"I Knew I Could Trust You"

Our friend, Pastor Dave Ness, blessed us with a visit over dinner last week. He then came to our home and sang the song he wrote for our family titled, "I Knew I Could Trust You." While sitting on our couch, he played his guitar and we all cried through the summary of Anna's story placed sweetly to prose and chords. 

His involvement in our lives through this entire journey has been a blessing. He and his wife, Joy, invited us to stay in their home while we waited for Anna to be born. We ended up staying elsewhere, but saw them several times whether over dinner or at their church, or when Pastor Dave would come check on us at the hospital. Always, with prayer and words of encouragement. 

Pastor Dave & Joy know the pain of losing a baby. They lost triplets. And Dave shared that God gave him the last portion of this song just recently, on their 18th birthday. 

I Knew I Could Trust You 

For Anna Joy’s Family 

Dave Ness 

August 23, 2012 

Unexpected miracle, then unexpected trials, 

Advice to just “start over” and avoid most certain pain.

Instead of starting over, you decided just to love her; 

Instead of giving up, you gave our Anna Joy a name. 

And you asked for prayer 

And the game was on. 

I knew I could trust you. 

I knew I could trust you. 

Faith in me runs deep with you; you knew that I could do it... 

I don’t do odds, just miracles; precisely what you need! 

No matter what the outcome, you knew I’d help you through it, 

Your call for prayer went worldwide and sent thousands to their knees 

For an unborn child 

they’ve never seen. 

I knew I could trust you. 

I knew I could trust you. 

The only chance this baby has takes everything you’ve got, 

And even then the odds are ten percent; 

She doesn’t need one miracle, but several in a row— 

The world is watching carefully 

To see where your prayers go.... 

Your faith has been rewarded! Your little girl is born. 

She’s beautiful! She made it through the night. 

A week has passed; you stare into amazing little eyes 

So this is what your answered prayer looks like! 

The only chance this baby has takes everything you’ve got 

And even now the odds are ten percent; 

She doesn’t need one miracle, but several in a row— 

The world is watching carefully 

To see where your prayers go.... 

Silent teardrops falling on a perfect little face, 

Anointing fading hope from aching eyes. 

The miracles have run out and it’s time to say goodbye; 

A million faith-filled prayers have now become a million "why’s"?

Will you love a baby you will only hold for minutes? 

In only precious hours will she know a lifetime’s love? 

Will you carry hope for her when there’s no more hope in it, 

Then sing her to the angels up above? 

I knew I could trust you. 

I knew I could trust you. 

Will you keep your faith in me when dreams are crushed and shattered, 

When there’s no understanding, only pain and pain and pain? 

Will you keep on holding on to faith and one another?.... 

I knew I could trust you. 

I knew I could trust you. 

“Why, God, why?” (I get that a lot) 

But you’re in the world which now is caught 

Between the perfect worlds that I have made: 

The Garden, where there was no pain, 

And heaven, where my Son will reign; 

You’re still in the world that’s drowning in its sin. 

So take my hand; I’ll lead you through, 

When you can’t walk, I’ll carry you 

Until the day when you’re with her again. 

I know you feel you’ve loved and lost, 

You took the risk and now the cost... 

The sword in your soul, 

The grief you bear, 

You wonder if I even care, 

And if I do, Then, why? 

Then, why? Then, why? 

It takes faith to believe that I can do it; 

It takes more faith to trust me when I don’t. 

Your faith will be rewarded, child, and so will all the others, 

Who kept that faith and keep their joy in hope.

Someday when you’re here with me 

And pain’s a forgotten memory, 

You’ll understand the things you can’t know now– 

Like how it is a God who cares 

Could leave His children standing there 

With empty arms, and not be weak or cruel. 

The answers will come in heaven; 

Healing will come in time; 

But the peace I give is for you, right now. 

Receive it, and know you are mine. 

The answers will come in heaven; 

Wounds become scars, in time 

But the comfort I give is for you, right now. 

Receive it, and know you are mine. 

I want you to know how this story ends. 

I want you to know how this all turns out: 

There’s a place beside my throne– 

You call it “heaven;” I call it “home”– 

When all your earthly chores are done, 

You’ll join me here, to stay. 

And, waiting here, 

Is your child of prayer. 

She’ll launch herself into your arms and never let you go! 

Your road of grief will end at last in joy around my throne, 

You’ll hold your precious Anna Joy forever and a day! 

Meanwhile, 

In the tunnel of grief... 

I’m here. 

I’m right here. 

And I love you. 

I’m proud of you. 

I’m holding you... both. 

And I’ll never let go. 

Never let go, 

I’ll never let go. 

One more thing I want you to know, 

Even though it may not seem it’s true: 

When you’re able again, 

You can trust me, too. 

I knew I could trust you; 

You can trust me, too. 

Every Day Surrender

Hi, friends... close, far, and unknown...

August 2012

We are doing pretty well. There are some positive things happening in our life, and although it isn't without challenges, we feel blessed and excited. 

My last post told about our loss of another pregnancy just 6 months after we said goodbye to Anna Joy. It took me to a darker and emptier place in my grief. I am doing much better now. I still have many questions, but am learning that I don't have to find the answers. That is hard to let go of, but I have realized that it's best to focus my energy on getting through the day instead of trying to figure things out. 

A new season is coming. And I don't mean Fall, although I love this time of year. I sense a changing of seasons in our new life without Anna is just up ahead. We are still very sad, still cry many tears, still study her photos, still imagine what it might have been like to have her here with us... always. But God is stirring up some blessings, and I'm starting to taste them. We can feel His presence, and He continues to carry us through this new territory. 

I can get through more days with less stress. I have been able to take care of our home with more motivation instead of being overwhelmed. I look forward to meeting with people and accomplishing tasks. This is such a blessing! After a year of complete sadness and helplessness, it is so refreshing to be able to function like a (more) normal person. Please don't think this means we don't need your prayers and your help. We need both desperately. We are still very tired and never know when our emotions will erupt. 

It's a new life. We've never done this before. And a lot of you haven't been friends to someone in this life before. Please don't be afraid of us. Please talk to us, ask how we're doing, and talk about Anna. The more time that passes, the farther we get from her. Hearing others talk about her or ask how we're doing makes it real and grounds us again.  Life goes on, but we're often stuck and end up watching the rest of  you continue, wondering if we'll ever feel the way we used to. I've heard and read it gets easier, and we're just barely starting to see that happen. But I'm also a little afraid of finding "normal" again, because it means I've let her go. And I'm not quite ready to do that. 

Here is a blog post by a friend of mine who lost her baby girl just a month and a half before we did. She describes it so well. This is where I'm at...

This Juxtaposed Life....

By Laura Finnegan, August 29, 2012 (finneganlife.blogspot.com)

Ours is a juxtaposed life. And it's hard to live.

So sad about so very much loss. But on the other hand, blessed with so much.

Three boys, that in my estimation, hang the moon, a husband I've had the privilege
to grow up alongside, and a love for all of them deeper than any ocean. Such blessing.

But right there, right there next to all of that "goodness," is indescribable sadness and
sorrow. The grief of losing our baby girl, our only girl, our sweet daughter Brynna.
What undefinable heartbreak.

How do I live this juxtaposed life? Fitting two unlikely halves together in a feeble attempt 
to make my heart whole. It doesn't really make sense. This situation is nonsensical.

On any given day, it may be the sadness that has the wheel. Taking us for a ride on the 
bumpy, dark, unforgiving, unrelenting road called grief. The next day, we may have a respite
and be able to focus our attention on our living children, our sweet boys, Colton, Aidan and
Jackson.

And we have no choice, no say in the matter. The days, the hours, the minutes, they are what 
they are. We cannot dictate or dissuade the sadness, it just comes. We also cannot stop our 
hearts from yearning for happiness and growing with love. So mixed up is our life.

So we just keep on, continuing to rise each morning attempting to make our way through each
uncertain day. Some nights we fall into bed and lay our weary heads down in prayer that
"tomorrow will be kinder". Other nights we go to sleep with just a sliver of reassurance because 
that day has proven "more doable" than the one before.

At times it's enough to make a person crazy, this juxtaposed life.

I hate not having her.  I love having them.  I am heartbroken.  My heart is healing. 
I am sad.  I have moments of happiness.  I feel weak.  I am becoming stronger.  
I cannot stand.  I am standing.  I can't do this.  I am doing this.

This is a crazy life.

So, here we are. On we go. 

I get nervous about the long winter coming (lots of dark skies, clouds, and rain here in western Washington), but I know now that I'm not alone. God is always with me, and I have many friends around that I need to let into my life. I'm taking another step into another day (and a new season), not knowing anything except God is faithful and He'll carry me through. 

We keep learning to trust. It's not a one-time lesson. Trust is an every day surrender. Trusting God with the unknowns, and trusting our broken hearts with friends... It's scary. I don't want to hurt anymore. Yet, like I've written about before, there is no blessing without risk first. There must be a question asked, a heart offered, a love given, a life surrendered. 

I have to cling to Christ. I must make intentional effort to connect with His Spirit through the Word, worship music, devotional readings, or journaling. I have nothing without Him. If I trust Him to carry me, there is hope. 

We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.
Hebrews 6:19a

You are my refuge and my shield; your word is my source of hope.
Psalm 119:114

I love the Lord, for he heard my voice;
    he heard my cry for mercy.
 Because he turned his ear to me,
    I will call on him as long as I live.

 The cords of death entangled me,
    the anguish of the grave came over me;
    I was overcome by distress and sorrow.
 Then I called on the name of the Lord:
    “Lord, save me!”

 The Lord is gracious and righteous;
    our God is full of compassion.
 The Lord protects the unwary;
    when I was brought low, he saved me.

 Return to your rest, my soul,
    for the Lord has been good to you.

 For you, Lord, have delivered me from death,
    my eyes from tears,
    my feet from stumbling,
 that I may walk before the Lord
    in the land of the living.

Psalm 116:1-9

Love Always Hopes

The past month and a half has been unbelievable. 
Nearly unbearable, but we're still going somehow. Just barely.

The word empty has been my choice descriptor the past few weeks. 

Loving someone who isn't living is torture. Loving a baby who didn't even live two weeks is robbery. I'm left with longing that will never be fulfilled. I'm left with a few photo files that will never grow like my other child's does. I'm left with tubs of tiny unworn girly clothes. I'm left with a shattered heart, and the contents have spilled out. 

Empty. 

Tasks that are routine for normal people are overwhelming to me. My thoughts, emotions, prayers, and longings are using up all my physical energy. I have nothing left to give.

Empty.

On May 21st, I burst into tears after watching the pregnancy test reveal that I was expecting again. The burst was caused by a sudden mix of emotions. Shock that it could happen so soon... Excitement for another little one to join our family... Fear of all that could go wrong... Blessed that God would give us another child... and worry that Anna might be forgotten or that I wouldn't be able to grieve for her appropriately as I carried another child. But mostly, I cried in praise to God because I was so thrilled at the thought of another baby to carry and birth and love and raise. I got out the tubs of clothes that were intended for Anna and looked through, dreaming of another girl. I looked at baby pictures of Isaac, wondering if we'd be blessed with a second boy.

Three weeks later Matt & I attended a memorial service at Seattle Children's Hospital in honor of all the children who have passed away there. I can't even explain the horror I felt as I entered that building again. I wept with such rawness, it hurt so bad. The last time I was there was when we held Anna for the last time and said goodbye... and I had to walk away. She spent her whole life there. Hot tears streamed as we walked the same halls, rode the same elevators, visited the same waiting rooms, and peeked into the ICU. Anna's room. Anna's world. Our memories with Anna. But she wasn't there. 

Empty.

Two days later, June 8th, we celebrated Anna's 6th-month with my extended family. It felt right to celebrate somehow... to get flowers and balloons and look through the memory boxes. It never completely feels right, because I don't like this outcome. I wish we would have been celebrating with her present. Celebrating her healing or even another successful surgery... But we celebrate her. She happened, she was beautiful, she was worth it. 

A good friend presented me with an amazing gift on that same day. Months earlier she  asked family and friends to create a scrapbook page of what they learned from God, Matt & I, or Anna through this whole journey. She compiled several and put them in an album titled "Thank You, Anna Joy". I sat and cried over every page. Truly priceless. (If you would like to make one, or even just write to us with the same concept, please do! We would love to add to the album.) Here are a few examples. 

My first ultrasound for this new pregnancy was June 14th. I was eight weeks along, and had a huge amount of apprehension and excitement attached to my heart. I couldn't sit still or breathe deeply. I just wanted to get in and get going so I could see my tiny baby bean and his/her strong heartbeat. I couldn't wait to see the heart beating! I just wanted to know that everything was OK this time. 

So many questions have surfaced since Anna Joy's passing. She wasn't healed and I don't understand that. I wondered with this new pregnancy if I should even ask for a healthy baby. I knew God would hear me... but would it make a difference? He already had a plan for this child, and I believe knows what is best for me and my family. But I had such a jumbled mess of thoughts and feelings swirling that I couldn't even really pray for specific things. But I started a journal. A new journal for another child. Just like I have for Isaac and Anna. I spilled my heart to this new baby, and gave her/him to God. I didn't have the strength to analyze whether or not I should ask for a perfectly healthy baby, but I knew I needed to surrender again. And I knew I needed to love. Thus, as scary as it was, I opened my heart to another child. 

Matt & I watched the screens in the ultrasound room as the tech measured this and that. Finally, the gestational sac was front and center. I've had and witnessed so many ultrasounds, I knew something didn't seem right when I saw this sac. I couldn't find the little bean-shaped gray spot that should be inside the black circle. Just black. My concern was confirmed when the tech stopped humming with the radio, and after a few moments left the room saying she needed to talk to my nurse. 

The gestational sac measured six weeks instead of eight. Two possibilities: 1) I was six weeks along instead of eight, or 2) there was no fetus developing.

Excuse me? What is happening right now? THIS CAN'T BE!

Matt & I left in shock, depleted of any little energy we had when we arrived at the appointment. I got in my car and wept. Too much. 

Empty.

We had to wait a full week for the next ultrasound which would answer our question of whether this was a viable pregnancy or not. It is so weird to have a positive pregnancy test (or two!), all the normal symptoms (nausea, hunger, exhaustion, etc.), and give your heart to a new little person... only to find out that there's a possibility there is no baby growing. 

Two days after that first appointment we participated in The TEARS Foundation Rock & Walk in honor and remembrance of Anna Joy. We had a small group of friends join us, and we walked as team "Wholehearted". Matt & I agree that it was more difficult and emotional than we expected, but it was very worth-while and healing. 

Then it was Father's Day. Poor Matt. Man, the holidays hit hard. Not only did he miss his baby girl, but the absence of his own father was more acute this year. He felt the loss from both ways. 

We made it to the next ultrasound appointment. The hope I carried in with me was dashed soon after the tech started looking. The screen told me the same story. I knew. Empty. No baby. What a numbing experience. Surreal. Unbelievable. Too much.

Empty. 

I couldn't believe I was being told I was going to miscarry. Too much!

On the way to hospital a week and a half ago for a D&C, I was numb. But God was still able to speak to my heart. Matt Redman's song, "Never Once" started playing in my head. I quietly, weakly sang a few phrases as I watched the world zoom by through the car window.

Every step of preparation for the procedure took me further down the path of grief. The raw sadness of the past year blurred thicker as I put on the gown and climbed onto the bed. The emptiness of missing Anna penetrated deeper as the nurse forced the IV into my arm. The realization that I have no answers hit harder as I answered health questions. The love for my husband burned stronger as he held my hand, stroked my hair, and wiped my tears. 

Obviously, I was already struggling as I tried to manage the grieving process... but this has been quite the blow. Like we were just starting to stand up a bit, then got pushed back down. Really, God? Is this a joke? Are you seeing what You're allowing here? HELLO???

I have learned these past few weeks that it's OK to be useless. I am a task-oriented person who finds it natural to accomplish, organize, analyze, etc. How strange it feels to not be able to do anything! I was already so "out of it" the past few months after losing Anna Joy. Now... hm. I got nothin'.

Too tired to sleep. Too sad to try. Too drained to ask "Why?"

Too much.

I'm so glad God can handle things. I guess He doesn't need me to keep things going. :)

He says, "Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." (Matthew 11:28) OK, I can do that. I fully know what that means now. I have had no other choice. Well, I guess I could run away from Him. But that would get me nowhere, and I'd be lost and alone and hopeless. No, I choose to go to Jesus. That's all I have energy to do. Just "be" and let Him hold me. 

A couple months ago a dear friend gave me a heart-shaped charm with Anna's name on it. She told me she saw it and had to get it for me, was reminded that "love always hopes", and that's what we've done. That really touched my spirit, and I haven't stopped thinking about it since.

Love always hopes.

Yes!

That's why we wanted Anna to get better. That's why we were crushed when she died. That's why I opened my heart to another baby. That's why I felt empty when we got more bad news. We hoped because we loved. 

I wouldn't be feeling this pain if I hadn't loved. 

But if I hadn't, I also would never have...
- felt the joy of putting my whole heart into my beautiful baby daughter
- experienced the exhilaration of delivering her and holding her
- noticed the tinge of pride that wells up when I say her name
- been filled with awe when I study her beauty
- gotten so close to my Lord by pouring my heart out to Him
- grown as deep through loss toward my husband
- cherished my days with my son as much
- worshiped God with such abandon
- met and hugged other mothers of angel babies
- walked through cemeteries with as much respect
- been so inspired to share my faith
- appreciated medical staff and services as personally
- had the humbling task of accepting so much help
- sought the scriptures as fervently
- savored every genuine hug & smile I receive
- looked at people with as much grace
- wanted to defeat evil so badly
- pictured heaven so tangibly
- craved that which is meaningful as deeply
- been as driven to live wholeheartedly

That phrase "love always hopes" (from 1 Corinthians 13 in the Bible) has helped me look up toward the positive through all of the craziness the past few weeks. It has helped me get to a point in my grief journey that isn't all sad. Some days I can look at photos of Anna Joy  and smile at her beauty. I can touch her giraffe blanket and feel comfort that she once touched it. I can read past journal entries and be thankful that God has walked with me through it all.

Hold on to hope. 

Here is the song that carried me into the hospital last week. Please at least read the lyrics  and let the truth sink in. It's even more powerful if you listen to it as well.

Standing on this mountaintop 

Looking just how far we've come 

Knowing that for every step 

You were with us 

Kneeling on this battle ground 

Seeing just how much You've done 

Knowing every victory 

Is Your power in us 

Scars and struggles on the way 

But with joy our hearts can say 

Yes, our hearts can say 

Never once did we ever walk alone 

Never once did You leave us on our own 

You are faithful, God, You are faithful 

Carried by Your constant grace 

Held within Your perfect peace 

Never once, no, we never walk alone 

Every step we are breathing in Your grace 

Evermore we'll be breathing out Your praise 

You are faithful, God, You are faithful 

You are faithful, God, You are faithful

I feel empty in many ways, but I know I'm not truly empty. I have love and hope in there somewhere. I have faith, even if it's small right now. My arms may feel empty and my womb may be empty. But God's love has never filled me so full. God didn't DO this to me. God didn't push me down further while I was already struggling to get up. He's not testing me or seeing how much I can handle, or any other trite answer people think they need to give. It is what it is, and God is still Who He is. He is good and He is love. That's all I'm holding on to right now. No analyzing. Just soaking up all the love I can.

One of the verses I have clung to this past year is Romans 15:13. "May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit." Now it has a different twist. Feeling empty? May the God of hope FILL YOU.

From the Day She Went

A few journal entries from 6 months ago. 


Taken directly from the journal I write in for Anna, before I went to see her that day:
Monday, December 19, 2011
7:40am
Anna girl,
   There's so much I want to say to you; it's hard to know where to start. You are so beautiful... in more ways than one. God created you to be beautiful physically - your  features are proportioned and pretty. Round head, dark hair, perfect eyebrows, sweet little nose, pretty lips, full cheeks, little round chin... long fingers and toes...
   Your toes are a cute mix of Daddy & I. You have the longer 2nd toe and space like me, but I've notice your 2nd toe sometimes rises higher than your big toe, which is like Daddy. Your arms, legs, and shoulders & back are so soft. I can't touch you enough.
   The nurses are saying you have sensitive skin - some of the tapes and things are causing red spots & irritation. Isaac has sensitive skin, too.
   But you're also beautiful because of the glory of God you bestow. It's obvious Jesus is holding you. Many souls have been drawn closer to God because of your story. I'm so honored to be your mother. You are my hero.
   I love every bit of you. I long to hold you close, kiss you all over, nurse you, bathe you, dress you...
   What a gift you are, Anna! 
   I love to see you move. Your toes, your grip on my finger, your blinking eyes, your puckering or suckling lips...
   I'm pretty sure you have a slight dimple on your right lower check. So cute.
   I pray for God to heal you constantly. May he help your little body function correctly. In the powerful name of Christ Jesus, I pray those veins in your lungs grow and stretch so your body can pump blood efficiently. 
   You are so precious. I don't know how to express the depth of my love for you.


Taken directly from my personal journal, still hadn't seen her...
Monday, Dec. 19, 2011
9:11am
   How do You want to speak to me today, Lord? Your Word, Your Spirit, Your presence, Your people, my husband, son, daughter, other family...? I open my heart to You - desperate for You. Longing for Your touch on my sweet baby, and on my own spirit as I wait on You. Provide grace for the moment. Strength for this day. We're depending on You - hoping in You. It's hard to give Anna to You. But it seems like it shouldn't be. She's in the best care in Your hands. I just love her so much. This hurts so badly, Lord. Carry me. 
   Touch Matt & bring him health. Don't let him get depressed. 
   We need Your touch. We cry out for Your supernatural touch, Father. Step in with Your power. Stretch her tiny lung veins so she can pump blood & live. 
   So many are praying for Anna to be healed. You hear every prayer. There are children praying for her. There are people coming back to you who haven't prayed in a long time. There are those praying who don't know you personally, but pray anyway. May they come to know You, Jesus!
   It doesn't seem right for her to die with all the people watching & hoping. I have to trust that You know what is best for Anna, for us, for all the people watching. But it's so hard...
   Show Matt & I what to do when faced with tough decisions. We don't want to have to decide these things. Please make things clear. Obviously clear & total peace-filled. It sickens me.
   Christmas is coming. Just a week away. What are you going to do this week? Keep providing strength.


And from the journal for Anna again, after she was gone. I couldn't sleep...
11:21pm
   My forever daughter - 
   You are with Jesus now. You left us around 6:45 this evening. I'm so thankful we had time with you. We all got to hold you before you were gone, then you passed away in my arms - resting snuggly between Daddy & I. I'm going to miss you so much. I can't believe I'll never get to hold your hand, kiss you, or stroke your eyebrows ever again. Oh, sweet girl... Mama loves you so much, and I miss you already.
   We were blessed with 11 days with you. And I'm truly happy for you. I rejoice that you're in heaven. You are so fortunate to be with our Father & Jesus. You're going to experience your first Christmas in heaven. I can only imagine what it's going to be like. You are whole and healthy now. I'm so glad. It's a burden lifted knowing you're well and perfect and dancing for Jesus. Your life brought people closer to Him, and I'm honored to be your mama. My arms will always ache for you. Daddy & I will always miss you.

6 months

I delivered Anna Joy six months ago today. 
There is so much to say, and yet I'm having difficulty finding a place to start.

I miss by baby girl so much. It's been a rough week. I am recognizing that the initial shock of trauma and loss is starting to wear off, and I'm experiencing waves of grief at a deeper level. It's sinking in that this really happened and it's not going away. I hate that. This experience is real, not just a bad dream. But it's like living a bad dream. 

The waves that throw me under and keep me down for a while are more fierce, and I come up gasping for air, covered in dark filth. The waves that push me up, the ones I've learned to ride - that give me a glimpse of perspective - have started to provide a tiny bit more relief instead of deepening ache. Sometimes I can actually smile at memories and thank God for certain blessings in Anna's story. These moments don't happen often, but they do and I'm grateful. Every small step makes progress toward healing. Often a few small steps forward will be followed by a huge fall backward. I don't usually know when the fierce waves are coming, but I'm not shocked by them anymore. I know that I have to endure them; they're part of the process of living on the shore I've been on the past year. I really want to move so I don't have to deal with the changing tides. But I realize living here for a while is necessary, because the waves will reach me somehow, someday... if I don't let them hit me now. I don't know how long I'll have to live here, which is daunting. 

I feel like I've written these words before. If I have, please forgive me. 

Six months ago I was in the labor/delivery room at UW Medical Center, wearing a stylish gown and trying to find a comfortable way to sit on the uncomfortable bed as I managed light contractions. I remember trying to stay in the balance of distraction and engagement - always seeking God's peace & strength - as various medical activity and conversation was taking place around me. It's 7:40 right now. None of us knew that my water would break in thirty minutes, and that the long awaited and anticipated little girl would arrive in less than two hours from now... 9:36am on Thursday, December 8, 2011. What a day. What a beautiful child. I remember seeing her for the first time as they held her up after she was born. Her little face was scrunched up, and I stroked her left cheek with my right index finger. At that moment, all physical pain I had just endured disappeared and I was filled with awe. I'm totally serious. I was blessed with a wave of clarity and supernatural connection for a few seconds. Then they took her away and the pain came back until I got to hold her for a short time. 

I will never forget this moment.

This week I've been struggling with the concept of finding a solution to this heartache. At first I felt that there isn't one. I thought, There is no solution for losing a child! And in a way, there isn't. She can't be brought back. The pain of her absence will always linger. The "what might have been" is a forever mystery. And all of that hurts terribly. It's awful. Like, please just let me die so I don't have to feel the ache anymore. Seriously. 

As I wrestled with the no solution concept, I believe my merciful heavenly Father revealed something to my broken heart. I now long for heaven like never before. I see people as eternal souls in a fresh, new way. Through my long, weary days I can somehow see a bigger purpose down the road. I can't see what it is, but I know in my gut that it's there. I have an interest in heaven that is deeper than intellect - there is a spiritual connection that draws me to learn. There is more to this life! The "solution" to this ache is really nothing new to any of us. We all long for heaven, for perfection, for our fulfilled callings... as I've written about before. So... WHAT DO WE DO WITH THAT LONGING? It should change the way we live. 

And that is grace. Only a good, graceful God of hope could use loss and produce such perspective. 

What if every time I miss Anna, I let God turn it around and help me to pour my heart into what is before me today? What if every time I'm paralyzed on my bed, bawling my eyes out from the finality of it all (it happened just this past Monday), I somehow ask for help to see a new way? What if every time I'm tempted to give up (and it will continue to happen), I remember that people are giving up every day without hope? What can I do to share the true Hope I know?

Someday it will be the right time for me to minister. Right now God keeps reminding me that it's OK to miss Anna, bawl on my bed, and want to give up (temporarily). I must ride these waves for a while. I'm thankful He is showing me light and lessons along the way... even if I must reside on the shore of grief indefinitely. 

I long to hold my baby again. Sometimes I can almost feel her. I'm so sad she was taken from us... from me. I still can't believe it most days. 

Today is hard. It's hard to believe it's been six months. It's still surreal. 

Even if I don't feel it, I know hope is real. It's not an empty wish or unsure longing. My hope is sure. God made me for Himself - for love, eternal purpose, and to experience hope become reality someday. Heaven awaits. This pain reminds me to keep on. If there was no pain, we wouldn't have to fight for good. 

Yet again, here is a song that says it well.

It's 9:36am. One more strong contraction, scream, push... and here she is! "Hi, beautiful! It's so good to see you! Welcome to the world."

"How I long for the sunrise"...

Afraid to love?

The song I included below will always pull strongly at my heart ("All of Me" by Matt Hammitt). It puts words, chords, and living feeling into what I was experiencing before Anna was born, the moment she came, and the few days that followed. Remember with me. Let's go back several months to when we were all awaiting her arrival. Oh, what strong hope and anguish mixed in our hearts and minds. And then, she was born! Her birth story turned out to be full of miracles. Remember the waves of intercession that occurred on little Anna's behalf. What a journey!


I remember deciding in my soul the day we found out she could have a heart defect that I would give her to God, again. I would trust Him. And I would put my heart into loving this little girl, no matter how many days I would be given with her.


Enter again into part of my heart and feel with me, if you're willing... as much as you can. Let the sad chords of the song play on your heartstrings, walk the uncertain hours with me, and resolve to give your all to whomever is needing you in whatever season you're in. 

Anna Joy Peppley, my sweet baby daughter, was worth it. She will always be worth it. All of the tears, months of waiting, fears, questions, stress, torturous nights, moments of doubt, hospital memories... and even these agonizing days after her passing. You still have ALL OF ME, Anna girl. 

And that leads me to think...

Does Isaac, my two-year-old, have ALL OF ME? 

       Does my husband have ALL OF ME?

                  And most importantly, does my Lord have ALL OF ME?

All my love... no matter what...

Will you give your heart?

Believe me, I know the pain of loving and losing. My heart may be broken. My arms may be empty. My dreams may be shattered.

But I have no regrets. But I gave, I loved, I lived every moment possible with my sweet baby. She had ALL OF ME. And I think she knew it.

It's worth it. Anna Joy was worth it. Love with all of your heart. Give it. Share it. Risk it. 


Will you ask with me: Does she/he/He have ALL OF ME?