The Whale

One of Clara's most discernible words is whale. She says it often and quite clearly, even with a pacifier in the corner of her mouth.  Her version is lilting and sweet and seems to follow the trajectory of her hand as she mimics the motion of a breaching whale.  I am mesmerized every time. Whale. Of all the words, and of all the animals, I wonder why this one that has risen to the surface of her simmering vocabulary.

The answer is probably simple. Whales inhabit our home. Not in a nautical way.  If you are picturing a beachy sea shanty - if that is even a thing - you've got the wrong idea. The average visitor to our home might not even notice them, but whales are everywhere.  There is a distressed wooden sperm whale in robin's egg blue near the front entry, a plush stuffed humpback in the toy bin, cartoony blue whales on the bath mat, a wooden whale lamp in my bedroom, and Simon and Clara often cuddle two little striped whales I made from Jonah's clothing when he died.

When Jonah left us it seemed necessary to remember him symbolically.  I can't really explain why.  But I have observed the same pattern in other's grief.  For my cousin's baby it is an acorn, for another the ruby hues of a sunset, and for Jonah it is whales. When I see these little tokens in my home I think of him, and I'm glad they are there.

When I hear Clara's sweet voice say whale I often wonder how she will know her older brother.

Sometimes in the mornings our babies crawl into our bed under the pretense of cuddling, but really they are interested in access; access to items that are usually unreachable.  They step across our heads and pillows to swipe framed photos from our bedside tables.

One photo is of me and Jonah on his first birthday.  He's holding a gold mylar balloon and I'm wearing a patchwork apron. Clara often holds this photo and looks at it carefully.  First, she points to me "mom" and then the balloon and then Jonah.  I say "That's your brother, that's Jonah." Confused, she looks at Simon knowing that he is her brother.  I say "Simon is your brother. This is Jonah, he's your brother too."  She usually points at Jonah's sweet face and then moves on to the next picture frame. After these brief interactions I wonder how I will ever tell her the rest of the story. "Jonah came first. We loved him so much. He died, in an accident, before you were born." It makes me sad to think that death will always be a part of our family story.

The name Jonah came to me one day while I was sitting in the temple.  I was waiting for Jordan to meet me at the entrance, and had been hoping to think of a name for our expectant little boy.  I anxiously sat through our temple session, listening to ancestral names, ready to receive inspiration. Yet nothing came. I was frustrated. Jordan and I have struggled to name all of our children, but the first seemed especially daunting.  It felt so important, and yet, so arbitrary to name someone before you even know them.  But that was our task and we were floundering.

As I waited for Jordan in the quiet of the lobby I picked up the scriptures and began reading from the Old Testament book of Jonah.  Honestly, the full story of Jonah as a prophet isn't really that inspiring. He ran from his responsibilities out of fear, judged the conversion of an entire city, and seemed to be a bit pouty at the end. But the part about the whale, that's where Jonah's story becomes remarkable and miraculous.

When Jonah is thrown overboard in hopes that his sacrifice will calm the troubled seas and save those who remain on board he is swallowed by a large fish, perhaps a whale.  The scriptures say that the Lord had prepared this fish to swallow Jonah, to hold him for three days and three nights, and to deliver him to the safety and warmth of a new land.

At the time, this story felt so common to me that I didn't think deeply about it.  I only felt the name Jonah stick to me.  When I suggested the name to Jordan he said it was "too whaley" and then facetiously suggested "Ahab" as an alternative.  But time passed and eventually we held a living breathing nameless infant in our arms and when the nurses asked us for the umpteenth time for a name we said "Jonah."

Now, when I think about Simon and Clara, and Jonah's death, and the large fish that the Lord prepared I think about our story, and I wonder how much God knew.  Did he know that my own Jonah would be swallowed up by death, in an instant, as I watched helplessly? Did he know that whales would fill our home?

In the last few weeks as Clara's soft voice has reminded me of the whales around me I have wondered if this large blue mammal is not a bit morbid as a symbol of remembrance.  After all, in the biblical story of Jonah, the whale is the undertaker, the darkness, and death itself.  The prophet Jonah prays diligently to be delivered from its prison, just as I prayed for our child to be delivered from death's reach.

As I've read the story of Jonah again and again my view of these whales has shifted.  In the New Testament Jesus taught that the story of Jonah and the Whale is an allegory about the Savior's death and resurrection.  This perspective changes the story and the whale becomes about more than death, but deliverance.  It is not merely a punishment, but rather a vehicle, prepared by a loving God, to cross to the safety of a distant shore.  It is a symbol of our ultimate hope that death is not the end.

As Simon and Clara get older I hope that I can use the whales around our home to teach them about their brother and about the belief we hold close to our hearts that we will see him again, and that God has prepared a way to carry each of us home.

Safety

I have been haunted lately by a memory.  It comes to me in quiet moments when my mind seems to wander between to-do lists and crazy politics and craving sleep.  It clears a space for itself amid the clutter to grab my attention and demand my focus.  But it is painful.  This memory brings with it shame and regret and speculation.  I find myself wishing I could reverse it and relive it.  But I can't. So instead I have been trying to pay attention to it and learn from it.  I have never told anyone about this moment other than Jordan, but now I feel compelled to tell it to you.

It happened a couple years ago when I was pregnant with the twins.  Jordan and I had spent most of our savings and all of our emotional strength on trying to bring these babies into existence, and my pregnancy still felt new and vulnerable.  We had ongoing worries about losing the pregnancy and became hyper vigilant in avoiding risk.  I avoided questionable foods, rested abundantly, took all my medications on time, and prayed every night that our babies would arrive safely.

One frigid winter evening Jordan and I stopped at Harmon's to pick up some tasty bread or pumpkin cookies.  I ran into the store while he waited in the car for me.  I grabbed the one or two items that I needed and headed to the check out stand.

I noticed a few things about the woman in front of me. Her little boy sat in the cart in mismatched and threadbare pajamas, his hair hadn't seen a comb for a while and his face was dirty.  He was busy and rambunctious and pushing her to her limit. She snapped at him a few times as he grabbed things off the shelf.  Her appearance matched his, unkempt hair, faded sweats, and an oversized jacket.  But the thing I remember most was an intense weariness in her eyes and across her shoulders.

I stood behind her, waiting patiently, arms resting on my swollen belly.  She purchased her food and left, and without a second thought I did the same.

Then I saw her again. This time just inside the automatic doors, unloading her cart, lining her arms with grocery bags while trying to wrangle her young child.  It became clear that she was preparing to walk home on this bitter winter evening.

Something told me to stop and talk to her.  So I did.  I asked her if she had a car.  She said no.
"Do you live nearby?"
"Yes."  She said.  "A few blocks away."
"Would you like a ride?"

I watched as her burden seemed to lighten, and she thanked me for the offer. "I'm so sick" she said. "I've had bronchitis for a few weeks and can't seem to get better."

Suddenly fear came over me like a wave, starting in my head and moving to my heart.  Sick, I thought.  What if I get sick?  What if something happens to the babies?  Is this safe?  Should I do this?  Although probably irrational the fear of losing the babies overwhelmed me.  I asked her to wait while I talked to Jordan.

Moments later I returned and told her we could not take her home.  I offered a brief explanation about my pregnancy and my fear of getting sick and then turned away.  I don't even remember her reaction. I just remember feeling her presence behind me like a shadow as I walked away.  My fear and shame and sorrow all swirling together yet propelling me out the door into the cold night air.

It has been a couple years since this happened, and I still agonize over the choice. I'm sure she made it home - she didn't live far away.  But I wonder if she felt a little less sure about human kindness because of me. I wonder if she stayed sick a little longer, if she was unkind to her child, if she lost faith she could have gained.  And although I could make a very logical argument for the conflict I felt that night, in my heart I know it was a betrayal of my values and of my spirit.

When this experience visits me I think of the apostle Peter walking on water with the Savior.

And Peter answered him (the Savior) and said, Lord if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water.  And he said, Come.  And when Peter was come down out of the ship, he walked on the water, to go to Jesus.  But when he saw the wind boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried, saying, Lord, save me.  And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand, and caught him, and said unto him, O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt? (Matthew 14:28-31)

Fishermen at Sea, by JWM Turner

I have always felt empathy for Peter in his imperfect faith.  I relate to his desire to do great things, while being hampered by his own human frailty and fear.

I have also reflected on the call of the Savior to step out of the assumed safety of the boat to follow him.  He simply says "Come" and expects us to move forward through the boisterous wind and waves that create fear in our hearts.  

That cold winter night I was swallowed by the waves.  I sought the safety of the boat rather than heeding the whisper of the Savior to help one of his children.  

Each night Jordan and I pray together.  We pray as a family with Simon and Clara and we pray together as a couple.  In the past I have heard these familiar words come out of my mouth "bless us with safety."  But lately I haven't been able to say them.  As a mother it seems like there should be nothing more that I would want in the world than for my children and my family to be safe. Especially since I know the excruciating pain of losing a child.  But I can't pray for safety anymore.

That night at the grocery store I secured my safety, but I lost a little piece of my soul. I realize now that when I pray, I need to pray to be brave.  Safety will only insulate us from the troubles of the world, and make us feel as if they don't concern us.  Bravery will compel us to act when sadness and sorrow and weariness seem to be as prevalent as the air we breathe.  As I've studied the life of the Savior I've found very little evidence that he is concerned with our temporal safety.  He has always called his followers onto unsteady ground, past dogma and platitudes, and toward his example of healing, cleansing, ministering, and loving.  

So tonight when I kneel to pray with my family, I will let this memory haunt me once again.  Then, instead of asking God to grant me some sort of ubiquitous safety, I will ask him to teach to me to be brave.  

It seems to me that the Savior is saying to each of us that unless we lose ourselves in the service of others our lives are largely lived to no real purpose....He who lives only unto himself withers and dies, while he who forgets himself in the service of others grows and blossoms in this life and in eternity." - Gordon B. Hinckley

Last Night

Last night Simon woke up crying just after midnight, moments after my own tired head melted into the softness of my pillow.  I'm not sure why he woke up.  Teething? Cold? Hungry? Wet?  My tired brain can never really figure it out.  Sometimes on really bad nights I change diapers, add a sleep sack, open windows, and dispense Ibuprofen in hopes that I've covered all my bases and we can all sleep peacefully for a few consecutive hours.    

After letting him cry for awhile and whispering prayers to heaven that he would just fall back asleep, I flopped my legs to the floor and wandered into his darkened bedroom.  When my eyes finally adjusted and focused I saw him sitting against the crib slats looking almost as disoriented as I felt.  I gently laid him back down and gave him his pacifier which he angrily grabbed and threw across the crib, as if he was offended by the suggestion that he could be soothed so easily.  He rolled over and around his blanket like a crocodile in a death roll and eventually bumped his head on the corner of the crib crying out even louder and longer than before.  

Afraid he would wake Clara I gathered up his fuzzy blanket and hoisted his pajama clad body over the crib rail.  We settled into the chair next to his crib and I laid his long body across mine.  At first he tossed and turned and wiggled, but then slowly let himself relax into me as I brushed his wispy hair with my fingers.  His body became heavier and softer and his breath slower.  I traced figure eights across his back until sleep returned. I shifted my weight to move him back into bed, and then stopped.  My inner voice whispered "stay awhile" and so I held him longer.  I brought his face to mine and felt the warmth of his velvet cheek.  I breathed in the sweet smell of his hair, a combination of sweat and lotion and grass and love.  I noticed the way he felt in my arms - simultaneously long and lanky and yet small enough to hold forever.  

I held him longer because I remembered this very night five years ago when I held his brother the same way. A sharp cry in the middle of the night.  A bottle made.  A diaper changed.  A sweet boy soothed and cherished.  I felt something hold me back that night too.  Something that said "stay here longer" "remember this." And I did. I held his brother, and smelled his sweet smell, and let his feathery hair brush across my lips.  I pushed away the exhaustion and stayed in that moment with him until we were both full of love and memory, not knowing then how much i would need to remember. The next morning would be our last together in this life. 

I thought about that moment 5 years ago as I held Simon and it scarred me.  The need to stay longer, to soak it all in, felt like a bad omen.  I've often thought that I was given that prompting to hold Jonah longer because God knew I would lose him the next day, and maybe that is the truth.  But as I held Simon and shook off the superstition of losing him I realized that voice is always with me as a mother.  It whispers to me everyday, "be here, be present."  Sometimes I'm too tired or distracted or frustrated to hear it.  Sometimes I hear it and ignore it and go about checking items off of my to-do list.  But in the middle of the night when the world is quiet and the room is dark, I listen.  Not because calamities are coming, but because life is fleeting.  

I am reminded that tomorrow everything will be different.  My babies will be one day older, and they will know new things, and say new words, and climb on top of the table.  Eventually they will sleep all night, and then sleep too much.  Someday they will not fit in my arms or even want my touch.  They will make choices and mistakes, and the only thing I can do about it is to listen to that voice, to be present, to be slow, to smell their hair and listen to them giggle, to let my muscles memorize their heaviness.  Beyond that I am powerless. No matter what I do, tomorrow will come and bring with it all of the possibilities of joy and sorrow.  

I believe that voice is always present, always reminding us to notice the life we've been given.  We may only notice it when tragedy visits us, but I have a feeling it is always there.  

Eventually I moved Simon back to his bed, gave him his pacifier and covered him with his blanket.  I slipped back into bed beside Jordan, and pulled the comforter up around my shoulders. As I drifted off to sleep I heard a gentle rustling and then Clara's distinctive sputtering cry.  I held my breath for a moment and waited. Then I left the warmth of my bed to hold my little girl.  

When I woke, bleary eyed, in the morning I wondered what this day would bring. Today is a day of sorrow for us and for remembering.  It is the day we said goodbye to our first born and learned what it meant to be broken and bruised. 

 

I hoped for a day of happiness and peace and a nap.  As I remembered the loss I experienced five years ago I tried to listen for the voice.  I heard it when Simon and Clara spread tuna fish all over their faces at lunch and when we visited their brother's grave.  I heard it when we sat in the late afternoon sun watching the babies throw birdseed toward a roving flock of chickens.  I heard it when our family gathered for dinner, and when Simon splashed in the bath until the water ran out. "This is important" it whispered, "be here." 

One Year

There has been something so familiar about this past year.  Even though having twins is very different than having a single baby, the flow and seasons of this year have matched those of Jonah's year with us.  Jonah was born on the 14th of July and our twins were born on the 22nd, five years and one week apart.  As a result, every milestone and every "first" has followed a similar chronology.

Jonah's first smiles came in the fall and this year as the leaves fell Simon and Clara started to smile.  In the winter Jonah began to roll and scoot and Simon and Clara followed his example.  This spring Simon and Clara ventured outside and explored the grass and leaves and tried to eat them, and as I watched them I thought about Jonah tasting rocks and dirt and crawling through the grass.  And summer...summer is by far the sweetest: playing in the water, swinging, exploring the neighborhood, climbing, walking, and celebrating first birthdays.  It's all the same.  When I hold Simon next to me and feel his weight and the way he turns to direct me through the world I think of Jonah.  When Clara squeals in delight as she gets in the bath and splashes water all over her face but doesn't seem to care, I think of him.  I see him in every moment I share with his brother and sister.  In a way it is so comforting and beautiful, and it also scares me.

I am constantly reminded that we only had one year with Jonah; We had one Halloween, one Christmas, one birthday.

We celebrated the twins' birthday last week and even that echoed the experience of their brother.  We played in the yard with grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, and cousins.  It was a hot afternoon, even in the shade of our giant walnut tree.  The air smelled the same - a combination of heat, and wind, horses, and grass.  We played in the water to cool down, ate fried chicken, opened presents, and watched excitedly as Simon and Clara approached their first cupcake with caution followed by full bodied appreciation.

When I think about Jonah's birthday I think about what I didn't know.  When Jonah turned one we didn't know that we would only have two more months with him. We didn't know that a small fruit snack could take the life of our precious boy. We didn't know that he would leave our family and in his absence a crushing sorrow would emerge.

Sometimes I wonder what I don't know now.

As we celebrated together I thought about time passing or rather marching, marching toward September. There is something in the familiarity and passage of time that makes me feel like I'm headed towards the same experience.  I realize that August and September were the last months I had with Jonah, and I wonder what the future holds.  It is a hard feeling to shake.

The weather at Simon and Clara's party was bizarre.  One moment it was blazing hot, followed by a swift thunderstorm, then giant raindrops, and back to scorching heat.  Those who attended moved quickly between the shade of trees, the shelter of our garage, the warmth of the sun, and the protection of patio umbrellas.  It rained on our chicken and cupcakes and presents.  My mom mentioned that she was looking for a rainbow, but none appeared. The sky only held black rain clouds or blinding sunshine.

At the end of the party the showers drifted towards the mountains and the sun was lower against the western sky.  As we cleaned up and said our goodbyes I looked towards the east, past the large pine tree in our yard.  I looked towards the same patch of sky on the day of Jonah's funeral, when the weather was identical: hot, then stormy, then peaceful.  That day two rainbows appeared like a message from heaven and temporarily calmed my troubled heart.

In this moment, just above the mountain a faint rainbow appeared, peeking through, as if not wanting to steal away our attention.  I stood on my patio and watched Simon and Clara playing with their cousins under the shelter of the pine, unaware of the beautiful rainbow above them.  I thought of Jonah and my heart hurt and soared at the same time.  The women I love gathered around me on the hot cement and looked toward the sky.  It seemed clear that they knew what I knew.  We simply said "Jonah." "He came."  And we believed it was true.

Rainbows are symbols.  They are symbols of promises and peace and freedom and love.  They are symbols of a protecting hand.  The two rainbows I saw on the day we said goodbye to Jonah felt like a promise that God knew my pain and that someday things would feel right again.  And even though that seemed impossible at the time, it was true.  Our lives feel good and whole again.

This rainbow felt like a different promise, a promise that Jonah was still a part of our family, and that there would be many happy days ahead.  I felt overwhelming gratitude for such a simple but profound moment, looked up to the heavens, and believed it was true.

Be of good cheer.  The future is as bright as your faith. - Thomas S. Monson

Blessed are the Peacemakers

A few months after Jonah died someone I love very much told me he was gay.  His revelation was simple and sincere and not really a surprise, but we had never talked about it before.  He had never said the words "I am gay" and I had never asked.  Jonah's death seemed to open up a safe space in our hearts to be honest with each other about our lives.  I can't remember the specific words that were said, but I remember feeling overwhelming love for him.  I loved him more than I ever had before, and I knew without a doubt that our Heavenly Father loved him deeply. I also felt sure that my responsibility wasn't to persuade or to preach, but to love.  It has never been hard to love him.  

  

This week I've reflected on that experience amid the whirlwind of accusations and explanations surrounding the LDS church's new policy regarding the membership of children from same-sex marriages. I have tried to tap into that feeling of love as I have read articles, comments, and opinions on the subject. But instead I began to build a wall to protect my faith and to protect my family.  

I felt defensive because I love the LDS church. It feels like home to me. I have been carried through my darkest days by the simplicity of its doctrine and the Christ-like love of its members.  I have felt my hope restored as I have listened to the messages of it's leaders.  And most of all I have watched my parents and grandparents devote their lives to its ministry. My father is a Stake President, which means he presides over hundreds of individuals and approximately 10 congregations.  He serves them without pay. He sacrifices his limited time, outside of his profession, to help families meet their needs and solve their problems.  He shares his testimony of the Savior at countless meetings in hopes that each member of his flock will find peace as they deal with their unique trials. He rejoices with those who rise above their challenges, and he mourns with those that feel lost and alone.  He is good and honest and kind.  I know that there are thousands of good men and women like him throughout the church at every level of service and leadership.   

So my immediate reaction to accusations of bigotry, hatred, and nefarious intentions was to defend my faith and my family vigorously. 

But as the days have passed I have felt gently guided away from my defensive fortress and into a softer space of empathy. I have prayed that God would help me understand the actions of my church and the feelings of those who oppose it. I think one of life's greatest challenges is to mourn with those that mourn, and to sit in sorrow with someone even if we do not completely understand their pain. 

This morning I was blessed with a moment of empathy that opened my heart and mind.  I pondered how I would feel if the church's new policy affected me in a deeply personal way.  What if, hypothetically, the new policy was about in vitro fertilization, instead of gay marriage?  What if my opportunity to have a family was in direct conflict with my faith? It hit me hard that I would feel incredible sorrow. I would feel conflicted and maybe isolated.  I might feel wronged or misunderstood.  It would take time and prayer and love to work through the pain. I would hope that my faith would endure such a challenge and that I could keep an eternal perspective.  But even with perspective I would grieve what was lost.  

I know this is not a perfect comparison, and that I do not fully understand how those who are hurt by this policy feel.  But, I do know that I felt a return to love.  

I admire those who arrived with empathy quickly; those who did not waste time building a fortress. I admire the peacemakers on both sides of this issue that have acknowledged the others pain and offered love before explanation or accusation. I have heard touching stories of LDS families reaching out to their LGBT neighbors in gestures of genuine love and friendship.  I have read beautifully humble letters from the LGBT community seeking common ground and understanding.  These things have changed me.

I hope that next time my heart feels bruised I will stop the hard work of constructing an impenetrable wall.  Instead I hope I will seek to feel the love He has for all of His children.  I will pray to be given the gift of empathy. Then I will try to remember the words the Savior spoke at the Sermon on the Mount, 

Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.

Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. 

Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.

Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.

Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God. 
Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God. 

Matthew 5: 3-9

Blessings

I often wonder if you will ever know how much you are loved; how many prayers your dad and I said hoping that someday you would join our family.  From the moment your brother Jonah left this earth, we prayed each night for you to come. Not just us. Everyone. Your grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, our friends, and neighbors, we all sent our prayers up to heaven hoping they would be heard. And then one day you arrived, and it seemed like you were always here with us, and all of the struggle faded and things felt right in the world again.

When I look in your eyes I wonder what you will be. Clara is so full of wonder and Simon full of deep soulful stares.  I hope you will become everything you can be.  There will be times when you won’t realize all you can be. I hope you will let us, your parents, remind you.  We will try to give you a safe space to grow and explore and learn.  We cannot protect you from all of the struggles of life, because those are important too.  And although we can’t remove your obstacles we promise will walk through them with you.  We will help you carry any heavy loads and cry with you when life is hard.   And when life is beautiful, sometimes overwhelmingly beautiful, we will laugh and play and celebrate with you.  We will rejoice as you succeed and love and overcome.  We will cherish the days when life feels soft and welcoming.   Today was your blessing day. You were encircled and held by good men who love you, while your gentle father blessed you to have faith, to serve your fellow man, to trust your parents, and to be leaders. The women who love you surrounded them, and supported them, and whispered their own prayers for you up to heaven.

Clara June when you hear your name I hope you will remember the strong, loving, and righteous women who have come before you. Not just your namesakes, but your aunts, and grandmothers, and cousins. These women have shaped your family through incredible sacrifice, tears, and faith. They have opened the way for you to live a happy life.

Simon Max when you hear your name I hope you will remember its meaning; God has heard. To me, you are a living witness that God truly does hear and answer prayers.

Before the blessing your father spoke Jonah's name, and reminded us all of your beautiful older brother. I often wonder what role he will play in your life. Will you feel his presence? Will he help you in your trials? Will he whisper to you when you don't know which way to turn? I hope and believe he will. He had a kind heart and a wise soul. I hope that if you ever feel him near you will notice and listen.

We are so grateful for you, our children. It is a blessing to have you in our home. It is a blessing to be your mother. It is a blessing to know that we can be a family forever.  

You will always have our whole hearts and all our love.

Fear

A few weeks after Jonah died Jordan and I drove to Red Lodge, Montana to work. The drive north was long and lonely. I remember silently staring into the side mirror of Jordan's truck, watching the yellow stripes on black asphalt appear behind us and then disappear into the distance. The flashing yellow line felt symbolic, each stripe a memory of Jonah drifting into the distance with no promise of returning.  I can't remember if Jordan and I said a single word as we drove through the vast expanse of central Wyoming. We were both lost in our own thoughts, or maybe we were trying not to think.

When we drove into Red Lodge, golden leaves drenched the town, and misty clouds rested on the foothills of the Beartooth Mountains. The usual bustle of summer tourists had long since passed and gangs of wild turkeys began to roam the streets.  The air still held the crispness of Fall with a hint that winter was on its way.

We checked into our motel.  It was dated but clean, managed by a young tracksuit wearing man from India. The carpeted hallways were incredibly long and reminded me of The Shining. I almost expected a young boy to round the corner on a tricycle or creepy twins to greet us near the elevator. Despite the vague similarities to a horror movie It felt like a good place to settle into my grief and to feel anonymous for awhile. 

Jordan left each morning before the sun came up, kissing me goodbye while I lay half asleep.  Later I would force myself out of bed and write, watch TV, then sleep some more. Occasionally I ventured out to the local coffee shop to get a hot chocolate or to read a book. It felt strange, and also freeing, to order a drink as if I was just an ordinary person, as if my world had not shattered to pieces.  I could pretend for a while in Red Lodge that I was still a whole person instead of fragments of my former self.

One day work was cancelled and Jordan had a free afternoon. We decided to drive up the Beartooth Highway and lose ourselves in nature for awhile. Our wandering was cut short by a large metal gate blocking the road. The highway had closed for the season only a few days earlier.  We pulled over, parked, and stood in the open silence that engulfed us. The quiet was overwhelming and felt heavy. Without much discussion we zipped up our jackets and began walking, past the gate, and onto the open road beyond.  

It almost felt like we were walking into an post-apocalyptic world.  A world without people.  A world without cars.  The mountains around us felt enormous compared to our small bodies moving slowly along the two-lane highway.  The view was infinite compared to the previously segmented scenery through our windshield. The world around me was cold and beautiful and open, and I was small and afraid.

As we walked I thought about bears, and falling rocks, freak snowstorms, and serial killers in the wilderness. Before Jonah died these dangers would have flashed across my mind for a second, and then been dismissed by reason and statistics.  But now they all felt possible. Losing Jonah made me feel vulnerable in a way I could have never imagined. I no longer felt sheltered by my faith or a powerful God or good luck.

I quietly held onto my fears as we crested each hill, all the while realizing they were probably irrational.  But with each step away from our car they swirled and magnified.  The beauty that surrounded us was trumped by my worried heart.  Eventually, I turned to Jordan and said, "It is so beautiful up here. The mountains are incredible," and then in the same breath, "I'm afraid we will be attacked by bears."

This is when I discovered the power of speaking my fears. I don't even remember how Jordan responded. He probably just said "okay." But I remember feeling relief. I have learned that there is something about saying, "I am afraid of bears, and falling rocks, and freak snowstorms, and serial killers" that diminishes fear and allows me to move through it.  So I told Jordan I was afraid of bears and then we kept walking.

I've been thinking about this experience a lot lately, because I am bombarded by fears.  When I'm brushing my teeth or doing dishes my mind will present me with a thousand ways in which my current peaceful bliss could fall apart.  These include but are not limited to: dog attacks, tumors, earthquakes, ISIS, liver failure, tripping down stairs, West Nile Virus, diabetes, abduction, the flu, addiction, extreme poverty, SIDs, car accidents, horse trampling, etc...  Maybe my mind plays out these scenarios as a preventative measure, but in every instance, no matter what the danger, I see the same panic and heartache I felt as I watched Jonah die.  I can imagine the intensity of the loss again.  Even though I have survived losing Jonah and feel stronger for it, I know I never want to feel that kind of pain again. Somehow, deep in my subconscious I must believe that if I can think through every possible danger I can stop my heart from breaking.

Ultimately, I know that paying attention to my fears will not prevent future sorrow.  I am not that powerful and we live in a world of adversity and trial.  Listening to my fears will only keep me from living the life I want to live.  It will stop me in my tracks and make me feel small in a big beautiful world.

So I choose to release my fears into the world, no matter how silly the concern of how outlandish the possibility.  I tell Jordan in the middle of the night when he is barely coherent, "I think I have diabetes," or "I'm worried about Simon's liver," or "What if the crock pot catches on fire?" When the words leave my mouth the fears seem to leave my mind.

When I hold Simon and Clara, and my heart feels so full of love, I often wonder what the future holds for us. There is nothing that makes you feel more vulnerable than love.

I calm myself by thinking about Red Lodge. I imagine myself on that lonely highway, with Jordan by my side, both of us walking away from the imagined safety of our car, our home, our past life and into the wild magnificence of the mountains. When I visualize that moment I feel sure that I can do this.  I can be a mother to these children.  I can speak my fears.  I can love with my whole broken heart.  I can surround myself in beauty. I can move forward.

I Worried

by Mary Oliver

I worried a lot.  Will the garden grow, will the rivers

flow in the right direction, will the earth turn

as it was taught, and if not how shall

I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,

can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows

can do it and I am, well,

hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,

am I going to get rheumatism,

lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.

And gave it up.  And took my old body

and went out into the morning,

and sang.

Introducing...

Two months ago we welcomed our sweet little babies to the world.  It has taken me two months to write this post because every minute of my day and night has been spent caring for them.  Also, my brain is mush. Sleeping for one hour at a time does not make for a nimble mind. In the beginning if I had a free minute I would try to decide whether to eat or sleep...knowing I could not do both before one or two babies woke up.

Now the babies are sleeping for 3-4 hour stretches and I can see the light.  After sleeping for four hours I feel like I could pen a classic American novel or run a marathon...or take a long afternoon nap. The latter usually takes precedence. Today I will feel satisfied introducing our precious children to you.  

Simon Max Hall 

Clara June Hall

Simon

Simon is a mellow baby.  He loves to eat and sleep and is generally happy. He was 6 lbs 1 oz when he was born and at 2 months he weighs 9 lbs. 9 oz. His weight is the 4th percentile and his head is the 75th percentile (I've been told this is a Hall trait).  He is a quiet observer and often looks on seriously as his sister screams her head off.

All of his dark hair fell out except for a ring around the back from ear to ear.  He looks like he has male pattern baldness.  But he is growing blond hair on top and I think his eyes will be blue.

Clara

Clara is sassy and curious. From the moment she was born she was wide-eyed and loud.  She will let you know when she is not happy with a cry that escalates from coughs and sputters to ear piercing shrieks.  But once she is fed and rested she is sweet and funny. Sometimes at night she looks around our room like she sees something that I don't and she smiles.

She was 5 lbs. 8 oz when she was born and is 8 lbs. 9 oz. now.  She has held some of her long dark hairs...they hang out in the back and come forward almost like a bad comb over. Her hair is coming in dark and fuzzy and her eyes look like they will be blue.

Both of these babies love to cuddle. They love to be held by anyone and would spend their whole lives in your arms.  Some people say it spoils a baby to hold them while they sleep.  But really it spoils me.  If I could live without sleep, and if my arms were strong enough, I would hold them all of the time.  Their cuddles are like a healing balm for my worried soul.  I cherish that they are here with me today.  I want to hold them and love them while I can.


Children are the bridge to heaven. - Persian Saying

Does the Journey Seem Long?

Jonah was diagnosed with Treacher-Collins Syndrome the morning after he was born. Our new pediatrician, a man I had never met before, came and told us about his diagnosis. We spent the previous night worrying about our new little one, so any answers were a huge relief.  We were grateful to learn that he would have normal development of his body and brain and that his vision would probably be fine.  We braced ourselves as the doctor described the many surgeries Jonah would face, but again felt relief that his condition was not life-threatening.  We tried to process this deluge of new information and challenges while dealing with the usual learning curve of new parenthood.  My brain churned over diapers, cleft palates, nursing, pumping, craniofacial disorders, sleep schedules, bath time, hearing loss, etc...

Then everything stopped.

My focus became sharp as the doctor explained that I was the carrier of this syndrome. He could tell just by looking at me that my genes were responsible for our baby's fate.  He went on to explain that we would have a 50% chance of passing on this syndrome to any children we had in the future, and that their expression of the syndrome could be mild or severe. My heart broke. Even though I had been a parent for less than 24 hours, and it had been a difficult 24 hours, I wondered in that moment if I would ever have the opportunity again.

As Jonah grew and progressed and became the light of our home my fears about never having more children were buried by the busyness of being a mother.  I felt content to be his mother and decided I could deal with our challenges at some later stage of life, when it felt right.  Little did I know that those feelings would soon surface because of circumstances beyond my control.  Suddenly on a late September day our sweet boy was gone, in a matter of minutes, and we felt his absence deeply.


In the days and weeks that followed Jonah's death I remember wondering if and how we would ever have more children.  Jordan and I began to grapple with some very difficult ethical and moral questions in the midst of our overwhelming grief.  We loved Jonah so much, just as he was, but also knew that his condition (more specifically his small airway) contributed to his death.  We explored the ideas of embryonic genetic testing, egg donation, adoption, or simply taking our genetic chances. Jordan and I had different reactions and feelings about each of these options.  No choice felt easy or inconsequential.  Some choices felt selfish, while others felt too risky.  We met with a genetic counselor to discuss our options and began a winding indeterminate journey back to parenthood.

It was about this time I met Katie.*

I was assigned to get to know Katie through the Visiting Teaching program of our church.  In that moment Katie and I seemed to have very little in common other than our approximate age.  She was newly married and still in the honeymoon phase.  I was grieving deeply after losing Jonah and trying to navigate this uncharted territory in my marriage.  She was working full-time as a teacher, and I was trying to find ways of filling the quiet stillness of my days.

Looking back I'm sure no one would have judged me for choosing not to visit teach.  I could have excused myself from the responsibility by citing my overwhelming grief, or the differences in our circumstances.  But I felt compelled to go each month whether by guilt or responsibility or the spirit.  I will always be grateful that I did, because our seemingly divergent paths soon became parallel and we both became witnesses to incredible miracles in each others lives.

As we met each month we talked about simple things like work, marriage, travel, etc...  I shared some of the things I was experiencing as I continued to grieve, tried to find a job, sought solace in the mountains, and began visiting a fertility clinic in the area.  We became closer as we honestly talked about life and it's challenges.

Shortly after our first visit to the fertility clinic we stumbled upon Katie and her husband in the lobby.  We were just about to begin our first in vitro cycle and they were meeting with the doctor for a preliminary consultation.  We all felt optimistic and hopeful about the possibilities ahead.

Our optimism soon transformed into endurance as we both faced disappointments and setbacks. For three years we consoled each other as we each dealt with the heartache and frustration of miscarriages, chemical pregnancies, unhealthy eggs, blood tests, hormone injections, changing diets, endless waiting, physical and mental exhaustion, financial burdens, and difficult doctors.

With each new attempt we hoped, prayed and fasted for each other.  When we visited each month we talked about how hard it was to know if we were even on the right path. Should we continue or quit? Was adoption the answer? Would it all be worth it?  I felt very strongly that I could only pursue one option at a time. I would follow our fertility journey to the end of the road and if it failed we would begin looking into adoption.  Katie felt compelled to complete an application and home study and actively pursue adoption while going through in vitro.  We talked about our choices and faith and hope and the love of our Heavenly Father. Then we took turns believing that everything would work out in the end.

Eventually Katie and her husband swtiched doctors and we followed suit.  We ended up going to Dr. Andrew at East Bay Fertility.  He seemed to be solving some of their problems and we were looking for new solutions.  Jordan and I only had two remaining embryos, and one more chance to try.  We put our trust in Dr. Andrew and began treatment for immune issues and a blood clotting disorder.  In November we transferred the embryos, prayed for a miracle, and waited.  Jordan and I braced ourselves for bad news at every blood draw and every ultrasound, and were stunned when the news was good.  I was pregnant!  Not only was I pregnant, but we were expecting twins!  We held our breath through that first trimester and prayed that Katie and Josh would experience the same miracle.

They tried one more time with renewed hope and it just didn't work.

I took her flowers one afternoon, self-conscious of my growing belly in the face of such disappointment. Later I asked if they would try again, and she said she wasn't sure.  She felt grateful they had options, but needed some time and space to choose their next step.  We didn't see each other for a couple of months, but kept in touch through texting.

Then Katie's miracles began.  One morning in March I got a text saying that Katie and Josh were headed to Idaho to meet a potential birth mother.  The birth mom found out about Katie and Josh and felt sure that she wanted them to have her unborn baby, which was due any day. This young mother had previously fallen away from her faith, and then found it again as this new life grew inside of her.  In the face of great opposition she convinced the biological father and her own family that this baby did not belong to her, but to Josh and Katie.  In a matter of days and through a series of miracles the baby was born, and this brave young woman gave an incredible gift to our friends, a sweet and perfect little girl.  As I await the birth of our babies, I feel nothing but admiration and respect for her and her selfless choice.  I can't imagine being that brave.

Yesterday Katie, Josh, and baby Chloe stopped by to bring me a baby gift while they were in town.  I sat

with them admiring their precious daughter, and awkwardly moving my giant belly around to get more comfortable.  It felt so amazing to know that we had traveled this long road together. We both prayed for answers and miracles. We both tried to make good choices and kept moving towards the outcome we desired most.  And in the end we both were blessed with unique experiences on our path to parenthood. After years of struggle the stars seemed to align and God's plan for each of us became evident.

When Jonah died I still believed in God.  I believed in a God who loved me deeply even though he allowed me to suffer.  But it became difficult to believe in a God who would listen to the desires of my heart. Traveling this parallel path with Katie has renewed my faith that not only does God love us, but that he actively works with us to help us realize the desires of our hearts.  He requires us to be patient, to work, and to engage in the struggle, but in the end I believe he is placing people and solutions in our paths to help us find joy.  I am so grateful that Katie's path crossed mine just when I needed it most.  It has been such a blessing to watch our individual miracles unfold.

*A special thanks to Josh and Katie for allowing me to share their story!  You should definitely watch this sweet video it will make you smile and cry.



"I have absolute certain knowledge, perfect knowledge, that God loves us. He is good, He is our Father, and He expects us to pray, and trust, and be believing, and not give up, and not panic, and not retreat, and not jump ship, when something doesn't seem to be going just right. We stay in, we keep working, we keep believing, keep trusting, following that same path and we will live to fall in His arms and feel His embrace and hear Him say, ""I told you that it'd be okay, I told you it would be all right."" - Jeffrey R. Holland

Weathering the Storm

 

When I was in elementary school we lived in Oklahoma, and I lived each day in constant fear of tornadoes.  In the morning I would wake up and peer out the window at the sky and try to determine the likelihood of a tornado destroying our home or my school that day.  If it seemed questionable at all I began implementing a strategy to stay home.  If there were storm clouds on the horizon I would suddenly feel a stomach ache churning.  Every slight chance of rain was met with a cough and possible fever.  I was sure that a tornado would come when I was away from my family and we would all be separated or killed.  The danger felt very real to me and I could not seem to shake my fear.  I checked the news, called time and temperature daily, and learned all of the signs of trouble: wall clouds, green skies, and anvil shaped thunderheads. 

I remember driving home one stormy night with my family through a severe thunderstorm and feeling the panic rise within me.  My anxiety transformed into a slew of questions. "Could lightening come into the car?" "If a tornado came what would we do?" "How could we be sure that we were safe?"  As a scientist my dad answered my questions, explaining that the rubber in the car would conduct the electricity into the ground, and providing logical answers for my other questions.  But none of that seemed to calm me.  Then I remember him turning to me and asking me a question.  He asked me to look at his face and to decide if he looked scared.  I looked at him and decided that he didn't seem to be afraid at all.  Then he told me that whenever I was afraid I should look at his face, and if he wasn't scared, then I didn't need to be either. 

My whole life I have looked to my dad in moments of joy and pain as a confirmation of safety and peace.  When I have felt overwhelmed or afraid I have gone to him and felt his calm comfort and reassurance that things would work out.  When I have been worried about a major life decision I have looked to him and felt his complete confidence in my ability to make good choices.  When I have experienced great joy I have looked to him and felt his joy magnified. 

On the day that Jonah died my dad was doing research on the north end of the Great Salt Lake.  The news traveled to him slowly, and then he began the long drive on dirt roads and highways to the hospital.  I remember the moment he finally walked in the room.  I saw his face and felt such a release, like I could let go of some of my strength and that he would help me carry this new sorrow.  In that sacred space he mourned with us and gave us blessings so that we could endure our new heartache. 

After Jonah's funeral service and burial we all retired to our homes to rest and recover from an emotionally exhausting day.  A storm moved in while I slept and I woke to the sound of car doors closing and my family arriving with food to sustain us.  I walked outside and looked to the sky.  The dark storm clouds were receding and the setting sun shone across the valley.  Two vivid rainbows arched over our home.  I stood in our yard amazed by the poetic and biblical feeling of the moment. Then I felt my dad's strong arm reach around me.  He leaned down and whispered that rainbows are symbols.  They are a promise from God that we will never have to pass this way again.  Before that moment I felt so much uncertainty and fear.  But as we looked to the sky together I wept and let my heart believe in that promise, because I knew my dad believed it.  

My dad has calmed my fears, celebrated my victories, mourned beside me, and let me lean on him for strength. I believe in a benevolent God who loves his children, because of the way my dad loves his children.  His love for each of us is unique and unconditional.  In those times when storm clouds seem to gather on the horizon and fear builds in my heart I remember my dad's counsel to me as a child.  When time or distance separate us I know that I can find the same peaceful reassurance in looking to my Heavenly Father.  I also know that when the storm finally passes, God's promises will be clear and reflect the beauty and pain of all that we have experienced.  

This,Too, Shall Pass

Last night I woke up at 3 am and began my usual pilgrimage through the dark hallways of our house to the kitchen.  I stood in front of the glowing refrigerator trying to decide which midnight snack would be least likely to give me heartburn, and took my chances on peanut butter and jelly toast with milk.  Then I walked a few laps around the kitchen and living room to relax my muscles.  After feeling my way back to my room, I gingerly crawled into bed trying to minimize the pain in my pelvis, as I adjusted a multitude of pillows to support my growing belly, elevate my head, and take the pressure off my joints. Then I waited and prayed for sleep to come.  It was elusive.  My mind was filled with thoughts.  Not anxieties or concerns, but random thoughts, like how to spell "Absaroka," the name of a county in Wyoming.  I read a little, worked on my meditative breathing, and eventually got up again two hours later to have a bowl of warm granola as the sky began to lighten and the birds starting singing their morning song. 

Each night when I feel overwhelmed by my cumbersome shape and the possibility of never sleeping again; when the frustration and emotion of sleep deprivation come creeping in I think to myself "this, too, shall pass."

I know some people don't like that phrase.  Perhaps it seems too easy when applied lightly to deep heartache and sorrow.  Maybe it has been overused or just used too flippantly.  But for me it has become a reminder that all things pass away, whether it is sleepless nights or difficult pregnancies or years of infertility or grief.  It also reminds me that when difficulties pass away there are often accompanied by blessings and beautiful moments that pass with them.

When Jonah died I prayed and prayed to find a job that would feel meaningful and give purpose to my days.  After almost a year of applying for jobs and being rejected I found the perfect fit, but realized that while I waited and struggled I had learned to love the simple time I had with my husband in our home.  We grew to love each other more deeply in the waiting space.

The same is true of our journey through infertility.  Jordan and I began searching for ways to have more children shortly after Jonah died.  We knew their would be obstacles because I am a carrier of the Treacher-Collins gene, but I had no idea how many obstacles we would face on our path to become parents again.  We began six in vitro cycles and had 3 canceled, due to unforseen issues.  We spent thousands of dollars on tests and procedures.  We experienced two miscarriages and spent many nights and days crying and praying for relief from our trial.  After 3 years, I found out I was pregnant with twins and we were overjoyed, but I also realized that I had found incredible support and joy in my work as we waited.  I had developed deep friendships with the girls I worked with and knew that as this trial passed, so too would my time working alongside my dear friends. 

When Jonah was with us I could have spent my days and nights wishing away his genetic condition, or praying to move beyond the struggles and surgeries he faced.  But his time with us was short, and I'm grateful that I didn't wish away even the difficult times, because they are precious to me now. 

And when Jonah's spirit left our home, and we plunged into grief, we also entered a realm of love a support that I can only describe as angelic.  Now, sometimes, I miss the deep emotions of the grief and loss I felt, because it was always paired with the comforting presence and peace of God's love for us.

In the middle of the night as I try to fall back asleep I recognize how fleeting this moment really is.  This will probably be the last time I get to be pregnant. Which means that I may never experience the heartburn, anxiety, fatigue, body aches, hemorrhoids, nausea, and pain that comes with growing a baby, or two, in my body.  But I'm well aware that it also means that I may never again get to feel the incredible sensation of little hands and feet moving and pressing inside of me.  This may be my last chance to marvel at how powerful and capable my body is of changing and supporting the life of another.  I may never get another chance to witness Jordan exclusively taking care of me and protecting me.  As the heartburn and joint pain pass away, these blessed moments, too, shall pass.  They will be followed by new experiences filled with frustration and joy, but I will never be able to return to them.

So in quiet of my room, as the singing birds signaled the approaching dawn, and as I shifted positions one more time, I waited in the dark for the babies to kick, and tried not to wish the moment away.

Motherhood and Miracles

Motherhood is complicated.  Even as I sit here at my computer ready to write, my heart and head can't seem to agree on the message I want to share.  My life as a mother has been a dichotomy of intense sorrow and overwhelming joy.  I have had the unique experience of dipping my toes into motherhood, sampling it's trials and triumphs, and then watching and waiting on the sidelines wondering if I would ever return. Even now as I type and feel my expanding belly press against my thighs I wonder if I will return.  Will we all make it safely through the next three months into the realm of motherhood and family again?  How can something seem simultaneously tenuous and inevitable.

This morning as I dried my hair I had myself convinced that this Mother's day would be joyful.  I even preached to Jordan about women needing to let go of the guilt, pain, and sorrow that often accompanies this day. Looking back I'm pretty sure this was a pep talk for myself. We talked about how men never seem to feel guilty on Father's Day. They just seem to soak up the love and adoration of their families.  Why shouldn't women do the same? Walking out the door I felt empowered, grateful, joyful, radiant and ready for Mother's day.

Then I lost it, sitting on a hard metal chair on the very back row of church.

I was fine in the beginning.  Three beautiful young women who are about to graduate from high school spoke about their mother's and how their mom's radiate Christlike attributes. While they spoke I peacefully gazed at my belly watching little feet, hands, and unidentified body parts pop and glide across my stomach.  My pregnant belly and the babies inside are nothing short of a miracle to me.  My attention is always on them and I feel like I have been blessed with abundance as I watch them move.

I felt really good. Then the children in the congregation got up to sing a song for their mothers, and my heart began to break and I could not reign it in.  As a rule for daily living I try not to focus on what Jordan and I have lost. Most of my grief and sorrow has transformed into gratitude for the experience of being Jonah's mother.  And after years of infertility and longing for motherhood I feel like it was a miracle that we had him in our home, even for a short time.  But seeing those children at the front of the chapel singing to their mother's tugged at my heart and brought my grief to the forefront in a way I haven't experienced or allowed myself to experience for years.  I felt the profound loss of our sweet Jonah.  It became so real to me that he would be four, almost five, singing with the children at the front of the chapel.  Mother, I love you, Mother, I do. I started crying tears of grief and sorrow as my more sensible side tried to "keep it together."

As the meeting came to a close I wiped my tears from my red and swollen cheeks, accepted the token gift of mother's day chocolate from one of the young men and realized that motherhood is a messy endeavor.  The choice to be a mother, whether realized or unfulfilled, is an act of faith and vulnerability.  When you desire to be a mother you open your heart to the depth of all of life's emotions. Sometimes those emotions are amazing and sometimes they are devastating.  I've decided that is why this day is so hard for so many.  Everything is exposed and there is no place to hide.  It is possible to feel intense gratitude and a multitude of sorrows in the same breath.  But that is also the beauty of motherhood.  It is frightening endeavor that is full of possibility.

I came home, ate lunch, and settled in for a long Sunday nap.  When I woke up Jordan was lying beside me.  I asked him if it made him sad to see those children singing.  He said it did.  I embraced the feeling, uncovered my round belly, and waited and watched for the babies to kick.

Baby A and Baby B! 18 weeks

We got an unexpected treat of having an early ultrasound this week to check on the twins and to find out their genders!  I have no words to describe how grateful I am that these two are healthy and moving and have beating hearts.  I am overwhelmed by the opportunity to carry them and feel them move.  It seems as if I pray for them every minute and every hour.  I often wondered if I would get this chance again, and can't believe they are growing inside of me.  It is so amazing and still feels unreal, but it also feels like the most beautiful miracle possible.  

Here is a short video of our two little ones.  

We are having a girl and a boy!  

"The Lord compensates the faithful for every loss. That which is taken away from those who love the Lord will be added unto them in His own way. While it may not come at the time we desire, the faithful will know that every tear today will eventually be returned a hundredfold with tears of rejoicing and gratitude."  Joseph B. Wirthlin

A Season of Joy

On an indian summer day before Jonah died I remember feeling pure joy.  The moment was simple.  Jordan was home from work laying in the blue nylon hammock strung up between a fence post and our pine tree. Jonah was in his swing, giggling uncontrollably each time he approached my waiting arms.  His laugh was infectious and seemed to fill the air and my heart with the same magnitude.  I had a sweet moment where I recognized the pure joy that I felt.  It was a feeling of love and gratitude without fear or longing. It felt set apart and holy.  In hindsight I know that it was both of those things.  

Only a few days later our whole world seemed to crumble around us. We said goodbye to Jonah, soaked our pillows in tears, and tried to pick up the pieces of our home and family. 

In the three years that have passed since Jonah's death I have felt an amazing array of emotions. Some that I would not have believed were possible.  The day we lost Jonah I experienced indescribable pain and the feeling of my heart being crushed by the weight of intense sorrow.  In quiet lonely moments I have felt anger that burned inside of me and seemed unquenchable, peace that surpassed my limited understanding, and overwhelming fear as we faced seemingly endless disappointments.  I discovered a deep and new found empathy for the heartaches of loved ones and total strangers.  I have also fallen deeply in love with my husband as I have witnessed his kindness, endurance, and constant selflessness.  

But I am not sure I have recaptured the joy that I felt in that moment in our backyard.  I have experienced happiness, laughter, peace and love, but joy has felt elusive.

Twelve weeks ago Jordan and I began our third and final round of in vitro.  We had two remaining embryos to transfer and several obstacle to overcome including genetics, my killer immune system, and a blood clotting disorder.  I felt excited about the possibility of getting pregnant, but I also felt an overwhelming fear of the additional pain and heartache that might come with another miscarriage.  I woke up every night worried and anxious, my heart racing and my mind imagining all of the ways in which my heart could break again.

After a long two weeks of waiting I went for my first blood draw I braced myself for bad news and disappointment, but only good news followed.  I was pregnant and my hormone levels looked great.  Still each day I wondered if I felt sick enough or tired enough and waited for the signs of another failed pregnancy.  

At 6.5 weeks we went for our first ultrasound expecting the worst only to discover that we are pregnant with TWINS!  We were both stunned. 

We have had five ultrasounds and each time Jordan and I are a bundle of nerves, yet each time we have seen and heard beating hearts, wiggly arms and legs, and growing babies. It is nothing short of a miracle.

And yet I am still so afraid. Every day I wake up and wonder if I am still pregnant. I have been afraid to share the news because it feels like celebrating will inevitably be followed by heartache.  Each time I say the words "I'm pregnant...with twins" it feels like a lie or a crazy dream. But I am trying to be brave and say it and rejoice in it.  I want to be joyful and I want to share that joy with our amazing friends and family who have supported us, and prayed with us, and loved us through 5 very difficult years.  

I fully recognize that it is still early and anything could happen.  But I think my fear has become a barrier to the feeling of pure joy I want to recapture. I felt prompted this morning to read in the book of Ecclesiastes about times and seasons.  I read the following words:

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven...A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

Heaven knows that we have had our time to weep and mourn.  It has been a long, painful, and sometimes shockingly beautiful season.  But as I read this scripture I felt like I was given permission to move into a new season - a season of joy, and hope, and laughter.