A couple weeks after Ginny died, I was sitting in a coffee shop listening to the song “I Place My Hope” by Ellie Holcomb. When I heard the lyrics, they took on two meanings. Hope meant what we typically think of hope, but to me hope also meant Virginia Hope. The song says, “I will lift my eyes from this fragile life, For you will rescue me, you are my prince of peace, And I will lift up my soul to you who makes things whole, Oh, mercy love of old, in you I place my hope” I imagined holding Ginny’s fragile body and placing her in God’s hands. I imagined him making her whole in heaven. I surrendered my hope for Ginny’s life to him. It was heart breaking and also freeing.
I began to realize I need to place all my hope in God. I had no choice but to surrender my hope for Ginny. But what other hopes do I need to place in him? After the loss and grief, it is easy to surrender my own life to God. I was so raw and had so little vision for my life; I needed God to make me whatever he wants me to be. I almost didn’t have the strength to lead my own life so I give it to him.
“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and hope.” – Jeremiah 29:11
In other areas though, it would be much harder to completely trust God. What do I love and cling to too much to trust God with? Definitely Daniel. The thought of placing my hope for Daniel’s life and our marriage in God’s hands scared me. He means the world to me. I can’t lose him! But the truth is, I have no control anyway. My worry and fear and clinging does not add a day to his life. Handing him over to God is an act of trust but it is also just coming to terms with the truth that I have no control.
“For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.’” – Matthew 16:25
The same is true for the lives of our potential future children. I can plan and plan, but really I have no control. I found myself thinking, “If we do decide to try for another baby, we should time it so the baby isn’t born in flu season.” I caught myself and laughed at my own hubris – 1) like I can even decide when we get pregnant, 2) as if non-flu season gives me power to protect my baby’s life. I have to continuously make the conscious decision to surrender control of our future children’s lives. I hand them over to God because he is the one with control and he is who truly knows best. If he gives them or takes them away, they are his. I can choose to trust and praise because we have hope in both life and death.
“And he said, ‘Naked I came from my mother’s womb and naked shall I return. The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.’” – Job 1:21
What is the benefit of surrendering and placing hope in God instead of myself? The physical will disappoint every time, but hope in God does not put us to shame. It is freedom to enjoy moments without worry. It is trusting that no matter what happens, our future is full of love and unity. It is no more fear. We don’t have to try to protect ourselves by holding anything back. We can go all in. It is setting our eyes on something bigger and more beautiful. It is embracing the fullness of life.
“And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.” – Romans 5:5
“And he is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” – Colossians 1:17
In grief sometimes you feel alright, like you might have made it through the hard stuff. Maybe you will be better from now on. Then it hits… again. Grief comes in waves. Sometimes the waves come for no reason and sometimes they are triggered.
Triggers can be what you’d expect, like holidays or a due date. Sometimes they can come out of nowhere.
I can see 50 babies stroll by and be fine, and then for some reason the 51st baby makes me break down in tears. I have no idea why.
I think the most random and unexpected trigger I experienced was when I was lying on the couch. My head was resting on my arm. I faintly heard my pulse through my arm and suddenly started weeping. It wasn’t until a few moments later that I realized it was the sound of my heartbeat that made me cry. It was the first time I heard a heart beat since Ginny’s. It was the first time I actually heard a heartbeat after my ears were expecting one on that Monday afternoon.
Some triggers aren’t bad. They can still make you cry but out of love. Sunflowers are a beautiful trigger for both me and Daniel. Ginny’s nursery and pregnancy announcement had sunflowers. They remind us of her and our love for her. Daniel studies sunflowers, so daily he tends a greenhouse full of them. I know that must be hard for him to be surrounded by triggers, but it is also a sweet reminder of the love we have.
Some of our friends know this. One couple left a vase of sunflowers on our porch on the 6th-month anniversary of Ginny’s birth. Another sweet friend planted sunflowers in her garden. I’m so grateful that they remember Ginny.
While sunflowers trigger an outpour of love, other triggers lead to bitterness. The worst is when someone complains even though they are so blessed. It is especially bad when someone complains about being pregnant or about having a newborn. At best I’ll cringe; at worst I’ll have a breakdown. “I’m so over being pregnant.” Don’t you know how lucky you are?! I don’t know what’s worse – your ungratefulness or your ignorance!
I try to keep myself from getting bitter. I try to put myself in other’s shoes. It is really hard to be pregnant, and it is really hard to care for a newborn. It is legitimate to complain. I know these challenges are a part of life, but knowing what it is like to be without, I just want people to be grateful for what they have. It is hard for me to have sympathy. It feels like someone winning the lottery and then complaining about a small paper cut the check gave them.
If your baby doesn’t breastfeed, you are blessed. If your baby doesn’t sleep at night, you are blessed. If your baby has colic, you are blessed. If your baby survived the NICU, you are blessed. If you got to hold your baby alive, you are blessed. Don’t take anything for granted.
I got to hold my baby’s body, and I will always treasure that memory. I’m so grateful for it because I know not everyone even gets that.
I want people to rejoice and celebrate their babies! Admit and proclaim your blessings! You won’t jinx it, I promise. I love when my friends post pictures of their families with gratitude. “How did I get this lucky?” “I love my little family!” These posts make some of the bitterness melt away for me.
This experience has made me more aware of triggers in general. Am I triggering someone going through a hard time? When I posted a happy 34th wedding anniversary message to my parents, I thought of my friend who was recently divorced. Did this post trigger her tears? That thought would’ve never cross my mind before my grief. We shouldn’t stop sharing life in fear of triggering someone, but we can be more aware and considerate.
I felt so terrible the other day when I was walking along the street after dinner. I was telling Daniel how full I was, “I’m stuffed! I shouldn’t have eaten that dessert.” Then I realized I just walked past a homeless man who was probably hungry. I’m sure he thought, “Don’t you know how lucky you are?! I don’t know what’s worse – your ungratefulness or your ignorance!”
Perspective is everything. We should try to step back for a minute and pay attention to those around us. Are we taking anything for granted? What can we do to help someone replace bitterness with love?
Sometimes it feels like God plucked me out of my old life and placed (or more like threw) me into my new life. It’s like God looked at my life and said, “I have bigger things for her” and then moved me like a chess piece.
I typically don’t think of God as the “big guy upstairs” who moves us like board game pieces. God isn’t like that. He’s a loving and intimate light that flows deep into my life and heart. But looking at my life over the past year, there have been some drastic changes that I was dragged through kicking and screaming.
I’ve always prayed that the Holy Spirit guide my path, and I’ve truly felt he has. Throughout my life, my paths were laid straight toward “success”. I felt God opened doors before me at all the right times. Up until a little over a year ago, I always felt I was where I was supposed to be. Last year, I was following the path that made the most sense. I had opportunities toward career advancement open before me. But for the first time, I felt like the Holy Spirit was leading me toward something different, something off the beaten path. I hesitated for weeks. Those weeks were the most anxious and unrestful of my life. I finally followed where God was calling me. I quit my job and decided to be a stay-at-home mom. I’m sure some people thought I was crazy for leaving such a great job and so early into my pregnancy. It was a hard decision, but I felt peace about it.
That decision forced me to shake my old identity. That decision made it possible for me to be present for the moments I had with Ginny, and it gave me the time to grieve after losing Ginny without worrying about getting right back to work. I’m so grateful for that.
That decision also left me with a big dark unknown future after we lost Ginny. I didn’t have the faintest idea what the future held without Ginny. I had no vision whatsoever. I couldn’t go back to my old life, and all my future plans were destroyed. I had to put all my trust in God and hope even when it didn’t make sense. We gave Ginny the middle name “Hope” long before we knew we would need the reminder. I knew God’s plan for my life was beyond what I ever planned for myself. I knew it was something that I couldn’t envision myself. I would need the Holy Spirit to guide me. I would need to be still and listen.
In my old life, it took so much effort to be still. I knew Psalm 46:10 said “Be still and know that I am God.” Easier said than done in a busy life. When I did take the time out of my day to be still, I couldn’t shut my mind off. Thoughts of work and life constantly interrupted quiet time and meditation. Most of the time, I was too tired to even try. I always felt refreshed afterward, but making the effort took a lot of energy.
When Ginny died, my world stopped. I didn’t have anything to prepare for. I was unnervingly still. I felt God’s presence so strongly. This closeness was what I was searching for in the past; now it fell effortlessly in my lap. This isn’t how I wanted to be still. God, I wanted to be close to you in thanksgiving. Do I really need to suffer to know you in this way? Why didn’t you keep this from happening and then draw near to me in celebration?
I’m starting to slowly realize that God was actually near all along, but I didn’t always see him. It is like my suffering was a potent paint stripper that cleared everything else away so God is all that’s left. It hurt to clear everything away, but I can finally see what was underneath the whole time. I can finally see what was covered up by my busyness. It is God’s comforting presence. It’s God’s purpose for me.
I still don’t have a fully defined vision for my future, but I do feel that the Holy Spirit is gently walking with me down an uncharted path. There have been moments of immense clarity and joy and hope that I know I would’ve never experienced on my old path. I’m trying to be deliberate to not fall into busyness and distraction that is so easy to fall into; it is the default in our culture. I want to fully embrace and appreciate my ability to be still.
It has been 6 months since I gave birth to our beautiful daughter Virginia “Ginny” Hope Jones. February 26, 2019 was an amazing day. It is a day that I think back in love. It was not at all what I expected.
February 25 was the day there was no heartbeat, the worst day of my life. It was a nightmare. On that day I thought the worst was yet to come. I couldn’t imagine having to endure labor. But the truth was that finding out the news of Ginny’s death was far more painful than childbirth. Remembering back, childbirth was like a sweet gift in the darkest moment of my life.
In the days following Ginny’s death and birth, I kept going over the birth story in my head again and again. I think it helped me survive those first days. I thought about it with pride and hope. I played and replayed the day in my head; I was afraid of forgetting it. I finally typed it out, and it was 5 and a half pages long. I won’t share that long version here, but I do want to share my birth story.
We arrived at the N.C. Women’s Hospital for my 9 am induction appointment. The nurses quickly lead me and Daniel to a labor & delivery room and our mothers to a special waiting room called Jane’s Room. Jane’s Room was created to provide grieving families a place to wait in the L&D unit. It was such a wonderful resource; I can’t imagine our moms in a normal waiting room alongside excited and happy grandparents.
I can’t say enough positive things about UNC Hospitals. They took such good care of us the entire time. The nurses and doctors were so sympathetic and caring. They explained everything to us multiple times, knowing that in our grief it is hard to concentrate. Each doctor made it a point to say, “This is not your fault.”
When we arrived, I was showing no signs of labor. I was 0 cm dilated. Daniel and I took a birthing class two days earlier. The instructor told us the process for induction. She said they start with a pill which usually does not work. After 4 dosages (12 hours), they will start Pitocin which is usually when labor actually starts. We knew we were there for the long haul and it will probably be over 24 hours before delivery.
The doctor inserted the first dosage of the pill, and the nurse strapped a contraction monitor on me. Looking up at the screen showing contractions, there was clearly an empty section where the heartbeat would normally display. This was a small reminder that Ginny would not be born alive. Contractions started shortly. They were painless and felt like the Braxton Hicks I had felt over the past several weeks. The morning went by quickly as we talked, cried, and sat.
A kind chaplain came in, spoke with us, and prayed. He as well as the doctors and nurses softly reminded us of all the decisions we had to make. What kind of tests do we want on Ginny’s body and the placenta? How much time do we want to spend with her body? Do we want pictures? What do we want to do with her body after? These are decisions no one ever wants to make. They shared the options and told us there was no rush. They also emphasized that there were no wrong answers. Everyone is different and there is no correct protocol for these situations.
Thankfully Daniel and I were in complete agreement. Our mothers supported anything we decided. Ultimately we decided we wanted an MRI of Ginny’s body and genetic testing of the placenta. We wanted to hold Ginny’s body for a short while. We wanted pictures of her but not on our phones. We would have her body cremated. These were hard decisions. Daniel and I both agree that we are not our bodies; Ginny was no longer in her body. She was in heaven.
At around 2:30pm I still wasn’t in any pain. The doctor checked for progress; I was 3cm dilated! I couldn’t believe I had made progress without any pain. She ordered the Pitocin.
A few more hours quickly passed (I can’t explain why time went by so quickly. We didn’t get bored or turn on the TV at all). I was just starting to feel cramps during the tightening of the contractions. The pain was like bad period cramps but was bearable. I decided to get an epidural before it got too tough. I got the epidural around 6:50 pm, and the pain subsided. Getting the epidural was uncomfortable but not terrible.
About an hour later the doctor checked my progress. I was 6 cm dilated. I was pleased with the progress but knew we probably had a long way to go.
Our wonderful nurse explained what we might expect when Ginny was born. She said she will likely have dark lips and face and her skin may be very delicate. She also explained that she would be putting together a memory box for us. It would have pictures of Ginny, hand and foot molds, a lock of her hair, the gown she will wear, and a few other things. We were so appreciative of her care and consideration.
Soon my right side started hurting very intensely. The nurse told me to lay on my right side so the epidural would move that direction while she ordered more epidural. The pain felt like I was being kicked in the side every 30 seconds or so. Daniel held my hand and was there by my side the entire time. Our moms were there nervously praying. I know they hated to see me in such pain.
Before we could get any more epidural, I felt a lot of pressure. The nurse called the doctor in and starting getting things ready for delivery. The doctor checked me again. Less than an hour from the last check, and I was already fully dilated and Ginny was in +2 position. Several doctors and nurses buzzed about the room getting ready while my water broke on its own.
The doctor said I could push if I felt like it or I could let my uterus do all the work. I felt a strong need to push. I pushed a few times, yelling and moaning each time. The yells were not out of pain. During delivery there wasn’t much pain, but there was such an overwhelming strong urge to push. Daniel was still there holding my hand and encouraging me. Soon Ginny’s body was born. I felt relieved and proud. After a brief “Great job!” from the doctors and nurses, there was silence. It was 8:47pm, less than 12 hours from when we arrived at the hospital.
Our nurse wrapped Ginny in the rainbow blanket handmade by Grandma Ginny. We took turns holding her body. She had a cute round face and dark curly hair. I will never forget the moment Daniel was holding Ginny’s body while sitting close to me on the hospital bed. I watched his heart growing and breaking right in front of me. We both wept over her and prayed. We kissed her and loved her and wept. We were a family of three there. Our love made her, and she was so beautiful.
After a while we knew it was time. We called the nurse back in to take Ginny. We handed over our daughter’s body and said goodbye. It was hard to do, but we knew she was not in her body. She was in the arms of Jesus. The day that I thought would be the worst was actually very healing.
It turns out that mothers only stay in the hospital for a few days after delivery for the sake of the baby. Our nurse asked if we wanted to go home that night. We decided to stay the night and leave in the morning. They moved me up to a non-maternity floor so we wouldn’t hear babies crying. On the way up to the other floor, I got a couple of well-meaning “congratulations!” It was heart wrenching. My nurse whispered to me, “I’m getting you out of here. I’m getting you out of here.”
Daniel and I got a couple hours of sleep before the busy next morning. My nurse came to deliver the memory box at the end of her shift. She went through every item with so much care and sympathy. I will be forever grateful for her kindness and for preparing the priceless memory box for us. I feel like I will always be connected to her somehow. She was who cleaned, dressed, and took pictures of our daughter when we didn’t have the strength. She treated her with such honor and love, and there are no words to describe my appreciation.
The chaplain visited again with more helpful words and prayers. Multiple doctors came to explain what to expect with regards to milk coming in and warning signs for postpartum depression.
Then I got discharged. Daniel pulled the car around while I waited for my wheelchair escort. It took forever for a polite man to arrive with the wheelchair. He apologized for being late. He said that the computer told him I was in MRI so he went there first and I wasn’t there. I realized it was because Ginny was getting the MRI. I didn’t explain. On the way out to the car, I just imagined her little body in a huge MRI machine, and I was leaving her. I kept reminding myself that she is happy and loved in heaven. God comforted me.
We did not have a traditional memorial service for her. Most of our family is across the country. I consider the time we had with her body in that hospital room as her memorial. It was a beautiful moment, so full of love.
It was definitely due to the amazing amounts of prayer that labor and delivery went so quickly and smoothly. It far exceeded all my expectations and fear of what birth would be like. It was beautiful and epic and an honor. I can see how if the result was a baby, it would easily be the best day of your life. When I look back, it was a positive experience that makes me feel proud and strong. I have so so much love and gratefulness for Daniel through this. He is the most incredible man. Our mothers were also an amazing support; we definitely needed them there. There is no doubt that God was with us that entire day and the days since.
Thank you to everyone who prayed for us, sent flowers, sent a card, or gave us a gift or care package. Your love and support truly helped and comforted us.
When I was pregnant I used to joke that one of the best parts of pregnancy is not worrying about sucking in my belly in pictures. I could let it all hang out. I could blame all “pooch” on baby bump. No more “burrito” baby or “pizza” baby; I had a BABY baby! I never realized how self-conscious I was about my belly until I didn’t have to worry about hiding it anymore.
Same as most women, I constantly found flaws with my body ever since middle school, if not earlier. I felt like my thighs were too big, I had cellulite, my legs are too short, my hair is too flat. Do my gums show when I smile? Am I walking with my feet out? It’s all silly, petty, vain. We all do it. We should all stop.
I never had more body confidence than when I had my big, round belly and larger (albeit weirder) boobs. I know not all pregnant women experience this increase in body confidence during pregnancy, but I am grateful I did. I remember one of the last days of pregnancy when I was at my biggest. I was goofily dancing around rubbing my belly telling Daniel, “I’m really rocking this preggo-bod!” He wisely agreed.
There is so much beauty in a pregnant woman’s body – growing life. She’s glowing for a reason. It really is beautiful.
After losing Ginny, I was humbled in several ways, but actually body image was not one. The self-consciousness that I had pre-pregnancy didn’t return. I wasn’t loving my body the way I did while I was pregnant, but I didn’t feel bad about the way I looked. I attribute this to three things:
When you are grieving a loss, you just don’t care about things you used to care about. Petty things don’t seem to matter at all. You only care about what’s important. (RE: Fear and Freedom)
Becoming a parent (which I consider to take place as soon as you find out you’re pregnant) changes you. You lose a bit of shame. Life is no longer all about you so you don’t care as much how you look or how you are perceived. I think this is a good thing.
I could no longer watch the family vlogs and baby youtube videos I had watched everyday during pregnancy. I found a new non-triggering topic to watch, body-positive fashion videos! I highly recommend Sierra Schultzzie and Carrie Dayton videos. They are all about shopping for mid-sized bodies and loving your body. I chose these videos because they are light-hearted and not family-focused, but their message has actually started to sink in.
Even without carrying a baby, our bodies are incredible and beautiful. We should not hide our imperfections or feel ashamed of ourselves. We should be proud of our bodies because they are part of who we are and they allow us to do all the things we do.
Pregnant or not, we should all be kind to ourselves and appreciate our bodies. They aren’t perfect, but they are ours and they are beautiful. For now, I’m rocking my burrito-baby bod unashamedly!
Vessel
I wrote that Body Image post a few weeks ago, and I did not post it. The post is true, but it somehow isn’t the whole story. When I think about my body now, it’s true that I’m not ashamed of how it looks. I don’t really care to have the perfect body. But would I say I’m happy with my body?…no, but not because of the way it looks.
If I’m honest, I’m mad at my body. My body failed Ginny. I gave my whole body to take care of Ginny, and it still wasn’t enough. It built her and then abandoned her, and it didn’t even let me know. How could it let me survive and her die?
A couple weeks ago in church we sang a song called “New Wine” by Hillsong Worship. I struggled to sing it. The lyrics I faltered on were, “In the crushing, In the pressing, You are making new wine…When I trust You I don’t need to understand, Make me Your vessel, Make me an offering, Make me whatever You want me to be”.
I gave my whole body to take care of Ginny, and it still wasn’t enough…for what I thought Ginny’s life would be. It was however enough for what Ginny’s life actually is. God had numbered her days (Psalm 139:16). He knew she would only live in the womb for those months, and he knew his purpose for her. My body served her for the days she had. My body was the literal vessel for Ginny’s life on Earth. It was a role that was physically and emotionally painful but full of love. God called me into this role. My body is an offering for the person that I didn’t get to raise. But she is in heaven with no pain or fear or struggle. When I trust, I don’t need to understand.
“I appeal to you therefore, brothers, by the mercies of God, to present your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God, which is your spiritual worship.” – Romans 12:1
In addition to Ginny’s life, I know God is using this experience to bring new wine out of me. I love and empathize more. I’m helping others who are suffering, and I feel God’s presence in a new way. My brokenness and loss is being used for some good. As the other lyrics say, “Where there is new wine, There is new power, There is new freedom, The kingdom is here.”
“And the vessel he was making of clay was spoiled in the potter’s hand, and he reworked it into another vessel as it seemed good to the potter to do.” – Jeremiah 18:4
I feel kicks in my belly. But my daughter is already gone. She stopped kicking. I am haunted by the movement that I feel – that I shouldn’t feel. I should’ve ran to the hospital when I stopped feeling her. But I never stopped feeling her. I still feel her. Am I crazy?
Although it feels like my mind is playing tricks, the movements are explainable. When she was in me, I was feeling contractions pushing her little body against my uterus. I thought she was stretching. I was wrong.
The weeks after she was born, I felt all my insides moving back into place as my womb shrunk.
Now I guess I just feel digestion.
During pregnancy our bodies and minds become so keenly aware of any movement. We can feel hiccups and little rolls and turns.
We are then left with the perception and nothing to perceive. The result is a phantom. Phantom kicks.
Early on, in eager denial I thought, “Is she still here?! Is it a miracle?!” Of course not, I saw her leave me. She’s not here, and she’s not coming back. I’ll be the one going to her one day. She won’t come to me.
But why can’t she come to me in a dream? I dream the most random things. Can’t I have one dream of my beloved daughter? Daniel tells me to be careful what I wish for. He dreams of her…then he wakes up.
I still want to dream of her. I want to join him in a dream, and we can be the family we were meant to be – the family we truly are. Do we have to wake up? We can stay a phantom family in a perpetual dream. Who says what’s real anyway? Why can’t our dream be reality?
When we lost Ginny, I knew it would be so, so important to actually process my emotions. I’ve heard horror stories of unprocessed grief leading to terrible things later in life. As much as I wanted to be happy and focus on the positive, I knew I needed to face every single yucky, painful feeling I had.
Letting yourself feel everything is hard because it hurts. It hurts really bad. And just when you think things should be getting better, another wave of grief hits and you have to face it again and again.
To add a layer of complexity to an already complex situation – after a few weeks of grieving I realized that there is productive grief and unproductive grief. It has to do with your thoughts. There are certain thoughts that would make me feel sad or angry or disappointed. I would process those feelings, feel better, and move on to the next thought. But there are some thoughts that would cause me to feel those painful emotions. I would process those feelings, and then I would feel worse, not better. I would not move on to the next thought. Instead I would dive deeper into that thought. It could become a cycle of despair, leading nowhere.
Example – thinking of all the “what ifs” that could’ve saved Ginny. What if the midwife sent us straight to labor and delivery instead of scheduling a growth scan for Monday? What if I hadn’t mistaken contractions for movement? How could we have saved her? Could we have prevented this? Why didn’t I have motherly instincts telling me something wasn’t right? This line of thinking was important to process. I needed to think through these possibilities. I needed to come to peace that there is no way to change history and what happened happened. I needed to understand that even if we had done those things, there is no way to know if the outcome would’ve been different. I needed to understand that we did what we thought was best based on the information we had. I needed to understand that I didn’t do anything wrong. I did understand those things… but then my mind would go back. I would go back to the “what ifs” again and again. It would just make me feel worse about everything. I got stuck and fell into darkness. I had to pray hard to get out of it. I had to assure myself of truths I know. I had to read the Bible. I had to control my thoughts and not let myself go to places I knew were leading nowhere.
Another example – I got caught into constantly thinking about what physically happened to Ginny. Originally Daniel and I thought it was important to find out what caused this, not because we needed know what happened with Ginny but to know what it means for future pregnancies. There was no way to change what happened to Ginny, but we could possible prevent this from happening again. After a while my thought process changed, and I felt like it was my duty as her mother to figure out what happened to Ginny. I read all the test results. I read placenta evaluation textbooks. I am no doctor, but I became somewhat obsessed with figuring out what happened. Bloodclots, cord knots, antibodies, thyroid levels, etc. etc. Was she in pain? Maybe I could find something our doctors didn’t. I have to at least try. I would feel so exhausted at the end of days of research. I didn’t know what I was doing, and I wasn’t getting anywhere. I needed to let go. I had to remind myself to change my thoughts when I get in this cycle.
Final example – Some days I feel like I have nothing going for me. I don’t have my daughter; I don’t have my career. My past self would think my current self is a loser. I focus on what I don’t have and who I am not. This thinking leads me toward darkness, not light. It is not productive. In fact, it is a lie. I have an amazing marriage, friends, family. I have so, so much love. I have a new perspective on life and new passions. I still have all the skills I had before that can be applied in new ways. I have a future. I have a lot going for me.
All these negative cycles start with a lie… You could’ve saved her. You are a bad mom. You are a loser. The enemy wants us to believe lies. But the truth will set us from from cycles of despair. When I hear the lies, I stop and tell myself, “That is a lie. What is the truth?”
Opposite of these unproductive thoughts are productive thoughts. What thoughts bring me toward light and love and truth? Now I have built a toolbox of productive thoughts I can turn to. Truths that help me progress in my grief. These include: imagining heaven, imagining being reunited with Ginny, thinking of ways to remember her, thinking of happy times during pregnancy, thinking of our future family and how Ginny will always be a part of it, thinking of labor and delivery and holding her body, writing this blog, thinking of all the love and support we’ve received, thinking of how God is using our loss for good, thinking of all I have learned through this, thinking about all our love. Some of these thoughts still make me sad and cry, but the results of processing them are love, peace, and joy. I have to process all my grief and emotions, but I am deliberate about what I let control my thoughts. I have a choice to believe the truth or lies. I choose the truth.
I am a living witness. I have witnessed death – inside my own body. Besides a near death experience, I can’t imagine getting closer to death and surviving. Death caused me to cry out in despair from the deepest parts of myself.
Because of this, I am not afraid.
It wasn’t until I experienced the despair that I truly understood that I would never be alone and I would always be comforted. It wasn’t until the loss, that I actually comprehended the hope of heaven in the life to come and in the here and now. I am confident that no matter what I face, the love will outweigh the pain.
Does this mean I will never struggle with fear again? That would be nice, but I seriously doubt it. I think I will need to remind myself of these truths again and again.
The day after coming home from the hospital, I had a moment of anxiety and started picturing horrible things happening to others that I love. It became real to me that bad things do happen and no one I love is immune to tragedy. Fear gripped me. As I have always done when I’m scared, I ran to my mommy. I told her about my fear of awful things happening to everyone I love. I thought she’d assure me these were my hormones talking and nothing else bad will happen. Instead she looked me straight in the eye and said, “Aimee, we’re all going to die.” “Ugh! Mom, this is not what your are supposed to say to me right now!!” But then she continued, “We have hope in death, and it really is okay.” This is true.
For survival purposes we mostly live our lives in a state of denial and avoidance of the thought of death. Because of this, there is always a big, dark elephant in the room. We ignore it. We hide from the fear instead of face it and process the idea of eternity. When we do process it, there is freedom.
Let me describe the freedom that I am experiencing:
Being close to death changes your priorities. Have you ever heard someone ask, “When you are on your deathbed, will you be glad you spent your time the way you did?” Death puts life into perspective. Pointless things that once seemed to matter, suddenly no longer do. It becomes clear how you should spend your time. You focus on love instead of stressing the small stuff. The truly important things become more precious. You don’t waste your time.
You view your life in terms of eternity. This life is only a small phase in the timeline of your existence – the pain will be over. You’ll see your loved ones again. You won’t be lonely. Your body won’t drag you down forever. Your heart will be light soon.
You realize you have no control. You have free will, but some things are just completely out of your control. This powerlessness forces you to trust and surrender and let go. You don’t have to carry the weight or guilt of living in perfection. You don’t have to hold your breath.
You no longer care so much what people think of you. You only have so much time to do what you’re called to do on Earth so just go for it. You put yourself out there in new ways (i.e. this blog). You have freedom from your pride and the things that once held you back.
You have a more intimate relationship with God. He is near to the brokenhearted. In that nearness, you show him your brokenness. Through your weakness, he is strong. That weakness includes anger, frustration, jealousy, misunderstanding. You take your anger to God. He can handle it. He has more than enough grace for you. He loves you in your anger. He empathizes with you in your pain. He holds your faith in your unbelief. You are closer to him in a new way, forever. His grace and love surround you.
This freedom has changed my life in almost every area. The wail of a mourning mother is more than pain. She’s forced to look straight into the darkness of death. God’s light shines on it – it purges fear. Raw freedom and life are left. At least this is true in my case, right now, as one who lives in hope.
I’m sure I will fear again. When I do, I will lay it down at the feet of Jesus. He carried all our fears to the cross. Fear has already been overcome. We just need to live in that reality. The power of the name of Jesus is enough to chase away fear. It was enough to chase away death. Pick up the freedom that belongs to you.
Yep. Identity crisis – that’s the perfect way of describing it. I was going through an identity crisis even before we lost Ginny. I think everyone goes through a bit of this before becoming a parent. Your role changes and you have to come to terms with that.
Anytime there is a role change, you grapple with it until you realize this new you. I remember graduating college and realizing I was no longer a student. I had been a student since I was 4 years old! Who am I if I’m not a student? I remember crying on the first first-day-of-school that I wasn’t going to school. I felt so silly because I had achieved my goals. But still I was not longer who I had been, and I had to figure out my new self… an engineer, a professional, an adult.
It didn’t take long for me to feel myself in this new role. In reality, it wasn’t too far off from what I had always done. It was just another way to achieve. I had performed in school. Now I would do the same in the workplace. I even still wore a backpack and carried a lunch pail (they don’t tell you when you’re a kid that you will pretty much do that your whole life). I excelled in my new role as an engineer, and I put my all into it. I put all my energy into it.
After several years, Daniel and I realized we wanted more than just work. We wanted someone else to love, someone to show the world. This shift in priority shook me. I knew I didn’t want to be a power-house executive business leader while raising a child. I needed to sacrifice my future professional potential. That’s the reality, and I knew there was nothing wrong with it. I knew it would be worth it. I had just been trained through all the years to achieve all I could professionally. I had defined myself as an engineer. It was my identity. What would this new me look like?
Once I quit my stressful job to prepare for Ginny, I had to understand who I was outside of my career. I was a mother. I was going to be a stay-at-home-mom. This seemed so unreal to me. So much outside what I had done. My life couldn’t be about performance or achievement – it would need to be about service and love. I struggled when people asked me what I did. “Well my degrees are in industrial engineering, but…” Why did I have to qualify that? Why do I need people to know I was an engineer? Pride.
I started putting my all into this new motherhood role. I read books, watched videos, took classes. I got everything ready. I was rebuilding my identity in this new world. I put my all into Ginny – my body, my mind, my emotions, my time, my future, my potential. I had just come to terms with this new me. I was excited and ready.
Then February 25, 2019 happened. On that day my world came crashing down. I lost my daughter, and I lost my future. My new identity was gone. My old identity was gone.
All the plans I made for Ginny and for our family were thrown away – out of my reach and control. It is an understatement to say it was a humbling experience.
So much goes into your identity: your purpose, your self-worth, your character, your pride. When you lose your identity, it is like the floor is coming out from below you. What do I believe? How can I be sure of anything? What is going on? Who am I?
The loudest question for me was what do I do? I remember asking that in the hospital. Daniel would eventually go back to work in his lab. Would I be left in the empty house alone? That sounds terrifying. And I can’t even think about going back to a job where people are stressing out about seemingly meaningless things. I can’t live like that after this! What am I supposed to do?!
The near-term answer was grieve. I would spend days at the library reading and writing. I would wander around UNC campus listening to music and hiding my tears. I felt that was what I was supposed to be doing. During those walks, I asked myself, “Who am I? How would I define myself now? What is my new identity?” I knew I didn’t want my grief to define me. It would be part of me forever, but it can’t be who I am. I had no answers to those questions.
I eventually brought it to God. I felt so strongly that God was telling me that I am not my career, or my motherhood, or my relationships, or my performance. I am a child of God, and I am loved. He showed me that I love Ginny, not because of anything she did, but because she is my daughter. She came from me and Daniel and our love. I will love her always because of who she is. On a much larger scale, God loves me because of who I am. I came from him and his love. I am his daughter; therefore, he loves me. The same is true for you.
I can have confidence in that. I can put my identity in that. When all other things fall apart, that holds true.
These days I’m still reading and writing and grieving, but I’m also volunteering and searching for a job where I can help people going through hard times. I feel like I should be doing something helpful and meaningful. I don’t care if I am called “engineer”. That’s no longer where I put my self-worth. I am who He says I am.
Be-Still-and-Know 