His works in progress

I had a fight with God. And have a REALLY good Friday.

Yep. I was mad at Him. Really mad. For about two weeks, which is way longer than I stay mad at anybody else I live with everyday. It all started two weeks ago today as my wonderfulest hubby and I were flying back from a weekend trip. One of those he usually takes our oldest boy to or more recently one of the girly girls.  But as I rocked back and forth in the throes of grief on the car ride home from our road trip to Texas, which wasn't exactly the therapy I needed the first Christmas AB (after Bob-o), he announced "I'm taking you this time!"  Guess he thought I could use a little getaway... Just the two of us! I hadn't been on an airplane in 5 years! I brought along a couple of books I had hoped to get lost in, including Heaven by Randy Alcorn.  I couldn't wait to find out lots more about where we'll spend forever and where our Bob-o is right now.  Lots of good stuff in this book and I'm gobbling it up.  Then I get to a very small section titled "Will we be reunited with infants who have died?" and excitedly read on sure I'd find confirmation of what I knew in my heart and knew from many different Scripture passages.  Unfortunately, Mr. Alcorn concludes that we cannot be certain that babies who die will automatically go to heaven.  My heart nearly stopped.  I read it again.  Nope.  Didn't read it wrong.  Alcorn is concerned that we are developing a doctrine of "infant salvation" based on ambiguous and/or unclear Bible passages and that since the Bible doesn't specifically say that babies or young children or the mentally disabled go right to God's arms when they die, we are in error in assuming that this is so.  Furthermore, he fears the Church is using this unconfirmed idea to justify inaction or apathy on the tragedies of abortion or children starving to death in Africa.  Huh?  He thinks we soothe our guilty consciences by reasoning "well, at least they all go right to heaven."  I'm sorry, but I've never glibly tossed aside infanticide or crushing poverty with any such train of thought.  Oh my goodness - we just buried our baby boy and I had a hard time with it when I felt with all confidence that we'd see him again in heaven one day.  It was like the ground was ripped out from under me to even consider the possibility that Bob-o was anywhere but in the loving embrace of our Heavenly Father.  It tore me apart, but I didn't say anything to Mr. Wonderful that night.  I was trying to riddle it in my brain.   We got home to our 5 live-wire living ones and had so much fun hugging all over them that I filed it away.  I slept fitfully that night trying to remember all the Bible passages that talk about babies and children.  I got up before everybody else and fired up ye olde internet.  Boy, there's some interesting stuff out there on the issue of infant salvation and accountability. As often happens with internet searches, some things helped a lot and some scared me to death.  My man awoke to find me pacing the kitchen like a caged tiger, just about to literally pull my hair out and I finally spilled what all was going on in my head and heart.  "Is he trying to say our baby is in hell?" I sobbed.   My sweet soul mate tried to bring me comfort and calm but I was fit to be tied.  I have since read 3 other fantastic books and conferred with many family and friends, all of which/whom showed me sound Scriptural support for the belief that those who cannot choose for themselves are covered by the blood of Jesus.  Not those who DO NOT choose, but those who CANNOT do so.  [For what it's worth, I'd say that if you're looking for books to share with those who might be in a similar position to us, steer clear of Heaven unless you want to black out pages  354-356.  I can highly recommend John MacArthur's Safe in the Arms of God, Jack Hayford's I'll Hold You in Heaven, and Safe in the Arms of Jesus by Robert Lightner.]  

But, alas, the damage was done.  Our adversary, the devil, used those two and half pages of text to plant a seed of doubt in my heart and it quickly took root, like a weed gone amuck.  A dear friend pointed out this was his same old trick, that the question he posed to Adam and Eve is the one he still taunts us with today: did God really say...? And before I knew it, I was seriously doubting that any of it is true.  Yikes.  I don't say this lightly, I don't like to say it, but I think it's important to be real.  For two weeks I was downright angry at my Beautiful Savior.  That He would let my baby die.  That He would let the devil get to me this way.  That He would feel so very, very far away when I needed Him the most.  For two weeks I didn't know who I was, if everything I've ever believed was all some grand design of imagination, how I was ever supposed to feel happy again.  My joy was gone, just like that, completely out of reach.  I was stuck in the slimy pit, the mud and mire of doubt, my world rocked like never before.  I couldn't hide it.  I was terrified the kids would find out what had me so upset and then they'd be lost, too.  I finally did share with them that I was having a crisis of faith and that I could use their prayers.  In my two weeks of darkness, I couldn't do all of the usual "stuff" I do that makes me me.  I couldn't pray.  I couldn't read the Word.  I couldn't sing.  I couldn't praise.  I was repelled by all my favorite songs and couldn't even turn on the Christian radio station we ALWAYS listen to when we drive around.  It was kind of a quiet fortnight.  I wasn't going to fake it.  When I finally did make myself sing at church last Sunday, it didn't change the way I felt inside.  And that scared me more than anything.  The fact that the battle seemed over and I lost.  I would have preferred a battle to be raging inside my soul but it was far worse - I just felt  a crippling nothingness.  It was beginning to feel like I was past all hope.  I'd get up and go through the motions of a day but my heart wasn't in it.  I remember standing in a hug with my husband who was holding onto me tight as I implored "what if I've lost it for good?  My faith?  What will become of me?" and he said "I'll keep the faith and keep holding onto you until you've got it back."  I've never loved him more.  And I've really loved him a lot over the past 20 years. I asked my family and friends to pray for me as I felt engaged in the most pitched spiritual battle of my life.  I turned on all the water faucets in our bathroom so I could have it out with God and not let on too much to my little audience.  I'm surprised I don't have a hip out of socket after the way I wrestled with my Lord.

And then, wouldn't you know it, on a dreaded Friday of all days, it came back. I hardly know how to explain it.  My joy, my faith, my me - it was all back.  My man and I went for our walk and it was invigorating.  Hmm...I wonder... I laughed - and meant it.  I smiled.  The sky seemed blue-er!  The air smelled sweeter.  I practically danced through breakfast as the kids and I made ready to go into D.C. for an outing with VBS pals.  I played - and sang along enthusiastially with some bouncy Christian songs as we drove.  At the natural history museum, the security guard saw my books that said "Jesus" on the cover and engaged me in conversation about them.  I told him of our Bob-o in heaven (wait a minute, did I say that out loud...?) and he smiled at me with a sparkle in his eye as he leaned close to say "you know, it's going to be quiet a meeting place!"  The joy started welling up inside me as I sat on a bench in the lobby as my kids went off with VBS pals to debunk evolution (you know you're a home schooler when...!) and it was all I could do not to launch into my own personal flash mob in the rotunda declaring the glory of the Lord.  I read and relished and savored God's word.  Sweeter than the honey and the honeycomb.  I prayed.  I rejoiced.  I wrote the following e-mail to the many dear ones who stuck by me and pounded heaven's doors when I was unable to talk to God myself:

GOD IS GOOD.  He is. I declare it this morning, the 16th Friday since we met our bob-o still and silent, and my heart is filled this morning with the joy of the Lord. How can that be anything but the Holy Spirit? This is my story, this is my song. He has set before me blessings and cursings, life and death, and with His help, today I choose life. I choose joy. I choose Him. You have all walked this jagged road with me and I just had to tell you your prayers worked (don't they always?) your intercession, your going to battle with and for me when I couldn't pray, bound the work of the enemy and I type before you this day restored and renewed. Bless you, bless you, bless you for joining me on the mourning bench and loving me in my ugliness, brokenness and grief. You all are my faithful friends who lowered me on my paralytic's mat through the hole in the roof when the pressing throng made it so I couldn't see Jesus and what He was doing in and with and for me. I know the healing is beginning. Thanks is not near enough but thank you a thousand times over for holding onto faith when I was on the brink of abandoning it for good. The biggest jewel on your crown will one day have my name on it. 

All my grateful and humble love,

What do you know...I guess this means I don't hate Fridays anymore.

 

I hate Fridays

I hope I don't always hate them but I sure do now.  Today is 13 Fridays since our beautiful boy was born still and silent.  I re-live it every Friday and I know the hurt and tears are part of the healing process but it still hurts today like it was yesterday.  Will it lessen?  The books say so.  The Bible says so (weeping remains for a night but joy comes in the morning.  Psalm 30:5).  But in the meantime, I am broken up with grief.  It's hard to think straight on Fridays.  It's hard to make conversation, finish tasks, feel like doing anything on Fridays.  I feel very much like I can't do this on Fridays.  I think that's what it means when the Bible says "in my weakness He is strong (2 Corinthians 12:10)."  Be strong for me, my Father.  Abba - Daddy!  I need You!  I am cast down...but not utterly destroyed.  Here's why:  

He shot his arrows deep into my heart.  The thought of my suffering and hopelessness is bitter beyond words.  I will never forget this awful time, as I grieve over my loss.  Yet I still dare to hope when I remember this: the unfailing love of the Lord never ends.  By his mercies we have been kept from complete destruction.  Lamentations 3:13, 19-22

Death is all around us.  And I hate it.  It should be hated. It was never God's intent for us.  We chose it but He does not leave us completely at the mercy of sin, sickness and death.  God was in control when my baby died in my womb around 11:00 am on October 6, 2011 as I stood chatting it up with my girl friends in the hallway of home school co-op totally unaware of the road ahead.  Psalm 139:16 says All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.    

A few weeks before Christmas our church had a beautiful Lessons and Carols service during which we sang songs of Christ's birth and read passages of Scripture that remind us why He came.  The first of these was the account in Genesis where sin entered the world with one really stupid choice.  Did we have any idea what we were giving up?  God came looking for His beloved and with a broken heart asked "What have you done?"  My heart was pierced when I heard this because that's when God's beautiful perfect world and everything in it started to die.  That's why I'm not changing diapers or nursing a warm little boy today.  It's why our Bob-o is in a teeny little white box in Section P of the cemetery down the road.  Next to a little girl who was stillborn in December of 1997.  Anna.  14 years later and I'd bet not a day goes by that her mom and dad don't wonder with aching hearts how old she'd be, what she'd look like, what her favorite ice cream flavor would be...what they are missing on this side by her absence.  It's ugly and awful but it's NOT how our story ends.  Our awesome God made a way for us to get back to Him and all of the beauty, perfection and eternal life in intimate fellowship with Him that He has waiting for us.  Thank you, thank you, thank you Jesus.  

 

True confessions...

"Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind...?"  NO!  Please, world, don't usher in a new year and forget my boy.  I must confess I greeted the new year with this statement:  "2012:  The Year Without A Bob-o."  I wake up lately and dread yet another day - a whole 24 hours full of potential and promise and wonders anew - without my Bob-o.  It's hard to get out of bed.  I do get out of bed.  My sweet husband coaxes me out and lovingly asks me to join him on our Daily Free Therapy Neighborhood Walks.  And we talk, and talk, and talk.  About Bob-o.  About everything else.  And I cry sometimes and he holds me up as we walk, and walk, and walk. I tell him what's in my heart when we lay down at night and when the new day greets us and he listens. And stays.  And I love him so much for that.  I hug him tight a lot these days and whisper "don't you go anywhere, OK?" and he promises me he won't.  This really hurts, this burying of our child and with him all our plans and dreams and designs for him and our family life. And so I hold on that much tighter to those I still have to love on right now.

More confessions - I have this dreadful fear that the world will go on as if my Bob-o never was.  I'd take out billboards if I could declaring his existence.  "Hey world!  I had a baby.  A boy baby.  Our Bob-o lived and died and lives again.  Please don't forget him."  And I worry that people I see in our day to day life will think I'm "over" him just because I'm back.  I'm torn moment by moment between wanting to move forward (not "on" and definitely not "over") and wanting desperately to crawl in a cave and not come out.  I find the "sameness" of our life almost unbearable.  Because we were all braced for the joyous life changer to hit the scene and rock our world.  He has rocked our world for sure, just not in the way we thought he would.   And I'm very sad about that.  I'm mad about it.  And I cannot wait to see him again.  But wait I must.  And I feel utterly compelled to share the Gospel of our King so that everyone can both know my boy and know our Savior.  The sooner everyone hears the sooner Jesus will come back to get us.  True confession:  I know that means I'll hold my baby(ies) again and it makes me want it more than ever.  Is that OK?  Am I cheapening the lavish gift of God's grace and eternal life by my borderline-obsession with that particular reunion?  These are the things I talk to God about during my sleepless nights.  And He listens.  And He stays.  And I love Him so very much for that. 

 

OK and not OK

I wrote this to my dear friend recently when she asked how I was doing:

 

I'm ok.  Really.  I am hurting like heck but I know that's ok.  It's supposed to hurt.  And I'm angry.  Death is not OK.  It was never God's desire for us and each time it hits us, we should rue it's very existence and the way it serves as a very painful reminder of our temporary separation on this surly sod.  Bob-o's death makes me long like a deer pants for streams of water for our real home, the place we truly belong.  My heart knows more now than ever before that I'm not meant for a world, not meant to live, apart from my Maker.  I'm meant to be with Him - truly be with Him forever and ever.  That's where my boy is.  I want him here on this fallen earth with me more than I can possibly say.  But he is living out my life's longing and I know that I'll hold and love him again - and forever.  I'm reading stacks of books on grief and death and heaven - I especially like the ones on heaven since we're going to be there for all eternity.  I'm learning how to embrace my grief and pain, that mine is different than that of my kids and my sweet husband, that the Enemy (why do I dignify him with a capital letter?  I don't know...) is relishing this but his victory is short-lived.  Dennis and I say we feel cheated  - well, it's true.  We have been cheated by the Original Swindler.  However, he can only harm Bob-o's body this one time.   Satan has nothing to say about his  eternal destiny; the real victory is God's - now and at the last day.

 

Good news and bad news...

Which do you want first?  I always like to get the bad news out of the way, so here it is:  When you don't get to bring your baby home from the hospital, you still get the big, fat hospital bill.  Ah, well.  Small potatoes in light of the Good News.

Which is:  we are all made for eternity!  A friend gave me a very sweet article by Marshall Shelly - read it here; and this so touched my heart because it sums up beautifully the real truth about our Bob-o and all of us in this world.  Each and every life has meaning - profound, universe-altering meaning and promise.  And all it takes to realize our eternal potential is to ask Jesus into our hearts.  He won't barge in but honors and dignifies us with free will.  So exercise your TRUE freedom of choice today for the best news of all!

Ouch

Our baby was stillborn.  He died before he was "born."  He lived and moved inside me for 39 weeks and 4 days.  He was over 8 lbs for crying out loud.  Yet the state of Virginia issues us neither a birth certificate nor a death certificate.  I can write them and request a "Certificate of Birth Resulting in a Stillbirth" and for that I am thankful.  All I want is a little piece of paper issued by the bureaucracy in which we dwell that indicates the state recognizes Robert Bowling Stephens for the wonderful little person that he was and is.  I figured out we wouldn't get a birth certificate when they were wheeling me out of the hospital room and I mentioned sort of in passing "oh, the birth certificate lady never came by," and no one said anything.  Ooops.  Silly me.   I had just given very real birth to one of my biggest - and very real - full term babies and yet no paperwork for me.  Or him.  Well, then, I took some comfort in the idea that the state would at least acknowledge his very real life and therefore very real death (which you can't have without life, but I digress) with a death certificate.  Nope.  The sweet funeral home lady called me back today to let me know as gently as she could that since Virginia considers his situation a "fetal demise" (as opposed to what, I wonder?  Infant demise? Human being demise?  Person demise?) they won't automatically issue such a document.  Ouch.  Was he any less real because of mere timing?  I know it won't bring him back.  I know it won't assuage my grief much if at all.  I just have this fear that the world will forget him, or worse - pretend he never was.  I can't let that happen.  I'm his mom.  He's my boy.  My very real boy.  No one will get to know him on this side of heaven and that hurts. 

And then I worked up my nerve to schedule the well-child physicals for his 5 live-wire siblings today, having put it off for awhile because I knew it would be a painful reminder that there are no appointments to schedule for him.  You know how many times you take a new baby to the pediatrician?  Ouch.

I know he's in the arms of the Great Physician and therefore doesn't need any vaccines or check-ups or braces or glasses or casts on broken arms.  I just miss him.  So very much.  Ouch.

 

Grief is the form love takes...

There is a very small person who brought me out of my blog block.  A breathtakingly beautiful baby boy.  Our 6th full term child, a crazy idea hatched last Christmas.  Robert Bowling Stephens, born still and silent on Friday, October 7, 2011 at 11:46 p.m. in Labor/Delivery Room 12 of Arlington Hospital - 3 days from his due date.  Full term and perfectly healthy otherwise, weighing in at 8 lbs 1 oz and 20.5 inches.  Turns out the cord that had been his lifeline was actually too long and became entangled around his right leg some 5 times.  It seems clear that when he made his move to come to us, the cord was constricted causing his little heart to stop beating and he went to the arms of Jesus the day before I delivered him, joining his two miscarried siblings, who I also can't wait to meet.  We planned for him.  Desperately wanted him.  His siblings talked to him everyday and took rapturous delight in rubbing my big baby belly and exclaiming "look at your Bob-o!" He changed my life.  Our lives.  Forever.  And I miss him so.

 

It's a Happy Thing...

Here are some more things that make me happy:

1.  My laminator.  I'm laminating everything in sight.  It's like a mom's dream!  Laminated daily checklists!  Laminated school charts!  Laminated tags to indicate which basket or drawer contains hats, scarves, gloves.  (I'm pretty sure this last one is some sort of wishful thinking on my part, the idea that my sweet children will always dutifully return their cold weather accouterments to the appropriate location.  One can dream...)

2.  Fall - I love the changing colors, the chilly temperatures, sleeping on freshly applied flannel sheets.  I ask you, is there anything better than snuggling up between layers of flannel and down? Apple cider?  Caramel apples?  The smells of cinnamon and cloves?  Leaves crunching under your feet, turning the dog-walking chore into an experience?  Ahhhhh...

3.  The boys are back in town.  My men recently returned from two successive business trips.  I love that they're back safe and sound, that the SMH is a fabulous traveling companion to his dad, that they had a good time together, and that they're not going away again for a good long time.

4.  Getting rid of stuff.  This makes me, I daresay, happier than getting stuff.  We've been clearing out the playroom (woo, boy) and there are at least 37 sacks waiting on my front porch for the charity pick up.  Good stuff, too.  Not junk.  The junk went in the trash, and let me tell you, it is so liberating not to have to step over so much S-T-U-F-F.  Same goes for the kids' clothes.  Only you moms out there will appreciate that I have arranged it, at long last, so that every single one of my precious posse's clothing fits in their drawers (even with all the laundry done!  major accomplishment!) AND furthermore, their winter and summer clothes are ALL TOGETHER.  No more major seasonal switches - just shuffling sizes in and out.  I feel like a new woman.  Maybe I need to get out more.  Which leads me to the next thing that makes me happy:

5. Going out on a date with my husband the other night on a generous gift certificate from friends last year; not a work-related event (although I love those, too) to a super fun, schmancy steak place and being treated like royalty because we giggled when we told the waitress we were on a date and what with the five kids and all, we don't "get out" much, tee-hee-hee and so she brings us champagne to toast our Big Night Out and two kinds of cheesecake on the house.  THAT was fun!

6.  Finding, in the bottom of the coat closet, the hat I was wearing when we had our first kiss (1990).  And realizing that we are so madly in love, lo these 20 years and 5 kids later.  

Better than a hallelujah

Have you heard this beautiful song, "Better than a Hallelujah" by Amy Grant?  RUN, don't walk to get the album (it's called "Somewhere Down the Road.")  I'm feeling very sad about something right now that is affecting a very dear friend.  Has been for years, may continue to for years.  I want it fixed. Now.  (so does she, of course).  I just said goodbye and the sadness is palpable.  I'm a grown up and all.  I know life is very hard at times.  Sometimes for a long time.  "In this world, you will have trouble," our precious Jesus said.  "But take heart, I have overcome the world."  That's what I cling to as I pour out my (friend's) miseries and God just hears a melody.  Beautiful the mess we are, the honest cries of breaking hearts...are better than our Hallelujahs. 

So hear our song, sweet Jesus, and bring the healing rains.  

The small things

are probably the things I'll miss most when our gang is all launched.  Driving to dance and baseball and back to dance and back to baseball and then back to dance, all the while tossing out string cheeses, gogurts, apple slices and carrot sticks to anyone whose peckish.  Listening to "Adventures in Odyssey" and "Jonathan Park" stories as we tool all over town.  Watching my posse spend entire afternoons jumping on the trampoline from the window over my kitchen sink.  The girls all fighting over daddy's t-shirt to use as a nightie at bedtime because it smells like him (sometimes he comes home from work and wears another shirt or two so more than one can have the scent!).  Piling on my bed to watch a movie.  All the crafts and pretty pictures so lovingly assembled and presented to me for display.  Always having someone I can call out to who comes running and opens a door for me when my arms are loaded with laundry or groceries.  The feeling when we all put the house back together when it's had a day with all of us livin' and schoolin' in it.  The house just bursting with people and things and laughter and love.

I know I will miss these things because we were at Awanas the other night and the weensiest of our brood, who I'm convinced has agreed to stay teeny as long as possible so we don't go through complete small person withdrawal, was getting a drink of water and DID NOT NEED A BOOST TO REACH THE FOUNTAIN.  Gone, gone forever, I tell you, are the days when big bro would get down on all fours in front of the water fountain so that any one of his sisters could get a boost to reach the water's flow.  Because no one needs him to do that anymore. And one day they won't need me to do the buttons on the back of their dress or get out the double knots on their tennis shoes, or put the glass stuff from the dishwasher up on the high shelves that they can't reach.  Or - sniff, sniff - drive them anyplace.  And I will really miss it.  All of it.