Month: October 2021

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Be Curious

If you live with a child, or have spent any time with one, you have to admit this is pretty true. Kids see more, ask more questions, and seek more information about the world than adults do. 


Just a few weeks back, my niece pointed to a small sapling peeking out of the ground. It was barely six inches tall and resembled Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree more than the old mighty trees around it. She pointed at it and asked me what it was. Honestly, if she hadn’t asked about it I probably wouldn’t have noticed it. 


“That’s a baby tree. It’s just starting but it will grow tall like all these trees. They were this small a long time ago too.” I answered, sure that I nailed it.


“Oh. Then it gets big and can be a rainbow tree!” 


My inflated sense of scientific pride deflated a bit. Clearly SOME of what I said made sense but I obviously hadn’t been clear enough. So I tried again.


“Kind of. It’ll get big and then it’ll be just like these trees by it.” I wisely touch a broad trunk nearby to reinforce that trees are trees, not rainbows. Miss Frizzle herself couldn’t have better at this point.


“And then a rainbow tree. I like the rainbow trees.” She looked slightly frustrated with my answer.


At this point, I was cold, my knees hurt from being crouched to her level that long, and I was lost. I sheepishly admitted I didn’t know what a rainbow tree was and asked for an explanation. 


She sighed (in fairness, I probably had that coming) and came next to me, then pointed up at the colorful canopy of fall colors over our heads and in a tiny awe-filled whisper of a voice told me,


“I like it when the trees are rainbows.” 


For the first time in my life, I looked at the leaves not as a sign of impending winter or of football season, but simply as the sparkling colors dancing over our heads. 


Red, orange, yellow, and green leaves danced against the blue sky among shadows of indigo and violet. The trees really do become rainbows. 


I couldn’t help but wonder what other things I am missing in life just because I don’t look closer or ask many questions. 


In adulthood, I think it’s safe to say that we’re so worried about knowing everything that we often overlook the importance of asking questions. It’s ok not to know. It’s even better to seek knowledge from those around us and to question the world. 


It’s true in all aspects of life, but it’s been feeling especially true to me in my faith. I read the Bible, hear the verses, and listen to sermons without stopping to ask about parts I don’t understand. I take what is presented to me without digging deeper. 


I tend to forget what God told Jeremiah in Jeremiah 33:3, “call to me and I will answer you and tell you great unreachable things you do not know.” I know I’m not the only one.


God wants us to ask questions. To wrestle with His word. To seek more than what we see. 



“It is the glory of God to conceal things,  but the glory of kings is to search things out.” Proverbs 25:5


Do you know the history of what was going on when the Bible was being written? Why do you worship how you do? Who decreed the changes? How do we decide what parts of the Bible to follow and what parts do not apply to us? 


What can we do with this ancient text in our modern world to actually live like Christ? 


I don’t have the answers. I may never. Maybe no one does. But no matter what, we need to keep asking questions, seeking information, and embracing the curiosity of children in our faith. 

And also enjoy the rainbow trees.

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Missing Pieces

This is part 2 of the October Pregnant and Infant Loss Series – please read Part 1 HERE if you haven’t already. 

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All I wanted to do when I got home was sleep. I blamed it on the leftover anesthesia still flowing through my body but truthfully, I was just trying to escape the reality of the day. I stayed in bed for nearly 24 hours until the following afternoon when I decided it was time to “get over it”. 

“Everyone will think I am crazy,” I kept telling myself, “They weren’t real babies, right? I didn’t hold them, I didn’t name them, I didn’t even ask any questions about them so obviously I just need to move on from this mess.” 

I was living on pain meds and still feeling a terrible ache as I fumbled through the day. I got my basic Saturday routine of cleaning and shopping done before falling back into my bed that evening. I thought once my body was only mine once again, things would go back to normal but I was wrong. Instead of feeling like my normal self in a bit of pain, the hollow aching left me feeling more empty than I’d ever been before. 

I was sure people were going to think I was crazy for not getting over this faster. 

Martin Hudáček’s sculpture entitled “Memorial for Unborn Children

The next evening, we had floor seats for a concert we’d been looking forward to for almost a year. We talked about skipping it, but I was determined to show the world (and myself) that I was not crazy. I was fine because “these things happen” and I couldn’t mope forever. I had planned to go to the concert with my babies in my belly, so I certainly wasn’t skipping it just because they were gone. 

It was the worst concert of my life. I’m not sure if it is because of who I was with (we divorced 2 years later), the fact that the band’s new album sucked (it really did), or that I spent half the concert running to the restroom to change another soaked pad all night. I just remember sitting in my seat and looking around at the arena packed with thousands of people wondering to myself if they could tell the pain I was in. I wondered if anyone else in that arena was feeling the same way. Had anyone else there ever felt that way? The feeling didn’t subside until I crawled into bed and drifted to sleep that night. 

When I went to work Monday morning there were flowers and a card on my desk. The moment I walked in and saw them, I turned on my heel and walked back out the door. I had said it was not to be talked about. Not acknowledged or implied or anything. I told them I’d be back Tuesday and I expected my desk cleaned and everyone else over this by then. 

How could I move on if the people around me were insisting on dragging me back into it. 

That’s the part no one tells you in the cheap pamphlet the doctor hands you when you lose a baby. For every person who tells you “these things happen” or “God works in mysterious ways” there are just as many people who want you to grieve and go through the emotions of losing someone you love. 

Both sides surround you and you’re never sure which way to go. You will alternate between both camps as you sort out the mess of emotions and hormones that come with losing a baby. You will hate your body for failing you while gingerly caring for it as it slowly heals from the physical trauma. You will feel like you’re losing your mind and not doing it “right” when really, there is no single right way to deal with this pain. You only need to do what is right for you. Lean into the feelings when they overcome and keep living your normal life when they go. How you react does not change how deep your loss was.

My babies should be turning 16 in the next few weeks. Their due date was November 11, 2005. For anyone who thinks things like this go away over time, I think about them every year on that date, even though I know as twins they likely would have come sooner. 

I think about how badly I wanted to hold them and hug them on November 11. How I had planned to cover them with kisses, breathe in their essence, and tell them they were loved as they took their first breaths. I hope they felt loved every second of their short lives with me. More than anything, I’m so grateful they had each other. Whether they knew what was happening, felt any discomfort, or worried for even a second about what was happening they were not alone. 

They had each other then and they have each other now in heaven. Someday, I know I will hold them and I will remind them they were loved for every second of their lives – and mine. They were loved like only a mother can love.

I am a mother four, who only got to hold two. 

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Life Created and Lost

This post is part one of an October pregnancy loss series.

“We can’t find the heartbeats, but that’s not uncommon. We’ll do an ultrasound and get them that way. Plus the first look at your babies.”

I was just excited as the doctor when she offered me a first look at the two sweet babies growing in my womb. They’d seen two sacs early on and my blood work numbers were off the chart; they told me there were two babies weeks before. I was equal parts scared and excited. 

Turning the corner into the second trimester had felt like a giant weight was lifted off me. I’d seen friends lose babies before and knew getting to the second trimester was a major milestone. One not to be taken for granted and one I thanked God for every night. I did it. I was in the clear. My first major responsibility as a mom and I had nailed it. 

I went to my check up that day alone, an ultrasound before 18-20 weeks hadn’t crossed my mind! The books I was absorbing every night didn’t say anything about ultrasounds earlier and I was over the moon to think I could see my little babies sooner than I ever imagined. I knew they’d look like little dough ball people, but they’d be my little dough balls and that was all I cared about. 

The next 30 minutes are still a blur in my mind, more than 15 years later. The dim room, the crinkly table, my paper gown, and the cool gooey gel started me on my happy adventure. The stark silence, the slight squint of the eyes, moving the screen from my view, then the tech leaving to get my doctor ushered me into a journey of loss unlike any I had been on before. 

I heard words like empty, nothing, lost, and gone mixed in with medical words. They asked if I could call someone for a ride. If I needed to go to work. If there was anything they could to help me then. I think I shook my head. I know I cried and slowly pulled on the maternity pants I had already needed once I was alone in the cozy ultrasound room. I walked into the room pregnant and loving my babies, I would be walking out broken and alone. Finding the courage to open that door and leave my hopes for them behind was hard. 

I went to my car, I called my husband to tell him what happened then I called work. I did not have an ounce of tact or decorum left when I spoke to my boss. 

“My babies are dead. I am not coming back to work today, I am not coming in tomorrow. I do not want to talk about it ever. Please tell everyone so I do not have to talk about it. I will be back Monday. I do not want to talk about it.”

I hung up, I drove home, I crawled into bed, and I cried until every inch of my body ached just as badly as my empty womb and heart did. 

When the doctor “catches” a miscarriage before your body does, you’re left with a terrible choice. You can walk around and wait for your body to start the painful process of expelling your sweet baby or you can go to the doctor for a D&C procedure to remove everything and start healing your body. Make no mistake, it is the same painful awful procedure as an abortion but they call is something kinder when you’re at lowest. I’m not sure why they change the name. 

I chose the D&C. Early the next morning, without eating anything, I crawled out of bed and called the doctor’s office right at 8am like I’d been told to do. They gave me a long list of things to do and don’t do before my assigned time to report to the hospital for the procedure. I walked through the house in a zombie-like state gathering comfy clothes, maxi pads, and doing a few chores I likely wouldn’t have energy for later in the day. Then we headed to the hospital. 

I recall nothing of arriving or going into the room. I do recall waking up next to my doctor in the recovery room. Visitors were not allowed back there, but doctors were. She sat by side so I wouldn’t wake up alone and empty in a strange place. Her kind blue eyes and the warm laugh lines on her face were the first thing I saw.

Immediately, I broke into the biggest, ugliest, most incoherent tears of my life. She leaned in and held me and let me cry. Everything hurt. My body was sore and I could feel it bleeding. I was woozy and dizzy coming out of the anesthesia and feeling ready to puke from the meds in my system. Nothing felt good or pleasant in that moment. From the very bottom of my soul to every corner of my body I hurt. 

My doctor remembering I was a grieving mother in a lot of pain meant the world to me. Her kindness and love got me through the few hours of recovery before I headed home for a miserable weekend of recovery.

I thought I left the hard part of the trauma at the hospital but I was wrong.