

A name we had settled upon when I was first admitted to the hospital at 23 weeks.  Joanna, after one of the women who had gone to the tomb. One of the women who accompanied Jesus on his ministry.  A woman forever written on the pages of the resurrection, associated with the good news of the Gospel. A name forever tied with the grace, love, and the forgiveness of our God.  

Joanna walked a road, a good and gracious road, laid ahead of her by our Father.  She walked the road with her Saviour as He cared for the lost and hurting. She walked the road to the tomb preparing for sorrow and heartache, preparing to care for the body of her Lord.  She walked with a heavy heart expecting pain but instead she received joy. She received the good news. She was in His hands the entire journey even when she thought all was lost, even when she was filled with grief.  Our God is gracious. There is joy at the end of this journey no matter how painful each step may be.

"Restore to me the Joy of your salvation." Psalm 51:12

The doctor held her up and she made the slightest little cry.  Then they whisked her away, and we waited.

The silence felt like it would never end.  I couldn’t think or speak. I just kept breathing.  Not panicking. I knew that panicking when all your insides are exposed is not a good idea.

God is good.  

No matter what.  God is good. All the time.  God is good. Nine minutes. That is all it was.  That is how long we waited. Nine minutes normally flies by, but it didn’t then.  Nine minutes after the pediatric team took her out of the room, a nurse came back in and said, “Tell mom and dad the baby is doing great.”  

That was the first time in nine months I could breathe a sigh of relief.  The baby was ok.

There was extra monitoring the rest of the morning, and it took us a little longer than normal to make it out of recovery, but the baby was ok.  She was in my arms. Finally. She was going to be ok. We were all going to be ok.

We soaked in those first moments we had with her, marveling at every tiny feature.  She was perfection–created by a loving God. Created by the same God who had placed the stars in the night sky, who had created the towering redwoods, who had created the wings of a hummingbird, who had created her sister Ella two years before.  Fearfully and wonderfully made by a good and gracious God.

I firmly believe that every child is a perfect and precious gift from God.  And I was overjoyed to meet and hold each of my babies the day they were born.  But there is something different in the hospital room of a baby born healthy after a family has experienced the loss of a baby.  There is a joy that runs deep, an appreciation for the gift of life that isn’t promised, an awe at the sheer handiwork of the Creator.  The joy and appreciation in that room was so palpable you could almost scoop it up and hold it in your hands.

My most favorite moment from that day was when Joanna’s two big sisters walked into the room.  Their excitement and anticipation to see if they were about to meet a baby brother or a baby sister and their chance to experience a hospital room full of joy instead of sorrow or fear are memories I will treasure forever.  Their lives the past two years were shaken as well. They had experienced grief in all its rages. They had experienced the loss of a little sister, and they had been living with parents who were broken and hurting. They, too, knew that a baby was not promised at the end of a pregnancy.  They, too, were worried, anxious, and cautiously hoping to bring home a baby this time. There is something extra special in a hospital room of a baby after a family has grieved the loss of a baby before. You might know firsthand or you might have to take my word for it.

We did get to bring a baby home from the hospital with us this time.  That privilege was not lost on us. Too many parents do not. I did not know why we got this privilege, but I was grateful.  We had the privilege of late night feedings, messy diapers, newborn cries, sleepless nights. All of it treasured. My arms were full, my heart grew, and my smile, finally, was genuine.  I was so grateful, but a baby born does not replace a baby lost.

My heart will always long for Ella, to know her, to hold her, to watch her grow.  I wonder what her personality would be. Would she be soft-spoken and thoughtful like her big sister Abby? Or would she have spunk and love for life like Rachel?  I long to watch them all play together. Four girls. The giggles, the squeals, the frills and the fun the four of them would have had together. Another baby, another baby girl will never replace the baby I did not get to raise.  A mother’s love never fades over time. Ella taught me of the love and faithfulness of our Heavenly Father, and Joanna taught me of His grace.

Fearfully and Wonderfully Made

A Battle Cry, a Tablet, and a Broken Coffee Mug

The VDMA Project

When the handle of my Anthropologie coffee mug my sister gave me broke off, my happiness bubble burst, and the crocodile tears flowed.  Missionaries are often easily discouraged when living abroad. Life throws curveballs. Stuff stops working. And home seems farther and farther away.  We fight against this discouragement on a daily basis, and it is hard for us to “lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely.” It is difficult to keep running the race.

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.”  Hebrews 12:1-2

Whether our trials are big or small, sometimes they are just enough to send us back to bed, under the covers, wanting to throw in the towel and give up. It is easy to see the mountain in front of us as insurmountable and the race set before us as too far a distance to run. Often we lose sight of the reasons we are here.  That is why it is important for us to hold onto our purpose as missionaries. The VDMA project is one of those reasons and is a great reminder of our purpose.

VDMA stands for Verbum Domini Manet in Aeternum which is Latin for “The Word of the Lord Endures Forever.” This was the motto for the Lutheran Reformation.  The VDMA logo was displayed on flags, banners, swords, and armor. This served as a reminder that the Lutheran princes were not fighting for an agenda or a religion.  They were fighting for the Word of God. They were fighting because they believed that the Word of God should be in the hands of the people, no matter their station or status.  

“The grass withers, the flower fades, but the Word of our God will stand forever.” – Isaiah 40:6  

VDMA was a battle cry for the Reformation, and it is a battle cry today. Today we do not fight against a Catholic Emperor with shield and sword.  Today we fight circumstance and opportunity. The battle is just as important. The Word of the Lord is just as important today as it has ever been. Today we fight to get the Word into the hands of the people in Latin America.  

There are two reasons this project is so very near and dear to my heart. The VDMA project has been in the works for years.  It began as a problem. Lutheran pastors were being trained across Latin America but did not have access to the theological material that they so desperately needed. This is because many important theological books have not yet been translated into Spanish, and it is logistically impossible to get the size and weight of a much-needed theological library into the hands of future pastors when many of them live in very rural, hard-to-access communities. There is a high cost involved in translating, purchasing, and distributing books.  This is the problem. This is what our fight today is against.

Blake met James when he went to the Dominican Republic on a short-term team. James is a missionary working in Latin America.  After talking about life, work, and missions, James saw Blake as someone with a unique skill-set which could help him with this problem they were facing in the Latin America mission field. This brought James to my kitchen table.

One weekend in November of 2013, James came to Las Vegas, and he and Blake sat down to work out different possible solutions to this problem.  Ideas began to form, and eventually the VDMA project evolved into what it is today. It has been compiled into a tablet with the necessary theological materials that can easily be put into the hands of Latin American seminary students studying the Word of the Lord.  

I love this project because it is so closely tied to our story.  Not only was it developed with the “help” of my 18-month-old’s scribbles, but it also helped bring my family into the mission field. This is one of the ways God brought us down here.  Through the VDMA project, we became involved and invested in the work God was doing in Latin America.

While it is very cool that we were involved with this project long before we were missionaries, there is a more important reason this project is near and dear to my heart.  It is the very reason we gave up everything we knew as familiar and comfortable in order to serve as missionaries. It is the very goal of every missionary in our Latin America & Caribbean Region and the goal of our church body today.  Our goal is to leave.

We serve as missionaries with the hope that one day we, as a church, can eventually pull out of each country and when we leave, there will be an established church body with its own pastors who serve and care for the community.  The goal is never to make any country indefinitely dependent on missionaries to provide access to the Word of the Lord. This is a long-term goal. This is a goal that most missionaries realize they may never see come to fruition in their lifetime.  But it is still a goal we all work towards. We know that each one of us serving plays a very small role in this very large goal. If it wasn’t for the work done before us and the work that will be done after us, the goal would not be possible.

So when there is a project that is training up the next generation of local pastors in Latin America, that is a project worth supporting.  That is a project worth shouting from the mountaintops. We want to help this group of pastors receive the necessary training to care for the people they will serve in their communities.   

Many of these seminary students are eager to continue their education.  They are hungry to study the Word of the Lord. This is our battlefield. We do not fight against an emperor, but we fight all the same.  We fight to get the Word of the Lord into the hands of His people.

I am honored and grateful to have witnessed the transformation of this project from its early days.  It is exciting to see the joy on the face of a seminary student who receives the necessary materials needed to complete his studies. So far this project has put theological material into the hands of 197 recipients. The project is not complete.  Materials still need to be translated. Tablets still need to be distributed. The Word of the Lord still needs to get to the people.

The VDMA project is important for the churches across Latin America, but it is also important for us.  The VDMA project serves as a reminder that we should be putting our plans, efforts, and thoughts, into what will last.  VDMA serves as a self-check of our own priorities.

In the mission field, things don’t usually work the same as we are used to in the States. Appliances and household items break (often).  Usually by the time we fix one thing, something else stops working. VDMA reminds us that our earthly treasures are not what is important.  They will not last. “The grass withers, the flowers fade, but the Word of the Lord will last forever.”  

The Pampered Chef pan stains, and the Anthropologie coffee mug breaks, but…  

The air conditioning in the car is no longer cold, and the Dyson vacuum shorted out, but….  

The hot water heater flooded the house, and the grill rusted through, but…

The Word of the Lord lasts forever.  

This is our mission.  This is our focus. This is what matters.  This is why we are here. And thanks to the VDMA project, more and more people will have access to the Word of the Lord.  And this is our goal: that more and more people will know the love and grace of our Savior. We cling to the reminder that our earthly treasures will not last, and we should continue to run the race set before us.

“Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal,  but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal.  For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”  Matthew 6:19-21

 learn more about the VDMA project
purchase VDMA prints from my Etsy shop

My Alabaster Flask

And the Day I Stopped Being a “Good Christian”

I have wanted to write this post from the day my blog began.  This is the reason I chose the name for my blog. There is meaning behind it–and a story.  I sat down to write out this post many times over the past three years, but the words just never came.  Perhaps that was because I wasn’t writing the whole story. And it wasn’t until recently that I realized that I was trying to tell you about the beginning of something without explaining the ending of something else.  

Before I get into the significance of “My Alabaster Flask,” I have to explain to you the end of the American Dream.  Now don’t get excited; this is not a political statement or post. I am not saying the American Dream has ended for America, just for me or really for my family.  And it was a choice we made; we walked away from it. This is also not a reflection on our feelings toward our home country. I LOVE America. Maybe more now that I have left it than ever before.  

The American Dream was never our goal, so to speak, but when you grow up hearing the propaganda of the “white picket fence,” the “let freedom ring,” the “pursuit of happiness,” it is easy to get wrapped up in pursuing it.  Especially because none of it in itself is bad. And by all the standards, we were living out the American Dream.

Blake had a great job, and he was moving up the corporate ladder.  We had a beautiful house in a great neighborhood. We had friends. We had a social life.  In so many ways, we had it all. We also had an amazing church life. I taught at our Lutheran preschool.  Abby attended the same day school. We loved our church friends. They were family. Those were the days! They were great days.  We truly had it ALL. We were succeeding at the American Dream and being “good Christians.”

That right there was the problem.

I no longer believe you can be a good Christian.  In a way, I see it as an oxymoron. At least not in the sense that I used to refer to the phrase “good Christian.”  The idea where you silently check the boxes of tithing, church attendance, helping the less fortunate, attending Bible study, doing devotions, reading your Bible, and all the other Christiany things.  When you think you are doing well at living the Christian life, that is when you don’t have a clue at all. You don’t get what it means to follow Christ. At least that is what was true for me. The American Dream, being a “good Christian,” checking all the “right” boxes, was fantastic.  I loved that life. I miss that life. I enjoyed that life. Because it was

Comfortable.

I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.  Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern what is the will of God, what is good and acceptable and perfect. Romans 12:1-2

There are a few words in these verses that should make a “good Christian” cringe.  “present your bodies as a living sacrifice…that by testing you may discern what is the will of God.”

Sacrifice and testing are not comfortable.  They are not easy. They are not great. They are hard.  To be a good Christian, you have to be following God’s will for your life and doing it well.  When life is comfortable, it is easy to believe you are succeeding. I did. I was teaching little kids about Jesus every day.  And I loved those kids. And I was a good teacher. I enjoyed that job. I was part of the church. I led Bible studies for the parents.  I volunteered in church activities. I was doing it all, and it was good stuff. And the more I did well, the more I didn’t need a Savior.  I didn’t need a Lord, a Redeemer, a Healer, or a God. And the scariest part of the “good Christian” American Dream life was that I didn’t even notice.  The whole time I truly believed I was following God’s will. I was acknowledging I was sinful, but I wasn’t really. I thought I was on a good path. I didn’t realize that making my life about what I thought God wanted could even push God out of my focus.  But it did.

It took throwing away the American Dream, giving away all of our possessions, moving to another country, letting God direct our path, and saying “Here God, You take over,” for me to realize:

How much I NEED God.  

And I HAVE needed Him this much my entire life.  I just didn’t see it. I didn’t get it. I never understood how greatly I needed Him when life was comfortable.  When life was easy, when I was succeeding, it appeared that I could do it all just fine.

Let me tell you how I am doing at this missionary gig living in another country:  I could possibly be the worst missionary and the biggest failure in the history of missionaries.  That is not an exaggeration, friends. I don’t got it here. None of it. It is not figured out. I am not making progress.  It is one failure after another. I don’t got any of it. The only part of me that is not failing at being a missionary is that I am still here.  I have not quit. But EVERYTHING else – nope, don’t got it.

But, you know what?  I am not alone. There are a number of my fellow missionary friends who at one time or another have said or thought the same thing.  And it is only after laying all of our flaws and failures and weaknesses on the table because we have been humbled SO MUCH by our own limitations that we find God.  We find His strength, His grace, His plan, and our need for a Savior. A Savior who has always been there but has gone unnoticed and unappreciated for far too long in our lives.

But He said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.  -2 Corinthians 12 :19

If I couldn’t see my own weakness, how could I see His strength?  How could anyone else? What witness was my life to anyone looking at me if all they saw was ME, the “good Christian?”   

I was reading through a Bible study with one of my favorite mentors.  She was a missionary in Venezuela for over twenty years. She, along with her husband, led the first short term team from our church to the Dominican Republic.  Blake was on that team. Then again two years later we both went with her. She is one of those women you look at and think, “That is who I want to be when I grow up.”  She was also one of the biggest influences on our decision to be missionaries.

So one day, after we were missionaries, back when I was pregnant with Ella, we sat down together and read through the story in Luke seven of the sinful woman.  

Jesus was invited to dinner at the home of a Pharisee.  While He was sitting at the table, a sinful woman barged into the house.  She began crying and washing the feet of Jesus with her tears. She wiped them with her hair and then anointed them with oil from her alabaster flask.  

If Jesus was visiting my town, what would I do?  The old me, the “good Christian,” would invite Jesus to dinner.  I would throw a very respectable dinner party. I would invite my “good Christian” friends to join us. Our children would be on their very best behavior.  I would make sure the food was perfect, the china was washed, and the house was spotless. I would prepare the very best for my Lord. But never in a million years would I have interrupted anyone else’s dinner party by barging in as an emotional pile of tears and plop myself down at Jesus’ feet.

Imagine my surprise when I realized I had grown up to be a Pharisee.  

And it wasn’t until I moved to the mission field and began to uncover my own weaknesses did I even realize that is who I was.  I am NOT a good Christian.

Luke continues with Simon saying to himself, “if this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what sort of woman this is who is touching him, for she is a sinner.”  

And Jesus answered him.

I love when Jesus answers those out loud who think thoughts to themselves.  Because that is me. I will sit silently judging and drowning in my own negativity, while others think I am being quiet.  I need to realize that Jesus hears my ugly thoughts. And He would answer me out loud, too.

Jesus answers Simon with a parable.  He talks about a moneylender forgiving debts.  The greater the debt, the more love the debtor had for the moneylender. This is the same with us.  The greater the sin forgiven, the more love we have for a Savior – love that makes you throw yourself down at the Savior’s feet, weeping while creating a spectacle of yourself.

This is where it hit me. I didn’t see how big my sin was.  My sin was not less. My sin was still great when living my comfortable, American life, but I was blinded by my pursuit of happiness, blinded by being a “good Christian,” blinded by success.  I was blinded and could not see my sin in its entirety.

I needed to be stripped of all that stuff and comfort to understand the vastness of my sin.  The debt that has been paid for me is large.

My favorite part of being a missionary is this understanding.  Seeing myself for who I truly am. I am not a good Christian. There is no such thing.  There are only miserable sinners of whom I am one of the most miserable. I am a failure.  I am weak. I am a sinner. I am imperfect. Because of this, I understand my need for a Savior.  I understand the power of God’s grace for me. I understand the depth of His love. I understand that it is unimaginable.  And this is a beautiful gift. This is what I have gained in the mission field. There are no “good christians.” There are only miserable sinners redeemed by the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ.

“…but where sin increased, grace abounded all the more, so that, as sin reigned in death, grace also might reign through righteousness leading to eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.” Romans 5:20

An alabaster flask is a semiprecious stone that was cut and shaped into a container – most likely small and beautifully crafted.  It held sweet-smelling oil or perfume. It was worth a great deal of money. Perhaps this was her prized possession. This was what she brought to Jesus’s feet.  This was what she emptied out before Him, not caring that she was in someone else’s house or crashing someone else’s dinner party, not caring that she was being whispered about for her emotional outburst.  She was solely focused on pouring out her love and devotion to the One who had forgiven her debt. Her love was great because she knew her sin was great as well.

It is my constant prayer that I approach my Lord and Savior with the same unashamed, emotional outcry of love and devotion that the sinful woman had.  My alabaster flask is my comfort zone, my need to be liked, my desire for pretty things, my pursuit of happiness, my American dream, my social status, and everything that blinds me from seeing the ugly truth of my sin and my desperate need for a Savior.    

My alabaster flask is my reminder to lay down my pride and weep at my Father’s feet because His grace abounds and His love for me is great.  My debt has been paid. My sins, which are many, have all been forgiven.

“Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope,  and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.” Romans 5:3-5

My thoughts on hospital bedrest

So I have been here a month.  This is a very good thing.  Even though it is miserable and borderline torture, it is a very good thing.  This baby is still inside me and still growing safely.  Sometimes I have to convince myself that being within these same four walls day after day is a good thing, because it often does not feel very good.

I am not chained to my bed (although I am supposed to wear leg squeezers and then I am literally chained to the bed – but I don’t wear those as often as I should).  I have bathroom privileges–  which means I am allowed to get up to use the bathroom in my room and I get to take a shower every three days. I am not allowed to leave my room except for special occasions.  

Every two weeks I get an ultrasound which is three doors down the hallway and believe me, going three doors down the hallway is a very exciting outing.  One day, I also got special wheelchair privileges to tour the NICU on the bottom floor.  That outing was filled with very mixed emotions.  It was the closest I have been to fresh air in three weeks, but it was also a scary look into my very near future of most likely delivering prematurely.

The visitor policy is currently very restricted because of the flu season.  In this hospital (which is all related to pregnancy, birth, and newborns), I am on the only floor that allows children in and only my own children.  I am very thankful that my girls can visit.  Unfortunately, if they have any kind of a cold or cough symptoms, they are not allowed in.  Since they began school, they have picked up many new germs, and I have gone a long time without seeing them.  That is hard on all of us.  Other visitors are allowed two at a time and only a few a day.  I am told you also go through a screening process before being let upstairs.  Surprisingly even with restricted visitors, many people come in and out of my room during the day.  The nurses check on me. I get a visit from one of my three doctors every day.  The counselor stops by a few times a week.  The dietitian, physical therapist, and librarian have also all come to check in on me.  I am still hoping a masseuse, a hairdresser, and a nail technician will stop by too.  I’ll keep you posted if that happens.

The food isn’t terrible, but I am getting very tired of the same few selections.  I am very thankful when my visitors bring meals and lattes from the outside world.  In my free time (which I have a lot of) I google my favorite restaurants to see if they are within driving distance for my visitors.  I also look up the yelp reviews of nearby places and drool over their menu and customer photos.  The café down the street has an amazing Belgian waffle dessert with strawberries and whipped cream that I stare at frequently.

My production level has decreased significantly since I first got locked up.  The first two weeks I was in here, I was very productive with skill share (online) classes and lettering.  Now I mostly just binge watch shows.  I am currently on season five of The West Wing.  I wonder if my lack of desire to do anything at all is partly being depressed.  My counselor assures me that there is no wrong way to survive hospital bedrest.  It is just something you get through.

I miss so many things from the outside world while locked up in my fancy prison (this is what Abby calls it – it’s pretty accurate).  I miss my girls the most–especially since I do not see them that often.  I miss the normal activities with them or being able to console them when they are having a hard time.  This traumatic transition has not been easy on any of us but especially hard on them.  I miss Blake, too, although he gets to see me more.  I miss eating dinner with my family.  I even miss cleaning up after them–I know that is hard to believe.  I miss the freedom to make my own food.  I miss the outside air.  I miss walking around and stretching my muscles.

I am thankful for so much.  I am thankful the Olympics are on right now.  You have no idea how thankful I am for the Olympics.  I am thankful it’s Girl Scout cookie season.  I may be eating my emotions one Girl Scout box at a time.  I am thankful for all the support we have received from family and friends near and far.  Every gift card, video message, bouquet of flowers, card, package, meal, and words with friends game has meant the world to me.  (Side note: want to send me love and support and don’t know how? – play me in words with friends: LizzW30 – it is my favorite pastime).

Physically, I am doing just fine.  I don’t feel like anything is wrong with me which makes it really hard to stay in bed all day.  I am still at a very high risk for my water breaking or going into preterm labor.  I am at the hospital because delivering this early is still very dangerous for the baby.  This is one of the best NICUs on the West Coast, and I am thankful I am here.  I am thankful I made it back from the DR.  I am thankful my doctor sent me to have an in-depth ultrasound, and they caught this problem when they did.  I feel much safer in the hospital than I did before.  In a way, this confirmed all the fears I thought I had just because I was a mom who had previously lost a baby.

Once you join this club of moms, you learn of all the different possible complications.  When you know these moms and hug them through their tears, these complications are no longer a list in a book, they are very real possibilities.  This is partly why no part of a future pregnancy feels safe.  You know babies that have died at every stage for many different reasons.   When I had my ultrasound, I was prepared for so many of them.  I knew that many different complications would lead to death.  So when the doctor told me there was a problem with my cervix and my water sac and I was headed to the hospital and could possibly be admitted for a while, I was relieved.  I know that is weird and many people may not understand.  But what I heard in those words was: your baby is safe.  Right now, your baby is fine.  All of the baby’s organs are in the right place and growing correctly.  Yes there is a problem,  just like you thought.  But right now, your baby is completely fine.

That is why I was so calm going to the hospital, calling my mom, calling Blake, being admitted.  The baby was safe.  They were going to watch the baby.  Every eight hours they are going to check on the baby and analyze the heartbeat to watch for any concerns.  At the push of a button I can share any concerns that come up in my overactive imagination.  I can have every twinge and pain checked out at any time day or night.  I don’t have to worry right now.  Other people are looking out for my baby.  In so many ways, I am way less stressed in the hospital than I have been this whole pregnancy.  I have slept better in here than the past three years.

I still know life is fragile, a gift, not promised, and our days are numbered.  I am still aware of the number of ways I could lose this baby. But I don’t feel as responsible as I used to, to catch any potential problems that may arise.

I have also come to accept that my baby will most likely be born prematurely.  My baby will most likely spend weeks if not months in the NICU.  The healing image I had of a crying baby in the delivery room has faded.  The baby will most likely be taken to the NICU before I get to see him or her, and I will have to wait until after I am done with recovery to see my baby.  It may be days or weeks before I get to hold my baby.  The girls and other family will not get to visit the baby in the NICU.  These are realizations I have had to wrestle with and accept.

There is still potentially a long hard journey in front of us, depending on what complications this baby may have due to being born prematurely.  So much of our future is very up in the air right now.  But we are here.  We are in a very good hospital and in very good medical hands.  God brought us safely here.  We are in His hands.  He is caring for us, and that is easy to see here.  Seeing His care for us in this past month has been reassuring to my heart.  I doubt; I question; I carry fear; I sin.  My faith is easily shaken, but He remains faithful.  He is constant.  He is unwavering.  His love for me is steadfast.

Since losing Ella, I have clung to Isaiah 43.  So much of that chapter I love, but now that I am walking this road of pregnancy after loss, I especially find comfort in verse two.

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;

   and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;

when you walk through fire you shall not be burned,

   and the flame shall not consume you.”  Isaiah 43:2

I know to my core how fragile life is on this earth.  I know how fragile life is inside my womb.  I know there are no guarantees I will successfully bring this baby into this world alive.  I know what it is like to lose a baby.  I know what it is like to walk through fire.  I know that it is very possible that I might face the fire of losing another baby again.  Nowhere in God’s Word does it promise this baby will live.  BUT, it does promise that if I walk through fire again, the flames will not consume me.  I will not be burned.  I don’t know how because it sure feels like I will burn, be consumed, and crumble, but His Word promises He will be with me and the flames will not consume me.  That is what I put my trust in.  Those are His promises.

So I sit here and sometimes allow myself to think about the many different possibilities my future could hold.  Sometimes it is too hard, and so I drown out my thoughts with the fast-paced chatter of The West Wing while eating some thin mints. But every night I go to bed thanking God for another day.   I put my hand on my belly and ask for His blessing on this tiny baby; I ask for one more day of sanity in this fancy prison and one more day with this baby in my womb.

Pregnancy After Loss: How You Can Show Support

 

Dear Family and Friends,

I know you love and care for me, and these past several months may not have been easy for you to show me love.  I am a new person and walking a difficult journey.  Since losing my baby, I am broken.  I am still navigating how to live in this world.  I know this means showing me support is not easy for you.  There are times I need to be alone, and there are times I need a friend, and I am not good at understanding my own needs–let alone expressing them to you.  

Now that I am expecting another baby, my mind, emotions, and journey have grown even more complicated.  Because you love my family and me, I know you want to be there for us. So this letter is my attempt to show you how to best support me in this pregnancy after loss.

I am still grieving.  Another baby on the way does not replace or wipe out the baby I had to say goodbye to.  I am still very much grieving and trying to process my grief.  I miss my baby.  I will always miss my baby.  I could have a hundred more babies, and I will still always miss my baby who lives in heaven.  A new baby does not take that pain away.  A new baby does not wipe away my grief.  Blake and I recently began a grief class with some of our fellow missionaries.  This has been good for us.  This has made us examine a lot of our habits, emotions, and responses.  While this has been good, it has also been hard.  I have learned a lot.  I have learned that many times the second year of grief is harder than the first.  I also learned that it is helpful to write family and friends a grief letter to explain how they can support me in my grief.  That is what this is.  This is my homework from grief class.  

My emotions are complicated.  I am excited to have another baby, but I am also terrified.  I never experience one emotion at a time.  They are usually all tangled together.  So when I feel the joy of my new baby kicking, I also feel heartache.  When I look at my growing belly, it makes me smile, but I want to hide it all in the same moment. It is so complicated inside my head I don’t even know how to explain the why of it.  When there is eager anticipation, there is also fear.  Nothing is simple inside my head.  So when you ask how I am doing, you are likely to get an unclear answer.  Truth is, I usually don’t even know myself.  It is simply complicated.

Trust is gone.  I have lost trust in the process of pregnancy.  I have lost trust in my body to successfully carry a baby to term. I have lost trust in my ability to interpret how I am feeling.  Every little aspect of this pregnancy causes me to doubt and to question.  Every twinge, every moment of calm, every slight discomfort brings fear.  My most recent experience with pregnancy ended in loss.  That is what I know.  That is what I know I can expect.  I don’t know how I am doing.  All I know is that today I am pregnant, and tomorrow is not promised.

There will always be an IF.  Life on earth with this baby is a maybe.  Pregnancy does not always lead to a living baby.  So when I talk about the future, I will often use the word “if.”  That is my reality.  Maybe it is morbid or negative, but it is reality.  I need the freedom to be able to acknowledge the IF in my conversations.  There is a saying in Spanish:  “si Dios quiere,”  basically translating to “if God wants.”  That is how I feel about pretty much all plans in my life right now.  The simple “can the girls come over to play” or the bigger “what day do you return to the states?”  I can give you an answer or a plan, but I will add “si Dios quiere.”

Plans.  On my bad days making plans sends me over the deep end, and on my good days making plans gives me an increased anxiety.  This could be because our life changes so drastically with a delivery and a baby.  We fly back to the states to have the baby, IF we make it that far.  Any plans back in the states then are a maybe.  This may be because the day we learned Ella’s heart stopped beating we were supposed to board an airplane.  Buying plane tickets, booking reservations, even just making plans for dinner in the future gives me anxiety, and sometimes I just can’t.  Even if I want to make plans with you, it may just be too hard.  So if you want to make plans in the future, it would really help me out if your proposed plans started with “if you are able,” or “if you are up to it…”

Appointments.  Doctors’ appointments and ultrasounds are no longer exciting.  They are life-changing.  They are where you go to hear bad news.  Days leading up to these appointments are difficult.  The days of these appointments are often unbearable.  I need extra patience and grace on these days because I am usually anxious and irritable.  I can’t help it–I am anticipating the worst.  ALWAYS.  Sometimes I would like someone to go with me.  Sometimes I would like to be alone.  Please don’t get upset if I do not want you there.  This needs to be about me.  I need to take care of myself on these days.  I need to do what I think will make that day easiest for me.  

I need to dream. I know that.  I need to picture the happy.  I need to dream of a delivery room with a crying baby.  I do this privately and usually look up birth pictures on Pinterest.  Know that I do allow myself in the safety behind closed doors to dream of a different, happy ending.  An ending that does not bring heartache and funerals and grieving.  This is a different baby and a different pregnancy and has the potential for a different ending.  I know that, and I remind myself of that.  But please know that it is too hard to acknowledge this out loud.  

Safe zone.  There is no safe zone for me.  Statistics are not comforting.  Only one percent of babies are lost in the second trimester.  When you are part of the one percent, no odds feel very comforting. No time feels safe.  I will battle fear (and I battle fear hard, on my knees many, many times a day) at all stages of this pregnancy.  Statistics and milestones are not comforting.  No time feels safe.  EVER.

Shopping.  I love shopping.  In many ways shopping is my therapy.  But not now.  I do not want to buy maternity clothes.  I do not want to buy baby items.  Please do not give me anything.  If you would like to buy baby items please give them to me after there is a crying baby in my arms.  I know the pain of staring at them in my closet months after I had said goodbye to my baby.  I know the agony of packing up unused baby items and maternity clothes that were never worn.  So if you see me in clothes that are way too small because I can’t bear to buy anything that will actually fit, just smile and pretend like I am not embarrassing you. I am just trying to survive.  Please don’t try to convince me I need anything before the delivery.  I have worked it out, and I don’t.  We have a plan once the baby is here, and we will be fine if we do not purchase anything ahead of time.  

Plan A and Plan B.  There are always two roads in my head.  From this moment on, I will always have a plan if all is ok and a plan if all is not.  Maybe this is because either way life will change drastically for us, and then flights may be canceled.  We are living with one foot in one country and one foot in another.  Whatever the reason, having two plans is comforting.   Less than two years ago, my life changed in an instant, and I had to readjust all my plans when I could barely breathe.  The only way I know how to survive going forward is to have two plans in place—plans that are ever-changing and evolving as the weeks go by.  

Delivery.  IF we make it to a delivery and we are expecting a healthy baby, that experience is still scary.  There are no guarantees.  I am not sure what I will need on that day.  This road of grief has been difficult for the four of us.  A hospital room where a baby is not crying is what we know.  We need to heal.  We need to heal together.  That might mean we ask you for space after our new baby is born.  We may need time, just the five of us, to welcome our new baby and grieve the fact we didn’t get that same joyous experience with Ella.  I don’t know what that day will look like, but I appreciate your understanding and patience as we navigate our emotions to come during the delivery.  Thank you ahead of time for the space and time we will need from you before we can celebrate with you.  

Ella.  Please don’t forget her in the excitement of a new baby.  We are a family of six.  I have four children.  This is important to me.  Ella was a life created by God and given to our family.  She is, forever and always, a part of our family even if she is not here with us. When you mention her by name, or tell me you miss her, or ask me about her, my heart is warmed more than I will ever be able to say. I want you to know that. I know it is often awkward for you to bring her up, and I appreciate it even more that you still do.  I have never ever wished someone didn’t bring up Ella in a conversation.  I have only ever been thankful to hear you speak about her.  So even with the excitement of this new baby, please still say her name.  


What can you do?  Check on me.  Send me notes, emails, texts, and let me know you are thinking of me. I may not reply.  Please don’t hold that against me. Sometimes I just can’t, but keep checking in.  I appreciate it so much even if I don’t reply.  If you want to give me support,  send me a Bible verse or Starbucks card.  Letting me know you love me and are there for me without words is sometimes easiest for me.  Check on Blake.  This journey is difficult for him, too, and he spends too much energy worrying about me.  This causes me to worry about him.  It  is a vicious cycle.  So I ask you, for my comfort, support him while he is supporting me.  Take the girls.  Play with them.  Let them have fun.  Some days all my energy goes toward taking care of their needs, and I don’t have a lot left over for fun.  They need fun.  They need carefree.  Their hearts are scared, too.  Death is a reality in all our minds.  They need moments to escape the worry and just be children. Lastly, pray for us.  Pray for all the needs we have that we can’t even begin to tell you about.


Thank you for your love and support of my family during this journey.  Thank you for understanding how complicated our emotions are as we wait for this baby to arrive while still grieving the baby we will never get to hold again.  We love you all so much even when we don’t know how to tell you.

love always,

lizz