rivers of living water

April 26

I can’t sleep tonight.

Has it really been almost 5 months since we saw Annie? Since we touched her and held her and kissed her soft cheeks?

My heart feels heavy, and I blame it on the confusion that it feels - to know and to love my child so deeply but to be unable to express it. I blame it on these moments that I sit in front of her pictures and curse the memories that I can’t relive, that fade into blurred snippets of November 29. I blame it on the barrier that now exists between me and those around me. I just can’t talk - I can’t say how I’m doing or feeling, what I’m thinking of or even what I did just a few moments ago. I can’t talk. I can’t express my anger and sadness, confusion and deep wrenching grief that attacks me when I least expect it. It sits lodged in my heart, waiting for release but finding none.

I miss my little girl. That’s all there is to it. I miss her. I miss her face, and this mind of mine that won’t let me hold on to the perfect picture of that face leaves me all the more broken. I want to hold her again, to feel her weight and breath on her. I want to see her so that I can cry again, so that I can primally release these emotions that can’t be understood but only expressed.

Annie,

These days, all that I’m really good for is thinking about heaven. I think and wonder and hope.

I hope that you’re the first thing that I see. I hope that all of these nights that I wish that I could hold you are going to be reconciled somehow. It will take a big God to do that. He promises that they will.

And I hope that you’re still small enough to hold but just big enough to wrap your arms around my neck. Oh, how I need that.

Annie, I love you, and I still hold out the hope that these letters and the ones written in my heart are being read to you. Somehow, I know they are.

Daddy

April 9

There is dirt under my fingernails. I noticed it last night when I was washing my hands, but I couldn’t bear to scrub them clean. You see, I spent the afternoon with my husband planting Easter lilies at my baby girl’s grave. “This shouldn’t be, this shouldn’t be” was just about the only thing on my mind as Gabe dug through the Alabama red clay and I gently placed the flowers into the ground.  But, it is, so we quietly and lovingly completed our task and stood back to admire our work.

March 5

Sometimes it feels like things are getting better. And then, sometimes it feels like things are getting worse.

*****

It’s the thinking about Annie, the longing for her, the waiting, the wondering, the remembering that keeps us up late at night. Those are the things that we fall asleep to.

*****

I listen to the playlist that I made for the hospital almost daily. “Annie” is the first song. Every time that it starts to play, I’m brought back to that dimly lit, quiet room. I’m waiting again for my little girl to come. I’m wondering again if she’ll stay long. I’m fighting again for Jesus to stay, even though I know that I don’t have to.

He never left us.

*****

In some ways, I hope that heaven holds few surprises. I guess what I really mean is that I hope that Annie is exactly like I picture her. I don’t need surprises with this imagination.

*****

In a few more weeks, we’re going to return to Kentucky and see some dear people that we’ve missed. I like to think that in some ways, we’re returning to Annie, to pieces of her, broken off and implanted into the hearts of some really good, beautiful people. Thank you for remembering her, our friends.

*****

I can’t wait to see Annie’s tree.

*****

February 11

One of the hardest things to come to terms with is that life moves on.

Have you ever been stranded on the side of the road? I have maybe once or twice. When your car breaks down, a tire blows, or something happens that forces you to stop, it’s interesting how quickly perspective changes. Suddenly, you’re not a traveler. You’re a bystander, an audience. The speed limit feels a lot faster when you’re standing still. Other travelers pass you by with the sure thought that you’ll find help, somehow. And where you once took for granted the car that moved you down the road, you realize how fragile it is. Maybe you think of how “unlucky” you are. But mostly you just watch the passing vehicles and wish that you could get back out there. You’ve got places to go, things to do, people to see.

When our car sputtered to a stop on November 29, there was a multitude of fellow travelers who stopped to help us. Some took a look under the hood. Others sat and kept us company. And others gave a sympathetic glance and wave as they passed by. It was nice. We mostly enjoyed the company and were glad to know that travelers might willingly stop just to be present with us. As the days and weeks have gone on, though, our fellow travelers have slowly given their best wishes, goodbyes, and continued on to their destinations. Every once in a while, a traveler pulls in behind us just to make sure that we’re okay. We nod and send them on their way.

There’s no need for them to stay.

Dear friends and family,

Lynne and I want you to know that we’re okay. We’re still not moving. We’re still broken down. But we understand why, and we understand why you must travel on.

I wish that I could tell you that this has gotten easier since November 29. Maybe it has in some ways, and I just haven’t realized it. But as we go through our days, our thoughts don’t stray far from our little girl and the wrecking thought that she’s not here anymore. Sometimes it’s enough to paralyze us. Other times Lynne and I see each other through our tears and remember that we’re held in the loving arms of Jesus. But the pain is still real, and you would have to do a lot of convincing to show me that it will be gone in a few years.

At some point, though, we’ll start moving again. We’ll see the road again as a traveler. We’ll stop and meet others who have broken down, and because we were once there ourselves, we’ll know how to keep them company. But until then, there’s more to be learned here, and we’re looking to Jesus to show us. He is giving us things that we need for the journey ahead. We’re not able to leave just yet.

So every so often, pull aside and see how we’re doing. Join us as we watch the road. It’s a different perspective. We’d be glad to tell you about it. We’d be glad to tell you about Annie. But after it’s all said and done, don’t worry about traveling on. We’ll be okay.

January 25

Posting these pictures…

It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.

It’s saying the very thing that my heart just can’t stand. At least not tonight. It’s saying that Annie is not here. And I want her here so badly, I just can’t stand it.

I don’t want to live in a world where she’s not, where time and space change and move and grow. I want to forever be in those 45 minutes. We both do.

This is a harsh reality, really, that we live in a broken world. Don’t let the overused phrase throw you. We do, my friends. We live in a broken world. Not all is as God intended. And it’s times like these, times like tonight, that my hurting heart begets the painful truth, telling my mind, “Yes, indeed, you must live without your baby girl. She’s not here.”

I remember her face and the way it felt to my touch. I remember her tiny lips, her long fingers and toes. I remember the way she felt in my arms, how I could have simply held her until Kingdom come. I remember her, and yet I’m beginning to forget. Her smell is becoming a faint remembrance that I can no longer find in her blanket. This damned world bridled by time and failing memories.

Somewhere along the way, I know that God has/had this covered. But I just can’t really find solace in that tonight. Tonight I miss my Annie. And I would selfishly claw my way out of existence to spend a nanosecond with her.

I’m learning, my friends. We’re learning. Not because we want to. No, because we have to. Because we can’t live in November forever. We know that.

But for tonight.

I’m going to stay right here tonight. I’m staying right here where it hurts like hell, where I can’t find relief. I’m going to let this sorrow cover me, and I’ll dance with it until I’m too tired, until I fall asleep. I’m going to let it completely break me if it wants. And I’m going to do that because I believe it brings me to the thinnest of all places, where heaven is just within reach. Because that’s where Annie is. I’m going to do that because it’s when I’m completely broken that I most sense a God who beats His fists against the tear-stained ground like I do demanding resurrection and reconciliation. I’m going to stay here because my love for Annie won’t let me be anywhere else.

Soon and very soon. O God.

January 14

We still wonder why (and that’s okay).

Why 45 minutes? Why not hours, day, months, or years?

Why did we never get to hear her cry? Why not a whimper, a soft moan, or even an audible exhale so that we might hear her tiny voice?

Why must we be left with so much imagination, so much wonder about her? Why not memories of her at home, away from the cold walls of a hospital room?

And the answer to those questions is not “for the glory of God.”

Where His glory comes into play is where we, lying in our grief, look at one another, close our eyes, and pray, “Yes, You are still good.” God is glorified in our trust, our hope of redemption, and expectation of reunion and healing. Annie didn’t die because God needed glory. No, Annie died because she was created and formed and born under the jurisdiction of a fallible natural world where neural tubes don’t always close the way He gloriously intended them to.

His glory comes in healing, at the blood of the Lamb, the Savior of the world. And we know that He took death away from the world gone astray and repurposed it, redefined it. So that in dying, we might live. Gloriously.

God’s glory is the answer to the question of how we move from here - how we breathe and think and act. But it doesn’t answer why.

It doesn’t answer our wondering and questioning. It’s not sufficient for the things that we wanted but never received. Why anencephaly? Why her?

I guess all that I’m saying is that we have a lot of questions that just can’t be answered, at least not simply. I’m not sure that they can be answered by human reason or experience. Nor can they be answered by hackneyed scripture or Christian idiom. They may be tempered by them but not answered.

Somewhere along the way, I see that we’ll learn to live with these questions, with they whys. Perhaps later they won’t seem so heavy, so barren. Maybe then we’ll see that an incredible amount of goodness came out of it all. Maybe we’ll see that God made a plan of it. That won’t take any of the questions away. It won’t make it any more worth the pain as if we made a good trade in the end. But maybe we’ll find ourselves 5, 10, 20 years from now having learned to turn the pages to our book of questions, not letting them break our hearts so much each time we read them.

The point that I’m trying to make is that why isn’t scary, and it shouldn’t be. Sure, it’s not leaving, and we’re writing new questions everyday. But it doesn’t scare us, and we don’t need a quick answer because we know it’s not that simple.

Why is okay.