Uncharted Waters Part 2: Port Terminal|A Mother’s Journey from Death to Life #PILAM #PregnancyandInfantLossAwareness

PORT TERMINAL

A few months after coming back to the U.S. from Ukraine, I went to the doctor for a routine ultrasound. As I rested on the examination bed, Billy picked up April and sat on a stool right next to me.

"So," I patted Billy's hand, which he had placed on my belly. "If it's a girl, I get to name the baby Natalie, but if it's a boy, you can name him. Deal?"

"I know just the name," he grinned and ran his fingers through his auburn hair. "Ever since I saw the movie, Return of the Jedi, as a kid, I've wanted to name my own son, Luke."                                                                                   

"I love that name, but it's a girl." I winked.

The ultrasound technician, a cheerful, blonde middle-aged woman, asked my daughter, "Are you ready to see your baby brother or sister on the TV?"

April said, "Yay!" clapping her hands.

The tech squeezed the warm gel on my belly and guided the ultrasound receiver across the area of my womb. The outline of our baby’s profile appeared on the TV screen. 

We could see a little heart beating. The screen turned red in that spot as the technician took measurements of the size, heart rate, and blood flow.

"I'm sorry, guys," said the tech, "The legs are crossed, which makes it impossible to determine the gender."

"Aw, maybe next time," I said.

As our little one moved about in my womb, the technician did more measurements. She spent a long time scrutinizing the monitor with her lips sealed into one flat line.

"You all hang tight. I'm going to need the doctor come in." She excused herself and came back with my obstetrician, Dr. G.

He used the ultrasound equipment to examine the baby and nodded to the tech with a serious look. He printed the results and handed me a tissue. “Please get cleaned up and come with me to my office.”

After wiping the gel off my belly, we followed him down the hall.

Why did the doctor check the ultrasound? Why do we have to go to his office?

Is there something wrong with our baby?

Dr. G directed us through a doorway to his mocha leather armchairs. “Have a seat, Mr. and Mrs. Griese.”  

The chair was cold against my skin, which made it difficult to relax.  I kept crossing and uncrossing my legs. My thoughts were anything but calm.   

The doctor rubbed his gray head and stared at the ultrasound results. Then he looked up. “I’m really sorry, but I couldn’t find the baby’s kidneys. It looks like there are no kidneys.

All at once, my fingernails bore into the armchair. No kidneys?! What does that mean?

The doctor wrote something on a notepad. "I’m going to have to refer you to a specialist. I think I can get you in today.” He walked to the door, waiting for us.

I felt too overwhelmed to speak. Billy and I stood and followed the doctor to the receptionist. She telephoned a high-risk obstetrician, who could see us that day.

GRAVE DIAGNOSIS

Billy drove me to the office in silence. He walked me to the door and hugged me while holding little April's hand. "I think we should drop her off with a babysitter. I'll be right back, okay?"

My brow scrunched tight as I nodded. He snapped April into her car seat and sped away.

The other women in the office, all pregnant like me, read magazines while they waited. Some of them had reddened eyes and wrinkled foreheads. I wondered if there was something wrong with their babies, too.

Billy arrived back just in time for the nurse to call us in. We were led into another ultrasound room and greeted by Dr. C, an older doctor who had white hair combed over and large square glasses. He examined the baby with higher resolution equipment, then directed us to his office.

The room was freezing. My body shook from both the frigid temperature and fear. Billy held me close to keep me warm.

Dr. C began by asking us a question, “Do you pray?”

We both nodded.

“Well, then, you need to start praying, because your baby has bilateral renal agenesis, meaning, there are no kidneys, and that’s not compatible with life.”

My chest tightened. I could barely speak. “Incompatible with life? My baby is going to die?”

Billy blurted out, “Are you absolutely positive there are no kidneys?”

“There’s a seventy-five percent chance I’m right.” His forehead wrinkled.

“How can we know for sure?” I hoped beyond hope he was wrong.

“You can try an MRI, but that might not be conclusive, either.”

“I’d still like to try it,” Billy said.

"Me too." I held his hand tight.

We left the office without saying a word. I peeked at the printed ultrasound picture of my baby, then stared ahead. The whole world seemed to darken before me.

Each arduous step to the car was an effort against the weight of my own body wanting to buckle beneath me.

Before picking up April from the babysitter, we stopped at a restaurant for lunch but didn’t make it through the front doors.

I don’t remember who started crying first, but we both sat outside on a bench weeping, wailing, and clutching each other. I could sense people walking past us, probably wondering what was wrong.

We sat there, unable to move, not wanting to eat, wishing this day had never happened.

The Lord is my pilot, I shall not drift,

He lighteth me across the dark waters;

He steereth me in the deep channels,

He keepeth my log.

He guideth me by the star of holiness

For His namesake.

Yea, though I sail mid the thunder and tempest of life,

I shall dread not danger, for thou art near me.

Thy love and thy care, they shelter me.

Thou anointest my lamp with oil, my ship rideth calmly.

Thou preparest a harbor for me in the homeland of eternity.

Surely sunlight and starlight will favor me on the voyage I take,

And I will rest in the port of my God forever.

From “The Sailor’s Psalm,” by Captain J.H. Roberts (1874)

For Part 1, click here.

Next post, Part 3.

A Dove of Peace| Life After Suicide #GriefRecovery #suicideawareness

"Have you checked Facebook today?" Mom's voice on the phone was low, almost a whisper.

"I don't usually get on Facebook this early. We're trying to get ready for church."

"So you didn't see what was posted about your dad?"

"Is something wrong?"

"Look on Facebook."

"All right." I squeezed the phone between my ear and shoulder, then started typing on the computer. 

After keying in my password, I clicked on Dad's Facebook page.

"May he rest in peace?" The words appeared over a red background. "Is this for real?" I found it hard to breathe. 

"Keep reading," Mom urged.

I scrolled down. "All the posts from his friends say my dad died."

"He lives all by himself. Have you heard anything from him lately?"

"We spoke over the phone on Father’s Day about a week ago." Tears formed at the corners of my eyes. I wiped them away. “Maybe one of Dad's sisters will know something. I'll call you back."

Phone calls were made to family, but no one knew what the posts on Facebook meant. Later a detective called to confirm my worst fear.

On June 30, 2018, my dad took his own life.

Baffled and in shock, I had no idea he was in that much pain.

Only a week before, I had watched A Brave Lament, a short documentary created by my friend Christy Bauman and her husband, Andrew, counselors in Seattle, Washington.

Christy and Andrew experienced the loss of their infant son, named Brave. Their story showed how they regulated their grief through marking moments, creating rituals, and relying on the care of their community.

My husband held me close as we watched the film. We wept together as we remembered our own infant son, Luke, who died shortly after birth.

Little did I know, this film would give me the tools I needed to deal with my dad’s suicide.

A few days after receiving the phone call from the detective, my sister, brother-in-law, and I agreed to go through his personal belongings at his place. Our two aunts and uncle were there to help and offer moral support.

Years earlier, my aunt told me about a dove that appeared in her yard after my Nona died. On the first anniversary of Nona's death, a dove appeared again.

As I walked along my dad's driveway, what appeared in front of his place?

A white dove.

I called to everyone inside. "You guys, come out here."

Together, we witnessed the dove pecking around on the grass. As I clicked pictures, the friendly little dove stayed close and didn’t fly away.

Peace enveloped me as I remembered my aunt's story and gazed at the dove. I whispered a prayer of thanks to God--Father, Son, and Holy Spirit--who comforted me in my grief.

When we talked to some of Dad’s neighbors, I shared the story of the dove. “Does anyone own a pet dove? It seemed so friendly.” The neighbors shook their heads no.

At that moment, the dove swooped down, perched on a nearby roof, and watched us. Goosebumps formed on my arms. The neighbors gasped in disbelief. One woman covered her face and wept.

After returning back home, creativity became grief therapy. I painted stones with my dad's initials and a cross to give out to the family. I created a video and eulogy for his memorial service. I found a studded wooden chest to house Dad's ashes.

These marked my moments of grief and prepared me for the ritual to say goodbye, Dad's Celebration of Life.

What caused the most stress for me? Not being able to agree on where to bury Dad's ashes. Nothing seemed to be fitting for my unconventional Dad, a rock singer and guitarist. The traditional burial wouldn’t do.

At last, my brother, sister, and I decided to spread Dad's ashes on the river. He loved fishing, boating, and living near the water.

Although it had rained all week long, on the day of the memorial service, the sky was a clear, brilliant blue. After Dad’s Celebration of Life at the little church where he had frequented, we convened at the river.

Dad's grandkids climbed on the rocks and threw flowers into the water.

The wind whipped our hair in all directions. There was no way we were going to be able to safely spread Dad's ashes on the river.

"I can take the ashes on my boat tomorrow," my uncle, Dad's older brother offered. "I'll find a good place for Johnny."

And so it was. The beach around an island became my dad’s final resting place.

When I remember the care of my mother, the short film on grief, the support of my extended family, the dove, and everything for the memorial coming together so beautifully, I can't help but be thankful.

Suicide is a terrible thing. In its abruptness, there are so many unanswered questions. Yet, I have peace. I know I'm not alone. The dove reminded me that Christ is with me.

The grace I've found in my dad's suicide is something I wish for everyone touched by death in this way.

Peace is a grace I didn’t know I needed, but it's a grace crucial for healing.

Grief comes and goes like the perpetual tide at the river’s edge. And in that constant, the message of peace in Christ appears, carried on dove's wings through the centuries since His death, burial, and resurrection.

Until the sunrise of healing comes, we can rest in His peace.

 "Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid." (John 14:27) 

To My Boy in Heaven

He would have been twelve years old yesterday. But, this was not God's plan for him. Our little boy, Luke Joseph only lived for a day.

This is the letter his daddy wrote to him...

Dear Luke,

What can I say? You are my one and only little boy. I held you in my arms for such a very short time. Eight hours, that was all the time that God allowed us to have with you. But, let me assure you that they were some of the best hours of my life. It was pure joy for me to hold you and kiss your sweet little head, and place my finger in your tiny little hand.

It was simply pure joy to know you little one. When your little hand seemed to squeeze my finger and one of your little eyes opened to peek at me. To see you breathing much longer than the doctors said you would.

I’m sorry that I did not get to know you better in my life. I’m sorry that we didn’t get to do all the things that daddies and little boys get to do. I wanted so much to take you to the park and push you in the swing, teach you how to ride a bike, take you fishing, and play catch.

But, that was not in God’s plan. God’s plan was for you to stay with your mommy and me for just a short time, and then to go to heaven to be with Him.

God loves you very much and has a special purpose for you there. I think you are very happy there, too. There is no sickness, no pain, or cruelty up there like there is down here.

Heaven is a place filled with love, for God is love and you can trust Him to take care of you.

As for me, I’m happy that you’re with Him, but sad that you’re leaving without me. Your mommy and I miss you very much and will think about you every day. But, don’t worry, one day we’ll come to heaven to live with God, too, and we’ll be with each other again.

Remember that I love you very much and you will stay in my heart forever.

Love,

Daddy

Wishing Luke a happy twelth birthday in heaven. We are thankful for eternal life in Christ Jesus and long for the day when we can hold our sweet boy in our arms again.

 "And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, 'Behold, the dwelling place of God is with man. He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them as their God.

He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.”

And he who was seated on the throne said, “Behold, I am making all things new.” Also he said, “Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.”

Revelation 21:3-5

Embracing Autism: A Poem

Stuck

Inside

Hidden away

Unable to connect.

Expression hindered

and self oppressed.

Arms flapping wildly

To sense the body.

Faulty wiring

Gone awry.

Trapped in a maze

Of twisted vines

No beginning 

And no end.

Sticky cobwebs

Never swept away.

Unused branches

Never pruned.

Muted senses

Out-of-sync.

The mTOR protein

Blocked the process

Of new connections

And old removed.

This tangled mess—

Axons misfired

Dendrites misplaced

Encompassing the soul

Cocooned within.

Once upon a time,

On the right track

Cooing, babbling

Speaking child

Set off course.

An injury

Of some sort.

From without

Triggered within.

The immune system

Engaged war

With the one

It was sworn

To protect.

Allergies

And sensitivities

Magnified

The hurt.

White matter

And grey

Forced to survive

The wrong way.

The result: autism.

But for this child

Given to me

A bright highlight 

Following grief

My baby.

Cuddled

Read to

Cradled

 In the mirror

How can I free you?

When I am trapped?

Love is the key

To open the way

In my own soul

cocooned.

To embrace

A new dream

And let

 The old one go.

Steps to Peace in Grief

Jesus paid it all,

All to Him I owe,

Sin had left a crimson stain,
He washed it white as snow. 

~Elvina M. Hall, 1865

***

I don’t know if I've always traveled the best way through grief, but the Lord taught me many things along the journey. I learned more about God, myself, and others, and we have choices to make in how we will react to all of life’s difficulties. The following steps are some choices I made on my own journey. And those choices lead to peace.

***

Steps to Peace in Grief:

1. Focus on the character of Christ in the gospels.  Seeking to know Him more fully will form us more into His likeness.

2. Look back and grieve—everything that has broken your heart, and ask Christ to reveal Himself to you in those times.
 
3. Turn to Christ and trust Him with your past, present, and eternity, for “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever (Hebrews 13:8).”

4. Believe that when you are at a disadvantage, you are blessed, because it's a chance to see God come through for you.

5. Be thankful that Christ Jesus has redeemed you—every part of you, past,  present, and future, it all matters to Him.  He is faithful to forgive you and cleanse you of all unrighteous thoughts, feelings, or deeds (1 John 1:9).
 
6. Rest on Christ, the Rock, whose promise of salvation is a free gift. You don't have to be "good enough" to be loved and accepted by God. The Lord Jesus gave His life to rescue us from darkness and bring us into His family.

7. Immerse yourself in worship and sing songs of both lament and praise, which can stir your heart to hope again.

8. Rejoice that because of Christ, our names are written in heaven (Luke 10:20).

9. Live for your Father's smile.

10. Persevere when you feel like giving up. God has a special place, purpose, and work for you to do in His Kingdom.
 
11. Remember you are precious in the sight of God.

12. Humble yourself in the sight of the Lord. The greatest in the Kingdom of heaven is like a little child.

13. Love others even in your pain.

14. Be confident that the things that overwhelm you are the very things you can trust in the Lord to give you His strength to overcome (2 Corinthians 12:9).

15. Trust in the Lord to protect you from evil. Suffering is a time when you are most vulnerable. (1 Peter 5:8,9)

16. Don't be afraid to ask for help. The Lord works through His people. You don't have to go through grief alone.

17. Longing, seeking, finding, longing…it’s like a cycle that will end when we see Jesus face-to-face. Until then, stay the course.

18. Jesus longs for me even more than I long for Him. He has known me before the creation of the world. He gave His life for me. He’s preparing a place for me, and He’s waiting for me with a love that is higher than the highest mountain, wider than the widest sky, deeper than the deepest ocean, and longer than the longest road.

19. In this world, we have a lot to grieve, mourn, and wail about, but we must long for the day when we can be in the safest place of all—safe in Jesus’ arms. 

20. When you look your greatest hurts straight in the face, turn your eyes upon Jesus.

Turn your eyes upon Jesus,

Look full in His wonderful face.

And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,

In the light of His glory and grace.

~Helen H. Lemmel, 1922

The Pearl of Suffering

Stress.

Just saying the word conjures up pictures in my mind. Things I'd rather forget. People who have been hurtful to me or let me down. Unresolved conflicts with those I was close to. Messy relationships. Dark times. Grief.

These things have taken a toll on my health.

Years ago, during a time of great stress, a cyst formed at the base of my skull. The size of a pearl. It no longer hurts, but it's still there.

I sigh.

"And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. (Romans 8:28)"

"All things." The ancient, holy, living Word, says "all things."

Even the things that are not good. The broken pieces in our lives that don't seem to fit into the picture of a holy and loving God who is Sovereign over all.

"The one who calls you is faithful, and he will do it.(1 Thessalonians 5:23)"

Faithful. He is faithful. It takes faith in His faithfulness to see what we cannot see:

The impossible coming true. Miracles happening. The bad turned into something good. The sad things coming untrue.

A friend once counseled me on how the Lord can turn our suffering into something beautiful, like the way a clam turns an irritant in its body over and over again until it forms into an iridescent pearl.

All the stressors, the irritants in our life that keep happiness at bay, if we focus on Christ and hope in His unfailing love, turning the hurts over and over again in prayer and softening them with our salty tears (1 Peter 5:6,7), something amazing will happen.

Jesus, the Son of God, the Suffering Servant who bought our redemption, He knows our pain. And, He knows how to make it 

Something beautiful. 

In Christ, there can be beauty in the pain. In the suffering. However long.

And, when the hurt is gone, with only a scar that remains. A pearl. A reminder of where you've been. There is something you can do with it.

In the light, a single pearl found.

We can clutch our pearls, keeping them close to our heart.

Or we can open our hand and share them with others. With others who will treat them with delicacy and honor. 

We can bring our hurts to light in community. A community that has let the love of Jesus shine in their hearts.

"The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not overcome it." (John 1:5)

For it is in the Light of the love of Christ that we are able to see the beauty that our hurts have become.


The broken pieces of our lives can be strung together as a necklace, a story, to adorn the beloved bride of Christ. His church. The one His heart desires and longs to be near. Now and forevermore.

"Oh give thanks to the Lord, for He is good,
For His lovingkindness is everlasting.
Let the redeemed of the Lord say so,
Whom He has redeemed from the hand of the adversary..." (Psalm 107: 1-3)