Self Portrait

I was inspired by some of the photographers I admire to pursue the art of the self portrait this week. I feel like there are new developments in the person I am, and I feel like the only thing to do is capture it. Creating this portrait then inspired me to write, something I have felt less than inclined to do in the past year. Somehow, this photograph helped me decide to share.

Ryan and I have not been vocal about the pursuit of living children since Mason died. The reason for this is because I decided I was finished being pregnant then. For about a year, we were sure that I never wanted to be pregnant again and our family would thereon out be grown with adoption. 

However, an epiphany came to me in March of last year. I felt peace wash over me and a message that praying and believing that I could carry a living child was allowed. So, we began praying and believing. 

I chose not to share this then because I always carry this pressure that outsiders would think that a living child would "fix" our grief, that a living child is all we sought. We don't need that kind of projection on our choices, nor judgment for trying to conceive. The testimony I want to have all of my life is that our babies aren't the end goal- Jesus is. Even in deep pain, we still have a Good Father. I've wanted to continue to show that life can be abundant even without living children. Because it can and will. 

At risk of oversharing, I was extremely fertile when our babies were conceived. Every time, on the first cycle. We were extremely cautious after Mason. So, we believed that since Ryan came back in September, I'd be six months pregnant by now. A friend joked that at the homecoming she wanted to jump in front of me and intercept my fertility, given my history he'd look me in the eyes and it would be over. It made me hopeful and a bit cocky.

But here we are, six months and some very strange cycles later. I saw my doctor this week, with a late end of cycle and 4 negative tests. A blood test confirmed negative, but he is pretty confident that I'm not ovulating for whatever reason. I will wait to begin the next cycle and try Letrozole.

On the grand scale of infertility, I know this is not comparable. I know it is six months (two of which were kind of expected) and not six years. I hope my friends struggling so long with infertility know that I am aware that this is short, fixable, and merely a toe-dip in your world. 

But I am wrecked. I feel broken where I once was sure my body did its "job". As a woman, I feel foreign to myself and angry. I'm shocked at best. Ryan is away for perhaps another month, and the loneliness (even though I've been surrounded by sweet friends) is real. I can't truly explain exactly how I feel with words, and so that's where my self portrait came in. 

I wanted something to do with my hands, and the only obvious thing was the piece of needlework. I chose colors for a baby blanket in August and started on it the very day Ryan came home. It was a tangible thing to represent our belief and hope- this is being made intentionally. It will be used for the next baby in our home. 

I still believe that, but I don't know when or how. I never did. Another friend mentioned to me this week that after loss we still have this false sense of control, and it's true. I thought I even had control over when another child would be placed in our arms. 

That's why I chose this shot. There are a few obvious technical mistakes and I still love it. I felt everything was controlled when I sat down but you can see the yarn coming unraveled by the chair and my eyes followed a car driving past the house as I tried to gather it all back together. I lost focus on what was happening, and created a true-to-me self portrait. I feel alien from the moment this week, navigating through this new unraveling in my heart. 

That is where we are. Where I am. I choose transparency again, in hopes of framing how we'd like to be reacted to in this part of our journey. Please don't offer any self cures or suggest what route you believe should be taken. We do have plans for adoption, but that would require some stability for our family- at least knowing we'd be in the same state for longer than 6 months. We eat healthy enough. I track my body well. I use oils and no unsafe medications. We don't want a surrogate. We aren't sharing to seek the counsel and solutions we know many others may have, we are seeking support and prayer in the wait. Please, don't be dismissive.

As always, we are still so thankful. While this week has revealed some new layers of grief, we know that we are loved. I also know that recently I may have been defensive at kind comments that imply you're praying for our family to grow, and for that I apologize. It's truly appreciated. We have, however, come to pray with a "yes and amen." We know that our plans don't always match His ways and so we seek both- a living child and the peace to live with a "not right now." 

When Babies Do Keep

Why do we grieve the passage of time

and curse the speed of a moment?

Why are we mad at growth

as if it can help it's purpose?

We cry out to it: please slow down,

ask the children to stop growing

as if it growing is something

they are not supposed to do.

As if a child getting older

goes against the natural order.

Perhaps we are sad that a moment passes

before we can soak it in.

But would we not be more sad

if the moment never happened?

If the only way to make time stand still

came to us

as if it is something

any of us actually want.

As if we'd ask for the most terrible thing

just to make a baby keep.

Sometimes they do.

Sometimes they are not going to get any older

before our eyes

and between our blinks.

Sometimes they stay the very same size

as they were when we first met them.

We know this.

We attended the funeral.

For some time can't move fast enough.

But here we are anyway

asking the children to stop growing.

In Defense of Shutting Up

It has been 8 months between my last post and this one. I've had a few reasons for not blogging- some of them intentional and some of them beyond my control. Either way, I feel so relieved to sit down and write about the things I've been reflecting on, even if it ends up being a word vomit.

Following Mason's due date, life became very overwhelming. Ryan and I had a few weeks in November to bond with each other and connect before he would deploy. Those weeks felt like hours and before we knew it, he was slipping his wedding ring off into my hand and joining formation to march out of the gym. I was suddenly in uncharted territory and it has taken me seven months to really get a good handle on navigating life and grief without my partner within tangible reach. I'll write more about that soon.
We watched people we love, people we consider to be reasonable, people we've come to expect some perspective from... come completely undone in the face of the election. That was exhausting- trying to avoid all politics and just care for our own hearts when many of the people we looked to to help cultivate a gentle atmosphere were caught up in those politics. I couldn't do anything but sit quietly and observe the chaos. This was the beginning of my writing break.

All three birthdays have passed for our babies. January 5th was our Baby Errol's, it came and went as quietly as he did. Mason turned one on May 19th. And Eden turned two Monday June 26th. I feel that the second year for Eden was harder than the first, but the timeline has been complicated as her second year was Errol and Mason's first.
Either way, this year was harder than the last. It's no secret that a miscarriage is societally seen as "less" than a full term neonatal death. There has been a stark contrast between the kind of support and love we received when we consider that we've lost three children. That's what they are to us. Our babies. And it felt like to some, they were not. That because we haven't shared Mason's face, he must not have one. That because we never even held a Baby Errol, he really wasn't here. And that is a shitty thing to feel. People have continued to tell us they always think of us and Eden. Conveniently excluded are our other two- whom Ryan and I call "the boys". Finding a way to build legacies for babies others like to pretend didn't exist is exhausting. Continuing on with life-long grief while outsiders would believe that there's a time limit is also exhausting.

It has also been a year that made the question "do you have any kids?" harder to answer than before. We don't know what to say anymore. If we say yes, then answer the questions that follow honestly... we usually walk away from some awful platitude that just hurts. We'll never deny our babies, but we've learned to skirt the topic with strangers and try to ease into it gently with new friends so they may understand first how we'd like to be treated after telling our story to them.

This blog kind of got out of control. Going viral after Eden's identity theft opened our lives to scrutiny that our hearts couldn't handle. I disabled comments of course, but emails kept coming. I was accused of killing my children, of getting pregnant on purpose to lose a child. Ugly things have been said in the face of our decision to be transparent with our marriage and with parenthood and with grief. I don't want my babies memories immediately associated with what happened to us, and I definitely don't want them associated with such awful accusations.
It is also hard to gather your thoughts with people watching (or reading). When you're vocal about your experience and something relevant to that experience or something you've said before (say a pregnancy announcement as an example), people look to you for your initial reactions so they may decide if you are gracious or bitter.
SO I felt I just needed to shut up for a while. The internet has brought us to some of the most supportive and loving friends, but it is not always a safe place for the grieving mother and father.

Then again, neither is everyday life.
I've grown so tired of being asked when we'll have another baby. HEY my husband is deployed so it won't be today. What if we don't want to have another baby?
The problem is, it makes people uncomfortable to call me a mom or Ryan a dad as long as we have no living children. It makes me question our parenthood myself. I feel invisible. I feel taunted.
"You can have mine!" No, I can't.
"I could choke them." Please, don't.
And so when I am in a room full of mothers, my anxiety manifests in the form of believing that I have nothing to offer to the conversation. If I do offer something, it might shut the conversation down or worse, I very well may walk away from it being told my offering was not welcome or relevant because I am not nor will I ever be like them.

This anxiety evolved in my mind... when I did want to sit down and write and share, I couldn't. I physically could not get the words out and I had begun to believe that it didn't matter anyway. I was paralyzed at the thought of being vulnerable and pouring my heart out for none of it to ultimately matter.

I have been given my circle though, my own mom group. I was able to begin to cultivate friendships with other moms- some of them also having walked through unspeakable loss- where instead of feeling contagious I've been asked to keep children overnight. Where I can speak freely as a mother and a woman and no one questions whether they might value what I have to say. They make me a spiritual mom of their children and that kind of friendship is worth more than gold. I think being quiet with the world to "find" those people was needed.

Another thing I've been able to do since I've taken this time off is become a certified doula in birth & bereavement. In December I had the thought that I should, but I told the Lord he would have to be louder if that were an avenue I needed to pursue. He would up yelling by February and so I registered with StillBirthday. I turned in my final tasks last week. I think it'll add a lot to my presence at bereavement births as a photographer and with that being such a big "why" for me... it just feels so good to have done this. I'll be overhauling my business in the next few months to focus more on births and doula services.
In 6 months, I had written a whole paragraph for a book. It was not coming easily and it felt forced. I was deleting everything. So I put that down at the same time I started my doula course. I feel like in the next few weeks I'll be able to pick it back up again as well.

Really, taking this time to be quiet has been so needed in my grief. Learning to be alone and recharge and care for my heart and mind is an important step in healing that I never expected. I had been self medicating with busy-ness and oversharing and so when I finally shut up and cleared my schedule to just be alone, it hurt. It was like coming down off a high. I didn't know what to do with myself. Many things I'd been keeping at arms length entered my soul and I broke. I had no where to look but upward and nothing outward to work on... that meant working inward.
So me and God have had it out these past few months. When our relationship was pretty and I was hashtag blessed, I never had to question Him. But in the wake of loss and confusion, I still didn't want to question or doubt. I spent so much time just "yes and amen"-ing even when I needed to fuss that I did not fully confront the questions and anger when they arose. I won't go into too many details, but the quietness and down time allowed for me to seek the face of the Savior and discover undeniable truths for my broken heart. While it was hard, I can still say it was good. It's important to work out the kinks in faith every once in a while or else, is it really faith?

All of that to say I'm back to writing and I'm glad. If none of it does ultimately matter to anyone else, it matters to me. It's a part of my healing. It's for me. Hopefully it points to the Lord in suffering. Hopefully it gives hope of abundantly blessed life after loss even without living children. Hopefully it inspires someone or just makes them feel something. If none of that happens though, it inspires me. I like to talk about this life and this grief and all the love I have for my babies.
I had to shut up for a while to understand why and who for. Because it matters to me. For me.

Should-Be Birthday

Today was my estimated due date. I am 40 full weeks not pregnant. 

Mason should have been born today. Or yesterday. Or last week, or tomorrow, or two weeks from now. I know babies always come on their due dates, right?

I know it shouldn't be a huge deal that today is today but my heart feels the heaviest it has since the last time I held his little body. It's almost like my body knows it, too. I am tired, achey, and irritable. My arms hurt- they feel so very empty. I didn't plan to remember today, but mamas just don't forget things like this.

I don't really have much to say- I am just so sad. But I did want to write a little about him for his day. 

This surprising boy. I didn't think it was even possible that I could be pregnant with him when I found out I was. Then, we truly believed he was a girl from the beginning. His pregnancy was so much like his sister's. 

I was sick and I could only enjoy a few foods. My middle was growing fast. I was feeling him move sometimes. And it felt good. He brought with him feelings of expectation and security. I was believing that we would bring a baby home this month. 

But then I was laying there on the table, trying to erase what I had seen out of my mind: a still heart. My baby was not moving on his own accord. And there was no longer life inside me. 

So I called my husband before I even sat up and I told him what I saw and he told me he'd be home soon. (Thank you Red Cross & U.S. Army for getting him home THAT night). 

Two days later on May 19th, I was induced. At 9:50 p.m. we were shocked when this little boy was born to us. He weighed only one ounce. He was 4 3/4 inches long. His fingernails had already reached his fingertips. His nose was his dad's. Ryan's only words were "Mason Gregory" and then he was blessed by the chaplain. I'll never be able to replicate the sounds I have made when I've held my children, realizing they had died.

We spent time with our son until the next morning. We got fingerprints and footprints. We held him close, and then after meeting with the geneticist, allowed him to be taken from us. We went home shortly after that where we were loved on by our friends and family with meals and cards and flowers and scripture and prayers. And somehow, we lived. Somehow, I'm still alive. Looking back on these moments it's such a wonder to me. How I can go on living when my children don't get to is just beyond me. It isn't fair. It IS more than I can handle. God has handed me more than I can bear. I am so thankful that He bears it for me. 

Today we'll be going to see the movie, "Trolls" because Mason's size was closer to the troll doll comparison on my fourteenth week of pregnancy than the canary comparison on my fifteenth. Again, the bird is always a symbol for me that my children are safe and he was winking at me before I even knew. 

We'll eat some spicy food- I'm thinking buffalo wings since that was his favorite flavor. 

We'll be picking up a quilt made by a sweet woman using his baby blankets. 

We'll light his candle and take out his pictures. And we will remember all the joy he brought us, even if he only stayed a little while.

I wish I were holding him today- a big fat baby that filled my arms. I wish I were singing "You Are My Sunshine" to him again. I wish I could feed him, rock him, and be up all night with his cries instead of the nightmares that remind me that I can't do any of this. 

Today should have been his birthday every year for a very long life. Instead it is another missed due date for me and another day to honor a baby that isn't here. I can't explain how much I miss him and can't wait to hold him again.

An Update and a Note on Disabling Comments

In the past few weeks my open letter to Kristin Keel has resurfaced and made the rounds again, opening my blog up to many questions about the situation. I wanted to share with those of you curious what has come of the whole ordeal since January.
We pushed pretty hard down many different avenues to have her and her husband punished for, at the very least, identity theft of our child. Since there was no record of gifts and money they received as a result of their fake child's death, it has been impossible. There are, unfortunately, no proven laws broken against us personally. Maybe one day we will have the energy to initiate a bill that would make sure that online identity theft of a deceased person is a crime. We don't have that energy right now.

We've done what we can. I wrote the truth and published it here and it made its way to the eyes of all the people who grieved for a child that didn't exist. It helped loss support groups kick Kristin out so that she could not also prey on their children. It gave a name to the face that has tried to keep scamming so many more people. I said my piece. So, really, I've done my part.
It has been a really hard 18 months and it's just time for us to try and regain some kind of normalcy. The anger and bitterness that Satan tried to plant using Kristin really have no room here in the grief we are trying to tend to. Ryan and I consciously stepped back from the drama in an effort to keep a hold of our sanity and we have decided that forgiveness is the only way to free us from the hurt she caused. And we are also praying genuinely for a change in the hearts of Kristin and Troy. We are super grateful for the kindness and love and support we have received from the whole new wave of strangers brought into our lives by this and that's what we have to focus on.

Thoughts on a Missed Due Date

Our second child was lost at five weeks.

We learned I was pregnant on New Years Day.

I tried to celebrate this baby, and I did with an early announcement and a "big sister" book for Eden. But the sight of the positive test was ominous for me. I told Ryan immediately, "he's a boy, and he isn't ours to keep either". We prayed that I was wrong, but I knew.

Four days later we found ourselves in the emergency room receiving the news I expected.

I was two days into the miscarriage when I was called by the CHERUBS president and informed that someone had stolen pictures of Eden to pass off as her own deceased fake baby. Enter the hell and drama that was my baby girl's identity theft... and exit the opportunity to truly grieve for the baby we were presently losing.
It wasn't until I was at the Hope Mommies Retreat the next month that I realized that I had not absorbed what had happened- I had not recognized that I lost another child until I saw only one name beside mine.

So when I came home I told Ryan I felt he needed a name, and a few days later he suggested "Errol". It means 'to wander', and it fit because that is what he did. By the time I knew he was here, he was on his way back Home. From then on our second child became known as Baby Errol. It got past me that Errol was also the Weasley's owl in Harry Potter, until my best friend reminded me and it comforted me as HP will always be my favorite story (I mean, who doesn't like HP?).

But I still did not fully grieve that loss even with giving him a name, because at the end of February I found myself pregnant with our third child. It happened so quickly and surprisingly that I just had to move forward and press into the good feelings that this pregnancy brought. When Mason also died at 15 weeks in May, Eden's birthday followed shortly after...

Baby Errol was almost ignored through it all (in true middle child fashion), until suddenly it was July and someone said the word "September" and my heart immediately dropped- I should have a newborn baby in September. On September 7th, to be exact. And that unexpected punch to the gut- "It'll be September soon," is when I really started to grieve that loss.

Today I am reflecting on what that grief looks like- it is so different from that which I carry for Eden and for Mason. I had no chance to get to know him. I am missing what might have been rather than what actually was. Does that make sense? The pain of early miscarriage is so ambiguous- so much possibility, just disappeared.
I have nothing for Errol. Not a footprint or a picture. His body is not in a plot or an urn.  The pregnancy test is in my drawer and that is all I have to show for his brief existence. When I miss my daughter I can hold her weighted bear. When I miss my son I can snuggle his blankie. I can grab things from their time with me and cling a little to the past. I can recall their personalities. I don't have things like this for Baby Errol. So missing Errol is purely missing the future. There's nothing left behind, just this gaping hole where this child I never knew should have been.

He's not less meaningful to us because of all this. He is my child. This baby came to us after we thought we could never even imagine having another. He made it real to me that I am not exempt from loss after loss- no free passes for anyone. It is just far more complicated to be intentional with so much unanswered grief.

The summer weekend for the Mara Hope Project sessions just passed. As he was helping me set up the studio, I told Ryan I really wanted a complete family portrait. He asked how we would include Errol and neither of us could find an answer. So we didn't participate this time. And that made me really sad. But it also rustled in me the desire to purposely honor his life as we approached his due date.

I felt lost and still do... but for this tiny little being and his tiny life, small and simple things seem appropriate.
We cuddled and loved on the little boy that would have been his best friend.
We went to the fair this week and Ryan won me a small owl, one that caught my eye just for Errol.
We went out this morning and brought home a plant to nurture.
I'll finally linger again in the room of unused baby supplies. Perhaps I'll even clean it.
I'll write my photography proposal for the charity interested.

And suddenly it'll be tomorrow, but I'm not sure I'll feel any less lost than I do today.
And that's okay. Two years ago last month we began praying for a child and now we have three in Heaven. It's a tough pill to swallow and one that I can admit I have a hard time accepting, as anyone would.

But oh, I bet this kid is just smiling at me. I know this all seems so trivial to those babies. The joke is on me, because every day is a happy one for them, even if it's a sad one for me. There's the only peace. I know he's glad, healthy, and whole and just waiting there for me with his (yes, or her) brother and sister.
So, happy due date to you, Baby Errol. Your Mama is missing all that should be today.

Manila Envelope

My last post was about my son who was meant for November but came to us much earlier. Today is his three month birthday.
He was the third baby we've lost. So we got the ticket nobody wants to get- the one where they screen us for everything that could be wrong.

We asked the geneticist to run every possible test on Mason and on us. He did. He ran every test and sent them off to the big lab. We waited a month and a half to get the results and I just knew that something was going to come out of them. It had to.


I was believing that Mason's purpose for dying would be that Ryan and I would get answers, would get some direction on how to prevent another loss. I was believing that something was definitely wrong somewhere or else we would not have had to say goodbye to all of our children. Mason, I thought, came to make a way for answers. If we hadn't lost him, there would have never been the open door to every test under the sun.

So while we waited for these results I was most impatient. I emailed my doctor every day. I knew she was checking every morning and the afternoon reply would come, "nothing yet".

All through this time, my inbox kept filling up with the same questions: Have you gotten the results back? Did you test for xyz? What did the doctor say? Any news yet?


When you're transparent about your life, pain and grief included, even people you aren't close with begin feeling entitled to you. It's not bad or wrong of them, they just begin to relate to you and they grow familiar with your life and feel as though your answers are their answers too. It isn't bad, but it is extra hard on you.

There was enough pressure from the expectations Ryan and I had for these tests. I quickly recognized that others were relying on these results too. Other people are banking on a happy ending for us and that was a lot of extra pressure even at the same time it was encouraging. The part that goes over the line though, was when people began assuming they knew the answers.


Listen, I know how it looks.
It looks like I can't produce a healthy baby.

I know what is being said behind my back.
Hell, sometimes it's even said to my face. I was told to get find someone else to carry a child for me.

I know that everyone is wondering what I did wrong.
Let me tell you, I have been wondering myself.

But I was careful. I got the green light from doctors before conceiving. I ate well and supplemented the protein I was missing out on. I limited my caffeine and I did follow every single healthy guideline because no one on earth wanted our children to have the best chance more than we did. And I had healthy, textbook pregnancies- one of them to term. But my pregnancies did not produce healthy babies. My babies died. I know of many unhealthy pregnancies that produce healthy, thriving babies. These things are out of our control! Still, you don't know the guilt and fear that's carried with a pregnancy after loss.

We knew we would eventually share the results with you all. I choose to be open about these things because its healing for me and it might be healing for someone else that I don't even know.
But we have not been ready to open ourselves up again to all of the speculation.
We've been grieving deeply. We've been trying to not remember how many weeks pregnant I would be. We have been packing away baby items. We have been surviving. That's what we've been doing for the past year since we arrived in WA. We are still very much grieving all three of our children, not just the most recent one, because time has no power over grief or the love that causes it.

When we got the results back, do you want to know one of the first things I said to Ryan? In the middle of the grief and confusion and the pain and while the concrete around our loss was still drying, I asked, "What will people say?"
And that's when we realized I needed to take a break from being so public.

I know everyone wanted answers, including us. I can understand the eagerness. And you have all been doing your very best to support us. We are supported. We are loved. And we are thankful.

But I also want everyone to understand that we need time to process things before letting others process them too. We are not obligated to share everything, and especially not before we are ready.

Instead of the questions concerning medical records, here are some helpful ones to ask in case you all find yourselves seeking to comfort newly grieving parents:

-How can I pray for you?

-Have you been eating?

-Do you have any errands that need running?

-Will you tell me about your child?

-Would you like me to sit with you?

-Would you like to get out for a while?

-Would you like to be alone?

I'm sorry for nagging. I just really want to set the tone for how we expect to be treated in light of this news that we are now ready to share.

We were on the way to the beach in S.C., the last leg of our visit home which was meant to be relaxing and fun. But, my phone rang and I saw the Tacoma number. It was my doctor.
Ryan turned the radio down but she was still very quiet when she said, "He was positively a little boy, and he was positively perfect. Everything came back normal."
We talked for a few more minutes and I could hear her crying with me. We made an appointment for when we came back to WA. and I hung up.

It made the end of our vacation a lot more sober than it already was. The day before was Eden's first birthday. One year after losing our first child, we are told that we just had really bad luck with all three of them.

So we came home and a few days later went into her office so that she could hand me a big yellow manila envelope of test results. It was heavy. "Lots of medical, cold terminology in there... you don't want to read it. It's just for future doctors' reference."
Sitting in the pharmacy I took it out and began to read it anyway. Pages and pages and pages with the words 'normal' and 'unremarkable' typed on them.


I sat there in disbelief and just cried and cried. I was so hurt. I am still hurt. I am still confused. I am still afraid.


My whole life I have been concerned with why things happen. I used to believe that everything had a reason. My world has been rocked by these kids. Everything I believed before has been challenged and altered. After Eden passed, I began to let go of asking why. After Errol passed, I touched it but quickly retreated. This time, I demanded that God make it known to me. And initially, because I had invested so much hope in the contents of that envelope, I thought Mason had died in vain.

I did not necessarily want to be told something was wrong with me or with Ryan or with our child, but I did want to know WHY. I kept opening that envelope for weeks, thinking maybe we missed something. I even went back in it today. It's the same. Same words. Same paper. Normal. Unremarkable.

I have to put this envelope away and put this energy into honoring my son. I'm beginning to think Mason came to make a way that I could tear down the "why" wall for good. That I could maybe one day toss reservations and guilt and shame and worry to pick up only the bare necessities: love and grief. I'm still working on that. But I think he finally broke me for good of the innate need to be given a reason.

I repeat it over and over in this blog and in my home and to other loss moms: there's no reason that our babies die, not a good enough one anyway (if you think you have one, I'm not interested in hearing it). I fell back into the trap of believing that everything had a reason. But Mason did not have a "purpose for dying" like I was foolishly believing he did, contrary to everything that I already knew.

There are a lot of reasons that our babies come to us, though. One of them because we are the only ones that can build legacies for people who were here for such a short time. He chose me. Thank God He chose me for them. They are mine and I am theirs and there's so much painful good in that. I will love them and do good things where they could have if they had lived.

Today is also the International Day of Hope for bereaved families. It is a day to share about our children and remind others that they are still very loved people, not just sad events in our lives. I did not create a prayer flag this year but I am spending so much time reflecting on what a miracle really is. My babies died, but they are still miracles. I asked for them and they were given to me. Ryan and I still being here and living an abundant life is a miracle. The promise of being a complete family again one day is the ultimate miracle. How amazing is the thought that I'll be as innocent as my children when I finally hold them again in front of the Father?

I wish I had answers for you all. I really do. It's been a long year that we are thankful you have supported and loved us through. I want a happy ending pretty ribbon tied around this story for you all as much almost as much as for myself. But life is messy. It's not fair and it's not pretty all the time. That doesn't make it any less miraculous.


I know that there are more questions after this, the most pressing one being what we do next.
We. Don't. Freakin'. Know.
Right now, we are recuperating. We are full of grief and my body is drained. We are so tired. So we are resting. And I am sealing this envelope and putting it in the safe.
Please don't recommend we grow our family by way of another pregnancy, or surrogacy (BTW, that's super rude- if you think I'm a dud, just say it behind my back), or adoption, or fostering. And when we are ready to grow our family, please don't discourage us from being brave enough to pursue a living child-whatever avenue we are led down.

We're praying for peace to sleep and patience to complete simple tasks and grace enough to get through every moment missing our babies. For now, we just ask that you encourage us to rest. And go to the throne on our behalf and intervene, send your vibes, give us thoughts... whatever it is you do. And remember who we are when you want to complain about your kids directly to us. And be patient when we tell you certain events are hard. And give us grace when we bail. And join us in letting go of the need to know why this happened.