Posts tagged ‘trisomy 13’

December 8, 2015

The Object of Anticipation

Anticipation… hope, excitement, expectancy, planning, joy. Anticipation denotatively means “the feeling of looking forward, usually excitedly or eagerly, to something that is going to happen.” Just like the Japanese art of kintsugi, the object of desire—the object of anticipation—is shattered, seemingly irreparable. Perhaps the damage was done knowingly—purposefully. Often, however, it appears to completely chance, completely random and meaningless.

Kintsugi sake cup broken
As the object of anticipation is in pieces, we have a choice. Do we throw it away? Do we give it up—the hope, the symbolism, the joy? Or, do we begin the process of reforming it? The pieces must be assessed. The pieces may be jagged and cracking. They be slivered and scattered. Some may need to be smoothed. Some may not be reusable; once assessed, they may need to left out of the renewal project. Each piece is painstakingly touched, restored, or lovingly removed. Yet, in the hands of a Master, in the heart of the Creator, something beautiful is designed.

Kintsugi sake cup repaired center
The pieces will not, ever, fit back together exactly as they once did. Something has been lost, fragments of dust even, but a loss has occurred. The Master recognizes this loss, acknowledges this loss, and must gently and painstakingly make a filling that is specific and unique to the missing fragment or space. The object of anticipation is not, will never be, the same again. But, the beauty in the acknowledgment. The beauty in the change of anticipation. The beauty in the process of recreating. They are all so valuable to the Master and to the piece now recreated.
Anyone who has the opportunity to touch this piece knows that they hold something thoroughly and meticulously touched by the Master who thought of every line, every edge, every angle, and every depth of filling, every width of space… He has touched and detailed it all.

Kintsugi sake cup repaired inside

As time moves on, it may appear that more and more is repaired, yet, the reality is that the pain, the grief, the missing pieces, will be missing forever. The perspective or aspect might change, but the loss never will, and, thankfully, neither will the love the Creator!

Five years ago today my object of anticipation—the expectation of a sweet new life in our family—also included many “negative” anticipations… fear, dread, concern. We had lost Savannah Grace, nothing seemed to be going right in our ministry, jobs, or home, and my pregnancy just felt “off.” On December 8, 2010, we found out why. I have always wanted to be used by God and for God, but I never wanted to feel the pain of the shattering, the pain of loss and removal. I can say with certainty that God loved me enough to piece me back together; I am golden because He has pieced me back together and created beauty from my pain.

 

NOTE: These pictures were copied from Lakeside Pottery. I do not have an endorsement or anything of the like from them. I use these pictures with respect for your craft. However, if you wish for me to remove them, I will do so. Thank you for the beauty you create. It is such a gift.

October 27, 2015

Memory explosion

As I rubbed cocoa butter on my dry, cracked hands, I was reminded of the day we received Jedidiah’s diagnosis. As many of you have read before, one of the first things Jim did when we met up after I received the call from the doctor was to massage my cracked, bleeding hands with lotion. It has been almost 5 years since that day. I have had many times of hurting, dry hands. I wonder why tonight the memory exploded?

I wrote those above words ten days ago just before bed. Just a day before my “rainbow” baby and I both got sick, and I spent four days constantly monitoring his temperature (which was higher than any of my other kids ever, for longer than any of them had had a fever, too), wondering if he was going to be ok and if I was doing everything I was supposed to do to take care of him. The fear that grips when one of my boys is ill or out-of-touch is different now since losing Jedidiah. The fear threatens to explode just as my memories do, and the fear is paralyzing.

I don’t have time for the fear. Not because I am busy but because I am busy living! I need to live for my husband, for my earthly children, for Jedidiah, but mostly for myself.

I need to live, so

I welcome the memories.

I welcome the tears.

I welcome the triumphs,

and I reject the fears.

I need to love, so

I love out loud.

I love with hope.

I love with abandon,

and I reject the fears.

If you have lost a little one, may the memories some day bring you joy, but for now, if you need to cry, cry. If you need to scream, scream. But, please, please, work hard and work long to reject the fears.

May God bless and keep you.

April 8, 2015

Four years ago…

I was sure that I could never come to a place where I would wear the shirt I wore in Jedidiah’s nilmdts maternity photo shoot. I had bought the shirt for that purpose; it still had creases from where we folded it to show off my Jedidiah belly. On Easter, three days ago, I wore the shirt for the first time in more than four years. I had left the shirt hanging on its hanger, moved when we moved. No one knew what the shirt meant. It is just a shirt, after all. But, to me, it was so much more.
Four years and a day ago I would not have put that shirt on. At no time in the last four years could I have brought myself to do so. Am I a freak? No, I am grieving. “But, Kim,” you say, “it has been four years today. Surely, you are beyond that by now.”
Four years and a day ago I may have thought the same thing. The reality is that for 36+ years, I walked through life not knowing the grief process. Oh, I could list the stages of grief and I could sympathize with someone, but I did not KNOW the grief process. And, the truth is, the grief process is a life-long process. As many have said and as I recently read in an article about Keanu Reeves, “All you can do is hope that grief will be transformed.”
Grief is transformed when I receive a hug from my “love letter from God” and his big brothers. Grief is transformed when I look at Jedidiah’s precious pictures and smile. Grief is transformed when I speak of his impact. Grief is transformed when I choose not to speak. Grief is transformed when I trust (but possibly not always feel) that Jedidiah’s life and his death were God’s plan, His plan A. Grief is transformed when I receive the outpouring of love that so many of you, my friends and family, have expressed.
I am transformed for having held my son, weathered the dark months of nightmares and pain, coming out the other side to KNOW that there is a God and He loves me, loved me enough to trust with me with one of his precious ones.
So far, today has been Jedidiah’s hardest birthday for me. I don’t know why. Maybe because I don’t have specific plans because so much of everyday life could not be altered. Maybe because what I had wanted to do to commemorate his life this year was not able to happen. Maybe it is simply one of those days where God is holding me tight as I relive the loss so that as we walk into a time of ministering to others, I am better equipped to meet their needs. Whatever the reason… THANK YOU to those of you who have prayed and who continue to pray for me. I could not make it through without your prayers. God, please give my baby a hug from me.

December 8, 2014

Something is wrong with baby

If you are in the beginning or midst of a diagnosis for your little one that has you spinning out of control… Hold fast. Not to your feelings; they will overwhelm you. Not to the prognosis; it does not define you and your baby’s future.

Hold fast to His truth–Your life and your baby’s life has a purpose. His truth is the only thing that is real. The sense of control that research brings, the sense of desperation that talking to others brings, the sense of confinement and brokenheartedness… They will end. God is there. He will sustain you. He will reach down, hold you tight and give you the ability to get through the next doctor’s appointment, the next meeting with the hospital geneticist, the next ultrasound. Whatever it is, He has not left you. He will never leave you. Hold fast.

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