The emotion of it all...

June 24th.

This is a very important date. Maybe not for you, but for our family, it is a date that will not be forgotten so easily. 

There has been significance to this date for five years now, but this year adds one more important turning point to it. 

Let me back up and explain. 

Five years ago, I lay in the O.R. ready to have Clara. We were excited and nervous. Excited to meet the newest member of the Little family and to prove once and for all I was right about her being covered in hair. (The heart burn was horrid this pregnancy.) Nervous, because I was about to have my third c-section and we knew already that there was possibility of complications. 

Clara Esther Little was born and we could not have been happier. She had that full head of hair that I expected, along with long fingers, petite features, and a perfect, button nose. 

That day was beautiful. God granted us the gift of life that so many dream of and we were so very blessed. 

But God was not done.

My complications were worse than once expected and things began to turn bad pretty quickly. Peter and Clara left the room and the doctor began her work. Seven hours later, I lay in the ICU, sedated, and broken and beaten. But alive. God saved me that day. I should have been dead. All the medical staff that treated me said so. The 19 units of blood I received was proof as well. 

After that day, I had a new outlook on life. Not just the frailty of it, which was very apparent now, but the gift that it truly is. We are never guaranteed another moment, so we are encouraged, no, really we are dumb not to enjoy every moment the Creator has granted us. 

This year, June 24th opens up a new significance to us. It's been one month. One month since my eyes have looked on Molly. One month since I have run my fingers through her hair. One month since I have prayed over her. Once month since I whispered 'Good bye' in her ear. 

June 24th is a day that brings so much joy and immense sadness. Thankfulness for life and sorrow for death. Isn't that how it goes though? Life is full of happiness and sorrow. Perhaps we are not comfortable with that. But without the sad, we can not enjoy the happy. That is human nature. 

But I look forward to the day when all sorrow will be gone. All tears will be wiped from our faces. And we will never part again. 

So June 24th, to me, is Hope Day. Hope in life. Hope in sorrow. Hope in making new memories. Hope in reunions. 

Oh comfort, where are you?

Comfort. We've all needed it. From the time you first scrapped your knee on the driveway, to your first heart break in middle school over that boy that you just KNEW you would marry, to the disappointment of losing a job that you worked so hard at to obtain. 

We all look for that source to bring us relief from all sorts of pain. Many have found temporary repose in short-lived things such as food, sex, busyness, perhaps even anger. But I have found that comfort can not be found when you seek for it. I can't just google comfort and find something or someone that will give an endless supply of it. 

. 

Comfort is found when we seek after truth. 

"My soul melteth for heaviness: strengthen though me according unto thy word. Remove from me the way of lying: and grant me thy law graciously. I have chosen the way of truth: thy judgments have I laid before me." ~ Psalm 119:28:30

 When I read what the Psalmist wrote about his own heavy heart, I see that he was just like me. Weak. Easily persuaded by the lies in his own head. Seeking help, but needing it to be tender. 

So many times I have allowed lies to become my truth. They poison my very being and take over in the form of confusion, anger, despair, and so much more. But truth does not bring these things. Jesus is the Truth. Truth is not a thing but a person. And that very person lives within me. So when I am in need of comfort, I can go to the One called the Great Comforter and receive truth. 

Repeatedly begging God for wisdom (truth) will keep us from the opposite of comfort. So I will bury myself even deeper into His word. 

As a good friend of mine said, now is the time to gorge yourself on the Word. All you can eat is not a bad thing when it comes to the meal of the soul. 

Faith's container

I'm a purger at heart. I love being able to get rid of the old and bring in the new. But with that comes my ability, at times, to be wasteful and not see the value in things. My husband is a master at this. We have gelato containers that I would have thrown out, but he found a way to make them into piggy banks. There are countless times that something has broken and he has been able to fix it with only a stick of gum and paper clip. (OK, perhaps that is an exaggeration, but you know Macgyver could do it!) He even made our TV antennae, which may have been ugly (OK, it was REALLY ugly), but still, the guy is a genius. 

I knew that this past year was a time in my life that God was using to grow my faith. In fact, He prepared me for it weeks before we heard of DIPG. But now that this year in coming to a close, (in two days it will be a year exactly), I find myself making the foolish mistake that He is done with me. He's done growing my faith. I'm used up. 

It's fully realized by myself that this sounds foolish, because we all know that we are never done growing spiritually. But like the gelato containers, I have been struggling, searching what use I have now. Like the container, what I have been doing for so long, (caring for Molly and trusting that God can get us through the next hump of her care) is no longer necessary. 

But this gelato jar that once held yummy goodness (the salted caramel was by far the best), now holds something new. It's job and purpose, however, are still the same. Just slightly altered. 

That's me.

I once had a specific job of growing in my faith through losing my daughter. But that chapter has closed. Nevertheless,God still desires my faith to grow, even if it's through a different venue.

I must look at where my faith lies... DAILY. I've been going through the motions, somewhat numb to the world. But my God desires me to continue forward, growing my faith in the day to day. 

Did you know it requires faith to get out of bed? It does! It requires great faith to believe that my Savior has something special for me in prayer time and reading. My body fights it, because I  would much rather sleep. But when I trust in Him, He never disappoints. 

The same goes for the caring of Sam and Clara. I need great faith in Him to know what my next move must be and to be available to tend to their needs, whether physical, emotional, or spiritual.

You see, faith is not knowledge. It's action in the knowledge you have. Choosing to obey the very thing you know to be true, but may seem impossible to accomplish. 

My impossibles are not the same as they were last year. A year ago, my impossibles were healing for Molly. This year, my impossibles are continuing on without her and being the Mom and Wife that God desires me to be. 

One may seem much more in-feasible than another, but it's really not any different. I need to be at the throne of God every day, asking my Abba Father to get me to the next hour and grant me wisdom for even the most mundane decisions. It's all important. 

I'm reminded again, that ALL things are possible with God. 

New Beginnings

I used get so excited about the first day of school. New outfit. Fresh box of crayons. Sharp pencils. And the possibility of starting over fresh. All mistakes felt in the past. I could create a new me. 

I now find myself in a similar place. A new beginning. However, the feeling is anything  but excitement. Other words come to mind. Lost. Horrified. Sad. Confused. 

For the last year, I have been living this obscure reality that really only we could understand. Since the word "terminal" hit my ear drum, all that I knew vanished and this new creation of life came into existence. 

It started with the bombshell hitting us. But once time went by, our new life was consumed with a "normal" that was anything but. Doctor appointments, trials, pills, temper tantrums, vomiting, and so much more. This was the new routine and in a way we cruised through it. 

Then came hospice. 

This was perhaps the longest part of the journey. The care, exhaustion, and changes were so big and yet so slow, we began to wear out. But this was still our life. Still our normal. 

Then we said 'Good bye'. 

Like a raging hurricane, we were swept away into immense grief, intertwined with family, friends, planning, and decisions. 

It's been two weeks since then and I find myself sitting in the middle of the house not knowing what to do with myself. Everything I knew has suddenly vanished and I am left with nothing and everything all at once. 

No Molly to care for. No hospital bed to look at. No routine of pills to give. No nurses to visit. 

But pieces of devastation are scattered all over this house. In the pictures on the wall, in the laundry still in her laundry basket and in the tears on Clara's cheeks. 

It's so unnatural, this thing we call loss. It's so enfeebling, the emotion of it all. 

They say that time will heal. I can't say I know that is fully true. A part of my heart is forever gone from this world. And I don't wish it to be fully healed, because that means I have forgotten. But I also know there must be a balance between hurt and healed. 

Day by day and with each passing moment, grace we'll find, to meet our trials here. 

God help us to do so...

Molly's Eulogy

Dear Molly Dolly,

 It seems like only yesterday I laid eyes on you and fell madly in love. Those big brown eyes captivated the world and our hearts.  I remember holding you and thinking you were perfect in every way. Your quiet, calm, and sweet spirit showed through from day one.

 Never one to cry, you were always content with just the necessities. Full belly. Soft bed. Warm arms. This carried on as you grew.

 You have always been a thinker, observing the world around you quietly. Not asking many questions, but figuring it all out on your own.  But this didn’t mean you were a loner. You have always been up for a good time. Laughing, smiling and silliness have ALWAYS been your favorite.

You have willingly  handed out  smiles. I remember when you were very little, Samantha flipped your car seat over. Instead of crying, you patiently hung upside down, until things were fixed. This is exactly who you are. Tough, strong, calm.

You’ve been the perfect middle sister. Proud that you are the only one who had the job of big sister AND little sister, you were peace keeper, yet instigator when no one is looking. You have the knack for driving your sisters crazy without being obvious. And you always know what will cheer them up when they are down. Your sisters have learned from you how to be a good sharer and master toy manipulator all at the same time.

Your Daddy and I have also learned many things from you as well. One is, you can always smile… all you need is a little bathroom humor. Your laugh is infectious and no matter how bad we are feeling, you have always known how to make it better. You also are a master snuggler. No one could ever top your ability to get right in the nook of Daddy’s arm and stay there for hours without getting one pointy elbow involved.

We are going to miss that one perfect ponytail ringlet bouncing through the house. Your absolutely contagious and sincere belly laugh that could be heard from any room in the house.  Your sense of adventure, whether it’s the request for the highest under dog in the world, sitting in the front row of a roller coaster that even I was scared to go on, or just your constant request for “faster and higher!” I’m not sure if heaven has roller coasters, but if they do, I am sure you are in the front row with your hands up.

I’m going to miss our early mornings together. You would spring downstairs and always join me at the table, quietly eating your cereal. Neither one of us ever had the need to say a word, but we were blissfully happy in the early morning silence.

Your love for animals has always been in the forefront. In fact, the day you told me you wanted to be a farmer’s wife did not shock me one bit. If it was furry, fuzzy, warm, and snuggly, you were first in line to touch it.  I imagine you even now, being that child the Bible speaks of that lies down with the lion.

You’ve always been smart and it showed in your excellence and efficiency in school, especially reading. Cursive was second nature for you. But what you really had a talent for was art. Not a day went by that you didn’t color, cut, glue, or paint. Our house is covered with your beautiful masterpieces. This was truly a God-given talent. Even when you could do nothing else, and you were in pain, you determined to color until you could no longer.

And  that, my dear, is the thing I’m going to miss the most. Your determination and perseverance. The words “I can’t” were never, ever part of your vocabulary. You’ve taught me that if something is hard, that just means I better roll up my sleeves because it’s time to try harder. Samantha and Clara will carry on this lesson with them as well. Along with the lessons of compassion and empathy that only could have come by you. You see Molly,that is just it. You’ve brought so much to the world. You’ve changed it. And it will never again be the same.

Some say you were too young to go from us, but I say you lived the full life God intended you to. And I am so thankful He let me be a part of it. I no longer question “why?” I know why. God has a divine purpose for all of us. You are just so amazing that you accomplished in 6 years what most couldn’t do in 60.

For now, I’ll miss you. I’ll miss hugging you, kissing your cheeks, and making you laugh. I wish I could wrap my arms around you one more time.  But there will be a day when we can hug and never let go. I’m thankful that Jesus gave that hope to us both.

So until then, hug a lion for me, pet a lamb, and climb a tree. I’ll see you soon.

Love Mommy

Her last breath

I'm not sure why. That's usually how I start my thoughts when I begin to write. I don't know why I would share such  intimate things. But as I sat here thinking what I was to write, many things popped in my head. Perhaps that is because my mind has not stopped thinking. In fact, I am positive that it goes in hyper-drive at night because even though I have been sleeping like a log, I wake up exhausted, as if I was up all night. 

But God kept pressing upon my heart to share Molly's last moments with us. Perhaps because even though it was a scene I will never forget, it doesn't mean it was all horrible. It played out the way it was supposed to. And I don't regret a moment. 

On Saturday,  we needed to up Molly's pain medication significantly. In doing so, we knew that this meant she would now sleep and not wake. It was very apparent that her time to meet Jesus was close and our only desire was to make her comfortable and peaceful. 

Sunday morning, when we came to her bed, it was apparent that she was not doing well. We spent the morning around her bed. Holding her hand, talking to her, and Samantha even read a book to her. The girls climbed up to snuggle and even though Molly was not responsive I am 100% sure that she felt her sisters with her. 

As the day went on, the girls began to tire out. Sam went upstairs for a while, but Clara was clearly in a high anxiety state. Even when you know death is coming, it's hard to really prepare for an adult. Even more so for a four year old. 

We sent Clara next door to visit some neighbor friends and separate from it all for a bit. However, within 10 minutes, Molly's breathing drastically changed and we knew this was the moment we had known was coming since June 17, 2014. 

It's hard to explain all the emotion packed into one 5 minute span. There was a quick rush to get the girls to Molly's side. Samantha wanted to be there with her and we thought it best to be together one last time and help usher  Molly to heaven. I had prayed so hard and envisioned us at her side for her last breath. I thought for sure, even though I prayed, that it would not happen. Molly has always been stubborn and her own person. I thought that once she decided to let go, she would do it when no one was around. I think she did it for me. For us. 

We watched her take her last breath and cried like we had never cried before. It has been a year of holding our breath just waiting and at that moment, for me, I felt that I could finally let it go. It was done. 

Clara, not fully understanding, got off the bed and got the stethoscope. She wanted to hear for herself that there was no heartbeat. It was a sweet, yet sad thing to watch. But we let her because she needed to do this. 

Once some time had passed and the girls cleared out, Peter and I just looked at our little girl. She looked so incredibly peaceful. So beautiful. More beautiful than she had in a very long time. The funny part was she had this little smirk on her face as if to say, "Ha! I showed cancer." I will never forget it. 

Death, of course, was not the outcome I wished for. When I prayed for healing, I wanted it on earth. But I will say that if death was what was to come, it came in a beautiful way. Together. Peaceful. Home. That's all we wanted. 

I could write so much more. Like where from here? What is the plan? How are the girls? It will come. For now though, I desire to leave with the thought of Molly, flying through the heavens, opening her eyes and seeing the most beautiful home she will ever have. I can actually feel her smile. Big. Wide. Beautiful.