I am a fern

In 2003 my husband and I took and amazing trip to Washington state. We had been to England & Ireland the year before. Even though we were in Ireland during the rainy season, there hadn't been much rain and it wasn't green like I expected it to be. Washington was every bit as green as I thought Ireland was going to be.







We spent a couple of days in Seattle, then headed for the Olympic Peninsula. It. was. gorgeous. Not only were the shades of green amazing, but the lichen, the plant and the flowers were amazing.








Something I kept noticing were the ferns. Have you ever really looked at a fern as it grows? I've work in Aveda salons for well over a decade and would see it all the time.









A tiny shoot comes out of the ground. All the leaves are curled in and the stem is wound like a pinwheel.

It's only when the fern grows that the pinwheel unwinds and the leaves begin to uncurl. It grows and grows until not only is it open, it's bent over backwards basking in the warmth of sun.

I am like that fern, all curled into myself. Not only do I hang on tight to the things in life, I bring it into myself and curl my grip around it.

Surrender it to me. I hear the Lord say. Instead of releasing my grip, I hold on tighter, curl in tighter.

Only in the three years since my mom lost her battle with cancer have I really seen any noticeable growth. Don't get me wrong, I'm not bent over backwards, basking in the presence of the Lord, but

I am beginning to uncurl.
          I am beginning to loosen my grip.
                    I'm am beginning to surrender.

Beauty in Death

Each year while I was growing up, we would take our annual last boat ride of the season to see all the beautiful Fall colors. Even as an adult off at college, I would try to make it back for the ceremonial last ride. The last few years we had the boat, my mom requested we camp on the river for her birthday, October 4th.

Needless to say, it was always very cold. In the morning my mom would make a big pot of oatmeal and we would add in all our favorite flavors. Since it was so cold, we often had a campfire burning most of the day. My mom loved the smell of leaves burning. She would stand in the smoke of the burning leaves so all her clothes, even down to her pores, would smell of campfire.

In the years since my family sold the boat, my Fall color boat rides have been spotty. This year, however, I was determined to go. I added it to our Google calendar (that means it's going to happen). While packing lunch, snacks, and all the gear needed to spend the day on the river, I told my boys to bring what they needed for the day. "Once we leave," I said, "we're not coming back until night and you don't want to be bored."

Those words rang in my ears as I sat on the island with nothing to do. My boys were up to their hair in sand and my husband was happy to lay in the sun. 

There I sat.

Restless.

Unable to let myself simply be.
Memories began to haunt me. Memories of all the past trips on the river. Memories of my mom.

I grabbed my camera and decided I was going to let myself have the time to take pictures. After all, I was in one of my most favorite places, at my most favorite time of year.

This was my view. 

That beautiful burst of yellow standing out against the muted burgundy, brown and green. It was so beautiful. I feverishly began taking pictures, attempting to capture the beauty all around me.

Suddenly, I became very aware of why the trees were so beautiful.

They were dying. 

As the nutrients they need to live are drained from their veins, their colors show through.

There is beauty in death.

Had someone said that to me three years ago, after my mom lost her battle with cancer, I would have  thought them insensitive, hurtful, and a little "Polyanna".

Time and allowing myself to grieve as I needed to grieve have given me a different perspective. I'm beginning to see the beauty that can come from death. I'm beginning to see beauty from the ashes of loss and grief. I better understand "Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted".

It's about relationships.

Relationships?

Yes, I think so.

The loss of our three babies through miscarriage has made me more aware of the gift of relationship with my two living children. It has given me the ability to sit with women in their grief.

The loss of my mom has given me more than I could have ever imagined. 

What I have learned about the Creator of the Universe. 

What I have learned about who he is and who I am in him, has been indescribable. 

My relationship with him has grow in ways I could have never imagined.  I have grown in ways I would have never imagined.

Death is terrible. 

It's hard to witness.

It's hard to experience. 

It's hard to recover from the loss. 

But I'm learning, there is also beauty in death.

Mother's Day

How do you experience Mother's Day?


So many things come to mind when you think of Mother's Day. For some, you may think of beautiful, blooming, hanging flower pots. Bleeding hearts were my mom's favorite. 


Maybe you think of pampering and relaxation like a spa gift certificate or a gourmet brunch. 


For children, it may be that Mother's Day makes them think of fun craft projects they make for their moms at school or church. I have a few on my kitchen window sill. 


For others, you may think of running. Maybe you join with your mom or your friends and run the breast cancer run. Maybe you run to celebrate active generations.


For me, I think of all the different ways I've experienced Mother's Day.


When I was young, Mother's Day would fall on or near my grandma's birthday. We would celebrate Mother's Day and her birthday with a big prime rib dinner. Every year it was the same. Actually, every holiday was the same. same meal. same conversations. There was something comforting about knowing what to expect.


During those years, Mother's Day was about celebrating; celebrating Grandma's birthday, celebrating her as Grandma, and most of all for me, celebrating my mom.


It wasn't until Mother's Day 2003 that my experience with Mother's Day started to change. My husband and I were in the midst of trying to get pregnant. We were only a few months into trying, but that year on Mother's Day, I felt an anticipation. An anticipation that maybe next year I would celebrate Mother's Day not only for my mom and grandma's sake, but I would get to celebrate it as a mom.


The following year held month after month disappointment as we found out we were not pregnant again, and again, and again. I was numb. I wasn't even sure how I felt Mother's Day 2004. I remember sitting in church feeling empty. A friend described it best. "My arms were empty, my womb was empty, my heart felt empty." At the beginning of the service, as a way to recognize Mother's Day, they had a sketch. The sketch told the story of how three different women were experiencing Mother's Day. I remember two of them. One was of a woman who had a strained relationship with her mother. The second was a woman who desperately wanted to be a mother.


My eyes started to burn. All my pain, all the pain I was trying to stuff down found its way to my eyes and began to shower down my face. I didn't realize how much pain was there.


As Mother's Day 2005 approached, I knew it would be different. I was pregnant and due a couple of weeks after Mother's Day. Even though my arms would still be empty, my womb was not. Then it happened. Six weeks before he was due, our son was born. Nine days later he was released from the NICU. That Mother's Day brought back the celebration. We were off to my parent's house for the prime rib dinner. This year I was not only celebrating my grandma and my mom, I was able to celebrate being a mom.


It was glorious! For two years in a row, I was able to celebrate all the wonderful things I love about Mother's Day.


In the time between Mother's Day 2006 and 2007, we suffered three miscarriages. My grandma was fighting a losing battle with cancer. Mother's Day 2007 is a bit of a blur for me. I remember being thankful for getting together with everyone, but there was a hole. I should have been holding another baby or at least carrying another one, but I felt empty again. I was sad, but there was also a keen awareness the gift of our son.


Mother's Day 2008 was so different from all the Mother's Days. We had been given the gift of another son. He too was due to be born after Mother's Day, but came six weeks early. While I celebrated being a mother of two, there was heavy sadness. Grandma was gone, and my mom was fighting uterine cancer. My mom was so sick from treatment that she could hardly move out of her chair. We still tried to have our usual prime rib dinner, but it wasn't the same. The future was so uncertain.


At the time, we didn't know Mother's Day 2009 would be our last with Mom. Despite a promising diagnosis in the fall, her cancer had come back. It was on the move and it was aggressive. We gathered for our prime rib dinner, but mom didn't get out of her chair. She was too weak... She died late that summer.


I spent the next two Mother's Days navigating life without my mom. This year I feel like I'm finally coming out of the fog. 


As Mother's Day 2012 approaches, I am thankful. 

• Thankful for my two sons. Thankful that in his goodness, the Lord allowed us to keep two of our children.
• Thankful that even though my mom and grandma are gone from us, they are present with the Lord.
• Thankful that even though my heart breaks for friends who have empty arms and empty wombs, I know they are not alone. Not only that, I can acknowledge to them how hard Mother's Day must be for them.

What does Mother's Day stir in you? 

• Does it stir a thankful heart?
• Does it stir a sense of celebration?
• Does it stir the pain of loss or a strained relationship?

Whatever it is that Mother's Day stirs in you, go with it. Let yourself feel it. Let yourself experience it fully. 

• It's okay to feel happy on Mother's Day. 
• It's okay to feel sad, to feel empty on Mother's Day.
• It's okay to acknowledge to someone that Mother's Day must be hard for them.

Whatever it is that you feel, remember that you are not alone.

God is our refuge and strength, 

an ever-present help in trouble.

Psalms 46:1