Balance

3 months today. 

This morning I went to the chiropractor.  I treat him like a therapist.  He asks me how I'm feeling (referring to my neck or hips) and I tell him that I'm tired, that I don't feel like running, that I lack motivation.  Today he asked me what my new year's resolutions are..."to try to be happy" I said.  He is a kind man.  He listens, sometimes we talk about Jonah, and then cracks my neck in a horrifying way.  I always feel a little better emotionally and physically when I leave.  It is amazing to me how our bodies are tied to our emotions.  Right after Jonah died I found that I was so sad I couldn't eat, and I felt like throwing up all the time.  That feeling returned to me two nights ago.  I felt overwhelmed by grief, by self-pity, by the world, by the subtle reminders that in an instant my life transformed from joyful to devastated.  I felt out of control.  

Grief is full of metaphors.  Some have said its like sinking in quicksand, like bubbles coming to the surface, like a roller coaster, like climbing a mountain.  In this third month it feels to me like learning to walk a tight-rope.  Each step forward is timid, unsure.  There is fear and adrenaline.  I am constantly seeking balance.  But how do I balance remembering my sweet Jonah, while moving forward?  Each step forward seems like a step away from him, from my life with him.

I look at his picture on our fridge and stare at his beautiful blue eyes, and at the same time I feel the need to look away.  His eyes, for me, carry such intense pain and joy.  I long to remember his smile, his laugh, his hair, his dimples, the way his body rested on mine.  But when my mind drifts to these memories, they are followed by a memory of the panic I felt when his body was limp in my arms.  How do I balance remembering and forgetting? 

There are days when I cry a lot, when I search his room for his smell, when I read the journal entries of his short life, when I talk of him joyfully.  Then there are days when I shut down.  I can't talk about anything, especially Jonah.  To me these emotions feel like the rapid sway of a tight-rope under my balancing body.  My fate lies in my ability to regain my balance, to stay centered.  I try to gain control, and I fear over correcting and falling. 

I am trying to find balance in slowing down my pace and in being deliberate in my steps.  I breathe deeply, and try to focus on the things that are within my control.  I have never been to alcoholics anonymous, but the serenity prayer runs through my mind. 

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.

If only my heart and mind could find the balance of this prayer.   That would be beautiful, peaceful.  Instead I find myself feeling more like Frank Constanza yelling "Serenity Now!"  A little frenetic.

I guess I will have to accept the frantic sway of the tightrope until I learn to balance.  I will make subtle moves, simple steps.  Maybe someday it will become second nature to me.  Until then I will continue to miss Jonah deeply, to be blown off course by the slightest breeze of memory, to freeze momentarily in fear, and to slowly move forward. 

Christmas Gift

Shortly after Jonah died Jordan and I realized that we didn't have a family picture.  In Jonah's short life I took tons of pictures.  I have hundreds of pictures of Jonah by himself, almost as many pictures of Jordan and Jonah together, and quite a few of Jonah with me. But we only have a handful of pictures of the three of us.  The few we have are blurry, or one of us is not facing the camera.  The majority are of us exhausted and unkempt shortly after Jonah was born.  Despite their imperfections these pictures are precious to me.  Even though I have these informal pictures of my family, it broke my heart that we didn't have a beautiful photo to remember our time together.

This Christmas we received the most amazing gift from Jordan's brother Quinn and his family.  They gave us two framed pictures.  The first was a photo of Jordan holding Jonah.  It is so sweet.  The second is an amazing picture of my sweet family taken at Jonah's baby blessing.  When I saw it my heart was overwhelmed with gratitude.  I just wept and stared at the beautiful moment Quinn captured for us over a year ago.  I am so grateful. 

I received so many thoughtful, and beautiful gifts this Christmas.  But this picture, this physical reminder that we were once and will always be a family, is the best Christmas gift I have ever received. 

Lullaby

I really miss holding Jonah each night and singing to him.  I don't have the best voice.  My brother will tell you that I often change key mid song.  When the notes get too high, especially with children's songs, I just stop singing, then resume when it comes back to an acceptable range.  I have a horrible memory for lyrics, and often repeat myself.  Most would not describe my singing as beautiful, but it always felt beautiful when I sang to Jonah. 

I sang to him even before he had his hearing aid.  When he was a newborn and crying I would hold his soft cheek against mine and sing "Baby Beluga," hoping the sound would travel through our connected bodies to his perfect inner ear.  It always soothed him. 

At night he would drink his bottle and play with my hair while I sang to him.  I sang him the same songs over and over: You are My Sunshine, Baby Beluga, I am a Child of God, I Know My Savior Loves Me, and He Sent His Son.  I often thought I should sing him something new, but I could never think of anything else to sing.  In all my years of teaching, not to mention being raised by a preschool teacher, it surprised me that I could not think of any other songs.  So these were our lullabies. 

In the hospital, as I held his body, I sang him these songs again.  My singing was stifled by tears and anguish, but I still sang to him.  It was beautiful.  The lyrics found new meaning to me as I sang... 

You are My Sunshine
You Are My Sunshine
My only sunshine.
You make me happy
When skies are grey.
You'll never know, dear,
How much I love you.
Please don't take my sunshine away


I am a Child of God
I am a child of God,
And he has sent me here,
Has given me an earthly home
With parents kind and dear.
Lead me, guide me, walk beside me,
Help me find the way.
Teach me all that I must do
To live with him someday

I Know My Savior Loves Me
I know He lives!
I will follow faithfully.
My heart I give to Him.
I know that my Savior loves me.

I will never forget the sacred sweetness of singing to my baby Jonah one last time.  Lately I have been thinking about Christmas and one of these beautiful lullabies is floating around my heart and mind, He Sent His Son.  Those four words are so significant to me this Christmas.  John 3:16 reminds us, 

For God so loved the world, that He gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. 

This is an amazing scripture.  The phrase that He gave His only begotten Son pierces my heart, as I think about losing my only son.  I am grateful for the promises of Christmas.  I am grateful for the hope of everlasting life.  I am grateful He sent His son.

At the end of the song it says...

What does the Father ask of us?
What do the scriptures say?
Have faith, have hope, live like his Son,
Help others on their way.

What does he ask?
Live like his Son.

I am trying this Christmas season to have faith, to have hope, to live like His Son, and to help others on their way.  So far it has been a season filled with simplicity, love, and beauty.  I hope you can find peace in this simple lullaby, and have a meaningful and merry Christmas! 

A Better Place

I am hesitant to write this post.  I do not want to offend any of the kind and wonderful people who have tried to console Jordan and I since Jonah died.  It is so difficult to know what to say when someone dies.  I totally get that.  On the other hand I want to be honest about this experience.  I want you to understand, even superficially, how it feels.  So I will write.

Tonight I find the phrase "a better place" bouncing around in my brain.  I have struggled to discern what I feel when this phrase is used, because it is used often. On the one hand I have to believe that Jonah is in "a better place."  The alternatives are unacceptable.  My heart would plunge into despair if I believed for a moment that his existence ceased, or that he could be somewhere worse.  My hope for heaven and reunion is what keeps me moving forward.  It should bring me comfort to know that he is somewhere without pain, without heartache, full of love and beauty.  Sometimes it does. 

But usually when I hear people say that Jonah is in a better place, my immediate unfiltered thought is "what place could be better than here in my arms, in my home, in our family."  I still miss him so much.  My mind cannot fully comprehend "a better place".  There are days when the phrase makes me feel selfish for craving my little one. 

Please understand that I am grateful for the kind words spoken, for the difficult effort, the service given and the shared hope of "a better place."  But sometimes it is easy to rely on common phrases in difficult conversations.  I have relied on those phrases myself.  I am especially grateful for friends and neighbors who come without too much explanation or consolation, but rather listening ears and open hearts.  They allow me to be here, in this difficult place, without hurrying towards eternity.

Trials

I am going to be totally honest with you.  Sometimes when I read or hear about other people's challenges in life it irritates me.  Most of life's day-to-day problems seem insignificant to me right now. The most selfish part of my soul wants to tell people that they don't understand how hard life can be. I want to say that the challenges they face are child's play and that my pain can easily trump theirs. I realize how unfair that feeling is. 

The view from our backyard.  Worth the wait!

As I've worked through this irritation I have been reminded of my own meltdown moments.  The times when I thought I was facing enormous obstacles, difficult decisions, and uncertain futures.  At the time life felt totally overwhelming.  Most of these memories are full of uncontrollable melodramatic crying. 

In college I remember sobbing in my dad's office when I felt like I should break up with a boy that I thought I really liked (we only dated for three weeks).  A year later I found myself sitting at the bottom of the stairs in my parent's house, with my head on my sister's lap, weeping because I told Jordan it was over (obviously the break-up didn't take).  When we were newlyweds I cried because I thought we would never find a house and we would end up living in my mother-in-law's basement forever (we lived there for just over a year and finally found the perfect house in a great location).  I was devastated when I miscarried my first pregnancy.  And then I cried because it seem to take so long to get pregnant (only 9 months).  When Jonah was born and diagnosed with Treacher-Collins Syndrome I fell apart in the shower because life seemed so unfair.  I was so worried about the challenges my baby would face, and how it would affect our lives (little did we know how much beauty and light he would bring to us).  This little recap makes it seem like I cry a lot...oh well. 

The day Jonah died I learned what it meant to cry. I discovered the true nature of sorrow.  All of life's previous challenges seemed insignificant, like little pebbles compared to the giant boulder I now carry.  Each day I hear myself saying "this is too hard" and "I can't handle this."  But then I remember that I have heard these words come out of my mouth before.  I have doubted my capacity to manage challenges that now seem so simple.  And each trial has been followed by unimaginable blessings of beauty and abundance.  I am still here, I have been strengthened by my trials, and I have had happiness and joy that I never anticipated.

So I want to apologize.  I am sorry for judging your challenges.  I know that life can feel ridiculously hard, no matter what stage you are in.  All of life's small and medium challenges prepare us for the big ones, increase our capacity.  It is all relative.  I will try to remember that you are facing the most difficult trial of your life so far, and there is no need for comparison.  As I reflect I am grateful that my ability to cope has increased, but that knowledge comes with fear of the future.  I wonder what challenges lie ahead, and hope that losing Jonah is not preparation for something harder.  I hope this is as hard as it gets, and at the same time wonder what unknown strength lies within me.   

That which we persist in doing becomes easier - not that the nature of the task has changed, but our ability to do has increased.  Ralph Waldo Emerson