Burying Her House

During the days leading up to Anna’s funeral, I was a bit numb.  Joey and I both cried so much that we had sore, swollen eyelids.  Joey was concerned that one of his might be infected, but it wasn’t. We put cold packs on our eyes to decrease the swelling so they wouldn’t feel so heavy.   The second night at home, when the clock kept ticking but I couldn’t sleep, I snuck into Abby’s room.  I  chose a small Anna-size doll and cuddled up with her.  Finally, my body was able to relax so that I could go to sleep.  There was truly a physical ache, a need to tuck my Anna’s head underneath my chin and hold her to my chest.

I wanted every detail of Anna’s funeral to be perfect and yet I hated even thinking about it.  We sorted through photos to find the right ones for the program.  I wrote the obituary.  Joey talked to the two pastors involved.  I ordered flowers to blanket the casket.  I selected our clothing and made a quick run to the mall with Joey to get a few things we needed. 

On that Friday morning, the skies were grey, which made perfect sense to me.  The air was remarkably thick and warm for a day in March.  My mother had come to our house to help us get everyone ready.  Josiah was dressed in blue-and-white striped seersucker pants with a thin yellow sweater vest.  Abby wore a silky cream-colored dress with gems decorating the neckline.  It was a fancy dress, and she was pleased with it.  Joey wore a navy suit with a cheerful tie, which stood in contrast to my solid black maternity dress and heels.  I remember thinking that we all just looked like we were going to church.  Oh, how I wished that was all this was.  Just another Sunday.  Not a Friday.  Not the day we were burying Anna.

Josiah remained confused about Anna’s whereabouts.  He could not separate a soul from a body in his mind.  That morning, I read a portion of a book that talked about the body being a house, and I decided to have a talk with Josiah, using that analogy. 

“Josiah, you know how our friend Brandon lives in a house just across the street?” I asked.

“Uh-huh,” Josiah said.

“Well, if Brandon were to move out of his house to live somewhere else, then his house would still be here, but Brandon wouldn’t.  Right?”

After Josiah expressed his concern about this–he did not want Brandon to move–he agreed that if he did, the house would still be there but Brandon would not.

“That’s what happened to Anna.  Anna had a little house here, and we call that her body,” I explained.  I told Josiah that when Anna’s body quit working–when it died–she opened her eyes and God was standing there with His arms open wide.  He didn’t take her.  She went to Him after her body stopped working.  He had some questions, but he seemed to understand the concept.  I told him Anna left her house behind.  She didn’t need it in heaven.  God would give her a brand new one that was perfect.  So today we were going to bury that little house Anna was stuck in.  Anna was already in heaven with Jesus, so she didn’t need her old house.

We all prayed together in the kids’ bathroom, right after teeth had been brushed and hair had been combed.  As we drove to Flomaton, Josiah thinking we were burying a doll house and Abby curious about who would be there, I focused on just breathing.  Joey tried to explain what the kids could expect at their first funeral.  We tried to talk about heaven. Tried to spawn conversation about our feelings. Tried to make the day more meaningful without making it any more painful than it had to be.

Some very special friends worked to bring beauty from the ashes of this day.  When we arrived, we saw photos from our maternity shoot and Anna’s day sitting atop a baby blanket layed out on a table. Beautiful programs with our daughter’s photos and her obituary lay atop a podium with the guest book. Sprays of flowers reminded us of all those who were mourning with us. Many family members had already gathered around the dark green tent set up for the service. 

I really wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do.  We were a little early.  I didn’t know funeral protocol–or even etiquette.  (Yes, I am admitting that at my own daughter’s funeral, I was concerned about what was “appropriate.” It is a sickness.)  Anna’s casket was not under the tent yet.  Joey wanted me to stay in the car and wait, but I just couldn’t.  It felt wrong.  I got out and watched as a gentleman carried my baby girl from the hearse to the tent.  I spoke to a few people as I made my way to her.  Abby and Josiah sat in the cool van.  Soon, we were all out and seated. I don’t really remember how it all happened.  I just remember standing up and greeting people as they came by Anna’s tiny casket, a simple wood casket wrapped in a white eyelet fabric.   And then I remember us all being there.  I turned around to my niece Maesey and asked her to come sit beside Abby. I thought Abby might need her best friend’s hand to hold.

My two cousins, Kayla and DeAnna, played some hymns Joey and I had chosen in two-part harmony on their fiddles. Beautiful. Our pastor, Bro. David, and our former pastor, Bro. Dustin, gave us scripture and hope to which we could cling.  Joey and I tried to focus on these important messages. 

But burial is so hard.  I understand why people say that funerals are for the living, and I can see how the celebration of a life would bring joy to some. In our situation, though,  I would be lying to say that the funeral somehow brought me peace and helped me let go.  I was exhausted, wearing control-top pantyhose, sweating, worrying about how Josiah was running back and forth from his grandparents to us, trying to figure out why Abby was all slumped over in her seat (I later found out the whole thing was giving her a stomachache), and was acutely aware that throughout all of this, everyone was looking at me and Joey, the parents who had lost their child.  We so appreciated the love poured out on us, but it was still an agonizing day.

At the end of the service, our family knelt down in front of the casket and tore the blooms off of a yellow mum Joey had brought.  We pushed the stems into the thick blanket of tight pale pink and lavender roses lying atop Anna’s casket.  In that moment, I wished I had asked for a light and airy spray to top the casket rather than a traditional blanket.  I started pulling out the small roses that reminded me of my wedding day–a day I knew would never come for my little Anna–and replacing them with the bright, cheery flowers. Abby and Josiah haphazardly stuck the yellow blooms throughout the arrangement.  I liked the way it looked.  Instead of looking like a professional spray, it looked more like a bouquet my children might have gathered.

I silently cried over her casket and could not quit touching it, straightening things, wanting to change something.  Joey saw my desperation and quietly said, “Let’s go.”  He helped me up from my kneeling position and I sat back down in my chair.  The ceremony had concluded.  This really was happening, and I was powerless to change it.  Standing, I began greeting people, thanking them for coming.  I tried to make it around to each person, although I am sure I missed some. I was grateful for their presence, grateful that they wanted to honor our Anna by coming.

After the service, we drove over to Joey’s home church, First Baptist Flomaton.  A bountiful meal had been graciously prepared for our large extended family.  We sat together and talked.  Joey made his way around the room, speaking to everyone so that I didn’t feel that I had to. Some of the conversations I had with people that day I will always treasure.  I was reminded of God’s faithfulness to us, over and over.  He never looked away.  He was always there with us, even as we buried our daughter.

After the meal, we went back to the gravesite.  I realized we did not have any photos of the flowers people had sent, so Joey brought his camera phone. Our family walked out and looked at the little spot where Anna was buried.  It seemed impossible that we were just going to leave her here.  It had begun to drizzle as we got out of the van, and as we walked back, the rain started to pour.

We drove around the cemetery and then parked, looking again at the gravesite before leaving.  The rain was coming down so hard.  It felt like God was crying with us.  Our children were so confused, rightfully so.  Abby said, “If Anna’s in heaven, why are we so sad?”  Joey affirmed Abby, telling her that we were glad Anna was in heaven but we just missed her.  Josiah said, “Ugh! Why didn’t God just take us all to heaven at the same time?  That’s what I would do if I was God!” I told him that was a great idea, but God had a different plan, and we had to trust that His plan was best.

Both of our children were sad.  Deeply. Powerfully. Twistingly.  I had underestimated how that would play itself out.  Josiah was angry, sometimes physically aggressive, stubborn, and obstinate, but he was willing to talk about it.  Abby was physically impacted in several ways.  She had stomach aches; she gave tight, squeezing, repeated hugs (sometimes ten at a time, just as hard as she could); she began biting things for comfort; she started talking like a baby and wanted to pretend to be one.  And although she was willing to talk about it, she did not bring the subject up because she did not want to upset us, even though we repeatedly told her we wanted her to talk to us about it.  We jumped into what seemed like a flooding reality.  Losing Anna was heartbreaking.  But I was determined that we would not lose Abby’s and Josiah’s hearts.  We were going to have to summon up the strength to wade through this with our children.

Any strength that Joey and I had remaining after burying our daughter wasn’t going to be good enough, and we figured that out pretty quickly.  We needed prayer, support, and power that only our God could supply.  So we turned to Him, again and again, asking for patience, wisdom, and energy. Short little prayers.  Desperate little prayers.  And honestly, sometimes I didn’t turn to God.  Sometimes I didn’t want to talk to Him.  But when I was at the end of my strength and I had nothing left, He always waited for me, arms open wide.

Anna’s burial day was, in a way, an ending.  But in other ways, it was a beginning.  Anna’s short life story is woven into ours.  Joey and I are changed because we had the honor of being her Mama and Daddy.  And Anna is a part of who Abby and Josiah are becoming.  I trust Romans 8:28.  I have to trust. I trust that one day my children will see how God brought good out of this–how with Anna’s life, God brought color, texture and an increased depth to their souls.  He is the Creator of all masterpieces, even the ones we sometimes mistakenly think belong to us.

A Full Life

After Anna’s little heart stopped beating, there came a point that we had to let her physical body go.  The compassionate nurses took her and prepared her for a final visitation in the small room connected to the labor room.  

As Anna was dying, either Joey or I–we can’t remember–had told Josiah that God was taking Anna to be with Him in heaven.  When Josiah learned that the nurse had Anna’s body in the adjoining room, he kept trying to open the door and get in there.  We kept telling him no, that we would all go in after the nurses had finished.  We didn’t understand why he wanted in there so badly.  Finally, as he struggled to get out of Joey’s grasp, he said, “I’m going to stop God!  I’m not going to let Him take Anna!” He was so confused and angry. He continued to battle Joey, trying to get into that room before God took his sister.  The protective big brother had been born the moment he saw Anna, and that trait wasn’t going to die just because Anna had. 

Anna’s grandparents, aunts, uncles, and our close friends went in to see Anna one last time. Then our little family went into the room. Anna’s heirloom gown, which had been bunched up around her earlier, was buttoned and hung just right on her little body.  The nurses had removed the trademark Sacred Heart thermal cap that had lined her bonnet, keeping her head warm.  Now the bonnet sat firmly on her head, perfectly framing her face. She looked beautiful–and yet she did not look the same as she had looked in my arms. Our children were inquisitive, sad, confused.  Abby said, “I know someone who could, you know,” and she gestured with her palms up, raising them slowly.  “Raise her up?” I asked.  Abby nodded.  “Yes, He could, Abby,” I said,  “but I don’t think He’s going to do that.”  Crushing.  My little girl still had not given up hope.  What a faith she has.

After the children had left, I held Anna one last time.  I found myself swaying and bouncing her, just as any mother would as she held her newborn. It did not really feel like Anna anymore.  But it was still so hard to let go.  After I lay her back down in her Moses basket, I remember walking to a wall, turning to walk back to her, walking to the wall, turning–just struggling to physically overcome my desire to pick her back up.  My arms and chest just seemed to be shouting for me to never let go.  Joey held me as I cried.  It was agony defined.

Joey and I were taken to a different area of the hospital, where we would not hear the cries of other little babies.  I suppose that was for the best, but it felt strange.  I had just given birth.  It didn’t feel right to leave that wing and stay where those who had undergone hysterectomies stayed.  A dear friend who had lost her infant son came and sat with me for a little while.  Later, another couple who had lost their baby years ago came in.  Being with people who have gone through similar situations is somehow comforting.  Seeing people whose lives had gone on after losing a child made me think that one day mine would, too.

I never took any medication for the grief, but I did take Tylenol with codeine because I wanted to be able to sleep.  I was weary from having not slept the night before. Adding labor and grief to that, the sum was exhaustion.  The medicine helped me nod off close to midnight.

But a hospital is no place for someone who needs rest.  I apparently slept through the first blood pressure check, but when the nurse came in around 4:00 A.M., Joey and I both awoke.  After she left, Joey climbed into my hospital bed with me.  Lying there, not knowing what to say to each other, we just cried and held on. I have never felt closer to Joey than I did in that moment.  We drifted off to sleep and awoke later that morning, still holding each other.  It was a precious time, the two of us grieving together and not hiding any of it from each other.  

Later that morning, as I prepared to take a shower in the bathroom, I heard someone at the door.  It was a chaplain, offering bracelets with scripture to us and offering counsel.  I heard her ask Joey, “Can she have more children?”  Joey hesitated, as if he was a bit taken aback.  He told her I could, and she said, “Well, that’s good.  At least she can have more.”

I wanted to physically assault that woman.  I was so angry.  I have tried to let every well-intended but difficult-to-swallow comment slide right off of me. Give them grace, give them grace, I have told myself.  But this was not just anybody.  This was a chaplain!  A trained chaplain! For her to assume that I could just forget about Anna and have more babies . . . oh, I was beyond livid.  And my anger was not just about my experience but also for the experiences of all the grieving mothers who might encounter this particular chaplain after losing a child.  What if that had been the only contact I had with a Christian throughout this ordeal?  What if I had expected her to give me some wisdom, some counsel that might have been beneficial?  Astounding.

But, seeing that I was half-dressed, I just stayed in the bathroom and listened as Joey closed the door.  I got into the shower and felt my anger melt into sadness.  As I washed, it struck me that I was washing away Anna.  She had lain in my arms and against my chest, and the soap seemed to erase any trace of her. I cried as the water washed it all away, praying I would somehow remember the way she felt in my arms.

Even knowing that Anna was in a better place, I still ached for her. Death is ugly.  I hate it.  Our family has now tasted it, and there is no spitting it out.  All I wanted to do was go home and vegetate.  Yet I knew that I had to find a way to muddle through this, if not for my sake then for the sake of Abby and Josiah.  On our way home from the hospital, we went into Lifeway.  I was still wearing my hospital bracelet as we looked through the children’s books to find a few about death and about heaven, hoping they might be helpful for Abby and Josiah.  Processing the sadness, anger, confusion, and fear in a healthy way became our new goal.

I struggled with questions–did God design Anna’s life to be this short or did original sin dictate that there would be disease and Anna inherited this, thereby resulting in Anna having a short life?   I have read theological works that argue both scriptural interpretations. Either way, I knew He could have chosen to heal her.  I know she’s healed in heaven, but I’m her mama, and I wanted her healed here. I went back and forth between our gratefulness for having had the honor of being parents to Anna and my devastation that she was gone. In the first couple of weeks, the agony was overwhelming. 

But my agony kept getting interrupted.  The One who had formed Anna in my womb kept bringing people into our home–people who were clearly grieving with us–to show us His love. He also brought music into my life that ministered to my wounds.  He supplied me with the strength I needed to get up each morning. He had me in the palm of His hand throughout this entire troubled journey.  And as I grieved and often fought against Him, He held me all the same. He understood my heart.  If He had left the decision up to me, I would have chosen a healed Anna who would have gone home with me, not with Him. He knew that’s what I wanted, and when it wasn’t what I got, He sustained me with His grace.

While I still have unanswered questions and we continue to struggle with our grief, God has taught me so much through this journey. I am so thankful for that.  We have all heard the old saying, “He lived a long, full life.” God has taught me through our precious daughter that age does not define the fullness of a life. So many of you who are reading this have lost loved ones who you thought would live beyond your years.  It is unsettling, to say the very least, to lose someone who it seems should outlive you.  Through our losing Anna, I have come to realize that God used Anna’s life beyond what I could have imagined.  The brevity of her life did not determine her importance.  God deemed her life as valuable, and because of that, Anna’s life had weight in this world.  Her four pounds, 11.2 ounces had just as much weight as some 180-pound men have had in a span of 80 years.  I can only pray that my Abby and Josiah will live such a full life–a life that impacts others, points people to the Savior, and helps people understand that we are only a breath away from the eternal life we have chosen.

Father, you know I am weak.  And I do not deserve the good things You promise to those who love you.  But I am yours, Lord, and you love me as a father loves his child. I am trying to accept what you have given me and find peace with your plan. As mangled as this whole picture is in my head right now, Lord, I just ask that you take it and redeem it.  Bring beauty from ashes. Take my sin away from Anna’s story. Use it, even now.  Remove anything from me or this offering that says Misty.  Make it wholly Yours.  I know I have no power to change lives.  But You do, Father.  Please speak to the hearts of those who do not know You but know that there is something different about this testimony.  The difference is You, Lord!  Help them to see that.  Help ME to never doubt that. I am just a jar of clay. And I have fought the Potter.  Forgive me, Lord.  Mold me into something that shines light on whom the artist is, so that we are never guilty of worshiping the creation but always found faithful in worshiping the Creator of all life. Thank you for my Anna Grace.  Thank you for all you have taught me through her brief life. In Jesus’ name I pray, Amen.

Anna’s Day

Photo Courtesy of Diana Bondurant

Finding the right words to even begin this post is daunting.  The hours we had with Anna were so full and so sacred to us that sharing her with others through writing just seems to be an insurmountable task.  I will not do the story justice, which makes telling it all the more difficult for me.  The memories of her day feel rather delicate to me–fragile, perhaps.  And I fear I will somehow damage them.  As wrenching as it will most certainly be, I will try to be as honest about my feelings and emotions as possible.  Although I have struggled with the outcome of that precious day, I do not doubt that we were given an extraordinary gift in our daughter Anna Grace.  We were overwhelmed by her beauty.  We fell completely and totally in love with her.  Our family will never be the same.

Anna was and is quite treasured.  Present for her arrival were her siblings, her grandparents, her aunts and uncles (minus two who were driving from Alaska in our direction as fast and furiously as they could), a great aunt, three pastors, several cousins and close friends, and two photographers. And more came throughout the day.  In the actual labor and delivery room, however, it was just Mommy and Daddy (and one photographer).  My mother had been present for Abby’s and Josiah’s birth, but at the last minute, I decided I wanted it to be me and Joey.  If we only had a minute with her, I wanted it to just be us.  And if something went wrong with the delivery, I didn’t want Mama to have to see it.  It was a split second decision I made after Dr. A came in, checked me, and said it was time.

Abby’s princess boombox was set up in the corner of the L&D room. We had been listening to the same CD all morning. Quietly, songs from Twyla Paris’ Bedtime Prayers: Lullabies and Peaceful Worship played, soothing my spirit.  The room was still and quiet, except for coaching encouragement from the nurse and doctor. Joey and I knew this was it.  It was time to meet our daughter.  We said silent prayers.  After just a few minutes, Dr. A told us one leg was out.  And just a moment later, Joey was cutting the umbilical cord and Anna Grace was on my belly.

Joey and I were both in tears.  She had a head full of dark hair–that was the first thing I noticed.  That and she was blue.  Joey thought that she wasn’t alive.  But then we saw her chest rise and fall.  We did not think we had long, but there was no panic.  We were both crying, but there was a sense of peace. Throughout labor, I had the shakes.  I had them during the labor and for hours afterwards with Abby and Josiah.  But with Anna, the shakes stopped during the last phase of labor. I did not even think about that until the next day. Thank you, God, for steadying my hands so I could cuddle with her and study every detail of her wonderfully and fearfully made body.

Dr. A finished up his job, shook Joey’s hand, and walked out reverently.  He may have said “I’m sorry,” but everything outside of the triangle enclosing me, Joey, and Anna was kind of blurry.  Dr. A walked into the hallway, where my mother and Joey’s mother waited.  The doctor shook his head and said he was sorry. Mama asked about Anna, and the doctor told our mothers that she might have taken one breath and then her body would go into cardiac arrest.

Mama texted to those in the waiting room, “She’s been born. Dr. A said she might have tried to take one breath.”

But that’s not what happened. 

As Joey and I held Anna, we watched her chest continue to rise and fall intermittently.  Joey leaned over us both, hovering there and telling Anna how much he loved her.  I remember him choking on his words as he told her it was okay to just rest “and then open your eyes and run.”  He was giving his daughter permission to run to Jesus.  I really don’t know what I said to her.  I was just so overwhelmed with this incredible love and sense of awe for this child.  She was so beautiful.  I remember just touching her face with my fingertips, tracing each line, trying to memorize them.  And I kept giving gentle little mama kisses.  She smelled so good.  Not baby bath good, of course.  Just Anna good.

I held her skin to skin for a few minutes against my chest.  What a wonderful feeling.  That was what I missed most in the days afterwards.  You hear people talk about empty arms, and while I understand that, it is my chest that would hurt.  It would–and does still at times–physically ache longing for that pressure of my baby.

As I held her–with Joey’s face and hands right there, too–I began to sense that she was breathing a little more regularly.  While her hands and feet were still blue, her face did not look as blue to me.  Her color seemed to be improving.  Joey held her and took her to the adjoining room to clean her up and dress her.  Then he brought our beautiful girl to me, dressed in an heirloom gown and bonnet her MeMe made and wrapped in a soft batiste blanket her Dee Dee made.  She was breathtaking.

Joey went to the door to ask for Abby.  We didn’t know it yet, but our mothers still assumed Anna was not alive.

Abby’s excitement was contagious.  She walked in quickly with a grin on her face.  Her sister!  Anna!  Finally! Abby’s expressions were so precious as she quietly leaned over Anna and said, “Hey, Anna.  I want you to live.”  And with that, little Anna opened up an eye.  Our baby girl–the answer to Abby’s prayer for a sister–opened up her eye.  And then we heard one of the sweetest sounds I have ever heard.  It was a sound we had not expected to hear.  Anna Grace began to cry–very softly, very quietly. Thank you, God. I saw the window to her soul and I heard her voice.  Two unexpected blessings.

Next, big brother came in.  Josiah immediately slipped into his role as the doting, protective big brother.  His smile was precious.  But it was the nurturing look in his eyes that melted this mama’s heart.  He spoke so gently to her.  He waved his hand back and forth and said, “Hey, Anna,” in this soft, sweet voice, a voice I don’t think I had ever heard from my just-turned-four-years-old little man.  “I lub you, Anna,” he said. Then he reached out and touched her.  So precious.  Josiah wanted to know why she was crying, and we explained that all babies cry.  Crying is a good thing.

A neonatologist, whom we later learned from our nurse was considered the best at the hospital, had been present for Anna’s birth.  While I held her, he had listened to her. He did not seem surprised by her appearance at birth or by what he heard.  But her improvement of color without intervention was unexpected.  And when she started to cry . . . well, that was downright surprising.  I remember hearing him talking to the nurse and asking us a couple of questions about what the high-risk doctor had said.  Then he said he was going to review Anna’s file.

At some point, the grandparents came in and all the others, too.  I’m not sure about who came in when because, honestly, it felt like it was just the five of us.  Abby and Josiah came and went from the bed.  They both got to hold their sister.  My focus was on them,on Anna, and on Joey.  It felt so good for our family to be whole.  I just wanted to stay in that moment forever.

When the neonatologist came back in, he sat down and told us that the high risk doctor’s notes from Anna’s previous ultrasounds and what he was observing Anna do did not synch. No one expected Anna to be crying.  She obviously had more lung capacity than expected.  He asked our permission to give Anna oxygen.  There would be nothing invasive, but Anna would be out of my arms for a few minutes as they administered the oxygen.  He also wanted to bring an ultrasound machine into our room to see if Anna had a bladder.  A bladder?  This was the first we had heard about the presence or absence of a bladder.  The doctor went on to say that if she had a bladder, there were things they could do.  He told us that he did not want to give us false hope–she still had polycystic kidneys.  The best case scenario would be for Anna to have surgery and a kidney transplant further down the road.  But if she had a bladder, there were things they could do to help her.  If she did not, we would need to just let nature take its course.

I remember seeing Abby’s face.  She had been perched on the edge of my bed, drinking in every word.  Hope.  I saw hope in her face.  In that moment, I didn’t even know how to feel.  I did not know what to ask God for. I was holding this precious child, and my heart was just breaking with the desire for her to live.  But she was so sick.  I knew that we would experience tremendous pain in losing her, but would she experience even greater pain if she survived?  Would she hurt every day?   Would it be agonizing? How would this affect Abby and Josiah? It was the first time on this entire journey that I truly realized that I didn’t know what was best for my daughter. Only He knew. 

I have fought the whole “God’s will” thing from the beginning.  When people have said they are praying for God’s will to be done, I have nodded my head and thought to myself, Yeah, that’s not what I’m doing.  I want her healed.  Period.  But in that moment, I knew I did not have the advantage of being omniscient.  My will was at a disadvantage, and I had to trust Him.  Joey and I agreed to let the doctor examine her.  I looked at my sweet Anna and gave her a kiss, feeling emotion that started in my chest, rose to my throat, and came out as tears.  I knew when I let her go and handed her over to Joey, I might not hold her again alive.  I also knew that the answers that came from the ultrasound could change everything.  And I just surrendered. Lord, I don’t know what’s best for her.  I don’t know what I even want.  I am not God. Your will be done, Lord.  Your will be done.

While the nurse gave Anna oxygen, the family gathered around her, oohing and aahing over how beautiful she was.  She lay in a little baby bed in the adjoining room to mine, and I sat in my bed, resting and waiting.  I would like to say I was praying, but I really wasn’t.  My prayers are only flowery in the written form.  I had asked for His will to be done.  That was all I could do.

During the ultrasound, Jeremy, Joey’s brother, showed me video of Anna opening both eyes while she was being given oxygen.  I was so happy to hear that but felt disappointed I had not gotten to see it–that she hadn’t opened both eyes for me.  After the oxygen and ultrasound, she never opened both eyes again.  Many days later, when we looked at a picture of me kissing Anna just before I handed her to Joey, we noticed that Anna had both of her eyes open, looking at my face. Thank you, God, for little moments like that, sweet surprises that were slowly revealed over the weeks to follow.

The oxygen and ultrasound together took less than 10 minutes.  I held Anna between the two procedures.  When Joey brought Anna back to me after the ultrasound, the doctor came, too.  He told us he was sorry.  There was no bladder.

We did not fall apart. We did not wail.  That would come later.  We hugged our Anna and enjoyed her.  We studied her fingers, so dainty and kissable.  Her tiny toes on one foot were “curled,” as Abby said.  This was a result of the lack of cushion and her positioning in my womb.  We talked about how she looked like a smaller version of Abby in some ways.  I actually thought she looked a little like my newborn pictures–except that at 4 pounds, 11 ounces, she weighed just over half what I weighed.  We talked to her, sang to her, let her hear the voices of those who would have watched her grow up.  People came and went; I noticed some of it, took part in a few conversations, but much of the time I was oblivious.  It was a joyful time.  A time of thankfulness and fellowship with those who loved us and our baby girl most.  Some people cried from time to time; it’s only natural.  But for the most part, it was a time of joy.  Somber joy.  But joy nonetheless.

At lunch time, everyone left and let Joey and I enjoy our daughter by ourselves.  That’s when I sang “You Are My Sunshine.”  I told her that if I could go to the nursery and pick out any perfectly healthy, pink baby in there, I would not.  I would choose her.  She was my favorite little baby in the whole wide world.  Joey told me to tell her everything I wanted to tell her, but I really couldn’t think of much more to tell her.  I just kept saying I love you.  I felt that she understood everything else.  I just wanted to hold her and feel her there against me.  At one point, Anna began to suck.  We were so excited to see her little lips pursed!  Every detail we noticed and treasured.  What a perfect little child.

For five hours we doted on our daughter.  Friends came and went.  Doctors and nurses checked in. Our nurse told us this could go on for days and that it was possible that we would take her home.  I was surprised to hear this, but honestly, I didn’t really ponder it too much.  I didn’t have time to think about what I thought would happen.  Time was too important to think about tomorrow.  Today–this moment–was all that mattered.

We finally convinced the grandparents to hold Anna. They had graciously not wanted to steal away any of our minutes with her.  They each held her and then gave her back to Joey and then me.  I think God wanted Anna’s Dee Dee and Paw Paw and her MeMe and Pop Pop to hold her.  I held Anna for a few more minutes, hoping this would just go on and on.  But it did not.  I noticed that Anna’s skin around her mouth looked like it had a blueish hue.  We could tell she was having a harder time breathing.  Joey called the nurse.  The doctor came in and checked her heart rate and told us it was slowing.  All of those wonderful, kind people left the room and allowed our family to say goodbye to our Anna Grace.

It was awful.  I just pulled her up to my face and breathed her in.  I just wanted to inhale her somehow.  I can’t even put it into words.  I don’t think I will try.  Joey and I held her and each other and just cried.  All that love and joy and grief just swirled together into something terrible and beautiful at the same time.  The doctor came in, listened, and told us she was gone and that he was sorry. He walked out into the hallway and told our family that Anna was in a better place.

We, however, were still here.  Heaven had always been a place that sounded great but I was in no hurry to get there–until that moment.  I wanted to leap into Jesus’ arms right then, arriving just after Anna.  I wanted to catch her from behind, twirl her around and be with her. But I have a husband and two other babies whom I love just as intensely.  And Joey needed his wife and my children sure needed their Mama.  So I cried.  And I cuddled my little girl.  I kissed her and looked at every part of her again.  I didn’t want to forget anything.  And I treasured these things in my heart.

I have told many people that we did not get the miracle that we specifically prayed for on Anna’s day, but we got miracles.  I could go into great detail about all the medical issues that surprised our doctors, but I will focus on the greatest miracle.  The greatest miracle of that day was life.  It was clear to everyone there that Anna Grace was loved for who she was.  Her life mattered to us.  We were excited about having her.  Yes, there were times before she was born that we grieved her loss.  And there were times early on in the journey when I actually prayed God would be merciful and take her sooner.  But on March 27, 2012, Anna’s day, we celebrated her life–the one here on earth and the promise of the one she now lives. Her brother and sister joyfully met her.  We cradled her and gave her all the love we could in the time we had.  And when we said goodbye, it was heartbreaking because we loved her so, but it was not without hope.  We have been sad, angry, frustrated, and even bitter.  But we have never been hopeless. Thank you, God, for giving us Anna.  And thank you for giving us the hope of spending eternity with her through Jesus Christ, your son.

“And now, dear brothers and sisters, we want you to know what will happen to the believers who have died, so you will not grieve like those who have no hope” (I Thessalonians 4:13, NLT).

Anna’s Day: A Gallery of Memories

Below are photos from Anna’s day.  Click on any image and it will be enlarged.  Then you can click the arrows to see the others.  We are so thankful for DeAnna Lambeth (www.distinctivelyde.com) and Diana Bondurant (www.dianabondurant.com), who helped preserve our memories of Anna’s day. We are also so grateful to Lacey McMath and Shawn Baecker (www.shawnfarand.com), who took our maternity photos.  We made small photo books for our children with pictures from Anna’s day–only happy pictures, of course.  Just the other day, we were driving down the road, and Josiah said, “It makes me happy to look at the pictures in my picture book.  It looks like Anna is still alive.”  How can you say thank you enough for the gift of beautiful photography?  You can’t.  But we will say thank you, thank you, thank you, and thank you, anyway.

 

 

Photo Courtesy of Diana Bondurant

A Baby Story

photo courtesy of DeAnna Lambeth, www.distinctivelyde.com

If you don’t like watching TLC’s show, you probably won’t enjoy reading this.  This is the story of my labor with Anna.  . .

Leading up to Anna’s birth on Tuesday, March 27th, I began having contractions Thursday night.  Contractions came and went–some weak, some intense–for five days and nights.  Let me be clear.  While some of these were weak, the intense ones were not the stomach-tightening Braxton Hicks contractions.  They were the “sure ’nuff” kind.  Abby and Josiah came quickly, so this was a new experience for me.  After we got to the hospital, a nurse told us it was because Anna was preterm.  It seems our bodies usually give us advance notice if we are going into labor prematurely.

Early Sunday morning, Joey and I were pretty confident Anna was ready to come out.  I had been up since 1:30 AM with pretty strong contractions.  By 5:00 AM, they were coming about 12 minutes apart.  But Sunday was Josiah’s birthday. And I really, really wanted Anna’s birthday to fall later on the calendar–or at least not right on top of Josiah’s day.  I told Joey I wanted to wait until 6:00 AM to make a decision about whether to go to the hospital or not.  (Had my mother been there, we would have been in the van by 2:30.  These contractions were the kind that you feel moving from your stomach to your back, so you end up on all fours arching like an alley cat to ease the pain.)

After a contraction at 5:24 (yes, we were keeping track), I curled up in my bed and prayed.  Why do we wait so long to do that sometimes?  Lord, I am too tired to go through this today.  If I knew I had a healthy baby coming, I could do anything.  But Lord, I am exhausted.  I do not want to meet Anna like this–too exhausted to enjoy her.  And I do not want her to come on my Josiah’s birthday.  Please, Lord, please let me rest and bring her another day.  I fell asleep and did not awaken until after 7:00.

My contractions continued throughout Sunday, but they were not as intense.   By midday, I was confident that Anna would not share Josiah’s birthday. 

A shower given by dear, dear friends Kim and Jaimie, as well as other members of our church who are also quite dear, was supposed to take place at Kim’s house Sunday afternoon.  That morning before church, Joey and I decided we needed to cancel, which was very disappointing for me (and for Abby).  Sisters and brothers in Christ prayed for us instead, and the shower hostesses decorated our church fellowship hall and invited people to come after Sunday evening worship.  All the food had been prepared already, so it just made sense to go ahead and enjoy it together.  Thankfully, I felt well enough to go.  And because it was rescheduled for after church–and men were invited to stay–Joey was able to come and bring Josiah along.  That made it very special.

I was overwhelmed and humbled by the shower.  The food was so beautiful and delicious. Kim must have prepared 10 dishes.  She had even gone to Milton Bakery (my favorite bakery–I still prefer their yummy icing and the childhood memories it evokes to any fancy downtown spot) to get petit fors.  Our friend who had taken the maternity photos, Shawn Baecker, and his wife, Jaimie, had ordered two of our favorite images from the maternity shoot and had them put on boards, so they were on display.  The gifts were all so thoughtful–a necklace with Abby’s, Josiah’s, and Anna’s initials; devotional books and journals; plants to begin our Anna flower garden; gift certificates to a yogurt shop, a miniature golfing complex, spas, and other places; music carefully selected to minister to us during this time; lotions and bubble baths; photo frames; and more. It’s kind of awkward to have a shower under our circumstances, and I thought that might keep some away.  People came out, though, and poured love, encouragement, and support into our lives.  And the fellowship was so sweet.  Thank you all for loving us, praying for us, and blessing us with your friendship.  We are so very grateful.

The next morning, my mother got Abby off to school and kept Josiah while we went to see Dr. A, my OB.  I wanted to be examined.  I knew things were progressing.  I had contractions during the night (again), and they continued Monday morning, but they were sporadic and varied in intensity.  Dr. A said I was at 2 cm and this could go on for another week.  I remember thinking, Are you kidding me?

But they did not go on for a week.  I had contractions on and off all day long, but by 3:30 AM Tuesday morning, I was having intense contractions at somewhat regular intervals.  I awoke Joey, who had been sleeping with Abby.  We knew that one of us needed to be able to care for our kids if I wasn’t getting any sleep at night for a week, so he had slept in her bed to try to get some rest.

Our bags were already packed.  We just had to make the decision to put the plan into action.  I took a shower and began fixing my hair.  Joey called my mother.  I began putting on make-up.  Joey called Jessica, my sister-in-law, who was already on call to come and stay with the kids.  She would get them ready to bring to the hospital after we saw how things were progressing.   It should have taken Jessica about 23 minutes to get to our house.  I think she made it in about 12.  We will not discuss how that happened as there may be a law enforcement officer reading this.

By the time we were heading out the door, contractions were about 7 to 10 minutes apart.  I was still doubting myself.  It just seemed like we had been in labor so long.  I thought any minute the contractions might stop again.

But it was a good thing we went.  We got to the hospital around 5:30.  I was at 4 cm and would be admitted.  It was time to let everyone else know that things were progressing. We had three photographers lined up–hence the hair and makeup–thinking that at least one of the three could come whenever labor began.  Joey called the first one. She was not sure she could rearrange her schedule, as she had just started a new job and had important meetings scheduled that day.  Joey called the second one.  He was in Lakeland camping.  He called the third one and was unable to reach her.

Panic.  And in heavy labor.  Not a good combination.

There was one more photographer we could think to call (and who one of the other photographers had suggested): DeAnna Lambeth. Her last name was Rowell just a few years ago, and she’s my cousin.  I had not asked her initially because she is a young married woman who has not yet had children. I did not want her first experience in a labor and delivery room to be one as traumatic as ours might be.  Joey took the reins and decided he was willing to educate her, though.  He called DeAnna’s sister, Kayla, and before we knew it, both of them were in the L&D room, ready for whatever the day held.  (They did not take the time to do hair and makeup like I had, but they were still beautiful.  I don’t even think those girls worry with makeup anyway!) We later found out that DeAnna had cleaned off her hard drive, emptied her SD cards, and charged her camera batteries the night before.  She had just felt a tug to get that done–it was past due.  So when her sister called her early Tuesday morning (she was already up, exercising), everything was ready to go.  It was as if it was meant to be.  Indeed, it was.

A few minutes after DeAnna got there, our initial photographer, Diana Bondurant, arrived. She had rescheduled her entire day (and probably several days thereafter) to free herself up to be there for Anna’s birth.  I was worried at first and felt just terrible that both of them had cleared their schedules to be with us, but they were both so gracious and reassuring. Between the two of them, they captured one of the most joyful and yet devastating days of our lives with such beauty and tenderness.  We are forever grateful for the gifts both of them gave and the sacrifices those gifts required.

So with our DeAnna and Diana snapping away (see how both names have “anna” in them), the labor continued to progress.   At around 7-8 cm, I got my epidural.  Contractions were very close together by that point, and the anesthesiologist had a hard time finding the right spot in my back even though I tried really hard to be still through the waves of pain.  After the epidural, my contractions began to ease and family members and friends began coming in to visit before Anna’s birth.  Abby and Josiah were there. All the grandparents were there.  Our brothers and their wives were there, except for Jonathan and Lacey, whom we later found out were driving like mad from Alaska.  But it’s a long, long drive, and some things are just impossible.  Several friends were there.  The waiting room was full of people praying, people hoping for the best but prepared to minister through the worst.

Our children came in a few times before Anna was born.  They were excited.  So was I.  As sad as I anticipated the day being, we couldn’t help but be excited about holding our daughter, finally meeting this little girl whom we had decided early on to love just as completely as we did Abby and Josiah.

Our pastor and the pastor of our former church came in to pray with us.  Our families prayed with us.  There was a sweet presence there.  There was the kind of peace that you read about in the Bible–the peace that surpasses all understanding (Phillipians 4:7).  Peace did not make sense in that moment, but it’s what we felt.  Joey and I were both unsure of how things would unfold, but I think we both just went into the day knowing that it was time to meet Anna, and regardless of what happened, we were receiving a great gift.  We were being blessed with a daughter.

There were so many things we didn’t yet know.  We didn’t know what Anna would look like.  We had been told that her eyes might be set far apart, her nose smashed, her features distorted due to the lack of amniotic fluid in the womb.  We had told our children that she might look a little different from some babies, but that God had made her and that she would be just as wonderful and special, regardless of her appearance.  We didn’t know if I might end up being wheeled down to the operating room for an emergency C-section.  She was still breech, and a natural delivery is not normal protocol for a breech baby anymore.  We didn’t know if Anna would survive the delivery.  Would she be stillborn?  Would we have her for minutes?  Hours?  We didn’t know how others would respond to the situation.  How would our children react?  Would they be scared to touch her?  Would our families be able to hold it together?  Would we?  And, yes, in the back of our minds, we both still wondered if she might come out and be just fine.  Wouldn’t that be wonderful?  It was a scenario we played out on the drive to the hospital, and neither one of us was willing to completely let go of it as we waited for the moment to push.

photo courtesy of DeAnna Lambeth, distinctivelyde.com

photo courtesy of DeAnna Lambeth, www.distinctivelyde.com

photo courtesy of Diana Bondurant

photo courtesy of DeAnna Lambeth, www.distinctivelyde.com

photo courtesy of Diana Bondurant

photo courtesy of DeAnna Lambeth, www.distinctivelyde.com

When Skies Are Grey

Oh . . .

This is going to be hard.  But I am doing this for Anna.  She deserves for you all to hear her story.  And I truly feel the Holy Spirit prompting me to share her with all of you.

She was incredible.  So beautiful.  Perfect.  Had she lived, her imperfection would have arisen.  But she didn’t.  So I have no problem saying that even though she had the seed of Adam within her, that child was as perfect as is humanly possible.  And now, she is whole.  And although I don’t understand it all or even pretend to be happy about it, it is a great comfort.

I also want to tell you all about the miracles we experienced that day.  I don’t know that the church would ordain our experiences as miracles, but for me they were.  I’m not ready yet, though.  But I promise to share them with you later.

Our family song is “You Are My Sunshine.”  I was blessed to be able to sing that sweet song to the third child I’ve held in my arms.  Abby and Josiah know it by heart, of course.  I have sung it countless times to each of them.  You know the words . . .

You are my sunshine,

My only sunshine.

You make me happy when skies are grey.

You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you.

Please don’t take my sunshine away.

Oh, how it hurt to sing that last part.  I knew she was going.  I was overwhelmed by it.  But this was to be a moment of joy, of sunshine.  She was in my arms, fighting but peaceful. Beautiful.

The next verse of the song . . .

The other night dear,

While I was sleeping,

I dreamt I held you in my arms.

But when I woke up,

I was mistaken,

So I hung my head and cried.

I did not sing sweet Anna that verse, but it has echoed in my mind since then.  Who knew as I sung that sweet little melody to my children for the past six and a half years that it would have so much meaning for me in the days to follow losing Anna?

Oh, this hurts.

My skies are grey.  They are so grey.  The day we buried Anna was a grey day, which seemed appropriate.  We visited the grave site a couple of hours after the burial.  It was sprinkling when we got there, and then “the bottom fell out,” as we say.  The rain poured down on Anna’s resting place.  We sat in the van and watched it rain.  Josiah said if he was God, he would take us all to heaven at the same time.  Abby asked, “Why are we so sad?  Anna is in heaven!”

The rain poured down and our tears poured out, and I just couldn’t help but thinking that this was a sacred place.  God was here.  He was crying with us.  Our skies are grey, grey, grey.  But Anna’s are not.  Hers are blue skies without a chance of rain.  She is surrounded by love and joy–just as real as the love and joy that surrounded her for the five hours we had her.  Yet without the pain of this life.  And for that I am thankful.

I want to share so much more, and I will as I am able.  Thank you all for your prayers and encouragement.  And thank you for sharing with us how God has used Anna to impact your life.  Please keep doing that.  You have no idea how much that means to our family.

photo courtesy of Deanna Lambeth, distinctivelyde.com

Our Sweet Baby Anna Grace McMath

I want to share more of her story later, but for tonight, this is all I can do.  Below is Anna’s obituary.  Oh, how that word tastes so bitter when she was so, so sweet.  Thank you all for your prayers and encouragement during this unspeakably painful time.

ANNA GRACE MCMATH

Anna Grace McMath, newborn daughter of Amista Rowell McMath (Misty) and Joseph Leroy McMath III (Joey), and younger sister to Abriana Joy McMath (Abby) and Josiah Luker McMath (Josiah), went to the arms of her Heavenly Father on March 27, 2012, just five hours after her earthly family embraced her into theirs.  Her life was brief but so beautiful, and her family longs for the day when they will all be reunited.

Anna lived within her mother’s womb for 8 months, and during that time, she made a great impact on many who loved her and prayed for her.  She was born at Sacred Heart Hospital on March 27, at 10:18 a.m., weighing four pounds, eleven ounces.   Every treasured minute of her brief life was sacred and was filled with love and joy, and she passed peacefully while being cradled by her family.  Hers was a short but full life designed by her loving Creator.

Anna leaves behind her Mama, Daddy, big sister Abby and big brother Josiah of Pace, Florida, as well as grandparents Joy and Roger Rowell of Berrydale, grandparents Susan and Joe McMath, Jr., of Flomaton, great grandmother Virginia Boothe of Allentown, and great grandmother Mary McMath of Atmore.  She also leaves behind aunts, uncles, cousins, and many, many family members who will always miss sweet baby Anna.  Anna was preceded in death by a sibling miscarried a year before Anna’s passing as well as her great grandparents, Alex Boothe, Jr., of Allentown, Hazel and Pasco Rowell of Berrydale, Joe McMath of Atmore, and Inez and Clyde Northrop, Jr., of Flomaton.

A private family graveside service will be held in Flomaton, Alabama, at a later date.  Services will be provided by Flomaton Funeral Home.

If you wish to honor Anna Grace through a memorial gift, donations may be made to the Pregnancy Resource Center of Milton, 5736 Stewart Street, Milton, FL 32570; 850-983-2730. There is an established link entitled “In Honor of Anna” on the PRC website, www.prcofmilton.org.

What’s in a Name?

 

Photo by shawnfarand.com

 

Abby and I had an important conversation earlier this week as we drove to Pensacola together.

A couple of weeks ago, while we all ate lunch together, Joey’s dad told Abby about a lady who had given her sister a kidney many years ago.  He talked about how well the recipient of the kidney was still doing, explaining that she must take anti-rejection drugs and giving general details about kidney transplants.  I wasn’t worried about it, but I knew this would come back up once Abby had processsed it.  I was correct.

As we drove down Scenic Highway headed to a doctor’s appointment in Pensacola, Abby began asking questions. 

“If both of those ladies can live with only one kidney, then couldn’t Anna live with only one kidney?” she asked.  I told her that Anna could live with only one kidney, but the ultrasounds show us that both of Anna’s kidneys are very sick.  “But what if God healed one of Anna’s kidneys–just one of them–and the other one was still sick?”  I explained to her what kidneys do in the body and how Anna really needed one well kidney the whole time she was in the womb so that everything would develop properly.  But God could do anything, and if He healed one kidney, He could heal Anna, too.  “So if God healed one kidney, then somebody could give Anna another kidney?” asked Abby.

I knew what question was coming next.  I felt the lump come up in my throat.

“Yes, Abby, someone could give Anna her kidney, but she would have to get a lot bigger before her body would accept a new kidney.  She’s too tiny to have a kidney transplant right now,” I said.

“But when she got bigger, she could have one,” Abby said.

I told Abby that if God healed one kidney, strengthened Anna’s lungs and other organs, helped her grow older, and provided a good match for Anna’s kidney, then yes, she could have a kidney transplant.

And then after a couple of follow-up questions, she posed the possibility that I knew she had been mulling over in her mind.

“Well, if that woman in Flomaton gave her sister a kidney, then I could, too.  You don’t have to have two kidneys, and I could give Anna one of mine,” Abby said.

I know that my six-year-old Abby has no idea what she’s really suggesting.  She has no idea how much of a sacrifice that really is.  She doesn’t understand the ramifications of major surgery or kidney transplants or long hospital stays and anti-rejection drugs.  But in that moment, I knew that she longed for her little sister to be well just as much as I did.  She was willing to give a part of herself if it meant that Anna could live.  And is there anything more precious to a mother than to see deep, sacrificial love between two of her children?

I let my tears flow as I sat in the driver’s seat.  Abby and I talked about how special Anna is.  I told her that sometimes what seems right to us just isn’t God’s plan.  I paraphrased a few verses–told her that His ways were not our ways, told her that God knew how long Anna would live before He even created her.  I told her that even though she may only live inside of me and just a few minutes outside of me, her life was still important.

Abby and I talked about the blog.  We talked about how God was using Anna’s life and her story to show people that He will be with us even when things seem so sad and hopeless.  Abby said our family was sort of being missionaries, and although I couldn’t put myself in that category exactly, I decided to let the Holy Spirit speak to her little heart and minister to her in a way that I knew I couldn’t.

As we drove on, headed for Sacred Heart Hospital for an appointment at the children’s clinic, I thought about how quickly we would find ourselves back there at that hospital to finally meet Anna face-to-face.  I thought about how our previous trips to labor and delivery had been filled with excitement–the bubbling over type of joy that comes with bringing a new life into the world mingled with all the happy expectations wrapped up in bringing home a new family member.  This time would be different.  But I do think that even in the intense sadness we are preparing to face, there will also be moments of joy.  Moments of hope.  Moments of grace.

A Bible promise that has assured me during this time has been Romans 5:20-21: “The law was brought in so that the trespass might increase. But where sin increased, grace increased all the more, so that, just as sin reigned in death, so also grace might reign through righteousness to bring eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.” Sin brought death. Jesus brought eternal life.  And guess what reigns?  Not sin.  Not death.  Not bitterness or doubt or faithlessness.  Not anger or questioning or fear.  Not sadness or grief or loss.  Not the grave.  Grace.  Grace reigns.  Unmerited favor.  A cloak of righteousness for those who accept Jesus as their redeemer.  An eternal life filled with peace and love and all those things that–if we’re honest–we really don’t deserve.

I want my children to understand grace.  I want them to get it.  I do not want my Abby and Josiah to be legalistic, thinking that a person who has messed up is beyond God’s reach or beneath theirs.  I do not want them to be the type of Christians who look down their noses at sinners and cannot reach beyond carefully built walls that separate them from ”the outside.”  Oh, I hope they recognize sin and fight it head on.  But I want them to know that grace is an unearned gift and that they need it just as much as anyone else.  If grace reigns, we should begin practicing the art of it now.  We should get used to the idea that we should not only be recipients of it but givers of it, too.

Anna has reminded me just how much I need this gift.  As I have struggled against God’s will for my life, I have had to ask forgiveness and I have had to open my tightly clenched hands up to a God who reminds me His grace is sufficient for even me.  And when people have said things that seemed inappropriate, hurtful, or even downright strange, God has used Anna to remind me to give them grace because they are doing their best to minister to us.  No one speaks God’s balm into wounded lives perfectly.

And so, Anna Grace has seemed the perfect name.  As I hold our Anna in that hospital room, I want more than anything for her and for everyone who meets her to know that she is something pretty special. God has a purpose for her life and she is not just an anomaly, a genetic mishap, a child who is not viable. She is not just sadness, a terrible situation, something to be pitied.  She is loved and treasured and she has taught us so much.  She is just as much a part of our family as Abby and Josiah.  Even tonight, as I feel my body changing and I know our time is slipping away, I feel this overwhelming love for her. I want to keep her here so I can continue to feel these kicks and know that she’s still with me.  She matters.  Her life matters. She is a gift of grace, of undeserved favor.  If I had to choose between carrying Anna in this way and never carrying her at all, I would choose this.

Anna Grace, I told your daddy just tonight that I knew if you lived, you would just be the girliest girl.  I bet you would love tea parties and frilly dresses and big bows and painted toenails.  Or then again, maybe you wouldn’t, just to spite me for giving you such a lovely, feminine name.  Maybe you would tag along with your big brother and learn how to tackle, growl, and fight the bad guys.  I guess that would be okay, too.

I love you so.  I know that giving you up will be the hardest thing I will have ever had to do, but I am thankful that God chose me to carry you.  I am blessed to be your mommy.  Although I am in no rush for you to come out–stay as long as you like–I will treasure every second you are in my arms.  You are a fragile gift, but I accept you with gratitude.  Anna means “grace, favor.”  We didn’t even know that until after we had given you your middle name!  So your name means “Grace. Grace.” I think God wanted to make sure we got the point.  It’s just like when we realized after giving Abby the name Abriana Joy that her name means “A father’s joy. Joy.”  You girls!  You will just have so much fun together in heaven one day.  I wonder if God will just call you Grace and Joy. You have each lived up to your names already.  We love you, sweetheart.  I believe we will be seeing each other very soon.