An Unexpected Journey

A 1st Birthday to Celebrate!

2012-02-22T20:44:00.001-05:00

One year and one day ago I sat in darkness. A profoundly deep, heavy darkness. But at 12:45 on February 22nd of 2011, a sharp little cry pierced the darkness like an arrow of light. One minute later a second arrow blazed just behind as "Baby B" entered this world. After months of bed-rest and five weeks in the hospital, my miracles arrived! Four weeks early but so perfect they seemed right on time.

Survivors. Not only did they survive the normal dangers of a multiple pregnancy, but they survived the accident. And the months of mommy's wailing and post traumatic stress disorder. And the empty house... except for the belly that was so full.

I started journals for my girls when they were 3 months old just like I did for Makiah. I am so glad now to have those treasured memories recorded! Last May I wrote to them, "We lost your big sister, Makiah, in a car accident when Mommy was pregnant with you. I thought I would never feel joy or happiness on this earth again, but then you and your sister were born! Your every touch and smile and even cry brings a little more life back into my heart each day. God is using you to restore joy and to help me have the will to live again..."

After October 2010, this mommy thought that the rest of my life was ruined. Utterly broken. Irretrievably lost. That was the whisper from the lie-giver. That I would sit in the deep darkness forever. And there are still moments and even days of soul cloudiness. But I am not forever shrouded by the blackness! Inside I feel a shout arising... that the lie-giver is indeed a liar! And that there is life made available for us! Even after death... the death of the body or the death of the soul while the breath still comes and goes.

So today we celebrate! We celebrate the Survivors. The Life-Givers. The Ones of Hope. Yes, the Bringers of Joy, even! And of course the God who sent these little bearers of His image... I feel his touch in their finger tips. And I am reminded of the light that shines in darkness... the love that crosses the chasm of my sin and builds a bridge into eternity where all our fingers will one day be entwined!

In her last pictures Makiah always drew 2 dots for the babies!

Abby 6 months

Alena 6 months

Happy 1st Birthday Abby & Alena!

Impressions

2012-02-19T15:20:00.002-05:00

Worship chords swirl about. Heart eyes turn to Him. Not too often have I felt this lately. I grab my pen as impressions grab me.

this is war

a spiritual war

sense of the battle

determination not to lose any of my family

Makiah cheering us on

Makiah dancing for Jesus

sense of connectedness with her and eternity

His plan is all glorious

to reunite us

forever

families are meant to be together

this separation is temporary

we will be together forever

sense of this breaking

my thorn in the flesh

my weakness that won't go away

the thing that keeps me dependent and desperate

the thing He can show himself strong in

my weakness

my loss

Makiah's Gift

2012-02-08T20:26:00.003-05:00

Miracles. Sometimesthey surprise us all at once in a supernatural sort of way. Other times they start like a tiny drip,drip, dripping until the bucket fills and overflows and a miracle is born. Makiah’s gift began with the clinking oflittle pennies in her piggy bank. Thenwith tiny footsteps as tiny fingers brought it to her preschool class offeringat church. A little heart had purposedto give it all away… to send it to the boys and girls that had no clean water. That’s what she told her mama that day. A short two weeks before she was takenaway. Her last gift.

So tiny it would seem. Those first few drops in the bucket. But then other hearts began to shift and sway. Soon the dripping turns to flowing. Water flowing. Life flowing. Pennies in the hand become water on the fingers and past the lipsof grateful ones. Two more wells are completed for the thirsty ones.

In Nsawan, Ghanathe village of 1,500 people depended on a nearby stream that was onlysufficient if it rained… until the bucket of miracle drops overflowed into a well there. At the dedication ceremony, the gospel waspresented. The people were offeredliving water that does not run dry. Thelife that Jesus gives. Thirteen peopledrank and gave their lives to Christ! The best miracle of all!

In Phnom, Cambodia anopen well and pond were the only sources of water for the 250 families. When the well was dedicated one of thevillagers said to a Living Water team member, “I am very happy to see that the well was drilled in my village, becausein my village we did not have clean water to use. Our people were struggling every day to fetchwater to suffice their family’s needs. But now the Living Water project has brought us a pump well. We are so thankful because the water is cleanand safe to drink. This is such awonderful gift!”

Makiah’s gift. Yourgift! What a difference all the littledrops have made! Every well charmpurchased and every donation made are gifts of life that matter greatly to thepeople of Nsawan and Phnom. Maybe theirchildren will live longer because of you. Only God knows the lives that have been saved and the hearts that havebeen changed. And those that will beimpacted… the money for the 4^th, 5^th, and 6^thwells has already been given! A miracle.

A dear friend has made a generous offering for the miraclebucket. She has published a book, “SweetDreams Little One,” and decided that 100% of the profits from every onlinesale between now (February 2012) and May 2012- Makiah’s birthday month- will goto the Makiah Kaitlyn King Well Project. The book is a precious bedtime story that teaches colors and encourageslittle ones to have sweet dreams. Ifthere is a special little one in your life, you have the opportunity to givethem a gift and at the same time make my little girl’s real dream continue togrow. A chance to pour into the next miraclebucket… The books can be purchased at this link on Amazon:

Sweet Dreams Little One

...or this one at Barnes and Noble: Sweet Dreams Little One

Direct donations to the well project canstill be made at the link on the right of my blog. Tax deductable donations are now madedirectly to

Operation Blessing International
Attn.: Brenda Fansher, CSB 322
977 Centerville Turnpike
Virginia Beach VA 23463

Mark your gift clearly forMakiah King Well Project, and it will be credited to her account.

Phnom, Cambodia

Clean water!

Homes in Nsawan Ghana

Nsawan, Ghana

The Horse and His Girl

2012-01-27T22:09:00.000-05:00

Do you believe dreams can be meaningful? Did you know that God first cut a covenant with Abraham after he "fell into a deep sleep?" Or that he repeated the promised covenant to Jacob in a.... yup, you guessed it- a dream! Most of us in this left brain culture would have said, "Wow! I ate bad pizza!" and forgotten all about it! Interesting to me that God would choose to have such tremendously earth shifting encounters with people in, of all places, a dream. Of course there are many other dream stories in the bible, but you can search those out for yourself if you like.

I woke up this morning puzzling over a strikingly vivid but seemingly bizarre dream. I shared it with my husband at breakfast and light seemed to wrap around his words and tears filled my eyes instantly and unexpectedly at his wise response. Parts I will keep for myself, but the end I feel I should share. Somewhere between early morning feedings I found myself deep in sleep and riding on a beautiful, chestnut horse. It is not a peaceful ride... wild animals are in hot pursuit, making ferocious noises and threatening to devour me should I be caught. Somehow my three children are inside the horse (I know, I know, but it is a dream!), and I remember thinking that our safety depends on this sleek creature who is carrying us all. Suddenly I am overwhelmed with panic because I don't know how to ride a horse! We are galloping at breakneck speed with gnashing teeth just behind and looming dangers lurking ahead. At that moment I realize I have no clue how to make this powerful horse jump or turn or go faster. I lean forward into the whipping wind and cling to its mighty neck, weaving my fingers into the thick locks of its sleek mane. I am not in control. I hang on for dear life. I think in the dream that I have to trust the horse to carry us all to safety... trust that it knows the way without any help from me. And then I wake up.

Driving to work. Hot tears on my cheeks. I whisper a prayer to the only One who can hear. To the One in whom my children- all three- are hidden. To the One who can carry me to safety though I don't have any idea how to navigate these tumultuous waters. To the One whose only requirement is that I relinquish control and hang on for dear life. To the One who is strong when I am weak. To the One who knows the way...

Special Plans for You

2012-01-16T21:47:00.001-05:00

I follow a crawling baby into Makiah's room where she eagerly starts to plunder through books. I gingerly open a book that had been one of her last Christmas presents. The Little Red Book with Big Red Letters! A Story of Discovering Your Dream. The inscription on the first crisp white page reads: "To Makiah... God has special plans for you!" A gift from her grandparents. Before I can stop myself the thought shoots through my mind. What kind of plans? Plans for a gruesome death a mere ten months after these sweet words were penned? I shudder at my own antagonism and shove such questions aside. I tell myself to keep playing chase and stay in the moment.

Later, I am deleting old Facebook messages and see one dated January 16th, 2010. Two years ago today and a short ten months before my baby died. I am curious to see what I wrote back then. I click on the message, and well, read it for yourself...

"January 16th, 2010- I am becoming more and more convinced that we have to decide to believe what the bible says- God is good no matter what... and that His plans for us are good no matter what. It has to be a foundational belief for us to grow in our relationship with him. When I evaluate my thinking I find that I sometimes attribute things to God that are not in line with His nature according to the bible. God is good and only gives good gifts... He has chosen to relinquish some of His control of this world temporarily so more people have a chance to use their free will to choose Him. When the author steps onto the stage, the play is over (CS Lewis wrote). So He is waiting...
but in the meantime bad things happen this side of heaven.
We just have to know who to attribute them to....

I am reading this awesome book called Strengthen Yourself in the Lord. It's about how to get out of a pit- you strengthen yourself in the Lord! That is what the bible says David did when he had been anointed king of Israel, but for 10 long years he was rejected by EVERYONE and hunted like a dog. He could so easily have turned his back on God, blamed him, and believed the promise would never come to pass. But instead, at his lowest point, the bible says he "strengthened himself in the Lord." Then he went on to become history's greatest king. I believe he could have made a different choice and forfeited his destiny. The part we have to play in God's will for our lives is so important- we have to will His will and persevere until it comes to pass... or it might not.

This idea that whatever happens is God's will is simply not true...

Ok, I know I am writing a book but this has all been swirling around in me for a few weeks.

My mom reminded me of 4 principles over Christmas:

1. You are part of a larger plan.

2. You have a part to play that no one else can play.

3. There is an enemy hunting us.

4. There is a fellowship that seeks to protect you

(mainly God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, but also our brothers and sisters in Christ)..."

Two years ago I was struggling with secondary infertility. Today I continue to face the death of my child- my only child at the time. Such irony. I read my own words, and I cannot believe the coincidence. That I would stumble on them today. Exactly two years later. On a day when those very questions have plagued me. That those very issues were "swirling around in my mind for weeks" almost as if in preparation...

And I think of God's plan. How could his plan for her be good? Her life was so short. Then it dawns on me. Perhaps she missed out on things still to come on earth or maybe God didn't bother to plan more for her here because He foreknew her death before she was born, but that is unknowable and not the point... I realize something. Perhaps God's plans for us don't end with the death of our bodies! Hope rises slowly in my heart. Could it be that when we cross heaven's threshold, His real plans for us have just begun? Could it be that He has a purpose for her and things for her to do even now in heaven? Why is it so hard to imagine that life there is a continuation of things here... only nothing is tainted by sin or sickness or death or decay of any form?!

My antagonism from earlier melts away as I glance up at a beautiful piece of art, an intricately detailed cross stitch of Jesus holding a small child, that graces my bookshelf. A dear friend began the project in early 2010. Mysteriously drawn to the pattern and giving countless hours to its perfection, she had no idea who it was for. Until she fell weeping with the news of Makiah months later. Now her work of love for Jesus and unknowingly for us reminds me vividly that Makiah is safe with Him this day. And she is happy.
And He has plans for her still...

Anne Horne is selling a variety of things (including copies of this same work of art) at TheJoyfulOlive.etsy.com The net proceeds from this picture and a portion of every sale on her site will go towards Makiah's Well Project. And the wells are multiplying! More info on that coming soon...

A New Year... An Old Race

2012-01-07T22:35:00.000-05:00

Almost exactly two years ago today… Makiah and I stand pressed tightly in a lineof people waiting to get off the airplane. I glance nervously at my watch. We have been sitting on the runway much too long. Our next flight leaves in 30 minutes… on theother side of the Atlantaairport. As I wait, I am picturing myselfhauling a protesting three year old and luggage through the crowds in apanic. I think we need a plan so Isay, “Sweetie, we are going to play a game. We are going to pretend that we are in a race. We are a team, and we have to help each otherrun. But the most important thing is wecan’t let go. No matter what we have tohold onto each others hands.” The sceneflashes through my mind and I wince. Ididn’t want to lose her.

Then in my mind’s eye I see us running breathlessly to thenext flight. I had envisioned dragginga screaming child through the airport, but instead she is dragging me! I am covered over in bags, and she isgripping tightly to my hand. My breathcomes hard, and I think my lungs will surely explode. I decide my new year’s resolution will be tojoin the gym! “Don’t stop, Mommy!” Makiah cheers me on. “You gotta keep going! Come on, Mama! Don’t quit the race!”

Her little voice echos in my mind. Reverberating in my soul. That day seems almost prophetic now. Some days I think I cannot breathe. The pain in my chest threatens to burnthrough me. I peer down at my emptyhands. I let go. I wasn’t able to grip tightly enough. I thought the most important thing was for usto stay together. She was ripped awayfrom me, and the shards of my shattered dreams have pierced my grasping, emptyhands. Almost like a stake being driven through. Almost. But then I think of Onewho did have the stake driven through rough hands. That engraving of flesh has carved out more than skin. It has carved out a way for me. A way so that mybleeding hands and heart won’t always be empty.

And maybe I was wrong. Maybe the most important thing is not being together. Maybe it is finishing. The Race. Strong. “Don’t stop, Mommy!” Makiah cheers from heaven. “You gotta keep going! Come on! Don’t quit the race!” I can hearher. Almost.

I think of Max Lucado’s words from his book Just LikeJesus. My mom read them to me recently…

“The word race is from the Greek agon,from which we get the word agony. TheChristian’s race is not a jog but rather a demanding and grueling, sometimesagonizing race. It takes massive effortto finish strong.

Likely you’ve noticed that manydon’t? Surely you’ve observed there aremany on the side of the trail? They usedto be running. There was a time whenthey kept the pace. But then wearinessset in. They didn’t think the run would be this tough…

By contrast, Jesus’ best work was his finalwork, and his strongest step was his last step. Our master is the classic example of one who endured… He could have quitthe race. But he didn’t.”

I am Broken. Humbled. Awed. Challenged. And Relieved. Relieved that I get to finish the race in His strong arms. My last step will be with Him. In Him. And His last step was his strongest…

A Christmas Treasure to Ponder

2011-12-26T22:28:00.000-05:00

We can't totally "do Christmas" yet. We escape to a beach in South Carolina. A place I have never been. To make new memories. Try to avoid some of the old. I pull aside heavy curtains the first morning to peek at crashing swells pummeling against white sand. I catch my breath. I have not seen it since she died. I spent the last week of her life watching her chase seagulls and splashing in the blue. Toes in the warm sand and ears held up to shiny shells. Fortunately, little cries pull me away, and I really have no time alone to contemplate.

Christmas Eve. We give the girls presents and help them tear paper. Capture their cuteness with a lens. Try to freeze the memories in time. Burn them deep into my mind. 'Oooh mouths' and tiny reaching fingers meet warm cinnamon rolls. Slobbery kisses and snuggles in bed. Brush aside the moments of nausea and missing. Hurry past the toys in stores that she had wanted for Christmas before she died.

Christmas Day. We pile into the car and wave adios to la playa. Thankful for IHOP brunches on Christmas morning. And a stroll through beautiful downtown Charleston... another first for me. Twelve hours later we roll into our driveway. I find myself hugging a baby and exclaiming that we made it! We made it home with both of them! Somehow I am surprised. Relief washes over me. We did not come home with bags to unpack and an empty car seat! I squeeze them tightly. We are back from the beach and our cribs are not empty... this time. I did not even realize this anxiety had piled up so high in me until it was over.

Christmas Night. We are all tucked warmly in bed snoozing. And I get it! My Christmas present! One I have asked for many times before December. One (I later learn) my Daddy had whispered a secret prayer for me to have only a few hours earlier in a Christmas service. One full of hope and life and mystery...

I dream I am at a family gathering and many of my relatives are standing around talking and laughing. I look up, and my heart stops. There she is! Perfect in a red Christmas dress. Her hair cascading around her shoulders in soft blonde curls. "Makiah!?" I exclaim. I run towards her. Suddenly, I realize I am in a dream and fully expect that when I reach her she will vanish- the way she always has before. A shadow of something past that I am always chasing but never catching. A ray of light that always slips over the horizon before I can grasp her. But not this time! I wrap my arms around her little body, and I feel her! The warmth of her and the weight of her and the softness of her skin and giggles. I kiss her and tell her I love her and hold her so very close. We talk about heaven, and I ask her questions. And she tells me some things... treasures I think I will hold close and ponder in my heart like Mary. Pieces of the conversation are etched in my conscious memory. The rest feels shrouded as if by a veil. I cannot quite remember it all or how it ended. Only that I awoke with the image of my dream encounter playing over and over and bringing smiles to places inside me where only tears have resided for many months. I want to go back and not open my eyes. But light creeps in the edges and baby cries poke at my ears. I am still here. With my broken family. But the mystery of a heavenly chat and a little red Christmas dress on Christmas night fill my heart with hope and awe.

New Year's Day. I am overwhelmed with thankfulness for special gifts from God's people. And I am still astonished at my unexpected present that is perhaps from God himself. I think for a minute that I wish I had written about it a few days earlier, but then I change my mind. I have spent the holidays soaking up every moment of my family. Breathing in the memories as they form. I do not regret it. I hope this new year- for me and for you- is full of heavenly gifts and soaking up moments... until we are all dripping with life and light... the kind that drives out darkness.

The Great Exchange

2011-12-19T11:55:00.000-05:00

How do I describe the holidays in a life like mine? It is hard to put into words. Pain and joy are interwoven in a patternunique to this season of my life.

The thread of thankfulness. I thank God I have a reason to shop this year. We buy the girls a few toys. I ask Cameron if he can believe they arealmost a year old. His voice faltering,he says, “They saved our lives.” I amcaught by his answer. Surprised at thedeep truth popping so unexpectedly from his quivering lips. A throbbing thankfulness shoots across myheart…

The thread of aching. One morning on the way to work I hurt so badly that it is physical. A knife ripping through my chest. Venomous thoughts tear through my mind. A crushing desire for everyone to hurt thisway so I won’t be alone in this bizarre alternate reality of holidayhorror. As if it would lessen mypain. I hate that I can have thesewicked thoughts. I know why they sayhurting people hurt people. I picturethe whole world in this pain, and it seems that everything would fall intochaos and darkness. And I retreat awayfrom such terrible thoughts in haste. Repenting as I run…

The thread of blessing. Gifts of time and thoughtfulness and little red dresses and rainbowscarves and green sunshine (for those who know :). A rope intothis dark pit. A way to climb up intothe light of brighter thoughts. Myhusband looks at me and says, “God must really love you.” Ironic words. It seems to me. Since she isgone. But somehow true. I think of the song we used to sing oftenwith her…“Good, Good Daddy.” And allaround me the blessings shout that He is good still. Even in the rain...

The thread of joy. Yes, there are moments. Momentsof merry. Humming Christmas tunes under mybreath. Chistmas is different now. There is no anticipation. No countdown to a special date. The joy is not in the coming of the day, butin the now… Christmas is now. In this breath I celebrate the giving of achild to die. A gift I can say withabsolute certainty I would never have given. My child for some miserable sinner? My little love in exchange for even the most wonderful person? A trade I would surely never make. I did not have a choice and neither didMakiah. But God the Daddy did. And Jesus the Son did. He exchanged glory for rags… my rags. For this one capable of lashing out inpainful, wicked thoughts. For this onewho so desperately wants to have a Christmas with her little blonde haireddaughter with the curly pigtails and the sparkling green eyes. For this one who would surely spend eternityin wretchedness and pain if it had notbeen for the great exchange. Him forme. I take it. And I have hope that this tangled ball ofthreads that is my life will be made into something more perfect in the end…

Will you take it? Thegreat exchange? No need to wait forsome special day. Eternity lingers allaround us. It is offered to each of usyou know…

Makiah Singing Good Good Daddy with her babysitter... a reminder in her own voice... left for her mommy...

Foot Washing

2011-12-07T20:44:00.001-05:00

I wish I had something profound to write. Something about the miracle of Christmas andtime and hope. But I can’t quite seem toconjour those words up to the muddysurface of my mind. Maybe in another weekit will seem clearer. I catch a glimpseof the holiday light here and there in my swirling thoughts, but nothing I canlatch on to yet. I have had my feetwashed this weekend, though, and for that I am thankful. I mean I have been listened to and hugged and helped and my babies havebeen covered over with love by a very special visitor whose family sacrificeda lot to bring the water of herself to our raw and fragile lives. And some others joined her, too.

We did put up a Christmas tree, and the word HoPe sits on my mantle all red andsparkly, drawing the eye and luring the heart. Makiah’s green eyes laugh at us through a half dozen picture frames andold ornaments scattered about. She wouldwant the babies to have a pretty first Christmas. She loves sparkly things and happymusic. Some moments I catch Christmascarols escaping from lips… my lips… almost drawn up in a cautious smile. Other moments I press the lids hard anddisappear deep into a memory of Christmases past. Of early morning cuddles on the couch whileshe watches cartoons under the twinkling, colorful lights on the tree. Of a little blonde one playing mommy and babywith the tiny Christmas bears that have decorated our spruce for a generationor so. Of her delighted yelps when sheopens another mermaid doll that special morning. Of sitting together and sampling a varietybox of two dozen little chocolates… exchanging mmm’s for good onesand blah’s for the yucky ones… teeth marks in each, not carrying if we bitethem all!

My fingers gingerly trace the reindeer ornament shemade. Her tiny hands as theantlers. Oh to put those hands inmine! To see her giggle and play withher sisters! To buy that girls size 6Christmas dress at Belks instead of wistfully feeling soft ribbons and thenleaving it there to hang. To hang. It’s hard not to feel we have been left here to hang. To hang on the memories and a thin strand ofhope. But then I think of thewashing. The bringing of life-water this weekend to pour over our messylives. Many others have emptied out selves for us as well. I stand thankful. I will never forget my dear friend literallywashing the blood from my feet as I sat stunned and sobbing in the ER room lastfall. She didn’t want me to go home withthe blood- it was not mine- screaming from my toes.

And so in my muddy swirl of emotions, I cannot deny theGod-Man who first washed me of my grime. He keeps sending himself in the life-water of others poured out forus. In the moments I feel that God hasabandoned us, I remember. And I pushagainst those lonely thoughts because the muddy water around my clean feetreminds me that it is not so. I havenot been left to hang forever because he didhang for me instead. I grab on to the truth. I must. For God so loved me, He gave his only son…

Glory Moments

2011-11-27T22:47:00.001-05:00

We sit behind french doors overlooking the dancing ripplesof the Tennessee River. Orange and red are striking against the deepblue sky. The leaves sway to the rhythmof glistening water. Inside the melodydrifts from the piano as my sister-n-law’s mother dances her fingers deftlyacross the ivory keys. Powerful wordspour from her lips and move like astrong current through the hearts of the listening. “His arms are fortress for the weak. Let faith arise… I lift my hands to believeagain… You are faithful God forever… Open my eyes…” Lyrics from a song by Chris Tomlin. I hold my daddy’s hand as tears stream downhis weathered cheeks. This year has agedus all. I see it in my own face. My tears join his. We have sipped our coffee and listened to myDaddy’s deep voice read to us from Watchman Nee. Words about eternity. About finishing strong. Written by one who died after many years in aChinese prison. The cost of hisfaith. I bite my lip and squint my eyesin a vain effort to keep my composure.

It is a hard thing. This living and believing. Thistrusting what we cannot see. This navigatingpainful waters. But we are givengrace. And glory moments.

This. A glorymoment. A taste of eternity. Mixed with the bitterness of saltytears. I sense that this is a fightacross generations. Not between us, buttogether we are bonded by these moments when we see God in nature and hear himin the music and feel him in the grip of each others’ hands. And yet inside we have been stretched thin bythe hard things. We have fought alone. And we have fought together.

My Daddy says he prays that his eyes will be open to see avision of heaven. Words are caught in mythroat, but I nod and squeeze his hand. I know the longing well. I feelit like a tangible thing in this room full of reaching hearts stretched thin. And drawn tautly together. Strangely closer. Maybe to Him as well.

Perhaps you, too, have felt the pull of glorymoments…

I Lift My Hands

Heaven, Pie, and... Math!

2011-11-17T13:57:00.001-05:00

My little ones are napping and the warm chocolate morsels in my delicate pie melt slowly in my mouth. I am trying to wrap my mind around a thought that my mom's friend shared with her and she passed on to me. The bible says that with the Lord a day is as a thousand years and a thousand years is as a day. Now certain scriptures do indicate that there is some sort of passage of time in heaven, but we don't have any reason to believe that it is necessarily at the same rate there as here. Clearly, based scripture what feels long to us here can seem but a day to the Lord and vice versa. Time is a dimension by which God is not defined. Rather, he defines it. One of his names in the bible is the Alpha and Omega, aka The Beginning and The End.

Keeping all that in mind. We don't know if time here correlates with time in heaven or not. So my mom's friend suggested doing some math. If one thousand years here is as a day there and if I live to be 90 before I go to heaven...calculating... then it would only seem like an hour and a half to Makiah when I arrive!! I have no idea if that is the case, but it is a very comforting thought for this mommy!

Though our time here seems long some days, in fact sometimes even the seconds drag painfully by, I am reminded that this is not what we live for. Thank God! Seriously, I enjoy a slice of pie as much as the next person, but no amount of earthly pleasure can completely cover the pain of living in this broken place. A sweet friend brought me a book Sunday about a man's experience of heaven. Thinking about how it could be, meditating on the perfection of what is to come, has buoyed me up to the surface during this turbulent week.

Minutes before I received the book Sunday, a new friend got the call. The horrible dreaded call. I saw it on her face as she ripped back through the church doors to grab her family and fly to the hospital. Her 14 year old had been hit by a car. He stepped into heaven instantly. People think I know what to say. Comforting words escape me because there are none. All that comes to mind is, "Welcome to hell." (No, mom, I did not say that out loud!) Truly, losing a child has to be close to the pain of hell... at least as close as my imagination will carry me. But ironically, through many, many prayers and God's mercy, this earthly hell has caused me to long so much more for my heavenly home.

Please pray for my friend this week. There is no quick way to walk through this valley that has crashed in on her. When I saw her the next day, I sat on the floor and cried with her. I held her hand and didn't say anything at all. Sometimes, tears speak better than words. I know for sweet Makiah, and her little boy as well, that however time goes by in heaven, it is full of joy and wonder and love. There are no tears or dread or fear. They have left that to us. Oh, for a thousand years to be as a day! Come quickly Lord!

Heaven, Pie, and... Math!

A Sign

2011-11-08T16:45:00.001-05:00

Traffic slows almostto a halt. I round the curve on my wayto work and see two cars stopped in the road… an accident. It doesn’t look like anyone is hurt. But there is a mom on the side of the roadclutching her little girl, maybe about 3 years old, and crying on the cellphone. The girl looks okay. Then a mile or so past the accident the statetrooper screeches by me. Then the ambulances. Sirens wailing. And I join them. Wailing.

It is just too much. I saw the broken glass in the road. The mommy. The sounds. The cell phone. The little girl who is okay. But now I am in that day, and the little girl is not okay. And the mommy didn’t get to hold her… everagain. And the ambulances didn’t comejust to screen us. They came to carryher away. Forever. I cannot hold it in any longer. I am losing it. Control. It broke down on the road back there with the crunched up hood anddented bumper. My breath comes hard andfast like I have run a marathon. The hottears stain my cheeks. She is dead.

I have been awake since 3 this morning. It started with a baby, but then I just couldn’t escape the pounding reality that she isdead. The feelings of disbelief. The sights and sounds when we told ourparents in the ER. The truth I do notwant to be true. Will this darknesspounce on me when my consciousness awakens every morning until I die? All the long years? Will I be 70 and still wake uphorrified? Did someone say the secondyear is easier? Oh God! Has it been more than a year!? God please help me to see somethingreal! I know Jesus said a wickedgeneration seeks a sign. Then maybe I amwicked. But oh how I long for a sign!

I cuddled my baby in the dark morning hours. Felt her breath. Smelled her hair. Rubbed her cheeks. For hours while she slept. By daybreak there were two of themclose. Snuggling warm on mommy. I listen. With my heart. Soft babies breathing gently. Breathing in the contentment ofnearness. Breathing out the comfort ofGod. Maybe… maybe I have been given asign... or two.

Weeping Forward

2011-10-29T09:20:00.000-04:00

I opened the red, leather bag to pack for the two nightsaway. We were going to a conference at achurch in the next state that we have attended twice a year since Makiah wasborn- well, until the accident. I liketo go because I can be anonymous and disappear into the crowd of worshipers. This is a big step for me. An act of reaching up to heaven… to God. It was also another hurdle because of somevery special nursery workers who kept her each time since she was a baby andalways looked for her to come. I knewthey didn’t know.

As I swept my hand across the bottom of the bag, my eyecaught a glimmer of something glistening and my heart dropped. I felt the rough edges and pulled it up tothe light. Was it? Yes… Broken glass. From theaccident. Her window or mine? I cringe again at the image of the sickeningcrunch. I thought we had wiped all thetraces away! Did you know shards ofglass can cut into your soul? Beyondflesh and bone, the deepest wounds are those that only the Maker’s eye cansee. I feel the withering inside. The weariness. The sting of remembering the thing I cannever remember to forget. I look atCameron and he says knowingly, “Pull out.” So this time I do. I grit myteeth and pack the bag and decide to go and expect.

I am not disappointed. Well, maybe a little because I had no angelic visitation or vivid dreamsof heaven. But I did feel God and I didfeel closer to her- surprisingly. Thesweet nursery ladies did remember and ask and cry. “Miss Mimi” made a special trip to see Kiah’ssisters. She said she remembered onetime when she was writing (she is left handed) and Makiah said, “Miss Mimi,dat’s not how you’re posed to write. You’reusing duh wrong hand!” So she explainedherself to my precocious little one! Then Makiah put her tiny hand on Miss Mimi’s, and they colored togetherlike lefties. I laughed. And I cried. And maybe this weekend I healed a bit inside.

The summer before she died I did a bible study on the bookof Ruth. One thing the author said thatstruck a deep cord in me even then, in some strange and terrible foreshadowingsort of way, was that it matters what direction you weep in. Ruth and her sister-n-law, Orphah, both losttheir husbands. Both were broken andmourning and desolate. They could followtheir mother-n-law, Naomi, back to the land of her people, God’s chosen people,or return to their home in a pagan country. Orphah decided to go back to what she always knew- the familiar, butRuth choose to go on with Naomi, to weep forward. When we are weeping we are still walking. With our teary steps we can slowly trudgeback towards darkness or creep painstakingly forward towards God and the unknowableplan He has for us. We will all facepain and sorrow in this broken world. AlthoughI feel so heavily the lifting of each foot, I want to be like Ruth and purpose to weep forward. Will you?

The Extra

2011-10-18T21:27:00.000-04:00

Did you know that Amish women wear black for a whole yearwhen a loved one dies? There was a timein my life that I would have thought that was just terrible. Now I think it is an amazing way for brokenpeople to express on the outside what is happening on the inside. Everywhere they go others are visiblyreminded that they need extra… extralove, patience, tears, prayers, hugs, “how are you’s?...” Extra.

Our culture does not have many, healthy ways to express deepgrief and pain (in my humble opinion). We generally expect people to say they are fine when we ask and regretasking if they do say something else. One of the difficulties in grieving is working out how to function inthe world while your insides are screaming that the whole world shouldstop. When she first died, I couldscarcely look at Face Book because it seemed so obscene that other people werestill going out on dates and posting funny antics. The truth is, in many ways, we bear ourgrief alone. Only God sees into thedepths of our broken souls no matter how we may scream it out. But still we need extra…

And for me that extra has come on this terrible anniversaryin the form of toes. Literally,thousands of toes. Painted in the colorsof a rainbow. A rainbow that reminds usof God’s promises. A rainbow that promises hope of life and happiness… that reminds us ofthe way a child can skip so gleefully down a hall- full of joy and completelyunaware of pain or self or the opinions of others. That place, that life, doesexist. In a place we can choose to gosome day, heaven, and just maybe in another place we can choose to go… in ourhearts. Oh my! Those words just flew out of my fingersbefore I could stop them! I am not sureI even believe that yet. But I think athousand rainbow toes have put in me the tiniest inkling that maybe a place ofhappiness can be found in the deep again even after sipping from the cup of despair.

And He put one in the sky, too. On Friday night October the 7^th at6:00 there was a beautiful rainbow in the sky over my town (she died on the 8^thof last year but it was on a Friday and at 6:00 exactly). Then on the 11^th I was feelingsubmerged in the painful memory of her funeral and dreading 4:00- the time ofthe ceremony- but when the hands on the clock rolled around to that dark hour,I looked outside and another stunning rainbow streaked across the greysky! Now I have seen rainbowsoccasionally, but this timing just seems a bit much for coincidence! Is it possible that the idea of a sweetfriend, and the strokes of painted love on ten thousand toes inspired God toadd his exclamation point to the expression of remembrance???

Your toes have said you will not forget her. And my heart will not forget your sayingit. My little princess would be sotickled and giggly and covered over with delight. I smile and I cry and I breathe in theextra… Thank you for the rainbow toes andthe butterflies on the cross at the preschool and the dancers who danced for her and the beautiful flowers in mychurch and the butterfly necklace and the prayers that you said for us. I hope some of the childlike lightness ofrainbows and giggles will fill your heart as you think of the gift you havegiven us… the extra.

A Few of the Rainbow Toes

Beginnings of Butterfly Garden at Makiah's Preschool

Rainbow at 6pm Friday

Rainbow at 1 year Date and Time of her Funeral

Just Fishing

2011-10-09T16:50:00.000-04:00

Click on this link to see the sweetest video ever... by my husband for Makiah. We love you Baby! Pics below are fishing with Daddy and Pawpaw...

Makiah's First Fish

The Colors of Love

2011-10-08T23:59:00.002-04:00

Dear Sweet Makiah,

I suppose that God does not let children in heaven read letters from their parents on earth, but just in case I am wrong... Today it has been exactly one year since your trip to heaven. We have spent the whole day thinking about you (that is not too different than most days). This morning we had waffles for breakfast because you had them for your last breakfast. We remembered how you loved to have waffles after church on Wednesday nights and you asked for "waffle Wednesday." Mommy let your cat, Buster, in for the first time since the girls were born, and they were delighted. Abby gave his fur a good tug for you and Lena grabbed his tail. It only took Buster a few minutes to go look in your room for you. Even he has not forgotten!

Our sweet neighbor brought a hot apple pie so we ate it for lunch in honor of you. You would have liked that! After the girls napped we drove to the resurrection site and released 7 rainbow colored balloons with your story inside. Maybe someone will find them and contact us... you always loved "I spy" games. We said a prayer as we released each one. The girls fell asleep and Mommy and Daddy sat there for a long time. We cried a little because we miss you, but we tried to picture you in heaven. Mommy thought about the day that Jesus will come back and you will get up out of that grave. The cool wind whisked away my tears and I pressed my eyes tight. Trying to imagine that maybe I will feel that wind when it is my day to journey to heaven. Did you hear that sound as you were whisked away from earth? Did the light of heaven feel warm on your face like the sun did on mine? We asked God to help us know how real heaven really is... more real than the wind in my hair or the sun on my cheeks.

We bought a pumpkin and some pretty flowers for our porch. You always got so excited when we bought a pumpkin and Daddy carved it with you. Then we took the girls to Mr. Chick. The last thing you ate was french fries... so we let the girls try their first fries! I wish you could have seen their delighted little faces, Makiah! We watched the clock all day and talked about what we were doing exactly a year ago as each hour went by. We remembered the things you said and did and our last conversations. Later, we looked at pictures of our last morning... you looked so pretty that day! We spent the rest of the night trying to make slide shows of you to post. I think Daddy's is uploading now, but Mommy's didn't work yet so I guess Daddy's mac wins out over my pc for tonight!

Do you remember that rainbows stand for a promise from God? You told Mrs. Laurie, your teacher, that all the colors of the rainbow were your favorite because they were all so pretty you couldn't pick one. I wish God would let you see that there are literally thousands of rainbow toes today- painted in your honor! Your Mommy and Daddy are overwhelmed and humbled and thankful for all the colorful love!! So many people remember and love you and can't wait to meet you one day, sweet Kiah! Even your sisters wore rainbow socks for you. And last night at 6:00 (the same time on Friday of last year that you met Jesus), there was a beautiful rainbow across Cairo that seemed to end at our church! Coincidence? :)

I want you to know that you will always be my first baby. I am asking God to give you angel, eskimo, and butterfly kisses from me on this, your 1st heaven day... until I can give them to you myself...

All my love,
Mommy

Rainbow Toes from Cousins- one of hundreds of amazing pics!

Rainbow over Cairo at 6pm Friday night

Twin's Rainbow Toes

Mommy too

Makiah's 1st Heaven Day

Oct. 8, 2011

Oct. 8, 2010 Daddy's last kiss

The morning she died

Holding Daddy's Hand

Such a Sweet Little Princess

Makiah's Pink Sparkly Toes

Makiah next to Abby & Alena her last day

Our Last family Photo

Mommy's fingers in her curls

Our camera was blurry that last morning... until the day we see clearly!

Shoo Fly Pie

2011-10-05T23:12:00.001-04:00

Glistening sun across waving fields of corn. Picture perfect red barns. Gardens of leafy greens hugging square, white houses. Crisp dresses and black trousers billowing in the breeze on sturdy, long clotheslines. Long beards and bonnets in black buggies behind trotting horses clip clop down the lanes. It's another world. A place where people value hard work, each other, the process... the togetherness of life. I breathe in the peace.

We have come to escape our world. A brief reprieve from the place of our pain. In still moments one or the other of us will let out a long sigh or notice a tear sneaking from the corner of an eye that dares to look back. We eat shoo fly pie and cry and kiss babies as we make our way across this beautiful country- Amish country. But people love to ask if the twins are our first so we can't seem to leave our story behind.

I can't believe in 3 days it will be one year. How is it possible that on a perfectly sunny, happy day like today she left me? Have you ever imagined packing and going on a trip and then coming home with only your bags and not your child? I have... turned the "if only's" over a million and one times. Ultimately no one knows if those seemingly small every day decisions are saving you from tragedy or dooming you to it as you make them or if the death would have come anyway... as if predetermined.

I remember crying on the couch surrounded by my immedite family in the dark hours of the morning a few days after the accident. Sleep was impossible, and they stroked my hair as I howled that I could not do this- that it was just too hard. I could not live out all the long days and years ahead of me without her... a dark prison sentence.

One year into the sentence I still feel the sharpness in my chest, but not all the time. The dark heaviness is no longer pinning me down. It still stabs through me often, but I can walk. I can see the beauty of Amish country and hope for the beauty of heaven. I can breathe through the pain and see through the tears. Thanks to many, many prayers... and rainbow toes. I know now that the long years only pass one minute at a time, and more than ever, now, I want to live in the minute. I cannot go back, and I cannot skip ahead. But I can rub my wet cheeks on tiny chubby ones and make this minute count. After all, I don't know what the next one will bring. Do you?

No More Shadows

2011-09-27T19:21:00.001-04:00

We sit in her room with the happy, pink flowers hanging on the wall and the butterfly curtains billowing- the babies and I. They lay on the bright, white bedspread and I show them the things that were special to their big sister, Makiah... her purple, shell necklace that sings The Little Mermaid's song because she wore it all the time and drove me crazy playing the song... her tiny ballerina bear because she wanted to "be a ballerina not when I'm a grown up but now while I'm a little girl..." her baby doll that giggles because she loved babies and wanted brothers and sisters more than anything in the world. I show them her picture and they grin and reach for her, well, for it. I get out the video camera. Then it hits me. The profound sadness of it all. I am taping my girls' reactions to their sister's picture. Because I can't video their reaction to their sister. I almost never cry in front of the twins, but today I cannot keep the tears from falling.

I run my fingers over some of her last art projects from school. I pick up the baby doll and think how wrong it is that the batteries lasted longer than my little girl. I have been finding "tiny fings" of hers all over the house lately. A mermaid stamp in the kitchen drawer. A pink barbie mirror in her daddy's socks. A little aphid picture from The Ladybug Game under the living room rug. A tiny barbie shoe on my closet floor. And a breakfast bar I had packed for her in a purse that I pulled out of my closet. I feel sick. I used to put these things away, but now I leave them where I find them. I can't stand the thought of having no more reminders of her to pop up around the house. So they have become sacred in their hiding places under rugs and beneath socks. I can never clean too deeply lest I wipe away all the signs of her. The tangibles that remind me of happy days when she was tangible.

I feel inside a mounting... of what I do not know. Eleven days until her heaven day. It seems that it should be cataclysmic. This day that is coming. This marking of the days. Even the ancients mourned on certain days. This dreading and enduring and exhaling when it is past and we have survived. What is it in us that cannot help but mark these anniversaries? A verse pops in my mind... "Deep calls out to deep." I wrote the other day that the Bible says God has put eternity in the hearts of men. Maybe it is that place in us that yearns wistfully for these days to be set right. For the tragedies to be undone. For time not to matter so much.

As I film my babies playing with their sister's things, I wonder if all our memorable moments will now be quietly marked by sadness. Not overtly, but always there beneath the surface. In a deep place. Like a shadow that has been cast across my life, her death tinges everything a slightly different shade. As I hear the ticking of the clock in my soul, the approach of the one year anniversary, I weep for what is lost and I long for what is to come. The day when there will be no more marking of sad days... no more holding our breath in sickening anticipation... no more shadows.

A Well of Thanks

2011-09-21T21:59:00.001-04:00

It was like Christmas when it came in the mail… well, whatChristmas used to be like. I couldn’twait to get the little package open! Ipulled at the stubborn tape, and then ripping it open with a jerk, I held mybreath. I carefully pulled out a darkblue notebook and gingerly opened the flaps. There they were! Thepictures! Just in time for the firstanniversary of her heaven day, the pictures of the first well and it’sdedication had arrived… and I felt asmile in my heart.

The well isn’t fancy and the crowd isn’t huge, but it isreal. Something my little girl wanted todo. A way for her to leave a footprint,to impact another life. The faces are preciousto me. A little baby in her mother’sarms. We are connected, this mother andI. Her child is in her arms and mine isnot. But a little girl’s gift, anoutpouring of love from people like you, and a spout of fresh water have joinedus together in a mystical way. My lossis her gain. I would change the loss ifI could. Undo it in a heartbeat. But that is not given to me.

I think of Tolkien’s Gandalf and Frodo in a critical moment. Frodo:“I wish the ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened.” Gandalf: “So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them todecide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

And so the loss cannot be undone. But the gain can be given. The time that is left for me and for you… thatis all we have to decide about. We canchange something for the little girl with big, brown eyes who clings to hermommy and hopes that today will be a good day. My Makiah’s short life was full of good days and happiness. And so I want to thank each of you who havegiven, on behalf of the brown eyed girl in South Africa, for changing liveswith the gift of clean water and offering better days… and on behalf of theblue eyed girl in heaven, for helping her to leave a legacy of God’s love… andon behalf of this watery eyed mommy, for making my loss their gain- that itwill not just be a loss. Thank you from a place in me where words can hardly do justice...

Makiah's 1st Well- Manzingwenya, South Africa

Women Celebrating

The Plaque on the Well

The Brown Eyed Baby Girl

A Woman Gives Thanks

*The second well is being built in Ghana, and the third is now underway in Cambodia. The funds for the fourth well aregrowing. You can still contributethrough the purchase of a well charm or by direct donation. Tax deductable donations are now madedirectly to

Operation Blessing International

Attn.: Brenda Fansher, CSB 322

977 Centerville Turnpike

Virginia Beach VA 23463

Mark your gift clearly forMakiah King Well Project, and it will be credited to her account.

My Not Enough

2011-09-11T15:33:00.000-04:00

I am not afraid to die. Maybe I am afraid to live. But I am not afraid to die. How can I be scared of something my four year old has already faced? But do I have what it takes to live- strength, endurance, courage to seek Him, integrity to keep pursuing Truth? Not enough. I look inside and there are big gaping holes of not enough. Faith? Hope? Love? Not enough.

I read in the book 1,000 Gifts that Jesus embraced his not enough. He gave thanks for it and a miracle followed every time. Can I give thanks for my not enough? Not enough time with Kiah. Will it ever be enough? Enough time with our loved ones? The bible says God set eternity in the hearts of men. All loving relationships here end in sadness and separation. No matter how wonderful. They all end in death. But something deep in the recesses of our hearts tells us this is not how it should be. That place in our souls longs for eternity... for a place of no goodbye's. No, it is never enough.

That is the hope of heaven. The joy of the Godman who came to be the Way- the Messiah who came to save us... to save us from the not enough. From the ever gaping holes of emptiness in our souls. The places we try to cram full. Desperately we do more, learn more, talk more, eat more, try to have more fun... more stuff. But it is not enough. Can I thank him for the not enough? Will it precede the miracle? For me? For you?

The Art of Surprise

2011-09-03T23:26:00.000-04:00

I was hesitant to go. I don't have any artistic ability at all. I can barely draw stick people! What could I possibly do in an art therapy group? But it was for local moms who have lost a child recently, and I decided it might help me to meet some who are walking this broken road, too.

We shared our stories and cried for and with each other. The facilitator had us close our eyes and do some relaxation imagery. When she said "now imagine that you are coming to a place of acceptance," all the relaxing imagery went out the window, and in my mind's eye I was fighting to free myself from an impossible box. I was kicking and clawing to get out, but I was surrounded on all sides and shrouded in darkness. I feel red. I feel powerless. I feel trapped. I feel unseen. I feel... angry.

I was totally surprised. I didn't think that I had been angry at all. Sad. Broken. Depressed. Crushed. Not angry. But here it was. Anger. Surfacing in this class that I almost didn't attend. We were instructed to use art materials to illustrate what we felt in that place of peace and acceptance. Lucky for me magazines were on the table. Soon I was ripping out rocks and dinosaur teeth from a National Geographic and pasting them in a circular wall on a red page. They formed a craggy enclosure of sharp slate and jagged teeth. Weeping and gnashing of teeth. Inside was a girl covered over from head to toe in a black burka. She is unseen. Words were scattered across the rocks... 'powerless,' 'imagine the sound of the sickening crunch,' 'a generation lost...' Outside the rocky prison were the upside down words- 'back to life.' Everything seems so upside down.

They say it is one of the stages of grief. Anger. I thought I just missed that stage. I guess not. They also say acceptance is the final stage. Clearly I am not there yet. I still have moments when I am utterly shocked that she is gone. I caught myself saying a phrase to Abby just like Kiah would have said it. "I fink she is gonna roll over!" And I could picture her sitting on the blanket with her sisters and cheering them on as they learn to roll. Giggly and sweet. She would have loved it. Her absence slaps me across the cheeks and they become wet. Laying in bed last night I think of her little face, and I catch my breath. She is gone! She can't be. Things like this don't happen to me! My baby is fine... When will I stop being shocked? My husband says I have to stop imagining life with her. What could have been. What would have been. What should have been! I don't think I can. I am not ready to let her go. After all, I never even really got to say goodbye.

Grace and Flip Flops

2011-08-25T23:02:00.000-04:00

Tiny pairs of sparkling flip flops. In and out they walk on tiny feet. I am so glad I work with adolescents most of the time, but this week we are screening elementary children. I have sparkly flip flops at my house, too. Sealed up in a box in the attic. They cannot find the little feet that should be in them. They didn’t get to go to kindergarten this year. Didn’t get to hear the little blond girl learn to write her last name. Learn to read. Feel her toes start to hang off the edge as she outgrew them. Get dusty on the playground or have chocolate milk spilled on them at lunch. No, they didn’t get to go to kindergarten.

I fight off the feelings of anxiety. The impulse to run away. Too many little blonde ponytails with faces that are not hers. Then I see them. The rainbow painted toenails. Exactly the way she wanted them the last Sunday when we were painting our nails together in bed. “Mommy, please paint my toenails rainbow colors!” she pleaded. I didn’t have the right colors with me so I promised her we would do it next time. The next time was at the funeral home.

The rainbow toes walk out the door. And I look down at mine. Ten months later. Still ten lonely, painted toes that should be twenty. Our counselor says we should do something special on the one year anniversary of her death- her heaven day, as some have called it. But what? How do you commemorate her and not the horror? No one prepares you for this in the school of life. There are no lesson plans for coping with every parent’s nightmare. And what about the anniversaries in the future… the one when no one remembers? The year it comes and goes and everyone else has forgotten? I suppose the grace for that day won’t be until then. Today I just need the grace to handle the sparkly flip flops and the little rainbow toes while missing hers so much…

Grace for the Morning

2011-08-19T00:03:00.000-04:00

I have not let myself think about it. Really. I heard someone say once that we don't have the grace for something in advance... just that day. So I figure the grace to face the hearing and the boy-man and the evidence will be there in the morning and not before. I wish someone would tell my subconscious, though.

I dreamed someone was babysitting her. When I went to pick her up, they had let some of their family take her off with a few of her friends. And I knew. I knew she was gone. When their van pulled into the driveway, all the friends got out, but she was not there. I screamed at the adults hysterically the whole dream- yelling at them that they had lost her.

Then the next night I was at the top of a grassy hill. I could see her down at the bottom sitting in a lounge chair just at the edge of the woods. She was playing with a baby doll. Suddenly I could hear the sound of something terrible and mighty coming in the woods. A foreboding crunching of leaves and twigs. I screamed for her to run. She ran up the hill towards my arms, and in my dream, I somehow was thinking- this is it. This is when I get to hold her again. I was trying to remember what it felt like for her cheek to be touching mine. I reached for her. She jumped into my arms, and as I pulled her close to me... she vanished.

I have no control. I am powerless. I can't protect her. I can't even hold her. Oh, to have sweet dreams of my baby... I have only had three since she died. One where we hugged and clung to each other for the longest, and another where I washed her face and fixed her hair as if for the last time. Those were last October. Recently I had one of her and the babies all together. I wanted to live in that one... to not wake up. But that is all. Mostly the nights are full of aching and horror. Sleep is there, but rest is elusive. I feel somehow that the grace will be here in the morning for tomorrow. But where is the grace for the nights???

The Place

2011-08-12T22:45:00.000-04:00

It happened by accident. I was driving to my friend’s new house, and one of the road signs grabbed me. While we visited, I was turning the name over in my mind. Could it be? I thought the accident had happened much further down the highway. My memory is muddled. I said I would never drive that way again. Never again see the place. I had been with a group to tour my friend’s house a few weeks before she moved in, and I had been nauseous. But I didn’t pay attention on the drive, and figured it was because I was close to the place. As I packed my girls in the car to leave, I took a deep breath to still the trembling inside. Now I would be on the same side of the divided highway as that day... Was this it? I didn’t know another way home. I would have to find out. I drove slowly as if in a dream. And then, suddenly, there they were just before the suspicious intersection- the skid marks, dark and hard, and then nothing. The invisible mark where our car was torn from the road and my little, sweet one was catapulted into eternity. Instantly, I was there. The grass, the trees, the strangers’ arms, their voices telling me not to look, the dripping, people pulling me away, my hysterical voice piercing heavy air as I screamed into the phone to my Daddy that they were putting paddles on her chest. Oh God! It flashed in a second. I had no time to prepare- to plan. I am there.

Just before was a road named Legion. I can’t help but picture hoards of demonic creatures cheering as in a Roman arena at the devouring of flesh. Death. That was their plan. I feel smothered by darkness. Then in the next second, I make a decision. I cannot let them win. Here in this place of Death, I choose Life! My lips, ignoring the sensation of horror, begin to pray. And praise. This is no light moment for me. I have done those things only painstakingly, rarely, and with great effort the last 10 months. But this time I barely think. It is almost an impulse. I can imagine that in the darkness of that day, as her body crumpled, there was a crack of piercing, radiant light torn through the black canvas of evil and she stepped into it in a flashing second. Into the light. The weighty glory. The joy. The promise. The prize. His love. And the hoards remembered that their plan is foiled. Oh death where is your sting? Hell has been defeated. The grave could not hold the King! My shaking hands grip tight on the steering wheel. I do not stop pointing my lips and thoughts to the throne as the next seconds pass and the place is gone. Behind me. The hurdle is crossed. And I am still in the race.

Makiah died that day. But she didn’t. We have lost her, but He has not. She is not all that died that day. But the lightness in my heart, the turning I have felt for three days now since that moment, tells me that maybe, just maybe, a resurrection is in progress.

Hold on Tightly... and Loosely

2011-08-03T14:52:00.000-04:00

So many things have been swirling through my mind I hardly know what to write about. My time alone is so limited that I think of more things to blog than I am able to get down. Then I seem to forget them. They slip away in the fog of mommy brain! One of my girls was screaming her head off in a public restroom yesterday while I tried to change her out of her poopy (I mean covered in poop!) clothes, and a lady walked by and said "All I can say is thank God!" Meaning she was glad she didn't have a squirmy, screaming, covered in poop child. I just looked at her, smiled, and said, "That's what I say, too. Thank God! I say that every time I look at her." And I laid a big kiss on my stinky, precious, red faced one!

Squeeze them tighter. Kiss them more. Laugh when they spill it all over your clean floor. Yes, you should. You absolutely should. Don't waste another second with them. If this tragedy has done anything for me, it is to make me appreciate every wonderful, messy part of being a parent. On the rare occasion that both of my gifts are joining together in a chorus of screaming, I get out the video camera. And I laugh. Because this too shall pass- all too quickly.

I was thinking while I brushed my teeth this morning that before the accident, for about a year I had a sense of "hold on loosely" in my heart sometimes when I would pray. I thought this was in reference to material things. But I think now that it was to help prepare me- as if anything could- for a parting that I could not have dreamed. Since I have been on an irony theme, here is another one. We must hold loosely, and yet tightly, to anything in this world. Our home, if our faith is in Jesus, is ultimately heaven. So somehow, in a mystery of loving, we are to cling to our dear ones every moment that we have but hold them loosely as we offer all in surrender to the King. He is the only thing we can never be separated from... unless we choose it.

I learned a verse shortly before Makiah died, and it has come back to me many times. It is part of a psalm of David. "Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you." I was praying that it would be true for me. Not that I would not value anyone or anything here, but that in comparison to my love for God all else would pale. It is not true of me right now. But the verse won't leave me alone. How to get there? To a place of really loving God above all else? Even through the separation of your dreams and the crunching of your heart? Is it possible? Maybe you can tell me, if you have walked this broken road...

Not Yet

2011-07-27T21:19:00.000-04:00

Oh, grass, why won’t you grow? My baby’s grave all dusty dry. Bare as bones and fresh as the day we laid her there. All around the lush grass grows and new life covers over ugly dirt. Another buried after mine is just around the corner. Beneath her stone the ground is green as if it were untouched. Spring came and bloomed around her headstone. But not my baby’s grave.

Oh, grass, why won't you grow? You make tears spring to my eyes. The stone’s shadow falls on bareness- a wound in the earth- a schism in the universe. The pact between life and death was broken and her breath was stolen too soon. Even the earth seems to know it was not meant to be this way. It refuses to cover the gash. As if the dirt is screaming that the belly of the earth should not have been torn open for this little one… no, not yet. From the bird’s eye, all is lush and geen in this field of sacred stones- except the reddish plot where nature itself objects to what is unnatural- the death of giggly laughter and hair of sunshine and eyes green like the sea.

Oh grass why won’t you grow? Almost a full year and it looks barely a week ago. Seeds we have planted but to no avail. Perhaps the birds have picked them away. An anomaly in the meadow. Maybe the earth is waiting for my heart to heal. Could it be a mirror of my own refusal to accept? A mystery of reflection? The soul seen clearly in muddy dirt? The life just can’t seem to cover over the death… to heal up earth or heart. Ten months is just too short. A turning of the head. A blinking of the eye. And so the dirt lies fresh. And so the heart lies torn. Perhaps waiting for my grip to loosen, to slip a little… no, not yet.

Little Fingers

2011-07-22T20:02:00.000-04:00

A poem that my brother, a pilot, wrote last fall about Makiah. He just shared it with me. Such beautiful grief... another oxymoron. Thank you to all those who have shared their memories of her and held our hands in this walk of weeping.

Fingers and Flesh

Little girl why are your fingers so cold? Arise sweet child! Arise!

With these fingers you held my hands while we played in the park.

With these fingers you held my neck when you leapt from the ground to draw me close.

With these fingers you touched my heart, straight through the flesh touched my beating soul.

With your little eyes you held my gaze, hours gone by, through the camera your captive.

With these fingers you touched my picture, each morning and night asked my blessing.

With these fingers you touched the wife that I have yet to know.

With these fingers you pointed to my plane, reminding mommy you know where I roam.

With these fingers you blessed the twins whose flesh you will never hold.

With these fingers, broke my throbbing heart, stained my wetted cheeks.

With these fingers you held Yahweh’s gaze… “Jesus, I want to see you face to face!”

With His fingers He’s carried you home.

Little girl why are your fingers so cold? Arise sweet child! Arise!

Oh that blessed day, when your Savior cries…Arise sweet child! Arise!

A Pendulum of Irony

2011-07-16T01:07:00.001-04:00

There is irony in Death. In the death of a loved one- the snatching of a child from your arms. You become suddenly, painfully aware that time here does not last forever. That life has limits. That every minute is intrinsically valuable. That tomorrow is truly not promised... to any of us. And yet, at the very moment your eyes are stripped of their blinders and you perceive the preciousness of the inhaling and exhaling, that every breath is on loan, you seem to lose the ability to really live. Now you want to carpe diem, but there is a gaping hole that seems to drain away attempts at happiness. How do you enjoy when the joy is leaked away? Now you know, but with the deep inner knowing comes the deeper pain of loss. They hold hands in a cruel pact of friendship- the loss and the eyes-wide-open living.

Losing a loved one is like losing a limb. If your right arm were gone, you could still live your life. Just differently. You would have to brush your teeth differently, drive differently, learn to dress yourself differently. When your mind would try to reach for something with the missing appendage, you would have to redirect and compensate... use what is left. But always there would be the old thinking, a catching of oneself. It is the same with sudden death. Maybe all death? You continue to function, but everything you do is through the lens of loss. Nothing feels normal. Inside you must fight to accomplish basic tasks. If you forget for a moment, then it catches you- the truth you don't want to be true. The stinging of the loss is multiplied because no one sees your missing limb. The hole is in your heart- your real heart. The struggle is invisible. Boiling beneath the surface. Hiding behind the to do list and masked by niceties. But the absence is there, and the mysterious void snakes its tentacles through every thought and wraps around every action. It squeezes the life breath out of you. You who know better than most now that you need to infuse each moment with life... not death. And so there is a relentless tug of war.

A friend, one who carries a deep hole of loss in her heart, too, said to me "there is pain in this life that we have...but there is also beauty. Where you are right now....pain and beauty can keep you on a HUGE teeter totter emotionally. Then one day...the beauty once again begins to outweigh the pain."

I can't imagine that right now. It seems impossible. Like I am irrepairably broken. An innocence that I had has been lost forever. Too much knowledge from this tree of good and evil. But her words feel like hope. Ironically that is her name... So I wait for the pendulum to swing. For the teeter totter to lean away from the pain. To lift me up towards the beautiful sky and maybe towards some of that light, feathery, soaring innocence that I so deeply miss.

Postponed

2011-07-12T19:38:00.000-04:00

We have waited 9 months for this very first hearing, and we got a call that it was postponed... with no new date scheduled. And so a new roller coaster begins. I am sick today (literally) so I will borrow a line from Forrest Gump- that's all I'm gonna say about that. :)

My Dresser Drawer

2011-07-06T14:20:00.001-04:00

I could hardly sleep last night. I lay in the darkness feeling the cool air billow across white sheets and listening to the hum of the fan. I want to immerse myself in memories. I want to be there in them. I hear her little footsteps as she runs to our room in the night. She stands by my bed and her arms are full of fuzzy friends and her silky pink pillow. "Mommy I dropped the bunny!" she cries. I pull her across me and make room for her little pillow and stuffed animals. "Mommy will get him, baby." With a little irritation at the number of animals that must make the midnight trek to our bed, I retrieve the pink softness. She sighs and snuggles into the warmth between mommy and daddy. I kiss her soft cheeks and pull my fingers through gentle, blond curls. And the world feels right. I think of the morning. Light creeps through the blinds and she exclaims exuberantly, "Time to get up! The sun is up!" I rub her little arm and kiss the birthmark near her right shoulder. She giggles and tries to wiggle away. Blue-green glistens and the sweetness around her eyes crinkles with delight.

I try to think of more. Frantically I rack my brain for clear memories. I think of the last day. We stop at an outlet for Cameron to buy some running shoes. I sit on a bench next to a bin of miniature basketballs. She picks out the pink and black one and tries to bounce it. I try to show her how to dribble it, but there is not enough air in the ball. She won't try the others because they are boy colors. We walk outside to wait, and tiny fingers are laced through mine. She says we should lay on the bench. I laugh and say I think I will sit, but she can put her head in my lap if she likes. She does. The weight of her on me. The last time. We squint, and I remember I left my sunglasses by the basketballs. I stand by the door and watch as she bounces her way back to retrieve them for me. I thank her, and she says "What for?" I say for getting my glasses. She smiles, grabs my hand, and says, "Oh mommy!"

Later we wait again while daddy looks for shirts. I take her to the restroom; then she climbs up onto the chair beside me and says "Now what can we do?" with her arms up in a gesture of bewilderment. We play "I spy," and a woman walks by and smiles at us. I wonder what she would think if she knew my baby would be dead in a few hours.

Every time my eyes are open during the night, I am grasping memories. Trying to live in them. Then this morning we get the call. The slowly creaking wheels of the judicial system are finally moving. A motion has been filed to try the young man who killed her as an adult. The hearing is next Tuesday at 12. I think I will throw up. Are we ready for this? Are we ready to hear the first decision... to see the man? I choose with my will to forgive him whenever he crosses my mind. But forgiveness does not negate the need for justice. My memory of his face is foggy. Do I want to let that change? Will he be tried as an adult? Whatever his sentence turns out to be in this onerous process, his family can still touch his face, hear his voice, kiss his cheeks...

I put the babies down for a nap. I can hear them fussing as I almost run to the bedroom on the other side of the house. The wailing sound startles even me. Can that animal like noise be coming from my mouth? I cannot stop it. The groans and cries come from a deep pit of agony... a place no one should visit. I just want my baby. I don't want answers or logic. I just want my baby! In my arms, cheek to cheek, kissing all over her sweet face. To hear her voice. To touch her warm skin. To hold her close. Not just in the memories that I cling to. I fight against the feeling that she was never real. Never really here. Invisible. A part of a memory or feeling that can only be conjured up in the mind. All I have left of her is a lock of golden hair. Wrapped in a delicate white cloth. In a wooden box. In my dresser drawer...

Kindergarten

2011-06-28T20:19:00.001-04:00

"Look Out Kindergarten, Here I Come" by Nancy Carlson. The book arrives in the mail today. I thought that these free books we get were supposed to stop on Makiah's 5th birthday. Apparently not. I feel an invisible punch in the gut as my eyes trace over the title. One more reminder that she is not with us. That we had to return the clothes I bought during the end of season sales last summer for her to wear to kindergarten. That her friends can write their last names now, but she never got to learn.

I wipe down her baby toys. Her little sisters are grabbing things now. Time to pass on big sissy's things. She wanted them to play with them. No, she wanted to teach them to play with them. I sit in her room with the babies laying in front of me on the crisp white bedspread . I read her books to them and big, blue eyes like saucers bounce to the rhythm of the words. I sing "The Itsy Bitsy Spider," and two pair of lips curl into grins at the hand motions. I tickle little ribs and kiss four soft cheeks and two slobbery, pink mouths. Smiling on the outside. Inside I feel the crushing. The weight of her absence. The heavy silence when I stop. Another song. Another book. Keep filling in the void- the absence- the loss- the mystery of the missing. I want her room to be a happy place. At least for little hearts still free from pain. I push the smile back onto my lips and watch it reflect in the mirror of their faces. I soak in their love, and I can take it. Another breath. And another.

I slide the book on the shelf with all her others. And I hope. I hope that maybe in five years I will need to read it. "Look Out Kindergarten, Here I Come."

Daddy's Arms

2011-06-22T22:32:00.003-04:00

Daddy's Arms

2011-06-22T22:05:00.003-04:00

Daddy's arms. There's nothing like them. Cutting her cord his face is alive with joy. Holding her in his strong hands tears trickle down. One hundred thousand kisses from soft lips couched in a scratchy goatee. He always keeps her on his day off while mommy works because he wants to. Diaper changes and spit up never sway him. Daddy daughter dates for crunchy fried chicken legs are what memories are made of. Splashing in muddy puddles together. Sharing breath and sweaty sleeping close. Eskimo kisses and Valentine's dances. She throws herself across his lap and exclaims "Don't tickle me, Daddy!" Sweetest laughter follows. Eating first food...catching first fish. Daddy gently teaches. "Daddy, please swing with me... play barbies with me... pretend mermaids with me..." she asks. His answer is always yes. Bedtime routines that last an hour. Stories and rocking and singing so slow. Taking it all in. Over and over the words he says, "You make me sooo happy, Makiah." Too many times to count he whispers it in her ear. Her delighted grin fills up her face as his unrestrained adoration fills her little heart. Memories to treasure- Makiah and Daddy. Memories still to make- Abby and Alena have so much to look forward to... Daddy's arms.

Paid in Full

2011-06-11T07:14:00.001-04:00

A pale light creeps up in the east. The purple clouds are streaked with brilliant pink as the world rolls over and begins to waken. It reminds me of a painting Makiah did at preschool that she painted with a fork- subtle lines etch an intricate pattern into the sky, swirling color through the cumulous layers. And I am on the porch.

I am sipping mocha, munching cinnamon bagels, watching the sky... and crossing a rickety bridge over a chasming gulf. It has been almost a year since I have been here. Almost a year since I got pregnant with twins and became too sleepy to keep my morning appointment like I should. Almost a year since I was put on bed rest and wanted to spend my mornings there in bed. Almost a year since the wreck, and I did not want to come out anymore. Here is where I feel accepted, but I have been rejected. Here is where I feel loved,but I have been hated. Here is where I am known, but I have been cast aside. Here is where I watch the light creep up in the sky and in my soul, but I have been shrouded in darkness. Here is where I would pray that God would "zacar" me- "remember" me like Rachel in the Hebrew scriptures and open my womb like hers, but I have been utterly forgotten. Or have I???

A few weeks ago I stumbled onto a website and a book called "one thousand gifts." I thought to myself how I would like to read it and needed to order it. The next day I waited in the car with the girls while Cameron went in to the Christian bookstore. He came striding out and handed me the book. My mouth dropped open because I had not told anyone I wanted it. He said the owner was on the phone with his wife and mentioned that Cameron was there. She told her husband to give this book to him for me to read. I must confess that my first reaction was anger- not at the precious lady who so clearly heard from God- to her I offer thanks. But anger at God who would care to send me the book I secretly wanted but not preserve the life of the beloved daughter I so openly longed for.

Then there was last night. My amazing husband came out in a suit and asked me out for dinner. A half dozen dresses later, I finally found one that would still zip, and we were off to dine by candlelight. We laughed and cried and celebrated almost a decade of togetherness. We clinked our sparkling water glasses and toasted eternity. We made a pact to talk about it more- to try to spend the next decade living in light of the endless decades to come on the other side where all real living begins. He asked for the check, and we were shocked when the waitress said our meal- our expensive meal- had been paid for anonymously by someone in the dining room.

She said it was all covered.

Paid in full.

This morning feeding babies early, the words kept ringing through my mind. Paid in full. Paid. In. Full. I want to thank the stranger for our anniversary dinner. More than that. I want you to know it is because of you and those words that would not leave me alone this morning that I am out here on this porch again. Sitting in the blackness of my room the light beckoned me through the slits of my blinds and the darkness in my heart, and I could see the reason I will hold her again. I remembered that I come to the porch because the debt I owe, the cost for my life and my mistakes, has been paid in full.

Their Courage

2011-06-05T17:34:00.000-04:00

The guitar strums. People sing. "Here I am, calling out... if you can heal the broken hearted, if you can take away the pain...will you hear me if I call on your name..." God. Think on him. Engage. Pain swells in my chest until I think it will burst from the pressure. Throat tightening. Eyes on fire. Press the thin lids tighter and seal off the flood. How to recover? How to grasp this and his love? Now is when I always abort. Avert the eyes and the thoughts and retreat to shallower waters. Pull back to safety. But not today.

Today I think of the widow's words that I read in VOM (Voice of the Martyrs) Magazine. The attackers broke each of her husband's fingers, then his arms, then his legs- each time giving him an opportunity to renounce Christ. He refused, and the radical Hindu mob buried him alive. The Indian woman's words seared my heart. "But God is alive, and I am surviving only through him... I just want my story to be a testimony to the love of Christ." And the courage of another new, young widow. "There is still fear there but God is with us, so he is leading us day by day. Because of his blessings we are surviving and still worshiping him."

Still worshiping him. Still. Worshiping. Him. I am ashamed in the face of their courage- these women who are younger than I. Chagrined. Encouraged. I sip from their courage a tiny drop. I slip one hand up, reaching toward heaven, and form the words, pushing them off my lips. "Here I am... calling out..." More strumming. I look up and a friend has appeared to hug me. The lids lose their hold on the flood. She has no words. Even better- she just stands there and worships and cries with me. She stands there. With me. And I am not alone.

The Quilt

2011-05-29T15:57:00.002-04:00

Blue. Red. Green. Yellow. Little rainbow hand prints joined at the thumb make colorful butterflies. Rainbows fly between them. A single sketch of a little girl stands in the middle. Peeking out from blond hair are two eyes- one blue and one green. She always drew them that way because "sometimes my eyes look blue and sometimes they look green." I can hear her giggle and see her squish up her eyes with love's silly face. Her name is written below her prints- in her own handwriting. All her friends names are there, too. It is a beautiful quilt. More than pictures- it is my baby's last class. This is the last project her work will ever be a part of. The stitches are woven through the fabric. Through my heart. Somehow knitting me to her memory... to the children and teachers she loved and who loved her. A precious piece of love and time. I would have paid any price for it at the auction. My bids would have no limit at the preschool fundraiser. But it never made it out for bidding! It was already bought! Paid for by the donations of her classmates' families and wrapped in love for me. A surprise gift for her mommy.

As the school year ends, so will a part of her. In some ways it's as if a piece of her has died again. The children have "graduated" and will scatter to different elementary schools for kindergarten. This is the last class that she will ever have been a part of... the last time she will be thought of so often during the year... the last place she will have a cubby or a spot on the rug or a picture on the bulletin board. The memories may linger for a while yet, but the proof that she was here will now be tucked away in files and drawers. And in my heart.

Thank you. Thank you for the beautiful butterfly garden- for the butterfly bench painted in rainbow colors and the glass tiled stepping stones so little feet will remember hers. Thank you for the miniature butterfly garden at her grave. Thank you for the balloons and the remembrances in the program. Thank you for the tie-dyed tassels to remind us of butterflies and of her. Thank you for the amazing painting of her castle in the clouds and for hope. Thank you for not forgetting her. Thank you for not leaving us so alone. Thank you... for the quilt.

Five Years Old

2011-05-19T11:05:00.003-04:00

"One, two, three!" Fifteen hands, mostly tiny, release fifteen strings and fifteen pink balloons surge up towards the heavens. As they climb the wind blows, and they drift apart like wisps of dandelions after lips are open and breath is blown. The sky reflects blue, maybe the blue of her eyes, and watches as they slip past the clouds. Fifteen voices shout to the heavens the things they hope Jesus will tell her. I love you! I miss you! Happy Birthday Makiah! Their love rings out across the playground, and maybe the echos can be heard in heaven. I know they were heard in this mommy's heart. Fifteen pairs of eyes stare until the pink orbs disappear into the distance.

Later that day at the "resurrection ground," her mommy and daddy and sisters stand in the sticky south Georgia heat and attach our love to five pink balloons. And a little mermaid one. We send them floating up to meet her. The sobs are stifled and somehow the heaviness in our hearts seems to lift a bit as we watch the pink messengers journey upwards. Maybe God will let her see and hear our love all pink and flying. Maybe she will smile and laugh. Maybe he will hide the stinging tears from her... the way her ringing laughter has been hidden from us.

The Gift

2011-05-11T10:06:00.000-04:00

The day she was born. Birth day. Born day. Water breaking, breathing hard, clenching fists day. Smiles in between big eyes pooled with water and squeezing day. One tiny heart beat drops to half of what it should be. People in white swarm. The doctor and the anesthesiologist and the crowd in scrubs do not leave. I do not know this isn’t normal. More breathing, fiery tightening, opening of the way. One tiny heart beat drops to half of the half of what it should be. Push! Push! They urge. The monitor loses the tiny heart beat. The doctor says it is time for cutting and sucking. I work with special needs children, and I am afraid of words like “forceps” and “vacuum” and heart beats that are half of half of what they should be. But I say ok. Anything! I will do anything! Anything to help her live. So there is cutting and blood and a tug-of-war with death. Death before birth. We pull against it! I once read that deciding to become a mom is deciding to have your heart walk around outside your chest for the rest of your life. In a moment it is done, and my heart leaves me. It is pushed and pulled and thrust out of my body and abandons my chest forever. Beautiful screams fill the room and the water pooling in the eyes spills over and out in happy waterfalls. Sticky pink skin and dirty blond hair wrap around my heart like a gift. There it is. My heart’s new amazing package swaddled in a crisp hospital blanket and peering up at me through curious little slits of eyes.

We celebrate this day of birth every 365 days. We count the number of years on this earth and rejoice that we are here. What to do with the birth after the death? How do we celebrate when the days on earth are over? Where is my heart now? It left me on May 11, 2006 and was born into a tiny package with a name that means “who is like Yahweh?” It must have died then, on October 8th, 2010 when she went to be with Yahweh. Can a heart be reborn? A mother must have more than one heart because as surely as it left me on that balmy day in May, it stepped outside my chest again twice this February. But my first heart is still lost. Maybe it is in that box with the weight of dry dirt pressing down. I don’t know how to resurrect it. I don’t know what to celebrate. The birth? The number of her years here that no longer grows? Like a fossilized plant the length of her life is frozen, preserved only in the amber memories of those who love her. Her friends are taller and ganglier, but she will never change.

Anything! I would still do anything. Anything to help her live. Even trade my heart for four years four months and 28 days of her soft skin and sweet laughter wrapping around it. Yes, even in the loss I celebrate The Gift.

A Birthday Poem

2011-05-09T23:30:00.002-04:00

A Birthday Poem written by Makiah's Nana (her Daddy's Mom)

MAKIAH KAITLYN KING

MAY 11, 2006 – OCTOBER 8, 2010

Tomorrow is your birthday, you should be turning five,
but a boy was driving high so now you're not alive.

You are in heaven beyond the sky of blue,
while we are here with aching hearts and the pain of missing you.
You brought such joy to all of those around,
Your laughter was such a happy sound.
Mermaids, fairies, bugs and butterflies,
brought smiles to your lips and would light up your eyes.
Your cat Buster still cries and looks
to see if you're in your room reading your books.

Your family that loves you so much
would give anything for just a touch.
To feel your arms in a sweet embrace
and to feel your kisses on our face.
But here we are with a broken heart,
because we are forced to be apart.
We will think of you all of our days,
And remember your generous heart and your sweet, kind ways.
Our lives are richer because you were here,
And we will always feel you near.
We love you with all of our heart,
and look for the day we will no longer be apart.

Heaven is a beautiful place,
Someday we will join you by God's grace.
Until then, our sweet Makiah dear,
Our eyes will always hold a tear.

WE LOVE YOU SO MUCH!

Remembering Makiah-Mommy Days

2011-05-07T23:01:00.000-04:00

"When All Means Fail"

2011-05-02T04:41:00.001-04:00

Tears drip. I could hardly believe the words staring at me from the screen. They rang out loudly like a bell, a declaration from beyond the grave. Only they were written this side of death. Barely. A timely word to the despairing heart. David Wilkerson, an evangalical who started Teen Challenge and Times Square Church in NYC, penned words in his blog Wednesday morning that pierce the soul and rend the thin shroud covering our questions. A few hours later he was killed instantly in a tragic car accident. I do not know if what he says about God's timing in death is true for Makiah. Did the enemy steal her from us early or did she fulfill all the days written for her? God foreknew but that doesn't necessitate predestination, right?... God's sovereignty versus free will... who knows. It's the age old chicken and the egg argument. I will never understand the WHY until there is no breath in me. But that is hardly the point of his words. It's almost as if he knew that Death had come to take his dance... that he would cut in surprisingly, in the middle of a song...

From http://davidwilkersontoday.blogspot.com/

"Wednesday, April 27, 2011

WHEN ALL MEANS FAIL

To believe when all means fail is exceedingly pleasing to God and is most acceptable. Jesus said to Thomas, “You have believed because you have seen, but blessed are those that do believe and have not seen” (John 20:29).

Blessed are those who believe when there is no evidence of an answer to prayer—who trust beyond hope when all means have failed.

Someone has come to the place of hopelessness—the end of hope—the end of all means. A loved one is facing death and doctors give no hope. Death seems inevitable. Hope is gone. The miracle prayed for is not happening.

That is when Satan’s hordes come to attack your mind with fear, anger, overwhelming questions: “Where is your God now? You prayed until you had no tears left. You fasted. You stood on promises. You trusted.” Blasphemous thoughts will be injected into your mind: “Prayer failed. Faith failed. Don’t quit on God—just do not trust him anymore. It doesn’t pay!”

Even questioning God’s existence will be injected into your mind. These have been the devices of Satan for centuries. Some of the godliest men and women who ever lived were under such demonic attacks.

To those going through the valley and shadow of death, hear this word: Weeping will last through some dark, awful nights—and in that darkness you will soon hear the Father whisper, “I am with you. I cannot tell you why right now, but one day it will all make sense. You will see it was all part of my plan. It was no accident. It was no failure on your part. Hold fast. Let me embrace you in your hour of pain.”

Beloved, God has never failed to act but in goodness and love. When all means fail—his love prevails. Hold fast to your faith. Stand fast in his Word. There is no other hope in this world.

Posted by David Wilkerson"

We Still Sing (Makiah's Song)

2011-04-24T17:24:00.002-04:00

Today is Easter. The Lord's tomb is empty and so is our Makiah's room. While most people are watching their little ones hunt Easter eggs or having a Sunday afternoon snooze, I am frantically cleaning house- trying desperately to divert myself. I have taken a bazillion pictures of the twins. We went back to church today, and I poured my energy into holding back the flood of tears as I looked at her empty chair and watched her friends without her. I made my lips mouth the words of the songs when I could manage it.

A friend of ours wrote a song for us when Makiah died. It has been almost the only worship song I could stand to hear since the accident. I have wept and yelled and groaned and sobbed and screamed and finally sung this song during the last 6 months. I have treasured the images it evokes. I think today it is time to share it. We were and are devastated, but somehow, we must still sing... worship is the only thing we can still do together as a family. Thank you, Jim and Shannon, for reminding us of that.

We Still Sing (Makiah’s Song)

By Jim Thomaston

Verse 1
I read, in heavens light
All pain is gone
And all those who’ve gone before
Are gathered round the throne

Verse 2
And with one voice they sing
Worthy is the Lamb
Well I can almost hear you shout it
As you bow down

Pre Chorus 1
But hear I am with empty arms
A broken soul and shattered heart
But even here within the dark
I can hear you sing

Chorus
He is Worthy, of all the glory
Clothed in splendor, King of Kings
Lift your hearts up, though they be undone
He can heal each one, just like He healed me

Verse 3
How I wish to just wake up
And see you nose to nose with me
To hear you laugh and make you smile
Death has stolen that from me

Pre Chorus 2
But its now I finally see
Death cant steal everything
Though parted we may be
Together we still sing

Sung over Chorus (next to last time)
I will bow down, broken I may be
I will lift my voice, for God is healing me
I will worship, with you and heaven sing
I lift this life to Him, creator of all things

Enough

2011-04-18T22:39:00.001-04:00

On Earth In Heaven

May 11, 2006 Oct. 8. 2010

That's what my baby's headstone says. It has finally arrived. It's here in time for her birthday. Not a gift I ever dreamed of giving her- especially not for her 5th birthday. She is supposed to order my headstone one day. Rather than the pool party she wanted, her sisters and I will be visiting her grave. Maybe we will buy her some sod instead of presents. Things are all turned on their head it seems. I find myself bargaining with God. Telling Him I will do anything if He would just undo this somehow... turn back the clock and let me make some different choices. Give her back to me. I know. It is absurd. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know they are ridiculous.

Heaven. We wrote that she is in heaven. I read a beautiful children's book today that illustrates what scripture tells us about heaven. I want so desperately to believe. Is it really a real place? More real than this keyboard I am typing on and the screen you are looking at? More than just theology? Am I hoping for a fairytale? Is she physically there having fun and laughing? Heaven has to be real or none of the gospel is true and life is pretty much pointless. Our entire christian belief system, and in fact the world, hinges on the reality of heaven. For something that is so critically important to our existence, we certainly don't talk about it very much. I guess it's like that country song says, "Everybody wanna go to heaven, but nobody wanna go now!" Why is that if it's so wonderful? Why don't we know more about it... talk more about it... anticipate it?

I went somewhere briefly the night before Makiah died. I had already told her goodbye, but she came running out the door after me and clung to my legs. She made little whiny sounds like a puppy and did not want me to leave. She never wants me to leave. Not for work or church or even to take her to preschool. Her whole life she has clung to me and wanted badly to always be with Mommy. Is heaven so wonderful that she does not miss Mommy? Can she be happy for so long while we are apart? I know the answer is that God is enough. Jesus love is complete enough that she does not need me or miss me or cry for me. I know in my head that she has that now. One day I will, too. I suppose. But I feel like doubting Thomas. I just want to see with my real eyes and feel with my real hands. Can heaven really be real? Can He really be enough???

Nevertheless

2011-04-09T07:21:00.002-04:00

She sat cuddled up in my lap as we prayed. Her tiny hands pressed mine over her eyes, and she said after me, " Open the eyes of my heart, Lord, so I can see you!" Off popped our hands, and giggles followed. Then together mommy and Makiah's hands covered her ears and pressed on soft, blonde curls, and we prayed, "and open the ears of my heart so I can hear you speak to me!" Tada! The hands flew off her ears together. "Mommy, I can't wait to see Jesus with my real eyes!" she would sometimes exclaim.

I sit in the blackness by a tiny, yellow light. The babies are fed and clean and swaddled tightly again. Their breathing is even. I sip my steamy mocha, and the words leap off the page at me. "Then the dragon was enraged at the woman and went off to make war against the rest of her offspring- those who obey God's commandments and hold to the testimony of Jesus." Revelation 12:17

A few days ago a small, hard back book fell off the shelf and almost hit my toe. I picked it up, brushed the dusty jacket, and glanced at the title, "Nevertheless" by Mark Rutland. I haven't read the book, but the word instantly embedded itself deep in my heart. I have been turning it over and over for a week now. Nevertheless. Nevertheless. Like a single ray of light I feel it is bouncing through the darkness in my soul. Nevertheless.

The enemy of my soul, and of yours too, is enraged and has made war against my family. Nevertheless...
He has stolen what was most dear and precious to my heart. Nevertheless...
He has trampled my insides. They are dusty ashes now. Nevertheless...
My life feels divided. I remember things from before when my life was happy, and then there is now. Nevertheless...
I cannot escape the aching. Nevertheless...
My passion for God feels all but extinguished. Nevertheless...
I know I once had purpose. The path is dark now. Nevertheless...

I wish I could complete those statements, but it takes all the courage I can muster just to write 'nevertheless.' I don't know how to finish those sentences. I don't know what comes next. As I sit in the dark, all I know is that there is a 'nevertheless.' I cannot see it. I cannot hear it. Lord, open the eyes of my heart so I can see and open the ears of my heart so I can hear...

If Only

2011-04-02T06:45:00.002-04:00

If only I could sleep.

The cool sheets press against me. The dark shadows dance on the ceiling. Soft breathing comes from the bassinets near my bed. In the dim light Makiah smiles at me from the painting on my wall. The hands on the clock creep by as minutes become hours. My mind takes a turn down a slippery, treacherous path. It wants to tread there. No! It hates to go there, but the pull of memories is like quicksand. In the still of night, I am too tired to fight. I am sinking.

the accident- the scream- the crunch of metal- shattered glass- spinning- the blood- pulling me out- her body hanging in the car seat- people stopping- they won't touch her- horror- disbelief- my baby!- more screaming...

Pounding heart. Oh God! Oh God! I moan. If only I could forget. If only we had taken the bigger car like we discussed. If only I had buckled her in on my side like I usually did. If only we had left early in the morning like I woke up contemplating. If only we had not stopped in Jacksonville when Cameron had a bad feeling. If only we had gone a different way home... which we almost did. If only we had not stopped at McDonalds in Valdosta. If only we had never gone to the beach, but the in-laws had said they would take care of her while I was on bed rest there. If only I could go back. If only we could make just one different choice. It's a terrible novel, and we choose the wrong ending- the wrong chapter. If only I could forget. If only... If only... If only...

If only I could sleep.

A Smoldering Wick

2011-03-26T23:06:00.001-04:00

It flickered and sputtered and then died out. I struck a second match and held the orange flame close to the tired, bent wick. This time it caught and the savory smell of berries filled the room. Outside the rain was pelting the house. Lighting a candle felt cozy... peaceful... happy... something I haven't done since October 8th.

Re-entry. Like a space ship approaching earth's atmosphere, I feel I am approaching re-entry into life. It is looming before me, and my course is propelling me towards the painful process. It is impossible to get back to life on earth without blazing through the atmosphere. Dangerous. Fiery. Unavoidable. Unless I want to float adrift in a sea of darkness and separated from those I love forever. My life has had no normalcy, no routines, since the wreck and months of bed rest. I haven't had a schedule or worked or planned meals or even gone to the grocery store. I have been sidelined- knocked out of the game. And I haven't cared. But today I wanted to light a candle... like I used to.

My sputtering candle reminds me of me. I am so incapable of praying like I did. Or studying the bible like I did. Or having faith like I did. But this verse keeps coming to my mind day after day. "A bruised reed He will not break, and a smoldering wick He will not snuff out. In faithfulness he will bring forth justice..." Isaiah 42:3 I hope it is true. My life depends on it.

Moments

2011-03-20T21:40:00.001-04:00

Life is about moments. Moments to hold tiny babies close. Moments to rub their silky cheeks on mine. Moments to kiss their soft, downy heads. Moments to comfort their cries. Sometimes I wonder if I will get to keep them... the babies, I mean. Will I get to take them to kindergarten? Will we see them dance in a recital? Will we get to watch them grow up? I wrote about moments in the journal of letters I kept for Makiah since she was born...

March 2007
"My dear, sweet Makiah,
You are 10 months old now and such a joy! My heart is full of things to write you. Your personality is absolutely delightful! You love to laugh- being surprised and chased by Daddy are your favorites. You absolutely glow when we sing "If Your Happy & You Know It." You clap and stomp your feet and do the wiggles. You love to drop things and say "uh oh" with such seriousness. You are saying "shoe" and "fish." You give the most precious slobbery kisses and your hugs just make me melt.
I love rocking you at night. We pray, and I pray Psalm 23 over you. I get to nuzzle your hair and smell your clean baby smell. My darling, you are such a blessing from God, and I try to treasure every precious moment. Time is all we really have. May ours be full of Jesus' love, my sweet daughter!"

I did not know then how true those words were. Now is all we really have. What will we do with our moments? What will you do with your moments?

James 4:13-14

Acorns

2011-03-14T21:08:00.000-04:00

It came on my birthday. A posthumous gift of sorts. I gingerly touched the smooth brown surfaces and ran my finger across the pointy tops. Makiah's little fingers had gingerly collected this bag of tiny brown acorns. She loved "tiny fings." The last time I picked her up from a play date with her best buddies, she cried as we drove away from their house. "I forgot my acorns, Mommy!" I assured her that we would get them the next time we came over. There was no next time. My friend sent them home to me last week in a tiny plastic bag. I wanted her acorns. I had promised her we would get them.

The girls are here now, and we are so thankful for their health and safe delivery. We are also thankful for the many, many prayers offered on their behalf. As wonderful as it is to hear crying and have tiny, soft heads nuzzle into our necks and shoulders again, I have made an unexpected discovery. My grief is unchanged. In some ways it is heightened. I have not written because well, for one thing I am (gladly) sleep deprived and coherent thoughts are harder to come by, but I have also hesitated because I feel this invisible expectation that I must be happy now. I am so happy about my Abby and my Alena, but I am still so devastated about my Makiah.

Some days it just seems so unreal that she has vanished from our lives here forever. I just know she is at preschool with her friends, and that I am going to pick her up at 12. Other days it is excruciatingly real. When I am feeding one baby while the other is sleeping, and it is so quiet. I should be playing barbies or reading princess books or coloring with my spare hand. She wanted so badly to help feed "her babies." She asked me once before I was pregnant why it was taking so long for her to get a baby (all her friends had new siblings). I told her I didn't know, but sometimes God wants us to keep asking him for things and not give up. Why did it take so long? Why didn't she get to enjoy them? Why is it so hard to let go of the life we had and should still have and to embrace this new reality of life without her? Why can't I wrap my mind around the finality of her death- that she is not coming back?

So much was stolen from us... from her sisters... from her. So many things she had to leave undone: the sisters she cannot kiss, the preschool graduation she can't sing in, her 5th birthday party at the swimming pool she had already planned, the Tinkerbell ballet she couldn't wait to dance in, the acorns she didn't get to go back for...

Makiah's Little Sisters

2011-03-09T22:09:00.000-05:00

Thank you Ursula! http://www.ursulapagephotography.com/blog/?p=4367

New Life

2011-03-04T22:24:00.001-05:00

Alena & Abby

Our nest is no longer empty...
"Even the sparrow has found a home and the swallow a nest for herself, where she may have her young- a place near your altar, oh Lord Almighty, my King and my God." Psalm 84:3

www.ursulapagephotography.com

Breathe!!

2011-02-28T23:09:00.000-05:00

Abigail Kaitlyn King Alena Kaitlyn King

Waiting. Excited. Anxious. Breathe. Bright white lights. My legs gone. Blue curtain up. Keep breathing. Cameron's eyes. Look deep. Minutes. Hold my breath... cries! And cries again! They are breathing! Joy! Relief! Happy tears. Sweet kisses. Arms full...

Many people.
Many prayers.
Many, many thanks.

Born February 22, 2011

6 lb 0 oz 4 lb 13 oz

Abby & Alena

Hope...

2011-02-18T10:05:00.004-05:00

Railroad Tracks

2011-02-14T12:49:00.002-05:00

Joy and grief are opposites. Like oil and water they do not mix... do they? How can they coexist? I wrote almost a year ago that I felt there was hanging over us either a great joy or a great sorrow concerning a possible adoption we were holding our breath about. I always pictured that life was a series of ups and downs- victorious mountain top experiences tempered by valleys of striving and disappointment. I think now that Rick Warren is right. Life is more like a railroad track made with two rails hammered together. One side of the track is joy and victory, while the other rail is suffering and disappointment. The two opposites run parallel and are connected at all times throughout our lives on earth.

And that is where I sit as February 22, 20011, c-section day, draws closer- looking down the rail road tracks.

Will I laugh or cry or do both at the same time? We have waited sooo long for these little ones. They have been so badly wanted and deeply prayed for over the years. The agony of awaiting their appearance on the stage of our lives is another story in itself. I sent out a letter to family and friends last January to pray with us as we pursued adoption and continued infertility treatments. I wrote. "We feel strongly that the Lord is not finished growing our family...Makiah prays nightly for the Lord to send her a brother and sister...We are beginning 2010 with great expectation that the Lord’s unique plan for our family will unfold as we take each little step with Him."

I believed the joy we had desperately longed for would come in 2010- somehow- but I could never have foreseen in a million years this devastating sorrow being thrust on us as well. I don't attribute it to God... don't misunderstand me. I think he never planned for us to have a rail of sorrow hammered into all of our tracks, and one day the master engineer will implement a new design.

A prayer...Dear Lord, as I start this journey through Ruth, I find myself in a precarious place. I feel like Ruth must have felt returning with Naomi- depending on a thread of hope, disappointed with the past, unsatisfied with the present, uncertain of the future. I need more than ever to know that the story ends well. It did for Ruth, but of course she didn't know that. Help me to put one foot in front of the other and not lose heart when I am gleaning the scraps from someone else's fields. Help me to have the determined cry in my heart- "Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay." Help me to throw myself on your mercy and to rest only at the feet of Jesus. Thank you that your plan for me is good and your love for me is perfect. Press hope into my heart! Expecting, Rachel"

I wrote this last summer about expanding our family as I started a bible study on Ruth and her loss, love, and legacy. I did not know how timely it was. Now I can scarcely utter these words. The story did not end well for my sweet Makiah. Maybe the prayers of my past will cover me now as I sit peering down this foggy railroad track.

Our 2010 Famliy Photos for Adoption Efforts...

Ditto

2011-02-09T10:51:00.001-05:00

I have been dreaming about Makiah this week. I keep her close to me wherever we go. I look at her pretty little hands and hold them tight. I tell her to stay right beside Mommy. In some dreams the ominous tornadoes are coming... swirling towards us with rage. I cover her up, and we hunker down together until they have past. But the rumbling sky seems to send them in endless waves. Even when there are no tornadoes and we are just living life, it is never safe. No matter what I do or how closely I hold her, she inevitably vanishes. Occasionally, I wake up before she disappears. I suppose this is merciful, but maybe not. The dream and the reality are the same.

We are so quick to tell people that things will be okay. One day in heaven they will be, but I will forever use those words cautiously here on this earth. Do we really know that or is it easier to say things will be fine rather than spend the emotional energy to enter into their pain if things are not? Do we just as readily mourn with those who are weeping and struggling? Are we unable to "see" the pain of others until we ourselves experience great pain as well? I am guilty as charged. It takes great courage to ask a hurting person about their wounds (of course I mean only in the context of well established relationships). It takes time and energy to cry with them. Mostly it requires us to be vulnerable with our own emotions and questions. If we don't shut them off, the pain of others will peel back the busy, hard layers of our own feelings. The inability to answer their deep questions... or our own... will surface. There in rawness is where we are utterly human and frail. That is the place where we "mourn with those who mourn." That takes courage.

There is more I thought to say about this, but then I read my cousin's blog. I decided I could not write the rest as well as she did. The only word I could think of was "Ditto." As I type, precious Sararjoy Makiah, who left China to join her new family three weeks ago, is undergoing an eight hour open heart surgery. We love. We pray. We hope.

http://lettersforlydia.blogspot.com/2011/02/ready.html

Perfect

2011-02-04T09:00:00.004-05:00

I like things to be neat and tidy. I like my spice drawer to be in alphabetical order. My husband says I am a "pocket perfectionist," meaning I have certain pockets of life that I like to keep just so. I like to have things figured out and to have myself together. I am a rule follower. I can't help but look at situations that turned out badly and try to extract a 'rule' I can follow to prevent it from happening again. There is no rule that I can come up with for this. I cannot figure it out.

I am a mess. My babies are coming and I am flailing in a sea of grief. My nursery is ready, but how can I be? I thought at the beginning of this terrible journey that I had to have all this "worked through" before February so I could be a good mommy. Yes, I go to counseling, but I laugh now at the notion that I could "fix" me. No one can. A friend recently said to me that after Jacob wrestled with God, his walk was permanently affected. He always had a limp after that. So I, too, will always walk in a markedly different way because of this struggle... this wrestling with grief, with death, with God.

The morning she was killed, Makiah came tottering into my room with wild hair and silly faces. Sweet Makiah, Mommy brushed your blond curls and pulled back the front with a sparkly, yellow clip. We put on your pink princess shirt and khaki shorts with sparkly flip flops. I washed your face and carefully put sunscreen on your soft cheeks so you wouldn't burn by the sunny window in the back of the car. After we ate breakfast, you crawled up next to me on the couch to watch cartoons. Then you rolled over towards me and started rubbing my face. I pulled away a bit because I had just put my makeup on, but you said quite insistently, "Mommy, I want to touch your face!" I was a little surprised at your tone and said ok. You rubbed my cheeks and chin and nose and forehead- almost feeling them like a blind person would. Then you put your little right hand up against my left palm. Your tiny fingers didn't quite reach my first knuckle. I thought what beautiful little hands you have; they looked so pretty with your tan. You pretended to make them grow against my hand. We laughed, and I said it would take longer then that!

Then out of nowhere, with your palm against mine, you said, "Mommy, you are perfect." I was caught off guard and replied, "No baby, Mommy is not perfect. Sometimes I make bad choices and sometimes I make mistakes, but I try." Then you said. "When you try, it's perfect."

Now in my room staring at the beautiful ballerina painting of Makiah hanging over the two waiting bassinets draped with white eyelet, tears are streaming. My little Abby and Alena, mommy is not perfect. In fact, I am a total mess. I cannot change our circumstances. I wish I could make things the way they should be, but I cannot. I wish I could go back to who I was before for you. But I am the messy mommy you were given to, and I love you already with all of my heart- with every piece of my broken heart. No, mommy is not perfect, but I will try. Yes, sweet Makiah, mommy will try.

Abigail Kaitlyn

Alena Kaitlyn

Our Makiah

2011-02-01T11:41:00.006-05:00

Makiah's preschool class had to bring a "Me Bag" to school of things that were special to them and described who they were. I happened to video it at home shortly before the accident. Sadly, the sound isn't great until the end as our camera was apparently on the blitz, and I'm not a great videographer. Also, the twin baby dolls were already being played with somewhere else and weren't in the video; although they did make the original Me Bag. Nevertheless, it is our precious last glimpse of her... ironically telling all about herself. Missing my sweetheart so badly on this gray, yucky day and wanting to share her with you...

Click this link to view on YouTube.
The Me Bag on YouTube

Click on this link to view through your Facebook account.
The Me Bag on Facebook

Wrestling

2011-01-26T17:57:00.008-05:00

I've been thinking about this thing called Christianity. Three things have intertwined and largely defined my experience and understanding of Christianity up to this point in my life. First, it has been about learning to live well- to develop a moral life, a culture of worshiping God, the fruits and gifts of the Spirit, etc. Secondly, my paradigm has included the idea that if I lived in a way that is pleasing to God (worked hard on number one), trusted in Jesus, and prayed scripture over my family, then I would walk in protection, prosperity, and blessing. While this has been my experience most of my life, it is clear now that it is not a guarantee. Be thankful if it happens, but you can't bank on it. After all we are promised suffering, and most Christians in the rest of the world experience it daily. Finally, I have experienced God's love. I have literally felt it many times. Although I know "He has not left me or forsaken me," I do not feel His love now. I feel loved by so many of you, but not by God.

Now, my heart has been ripped apart, my precious daughter has been snatched from my arms, and it seems the Christianity that I knew is broken. My paradigm has been shattered. These defining elements have fled away, and I am left with the bare bones of what I believe. Then it dawns on me that none of what I have experienced up until this point in my life is what Christianity is really about. It is not about lives that are safe, protected, blessed and prosperous. We can take these perks and and claim they are promises and even rights here in our comfortable western lifestyle, and we can ignore that these scriptures are all tempered with other promises of pain, persecution, and trouble while we are still here in this world. But, ultimately, the gospel is not about these things.

It is about Death. Jesus did not come to bring the beatitudes. He came to deal with the problem of death. This thing that seems to have left me broken is the very thing that all my belief has circled around and built towards my whole life. When the horrible things come, we want to say that Christianity is not real. It doesn't work. I want to say that it does not work. But the whole reason Jesus came is because of the horrible things. If they were not here, he would not have needed to come. I cannot throw it out now that my paradigm seems destroyed... now that I am staring in the very face of what it is about- Death. The real deal.

Death is a partner we all must dance with. He takes a number on our card... a number we can't know. We laugh and swirl and enjoy the ball until THE song comes, and our unwelcome partner steps up for his dance. There is no avoiding him. Not one of us will escape, but Christianity is for what comes next. Though death will waltz us right out of the ballroom, his song is short and his grasp will slip if our trust is in Jesus. Jesus will cut in, and we will be whisked away. Death cannot keep us from the real dance that begins with the Prince of Peace in the ultimate ballroom before the throne of the King of Kings. This dance has no end- no tears- no unwelcome partners.

No, I cannot throw out Christianity as I stand toe to toe with Death. It is about Death. It is about Life. Eternal Life. It is about a life with continuity between earth and heaven because my heart is already there. My Makiah is there. My future and my hope are there. The real dance with the Prince is there.

Maybe Then

2011-01-22T01:28:00.002-05:00

The minute hands on the big white clock seem to drag by. Outside the scurrying of nurses and metal carts and nervous parents pass in the hall. The flourecent lights shine from underneath the door cracks almost mocking the dim atmosphere inside the room.

Earlier, I had felt strange and finally agreed to a quick doctor checkup. An hour later I was being admitted to the hospital with contractions that were 3 minutes apart, significant dilation, and two 31 week old babies who were not ready to meet the world. Now, after IV's of medicine and steroid shots and other injections, the contractions were slowing, my mind was fogging, and the quiet had crept in while we waited. As I lay in the hospital bed my thoughts turned to her.

I could almost see her nestling under the crisp white sheets with me and saying sweetly "Oh, Mama!" Maybe then we would have talked about the babies and how tiny they would be. I would have told her stories of when she was in my belly and how much I loved her even then... as I do these two. She would have kissed my belly twice- once for each sister- and given each a delicate hug through the skin with her little princess hands like she did every day. Then she would have said, just like she always did, "You are sooo loved little babies!" And she would have cooed that they were "precious" and "cute" and "sweet" just like the day she did when we went to my ultrasound together. And maybe she would have told them that she wanted brothers and sisters more then anything in the whole world and that she had prayed for them every night since she was two.

Maybe then I would have smiled... and then maybe even laughed as I thought about her babysitting concerns. Not too long ago she had come into the living room and said with utter seriousness, "I been finkin, Mama. When you and Daddy go on a date and I babysit the babies, I fink I'm gonna need some help." I had sealed the laughter behind my lips then and agreed that maybe we should get at least two teenagers to help. She had seemed so relieved!

Maybe then she would have gone home to our house to stay with her grandparents while we wait for the verdict that only time can give. Maybe the medicine is closing in on my thoughts. I can almost see her there beside me, and I smile. I really, truly smile... those special mommy daughter moments that I can almost have when it is really late and my imagination is working and the IV is pumping and the nurses are scurrying outside and the room is dimly lit inside.

And maybe then we...

A Daddy's Grief

2011-01-17T00:29:00.000-05:00

He painted such a vivid picture for me with his words. He said it is like being stuck in an elevator with no electricity. The dark is deep and complete. The water of grief is pouring in from the top. At first he thought he could find the buttons and get the elevator to open... to escape the torrent. But the buttons don't work, and in the dark the pummeling water is rushing down on his face and head. The elevator is almost full now. The last of the air is disappearing rapidly. Blackness. Trapped. Drowning. Grief.

A friend of mine who lost a child shared with me that in the midst of her agony she felt Jesus was asking her a question. As He had asked the disciples in John 6, she heard Him in her heart saying, "You do not want to leave me, too, do you?" And she said all she could respond was like Peter, "Lord. to whom else shall I go? You have the words of eternal life. I believe and know that you are the Holy One of God."

To whom else shall we go?

Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast. If I say, "Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me," even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you. Psalm 139: 7-12

The depths. The sea of grief. The darkness.

To whom else shall we go?

Not as They Should Be

2011-01-12T20:38:00.001-05:00

Buster buries his head deeper into his black and white fur and cat bed- trying to avoid the shrieking sobs. I can no longer avoid them. I sit in her floor flanked by her tiny, pink princess bed and the little kitchen and store where she loved to play and hideout. Armed with plastic tubs and ziplock bags, the dreadful day to clean up some of her things has come. I cannot put it off forever. Her decor and dollhouse and shelves with precious things will stay, but it cannot all remain untouched forever. How do I choose the precious things?

I group Snow White and the dwarves together... then Aladdin and his friends. I pick up a pink, flowery bucket and start to remove the plastic food. Then a sweet memory leaps on me. I was laying on the couch on bed rest, and she brought me the bucket. One item at a time she asked, "Mommy, do you like (onions, oranges, etc.) in your soup?" She carefully added each ingredient to the bucket as she eagerly prepared my special meal. She giggled with delight when I pretended to gobble it all up. My last bucket of "soup." Here it is just like she prepared it. The camera flashes and so does the despair within me. No amount of tears or sobs or screaming questions can change this. But I try. The heavens remain seemingly silent- impervious to my cries. Still the toys are waiting all around me so with sagging shoulders I trudge on.

I open the purple doors of her kitchen set, and my eyes become swelling pools again. There inside are the tiny twin baby dolls. They were mine when I was a child, and since the day we found out I was pregnant with twins, Makiah had made them her permanent companions, even tucking them into bed with her each night. She took them to school one day for show and tell (in her "me bag") so she could talk about the two babies in Mommy's tummy and how excited she was to be a big sister. I thought we had lost the precious dolls in the wreck. I hadn't been able to find them. But here they are. She had gingerly laid them side by side to nap safely in their little hiding place until she returned home to find them. I snap more pictures of her hope incarnate... trying to capture a physical reminder of the love she already had for her sisters- so intangible. She is now so intangible.

The babies have hardly moved today. I think I have terrified them with the cries. Mostly they are accustomed to silence... not the sweet chattering that they were meant to hear. Although when I am watching videos of her, they sometimes seem to kick and come alive at the sound of her voice. Her voice on tape. Her toys in bags. Her sisters in silence. Things are not as they should be.

Consequences

2011-01-08T15:51:00.004-05:00

Three months ago today, they began for us.

Cameron woke up and looked at the clock- 7:15. "Oh no, we'll be late to school!" he thought... and then he remembered. We went to a movie, and as the credits rolled across the dark screen, I reached for my cell phone to call the babysitter and check in... and then I remembered. Her cat, Buster, was curled up lazily by the back door. He is rarely allowed in and knows his place on the floor when he is. From the sofa, I played a clip of her talking on my laptop, and Buster bolted across the room and leapt on the couch looking for her.

There are a million of these moments. Moments when time stands still, our breath disappears, and reality pounces on us with stabs of merciless pain. Even when we have temporarily distracted ourselves, the uninvited moments intrude. They bombard us at the most unexpected times.

There may be consequences for the individual(s) responsible, but most of the consequences of their choices are for us- strangers. We do not live in a bubble. Who will your decisions affect today, next week, next year, for the rest of their lives? Our society has created a false illusion for our youth- that there is a period between childhood and adulthood when your choices have no consequences. We excuse away their behavior and say they are "only having fun." We tell them they can have freedom without responsibility... unlimited fun without accountability. This false sense of indestructibility and power without an expectation to function like the rest of us is so appealing that many continue to live in it through their 20's and 30's.

We have lied to them and done them a disservice. While other cultures have an early coming of age and expect their youth to contribute responsibly to society and abide by its rules, we have given ours permission to make decisions that destroy their lives and those of others. Meanwhile we close our eyes, pat them on the back, and tell them to have fun while they are 'teens.'

Is it fun to have an STD and maybe later ensuing infertility? Is it fun to flunk out of school and depend on your parents for livelihood? Is it fun to have a baby alone? Is it cool to have recreational fun... I mean, to develop addictions and dysfuntional behavior that will scar your future family and relationships? Is it fun to wake up and know you have killed someone's only child??? But maybe they patted this teen on the back, gave them another car, and said it's ok... you're just a teenager.

Maybe not.

What I know for sure is that no one can pat us on the back and make it better. A part of us will be broken and missing as long as we have breath on this earth. We will always wonder what she should be doing now- performing in her Tinkerbell ballet, graduating from preschool, high school, or college, planning her wedding, having her babies... She wanted her hair to be long for her wedding and her dress to come "all the way down to the bottom." She always said she was going to marry Daddy until recently when her best friend proposed to her on the playground. "I said I will marry him because I love him," she confided to her grandmother. She drew a picture of her birthday party and told her teacher she wanted a pool party for her 5th birthday.

Do we continue to strive to choose forgiveness? Yes. Does that mean no consequences? No. Consequences? There will be no more birthdays, no more ballet, and no wedding for our precious daughter. There is no end for us here. No resolution. The moments will continue to find us- the strangers- but she will not.

A Vapor

2011-01-03T22:55:00.001-05:00

The dirt still looks freshly dug. The grass stubbornly refuses to grow. How do you decide what to put on your baby's headstone? We got a letter from the city, and we have to do this... have to get over this hump. How do you pen the final parting words? precious-princess-my heart-sweet-beautiful-our love-gift-treasure- priceless-joy-dream-forever... How do you sum up a life? How do you say goodbye? How can her sweet, cuddly body be down there? I just want this to be someone else...some other mother and some other child! I want to read this blog and weep for her- that other woman. I don't want to be on this side of the screen typing these horrible words!

I just want to feel close to her again. Oh God, she feels so far away! How can you think that I can do this? I am desperate to be near her... to touch her. I watch her pictures on the screen saver. I reach out to rub her cheek and stroke her hair, but the pictures disappear... just like my baby. A vapor that I cannot grasp.

^"Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes." James 4:14

Compassion

2010-12-29T23:18:00.002-05:00

http://www.lettersforlydia.blogspot.com/ Read 12/21 post "Christmas Wish"

This is my dear cousin's latest blog post. Thank you, Ashleigh, for 'letting' us grieve. Thank you to all of you who have entered into our pain and understood that there is no bandaid... no pretending that things are ok... and especially to those who have been brave enough to realize that our God is not smaller because He allows and in fact promises pain in this broken world. It is broken because of our bad choice to let evil in and no, God is not in full control (here). He has chosen to hold back and allow free will until the end of this world... in hope that we will choose Him... choose to partner with Him. That is why we must pray for His will to be done here as it is in heaven (because it is not always so). That is why even though "He is willing that none should perish..." without Him, many still do.

Our hope, and that of all those who have suffered horribly at the hands of men or sickness or death, is not for wholeness now, but for wholeness on the day when Jesus returns and "all has been put right again" (CS Lewis). In the last book of the Chronicles of Narnia, CS Lewis captures this beautifully. Aslan, a lion representing Jesus, is speaking to the children who are unaware they have just died and left our earth...

"Their (the children's) hearts leapt, and a wild hope rose within them.... In Aslan’s words, “The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning.”

“And as he spoke he no longer looked to them like a lion; but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them. . . . And we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world . . . had only been the cover and title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story, which no one on earth has read, which goes on forever, in which every chapter is better than the one before.”

That is my hope... that one day the dream, with the wonderful parts and the nightmares, will be over, and the morning will begin!

Christmas Drums

2010-12-25T01:56:00.002-05:00

I sit in a beautiful room staring at a magnificent fire. Lights twinkle, and decorations shimmer. Such kind people surround me with love. Makiah has a delicate, pink tree with a sparkly purple ribbon. "Princess colors," said the sweet child who chose it for her. It guards her graveside, the resurrection ground, as some have called it. Tiny fingers of dear friends adorned it with special ornaments. "Miss you... love you," they say. Big expressions of grief and love from very little people. How do I express my grief? How do I express my love?

We talk and eat and sometimes even laugh. We go to a movie to pass the time. We avert our eyes from those who try to gaze too deeply. I find my husband turned away, tears streaming down his face, and choking back the sobs. Oh God, the sadness is so profoundly deep. Inescapable. Though we try. While we smile, the pain beats in our chests like a drum... pounding relentlessly... vibrations that shake our very souls... a sound no other ears can hear.

I lay in bed this morning imagining she's between us. Her blond curls are matted against her sweaty head and her soft pink cheeks are canopied by delicate lashes. Her little hands are on the covers and her breathing is soft and even. I role over to look at her, but the sheets stretch between us like miles of cold, empty tundra. I press my eyelids together tightly again, and I picture a giggly girl with two bouncy pigtails popping out of a shiny box with a red bow on her head. "Tada!" she would gleefully announce. The only present I want for Christmas is the gift no one can give.

So I will avoid the tree. I tell myself it's just 24 hours- no different than any other. "I can breathe through the next day," I say. Then why does the echo of the pounding drum beat in my hollow chest grow ever louder as the dawn draws closer? Things in life that were clear have become fuzzy like I'm riding a carousel that is spinning too fast. The smiling faces whiz by in a blur. All that is clear to me is the pink horse beside me slowly galloping up and down. It is empty. Then even it becomes distorted. Is the carousel out of control? Or are the tears just blurring my eyes again? Who can tell? I cannot see anything now. Only darkness. Still, I hear the pounding.

Fingerprints...

2010-12-21T17:10:00.004-05:00

Pennies for dollars? Only God can do that. Two weeks before her death, Makiah cheerfully gave all the pennies she had to help build a well for children in poverty in Africa, and now many of you have turned those pennies into dollars. She gave the "widow's mite," and God has multiplied it like only He can. Thank you, friends, for partnering with us to help her little life make a footprint on the generations to come.

Two amazing ladies have pioneered the well project, and you will never be forgotten. Cheryl Brannon had the initial vision for selling charms in memory of Makiah to raise money for a well in her honor through a partnership between Compelling Creations and Operation Blessing International. The charms give people a beautiful reminder to pray for us and a tangible way to remember our precious daughter and tell her story to those who ask. Cheryl had no idea of Makiah's piggy bank offering for a well in Africa when she developed this idea... but God did. If you would like to purchase a well charm, see updates on our progress, or read the full story, the links are on the top right of my blog. A number of people are giving charms as gifts and have asked for a way to include the story in their gift. There is an additional link now to a letter explaining the story behind the well charms with Makiah's picture. When you click the link, scroll down and open the word document titled "Letter for Makiah's Charms."

After several people inquired about a way to give money directly towards a well, Sara Kolbie dove in and developed an avenue for a second well to be built through Operation Blessing International based on cash donations. She is full of creative ideas for raising awareness and money for clean drinking water for these children who are so in need. Her heart is that the message of the "Living Water" will follow the life giving gift of clean water to these villages. Links to donate directly to a well through Operation Blessing International in Makiah's honor and to read updates on the progress of this well on Sara's blog are also on my page under Makiah Kaitlyn King Well Project.

Each of us has a role to play in 'the larger story.' Thank you for touching our hearts. Thank you for being a part of our precious little girl’s role. Every time a donation is made or a well is purchased, worn, and the story retold, our sweet Makiah’s life is able to continue to impact other children who desperately need the love of God in a practical way- clean water. May God bless you this Christmas as you play the part that only you can on this stage of life. Know that His fingerprints can be seen through yours...

Lunch

2010-12-17T14:40:00.001-05:00

The humming of the washing machine is the only noise. Occasionally I break the silence with a crunchy bite of grilled cheese. I glance at the other bar stool- the empty one- while I eat my lonely lunch. No need to make a PB&J today. I toy with the thought of making one and leaving it there for her anyway, but that might be considered to be on the other side of that thin line we use to define sanity. I better not. Besides, the blue, dinosaur sandwich cutter is collecting dust now. I suppose I should throw it out. How do you throw away the things your child loved... even the little things that made her face light up... like dinosaur shaped sandwiches? The memories seem so connected to her things. How do you choose what to keep? Which did she love less- the mermaid dolls or the tiny, glass marbles she hid all over the house... the last rock she put in my purse or the tiny barbie shoe she left in my closet? What should be put away and forgotten? I had to put her away. Will she be forgotten?

Our family feels so schizophrenic now. We have two families and the 'twain shall never meet' (at least not here). Two sets of family photos will hang on the wall separated by a frame and a dark, unbreachable chasm of nothingness. One family ended on October 8th, 2010. The next will begin in early 2011... divided by such pain and anguish in such a short space of time. Did you know when your only child dies you can't keep "family" health insurance- even if your pregnant? Nope. It's just you and "spouse" now. Not a 'real' family.

I suppose I'm not even a mommy anymore either. Sure I am pregnant, but that means you are about to become a mother. Mommy's brush teeth and hair and play silly games and give baths and timeouts and hugs and kisses. Mommy's make PB&J's. No need for that now. My grilled cheese is gone and the washing machine is silent. Time to try to think of something to do next since our, I mean my, lunch is over.

So Wrong

2010-12-13T20:45:00.001-05:00

It's Sunday morning. I should be almost ready for church by now. You should be sitting on the couch in your pretty dress watching Angelina Ballerina while Mommy rushes around. I should have gotten you your morning spoonful of peanut butter "on a big spoon" like you always request. I let your cat in a few minutes ago. I think he misses you exclaiming "Oh, Buster!" and smooshing him with hugs. He walks to your room and then checks every other room. He comes in the living room and sniffs a box of your clothes I have out on the floor. Then he looks at me curiously and meows. I tell him that you aren't here- that you will never be here again. I choke the words out again and again until I am wailing. She's never coming home again!

You didn't want to die. You told me one night as I was tucking you in bed about two weeks before the accident that you were scared to die. You had told your Wednesday night teacher that at church, too. We talked again about Jesus living in our hearts... about how our bodies stop, but we don't stop. We are with Him just like that- and I snapped my fingers. I told you heaven was wonderful, and we said our verse together "The Lord has not given me a spirit of fear but of power, love, and a sound mind." Then I kissed you good night and told you not to worry about it- that you didn't need to worry about dying for a long time.

Mommy was wrong. So very wrong. Death was lurking right around the corner. I'm so sorry, baby, that I didn't keep you safe. I'm so sorry that I didn't bring you home with me. I'm so sorry when I took you to the beach that I would never bring you back- that you would never see Buster or your room or your friends again. I know you didn't want to die yet. I'm so sorry you didn't get to come home with mommy and daddy and the twins. So sorry, baby, that I was so wrong. So very sorry.

The Robe

2010-12-08T21:25:00.003-05:00

Exactly two months and one day ago, I sat in the cool brisk air on the porch at the condo sipping a steamy mocha. The sun rise was breath taking as the orange ball climbed up out of its bed in the sea. Wisps of pink and purple peeked out from under the wavy covers and into the pale sky. I was reading Isaiah 61. I heard a tapping on the door and turned to see a cute, little face pressed against the glass grinning at me. I slid open the door and the little blond curls danced across the pink princess gown as you bounced happily out to join me. The chilly wind whipped around us, and I asked if you wanted to sit in my lap and cuddle inside my fluffy, white bathrobe with me. You eagerly climbed into the warmth, and I wrapped my arms tightly around your tiny frame. I popped an occasional fruit loop in your mouth as we snuggled and listened to the gentle sound of pounding waves.

I read the next verse aloud to you- Isaiah 61:10. "I delight greatly in the Lord; my soul rejoices in my God. For He has clothed me with garments of salvation and arrayed me in a robe of righteousness, as a bridegroom adorns his head like a priest, and as a bride adorns herself with jewels."

I explained to you, Makiah, that this is what God has done in our hearts and what He will do for real when we get to heaven. I told you He will give us beautiful white robes to wear and put sparkly jewels on us like a bride when we arrive there with Him. You asked, "Mommy, will the robe look like this one?" I chuckled and said, "No, sweetheart, it will be so much more beautiful!" You laughed, and I held you close for a few more precious minutes before you wriggled away to look at something else. Mommy had no idea that we only had about 36 more hours together... no idea that tomorrow you would get to see Jesus, and He would slip a beautiful white robe around your little shoulders and adorn you with glittering jewels. I wonder if you mentioned to Him that Mommy told you about this yesterday.

I am thankful for that sunrise on October 7th... that last chance to hold you in my arms and open the scriptures to you and tell you about what was to come... to tell you about Him. Those special moments are a bittersweet gift that will never leave me.

Coming Home

2010-12-04T00:18:00.000-05:00

Silence. The closer we get the words slow to a trickle. We spend the last few hours in silence. Deep breath in the driveway. It is time. Through the door the familiar smell of home without the familiar sounds. Her room is dark. Light on. I hate the dark. The toys are waiting, but I can't find her. The insane thought that she would be here missing us is ebbing away. The inevitable rumblings start. I sit at the doll house where all the babies are in the bed with the mommy and daddy. The little blond girl has her head on the mommy's tummy... how she left it the last time she played. If only we could play. Wailing. Calling. I'm so sorry for so many things. I hold the favorite mermaid and the princess fairy. Where is my little one? I want her back! I just want to play again. Pounding. Tears. Carpet. No! No! NO! Seconds. Minutes. Hours. But no one comes. Silence.

To See

2010-11-29T16:05:00.002-05:00

The dock sways gently with the waves. The sun sparkles on the water as the chilly wind whisks away my tears. I read Ephesians 1:8. "I pray that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance in the saints..." I picture Makiah singing and doing the arm motions to one of her favorite songs, "Open the Eyes of My Heart." I think of the book Mary Beth Chapman signed and the note she wrote encouraging us to "choose to see."

Although the sun is shining brightly here at my in-laws lake house, I feel more then ever that I see through a glass dimly. I think more about Ephesians 1:18, and I feel prompted to write down all of the dreams or pictures of heaven and Makiah and our family that others have shared with me since October 8th. Maybe recording these experiences will help me to "know the hope to which he has called" me.

I write and write. One story from a precious friend comes to mind. Her family has been praying for us daily. She told me her 3 year old came running to her one day after his nap, and said he had a dream that they were building a fire next to Mrs. Rachel. He said it was not too big or too small and that they were bringing sticks to put in the fire to keep me warm. What a beautiful picture of intercession. Out of the mouths of babes.

Another little friend of Makiah's also had a dream. He said that in the dream they played and it was really fun. He said she told him that God really does know all the hairs on your head. He told his mommy it was cool...

She can see clearly now.

My tears stream down faster than the wind can snatch them away so it picks up speed. The red and yellow leaves have almost disappeared from the waving trees. The bright sun is climbing high now, and I can feel its warmth on my wet face. My natural eyes see beauty all around. Lord, please enlighten the eyes of my heart- that they can see more than this deep, crushing darkness. Thank you for those who are putting sticks in the fire to help drive away the the dark and the cold. I really do want to see...

Priceless Treasure

2010-11-25T15:58:00.002-05:00

All I have ever wanted is to be a mommy. As soon as I can hold a baby doll, I am imagining the day when it will be real. I gather all my dolls together and pretend to have an orphanage where all the babies with no family are mine. I can't imagine anything worse then having no mommy or daddy. Long after the other girls have left their toys behind to chase boys, I still secretly pretend with my babies. As a teen, I have a very real dream of playing on the beach with my little blond-haired daughter, and I can't wait.

College? Yes, It is necessary to become the kind of person my ideal Mr. Right would marry. Graduate school? Yes. He still hasn't made his debut. Work for several years after the wedding? Yes. I want to pay off the student loans and save for our next car so that when the big day comes, I can stay home as much as possible and be a mommy. Infertility? Yes. I try not to let fear creep in. I carry around a notebook of scripture promises to combat the insidious thoughts. We go to a bible study and a pastor I have never met (and who knows nothing about me), says God has heard our prayers, and I will be a mommy. Six weeks later I am pregnant.

May 11, 2006. One of the happiest days of my life. I become not just a mommy, but Makiah's mommy. My blond haired baby has arrived! Two weeks before the accident, you crawl up in my lap and ask me if you will always be my baby first. I laugh and cradle you like a baby and tell you "Oh, yes! Even when you are as big as Mommy!" I snuggle you close and cover your face with kisses. You grin your squinty eyed grin- the one where I can see the happiness in your heart beaming from your eyes.

Your conception was a miracle. Every breath you took was a gift. The precious moments of your sweet life were entrusted to me. A priceless treasure that I will always cherish. Sweet Makiah, you will always be mommy's first baby.

Flashbacks

2010-11-21T17:00:00.000-05:00

Pain. Hyperventilating. Flashbacks. Laughter. Love. Crunching. Spinning. Glass. Screaming. 911. Disbelief. Blood. Begging. CPR. Paddles. Strangers. Arms. Praying. Hoping. Sirens. Riding. Shaking. Pleading. Waiting. Doctor. Over. No! Horror. Crushing. Blackness. Nightmare. Breathe. Replay. Stop. Please. Stop.

The Storm

2010-11-17T19:27:00.000-05:00

I had forgotten until Cameron reminded me. The conversation was buried in my mind beneath the rubble of the wreck. At 5:15 on October 8th we were riding in the car. Makiah was playing happily in the back with a new toy- our first purchase for the twins. "Watch Mommy!" she exclaimed. She was so excited to make it play music. I told her what a good big sister she would be and that she would have to teach the twins to play. Then while she was occupied, I shared with Cameron something I had heard a week before about Mathew 7: 24-27.

"Therefore everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice is like a wise man who built his house on the rock. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house; yet it did not fall because it had its foundation on the rock. But everyone who hears these words of mine and does not put them into practice is like a foolish man who built his house on the sand. The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell with a great crash." -Jesus

I have heard this parable many times before, but this time was different. I expressed to Cameron that it occurred to me that both the wise man and the foolish man faced the storm. I usually think that those who love God will be kept from the storm altogether, but the wise man did not avoid the catastrophe. The rain came down, and the wind blew and beat against his house, too. The difference between the two men was not what they endured, but the outcome. The man whose foundation was Jesus, the rock, did not collapse. The other man's house came down with a great crash.

Our serious moment ended as Makiah started to play the "I love you more than..." game with us. We exchanged "I love you's" and laughs as we drove. We were almost home now. But then suddenly, with a terrible crunch of metal and breaking glass, the world spun violently around us and the greatest storm of our lives descended and began to beat with fury against our house.

Fresh Eyes

2010-11-13T21:45:00.001-05:00

Today I heard someone speak about grace- God's unmerited favor. The speaker showed this video (posted below) of a father who helps his severely handicapped son complete a marathon. I have seen this video before and cried about the compassion of a father for his child. I have wondered if I could do the same. Could I suffer and love and be so dedicated to another person's dreams? But today I saw this clip with fresh eyes.

Today I realized that I am the boy- completely, utterly incapable of doing anything for myself. I have often prayed that I would trust and depend on God, but really there has always been a measure of relying on myself and what He has given me. I have never felt utterly incapable... until now. This complete brokenness of who I am, of my dreams, of my heart has brought to light a truth that has always been there. I am nothing without Him. There is a comfort in knowing that the Father always planned to carry me across the finish line. I was meant to lay helplessly in the boat while He pulls me across the pounding waves. There is no other way across miles of difficult hills and blazing sun except strapped to Him. I will finish the race- in His strong arms, with His feet pounding against the hard ground, and His sweat and blood carrying me to victory.

Maybe you, too, will see this video with fresh eyes.

My Redeemer Lives - Team Hoyt

2010-11-13T21:39:00.000-05:00

Streaks

2010-11-09T08:51:00.002-05:00

Purple. Orange. Pink. The sky is streaked with beauty on this cool, crisp morning. My cheeks are streaked with tears. My insides are a pressure cooker. The pain builds and churns and presses until it leaks from my eyes. I feel as if this thing inside me will explode. I cannot bear it. Wails begin to escape from my lips, and I can no longer act civilized. I cannot contain the thoughts pounding through my mind. They pour in a rushing a torrent from my lips. I do not care that people can hear.

"I miss my baby! I've never been apart from her for 4 long weeks before. How can I live without her? I do not want to learn. I do not want to put time between the intersection of her life and mine. I do not want to be ok. I do not want to forget. I do not want to do this!! How can this be my life? How can it have gone so wrong? It was not supposed to be this way. I can hear her sweet voice in the bathtub asking, "What color will you paint me today, Mommy?" I will never get to "paint" her with soap again... to imagine with her. I cannot do 'This Little Piggy Went to Market' while I clean her little toes ever again."

I pound the bed and pull my hair. Agony. Breathing fast now. The wails will not stop. I sit up to calm down, but my arms hang limp and empty. No one for them to hold. Another wave hits, and in my heart I feel like the living dead. I am sorry for my babies. They can hear now. Instead of songs and laughter I am afraid the only sound they will know is sobbing. Worse. They will not know their sister.

The Dance

2010-11-06T13:59:00.004-04:00

Why is my baby in a box and I am on my bed? Why do I still breathe in and out and she cannot? It's a miracle Cameron is alive. He remembers the car's hood plowing into the side of his head. It's a miracle I have only bruises and scratches and that there is still life in my womb. Why not one more miracle? Where is your miracle Makiah? Oh, that you were little and safe and still inside me!

Paul said to live is Christ but to die is gain. This seems so clear to me now. If we had all gone together, how sweet would be our welcome in heaven- not separated by time or pain or waiting. Perhaps it would have been harder for others but so much easier for me. Then I think of the twins and all the years of prayers that you have prayed for them. And then I think of the dance.

In September when I started bleeding and the doctor's discovered a hematoma, Daddy took you to the church to pray. He said he was going to pray until he knew the babies would be ok. He told you that he knew you didn't know what words to pray, but if you danced for Jesus, that would be your prayers for us. You danced and danced and danced... for an hour and a half you danced for mommy and the babies.

God heard the prayers of your heart and feet that day, my sweet one. Mommy and the babies will live. Thank you, precious Makiah, for the dance.

Phillipians 1:21-26

Wells of Living Water

2010-11-03T19:48:00.000-04:00

My eyes filled with tears when my mother-n-law told me of her friend's idea. This sweet lady, whom I've never met, wanted to know if she could do something special in honor of Makiah. She said God had put it on her heart to start a well project for her. She would sell "living water well charms" through Operation Blessing International to raise money to build a well for underprivelaged children in a poverty stricken country. She said when 600 charms have been purchased, a well with a permanent plaque would be built to commemorate Makiah's life. Not only was this an amazing idea, it was linked to my daughter's heart in a way that shocked me...

What this thoughtful lady could not have known was that only 2 weeks before the accident, Makiah came into the kitchen on a Sunday morning carrying her whole piggy bank. She told me she wanted to take it all to "give to the kids who need clean water." The preschool class at church had been raising money to help build wells in a community in Africa. We had talked several weeks before about how the little girls there couldn't even go to school because they had to spend all day walking to get clean water for their families. I had forgotten about this, but Makiah didn't. She wanted to give all she had to help these children know God's love and have a better life.

Will you help Makiah's dream to make a real difference in another little girl's life come true? Please look at the links to the right. The facebook site has a link to a document that explains the project. The link below that takes you to the site to purchase a charm that will go toward her dream. Please share these links with your friends.

Night

2010-10-30T13:48:00.001-04:00

In my dream I am playing happily with Makiah by a river when the sky begins to darken and swirl. I scoop her up, and we run to the nearest building. There is an empty desk inside the stark office and I hide her under the desk along with her two best buddies. I tuck pillows around the three of them and over their heads to keep them safe.

Outside the menacing clouds have begun to form twisters. They reach down from the sky like whirling, random fingers of destruction. Somehow I feel the little office is not safe enough. In my dream the children become tiny, and I carefully place the three of them in a box. I grasp the box tightly to my chest, and I begin to run. A relentless tornado has decided to follow me. Wherever I turn it is there, doggedly pursuing me. I run with all my might- like the wind- clutching my little box with its precious cargo.

Finally, I seem to have evaded the finger of destruction. I run into a strange building, and I am swallowed by relief. We have made it, and we are safe. I place the box on the floor and gingerly open the top. The two friends are sitting safely inside with their little legs crossed, but- Wait! Where is Makiah?? In horror I see a crack at the bottom of the box. I realize she has slipped out...fallen through the small opening while I was running. I tear wildly back into the streets. I search frantically now for my precious daughter. I desperately call for her. I scream her name into the empty streets ravished by the tornado. But she is gone. She is gone. She is gone.

I wake up from the nightmare. My eyes flutter open as the grey light of dawn creeps through my blinds. My heart is pounding, and I choke on the sobs that fill my throat. The dream and the night slip away in the light of morning, but one thing remains- SHE IS GONE.

Toes

2010-10-26T23:26:00.001-04:00

Outside the sky is grey and dreary. I feel it should rain torrents today. I think the whole earth should cry out in grief. I feel my heart pounding in my head. My eyes will barely open, and I think no more tears can possibly come. Maybe I will stand in the rain and borrow the tears from the sky.

I look down at sparkly pink toes, and they are lonely. Makiah, our last Sunday together you spent the morning in bed with Mommy (because I am on bed rest). We ate fruit loops and snuggled. We practiced drawing your letters and painted our fingers and toes. You wanted rainbow toes, but I didn't have the colors with me. I promised I'd paint you rainbow toes later. Once we were all pink you said, "I got an idea! Let's put sparklies over the pink, and you have to do it, too, Mommy, so we can be twins!" You are such a princess! So pink toes became sparkly toes. We giggled and hugged and admired our matching feet.

Now mine sit all alone. Ten toes that should be twenty. Sparkles remind me of your glittering eyes and passion for life. I promised you rainbow toes. I kept my promise. Pretty shades of pink, purple, red, and white. Your sweet little toes looked so perfect before they closed the casket. No four year old should be buried with old lady toes. No four year old should be buried. Mommy is so sorry, baby, that you didn't get to see your pretty rainbow toes.

The hard ground outside is still dry, but the rivers have sprung up again to flood my face. The dark sky is silent and won't comply with my demands for weeping. Perhaps the clouds should borrow my tears instead...

Deafening Silence

2010-10-23T17:11:00.002-04:00

In a single second my life has been radically altered. My precious gift from God, sweet Makiah Kaitlyn, has gone to be with Jesus long before her time. I know in my heart that she is happy, but my arms are so empty... my house so dreadfully quiet. I feel at times that a horrible blackness has enveloped me. I feel as though my insides are screaming. I am clawing and fighting to break out of this torturous body- to escape from this oppressive reality, but I cannot escape. The dark anguish leaps on me again and again. It sits on my chest and presses against my very life breath. My heart feels utterly crushed and broken- pummeled into a thousand pieces. Life as I knew it has been shattered and the shards that are left are painful and sharp. Cutting me as I try to walk through them. This is the valley of the shadow of death. How dark is that shadow!

Her room is perfectly untouched. All of the dolls in her dollhouse family are piled into their little bed together where she left them. Her castle is waiting for sweet little fingers to bring the princesses to the ball. Her store is full of all the toys she didn't clean up and didn't want Mommy to see. Makiah's baby Maddy waits inside the store in her little stroller ready for her walk. Jumbled barbie legs and mermaid tails protrude from pink and yellow baskets awaiting their next adventure. Two much loved sand dollars sit gingerly on the shelf in front of the fish bowl. A lonely cat cries on my porch, not understanding why the little one who always snuggles him does not come out to play. Tiny shoes sit empty, waiting for busy feet. Fall clothes hang expectantly in the closet with tags still attached. The barbie big wheel in the garage wonders why no roadside flowers or dirty rocks have been tucked inside the secret storage compartment in weeks. The lady bugs outside are waiting to be hunted, and the markers inside lie untouched by the coloring books. The marbles that have been hidden all over the house (grouped according to color) are ready to be found by the precious one who hid them away. The little mermaid toothbrush is beginning to feel abandoned. A sweet little princess bed, harboring the last few broken cheerios, sits ready for a tiny, warm body to slip beneath its pink blanket and soft, blonde curls to rest against the butterfly pillowcase.

Can it be that she is never coming home? Surely she is just away staying with a friend- ready for mommy to come and get her. Are the sweet kisses really gone? Has the smell and feel of her soft skin and the weight of her arms around my neck truly disappeared? Will I not run my fingers through her sweet curls again on this earth? Surely I heard a voice calling "mama" early this morning. Any minute now a little head will appear by my bedside and green eyes will wait eagerly for mine to open while an insistent little hand will poke my shoulder continously and the babyish voice will say "Hungry! Hungry! Mama, wake up! I'm hungry!"

I think for one second, in that fuzzy moment between sleep and wakefulness, that I've had horrible dreams, and I am relieved to wake up. But then horror floods me as reality pounces on my consciousness. This is not a dream. I cannot wake up. The nightmare is real. No little footsteps are coming. No one is crying for mommy. The house is empty and still. The silence deafening. I fill it with wails and groans and pleas to God. My eyes burn, and I can barely breath. I grit my teeth and clutch the pink bunny in my bed. I bury my face in its worn fur and try to catch a glimpse of her sweet smell. It's almost gone forever. I feel panicked that I will forget- that cherished memories will evade me. Her face on that last morning we snuggled on the couch seems to be growing dim. Fuzziness starts to creep in. "No!" I scream. Memory don't fail me now! Please keep every precious detail etched as in stone!

Warm, salty tears become rivers on my face, and then I think of the ocean. I remember that minutes before she was taken away, my sweet Makiah told me that she loved me more than all the water in the ocean and all the sand on the beach. I assured her that mommy loved her more. Maybe my salty tears will always remind me of her oceans of love, and maybe, just maybe, they will not always taste so bitter in my mouth.