Sitting in between my sister and husband at Panera Bread, I stare at the lunch in front of me, despondent and nauseated.
All I want to do is go back. Back to the safety of my cocoon, wrapped up in crisp cotton sheets and pre-warmed blankets, tucked away on the NICU floor where I held Anna for the last time.
But there is no going back.
She’s gone.
Even her tiny body is gone.
She was taken away by kind hands who are now preparing her for burial. She left the hospital even before I did.
After they informed me of that fact, I made a burrow in my bed, wrapping sheets & blankets around me tighter to ward off the chill of death. Another blanket please, I’d beg a nurse. I can still feel the cold aftermath of her demise...can I please have another blanket?
Nothing warmed me.
And yet, I did not want to leave. For to leave meant that I had to leave without her in my arms. Without her in my arms meant that I agreed that she had died. And I don’t agree with this. I do not agree with this at all! She is still here! She is still beating in my heart.
So I need to stay.
Because if I leave...
...I will leave my heart behind.
And how can I live without my heart?
Indeed, I would have protested my case and chained myself to my hospital bed in order to stay a while longer, but Brent had enough foresight to tape pictures to the wall of my room containing some very good reasons to come home.
Many of them contained the same exuberant subject – with dimpled hands in the air, dimpled cheeks that graced a laughing smile, and warm brown eyes that seemed to say, “Hurry home Mommy. I miss you.”
Brent awakes to me tossing and turning. “What’s wrong?” he asks groggily. “I thought that body pillow is supposed to help you get comfortable so you can sleep.”
I roll toward him unsteadily. I haven’t gotten use to the way gravity shifts my pregnant belly around – even in bed. “I’m sorry,” I murmur. “It’s not about getting comfortable. It’s just that I can’t stop thinking about the letter we got today.”
Brent wakes up a little more, and pulls me toward him. We lay there silently for a moment, listening to Anthony’s light snooze on the baby monitor. “I know,” he breathes into my hair. “I’ve been thinking about it too.”
“Well, you sure have a fine way of showing it,” I tease, giving him a light poke. Even in the dark I can feel the warmth of Brent’s grin, as his arms tighten around me. “Well, staying awake all night thinking about it won’t do any good either,” he soothes.
“I know, but I can’t help it,” I sigh, wriggling myself free in order to get a better view of Brent’s shadowed face in the dark. “Anthony has a little brother or sister on the way.”
Hello all! I'm actually going to do two posts today, as a way of concluing my walk with God in the journey of becoming a mother. Both of them each deserve their own postings, as to give you a clearer picture of how God decided to complete our family, and to show His hand of blessing in that.
Just to give you a little timeline of how the stories have looked so far, it goes something like this:
1. Experienced five miscarriages - w/ six children now waiting for us in heaven (the first miscarriage was fraternal twins)
2. Went on adoption journey to adopt our son. This current posting briefly describes a hard detour along the way.
3. We hold our son Anthony for the first time. You can see that story with "Worthy of Praise" below.
4. When Anthony turned six months old, I discover that I'm expecting Anna. You have read that story in "Furnace or Freedom" below.
5. The conclusion to our family is coming up on the next post after this one. :o)
So now to help keep this story going, here's "The Grocery List"
“Let’s go around the table and say what we’re thankful for, “my friend quipped from across the dining room table one Thanksgiving Day. Everyone nodded in agreement except for me. Perhaps they thought that I didn’t hear or was preoccupied in thought. Not true. I was ignoring the suggestion all together, for I had nothing to be thankful for.
Never mind the fact that I had a wonderful husband, a great job, supportive family, dear friends, good health, and financial stability. My spirit was grieving, for a phone call the day before had broken my world apart.
Looking back at the day before…
I was puttering around the house after work, trying to decide what to bring to my friends’ house for Thanksgiving dinner. My heart was fluttering from the news Brent and I had received earlier in the week from our local adoption agency. The expectant mother who had chosen us as adoptive parents had just delivered by C-Section. The adoption specialist had given us details of what the baby might need, should the placement go through.
Along with my Thanksgiving grocery list were things I thought I’d never write on there: baby formula, bottles, newborn diapers. I glanced at the list again and took a deep breath and wondered, “Is it OK to go ahead and buy these things? Should I wait until I know for sure?” I put the list back down and wrestled with what to do. My husband walked into the kitchen and saw me. “Are you OK?”
I’m just not looking forward to going to the grocery store.” Kneeling down, Brent looked at me tenderly, and then gave me a sympathetic kiss on the cheek. “I think you can wait on some of those items till a little later, Holly”, he said gently. “I know you want to be prepared, but it’s going OK, really. Let’s just wait a little while longer. Alright?”
Actually, it was more than alright. It was a relief. That’s why I had been putting off going to the grocery store all week. I just couldn’t make up my mind about what to do about the list. Get it or don’t get it? The same words swirling in my brain.
Relieved to have an answer, I picked up my list again and grabbed my car keys. Just then, the phone rang.
After hanging up the phone, I sat on the floor and just sobbed. Brent didn’t ask. He didn’t have to ask. He just sat on the floor with me and held me close. Though no tears came from him, I could feel his shoulders shaking. He was trying so hard to be brave for me; for him; for both of us.
My mind throbbed as I recalled the conversation on the phone. I told our adoption specialist how I was glad that the expectant mother had made the decision to parent her son. I went on to explain that she had to make many hard choices in her life and we were so glad that she just never made the choice to abort her son, but to give him life and now to parent him too. This just wasn’t our time right now and though we’re sad, we have peace in knowing we helped a young lady make the best choice that she could for her son and herself. Then I hung up the phone.
I knew the words I had just spoken. I meant every one. And I sobbed uncontrollably in spite of that. Wave after wave of grief just washed over me. It was like a miscarriage all over again. And exactly at seven weeks – just like five previous miscarriages I had previously experienced. Why seven weeks? Why not two or ten? Brent holds on like we’re fixing to slip off a ledge into a dark cavern. And we don’t move for over an hour. Sitting crumpled up on the floor, the only words manageable, a prayer – no a cry to God with only one word, “Why?”
The next day was such a haze. I was so grateful that God prepared the way for us to be with our friends to be with on Thanksgiving Day. We listened to everyone give a glowing report of all that they were thankful for. And then came Brent’s turn. He grabbed my hand and thanked God for our lives together, for our friends and their graciousness. Then he compassionately looks at me and says, “Do you want to add anything, Holly?” Bless his heart, he was always protecting me. I glanced around at my friends who had heard the stories in hushed whispers and said, “Thank you for having us over.” Our friends smiled broadly in a way that says “We understand”. Nothing more is said or even asked. And we ate in peace.
Fast forward a year…
We made plans to be with our friends again on Thanksgiving. The grocery list sat on my table and on it were things like size four diapers and formula. And it wasn’t a question of should we get it; it was more like where can we get it the cheapest? The grocery list was not as neat as last years. It was scribbled in a hurry and it tended to run downhill, because someone was tugging on my arm and pointing at whatever had captured his attention at the moment. His play fishbowl on the floor; the cat meowing outside the door; the half full bottle on the counter. “Just a minute,” I tell him as I gently lowered him to the floor. That wasn’t good enough for him and soon I felt hand over hand running up my pant leg and then the same tugging on my arm; this time accompanied by baby chatter and quizzical brown eyes. I tried to put him on what was left of my seventh month pregnant lap, as he happily grabbed the pen and added his own touches to the grocery list.
And that’s when last year’s memory came in like a flood and I’m sobbing uncontrollably from all the thankfulness that is pouring through my heart – for all the heartache I know my son’s birthmother is feeling right now – for another dearly prayed for and loved little boy who is celebrating his one year birthday with his mother - and for my own personal future of next year’s adventure with two children.
Brent walked into the kitchen in and noticed Anthony bathed in my tears. He asked, “Are those happy tears or sad tears?” I replied through a smile, “Both, actually.” He grinned at me in a way that said I really don’t understand pregnant women and said, “I see you got the grocery list done, but I think you’ll have to do it over.” “Why?” “Well, the tears made your ink run…”
I looked down and sure enough, I can’t read a thing.
I grab two fresh sheets of paper and grab another pen. Anthony and I work on the grocery list together. I can’t help but smile and hold him tighter. And write down the words formula and diapers all over again.
When I shared this story with a friend, she asked, "How old was Anthony when you received him?" "Seven weeks old," I reply. "Holly that's fantastic!" she replies enthusiasticlly.
I'm giving her my watcha-talkin-about-willis look to her.
"Just think about it," she said. "God redeemes even the TIME. Almost all of your miscarriages happened at seven weeks, right? And look! God gave you a seven week old son. Isn't that awesome?!"
Whoa...hadn't thought about that before. :o)
Psalm 62:8
Trust in him at all times, O people; pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge.
Selah
I look into his smiling stone cold eyes and ask, “Momma, who is this?”
“I don’t know honey,” my mom replies hastily as she pushes me past the statue that’s captured my seven year old attention. “We’re not Catholics, so I really don’t know what to tell you.”
While her reply seemed a little edgy, it’s her demeanor that’s catching me off guard. She’s dragging me down the walk like she has a desire to get away from that statue just as fast as she can before I can ask the next questions that are dripping off my lips.
I don’t get it. Why the rush? We’re on vacation in the town that is my birthplace, the view along the river is beautiful, the smells from the nearby cafes are delightful and the sunshine bouncing off the water is invigorating. It makes me happy just to breathe the air. And up till now, Mom was happy. What did I say to make her mood change so quickly?
She continues her mission to lug me down the sidewalk. Twisting my head around, I catch the statue's eyes following me as I disappear from his sight. Sighing, I look back at Mom’s face disappointedly. The questions are still there, but they languish in the air.
Why this city is named after the statue?
Why do they keep him by the river?
Why do these questions seem to make you so upset?
I think a lot about the statue by the river after I get home. I swear to myself that I will find out what I can about him on my own. I will NOT forget to do so!
That lasted all of maybe five minutes.
Hey, give me a break! I’m seven after all.
************
But even when little girls forget to ask poignant questions or search out answers, God Himself does not forget. Sometimes He answers them right away. Other times, He veils the answer so that when the answer does come, the impact of that answer is deeper than one could have previously imagined.
Yes, I had forgotten about the statue of San Antonio greeting the patrons and strollers of the Riverwalk, but God had not forgotten my questions. He would answer them.
In His own way.
*****************
“Don’t you think that God wants you to have children, Holly?” my friend Rhonda gently asks, gazing at me with cornflower-blue eyes. “I think that He does, for look at the scripture that’s right here on your wedding invitations.” She picks up my wedding book, thumbs through till she finds the announcement and reads, “and I will give them one heart and one way, that they may fear Me always, for their own good and for the good of their children after them. (Jeremiah 32:39)”
Rhonda puts the book in her lap and looks at me intently. “Why would God press that scripture on your sister in law’s heart to give to Brent and you?” She leans forward excitedly. “I believe that even now, God is telling you that you are meant to have children!”
I squirm in my seat. How do I respond to that? Can I even hang onto this thread of hope? Oh God, I wish I could! But five miscarriages and six babies in heaven later, it seems impossible. I mean, maybe God meant for us to just be spiritual parents to other people’s children. Maybe in His calling my husband to be a pastor, maybe He’s called both of us to just be a spiritual guide and advocate for the children who come across our path. Surely, that’s it.
I want to respond to her. I see her as she gazes at me intently. But the past and grief has now made me mute. I lower my eyes.
Rhonda gets up from her chair and sits beside me. “Holly,” she murmurs, “I know how badly you want this. I’m not trying to hurt you with my words. I just believe that God really does want to fill your arms and your home with children. I just believe it and I believe this word,” (pointing to the invitation), “given to you all those years ago, are still meant to encourage you today.
She slides my wedding book on my lap. I finger the page she has laid out for me with longing. “Do you think it’s really possible?” I whisper in wonder.
“With God, anything is possible,” Rhonda sweetly laughs. “Just probably not in the way you think. I know this is very forward of me, but have you thought of adoption?”
Her words seer me like fire. Hastily I drop the wedding book on the coffee table and startle myself with the thud it makes. “I...uh...I mean, we...uh..Brent and I...have talked some”, I stammer. “He’s really for the idea, but I’m scared. I think all these miscarriages are a sign we’re not meant to be parents.”
Somehow, this does not put Rhonda off. She just leans in closer. Hasn’t the woman ever heard of personal space?
“I know you are scared, Holly. But I encourage you to bring this to the Father and ask Him what He thinks about this for the two of you. Do not let fear keep you from moving forward. Because you’ll miss out on some big blessings, whatever they are.”
“I’ll think about it,” I start to reply, but a knock on the door interrupts our tête-à-tête. My husband comes in with his cousin, ready to take Rhonda back home. As I hug her goodbye, I whisper in her ear that I promise to think about all she said.
*****************
Nine months after that conversation, I am holding my son for the first time in my arms. Oh what a journey I’ve been on to be here in this moment with him! From praying with my husband for confirmation about which adoption agency to pursue, to being chosen by an expectant mother, to having a failed placement and going through the grieving of that process, to being chosen again and this time...on Valentines Day...to be holding him for the very first time.
Our adoption agency holds an adoption placement ceremony where the birth family and foster family join with the adoptive family in celebrating the life of this child. It was so incredible and so wonderful to meet Anthony’s birth mom and oldest brother and the foster family who cared for our precious Anthony. I can’t even begin to describe that day, the joy, the sadness, the tears, and the hugs.
As we talked with each other, I asked Anthony’s birthmother - why she chose his name. With tears slipping down her cheeks she choked out, "My grandmother said to pray to St. Anthony when you lose things."
I told her that her Anthony would never be lost to her. After experiencing so much loss in my life, I cannot imagine another having so much pain and loss in as well.
I told her that when we looked up his name in a couple of baby-books, his meant "Priceless" and "Worthy of Praise". Such an awesome name, how could we ever change it? I have heard Mothers say that when they looked down at their child and looked into his or her eyes, they knew just what to name their child. From the first moment I saw Anthony, I knew there could be no other name for him. His eyes, which are the window of the soul, just spoke it.
I looked down at this peaceful baby in my lap and felt overwhelmed by Anthony’s love and trust for me. And then I looked at his birthmother. The tears and pain in her eyes will haunt me forever. This Valentine’s present was a gift to her son - a sacrificial gift that transcends tawdry candy and roses. I thought I understood what Valentine’s Day was all about. I didn’t. Not until that moment. It is a day to remember unconditional, unwavering love that is worth dying for - just like St. Valentine himself did many centuries ago.
*****************
Many weeks later, I was researching on the internet to see if I could find out information on St. Anthony of Padua. I figured that if Anthony’s birth mom had named him after the Saint, then I should find out all that I could about him. He is an amazing man, and I loved researching about his passion to preach the love of Christ to others. But in my search, something stopped me cold in my tracks. On a webpage I stared at a picture of a friendly face. One that seemed to reach out to my hazy past and held my gaze with his eyes.
