MRI - Part Two

This post is the seventh in a year-long series and the second half of a post from earlier today ... Through this series of posts I plan to share our family's experiences during our 17-year-old daughter's year-long battle with brain cancer, which began in February of 2008. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

February 20, 2008

Tommy entered the room and pulled that third chair up to where we were sitting, so Hannah and I were basically knee-to-knee with him.  He gently explained to both of us that the MRI revealed a tumor in the pineal region of Hannah's brain.  Hannah and I were both pretty tearful, but his words had a calming effect.  He asked if we would like to see it, and we must have assented, because we soon found ourselves in the technician's booth staring at a ghostly image of the invader in Hannah's brain.  The tears returned.  Even our friendly technician was crying by this point.

We moved back out into the waiting room and sat back down in our three chairs.  Tommy explained that this tumor would require immediate intervention and we should plan to go to Arkansas Children's Hospital that night.  Or, since Hannah was not in any acute distress, we could go home and head to Children's in the morning.  Either way, he would call ahead so they would be prepared to receive us when we got there.  For me, there was no question ... We would go home.  Somehow I had to share this news with Brad and Bethany and give our family time to process it.

As we sat in our little circle, Tommy took our hands and prayed with us.  He placed Hannah into God's hands and prayed for the wisdom of those who would be treating her.  I don't remember anything else he prayed, but I do remember the feeling of peace that flowed over us in that moment.  He gathered up all the MRI films into a big envelope and walked us out of the hospital through a back exit so we wouldn't have to walk through the public areas in our emotional state.

We stood outside our car for a few minutes and Hannah asked Tommy if they were going to have to shave her head.  He replied that they might, and said, "but it is what it is."  For some reason, those words were oddly comforting ... a confirmation that this whole thing was out of our control.  Tommy offered to drive us home, but I assured him I was capable of driving and would be fine.

I remember very little of what Hannah and I discussed on the 20-minute drive home.  I do know that, as any typical teenager would be, she was concerned about how her friends would react.  She said that she didn't want anyone to know, and I assured her we'd protect her privacy.

As we got closer to home, I knew I needed to call Brad and let him know what was going on.  He was at his job as a high school principal, and it was about time for the buses to run.  I got him on the phone and told him I needed him to come home.  That was all I could get out before my throat closed off, and I hung up.

He arrived at home just a few minutes before Hannah and I did, and waited for us in the garage.  He had no idea what was going on ... in fact, he thought maybe this had something to do with Bethany.  We were awaiting her ultrasound report from the day before ... He certainly wasn't expecting MRI results so soon.

We pulled into the garage, and stepped out of the car.  Hannah spoke first ... "Daddy, I've got a brain tumor."  We held each other and cried for awhile together while I filled him in on some of what Tommy had said.  Then it was time to go into the house and break the news to Bethany, who had been home alone sick all day.  More tears ensued.  Once we pulled ourselves together a bit, we had a prayer time as a family, placing Hannah in God's hands, acknowledging that we had no idea what was ahead of us, but affirming our trust in Him.  The peace that passes all understanding (Philippians 4:7) began to make itself known.

The rest of the evening was a blur of phone calls and visitors.  Brad made the hardest calls (because I couldn't even talk), which were to our parents, informing them of what was going on.  He also called our neighbor, a retired pastor who had become our girls' adopted grandpa.  Bro. Gerald came down the hill from his home and prayed with us, sharing a scripture with us which became our theme verse throughout the next year ... "The Lord is good, a refuge in times of trouble.  He cares for those who trust in Him" (Nahum 1:7).

Hannah had told me she didn't want anyone to know ... and I don't know how it happened, but suddenly everybody knew.  We lived in a small community, and word travels fast.  This was a Wednesday evening, and somehow Hannah's name appeared on every local church's prayer list.  About 10:00 that evening, a group of her friends and their mothers appeared at our door with a basket full of gifts, including a soft purple blanket which they had all signed.  That blanket would go with her into surgery a few days later.

Our phones rang incessantly, and one of those calls was the ultrasound report on Bethany.  With the results of her bloodwork, and the enlargement of her spleen and liver, her diagnosis was changed from pneumonia to mononucleosis.  That certainly explained the fatigue and malaise she'd been experiencing.

Another call was from Tommy, saying he had made arrangements for us to check in through the ER at Children's Hospital first thing the next morning.  Things were getting real ... even though the feeling of disbelief that this was actually happening to our family was also very real.

In the midst of the chaos of that evening, Hannah remained calm.  I remember her saying at one point, "Now I'll have a story."  I was in awe of the strength that God was clearly giving her.  When she went to bed that night, she posted this on her Facebook page ...

"I will praise Him in the storm! I'm going to children's hospital in the morning..."

And I sent the first of what would become a year's worth of emails, this one just to our close family and friends ...

"After several days of strange symptoms and doctor visits, we found out today that our 16-year-old daughter, Hannah, has a brain tumor. We are headed to Arkansas Children’s Hospital first thing in the morning for a biopsy. God’s hand has already been involved…the ophthalmologist that we were sent to yesterday is a great Christian guy who sang in our wedding 20 years ago, so he has been taking good care of us. We also found out today that our 12-year-old daughter, Bethany, has mono, not pneumonia, as she was originally diagnosed. So…please keep all of us in your prayers. Both my parents and Brad’s parents are coming to LR tomorrow, and are going to help us out with Bethany for as long as needed, so that need has been met, too. We are looking forward to seeing God working through this situation!"

MRI - Part One

This post is the sixth in a year-long series ... Through this series of posts I plan to share our family's experiences during our 17-year-old daughter's year-long battle with brain cancer, which began in February of 2008. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

Photo credit: Muffet on Visualhunt.com / CC BY

February 20, 2018

On the morning of the MRI appointment, Hannah woke up feeling great. For the first time in nearly a week, she didn't have a headache. Her vision was clear, and her pupils were normal. I clearly remember the feeling of relief that flooded over me. Whatever this was, it was over! I could literally feel the weight lifting off my shoulders. In fact, I was so sure Hannah's "sickness" had resolved itself, I considering canceling the MRI. After all, the co-pay was sure to be expensive ... and I was going to have to leave Bethany home alone for a few hours. But as I recalled the heavy anxiety of the previous week, I decided to keep the appointment. It would be worth the trouble and expense just for the peace of mind that everything was fine.

I made sure Bethany was comfortable in the recliner with the Disney Channel on TV, a blanket, and plenty of snacks. I assured her we would be back in a couple of hours, and then Hannah and I headed to the same hospital where Bethany had gotten her ultrasound the day before. We located and checked into the MRI suite, where we were greeted by a friendly technician. She explained a little bit about what to expect and started an IV in Hannah's arm for the contrast which would be administered about halfway through the procedure. She had Hannah lie down on the narrow sliding table and fastened her down with straps. It was somewhat disconcerting to watch her place a strap over Hannah's forehead, immobilizing her head. I spoke a few words of encouragement to Hannah, then stepped out into the waiting room as the technician entered her little booth and shut the door.

Settling into my uncomfortable plastic chair, I listened as the eerie jackhammer-like sounds of the MRI began to drift into the waiting room. I picked up a magazine from the basket beside my chair, but had difficulty focusing on the pages. I clearly remember a fleeting thought running through my head that our lives could be changing forever on that day, in that moment. Quickly shaking it off, I reminded myself that Hannah felt fine this morning ... all of this was just to confirm that she really was okay.

Lost in my thoughts, I was startled when the door to the technician's booth opened, and she leaned out of it. In her hand, she held two tickets. She held them out in my direction and said, "Here are a couple of tickets for a free meal in the cafeteria. When this is done, I'd like for you and Hannah to have lunch here." I didn't know how to respond for a moment ... Why would we want to do that? I declined the tickets, telling her that I had a sick child at home and did not want to stay any longer than necessary. She said she understood and disappeared back into her booth.

Now I was concerned. I couldn't imagine why this lady wanted us to stay and have lunch at the hospital. Unless ... But no, I dismissed that thought. Hannah was fine. The MRI was going to prove it.

The clanging of the MRI finally ended, and the technician opened the heavy door separating us from the magnetic tube where Hannah was. She released her from her straps, and Hannah sat up, both of us glad it was over. As she stood and we prepared to leave, the technician pushed those same two tickets in my direction and much more insistently urged us to go have a free lunch in the hospital cafeteria. She said something about needing to make sure all the films turned out okay before we left, so if we would go have lunch and then swing back by the MRI suite before leaving the hospital, that would be great. That way, if any of the films had to be re-done, we could take care of that before we left.

Okaaaay ... this didn't seem right ... but what did I know? Maybe an MRI was like an x-ray, where the doctor tells you not to get dressed until they make sure they got good pictures of your insides. I reluctantly took the tickets, and Hannah and I headed to the cafeteria to have lunch.

I have no memory what we ate or even what we talked about ... probably whatever she was missing at school that morning or what had happened on the last episode of American Idol. I do remember her asking me why that lady didn't want us to leave, and me assuring her that it was just routine.

We finished our lunch and headed back to the MRI suite. When we walked in, I immediately noticed that two of the waiting room chairs had been pulled close together. The waiting area only had three chairs, and they had been spaced far apart when we arrived that morning ... in fact, we had laughingly waved to each other from across the room as we sat down. The technician seated us in those two chairs right next to each other and told us that Tommy, our ophthalmologist was on his way over to talk to us. Then she disappeared into her booth.

My heart dropped like a stone. There was no denying it anymore. Hannah was not fine. She began to ask me questions about what was going on, and I had no answers for her.

A few minutes later the technician popped back out of her booth and asked me to step in there with her. Tommy was on the phone, and wanted to talk with me. I gave Hannah's hand a squeeze and stepped into the booth. The technician closed the door and handed me the phone. Tommy told me he was on his way. The MRI showed "something" and it would need "further treatment." Somehow, I had the presence of mind to ask him if Hannah needed to be included in our conversation when he arrived, or if this was something we needed to discuss without her present. He said I knew Hannah best, and that it was up to me. Yes, I did know Hannah ... and I knew she would have a lot of questions. I told him to be prepared to talk with both of us when he arrived.

When I hung up the phone, I couldn't seem to get enough air. As I steeled myself to step out of that booth to face Hannah, the technician put her hand on my arm and said, "You don't have to go out there yet ... Take a minute." Her kindness nearly undid me. The tears came then and she hugged me. I didn't stay in there long, though. I needed to get back to my daughter.

Hannah knew the moment she saw my face that something was up. I sat down beside her and told her what Tommy had said. We held each other and cried a little bit, then pulled ourselves together and waited for Tommy to arrive. I remember pulling a magazine out of the basket beside the chair to help pass the time, and it was a ladies' magazine from 1987! We flipped through it, laughing at the big hair and outdated clothes. So incredibly surreal. 

It felt like hours, but it was only about ten minutes before Tommy arrived.

To be continued ...

Doctor Visits and Referrals

This post is part of a year-long series ... Through this series of posts I plan to share our family's experiences in the last year of our 17-year-old daughter's life on earth, which spanned from February of 2008 to February of 2009. Many of you who read this blog followed our journey through the emails I wrote over the course of that year. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

February 19, 2008

So we had two kids with two very different health problems to take to the doctor at the same time.   I was working as an independent contractor speech pathologist at that time, so if I missed work, I didn't get paid.  Their appointments were in the morning, so we decided that Brad would use half a sick day and bring them to doctor, then I would come home at lunch and spend the rest of the day with them so he could go on to work.

I went to work that morning, but I honestly don't remember anything I did while I was there.  I'm sure I saw my students, but my therapy couldn't have been very effective.  My mind was on my girls and what in the world was going on with them.  How could both of them have such weird health issues at the same time?

Finally I got my hours completed and headed home.  Brad and the girls arrived about the same time I did, and while they ate lunch, we talked.

They had done a new set of chest x-rays on Bethany to check the status of her pneumonia, but her lungs looked good.  The doctor suspected that her ongoing malaise and fatigue may be due to mononucleosis, so he had referred her to our local hospital for an ultrasound of her liver and spleen.  He had scheduled an appointment for this to be done that afternoon.

OK ... I could deal with mono.  I'd had mono in college.  It wasn't fun, but it wasn't so bad.  What about Hannah?

He described how the advanced practice nurse had done a thorough examination of Hannah, and everything seemed to be fine.  When she checked her pupil reactions, however, Hannah's pupils did not respond to the light.  Normally, pupils will constrict when a light is shined into them, but Hannah's did not.  They remained enlarged.  The APRN asked the doctor to come in and check her pupils, with the same results.

Because of these issues with her eyes, the doctor wrote a referral for Hannah to see an ophthalmologist, and made the appointment for that afternoon.  I was still taking all this in, when Brad handed me the written referral, and I saw the name of the ophthalmologist.  That name!  Could that be our friend Tommy from college ... the guy who had sung in our wedding over 20 years ago?   That's how he spelled his last name.  Was he a doctor now?  I guess we would find out!

So now we had two kids with two very different health problems going to two different doctors at the same time.  It was time to divide and conquer.  It was decided that I would take Bethany for her ultrasound and Brad would take Hannah to the ophthalmologist.  Hannah's doctor didn't seem to be terribly concerned at this point, and Bethany actually seemed to be far sicker than she was.

Bethany's appointment was uneventful.  The ultrasound was completed and we were told we'd probably get the results the next day.  I took her home and anxiously waited for Brad and Hannah to arrive.

When they got home, I grilled Brad for details.  The ophthalmologist was indeed our old friend Tommy, and they spent a good bit of their appointment getting re-acquainted.  Tommy examined her, and was able to get her pupils to constrict with the use of some eye drops.  He told Brad that the antihistamines we'd been giving her could possibly have caused the pupil dilation, but he added, "If it were my daughter, I'd want her to have an MRI."

An MRI was scheduled for the next morning.

Seeing Double

This post is part of a year-long series ... Through this series of posts I plan to share our family's experiences in the last year of our 17-year-old daughter's life on earth, which spanned from February of 2008 to February of 2009. Many of you who read this blog followed our journey through the emails I wrote over the course of that year. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

February 18, 2008

Hannah had remained headache-y through the weekend, but the morning nausea had subsided.  She was back in school, and things seemed to be normalizing somewhat with her.   My main concern now was for our younger daughter, Bethany.  She had been diagnosed with pneumonia a few days before Hannah's headaches started, and she just didn't seem to be improving.  She was scheduled to return to the doctor the next day for some more tests.

At that time, I was working part-time as a speech-language pathologist for a local school district, and I also saw a few students privately.  After finishing up with one of my private students, I checked my phone and saw that I had missed a call from Hannah's high school.  The voice mail was from the school secretary, who told me that Hannah wasn't feeling well, and that I needed to call the office.  My heart sank as I dialed ... I had been so hopeful that she was getting better!

Our girls attended a very small school district, where their dad was the high school principal.  When I called the office, it only took a few minutes for them to get Hannah to the phone.  She told me that her head was hurting and she was "seeing double."  The alarm bells started going off in my head, and I told her to sit tight ... I'd be there in a few minutes, and we'd go straight to the doctor's office.  She assured me, though, that she was already feeling better ... everything was fine now ... it wasn't a big deal ... and she wanted to stay at school.  I reluctantly agreed and hung up the phone.

I was hosting a baby shower for some teachers after school that day, so I spent the rest of that afternoon running around town doing errands and preparing for that event.  As people began to arrive at the shower, I pasted on a smile and went through the motions required of me ... all the while counting the minutes until it ended and I could go home and see how Hannah was doing.  The feeling of foreboding I had while standing in the pharmacy section of Walmart was back, and it was so, so heavy.

The baby shower finally came to an end, the clean-up was completed, and I headed home.  I was so anxious to talk with Hannah and see what had really been going on at school today.   As she shared with me the issues she'd had with double vision at school, I noticed that she looked a little "off".  As we continued to talk, I realized what was bothering me about her appearance ... the pupils of her eyes were extremely dilated.

The realization took my breath away.  Not wanting to alarm her, I finished our conversation without saying anything about her eyes, then pulled my husband Brad aside and asked him if he saw it too.  He spoke with her for a few minutes and confirmed what I had seen.  We decided that we would call the doctor first thing in the morning and see if we could get her in at the same time we brought Bethany in. 

I felt a little better that we were finally doing something ... but sleep did not come easily that night.

Migraines?

This blog post is part of a year-long series ... Through this series of posts I plan to re-live our family's experiences in the last year of our daughter Hannah's life on earth, which spanned from February of 2008 to February of 2009. Many of you who read this blog followed our journey through the emails I wrote over the course of that year. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

I have a vivid memory of standing in the pharmacy section at Walmart studying the dizzying array of colorful boxes on the shelves. Tylenol, Excedrin, Advil, Motrin … How could I know which one was the most effective?   I needed something that would help alleviate Hannah’s headaches.

She was back in school now, but really wasn't feeling much better.  She’d been waking up with severe head pain and and an upset stomach for the past few days. The headache would subside somewhat throughout the day, but never fully go away.  We had thought maybe the morning headaches and nausea were the result of sinus drainage overnight, so we were giving her antihistamines, but they didn't seem to be helping.  Maybe we were dealing with migraines. 

Standing there in the pharmacy section, my thoughts were also on our 12-year-old daughter, Bethany.  A few days before Hannah started waking up with these monstrous headaches, Bethany had been diagnosed with pneumonia.  Listless and fatigued, she didn't seem to be getting any better either.

As I perused the choices on the shelves, people bustling around me, time seemed to stand still for a moment as a deep fear gripped my heart … What if these headaches were more than just migraines?  I had a deeply disturbing feeling that something much more serious was going on.

But I had a busy Saturday ahead of me … Time to make a decision and get on my way!  Surely a name-brand medication would be better than the generic version.  I grabbed a bottle of Excedrin Migraine, paid for my purchase, and left the store.  But the feeling of foreboding stayed with me.

Missing School

This blog post is part of a year-long series ... Through this series of posts I plan to share our experiences in the last year of Hannah's life on earth, which spanned from February of 2008 to February of 2009. Many of you who read this blog followed our journey through the emails I wrote over the course of that year. My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really. But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.

Hannah always loved school.  From the very beginning, she excelled academically, and she took great pride in that.  Maybe a little too much pride!

Before she even started school, she knew where she wanted to go to college ... Ouachita Baptist University, the alma mater of her mom and dad, of course!  As a preschooler, she practiced writing her name until she could do it with perfection ... very proud of the fact that her name was a palindrome.  In elementary school, she was driven to accumulate more Accelerated Reader points than any other kid in her grade ... and she did.  When she was in junior high, she would start off the year telling me which academic awards she was going to receive in the assembly at the end of the year ... and then went on to do just that.  By the time she started senior high, she had a goal ... to be valedictorian of her class ... and she was heading that way with a 4.0 GPA through the second semester of her sophomore year.

So when she woke up the day after Valentine's Day 2008, once again with a severe headache and nausea, and asked to stay home from school for the second day in a row, I knew she wasn't playing around.  The girl didn't take missing school lightly.

Ten Years

Ten years.

"Ten" is usually a number to celebrate.  Your ten year wedding anniversary is a special milestone.  The day your child finally gets to hold up "two whole hands" when asked how old she is is an exciting day!  A perfect "ten" in gymnastics leads to a gold medal.  Knocking down all ten pins in bowling ... Strike!

But what about ten years since your 16-year-old daughter woke up in the morning with the first signs of the cancer that would ultimately take her life?  There is no celebration for that.

Valentine's Day 2008 will forever mark the beginning of a journey that would change our lives in ways we never could have imagined.  Who would have thought that a morning headache and some nausea would launch us into a world we barely even knew existed ... a dizzying world of radiation and chemotherapy, blood draws and platelet infusions, hospital stays and hospice admission?  A place where our faith and our family would be tested beyond what we ever would have thought we could survive.

But ten years ago today we didn't know that.  We thought Hannah had a virus ... just a stomach bug that would resolve itself in a day or two.


Over the next several months, I plan to re-live our experiences in the last year of Hannah's life on earth through a series of blog posts.  Many of you who read this blog followed our journey through the emails I wrote over that year.  My desire is to process through the events of that year from the perspective that a decade of time has brought ... for myself, really.  But if you'd like to follow along, you're welcome to join me.  

A Bittersweet Visit to our Alma Mater

From the time our firstborn daughter Hannah started kindergarten, she knew where she wanted to go to college.  (She was a serious-minded student from the very beginning.)  She had a little "Future Tiger" t-shirt that she wore with great pride, and if you asked her, she would tell you she was going to Ouachita.  In fact, she would tell you even if you didn't ask.

Over the years, she never wavered.  By the time she was a sophomore in high school, she already had her roommate chosen and was looking forward to heading off to OBU in just a couple of years.

All of that changed when she was diagnosed with brain cancer in the spring of her sophomore year.  Instead of graduating from high school in 2010 and heading off to college, she graduated early in 2009 and was promoted straight to Heaven.  And as nice as the new dorms are at Ouachita, there's no comparison to the digs she has now.

Maybe she had such an affinity for Ouachita because she always heard Mom and Dad speak of it with such fondness.  We met there and graduated from there back in the late '80's.  We were excited that our oldest daughter had dreams of attending there ... and looked forward to visiting her in the dorm, hearing her stories of run-throughs, functions, and late-night serenades, seeing her perform in Tiger Tunes, and attending her graduation one day.

We made a trip to Ouachita this week, but it wasn't to do any of these things ... It was to speak to a class called "Death and Dying."  The professor knew our story and was familiar with the While We're Waiting ministry, and invited us to speak to his class.  We readily agreed when we were asked, and have been looking forward to it.

The irony was not lost on us; however, as we drove onto campus.  We weren't coming to visit Hannah, we weren't coming to watch her in Tiger Tunes, we weren't coming to her graduation.  We were coming to talk to a class of students (just a little bit younger than she would be now) about her death.

Ehhh.

A lot of things have changed on Ouachita's campus since we were students there, but in Berry Bible Building, it was as though time had stood still over the last thirty years.  Other than some updated technology in the classrooms, everything looked exactly the same.

And other than the ubiquitous technology in their hands, the students of Ouachita are still the same.

This group of young adults was bright, kind, and compassionate.  It was a small class, and they listened attentively as we shared Hannah's story and talked about how her death has impacted our family.  They asked a number of insightful questions and even shared some tears with us.  We had the opportunity to share with them how God can bring beauty from ashes and redeem even our greatest losses when we lay them at His feet.  As we talked to them about While We're Waiting, I hope they saw a visual representation of how God can use our greatest pain to lead us to our greatest area of ministry.

Do I wish we had been at Ouachita this week for a different reason than to speak about Hannah's death?

A hundred times YES!

Am I grateful that God continues to use Hannah's story to touch lives?

Oh, yes.

A Little Stack of Treasures

Way back in the spring of 1991, my in-laws gave us a wonderful gift ... a Panasonic video camera.  You remember those early video cameras ... the ones that sat on your shoulder and used the big ol' VHS tapes?  This was a rather extravagant gift at that time, and we were very grateful to receive it.  They did have an ulterior motive though; they wanted videos of their very first grandchild who would be arriving that fall!  

That grandchild arrived on October 22nd of that year, and from the very start that video camera was put to good use.  We videotaped every moment of Hannah's life, starting from immediately after her birth, and including every birthday party, Christmas celebration, school program, and church activity.  When her little sister Bethany came along, the recording doubled.  It was so much fun to have two little girls to videotape!  

As they got older, we videoed less and less.  That fancy video camera became clunky and outdated, and people actually made fun of us when we used it out in public.  The girls eventually reached the age where they didn't really want their parents trailing them around with a video camera.  

By this time, though, we had built up quite a collection of VHS tapes full of memories.  We've moved a number of times through the years, but those tapes have followed us everywhere.  As time passed, VCRs went by the wayside, and we began to have fewer and fewer avenues for watching our videos.  We didn't really worry about it, though ... someday we'd do something about that.  

Then Hannah went to Heaven in 2009, and those old videotapes became priceless treasures.  All of our memories of her were on those tapes ... her facial expressions, her laugh, the sound of her voice, her funny mannerisms ... they were all there!   We had to do something to preserve them!  We bought a VHS to DVD machine, and transferred several of them ourselves, but it was a complicated process and many of them didn't work on our DVR even after I transferred them.  Clearly, I was working above my pay grade with this project.

It took eight years, but we finally decided to do something to preserve our memories.  We sent our old VHS tapes off to a company called LegacyBox to be transferred to DVDs.  It was tough to pack up that box and launch these treasures off into the U.S. mail service ... in fact, I only sent off twenty of them, so if something dreadful happened to them we at least would have some left!  

They actually sent a very nice kit with thorough instructions regarding how to pack them up and mark them for processing, so I felt a little better sending them off.  They even emailed me updates from time to time ... "We've received your videotapes," "We're cleaning your videotapes," "We're transferring your videotapes," "We're shipping your videotapes," ... so I knew our treasures were being well taken care of.

We received our DVDs in the mail on Saturday afternoon, along with our old videotapes.  I must say I was relieved to have my old treasures back home ... There's just something special about those old VHS tapes with the peeling handwritten labels.  But I was also really excited to see 20 nice new DVDs filled with memories.  They were even labeled with their contents!  

As I study my nice neat little stack of DVDs, I have some thoughts ...

** I am so incredibly grateful that I have 17 1/2 years of memories with Hannah, and that many of those moments were recorded to be re-lived again and again.  My heart hurts for those moms and dads whose children died before or shortly after birth who only have a few photographs of their child, if that.  They never had the opportunity to make the kind of memories we were able to make with Hannah, and that is just so sad.

** I am also so grateful that we took the time to document so much of our girls' lives on videotape.  I am so thankful for the technology that enabled us to do that, and the technology that enables us to watch those videos today.  My memory is not what it once was (grief brain is a real thing) and having these moments available to watch any time I want to is such a gift.

** As happy as I am with this nice neat little stack of DVDs I now have, it bothers me that Hannah's 17 years can be reduced to a two-inch tall pile of inanimate technology, or better yet, an inch-long thumb drive.  So much beauty, personality, intelligence, courage, and gritty faith contained in those shiny discs.  Even the name of the company who did the transferring bothers me a bit ... Can a person's (or a family's) legacy really be contained in a box?

** Even after eight years, it seems unthinkable to me that all future memories we make as a family will be without Hannah.  The videos have all been recorded, the pictures have all been taken ... There will be no more.  On Hannah's Heaven Day in February I wanted to post a picture of her on Facebook and for just a split second I thought to myself that I needed a new one because I always seemed to be sharing the same ones ... and then reality crashed in with the awareness that there will be no new pictures or videos of Hannah.  Ever.  I'm really not sure why that is still so hard to grasp.

** I love my new little stack of DVDs, but I haven't watched them yet.  I did stick one into the DVR to make sure it actually worked, but popped it back out right away once it came on.  Nope, I'm not ready.  It's going to take a little while to prepare myself for the flood of memories these discs will bring.  We are planning to have a family movie night with Bethany and her husband sometime soon, and I know there will be lots of laughter, but it will be mingled with tears ... the way much of life seems to be after the loss of a child.

We have some wonderful memories with Hannah ... So much to be thankful for!  Our life with her was so, so good, even through her brain cancer diagnosis and the devastation that brought to her body and mind.  It's easy to feel despondent that our time with her is all in the past.

But glory be to God!  Our time with her is not all in the past!  Because Hannah made the decision to trust Jesus as her Savior when she was eight years old, we have an amazing future to look forward to with her.  In fact, our future with her will be exceedingly abundantly better than our past!  What we have experienced here will pale in comparison to what we have to look forward to.  We will have eternity in Heaven ... a place unsoiled by sin and death and where all tears will be wiped away.  A place where video cameras and VHS tapes and DVDs and thumb drives will no longer be necessary because our minds will be whole and our memories will be perfect.  That's where our true treasure lies.

That day IS coming!  I just have to wait.

"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal.  But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moths and vermin do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal.  For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."  Matthew 6:19-21

Hope is Not Cheap ... But It's Free

A few months ago a dear friend of mine who recently lost her husband to brain cancer gave me a little sack filled with these “Hope” rocks for use at the Refuge.  I’ve placed them all around the Refuge, just as little reminders of the hope we have in Jesus.

A few nights ago, our son-in-law, Brad, was here, and he picked up one of them, flipped it over, saw the price tag on the bottom, and said, “Wow!  Hope is cheap!”  I chuckled … but it made me think.  Is hope really cheap?

If you look closely at the bottom of this rock, you’ll see that the original price was $1.99 at Bed, Bath & Beyond.  But, there’s a red line through that price and the new price, highlighted in yellow, is just 99 cents. 

That is pretty cheap, isn’t it?

If you hold this rock in your hand, you’ll notice right away that it doesn’t feel like a real rock … It’s not heavy enough! 

No wonder it’s cheap … It’s fake!  It’s false hope, if you will.

When we are grieving, there are all kinds of “cheap” hope available to us. 

We can put our hope in keeping busy … If we just keep moving, maybe the sorrow won’t catch up with us.

We can put our hope in spending money … Maybe more stuff will make us feel better.

We can put our hope in drugs or alcohol … Maybe we can drown or at least muffle our pain.

We can put our hope in avoidance … Maybe we can stay away from all situations or people which might remind us of our loss.

We can put our hope in our work … Maybe we can find solace in moving up the ladder.

We can put our hope in the good things we do … Maybe if we’re good enough, we’ll get to go to Heaven with our children someday.

We can put our hope in other people … Maybe other people can bring us comfort.

These are all sources of hope that we CAN look to, but none of these will satisfy.  They are cheap substitutes for real Hope.

So where is real Hope to be found?  What is true Hope?

True Hope is not cheap.  It is incredibly costly.  It cost God everything.  It cost Jesus His very life.

Yet it’s available to us for free.

Because Jesus was willing to give up His glory and come to earth as a baby, born in a filthy stable to a teenage virgin, we can have Hope. 

This is a Hope that will never disappoint,

never say the wrong thing,

never run out,

never fail,

never let us down.

We can put our Hope in Jesus, because that is how we get to Heaven.  We can never be good enough to get there on our own.

And because of our Hope in Jesus, we will one day see Him face-to-face, along with our precious children who knew Him here on earth.

Our theme verse for While We're Waiting is Romans 8:25 … “But if we hope for what we do not see, we eagerly wait for it with perseverance.” 

That Hope helps us wait.  And not just wait with our feet kicked up like in a recliner, but to wait eagerly, persevering in the journey while we’re waiting! 

True Hope helps us wait well.

In John 8:12, Jesus says, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”

Grief can feel awfully dark, can’t it?  Especially right here at Christmas time when Christmas lights are everywhere!  Everything is lit up … but we can spend a lot of time walking around in the darkness. 

But Hope gives us light for our path.  And there’s nothing cheap about that kind of Hope!

"The people dwelling in darkness

    have seen a great light,

and for those dwelling in the region and shadow of death,

    on them a light has dawned."  Matthew 4:16 

Thoughtful Thursday ... What Am I Missing?

When my daughter Hannah was little, she had a friend named Nicole.  Nicole was a curly-headed girl with round-framed glasses, and the two of them were in AWANA Cubbies together.  They had a blast learning Bible verses, eating cookies and drinking red Kool-Aid, and hopping and jumping around the room as they belted out the Cubbies theme song together.

Nicole is all grown up now, and is serving the Lord as a youth minister in California.  She still has the same curly hair and (not as round) glasses, and it's been a joy to watch her grow up from afar via Facebook.

Even as I write that, I must confess that there's a tug in my heart ... How I wish I could have seen Hannah grow up like Nicole has!  What would she be like as an almost 24-year-old woman?  There's always that little (sometimes not-so-little) twist of pain as I see Hannah's contemporaries serving the Lord, getting married, having babies.  But at the same time, I am thankful when I see her friends doing well.

Nicole lost her dad a couple of years ago, and she recently shared on Facebook about how she was struggling with the difficult memories associated with his Heaven-going.  But then she went on to say that she had heard a speaker online (who I later discovered was Beth Moore) sharing the story of an aging father who had lost two children many years previously.  The father was speaking at a family dinner to his remaining family members, saying, "I don't want to miss you because I miss them."  This was very encouraging to Nicole as she has really been missing her dad recently.  She said, "I never ever want to miss an opportunity or another human being because of the loss I have experienced."

Her comments really made me stop and think.

What might I be missing because I miss Hannah?  There's so much!

I don't want to miss my surviving daughter or her husband because I miss Hannah.
I don't want to miss my husband because I miss Hannah.
I don't want to miss sharing an encouraging word with someone because I miss Hannah.
I don't want to miss the joy of spending time with family or friends because I miss Hannah.
I don't want to miss the awe inspired by a beautiful sunset because I miss Hannah.
I don't want to miss an awareness of God's blessings because I miss Hannah.
I don't want to miss the opportunity to express gratitude because I miss Hannah.
I don't want to miss the chance to point someone to Jesus because I miss Hannah.

Yes, I miss Hannah.  Oh, how I miss Hannah.  But if I miss my life because I miss Hannah, the tragedy of her death is compounded.

If the situation were reversed, and I were the one who had died seven years ago instead of her, I would certainly not want her to miss her life missing me.  I would want her to live her life to the fullest, squeezing every moment of joy out of it she could.

And I don't think Hannah would want any less for me.  And I know God doesn't ... Jesus said that he came that we "may have life and have it abundantly" (John 10:10).

So yes, I will miss Hannah ... but by God's grace and through His strength, I will choose not to miss this life He has given me.

Preparing a Place ... With Eager Anticipation

So, it looks like it's been a little over three months since my last post.  Believe me when I say I haven't been sitting beside a pool somewhere eating bonbons over the past three months.  No, I've been working beside Brad, Larry, Janice, and a host of wonderful volunteers as we labor to get the While We're Waiting Refuge for Bereaved Parents completed by mid-October, when we'll be hosting our first weekend retreat there.

The work, while often hot, dirty, and exhausting, is also exhilarating.  We've been spending a lot of time recently working on preparing the ten bedrooms for our guests.

First there was the framing ...

Then came the caulking ...

Then the insulating ...

Then came the drywall ...

Followed by priming ...

And finally, the fun part ... painting!  Each guest room is a different color, which makes it feel more like a home than a hotel ...

We can't wait to get furniture in these rooms (after we get the flooring installed, of course!), and then comes the really fun part ... decorating them!  We have plans for each room to have its own personality, and to feel warm and welcoming to those who will be staying in them at our retreats.  We can already envision moms and dads walking up and down the hallway, choosing the room that best "fits" them for the weekend.  Our desire is to have special little touches in each room which will bring comfort and encouragement to hurting parents.  There are times when we get positively giddy as we discuss our plans for these rooms.

The anticipation of meeting these moms and dads for the first time, of seeing their eyes light up as they choose their special room for the weekend, of watching as their burden becomes a little less heavy as they set down their physical and emotional baggage, of seeing a smile play around their lips for perhaps the first time in awhile ... These are the things that drive us as we labor in preparing this place.

* * * * * *

Last month, I participated in an online Bible study with several other moms who have children in Heaven.  It was a Precept Bible study called, "Heaven, Hell, and Life After Death."  It was an excellent study, and it was a great experience to discuss these truths with other moms for whom these concepts are more than just vague thoughts for the future ... they are critical truths about which they think every day.  

The last lesson of the series focused primarily on Heaven.  One of the passages we discussed was John 14:1-3:

“Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me.  In my Father's house are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also."

I've probably read those verses more times than I can count.  But they have never struck me like they did that day.  Maybe because I've been spending so much time preparing rooms lately!

It got me to wondering ... I wonder if Jesus is preparing our rooms in Heaven with as much eager anticipation as we are preparing the rooms for our guests at the Refuge?  

As Hannah's life was nearing its earthly end, was He excitedly saying to His Father, "Hey Dad, that Hannah Joy Sullivan will be coming soon, and I can't wait until she gets here!  I've got her room all ready for her ... It's painted her favorite color and I've got some sunflowers in a vase in the corner for her.  There are some pictures of her family and friends on the dresser, and a whole plate full of Spudnuts for her to snack on.  I can't wait to see her face when she sees what I've prepared for her ... I sure hope she likes it!"  

Theologically sound?  Maybe not.  

Is it possible, though?  Maybe.  I like to think so.  He calls us His children, and what good father isn't excited about preparing something special for his children?  

Well ... time to get back to work preparing rooms ... October will be here before we know it!!

* * * * * *

If you have experienced the loss of a child, and would like more information about the While We're Waiting ministry and the bereaved parent retreats we offer, click HERE to go to our website.  

If you'd like to connect with us on Facebook, click HERE to follow our public page (open to anyone) and HERE to request to join our closed group (open only to bereaved parents).  

If you'd like to follow the construction progress of the While We're Waiting Refuge for Bereaved Parents, click HERE for our Refuge Facebook page.

Monday Mourning - Anytime I Want ...

A few nights ago, I had what is a very rare experience for me.  I had a dream about Hannah.

In the seven years since Hannah went Home, I can easily count the number of dreams I've had about her on just a few fingers ... and they haven't all been good.

This was a good one.

I'm not going to share a lot of the details, because I really can't.  The dream was very clear when I first woke up, but became rather muddled as the day went by.  I finally sat down and wrote out a few of the details before it left me completely.

The basic gist of the dream was that after all these years of believing Hannah had died of cancer, we suddenly discovered that she had not actually died.  She had been in some sort of terrible car accident and had been critically injured.  For the last seven years, she had been living with another family who was providing her with some sort of specialized care.

This family lived locally, so Brad and I raced to their house and miracle of miracles, there she was!  She was sitting up in bed and was absolutely radiant.  She could not walk, but otherwise seemed completely healthy.  We talked for what seemed like hours (though I can't remember a bit of our conversation!) and then it was time for us to go.  We hugged her goodbye and I could feel the texture of her long, thick, curly hair in the dream.  This was remarkable because the last time I hugged her here on earth she had only a little baby-fine hair growing back after discontinuing her chemotherapy treatments. Then it was time to leave.

But our departure wasn't sad!

It was clear that the couple who was caring for her loved her and were giving her excellent care.  They were very warm and welcoming to us and said as we left, "You can come back to see her anytime you want to."

I replied incredulously, "I can come anytime I want?  Can I come back tomorrow?"

They laughed and said, "Yes!  You can come back tomorrow and the next day and the next day ... Anytime you want!"

Oh, the joy that filled my soul as I began to grasp that I would be able to see Hannah anytime I wanted to!  I can't even describe it.  It didn't even matter to me that Hannah wasn't coming home with us ... it was enough just to know that I could see her anytime I wanted to.

That joy was still there when I woke up, tempered just a little by the realization that it was just a dream.  The very thought of being able to see Hannah anytime I want to causes joy to swell in my chest even as I write this post.

The feeling of awe stuck with me throughout that day.  It made me think about what our lives might be like in Heaven, where I finally really will be able to see Hannah anytime I want.

I have another daughter here on earth, who is married and lives in the same town as we do.  Since Bethany no longer lives in our home, I don't see her every day, but I literally can see her any time I want.  Even if we lived across the country from each other, I could still see her any time I wanted to ... I could hop on a plane and be there in a few hours, or thanks to modern technology, we can FaceTime or Skype.

Maybe that's how it will be in Heaven, too.  Hannah will have her own place, and Bethany and her husband will have their own place, and we can all see each other anytime we want.  Not that I think we're just going to be sitting around the pool sipping sweet tea together at our respective mansions all the time ... Oh, no.  I believe we'll be worshiping, working, and serving God side-by-side with the multitudes.

But ... I also believe I'll be able to see my girls anytime I want.  And my joy will indeed be complete.

If you have experienced the loss of a child, and would like to get connected to a faith-based ministry which serves bereaved parents, click here for more information about While We're Waiting.

Photo credit: ✿ indecisive via Visualhunt / CC BY-NC-ND

Thoughtful Thursday - Good-bye Southside

When we lived in El Dorado, Arkansas, our girls attended a magnificent old school called Southside Elementary.  It was built in 1926, and it was an absolute treasure ... at least to those of us whose children attended there.  It was like a school you might see in an old movie, with gleaming wooden floors and stairs that were literally grooved from the footsteps of countless numbers of children.

It was the kind of school where the janitor always sang in the Christmas program, where the first grade teacher had a genuine dentist chair in her classroom and pulled her students' baby teeth, where veterans were honored and hallways were filled with brightly-colored student artwork.

It's where Bethany's kindergarten teacher wrote on her report card, "I love you more than purple," and where she was disciplined for thumping the little boy sitting behind her in the head.  It's where she played the role of teacher in the end-of-kindergarten performance and a pilgrim in the first grade Thanksgiving play.  It's where she had her Most Embarrassing Moment, and was hiding in the bushes when I came to pick her up after school that day.

It's where Hannah read so many Babysitter's Club books that she broke every Accelerated Reader record there was and where she met her best friend Brittany.  It's where she became involved in Odyssey of the Mind and won so many spelling bees her teacher finally asked her not to participate.  It's where she got stuck in "The Big Toy" on the playground and had to be freed by a team of custodians.

It's where I picked up the girls on the afternoon of 9/11 and wondered how to tell them that the world had forever changed.

Southside officially closed its doors at the end of Bethany's second grade year and Hannah's fifth grade year.  There was an assembly where all of us Southside families sang, "Good-bye, Southside," and shed lots of tears.  But the building remained standing, and there was talk of making it into something else ... maybe a cultural center or something.  And after we moved, every time we visited El Dorado, we would take time to drive through that part of town, just to see the old building and reminisce fondly.  It was that kind of school.

Yesterday, Hannah's friend Brittany posted this picture on Facebook and my heart just sank...

It's just a school.  Just a dilapidated old building in a blighted neighborhood.

So much has changed since Hannah went to Heaven seven years ago this month.  We now live in a different house and drive new vehicles.  We no longer have the jobs we had when she was here, and we no longer have our dog.  Bethany is married and no longer lives at home.  Our focus in life is completely different than it was seven years ago.  We are involved in a type of ministry we would never have dreamed we would need ourselves back when our girls were students at Southside and all was right in the world.

It's just an old school building ... but it's another physical tie to Hannah that's now gone.  And that makes me a little melancholy on this thoughtful Thursday.

I'm so thankful that this world is not all there is, and that I'm tied to Hannah by an indestructible cord of love that will last for all eternity.  What a treasure I have in Heaven!  And that's a tremendous comfort while I'm waiting.

"Do not lay up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal, but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust destroys and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also."  Matthew 6:19-21 ESV

"For we know that if the tent that is our earthly home is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens."  II Corinthians 5:1 ESV

Monday Mourning -- Sucker Punch

Definition:  suck·er punch
noun  1.  an unexpected punch or blow.
verb  1.  hit (someone) with an unexpected punch or blow.  "Joe sucker-punched him and knocked him out"

This February will mark seven years since Hannah went to Heaven after a year-long battle with brain cancer.  In the early months after her homegoing, life in general felt like one gigantic sucker punch. As time went on, the sucker punches became fewer and farther between, and now they occur only rarely.

And then there was yesterday.

For the last several Sundays, we've had a video presentation early in the service highlighting one ministry of the church.  This Sunday was the youth ministry.

The video consisted of several youth group "alumni", now young adults, each of whom shared what God was doing in their lives and how their time in the youth group had prepared them for what they are doing now.  There were those who had been called by God to be worship leaders, those who had been called by God to attend seminary, those who had been called to by God to serve on the mission field, those who had been called by God to work with youth themselves, etc.  All these fresh young faces, brimming with anticipation and excitement about their future.  So much hope, so much expectancy, so much joy.  It's wonderful to see these young adults who are serving the Lord with such zeal.

But all I could see was the person who was missing.  These were Hannah's peers, the "kids" she had gone on mission trips with, the ones she hung out with on Wednesday and Sunday nights, the ones who attended Disciple Now weekends with her.  Yet she was not in the video, because she died when she was 17, before she ever had the opportunity to graduate high school, go to college, experience the call of God on her life.

Hannah should have been a part of that video.  She should have been flashing her trademark smile as she shared excitedly about how God had called her to be a teacher, or a missionary, or ... who knows what?

I'm one of the sign language interpreters at our church, and I happened to be the one interpreting these video vignettes.  When the video ended, my head and hands moved on, but my heart didn't.  I couldn't shake the fact that Hannah wasn't in that video, and she should have been!

That sucker punch still rankled throughout the day yesterday.  My girl should have been in that video ... but she wasn't.

But slowly, slowly God began to remind me that He did have a call on Hannah's life.  It was a different call than that of the young adults featured in the video, but it was certainly no less of a call than theirs.  What if He had called her to become a teacher or a missionary ... Would her life have had as much of an impact for His kingdom if she had become one of those things?   Or did see the bigger picture for her life, and in His loving sovereignty, call her Home early?

I still wish she had been in that video.  Oh, how I wish she had been in that video.

Sigh.

But I choose to rest in the knowledge that she lived well, she finished well, and she fulfilled God's call for her life in a way that makes this Mama proud.

"And the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, after you have suffered a little while, will himself restore you and make you strong, firm and steadfast."  I Peter 5:10

Photo credit: tim caynes via Visualhunt / CC BY-NC

New Year's Resolutions for Bereaved Parents

As bereaved parents, we know that some days are going to be difficult ... our child's birthday, their Heaven Day, Christmas, Mother's Day, Father's Day, Thanksgiving, etc.  But another time that can be just as hard (or harder) is New Year's.

For some, there may be a sense of relief that a painful year is coming to an end, but for most, the thought of facing their first (or yet another) whole year without a precious child can be incredibly difficult.

I've never been much of a New Year's resolutions kind of person, but a few years back I put together a list of ten resolutions for myself that I like to review each year about this time.  I've posted these before, but I've tweaked them just a little bit and thought I'd share them again.

1.  I resolve to ... Look forward to the future and not spend time agonizing over the "If Onlys". These things are in the past, they cannot be changed, and it is a waste of my time and energy to be consumed by them.  These thoughts draw me away from doing the things God wants me to be doing today.  And I believe that it dishonors both my child and my Lord when I remain stuck in the past and refuse to move forward.

2.  I resolve to ... Extend grace to those who inadvertently add to my pain by making well-meaning, but inappropriate comments.  And I refuse to replay those hurtful words over and over in my mind, thinking about all the things I could have or should have said, that would have put them in their place.  I will remember that I, too, have said unintentionally hurtful things in my own clumsy attempts to comfort others.

3.  I resolve to ... Extend grace to those who avoid me, or who are clearly uncomfortable talking to me about my child.  They're just afraid.  They don't want to add to my pain, so it's easier just to steer clear of me.  I will remember that I have been that person, too.

4.  I resolve to ... Help others understand what I need from them.  If I need to talk about my child, I'll explain to them that it helps me to talk about her, even if it does make me cry.  If I need to be alone for awhile, I'll ask them to respect my solitude.  If I just don't have the energy for chit-chat and smiles, I'll explain to them why.  If I need to celebrate holidays in a different way, I'll discuss it with them ahead of time.  If I don't know what I need (which happens a lot!), I'll even tell them that.

 5.   I resolve to ... Be patient with myself.  Grief takes time ... much more time than I ever realized before.  I will give myself all the time I need, and not try to rush it (even though others may try to rush me along).  I will be gentle and kind to myself and the fellow grievers in my household.

6.  I resolve to ... Find some joy in every day.  There's a difference between happiness and joy.  Happiness is dependent upon circumstances, and happiness can be pretty scarce sometimes.  But joy is God-given, and it is possible to still have joy even in the worst of circumstances.  And it doesn't have to come from big things.  It can be found in little things ... dew on a spiderweb, the sight of your favorite pet greeting you at your doorway, the sparkle of sunshine on the water, the feeling of pulling on a pair of new warm socks on a cold day.  I resolve to look for and appreciate those things.

7.  I resolve to ... Be grateful for the 17 1/2 years I had with Hannah.  I would rather have had her and lost her than to never have had her in my life at all.  And when I consider the fact that I haven't really "lost" her, but in fact, I will spend eternity with her ... the gratitude just overflows.

8.  I resolve to ... Recognize and rebuff the attacks of Satan.  He knows that I'm vulnerable right now, and he would like nothing more than to destroy my witness and to tear my family apart.  He wants me to believe his lies -- that I'm somehow responsible for my child's death; that God is punishing me for some sin; that if only I had had more faith or if I had prayed more, my child would still be here today.  I refuse to allow Satan to have a foothold in my life.

9.  I resolve to ... Depend upon what I know to be true about God, and not on what my feelings are telling me.  So much of the time, my feelings and emotions are completely out of control and unpredictable.  I can laugh and cry and be angry and happy all at the same time.  I can be fine one minute, and sobbing the next.  And I may not even know what triggered the meltdown.  My feelings will lie to me (See #8), but God's Word always tells me the truth.  To keep this resolution, I must spend time with Him, and be intentional in prayer and Bible study.

10.  I resolve to ... Remember that I can do none of these things on my own.  I have no power within myself to keep even one of these resolutions.  It helps to talk to other moms and dads who understand what it's like to miss your child so desperately.  It's great to know that I'm not alone in this thing ... that I'm not the only one who struggles with these things.  But even more than having the support of other bereaved parents, it is critical that I lean on my Heavenly Father for strength.  Because it is only in Him that I can find the strength to keep these resolutions.

"And He has said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.' Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me. Therefore I am well content with weaknesses, with insults, with distresses, with persecutions, with difficulties, for Christ’s sake; for when I am weak, then I am strong."  II Corinthians 12: 9-11 (NASB)

Never-Ending Christmas

Hannah Joy, Christmas 1992

Do you remember being a little kid on Christmas morning? The excitement of tearing into those presents with the shiny paper and sparkling bows?  The thrill of new toys, games, clothes, books?  Do you also remember that feeling of disappointment when the last gift was opened and Christmas was "over"?  I don't know about you, but I always looked carefully around the tree to make sure there wasn't just one more gift that maybe I had overlooked.  After all, I had looked forward to this day all. year. long.  It couldn't be over already!  And do you remember how quickly the newness wore off of the things that brought so much excitement under the Christmas tree?  It wasn't long before they were broken, or used up, or grown out of, or simply weren't cool anymore.  The "after" of Christmas can feel very empty.

The things, the experiences, the stuff of this world will never satisfy.  That's because we were made for another world.

Where the shine never wears off because Christmas never ends.

Where every day is better than the one before.

Where all our tears will be wiped away.

Where all that was so very wrong in this world has been made right.

Where every empty place is filled and every broken heart is mended.

Where we will sit at the feet of Jesus with our loved ones beside us (or maybe even in our laps).

And we'll never have to worry about it being "over", because it will last forever.

All because God stooped down, reached into our world, and was born as a baby in the humility of a stable.

Grace beyond imagination.

Mercy beyond merit.

Hope beyond all expectation.

Love so exquisite we cannot even begin to comprehend.

"Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men."  Philippians 2:5-7 ESV

Thank you, Jesus.