I feel ready. Ready to jump in with both feet. The only trouble is, I don't know what it is I'm ready for. It's as if everything has been stripped from me. I have nothing left and so I am willing, oh so willing to go and do and be for Him. The worst has happened and we have survived. He has prepared, is preparing my heart for something. Something big, I can feel it.
I feel uncomfortable in my life, but it's different than it used to be. I used to be uncomfortable because I wanted normal. I craved normal like a drowning man craves air. I wanted a house and three kids (OK, I still want a mess of kids, maybe more like five though. Oh... don't tell Pat though...), a dog, a husband with a normal 8-5 job. I even wanted to do the dishes and clean the bathroom as long as it was in four walls I called my very own home.
Now I'm uncomfortable with the idea of not doing something totally crazy. I mean like really crazy. Like start-a-non-profit-for-people-in-Uganda-with-AIDS, become-missionaries-in-cannibal-territory, start-a-sky-diving-academy-for-seniors crazy. It is both a thrilling and infuriating place to be. I'm so excited to see how God will use us, but at the same time, I'm ready to start. Like right now. "Drop me in Lord, I'm yours!" You know the phrase "all dressed up and nowhere to go?" That's me. All fired up and no one to love on.
You see I came to this conclusion a few weeks ago. None of it matters. Truly. None of the reasons I was coming up with for God taking John and Evangeline to Him made any sense. It was an infuriating and extremely dark place to be.
And then it came to me. The only reason for losing them I can even begin to comprehend is to bring someone else closer to Him. That's it. Only that makes any kind of sense to me. I can come to terms with, even rejoice in their lives, short though they were, if He uses them to draw someone into His loving arms. And I am so ready to make those two beautiful lives count for something. Use me Lord to tell their story, share Your love, bring someone home.
Ichingly yours,
Jillian
When my husband and I were dating we were talking about being martyred for Christ. I told him that I would be terrified. I didn't trust what I would say or do if confronted with paying the ultimate price for my loyalty to Him. He told me this story:
Corrie Ten Boom and her father were standing in the train station talking about the very same thing. She was a young girl at the time and she had the same fears that I had. Her father turned to her and asked "Corrie, when do I give you your train ticket?" "Right before I get on the train," She answered. He explained to her that our God works the same way.
You can't imagine facing the trials that you will face in the future. But when they come, that's when he makes your heart ready. That's when He hands you your ticket. Right at the exact moment you need it.
I want to tell their story. In a few years when we (by God's grace) have more children, and our lives are crazy (crazier?) I don't want to forget a single detail of their precious lives. I want to remember everything about them, every second we had with them. This is their story, our story, His Story.
I don't want to write this. I have to write this. I have to write it to remember. I have to write it to feel it again instead of this numbness that I've decided to come to terms with. I have to write it to heal. It won't be perfectly written. It might not make sense to anyone else. But then again, this really isn't for anyone else. Here goes.
I remember going to the bathroom that saturday before I put Wiggles down for her nap. I remember feeling my heart in my throat when I saw the first sign of blood. I remember calling my midwife. I remember she told me to take it easy; that some spotting was normal during twin pregnancies. I remember laying in bed all afternoon, not truly worried and even enjoying my day of rest. I remember Pat suggesting pizza for dinner. I remember getting up and sitting in the living room with Wiggles.
I remember going to the bathroom and feeling the blood begin to gush. I have never been so terrified. I remember a moment of panic before getting my head on straight. I didn't pray. I didn't think. There was only an all consuming, leg freezing, heart stopping fear.
I remember coming to my senses. I remember calling the midwife. I remember, a clearing in the terror as I remembered to grab a towel for the car seat. I remember driving with Pat. Then we prayed. We cried out.
I remember getting to the hospital. I remember Becky, dear sweet, life changing Becky with her calm nurses touch; an angel. I remember she thought Pat and I were sweet to each other. I remember getting into the hospital room and into bed. I remember changing into a gown. I remember the IV. My first ever.
I remember getting up to go to the bathroom. I remember a deeper terror. "Get a nurse there's a baby coming right now!" She came, Becky, my rock that first night. They weren't coming.
I remember the ultrasound. I remember telling Pat in half panic, half strength, "They're coming. It's going to happen. They're coming. It'll be ok." Willing it to be ok that we could lose them in that moment. I remember Dr. Bagdhadi. "20% chase he said." Hope. Not a lot, but more than enough for my God. I remember his next words. "Tomorrow we will just let you rest. We'll see how you are doing in two days." How fitting to rest on His day.
I remember two agonizingly slow days. I remember staying on one side for two hours and the calling the nurse to help me turn over. I remember thinking I was a giant pancake, absurdly wanting to call out over the nurses intercom, "Come flip me! I'm done on this side!" I remember the excruciating pain in my hips. I remember thinking it was so much more than worth it to save them.
And then Monday. I remember the terrible doctor who came in and tore the rug out from under us. I remember his terrible scoff when we told him we thought there had been a chance. I remember his ugly words about what it would be like when they came. I remember my husbands rage at his explicit and callous language about the horror that is losing a child nearly able to survive on their own, falling just short. Ten tiny days too short. Ten.
I remember waiting for 7 hours to see that mornings ultrasound. 7 hours. Thats a long time when your world is ending. God is still good. God can still heal me. God can still save them.
I remember when the new doctor came in. I remember she started talking. I remember being confused. I remember Pat begging her to stop. Explain. We don't know what the tests said. She's coming. Now. That's what the test said.
I remember sitting up. I remember grabbing Pat. I remember the terror. Oh the terror. "I don't have my ticket yet!" I said. "It's not time for your ticket," He said with tears.
She came. Without effort or pain she came. Fear. Thats all I felt in that moment. A different Becky. Equally angelic, "She's still alive. Sweet, she's still alive." "Give her to me." Not an acquiescence, a command.
I remember her sweet hand. Her dainty thumb and palm. I remember her nose so much like Wiggles nose. I remember her tiny elbows. The way her chest felt. Her ribs. Her weight. Her feet. Her toes. There is no way to explain this part. Joy and ultimate sorrow all at once. Joy for her miracle body, with all it perfectly tiny parts. Unimaginable weight, grief, pain, physical pain, that this was the only time you were allowed to be with such perfection. A taste of her. A glimpse of her. And she was gone.
I remember waiting for him. I remember my midwife arriving. A gift from God. I didn't call her, but oh, I needed her. She came because she knew. I needed her. I remember the pitocin. I remember the contractions. More painful because of grief. I remember the pain medicine. A gift. Lovely, warm nearly happy relief.
I remember his entrance. Bottom first and with more pain. I remember he was bigger. I remember feeling calmer. Dare I say peaceful. I'm so glad we had two. He redeemed his sisters birth. The terror of her sudden entrance was replaced by his calm. I could enjoy both of my children more because he was there. He was calm.
I remember his hand. So big. So manly. I remember his nose. His father's nose. In fact, his father in miniature. His toes. His feet. His belly. I remember think he's a boy! He's so different from his sisters. A little boy.
I remember singing to them. Wiggles lullaby. I remember praying with them, for them, for us. I remember Pat holding them. "It's ok little baby. You get to be with Jesus real soon!" I remember when they were gone. I remember the empty. I remember the ache. I remember exhaustion.
I remember the time we went to bed. 3:30AM. I remember falling asleep holding my partners hand, both too weary to cry. Too weary to pray anymore. Too weary to live.
I remember.
