The abandoned blog

Hi. I have been blogging, but not here. Tyler and I started a new *public* family blog (rather than the private one on which I rarely wrote.) If you don't have that address and would still like to hear from me occasionally, the address is:

tysunandersonfamily.blogspot.com

I will keep this blog for my personal musings when I feel so inclined, but Tyler has committed me to write at least every other week on the new blog (he writes opposite weeks), and so far, so good :)

In terms of me. . . . New world in Aurora. No job. No husband (well, I have him 'til Monday when he starts his first 9 weeks of intensive study--anatomy and dissections . . . I have an old friend and her darling daughter to keep my company. I have a new rental house that desperately needs some decorative flair. I have family at a  distance that needs my prayers. I have courage to chase away the discouragement that comes from starting over. By my lonesome.

I have sunshine. Literally.

The bravery of a worm

We've been house-sitting for a couple gone to Finland for a year and a half. One of the joys of living here is the closeness to 3 city parks with interconnecting trails. It's so much more inspiring to go for a jog when you merely have to walk down the street. This time of year, the slugs, snails, and worms are in abundance along every cemented pathway. The slugs and snails are the grossest, for sure, but as I passed a worm this morning, I was struck by its courage. Think about it--slugs and snails are thick and gross (at least the ones here); they are obviously avoided by all bikers, walkers, and joggers--no one wants them stuck to their shoes. But the worms of this world? They are tiny in comparison, easy to mistake for a twig, and let's face it, pretty low on the totem pole of the animal kingdom. Anyway, the bravery of the worm. The worm leaves its home in the soil to travel to the other side of the cemented road, big monsters racing past (yes, I'm a jogging beast). It has no idea whether it will make it or not. It just goes for it. Maybe you're thinking that worms don't think at all, that they just act on instinct. Maybe so. But I feel inspired today to be like a worm, to brave new (and old) monsters without worry or fear of being stepped on.

Moving

Tyler and I are trading in this

 and this

for this

 and this

That's right. Portland, Oregon, to Denver Colorado. We're leaving  the small-town feel of Portland and the lush, green Pacific Northwest for the Mile High City and it's University of Colorado medical school in Aurora. We were basically packed over 2 months ago. We've been house sitting for a couple on their mission to Finland, so it's not as extreme as it might sound--packed for 2 months and a little less than a month less before the big move.

Moves are a big deal. Change is welcomed. And change is hard. When we originally made the decision to forgo Tyler's offer from OHSU and accept the U of C's offer with financial benefits :), our life in Portland was at it's darkest. We'd just lost Truman. We wanted an escape. At least I did. I hoped I would never have to go back to church and face the young women I had chatted with weeks before about baby names. I didn't want to go back to my job where my coworker used to move my play therapy kit from office to office so that I wouldn't put my pregnant body or tiny bundle of wonder at risk.  Like I said, I wanted out.

And now, with six months of healing under my belt, I am trembling to go. Portland has given me one continual quest, to:

. 

smile at the rain.

Oh, how it has rained. My last semester at BYU, my choir sang a song whose lyrics came to me after our first loss of Sterling, back in Feb 2009. At that point, we'd only experienced about 5 months of "lovely" Portland weather, the continual gray drizzle with limited encounters of sunshine. Now, 4 years later, the words mean even more:

Darkness expelled by a light through the clouds

Heaven compelled to dissolve lightless shrouds

Tears dried by Sonlight no longer remain

After the rain.

Storms overhead no more darken the way

Shadows now cease to bedim the noon day

Then brilliant beams of hope are born

And brightness regained

After the rain.

Oh how the cloudbursts and tempests refine

As we let the light through to encompass and shine

Freely the soul sings for respite obtained

After the rain, After the rain

Freely the soul sings for respite attained

After the blessed rain. 

This rain has been blessed. My heart has been broken. Shattered. And the Lord is mending me. Only He can do that. Tears are truly dried by Sonlight.

Denver. The city of sun. A place where the dream of medical school is coming true for our family. A place that has cheap flights to visit my loved ones in U.T.A.H. A place where Chelsey Marie will live minutes away. I am literally trading in rain for sunshine. 

I cannot tell you how much the rain means. You have to walk in it, run in it, crawl through it yourself. Oh, how the cloudbursts and tempests refine.

I'll miss you, Portland, your splashes of a thousand shades of green in every corner. The slight splinter of sunlight after months of gray. The land that became the first home of our Anderson family. The burying place of our sons. We trek east, but you will be in our hearts, always home.

Some thoughts about Truman and Sterling

I've been hesitant to write about my children. I feel a true sense of motherhood and wonder if others might not understand the depth of my love, as I did not get to spend their mortal lives with them. I shall not worry about this small point and in stead share some of these feelings. I, after all, did conceive them and bore them. While in the case of Sterling, my time was shorter and less serene to behold his earthly tabernacle, I still envision his body, cutting the umbilical cord myself, having absolutely no idea what to do. Truman's arrival was better prepared for. Loving nurses provided support and comfort through the labor and delivery process. In both cases, Tyler was standing by.

I know Truman's spirit better--he was with me longer. Perhaps I was better prepared to understand his spirit because of my loss of Sterling. Both hold a place in my heart. I anticipate a joyful reunion with each of them one day, and know that they will have opportunities to bless my life while I am still here on earth. No other children will replace them. They are our first and second born.

Elder Russel M. Nelson has written that "mourning is one of the purest expressions of deep love." This definition of mourning is so closely related to charity, the pure love of Christ, that I have found many connections to the Savior's Atonement with the loss of our children. I understand with greater depth and breadth a morsel of what our Father in heaven gave up when "gave His only begotten Son." When Jesus told the Nephites to "thrust [their] hands into [His] side" (3 Nephi 11:14), He was allowing them to feel a piece of His suffering for them--it was brutal. He was slain.

No one I know wants to experience suffering. But how else can I come to love with that purest form of love, the love of Jesus Christ. He knows how to love because of His sufferings. Jesus wept. He was a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. 

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven. A time to be born and a time to die. I never thought I would experience both of those seasons on the same day, but both of our children where born after they died. How do I reconcile that? Well, Jacob offers some sound advice:

"Wherefore,. . . be reconciled unto him through the atonement of Christ, his Only Begotten Son, and ye may obtain a resurrection" (Jacob 4:11).

Resurrection. I do believe that the resurrection of Jesus Christ makes life possible after death, just as our children were born to us after they died. But in the resurrection, the restitution of all things will be made available. All of our loses will be made up to us, coupled with eternal glory and joy.

Thus, I can rejoice. I rejoice in my God. While my physical body could only deliver physically deceased children, the Holy One of Israel "delivereth his saints from that awful monster. . . death" (2 Ne 9:19).

There is so much to look forward. I have always feared death. Always. My own and those I love. I never wanted to experience because I knew it would hurt so much. I am learning that the human heart was created to hold hurt, and outgrowing from the hurt shoots out tender branches and leaves of love.  

I'm making Truman a quilt. Maybe I'll call it Tender Branches. "If the root be holy, so are the branches" (Romans 11:16). I'll take a picture when it's finished. Sterling's quilt is here.

April 2nd

Four years ago, on April 2nd, 2008, Tyler told me that he wanted to take me to Ephraim, Utah to show me "the old haunts." At the time, I did not know what "the old haunts" meant--since I have learned that it is a reference old hangouts, places he might have frequented while attending school at Snow College. I took the above picture today, April 2, 2012, because I know that 4 years ago on this day I was wearing the same floral shirt. As it happens, I always ask Tyler why this shirt is special. I've probably asked him at least 8 times if he remembers what happened while I wore this shirt. It was only today that he got the answer right the first time I asked him, with no hint or lifeline from me.

Yes, Ephraim, Utah, is very close to Manti, Utah. And Manti, Utah is were Tyler Anderson asked me if I would do him the honor of being his wife.

The setting was surreal. The day was cloudy, almost rainy. When we pulled up to the Manti temple and Tyler opened my door, I only thought I glanced at his hand going into his pocket, like he was checking to make sure something was still there. I only thought I felt his heart beating through his hand as he walked me up the stairs, through the gate, and to the back "yard" of the temple lawn.

It was only when he was down on his knee, with the velvety black ring box opened and a sparkling light shining from the inside that it registered: Yes, I was in the process of getting engaged; yes, all the best-laid plans of hoping for a proposal at the Burlington Carousel were no longer needed:

All my daydreams departed. I was in the moment. I was kissing my husband-to-be and shocked at the thought that everything could seem so ordinary one moment and so ethereal the next. I was so excited to be kissing my fiance that I almost forgot to put on the brilliant-cut ring:

Once I recovered from the shock, Tyler helped me put the ring on. The sun peaked through the clouds, pouring golden light across the valley:

Little did I know that we would have so many mountains to climb, early in our married life. We basked in the glory of the proposal for only a few seconds, and then walked down the hill, hand in hand, as Tyler told me the story of getting my dad's permission, getting the ring, showing it to his sister, faking out his mom the day before for April Fool's. We called family and then drove to a TRUE old haunt, the Ephraim pizza joint that Tyler used to go for square dancing with his lady friends ;)

We talked about plans and dreams. How many kids? Lots. How soon? As soon as possible. Thinking back to those times of wonder are almost amusing now. But I hold them sacred. Our priorities have always been to be an eternal family. Delivering two premature, deceased children has only increased that desire and priority. Our covenants are real. Our love is real. Our children are real.

I thank my God every night and morning for the blessings in my life, and almost without fail, the first blessing I thank Him for is Tyler. I've needed Tyler. Hi strength, his compassion, his hope.

That blessed floral shirt still fits. That blessed hill and temple will always feel like home to me. This blessed life continues, and my hopes have been renewed. April 2nd, 2008. Life was great. April 2nd, 2012. Life is oh so much more rich and cultured. And still great. Honey, it's my honor to be your wife.

And as for the carousel, maybe we can have a romantic kiss there when we move to Denver in August. . .

Empty cradle, Broken heart

The title of this post was borrowed from a book on grieving with the same title. I found it online. It was one of those startling moments, like walking past a reflection of yourself and realizing it's a mirror. Oh, there I am.

A friend gave me a cradle--a bassinet, really, with several parts, back when I first announced my pregnancy at work. I brought the pieces home to our nursery. I didn't set it up at the time, just left it in pieces on the floor.

When Truman died, I resolved to always call the nursery the nursery. But what to do about those empty pieces of bassinet. The cradle was there, but it wasn't even assembled. It stayed in the corner until my in-laws came for Christmas.

As I prepared the house for them, I felt embarrassed and uncomfortable for the empty cradle to stay, in pieces, in the nursery. In a few maddening moments, I scooped up the pieces and stuffed some into our closet, and the main basket was thrown into the garage. Hiding places. Hide my pain. Hide this sorrow. Private pain, you see.

Pieces of a cradle, pieces of my heart. Can't sort.Try to stuff. Longing. Always with me.

Empty cradle, broken heart.

Sadness is but a wall between two gardens

It has been a long couple of months. I have been spending time grieving. Grieving for missing out on Truman Joseph Anderson's beautiful mortal life. He was born deceased on November 13, 2011, at 5:45 am. I delivered him in the labor and delivery room of Sunnyside Hospital in Clackamas, Oregon. He was nine inches long. Perfectly formed. With Tyler's eyebrows and a lanky frame. Too perfect for this world.

Most of my grieving and journaling have been done in private. It's a private pain, you see. But I love him still. He has shown me a new way of seeing the world. Someday I'll be able to write it, what Truman knows, what Truman shows me. But not now.

I remember after miscarrying with our first baby, Sterling (Feb 2009), I went back to work after a week. My boss was a wise, wise, lady. She basically said that as an American culture, we do not know how to mourn. How to grieve.

I suppose that is true in a lot of ways. Going to school for a family therapy degree sure has helped me with my own observation of grief. Two years after that first miscarriage, I was sitting in a "pretend" grief and loss support group in one of my classes. I took the role of being a woman who knew she would never be able to bear biological children. Small, stuffy, room. What does it mean to me, I'm asked, to not bear my own children. I had one of those cathartic moments of life: a feelings of despair, grief, hurt, unfathomable pain--all those things that I had felt when Sterling miscarried--they were still there. 2 years later. Inside me. Hidden from even my heart. And in just the right moment, they all came tumbling out in sobs that I did not dare stifle. My poor classmates, just hoping to get through our group therapy class assignment.

I sat in a doctor's office several days ago, learning about possible causes/treatments of future pregnancy losses. Some parts of me were in the room, listening to the good doctor. And other parts of me were far, far, away.

"Number of pregnancies?" the medical assistant asked as we arrived for our consultation. "Two," I respond. "Number of live births?" . . . "Zero," I respond.

I respond. I go on. I go to work. I live. And I grieve. Grief changes you, makes you see things in a different hue. And others who grieve can tap into it. You walk on the same plane, even for a moment, and somehow you're connected to the deepness of loss. You don't say things like "it'll be okay" or "you'll have another." Most of the time, you don't say anything. You just get it. You know grief. It's unspoken. It's in the eyes. It's private. And shared, too.

The gardens go on and on. The walls must be climbed over, drilled through, bombed. Sadness exists. It must be respected, observed, maneuvered. Sadness is but a wall between two gardens.