For some reason, Christmas compels me to share a couple. Maybe it’s because there’s so much frickin’ happiness at Christmas, and I remember feeling so desperately unhappy those first couple Christmases. I remember getting the album Snow Angels at Christmas time in 2007, our first one without Felicity.

I have particular memories of playing–no, blasting–this one over and over with tears streaming down my face anytime I was in the car alone.

I don’t want to explicate why it was so comforting to me. That’s not how music works. If it grabs you, it grabs you. If it doesn’t, then no amount of my explaining it will help you feel what I feel when I hear it. It punches me in the gut still today, in the best kind of gut-punching way.

Don’t forget to pray this week for people shedding more tears this Christmas than sharing smiles. Remember them. Listen to a song for them. Light a candle for them. If they can’t ask for the white horse for Christmas for themselves, hold out hope for them and ask for it for them.

White Horse
(Words and Music: Detweiler)

Bring me a white horse for Christmas
We’ll ride him through the town
Out into the snowy woods
Where we will both lie down

Underneath white birches
Our faces toward the sky
We will make snow angels
With our white horse standing by

Hush now baby
One day we’re gonna ride
Hush now baby
Our white horse through the sky

Bring me a white horse for Christmas
We’ll ride him through the snow
All the way to Bethlehem
2000 years ago

I wanna speak with the angel
Who said do not be afraid
I wanna kneel where the oxen knelt
Where the little child was laid

Hush now baby
One day you’re gonna ride
Hush now baby
Your white horse through the sky

No bridle will he be wearing
His unshod hoofs they will fly
Keep a watch out this Christmas
For that white horse in the sky

Hush now baby
One day we’re gonna ride
Hush now baby
Our white horse through the sky

Hush now baby
Let every angel sing
Hush now baby
One day we’ll ride again

It’s been four years now, and I still have a desire to buy you something, Felicity. (Will that ever go away?)

It’s been four years now, and I wish I could see your eyes light up with excitement over the decorations in the kitchen for your birthday breakfast. (I wish we were busy tonight with last-minute birthday preparations, instead of sitting here writing blog posts.)

It’s been four years now, and I often find myself wishing I knew what you’d like. (Would you be a chocolate cake girl like mama?)

I’ve been working on this scarf for myself for months, Felicity. Months. The hubbub of our lives prevented me from finishing it until this week. So now it’s my birthday present–to you…for me; for you…to me. I don’t know…

But I love it. And I know I’d love you more.

Daddy calls it the “Starry Night” scarf. I like that.

There’s been a lot of dark nights since we lost you, no stars in the sky. Just the black expanse. I remember one night a couple weeks after you died, I was out in the country and we turned the light off to sleep and it was so dark I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. That was year 1 and year 2 without you. So dark. So paralyzingly dark.

But then, just like a night sky, stars began to appear, little glimmers breaking through the pitch. They’ve lit my way a bit. They’ve taken the edge off of the darkness. They’ve shone some beauty into something so horrific I thought it might swallow me whole (and at times, wanted it to).

So for your birthday I’m gonna wear the Starry Night scarf. It’s from me…about you.

Someday we’ll see the stars together the way they were meant to be seen.

Orison came to the door and announced, with a big smile, “It’s boy time in here, and girl time out there!”

Then a couple minutes later he ran out to the “girl time,” kissed Cadence, and said to me very brightly and happily “I wish Felicity was right…[pointing to the empty space on my lap] there.”

He flashed me his million-dollar smile, backed up a few paces, then jumped, face upturned, and kissed the sky.

We miss you, little girl. And we’ll throw kisses at the sky for as long as it takes until we see you again.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z_9GNQwEB3o

It was amazingly timely, too, because last week, a family in our church suffered a 35-week-gestation stillbirth. And for a relatively young church who hasn’t experienced much death or grief, people came around them so well.

I was particularly struck by the line:

Does life seem nasty, brutish and short?
Come on up to the house.
The seas are stormy
And you can’t find no port.
Come on up to the house.

What I took from it was a simple confirmation to just come to Jesus. I feel like I can hear it in ways I wouldn’t have been able to when we were so freshly living our tragedy. I also felt like I was able to call to mind times that I was able to “come on up to the house” in the last three years that changed me in such deep, irrevocable ways.

And I’ve experienced his welcome every time I’ve come on up.

This is a video of Alice Sommer, the oldest Holocaust survivor alive. She’ll turn 107 next month.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QlccsLr48Mw

I was moved and heart-broken by so many things she said. I don’t think everything she said is spot-on (the whole “music is God” thing), but I want to run it through the sieve of Truth and hold onto the lessons that are worth learning, namely, that I have a choice to love. I have a choice to be joyful in difficult circumstances. I want to take what’s true and beautiful here and let the Holy Spirit point me to Jesus.

And while I’m not comparing her Nazi prison camp experience to my experience of losing a child, I still see lessons and similarities. There’s no use in comparing what she went through and what I’ve gone through. They’re different. But there is pain. Pain is universal, no?

There’s potential for all kinds of hatred and anger in both of our situations (and probably in yours). But can I forgive? Can I move toward healing? Yes. Oh my, yes. I’ve experienced measures of healing I didn’t think possible. And you can hear it in her laugh. Healing exists.

The other thing that I can totally relate to is the power of music. I grew up in a very musical family, and music was a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I love to listen to music, I love to play or sing music, I love to enjoy music.

When Felicity died, when I was going through some of my darkest days, I developed a soundtrack. A song would hit me as I drove down the road, or sat on my bed, and it would inspire my shriveling faith, or encourage me toward (what I felt was non-existent) hope, or meet me right in the midst of my anger and challenge me toward love. I have a playlist now. It’s the “Grief Mix.” I still love that mix. I remember pulling up to the graveside on one occasion, blasting Sandra McCracken’s “Guardian” over and over on repeat and just sobbing until I had nothing left. There was promise there for my soul.

When you go out, when you come home;
like a hedge, like a shield, I’ll be your guardian…

It was as though God used the music to break through the hardest parts of me, and dig into the deepest depths. And it’s funny, because it was like those songs were for me only. It’s like my own little secret language with the Lord. Because no one will hear those songs and know exactly how it makes me feel, or know exactly what I was experiencing the first time I heard it, or know why it has a place on the “Grief Mix.” It’s just mine. I own it for my soul. And that’s kinda like Alice. She owned those Chopin etudes in the camp and they transformed her.

I don’t think music is God. But I do think that there was so much power in it for my healing. God used music to change me.

So I hope you feel inspired by Alice today. And, more importantly, I hope you want to heal.

(via Karsten)

My brother-in-law Karsten posted this song on 9/11. I couldn’t help owning it for today, Felicity’s birthday, three years later.

The line that makes me cry today:

Your house is waiting…for you to walk in.

I never saw her steps. What I wouldn’t give to watch her walk into our house–watch her strut around the place without a care about mortgages, utilities, broken stuff. It would just be her home, that safe place she calls hers.

But, I’ll join her at her place someday. And somehow…somehow I won’t regret all the years we spent apart.

Today I do.

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

If I should die before I wake,

I pray the Lord my soul to take.

God bless Mommy, Daddy, Janae, Preston…

When Orison was born, he got a little stuffed toy that had a very cleaned-up version programmed in when you squeezed it:

Now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

The angels watch me through the night

And keep me in their blessed sight. Amen.

I remember at the time thinking I didn’t like the cleaned-up version. It felt like it was giving the message of, “Uh-oh, don’t teach kids the d-word.”

It’s an epidemic in our culture from the earliest ages on up–no one wants to talk about death. You’re considered morbid if you think about it, ponder it, plan for it.

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, the organization

I’ve been wanting to write a post about this organization for months now. I don’t know why it’s taken me this long. Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep is a photography organization that captures family moments with their baby who has died or is dying. They have thousands of trained volunteers (professional photographers) who make this happen. And, amazingly, they provide these services for free.

I get quite a few emails from people asking what they should do in the immediate moments surrounding the death of a baby. One of the things I always tell them is: 1. Contact Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep to see if there’s a photographer to go to the hospital. 2. If they’re not available at your hospital, take pictures.

I remember it being a strange decision to take pictures of Felicity. Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep wasn’t operating at our hospital back in 2007 (and I didn’t even know about them anyway) so the pictures we have were taken by us and our parents. They aren’t professional, but they’re precious.

When your brain is completely overcome with shock and grief you aren’t thinking about the long-term. You aren’t thinking about how you’ll remember this baby 2 years, 10 years down the road. But you’ll want to remember that baby, and your already-fuzzy brain will grow fuzzier with time. Having pictures of your baby will help reconstruct some of the memories of your time together.

I felt so much pride for Felicity, just like I did with all of my other children. My maternal instincts were very much a part of our time with her, and I felt very, very proud.

I would encourage you to browse their website and see some of the beautiful work they do. Also, NBC aired a heart-wrenching news story back in ’08 about their work. Be prepared to cry pretty hard if this is an issue close to your heart. But it’s worth your time and tears to watch it:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MlKhrCORF8w

It started on Friday when Abraham told me he’d been given 2 tickets to the new Target Field (home of the Minnesota Twins) for the Saturday afternoon game. It was supposed to be rainy and cold but we decided to be true Minnesotans and go out to the game anyway! I took my 24-week picture, of course…the twins at the Twins!

By the way, those weren’t our seats. Ours were up in the top deck, but we decided to explore a bit after the game. It was fun to just get to sit together for a couple hours, even if we could see our breath and had to wear winter hats!

Then on Sunday, we had a lovely time at church, went out to lunch with Abraham’s parents and sister, and then went home to lay down!

After naps we went out to Dairy Queen, where I got my favorite Butterfinger Blizzard. Here’s an attempt at a good picture:

After DQ, we went to the cemetery. The kids just run and have fun there, which is kinda cool. I had to bribe them to sit for this one.

I was able to snap a quick one of Morrow while he was on the run:

The only sad part was when we were driving away, Morrow said, completely unprompted, “Bye-bye, dee-dee-dee.” Translation: Bye-bye, Felicity.

Here’s a couple more pictures from recent days, just because I’m crazy about these guys:

I’m so deeply thankful that I get to mother these two characters. And I’m happy to report that this Mother’s Day brought more smiles than tears. That’s a blessed change.

One thing I’ve relied on a lot since losing Felicity is letting others hope for me. Seeing their faith and hope helps. It really does.

I think I’ve heard my friend Barbie say over a hundred times during our friendship, “I have great hope for you, Molly.” She’s said it so many times and in so many instances that the tone of her voice, the look on her face are burned into my memory. I need that mental tape to play for me often.

One of the ways I’m exercising hope during this pregnancy is allowing my dear friends to throw a baby shower for me. I was super hesitant about it for a number of reasons:

• I’ve only been to one baby shower since Felicity died. I don’t really do the baby shower circuit anymore.
• This is my 4th pregnancy–who has a shower for their 4th pregnancy? I thought people would think it was weird.
• I didn’t want to get excited (or get a bunch of gifts) and then have them die.

But…I’m moving forward in it. My best friend Danielle designed invitations for the event, and I love them. Even just seeing evidence that this is really happening helped me get excited. Plus, Danielle will be in town for the shower, so I’m thrilled about that!

Here’s the invite that made me so happy:

This design just oozes hope to me, for some reason. Maybe because the person who designed it designed it with deep knowledge of what I was/am opening myself up to in going ahead with a baby shower.

I have no idea how I will fare as the guest of honor. It feels very foreign and scary.

But I’m thankful that there are people willing to come around me and rally my heart in hope and faith and love for my children, no matter how this pregnancy turns out. I need their strength when I feel like I have none. I need their excitement when all I have is fear. I need their joy when sorrow is pressing in.

I need their hope, because hope is a beautiful thing.

*          *          *

Also, if there was any way to transport all of my supportive, amazing readers into this baby shower, I would do it. So many of you have shared your hope and excitement with me through these years. I would love to see your faces around the circle in that room. Consider yourselves all invited, at least in my heart.