It's okay to struggle with Mother's Day

On Mother's Day in 2012, I sat in a pew towards the front of our chapel with Tyler, anticipating a beautiful meeting full of tributes to mothers and women alike. I was familiar with the Latter-day Saint custom of celebrating womanhood on this day each year, usually accompanied by a flower or some chocolates for every woman and did not think it a problem to do so.

I had been keeping the strong face for the last 5 months after two miscarriages and 4 years of infertility. I had blogged so much about how I knew I was a mother, how I had held my deceased children and knew that I would hold them again. At this point, I did not know if I would ever hold a newborn baby in this life, with the accompanying joys and sorrows of raising children. I was focusing on my present life: my job as a counselor, my church calling of teaching and loving the young 8-year-olds in our congregation, my role as a wife and daughter and sister.

So you could say I was totally unprepared for the floodgates to open and the silent sobs that literally racked my body as the meeting progressed. I was strong. My experiences had taught me. But my hope was frail and I knew I had to accept the possibility of being infertile or my body spontaneously aborting pregnancies for the rest of my life.

All of my dreams of motherhood, broken and possibly broken, weighed on me. And so I sobbed.

I was sitting in the front. Walking out of the meeting would cause even more of a commotion than just sitting there, my face buried in Tyler's shoulder, his arm around my shuttering frame.

Anyone who saw me in that moment knew exactly why I was crying. This beautiful group of people had mourned with us when we mourned our losses. They had brought the meals and the cards and the tears with our loss of our last pregnancy at 20 weeks.

It was such a vulnerable moment. I couldn't hide anything. I was in the middle of a struggle. And while I didn't want anyone's pity, I accepted the compassion I received.

And so my point is this. It is okay to struggle with Mother's Day. For any reason. Whether you are without children or have no desire to have children or have lost children; whether you have struggles with your own mom or lack of a mom or the children that you DO have. It's okay.

I don't believe the day should be done away with because it presents pain to many. I honor the day that honors a group of women for the gifts they continually give. I also honor the women who stay away from social media and Hallmark commercials and church because of the pain that racks their souls, too.

If it is a happy Mother's Day for you, I am so glad and rejoice with you. If it is a hard Mother's Day, or a sad Mother's Day, or a continual struggle Mother's Day, I am thinking of you.

Children Here and There

November 13th has come again,slipping its way into my heart and tears. It doesn't matter how calloused or indifferent I feel the day before, when Truman's birthday arrives, my heart opens and I allow myself to feel. Feel love. Feel sorrow and loss. Feel gratitude that I had the opportunity to see the physical bodies of two precious children I created before I got to hold sweet, alive, breathing Claira Jane. The tragedies make the miracles sweeter.

Just now, as I tucked Claira under blankets for her nap and settled onto my own bed for scripture study, the baby boy who is due around Christmas startled my belly, reminding me that life is about to change. Again. I went into his almost prepared nursery and carefully retrieved his brother Truman's box from the top shelf.

The box. It's this holding place for memories and dreams, both the broken and the realized. I'm extremely attached to the contents of this box, as well as protective of it. It's basically Truman's graveside, as we chose not to have him buried, but rather cremated by the hospital. The contents include pictures of our sweet boy, the teddy bear, hat, and blanket his was given by an organization hoping to aid the grieving parents of miscarried and stillborn children, the tape measure the nurses used to decipher all 9 inches of his mortal frame, hand and foot prints, and plaster of paris castings of his hands and his feet.

Our boy. Our hope after a previous early birth of a deceased baby and two years of infertility. Our hope in a box. Our dreams at an end and yet somehow a beginning, too. I will forever recall the hallowed space, the reverence of the staff, the cold feel of Truman's skin, his bruised, darkened, beautiful face. His fingernails and serene look, his eyebrows and delicate nose. The box captures all of this for me. I can open it up to feel it all anew, and I can close it to hold it for now.

And then there are the quilts. Sterling's quilt hangs on our wall. I finished it within weeks of his birth. But Truman's quilt, I can't seem to finish it. A part of me isn't ready to. Another part of me is just a busy mom who deals with tantrums and diapers and a house that always needs a good cleaning. And another part knows that the tree represented in the quilt is still growing, still changing. I chose thirteen different green fabrics for the 135 leaves on the tree, 135 days Truman spent with us. The roots on the tree are deeper now than even than. Life is eternal. The separation of life and death, sky and ground, beg for explanation to the what-ifs, whys, and if-onlys. And yet there is contentment and peace, too, a circle of understanding that words and thoughts don't explain.

My sweet children, I am ever learning what it means to be your eternal mother.  You have changed me forever.

Daughters, Moms, & Grandmas

My eternal and wonderful grandma has been extremely sick for the last few days, only now leaving the hospital to continue care at a rehabilitation center. Grandma Billington's health has never been superb in her later years. I wondered if I would see her again in this life when I left for my mission to South African 10 years ago.

Grandma gave me my nickname, Sundy Lynn Sunshine, which, up until the second grade, I understood to be my given name. I came home from school and told my mom that I was the only person in the second grade class with four initials. Only then did I learn that the Sunshine part was bestowed upon me by my favorite person, Grandma B.

As I've watched my own mother become a grandma to Claira (and my mother-in-love, too!), I thrill at the prospect of Claira getting her very own "Grandma Billington." My childhood was full of grandma moments--my strongest, brightest memories include her baking, reading, playing with me. I can smell the smell of her basement, her grandma "scent," her famous cookies and desserts--all in an instant I am taken to the golden days of no cares except that I was with Grandma. Grandma made me feel that I was the most important person in her world.

These memories have come back in flashes that bring the nostalgia to current tears and gulps of how treasured my relationship is with her. As I was talking to Grandma this morning, she told me that I was good mom. I told her that I had a good mom, who learned from a good mom. That prompted her to say that she had made her mistakes, that we all do, and that we have to remember that we are doing the best we can.

I believe that now more than I ever have.So much of my graduate program in counseling focused on figuring out my own hangups during childhood. Indeed, I had several hard conversations with my parents, my mom specifically, about painful wounds on both sides of that relationship. I needed to speak my truth about my experiences about childhood from an adult perspective. I count those conversations with my mom as sacred in my life because whether or not she saw the experiences the same way, she allowed me to speak. I spoke and was released.

I'm a mom to Claira now. And we have entered into a new phase of relationship, one where she experiences the world as an independent soul that has an opinion on everything. The day in and out of this experience--being Claira's one and only mother--will surely bring me to my knees, again and again. It already has. I know I am doing the best that I can. Good moms often feel like bad mom because we want to be the perfect, consistent parents that exist in parenting books and blogs. But I can't be that for Claira. I can be me, and I will be enough. And for the days that she will need a consistent sense of unconditional love that never need discipline or say no more candy, she will have Grandma.

I love my daughter. I love my mom. I love my grandma. The true sunshine of love will continue through generations of women who do and did the best they know how. It's more than enough.

Shoes, Cars, and Prayers

I got a little bit of a frantic voicemail from my mom a couple of weeks back. She had seen a status update I'd posted on Facebook and was concerned that I wasn't okay. The quote was as follows:

"God's answers to our prayers do not always come immediately--sometimes they appear to not come at all.... Assuredly, one day we will see more clearly; and on that day we will recognize the goodness and generosity of heaven." -Dieter F. Uchtdorf

My mom thought I was feeling discouraged. I wasn't. I was feeling blessed, looking back on the last 6 years of my life and seeing the goodness and generosity of heaven.

I don't blog as often as I did when it felt like none of our family dreams were coming true. I wanted to share my struggle. I knew that others could relate to lost opportunities and heartbreaking grief. Rather than pulling inward, I reached outward. It felt good to be open, vulnerable.

Here I am, 2 years into the "dream" of Tyler getting into medical school. Claira is 17 months old, with lunch on her face and light in her eyes. We are expecting another baby boy in December, one that we will get to raise in the flesh. We have the dreams we prayed for, cried for, fought like lions for.

Ain't it crazy how quickly new challenges arise and new struggles come to replace the old ones. My prayers have been answered. I feel firm in my commitment to be at home with my children because I once thought I wouldn't get that opportunity. With that opportunity comes pretty much poverty, no car to drive, and day after day of changing Claira's...shoes (you were expecting diapers, right? No prob. Diapers are simple. That girl is in love with all shoes--hers, mine, Ty's, strangers--). I changed Claira's shoes 17 times yesterday.

Claira's shoes are her freedom. She knows that to go outside, on a walk, on any adventure, she needs her shoes. She refuses to take them off for naps, and this morning I discovered that she slept in her shoes all night. She is a fierce protector of her freedom.

Our car was my freedom before Tyler's 3rd year of school started. For the last 6 years, in this one car family, I had the car. Tyler was so good to always take public transportation. I enjoyed drop-offs, pick-ups, and going everywhere together at the same time. It felt so noble to me that we could "do it all" with one car.

Since June, when T's rotations started, I have been car-less. Granted, I have a fantastic friend who is gracious to pick me up and take me anywhere, a cousin close by, and countless people from church who have offered rides AND their cars. Still, I am dependent. My freedom is limited.

Today I was determined to get Claira a new pair of...shoes :). She only has three pair that barely fit, so athletic shoes have been on my mind. I google mapped Burlington Coat Factory and discovered it was only a 15 minutes walk. But 15 minutes over a freeway. A freeway with construction on a busy, busy road. But like I said, I was determined. And so was Claira.

I prayed on the way there for safety. While I still felt nervous and the noise was deafening, we made it to the store, FOUND SHOES!! (I have been looking for awhile now in our price range), and started back home.

As I neared the scariest part of the trip, where the cars are turning right onto the freeway with all the construction lanes blocked off, I plowed forward with the stroller, praying again. A man in construction gear with a stop sign approached me (he hadn't been there before) and directed me to wait while he stopped the cars that were ignoring my "okay to walk" sign.

He stepped out into oncoming traffic and the cars stopped. I burst into tears.Yes, I am pregnant; tears are a given daily. But it was another moment when I know that my prayers are answered. I may feel alone and scared, but God answers prayers and He knows where I'm at. Every day. When I see clearly, the generosity and goodness of heaven take my breath away. We'll manage with one car, one pair of shoes, one chance at living with joy daily.

Months fly

It is cliche because it is the truth; time flies. I haven't blogged because I've been fully engaged in mommy and wife land. And while some women can successfully blog about their daily adventures, I can't seem to balance everything with such grace.

Looking back on the last 5 and a half months, the kaleidoscope of blessings and challenges mixes into a patchwork of which pictures can only do justice:

Our girl turned one in March. She started walking at 13 months. She has practically all of her teeth. She is just as obsessed with eating grapefruit as she is with dancing, raising her arms and twirling to anything with a beat. She is an early riser, like around 5 am. She just learned to pull her diaper off. She melts me on a daily basis.

Oh, how I thank my Heavenly King for all the things you are, Claira Jane.

Miracles in Small Packages

My last mission companion in South Africa was a petite Angolan woman named Laura. We only spent six weeks serving together in Three Rivers. Funny how little time it takes to find a connection that lasts eternally. Laura is wise and kind. She is funny, hard working, and does not give up. Ever.

How do I know all of this after only six weeks of serving? The 24/7 thing helps, as did her grace when someone investigating the church told us we would not be allowed back because Laura's skin was darker than the woman's husband liked being in their home. I can still feel the sting of indignation in my heart and how Laura quietly lowered her eyes, bringing them up again with love.

But six weeks was just the beginning. A year or so after moving to Portland with Tyler, I was Facebook chatting and found out that Laura had a sponsor and had moved to the Utah to complete a degree in medicine. She was living in a tiny room of someone's house and had no car, few friends, and limited income. Even though I was away, I knew my parents and family would fall in love with Laura immediately and arranged for them to have Thanksgiving together (Have you ever met my generous parents? Come in, sit down, and let Bob and Nancy offer you some homemade grape juice and some delicious baked goods).

Soon Laura moved in with my family and spent several years there. I can't tell you how many opportunities Laura had to give up on her dream of getting an education. Language struggles (when she went to South Africa, she spoke/understood NO English, just Portuguese) made comprehension of math and science challenging. Visa problems, extreme health problems, home sickness, a lack of resources, changing schools, changing degrees, the list goes on and on. Just when one setback was overcome, another loomed in its place.

It's really not my story to tell, all the struggles and miracles Laura experienced while here, but I am grateful I got a glimpse of her miraculous determination to keep going through all of it. Laura graduates from BYU-Idaho this month with a hard-earned, well-deserved bachelor's in Information Technology. She will be moving home to Angola where her sisters and their families are waiting for her, as they have been for years.

I had the privilege of seeing Laura one last time, as she ironically came one last time to my parents for Thanksgiving. She had yet to see my greatest miracle in a small package:

(Thank you for the darling dress, Laura!)

As we chatted at my in-loves' home, I asked her what the best thing about coming to the States had been for her, in the midst of all the trials. "You know," she paused, "I think it was that every time I thought I couldn't do it any more, someone came."

Someone came. Lots of someones came through. They could not help themselves. They looked into the eyes of a woman who has known pain from her earliest days, when her country was always at war and she could hear the bombs each night. They saw this tiny package of a woman who carried a bundle of faith and hope and charity bigger than her challenges. And they paved paths that she was willing to climb.

Laura looked tired to me this last time, as she should. But her eyes are still bright. Her soul is light. I thank the Lord for this small angel.

Real Mothers Use Formula

It's 5:34 in the morning. I've been up thinking since 3:55, when Claira let out her third bout of cries for the night. It's only been since her 6 month appointment a month and a half ago that I have gotten a straight 7 hours of sleep on a regular basis. Thank goodness for teething to remind me that I have many sleepless nights in my future.

Like I said, I've been thinking. Thinking about my life post Claira's birth. I haven't blogged nearly as often now that I take care of an infant. But today I blog about motherhood, motherhood post-Claira's birth. It actually isn't any different of a feeling than pre-Claira's birth.

I remember an afternoon several years ago when my friend came to visit with her three year old son. I was trying to thank my friend for including me in all her social gatherings, where everyone present had children of their own. As I spoke, my emotions got in the way and I could barely make out the words, "I feel like a mother...."Cooper, the three year old, who had been playing with cars on the floor, looked up at me and with piercing eyes and an empowered tone exclaimed, "You ARE a mother!"

Cooper knew what Sherri Dew knows: "Our motherhood began before we were born." I can honestly say that I feel no different in terms of my worth as a mother after having Claira than before I had her. I simply have always been a mother. I believe that every woman is a mother. Thus, the loss of children, born or unborn, is a great and heart-wrenching burden.

The night before leaving the hospital with Claira, I was informed that she was losing weight too quickly and my milk supply was not giving her the nutrition she needed. I was told I would need to supplement her diet. It took several moments for my mind to register what the nurse was saying. My heart seemed to know immediately, though. I would be introducing my baby girl to formula. I burst into tears. I had been to the OB for three different pregnancies where I was always asked, "Will you be breastfeeding your baby?" When I applied in the affirmative, I always received the response, "That's wonderful! Breastfeeding is the best thing for your baby."

It was somewhere in the middle of that long night that I recognized my motherhood again, as Claira cried in hunger, and I relented to giving her some donor breast milk. She needed nutrition, and even if that meant not receiving it from my body, she would receive in any way I could find. I left the hospital with my bloodshot eyes from my body laboring her here and my heart laboring over the uncertainty of her future. It felt like a matter of life and death to me. We left with 16 ounces of donor milk in hopes that my milk would come in soon. Donor milk was $3.50 an ounce. I knew we couldn't keep up this habit.

It turns out that many women who experience infertility issues also experience low milk supply. This surprised me, as I remember my milk coming in with Truman. During the first 2 weeks with Claira, I was a hormonal disaster and realized that I would never, ever, be able to give all that she needed. I remember driving to my neighbors to pick up some extra formula, feeling like I had let down my daughter and all of the medical community who had helped me try to get more milk. Herbal supplements, around the clock pumping, constant feedings. My milk never "came in" as I hoped, but I was able to combination feed her for her first 4 months. I see small time period as a gift.

Grief makes joy brighter.  My life with Claira now? Joy that leaves me in tears. When her hand reaches out to touch my face. When she leans over to catch my eyes and smile from across the room. When she surrenders to sleep in my arms. When she jumps in her jumper like she'd determined to hit the ceiling. When she kisses her reflection in the mirror. It is in these moments that I remember that I am a real mother, I always have been, and real mothers sacrifice whatever it may be--their dream of nursing their babies, the incredulous looks of other mothers when they see her bottle and wonder if it is truly possible that it might be f.o.r.m.u.l.a.--to keep their children healthy and growing strong.

Real mothers exist without having to prove themselves with natural births (which I just so happened to do, and I don't think I love Claira any more than I would have otherwise), without having extensive training in child development (which I also happen to have, and still don't have a clue what I'm doing most of the time), with or without fancy baby clothes and gadgets (let's face it, we are broke).

Yes, real mothers feed their babies formula.

Joy

I've been awful at posting about Claira. I've been too busy enjoying her. 

She is goodness and light. She is divine. She is a miracle. 

I am not a morning person, but my heart wakes right up when she calls out to come and get her to start a glorious new day.

4.5 months old. Fleeting moments carved into my heart forever. 

When a Mom Met Her Daughter

When a mom meets her daughter for the first time in the flesh, it doesn't feel like it's the first time they've met. The day Claira was born, I could not believe that the time had already come. Was I really ready for this? When contractions started and got more and more painful so quickly, you'd think we'd just have gone straight to the hospital, but there was no way I was going to be sent home without a baby. 

When a mom meets her daughter, she wants to be looking her best. I happened to decide not to wash my hair for church that day. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. By the time we got to the hospital, I was sweating from contractions. Triage felt like a lifetime, not being able to find a good vein for the IV felt like eternity, each contraction rose in me like waves of shredded glass that I could manage only with the thought "I'll get an epidural and it will be all right." Famous last words.

When what definitely felt like a head pushing down started and the nurse was calling to me "don't push" and doctors were coming with their masks and gloves and no epidural was in sight, I didn't feel like I was ready to meet my daughter.

But when a dad calmly and firmly counts in bouts of 10, encouraging and strengthening, this mother pushed and pushed with all she has ever known of pain and grief and a desire to know this precious little one; it wouldn't matter that when this mother met her daughter, she would have bloodshot eyes for weeks from laboring, that they would cry together over the pain of mortality even with all the joy that entwines them as kin. 

When a mom meets her daughter, she holds her tight and says over and over "You're here!" She carries her proudly as the nurse wheels them to the mother-daughter unit. This mother remembers well the two other times being wheeled through the hospital with babies that would not be coming home. It's unreal and so real that it hurts.

When a mom and dad meet their daughter, the daughter learns quickly that parents make mistakes. Sorry, sweety, for the dumped ice water just moments after your fresh bath and measurements, just when you thought you were safe and cozy :(

When a mom and dad meet their daughter, they endure three days of hospital stresses, 

dad studying and holding and running to and fro 

in order to go home to the nursery that Dad and Mom have been preparing for months.

After a mom meets her daughter, there is sleeping time and feeding time and tummy time, and that's the best thing about having her daughter--time.

"I'll take the time to love the best I can

and hold this little life with tender hands." 

-Nancy Peterson, aka, Mom/Grandma Nancy

Amazing Grace

My dear friend Chelsey just had this darling little baby girl, Grace. I love that I got to hold her just days after her birth and sense the grandness of life. It's remarkable. When I think about it for long enough, I just have to cry, the fact that life can beget life.

I will miss being pregnant, but it's definitely getting uncomfortable.  The stitches came out yesterday! I was hoping I would be one of those woman that spontaneously goes into labor, but alas, almost 24 hours later, and nothing. Here is a picture of a picture of the 3-D ultra sound the perinatologist tried to take for us, but as you can see, at this point, there is no room in the inn for a camera to snap a picture. He tried hard to get her to move her hand and arm away from the side of her face, but she wasn't having it. She looks pretty squashed--especially her nose :).

SO. We will keep waiting. The ultrasound measures her at 7 lbs 2 oz, plus or minus 15 oz. So much for accuracy. Still, when everyone says they think I'll have a big baby, they are probably right. Should you see me and I have not had this baby yet, please do NOT say:

1) When are you gonna have that baby already?
2) You look like you're going to pop!
or
3) You looked like you were due 2 months ago!

Yes, these are the common greetings I receive. If I knew when I was having this baby, my life would be a lot less exciting. I don't know of any pregnant woman whose belly has ever really popped open like a balloon. AND, I'm grateful I didn't have her two months ago, though she would have shared my cousin Crystal's birthday, and that would have been tender.

Amazing grace. How sweet the sound. I've no less ways to sing His praise than when I first began. This is truly an incredible experience that I give thanks to God for multiple times daily. I do not doubt that HE has preserved this child. Let her take her time in coming--she is long awaited.

Ty + S

I love this man, in all seasons.

 (Christmas time, Benjamin Utah, Dec 2012)

He is my best friend.

(Portland Rose Gardens, Spring 2012)

This month marks the 5 year anniversary of Tyler noticing me from across the hall before the first class of our last semester at BYU. 6 months later, married. What a choice blessing. I can't imagine me without T.

Happy 1st Birthday, Truman

Like several families I know, we have a couple of angels waiting for us in heaven. Today marks the 1 year anniversary of Truman's delivery to this world. He was, as you know, born deceased. His gestation period was a mere 135 days. He weighed just under a pound and was 9 inches long. He had his dad's eyebrows and long, muscular legs (Ty and I both have a 30 inch inseam, so it wasn't a generational thing). I sang to him, I talked to him, and heaven was very near.

While many dreams were broken on November 13, 2011, the dream I had of holding an infant in my arms came true:

Tears still freely fall when I think about the joys and sorrows of this day and the days that have followed.  I know I posted this song in my last post, but it bears repeating--I held Truman, and God has held me up through the support and love of so many angels, both here on earth and above.

Truman, I love you. Forever. Thank you for coming to our family. Your dad and I have learned more about the purpose of life and our desire to be a forever family because of you. Your spirit lingers, and we are so grateful.

To be Held

I'm having an emotional morning. In a good way. I was asked to teach a lesson to the women at church about the Resurrection. I was taken back immediately to my experiences with losing Truman and Sterling. It made me remember that a lady from church had wanted me to listen to this song about bad things happening but surviving. I looked it up onYoutube, and after some cathartic tears, I share the words here:

"Held" by Natalie Grant


Two months is too little.
They let him go.
They had no sudden healing.
To think that providence would
Take a child from his mother while she prays
Is appalling.

Who told us we'd be rescued?
What has changed and why should we be saved from nightmares?
We're asking why this happens
To us who have died to live?
It's unfair.

This is what it means to be held.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This is what it is to be loved.
And to know that the promise was
When everything fell we'd be held.

This hand is bitterness.
We want to taste it, let the hatred numb our sorrow.
The wise hands opens slowly to lilies of the valley and tomorrow.

If hope is born of suffering.
If this is only the beginning.
Can we not wait for one hour watching for our Savior?

I have been held. Even when my literally aching arms have sought desperately to hold a child of my own to no avail--I have been held.





 

Pre-Ultrasound Post

Today is a day that I have anticipated for over 4 years now. A day when a darkened screen lights up and a little light is made known to the world--boy or girl, head size, kidney function, heartbeat a blazing. Truman was born just two days shy of his ultrasound. Sterling was 6 weeks away from that event.

Over the past three days, I have had nightmares of people punching me in the stomach, trying to end my pregnancy. I got a stomach bug and with all the throw-up and stomach cramping I thought for sure this pregnancy had terminated. My fears, while I am always working to keep them at bay, have been stronger this week. Stronger because of this force inside me that says I must see this baby. I must make it to the ultrasound.

Three nights ago, Tyler felt our baby move for the first time in any pregnancy. The amount of joy that filled my heart is sure to be doubled, tripled, quadrupled with every new moment of this pregnancy. We are in uncharted territory, and we are here together.

While reading in our regular spot of the scriptures this morning, I was amazed to hear Isaiah "speak" to me, such personal and profound truths:

“Sing, O barren, thou that didst not bear; break forth into singing, and cry aloud, thou that didst not travail with child. . .

For the Lord hath called thee as a woman forsaken and grieved in spirit.

For the mountains shall depart and the hills be removed, but my kindness shall not depart from thee.

And all thy children shall be taught of the Lord; and great shall be the peace of thy children” (3 Ne 22: 1-13).

All my children. I love all of my children. Perhaps a hint of sorrow will accompany the joy of this afternoon, the sorrow that has carved out the space in my heart to hope anew. I rejoice today. Maybe all of my children will be there.

A Vision

In Proverbs, the Psalmist declares that "where there is no vision, the people perish" (Pro 29:18). I can tell you--not having a vision is sticky. Life becomes swirls of redundant, dreary wasteland that gets traveled again and again--eg, a rut.  When we moved to Colorado, T's vision was clear. He would start medical school. Period. My vision was a bit foggier. I was leaving a great job, fabulous friends and family, and had been applying online for jobs since March. When we got to Utah for a three week hiatus from life before the journey to the Mile-High City, I still had not a clue what my future would hold, but I did find out that I was pregnant.

This news, while joyous for certain, added to my uncertainty of my vision for my Colorado experience. Who would want to hire a pregnant lady, a high-risk pregnancy lady no less? The first two months here left me tired, sick, and job searching to little avail. After a couple of job interviews in my field of mental health, I started wondering if my own mental health would prevent me from contributing to lives of clients in a meaningful way--I was discouraged. Worried about the pregnancy. Worried about money. Worried that the 2 years of school, year of internship, year of work towards my license as a family therapist was all a waste.

So back to the vision. When I applied to grad school, I had just miscarried for the first time with Sterling. My heart was in mourning, for the vision I had of motherhood seemed snatched away literally in the middle of night, leaving me barren of so many things, hope included. The vision then was this: I was to reap the blessing of an education regarding human emotions and relationships. I never knew if I would work in the field of counseling. I hoped I would conceive and bear more children, possibly while still in school (crazy what we sometimes hope for, right?).

Two years of unexplained infertility lead me to believe we would adopt children, probably children with emotional needs that would need my degree and skills. When I graduated and got a job, we started saving money for adoption, only to discover that I was expecting again. When we lost Truman, through months of tears and observed grief, I knew with greater assurance that my degree was not in vain. I knew what I needed to do to understand my loss. Continued healing came (and comes) from both my knowledge of God and His perfect understanding of what it means to lose a Son--and from my experience obtaining my masters degree in family relationships.

What is the vision now? It's still a little foggy, and that is really okay, because I don't feel like I'm perishing. I got a job at a Title 1 elementary school in their before and after program. 50+ kids who are at school for 12 hours a day because their parents are trying to make ends meet. Behavioral and emotional needs galore. The pay is pennies to the job I had before and it's not helping me towards a professional license. But the feeling of trying to meet a child's emotional needs in little ways is rewarding, and it is giving me purpose for now. The children are extremely excited that I am pregnant, asking daily if I am having a boy or a girl (I find out next week). I try not to go down the path of how confusing it would be for them if I were to lose this baby. They are so hopeful, so happy. It's hard not to be anything but that, too, when I see their smiling faces, faces that already know a lot of pain and the separation from parents and family, whether from divorce, displacement, or seriously spending the majority of their wakeful hours at our school.

Vision. I never envisioned being here. It's a pretty great place to be for now.

Climbing Solo while Pregnant: Not recommended

I have been silent for long enough. I have obvious reasons to not share my good news of being pregnant. I had originally intended not to let people know until I had passed the point of Truman's loss (19 weeks), but since Wednesday, have been feeling the need to share.

I am 15 weeks pregnant. I had surgery on Wednesday in an attempt to keep my babe inside with a procedure known as a cerclage . My experience at the hospital was one of hope. Nurses, techs, and doctors all wanting the best for me and "baby." All seemed shocked to find out that I had had two previous 2nd trimester losses. While this surgery is not a guarantee  that I will carry full-term or even into the third trimester, I now know that I have done everything in my personal power to stay pregnant.

A scriptural passage I have long loved comes from the book of Romans, referring to Father Abraham, "who against hope believed in hope" that he became the father of many nations (4:18). Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. I have not seen a pregnancy that lasts longer than the second trimester, so it is truly against my natural capacity to believe that my body can hold out longer than that.

But I hope. Against odds, against doctors' opinions, against my own fears. I hope in the Hope of Israel, the Mighty One, my Redeemer, yes, even the great Deliverer.

Elder Richard G. Scott gave an address entitled "The Atonement Can Secure Your Peace and Happiness" where he describes two types of rock climbing, soloing and in pairs. Elder Scott describes the safety and peace that comes from allowing Jesus Christ to be the lead climber:

"Let the Savior be your 'lead' in life. He has said 'I am...the Rock of Heaven...: whoso cometh in at the gate and climbeth up by me shall never fall."

What an incredible promise. I feel its assurance today. The assurance that I will indeed be able to overcome all challenges and sorrows that seem to stand in the way of my dreams, provided I trust and follow the Good Shepherd, rather than trying to lead myself along. To climb up to where He meets me has felt overwhelming of late, but reading these words today has given me rest. Sometimes climbing is just looking up.

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.