The Missing Piece

A Final Post

2019-01-16T15:02:00.000-08:00

Five years ago this month, I wrote the first post on this blog. I remember the moment vividly; a vision of snow swirling outside of my window, my favorite chair, my laptop and a cup of tea perched on the table beside it is still fresh in my mind. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, but not for long. They began to fly as they could not keep up with the words they were intended to type.

So was the case for a long time thereafter. Words came easily, my fingers worked to keep up, to type my stream of thoughts into a place where others could read what I had to share. I began this blog in an attempt to heal and grieve and grow, unaware and truthfully uncaring as to who else read my emotion-fraught words. I began this blog for myself as it was the best outlet for me to process the occurrences in my life.

Five years ago this month, my little brother had been gone for a painful three months, and my husband and I had been in the throes of fertility treatment for what we naively hoped to be a brief period of time.

I was in the place of grief where life feels incomprehensible, I was still in shock and the world was swirling around me and I could not keep up - much like the snow outside of my window. On countless occasions I wanted to scream, "STOP! STOP moving. My beautiful brother is not here to move with you!"

Fertility treatment was such a new endeavor, and I was absolutely blind and unaware as to what lay ahead. I was hopeful that our journey be short. Regardless of that hope for a trip rather than a journey, or an easy fix, it felt unfair and uncertain. It was another aspect of my life that was unreal and not resembling anything I had pictured for myself.

Five years have passed. Snow is not swirling outside of my window, but there is a fresh layer on our lawn. My 17-month old son is quietly talking himself to sleep for his morning nap. I am sitting at my desk and for the first time in many months, my fingers are flying.

I've attempted a blog post many times recently and have failed to create one. My words were elusive. I couldn't complete a post.

As I reflect on these attempts, I know the lack of words was for lack of a broken heart. My blog was created in an attempt to heal my shattered self. It continued as I processed my grief and began to realize that fertility treatment was going to take time and also create pain and inadvertently loss. My heart remained broken for many reasons over those years, and so I kept pressing forward, writing and hoping and recovering.

When you lose one of your most beloved people, your heart does not ever fully recover; it does eventually commence beating in a way it hadn't before. I will always miss Matt. Basketball, the Cubs, a good movie, an even better joke, blue eyes, great music, dancing, a well-dressed young man walking down the street, laughter, huge hugs, and my son without his uncle make my heart ache for him. Your heart (my own) beats in a new rhythm after a great loss.

The pain and trauma of my time as a fertility patient have gone, and in their place there is a strength. It broke me for a long time. It broke my heart. However, as soon as I heard my son's heartbeat, saw his little foot kick inside of me, and then finally felt his fingers curl around mine, I knew that the damage that had been done would be repaired. God was moving me forward, redeeming my struggle.

Because of the healing that has occurred over the last five years, I have less and less to say on this blog that was created for that purpose. Today, I finally have something to write; a final post.

When I was pregnant, I first heard the song by Old Dominion, "No Such Thing as a Broken Heart". While it is cheesy, it is also catchy and the lyrics are cute. I would sing it to my son before he was born and when he was a newborn, we would sway to it in the living room. He loves it. He starts to shake his little butt as soon as he hears the first notes. We have "band practice" to this song (along with several of our other favorites) with his musical instruments, dance to it in the kitchen, and sing to it in the car.

The theme of the song is to encourage us all to live our lives like there is no such thing as a broken heart.

Listen here:
"No Such Thing as a Broken Heart" -Old Dominion

I loved Matt like he would never break my heart - I didn't know it would. I tried my damndest for a baby like it wouldn't break my heart - it would break it more to not be a mother.

As my heart continues to heal, it is time for me to stop exerting my efforts to create here. It is time for me to stop processing grief and infertility. That doesn't mean I will stop writing. I will always be a lover of the written word, to compose myself and also to read the words of others. I won't close this blog, as it is a bit of a time capsule for myself. It is just time for me to seek other outlets and venues for my writing.

To have great loss was to have had great love. To have great disappointment was to have given great effort. To live like there is no such thing as a broken heart is to live without fear of the unknown.

When the heart heals, it becomes stronger for the next time. There will be a next time. For now, I can rest in the joy of the difference five years make, the face of a 17-month old boy, and the closeness of a family bonded by an incredible past and a future given to us by God's grace.

*Thank you to the small, but incredibly devoted group of family and friends who have always read my posts, prayed for us, and shown me great love.

My wish for us all is minimal broken hearts, but when they occur may we embrace the beauty that might have caused the injury.

My First Mother's Day

2018-05-18T07:48:00.001-07:00

When I open my laptop I am greeted by a screensaver that is a sonogram picture of my son at seven months in utero. It is his profile and his lips are pursed and resemble little butterfly wings. After I enter the password to my computer, the screen saver changes to a picture of my husband and I on our front porch, his hand on my seven-month pregnant belly, both of us smiling into the camera. In this picture, I was blissfully pregnant, and my husband was immeasurably relieved. We were soon to be welcoming a baby boy into the world and after years of infertility, seven months pregnant was a stage we feared we might not ever see.

Mother's Day was a holiday that greeted us when I was also seven months pregnant. I received my first two Mother's Day gifts that weekend and numerous phone calls and texts from friends and family wishing me well. While I was full of joy, relief, hope, anticipation, and excitement to become a new mom, these wishes felt premature. I felt undeserving.

Looking back on previous Mother's Day weekends, there was often pain. Yes, I have a beautiful mother to celebrate, but my heart's greatest desire was to become a mother myself.

In the spring of 2016, I vowed to make the day about my mom and grandma in an effort to not think about my recent pregnancy loss and infertility. I planned and prepared a beautiful brunch, had a clean house and a perfectly set table, my lilac bushes were in full bloom, and I had a new pink dress. None of those fun and frivolous distractions mattered when, at church that morning, one of the well-meaning ladies attempted to give me the Mother's Day gift given to all women in the congregation that day. I choked back a sob, pushed it away, and excused myself to run to the ladies' room. That Sunday morning, I also felt undeserving.

This year at church, I held my son on one hip, and happily accepted the Mother's Day gift of a carnation. I sang praise songs with my whole heart. The entire day, or weekend for that matter, was filled with celebration. I opened cards from family, received a beautiful gift from my husband, arranged roses in my favorite vase, drank champagne and toasted motherhood with my mom and grandma, indulged in my favorite brunch foods, and best of all, spent time with my son and my husband - as a family of three.

As a new mom, I have to be honest and say that this past Mother's Day, I still struggled with feeling undeserving of this attention and gratitude.

I have not yet been through the trials that so many women experience in motherhood. I am one of those annoying women who loved every minute of pregnancy. While labor was REALLY hard, I also thought it was amazing. I am aware that this is also very annoying. I have a healthy baby boy and when people ask me if he is an easy baby, while I have nothing to compare it to, I can only truthfully answer that yes, he is.

How am I deserving of the accolades and appreciation that other women who have endured immensely greater challenges in motherhood are given on this special day? I have done and experienced far less.

As we passed slices of my favorite cake around the brunch table this past Sunday afternoon, my mom wanted to close the meal with some of her own wisdom on motherhood.

"Honey," she said in her thoughtfully serious voice. "I want you to know that there has been no greater joy in my life than being a mom to you, your brother, and sister. I would not change that for anything. Even if I had known that I was going to lose my son, I would not change being a mom for anything."

She then repeated, "Being a mom has been my greatest joy."

Although it has only been nine months, one week, and 5 days, being a mom has been MY greatest joy.

I was encouraged to hear from my mom, that despite enduring the greatest heartache a mother can experience, she still counts motherhood as her greatest joy.

All mothers are deserving of Mother's Day celebrations, as they are brave in accepting the responsibility of motherhood despite the knowledge of unforeseen pain. We do it all because this is in exchange for our greatest joy.

As a new mom, my bravery lies in my effort to become a mother. Five years ago, if you had told me what I would encounter in the world of infertility and in my effort to have a child, I would still accept the challenge wholeheartedly. I would do it all over again in a heartbeat.

When future challenges arise while I am a parent, which they certainly will, I know that I will still say that I would do it all over again in a heartbeat.

I would climb the mountain, cry the tears, see the doctors, take the shots and undergo the procedures, endure the losses, and face the unknown all over again to hold my son that perfect minute he entered the world, to kiss his little head, to feel his fingers curl around mine, and to see him smile at me each morning. I would not change being his mom for anything. Being a mom has been my greatest joy.

Mothers are all deserving of Mother's Day celebrations - whether it is our first or our fiftieth - in a time of parental joy or pain - for our own personal journey, the challenges we have accepted, and for our bravery in motherhood.

My Best Yes

2017-09-22T05:46:00.000-07:00

In the summer of 2016, I attended the She Speaks Conference in North Carolina. This is a conference for Christian women writers and speakers and is a weekend full of inspiration for those of us who love the written word. It was my second time attending the conference, a gift once again from my parents, who encourage me in my love for writing in any way in which they can.

Last summer, I was still in the throes of fertility treatment, healing after a devastating loss that occurred in the spring, and also going through trial cycles in an attempt to find my perfect implantation date. To put it simply, I was taking fertility drugs and undergoing biopsies of my uterus to find the date, down to a 12-hour window, that would be the optimal time to implant my frozen embryos. It was a challenging time because not only was my body healing from a loss, it was also on a hormonal roller coaster created by fertility drugs, without the actual hope of a pregnancy waiting at the end. To put it simply, it sucked.

I was trying to stay positive, hopeful, and trust in God's timing, but it was most certainly a challenging time.

Challenging times in your personal life are also the PERFECT times to attend a conference for Christian women, regardless of the topic.

During one of the seminars I sat in on, a woman named Wendy Blight spoke. Wendy is a well-known Christian speaker, writer, and teacher. I know she was wonderful to listen to, but in all honesty, I cannot remember the topic of her session. I know that I gained insight and wisdom and that I earnestly took detailed and thorough notes. I can't remember what her topic was because the way she ended her hour-long session was so moving to me, it erased all other information I could have gleaned from her.

As she finished her lecture, Wendy invited each woman in the room to stand in line and wait to be anointed by her, or one of her assistants. I had never been anointed by anyone before, but it sounded interesting, and so I decided I would wait in the line for this holy ritual. She told us the anointing would be accompanied with a single word. Her hope was that the Holy Spirit would give her a word that would mean something to the ears upon which it fell.

When I reached the front of the room, Wendy was miraculously the woman who was available to anoint me. She was even more lovely up close than she was when speaking on stage. She exuded peace and maturity. I was in awe.

She gently put the oil on my head and then placed her hands on my shoulders. She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them and looked right at me.

"Your word is yes," she said to me. "I'm not sure why, but it is yes."

"Thank you," I whispered.

I walked away feeling slightly stunned.

For three years, God's answer to me had been NO.

NO, your brother is safer with me than with you.

NO, that is not your cycle.

NO, that is not your implantation date.

NO, that is not your baby.

God's NO had been ringing loud and clear through a season that felt never-ending. Dare I hope that Wendy's yes was finally an answer to our prayers for a baby?

I left the conference that evening tired, overwhelmed, excited by all that I had learned, but most importantly with a glimmer of hope in my broken heart.

From that weekend in late July of 2016 until early November, I held tight to the yes that Wendy had shared with me. I held onto it for one more trial cycle in late August, as we grieved the third anniversary of my brother's death in October, as I waited for my body to rebound and respond to the absence of fertility drugs and then again as we re-introduced them in preparation for another embryo transfer, and as we sat across from my fertility nurse and signed papers one more time indicating our desire to thaw and transfer two embryos at the proper date.

Through physical and emotional trials of that late summer and fall, I clung to the hope and a simple word that a fellow Christian woman had shared with me. Yes.

On a cold and snowy morning in November, I heard a loud and resounding YES as I took a home pregnancy test. Two days later, my blood pregnancy test confirmed the positive result, and a week after that a fetal pole with a heartbeat soothed my anxious mind. We were pregnant and our baby would come in late July of 2017.

He is here. I have a son. He is sleeping peacefully in his crib upstairs, wrapped tightly in his favorite blanket, sucking contentedly on his pacifier with a puppy attached to it my husband has named Walter. He has eaten twice and successfully this morning, smiled and cooed, grabbed at my glasses and his rattle, and endured the required tummy time. He is meeting milestones every day, and each one is a little miracle to his mom. The house is quiet and I can hear children playing happily at the school down the street. Someday, God willing, my boy will join them.

God said yes to us at the perfect time. As I look back on the past three years, the grief, the trials, the unknown and the fear for my future, I see exactly why He waited to say yes. There was a time when I wasn't truly ready to be a mom. There was a time when my family was not ready for joy, we were still too far in the depths of grief. There was a time when my marriage was not ready. There were times when my body, my career, or mind were not ready. God knew all of that and when I was banging my head against the wall, not trusting Him, he endured my anger and my frustration. He loved me regardless of my unbelief.

God will say yes to what is best for us when it is best for us.

He will not say yes to us falling into depression.

He will not say yes to us succumbing to addiction.

He will not say yes to us hurting those we love.

He will not say yes to purposeful financial negligence.

He will not say yes to us sabotaging our marriage.

He will not say yes to us falling to sin.

He will not say yes to self-destruction.

Sometimes, we have to get our life in order for a yes. Sometimes, we are not in the right mental, physical, financial, or relational place for that yes. Sometimes we are, and it is still a NO. This I know....there is a reason for that NO, and we might not understand it until we meet God.

In my season of joy, this truth is more palatable. I know that when I am next in a season of trial, and there will certainly be one, I will have to reread my words to remind myself that God is faithful and all-knowing of what is best for me.

The peace that comes after enduring a season of grief is far greater than the peace that comes from a period of joy.

This peace is a relinquishment of control over our lives. It is the knowledge that we can endure but we may have to wait patiently. However our prayer is answered, it is with our best interests at heart. Whether God's answer is a yes, a no, not yet, or when you are ready, have faith in the final outcome given by the ultimate provider. And when the answer is a long-awaited yes, it will be oh-so-sweet.

Sleeping sweetly in his crib upstairs is my best yes......One year, one month, and 25 days after Wendy's gift.

Fertility and Empathy

2017-06-09T14:35:00.000-07:00

*This post is dedicated to my sweet friend, Jessica....the eternal optimist, one of the strongest women I know, and mother-to-be.

About a year ago, I attended my first session of an infertility support group. I went several times after that first session, but that is the one that really stands out to me. It made the greatest impression on me, most likely because it was my first to attend, but also because I remember the facilitator's final question:

"What is something that someone has said to you during this time of infertility that has been helpful?"

I immediately knew what it was and who had known the most comforting words I needed to hear. My friend Kathleen said to me (repeatedly and in every circumstance),

"You're doing such a good job. I'm so proud of you. You're so strong."

If I could reach every, single woman trying to become a mother and tell her ONE thing, it would be that.

"You're doing such a good job. I'm so proud of you. You're so strong."

If I could, I would say this to the woman who is in the middle of a miscarriage (unbeknownst to many, they are not a one day and done type of phenomenon), the one who just met with her infertility specialist for the first time, the girl who was told she will only get pregnant through an egg donor, a friend whose marriage is rocked by the struggle, the lady inspecting her bruised stomach and bottom where injections have gone, the woman who is newly pregnant and terrified out of her mind, the girl in her very first cycle of trying and also to the one who is on her sixth.

"You're doing such a good job. I'm so proud of you. You're so strong."

I would say this to every woman in every infertility situation because the truth is this;

With infertility, we cannot compare. We can only have empathy.

Throughout my struggle to become pregnant, I learned that we all have war stories. I could tell you my journey from beginning to end (There is an end, I promise. I'm 33 weeks pregnant with a baby boy), and it might terrify you (or give you a great amount of hope). However, I know with certainty that there is someone who has had a more challenging story.

From the minute a woman realizes that her negative pregnancy tests are not just a disappointing trend, to the day she sits across the desk from her ob or infertility specialist, to the very first needle she pushes into her soft flesh, she is strong, she is doing a good job, and she is bad ass.

We cannot compare journeys or put one woman's struggle above another's because as females desiring to become mothers, we are all on an equal level. The minute you decide that you are ready to have a baby of your own, that feeling is ingrained in you, it is innate, it is unstoppable. When you realize that your body is not cooperating with your brain, there is a let down so great that the only thread of hope you have to cling to is the story of your best friend's-neighbor's-daughter's-niece who saw Dr. So-and-so and he was a miracle worker and, "don't worry at all because he will do the same for you."

Here is the problem; this miracle worker doctor or acupuncturist or hypnotist or yoga teacher or whoever it is that promises they will be the one to gift you with your greatest desire has to first understand your body's own personal failings that are vastly different from the woman before you. You know that, and all you can do is pray that your body's (which you hate at the moment) inadequacies will be easily "fixable".

In some cases, they are. In others, they are not. However simple or challenging your diagnosis is, you have to live with the pain of the unknown, the fear of what might happen, the waiting and hoping, and the way in which you feel different from every other stroller-pushing, swollen bellied, crabby with her kids in the grocery store, Facebook family-picture sharing mother.

Several weeks ago, I had dinner with a new friend. When I asked her how her school year was going, and what her plans were for next year, she happily announced that the following year would look different for her because she was pregnant, her attempt at IVF had worked.

Miraculously, this was her first attempt at IVF and she had many many more embryos frozen and waiting for her should she desire more children. Her experience with infertility treatment is vastly different from mine. We are both pregnant, but how we got there could not have been more different. However, I did not feel bitter or jealous or ask myself, "Why was this so much easier for her?"

Why not? This girl across from me was so excited about the new life she was bringing into the world. I know she had a big box filled with ice packs, drugs, needles and a Sharps container delivered to her doorstep in preparation for her one cycle. I know her husband had to give her injections, she was probably on supplements, her blood had been drawn several times, and she had been through more scans than most women see in a lifetime. All of that is hard. Whether you do it one time, or eight, it is brutal.

I will never forget my very first cycle, three and a half years ago. It was a stimulated cycle in an attempt to get a few extra strong eggs that would work with only an IUI. In my heart, I knew that was not going to be the time I got pregnant. As women, we have very strong intuition and that didn't feel right. It was a very simple approach and a starting block doctors use for so many women. It didn't feel right and my diagnosis and treatments became a heck of a lot more complicated and it took several attempts and two different specialists to finally figure it out. I didn't always feel strong, and I certainly wasn't always proud of myself. I hated my body and how it was failing me. However, I did always believe that there would eventually be a cycle that worked, which is why I never gave up. I had to believe.

When you don't feel so strong, or tough, or like you are doing a good job, just believe.

I hate that cliche saying that so many people tell women in fertility treatment, "It will all be worth it in the end." It minimizes the struggle in the midst of pain and fear and the unknown. It's not that it will all be worth it in the end, but I can promise you this:

When you are at the end of your journey, no matter how you have gotten there, you are NO LONGER a fertility patient. You are still so strong, you are still doing such a good job, and I am still so proud of you. BUT, now you are a mother.

Know in your heart that this sad label you have given yourself and this suit of armor you have created to push through this war zone will all fall away and none of it will matter and you will only think of yourself as a mother. I promise.

And when you are ready, you can tell another woman, "You're doing such a a good job. I'm so proud of you. You're so strong."

She will need you.

Life-Changing

2017-05-02T16:48:00.000-07:00

"There are moments that the words don't reach. There is a grace too powerful to name. We push away what we can never understand. We push away the unimaginable." -Hamilton, "It's Quiet Uptown"

A few weeks ago, Jeremiah took me to see the oh-so-hyped-up and well-loved musical, Hamilton. Since last November I have been listening to the soundtrack on my commute, while cleaning my house, or cooking dinner. I knew all of the songs, a lot of the words, and the premise of the storyline. Throughout the entire show, I probably had a goofy smile on my face as I was so enraptured by the live performance of the music I had come to know and love these past months. However, as the actors took their final bow, tears streamed down my face.

I know that I was moved by the plot, the courage and intelligence of our forefathers, the forgiveness and grace of Hamilton's wife, and tragedy of loss of love and life that was also an underlying theme of the musical. However, my tears also fell because of the sheer awe I felt of the talent and creativity that exists in our world, that brings us such beauty, opens our minds, and moves us to the point of overwhelming emotion. I cried for the experience of the performance and knew that witnessing such talent, on so many levels, was life-changing.

So many more experiences, on a deeper or more substantial level have changed my life, in joyful and painful ways.

As a young child, having my brother and sister enter our family made me a big sister for life. This is a blessing and a title I carry proudly. I am the older sister of two people who I adore and am immensely proud of. They are siblings and best friends.

Moving towns and making new friendships twice broadened my little world and expanded my circle of friends. My life was made richer by these varied living experiences. I have been lucky enough to live in my beloved city of Chicago as a child and an adult, the North Shore also as a child and adult, and the northern suburb of Wauconda. These are three very different, but very special places to me as I assimilate to all three, and feel at home in each environment.

I grew up knowing and loving the Lord, but as an adolescent, a devoted friend invited me to his father's church. He picked me up in his family's minivan every Sunday morning and we sat in the front row while his father taught me on a deeper level than my Catholic upbringing had about Jesus. I avidly took notes and sang my heart out to non-denominational Christian songs. I joined the youth group and went on mission trips. My high school friend, by making the effort to welcome me into his family's church, helped my life to change by bringing me closer and into a mature relationship with God.

I would be remiss to not mention the life-changing experience of living and studying in another country for a semester my junior year in college. How could I not be changed after spending Valentine's Day in Paris, St. Patrick's day in Dublin, and Easter Sunday in Rome? I had my luggage stolen from a British train, ran along the ocean shores of Wales, hiked in the Swiss Alps, spent hours in the museums of Prague, fell in love with London, and spent an entire day is reverent silence as I toured the concentration camp of Auschwitz. While I probably put my poor father on the verge of a heart attack with each e-mail home detailing my European adventures, I was blessed to be supported through such an eye-opening, soul enriching experience and I am forever grateful.

On a chilly November night in 2005, I knew that my life and heart were forever changed when a tall and handsome younger brother of one of my best girlfriends walked into Joe's Bar on Weed Street, bought me way too many rounds of my favorite cocktail, and danced with me all night to my favorite country songs played by the cover band. We were engaged within a year and a half and married seven months later on a snowy day in December. Jeremiah loves laughter, has an unwavering moral compass, is ridiculously kind, and fiercely loyal. I love what Jeremiah stands for. Having a spouse is life-changing, having a spouse like that is life-enhancing.

I was fundamentally changed as a woman when I became a fertility patient. Every needle, pill, check-up, blood draw, painful procedure, disappointing phone call from my nurse, uncomfortable side-effect, my two D&C's, blighted ovum-miscarriage-biochemical pregnancies broke my heart a little bit. These experiences also taught me most of what I now know about perseverance, and faith in God's timing. Becoming a fertility patient sure as hell made me tough.

My life was changed forever the Sunday morning that my father rang my doorbell, sat across the breakfast table, reached for my hand, and told me that my beautiful little brother had gone to be with the Lord. There is literally not one, single hour that I do not think of Matt, how much I love and miss him, and how different life would be if he were still here with us. I miss him with a consistency that might never fade. Matt changed my life for the good when he was born, and his absence created an ever-present longing.

I've been changed by education, hobbies, experiences, travel, music, and interactions with others. I've been altered by love; love lost and love that still remains. I've made mistakes that have changed my heart and soul with consequences that I never deemed possible in the moment. However, I stand by the age-old belief that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I also believe that every mistake, every misstep, every falter in our character creates deeper and more beautiful souls. Those mistakes must be embraced and carried with us not as scars, but as increased wisdom.

Yesterday morning, I was awakened not by the rain pounding on my roof, but by the slight but sweet little kicks and punches of our baby boy inside of me, letting me know that he is there. I love feeling him move, wondering what body part it is that I am feeling, picturing his little body and how he is growing every day, stronger and stronger, so much that I feel him on a consistent basis. I think of him, and who this little person will be. As of right now, he seems like he might love dancing, soccer, or even boxing based on his movement. My greatest hope is that he is kind, loves Jesus, and knows how much his father and I prayed and wished for him.

In that moment, I realized that of all the life-changing moments and experiences, becoming a mom and nurturing this little life will be my most profound and is my greatest gift. My life will be changed forever when I become a mother. Yes, I will forever be Matt and Colleen's big sister, a Chicago girl at heart, a U of I and DePaul graduate, Jeremiah's wife, a lover of travel and music and tennis and friends and family, an educator, and all of the other identities I carry based on my experiences. However, I am adding a new name and a new title to that list and it will take precedence over all else besides "follower of God".

I know that God orchestrates our life events. The painful, wonderful, and life altering are part of his divine plan, shaping us for who we are meant to be. That is comforting to me as I look back on the past three decades. I am confident that every life-changing event was really a stepping stone taking me to where I am now, to where I am meant to go, and that so many of those moments were creating me to be the mother I am meant to be.

Of all my life-changing experiences, becoming a mother is the one that I really cannot imagine or have any expectations of, except that I will feel extreme love. I knew the songs of Hamilton ahead of time, I packed a suitcase and had big dreams for a semester in another country, played with my baby dolls in preparation for becoming a big sister, and did the required pre-marital counseling required of becoming a wife. All of our birth classes, nursery prep, baby showers, and lovingly bestowed advice cannot prepare for me for what I will feel when I first see our son's face.

I'm OK with that. I prayed for this little boy for a VERY long time. I know that the way he changes my life will be inexplicably beautiful, that God has it figured out, and that this little miracle baby will amaze me a million times more that Hamilton ever could.

I'm ready for the change.

Hamilton

April 11, 2017

The Year of the Unbelievable

2017-02-02T17:21:00.000-08:00

*Note: I have not written in a long time....the age old advice, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all," ran through my head every time I considered writing. While I have tried to weave hope through even some of my most challenging entries, I felt a strong pull to not write again until I had good news to share....and so now....my hiatus is broken....

In the dark and early morning hours of Thursday, November 3rd, I drove west on I-90, headed towards my doctor's office in Shaumburg. As I listened to the radio announcers excitedly replay the events of the evening before, I blearily tried to keep my attention on the road. I adjusted the radio volume, put my hands at 10 and 2, and looked up to see a caravan of police cars with flashing lights, and big black tour buses with the windows tinted drive past me headed east. The radio confirmed my suspicions, the World Champion Chicago Cubs had recently landed at O'Hare and were headed to Wrigleyville. I had driven right past them.

The night before, surrounded by some of our nearest and dearest, at a friend's condo in the city, Jeremiah and I watched the nail-biting, stress-inducing, disbelief-shattering Game 7 of the World Series. As the Cubs secured the final out, my husband and I turned to one another and almost simultaneously said very simply, "Believe." That night was unbelievable.

That morning that I drove past the Cubs' caravan, I arrived at my doctor's office, had my blood drawn for the one millionth (it felt like) time, and hours later received the phone call with instructions and the "A-OK" to move forward with our embryo transfer.

This transfer would be our second embryo transfer from our egg donor after eight stimulated cycles in attempts at IUI's and IVF with my own eggs, and three trial cycles to prepare for IVF. It was my thirteenth cycle overall in three years. However, this one felt different. This one felt unbelievable.

One week after the Cubs won the World Series, I once again found myself driving to the doctor's office in the dark and early morning hours. This time, I was bundled up, excited, nervous, and accompanied by Jeremiah. Also this time, the radio announcers had a much different tone as it was Wednesday, November 9th and Donald Trump had just won the presidential election. As we flipped between newscasts, this morning also had the feel of something unbelievable occurring, albeit also frightening.

The unbelievable was happening repeatedly in our world, in happy AND unsettling ways. Did I dare hope that on a much more personal level, our miracle, our unbelievable was soon to come?

Dr. Miller transferred two beautiful and perfect little embryos that cold, November morning. Jeremiah held my hand the entire time and when we were left alone in the operating room to rest, we prayed. Then we searched YouTube videos of the Cubs and World Series highlights.

On one last cold and dark November morning, a week and a half after our transfer, I awoke and knew that I could not wait the two extra days for my doctor's blood pregnancy test. I took a home test, looked down to see the clear blue "+" sign and fell to my knees. Of the dozens of tests I have taken over the years, this was my first positive. It was my first positive EVER.

This was my best unbelievable.

The journey was not over, and we had many weeks to go until my anxious and fearful heart felt safe to celebrate. However, I will say with all sincerity that hearing our baby's heartbeat for the first time, watching him or her kick a little leg, or even the first time I threw up in a garbage can were even more wonderful than I ever imagined those moments to be.

In the years to come, I will look back on the final weeks of 2016 and have memories of a full and happy Thanksgiving table, a country in political turmoil, putting up Christmas decorations while fighting bouts of nausea, listening to Hamilton on repeat, wearing Cubs paraphernalia and crying over highlight videos, snowstorms and record cold, holding a big a beautiful secret, and re-learning something that my fragile and broken heart had forgotten:

God does answer prayers and the unbelievable will happen. We will see miracles.

When I was only eight weeks pregnant, on what would have been my brother's 31st birthday, my mom and dad and I drove to the cemetery. At Matt's marker, we left a little Christmas tree with a Cub's World Series ornament hung on it. I also left a card with an ultrasound picture of the baby tucked underneath the stand of the tree. Uncle Matt knew he was an uncle before I knew I was pregnant, but I had such an overwhelming urge to tell him myself, in the only way I could think to do so.

If you had told me three years ago, when I began my journey with infertility that I would not be pregnant until 2016, and that my beautiful brother would not be here to hold his first niece of nephew, I would have never believed it. That moment felt so incredibly unbelievable to me, that I honestly look back on it now and it does not feel like it has happened in my life.

The cemetery on December 19th, 2016 is a reminder of the simple truth that the unbelievable will happen in beautiful AND heartbreaking ways. We will see them intertwine, they show us God's hand, and remind us to surrender control.

It is unbelievable to me still, that Matt is in Heaven. Honestly though, that is where he is the safest.

It is unbelievable to me that it took me three years and thirteen cycles to become pregnant. Honestly though, this is how it is the sweetest.

I know that 2016 was tumultuous for many. I know the pain of those around me suffering with illness, death, infertility, fear, and anxiety.

What I do hope to convey, is my very strong (and tearful as I write it) urging to remind, hope, and encourage those in the midst of the heartbreaking unbelievable that the miraculous and joyful unbelievable will come again. Jeremiah and I are living proof.

Soul Space

2016-06-12T07:29:00.000-07:00

Moraine Beach, Highland Park - May 2016

I am obsessed with Lake Michigan. When I say obsessed, I mean that I absolutely love it, it is my happy place, it is where I find joy and peace and God all at the same time. It is probably the first place I ever swam, as my mom and I enjoyed many afternoons on Montrose beach while I was still an only child. When my brother and sister came along, we spent entire days at Rosewood beach in Highland Park. We built sand castles, jumped in waves, searched tirelessly for beach glass, and ate sandy peanut butter and jelly while the sun burnt our shoulders. My husband and I bought our fixer-upper in Wilmette for many reasons, but in all honesty I can say that a top priority was our proximity to the lake. I had to be close to my soul space.

I am not a fair-weather Lake Michigan fan. I run with my dog through the snow and slush of January to stand on the icy shores and contemplate the contrast between its foreboding presence of winter to its warm and welcome beckoning of July. I see God's majesty in that juxtaposition. I swim just as happily in the icy, still waters of June as I do in the warm wavy ones of August. I have stripped and jumped in after a hot run in May when the water temperature feels like it will make your heart stop, and walked along the shores on a cold Thanksgiving morning with my husband; what better place to contemplate gratitude than in a place of absolute beauty in nature?

On the shores of Lake Michigan, I've sat in beach chairs for hours with my mom and sister or girlfriends and discussed life, and love, and laughed. I've read books and magazines, viewed countless fireworks displays, drank glasses of wine and vodka cocktails from water bottles, and maybe even danced a little.

I've stood and gazed at the waters and prayed. I've prayed for the loves in my life, for myself, for hope, peace, healing, understanding, for babies and for miraculous healing from drug addiction for my beautiful brother who broke my heart by succumbing to its power and leaving me.

Another summer is here and for the first time this week, I went alone with my chair, my lunch, my books, and my SPF 30 and 50 as I am getting very serious about protecting my 35-year-old skin, a little too little and a little too late.

A very dear girlfriend lent a book to me that I can only describe as a collection of a woman's musings of her heart and soul. Each chapter is a new thought based on an experience she has had. As she and I have so much in common, even though she is a stranger, I am connected to her and the words that she artfully shares. As I started a chapter titled "What Could Have Been" I knew I was going to be moved. The chapter spoke about the due date of a miscarried baby, and a woman who cried a little bit at every wedding she attended as her sister had died and the dancing reminded her that she would never celebrate with her best friend again.

This author and I, we connect.

Tears literally poured out from under my sunglasses. As an avid reader, I can say with absolute certainty that no book has made me cry since I was 11 years old and read Where the Red Fern Grows (about the little boy and his hunting dogs who die saving his life). Today, I cried again because of the words an author so eloquently compiled. I was touched, validated, connected, and so very thankful to my girlfriend for sharing this book with me all at one time.

I pulled myself together, stood from my beach chair, and walked down to the water to compose myself and feel the cool waters soothe my hot feet and emotional soul. A sweet little toddler crossed my path. He was wearing a Superman t-shirt, had bright blond hair, blue eyes, and was irresistibly chubby. It cut to my heart as he looked so much like my beautiful and Heaven-sent little brother did as a baby, and also because I so want to be a mom to a son. Part of me is so drawn to having a son as I desperately wish for my family to have the presence of a young child who reminds us of my brother, and also because I know the bond between a mother and son is indescribable. The desire is multi-faceted.

I could have looked at today's time at the lake with sadness. I could have wished for the past when Matt was still with us, or longed for a future when I am there with my own children, particularly a little boy who looked like my path-crossing toddler. I didn't feel that way today. I felt peaceful in knowing that today, this is where God wants me to be. Every day that goes by is another day of learning to live with the loss of one of the most important people in my life, and every day that passes is another day closer to a time when I will become a mother.

I've learned a lot in these last few months about myself, about time, about God's plan, and about the heartbreak that comes for wishing for something that isn't meant to be.

If God agrees with the desires of my heart, it will happen. If it is not in His plan, I cannot force it.

I could not force Matt to get better, because God knew that he was safer in Heaven than he was with me. I'm pretty damn sure God wants me to be a mom as I'm confident I would be really good at it, if not slightly overbearing due to my years of wishing and praying for as child so fervently. I do however, have to be patient and cannot force the process. I have to see how He wants that desire to take shape.

I read a quote the other day on (my favorite) Pinterest. It said:

You have to find that place that brings out the human in you. The soul in you. The love in you........

I am in that place now. Physically and superficially, my lake brings out the soul, human, and love in me. Emotionally and with depth, life's experiences brought me to that place...

The truth about grief, a broken heart, about pain is that you never "get over" the experience. It changes you fundamentally and you live with it as a part of who you are, as a part of your soul, what makes you human, and what inspires you to continue to love.

Once again, my time at the lake was well spent. Lake Michigan, a lovingly shared book, and a toddler stranger affirmed that right where I am is where I am meant to be, my human place, my soul space, my place of love.

A Little Bit of Miracle

2016-04-06T09:29:00.000-07:00

Miracle: (noun) a surprising and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws and is therefore considered to be the work of a divine agency.

In "googling" the word miracle, this is the definition I found. I agree with the given descriptor, but it is missing a disclaimer:

*Miracles do not always end the way we had hoped for...

Throughout my journey to become pregnant, I have prayed fervently and tirelessly for a miracle. On March 2, I was granted that miracle. On April 1, I lost it.

A positive pregnancy test was a miracle in itself for me. What happened between the dates of February 22 and April 1 were what I believe to be a true miracle. Unfortunately, my miracle wasn't permanent.

February 22: First HCG blood test after embryo transfer, positive result

February 24 (my birthday): Second HCG blood test, levels dropped, nurses informed us it was not a viable pregnancy, stopped all medication, began grieving process

March 2: follow up HCG blood test, HCG numbers inexplicably rose, nurses told me this was not a good phenomenon and to not get my hopes up, worried there was something seriously wrong with my body

March 4: follow up HCG blood test resulted in numbers appropriately doubled, gestational sac detected on the ultrasound, nurses and doctors shocked and in disbelief

*felt we were witnessing our miracle, Jer brought home flowers and a balloon, I tried to breathe through shock

March 5-March 14: numbers rise and gestational sac continues to grow, concerns over not enough growth regularly voiced by doctor and nurses, fear sets in, multiple appointments, countless hours of worry and prayer

On March 15th, Jeremiah and I walked into the doctor's office for another HCG blood test and ultrasound. We knew this was a pivotal day, that if the sac had not produced a yolk or fetal pole, the pregnancy was not going to continue. In the ultrasound room, Jeremiah had to hold me up as I was so nervous I fell while getting undressed for my exam. He held my hand while the doctor and nurse peered intently at the ultrasound machine. I watched their faces for any sign of hope. I knew by their furrowed brows and murmuring that they were not seeing what they were looking for.

My doctor walked away from the machine.

"It's empty. Shit," I heard him say.

You know your doctor is on your team when he swears at your undesirable results.

My heart sunk, my blood froze, I went numb. I was in shock yet again. The weeks behind me had been filled with highs and lows, shock and disbelief, joy, hope, and fear. It was over. The D&C had to be scheduled.

In an effort to not ruin our upcoming vacation, we scheduled the procedure for the week after we came home. Because of this decision, I had to stay on my shots and medication so that I did not miscarry while away from my doctor's care. As I look back on it now, there was a part of me that still held onto hope that growth would occur while we were on our vacation and the miracle would continue. It was unrealistic, but my understanding is that is the magic of miracles.

On the day of my pre-operative blood work and ultrasound, I went by myself. I sat on the exam table and waited for what felt like hours to see the doctor. When he came in, he was done in two minutes. He saw my collapsed gestational sac right away. It was a flat blob. My beautiful little miracle, my hope, my baby, was a flat black blob inside of my belly. It hadn't grown. It wasn't safe inside of me, it wasn't the miracle I had wanted it to be.

Three days later, on April 1, I had my D&C. I cried from the minute we got to the hospital, until eight hours later when they brought me ginger ale and cookies. At one point, a nurse asked me if she should get a chaplain to pray with me, as I was in such a state. Nothing could have stopped the tears that day.

It is now several days past the D&C. I was able to stop taking the medication that was keeping me pregnant, making me feel pregnant. My butt is healing from where I was putting injections for 9 weeks. My breasts stopped aching, I'm no longer nauseous, I can keep my eyes open long enough to finish a TV show in the evening, and I don't feel short tempered and annoyed at everything I encounter, not excluding my sweet golden retriever.

When I think of a way to weave a thread of hope, an iota of strength, a lesson of faith through this experience, I can only come up with these words:

I still believe that miracles happen every day. I also still believe in happy endings. I know that even the smallest of miracles, in whatever shape or form they are given to us, are God's reminder that He is leading us to our happy ending.

Sometimes I think my heart can't take any more loss. In these last three years, I have lost more than I ever imagined I could endure. I've had my heart broken more than I thought possible. Sometimes, it is so broken that it physically aches in my chest. In spite of these losses and heartbreak, I refuse to lose myself.

The core of my being has always held onto faith, hope, and love. Having that make up in my soul means that I believe in miracles, I believe in happy endings. I believe in the power of prayer.

Maybe God is allowing for another element to be added to my core: bad ass.

Bad ass girls don't give up on miracles and happy endings. We keep praying.

*When I was praying for my pregnancy, I promised God that I would tell others about the miracle He gave us. I promised that I would use this experience to share hope. Lord...it is shared.

**Please pray for me, because the pain is excruciating, because I believe that God will hear your prayer, because I want to become a mom more than anything, because it is time for me to call in the troops...

Words to an Addict

2016-01-08T11:07:00.001-08:00

In the dark and early hours of this morning, I awoke suddenly and with a gasp of breath. I knew I had experienced something special, and in the dreamlike and foggy state of the first seconds of consciousness I could not remember what it was.

It quickly came to me and my mind raced to recall each and every detail. It was so powerful and intense that I wanted to experience it again. If only I could fall asleep and continue the moment, I would have.

Two years and two months since my brother's death, he will occasionally appear to me in a dream. It is so rare, and so powerful, that it often sets me back in my grief. Seeing his blue eyes and hearing his voice so vividly remind me of what is missing from my life; my little brother, my friend.

In the dream, Matt had never died. He had faked his death and was still with us. I lost my temper, pounded on his chest, and called him a bad person repeatedly. He wasn't fazed by my anger and laughed and teased me until I calmed down. This was a technique that he had always been so skilled at...one that probably made his girlfriends even crazier than it made his sisters. He charmed his way out of catastrophe, countless times.

Matt could not charm his way out of the catastrophe of heroin, because he was an addict. It was the one dangerous, crazy, mind-altering act that he could not twinkle his blue eyes at, joke into friendship, wrap in his arms and love, or grip in his hands and fix.

He didn't fake his death, and he isn't still with us. The dream was just a dream.

In other dreams that I have had of Matt, there has been symbolism, metaphors, and sometimes even a little inspiration from my baby brother. I desperately searched for some meaning in this particular dream, something that he or God wanted to tell me. I simply could not come up with anything. Instead, my mind began to focus on the meaning, severity, and pull of addiction.

I know what it feels like to come home from a long night of parent-teacher conferences and pour a glass of red wine. I understand the way the alcohol almost instantly calms shaken nerves and slows a racing mind. I know how it feels to do a kickboxing class, punch a little too hard, and wake up the next morning knowing that the pain of the pulled muscle will take my breath away. I am thankful for the way a Vicodin will ease that intensity and allow me to breathe through the initial trauma. I've been put under anesthesia several times for my fertility procedures. I know how one little needle being inserted into my hand can put me to sleep instantly so that I do not feel the physical pain of the procedure, despite the emotional pain it causes me.

I understand the desire to be numb, or high, or happy, or to simply be put to sleep. It is depressingly honest to say that losing rational thought sometimes sounds beautiful. That is also my limited understanding of the power of addiction.

I understand the peace that comes from a mind numbed by a substance when one is in the midst of pain. However, I also have seen the fear that comes from a loss of control, the surrender to something that will take a 27-year-old man from his family and friends. There is no peace in that.

There is no peace in a mind so altered that it has lost control. I understand, but I am angry.

And then I walked away from this post for several days...

...and went to the Daley Center in Chicago for jury duty. There, a homeless woman sat with her coffee cups, shopping cart, lottery tickets, and her sun worn face looked around expectantly for a friend as she quietly mumbled to herself. She was so clearly intoxicated on that cold Wednesday morning...

...and had tea with my friend Nancy who confided in me about her stepson and his struggle with addiction to alcohol, his homelessness, and the destruction that he is bringing on his family...

...and finally, I sat at my favorite bar on a Thursday night with Jeremiah and we split a burger and quesadillas. I had my glass of red wine by the fire with the last sets of white twinkle lights still out and shining happily from a corner Christmas tree. The red wine instantly calmed my shaken nerves and slowed my racing mind...

...and I told Jeremiah about the blog post that I had started about addiction on the previous Sunday that I could not finish. We talked about the homeless woman at the Daley Center, and my friend's stepson. We talked about how seeing the young lawyers at jury duty had been difficult for me as I felt the devastation that Matt was not with them, practicing law, loving his chosen profession that he had wanted so badly and worked so hard to earn. We talked about how addiction had ruined all of his hopes and dreams.

Jeremiah reminded me of the story of the Pharisees. Over my glass of red wine and his beer, he retold the story of the men who wanted to condemn. Jesus wrote in the dirt and then told the men standing there whoever was without sin to cast the first stone. The oldest men walked away first as they knew that they had committed the most sins. The middle aged men stepped away next, and the youngest last.

Nobody knows what Jesus wrote in the sand when he told the men to throw stones. What we do know is that no one was so flawless that they were able to cast the first stone.

John 8:7 says:

When they kept questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, "Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw the stone at her."

We all have sin. Whether we shot heroin, lied, cheated, intentionally hurt, or doubted it is all dark to God. The greatest gift of all that He gave us is His forgiveness, but also the ability to forgive others.

The sin in our lives, it can break the hearts of those around us. Matt's addiction broke my heart, over and over. He didn't do it on purpose, but it hurt me every day that he was sick. Addiction will do that to the people who surround the addict; it will break their hearts.

I let go of the anger and replace it with understanding. Understanding brings peace.

We are a a work in progress, constantly needing to redeem ourselves, smooth our flaws, and ask for forgiveness. We have to hold love at a higher esteem than anger, as withholding forgiveness can be as toxic as an addiction to heroin.

Heroin was toxic and powerful, but LOVE is stronger. My love for Matt remains and the power of the drug died when Matt met Jesus in Heaven.

I will meet him there as well. We will have forgiveness, a warm hug, and I will see long lost twinkling blue eyes. In Heaven, there will be no need for a glass of red wine to calm my shaken nerves or slow my racing mind.

Heartbreak Creates Beautiful Stories

2015-11-25T12:51:00.001-08:00

I had a thought the other day, "What if the life I am leading was being written into a novel?"

It would be a novel filled with twists and turns, highs and lows, heart break and joy. If I think of my life in that context, the current pain is put into perspective. I am an avid reader, and I know that the tone of novels, especially the magnificently written, can change instantly.

How lucky would we be to wake up on our 87th birthday and be handed a book that was the story of our lives? It would be thick, leather, and have our names engraved in gold on the front. How moving, powerful, heart-wrenching, inspiring and encouraging would each of our stories be? If our lives were turned into novels at the end of our time here, who would read them and how would they be affected by the literature?

It is possible that we would be the only individuals to turn the pages with fervor and excitement, remembering each step that we took and reminiscing on the lives that we led. Even if that were the case, I would gladly accept the gift. A beautifully written novel moves my soul.

One my most favorite books is Gone With the Wind. As a little girl, I snuggled under homemade afghans in my grandparent's basement and watched the entire movie with my grandmother during a weekend sleepover. I was entranced. I loved the dresses, the accents, the drama, and of course, the kissing. As an adult, I knew that if I adored the movie, the book would be far superior. It did not disappoint.

Scarlett O'Hara's life begins in a blessed way. She knows no pain, and cannot fathom a world outside of the plantation of Tara. It does not take long for her world to be turned upside down. As the story continues, you experience the life of this woman with her. She encounters, grief, love, betrayal, poverty, opulence, and incredible loss. Sometimes she handles it with grace, but most times she does not. The story ends with heartbreak as the love of her life walks off into the misty fog as he can no longer endure her fickle heart.

The part of Scarlett that draws me to her is that in this crisis, she wipes her tears, her eyes begin to sparkle, and she convinces herself that, "After all, tomorrow is another day." She vows to move forward with hope in spite of intense pain. I love that about her.

There is something about intense heartbreak that makes you want to turn the page, to see what is next, to keep reading the story. There is something about emotional pain that makes me say to myself, "After all, tomorrow is another day." I want to know what is in store for me. What is on my next page, or chapter of life. This crisis has to spur me on, as I can't stay frozen in this heartbreaking moment.

My heart has broken this past year more than I have thought was possible. Sometimes I feel the actual breaking in my chest. My sleep is filled with nightmares, my stomach feels as if someone is gripping it, tears flow easily when they once were hard to conjure up. I miss my little brother, I have been knocked down countless times in our fertility struggle, and I have hopes and dreams that I have only seen fulfilled in my mind.

However, God is the author of my story and He does not make mistakes.

If I live through heartbreak, I know that my heart is still beating.

There is a song that my students sang at their 5th grade graduation last year. It is slightly cheesy, and overplayed, but I tend to like songs like that. There is a set of lyrics in the beginning that encourage me to keep the sparkle in my eyes, despite the tears.

"Hope that you fall in love, and it hurts so bad
The only way you can know is give it all you have
And I hope that you don't suffer but take the pain
Hope when the moment comes, you'll say...I did it all"

I love those lyrics because the writer is wishing heartbreak on the listener. Heartbreak changes us in a way we cannot fathom until we experience it. It makes our story a "page turner". It keeps our life interesting and beautiful and overwhelming and magnificent.

Heartbreak puts our stories on the bestseller list.

Listen to "I Lived"

Louie's Karaoke

2015-08-17T19:04:00.003-07:00

This past Friday, I packed my overnight bag for our final out-of-town wedding of the summer. When I realized that my rehearsal dinner outfit, high heels, three curling irons, make-up bag, and various other items that made it look like I was going away for longer than a weekend and further than Ann Arbor didn't fit in my favorite weekend bag, I dug through my closet to find something to supplement my inadequate luggage. I pulled out a beige, canvas messenger bag that I used to haul books back and forth to class in grad school.

The significance of this messenger bag lies only in the fact that I have not used it in years. In it, I placed my hot pink running shoes, gold clutch purse, and two journals that I am currently filling with all of my most "important" thoughts and ideas.

I drove the 4.5 hours to Ann Arbor by myself last Friday, as Jeremiah had left a day before so that he would be able to join the other groomsmen on the golf course early that morning. I listened to my favorite Pandora stations, sang to myself, talked on the phone, and only stopped once to pee. By the time I reached our hotel and checked into our room, I knew that a run would be the only cure for the cramps in my legs and back from driving all day.

I rummaged through the contents of the messenger bag, so that I could retrieve my hot pink runners from the bottom. Instead of finding only the items I had added back home, my fingers brushed across a slip of paper at the bottom of the bag.

The paper was a reservation slip used to reserve a spot to sing a song at Louie's Karaoke Bar in Chicago on North Avenue. It was written on in Matt's handwriting and said "Matt C and the sistas".

I felt myself gasp, and my hand covered my mouth. I sat down on the floor and held the crinkled piece of paper to my heart. I desperately wracked my brain for a memory of a time that I was there with my brother and sister, planning on singing a karaoke song together, but I couldn't recall the evening.

How many years ago was this night? Why did I have my messenger bag with me? Did we ever get the chance to sing, or did we lose our nerve? What song was Matt planning on singing with us? I wish I could remember these details, but they are lost with Matt. He would remember.

The thing about Louie's Karaoke, is that it does not hold the type of memories that are easily forgotten. I have been there dozens of times and vividly remember each of them. I celebrated one of my best friend's bachelorette parties there. My dad and I sat and had a beer together at Louie's after my first week of teaching. Louie's bar serves popcorn all night long, the bartenders are surprisingly good at rapping, and people dance to imperfect voices singing songs that are meaningful enough to take a risk and hold a microphone.

I've sang songs from our college days with my best girlfriends, taken shots to celebrate birthdays, shared happy hour beers, and danced until my feet ached.

The fact that I cannot remember this evening at Louie's with my brother and sister, and the knowledge that Matt is probably the only one who would be able to fill this hole in my memory reminds me of one important truth:

Heaven holds secrets that we might not have answers to here on Earth.

Some of those secrets are small moments of time, missing from the scrapbooks in our minds. Some of those secrets are momentous, answers about our fate, knowledge that we need not have.

Matt knows if he was going to sing "To Be With You" or "Man in the Mirror" with his two adoring sisters. He knows when my broken heart will heal. He knows if and when God will grace us with the desires of our hearts. He knows that it is all a part of a perfect plan, with perfect timing.

Sine I've lost my brother, I have spent many hours going through his pictures on Facebook, looking at the belongings in his room, and searching through mementos I have kept. I have googled his name. I have reached out to people who he loved and communicated with his friends. All of these things I have done with the hope that I would come across something that would make me feel close to him again, as close to him as if he were standing next to me, teasing me, laughing with me, shaking me by the shoulders the way he always did when he was trying to get me out of my own head.

I've wanted to feel as close to him as I felt when we were dancing together in bars, talking long-distance over the phone, texting to check on one another, watching movies in the family room, hanging out on the back porch, or laughing together as a family over dinner.

In truth, there is no item that I will come across that will ever make feel as close to my brother as his physical presence once did. I may continue to find small reminders of him, treasures of our time together, glimpses into his world as the years go by. These items will be snippets of inspiration, leading me to a more heavenly perspective...just as this little slip of paper did last Friday.

This week, a lost memory of a time at a karaoke bar gives me hope that there are answers waiting for me in Heaven. Answers are waiting for me in Heaven, and so is my happy, healthy, handsome little brother.

When I go back to Louie's, I know that it will be worth remembering with all of my heart...

Listen to "To Be With You"

Listen to "Man in the Mirror"

Unsettled

2015-05-14T12:20:00.000-07:00

This afternoon, I sat in the teacher's lounge and worked with my teammates for three hours on end-of-the-year tasks. We planned our literacy block for the next school year, organized reading assessments, assigned points to a math test, and even had a little time to chat about the lives that we lead outside the walls of school. The end of the year brings about a type of busyness that is fueled solely on fumes; the fumes of hope and anticipation of the upcoming summer.

Despite our productivity today, I had the underlying feeling of being "unsettled" while working through my to-do list. My colleague agreed. We discussed how perfectly the word "unsettled" described our state of mind.

It's hard to pinpoint exactly where this emotion came from amidst chatting friends, stacks of paper, coffee cups, chocolate, and a to-do list. We can blame it on the stress, that one particular student about to push us over the edge, an argument with a colleague, or the fact that our tasks are never truly finished. Or, we can accept that feeling for what it truly is.

I believe that the feeling of being unsettled comes from having an overwhelming amount of life events and factors that we cannot control.

I am certain that is where our discontentment came from today as we tackled curriculum, problem solved, dealt with student issues, and attempted to tread hard enough to keep our heads above the mounting end-of-the-year tasks.

I also know that we are each, as always, bringing our own set of uncontrollable issues with us to work each day. However, we have 20 plus children waiting for us, wanting to be entertained, nurtured and taught. We put on our cute, but functional teacher outfits, drink our Venti coffees, smile, and pretend for the hours that we are in front of our class that we have everything under control. As a teacher, we do have control. It is in our daily lives where we desperately reach for the ability to manage life as we would a math lesson.

The biggest control issue that I have in my life right now is the fact that I cannot control or create the happiness and joy that I so desperately wish for my family. I can't control when and if I become pregnant, I cannot take away my parent's pain over losing their son, I can't manage my sister's life for her, I cannot stop the waves of grief that still hit us full force on a daily basis. These are simply out of my control.

There is such a multitude of issues that we wish to control and cannot. Will we find the perfect house, or when will construction be finished? Will the newest treatment the doctors recommend work? Will my spouse and I ever find a common ground? When will that perfect job be offered? Will my friend/co-worker/family member ever see the pain that they are causing me and apologize? Could I PLEASE just get some sleep? These are daily issues that we battle, pray for, and hope to find resolution, yet that end result can never come fast enough.

Maybe instead of wrestling with trying to find answers, control, and soothe our unsettled hearts, we need to sit back and enjoy life for the unfolding story that it is. I know firsthand that anything I believed with certainty would be, or thought that I had absolute reign over the outcome has happened much differently than I believed it would.

A year ago next weekend, we lost our first and strongest pregnancy. I was ready to jump back into treatments immediately. We did for awhile, but then I needed a break. If you had told me 12 months ago that I would still not be pregnant a year later, I would have lost my mind. However, that has not been something I have been able to fix, remedy, make better, or to control.

If you had told me 12 months ago, that we were going to move out of our house, tear the roof off, add a second story and move back in, I also would have lost my mind. But as I sit my sun room to write, and look around at all that we have accomplished, I know that if we had been pregnant this addition that was my husband's dream would have been almost impossible.

I was so unsettled about my brother's addiction, for so many months. I wanted to lock him in our house, control his every move, and manage his life to keep him safe. God had other plans, and knew that Matt's safest place was with him in Heaven. There was nothing I could do to control my brother's addiction.

The moral of the story is that when we feel most unsettled, that might be when God is doing his biggest and greatest works in our lives. His answers are not always what we wish them to be, or do they come in the time that we want.

What will He do next? What does our future hold? We wouldn't be able to handle the knowledge of impending pain, so it is better if we do not. Surprises are better unspoiled, so let's anticipate the gift of life and all that it offers us. Let's find a solace in relinquishing control. We can hand that burden over, it's not in our hands, the responsibility is not ours.

Instead of allowing ourselves to feel unsettled, we can try to view our lack of control with gratitude and expectant hearts.

Keep On Dreaming

2015-02-25T11:19:00.000-08:00

Late last fall, after a year long hiatus, I was able to listen to music again without relating each song to a memory with my brother or a lyric to my grief. I downloaded Pandora onto my new iPhone, and fell in love again with the artists and songs that filled my ears. Over the last few months of construction on my house, as I've painted every square inch of our new rooms, I've felt inspired and touched again by music. Dave, Van Morrison, David Gray, Norah Jones, Ron Pope, Coldplay, and more country artists than I care to admit have sang to me as Pistachio Cream, Mystic Blue, and Slate Gray were rolled onto the walls of my new home and many of my favorite hoodies.

One country song in particular has popped up several times over the last few weeks. Eli Young Band's "Even If It Breaks Your Heart" has played more times than most on my favorite station.

Some dreams stay with you forever,

Drag you around but bring you back to where you were.

Some dreams keep on gettin' better,

Gotta keep believin' if you wanna know for sure.

In that powerful, yet unexpected way that a song can grip you, this one has held me.

As children, we dream of what we will become when we "grow up". We dream of falling in love, becoming heroes, joining the ranks of the famous and powerful, or simply being happy. When we are young and innocent, we can't fathom that a dream will break our hearts.

I certainly had dreams that came true, and also have some that have not yet come to fruition. Some are realistic, some are more far fetched. I dreamed of becoming a teacher, and I am able to type this in the quiet of classroom 211 while my 5th graders are in music class. I also dreamed that I would become a mom. I haven't yet opened my eyes to this as a reality.

This next month will be my last opportunity to try to conceive with one of my own eggs. It will be our eighth, and doctor recommended, final attempt. If this time does not work, I will have to alter my dream of motherhood. It can still come true, but in a way that my seven-year old self did not imagine as I lovingly rocked my baby dolls to sleep and tucked them into doll-sized cribs. I am at peace with this because I know that in some way, somehow, I will become a mother.

In dreaming these past few years of becoming a mother, my heart has been broken. But just as Eli Young Band's song encourages, I couldn't let the dream go. Even though it breaks my heart, I believe in it.

As I lay my head on the pillow and close my eyes each night, or my mind wanders while grading papers, or my heart yearns while listening to music, I know that each dream I have, even those that break my heart, are worthy of keeping. God put those dreams on my heart for a reason. It would be foolish to let them go.

At 34, I have my life ahead of me. Maybe losing my 27-year old brother caused me to believe that I have less years than are truly there. As I heal, I am realizing that most of us will live to our 28th, 37th, 59th, and 80th years...maybe more. If I want to become a writer, I have time. If my sister wants to be an orchestral musician, she has years to continue auditioning. Matt wanted to become a lawyer, and he believed in it until the day he left us.

I want to be a mom, and I won't let it go. My quiet dreams, the ones I keep to myself, I have decades to work to bring them to reality. If it hurts, they were that important.

Pray about it.

Write about it.

Daydream about it.

Love and cherish it.

Let it bring you happiness, hoping for it.

Never let it go. Even if it breaks your heart.

If a dream breaks your heart, it's because it meant enough to have that effect on you. It was, and is worth it.

Listen to: "Even If It Breaks Your Heart"

Advice From a Fifth Grader

2015-01-24T08:21:00.000-08:00

In my fifth grade classroom, I try to chose read-alouds that will not only entertain my students, but will also encourage social discussion and provide me with an opportunity to teach compassion and kindness.

This semester, we are reading a story about a little girl who is homeless. She lives in a car with her mother and little brother, and their situation is dire. The little girl, in an attempt to make money for a home, devises a plan to steal someone's dog and then collect the reward money when the owner notices their beloved pet is missing.

Yesterday, I sat in my director's chair in the reading corner of my classroom and read another chapter of this heart wrenching story to my class. Twenty-two faces looked up at me from their spots on the carpet, etched with sadness and pain, as I read the part about the little girl washing her hair in the sink at Walgreens, fighting with her mother about how hungry she was, and deciding with finality that she was going to steal a dog.

As I closed the book on that particular chapter, I asked my class what their thoughts were about the girl and her plan. Almost every hand shot up in the air.

"No matter what, it's not right to steal someone's dog."
"She is being so mean to her mom, her mom is just trying to do the best she can."
"It would be so terrible to be homeless and hungry."

And then the most important comment, "Just because you are hurting, it is not ok to hurt someone else."

As their teacher, I felt proud. They were picking out the main themes of the story, a reading skill that we are currently working on. More importantly, they are turning into empathetic and kind individuals.

As an adult, I felt convicted.

The parallel of this little girl's life and my own is not too abstract of an idea.

Two weeks ago, Jeremiah and I had a healthy egg retrieved, our first one. It fertilized, was given a high grade, and on a snowy Thursday morning was transferred into me. As I lay on the doctor's table, the nurse handed me a picture of our embryo. Jeremiah told me later that I had clutched it to my heart throughout the entire procedure. I watched on the ultrasound machine as the doctor did our embryo transfer and told me that it couldn't have gone better.

It doesn't take long for a woman to connect to even just the idea of a baby. I had a name, I thought I knew what the gender was, and I began to feel like a mom.

However, in the days leading up to the pregnancy test, I started to lose my footing. I didn't think it worked. I lost hope. I got emotional, stressed, worried, and afraid.

Fear is a common theme for me lately. I'm still afraid of drugs fifteen months after losing Matt. I fear failure, change, infertility, childlessness, pain, hurt...I am afraid of a broken heart.

In my fear, I acted badly. I was highly sensitive to any words that were said, I cried a LOT more than is normal for me, I shut down, and I pushed away the people who love me. I didn't answer any phone calls, and I barely responded to texts from girlfriends and family. I fought with Jeremiah, I snapped at my mom, and I was distracted at work.

I was trying to hold it together and be tough. By Thursday morning, the day of my pregnancy test, I was pretty low.

When my phone rang Thursday afternoon, in the middle of a science lab on cell diffusion, my heart skipped a beat. When I heard the tone in the nurse's voice, my heart sank. There was no baby.

Then I walked back into Room 211, and my twenty-two fifth graders, and continued with our science lab.

"This is f*&#ed up," my friend Jessica said when she checked on me after the 3:30 bell. I couldn't have said it better.

Still in shock on Thursday night, and not thinking clearly, I did things that I hadn't been able to do for the last month. I ran and ran and ran while blasting music, and had a glass of whiskey. Then, Jeremiah took me to dinner to distract me. But when I woke up to the dark and cold of Friday morning, the reality was too painful. There was no baby.

I don't know if that gives me a free pass to be highly sensitive and emotional for a few days or not. But I do know that my fifth grader saying, "Just because you are hurting, it is not ok to hurt someone else" struck a chord that is still resonating with my soul this Saturday morning.

I wanted that baby so badly. I wanted to grow it inside of me, nurture and love a new life, and feel that connection with a child. I'm so ready.

God said, "Not yet."

So, while I am waiting, I'll run a few more miles, have a couple of drinks, and rest my mind. I'll try to laugh a little, not be so sensitive, and take deep breaths. I'll be grateful to take a break from the massive amount of hormones I was taking...and I'm guessing that will help a little too.

I'll hold onto the sweet and innocent words of my fifth graders and apologize to the people I love.

There is no baby, but the moon greets me every night, and the sun rises every morning. Matt is safe in Heaven, and my family and friends still love me. There is no baby, but our life is still blessed.

Just because you are in pain, it's not ok to miss God's hand in your life.

New Year, New Hope

2014-12-30T13:39:00.001-08:00

Last year, New Year's Eve was bittersweet...heavy on the bitter, light on the sweet. The sweetness came in the form of friends and family gathering in my cozy home for a dinner party and games, love and laughter, bottles of champagne, and a twinkling Christmas tree. The bitterness came from our overwhelmingly intense desire to say farewell to 2013.

We were blessed, but sad as we counted down to midnight. We cried that year, as we hugged and kissed, lit off fireworks, said good-bye to the hardest year of our lives, and allowed relief to wash over us as we just knew 2014 would be better.

As I reflect back on 2014, my mind is filled not just with the last twelve months, but with my 33 years of life. When one undergoes monumental changes, it forces you to look at the big picture. Twelve months, a year, simply is not big in my eyes anymore. These years...they fly.

When I was eight years old, my Uncle Tommy babysat us so our parents could go out on the town for New Year's. I couldn't wait to be grown-ups like them, getting dressed up and drinking champagne.

When I was sixteen, we all met at a local burger place and then rang in the New Year in a friend's basement. Some of us drank, some didn't. We were navigating our adolescence and freedom.

When 2000 came, despite all the hype and scare, my college-freshman self joined friends in a basement for a dress-up fancy party. We all lived through the turn of the century, but barely survived the cheap alcohol.

In my 20's, our friends rotated hosting in our condos and apartments in the city, pulling out and using our new china and silver from wedding registries, and feeling grown up and acting like typical yuppies.

One year, Jer and I stayed home the two of us. I made all of our favorite hors d'oeuvres and we watched It's a Wonderful Life. It was lovely.

This year, we will get dressed up again, and go to a dinner party at my best friend's home in the city. We will toast 2014 and look ahead to 2015, filled with hope and anticipation for learning the secrets only the months passing will allow us to hear.

As I look back on my 33 New Year's, the blink of an eye that my life truly is, I know this:

Life changes unexpectedly, beautifully, tragically, and swiftly in ways that we cannot wish to know or understand.

Fifteen years ago, when I was in my friend's basement, drinking Bacardi and Diet Coke, wearing a pink tube top and gray chiffon skirt, and dancing to Brittney Spears and Ricky Martin, my biggest dilemma was that I wasn't sure if I should end things with my high school boyfriend before we went back to college that January. I am grateful that I didn't know then what I know now.

We cannot imagine what God has in store for us. It is never exactly as we think it will be. We can hope, and pray, and dream, and try our damnedest to achieve our dreams, but we simply cannot predict what will be.

We will find ourselves changed by love, changed by grief, in situations we never believed would appear in our lives, stronger that we knew we were, sadder than we ever thought we could be, laughing through pain, loving harder and deeper, and learning how quickly life changes.

The peace that comes with joy and love after extreme loss is incomprehensible. It is deeper and more beautiful than the joy of an immature soul.

Celebrate 2014 this Wednesday night. Ring in 2015 with anticipation of great things. But also know that if 2015 isn't perfect, it will pass as quickly as you can blink your eyes...or maybe close them for a restful sleep filled with dreams of change...

New Year's 2009

"Wish I didn't know now what I didn't know then

Against the wind, we were running against the wind

We were young, and strong, we were runnin'

Against the wind"

-Bob Seger

A Different Kind of Thanks

2014-11-30T16:20:00.002-08:00

The week leading up to Thanksgiving was filled with reminders to give thanks in all circumstances. Commercials filled the TV screen with families surrounded with bounty, friends and co-workers talked excitedly about their upcoming holiday plans, and my devotional each morning focused on always having a grateful heart.

"Rejoice always, pray continually, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus." - 1 Thessalonians 5:16-18

"Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever." - Psalm 118:1

These verses, along with a barrage of others and wisdom shared by the talented Christian writers of my daily readings filled my mind, but not my heart as we approached another holiday without Matt, new babies, or even the peace that we have so desperately sought out this past year.

I asked myself, "How is it possible that thirteen months have passed, and life still seems so very much the same?"

On a hiatus from fertility treatment until January, because we have sought a new doctor's opinion has given me relief from the daily monitoring, hormones, incessant phone calls with updates from nurses, days off from school to sit for hours in the doctor's waiting room, emotional highs and lows, a bruised stomach from needles, and a bruised spirit from heartbreak. No babies have yet come from this journey.

Thirteen months later and it is still very much apparent that Matt is missing. He didn't come home from law school Wednesday afternoon to meet us in the family room, to wrestle with the dogs, and to regale us with stories of his days away from us. When I made the mashed potatoes this year, they were smashed because Matt wasn't there to harass me into whipping them perfectly smooth.

In the days leading up to Thanksgiving, I felt that our life was still very much the same, in a place that I would not choose it to be.

The miracle therein lies, that on Thanksgiving Day, my family was able to laugh, give thanks, celebrate, love, and cling to one another in joy.

Thanksgiving Day brought sunshine, intermixed with snow. The sun and snow together was a small miracle. I was thankful that Matt loved the winter so deeply, that each snowflake that falls will forever remind me of him.
Music that reminded me of my brother filled my ears all weekend long. Instead of quickly turning it off, I let it transport me to times listening with Matt, but also I allowed it to enhance the present moment. I am thankful that certain music will always make me feel close to my brother, that when I hear this music it will feel like Matt is saying, "It's ok sis."

White twinkle lights popped up this weekend. They are on homes, line the streets of our town, and fill shop windows. Instead of missing Matt hanging white lights all over his childhood bedroom, I am thankful that I had a brother that brought us such beautiful family memories.

I'm thankful for a break from fertility treatment. These three months will allow my body to rest, and my spirit to grow strong again. These months can be filled with enjoying things, and experiencing life in a way that I cannot when I am consumed by the process of IVF.

Matt was not present at the Thanksgiving table, and there was not a baby to be passed from one set of loving arms to another. However, one of Matt's best friends, Jamie, and his father graced us with their presence and homemade wine. Halfway through dinner, another set of neighbors rang our doorbell. Chairs were added, and the conversation and laughter became more boisterous as the snowflakes continued to fall. I was thankful that despite missing some, our holiday table was still filled with people I love.

When all of the dishes had been cleared and the pie had been eaten, Jamie took us to his barn to pet the horses, listen to music, and play darts. Matt wasn't there, but his handwriting was on the bracket he made for a bags tournament, hanging on the wall in the shop, and his presence filled the night. I was thankful that Matt shared his friends with us in a way that since he is gone, Colleen and I still feel that we have brothers.

Some years, Thanksgivings will look exactly as you want them to. You will sit next to the love of your life, hold hands in prayer with your most precious family members, be healthy and strong, and feel that all is right with the world. I've had years like those. I believe that we will have them again.

I also believe, with every fiber of my being, that the Thanksgivings when life is not perfect, are the ones when you appreciate the beauty and blessings even more. Snowflakes, Dave Matthews Band, white twinkle lights, and a whole lot of love meant more to me in 2014 than they ever have.

That depth, that richness, the beauty, the strength in this year...that is where my gratitude lies.

Just a little dancing and darts on Thanksgiving night - 2014

Soul Mates

2014-11-11T18:02:00.000-08:00

If we are lucky, in our lifetime we will develop relationships with people who we think of as our soul mates.

Soul mate. noun. A person ideally suited to another as a close friend or romantic partner.

A few people come to mind when I think of my soul mates; girlfriends, a very special man in my life, and my siblings. Some might argue that each of us is only allotted one soul mate on this earth. I would vehemently disagree.

I have girlfriends who know me better than I know myself. They are like the first sips of red wine, when everything starts to feel calm and clear at the same time. My sister makes me feel safe. She is like a warm blanket and a cup of coffee. My husband, he is my soul mate as we are counterparts....he balances me in ways that I never knew I needed before I met him.

My brother and I were soul mates because our most endearing traits made us love one another, and our worst traits we found funny. He was like my favorite episode of Friends, played over and over.

When you are "ideally suited to another" you share memories that are vivid and beautiful years after they have happened, you have laughed harder than you thought you ever could, you crave time with that person, you are energized once you have it, and when it is gone you feel like you can't live without it.

To me, "ideally suited to another" means that you complement one another.

When that piece is gone, you are missing a part that made you a better version of yourself. You knew something beautiful, pure, good, and perfect. Once you've had that, it is hard to go on without.

Sometimes, Matt would squint his eyes, tilt his head and say to me, "What is it sis? What's goin' on up there? Just say it." He called me out on thoughts I was having before they were fully put together in my mind. I'd say the thought and he'd disagree, or we'd laugh, or we'd debate whatever I said. Towards the end of my time with him, he knew I was going to question him in his addiction. He'd tell me I was crazy, to calm down, and that he was fine. He promised he was OK.

Because I knew him so well, because we were soul mates, I knew he wasn't.

These last few weeks I've wanted to talk to him so badly it has hurt. I've had thoughts, ideas, stories...life to share with him. Different soul mates fill different corners of your soul. The corner that he filled has felt immensely vacant lately. I've needed his opinion, his jokes, his love of love, his positive spin on every single trial more than ever.

Even though that corner is vacant now, I am left better because it was once filled. I wouldn't give that back to be relieved of the pain of losing him.

Soul mates make us funnier, smarter, more beautiful...happier. They enhance our lives in a way that keep us from ever feeling alone.

These people, these soul mates that God puts in our lives are a gift. Whether it is a gift that lasts only for 27 short but sweet years, or one whose presence lasts a lifetime, they are pure joy. They make us better.

I think it's important to remember our most perfect and truest soul mate is God. He knows our hearts, minds, desires, needs, and pain better than any other.

"Greater love has no one than this, that someone lay down his life for his friends." -John 15:13

God is so great of a soul mate to us, knew us so well, was aware of the fall we would take, that he took it all for us. He is our perfect soul mate.

He gave me my Matt, my sister, my beautiful friends, and my husband in my life to comfort, love, lift up, inspire, and complement my soul until I am with him in Heaven.

I will hold my husband close and dearly, he will know how much I appreciate him. I will savor every sip of wine that accompanies sweet words exchanged with my girlfriends. My sister and I will curl up under blankets on Saturday mornings, drink coffee, and laugh over the events of the night before. I will recall every dance with Matt, every time he made me laugh, all of our joy with the knowledge that God gave me my brother, and all of my precious soul mates, to accompany me through this life until I am home again with Him.

One of my best dance partners...my brother, Matt.

363 Days

2014-10-16T16:32:00.000-07:00

Dear Matt,
In two days, it will be one year that we have been without you. It is devastating to think back and reflect on this past year. I wish that I could say that I have grown so much, I'm peaceful, I know that God's plan had a purpose and I am OK with that, or that beauty has come from our grief. Today, my heart is still broken.

When you left for rehab, I wrote you emails, knowing that you couldn't see them. I titled them "Day 1 Without You" and so on. The reality is that today is "Day 363 Without You" and we are not driving to Michigan to to pick you up from a crappy run-down rehab facility where you were only gone for six weeks. You won't be waiting for us in your checkered shirt with a bandana tied around your head and your suitcase packed. You are staying in Heaven and someday it will be "Day 3, 567 Without You".

I'm not mad at you, but I am mad. I'm mad that there are sisters who love their brothers less and they get to keep them. Why couldn't Colleen and I keep you? We adored you. Every moment that the three of us, and then Jer too, had...we had so much love. We laughed so hard.

Sometimes, there are moments where I can see you so clearly with me. A month ago we were at the race track. I don't think you and I ever went together, but there were tons of young guys there your age. I found myself standing in the middle of the crowd, staring off into the mass of people, wishing that I would see you walking towards me. I could see you with your hat backwards, your big toothy smile, your huge hands with a rubber band always on your wrist, your flip flops, I could hear your loud voice. Any minute you were going to walk out of the bathroom and up to counter to place your bet on the next race. But then I remembered.

Two weeks ago we were at a wedding. The bride's brothers were on the limo with us. One of them was about your height, cute, funny, playing the DJ, making jokes...I couldn't look at him. It hurt too much knowing that she had her brother and I didn't have mine.

Is there ever going to be a wedding that I go to that I don't flash back to you on the dance floor at mine? Will I always feel a pain when I see a young, handsome kid your age? I sure wish you didn't look like a white LeBron, because every time his damn commercial comes on I feel like crying. Basketball hurts. Rap is painful. Taco Bell's make me want to pull over and see if you're there.

Here's the craziest thing of all; I'm starting to see you in Mom, Dad, and Colleen. When Dad is being thoughtful and smart, I see you. When Mom is being cute and funny and entertaining, I see you. When Colleen is talking about some weird show or joke that I don't get, I see you. Being around Jer and your friends, you are there in each of them. Maybe God is giving me glimpses of you so that I don't miss you so much. But it actually makes me miss you more.

Matt, I love you so much. I miss you. I'd give anything to hug you one more time, to tell you how sorry I am that I fought with you over your addiction. I was always proud of you, even in the middle of the crap. I'd give anything to smack you across the face for scaring us so badly. I'd give anything to hear you laugh, or to have you here with us at the dinner table.

The last time we talked, I told you that I loved you so much, to a fault. I told you to never scare me again. You promised you wouldn't. But you did Matt. You left, but you promised you were clean, and healthy, and you would never leave. You broke my heart. You broke mom's more. I'm not mad at you, I promise. I'm just so, so sad.

I know you didn't leave me for good. I know I will see you in Heaven. That seems so far away. Please visit me in my dreams. Please tell God to cover us with His peace. Please also ask God to send me and Jer a baby, maybe two. I mean, you're right there...

Please just know how much I love you and miss you. Please know.

I love you,
Jules

A Heavenly Perspective

2014-09-16T18:19:00.002-07:00

When I was in college, I studied in another country for a semester. It was exciting, enlightening, educational, scary, fascinating, and oh-so-much-fun. I grew tremendously, being away from the comfort zone of my close family and friends, and had experiences I will never forget. However, no matter how much fun I was having that semester, I was always a little bit homesick. I knew that as wonderful as my study abroad experience was, home would always be better.

That time in my life is the perfect analogy for my newfound perspective on our life here on Earth, and our eventual entrance into Heaven.

In perfect honesty, I have to say that the thought of going to Heaven used to scare me.  As someone who fully believes in Heaven, that is hard to admit. The idea of leaving the comfort, security, and people of my life was frightening. Heaven seemed mystical, far away, and foreign.

Losing my little brother and two pregnancies has completely changed that perspective.    This last year, I have started to think of Heaven as more of an actual place than just a promise from Jesus. We will go there. Matt is there. The two little lives that God started inside of me are there. They are waiting for me.

More importantly, I have started to view my life with a heavenly perspective. This is where the true lesson has been learned, and the biggest change has taken place inside of me.

When I do get to Heaven, so many things will make sense. I will have answers to questions.

Why did we lose Matt?

Why is it such a struggle for Jer and I to become parents?

Why did my two pregnancies not result in healthy babies?

Why do innocent children die? Why is there drug addiction? Why is there war? Why can't we cure cancer?

Why is there so much pain in this world?

We are not meant to know the answers to these questions. What we do know is this:

This life is not perfect. God does not promise that it will be perfect. He does promise that we will have eternal happiness when we meet him in Heaven.

Until that day, we will have glimpses of Heaven and the hope of eternal joy. Knowing that helps me through my day.

Do I miss Matt?  I miss him so much that some days, it physically hurts. Am I afraid that I will never become a mother? Yes, it is a constant worry. Did that traffic jam suck? It was the worst. Is it terrible to argue with my husband? I HATE those kinds of days.   BUT, that is how this life is...ups and downs, highs and lows, pain and happiness, tears and laughter...until we are taken home to be with God (and Matt, and my babies, and my grandma and grandpa, and my Uncle Tommy, and every other precious and special loved one who is missed desperately by all of us).

Heaven is not only a place that I would like to go, but it is hope and a promise of joy that guides me through the pain.

Twelve years ago, when I came home from my semester abroad, I could hardly wait to see my family. I was nervous and excited and anxious all at the same time. I had missed them so much and wanted nothing more than to be together again.

When I finally walked through the big doors after customs at O'Hare, the first person I saw was Matt. I still remember he was wearing a white logo t-shirt, a navy blue baseball hat backwards, and he was holding a yellow rose for me.

When he saw me he yelled, "Jules!" Then he laughed, smiled his huge smile, and yelled my name again. I can still hear his voice. He hugged me hard, and I remember how loved I felt.

I know that is exactly how he will greet me in Heaven. He will call my name, laugh because he is so glad I'm finally there, and hug me so tight. All of the time that we missed here together on Earth won't matter, because we will be together again. Those years will seem like they were merely seconds.

We will all be there together again, someday.

This life is wonderful, exciting, exhilarating, painful, heartbreaking, an adventure, and filled with so much beauty. However, just as I knew that home would always be better than my adventures in another country, I now know that Heaven will always be better than our best day on Earth.

Under His Wing

2014-08-09T10:50:00.000-07:00

Last Wednesday, I packed my bag and headed off to one of my favorite summertime places; the pool. Since I am a teacher, and do not have children, I have the luxury of being able to spend a few hours there on a weekday afternoon. As I have said in a previous post, I do not take these moments for granted. I know that I am lucky. I feel like I need this disclaimer.

To anyone who doesn't know me, that day I looked like a carefree and fancy free type of girl; savoring a good book, getting in a little exercise, and soaking up the August rays.

However, as I pulled my arms through the water, and kicked my feet, visions and flashbacks interrupted the silence of my underwater peace. Ten months later, these upsetting moments from my life are still fighting to have a prominent place in my mind. This happens to me often, at the most inopportune times. I find myself fighting back traumatizing memories when I am trying to sleep, reading a book, driving, running, even in the middle of teaching a lesson I found myself having to suppress memories so that I could focus on a math problem. I've been told that this is the trauma, the PTSD of losing my little brother in such a frightening way, and it could even be a little bit of the fear from my fertility struggles.

One moment that haunts me the most is Matt's memorial service. There is something about my entire family, minus a key member, so exposed and vulnerable to every person we have ever known that is very hard for me. I flash back to singing a beautiful praise song, sobbing, as my dad and Jeremiah wrapped their arms around my mom, sister, and I and we held each other. I recall leaving the service and glancing up to see Matt's best friends in the front row to our left, one of them holding his basketball jersey. They all looked so grown-up, older versions of their carefree and childhood selves, yet so broken in that moment. While I could not look around that day, I remember noticing dear family friends, who lost their own brother and son sitting right behind us. It felt like they were literally holding us up. I cannot shake the visions from this day.

I often flash back to the Sunday morning when my father rang our doorbell, under that false pretense that he wanted to join us for church. He waited so patiently for me to finish my breakfast, as he knew I would need it to sustain me through the day. I remember so vividly, his reaching across English muffins and orange juice to take my hand, and tell me that my younger brother had gone to be with the Lord.

I flash back to every moment that scared me in my last months with Matt. I envision things that I did not see, but that I know happened.

I try to block out the long, holiday weekend when I knew that the early days of pregnancy were not supposed to feel the way that I was feeling. I knew something was wrong, and there was no one to help me, no answers to give, as only hours would bring us the HCG numbers, and peace that I so desired. I was so scared that weekend, while the rest of the world was grilling hamburgers, drinking beers in their backyard, and excitedly anticipating the upcoming summer months.

All of these moments from my life, these visions, these memories that are so unhealthy will fade with time, and in their place, will be flashbacks of beauty. It takes mental energy to get to those places right now, but I also know eventually they will begin to come more naturally.

When my mind goes to the dark place, I work to fill it with moments of beauty. I think of Matt's sparkling blue eyes, or his big arms wrapping me in a warm hug. I hear him calling me "sis". I think of how his face lit up when he was really laughing. I picture him out in the driveway shooting free throws. I remember him sleeping on the family room floor, in front of the TV, with his dogs curled up next to him. I try to fill my heart with hope, for the baby that Jeremiah and I will someday hold and love.

Here is the truth about trauma...or PTSD, or grief, or pain, or sadness...

It is real, and it hurts, but we are not meant to live in fear.

Trauma can shape us, but we cannot let it define us.

These last ten months will make me a stronger version of my former self. I will NOT forever be a girl who is traumatized, or grieving. I refuse.

Matt would be furious.

God would be hurt.

Psalm 91:4 says, "He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart."

When all else fails, and the pain and trauma are too much for me to bear, I will turn to these words. I know them to be true, because the only way that my family has endured each day since October 18th, is by resting under the protection and comfort of God's wing.

Trauma can make you want to crawl under a blanket and never come out. It can cause you to eat too much, or drink in excess, or experience insomnia. Trauma causes some people to experience physical aches and pains, or to not be able to eat at all. Something I have experienced in trauma is extreme indecisiveness; I question everything I once knew, all of my actions, my words, my self, even day-to-day activities and choices. I am unsure of the basics of life, because my foundation has been rocked.

This I am NOT unsure of; God gave me a family that was so beautiful, and so full of love that the memories of joy will NEVER fade. Those visions, flashbacks, and memories will remain forever strong. The good ones will stick.

This I am NOT unsure of; Matt wants me to keep moving forward with my life, never forgetting him, but also not forsaking joy.

This I am NOT unsure of; I will continue to rest under God's wing, when I need refuge from the trauma, and until the fear has passed.

Colleen, Jer, me, and Matt...one year ago this week-

our last family vacation, and while it was not perfect, we were together, and there were moments of beauty and joy.

Writers and Healers

2014-07-29T08:21:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, I was blessed to be able to leave normal life for a few days, hop on a plane, and attend a conference in North Carolina. It was called She Speaks 2014, and was for Christian women writers and speakers. I went to learn more about the writing world, and how I fit into that space. I left informed and taught but even more so, inspired and refreshed in a way that I did not imagine could happen.

The night before I left, I made sure that I had my favorite blog posts printed out, my newest children's story edited and finalized, and my suitcase packed with my most "conference appropriate" outfits. For the first time this summer, I felt myself truly distracted from my worries and sadness.

The morning I left, I swam laps in our public pool. As the sun beams cut through the water, and the rhythm of the swimming strokes and breathing lulled me into my daydreams, I fantasized about all that I could be blessed with on this trip. What if I met a publisher who loved my story? Would someone teach me how to become more technologically talented so that I could better join the blogging world? How empowered would I be by joining these 800 women who all love my most-favorite hobby?

What I did not expect to happen, occurred within the first hour on Friday morning, as soon as I sat down at a table, introduced myself to the women around me, and the worship music began. The lights dimmed, we all stood, and the worship leader led us through new to me, but beautiful songs.

I looked to my left, and saw a woman wiping tears from her eyes. In front of me, a girl was dabbing at her cheeks with tissues. All around me, women were singing the words with their whole heart and soul, as the music soothed and inspired everyone. But it was the tears...the tears of the unmet friends by my side that stirred the feelings of healing in my soul.

For the first time this summer, I did not feel alone. I know that there is pain in this world, and that everyone is experiencing it in some form. They might be healed, in the recovery process, or just entering a season of hurt. The truth is I wasn't believing that this summer. I felt alone in my grief, isolated in my infertility, and for lack of a better word...different.

This is not reality. Reality is that life brings us struggles, all of us have trials. I met a woman who was abused for 12 years of marriage, and left her husband with her boys to stay in a shelter. I met a lady who almost died giving birth, and the trauma of that time changed her forever. I spoke with a woman who lost two babies, then spent 49 weeks of her life on bed rest, alone and scared for her unborn children. I met a woman who lost her father in a car accident that she was in, and then later endured another accident that burned 40 percent of her body. I met a LOT of women who had struggled with infertility, and almost every speaker shared struggles with depression, anxiety, or issues with food. Every single lady at this conference had a story to tell.

I shared my story, but only in little snippets when people asked me about my blog.

"Well, it's really just been a way for me to heal through writing, as I struggle with infertility and losing my little brother," I said over and over and over this past weekend.

I definitely didn't hold back, but I spent a lot of time listening to the stories of others, and gaining wisdom and strength from all of the beautiful women.

However, at dinner on the last evening, I was truly broken down. Since I was by myself, I found a table and asked if I could join the women sitting there. We were all alone at the conference. We chit-chatted, and made get-to-know-you conversation. Then, the woman next to me mentioned that she had adopted her son because of infertility. The woman across the table joined in with the exact same story. I shared that I was currently in the fertility struggle. The second woman spoke some type of beautiful, encouraging words of love to me. My eyes started to well up. Another girl across from me tuned into the conversation, a beautiful girl with red hair and red lipstick. She had the kindest, most compassionate look on her face.

"Is that you struggling with fertility?" she asked me. "Is your body healing? Do you have a diagnosis? God will bring new life, just take care of yourself...heal," she said. "Where are you in the process?"

"I...I....we are are getting ready for our second attempt at IVF," I said. Then it all spilled out.

"And I lost a pregnancy in May. And my brother died in October....to addiction."

"Oh Lord," the woman across the table said.

The beautiful red-haired girl jumped out of her chair. She came straight to me, wrapped her arms around me, and rocked me back and forth while praying for me. The whole table sat and prayed with her.

Honestly, it was beautiful. I cried hard. Then I healed a little bit more.

How were all of these women at my table able to show me such compassion and grace? They had all been through some sort of struggle themselves, the types of challenges that teach us compassion and grace, that make us want to reach out, support, and love those around us. By the grace of God, I sat down at a table full of women who all had a heart for those struggling with fertility, because they had endured it or could connect to it in some way. They were all on the other side, but better for it, and God redeemed their struggle by putting them in my life, to comfort and love me.

This is what will happen if we share our struggles and are real with one another;

The pain and hurt will be redeemed as we use it to encourage and love those who are in need.

Did I leave this past weekend encouraged and inspired as a writer? Absolutely. However, what I did not expect was to leave the weekend encouraged and inspired as a woman. God did some major work on my soul over those three days, and he used the stories and love of real women to do the counseling for Him.

The Summertime Blues

2014-07-08T06:05:00.005-07:00

Try telling a teacher that the summer will be hard, and you will receive anything from hysterical laughter, to an eye roll and a flip sounding "Yeah right." As teachers, we covet our summers from September to May, and we cherish them from June to August.

My summer months are typically filled with days at the beach, tennis, meeting with friends, reading great books, shopping, trying new recipes, working on my house and garden, and generally doing things that the rest of society wishes they were able to do on a random Tuesday afternoon. Summers are a blessing that I do not take for granted.

This year, I've been participating in all of my favorite summer activities, but under a dark cloud. It is ironic, really. As the bright summer sun calls me to be cheerful and full of joy, so many of my days have been spent wishing for a thunderstorm or a drop in temperatures to match my mood. It's almost like the beautiful summer days are mocking me. Grief fit much better in the dark, cold, and brutal days of winter.

This summer is another season that my Matt is not here with me. He's not swimming at my parents' pool, meeting me for fireworks, hosting barbecues at his apartment, organizing groups to go to concerts, making us see all of the big summer movies, or coming to sleep on our couch, order pizza, and take over our living room. He's just not here. Another season of him gone is another round of experiences and traditions to have without him.

In my thoughts, losing my brother continues to feel like a perfect combination of "OH HELL NO THAT DID NOT HAPPEN," to "I miss him so much I don't think I'll ever feel whole again."

Furthermore, this summer was supposed to be "Pregnant Summer". That is not God's plan for us. After losing our pregnancy in May, I have learned that it can take several weeks, even months for my body to heal, and be ready to start again. The timing seems unfair based on how much energy and flexibility it takes to be a woman doing IVF. Wouldn't it make sense for me to be able to do treatment in the middle of my summer vacation? Instead, we will be waiting until the middle of August.

In my thoughts, going through this fertility journey continues to feel like the perfect combination of "WHY GOD? THIS IS NOT FAIR, CUT ME A BREAK, MY FAMILY NEEDS SOME JOY," and in a much more calm and peaceful tone, "Jesus, I know that you have a plan for my life, and it is perfect, and please help me to trust you."

I never thought that I would wish to rush through summer, to get to Labor Day, the cooler September weather, leaves changing, students, grading tests, and lesson planning. However, I found myself wishing that I could rush through summer so that my broken heart over losing Matt would heal further, and that Jer and I could move forward in our fertility journey.

In my pain of waiting for life to feel like my life again, I come back to this verse;

"Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me." Psalm 23:4

In these gorgeous summer months, I am in the valley, the darkest valley of my 33 years of life. I believe that God wants me in this valley for a little while. Why?

I am becoming deeper and more compassionate.

I am learning that I cannot control my life.

I am healing.

Me and God are getting super close. We've gotten in some fights, but we're working through it.

I know that He wants me here this summer. He wants me to learn and grow, to heal and accept that this life here on Earth is not perfect. It is not my timing, it is His. It is not my way, it is His. I think we have to go through pain, the trials and tribulations...the stuff that just feels awful to truly appreciate the beauty and joy that are also here. I do believe that joy is still here, even if it is only in small and unexpected moments.

Last night, Jer and I took the dog to the beach for a twilight swim. The water was freezing, even for a girl who grew up swimming in Lake Michigan. I stood in the lake up to my knees, holding up my dress, and feeling my legs grow numb. I so wanted to experience the freeing and beautiful sensation of swimming in the open and quiet lake. I knew that it would be painfully cold, but I also knew that Matt would have dove in and savored the moment. That's how he was.

I threw my cover-up on the beach and dove in. It took my breath away. I actually felt my heart start to race as the water covered me and I lost my breath. Something inside of me last night told me that I had to fully experience this moment and keep swimming.

I dove under again, and began to swim out past the rocks, where the water was deep and dark. My arms warmed up, and my breathing became normal. The water began to feel refreshing and invigorating instead of painful. I flipped on my back and looked up. The clouds and sun fought to dominate the summer sky, creating that beautiful picture of rays cutting through the fluffy masses to look like beams coming from Heaven. I felt Matt with me at that moment, as I so often do when I am at the lake. Matt was with me in the beauty of the swim that was inspired by him.

Even in the valley, there can be joy. Jesus is teaching me to slow down, look around, and find happiness in the midst of my pain. He is teaching me to stop rushing through my life, trying to get to the next "better" moment, the fall instead of the summer, the time of being parents instead of just us, a time when I can see Matt again, a time that won't hurt so badly. He is teaching me constant joy.

Joy can be a twilight swim with a golden retriever and a husband. A little joy can be a slight reprieve from the "summertime blues".

Gilson Beach, Wilmette

This Thing Called Hope

2014-06-16T09:15:00.002-07:00

I've been thinking about the word "hope" a lot lately. It seems to be popping up in dialogue, reading material, music, and my own thoughts these past few months more than ever before. Maybe this word has always been a common in our language, or maybe I am looking for it. Regardless, I hear it all the time. It keeps me moving forward.

This past weekend, I had several instances that gave me newfound insight as to what having hope truly means.

To me, hope is the ability to continue to move forward with joy, or with the knowledge that there will be joy, despite current pain and fear and the unknown.

Jer and I were at a beautiful wedding this weekend, however the groom's father had recently died. In light of the recent death in my own family, I found myself carefully watching the groom's mother. I felt the pain that she must have felt, not having her husband with her for such a beautiful occasion. There were times that she had tears. However, she also danced, laughed, talked to friends and family, and smiled often. How did she move forward on that day without her life partner? She must have hope that pain will lessen, and joy will return.

This Sunday, being Father's Day, was emotional for my dad. He is no longer the father of three. He is a father of two girls. We sang praise songs in church, opened presents, played a great game of tennis, grilled out, and toasted the future. My dad is grieving, but he could rejoice in being a father because he has hope of recovering from the trauma of losing a son.

Jeremiah and I went out on Friday to celebrate his new job. He knew for many, many months that his previous position was no longer a good fit for him. He woke up every day, went to work, smiled and made jokes with guys in the office, and faithfully looked for something better. It was often very discouraging for him, and frustrating. He had hope and faith that God would open the right door for him at the right time. He did, and Jer is so excited and ready for this change in his career.

Things are changing in my family. I see us moving forward in many ways. I see prayers being answered and looking towards the future. If I let myself, that can feel very painful to do without Matt. It can also feel very scary. For the first time in my life, I have such a multitude of unknowns that they outweigh anything that is certain. I don't even really recognize my life anymore.

This is where my hope comes in. True, circumstances are far different than I ever imagined them to be. Also true is that I have no idea what will happen in the coming days, weeks, months...etc. Yet, when I open my eyes each morning, along with anxiousness, fear, and sadness, I also feel a little excitement. How is it possible to look forward to an unknown, or to feel joy and excitement for the future intermixed with hurt? Hope.

I still have not yet lost the ability to know that it will get better, this is God's plan for my life, and that joy and healing will come. Interspersed with the devastation and grief of death, the fear of infertility, and the anxiousness of the unknown is that little word hope, the warmth of the summer, a starry night, a cardinal on my bird feeder, the sound of laughter, a slow dance at a wedding, a crowded pool, the hot tennis court, a quiet Monday morning with a cup of coffee....the little things in life that remind us that there is joy and happiness despite pain, and that also encourage us to keep hope..even if sometimes it is only a little tiny glimmer, barely lighting the darkness.

Our first family picture without Matt. God is moving us forward.

So We Keep Moving Forward

2014-05-28T16:33:00.002-07:00

As Matt struggled through his addiction, Jeremiah and I began our struggle with fertility. I often envisioned what it would be like to tell Matt that he was going to be an uncle. I went back and forth between excitement at the thought of calling him with that announcement, to fear that he would not get clean and that I would not be able to trust him with our children. I even sometimes irrationally thought that if I was able to tell him that he would have a niece or nephew, it might kick his ass into sobriety.

Matt lost his struggle with addiction, but Jeremiah and I had to continue on with our fertility journey. Some people said that they were sorry for me, what a terrible time to try to get pregnant while I was grieving my little brother. Those words were so discouraging. What else could I do but move forward? Should I stop trying to be mom, discontinue treatment, let go of my desire for a family until my broken heart was whole again? Would that day ever come? I had to continue on with hope for healing, and with a wish for beauty to return to my family.

Thankfully, I did have someone who had the right words. One of my closest and dearest friends, who is also my sister-in-law said to me one day, "Julia, this is a beautiful time to try to get pregnant. You are grieving, and raw, and real, and honest. You are handling grief in a healthy way. This is perfect time to try to be a mother, as grief is a natural part of life."

If we hadn't been having this conversation on the phone, I would have knocked her over with the intensity of my hug.

So we keep moving forward...

We got pregnant. For five whole days, I was expecting to become a mom. Then, we lost the pregnancy. I believe that pregnancy was a life that God started in my womb. I also believe that little and short life goes straight to Heaven.

Yesterday afternoon, about an hour after I found out that I was no longer pregnant, I had vision. I saw Matt in Heaven, and God placing a baby in his arms. I pictured him smiling, looking down at the baby and saying, "Is this my sis's? This is my sissy's baby?" I felt the joy of that moment, and for a few seconds it was a reprieve from my grief...grief over losing the baby, AND grief over missing my Matt. You see, Matt might know that I am sad, but he is not sad. He has a heavenly perspective, and sees God's reason and timing for the direction of our life.

I always knew that if Matt ever had the chance, he would be an amazing uncle. He would have loved a niece or nephew more than anything. I so wanted to place a baby in his arms, teach him how to change a diaper, let him lift our child up to the basketball net for a dunk, know that if he was babysitting that our kids ate junk and watched crap, let him teach his niece or nephew his best dance moves, and see my son or daughter light up when Uncle Matt came to visit.

It is has been very hard for me to grasp that those things will never happen. However, there is solace and a sweetness in picturing Jesus placing that baby in Matt's arms. It is not how I originally wanted it to be, but I am learning this year, that the way I picture my life and my future is so often not the plan that God has for me.

I am connected to Mattie today, more than I was a few weeks ago. Uncle Matt is watching that baby for me until the day that I get to meet my first little blessing.

So we keep moving forward...

I pray that I will be able to show this picture to the child God has for us and say,

"This is your Uncle Matt. He is hilarious, and fun, and wonderful and will show you the best way to shoot a free throw. You will love him, and he is waiting for you in Heaven."

The Music of My Life

2014-04-30T18:44:00.000-07:00

Matt, senior year of high school, singing DMB "Best of What's Around" with his friend Mark.

Matt played the bongo drums and Mark played the guitar.

Music is a powerful tool that we have here on this earth. Music soothes our soul in church, evokes powerful memories, inspires a great run, calms us in an elevator, annoys us in commercials, makes ordinary moments romantic, and causes us to think...to think of and ponder our lives as we are wrapped into lyrics and melodies.

My brother Matt loved music. He truly appreciated all kinds. Certain artists will always remind me of him. Michael Jackson, Dave, Bob Seger, and James Tayler were some of our favorites together. He loved to dance, he sang, played the bongo drums, went to concerts, and had one song that he knew how to play on the piano...over, and over, and over, and over (Rufus Wainwright, Hallelujah).

Our sister, Colleen, actually is a musician. She plays classical music, and is in a band. He was immensely proud of her and was one of her biggest fans. You would think that getting a twenty-something guy to go to a classical concert would be difficult, but if Colleen was playing, he was psyched.

When Matt was away at law school, I liked to send him care packages. They always had a mix CD in them. When he received my packages, he would call to tell me what he liked the most from the package. It was always the mix CD (although one time, the Star Wars fruit snacks were a close second). Since he has gone to Heaven, new songs have come out that I will never be able to put onto a CD for him.

The first time I heard a song that I knew he would have loved, and that he would never hear on earth, I cried The second time I heard that song, I listened to the lyrics. Not only would Matt have loved this song, it was about our life.

There are four songs that came out right before, or shortly after my brother went to Heaven that have spoken to my heart. They remind me of him, our family, my pain and grief, or in some way make me feel close to Matt. As the months have worn on, I listen for them carefully each time I have the radio on. They are newer songs, so they are overplayed, of course. Whenever one comes on, I feel like Matt is with me.

Listening for these songs has turned into a game. Could I hear all four of them in one day?
Usually I would hear three. It was impossible to get to the fourth. I flipped through the stations looking for the fourth song. 75% happened almost every day. I knew that the day that I heard the fourth song, I would feel especially close to Matt, and that it would be a small miracle. This game has gone on for weeks. These are the songs:

Song #1, Passenger - Let Her Go: This song reminds me of the beauty that we had as a family. It was so beautiful, that we feel such intense pain now.
Listen here: Passenger Song

Song #2, One Direction - Story of My Life: There is a story to Matt's life now. It has a beginning, middle, and devastatingly and end. However, it is a beautiful story.
Listen here: One Direction Song

Song #3, Avicii - Wake Me Up: This one is very painful for me to hear. It makes me think of my brother and his pain. I picture him wishing that he would wake up when everything that was tormenting him was over. He did wake up, just not here.
Listen here: Avicii Song

Song #4, Bastille - Pompeii: In this song, they sing "If I close my eyes, it's like nothing changed at all." If only it were that simple.
Listen here: Bastille Song

Last week, I heard all four songs in one day. I heard the last one as I pulled the car into my garage. I cried a little, talked to Matt, and felt close to him. I didn't feel close to him because he and I have shared those songs together, but because they each remind me of him in some special way. It was my own little miracle that day.

There are songs that take me back to moments with my brother. Dancing, bonfires, parties, concerts, family vacations, Ravinia, and so many other beautiful memories that were accompanied by music. Those are songs of our life together, and we will not have any more of those.

I don't know how it works in Heaven, and if he can hear music that was created after he left us. If he can, then we are sharing them, but in a much different way than before. If he cannot, I can only imagine who he is really jamming with right now. Has he accompanied John Lennon with his bongos? Are he and MJ doing the moonwalk together? Has Matt had a chance to rap with Tupac? Do the angels let people try their harps? Just like the song by Mercyme...."I Can Only Imagine".

Songs will be added to the soundtrack of my life, but none will ever be removed. To hear new music that Mattie would have loved will probably always make me wish that he was here to share it with me, to dance together. To hear old favorites, will allow me to close my eyes and pretend "it's like nothing changed at all."

Music can also give us hope. My little musical miracle last week, reminded me to continue to be hopeful for miracles.