Through the tears

Picture the scene. 

A woman.

Sick for all her life. Tormented inside. In a constant state of chaos.

Then a Healer comes along. 

He is able to not only cure her ailment, but bring a new life, free from ever repeating such imprisonment. 

This was Mary Magdalene. 

The accounts in the Bible talk about a woman, possessed by 7 devils, then healed and released from her tormentors. 

Now in the garden, she stands. 

Her very Healer, broken Himself. Just hours ago she watched as He was hung on a cross to be crucified. To be mocked. To be rejected by the very men He was choosing to love. 

Jesus. 

Mary lost her Savior that day in a bloody battle between heaven and hell and she had a front row seat. 

And now, in the garden, days after He was buried, she weeps and mourns this man, this God, in whom she would give her own life for. 

In the account of John, chapter 20, it says that she stood without the sepulcher weeping. 

This kind of weeping is the kind where you can not even see through the tears.

She was so distressed for losing her Savior and so overcome with grief that she didn't even recognize the One who then spoke to her. 

Jesus. 

He simply asked her why she was crying and who was she looking for. 

And He showed Himself FIRST to Mary. 

First. 

Who was she to be the initial onlooker of the Resurrected? Wasn't this Mary? The one with the past? The one that was possessed by demons, broken, and just a mess? 

And yet, Jesus, the One who could have chosen anyone in the world to show Himself to first, decided to come to this woman, crippled by her own grief, tear streaked cheeks, and announce His return.

I don't know about you, but the thought of a God who picks out the weakest and frailest of us all to call on first is the God that I want to serve.

Because I am the weakest. 

I have a past. 

But in Him, I have a future. 

I'm grief stricken and unable to move or see. 

But when He calls my name, I will know who beckons me to look up.

Because that is really all He wanted. 

He wanted Mary to see  Him. 

To look up from her sorrow and focus on the One who can bring joy. 

My heart rejoices at this thought, that in Him, the tears may still be in my eyes, but I will be able to see, to hear, to know my Savior. 

Birthday Miracles

It's no secret that a new life is simply a miracle. When you take God out of it for a moment and just look at the science of it all and all the things that must be in order for that spark to happen and a new life be conceived it's inconceivable. However, when you add God to it, I find it that much more amazing. A soul, dependent upon the life of their own Mother, hand picked by God. He selected me to carry my children and I am in awe of that.

Six years ago God introduced me to the last soul I would carry in my womb, Clara Esther Little. 

A peanut of a baby and a true supernatural gift. I almost lost her at week 20. But she was here. She was delivered and simply perfect. I know everyone says that about their babies, but seriously, I have never seen a more beautiful newborn. Round little head. Petite features. Long fingers. A head full of dark hair. 

As if her birth was not enough to remind me of who supplies all blessings, God gifted us with another miraculous event that no doubt was orchestrated by him. 

I should have died. 

I lost so much blood that day that the nurses said it looked like a massacre. 17 units put back into me in the O.R. Seven hours of surgery trying to stop the bleeding. All while Peter waited. Worried. Wondered. 

I heard more than one person say that they were shocked I made it out alive. I should have died on that table. But God loves to show His power, compassion, and love. He wants to be praised for His might and power. 

I add this picture not to shock, however, I realize that is just what it does. I add it to give you a visual of where I was at. Literally between heaven and earth. 

I often wonder why God kept me here. What was His purpose? I have a list of things I could say, but I think in the end it will be a bunch of little things that add up to one big thing: my life. 

I wish to live it well. I want to honor God, love others, encourage, laugh, help, and praise. My desire is not to waste it. And I come back to this lesson every time Clara's birthday comes along. 

She is my second chance. She was more than a gift of life. She was a gift of new beginnings. 

I'm in love with her. I'm in love with the idea that she will always walk beside me, reminding me to focus on only the important. The fluff of life is so temporal and nonsensical. I want solid. Depth. Value in what I do.

I leave you with my favorite hospital picture. 

I love this shot for so many reasons. Sam is worrying about something and checking it with her microscope. Molly is being wiggly, loud, and reminding us that she needs to be heard. Clara is being easy going and sweet. And Peter, wrapping his arms around his family, checking on the newest bundle of joy, holds us together. Just like our Heavenly Father. 

My Mother's Day Thanks

Dear Lord,
Today is Mother's Day. I thought it only appropriate to thank you for making me a mother. Eleven years ago, you brought that word "mother" into my life in a very personal way. I remember looking at that test that said positive and thinking my world was about to change. And change it did. Even though I only carried that baby for a short time, I thank you that you allowed me to do so. I know that the heavens sing the songs of all those babies that so many sweet mothers have lost. A full choir of angel babies just waiting to be reunited with their mommies. I have five in the choir. Thank you for the joy and hope I have to see them again. 

Thank you for Samantha. She was the first baby I was able to carry full term. The first baby I was able to hold in my arms. The first baby to call me "Mama". What a gift she is. 

Thank you for my first born, for it's by her I have learned so many mommy lessons. I learned how amazing the body is and how you created birthing a baby in such a way that even though the pain and turmoil is immense, we are willing to do it all again because that first look on their face is the most amazing feeling in the world. 

Thank you that with Samantha, I felt the joy of little arms wrapped around my neck, soft kisses on my cheeks, and  tight hugs when the night seems scary.

With Samantha, you've allowed me to be challenged as a mother. Learning that relying on You on a daily basis is an absolute necessity and blessing. 

Thank you for a little best friend, wrapped in a small framed, beautiful faced, tender hearted girl. 

Thank you for my second born, Molly. 

You gifted me with a most pleasant of babies. She was quiet and easy, truly a gift for a second born. You knew what I needed with a deployment to face and motherhood about to get really real. 

Thank you for teaching me that you never turn your back on a toddler. They are capable of destruction and/or terror in 3.2 seconds. 

Thank you for the gift of learning that children are all different and as a mother, it is a joy to be able to embrace those differences and nurture their individual talents. 

Thank you for allowing me to watch, as Molly's mother, the strength you instill in each child to endure the fiercest of battles. Thank you for not leaving me alone as I parent, but gently taking my hand through the good, bad, and ugly trenches of "mommying".

Thank you for Clara. From the very beginning, being a Mommy to Clara has taught me that miracles still happen and that you have a plan for everything. 

Thank you for reminding me that life is precious and nothing is guaranteed.

Thank you for the lessons of having fun again, laughing, and getting down and dirty aremy favorite part of being a Mom.

Thank you for humbling me by bringing on the tasks of  stomach flus, teaching cursive, and brushing Clara's hair. You are constantly reminding me that I don't have a clue what I am doing and Your strength is made perfect in my utter weakness. 

Thank you making motherhood fun.

                                            Thank you for making Motherhood beautiful.

Thank you for making Motherhood precious. 

Thank you, Lord, for allowing me to be a mother. And not only a mother, but one to these three beautiful girls. 

I am your worst nightmare

Having been in the bereaved parent circle for a while now, I have come across a number of parents that seem to echo similar flaws in today's society when it comes to grieving, in particular, the grief of a parent. I, myself, have felt many of the same things these parents have. Yet, no matter how many blogs I read, how many articles fill up with words about what needs to be done, and how many specialists validate our feelings, the bereaved parent community are still ostracized and left feeling alone. 

Why is that?

I suspect it's because of one main reason: We are your worst nightmare.

How many times have I heard the words, "I can't even imagine." Or "I could never..." There's also been,  "You are stronger than I am."  

If I was being frank,  (which I really am usually when I write because it's much easier to be bold to a computer screen than a person's face), I can't stand hearing any other these. 

"I can't even imagine."

You are right. You can't. The horror of  hearing the words that will give your child's death sentence is unfathomable. Pumping your child full of poison, strapping them to a table to send radiation into their body, letting a team of doctors do an experimental surgery that really doesn't guarantee a single thing, holding your baby's hand as she takes her final breath on earth, hoping she can hear your last "I love you" uttered in her ear is more than horrific. It's impalpable. Even for those parents that have faced this road can't understand or imagine how we made it through. 

Can I just tell you something, though? We don't want you to imagine. We never desire you to put your own sweet child in our child's place and consider what you would have done, what you would have felt. Instead, we just want you to see. To listen. To ask. We know that the pain is too deep and complex for you to know, and we are OK with that. We just need you to hear our story, so that perhaps, we can find our breath and balm in it all. 

"I could never..."

If you would have asked me two years ago if I could ever calmly tell my girls that their sister was going to die, I would have flat out told you, "No".  

If you would have asked me was I capable of high levels of stress, accompanied with minimal sleep, and still be able to get the day done, I would have laughed in your face. 

I never thought I could do all I could in the face of cancer, but when my child needed me, I could. I did. I would again. 

You never know what you are capable of doing until put to the task. God gives us grace for only the step we are about to take, not the mile ahead. So, if it came down to it, you could too. Please don't tell us that you could never, because it is simply a reminder of what we faced, how hard and difficult it was. I think many say it as a way to build up or boost a parent. But in reality, it makes us feel weak and feeble. 

Instead, I implore you to be thankful that you have never... and to pray for those that must. 

"You are stronger than I am"

Tell me that when I am fallen over in the shower, in tears, not sure I can breath again. Tell me that when I scream at the top of my lungs in times of frustration and anger that I can not watch my child dying another moment longer. Tell me I am stronger than you when I walk away from a beautiful tree planted in memory of my daughter, only to be filled with jealousy, anger, and resentment, while others get to walk hand in hand with their own children. 

We are not stronger than you. We are weak. In fact, we are weaker than you. We live with half a heart. We live this parallel universe  in which  there is no way out. Always wondering what our child would be doing if they were here, who they would have been, and what it was like before they left this  world. 

Instead of comparing our strengths, take what little strength you think you do have and use it to say a kind word, share a memory, open your arms and hug. 

Coming up on a year without Molly, I find that it is much more difficult than it was in the beginning. To live this life without her is my load to bear, and mine alone. However, my wish is that others with know that my loss does not have to be your horror. You need not pass by on the other side of the street, avoid eye contact in the parking lot, or stop texting. You only need to be. Remember. Acknowledge. Understand that you don't need to understand it all. 

To my fellow bereaved mothers out there, I know your heart. Whether you lost you child in womb, held them but a moment on earth, or grew beside them for years, my heart is with you. My heart walks, talks, and breaths with yours. My arms are wide open to you, Mother. 

13 years

I think I cried myself to sleep that night. How could I possibly imagine four long months, or perhaps even more, without the man I fell in love with. But that was what I was facing. He pulled away with his recruiter, leaving all he knew behind, to start a new adventure and establish a future for both of us. 

Thirteen years later, and here we stand. 

Trust me when I say I am not one of those women that takes credit for my husband's career. It actually riles me up a little when I hear a military wife talk of her husband's career as if she did all the work herself. Yes, as a spouse, there are some sacrifices needed to be made. But it's the same in every other marriage. 

You move for a promotion. Give up time with family because of the long hours at work. Many  jobs put their safety in jeopardy. But in the end, Peter has done all the work to get where he is. And I couldn't be more proud of him. 

He's the one who signed that paper. He's the one that went through basic training, all the lack of sleep, grueling drills, and separation from family.

Peter is the one that had to go overseas without us. He couldn't pick up the phone and call. He couldn't eat home cooked meals. Instead, they came from some kind of bag! (MRE's, we thank you for your deliciousness.) 

I am so very blessed to have this man I call husband. Not because of what he does for an occupation. He could be a lawyer, farmer, librarian, mechanic, or teacher. The point is, he's hard working, self sacrificing, and always willing to give for his family. 

So today, as I remember 13 years ago and the ache in my heart as he drove away, I now also think on how full my heart is in the man he has become. I thank God for forming him into a better person each day. I thank the military for giving him skills and disciplines that carry on to other areas of life. And I thank Peter for  his hard work and dedication in so many areas of his life, all making this thing we call life so much better. 

Purposeful brokenness

Purpose. The life in ones veins. The path to their walk. The table in which they sup at. 

Purpose is so important.

Without purpose, a person will feel unfulfilled, lost, and depressed. 

We are masters at creating a fabricated purpose, one that tries so very hard to pave the way to happiness and contentment, but we fail so many times. Women are especially good at overextending themselves because they think keeping busy equals purposed fulfilled. Alas, that same old feeling of desolation and disappointment still linger, despite how full the calendar is. 

There are some who look for their purpose by comparing and mimicking others. They try their hardest to adapt their lives and skills to fit the mold that another possesses because they feel that their  purpose is looks sparkly, shiny, and worth something. 

Let me share with you my purpose right now. But first, let me warn you. It's nothing sparkly. It's not neat. In fact, it's messy. But it's mine. 

Brokenness. 

Are you asking, "Can that even be someone's purpose and calling?" 

I assure you, I asked the very same question. In fact, sitting at my laptop for the last few days I have a note to myself that says, "Maybe my brokenness IS my purpose?" 

Those feelings of discontentment and loneliness have reared their ugly heads a number of times in the last year. Purpose was a distant and illusive thought in my life. I wanted it. Desired it. But wasn't really understanding where it was. 

Then this thought popped in my mind. What if, in this season, being broken was enough? What if my feelings of sorrow, and sadness were more than just something I needed to get past? Was I forcing out of my life something that God had placed there for a reason? Perhaps. But I still wasn't convinced. 

Then I began to look into God's Word. Were there any people that God used who had the vocation of "the sad guy"? Oh my, yes there were. There are so many people who's ministry, for a season, was to be broken. From this wreck of emotions, the most comforted words were formed. The most amazing plans were revealed. And the most beautiful gifts were given.

David

This guy was really in the trenches. His best friend's Dad is chasing him down to kill him. His own son tried to off him for the throne. And his child died due to his very sin. If this doesn't fill the position of broken one, I don't know what would. Yet, look at the book of Psalms. Chapter upon chapter is full of God's love, mercy, comfort, and glory. Not a single word could have been penned without David understanding his humanity and pain. 

Jeremiah

This prophet knew what it meant to lament. We have a whole book full of his cries out to God because of his heartache over Israel's sin and punishment. Battered and broken, this man was given the Word of God, not shunned and put in a corner because he was torn up with sorrow. 

Hannah

Sweet Hannah, a woman close to my heart. She knew the ache of being without a child to hold in her arms. She was mocked and ridiculed by her husband's other wife who easily had children and was sure to rub it in her face. Yet Hannah willingly took her splitting heart and laid it at the feet of her Lord in prayer. Sweat and tears were mingled together with a hope that God would even just listen to her petition. 

All three of these folks, and dozens more, are pictures of those who went through seasons of being broken and God was right there with them, using it for His purpose. 

I want to be that. I fully embrace now that I am one hot mess from day to day. I thought I was doing OK, but I was fooling myself. The heartbreak in my very soul runs so deep that I can't help but carry it with me every moment. Sure, I smile, laugh, and dance. I thank God that I can do these things. But the heaviness is always there, crushing me, and making me fall constantly to my knees. 

I see that my purpose in this season of life is to be utterly, completely and fully broken. I'm finally embracing it. Kind of because I just can't hide it, some because I'm tired trying to be something I am not, but mostly because God desires me to take hold of my humanity and let him take hold of me. 

We shall see what this season, what this purpose for my life will bring. Maybe like David I will pen words of comfort to share with others in the pit of despair. Maybe like Jeremiah, I will hear from God. Or maybe, just maybe, God will grant me the desires of my heart, like Hannah, that I can not even utter. 

Left behind

When we moved to Tampa, back in 2007, we knew we hit the jackpot. Warm, sunny weather... check. Tons to do... check. Tropical paradise... double check. 

Samantha was only 7 months at the time, so this is all she has ever known. Molly and Clara were both born in the house we live in now. (Well, not literally. I can't handle home birth. I like cable T.V. and 3 meals a day brought to me,including snacks, way too much.)

So when we got the news that we will be moving in June to a new assignment, well, my emotions were mixed. Excitement for my husband, as he has proven that he is a rock star in his career and is ready for a new adventure. Happy for Sam and Clara because they may have their first white Christmas. Ready for some change, as the walls in our home are not so white anymore and the carpet's sanitation is truly questionable. 

But along with these feelings came others. Dread. Complete and utter devastation. Sadness. Anxiety. 

Can I just get real for just a moment? 

Before losing Molly, I was just clueless. I didn't get that there was a world around me that hurt, felt alone, or really were on the verge of losing it all. When I would meet someone who lost a spouse or even a child, I just could not relate to their emotions whatsoever. I hadn't lost either. So my natural response was give my verbal condolences and move on, without a second thought.  Because let's be honest, feeling sad isn't something very popular in America.

The thought of this happening in our new home somewhat cripples me now. Knowing that the majority of people we meet will not really care much about who Molly was, and none of them would have met her, breaks the very framework within me. I can't handle it. 

Sure, there are always going to be those around me who care, who heard her laugh, felt the warmth of her smile, and got to experience a true "Molly-ism". But my everyday people will only know us as a family of four... oh, and they lost a daughter to cancer. 

It's bad enough that she will not be going with us, but that there will be new experiences and memories without her in them is heart breaking. 

Yes, I know life must go on. I want that for us. I want my girls to enjoy life and carry on the many lessons that they have already learned to become the amazing young women I have no doubt in my mind they are supposed to be. 

And my goal in life is not to make each new person I meet feel uncomfortable as I speak about my child that is now in heaven. But I feel I would do the world an disservice if I didn't talk about her. Tell her story. Share her picture. 

What am I getting at? Well, this is going to be one hard change. And I am totally, 100% not ready to do this. But when I said "I do", I meant it. When Peter signed that paper to join the military, he was completely committed. (And I love that about him.) But neither of these things mean it will be easy. In fact, I'm certain it won't be. 

As I sat down thinking about these things, a thought came across my mind. When we are at our most broken, I mean down on the floor lying in a mixture of tears and snot (me the other night, no judging my ugly crying) that is when God becomes so real. Without me acknowledging my utter depravity and brokenness, I am just a confident person, walking around thinking everything is OK, that is until I am back on the floor. It is better for me to know this pain and weakness so that I can fully rely on Him and what He will accomplish. 

My Lord knew a long time ago we would get orders to move... one week after Molly's angelversary... and He is equipped to get us through this. I just need to let it happen. 

So let this be my official announcement: 

I, Julie Little, do hereby acknowledge that I am an utter basket case from now until the time determined by who knows what. Therefore, I will be gracious and kind to myself. I will say "'no" when I need to in order to preserve my energy and sanity. I will participate in life when I can, and when I can't, I will take a nap. I will focus all my efforts and energy on the tasks given to me, mainly raising my kids and loving my husband, nourishing relationships that God has clearly asked me to nourish, and all else will wait until another time. 

So, if you see me, and I don't engage in a full, deep conversation, you know why. And if I do chat it up and have some strength and joy, you can rejoice with me that God  is doing a work.