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Taking a Sad Song, Making it Better

~ Discovering joy amid pain

Taking a Sad Song, Making it Better

Monthly Archives: August 2013

Inner-peace and perspective

24 Saturday Aug 2013

Posted by purdywords in Blessings, Friendship, Glorifying God, Lifelong friends, Love, Miscarriage, Peace, Prayers, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Blessings, Friendship, Gifts, Healing, Peace, Prayer, Writing

If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.  ~Mother Teresa

Today is a new day and for this, I am glad.

Yesterday was equal parts tragedy and healing. The only way I came through it was by the prayers and heartfelt sentiments from my husband and beloved family and friends. Love surrounded me, engulfed my being, took hold of my heart and the pain seemed to fly away on angels’ wings. Only a few times before have I been so aware of His graces showering over me. I needed a showering like that yesterday. So, if you prayed for me or sent some goodness my way, I thank you with heartfelt gladness.

Somehow, running mundane errands and walking a bit through Uptown with Baby Girl (while my other little loves were happily learning and playing at their schools) was just what I needed. We spent a quiet, low-key, no-hush sort of day together and it was the perfect ailment to my hurt and the illness she’s been fighting the last few days. After the morning school drop-off, I could not go back home. I just couldn’t face housework and small reminders of loss. And, deep down, I knew that what I truly needed was a change in routine. That meant heading outdoors with my Baby Girl to breathe in the fresh, late-summer air and let the sun shine down upon our cheeks and shoulders while we listened for the birds chirping their mid-morning tunes. For a moment, I pondered going for a hike, but she was still too ill to take on much more than a small outing. Instead, she and I walked and wondered together—hand in hand–marveling at God’s beauty all around us, rejoicing in the change of pace from our typical Friday.  She was so well-behaved while I finished those few errands. So well-mannered, in fact that the extra time we had allowed us to peruse around new shops, and revisit some old favorites. We strolled along admiring so many precious things, and I have to admit, we indulged in a little retail therapy, too! (What’s a girl to do when she sees a designer bag that she’s been coveting on super-clearance sale? [For Me] Or, a stuffed animal cat donning a tutu? [Of course, for Baby Girl] I mean, a beautiful purse and a cat wearing a tutu! What can be better than that?) Some things are just meant to be had.

All shopping was done and we found our way back home. To my amazement, peace surrounded me the moment I entered inside. The sense of contentment was felt in the air, but also deep inside me. I knew the prayers were working.

Graces were abundant as I received some unexpected, thoughtful, sentimental treasures throughout the day. First, there was a gift from a best friend who, unfortunately, understands my pain because she, herself, has suffered through three miscarriages. Firstly, the cards this woman writes to me are treasure troves in and of themselves. I have saved every single one of them that she has penned to me over the years as our relationship has grown into the deep and profound friendship we now share. The card she sent for me to read yesterday is filled with words so wise and heartfelt that moved me in so many ways. Her written words are a keepsake—a reminder of love from a kindred spirit. The physical gifts she presents are equally meaningful and lovely. Yesterday’s gift was no exception. A beautiful treasure to receive, it now hangs prominently in our front entryway and will be a daily reminder of how blessed we are to have a family to cherish—a combination of loved ones both here on earth and in heaven.

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The gifts of expressive love continued as I heard a knock at my front door and found the local flower delivery person holding a beautiful white floral arrangement for me. I did not have to wonder who would send me such gorgeous flowers in the middle of the day—none only than one of my dearest, oldest, best friends. This woman—someone I have considered an honorary sister for the last 18 years—has lifted me up in prayer countless times, sends me uplifting Bible verses via text or email, and spoils me with beautiful flowers at times when I least expect such a gift. She lives 2,500 miles away, now, but there are days when it feels to me she and I are closer than ever before. She is my sister in Christ and her soft-spoken words and graceful ways have blessed me abundantly.

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My children, unknowing and innocent, went about their day as they always do. But, I noticed that I was being awarded from them extra compliments and physical affections. The Boy even exclaimed, “Mom, you are the best cook ever!” A miraculous exclamation coming from this seriously picky eater! Baby Girl needed held and rocked more than usual, was hugging and kissing me all day long. The Girl, was kind in her exchanges, helpful around the house, and even finished homework without complaint. I wasn’t going to question the meaning of it all. So, I took it in as small gifts of love and sympathy from my three little loves.

The Husband and I share in this grief, of course. But as men often do, he expresses his feelings of loss and needs for recovery much differently than I do. I tend to be outward with my emotions while he holds back. I write, he runs. Yesterday, his little ways of checking in on me, coming home with a bouquet of my favorite flowers, letting me cry as much as I need to, allowing me to have a couple of hours to myself to exercise and be alone—these are his gifts to me. For his ability to sense what I need in times of sadness, somehow knowing exactly what I need when I can’t even tell him myself, having an insider’s edge to my innermost being—these are gifts greater than any other.  God knew what He was doing in matching The Husband and I together for life. I trust that my prayers for My Husband over these grieving months have helped him come to terms with losing another child, too.

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When I wrote that love letter to my angel baby, John, I felt it was time to put into writing all that I had been holding inside. Now that I have released my thoughts, I feel lighter and more at peace than I have in the last six months. Writing truly is therapy. So are love, friendship, and prayer. Today, I am thankful for another day to love and be loved, to write, and pray.

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Lamenting the meaning of this day

23 Friday Aug 2013

Posted by purdywords in Birthdays, Miscarriage, Motherhood, Tough days

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Due Date, Grieving, Love Letters, Miscarriage, Motherhood stories

God is closest to those with broken hearts. ~Jewish Saying

Let your tears come. Let them water your soul. ~Eileen Mayhew

Dear John Victor,

Today would have been your birthday. But, God had other plans. This has taken quite some time getting used to as I loved you from the very moment I knew I was carrying you inside. Today, on this due date that should have brought such miraculous joy, I can’t help but grieve all that has vanished in losing you. Your pregnancy was a welcomed surprise and an anniversary gift to your father and me. Your life—no matter how small or short-lived—was a blessing and a joy to us and to those with whom we shared the news.

Lately, insomnia keeps me awake and all I think about is you. Alone with my thoughts and heartbreak, I dream about how much better today would be if I was holding you instead of reliving the painful memory of miscarrying you. Sure, having you here now means that my abdomen would have to be sliced apart then sewn back together again—a horrific scene I would endure time and again just to bring you safely into this world. You would have been worth it all. I’d withstand anything—more cuts and scars, the nausea and six weeks of post-surgery healing—in order to see your angelic face, nurse you to health, sing you to sleep. I’d give anything to replace the pain in my heart brought on by your absence—a void that nothing seems to fill.

Somehow, you were made for greater things—for holiness and grace—but, I suppose, not for a life lived on earth. It’s a beautiful image, really, thinking of you dwelling in Heaven among angels and saints—as perfect as can be. Most days, it brings me comfort and peace knowing that you never had to feel or witness the pains and injustices of this world below. The not knowing you in the flesh business has me wishing at this precise moment—stemming only from my own selfish intentions that you could be here with me today— that you had the chance to know your father and co-creator, to live among your three siblings who’d love you to pieces, to be a part of our family and the life that we’re left to live without you.

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However incredible it is to think that you are in Heaven along with my other four angels who went before you, I lament. Lamentations that instead of being prepped for a cesarean section surgery this morning to birth you into the world, I remain desolate and nurse the pains of an empty womb. Sadness and loss about my wounded heart surround me today. Despair lives in not knowing how to quench the thirst of this void that remains which nothing seems to satisfy since my body failed in growing you.

They say time is a great healer, and well, I’m not always so sad—not every day, at least. So, please don’t worry about me.  Your dad takes wonderful care of me and he and your siblings make life joyful and complete. You would have enhanced the joy and completion of our family life immeasurably.  

My arms feel emptier today. My heart aches a little more for all that was lost six months ago. The separation is hard now, but I know it won’t always be so. My faith tells me that there is hope in the afterlife and that one day, if I’m lucky enough, my arms won’t feel so empty, nor my heart so heavy. Until that time comes, August 23rd will always be your day.  

Thank you for opening my eyes, heart, and womb once again to such a miracle—life. This time, for a short time, yours. Sweet son of mine, I promise I will never forget you. How could I?

With love,

Your Mom

(“In Heaven” Photo credit: Daniel Pascoal / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND)

Five

05 Monday Aug 2013

Posted by purdywords in Birthdays, Blessings, Change, Love, Motherhood, The Boy

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Motherhood stories, Sons, Turning Five

Happy is the son whose faith in his mother remains unchallenged. ~ Louisa May Alcott

Little boy, you remind me how so much depends on days made of now.” ~ From “Little Boy” by Alison McGhee

The Boy—my baby, my Monkey, my only living boy– is turning five soon. This child, this heart of mine is joyful, kind, smart, and sensitive. His eyes are not-quite-brown– sort of hazel-like. And the goofy smile that’s so picturesquely all his own is genuine and bright. When trying on a pair of adult-sized glasses, his precious face is remnant of that little boy from the movie Jerry Maguire. After seeing that movie for the first time, I remarked that if I ever had a boy, I’d want one just like him.

Funny how dreams can come true.

My boy is quirky, gifted, thoughtful, and sweet. Bright and inquisitive beyond his near-five years, he recently asked me what color eyes I thought God had. When I answered that I thought God probably had the most beautiful eyes anyone had ever seen, he smiled sentimentally and replied, “I bet they’re like rainbows!” Sigh. “What a great answer,” I told him. “I wish I had thought of that myself!”

~

Lately, he is fighting his way between age four and five. Days go by when he doesn’t give any thought to his wooden Thomas the Train set, rather begs for computer time instead. More than I’d like to admit, I have to usher The Boy to go play outside and stay outside. But, once he’s out there, I see the magic of Mother Nature take over his senses, helping his imagination soar like it never can when a roof remains overhead.  Out there among the green grass and canopy of trees he becomes braver in the sun.

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He’ll sing Christmas songs the whole year through, and prefers music with a funky or soulful beat. He aspires to play the ukulele. On his own, he practices twisting himself into a pretzel and does all sorts of other yoga poses just for the fun of it. Laughter is his beacon of hope—his natural way.

This incredible boy of mine can hardly wait until soccer starts in the fall. Thinking about his new team and playing again, he’ll show us all the tricks he learned with the soccer ball last year. Putt-putt golfing is a favorite pastime and he pathetically laments, “Oh, I wish I was golfing!” whenever we pass our local driving range. He will run and run and run and tell us that when he is older, he’ll run 100 miles, too–just like his dad, the marathoner.

A natural-born sharer and pleaser, he almost never picks a fight. He likes peace and harmony, laughter and hugs. Sounds can be too loud for his sensitive ears. When toys, books, and games are out of order—or his older sister’s room is a wreck–it upsets him to no end. When I interrupt his Lego play with, “Monkey, it’s time for lunch.” He always needs a few more minutes—not necessarily to finish building– but in order to put his Legos away in a deliberate, appropriate manner. This is my boy. He likes to think, organize, and smile.

~

Five is a milestone. Five means The Boy is no longer a little person, but now in the collective world of “the bigger kids.” It means being asked, “Mom, can I ride my bike in the street with the bigger kids?”

Five means he’ll be able to attend our town’s Legos Bricks 4 Kidz event with his older sister one Friday night a month. Five means he rides a real bike and we will all go on a family bike ride together—for miles and miles without complaint. Five is a big deal.

Five is the ability to complete and understand first-grade-level work—already—and figuring out new things on his own. Five means that once school starts, he’ll no longer eat lunch at home with me and his baby sister, but in a cafeteria with his new classmates and teachers—unpacking his lunchbox on his own and finding someone to sit with each day. Five means he’ll start to lean on his friends now–more than on me. Five means his friends will start to be smarter than his silly old Mom.

Five means, “Mom, please don’t call me ‘Monkey’ in front of my friends.” Five means he is fighting me on clothing choices for Sunday Mass and has his first real opinions on what he likes and dislikes. Five means, “I can do it myself, Mom.” Five means I let him try to fail more on his own–give him the chance to try again and again without interfering with his process.

Five means there is a distance stringing between us and I’m holding on–firmly, desperately– to my end of the grip.

Five means he is becoming fearless more and fearsome less. Five means that last month on vacation he willingly sat atop a paddle board for the first time while his father and he rode together far out on Lake Michigan–way beyond the lighthouses. Five means he was peaceful on the calm Great Lake while I was a nervous wreck watching from the beach miles away. Five means he can’t wait to be out on the water once again, to get his own paddle board, a green kayak, or canoe.

Five is a threshold between his being a little boy and my watching him grow into a younger version of what he’ll be as a man.

Five means he falls asleep on his own at night after stories and prayers. Five means he wakes up in the morning and now forgets to hug me because he’s too busy playing under his bunk bed with dinosaurs, reading books to himself, or listening to his iPod shuffle. Five means the days we had together—just he and I–seem so far away and what remains are moments that feel ever so precious.

These days, I look intently on this child of mine and linger alongside the sweet sense of him. What I now see is a new boy emerging from where I once saw a baby’s face. (Wasn’t it just yesterday he slept soundly in my arms?) Afraid that if I don’t slow down long enough to catch more sideways glances of this endearing human being, I’ll miss all the distance that remains between his morphing from boy to man. I never knew such a tiny creature could fill me with such joy and break my heart all at once. I’ll continue to try not to take it all for granted.

~

Last night, after we had shared a story (that he insisted he could read on his own by sounding out all the words by himself), he allowed me to lead the prayers. And as his deep, hazel-like eyes blinked in a slow, sleepy motion—a telltale sign that he was close to sleep—this sweet boy of mine grabbed my hand in his and said, “I love you so much, Mommy.” As I blessed his forehead and laid a kiss upon his left cheek, he would not let go of my hand, so I stayed a little while longer just to be with him because he needed me to. And who am I kidding? My heart needed to stay, as well.

Who knows how much longer he’ll care if I put him to bed or not? Who knows how much longer he’ll want to share silly stories and songs together? Who knows how much longer it will be before he no longer misses me while at school all day long? Who knows? All I know is that this one—this only boy of mine—has captured my heart in a tremendous, profound way. No matter what, he’ll always be my baby boy, my Monkey–mine.

  • purdywords
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