Church

I awoke this morning to two fine young gentlemen smiling down at me; fully garbed in Sunday attire, breakfast eaten and teeth brushed.  "It's Sunday, Mommy!  Get up for church!"

Seriously?  I can't even answer phone calls right now.  How am I supposed to go to church?  So far, I've only managed to converse with my parents and my sister.  Church?  So many people?  I don't want to.  No, I CAN'T.  I can't talk to anybody.  I don't want to cry in public.  I don't want to look anybody in the eye.  I just DON'T WANT TO.  But what else could I do? 

I jump out of bed with feigned enthusiam, then realize that I'm pushing my limits as I start to get a little tunnel vision and have to lower myself to the floor for a moment to regain my bearings.  It looks like we're going to church....

And so we did. 

Jimmy was working and I just couldn't bear the thought of sitting alone after the boys go to kids' church, so I call my friend to ask if I can sit with her in church.  (Sounds a little jeuvenile, you may think... But WHATEVER.  Sometimes you just need someone beside you to help you feel a little more grounded and safe.)  She and her family had other plans for the day, but they changed them and came to church and sat with me.  ((((((HUGS TO YOU, MY DEAR FRIENDS))))))  I know, there are so many of you who would gladly have sat with me, and I am grateful to be surrounded by so many caring people.  But I just needed to know "the plan" before I got there, ya know?  So I cried through most of it and heard very little of the sermon since I was in my own little world, but felt very much comforted by the presence of my church family and the presence of the Comforter Himself.  I am grateful for hugs, for gentle, compassionate words, for your prayers, and for those who told me their stories too.  I'm glad God helped me put a voice to some of the turbulent emotions and memories and internal battles I am fighting and that He provided compassionate ears to hear them.  I'm glad I went. 

Thank you, Silas and Caleb, for dragging me to church today.

See you in heaven, Judah

My baby died a couple of days ago.  It was a boy.  His name was Judah.  We knew our next boy was going to be "Judah" for the last four years.  It stands for going ahead of the battle with a song of praise.  I know that is what God wants me to do now.  I'm not so far, to be honest.  I was almost three months along.  He was so tiny and so perfect.  I picked him up and made a little blankie and wrapped him up.  I held him until the doctor at the hospital took him away.  His hands were this big: O, with perfect fingers.  He had all his fingers and toes, and he was so perfect.  Every time I close my eyes, he is all I can see.  But I don't feel anything, I haven't cried, I haven't felt anything at all.  Well, I cried for a minute when I wrote my Facebook status.  And my eyes filled up today when I found that a little pillow one of my boys had made last month for his unborn sibling had been moved from its place.  I gave my boy a hug and said, "Do you want to save this pillow in case we have another baby?"  He looked at the floor and shook his head no.  I asked "Do you want to keep this pillow as a memory of your little brother?"  He started crying and nodded yes.  So I gave him a big hug, then put the little pillow by his pillow on his bed.  I want to help my boys grieve, and I want to be there for them, but I feel so empty myself.  I still feel like I'm in shock or something.  It happened three days ago.  Today, I have been re-organizing my house, and putting our newly-acquired baby stuff way under the stairs for long-term storage.  I'm going to finish painting our house (which I had to stop when I found out I was pregnant) and I'm going to clean.  I don't know what else to do.