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.

Uncharted Waters Part 1: Embarkation|A Mother’s Journey from Death to Life #PILAM #PregnancyandInfantLossAwareness

EMBARKATION

In July of 2003, months of planning for my first short-term mission trip to Ukraine were working out. The financial support came in. I secured babysitters for my toddler. My husband would take time off to visit family so he wouldn’t miss me so much.

There was only one thing holding me back.

I was pregnant.

After praying about the risk, my desire to go to Ukraine did not waver. I would continue on and trust in the Lord to keep my baby safe.

By the time the first-trimester nausea dissipated, my bags were packed, and I was ready to go.

Early in the morning, while down on my knees, amidst tears and fears, I committed myself and my unborn child to God.

June 4, 2003

“Lord, thank you for giving me a calling, a plan, and a purpose for my life. You are Sovereign. You have power over life and death. Please give me the strength to follow your calling and reign in my heart. I dedicate myself to You and Your service and place my life and the life of my unborn child in Your Almighty hands.”

—

As I left the car and ventured toward the airport lobby, rolling my suitcase behind me, my husband and daughter waved goodbye. Being a toddler, April stared in wonder as the sliding doors shut in front of her. I don’t think she comprehended how long I would be gone. Billy knew. I could see the sadness in his eyes.

Aside from a little turbulence that made me airsick, the flight to Ukraine was uneventful. I had perfect peace the entire way. I freely conversed with the other short-term missionaries in my group and grew especially close to Sally, an Asian American from Arizona. Wayne, from Texas, would be my English co-teacher.

GREAT EXPECTATIONS

The night before teaching, we prayed and enjoyed a lasagna dinner with the Ukrainian missionaries. I felt led to share with my team that I was nervous about teaching and wondered if I could truly make any difference in our students’ lives.

“Expect great things from God,” challenged Sally. She beamed a bright smile and held my shoulder reassuringly.

 

Studying ESL lessons with Wayne, Sally, and her co-teacher, Charlie

The next day, the bus rumbled on the street corner outside our communist-style concrete apartment where we were staying. Its fumes permeated the breezeless air and added extra warmth to an already hot summer day. We boarded in silence, ready to embark on the great mission of reaching the world with the love of Christ. The whole prospect of teaching English thrilled me. The Ukrainians were known to be spiritually curious and might ask us questions about our faith.

Short-term Mission Team at English Camp

Upon our arrival, one Ukrainian student named Natalya waited outside my cabin door to walk with me to classes.

“Hablas español?” she asked.

I didn’t think I would need to speak Spanish in the middle of a Slavic country. But, it turned out that knowing a little Spanish came in handy.

Natalya barely knew any English, and I barely knew any Russian or Ukrainian. So, we figured that we could communicate with each other in Spanish—the only language we both knew. We called each other, “mi querida amiga,” which meant, “my beloved friend.”

We walked everywhere together, the Ukrainian way—by holding hands. At first, I felt a little childish, holding hands with my newfound friend. But eventually I got used to it and missed this simple way of showing affection when I came back to the U.S.

Natalya, “mi querida amiga”

Toward the end of camp, Natalya prayed during a teaching and gave her life to Christ in my presence. What joy filled my heart to see her brought into a living relationship with God through Jesus Christ. And, Sandy was right; wonderful things happen when we expect great things from God. It’s amazing how the Holy Spirit, unseen like the wind, sweeps down into the deepest part of person’s heart, and awakens it to new life.

“As you do not know the path of the wind,

or how the body is formed in a mother’s womb,

so you cannot understand the work of God,

the maker of all things.”

(Ecclesiastes 11:5)

“The wind blows where it wishes,

and you hear its sound,

but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes.

 So it is with everyone born of the Spirit…

For God so loved the world,

that he gave his only Son,

that whoever believes in him

should not perish but have eternal life.”

(John 3:8, 16, ESV)

MARKED BY LOSS

Teaching English to the Ukrainian students was a joy. I relished the instant conviviality and solidarity of sharing life with my mission team. There is something bonding about living in close quarters at a former communist youth camp, where the bathrooms are termed "squatty-potties," and between the buzzing mosquitoes and jet-lag, sleep is scarce.

Only one thing got me down.

One morning, while praying, my Bible accidentally slipped out of my fingers, off my cot, and thudded to the floor. It broke open in the middle, right at the book of Job, ripping the introductory page in half.

At that moment, a wave fear swept over me. I knew that God loved Job and was very pleased with him. But Job’s life was marked by overwhelming loss and sorrow. It made me wonder. Does God have something like that planned for me?

Next post, Part 2. 

Nineteen Years|St. Augustine Getaway #Anniversary

At three years into our marriage, sometimes I didn't think we would make it. Grief had brought out the worst in us and threatened to tear us apart.

After experiencing the death of a dearly beloved family member in 2003, our marriage was about to shipwreck. We needed a lighthouse, a way to navigate around the dangers of conflict allowed to escalate beyond acceptable levels.

Pride has no place when two people promise to become one. In order for our marriage to survive, we needed to be humble enough to ask for help. That support came in the form of friends, family, our church, and marriage counseling. The lighthouse we needed was the grace of God, exemplified in Jesus Christ. God the Father always forgives us in light of Jesus who sacrificed Himself on the cross for our sins. If we believe this, we can forgive.

It was a fight to learn to stop fighting each other.

Five years later, by the grace of God, we came to terms of peace.

Halloween 2008

For our nineteenth wedding anniversary, we chose to immerse ourselves in Old Spanish Colonial Florida in St. Augustine. Having celebrated our anniversary here before, we were able to take stock in how far we've come in loving each other unconditionally.

Casa de Solana, the house of one of my ancestors

"Above all, love one another deeply" (1 Peter 4:8) 

Anastasia Island

In the middle of our rocky years, I never would have believed we could love each other again. I thank God for His amazing grace that keeps on shining His unconditional agape' love toward us, showing the way to peace.

"May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit" (Romans 15:13). 

Why my Grandpa Loved Halloween|A Life Well Lived #centenarian #Halloween

On October 31, 1916, at age five, my grandfather, Ernest Hedges almost died. You see, he was all dressed up for Halloween. Ready to go to the annual Halloween party at the one-room schoolhouse, but a fever landed him in bed.

Eunice, Ernie, and big sister, Louise

His mother and eight siblings, all except his big sister Pearl left without him.

He gradually grew worse. His skin turned as orange as a pumpkin and his fever spiked way beyond an acceptable level. Papa Hedges rushed him by carriage to the nearest hospital in town.

The ER doctor knew right away the problem. A ruptured appendix. By the grace of God, Grandpa Ernie received life-saving surgery. He recovered in the hospital for a month.
Missing Halloween had a huge impact on Grandpa. Even in his elder years he still loved to dress up.

Grandpa lived through the World War I, The Depression, and World War II, in which he was finally drafted.

In Italy, he met his beautiful wife, Cina.

After they both returned to the states, they built a home and a life. My father, Jonathan was the youngest of four children.

When my father was five years old, they moved from Madison Wisconsin to Melbourne, Florida. Grandpa was a baker and opened Hedges Bakery in Downtown Melbourne. Grandpa did the baking and Nona Cina decorated the cakes beautifully.

Grandpa and Nona's family grew.

And grew.

In 1998, Nona developed a cough that wouldn't go away. Doctors confirmed she had lung cancer, though she never smoked a day in her life.

Six weeks after her diagnosis, on July 8, 1998. she was gone.

In her memory, Grandpa Ernie wrote, Flowers for Cina, his life story, at the age of 92.

Many birthdays later, at the age of 105, Grandpa celebrated with his children, grandchildren, and twenty great-grandchildren.

Only a week later, on Halloween, October 31, 2016, exactly 100 years after he almost died as a child, Grandpa Ernie got a cold, which turned into pneumonia.

At the blessed age of 105 years old, Grandpa passed into the loving arms of Jesus.
Halloween was a special day for Grandpa. It's a day he was spared and given an extra 100 years to live.

I will always remember Halloween as a special day for a very wonderful grandpa.

In his life, Grandpa shared the love of Jesus, inspired his family and friends, and mentored his many adopted "grandkids."

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) 

A Timeless Dream and Reality

Last night, I had a dream of another time.

In the land, both far and wide, temples cast shadows over its citizens, shrouding them in the cold grip of fear. The expressionless stares of the temple gods and goddesses only brought confusion and trepidation in my young heart.

Alone in the pale moonlight, my hands were bound in front of me as I huddled next to a temple pillar. My head throbbed. One of the sleeves of my tunic hung off my shoulder, revealing finger-sized bruises underneath.

The thought occurred to pray. But to which god?

Each situation dictated the proper call to a prescribed deity.

Before succumbing to a typical rote prayer to one of the statues in the plethora of temples, I paused. A cloud passed by and the moon shone through the lattice on the temple wall. The bind that held my wrists glowed as if with magic.

Was I was being punished by the mercurial whims of the intemperate gods to whom one must pay continual homage?

A flush of shame warmed my cheeks as all the ways I had failed crept into my mind. Why would any of the gods help me now?

Each storyteller in my city shared a different version of the gods' exploits, usually with the ulterior motive of a coin in the coffer for the temple priests ... most likely to use on the nightly band of prostitutes that roamed the streets.

Did my monetary sacrifice ever amount to anything but their pleasure at my expense?

If in my abduction, I was bound to be one of those enslaved women, I'd rather die.

I needed God, The Real God, The One Whom Cannot Be Seen, to have mercy on me. To save me.

I clasped my hands together.

It took more faith to believe in the God that cannot be seen. Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and whispered my plea.

Then I awoke and found myself in my own bed in present day America.

The Greek gods and goddesses have passed away in the sands of time. In our educated, prosperous, sensible country, we have no such need for deities.

Or do we?

It may be that we turn to new idols. Ones that flicker and dance on the screens of our televisions and iPhones. Will they make us happy? Will they show us what to do? Will they save us?

The painted up masks of these people show health, wealth, and happiness, but the coins we stuff into the coffers of TV media moguls or the Pantheon of social media we trust in, prove a false hope. Because they're only human like us.

There is a God whom we cannot see. I've seen Him. Not with my eyes, but in my changing heart, thoughts, and deeds.

I've seen Him work even the most terrible situations for good (Romans 8:28).

This God, the One revealed in the pages of the Bible, is timeless. He is gracious, compassionate and good. And He wants to have a relationship with us through His Son, Jesus Christ.

If we would but let go of our false gods and turn to Him in our time of need. He'll be there. He's been there for me. Every. Single. Time.

* Credit: Temple in Athens  courtesy of Getty images