Christmas

I feel like I missed Christmas last year.  I know it happened.  I have pictures.  I have a calendar that says it happened, but I feel like we skipped it.  We only bought gifts for our kids...that is sort of a requirement.  I should probably clarify that Jason bought presents for the kids.  We didn't worry about anyone else.  Jason was a little concerned about it, but I wasn't (he is nicer than I am).  I figured if someone was mad because we didn't buy them a gift that would reveal a lot about our relationship.  Nobody got mad (that I know of).

This holiday season has been much different for me.  I am not missing it this year.  I feel like part of me is alive again.  I look forward to all of the traditions we do together as a family.  I have enjoyed shopping and seeing lights and making gingerbread houses. It is so refreshing to feel that again.  I feel a difference in my attitude towards the Savior.  I think that I always tried to focus on Christ this time of year.  I was constantly frustrated that we had to have relief society activities and books written about how to keep Christ in Christmas.  It seems that we have really gotten ourselves into a mess when that has to be the topic of anything...it is such a given and so unfortunate that it has become a challenge.  I'm not trying to act holier than thou when I say that...it is just so sad that our culture has necessitated that kind of dialogue at all.  So this isn't the first year where I felt that a visit to Santa was completely optional and not at all necessary for a complete December.  It isn't the first year where I've grown tired of hearing about Rudolph instead of Mary and Joseph.  But the birth of the Savior feels more personal to me now...for so many reasons....so many that I could never articulate or do justice to and some that are just too personal.  But, hopefully I can convey one thought about it.

We so desperately need a Savior.  Until He was born the entire human race was in "free fall..." as Jeffrey R. Holland said.  He states:

"What a plight! The entire human race in free fall—every man, woman, and child in it physically tumbling toward permanent death, spiritually plunging toward eternal anguish. Is that what life was meant to be? Is this the grand finale of the human experience? Are we all just hanging in a cold canyon somewhere in an indifferent universe, each of us searching for a toehold, each of us seeking for something to grip—with nothing but the feeling of sand sliding under our fingers, nothing to save us, nothing to hold on to, much less anything to hold on to us? Is our only purpose in life an empty existential exercise—simply to leap as high as we can, hang on for our prescribed three score years and ten, then fail and fall, and keep falling forever?  The answer to those questions is an unequivocal and eternal no!"  Where Justice, Love, and Mercy Meet

I think I sense more than ever the need I personally have for a Savior.  I have felt that need for most of my life, but it feel a little more precarious now.  I have a son in heaven.  He will certainly inherit celestial glory.  If I do not, somehow, get better than I am, I will never be with him.  I have a lot of shortcomings that need improving and feel pretty incapable of doing this.  I need someone to help me become something different than what I am now.  I need a power far greater than my own.  Without a Savior, there would be no hope for me.  Without a Savior, Eli's sweet little body that grew inside of me...that was so alive... would sleep forever in his tiny grave.  I can't really handle the thought of that...and, thankfully,  I don't have to because I know he won't sleep forever.  I need to know that he will be brought forth and his spirit and his body will be reunited again never to be separated.  I think this feels more personal to me because Eli's body was connected to me almost the entire time he was alive. He was part of me.  He is still part of me.  I am very protective of his mortal tabernacle.  He is my child.  I was partner in creation as I helped to form his body.  I am not okay with the situation right now.  I can only survive because I know this isn't a permanent situation.  The maternal instinct in me has never been so heightened.  I need someone to fix this.  Only my Savior can.  He has paid the price so that I can be reunited with my son.  He has paid the price so that I can change and be better through a power that is far greater than my own.  It is very personal now.  And without His birth into mortality, none of this would be possible.  I would be in despair.  So, Christmas feels different to me now.  His birth means something different to me now.  It isn't a nice story about a mother who had to ride/walk almost 100 miles while she was nine months pregnant only to give birth to the very Son of God in a stable filled with animals and who knows what else.... it isn't about some sleepy shepherds on a hill that were unexpectedly visited by angels telling of one of the greatest moments the earth had ever and will ever see.  His birth matters so much because of what Christ came to do and the sacrifices made by his earthly mother and father so He could do it.  Because I feel how personally and desperately I need Him, I rejoice, as did the angels, when I think about His birth.  I rejoice in the King of Kings that came to save us from death and sin and from mortality.  These truly are glad tidings of great joy.  I am happy that I am not missing Christmas this year. 

Me and Jason were lucky enough to attend the Millennial Choirs and Orchestras concert, Rejoice, last week.  It was one of the highlights of this holiday season.  Truly amazing!  My beautiful and dear friend, Kelly, sang in the performance.  They sang one of my favorite Christmas songs: O Come, O Come Emmanuel.  I feel this song captures the desperate need we have for a Savior.  His birth was a truly a time for rejoicing.  Listening to this song in person was so powerful and emotional.  The conductor gave an explanation of this particular arrangement (which I wish I could remember and regurgitate because it helped me understand and appreciate the performance so much more).  It's quite a long song and so much better in person, but this is better than nothing.

O Come, O Come Emmanuel-Millennial Choirs and Orchestras

I also really like this version of the same song by Vocal Point.  It is much shorter and has a very different feel:

O Come, O Come Emmanuel- Vocal Point

Candlelight Vigil

Every year, on December 6th, there is a candlelight vigil held at the cemetery in honor of the children who have passed away.  We went last year.  This was our second year.  It has been a good experience for our family and is was interesting to note the difference I felt within myself from last year to this year.

Last year, it had only been a month since Eli had died.  His grave was very fresh.  I had never been to a candlelight vigil before.  I saw them on tv, but never attended one, so I wasn't sure if it would be healing or weird or something in between.  Each year they have a short speaker; someone who has lost a child and their experiences, insights and encouragement.  So far, both years a parent has talked about a child who died at a much older age, but the the emotions resonated so easily with me.  They also have a musical number.

Last year, I don't remember looking around very much.  I was in my own world and sort of wondering what I was doing at a "function" like this...wishing I didn't have to be here in a lot of ways. I remember we saw a couple that we had met at the cemetery at Thanksgiving.  They were kind and compassionate and reached out to us.  The mother had seemed very sorrowful...almost distraught the first time we met.  Her demeanor was less weighed down at the vigil, but there was still something heavy and forlorn about her.  It had been nearly 5 years since the loss of their little one and it scared me that she was still so filled with grief.  (Of course, I was only seeing a snapshot of her, but still...it scared me).  Me and Jason talked about them...about how I didn't want to be like "that..."  When we saw them again this year, her look seemed more familiar to me.  I understand her better now.  I understand in some ways how changed she is.   I understand that she carries a weight because part of her heart is missing...part of her is still with her child and she is straddling two worlds in order to stay connected to all of her children.  I understand that the intensity of her love hasn't diminished because her child has been gone 6 years now.  She loves him the same.  She grieves on his first day of preschool and kindergarten.  She grieves when she sees her kids running in the backyard wishing he could be with them.  Her heart probably aches when he isn't home on Christmas morning.  Because I understand her better, I saw her totally differently this year.  I saw myself in her and it didn't scare me.  Last year I wanted to run because I thought I could run away from these things.  I hoped I could escape the effects of death and mortality and grief, but I can't.  I feel more settled in my grief...it isn't raw and unrelenting like it was months ago, but it is still very much a part of my life.  I don't feel uncomfortable and distraught about this being part of my life.  I feel so much more accepting of the waves that come.   I feel the beauty in the pain.  Maybe I am like that...

I looked around at so many parents and families this time...there were too many.  I thought of  how they were going through the holidays without someone they love and it is painful and challenging at times, but they are ALL doing it.  It gave me courage and compassion.  They give everyone a white flower, and near the end, they invite everyone to place their flowers on the angel monument.  They invite anyone who has lost a child that year to place their flowers first.  I remember that moment last year.  Of course, I didn't see it coming because it was the first year...I walked up (while making sure to avoid eye contact with anyone) and put my flower down.  This year, I knew it was coming and I knew it wasn't me...but would be someone else.  When it happened and I saw those sweet mothers and father and sisters and brothers walk up and place their flowers, I  was overcome with emotion.  My heart broke for them and I wanted to reach out and take their pain and burden.  I knew I couldn't just as no one can take mine, but my heart had such compassion, knowing something of what they felt and the freshness of their loss.

On a lighter note, Lincoln was wild while we were there this year.  I talked to him about using a "quiet voice" and not running everywhere because I knew so many people would be there. He really isn't great about that sort of thing...ever.  I knew people would be there...some overcome with grief and everyone somewhat somber and it wasn't a time for Lincoln to be himself.  We got there and had to park in a place we don't usually park.  Lincoln wanted to know where Eli's grave was.  It was dark, so he couldn't see it.  When he saw the glow of his little lantern, he recognized it and started took off running .  He started yelling, "I see him!  I see him!"  Oh sweetie...I wish...  It was so sweet and brought tears to my eyes because someday that will be a highly appropriate thing to do.  We each received a white flower and Lincoln ended up breaking 2 of them because he was using them as swords.  Me and Jason ended giving all of the intact ones to the kids when it was time to put them on the monument.  I told Lincoln that he could put his up by the angel and he looked at me perplexed and told me he didn't want to.  He said he wanted to give it to Eli instead. I told him that was okay so he ran through the darkness, over to his grave again and carefully placed it there.  It was so tender and sweet.

The  musical number was: My Shepherd Will Supply My Need.
I listened to that song so much while I was pregnant.  I truly needed God to be there and I trusted that He would be.  The days before seemed so daunting and impossible and I relied on God in a way that I never have.  I have very tender feelings about this song.  It was such a beautiful gift for me to hear that night.

My Shepherd Will Supply My Need

Foreigner

A few weeks after Eli died, a dear friend showed up at my door.  She knew I needed a compassionate friend in that moment.  I opened the door, trepidatiously.  There were so few people that I could talk to in those moments with where my mind and heart were...even if they were good friends.  She said something to me that penetrated my heart. Her exact wording and analogy she used were something that could only be understood by me and God (and now her, it seemed...).  She tells me that my eyes lit up...like I could UNDERSTAND what she was saying.  I grabbed her and brought her inside.

She later asked me if I had ever been to a place where I didn't understand the language and really needed to.  I hadn't.  She shared an experience with me where she had been in that situation.  I believe her distress came because of a passport issue and no one around her spoke English.  Allof the sudden she heard some words she understood and saw someone a little ways away speaking English.  If I remember the story right, she made eye contact with this person and they immediately knew her need.  Someone was speaking her language and she could hear those familiar words out of crowd of people.  This person understood and could help her even though, up until then, this person was a stranger.  When she came to my door and started talking, she said I had that same look in my eye.

"You understand me.  You speak my language."

And that's why I pulled her inside. I desperately needed someone to know where I was and how to communicate with me.

When I talk about someone "understanding" me or "speaking my language,"  I think it's obvious that I'm not talking about a literal language barrier.  When your child dies...or is going to die, you suddenly become immersed in this new language.  The words may not sound different, but everything means something different.  The way you see life is different.  The way you respond to people is different.   The things that matter are different.  And it isn't just a theoretical exercise.  It is reality.

 When you meet someone that has lost a child, there is a new language that is spoken.  There is bond that is instantly and deeply formed even if the words you speak are inadequate....because your words are always inadequate, but somehow your heart isn't and this is conveyed in a way that words never can. You know them and their pain in a way that most people can't.  It simply isn't a language that can be learned unless you've lived it.  You can learn about it...you can read and observe and study about it, but it doesn't penentrate your heart.  The language isn't really yours.  When you meet someone that knows your language, it is so comforting and healing and immediately obvious.  There is someone you can talk to.  They understand what you are really saying.

I am in the midst of conversations at times and just hope someone will understand what I'm saying.  It is kind of like explaining to someone who doesn't have children how you love yours.  Love for a child can't be explained with just the words we have.  When you experience the birth of your first child, you are changed.  You use your language and clumsily string together words for how you feel about them... you would do anything for them...they are your world....you would sacrifice anything for them including yourself,  everything about your world changes....etc, but it really isn't sufficicnet to convey how deeply you feel for them...how much you really love them...how they are forever connected to you.  We just do the best with the words we have, but when someone else has also experienced this love, they understand what you are talking about and an instant, additional bond is formed.  The same comes with loss.  My words are inadequate to explain my feelings of sorrow and pain upon losing Eli, but when someone speaks my language, they understand what I am saying even though my words are clumsy and inadequate.  Of course, no two losses are the same...but there is a commonality that comes along with such a loss.

I think this language barrier that is so painfully obvious to me, eludes most people on the "outside."  This has made many interactions very difficult; especially when my grief was very fresh and or feels raw.  I  need to communicate and people think that's what they are doing, but the words seem to have no meaning.  There are times when I feel perfectly capable of being bilinguaul and using the language more common to the masses, but there are times when I can't speak that old language, try as I might.  I probably appear unresponsive and confused.  I am.  It's like I am a foreigner and I can't communicate with those around me.  I am so thankful for those angel friends that I have that do understand my language.  And, in time, I will learn how to be more proficient with my biligual skills.

The perfect tree

Oh, it's the 5th...it's the 5th!  I had the most touching thing happen today.  I have to tell the backstory.  December of last year was our first 5th without Eli.  We had talked about getting a little Christmas tree for Eli's grave, but the idea was hard for me.  I was too upset that these were the kind things I got to buy him...things for his grave...things you find in the lawn and garden area.  It just isn't the same as buying soft blankets and cute onesies, and the reality of it was hard to swallow.  We happened to be at Wal-Mart a few days after we buried him...you should know how I feel about that place from my previous posts.  Jason thought it would be good for me to get out of the house.  We saw the ugliest, crappiest little trees you can even imagine.  Sparse and plastic looking and just awful.  There was no way I was buying THAT for Eli.  Sorry..I would rather have nothing.  It felt insulting, but Wal-Mart can be like that.

The 5th came and we hadn't "planned" on doing anything.  We didn't have an routines or traditions in place.  I didn't have anything in place in my life. Trying to wrap my head around the idea of finding the tree I wanted required a lot of steps...getting up, getting dressed, going to multiple stores, interacting with cashiers...  It was all I could do to keep breathing and moving.  That evening, my friend, Ashley, arrived at my door with a beautiful, tiny Christmas tree. It had no resemblance to the pathetic offerings Wal-mart supplied.

It was alive.  It was simple.  It was perfect.

It was what I wanted without ever seeing it.  I felt such gratitude and was overwhelmed that that this perfect, tiny tree for Eli had literally showed up at my front door.  It felt like a gift from God himself.

On the 6th we went to the cemetery to attend a candlelight vigil in memory of anyone that had lost a child.  We were able to take the tree to Eli.  His little grave was still so fresh...the dirt was wet...the grass dead.  The small rectangle of sod was still completely separated from the surrounding grass making it painfully obvious how big the hole was that they had dug for his casket.  Putting the little tree on top of his grave made it more bearable to look at.

This year I knew I wanted another Christmas tree.  I didn't feel like I was being too particular in my specifications.  I wanted it to be alive and I wanted it to be simple.  Little details mean a lot to me when it comes to some things and when it deals with Eli, the details hold special meaning.  We had no luck finding one.  I didn't think something like this would be so hard to find during this time of year, but it truly was.

Today came and we still didn't have a tree.  I wanted to take it to his grave tonight.  I needed to take one to his grave, but I didn't have one.  Our day suddenly filled up with other things and I didn't think it would happen.  I told myself I would find one another day and take it there, but that's not what I really wanted.  I called my friend and asked where she had found this rare thing.  There was no answer so I left a ridiculously long message trying to sound less desperate about getting the tree than I felt.

Just a couple of hours later I heard a knock at my door.  Ashley was there with a perfect little Christmas tree.  I gave her the biggest hug.  I really couldn't believe she was there...with the tree I NEEDED....again!  I really love this sweet, sweet friend.  I tried to express how much it meant to me and how truly grateful I was.  I think she understood something of how I felt despite my excessive talking...I tend to do that.  She said she had been thinking about Eli and the little tree for a few days and felt the spirit whispering to her...when she received my phone call, she sprung into action.  She must have literally stopped everything she was doing to get it to me so quickly.  It warmed my heart in a way I can't describe.  I feel so grateful she listened to a prompting.  Sometimes things seem so little, but as a grieving mother, it meant the world to me.  In a strange way, it was sweet that me and Jason couldn't find a tree.  One was provided...it felt straight from heaven.  I can't wait to take it to Eli tonight.

How many?

Today I had to take Katelyn to a doctors appointment.  It was a longer appointment than Lincoln would have liked, but he was doing pretty good and I was proud of him for trying at all.  The woman helping us decided we needed some ice cream coupons because of long visit and Lincoln's patience.  She asked how many kids I had....I hear a lot of people say this is a dreaded question for them.  It isn't for me. I don't mind the question at all and sometimes am really happy to answer it.  I almost say 4.  Sometimes I talk about about Eli for a second, which I love.  I love that I get to say his name and claim him as mine even thought he isn't physically with me.  It isn't uncomfortable or awkward for me, but it is for some of the question askers...which is kind of sad really because people die all the time and I don't understand why its so taboo talking about them.  And it seems the younger they are, the more awkward it is.  If you tell someone your grandma isn't around, no one acts skittish, but if you mention a spouse or child, it really can make people feel uncomfortable...I guess they don't want it to hurt you worse than it already does and ignoring things usually makes them go away, right?  Not so.  I always answer the question of "how many?" correctly.  When one of your kids goes away to college or on a mission, do you just stop counting them?  That would be a very strange practice...they don't count anymore because they don't live at home?  I feel like Eli has gone away in a similar way.  I feel how temporary it is and it would feel strange to say that he wasn't part of our family.

Anyways, she asked how many kids I have and in this particular situation I chose to answer 3 because she was really asking how many coupons I needed.  On a different day, it may have really hurt to have to say 3, but I was okay about it today.  As soon as I said three, Katelyn jumped in and corrected me by saying, "We actually have 4 kids in our family."  I looked at the woman and explained that one of my children was in heaven so he didn't need a coupon for ice cream.  I said he wouldn't be getting ice cream until another time.  She was really sweet about it and didn't act awkward at all.  She asked how old he would have been .  I gave Katelyn a big hug and let her know how happy it made me that she included Eli.  I always include him unless it is something like a count for ice cream coupons, but even then, I was grateful that Katelyn corrected me.  I didn't realize how special it was to hear my childs name and have the chance to talk about them until I had one that people couldn't dote on.  Hearing his name is the sweetest sound I can imagine....almost.