Bearing Burdens

This holiday season wasn't as bad, emotionally, as some have been.  Mostly, it passed uneventfully, with a few twinges or moments that reminded me they were supposed to be hard.  I'd say that was a vast improvement.  Our practice of looking for people to help really made it easier to think of someone other than myself.  But other things helped as well.  

It also helped that people would show they were thinking of us and wishing us well.  I had people checking in on us, asking us how we were in the way that it was clear they really wanted to know.  I had a friend show up on my doorstep with a gift to add to my angel shelf.  That did bring a tear to my eye, in the very best way.  

We also prayed consistently for those who struggled more than we did, and there were many.  Someone I know sat beside the hospital bedside of her little girl as that toddler flirted with death.  Someone else I know struggles with a difficult pregnancy.  Several someones struggled financially or emotionally.  Others struggled through their worst Christmas ever as they mourned the recent loss of a loved one.  

Nothing helps with one's own burdens more than thinking of others or having others think of us.  Knowing that there is love and there are prayers help carry the difficult burden of a holiday.  Thank you to all who prayed for us and all those who gave us an opportunity to pray or serve them.  There is truly magic in bearing one another's burdens.  

Our Traditions

Christmas season, as I've said, is hard.  But we've found ways to make it just a little bit easier with traditions and sparks of joy.  

When I unpacked our Christmas decorations, I pulled out a little tree made of gold tinsel. I wouldn't think much of it, except that we bought it on clearance the year my baby died.  That year, everything was painful.  Breathing was painful.  Existing was painful.  It's hard to describe just how much agony comes upon a family that has just lost a child when the holiday season comes.  Everything from a baby's first Christmas ornament to images of babies to paintings of angels to songs about mothers giving birth brought new pangs of loss.  With that tinsel tree, my kids played an improv game named Props in which they brainstormed what that little tinsel tree could be from a mermaid fin to a cat's tail to a dunce cap to a nose.  That little tinsel tree brought a rare smile to my face.  It brought something so rare during such a painful season: laughter.  

This one little item makes me reflect over the last seven Christmases since our angel came and left.  I remember buying little angel ornaments with anticipation to add to our journal tree.  Every year, we select and date an ornament to represent our year.  We have a 2004 angel that represents our boy before he was born and a toddler ornament that represents him after his birth.  We have similar ornaments to represent our next child.  We bought both a solitary angel for Alli and an angel dancing with a little girl to represent both of our girls.  Then, we bought a frame with wings in which to place our baby's photo after she passed.  But most years, we buy one ornament to represent our vacations or the purchase of a house or a pet.  Those ornaments, like our children's scrap books, remind us of the major events in our lives.  We also have an ornament to represent our miscarried angels.  We all sit together to put those special journal ornaments on our tree and reflect on our lives together.  We smile together remember the fun moments as well as our losses. The tree represents all of it, the good, the bad, and the ugly.  

Then, there's our angels' gift.  Every year, it's the last present we open because it's the most important.  Over the course of the holiday season for the last seven years, we've recorded every service we've done for our fellow man, even each other.  We write them on slips and put them under the tree.  We've made a point to add to it every chance we got.  For the first few years, I needed something to think about other than the holiday season, itself.  I have a friend who struggles financially, especially around the holidays.  So every year for the first few years, I had my kids and me find presents for this family to make their Christmas a little bit brighter.  Now, I don't need that emotional escape, but I still want to help.  I still want to add to that service jar, the gift for my angels.  So I give her a little money.  I want her to have the joy of doing the Christmas shopping for her kids.  This year, especially, we're looking for ways to bring a little bit of joy to others.  That's what this season is all about: remembering the giver of all good things.  

Due to these acts of healing and others as well as the healing power of the Lord, Christmas is no longer as painful as it once was.  That doesn't mean it's free of tears and pain.  But it is better.  We don't have to let the holidays stay painful.  We can find traditions, find ways to bring joy in spite of our pain.  I hope you can do the same.  Because the message of Christmas isn't one of pain but of joy, light, and love.  When we share all of that with others, it comes more fully into our lives.  

Fear of Loss

It's hard to say which is worse, losing someone without warning as I did with Alli or knowing you're going to lose someone before you do.  In the latter case, you get closure.  You get to say goodbye.  In the former case, you get neither of those things, but you also don't endure the fear and the period of mourning long before mourning really begins.

I started to think about this recently as someone I know sits by the bedside of her sick child.  I can't know if she'll lose the child, but the fear eats her alive.  Her every waking thought and breath are devoted to her child, knowing that she could lose her at any time.  I never had to go through that.  But with the way I went to work, made a call home, and learned my baby was gone in rapid succession, I don't feel like I had the closure I may have had.

I guess the real question is does it hurt more when you can see the bus coming before it hits?  Either way, it hurts.  It hurts so badly you feel like you're going to die, that a heart can't take that much pain and survive.  Most of the time, I am buffered from the pain anymore.  The pain has become a part of me, like my leg or my arm.  But also, the Lord has helped me through, has shielded me from some of the pain.  But that doesn't mean the pain isn't there.

Loss is just hard, whether you see it coming or not.  There's no way around it.  Knowing families can be together forever helps but doesn't end that pain.  I can't hold my baby right now.  My arms are still empty.  I have something to hope for as will my friend if she does lose her baby.  She, too, knows she will hold her baby again one day.  But not until that day.

It's hard to see her in front of that metaphoric bus of loss, knowing it could very well hit at any time.  It's hard not to be able to do anything to prevent that bus from hitting.  I pray for her, but I know if the Lord wills it, if it's her baby's time, all the prayer in the world will not stop the bus.  All I can do is hold her hand and unite with her in prayer, help her understand that if the bus hits, I'll be there for her, no matter what.  For now, that will have to be enough.