Everly's Angels Volksmarch & Silent Auction

In case you have been wondering why I haven't been as active blogging as of late, I've been busy, busy planning for our upcoming events! 
This Saturday, March 5, Everly's Angels will be hosting our first Volksmarch (German word for 'people's march' or hike) to spread awareness and raise funds so we can continue our mission.  Simultaneous to this, we have a Silent Auction running now through Saturday online and then it will continue live and in-person at the Volksmarch.  We have been actively promoting both events on social media; however, I know some of you aren't on as often.  Below is a preview of our auction items which are incredibly fantastic and NOT to be missed!  We are 100% positive that there is something for everyone!

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.781321098640846.1073741831.648407065265584&type=3



Registration for the event will be open even the day of so come out and join us if you can!  March is Trisomy Awareness Month so it's a great time to come be a part!  If you've ever wondered about the Cuddle Cot that I've spoken about and what we are fundraising for, we will have one at the event as well.  And added plus...Florida weather in March!!  Registration is open at www.everlysangels.org.

 

One Year

One year.  It's been one year. 

Tomorrow marks the one year mark of Everly's passing, an experience never to be relived, yet never to be forgotten. 

I've been in a period of reflection as of late and have been able to take a step back and cogitate on the past year.  I've not only learned about grief during this time but have seen humanity through a lens as never before.  Looked inside myself with a critical eye to see the good and the bad.  Have reevaluated priorities and refocused attention.  This season has brought about the most significant amount of changes or at least observations that I have experienced so far in my almost 43 years of living.

It has been both humbling and grueling.

Grief.  This constant companion, the relentless roar of torment that resides just beneath the surface. Ready to rear its ugly head at any given moment. Grief can strike you when you least expect it. It can be suppressed no more.  In the grocery store, the library, in the shower, a movie, a store...there's no rhyme nor reason to when the agony opens up.  It just is there...the way you and I just are.

I've seen this line...sometimes memories sneak out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks...and how absolutely true that is.  Reading at night with my youngest son is a common time that tears just stream down my face.  There's no reminders, no glaring signs from my daughter, but rather, just cherished memories that work their way in and then out as we read.  Silently the tears fall as we continue to read. 

Something I learned during the past year in being physically parted from Everly is that not all tears are the same.  I had always been under the impression that when you cry, you cry and that's it.  But I've now learned that it's so much more complex than that simple idea.  There are moments like I described above that tears stream down when a thought crosses you.  And you may not make one sound as the tears fall.  Other times, tears stream down in the quiet of the night or standing in line watching a mother and her child or in the busyness of cooking dinner.  Then there are yet times you cry in sorrow and sadness for your broken heart.  This cry is much like a child's when they've been hurt or injured. It's loud and present and for all to hear.

But then there's the last cry which really, by definition, isn't a cry at all. 

This cry is a rite of passage of sorts.  A horrible, awful sound that only a parent who's lost a child, an animal who's lost its young, would know.  It's guttural and can only be described as gut-wrenching and from the inner-most depths of a soul.  There is no place deeper.  This cry consumes your body.  It takes control and only when it's done with you can you have it back.  Once you've heard the howl of total anguish, you can never unhear it.

If I am honest, it is the cry I fear the most. 

It happens. It's agonizing.  And it's depleting and consuming. 

But as we all know with loss and grief of any kind, there's no way around it.  We, I, have to just go through it.

Humanity.  Living with and amongst society allows much time for interaction, engagement, relationships, observations, and involvement.  Child loss stripped me of my outer shell, like a nailbed without the nail, raw and tender.  It allows for pain and hurt to enter at will, protection not offered. By in large, humanity tends to lift rather than tear down; support rather than break apart.  But, naively and innocently, some toss massive needlelike darts straight to your irrevocably broken heart.  And without protection, recovering from repeated throws can be debilitating to the point that you pull back.  Way back. 

As I've walked through the year, I have found that I'm now able to identify what I call "safe" people, places, experiences, and the like.  Those labeled safe allow me time time and space needed to learn how to reacclimatize myself within 'normal' society.  Love, support, encouragement is given with each baby step taken and each step towards being a part again.  Humanity is good.  I've experienced the beauty of people as I and my family have walked this road through grief and loss.  The outpouring of love from strangers on social media, the sacrifice of friends and family, the support of those who we just met.  I believe in the good in people and over the past year, I've been able to see it live out over and over again.  For that, I'm eternally grateful and so thankful to be in a position to experience and see that good.

Me.  This has been one of the toughest parts of the past year.  It goes without saying that you experience life-altering changes once you lose a child, a piece of you.  It is arguably every parent's worst nightmare, after all.  So much of 'me' has changed and, many days, I'm not able to recognize or even find the 'old' me.  Quite possibly, she doesn't exist anymore and that's a bit disconcerting, however true it may be. 

While I experience new emotions now that I'm uncomfortable and a variety of seemingly opposite emotions, the overwhelming 'new' self I'm learning about has new qualities and feelings.  Compassion, deep compassion for others and their suffering and their inner thoughts and true feelings, really wanting to get to know others.  Concern and sacrifice are my new companions.  A burning desire to make a change, to do something, no longer able to just sit back and watch.  A new determination to be the good somewhere for someone.

I feel invincible now.  More than that, I know that I am.  I have, with the mercies of God, survived the unthinkable.  There's nothing I can't do, no experience too much, no situation too uncomfortable for me now.  I know that I can survive anything as much as I know that I'm capable of anything now. 


Priorities.  One of the many gifts Everly gave to us and so many others...focusing on priorities in our life.  So many of us have these all out of order and something like a health scare or in my case, losing my daughter, jolts you into refocusing.  While I don't have it perfect all the time, I am worlds away from where I once was and I am grateful.  No longer do I feel out of balance.  No longer do I feel torn and that I am letting something slip away.  That simple gift is life changing but in the best way possible. 

This past year has been exhausting.  It has been eye opening.  It has been renewing.  Nothing will ever change my love for my daughter, just as nothing can diminish the love we shared.  But the take away from this past year, I pray, will help me find my place in this new, vast world I couldn't 'see' before my Everly. 

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.