In the Midst

I've struggled for the past almost 3 months to find the words I need to say.  Honestly, I don't know if I even have them now. 

I've believed in God for as long as I can remember.  I believe that Jesus died for our sins and is our salvation.  I believe the Bible is the divine inspired, God-breathed word of God.   I also believe in Heaven and that we will be united there with God and our loved ones after we die. 

In other words, I'm a Christian, a full-fledged follower of the one and only Living God. 

So, by default, it should mean that my faith will carry me through the loss of my daughter. 

Logically speaking, right?

I wish.  Man, do I wish.

I've always naively thought that faith alone was enough.  Enough to fill in the gaps.  Enough to make things better.  Enough to understand. 

Enough to escape the pit of grief that falls endless into the dark abyss. 

But having a faith in the midst of the depths of my grief does none of the above. 

In fact, it does quite the opposite. 

I have a hole bigger than all the oceans in the world.  Nothing is better.  And I'm more confused than ever now.

When it was first suspected that Everly had Trisomy 18, I thanked God for her healing.  I claimed my inheritance and thanked Him for it before I knew it to be true or not. Time and time again, I prayed.  I took care of unforgiveness in my heart.  I continued to be in the Word.  I not only prayed for myself and Everly but for others and thanked Him for the countless blessings.  I was in a relationship with Him.

Though I had an intact prayer life before being pregnant with Everly, the hope I carried that He would heal her drew me closer to Him.  I spoke to Him so much each day that I felt like He was on speed dial. 

But now she's dead.

So much of what we do as believers is to praise God when things work out, when there's a 'happy ending.'

"God is faithful" when your loved one was miraculously saved in the car accident.  

Routinely, "God is so good" is a common sentiment when a loved one's medical ailments are healed, in remission or remedied. 

But what happens when that's NOT your story?  When YOUR miracle never came?

In recent months, I have spent a great deal of time researching various theologians' take on this question but I have also sought out insight from fellow grieving parents.  When we don't know, we just want answers.  Need to understand.  Crave a way to make sense of the insanity. 

Grieving dad of two sons, Kyle Matthews' recent blog entry "Why would a loving God let my children die?" addresses this and speaks my heart.  With his permission, I have reposted a portion below with the link above to read the post in its entirety. 

"I still believe God is everything I knew He was before. Holy. Just. Merciful. Good. Sovereign. Wise. If you’ve spent any time in church, you may be saying, as I have heard, “But this is an easy answer! When Adam and Eve sinned, sin entered the world, and that is the source of cancer, and sickness, and natural disasters, and all these things we wonder how could happen if God is truly good. Sin and Satan have temporary and partial reign on earth until God casts them away.” This is wonderful logic on how these things can happen, but it doesn’t answer the larger question; why do these things exist at all? Why must we wait on God eliminating them? Why is “no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain” (Revelation 21:4) delayed? What justifies this reign of struggle and sin on earth today? Why did Robyn’s and my sons die, along with so many other sons and daughters?

I have no answer. I have felt God’s presence, and know He is real. I have faith He is God, and I rest in this knowledge. I hope in my life I can have a greater understanding of why death and pain continue. I hope I can feel more peace than unrest. When I think on the vastness of who God is, logically I find no other response than worship and adoration, and I am humbled in admitting my hurt, my loss, and a foolish pride often keep me from these responses. I am frustrated how difficult this is for me."

And while I don't know the answer, I know that no one else does either.  Here.

We all sit and wonder, sometimes fists raised in anger, sometimes heads hung in sorrow, but always desiring, needing to know why. 

Why?  Why did He not offer a miracle in our story?

My heart is irrevocably broken.  The loss of a child is a game changer.  It is a cataclysmic loss.

Nine months out from the last moments I had with my sweet girl, I cling to the idea that my hope in salvation and that my faith in God will carry me through. 

The pain is still so visceral that it feels like it is not enough right now. 

Hope and faith are crucial but in the abyss of never holding my child again, never feeling her warm skin, never touching her body, never hearing her laugh and all the other 'nevers' that will make up the rest of our lives...in the midst...it is not enough.

So I will do all I can...continue to hold onto my faith, holding onto the knowledge that one day on the other side of the veil, the answers will be revealed. 

I will continue to be thankful for God's mercies he bestows upon us, the ones that remind us that it is His hand that does carry us through this darkness. 

I will continue to worship Him, some days with a tender heart while other days, I question but knowing that He can handle that. 

I will continue to try to maintain, strengthen and grow my relationship with Him, knowing that relationships...all of them...have ups and downs. 

It hasn't been easy.  It won't be easy. 

But it's all I can do...in the midst. 

Top Ten Things I’ve Learned in the Past 6 Months

I have so much to write about, so much to say.  However, in the interest of everyone’s time and sanity, I have narrowed down much of what I’ve learned in the last six months since Everly’s passing down to 10 things. Please know that I am sharing my own experiences alone and that each of us have are on our own grief walk. 

 

This is my journey.

 

10.  It’s okay to leave it as is.

Ever wonder how my house looks like now?  6 months after Everly has lived here.  The same.  Haven’t moved one item.  There are still syringes and chest PT thumpers in the same position as they were when we left in January.  Her last towel and outfit is dried and resting in the bottom of her clothes hamper, wrinkled and lonely.  Her bottles, syringes and medicines are still on her counter in the kitchen; her bouncy seats quietly poised awaiting her weight; her clothes neatly hung side by side in her closet.  Nothing has been moved and that’s okay by us.  For our family, the “not” seeing of it all would be more painful than the fact that they rest unused, yesterday, today and tomorrow. They'll be a time but not yet.  Not today.

 

9.  I want to hide.

The strangest thing has happened…I have a curious need to travel with aid of some childhood fantasy invisibility cloak.  Some days.  With two boys and activities, events, responsibilities, it isn’t practical to stay locked inside, even if that’s what I desperately want.  Many days, it is.  However, summer is busy and that means so are we, to an extent.  I’m fortunate to have my dad who helps thwart the “enemy” on days when I can’t fathom the thought of being in public.  Jimmy also steps in and pinch hits after work many times, too.  I’m told these moments of needing to stay secure in our little alcove of the world will continue to come and go.  Find the hiding places of these souls and meet them there.  Friends, they need you.

 

8.  The world doesn't know what to do with you.

This is one of the most eye opening things I’ve figured out over the past 6 months.  Hadn't ever thought of life from the perspective we are in before now.  Didn't realize how much grief even affects others in the outer circles of our sphere.  It does something strange to people.  To be honest, it freaks people out.  Avoidance, both physical and verbal, allow others to pretend, if only for a moment, that this awful, scary situation didn’t happen, discussing only inconsequential tidbits of the day, moving on as if this black cloud wasn't hanging overhead.  Grief...and the aftermath that follow...is uncomfortable, painful and messy.  The bereaved don't like the effects anymore than the onlookers.  Only, they don't have a choice.  It takes a concerted effort for people to enter this bumpy world and for this we reprieve, we are thankful.  Approach, acknowledge and above all else, love these friends.

 

 

7.   Sorrow comes out of nowhere.  Literally.

More times than I care to count, tears billow over the edges of my already wet-with-tears eyes.  Not precipitated by any particular memory, adorable newborn baby in my direct line of focus, mention of our sweet pea, but rather, just because.  Just because she isn’t any longer.  Sitting in Dairy Queen with my boys a few weeks ago, the tears just quietly fell.  Just because she isn’t any longer.  Love on those who know this fierce sorrow. 

 

 

6.  The roller coaster of emotions is intense.

Walking through grief IS the scariest ride you’ll ever experience.  There is no rhyme or reason to your emotions from one minute to the next.  No guidebook to help you OR your loved ones.  It’s like living with multiple different people who all go by the same name.  I think this is why I personally relate to the movie Inside Out so well…each emotion is so powerful.  One isn’t any more right than another.  But they are all valid.  Sometimes misunderstood, like anger.  The expectation of grief is that someone is sorrowful all the time.  While there is a great deal of sorrow, there is also wistfulness, indifference, hope, sometimes joy and happiness and a lot of anger.  It’s a weird and unsettling mix of a new kind of "family” that disguise themselves as emotion.  Can’t live with them and can’t live without them.  Just love those unconditionally that are on this ride.

 

 

5.  The calendar is now enemy #1.

Dates, milestones, anniversaries strike like a cobra.  No longer are dates circled with eager anticipation, counting down to some joyous occasion.  Now, in the early stages of child loss, the calendar represents very tangibly the lost opportunities we have to parent, to celebrate, to live with our baby.  We see the dates differently now.  The date of their birth, maybe even the date of a diagnosis, date their heart forever stopped beating, date the child was put to rest.  Other dates, like ours now, 6 months since Everly left this earth feels like a knife to the heart.  Love tenderly these people who take attacks from one who cannot even speak and bears no weapon. 

 

4.  Holidays, special times and events are painfully hard.

Who knew that the 4^th of July would rip me apart?  I couldn’t leave the house for three days because of it.  Skipping through sections of the stores still is my MO.  Forget walking by, near or around the baby section of Target or any store for that matter, specifically during holiday times.  I’m bracing myself now for the onslaught of Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas “stuff” that will be a barrage of bullets aimed at my heart.  Maybe I’ll just stay home.  Love with zest these people who must exist in a society that doesn’t stop because of their loss. 

 

3. I'm scared because I don't know who I am now.

Every day, the grief chips away at the person I have known for the past 42 years.  I barely recognize myself anymore.  The loss unequivocally redefines not only yourself, but friendships, relationships, priorities, everything about your life is altered.  It is  disconcerting, add in the fact that this reemergence of your new self is a process.  No longer comfortable in my own skin, I feel like a tenant, borrowing real estate until my home is ready to move in for good.  Extend love and grace to the bereaved who not only have lost someone special but have lost their own identity.

 



2.  I'm lost.

Quite simply, I'm lost.  Some days, I don't know if I'm up or down, left or right, in or out.  The ever-present mental fogginess is still a plague that infests our clarity.  Some days, going through the motions is about the best you can do.  The feeling of being lost is only superseded by a realization that I don't know where I'm going. 
 

 

1.   I’m not strong.

Nope, not at all.  It's difficult for me to admit because I like the feeling of being able to handle it all, do it all.  But it just simply is not true.  Many, many days I am in “fake-it-until-you-make-it” mode.  Secretly hoping that a self-fulfilling prophecy will take place, I would surmise.  If I can convince others, then I can convince myself, too, right?  I need people.  I need my friends.  I need help.  I need a hug.  I need a smile.  I need grace. Lots of it.  I need God.  I need honesty.  I need understanding.  I need closeness.  I need to know someone cares about my pain.  I need to know that I matter.  I need to know that she hasn’t been forgotten.  I need to hear Everly’s name.  I need to know that you will walk beside me as I search for what’s next in this big, frightening world now.  I need you to hear me.  I need unconditional love…on good days and on bad. 
I pray that when the time is right for me, I will have the unique insight to bless in this same way.  But, right now, regardless of what I write, say, speak...read between the lines.  I may not ask for help but know that I need it.  Desperately. 

 

 

I have been painfully honest in my writing since I began some 18 months ago now.  I am very blessed to be surrounded by those who are patient, loving, supportive and kind both inside my family unit and in my friendship circle.  I share my list as a way to shed light on the journey I've been on thus far and where I am today.  Please don't let the time stamp of 6 months fool you.  Today is significantly, in every sense of the word, harder, more painful and heart wrenching than in earlier months.  Remember that hedge of protection that allows people to get through the very early days of a death?  Yeah, it's obliterated now.  Gone.  Never to be see again.  Now, we are left with God and the people around us.  While God IS indeed enough, the old adage "it takes a village" couldn't be a truer statement.  I need my village.  Today more than ever. I pray you will take residence with me.

With love and appreciation,

Crystal

 

 

 

This Thing Called Grief

Five months later, I had the thought that the grief would be less, the pain not as stabbing.  Jimmy and I misguided in our thinking that we would be in a “better” place today. 

How wrong we were…

The tears flow so easily.  Daily. 

I liken our tears to a cup filled to the brim, with the water about to careen over the edge.  Our tears are now forever on the edge.  It takes no effort for them to topple over that thin rim.  Once over, they continue to flow, to pour. 

The cry of grief is unlike any other cry that exists. 

It’s one so visceral that it comes from the depths of your core.  One that comes out of nowhere.  At any given moment.  Literally creeps in.  One that doesn’t care where you are when it arrives.  The cry of grief is more primal than it is an actual cry.   It’s one that can’t be stopped until its ready. 

A cry that time can’t heal.

Day in and day out, we push.  Jimmy works non-stop throughout the day as if making up for a year’s worth of time.  I keep a full and busy calendar between the boys, the foundation and other commitments. 

But sometimes we push too hard.  We make the outside world think that we are okay.  Give the impression…or say everything is fine.

Guess what?  We are liars. 

Everything is not okay.  We aren’t okay.  Sometimes.  Much of the time.  Our hearts ache from morning to night and through the night. 

We talk about her. 

Every. Single. Day.

For our boys, for others and maybe even some for ourselves, we feign happiness most of the time.  Our heart weighs so heavily in our body that we sometimes “joke” that we are surprised we can move. 

 

The grief is stifling. 

The grief is debilitating. 

The grief is life changing.

Nothing in life compares to this grief.  Jimmy knows firsthand.  He lost his dad at a young age and has now lost his daughter.  He has shared with me that for him there is not a comparison.  They are both incredibly devastating but also different.  Losing his dad changed his childhood, he shared, but losing Everly has changed him.

Our hearts ache with this desire to hold her again, to touch her, to hear her squealy sounds, to feed her, to change her NG tube, to squeeze her, to smell her.  The thoughts of never having this with her again comes on like a runaway train…with vengeance and can’t be stopped.  It causes devastation when it hits and is completely unexpected.   

Some days we don’t have the strength to push through.  Some days we stay within the safety of our home.  Some days we rely on each other here at the house…our little family.  We are thankful for my dad who comes over three days a week because he goes out into the big world for us a lot.  He thrives on that, though I don’t doubt there are times when it’s hard for him, too.   I’m happiest when I’m in the “safety” of my home and having dad do some of the errands, drop offs, pick-ups, etc. has been a huge blessing.  It allows us to stay protected in our cocoon of the house.

No joke…the outside world is harsh. 

We pretty much stayed in for the first month or so for this reason but I’m finding that Jimmy and I still prefer our four walls to out “there.”  I know it’s the same for my mom, too.  It’s so incredibly difficult for each of us to socialize in the midst of such deep anguish.  We find those “windows” of time when we can and we try to take full advantage of those moments because they are so every fleeting.  For the benefit of the boys and our own well-being, we push, moving forward slowly. 

We had been told early on that grief can get harder as the months…year…years…progress.  I remember we all jokingly said we didn’t think that could be the case, maybe it was just them. 

Ummmm…no.  Unfortunately, they were spot on.

The pain today is riddled with more agony and sorrow than it ever was back in February, March, April. 

Why?  I wish I knew the straight answer but I can only surmise that it goes back to the “bubble” I wrote about early on after Everly went to Heaven.  Call it shock, a God-given hedge of protection…whatever it was, it allowed us to function…actually get up out of bed each day and move from room to room, eat, have conversations.  But now that coverage is gone.  We have raw, open wounds.

Wounds that won’t heal. 

Band-aids, like good days, mask the wound beneath the fabric and later mask the scar behind. 

From a personal standpoint and speaking for myself alone, I thoughtfully post the good on Everly’s Facebook page…our progress, our family successes after losing her.  But I also try to be bitterly honest, too, and share our struggles.  If I am nothing else, I’m authentic and real…probably to a fault sometimes. And you know what?  I don’t care.  I’d rather shoot straight on good days AND bad ones. 

We are ALL having a tough time right now.  ALL of us.  The boys in their own way.  My dad in his and my mom in hers.  And Jimmy and I in ours.  Even, Ala has shown us moments of mourning. 

Our lives are forever changed.  I know that God will turn “this” into good.  How?  Not a clue since all we can see right now is the blur through the pain.  I just don’t doubt that He will. 

Our hearts are like something broken into so many different pieces that no matter how skilled one is at repairs, the item…like our hearts…can never be put back together.  While we have faith in our forever future, our hope for something better, we also have real pains, real hurts. 

We are hurting. 

It’s real, it’s a tangible kind of hurt.

Our cry deafening.   

Our grief palpable.   

 

Still.

Today Is the Day

There are certain days in your life that can't be forgotten.

This is one.

This photo captured the day we told the boys their sister had a life-limiting genetic condition called Trisomy 18.  This photo was taken just moments before our lives as we knew it would be no more.

Everly was born in February 20, 2014.  Unlike most, we did not have a confirmed prenatal diagnosis of Trisomy 18.  At our 20 week check up, there was a concern and then at 23 weeks, there was a suspicion of T18.  However, in the subsequent weeks, that concern went by the wayside and it was thought to be a congenital heart defect alone. 

Nothing more.

On Everly's 5th day of life, our doctor sat us down and gave us news that would forever change our lives.  Our perfect little girl had a chromosomal defect that the medical community considers fatal.  That day we began to grieve the loss of the life we thought we would share with her. 

The news shattered us.  Devastated our family.  Brought to light fears we never even knew existed.

We spent one full day letting the news soak in before we had the boys come to the hospital to share with them as well.  How do you prepare to tell your children something so awful?  Garren, at age 15, knew as soon as we started to speak what we were going to say.  He remembered the 3 week period early on in my pregnancy the doctor suspected Trisomy 18.  It was such a difficult day to watch the agony, the questioning, the confusion and to know not only could you NOT do anything about it but you felt the exact same way as their parent. 

I look back and remember the anxiety we had as adults thinking about telling the boys their sister may not make it home.  To us, we only knew what we were told...most babies don't make it but a very brief time after birth. 

So, we had no expectation she would then spend 11 glorious months with us...experiencing the BEST life!  No, on this day, we thought we should begin preparing for the end.  We didn't reach our point of hope until we began to listen to HER and let HER lead us!  It was then that we began to look toward our newly created BUCKET LIST for her with excitement, hope and joy!  Our list started with just riding in the van, feeling the sun on her face, sleeping in her house.  Who would EVER guess this special BABY BUCKET LIST would include riding in a BOAT, visiting the MOUNTAINS, and meeting SANTA CLAUS??  Not only did we get to do her first little list of three things but her list grew to eventually top 100 AMAZING experiences we shared as a family!

 
What is a challenge for us is why other families do not get this chance?  Why even our family didn't get to see one year?  Five years?  Or her lifetime?  It's impossible to not ask this difficult questions.  I can only answer that it is not us in charge and our God does turn ALL things for good.  Why do we need to experience what seems like the depths of HELL to get to the GOOD?  We will not fully understand in this lifetime.  That I know.  Common platitudes given in times of crises fall on deaf ears when you've lost a child.  Ask who has experienced it.  However, I can tell you that the peace we feel comes from knowing that He is in control and that He walks beside us, carrying us as necessary.  It is not true that God will not give us more than we can handle.  I can tell you firsthand that losing my Everly was 100% no doubt, absolutely more than I could handle alone.  Without Him, I would not be able to get out of bed, function for my two boys, move forward.  No, it IS because of HIM that I CAN choose JOY each and every day. 

So, I look at this picture taken when Everly was 6 days old, 1 day before my 41st birthday, and I am so grateful that our family CHOSE life for Everly. 

We chose to spend each and every day living in the moment, being intentional in our time.  We made this choice on good days and on bad days.  Our Sweet Pea's diagnosis would not stop us from LIVING, from experiencing.  Yes, it was hard and yes, there were challenges.  But our desire to be purposeful with our hours, days, weeks was a conscious decision. 

One that we remain so grateful for...each and every day. 
 
You might not be in the same situation we were in, you might not have a medical diagnosis.  But if you are not living your life to the fullest, today is the day you can make a change.  Small steps. 

Enjoy this moment.  Do something you love.  Live with purpose. Strive to make a difference.  Have no regrets.

Be intentional in your interactions, plans, life, relationships. 
 
Today is the day.  Do it for Everly.  Do it for yourself. 

 

I'd really love to hear from you so feel free to leave a comment.

With love,
Crystal

The Other Side of the Mountain

Shortly after Everly left our arms, Jimmy and I decided to make our annual trip (sans children) to the mountains to hike a section of the Appalachian Trail.  We celebrated our 10 wedding anniversary back in March and it's been a challenging year to say the least.  So, it made sense to seek out a little peace, comfort and relaxation that we've come to find on the trail in the past.

A pilgrimage of sorts this year, though, in fact.  

So off we went.

Time to hit the trail!  Nothing like a straight up climb to get you started!



Our first vista of the trip and our first encounter with a human (lol)!

Stopping for lunch

Nothing but green surrounding us.

One of our campsites

Rainy day hike...turned out to be our favorite.

Dinner time cooking!

Pretty awesome trail crew from Virginia making the hike a better experience!
The were working SO hard out there and hiked up, then down Tray Mountain two days in a
row to get the work completed. 

Love him!  Beautiful pop of color hiding beneath the green!

Found tons of snails this trip and loved each one.

Ahhh...a flat trail for all of 3 minutes

We realized quite quickly, however, once on the trail that the timing wasn't right for this trip.  The tears began to flow.  Our hearts began to ache.  The sadness seeped in.  We were just lost. 

Maybe it was too soon for this. Three months isn't anything considering the devastation we faced each day.  The pain is too raw, the emotions too deep.

Thanks to advice from my mom when I squeezed a call in to her on our first evening out on the trail, Jimmy and I decided that the best thing for us to do would be to leave the "work" of the trail.  You see, backcountry hiking and camping is not easy.  It's constant work...trekking to find the water source, setting up and taking down tent, pad, sleeping bag daily, and the hiking up and down of elevations.  This physical output coupled with our already exhausted bodies from our grief,  which negatively affects your body, and the year we had before was just too much.  We hadn't had a chance to rest, really rest our bodies and our minds from all that we've gone through since her birth.  It goes without saying of course, we would go our WHOLE lives without rest if we could have her back, though. 

As circumstances would have it, we were already so deep into the trail, it took us two more days of hiking to reach a point where we could be picked up.  During that period of time, we reflected on Everly, all the memories, the funny moments and, yes, the sadness, too.  We allowed ourselves time to grieve, to cry, to be free to let the emotions flow. 

And flow they did.

Many moments like this

And this, though you can't see,  I'm likewise full of emotion.

In the "real world," we display a false bravado many times.  Some moments it really isn't false and we feel "okay" for that time.  Some moments, it's because we know that our grief can be uncomfortable.  We are aware that sometimes when we speak about her and our feelings at particular times, on particularly challenging days, it can change the mood so we avoid that at almost all costs when in conversation, putting a positive spin on the situation somehow. But it's exhausting trying to do this much of the time. 

But, while we were hiking, it was just us for hours and hours each day, trekking miles up mountains and down mountains.  Gives one a lot of time to talk...and to cry. We didn't have to hide, stifle or curtail what we were feeling.  I lost count of how many times, I just burst into tears...total silence, nothing around for miles and miles...then bam, the tears just came.  Then Jimmy would hear behind me and he would follow suit.  Repeat, repeat, repeat. 

The days we spent on the trail were the right amount for us to get out much sadness we had been holding back.  We were ready to take a break...a real break...when we left it. Though we didn't stay the length of time we planned and though our trip before was beyond phenomenal, we knew it was time to call it.

Through what can ONLY be described as divine intervention, we found the perfect cabin in about 5 minutes of me trying to find somewhere on a whim.  There are so many reasons for me to know this to be the case to list but trust me when I tell you that God orchestrated this place for us at this time. 

Yes, that is the name.  How fitting is that?  God just sees to ALL the details...big and small!
**If you would like to know more about this fabulous cabin rental, send me an email and I'd be happy to give you the details.  The owners are a class act and their property breathtaking!**

 

A wonderful selection of Christian books.  The owner, Joy, shared with me when I contacted her about the cabin
that she was a Christian and asked if she could pray with me.  I'm not usually emotional with strangers but something about her and trying to explain why we wanted the cabin that very day without any planning caused me to lose my composure.  She even took the time to come learn more about our sweet girl and her story when we hung up the phone, too.
 



This got me.  Only one pillow in the entire place with a quote and this is what it says:  Rest for your soul. 
Matthew 11:29   Likely coincidence?  I think not.  God knows what we need and when we need it.

As I sit here now typing, I look out over the mountain range that just days before we were traversing and today feel rested.  My body and my soul are unwinding in a way that I wasn't able to get on the AT this time.  I know we will be back at it when the timing is right...we love it and we crave that time out there hiking.  However, God knew (and my mom, I might add) that this wasn't this week. 

This is what this broken hearted mama needed.  I found my comfort reflecting in God's providence.
He is the ONE who can shelter, comfort and protect.  He knows our every need, desire and He holds
our tears in His hands.  He provided for us in more ways than one just like He always does. 

I think I might have been looking for something more than peace and relaxation with our hike trip.  I think it's possible in some kind of irrational way I was searching for Everly.  Of course, intellectually I know she wasn't there but my broken-mama-heart thought I could "find" her again...if only for a minute.  When the realization sunk in that she was gone, really gone from this earth, it just became too much. 









Though we were in the mountains and I was seeking her out, it became clear to me after the first day that I need to seek Him out and by doing that, in time, I will find peace. 

1 I lift up my eyes to the mountains—
where does my help come from?
2 My help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of heaven and earth. 

Psalm 121:1-2


You see, sometimes I get so wrapped up in what I've lost with my sweet baby, that I forget to lay my eyes and my heart upon all that I have in Him.  I love, love my mountains, but the help I need can't be found there.  As I'm finding, my surroundings are allowing me time to decompress, get still and be quiet so that I CAN find Him and He can comfort and walk with me through this. 

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
And through the rivers, they shall not overflow you.
When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned,
Nor shall the flames scorch you.


Isaiah 43:2  

He has carried me, us, for all these many months.  He has never forsaken me, even on those so very dark days that the abyss seems so dark and so deep that there is no way out, I know that He carries me even, especially, then.  Faith in His  promises will continue to remind me of this. 

Friends, take heart.  No matter what pain you have now or in your past, God wants to be there with you.  He does care and He doesn't want you to do this life alone.  He desires a relationship with us.  You know the statement:  "God doesn't give you more than you can handle."  Well, it's only partially correct because we were never intended to "do" this life alone.  Just like in the famous Footprints poem, He is carrying you when you don't see that second set of footprints.  Remember that. 

And, though, I tried to seek out my sweet Everly in the mountains, I realized that on this side of the mountain, I need to continue to seek Him out.   

I'll see them both on the other side of the mountain. 

.