The Blessedness of Everett's Cursed Body

What exactly is a blessing?  I mean, really?  Do we say one before we eat or do we ask for one before we eat?  Is a blessing something we do or something we receive?  Are we presumptuous in wanting to bless someone with something?  Because... is it a blessing to *them*?  Or is it a confirmation of ourselves and our beliefs/desires?  Is "choosing to be a blessing" the Southern Baptist euphemism for piety?  Is receiving a blessing the spiritual equivalent of feeling better?  What the heck is a blessing?

And why do we use the word so much?  Like love.  We've lost the meaning of it.  Do we really love cookies?  Do we love our spouses?  Do we love our children?  Or do we have this common culture idea of what love is?  Of what a blessing is?  Have we over-spiritualized and under-understood what a blessing is?  Is it something grandiose?  Something simple?  Could it be something painful?  Heavens no, blessings are the things that make you feel better....right?

Last time I checked, the authority on blessings had a strange picture of it.  Perhaps the most quoted and most misrepresented speech of all time, Matthew 5 gives super good insight into what a blessing REALLY is.  And I think the best explanation of a blessing, as far as I can see, is a change of perspective.  And we all need one of those sometimes.

NLT's version says it absolutely best, I think.  Matthew 5:3 God blesses those who REALIZE THEIR NEED FOR HIM", emphasis is mine.  A change of perspective.  From "I do it" to "I need help".  "...For the kingdom of heaven is given to them".  What is heaven? According to Jesus (not John in his crazy vision, but Jesus), heaven is knowing God.  You can't know someone until you've realized you have a void without them.  A mother.  A sister.  A child.  A husband.  God.  Blessings come from realizing you are smaller than you think.  The rest of the incredibly familiar speech from Jesus continues in the same vein.  Blessings come in a change of perspective.  A change from the common culture ideas.  Being reminded of your weakness-- and that God is stronger and bigger than your schedule, your desires, your influence, your bank account, your pool, your hair, or the loss of your child.

There are a few things in life I'm incredibly good at:  feeling guilty, feeling ashamed, and being stubborn.  There are few things in life I really really really suck at:  breaking down walls, allowing closeness in relationships,  and realizing that I genuinely need other people.  Need.   Like being critical to existence.

Critical to existence.

Critical.

To Exist.

Blessed are those who realize their need for God, for the kingdom of heaven is given to them.

There have been moments in this shit-filled life that I wonder if God even exists.  If he's really there.  Somewhere.  Up there.  Beyond the clouds.  Playing an incredibly strategic game of Battleship with our lives.  There have been moments in my past "scripture filled wonderland life" that I thought I couldn't exist without him.  That I thought life revolved around my Bible.  That I thought life revolved around me.  Because I felt good about where I was in life.  In scripture filled wonderland.  In my knowledge of the Bible.  In my teenage struggles where I succeeded piously above all others.  So I've seen the spectrum of spirituality, much like anybody who has actually sought a relationship with Jesus past the water-dousing of some sort or confirmation classes.

Blessings are given to those who realize they have a critical-to-existence need for God, for they will get to know Him.

The blessedness of Everett's cursed body is far beyond anything I can comprehend.  It's been years since I really, actually, "heartfeltly"  realized a critical to existence need for my God.  My Jesus.  It's taken realizing my guilt, my shame, and my stubbornness get me no where.   It's taken realizing my son's cursed body will not survive to understand that walls are more than barriers-- they are poison in relationships.  Walls don't hinder relationships.  They destroy them.  It's taken the realization of Everett's short life for me to change my perspective so that relationships can progress.  So that REAL relationships can HAPPEN.  More than motions.  More than vows.  More than dinners.  More than hugs.  More than feeling fulfilled.    Barriers must be destroyed.  Critical to existence need must be recognized.  And you must follow through with changed perspective.  And therein lies the blessing.  Change of perspective.  Changed thoughts.  Changed behaviors.  Changed lives.  That's a blessing.  Turning shit into compost.

It is absolutely shitty that Everett will not hug me and call my name endlessly as an almost 2 year old.  It is unfathomable to my heart that he will not be the littlest monkey in my jungle.  It is sickening to imagine handing him off to a nurse who will never bring him back.  It is terrifying and frustrating and painful to pray fervently that he will not struggle to breathe.  To hope, essentially, that he doesn't survive delivery so that he will know NO pain.  To pray that he will not suffocate.  That he will not gasp and gurgle as he lays in my arms.  And still, somewhere in the back of my head and front of my heart pray that instead of an eternal change of perspective,  God will give us a full on, complete, no more birth defects, absolute miracle and show off in a mighty way through Everett.  It is shittier than anything I can possibly imagine.

And yet, there is this ardent peacefulness in already realizing the blessedness of his cursed body.  There is this unsettling rest that floods my heart as we speak his name and tell his story.  There is muddied cleansing through the tears of longing to have him nurse at my breast.  There is a broken wholeness in imagining seeing him for the first time.  In holding his hands.  In being the only crib he'll ever know.

There is a blessedness of Everett's cursed body that is already eternal.  As much as  I would love to hold him forever, change his diapers, and put him time out, I will hold these nearly 40 weeks as a, dare I say it?, blessing.  For he has changed perspectives.  He has shown a critical to existence need for filling the God shaped void that plagues even those of us who say we know him.   And we will forever change shit to compost as we plant our garden of life before us.

Tired. Weak. And we must keep going. A prayer.

Dear God--

I learned long ago that asking why only creates bitterness and room for doubt. I've learned that I never get an answer. Not when I want it, at least. So I've refrained from asking you why. Why would my grandfather be so condescending of me? Why would losing weight in middle school create such a miserable life for years? Why all the doctors and fear and headache issues? Why would the youth minister I loved and trusted abuse my trust? Steal my innocence? Destroy my trust in men? Why such a vast abondonment of my faith because I felt so empty? Why was I date raped? Why so alone and yet surrounded by people? Why meet Keith at such ugly places in both of our spiritual lives? Why such a strained way to start our marriage? Why so much chaos? Why so much insecurity? Why did Aiden have to come so early? Stay a month in the NICU? Why pregnant again so quickly? *How* did I get pregnant a third time? And why just after opening my office? Why does my baby have to die? Why do I have to try SO HARD to happily prepare his arrival while I'm planning his immediate departure? I've refrained from asking why for so many years. But when, God, when does it all stop? When is enough pain, enough loss, enough hurt...enough?

Please hear my heart, God, I know that all things work for my good because I love you and because I am called to your purpose. Your purpose of loving people in such a way that they've never seen or felt love before. A way that I often feel I missed out on. I think I understand that the most difficult of times in my life are meant to grow me and mold me so I can better love others. So I can better be what you've called people who love you to be.

I know I have no control. I know I have no say. I'm pretty sure i have no pride left. I have nothing in me to rely upon unless it comes from you. I can't think straight. My head is swimming in all of my responsibilities. And many times I'm drowning. Drowning in most of them. I am weak. I am tired. And life just keeps going. I am not wasting any energy on why or what else or any of those other impossible questions. I am too tired. I am too weak. I know those are answers I'll never get. I'm praying for a break from the stress. I'm asking for a halt in the onslaught of difficulties. I don't need to know why these things happened. I know that through each of these challenges I will choose (and have chosen) to love others more deeply. To help others in their impossible situations. I am not bitter, even if I sound it. Hear my heart, God. I am tired. I am weak.

So please, God, give me strength to be wife, mommy, doctor, business owner, daughter, daughter in law, friend. I am tired. I am weak. I am 36 1/2 weeks pregnant. I am planning my unborn son's memorial service with the help of one of your teams at NorthPoint/Watermarke on Wednesday. I signed the papers for my baby's cremation on Friday. Today I packed bags for the boys to go to Grandma's house, packed most of my hospital bag, made a list of everything we need to make sure we have, and asked Keith to get his bag started too. Over the last 2 weeks I have made arrangements for school for the boys in case we need it. I have made arrangements with a photographer. I have established the birth plan with the hospital and the perinatal loss team. I have done all these things with Keith by my side. We celebrated our 4th anniversary-- and once again we vowed to do as much as we can to make our lives less stressful individually, as a couple, and as a family. And Lord, we are tired. We are weak. We are not bitter. We are not angry. We are tired. We are weak. And the day draws near. And our strength and energy nears empty. And yet we must still be Mommy and Daddy. We must still be professionals. We must still be spouses. And somehow still find time to grieve. And give space and grace for each other and our families to grieve as well.

So Lord, I don't ask why. I don't ask what else. I ask for a simple reprieve on our lives. A net that filters more strain. A hand that picks us up where we are falling down. And rest for our brains, our bodies, and our hearts. Rest and peace that can only fully come through you. We are not bitter. We are not angry. We are tired. And we must keep going.

But if I could hope for an eternity for my little boy....

I sit in my bedroom this Easter Sunday. Eating chocolates I don't like. Trying to be happy. Trying to be optimistic. Trying to have the attitude that so many seem to want me to have. The attitude I feel like I should have. That...holy attitude. That "God is perfect and God is holy and God is in control" attitude. That attitude that just blindly bows to the authority of God. I wish my heart was that submissive. I wish my heart was that trusting. I wish my mind was that...peaceful.

Instead, I find myself hurting. I find myself tearful. I find myself drained from all the birth/death plans made this past week. I find myself pissed off that I'll be spending my anniversary celebration at a funeral home. Signing papers. Picking urns. Thinking about the service we want to hold for Everett. Talking about how to best tell the boys what's going on. How to tell them that they have a little brother they won't know. How not to tell them made up ideas that sound Christian and Biblical. How not to scare them to death about going to sleep. How to help them understand why Mommy and Daddy are stressed out, tired, and sad.

And then you think about the raw truth. This is the only Easter. The only anniversary. Keith's only birthday. The only one that all of our children will be living. This is it. For the rest of our lives, one of our children will be gone. Dead.

And so I've been trying. To find that "Chrisitan" attitude where nothing sucks. Where nothing is actually painful. Where everything has this spiritual meaning. Where it's all for the greater good. Where I can be ... happy that my child is not in MY arms. And, fittingly, I find myself pondering heaven. Trying to decide where we get the idea that babies go into the arms of Jesus. I mean, is that true? Or do we just want to believe that? The Bible doesn't say much about the death of babies and their place in eternity. We believe that "Jesus loves the little children, all the children of the world.....they are precious in His sight" "for the Bible tells me so". But most of what we know about heaven is that you must believe. And that there's this crazy class system of mansions, where some who are there will be poor and some will be rich, but we will all live on streets of gold (how screwed up does that sound?!?!). I've seen books and heard thoughts that babies who die become angels. Well, that certainly isn't in the Bible. Dead people do not become angels. Angels are separate beings, even the producers of City of Angels got that much right. And Constantine. But somehow Chrisitans don't get it.

So I find myself frustrated and hurt by the lack of solid answers about what's going to happen to my baby. I find myself short (at least in my head) with people who buy into the made up stories of what happens to babies. I can't believe (right or wrong) that babies who die go to hell. Nor will I tell myself (or my boys) a lie that Everett becomes an angel. I don't know if the class system of heaven is real or if it's an analogy of what knowing Christ and His peace is all about. Because, according to Jesus, heaven is knowing your Father and His Son. So does a level of faith that is deeper feel like a richer life? I would have to think so. Is that what makes heaven so wonderful? The depth to which you KNEW God and loved Jesus? So where does that leave the babies? Where does that leave my Everett?

I don't know. And I'm not sure I'll get my answer.

So I'll do what humans are great at doing, mixing some truths with some hopes of what heaven will be like to help settle my heart. I don't know what happens in heaven. I don't know if there is a normal life where you age (sorta) and have conversations and big parties with all your friends and family when you see them. I don't know if all you do sing to God all day, never seeing the next soul beside you. I don't know if you get an actual body or if you float all ghostly around the metropolis of heaven. I just don't know.

But if I could hope for an eternity for my little boy that will not know my face, it would be something like this:

There's a mother who died during childbirth who never held her baby boy. She is laying there, still in her awful hospital gown, arms open wide for my little boy. She holds him to her chest. Warms him with her love. She counts his toes and fingers. She kisses his head and his cheeks. She tells him how much he's loved. And then there's a daddy who never held his son. He takes him and cradles him in the crook of his arm. He discovers every hair on Everett's head. He knows every curve of his face. And he tells him how much he's loved. They will take him to Jesus and He will hold him. And Jesus will cry for us, his birth family, as He holds my Everett,and tells his heaven family all about us. And my Everett will never know a moment alone. He will never feel the pain of this world. He will never know the hurt of deceit. He will never experience the heartbreak of losing anyone or anything. He will never know fear, confusion, or doubt. Everett will only know love. The kind of love that can only be given by parents who have yearned for a child. The kind of perfect love that only comes from heaven. The kind of love that Jesus taught. The kind of love he will know from us, if only for a short time.

Everett's heaven parents will love him. But they will also make sure he knows that his birth parents love him. They will tell him of the tears we shed for him from the moment we knew we would not get to raise him. They will tell him of the agony of loss we feel by not having him here with us. They will tell him of his brothers. They will remind him every heavenday that his birth family misses him. That we think about him. That we will never forget him. That his heavenday is bittersweet for us all.



Easter is about the hope of heaven. It is about the power of love over the grave. I don't know much about heaven. Everett will not conquer the grave. But I do know the love of Jesus will conquer MY fears. It will calm my heart. It will give me strength these last four weeks to exist. Easter is about love that heals. Love that grows. Love that can't be explained easily, only fully experienced through devastation and loss. Love is all that's left of yourself when you are losing/have lost a child. Clarity is non existent. Strength is gone. The "right" attitude comes and goes. Peace is often elusive. Comfort. Well, there's just no such thing. Love. Love is all that's left.

And so, my sweet Everett, as your heavenday approaches, I want you to know love. Please feel my tears washing you in my love. Please feel this anxiety as my heart quaking from love for you. Please, my sweet Everett, know that on your birthday when you enter heaven, that it is love shining all around you. That it is love that brought you onto earth, love that kept you in the womb, and Love that carries you into heaven. Love. The Easter kind of love.

Reality Pounding

Some days it feels like there's just not enough time. I am not unique in feeling this. If I was,there wouldn't be so many books about time management, songs about time flying by, proverbs from all cultures encouraging us all to seize the moment or count your blessings. I don't think you can fully know just how much MORE time you need until you face the reality of the death of your child. I don't think it matters how the death comes: cancer, accidental death, disease, genetic screw ups. And the moment doesn't fully hit you until you think it's upon you. And then you've never been so scared in your life.

Three weeks ago I was there. Sitting in the tub at my parents house. Praying for more time. Sobbing. With Mama at my side. Sobbing.

To that point only a few people had SEEN me be upset about it. About Everett.

I couldn't stop myself. I was going into labor. At 33 weeks. And I just wasn't ready.

I thought all the writing and the explaining and the 6 weeks to know would somehow make me prepared to feel the telltale labor signs. I've never been so wrong.

I had felt 'off ' all day. Tired. Restless. Stuffed. Hungry. Achy. A few little cramps here and there. Keith was exhausted and had put Aiden to sleep. Gigi put Kipton to bed. Papa woke up in the chair and decided it was time to go to bed. Keith slept in the chair then headed to bed. I tried. No luck. Super uncomfortable, I headed back to the living room to watch some mindless tv. And it started.

That telltale rumble in your stomach. That moment you realize this is not just an upset stomach, this is total evacuation. This is what happens (for those who don't know) just before your contractions really begin to kick in. I fought it. Drank a boatload of water. Put my feet up. And waves of contractions began. That feeling of tingles from just below your -ahem- all the way up to your boobs. I pretended it was Braxton Hicks, but those contractions don't get harder. I decided to get in the tub-- and another glass of water. Only getting stronger. The panic set in.

As I prepared the tub, the tears started. I'm just not ready, God, I'm just not ready. I repeated it over and over. I prayed over and over, God please let this stop. I'm just not ready.

Mama heard the water and came to the door and asked, Baby,is everything ok? I started shaking. My voice quivered... I dont know. I don't know. She came in. We both cried. I told her I just wasn't ready. I didn't think I could do this. Not yet. There's still so much stuff that had to done. And I...I just wasn't ready to do it. I wasn't ready to hold him and give him up. I wasn't ready to let go. We cried. Hard. As any mother would, she begged and pleaded to be able to take it all away. We cried.

The contractions kept getting worse. It was time to wake Keith up. We needed to find a hospital. We packed as much as we needed, left the sleeping boys with my parents, and headed to Macon, the closest hospital that would accept a delivery of this nature. Keith and I barely spoke. Seems that's just how it is. I guess no matter how loving, men simply can't handle the emotional hurt of their wives. Especially if they are hurting too. Particularly in the midst of going through the checklist of things to do. And the list of things that had not been done. All at 5:30am.

We figured out how to get there after a few circles, parked in deck, got in, and got sent to OB assessment.

Then we had to tell them. Had to ask for the Palliative Care team. Had to tell them. Watch their faces.

And somehow reality gets even worse. Because you're there. In the hospital. Having contractions. And even though I kept telling myself this can't be REAL labor for a host of reasons, all rational and medical in nature, I sat there, petrified, of what might actually be happening.

I got all hooked up. Yep. Real contractions, further apart than they were before. But growing in strength. I hadn't slept all night. I was exhausted. I was terrified. I cried silently every time the nurse left the room. It took the doctor about 45 minutes to come and check if there was any progress. And again, reality just pounded in my face as we recanted the details again in the sterile, unwelcoming, cold atmosphere of a hospital. At shift change.

I will always believe my prayer, and the prayers of those who read my fast request on Facebook before we left that early Sunday morning, stopped my labor. Because by all accounts, I should have been dilating. That night should have capped off the crazy screwed up mess that our lives have been for the last four years. A hospital we didn't know. A set of doctors we'd never met. Shift change... so no one... no one... wants to see you. The boys at Gigi's house. The Minicks two and a half hours away. No change of clothes. No toothbrush. No rest. No funeral home picked out. No living will. No set plans for how to ...*oh god-- dispose* of the body. No service planned. No maternity shots. No photographer. No peace. Not enough time. For any of it.

But God was graceful to us that morning. He gave me more time. However, in that setting, I learned something very valuable for the short road ahead. No amount of plans. No amount of blogging. No amount of recanting. No amount of stuffing feelings. No amount of knowing. None of it will prepare me for that day. There will never be enough time. Enough plans. Enough knowledge. I will never be ready for that day.

There will never be enough time.