when hope is shared

I got the text.

I just found out I'm miscarrying. Thanks for your prayers.

And my Mama-heart is stuck in my throat.  The tears well in my eyes as the devastation of this loss is all too familiar.  The age-old questions of why, Lord, why linger in my prayers.  And I wonder, no, I know that her heart breaks the same as mine did.

I remember the advice that I rejected at the time.  The truth that was spoken then that I hated, is now true in my life.

It was necessary.

Why God?

In my weakness He is made great.

But, God, it hurts.

So, trust.  He is sovereign and He has a plan.

The truth that was spoken said if it weren't for my loss, I wouldn't have the one I labored over for hours upon hours.  And it is true.  My sweet Jude is the one I was supposed to parent and raise.  I want to tell her this.  Of the gift that comes after the suffering.  But those words are hard to swallow when you haven't met your one yet.

I know what the Lord told me.  That He is more powerful than science.  His plan is greater than this event.  His will be done.

And I wonder if it happened to me, so that I could be a friend to her.  Sharing my story.  Sharing in pain.  Sharing in waiting.

The stories shared were medicine to me.  The survivors who thrived and told me of the days to come.  The women I will never forget in their raw comfort.

I wasn't alone.  Neither is she.  Neither are you.

Friend.  This is not the end.  He does not allow pain carelessly.  And your story will one day bring light to anothers' dark place.  This is what happens when pain (and hope) is shared.

when my coffee is lukewarm

Sipping my lukewarm morning coffee, I hoped that if there was a smidge of caffeine in my cup of decaf that it would make it's way through my veins and wake me up.

I don't wish these days away, but the day when I have two children sleeping through the night will be a glorious day.

But watching my two little punkin boys reminds me of the sweet season we are in.  Jude not-so-gently grabbing Isaac by the face to lay a smacker right on him.  Isaac squealing with delight as he watches his brother run through the house flapping his arms like a duck.  Jude's vocabulary growing by the minute and his complete joy when we affirm what he's said.  Isaac just being a 4-month-old.

I think four months old is one of my very favorite ages.  I'm not entirely surprised I (whoops!) allowed myself to get pregnant when Jude was just six months old.  I adore the baby stage.  Absolutely adore it. But those babies turn into toddlers (who I LOVE) that begin to exercise their will and demands and this combination of baby-not-sleeping-through-the-night and my toddler-risk-taker-wild-man-testing-the-boundaries is what leaves me feeling run into the ground this morning.

And don't worry.  I'm fully aware that my body needs a break from being pregnant and I don't plan to have any sort of announcement in the next year (or so).

I sip my coffee slower.  Taking the moment in.  Watching my boys interact and remembering how desperate I was for them only a few years earlier.  God is good.  And I am challenged to take my mornings slower.  We have places to go, people to see.  But I want my boys to remember me as someone who was always present with them.  Fully present.  Not zoned out on my phone (guilty).  Not too much of a zombie to listen to what they're telling me (guilty).  But slowing down.  Looking them in the eye.  Being there.

I do hate being rushed, but I'm so often the one doing the rushing.

Thank you Lord for my sweet children.  For mornings I can sip my coffee.  For moments you sustain me so I can give enough.


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