Yes, it's been a while since I've blogged. Even through the silence, things have been moving along though.
It feels like Lucy is growing well - she's got a very good kick. Being able to feel her move is incredibly precious to me. Just as precious - seeing the look of delight on Joshua's face and hearing him giggle, as he held his hand to my belly and felt his second sister move.
We have also been busy gearing up for another move - our fourth move in as many years. This move was as unexpected as Lucy, but we need the space that our new home will provide. Along with that, we've also been trying to get a handle on renovations, get new stuff for the new home, look for a helper (I am finally caving), and look for a new school for the kids. I am eager to have this transition over and done with.
Amidst all this movement are moments when I stand still and wonder. About the paths we had to walk down in the last few months. About the fears we had to face. About the miracle that we received.
I still don't know why God led us down that path. But I do know this.
We are changed.
Oh, it may look like we simply picked up from where we left off. It may feel like we've moved on. But like a broken cup that has been glued back together, I bear the marks of what we have gone through. And I want to remember.
The pain and fear and worry that could only be assuaged by God.
The feeling of being held up with hands other than my own, when all of me was too weak.
The gift of a miracle that I was afraid to ask for.
And the light that shone in my darkness.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Words of a father
[A rare post from Keith]
This year, Friday the Thirteenth fell on March 13. I was out with my staff that day, at a cooking class at Fort Canning. Midway through learning how to prepare an Asian-style roast chicken with Vietnamese spring rolls, Fiona called me.
She was in tears. The results from the pregnancy screening had just come back, and, as she has recounted in the blog, were bad. Parlous. Devastating.
I went through the rest of that morning in a fog, going through the motions of what I was supposed to do, but with my mind elsewhere, or nowhere at all. A few years earlier, I was in the middle of a dinner I was hosting for a visiting academic, when I got a phone call telling me that someone in my youth group had died, unexpectedly, after a game of soccer. I hung up, went back to dinner, barely made it through in a fog, and then went home and cried with Fiona that night.
It felt similar this time. And later that evening, when our gynaecologist called to tell us about the possibility of Edward's Syndrome, things came crashing down on us.
Fiona has recounted enough of our shared experiences through the last seven weeks, so I will not go through it all again. But let me recount three vignettes.
- The Monday after, March 16th, I had to drive to work as I had something on that morning. I really didn't want to be at work. As I drove and listened to the music, this song came on. At first, the tears just came, unbidden, but then I just yelled and howled like a terrified animal in the car, stuck in the morning jam on Nicoll Highway. I did not want to lose a child.
- One of the thoughts that kept coming to me was: What would I say at the funeral service of my daughter? (For I was quite sure that this was a girl.) One of the things I would have said was this: "My dearest princess: I pray that God will give me dreams of you, of who you were meant to be, in all your beauty and loveliness and health. So that at the Great Reunion, I would know, without a shadow of a doubt, who you are. And you would know me too. And we would dance together at that great Wedding Feast, finally." Each time I went through these words, as I rehearsed this scenario in my head, I would start to cry again. Even now, as I type these words, tears are streaming down my face. Tears of gratitude. Tears of solidarity with every parent who has lost a child in an untimely way.
- There were nights in bed, when I turned to Fiona's sleeping, grief-wearied form, and I wondered: Would we ever be happy again? When we our feet find normal, solid ground again? And I knew that we would, even if we had to walk through dark and murky waters to get there.
*
Miracles happen. I am so grateful for how things have turned out, and at the same time, as I read the blogs of many others who have had children with Trisomy 13, 18 or 21, I grieve with them. My heart knows only a tiny, tiny sliver of their grief. Fiona and I are well aware that we dodged a bullet. We will spend the rest of our lives finding out, and living out, the reason why.
And even now, more than a week after the good news, the phone call, I still go to this blog, to Fiona's post, at least once a day, as a reminder and a marker of the new reality that we live in (and also, so that I know that I'm not dreaming). We've alive. Our children are alive and well. Lucy is alive and well! And even before her birth, people from all over the world, some of whom didn't even know us, were praying for her, and us. What a privilege and blessing. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
This year, Friday the Thirteenth fell on March 13. I was out with my staff that day, at a cooking class at Fort Canning. Midway through learning how to prepare an Asian-style roast chicken with Vietnamese spring rolls, Fiona called me.
She was in tears. The results from the pregnancy screening had just come back, and, as she has recounted in the blog, were bad. Parlous. Devastating.
I went through the rest of that morning in a fog, going through the motions of what I was supposed to do, but with my mind elsewhere, or nowhere at all. A few years earlier, I was in the middle of a dinner I was hosting for a visiting academic, when I got a phone call telling me that someone in my youth group had died, unexpectedly, after a game of soccer. I hung up, went back to dinner, barely made it through in a fog, and then went home and cried with Fiona that night.
It felt similar this time. And later that evening, when our gynaecologist called to tell us about the possibility of Edward's Syndrome, things came crashing down on us.
Fiona has recounted enough of our shared experiences through the last seven weeks, so I will not go through it all again. But let me recount three vignettes.
- The Monday after, March 16th, I had to drive to work as I had something on that morning. I really didn't want to be at work. As I drove and listened to the music, this song came on. At first, the tears just came, unbidden, but then I just yelled and howled like a terrified animal in the car, stuck in the morning jam on Nicoll Highway. I did not want to lose a child.
- One of the thoughts that kept coming to me was: What would I say at the funeral service of my daughter? (For I was quite sure that this was a girl.) One of the things I would have said was this: "My dearest princess: I pray that God will give me dreams of you, of who you were meant to be, in all your beauty and loveliness and health. So that at the Great Reunion, I would know, without a shadow of a doubt, who you are. And you would know me too. And we would dance together at that great Wedding Feast, finally." Each time I went through these words, as I rehearsed this scenario in my head, I would start to cry again. Even now, as I type these words, tears are streaming down my face. Tears of gratitude. Tears of solidarity with every parent who has lost a child in an untimely way.
- There were nights in bed, when I turned to Fiona's sleeping, grief-wearied form, and I wondered: Would we ever be happy again? When we our feet find normal, solid ground again? And I knew that we would, even if we had to walk through dark and murky waters to get there.
*
Miracles happen. I am so grateful for how things have turned out, and at the same time, as I read the blogs of many others who have had children with Trisomy 13, 18 or 21, I grieve with them. My heart knows only a tiny, tiny sliver of their grief. Fiona and I are well aware that we dodged a bullet. We will spend the rest of our lives finding out, and living out, the reason why.
And even now, more than a week after the good news, the phone call, I still go to this blog, to Fiona's post, at least once a day, as a reminder and a marker of the new reality that we live in (and also, so that I know that I'm not dreaming). We've alive. Our children are alive and well. Lucy is alive and well! And even before her birth, people from all over the world, some of whom didn't even know us, were praying for her, and us. What a privilege and blessing. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
lucy
Now the LORD God had formed out of the ground all the beasts of the field and all the birds of the air. He brought them to the man to see what he would name them; and whatever the man called each living creature, that was its name. So the man gave names to all the livestock, the birds of the air and all the beasts of the field.
Genesis 2:19-20
Genesis 2:19-20
There is something powerful and life-affirming in giving a name.
In one of the blogs that I read religiously, the writer tells of being in an orphanage in India. She sees a tiny newborn baby and asks the nun what the baby's name is. She is then told the baby doesn't have a name. The Lord takes some of them so quickly that they aren't given names.
There is something heartbreaking about that.
When this all started, I wrote that I couldn't see God's light in the midst of everything that was happening. I wrote that I knew in my head that it was there, but I couldn't see it, I couldn't feel it. It was too dark.
I wrote those words straight from my heart.
In the days since then, I have walked down paths I never thought I would. The worst part was having to contemplate the idea of possibly burying a child.
In the days since then, I have had to examine my faith, what I believe in. I have found that I cannot do this - do life - on my own strength. I simply am not strong enough.
In the days since then, I have come out on the other side. We have gotten the miracle that we asked for, the same miracle that we were afraid to believe in.
We are not out of the woods yet. I think that every expectant mother never feels completely safe about her pregnancy until the baby is born and in her arms. And even then...
But at least there is this for now: there is light.
If it had been a boy, his name would have been Luke, which means bringer of light.
Because it's a girl, her name will be Lucy, which means light.
To always remind us of how God showed us His light, when we thought we could see nothing at all.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Sunday
Gratitude
-Nichole Nordeman
-Nichole Nordeman
Send some rain, would You send some rain?
Cause the earth is dry and needs to drink again
And the sun is high and we are sinking in the shade
Would You send a cloud, thunder long and loud?
Let the sky grow black and send some mercy down
Surely You can see that we are thirsty and afraid
But maybe not, not today
Maybe You'll provide in other ways
And if that's the case...
We'll give thanks to you
With gratitude
For lessons learned in how to thirst for You
How to bless the very sun that warms our face
If You never send us rain
Daily bread, give us daily bread
Bless our bodies, keep our children fed
Fill our cups, then fill them up again tonight
Wrap us up and warm us through
Tucked away beneath our sturdy roofs
Let us slumber safe from danger's view this time
Or maybe not, not today
Maybe You'll provide in other ways
And if that's the case...
We'll give thanks to You
With gratitude
A lesson learned to hunger after You
That a starry sky offers a better view if no roof is overhead
And if we never taste that bread
Oh, the differences that often are between
Everything we want and what we really need
So grant us peace, Jesus, grant us peace
Move our hearts to hear a single beat
Between alibis and enemies tonight
Or maybe not, not today
Peace might be another world away
And if that's the case...
We'll give thanks to You
With gratitude
For lessons learned in how to trust in You
That we are blessed beyond what we could ever dream
In abundance or in need
And if You never grant us peace
But Jesus, would you please...
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