How to Love a NICU Baby (and His Momma)

Premature babies don’t cry. At least mine didn’t. They make a labored grunting sound that seems sweet at first, but then you learn that it’s because they are gasping for air to fill their under-developed lungs. And that is anything but sweet.  I’ve never forgotten that silent operating room where I welcomed my twin boys into the world eight weeks early. In the fast-moving moments of their early and unexpected arrival, I held my breath in fear over the unknown path that lay before me. Premature babies don’t cry, but their mothers make up for it.

I’ve stood in a dark neonatal intensive care room with a fellow mom, as we stared at our tiny babies. She preparing to leave to go home, me preparing to stay there for the next five weeks. Our babies weren’t leaving, she just couldn’t afford to stay in the hotel next to the hospital any longer. Life and death are happening in the NICU—life is sustained by faithful doctors and nurses, and death is always around the corner as fragile babies fight to survive in a world they weren’t meant to enter just yet.

Loving premature babies is a pro-life issue.

It might seem strange to fold a discussion about premature babies into one on life.  But they are linked. Today marks the end of Prematurity Awareness Month. Unless you know someone who has passed through the NICU, or passed through the NICU yourself, you might not even know that this month of awareness exists. But it’s a vital component to our discussion on the sanctity of life. For a long time 24 weeks has been the big milestone for viability. If you can carry your baby until then, your baby has a much greater chance of survival. After 28 weeks the long-term effects of prematurity aren’t as severe. Babies born after 34 weeks often cannot be distinguished between babies born at term by the time they reach their first birthday. Medicine has come a long way in how it cares for tiny babies. And here is where the pro-life argument is strengthened. The irony of these life-sustaining measures is that doctors and nurses are daily working tirelessly to save the lives of babies that are legally considered life unworthy of protecting. Every day, doctors and nurses use their skills to heal and care for babies that are legally unprotected while inside of the womb. In some states a 24-week baby can be aborted, but in all states a 24-week baby is given a chance at life if born.

But the reality that all lives matter goes beyond just the babies in the incubators, though they absolutely matter. Like abortion is not just a tragedy against an unborn baby, so a premature baby is not separate from a mother who loves him or her. In some cases, babies are in the NICU because of something the mother has done or because the mother does not care about the baby, but in other cases the mother is deeply impacted by the separation from her baby. As one NICU nurse told me on a particularly difficult day, “you aren’t meant to be separate from them yet. It’s okay to feel the pain of that separation.”

As Prematurity Awareness Month comes to a close, how can we as Christians love both the premature babies and the mommas who yearn for them? Here are a few ways:

Hold the babies: There are a variety of reasons a baby may not have parents visiting. Sometimes it is because the parents live far away or need to go back to work. Others it is because the parents have done something to contribute to the baby’s prematurity and therefore don’t (or aren’t allowed to) visit. Many hospitals allow for volunteers to hold the babies that are well enough to be touched. Physical touch for a premature baby is a life sustaining measure. All of the wires, incubators, and tubes in the world can only do so much to recreate the womb for a baby who is not supposed to be outside in the world yet. Physical touch, while it seems small, is actually a very helpful and purposeful way to honor the life of these tiny babies.

Love the mommas: The separation the mother feels is unnatural to her. It feels like a part of you is missing. Pumping in a sterile hospital room, transporting milk to the hospital every day, separation from your baby (or babies), medical terminology you aren’t familiar with, and recovering from a physically traumatic event all contribute to emotional and physical fatigue. There is so much unknown. Will my baby survive? Will he have long-term health problems? Will I be able to care for him if he does? Our church provided meals for us the entire time we were driving back and forth to the NICU, and arranged for transportation for me to get to the hospital every day since I was unable to drive. This transformed my experience and gave me the energy I needed to care for my babies. But even as I type this I recognize there is a lot of privilege that is wrapped up into my NICU experience. I didn’t have to go back to work. I lived near the hospital. I could afford to stay at the hospital if I wanted to. I could even afford to eat lunch at the hospital if I stayed later than I anticipated. I had insurance that provide a hospital grade pump for me. I am married and didn’t walk through the difficulty alone. Prematurity is often tied to poverty, and it is a vicious cycle. From the chance to receive good prenatal care to the care needed after hospital discharge, pregnancy alone is overwhelming to someone living in poverty, and adding a premature baby to the mix only heightens that feeling. As Christians, we could do a lot to bolster our argument for the value of all life by loving pregnant women well (especially those in poverty) and loving mothers of premature infants well (especially those who feel all alone).

Every day there are fragile babies lying in a hospital room somewhere who if they were still in utero are legally allowed to be killed. I’ve seen them with my own eyes and held them with my own hands. The more we advance in our understanding of how a baby can survive outside of the womb, the better our argument against killing them inside the womb gets. The pro-life cause wins when babies live and thrive at every stage—from eight weeks early to five days late. The pro-life cause wins when we acknowledge that pregnancy isn’t just about a baby, but a mother, too. And loving NICU babies and their mommas is a good place to start in practically living out what it means to be pro-life.

****This post is in support of the Evangelicals for Life Conference put on by the Ethics and Religious Liberty Commission (January 21-22, 2016 in Washington D.C.). If you are interested in attending or viewing the simulcast you can register here. 

Give Us This Day Our Daily Milk

I’ve never had to wonder where my next feed would come from. For as long as I can remember the low growls of hunger have been quickly satiated by a stocked refrigerator and pantry brimming with snacks. Hunger is not a pain I have felt acutely, except for when I wait too long to eat or am too busy (or lazy) to walk the five feet to the endless supply of food to meet my needs.

But I have felt the hunger pains of another.

Feedings have always been a source of anxiety for me as a mother. From the early days of the twins’ life, I cried as they struggled to eat on their own, only to be met with exhaustion from working too hard, causing them to choose sleep over food. Every meal matters for premature babies, but sometimes eating is just too overwhelming when you weigh five and six pounds at six weeks old. So I struggled and cried and pumped and cried. With each finished bottle we rejoiced. With each minute spent hovered over the kitchen sink washing pump parts and bottle parts, I quietly prayed I would never have to do this amount of work to feed my little people again. With each feeding I hoped in weak, new mother desperation that these ounces of milk would fill their hungry bellies and put fat on their little bones.

Over time it did. Over time they grew. Over time they enjoyed eating. Their desperate cries for food grew less frequent, and I started to forget what it was like to experience the hunger pains.

And now we have Seth.

Seth, who came out with a knife and fork (as the pediatrician likes to say). When you are nearly nine pounds at birth, your feeding situation is far less dire. But I’ve been reminded again of the desperation I felt in those early days with Luke and Zach.

While I’ve never been in want for food, I have held a baby who has forgotten that food will come if he will only calm down, trust his mother’s care, and receive it. I may not have to beg God for my daily bread to come down, but I do regularly find myself praying for daily bread to come through me for the well-being of my baby.

Like so much of motherhood, feeding Seth is an exercise of faith. I’m reminded with every feeding that the same God who cares for the sparrows, cares for my baby. The God who waters the plants with rain from above, also provides food for image bearers like my son.  “Give us this day, our daily bread,” I say quickly in a prayer, yet I fret and forget my hurried prayer when Seth doesn’t seem to get what he desperately needs through me—his only source of the daily bread I just prayed for.

God is in the business of stripping us of every ounce of perceived strength and self-sufficiency. So while I stare at my full refrigerator and basket full of groceries and think I’m not in want for food, I am brought to my knees in weakness when the most needy people in my life cry out in hunger and I don’t have the energy or supply to give it.

Like every weakness God gives us, this is a call to trust in the God who sustains everything, who is upholding the universe by his very word. The God who spoke everything into existence, made manna fall from heaven for the Israelites, and opens blind eyes calls me to trust that he will sustain my baby through me.

“Give us this day, our daily bread,” I pray again. “And give us our milk, too”

I've Been in This Tunnel Before (Thoughts on Baby Number 3)

It’s been eight weeks since we welcomed Seth into this world. Like his brothers, his birth was not without fanfare and a little bit of crazy. Unlike his brothers, he was five days late and I was in labor with him for over 24 hours. At 3:49 AM he was born via c-section after the doctor determined his heart rate drops were enough to warrant getting him out quickly (rather than drag it out for a few more hours).

And out he came—all 8 lbs 15 oz of him.

The transition from two to three has been easier in some ways. I know what to expect from babies. I have a full term baby this time around. He’s been a more content baby than the twins were. It’s amazing how rapidly they develop in those early days when they aren’t premature. But in other ways it’s harder, like I feel like someone threw me in the deep end of the pool and handed me three kids harder. My mom stayed with us for three weeks after his birth and the night before she left I could feel my chest tightening as I anticipated trying to do this whole three kid thing by myself. So far, I’ve survived.

But more than anything I’ve really enjoyed these last eight weeks with him. Because I’ve done it before I know that these early days—when he is waking me up at night desperately wanting food, yet also desperately wanting to feel the comforting warmth of my familiar body—these days won’t last forever. Soon he will be easily distracted while eating. Soon he will want to move around and away from me, as he starts to explore his little world on his own. Soon he will be like his older brothers, still dependent yet growing more independent by the day. Soon he won’t need me nearly as much as he does right now. These days of newborn sweetness are so very short. I know that now, and so I’m savoring every last ounce of their sweetness.

When I was in the thick of the first year with the twins my sister-in-law helpfully told me that while it feels like the season won’t end, it will. What I didn’t have, that I now do, is perspective. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel because I’ve been in this tunnel before. Weeks and months don’t seem so long when you can look back on ones you have previously lived. Often I spend my days wishing life would just slow down so I could savor every new word uttered, every new developmental milestone hit, and every snuggle that never seems long enough because now I don’t have enough arms to go around. But time just keeps on moving, taking all of us with it.

So it’s been a good, exhausting, rewarding, and fast eight weeks with our new little guy. We look forward to many more. 

What I'm Looking Forward To

I don't know when you will arrive, sweet son. But I do know that I can't wait to meet you. You have been constantly on my mind and heart these last nine months. We've gone everywhere together, you and me. I've felt you kick. I've felt you squirm. I've felt you hiccup. I've seen your sweet face on ultrasound more times than I expected, which was a treat.

While I have gone through this whole delivering a baby thing before, this time is a completely different experience, though there are some familiar things. I do know what to expect from babies. I had your brothers at the same time, you know. But what I don't know is what to expect from a baby who comes when he's supposed to be born. Here are just a few of the things I'm looking forward to with you.

• I can't wait to hear you cry for the first time. I've never heard a baby cry upon delivery. Your brothers were born too early to cry much. They grunted and struggled to breathe as the NICU team worked on their immature lungs. My only reassurance was the nurse anesthetist telling me that he could hear Luke trying to cry in the room next to us. I hope your screams fill the delivery room. It will be the sweetest sound.
• I can't wait to hold you right away. I didn't hold your brothers until they were 36 hours old. I barely saw them when they were born before the NICU whisked them away for a few hours to stabilize them. Your daddy didn't get to hold them until they were five days old. I can't wait to hold you close and study your face. Daddy can't wait to hold you either. 
• I can't wait to go home with you at the same time. We left your brothers at the hospital for five long weeks. It was so sad and so hard. We missed them terribly. I can't wait to pack you in our van all snug in your car seat and take you to our home, where you will be loved, cared for, and so very welcomed.
• I can't wait to see who you look like. Will you look like your brothers, who are identical? Or will you look like daddy? Or someone else in our family? Or will you have your own look, a mixture of your parents who love you dearly?

I could go on in the ways I'm looking forward to getting to know you outside of my womb, my son. But we are excited to meet you in the coming days. You are our dearly loved, prayed for, and longed for son. Our bright spot after our loss. Life formed in an empty womb that for so long knew more death and barrenness than new life. And now we simply wait for your arrival.

Control is An Illusion

I'm now a little over two weeks away from my due date, which is really hard to believe. I've never been this far along in a pregnancy before, so in a lot of ways it's all very new to me. We've never gotten a nursery ready before. The twins came so unexpectedly that my mom and sister-in-law set everything up for us while we were in the hospital. I've never bought diapers before delivery before. I've never had to count contractions or pay attention to my body because I was already in the hospital when I went into labor with the twins (and I didn't even know I was in labor anyway!). 

In a lot of ways the extra time has been nice. It's allowed for more rest and time to reflect on the changes coming our way. It's given me time with the boys before baby brother makes his grand entrance. It's given me time with Daniel before we are sleep-deprived and delirious. And while I am anxious to meet this sweet boy, I'm thankful that he's stayed put this long. 

But in another way the extra time has been hard for me. It's revealed to an even greater degree my ever present struggle with wanting to control every outcome of my life. The twins shattered that illusion pretty quickly when they arrived eight weeks early. Our lives were turned upside down by premature infants and twice daily NICU visits. It was good for us, me especially. Now that I am in a more normal pregnancy situation I can start to believe that I am in control of this whole having a baby thing. Having some form of readiness for his arrival (a room ready, food in the freezer, bags packed) can make me think that I've got this--or that I have time to spare. So when I have a night of contractions I start to panic, not because I might have a baby born before his due date, but because he's not coming according to my plan. 

You would think I've learned by now that babies come when the feel like it.

There is a spiritual parallel to my illusion of control about the day and hour that Seth will be born. The New Testament is full of warnings to be ready for the second coming of Christ, because none of us knows the day or the hour that he will come back to bring his children home and judge sin once and for all (Matt. 24:36; Mark 13:32; Acts 1:7; 1 Thess. 5:2; 2 Pet. 3:10). All we are told is to be ready. Ready to leave. Ready to follow him to eternity. Ready to give up our fleeting lives on earth for a better one with him. We are simply told to "keep watch" (Matt. 24:42). Like a mother waiting for the arrival of her unborn baby, we do not know when the true labor will begin, bringing forth the final consummation of the redemption of our bodies--our rebirth (Rom. 8:22-25). We can believe the lie that we have all the time in the world to get ready for that glorious day, but the reality is we don't know when that day will come anymore than I know when my Braxton-Hicks contractions will give way to the real thing. But in both of these blessed events, I do know one thing, it will come eventually. I will not be pregnant forever and this earth will not be here forever either.

So as I finish up these last days of pregnancy, I want to be ready. Readiness is a good thing for both a new baby and our final redemption. But I'm learning to let go of the illusion that I can control the day or the hour, that I can be so ready that it doesn't take me by surprise when it finally comes. Only God knows that day. And what a day it will be. 

The Long Goodbye

I’ve always been pretty sentimental about things. My earliest memory of my sentimentality is crying outside my elementary school on the last day of fifth grade. I hate goodbyes. I hate when good things end. I don’t even really like change. So much so that I’m content to eat the same thing for lunch every day for weeks on end. I like the way things are to stay that way, for a very long time.

This is why motherhood is often so hard for me. Nothing stays the same for very long. In fact, the only constant about parenting children is that it’s constantly changing. A newborn baby quickly becomes an infant. An infant moves into toddlerhood before you have time to catch your breath from just having had an infant. Toddlerhood leads to school age. Elementary school leads to teenagers. Teenage years lead to college, which means they are gone. And now I’m already crying over something that’s at least sixteen years away.

I’ve been feeling this coming change acutely as we prepare for the arrival of our third son in just a matter of weeks. I never had a chance to really prepare for anything with the twins since they came so early, so this time around I’ve been a lot more introspective (with all the extra time to prepare). With each passing week I’m more aware of how the new normal of our life these last two years is about to give way to a whole new normal, one I’ve never done before. I’ve never had three kids. I’ve never had one baby at a time (THAT I hope is easier!). I’ve never been pregnant past 32 weeks.

But I’ve also been aware of how this life I’ve had with the twins (just us three a lot of the time) will now include one new precious person. My time will now be divided three ways, instead of two. And I can already feel the pressure of splitting my time between all of them, knowing that in a lot of ways I’m going to miss more opportunities with them than I would like simply because I’m one person limited by the constraints of time, energy, and quite frankly, only two hands.

As I’ve grown into this motherhood thing I’ve started seeing motherhood as sort of a long goodbye. While we all are on a journey of this long goodbye from the moment we take our first breath, parenting has a way of making you feel like everything is the beginning of the end in such profound ways. Motherhood is a temporary vocation. It won’t last forever. While I will always be their mom, I won’t always mother them in this way. One day, a long (but all too short) day from now, I will let them go. Everything I have taught them will not be practice any longer, it will be reality.

And I feel an ache in my soul about it all.

Most moms have had it said to them “the days are long, but the years are short.” And oh, how short they are, aren’t they? With each step we take on this long goodbye, we are reminded that each passing day is one that we won’t get back. They will never be two year olds playing in the snow for the first time again. Next year, they will be one year older, and allowing us to see the world from their eyes in a whole new way. But it will be one step closer on this long goodbye.

Understanding the reality of the long goodbye is more than just coming to terms with the ache of motherhood. It has theological undertones that find their hope in something greater than simply treasuring every moment of each passing day (though that is certainly a good and right thing). If my hope is in holding on to the moments that I know won’t last forever, then my joy will be determined by the limited nature of these days. But if my hope is in the fact that all of my days are guiding me towards a greater joy in the presence of my Savior, then I can trust that even the tears shed over fleeting moments aren’t in vain. They mean something. The answer is not holding on to my sentimentality anymore than it is in pretending like my heart isn’t experiencing the reality of living in a world that is passing away. Neither of these will bring me lasting comfort. But in the times of my greatest sadness over the temporal nature of motherhood, and this life in general, I must run not to my circumstances, but to the precious reality that one day Christ will return, make all things right, and wipe away every tear from my eyes—even the tears I shed on this long goodbye.

Motherhood, like all of life, is cursed by the fall—meaning it’s not what God intended it to be. It’s painful and it ends. So as we walk the road of this long goodbye called motherhood let us hold in tension the reality of enjoying this life, one day at a time, and longing for the perfect one to come.

Our Third Son

One year ago today, we walked into an ultrasound room with hopeful hearts. We walked out of that very room heartbroken and confused. February 24, 2015 looks very different than February 24, 2014. I spent the better part of that day last year packing for a planned trip to Florida and processing next steps for our unexpected loss, all while weeping uncontrollably over the baby I would never meet.

It was a harder miscarriage than our first. Emotionally it registered about the same, but physically it took its toll on me and dragged on much longer than anyone ever expected. It made us wonder if we could endure another pregnancy, another rise and fall of dreams for a child. So we waited the months that were medically necessary because of the physical effect of the miscarriage and asked God to unite our hearts around the possibility of another baby--a baby we knew in our hearts we ached for.

And God heard our prayer.

We spent the better part of the first half of this pregnancy convinced we were having a girl. All the old wives tales about gender seemed to be leaning pink, so we were pretty sold on a name for the baby should we have a girl. But a boy? We were stumped. We had already used up two names on the sons we currently have, so thinking about another name proved difficult for us. So we didn't.

When the ultrasound technician informed us that our suspicions were false, we were floored. Daniel kept saying "wow" over and over again. We are delighted to add another boy to our brood, we just weren't expecting it this time around.

For weeks we talked about names, wrote down names, looked up names, and then talked about names some more. We could not come to a consensus. As we were driving to the airport for Christmas we settled in to listen to a seminar on parenting. The speaker read from Genesis 4 and when he got to verse 25, we stopped:

And Adam knew his wife again, and she bore a son and called his name Seth, for she said, “God has appointed for me another offspring instead of Abel, for Cain killed him.”

"What about Seth?" Daniel said.

We have always liked the name, we just forgot about it until that moment. Seth means "appointed one" and in particular to the story in Genesis, he is the God-appointed son in place of the one who was lost. So much of this pregnancy has linked us to the baby we lost. We heard Seth's heartbeat the day after our other baby was due. We found out we were pregnant the month we were due with the one we lost. In many ways, we feel like Seth is the joy that has come in the morning (Psalm 30:5). After we talked about this name, and the meaning behind it, we knew that the story of how he came to be would be perfectly woven into his very name, much like the names of his older brothers.

For his middle name we went off from our normal way of naming our kids. So far we have chosen family names for our children. Luke's name is Lucas Daniel (after Daniel). Zach's is Zachary Garrett (after my grandpa), but we could not find a family name that went with Seth! When I first became a Christian I was exposed to the writing of Elisabeth Elliot. Reading her gave me a context for a female Christian writer. Prior to my conversion, I wanted to be a writer. As a new believer, she opened up God's word to me, and gave me a female example to emulate. And he also happens to be due the month my first book releases! Jim Elliot's story influenced Daniel as a college student as well. So we felt it fitting to name him Seth Elliot, to honor the lives of two people who have impacted us greatly.

As I reflect on all God has taught me in the year since our second miscarriage, like our first, I am undone by his goodness once again. In the dark days that followed our loss it felt as if I would never see the sun in my circumstances again, let alone in my own soul. But God is faithful. He restores the years that the locusts of sin, suffering, and loss have eaten. He brings joy out of mourning. He causes the sun to rise in the dark corners of our hearts when his frowning providence seems to tell a different story.

In two and a half months we will meet this precious boy, Seth Elliot. We love him already.

Some Trust in Ultrasounds, But We Trust in the Lord

On September 29 the baby we lost earlier this year was due. Due dates are always hard when there is no baby coming. They are a reminder of what could have been. They are a reminder of a pregnancy that didn't make it to term. They are a reminder of empty arms. I've faced three due dates now with no baby inside of me. One was because the twins were born eight weeks before my due date. The other two were because I lost the baby in the first trimester. So I'm quite familiar with due dates.

But this due date was different. This due date was filled with anticipation. Not with anticipation over the grief I would feel that day, but because I knew what was coming the next day. I would get to see our newest baby for the first time. That's right, I am pregnant again.

I am also very familiar with ultrasounds. I have had a lot of them in my day. With the twins I had more than is possible to remember. But I've always walked into that first ultrasound with the same fear and trembling. Daniel and I barely talk in the waiting room. We know what could happen. We could either walk out of that room with pictures of our new baby or walk out of that room broken over the loss of another. On September 30 we were walking into that room for the fourth time, and at that point we had experienced more bad first ultrasounds than good ones. Because the last time I had an ultrasound was when I was still pregnant with the last baby we lost, the ultrasound log picked me up as being 40 weeks pregnant. So we had to explain to the ultrasound tech that we were in fact there for a our new baby and not the one from February.

We were scared to death.

But in God's kindness he turned our mourning into dancing by letting us see the beating heart of our newest little baby, due May 14, 2015. So far, all is well.

The first trimester is not nice to me, and this pregnancy has been no different. In fact, it's been a whole lot worse. As I'm slowly coming out of the non-stop sickness, thanks to medicine, I have found myself facing the same old fear that always plague me in pregnancy.

Will I lose this baby, too? 

Pregnancy lost its innocence with me a long time ago and I feel like it's God's way of pruning me and causing me to trust him with everything.

I find myself trusting in hearing a heartbeat more than I trust the God who made this baby's heart and keeps it beating this very moment. I find myself trusting in hugging the toilet bowl more than I trust the God who knit this little, nausea inducing baby together in my womb (Ps. 139:13). I find myself trusting in the passing of another week more than I trust the God who sustains the universe and numbers every hair on this little one's head (Luke 12:7, Matt. 10:30).

You see, it's easy to brush my fears off as normative. I've lost babies. I've had a high-risk pregnancy. I've had premature babies who had to spend five weeks in the NICU. Every part of my pregnancy history causes my anxiety to rise and makes me want to think I'm justified in my response to my circumstances.

But I'm not.

My fears are no different than anyone else's fears. We all have life experiences that inform our fears, but we are still called to trust in the God who is sovereign over our very lives.

The verse I keep coming back to is Psalm 20:7:

"Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God.""

Maybe I don't have to deal with enemies seeking to destroy me every single day. But I do have the enemy of my mind that lies to me about God's goodness and care for me and my baby. We can insert any earthly means of assurance into this psalm and the outcome is still the same. God is on the throne and he is the only one worthy of our trust. No ultrasound, fetal doppler, baby kicks, or pregnancy symptom will be the assurance I need to sustain my faith. God alone is my help and my trust.

So it's in him I trust as I walk nervously through another pregnancy. Hopeful and excited for the life he has given us again.

A Run to Remember

On Saturday our family had the opportunity to run in our first 5k as a family of four. Daniel and I ran one together before we were married, but it hardly counted as a run since I could barely walk the whole thing. This time it meant something to us. We ran in the Race to Remember, which benefits an organization called Mamie's Poppy Plates. This organization provides hand painted plates of footprints and birth stats to families who have lost a child in early infancy or in pregnancy. While we have never experienced infant loss or stillbirth, we have lost two babies to miscarriage and felt like this race was a worthy cause to give our time to.

Leading up to the race I was really anxious and I couldn't put my finger on it. As I drove to pick up our race packets on Friday it hit me. I was aware that running in a race in memory of the two babies we have lost put our grief right out into the open. Of course, it's a race to remember, so it's only fitting that I would remember the babies we don't have with us. It felt so raw and in my face to take part in something that put my loss out in the open. The Internet is one thing. Looking people in the eye who have experienced similar (and far more horrific) losses to my own was freeing and excruciating.

As we stepped inside the park to join the pre-race festivities I felt my self-conscious fear melt away. Everywhere I looked there were families in shirts bearing the names of the babies they have lost. I made a point to read and process every precious name on every shirt. Names of lives desperately wanted. Names of babies who were gone far too soon. Names of boys, girls, full term, premature, and sick babies who never made it through their first few moments of life outside the womb, if they even got that far.

And that was the point.

Every person who chose to run that race on Saturday knew they were running for something more than themselves. Grandfathers ran in honor of their grandchildren. Brothers ran in honor of their sisters. Cousins ran in honor of their cousins. Aunts and uncles ran for their nieces and nephews. And mothers ran for their babies. I read those names because like their family members, I want to remember that their lives mattered, even if they were brief.

The beauty of memory is that we are given the chance to remember what is most precious to us. Even if it is laced with pain, we still have the hope that our memories remind us of happier days. God did not need to bless us with this gift, but he did. Throughout the Bible he tells us to remember, most importantly to remember his kindness to us. On Saturday, like many other mothers who have babies no longer with them, I remembered not just the lives lost, but the goodness of God in the midst of the pain. God gives and God takes away and his name is always worthy of my praise.

(Before the race there was a balloon release in memory of the babies who have died. If you had an early pregnancy loss before you knew the gender you received a white balloon. If you look closely, the above picture is of our two white balloons floating away.)

The Goodness of God's Ways

I have thought hard about the goodness of God these last three years. What I keep coming back to is that God's ways are not my ways. The bible tells me that and I know it in my soul. April 2 is a "God's ways are not my own" sort of day for me. You see, April 2 is the due date of our first baby. I could have had a three year old today. In previous years I have marked this day with a myriad of emotions. The first year hit me the hardest and each subsequent year has been a little less painful, yet no less impactful.

This year feels more real to me than last year. Maybe it's because last year I was drowning in the ocean of multiple middle of the night feedings and crying newborn twins. But I remembered. Every year I remember. I remember what could have been. I remember what the stinging loss felt like when I first heard the words "there is no baby there." I remember what it felt like to lose the baby. I remember what it felt like to cry out in agony every month that led to that precious babe's due date. Remembering is all I have of this little one.

But this year feels more impactful because I'm walking through another loss of a little one. The pain of the first loss is now wrapped up in the pain of the other. In God's kind providence, the twins' original due date was April 3, the day after our first baby's due date. In many ways, God was showing us the beauty that could come from the ashes of our grief of loss and infertility. He met us in the darkness and gave us hope that he is for us.

So we cling to that truth this year as well. His ways are certaintly not our ways, but in the same way we remember the precious babes we have lost, we also remember all of the good he has done and promises to do for us. Even in the sadness, we are putting our stake of faith in the ground and declaring that he is good and always does good to his children.

It is true, that his ways are so far beyond what we can comprehend. But he has never failed us. Not in the loss of our two babies. Not in our years of infertility. Not in our darkest days of despair. Not once. And that, too, shows us that his ways are not our ways. A God who cares enough to meet us in the darkness, also promises to bring us into the light.

So as we walk through another April 2 with a house less full than we intended, we are thankful. Thankful for the blessings he has given us in these two boys. Thankful for the gifts he gave us in the babes we lost. And thankful that his ways are not our ways. They are always better.

It Never Gets Easier, But God is Always Good

"It doesn't get any easier, does it?"

You meet kindred spirits in some of the strangest places sometimes. As I nervously stood in line at my local drugstore I dreaded what I was about to do. I knew I needed the medicine in order to have some form of closure and to complete the miscarriage, but something felt so wrong about it all. Deep within my soul I wanted to scream to all who were around me:

"I'm not having an abortion. I promise. I was pregnant. I wanted this baby!"

Thankfully I didn't have to. But that didn't make the situation any less uncomfortable for me. As the pharmacist asked me the obligatory "are you pregnant?" (which is apparently required when you take medicine like this) my heart ached. I didn't know how to respond. Yes, I kind of was still pregnant. I was still carrying the baby, but the baby was no longer there. So I stumbled to get the words out and eventually confessed that I needed the medicine to help with the process. No one tells you how awkward it will be to do that.

But then something sweet happened. After the pharmacist left, the pharmacy tech continued to finish out my order. As she processed my credit card she mouthed the words "I'm sorry." She went on to tell me how she also had two miscarriages and confirmed my feelings that this really doesn't get any easier.  She understood. She had been there. And she validated my grief and my fears. The Lord met me with comfort even through a process that brought me much dread.

Her words have stayed with me these two weeks since we learned we lost our fourth child. In many ways her words are very true. I used to wonder if having another miscarriage would be easier since I know what to expect or since I have two other children now. But I don't think those things really change the awful reality that there is nothing good and easy about losing a baby. It is true, since I have gone through this before I know what to expect. I know what a miscarriage is like. I know how my heart processes things weeks and months later and I know the dark days that can lie ahead. The knowledge of what to expect makes me prepared, but it doesn't lessen the sting in any way. And having our sweet boys surely gives us great joy in the midst of great sorrow, but having gone through a successful pregnancy only reminds me how wonderful it is to hold that precious babe for the first time. They are a bright spot to our weary souls and a needed distraction from the chaos of our lives right now, but we still feel the loss of their sibling acutely.

As I've walked through miscarriage, infertility, and now another miscarriage I have quickly learned that there is nothing easy about living in this sin-cursed world. The stain of sin is all around us. Sometimes we are impacted by it directly. Sometimes we see the effects from a distance. But it never makes it easy. If it were easy then this would be our home. Right now our eyes are veiled to the glory that will one day be revealed, but our hearts know it is coming. Our hearts know that one day this will all be made right and we will understand God's purposes behind it all. Right now we only see darkness, but our hearts tell us there is light coming. And that is what we cling to. With tears in our eyes and lumps in our throat we are begging God for more faith through this dark valley of loss.

And we trust him.

The same God who brought us through our first miscarriage and infertility will sustain us through this loss as well. The same God who gave this barren woman arms full of two precious children will not leave me to myself. His love is sure. His ways are always good even when they feel utterly awful. By his grace we are (and beg to continue) walking by faith in his good ways and not by the sight that is so clouded by our circumstances.

"The Lord has promised good to me. His word my hope secures. He will my shield and portion be as long as life endures."

The Frowning Providence of Miscarriage

Pregnancy has always been a bittersweet experience for me. We lost our first baby through miscarriage after a few short weeks in my womb. After two years of surgery, medicine, tests, and begging God for another child, God graciously gave us the twins. They have been the greatest earthly joy in our lives. But my pregnancy with them wasn't easy either, leading me to deliver them eight weeks early. We love having children and long for more, but we always enter pregnancy with a slight hesitancy. We know how it could end. We know how uncertain it can be. The innocence has been lost for us.

It was with that cautious fear and expectant hope that we began walking through another pregnancy. In mid-January we were overjoyed with the news that God had given us another life. We were so excited to see the twins with another sibling who was so close in age to them. But we were a little nervous. Would this pregnancy proceed as planned? Or would it unexpectedly end? Would it be complication free? Or would I face another difficult pregnancy? Early on we learned that my progesterone was low, which only heightened our fear. But we also felt a calm that only the Lord could provide. We had seen him walk with us through so much already and wanted to trust him completely with this little one he had given us.

Pregnancy symptoms came on early and with full force, leading us to believe that all was well. We scheduled our first appointment and went last Monday fully expecting to see our wiggly, 9 week baby on an ultrasound.

But that was not to be.

I knew something was wrong when the ultrasound tech took longer than I was used to. With the twins, she found two of them within seconds. This time she struggled to find even one. Within minutes our worst fears were realized. The baby had never fully developed, but the sac did. Essentially, my body had been thinking I was growing a baby all along, which explained all of my pregnancy symptoms.

To say that we are heartbroken would be an understatement. It's been a week and we still are trying to process the reality that we are walking this road for a second time. Miscarriage is so ugly and so raw. It takes the hopes and dreams of expectant parents and dashes them on an ultrasound table or the bathroom floor. It takes something that should bring the greatest joy and ushers in the greatest pain.

And we are feeling all of it.

The twins have been such a bright spot for us in these dark days. They don't know that Mommy and Daddy are grieving, but they do give us love and affection regardless of our tears and pain. They are a balm to our broken souls.

We have been comforted by the truth that God never lets us go. The loss of our third baby was not a surprise to him. He is a good and loving Father who walks with us through even the darkest of days. And we have felt that mercy, too. We learned with our first miscarriage and subsequent infertility that God is working good even in our pain. It is through tear-filled eyes that we long to see his goodness in the midst of this sorrow, too.

"Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face."

So, You Had a Baby?

Whenever a celebrity has a baby the media immediately begins the dreaded waiting game before the poor woman has even checked out of the hospital. You know the game. Will she or won’t she lose all that baby wait—and in what length of time? While I wanted to buck the trend, I was just as delusional in the days leading up to the arrival of my twin boys. I wanted to look like I didn’t have twins. I wanted people to look at me and say “you don’t look like you had twins at all!”

How selfish of me!

In God’s kindness, and nature’s reality, that was hardly the case for me. Instead of basking in the praises of people who couldn’t believe I had just given birth to twins, not a day went by during our five week stint at the hospital that someone didn’t ask me when it would be my turn to come deliver my baby. And this lasted long after we brought them home.

I had twins. And I looked like it.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. If eating a Big Mac every Sunday after church kept me from throwing up on the way home, then you better believe Momma was going to eat a Big Mac. The last thing I was thinking about was my ridiculous goal of being the width of a stick post-pregnancy. I just wanted to keep down dinner. And eat what sounded good.

As I’ve worked through the emotions, and come back to reality, about this whole post-baby body thing, I have grown to love what these boys did to me. Right after they were born I dealt with some serious separation issues about the fact that they weren’t with me any longer. Of course, it was made worse by the fact that they physically weren’t with me for five weeks and medically speaking they should have still been inside of me. But now that they are growing, healthy, and amazing little boys the reality of my post-baby body is a story about how they came to be.

Here’s the deal. And it’s taken a while for me to come to this conclusion. I had babies. Why shouldn’t my body bear the marks of such a wonderful feat? We live in a culture that prizes perfection and hates children. We want them, we just don’t want the changes they bring. The fact is the change is part of life.

Our bodies are never going to be perfect this side of Eden. And our endless pursuit of a perfect body, especially post-pregnancy, is very much in vain.

Your stretch marks, extra skin and pudge around the middle, and bags under your eyes are all evidence of something beautiful—the life that grew inside of you. The life that bears the image of our God.

Our society’s obsession with the perfect body and looking like we never had kids is for naught. They are trying to get perfection without the perfect One. It’s not possible. They want to go back to the glory of Eden, but reject the Christ who himself makes us whole. We know another way. We know that this life is not all there is. One day we will have perfect bodies. But it won’t be here. And it won’t be by our own efforts. No amount of running or the 30 Day Shred can remove the fact that this old body of ours is decaying. It’s not the final story.

Until that day, our imperfect bodies are reminding us that another one is coming. But they are also reminding us that with these old, decaying bodies of ours God is bringing new life into the world, life that exists to bring glory to his name. When Adam named his wife Eve, he called her the mother of all living. Out of her life would come. And as women, we get to do the same thing.

So when I try to put on my old jeans and realize that there is a little extra skin that wasn’t there before, I don’t want to begrudge it. And I don’t want to pretend like it’s not a big deal either. Out of a decaying body God has brought forth life. He is making all things new.

Are You Pro-Life Enough? Post at Her.meneutics

Earlier this week Her.meneutics published a post I wrote called "Are You Pro-Life Enough?". Taking a statement from a pro-choice writer I try to show how some of our language in the pro-life community sometimes comes across as less than pro-life, especially when it pertains to miscarriage and IVF embryos. To my shame, I have been party to such thoughtless comments. Here is part of the article:

"It's been many years since I uttered those heartless words to my grieving friend. Having now lost one child of my own through miscarriage, and having since walked with a number of women through miscarriages, none of us would say that what we lost was the "potential" for life. It was so much more than that. Our lost baby took with it the many dreams and hopes that began forming in our minds the moment we knew of the baby's existence. What was lost was a life that will never be replicated.

It's really important to never delegitimize the life that was once growing inside of a grieving mother or was once frozen in an IVF clinic. To her (and to God), this life was never a mere blob of tissue or a fetus. He or she was a life. Treating the baby as such gives meat to the bones of our fight for the unborn. And if we want to be consistently pro-life, we must care about every life, from the tiniest dot on an ultrasound machine to the embryo in the petri dish."

 

You can read the rest of the article here. And be sure to browse the new website while you are there. I think they've done a great job with it!

Friday is for Fotos: Twins Update!

 

 

Yesterday we had another ultrasound and visit with my high risk doctor. Ultrasound visits are my favorite. While I love hearing their heartbeats at my other doctor's office, there is nothing like seeing them moving right before my eyes. The boys don't usually cooperate to get good profile shots for their ultrasounds. This week was no different. They are just so busy they don't have time for photographs!

 

Here is a rundown on their pictures:

• Luke is in the picture on the top right. He is still measuring smaller than his brother, but he doubled in weight from the last visit a little over three weeks ago. The doctor still assures us that this is completely normal since he is trending well. He weighs in at approximately 14 ounces! He is the least interested in having his picture taken. He just likes to hang out and move around.
• Zach is in the picture on the bottom right. He is a little more camera happy. He also is a mover and a shaker. When my other doctor listened to his heartbeat on Monday he could hear him moving before he could even find his heartbeat. He was like "I know he is in there, he is just moving around so much!" He is going to be a busy little guy. He weighs in at a whole pound and 2 ounces!
• Their two heads are in the top right picture. It's the only picture we can get of the two of them together anymore. They are too big for one picture now. I guess they will just have to wait until they are born!
• Zach's face is the bottom right picture. It's hard to tell what he looks like because it's so fuzzy, but it is just such a precious picture to me. This is my boy's face and I love it already. Luke wouldn't let us take a face picture. He likes to turn away when those ones are taken!

All in all everything is going well. I feel pretty good now. And besides the fact that I am getting bigger by the minute, my discomfort level isn't too bad. I can feel them move every day, and I must say that this is my hands down favorite part of being pregnant. It overwhelms me to feel these little boys moving around. Daniel felt them move for the first time a few days ago and his reaction was priceless. We just love them so much already.

 

As I reflect on the fact that I have made it this far with these boys I am again brought to my knees in thankfulness to our great God. Every moment with them is a gift and we cannot wait to meet them!

 



When Motherhood Begins

This video has been making the rounds lately. And I will admit, it makes me a little emotional when I watch it. I think Carter's captures the feelings of a mom well in this short commercial, and they certainly are gaining a following because of it. But while the commercial moves me for the obvious reasons, one line always bothers me a little bit.

"When a child is born, so is a mom."

I get what they are trying to say, but I think they miss the mark. Our culture sees motherhood as beginning at the same time it sees life as beginning--at birth. But as Christians, we believe that life begins at conception. Wouldn't it be a logical conclusion that motherhood begins at conception as well?

While I cannot hold my babies yet, have no idea what they look like, and don't really know their needs, I still am their mother. I make daily decisions based on their welfare. I don't drink coffee anymore. I hold the rail when I walk up the stairs. I eat when I'm hungry, instead of trying to finish one more task. I go to the doctor when I'm supposed to. I wonder how they are doing all of the time, even though I can't see them. My protective and nurturing instincts will only grow when they are outside of my womb. My motherhood may be more involved than it is now, but that doesn't mean it's not motherhood.

I am not simply a gestational carrier for an unknown blob of tissue. I am a mom carrying my sons. Their lives have value to my husband and me, not only because we see them as our children, but also because we see them as precious image bearers of our God. Motherhood begins at conception because a child is made at conception.

Pregnancy is as much about growing into motherhood as it is about growing a baby. From the very early stages we must learn to sacrifice for the good of another. If morning sickness (which really should be called all day sickness) is not the definition of sacrifice for your child, I don't know what is! We learn in every stage of pregnancy what it means to love, care for, and protect this little baby growing inside of us.

So even though I enjoy the Carter's commercial, I wish it said a little more. A mom is born when a baby is conceived, and she only grows more and more into her motherhood with every passing stage of development.