The honest truth is that the last six or seven years of our lives have been some of the hardest we ever experienced. We’ve been living with rental insecurity, financial pressures (oh, hi, pandemic), and physical and mental health needs that sometimes felt beyond our means for addressing properly. At times we’ve been on the receiving end of broken promises or unfair situations that were not within our control. More often than not we lacked privacy and space. We’ve been faced with scenarios where choosing the ethical route has cost us dearly.

I will not sugar coat the challenges. Life in Sydney has been harder than we anticipated. (And we arrived with our rose colored glasses firmly put away—or so we thought.) As a family and as a ministry we’ve made sacrifices, we’ve forgiven debts, and we’ve shouldered as much as we felt we could. We’ve had our share of feeling sorry for ourselves, complaining to God and to each other, growing resentful, and wrestling with our sense of entitlement and “personal rights.” At times we have been dismayed with our own sense of powerlessness or have felt stuck as victims of our circumstances. 

But…

But our years in Sydney have also been fruitful and held blessings in ways we could have never imagined. All of the hardships I hold in my memory could never compare to the riches of life afforded to us and the incredible privileges we enjoy having been born into the bodies and place and time we exist in the world, including these last years here in Gadigal Land in our beloved little neighborhood of Newtown. Many times we’ve been given much more than we feel we deserve. Often it’s come from unexpected places—a stranger or an acquaintance, a reader, or maybe even something divine disguised as a coincidence.

Before moving to Sydney in 2015 we made the commitment to ourselves, to each other, and to God that we would do our very best to “be the people” we wish others were to us through generosity, hospitality, and grace. Of course we have sometimes fallen short. But we remain committed to keeping ourselves grounded in our promise to “be the people.” These years have taught us that sometimes the real work of the ministry is an open door, a willing ear, and a simple spread on the table. We are beginning to see the resilience God has slowly been cultivating in us and we know this will help us as we make some huge changes for our family.

The end is a beginning

It’s time for us to say goodbye to Sydney. We also believe it’s time to end our service as missionaries after 22+ years in Youth With A Mission (YWAM).

I’m not sure how to process leaving a mission we’ve given our entire adult lives to so for now I’m focused on processing how to leave Sydney (and our chapter here) as we shift our family to a small beachside town in South Australia where we believe we can find a life and housing and work that will be more sustainable for us in the second half of our lives. (We have written a family newsletter detailing the why and when and how of all this; if you want it I’m happy to privately message you a copy. But this is different—it’s just me trying to encapsulate a period of life and searching for tangible ways to choose the perspective I will take with me.)

So, seven years—how do we describe our time in the beautiful place we’ve made home? Is it a mission? An assignment? A city? A neighborhood? A house? A passion? A conviction? A community?

It’s all of it, really.

We’ve always known this particular house we live in doesn’t “belong” to us, but “home” isn’t attached to a deed; rather, finding home is a way of being in the world. This home has been ours and we’ve done our best to love her well, despite her 100+ year old pipes and creaky floors and drafty windows and propensity for welcoming mozzies and other unsightly city critters that I’d rather pretend I never saw.

Our neighborhood and our house has been ‘home’ in every sense of the word.

We had a baby in this house. We got our first family dog in this house. We renovated our (landlord’s) kitchen and bathroom on a shoe string, built an outdoor entertaining area from scratch and landscaped an entire yard from the gumtree “freebie” section and kind donations. We have always lived in community (shared our house with others) and at one point we lived with seventeen people for about eight months. (That was certifiably absurd but we made it out miraculously unscathed.) 

We celebrated engagements and anniversaries. We grieved deaths and threw birthday parties and made Thanksgiving feasts. We lost a daughter. We wrote a book. We launched a bereavement ministry. We had French and Korean and German and Vietnamese and Swedish and so many other languages spoken around our table. We had Easter egg hunts and visits from Santa and movie nights with huge bowls of buttery popcorn. We launched an English program for ESL students. We trained twelve staff. We mentored young women and men. We marched for asylum seekers and refugees and wrote letters to lawmakers. We supported friends through divorce and absorbed painful diagnoses and moved furniture for elderly neighbors and kept our espresso machine humming every morning. 

We taught people how to study the Bible and consider context and how to ask critical questions around issues of faith and culture. We spent hours and hours and hours in prayer. We cried. We laughed. We sometimes cry-laughed. We used table cloths and candles and made hilarious costumes out of garbage. We encouraged people to not give up on the established church, nor to let it get in the way of building genuine community. We supported young people as they navigated dating relationships. We had living room dance parties and working bees and late night debates about politics. We hosted couch surfers and weekenders. We gave hugs and cups of tea after break-ups. 

We had doors opened for us we never thought to knock on. We had other doors we felt certain to knock on never budge an inch. We watched as eight different pastors in our small neighborhood ended their assignments and moved on to other work. We saw local businesses open and close and reinvent. We hosted a discipleship training school inside a Japanese bar. We questioned God, questioned our sanity, questioned the world as we knew it. We furnished an entire student house in a week with free items sourced from marketplace and dismantled that same student house in a day when the pandemic took so much away. 

We served at the local Indigenous festival. We walked the kids to and from school. We made meals and got to know many of our displaced neighbors. We shared Jesus, shared our lawn mower, and brought in the neighbor’s mail when they were on holidays. We gave directions to tourists and hosted playdates and wished we could sleep in a little longer on Saturdays. We perfected home made sauce and pizza doughs and even brewed our own beer. We made plans and scrapped them. 

We sometimes (often) didn’t know how we’d pay the next week’s rent and yet somehow we always managed to get the bills paid and stuff the stockings at Christmas. Our kids started school here, had their first crush here, got potty trained here, started puberty here, learned to read here—not in that order. We got confused about the American or Australian way of spelling or saying things, made jokes that didn’t land, and tried to outdo each other with clever puns.

We memorized train lines and grew patience waiting for the bus. We read Scripture and Green Eggs and Ham and Harry Potter and everything we could find by Brennan Manning. When golf ball size hail totaled our car, friends and strangers helped us buy a new one. We got access to a small beach cabin for two years that served as a refuge from our chaos when we could squeeze down for a weekend. We bought a surfboard and a keyboard (and still can’t ride or play them well). We homeschooled and public schooled and remote schooled (and dreamed about going back to school for our Masters). We did approximately one million loads of laundry. We hit ‘delete’ a lot.

We built a workshop and built toys and equipment and furniture. We fixed countless broken things. We planted seeds. We hosted outreach teams and guests and visiting speakers—more than two hundred guests in our estimation. We unplugged toilets and cleaned mould and painted—oh wow, did we endlessly paint. We paced with a sleepless baby, held our kids’ hair while they vomited, watched West Wing, cheered our football team, burnt muffins, navigated sibling blow-ups, answered tens of thousands of emails, balanced the ledgers, fought and made up, and did more milk runs than we ever thought possible. 

We made presentations and pitches and applied for grants—won some and lost some. We hung art and curtains and backpacks after school. We ordered Turkish for in-home date nights and took visiting friends to eat the best Thai in town. We stepped out in faith. We dealt with fear. Every now and then we acted with courage. We created. We read. We walked. We sweat. We bled. We rejoiced. We ran. We marveled, though likely not enough.

We forged friendships, ‘adopted’ new family members, resolved conflicts, sought forgiveness, rearranged furniture, re-examined theology, and repaired broken fences. We made lists and crossed things off. We saw Hamilton. We ran races. We grew gray hairs and got reading glasses. We realized some of our dreams and let go of others. We kept the fridge full most of the time.

In plenty and in want

If you’re on our family mailing list you know by now that we’re moving and starting a whole new season of our life. If you’re not, well, this is me saying so, but it’s also (some of) my process of remembering all the hard and good and beautiful things that have happened while calling Sydney home. We could never describe them all. And we could never neatly separate out the work from the ministry from the family from the faith from the personal—all of it is woven together for better or for worse. I cannot say that I’ve learned to live with contentment both in plenty and in want like the Apostle Paul describes, but I can say I’m learning—present, active tense—and it feels hard and good to keep on learning.

In our final stretch of life in Sydney we have been reminded how important perspective is. Do we spend our energy focused on the interruptions, the disappointments, the injustices, the hardships, the parts of the vision that never came to pass, the pain, the stress, the heartache? Or do we acknowledge those things while deciding to give even more mental space to all that we have gained, all that has been accomplished, all the love that has been shared, all the ways our hearts and and minds have been enlarged? 

The glass half empty or half full cliche is an inadequate metaphor because we are both. Perhaps we should be less focused on the volume of the contents and more focused on the remarkable glass that holds it all—the container which embodies the incredible capacity to be filled and emptied, to give and to receive.

My prayer for our family as we move on to the next season is that we may be people that never stop growing forward. May we be people that never gloss over the hard or assign platitudes where lament is needed. But may we also be people who declare the good while admitting the hard; there is place for both, sometimes within the same breath.

Farewell to our beloved Sydney

We love you Sydney. We will miss you incredibly—more than I have words for. You’ve been a wonderful container to hold our lives as we poured out and filled up and had opportunity to practice what we preach, even (especially) when it was hard. Thank you for shaping our lives in incredible ways through all the ordinary and extraordinary stuff. You have been my dream come true and that’s no small thing.

Onward. It’s time.

______

*Of course friends know that I almost always use “note” as a euphemism to mean an extremely long letter-ish thing that I don’t know what to call.

Our next Deep Dive starts a few weeks from now. If you’ve been considering joining a group—now’s your time! Please be aware that this may be my last Deep Dive for a while (several months?) as I pair down as much as I possibly can while book-writing.

This group is for you if you want to work through the content of Grace Like Scarlett and process your grief with intention with the support of Adriel and a small group of women from within Our Scarlett Stories community. With the exception of two live calls (during our first and last weeks together), the content is available for you to work through on your own time at your own pace so is suitable for all time zones.

If cost is prohibitive please reach out to me privately. We sometimes have those willing to sponsor participants or can offer a scholarship to those who are experiencing genuine financial hardship.

Love,
Adriel

Details:

This group runs for eight weeks: August 1 through October 1, 2021

Find out more about our Deep Dive content and format here. Or sign up directly here.

From previous Deep Dive participants:

“This group has been so life-giving to me. Our communal grief has given me such solace in a season where I’ve been tempted to feel alone in my loss. I loved that the group allowed me the freedom to participate at my own pace and in my own time. The questions and videos were/are so vital to my processing and healing. I’m so very thankful for this group and for the vulnerability of each member. I also really loved the book and I’m so thankful it came into my hands at the time it did.” —Katrina

“The opportunity to join this Deep Dive came at the perfect time for me and was like someone throwing me a life ring. I was at a point in my grief journey where I felt very stuck and alone, so when I got an email about this Deep Dive I was immediately interested. My husband also encouraged me to go for it, since he could tell that I needed a safe place to go with my questions, my sorrow, and my vacillating emotions. The community, the videos, the book study, the questions, the opportunity to pray for other women and to be prayed for has been such a gift to me. I would recommend it to anyone seeking a safe place to grieve, remember, and heal. I am not at the end of this journey yet, but diving deep has helped me to make progress in some key areas and I am so grateful to God and Adriel for this opportunity. ” —Joanna

“From the start of the first Deep Dive meeting I felt at home with people I’d just met. I’d landed in a safe place where I knew I belonged and felt invited into. It has been a gift to me to have new found friends show up consistently, ask questions and invite me to pray for them as well as spend time praying for me. During a time of physical loneliness I have felt a much needed emotional support. I’m encouraged by the steps I’ve take to be honest with myself and to view my grief from all angles. I cannot tell you how grateful I am for the Deep Dive.” —Anna

Lunching at a monastery in Tuscany. As you do.

Seven years ago I was invited to a dream trip for writers in Italy. It had only been six months since I made the leap to fight imposter syndrome and changed my instagram bio to include the word “writer.” I still knew very little about the industry.

I didn’t know the facilitator of the trip was a literary agent at the top of her game. (I had to ask what a “literary agent” even was when I first met her a month before at my first writers’ conference.) I didn’t know any well known writers. I had no book deal. I’d never pitched an article or written anywhere other than my own website. I didn’t realize nearly all of the other writers on the trip were agented and contracted. (Once I figured this out, I felt wondrously small and wondrously grateful, because somehow I was invited anyway.)

A few of us womenfolk: (L-R) Tsh Oxenreider, Amber Haines, Nish Weiseth, Brooke Perry

I gained so much on that trip. I gained friends and colleagues. I gained a stellar agent who would become like a sister. I gained vision. Confidence. Insight into an industry that seemed a mystery.

I lost a lot too. I lost some of my pretenses, a few illusions, plenty of misconceptions. I also lost a baby. (I had a miscarriage under the monastery stairs.) I lost what felt like a dream too good to be true.

A few hours before I had a miscarriage during the Tuscany Writers Retreat

This morning I was journaling about my tendency to have Imposter Syndrome and the fear that my next book won’t live up to my own expectations, and I was taken right back to Tuscany in 2014. I’m not that different now and yet in some ways I am. 

Here is what I would tell that excited, hopeful, scared, rookie writer from 2014 before I was agented or published or sold my first ten thousand books:

Be kind to yourself.

Have faith.

Trust the process.

God will connect you.

Doors will be opened.

Even after you’ve hit some wonderful benchmarks, you will still be afraid sometimes.

You will still deal with jealousy.

You will still feel excluded.

You will still get imposter syndrome.

You will still doubt yourself.

You will still feel ill-equipped at times.

But you will excavate words and ideas you don’t yet have language for.

You will learn how to write with more courage than you’ve yet known.

You will be surprised by how equipped you actually are already.

You will craft beautiful phrases and sentences that you’re still proud of years later.

God will give you insight into scripture, and story, and life you didn’t have before.

You will discover life-changing metaphors.

You will help people grow, heal, and see.

You will help other writers go farther than you’ve even been.

You will never regret being generous.

Your work is not in vain and your worth still doesn’t rest in your achievements or acknowledgements.

You will still struggle.

You will still sometimes feel inadequate.

You will still be telling yourself: “success is faithfulness, success is faithfulness, success is faithfulness.”

You are more capable than you know.

You are doing much better than you think you are.

You will always be a teacher and always be a student and that’s the way it should be.

Enjoy. Enjoy. Enjoy.

(And get a full night’s sleep.)

Most of us are our own self’s harshest critic. What do you wish your younger self knew?

I enjoy debate—always have. Working out ideas, concepts, language. It floors me to take big ideas, turn them inside out to examine them. My coming of age was accompanied by the realization that I’m a Thomas—skilled at doubting, naturally skeptical.

I’m a doubter-believer. This is not a badge of honor. Nor is it a confession. It’s a statement of what is.

As an adult I’ve learned to grow (mostly) comfortable with this, accepting my doubt can lead to beautiful faith when my posture is humble, inquisitive, and soft toward God. I felt no space for this growing up in church.

Now I stand witness to many loved ones (and acquaintances) facing the existential crisis of “deconstruction” and I want to say I’m here for it. I’ve been deconstructing and reconstructing in an untidy loop since I was 16, often alone and, at times, in secret. I understand how tender it all is, and I empathize with the desire to check out from faith communities that are unwilling to engage in the give-and-take of spiritual life.

But I also want to say to those in the middle of some sort of faith crisis or deconstruction—consider keeping some safe, empathetic, Jesus-loving people in your life while you’re deconstructing.

It grieves me that many feel compelled to leave church in order to make sense of their faith. (Should we blame them?) I’m convinced Jesus would want us to bring all our Big Questions to the table. (Side note: It’s on me—us—to keep our tables big enough to welcome them.)

However you read scripture—keep reading. Keep connected to believers. Keep looking for Jesus. Keep showing up at the table.

You may have baggage around your own faith or church experience (who doesn’t?), but God’s here for it—not intimated by any question, doubt, or accusation you have.

Deconstruct, sure. But also ask God to reconstruct. Dismantling harmful belief systems isn’t enough; replace them with life-giving beliefs and practices that will help you sustain fresh faith, flourish in your connection with God, and joyfully love and serve your neighbors.

Take your time. Seriously. But also: Don’t stay in the rubble. Don’t believe the lie of scarcity that says all must be dismantled before anything good can be put back together. (Life is more fluid than that—sometimes it really is both/and instead of either/or.) And then purpose to reconstruct in a way that’s more faithful to the Way of Jesus.

Take up space at the table. Please. You are welcome. Table space doesn’t work in a math equation, but it does multiply when we keep an open heart. I’m sure of it.

There’s so much room at God’s table. Yes, even for you and for me.

Photo by Tegan Mierle on Unsplash.

A post script from Adriel on the word “deconstruction”:

To be honest with you, I’m not a huge fan of the word “deconstruction” to describe a faith journey, and yet it’s what we’ve got so it would be unhelpful for me to not use it in this context. When I first heard the term used several years ago I thought, “Oh, this is helpful to describe what we haven’t had a word for before.” But it seems it’s been co-opted in incredibly unhelpful ways now.

There’s a new trend of calling every examination of faith and doubt surrounding theology “deconstruction,” and another new trend of railing against anything that remotely resembles (or suggests) deconstruction and calling it heretical. This is exactly the problem with these buzzy words. They end up further alienating people into “us and them” camps and I’m so over it. The reality is, if people who are in faith crisis are deconstructing their belief systems, the last thing they need is to be told they can’t or shouldn’t, or to experience shame surrounding the (very real) struggle. This is not productive and doesn’t contribute to any kind of healthy rebuilding of faith.

To be clear, I’m so dismayed by the increasing anti-deconstruction rhetoric I’m seeing in some Christian circles. I’m also dismayed by the glorification of deconstruction that I’m seeing in others. Neither is helpful. For most people, it’s actually incredibly painful to deconstruct and it’s irresponsible (not to mention unkind) to minimize it on one hand or use it as an excuse on the other.

So yet again we see another word stabbed through the middle with a polarizing divide that was never necessary in the first place. ???? Words matter. But definitions matter too. Most importantly, the people using them to name their process matter even more. So how about we make it a practice of assuming the best in our fellow believers?

For mothers who have lost a child—born or unborn;

For mamas holding a sick child, daring to wonder how much time you have left;

For women who have yearned for a child and have been unable to conceive;

For women who long to be married and start a family yet remain waiting;

For those who want to adopt but haven’t yet seen that dream become reality;

For those who needed to let someone else care for their child and had to say goodbye;

For single moms of young kids who are too young to know how to express appreciation as she deserves;

For those enduring the emotional and physical turmoil of fertility treatments and IVF;

For mothers who are deployed and far away from their babies;

For mothers caught in a brutal custody battle:

I see you this Mother’s Day. I hold your heart in mine and ask for God’s grace to find you.

For those who never knew their mother;

For those who had a mother walk out on them;

For those who had a mother who was there but not there;

For those who have lost a mother;

For those who have lost a close grandmother or a mother-figure:

I see you this Mother’s Day. I hold your heart in mine and ask for God’s grace to find you.

May you be comforted in your loss or in your longing.

May your eyes be opened to those you have “mothered” through your love and care and nurturing, whether children have filled your home or not.

And may you be met with sweet memories of the special women in your own life who are as mothers to you, even if your own is gone.

Mothers and mother figures everywhere are deserving of our honor:

Hopeful mothers. Burdened mothers. Accidental mothers. Bereaved mothers. Invisible mothers. Bonus mothers. Motherless mothers. Grateful mothers. Grandmothers. New mothers. Weary mothers. Spiritual mothers. And all the women holding the paradox of joy and sorrow with or without your own mothers.

You are appreciated and I hope there’s someone in your life to help you know it this Mother’s Day.

To those who have lost or are longing:

I see you this Mother’s Day. I hold your heart in mine and ask for God’s grace to find you.

With Love,

Adriel

© 2011 Adriel McIntosh Booker. Please do not reproduce or modify without written permission.

Grief Resources:

Tethered

A online gathering to explore the intersection of grief & loss, faith & doubt, wholeness & hope.

Our Scarlett Stories—Giving dignity and voice to our babies, our motherhood, and our grief

Need a kind, supportive Christian community to help you navigate miscarriage, stillbirth, infertility, or other types of fertility, pregnancy, or baby loss? Visit us at Our Scarlett Stories:

Adriel’s book—Grace Like Scarlett

Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss

Baby Loss Remembrance Service

Join us for a 45-minute pregnancy and baby loss remembrance service to honor the loss of your precious little one (available to watch for free on-demand anytime).

More in our library:

In Between Who I Was and Who I’m Becoming

There was a time in my life when I wore power suits to work and then drove home in my 1963 Dynamic 88 Holiday to change into oversized jeans, thrifted cardigans, and low top Chucks to swig beers in the local pub with deadbeat skater boys. I straddled two worlds—my communications job with an expense account in my corner office and dive bar punk shows. Neither of these Adriel’s were more me than the other; I just hadn’t yet learned how to integrate my first born, ambitious, overachieving, list-making self with my creative, spontaneous, cynical, line-towing self. (Truthfully, I’m still learning.)

On the Road to Damascus

While I grew up safe within the loving arms of small town church family, I excused myself from Christianity at sixteen when I couldn’t get a boyfriend or find answers about Noah’s ark or the creation account that satisfied my questions. I went “off the rails” as some like to say and it was probably the best thing that could have happened to me. It opened my eyes and my imagination to a big wide world tucked away in the cobblestone streets of Bucharest, the snowy villages of Kirchberg, rooftops dinners in Santorini, and the hook of cheap instant coffee and cigarettes in a share house in Albion Park. I met Gandhi and Mandela, The Smiths and Kerouac. No doubt it was terrifying for my parents to have their 18 year old daughter vagabonding around Europe in the days before internet, but I survived and came back with a heart more open to spirituality and truth and beauty than it ever had been—as long as it didn’t include the Sunday school version of “Jesus in my heart” stuff I had emphatically rejected.

And then one day in the back of a coffee shop in a little Oregon mountain town I heard God (audibly) speak to me and I couldn’t not decide to follow the Jesus Way. (Yes, it was audible. Yes, I’m sure it was the Jesus-God I had learned of as a kid. No, I can’t explain it. Yes, I’m convinced it was real.) My life changed in that moment—my own Damascus experience—but it still took me a long time to realize that following Jesus didn’t mean completely unfollowing the patchwork of ideas and dreams that made me, me. I had a lot of learning to do, but this “conversion” changed things for me. God became my lived experience. I started to know what it meant to be known.

Faith Transitions 

Now in my forties, I’ve realized that some of the most transformative seasons of my life were the ones I found myself in liminal spaces—neither here nor there—becoming but not quite yet become. To be frank, I’m living through one of these seasons now. Or maybe it’s not just a “season.” Maybe this is life. We’re always on our way to somewhere.

While my teenage faith crisis has come and gone, and my transition back into faith in my twenties was another sort of radical turning point, I spent a good portion of my thirties navigating another spiritual and identity crisis of sorts while also working in full time ministry. A lot of my questions still hang open-ended, but I’ve (mostly) made peace with knowing God has space for my wildest doubts, my most misguided certainty, and the few profound truths I believe at the core of my being (God is Love). I’m still amazed at the way my whole self is invited to God’s table, and that the invitation still stands every. single. day.

These days there’s a lot of buzz about faith deconstruction in Christian circles. I empathize with how disorienting it feels when you didn’t see the unraveling coming. But I don’t think faith transitions need to be a complete undoing; I just wish we did a better job supporting one another through them. I think coming a little undone can be really healthy, but so is being held together by those who understand. We need both. To be honest, I’m glad to have a bit more company in the “complicated faith” category. It’s hard for me to think of a time when I haven’t felt like I was peeling back layers on my own beliefs—deconstructing, constructing, deconstructing, reconstructing. I always assumed I was just wired this way. And to be honest, I don’t love the construction metaphor. Faith was never meant to be our project to build or dismantle. I understand why so many of us use it, but the metaphor is flawed.

Living in the Tension

As uncomfortable it is to live with an evolving faith, I’ve also come to believe it means my faith is alive. Like me, it’s growing and changing and adjusting and deepening. And maybe it’s not actually complicated but rather quite simple. My head often feels teenage-y and angsty, but my heart feels pretty childlike: I love Jesus. And I believe he loves me. That part is simple.

After twenty years in vocational ministry I’ve now hit the middle years of my life. They are both awkward and comfortable in many of the same ways my twenties were. Just when I thought I knew who I was I changed again. This is terrifying and liberating, both. I’m learning to live in the tension. These days I’m less interested in formulas and prescriptions and more interested in the creative process of tending to our spiritual gardens with open eyes and plenty of water so we can best nurture a place for faith to grow—within our own selves but also within our communities.

On Gadigal Land

I’m now married to my closest friend, and we’ve just entered the teen years of our marriage. Together we’re knee-deep in raising three beautiful sons on Gadigal Land (Sydney, Australia). Our ministry life is focused on our local community, discipleship, and life around the table. I’ve lived overseas for more than twenty years but will always have Oregonian tree-hugger mixed into my blood. 

I’m a writer. I used to say I was a speaker and a preacher, but the truth is the last few years most of my words get caught on paper not microphones. Covid has changed things, sure, but I think they were already changing before the world turned inside out. 

I’ve lived in community my entire adult life since becoming a Christian. At times it’s felt like a burden; other times a blessing. This is real life and I am grateful. We grow better together (if we’re willing). We certainly experience God as more true together.

Writing Life

A few years ago I published my first book called Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss between our first three miscarriages and our fourth. It’s a mix of memoir, grief support, and narrative theology. I wrote it because a few of the books I read after my first miscarriage had such terrible theology that I found myself fantasizing about throwing them against the wall, disgusted that other hurting women might read them too. (I never did end up throwing them, but only because I didn’t want to break my kindle.) 

In my early days of writing, I never would have imagined writing about things like pregnancy loss or grief, but I could never unsee those once I had experienced them and felt compelled to write about discovering God there, too. To me, writing Grace Like Scarlett was a way to contribute to the conversation about who we are, who God is, and how we fit in the world. I wanted to offer something that didn’t shame women or villainize God or exploit our lack of good theology surrounding suffering or misrepresent the people of God (the “Church”) who are deeply flawed and deeply loved, both.

Grace Like Scarlett is the book I wish someone had handed to me after our first loss. Writing it came at a cost but I’m proud of what I now get to offer others. It’s helping a lot of women and their families to find God on the underside of their pain. I’m convinced you can’t grieve well or heal without the power of God’s grace and the kind companionship of community. I hope Grace Like Scarlett will point people to both.

Becoming Alive

During the last decade I’ve been shaped by grief and loss in ways that give me a great deal of gratitude. But I’ve also been challenged in ways I’m still finding words for. And sometimes I’m still sad. (‘Sad’ feels like a small word but we all know it isn’t.) Honestly, I’m relieved those excruciating years of childbearing are over so that I’ll never have that same particular kind of loss repeated. But it would be foolish of me to assume we’ve moved on from loss all together. Life doesn’t work that way.

Since learning how to name and dignify my experiences with loss, grief, and pain, I’ve come to more clearly see the pattern of birth and death and rebirth as what it means to be human. (And being human is, of course, an incredible gift.) I have no doubt each of us will keep finding ourselves in need of this resurrection—following in the Jesus Way, doing our best to keep focused on goodness and mercy and love all the days of our lives, hoping to become more alive as we learn how to live and trust again and again. To me, this is what it means to call myself “Christian”—realizing my own need and desire for God, and learning to walk in humility and sacrificial, others-focused love as Jesus modeled for us so well.

Tethered to Hope

In the weirdness of 2021 I’m working on my second book (yet to be titled). It’s an exploration of the crisis after the crisis—you know, the identity crisis or the spiritual crisis that comes after the more easily identifiable crisis event (death, divorce, job loss, etc.). I’m studying what it means to be changed by the liminal spaces we find ourselves in—the in-between—the space between who we were before the crisis and who we’re becoming because of (not in spite of) it. I’m not writing as an expert, but as a cartographer—charting the map with what I find as I move through my own in-between. I’m discovering these liminal spaces can be a transforming mercy if we’re willing to embrace them. (I hope you’ll discover this along with me.)

My desire is that what I offer—whether here on my website, in articles, on instagram, on podcasts, in our community, or through my books—will be fuel to help fellow sojourners stay tethered to hope, too. I believe it takes our whole beings—body, soul, spirit, mind, relationships, and community to really know and experience the transformative power of Christ in our lack and in our longing, in our formation and in our abundance.

Light and Shade

Of course all of this might sound a bit ‘heavy’ and I admit I can often be found deep in a book or entrenched in a conversation about faith or culture or politics or women’s issues (or some other Big Idea), but I’m also learning to be my whole self, which includes plenty of ‘lighter’ things, too. I still love thrift store finds. I still listen to jazz and folk records. I still love throwing parties. I still prefer chips and salsa to ice cream. I still have the Pixies on my bucket list. I still rescue furniture from the side of the road. I still flirt with my husband by rolling my eyes at his dad jokes and then giggling anyway. I still MC living room dance parties for my kids. I still stay up way too late and struggle to get up every single morning. I still grit my teeth while trying to politely smile my way through small talk. And I still can’t sleep the night before Christmas.

A Generous Life

Thanks for taking the time to get to know me more. I hope my words and my faith will help you find your own—I can think of no greater achievement for a writer or a believer.

Eugene Peterson said it best, paraphrasing Jesus of course: “Keep open house; be generous with your lives. By opening up to others, you’ll prompt people to open up with God, this generous Father in heaven.” (From Matthew chapter 5.)

I hope you’ll find the space I cultivate to be a generous, welcoming, soft place to land. I’m so glad you’re here.

Adriel

p.s. You can find my “official” (far shorter) bio here.

Join us this Mother’s Day to send and receive some hand-written love through the mail.

Between the darkness of Good Friday and the light of Easter Sunday, Holy Saturday hangs suspended. It’s a liminal space—neither here nor there. If we take the time to enter in we’ll feel it too: things are not as they were, nor are they as they will be. There’s a tension between what we’ve known and what’s ahead.

We are in-between.

Maybe you are in your own sort of in-between, liminal space.

Perhaps something has thrust you into crisis—a relational breakdown, the loss of a loved one, work dried up, finances in disarray, a faith tradition that isn’t meeting your deepest need, an identity you’ve outgrown. While the crisis itself is easily identifiable (diagnosis, miscarriage, divorce), what’s harder to put language around is the space crisis ushers us into: change, transition, liminality—the space between old and new.

In liminal spaces we begin to realize we aren’t who we were, but we’re not yet who we’re going to be. You might feel disoriented, confused, untethered, anxious, or apathetic. You might be afraid or expectant. Most of us want to claw our way out of liminality as soon as humanly possible—back to a place where we know the rules. (The pandemic has given us a collective longing to find and establish a “new normal” with structure and norms we can wrap our minds around.) We work hard toward resolution; we’re uncomfortable with ambiguity.

Adventure seems sexy, but the truth is most of us quite like to know where it’s leading. We like maps and plans, benchmarks and targets. But God uses our liminality—our in-betweenness—to deeply form us if we’re willing.

Joseph in prison. Israel in the desert. Jonah in the fish. David in the pasture. Mary with child. Jesus in the wilderness. These were not bridges, simply moving them from one place to another; these were transformative places and spaces and times—transformational encounters with God.

Liminality is a chrysalis, a womb where we can grow into the life ahead. And sometimes, like Holy Saturday, liminality takes the shape of a tomb—dark, despairing, disorienting, depressing—but still: a place where new life is formed and birthed.

Take heart friends. Transformation happens in liminal spaces. Will you stay in the tension as long as it takes?

As I work on my next book, I’d be so grateful to have your feedback on your own experiences with crisis, loss, transition, and faith. How have these intersections shaped you?

Currently reading:

We Make the Road by Walking: A Year-Long Quest for Spiritual Formation, Reorientation, and Activation by Brian McLaren. We’re reading through this slowly as ‘house church’ and gleaning so much. Also, McLaren is a truly gifted writer.

Break Bread Together: Finding True Friendship at the Last Supper by Jessica Herberger. I’m reading through this with the author (Jess) and a small group during Lent.

The Soul of Shame: Retelling the Stories We Believe About Ourselves by Curt Thompson. Have been reading this slowly. Really important read and I hope to share more when I’m done.

The Gift of Being Yourself: The Sacred Call to Self-Discovery by David Benner. Just started this one so can’t comment much now but it came highly recommended to me by several people I respect.

The Great Emergence: How Christianity is Changing and Why by Phyllis Tickle. This is a fascinating read for nerds like me who enjoy church history, cultural trends, and sociology. I’m listening to it on Audible.

Burnout: The Secret to Unlocking Your Stress Cycle by Emily & Amelia Nagoski. I only got a few chapters into this book before HUGE lightbulbs went off and I set it down in order to implement what I was learning. (I still need to finish—but I will. Highly recommend.)

Recent reads:

I tend to read stacks of books at once, but miraculously I do finish most of them at some point. Here are some I’ve recently finished reading:

Hidden Things: Scripture as Spirituality by Richard Rohr. I listened to this one on Audible and I never absorb as much listening as I do reading, but I did walk away with some deep thoughts about love and scripture. I really like Rohr’s teaching and storytelling.

The Explosive Child: A New Approach for Understanding and Parenting Easily Frustrated, Chronically Inflexible Children by Dr Ross Greene. Highly recommend.

The Sin of Certainty: Why God Desires Our Trust More than Our “Correct” Beliefs by Peter Enns. This book left me feeling inspired to trust more. Sounds simple, but was the exhortation I needed at the time.

Longing for God: Seven Paths of Christian Devotion by Richard Foster. Everything Foster writes is good, solid wisdom. This one was very interesting—he highlights 7 people/movements who have helped shape our understanding of intimacy with God and what they’ve contributed to Christianity. This was also an Audible read for me.

Life Together: The Classic Exploration of Christian Community by Dietrich Bonhoeffer. We read this at the end of last year for our little “house church” and it was challenging and validating. Life as a disciple doesn’t have to be complicated, but it does need to be intentional. We enjoyed translating some of Bonhoeffer’s ideas into things that would work in our modern context.

Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith by Barbara Brown Taylor. I started reading this ages ago and set it down. When I picked it back up recently it sang to me. Taylor is a stunning writer and her reflections on life and faith and church were wonderfully affirming and encouraging to read.

Healing Racial Trauma: The Road to Resilience by Sheila Wise Rowe. 2020 was a year in which many people began reading about issues of race and trauma for the first time. If you haven’t yet, this could be a good place t start. I really appreciate Rowe’s blend of personal storytelling and experience as a professional trauma counselor. (You can also watch my interview with Rowe at Tethered. She’s brilliant.)

Flash kindle deals:

50 Women Every Christian Should Know: Learning from Heroines of the Faith by Michelle deRusha. I have this in paperback but saw it go on sale on kindle this week for $0.99!

We Make the Road by Walking: A Year-Long Quest for Spiritual Formation, Reorientation, and Activation by Brian McLaren. This one gets a double mention today because it’s currently $2.99 on kindle.

The Very Good Gospel: How Everything Wrong Can Be Made Right by Lisa Sharon Harper. I haven’t read this yet, but have read and listened to many of Harper’s articles and interviews. She is gold and I know this is going to be a worthwhile read. $1.99 on kindle.

The Big Book of Women Saints by Sarah Gallick. Just snagged this two days ago and haven’t cracked it upon yet. Looks really fascinating (again for the church history nerds). $1.99 on kindle.

Other book-ish stuff:

• Tethered is still open. (Gosh, I love Tethered.) Our latest session is Companions in the Darkness of Doubt and Depression with Diana Gruver and it’s available for both free and premium members. Join us here to watch and get a preview of the material in her wonderful, new book which profiles saints who’ve struggled with doubt and depression.

• I’m 19 Amazon reviews short of the 300 mark. Would you help me reach this milestone if you’ve read Grace Like Scarlett and haven’t reviewed yet? Amazon reviews are like signposts for authors—they point people to our books who need them—and we’re grateful for every single one.

• Have you read anything good about tweens/teens that you can recommend? (Note: I prefer parenting materials based in developmental psychology.) Apparently I have a tween now and it occurs to me I have no idea how his brain works but I’m keen to learn. I’d love to hear your recommendations if you have any!

• Did you know I take small groups through Grace Like Scarlett? Find out more about our 8-week Deep Dive (grief support groups).

Note: Amazon affiliate links are used on this page. Thank you for supporting my work in this small way. Or, even better, if you prefer to buy from independent/local bookshops, you can find all of the titles at my Bookshop!

Today is the due date for the first baby we lost—Scarlett. To be honest, it’s simply too hard for me to remember all four due dates and all four anniversaries of our babies’ passing. But Scarlett’s is easy for me because it comes during pregnancy and infant loss awareness week and my inbox and social media feeds are filled with sentiments and memories of babies gone too soon. I couldn’t forget if I tried.

I have a lot to say about all of this—pregnancy loss, grieving with hope, forming a theology of suffering, allowing crisis to be a catalyst for spiritual formation. I wrote a whole book and still have more words. But mostly I just want to say this today: Having living children doesn’t replace having dead ones. Perhaps that’s a fairly crude way to put it, but it’s the truth. Maybe the beautiful boys in our home soften the blow of our miscarriages, but they don’t ‘balance’ the ledger out. Issues of the heart don’t work that way. Love is not a transaction.

Talking about loss makes people uncomfortable.

I’ve seen some pretty harsh stuff online lately—particularly aimed at Chrissy Teigen and John Lennon after they lost their son and shared on social media—where people seem to think it’s their business to judge how others share their grief. It’s ignorant and insulting. Families need to grieve how they need to grieve. Would these same critics be ridiculing them if they shared their grief after losing a toddler? I suppose they might. But still—it’s heartless.

Every little life in our family has mattered to us. Every little life still does. No one gets to decide if this is okay for us or not because love, hope, disappointment, grief—these are personal and our lived experiences, personalities, and beliefs shape them. (No one gets to decide this for Chrissy and John either.)

I have always shared openly about our pregnancy losses I believe normalizing grief is good for everyone, not just the bereaved. Grief and loss are part of the human experience. Everyone suffers when we’re ashamed of being human. Joy and pain must be shared. This is what it means to live life to the full.

Grief changes you. It should.

I’ve grown and changed a lot since our first miscarriage seven years ago. We’re still finding all the ways grief has changed us. And frankly, I’m glad to have changed. While I don’t wish pain on anyone, I do wish all would have the experience of receiving the comfort of the Spirit in their mourning (Matthew 5:4).

This month we’re releasing two (online) events I’m immensely proud of. I have deep conviction they’ll help people both in their grief and in their faith.

One is a remembrance service for babies gone too soon and one is an online summit all around the intersection of grief and loss, faith and doubt, wholeness, and hope that remains. We pray these events help connect people to a God who never leaves them—even in their darkest hours.

These events are not just another work project to me. They are an offering of love and I hope they will be a profound blessing to all who attend.

This is how I honor Scarlett Grace and all of our children—the ones around our dinner table and the ones who never made it: Levi, Judah, Scarlett, Oliver, Ruby, Micah, Eden.

And flowers. I buy myself flowers in honor of my children, too.

Happy would-be birthday Scarlett. You changed our lives. We still love you.

Join us as we gather around grief and hope:

Please note: If you are reading this later, not to worry—replays are available for both. Click on the images to find out more.

We know the deep pain of losing a baby. We also know there’s no blueprint for parents to know how to grieve or commemorate their baby’s life after miscarriage, stillbirth, or other forms of pregnancy and infant loss. It can be confusing and disorienting on top of the sorrow. We sometimes feel misunderstood or unsure if our grief is too much or not enough. Sometimes we hardly know what we feel other than heartbroken.

Our prayer is that this simple remembrance service will provide you space to grieve with hope. Together we will make time to lament, time to reflect, time to honor your baby, time to receive comfort from Jesus, time to give thanks that we’re not alone, and—most importantly—time to hope.

Please join us on International Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day (October 15) for a special faith-based service to remember your baby. The pregnancy and infant loss remembrance service will stream live online so you can join from the privacy of your own home, yet still connect with other bereaved mothers, fathers, family members, and loved ones across the world.

Along with our wonderful team of contributors, we’re honored to serve you in your loss. Find all the details you need and share your baby’s name here.

With Hope,
Adriel & Ryan Booker

Suffering deserves the dignity of recognition

At the beginning of the pandemic I wrote and asked you:

How are you doing, really?

Reading through your responses gave me all the feels. I was floored by your candor, heart, humility, and vulnerability in sharing the very real struggles and disappointments, along with the sweet gifts some of you were surprised to find.

As we hit the halfway mark for 2020 it feels entirely appropriate to ask this question again:

How are you doing? Like, really?

It seems when the virus first started sweeping the earth we quickly adapted. As hard as it was, we knew what we had to do: wash our hands, close our doors, figure out how to rearrange schedules, cancel conferences, postpone trips, learn new technology platforms, become our children’s teachers, figure out how to do house church or church online, move family reunions to Zoom, replace birthday parties with drive-by parades, stock up on toilet paper, bake bread. It was weird and hard and disruptive but we were fine. We recalibrated.

Begging for air

Now as Covid has surpassed ten million cases, and nations like the USA and Brazil are incredibly hard hit with no sign of the curve flattening, we’re looking around at one another wondering just how much more we can take. We’ve lost jobs, lost homes, lost weddings and gatherings we had looked forward to, lost work opportunities, lost income, lost routine, lost momentum, lost any sense of certainty. Some have even lost loved ones.

Then of course right in the middle of the pandemic a few key events tilted the public tide to cry out for equal justice at a volume never before heard in our generation. All of a sudden we were paying attention differently. (Maybe we couldn’t sit still long enough to notice before?) The pain was loud and intense and warranted—the suffering of generations had finally erupted into a consciousness that demanded attention. Unrecognized pain can go quiet for a long time but there comes a fracturing where it cannot be contained any longer. What comes out can be frightening, disorienting, painful.

Like a lanced wound, the world split open, begging to be given air to breathe, to heal.

Suffering deserves the dignity of recognition

And so here we find ourselves: midway through the year that started on fire (Australia) and has devolved into what feels like the whole world fighting over things like whether or not wearing a face mask is kind or an infringement of personal rights. We’ve backed ourselves into a corner and now feel claustrophobic as restrictions retreat and then advance, retreat and advance. All of it is dizzying. We’re still fighting for our breath. (Let us not forget to fight for theirs.)

So how will we respond—with compassion toward ourselves and others? Will we hold space for grief? Will we name the suffering and tend to it with care? Or we will lash out in pain? Will we bear down and hold tighter to our own?

The ebb and flow of grief

The world is grieving right now and I’ve learned a few things about grief over the last several years. It starts with shock and horror but then somewhere down the track the acute disappointment and adrenaline wear off and we’re left with the ramifications of starting to see that it’s not going anywhere. It’s here for the long haul and can’t be wrapped up as neat and tidy little life lesson as we had hoped.

It lingers. It ebbs and flows. Some days feel fairly normal and then the next we’re hit with a fresh wave of sorrow or anger or despair or confusion—all of it grief coming out sideways.

What grief exposes

And here’s the thing about grief: it exposes everything—our weaknesses, our entitlement, our jealousy, our insecurities, our pride, our selfishness, our lack of foresight, our inability to stay in the present, our self pity, the holes in our theology, our self doubt. (Need I go on?)

When you’re grieving it’s not the time to pull up your bootstraps and muscle your way through it. When you’re grieving it’s time to slow down, pay attention, and ask questions of your grief: What are you trying to teach me? About myself? About God? About the world around me?

I can’t solve your grief or make it go away. I can’t tell you how long it will last. But I can say this: I see you. I see you grappling, trying, hanging in there. I see you making the most of things. I see you adapting. I see you surrendered. I see you fighting. I see you showing up. I see you wanting to give up and then deciding not to. I see you.

Hope that persists

Take heart friends. This time is hard, but if there’s one thing I’m asking the Lord during this strange, strange year it is this: Give me 2020 vision Lord—help me see clearly. Help me clarify priorities, clarify values, clarify how and where to invest my time, talents, and energy. Help me clarify how I see myself, my neighbors, my family, you.

This is my prayer for you, too:

Help her to see, Lord. Give him clarity. Give her insight. Give him grace. Give them prophetic imagination to envision not just what is but what could be. Give them hope that persists. Amen.

Be gentle with yourself, friend, and name your suffering. Suffering deserves the dignity of recognition for that is where healing begins. Name your grief, name your need, name your inability to live outside of God’s grace, name your hope.

And hang in there.

So, how are you doing? I mean—really?

Persisting in hope,
Adriel x

P.S. Our new pregnancy loss support community is now opened. Membership is free: Our Scarlett Stories.

Our Scarlett Stories is a brand new community for women to hold space for grief, grace, and hope after miscarriage and other forms of pregnancy and baby loss.

Grief

In Luke 24 we’re transported to a dusty road headed to Emmaus where two of the disciples were in the middle of discussing the heartbreaking current events they were living through. I imagine them feeling any number of things—bewilderment, lament, fear, hopelessness, anger, confusion—when Jesus himself walked up among them and joined the conversation.

Jesus listened, received their sadness, heard their pain, and drew near to them while they were anxious and confused. He mostly asked questions and let them recount their experiences of losing their Messiah back to him. He took liberty to point them to the hope laid out by the prophets, but he mostly just listened and stayed with them.

Ruach is the Hebrew word used in scripture for the breath of God. It is wind, Spirit, life. It’s not so much a physical force but an essence—God’s essence that sustains life. It’s sometimes also translated as Spirit of God, such as in Genesis chapter 1.

As we continue to pray for the USA, for our own nation, and for people all over the world experiencing suffering from the consequences of individual, generational, and systemic sins, we are praying God’s breath of LIFE to like a mighty wind to bring the change, justice, truth, healing, hope, and peace that people in pain are crying out for.

Suffering is everywhere. As it gets louder it demands our attention. It shouldn’t have to demand, but we’re so practiced at looking away that sometimes suffering must get loud enough for us to actually notice its presence.

Suffering cannot be alleviated unless we first acknowledge it exists. It has to be named. In Grace Like Scarlett I talk about “naming our suffering” and why giving language to it matters—naming it validates its reality.

“No matter what form it takes, suffering commands our attention. It will not be alleviated by comparison to greater or lesser suffering, or even your perception of it. Pain is pain and it deserves the dignity of recognition, for that is where healing begins.” —Adriel Booker, Grace Like Scarlett

Naming our suffering is critical, but it’s not everything. Once it’s named then we must be willing to enter into it alongside one another. This is the incarnation—bringing our actual bodies to the spaces where suffering is and doing our part to alleviate it. This is the power of the incarnate Jesus. It’s exactly what he came to show us to do. It’s meant to be our way of being in the world—a demonstration of what “entering into suffering” with others actually looks like.

This does not mean positioning ourselves as saviors or experts—when we do that we perpetuate subjugation. What I’m talking about is incarnational, humble, co-suffering love which gives birth to justice (and ultimately, peace).

Make no mistake, what we’re seeing in protests around the world in this cultural moment is the naming of suffering—a community giving themselves permission to suffer out loud and keep going until someone pays attention. This movement is being led by Black brothers and sisters and their suffering is giving us the opportunity to say: I see you. I see your suffering. I hear your pain. I can’t heal you but I know my recognition is a good place to start. 

You cannot reconcile when you’re unwilling to admit that relationship was never there in the first place. My Indigenous Australian brothers and sisters have taught me this. Reconciliation without recognition is impossible, so this is me saying: I recognize.

I recognize your pain.

I recognize your suffering.

I recognize my complicity.

I recognize my privilege.

I recognize responsibility.

I recognize our reality (and I’m still learning how different mine is to yours).

I recognize my need to pay closer attention.

I recognize that it’s not my clumsiness over issues of race that is the problem, but it’s my fear of making mistakes and being found to be racist.

I recognize my own fragility.

I recognize this cannot be about me denying racism but that I can declare myself willing to engage in the active work of becoming anti-racist (and I’m starting to understand the difference).

I recognize this is a life or death situation.

I recognize the urgency.

Pain demands attention. Suffering deserves the dignity of recognition. Let its demand not be in vain. And let us not stop short by patting ourselves on the back for to beginning to recognize. This is our call to incarnational co-suffering love that births justice and leads to peace.

This is our call to do better.

Resources for growth:

There are a lot of excellent resources out there to get started with actively learning about these issues. Here is where I would personally recommend to start:

Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Justice Resources – Compiled by Common Grace

Be the Bridge – Free training and facebook group

I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness by Austin Channing Brown

The Very Good Gospel: How Everything Wrong Can Be Made Right: Lisa Sharon Harper with foreword by Walter Brueggemann

I can’t stop thinking about my privilege lately. It’s been a growing revelation for a good portion of my adult life, but everything was quickened this year at the onset of the global pandemic.

As I watched Australia beautifully handle the unfolding of the Coronavirus and manage to keep our case load numbers extremely low, (note, I said ‘beautifully,’ not perfectly), I couldn’t help but think there was nowhere else in the world I would feel safer. Even aside from the pandemic, we enjoy incredible privilege.

My family and I live in (arguably) one of the most stunning cities in the world with everything you could want in a colorful, eclectic neighborhood within a thriving urban setting, complete with spectacular beaches a few minutes away.

We have access to world class education, health care, social services, government support, goods and services, libraries, reliable public transportation, job opportunity, cutting edge research and development, a robust arts community, plenty of competitive and leisure sport, national parks surrounding our entire city on all sides, and the freedom to worship however we choose.

Australia’s nick name—The Lucky Country—is no accident. We really are “hashtag, blessed.”

It’s easy for us to see headlines announcing instances of overt racial inequality and feel like it’s not our problem. After all, we’re fairly ‘evolved’ as a people, aren’t we? All of our adult citizens can vote and marry. Even our non citizens can access education and health services. We pride ourself on being a nation of immigrants, culturally diverse in language, food, custom, religion, and more. (Even Americans like me have been welcomed to settle here.) Clearly we’re so evolved.

And yet we’re not.

Deep within the center of us is the propensity to look out for our own and to shun the image of God—the imago Dei*—within our fellow human beings. I am not exempt. Nor are you.

Humans have been shunning the imago Dei in other humans since time immemorial, and we certainly didn’t stop when we settled in “new” nations. (You can ask your indigenous friends how well that’s gone for them.) We didn’t stop when we made strides like some of the great movements of modern times: abolition, women’s suffrage, civil rights, marriage equality, and others. (Indigenous Australians weren’t afforded the right to vote in all states and territories of the Commonwealth of Australia until 1967; they weren’t even counted as people until the census of 1971.)

We are not evolved—not in the “arrived” sense of the word anyway—just perhaps more clever at hiding behind the various privileges we have been afforded.

This brings us to George.

Yesterday I made myself watch all the way to the end of the video of George Floyd’s murder by a Minneapolis police officer and his coworkers in the USA. I didn’t want to; it was hugely uncomfortable. But I did because I realize it’s my privilege that even allows me to look away in the first place. It’s my privilege to not recognize that this is happening every day in numbers too high to count away from the watchful eye of iPhones and social media. It’s in our schools, our governments, our churches, our service industries, our scientific communities, our health care systems, our judicial systems, our correctional facilities, our homes, our hearts.

George Floyd’s family can’t look away from what has happened so why should I be able to?

George deserves to be humanized. His family deserves to be listened to. Generations of his people deserve to be taken seriously. Suffering deserves the dignity of recognition.

This is what the margins have been trying to tell us for so long: see your privilege, hear our cry, repent.

It’s easy for me to see there are systemic injustices in need of dismantling. I can be dismayed by the problems of war or poverty or corruption or greed. It’s much harder for me to see all the ways I’ve been complicit in the systems around me, perhaps due to privilege, lack of knowledge or exposure, willful ignorance, or the fear of what it says about me if I admit that I, too, might have my own forms of racism to reckon with.

You don’t have to wave a confederate flag or get a swastika tattoo to be racist. All you really have to do is say, “not my problem.” (Whether this is uttered aloud or under your breath is irrelevant.)

Because this is your problem. It’s my problem.

This is our problem and it’s not going away.

Anger and sorrow aren’t enough so what are you doing that’s constructive? No seriously, share with me. I want to hear. How will you address the attitudes and behaviors and biases in your life toward black people, First Nations people, Muslims, LGBTQI+ people, Asians, differently-abled people, the economically disadvantaged, the uneducated, the undocumented, the elderly?

How will you use your privilege and power to listen, learn, and do better?

*Note: Imago Dei is a Latin theological term, applied uniquely to humans, which denotes the relationship between God and humanity. Christians profess to be believe that every human carries the imago Dei—the “image of God” regardless of age, gender, race, or religion.

I spent some time naming all the things that were lost this year as the world was jarred to stillness with Covid-19. It was painful. Some of the things lost have been public—we lost a lot of income and one of the properties we run our ministry out of. We lost students, momentum, opportunity.

Some of the things we lost have been personal—a writers’ conference I’ve planned on going to for four years, an anniversary getaway that can’t be rescheduled/refunded, a week camping at the beach we’d been hanging onto for months.

Some things lost have been less tangible—the work I imagined digging into before it got sidelined by homeschooling, the lack of access I feel to attend to my family should something go wrong overseas.

And other things lost have been small—missing conveniences like online grocery shopping, the library, or the luxury of lingering in a cafe or browsing a thrift store for no particular reason, the gift card to the cinema that’s still tucked in my wallet from Christmas.

But there are other things lost, too. Things I’ve been relieved to lose: the hurry, the expectation to be all the places, the “shoulds,” the shuttling to birthday parties, pretending to enjoy school socials for the sake of the kids, functions where I felt obliged to “make an appearance” when I much preferred to stay home.

These months have certainly been strange but now that they’re changing all over again I’m wishing for it to slow down, wishing the collective pause would last longer.

What have we lost? Has it been too much? What did we need to lose? Have we lost enough? I’m not looking for answers so much as I’m not done asking the questions.

As the world quickens its pace, how do we ensure we don’t find some of what’s been lost?

Are you looking for additional grief support after miscarriage, stillbirth, or other types of pregnancy loss?

Maybe your grief is fresh and raw and you’re still reeling from the suffocating blow of a recent miscarriage. Or maybe you’ve long ago buried a secret grief, but something within is probing you to lean in closer to the pain once again. Grief is wild like the sea, but it doesn’t need to destroy us. We can’t conquer it, but we can navigate it, and we can find Jesus there too.

Dive in, friend. Come with me. Let’s go deep. This is God’s invitation to be formed afresh in him. Grief can undo us, but it can also remake us. Let’s lean into Hope together.

Deep Dive grief groups for support after pregnancy loss

Join Adriel Booker and other women from the Our Scarlett Stories pregnancy loss community as we dive deeper into our grief together—not to be consumed by it or even to do away with it—but to be transformed and healed right in the midst of it.

These small, intimate grief groups help women navigate grief after pregnancy loss during an eight-week journey through grief together.

Features of the Deep Dive include:

• Private forum for sharing and prayer with other women who’ve experienced loss.
• Access to the private group via desktop or mobile app. (Away from the noise and advertisements of Facebook groups.)
• Two live group mentoring calls with Adriel.
• Seven weeks of videos from Adriel to take you deeper with the content of her book, Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss. 
• In depth guided weekly discussions by Adriel and team.
• Weekly prayer and encouragement for group members.
• Safe place to share your struggles with grief, sorrow, anger, faith, doubt, and the many other things pregnancy loss unearths.
• Indefinite access to the group after our eight weeks are over so you can continue to journey with others you’ve grown friendships with in the group.
• Indefinite access to the other features of Our Scarlett Stories Community such as our resource library, live interviews with experts in the field, a seven part audio series for navigating key milestone days, regular calls with Adriel, and more.

Next Deep Dive:

Our next Deep Dive grief group begins on June 1. If you’re reading this after June 1st, please email me to be put on the wait list for the next group.

Our Scarlett Stories

Deep Dive grief groups include membership to Our Scarlett Stories pregnancy loss community and resource library. Find out more here.

Grace Like Scarlett

The content of our eight-week Deep Dive groups are guided by content from Adriel’s book, Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss. (Book not included. Please purchase your copy here or reserve a copy from your local library.)

FAQs about the Deep Dive

How much time would I need to allocate toward this?

You can put as much or as little effort into the Deep Dive as you wish—this group is for you. To make the most of your time and investment, I suggest setting aside 30 minutes or more a day to have unhurried time to journal and consider and interact with the other group members. Weekly videos are generally 60 minutes.

Do we gather at a set time?

Yes and no.

Week 1: The first week we will have a live video call so we can all meet each other. This is where Adriel will share more about how the group will work, what to expect, and clarify any questions you have. It is also where we will spend some time listening to each other’s stories and what our hopes are for the Deep Dive.

Weeks 2-7: In between the opening and closing live video calls, there will be weekly videos posted on Fridays that you can watch any time that suits your schedule.

Week 8: During the last week we will have a second live video call so we can share “face to face” how the journey has been for us. This will be another really special time you won’t want to miss.

What is the format?

Weekly: Each week we read one section of Grace Like Scarlett together. The discussion questions and video will take us deeper into the week’s reading, which is usually about two chapters.

Monday-Thursday: Each week, four discussion questions will be posted—one question per day posted Mon-Thurs so you can pace through them. (Or if you prefer, you can set aside a longer time and answer them all four of them together—whenever suits.)

Friday: Each Friday a new video discussion will go live.

Saturday: On Saturdays we have a prayer and praise thread to share the things we’d like one another to pray for. It’s also a wonderful place to share any breakthroughs you’ve had during the week or share about special ways you were ministered to by God, by another group member, or by the video, book, or discussion content.

Anytime: The chat and comments and posts will remain open for your use any time.

What’s the video content like?

Each video features Adriel plus one special guest. Adriel opens the video and then flips the mic over to her guest co-host who leads the discussion about the week’s topic. Guest co-hosts range from therapists, to authors, to pastors. Many are baby loss moms themselves; a few are not. The videos are not designed to feel like teaching; they are designed to feel more like a warm conversation with deep, honest discussion that you would find in a support group setting.

Are the videos live?

Except for the two live group calls, the videos are pre-recorded. Adriel and others will join in the discussion in the comments of each video (or our group chat) so we can all interact together to take the discussion even deeper.

Do I have to do every question?

No. You can do as much or as little as you’d like. In saying that, I encourage you to take this time to really dig into the “work.” First and foremost this is for you. I believe with my whole heart if you give yourself to this process God will meet you exactly where you’re at and you’ll grow. This journey is designed not only to help you process your grief and painful issues of the heart, but also to help you flourish in your faith and grow in your relationship with God.

You are free to share as much or as little with the Deep Dive group as you would like to, but please know we will all benefit from hearing what you have to say—including your questions, struggles, and insights. Always remember, this is yourgroup. I am not here to mark assignments or judge your progress in any way. We are all here to come alongside you with sisterly support and kindness.

Please note: Adriel and the Our Scarlett Stories team is not equipped to give professional medical advice. If you need more care than our group can provide, we will encourage you to visit your general practitioner, licensed therapist, or other health care provider.

What if I miss a video or some questions?

This group is yours and there is no time duration in which you must “complete” the work. If you find yourself needing to go slower than the eight week pace we’ve set, then go slower. None of the videos or discussion questions will be deleted so you can take as much time as you’d like.

What do I need to participate?

• Your own copy of Grace Like Scarlett. Please order your copy now or reserve at your local library so we can start together June 1st.
• A journal and pen.
• Bible.
• An open heart and willingness to bring your hardest questions before the Lord.
• An atmosphere conducive to soul care. (Need to light a candle? Pour yourself a cup of tea? Find a comfy chair? Turn your phone to DND?)
• Internet connection. (Phone or laptop is fine.)

What if I can’t join a Deep Dive now?

If you can’t join now but would like to join another Deep Dive group, please let me know in the comments below and I’ll put you on the waiting list for the next group.

How is this different to the main Our Scarlett Stories membership community?

The Deep Dive is eight weeks of guided grief support in a small group with Adriel, but there is still plenty of support in our main community network if you can’t join a Deep Dive now. When you join a Deep Dive, you are welcome to use the main network as much as you’d like and interact with the other members here. There is a large (and still growing) resource library, live interviews every 2-3 weeks with experts in the field, an audio series for navigating key milestones, and many, many other resources including, of course, our wonderful and supportive community members themselves.

What’s the cost?

You can find current Deep Dive costs here. If you are experiencing financial hardship due to Covid or another situation, please contact me so we can chat about options. While I need to cover my costs, I also never want finances to be a barrier for people in genuine need, and at times we’re able to offer scholarships.

There are other free support groups out there so why are you charging?

I’ve been writing and supporting people for more than ten years online and in person and have only ever invested my own tears and dollars along with the thousands of hours creating content and replying to emails. While I love the ministry of writing and all the ways God’s called me to serve others, I also have to make sure it’s sustainable to give so much time to this and also maintain my other writing (such as book-writing). Charging for community membership and the increased support I provide in our Deep Dives (and the Story Circle) helps me to pay for the monthly costs of providing this Mighty Network platform, our email provider, and may other administrative costs I won’t bore you with.

Why aren’t you using Facebook?

Facebook is noisy and I’m tired of the ads, uncle so-and-so’s conspiracy theories and politics rants, spam, and other nonsense. Mighty Networks provides us our own private space with lots of features that Facebook doesn’t offer. It means we can combine our resource library, community, story platform, and live calls and events all into one space. (I hope you love it!)

Join us here:

Our Scarlett Stories and Deep Dive (grief support groups after pregnancy loss) and then hop over to instagram and share your story (@ourscarlettstories).

I see you—the one flattened by the words “I can’t find a heartbeat.”

I see you—the one trying and waiting and wondering how much longer you can hold on to hope.

I see you—the one wondering if you have the right to grieve.

I see you—the one carrying a long ago grief that still sneaks its way up to the surface when you’re least expecting.

I see you—the one conflicted by your gratitude for the children in your home and the longing for the one who never made it there.

I see you—the one who feels invisible, wondering if she counts as a mother.

I see you—the one embarrassed that your arms sometimes feel too full, and the one with your arms too empty.

I see you—the one keeping watch by night as your child gets weaker and succumbs to your greatest fear.

I see you—the one grieving in isolation who’d do most anything for a friend’s hand on the small of your back.

I see you—the one whose grief feels too much, and the one whose grief feels not enough.

I see you—the one who labored with joy only to birth with sorrow.

I also see you—the one shocked into new motherhood, wondering if you’re doing it right.

And I see you—the one devastated by a failed or delayed adoption, berating yourself for letting your heart go too far to reel back in.

I see you—the one who lost your child due to a situation or a choice you wish you’d never made or one that was made for you.

I see you—the one losing sleep over a child who’s lost their way.

I see you— the one mothering under a grievous diagnosis, afraid you might have to leave way too soon.

I see you—the one who hides in the bathroom to get a few minutes of respite from parenting on your own.

I see you—the one who’s lost her own mom, the one who’s mother doesn’t recognize her anymore, and the one who’s been estranged.

I see you. I will not wish you a Happy Mother’s Day, but I will wish you well in your soul.

May the God of all peace grant you the grace to know how beloved you are today.

You are seen. You are loved. You matter.

I see you, Mother.

© Adriel McIntosh Booker 2020

 

“How often I’ve ached to embrace your children, the way a hen gathers her chicks under her wings.” (Matthew 23:37b, The Message)

 

A gift to say “I see you”

If you’d like to give a compassionate gift to a woman who needs support after pregnancy loss, give her what she’s been longing for. Our pregnancy loss community is the kindest place on the internet and we’re sure it will be a soft landing for her during a hard time. Find out more about all the resources and features of membership available right here.

When I experienced my first miscarriage I had never felt so isolated, confused, and angry. I had also never felt such sadness—deep, deep sorrow.

In the aftermath of my loss, I scoured the internet for stories and swallowed them like medication. I needed to read the experiences of others in order to know I wasn’t alone. Reading them made me feel validated in my own experiences. It didn’t take away my grief, but it affirmed the dignity of it.

In the years since, I’ve experienced three more miscarriages. I’ve written a book and published dozens of articles on the subject, but there’s one thing I’ve found to be the most important: Stories.

Stories are so important, in fact, I’ve created a whole community around it.

I’d like to introduce you to Our Scarlett Stories—a brand new pregnancy loss community to support women after miscarriage, stillbirth, and other types of pregnancy loss. At the heart of Our Scarlett Stories is the desire to create a spacious place to read and share stories. Stories—those of others as well as our own—help us heal if we’re willing to digest and absorb them and let them transform us.

Everyone grieves. But not everyone grieves with hope and hope makes all the difference.

It’s my conviction there are two essential components to grieving with hope: the presence and promise of Jesus and the compassionate support of a gracious community. It’s within this context you’ll experience your deepest healing. And it’s why we exist.

A Mother’s Day gift for the woman who’s had a miscarriage

If you don’t know what to get a bereaved mom this Mother’s Day to help her feel seen, why not consider gifting her a membership?

Why not gift one to yourself?

Find out more: www.ourscarlettstories.com

Dear Grieving Mom,

Mother’s Day. It’s hard isn’t it? I know.

Because I grew up in a healthy home with a mother I adored and a life relatively free of heartbreak, I never understood the pain many women experience on Mother’s Day. When I had my own children, I quickly formed ideas about what I deserved when Mother’s Day rolled around. I needed a day off, a massage, and fresh flowers to remind me that my sleepless nights and repetitive days meant something. Of course, I knew my mothering mattered to my children. I knew it mattered to God and to my husband as well. But I sometimes still felt unrecognized in the sacrifice—the push and pull and demand and responsibility of it all.

A few years of motherhood taught me that it’s pretty common to feel this way.

But what of women who grew up without a mother or with a mother who left them? What of those who lost a beloved mom to disease? And what of those who longed to become a mother but were holding out for the right husband? Or the wife who endures charts and pokes and tests and every month hopes for a result she’s never seen before?

Mother’s Day can be hard. Nothing has taught me this more than experiencing the loss of our babies.

You may not have other little ones in your home to give you kisses and help daddy make you a card covered with X’s and O’s like I did. But regardless if you’ve ever had children in your home losing a baby can turn Mother’s Day on its head.

For me, when Mother’s Day rolls around I always miss my babies again. I’m thankful for those I have (and realize many women don’t share that same kind of joy), but as much as I love my three sons, they will never replace the three babies I’ve lost. I’ll always miss them and miss what could have been.

I remember the Mother’s Day after losing our first baby to miscarriage. I was six weeks fresh in my grief and I dreaded facing that day without our baby. It felt wrong to celebrate motherhood when mine had been so marred by loss. I felt alone and disappointed. I felt hesitant, vulnerable, disoriented.

That day came and went and of course I survived. My husband thoughtfully included our baby in his card to me and he acknowledged our loss, validating all of my complicated emotions. But it doesn’t mean it was easy.

Each year since, I’ve learned to adjust my expectations for Mother’s Day and to do things that help me address the things within myownheart that no one else can see. For me this means considering other moms who may be hurting. It means doing something to serve women in need, not because I can save them, but because I amthem. Sometimes it means buying myself flowers, or stealing away to get really honest in my journal. Mostly it means slowly learning to count my blessings, even in the midst of my pain, and knowing that neither cancels the other out.

Dear mama, how are you feeling this Mother’s Day? Do you feel forgotten? Invisible? Lonely? Do you feel sad? Angry? Hurt? Please know that there’s room for all of you today. So you be you.

Some of you have not had any children other than the ones you’ve lost. You may even be wondering what this day means for you—do you count? Whether society sees you as a mother or not, let me speak this truth into your heart as clearly and directly as I can: You count. You’re a mother too. Regardless of the circumstances surrounding your fertility and pregnancy, your mother’s heart cracked open when you got pregnant and lost your baby. You’re in pain today because you’re a childless mother and that just hurts.

You may feel let down by your husband or friends or church or support network. They may not have recognized the significance or sensitivity of this day in the ways you had hoped. For that, I am sorry. It’s okay that you’re disappointed. In your disappointment, know this: God sees. He sees your pain and he cares how you feel. He will draw near to you in times of heartache—receive his comfort, surrender to his grace, ask for his healing, look to the hope he offers.

You are not alone. You count. I see you. God sees you.

He sees you.

He sees you.

He sees you.

Love,
Adriel

More posts in the Letters to a Grieving Mom series:

• Open when your period returns
• Open on your original due date
• Open when you’re invited to a baby shower
• Open on a difficult holiday or special occasion
• Open on Mother’s Day
• Open on your baby’s birthday or anniversary
• Open during a post-miscarriage pregnancy

Resources to Help You Heal

For further resources to navigate grief after miscarriage and pregnancy loss, or to learn how to best support a friend experiencing loss, please visit my Miscarriage Stories and Resources page. You will also find a free grief journal and a free 7-day devotional.

If you’d like to go deeper in exploring how to grieve with hope, I’ve written a whole book for you:  Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss (available at all major retailers).

Grief Support Groups

Join us for an 8-week “Deep Dive” grief support group to help you navigate life after pregnancy loss. Find out more here.

Pregnancy Loss Community

Join us at the kindest place on the internet: Our Scarlett Stories – online community, resource library, and more.

Pin for later reference:

Featured Image by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

One last time, we told ourselves. One last child before we close up these painful, beautiful, brutal childbearing years. We wanted four children to tuck into bed each night.

I was relieved to become pregnant again after months of trying. This was it—our last child, a daughter—a thrilling gift from heaven to complete our family of three children earthside (and three heavenside).

Life was hectic but good as the pregnancy progressed. Our kids were flourishing. Our ministry was exploding. The community we were nurturing was growing. I had published a book on grief and loss and it was selling well and serving people in their pain. All around us were signs of new life—our growing baby the crowning glory of it all after years of disappointment and repeated heartache.

We’ve turned a corner—life, sustained. 

Midway through the pregnancy my heart began to free itself into love. I bought maternity items and baby girl clothes. I felt her kick for the first time. And then I went to a routine midwife appointment the next morning and learned she had died while I slept.

How could this be? Weren’t we back to having living babies?

The next few months were a whirlwind. Donors purchased us a new car after ours was destroyed. I traveled to the USA for media appearances. Our ministry grew from two to fourteen staff. We had ten college age young people move into our community house together with our family. We launched two new ministries. We rented another property and filled it with more students. Our gratitude list grew a mile long—so much to give thanks for we could hardly keep up.

But we were still so sad. And how could we grieve when life wouldn’t slow down? How do you find the still small voice of God when you can barely sit still or quiet your world enough to hear?

And that brings me to now. Our loss is still fresh and my life is still full. My due date is a few weeks away and I haven’t escaped the whirlwind. I crave time removed to think, to be held, to make space for my grief. But my real life demands something else. I suspect yours does, too.

You and I in our grief—we have neighbours to care for, work to perform, deadlines to meet, bills to pay, a marriage to invest in, friendships to nurture, decisions to make, logistics to plan, teams to serve, commitments to uphold, perhaps even living children to love well.

And this is real life, isn’t it? The world doesn’t pause just because we find ourselves at a loss for how to operate within it.

People pass on condolences and then they keep passing right on. They have their own babies to feed, their own obligations to fulfil, their own lives to hold together. And in the middle of it all we are left to deal with the grief that lays in pieces at our feet.

How?

Head to Club 31 Women to hear how I’m learning to grieve from the middle of the whirlwind.

When a friend of mine experienced stillbirth a few months after my first miscarriage, it forced me to look into the eyes of my own jealousy.

Yes, I just said that.

I was devastated to hear her news. It triggered my own deep feelings of loss while also sending my empathy into overdrive. I did my best to support her (long distance) through emails and responding to her and her family members who immediately turned to me for suggestions for grief support. But then I watched (via social media) her post professional photos taken with their baby, hold a memorial service at their church and write of her freezer filled with enough meals to last them weeks. It was beautiful to see how her people rallied, but it also magnified my own lack and amplified all the things I imagined would have helped me grieve my own loss.

We didn’t have any photos.

We didn’t have a grave to visit.

We didn’t have a fridge full of food or a mailbox full of cards.

Seeing all that she had in her grief exposed how I felt about what I didn’t have. In short, I was jealous.

I wouldn’t have wished my pain on my friend in a thousand years, and I’m so glad she was cared for the way she was. My jealousy had very little to do with her; it had everything to do with my own broken heart.

My jealousy was the fruit of something deeper. It revealed my desire to find comfort in people rather than God. It exposed my sense of entitlement – to be treated the way I thought I would treat others had the tables been turned. It revealed that even though I knew what was best for my heart, I didn’t always live it.

While I worked through the issues in my own heart, I had to take some tangible steps to make it easier for me: I hid her photos from my Facebook newsfeed, and whenever I began to find myself comparing my pain to her pain or my community’s response to her community’s response, I began to confess my jealousy to the Lord and use it as a reminder to pray for her heart. I don’t want to sound trite here, like you can “fix” your heart with a few simple steps. This process wasn’t easy for me, but it was life-giving. By allowing that specific trigger to become a reminder to lift my gaze to Jesus, I was able to not only support my friend in prayer but make room for God to heal my own heart.

The Brutal Truth

Grief exposes everything. It exposes our insecurities, our bias, our misdirected beliefs, our weaknesses, our sense of entitlement, our assumptions, our jealousy, our pride. Don’t berate yourself for the ugly stuff it uncovers. The human heart is complex. You can’t heal yourself by applying a spiritual antidote or by white-knuckling your way out of the pain by the power of your will. This is the stuff of spiritual transformation, a partnership between the human and the divine. When these things are exposed in our lives, it presents us with an opportunity: Will we allow our weakness, sin and beliefs to define our lives, our faith and our relationships? Or will we recognize the chance to go deep and deal with the root of what’s been exposed?

Some of you are still spinning from the blow of your miscarriage, and right now you simply need permission to make room for the sadness. Don’t minimize or try to “overcome” your grief.

But others will know exactly what I’m talking about – you are ready for the soul work. There comes a time when the dust settles and we’re faced with what grief has exposed in our hearts…

Continue reading how I deal with issues of comparison and jealousy after loss at Focus on the Family.

Featured image by Yoann Boyer on Unsplash

We’ve lost our baby.

I felt her kick for the first time on Wednesday night around 1:00am when I couldn’t sleep. It had been a really rough day and feeling those first flutters of movement felt like a little kiss from heaven. A few hours later at 7:30am on Thursday morning I rushed off to a regularly scheduled exam at the birth centre. They couldn’t find a heartbeat and several rounds of ultrasounds confirmed she had passed away. It all happened so fast and, truthfully, I didn’t believe them at first. Did they not hear me? I felt her alive a few hours ago. I’m sure of it. Didn’t they hear me?

Last weekend for the first time I bought a few maternity items and some baby girl clothes. All was progressing as it should and I thought a (late) Mother’s Day shopping trip was in order. With delight we had begun to let the reality sink in that we were actually going to have a daughter that comes to full term as we finish creating our family. (Yes, our scans a month ago showed the baby was a girl, though we hadn’t shared that publicly yet.) I feel like it’s all I’ve wanted my whole life and this was my last chance. We felt so complete. So grateful. And not that it should matter, but this wasn’t a “surprise” baby. This was a baby we longed for and prayed for and tried for over many long, tearful months of waiting and hoping and wondering if I was “too old” for the gift of one last child. Of course we know too much to assume any stage of pregnancy is “safe,” but at nearly half way through the pregnancy we had a deep sense of belief that this baby would live and thrive, and everything so far had proven that right.

So we’re stunned. Like—surely this is all a mistake. But it’s not. It’s real and our baby is dead. There’s no plainer or truer way to say it.

We’re taking the weekend to try and rest and I’ll be admitted next week to have an induction and hospital labor and delivery—the best option for this stage of pregnancy. The thought of laboring a dead baby repulses me but it is what it is. I don’t expect I’ll want to talk about it any time soon, which is why I’m sharing all of this now. (Then again no one really knows what they’ll need in grief until they need it.) We feel like we need so much right now, but don’t know what or how to ask for it.

These last few years have been brutal and we’ve grown battle weary. There’s not a significant milestone in our lives in six years that wasn’t also marked with some sort of pain or suffering or deep sense of challenge.

In the last few months alone we’ve had our roof collapse, major hail damage on our car which has diminished its value and made it unsellable just before we were going to trade it in for a larger one, then went thousands of dollars into debt to repair the mechanics of that same car after it mysteriously had a string of unrelated things going wrong with it out of the blue (our mechanic has warned us that we should be prepared for it to die beyond repair any day), we lost major financial support, had people take advantage of our generosity which sent us into more personal debt, had several others backflip on an array of different ministry-related commitments they had made, had major appliances and expensive electronics we depend on for work suddenly breaking, and many other smaller (but still difficult) things. These events in isolation are just a normal part of “life happens,” but when they are piled on top of each other for months on end (and years on end), you begin to wonder if you might be going crazy. Or if this is the price we’re required to pay to continue in vocational ministry. (Our first miscarriage happened two days after deciding we would pioneer a new YWAM ministry in Sydney, and every single one since has correlated with a major ministry decision we’ve made within days of making it.)

If it sounds like we’re feeling sorry for ourselves, that’s right. We are. We’re tired of life being hard and we’re way beyond faking fine. We’ve got no time for platitudes and “God’s ways are higher than our ways” and “God is in control” one liners so please don’t throw any out-of-context Christian cliches at us, however well meaning they might be. As much as we can we’ve been putting one foot in front of the other, choosing to trust God, choosing to not be overcome. We’ve done this for years. But for how long? When do we get to wave the white flag? (Jesus, are you sleeping?)

Through these particularly difficult months that seemed to come to a head early this year, our baby has been the shining joy in the midst of our personal hardship and ministry pressures and financial-related stress. With getting pregnant and then having a miraculous influx of staff join the ministry we felt like things were perhaps turning a corner. And now this. Losing this baby feels like too much. Can you break more when you’re already broken?

I’m not telling you all of this to make you feel sorry for us or to elicit pity (we have enough of our own already), but simply to say that life can be so damn hard sometimes (we’ve all been there—you too, no doubt). And it’s in these times things sometimes feel like they keep getting worse. Not better. So how do we cope when we’re walking around with already-tender hearts? What then when they seem on the verge of breaking completely? Is this a desperate cry for help? Of course it is. And yet we’re not even sure of the exact help we need. The grief makes things feel messier and louder and more urgent than they might actually be. We know that.

Obviously we’re left stunned and totally heartbroken by losing this child. This really is the main thing. The injustice of untimely death is so confronting. We’ve already been giving everything we have to keep our heads above the surface and continue to look for God’s goodness and practice gratitude for the many, many things going “right” in our lives. But we’re also tired. Tired of fighting and tired of what feels like losing.

You may think writing Grace Like Scarlett has made us “experts” in dealing with grief. And in some ways, sure, we are well equipped with some of the tools we need and to some degree we have learned how to hang on to hope when life feels hopeless. (This is the grace of God at work in ways unseen but somehow felt, enabling this miracle.) And yes, we sense the freedom we need to feel how we feel and walk straight into our grief as best we know how. But we certainly aren’t “experts.” Experience or wisdom softens nothing. Pain is pain and grief is grief. It just hurts. If anything we’re surrounded even more by the heartache of it all since messages land in my inbox daily from families seeking support or a listening ear after their own loss and heartbreak. Some days it feels like our whole world revolves around pain—ours and others. We could have never seen this coming.

For those who know us personally, you know that we’re also in the crucial period of trying to recruit students to our first discipleship training school (DTS) beginning in September at YWAM Sydney Newtown. The burden of communications and marketing to get students is mine and now this. How can I keep doing my job? I’m supposed to be organizing a speaking tour for a few weeks July and August to share the message of Grace Like Scarlett and help offer hope to people who are hurting, but how can I proceed when I’ve got so little left to give? Maybe this all seems unrelated but I assure you it’s not. Our lives are whole, integrated, complex—just as yours. So is this one more example of the enemy of our soul employing every means possible to derail what God has spoken? Because the one thing that seems consistent in our lives recently is that every time we step out in obedience to what we believe God has shown us we get hit. The timing is uncanny and also very confusing. It’s maddening.

Being blindsided again with loss feels like an assault on so many levels: personal and ministry and spiritual. Well wishes are fine, but the reality is we need miracles on so many fronts—miracles that sustain. The miracle of grace to endure suffering is one way we sustain and I’m thankful for it. The miracle of God’s presence even while we’re at our lowest is another way we sustain and we’re grateful for that too. But we also need the miracle of actual breakthrough—breakthrough that lasts and is not aborted before it fully takes root.

As you pray for our family, please keep all of this in mind. We simply don’t feel capable of carrying all that we’re surrounded by and we need God’s grace and the help of his Church and our community to support us as we navigate. Our staff members arrive mostly in August. Our dearest friends are miles away. And we can’t put our lives or work on hold until things are easier, because what if they never are?

If you’ve read this far, thank you for not staying away from our pain. I’ll likely post this in all the places, turn autoresponder on for my emails, and then back away for a little while to nurse my giant vulnerability hangover and wonder why I shared so much so broadly. But here’s the thing: if we can’t be honest about our pain, how can we be honest about our hope? If we can’t be honest about our despair, how can we be honest about our joy? The human heart is a paradox, we intrinsically know that. I appreciate your understanding if I don’t respond much at this time. I won’t speak for Ryan, but although I’m typically the one with all the words, I will say that he’s in immense pain too. He’s articulated it well to me and I’m thankful these last several years have at least taught us how to use language to name our heartache. We’re in this together and all of our burdens (and joys) are shared. We’re devastated and hanging on to hope by a thread. 

Finally, I want to close with some thoughts about how God enters into our suffering. I spent years forming a book around this very thing and I still believe it to be true:

Our humanity is the very thing that keeps us tethered to God. It’s our humanity—our lack, our pain, our weakness, our recognition that the world contains injustice and tragedy and suffering, our need for a Rescuer, our longing for Eden and the restoration of all things—that helps us to see our need for the Divine. Today, we can see that need so clearly. With all that’s gone wrong, this ability to “see” is both a gift and an invitation. And that, my friends, is nothing but the grace of God that never quits loving and pursuing and extending into our lives even in the dark when we struggle and squint to see it. As I’ve written in Grace Like Scarlett, “The spectacle of heaven is that it’s birthed into low places… He never stops creating life out of dust.”

I still believe it, even if I can’t yet see it.

Or, perhaps more accurately: I believe, Lord. Help me in my unbelief.

Dear Grieving Mom,

Congratulations! Phew. Another baby! How are you feeling, mama?

I have so many questions for you! Like: did this baby make it’s way into your womb quickly after your loss? Or did you need to wait a while and let your grief simmer? Did you get pregnant straight away? Or did it take long months of trying? Or years? Do you feel prepared to love again? What is your support network like?

Regardless of my one thousand questions (and the one million possible answers you might give), I one hundred percent believe that the very best thing I could say to you right now is congratulations. And I really do mean that. This is worth celebrating because new life is new life. I mean—wow! It really is a beautiful thing.

BUT. (There is also a really big, bolded, italicized ‘but.’) I also want to say that I know the plethora of emotions that can be unleashed with a pregnancy after loss. I mean, have you cried about this yet? Happy tears? Scared tears? You may have even cried sad tears, knowing this somehow signals the end of the chapter from miscarriage to new conception. The whole thing is fairly complicated.

A couple of years ago, before writing my book, Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss, I put a link to a survey on facebook for those who had experienced miscarriage and other types of loss. Honestly, I put it up and crossed my fingers that I’d get enough responses to make it meaningful. And wouldn’t you know I actually had to take down the survey after a day because I couldn’t keep up with the responses that came flooding in. At 750 and counting, it became clear that women like you and I have a lot to say about this hushed subject. (Side note: Our husbands have a lot to say about miscarriage too, but culture is still catching up.)

One of the things that was soenlightening to me about reading through these survey responses was to see the many ways women responded to pregnancy after loss. Sure, there were common themes: fear, anxiety, relief. But truly the responses were all over the shop.

And you know what this tells me? Your response—whatever it is that your own precious, unique, individual self is feeling—is normal. Really.

Do you feel guilty for being hesitant to let your heart freefall into love again? Normal.

Do you feel a new wave of questions related to God’s care for you and the life of your baby? Normal.

Do you feel relieved to be over the initial will I get pregnant again question? Normal.

Do you feel filled with hope that this new pregnancy will be different? Normal.

Do you feel resentful toward friends or others who seemingly imply this new pregnancy somehow replaces the baby you’ve lost? Normal.

Do you feel scared that you won’t be able to care for your other children or your family because you feel paralyzed by fear that it will happen again? Normal.

Do you feel hesitant to share your news with others because you don’t want them to be afraid for your baby’s life, like somehow your last miscarriage was your fault? Normal.

Do you feel rushed and anxious to get in to see a doctor and be heavily monitored through pregnancy? Normal.

Do you wish you could fast forward and be assured that what you’re about to go through will result in a healthy, full term baby at the end of it? Normal.

Do you feel terrified that you won’t be able to take another heartbreak if you lose another baby? Normal.

Do I need to keep asking questions here, mama? I think you get the picture.

Really and truly—whatever it is you feel right now is likely normal. (Side note: If you seriously feel like your responses aren’t normal and wonder if you need mental health support, then please do pursue advice from your doctor. It will only serve to set your mind at ease or connect you with the vital support you need. See? Win-win.)

Mostly this is all I want to tell you today: Congratulations on your pregnancy! And the emotions you’re feeling surrounding this new pregnancy are normal. You are normal.

No matter how you feel, there is grace enough for you and for your own particular journey of motherhood. You can do this. You can feel what you need to feel, grieve how you need to grieve, and still celebrate the life of your newest little one. Your sadness over what’s happened can sit side-by-side with the joy of new life. I know it feels like those things must compete but they don’t have to. You are a whole person with a whole complex range of emotions and responses, and to box yourself into one little stream of response is not fair.

Give yourself the kind of grace you’d imagine the most perfect of friends giving you. Treat yourself with kindness. Make room for the sadness and welcome the hope that also comes with new life. If you are a Christian, surrender your baby to the Lord, knowing that he loves him or her more than you can possibly know. Ask God to hold your heart as you take those tiny, vulnerable steps into unexplored territory. This is life after loss and it doesn’t have to be terrible, though it will be different.

You are stronger than you think, but please know that “being strong” doesn’t always mean holding it together or keeping things under control. May this be a time where you allow yourself to be surprised by your inner strength—the kind of strength that leads you to be humble, to be vulnerable, to ask for help and support as needed, to be your own best advocate. The kind of inner strength that faces your anxiety and fears with courage—living life forward, even if it means starting while still afraid. Being brave isn’t the absence of fear, it’s the tenacity to put one foot in front of the other when you feel like it’s too hard.

In Grace Like Scarlett I spend a lot of time exploring the deep dive as you navigate the waves of grief. If you try to outrun or overcome them, you are likely to be pummeled. You must learn to dive in to your grief in order that you may keep growing forward. Surfers call this a duck dive—when they have to dive with their board under the waves in order to not be battered. They learn to do this in such a way that the wave not only washes over them, but also that they miraculously end up having moved forward despite the wave trying to pull them in the opposite direction.

Now that you’re pregnant again, you have the opportunity to practice this deep dive all over again. When the waves feel like they’re coming full force, how will you respond? My hope is that you’ll dive deep—connect with your grief and connect with your own soul. May you connect with God and find him there under the surface. May you allow yourself to be surprised by how resilient you really are.

There is so much grace for you for this new pregnancy, my friend. My prayer is that you’ll be quick to extend grace, quick to be kind to yourself, and quick to dive into God when you feel afraid, anxious, or confused by the way your grief reappears.

You can do this. You’re stronger than you think. More importantly, God is with you and he is stronger than you think.

Love,
Adriel

More posts in the Letters to a Grieving Mom series:

• Open when your period returns
• Open on your original due date
• Open when you’re invited to a baby shower
• Open on a difficult holiday or special occasion
• Open on Mother’s Day
• Open on your baby’s birthday or anniversary
• Open during a post-miscarriage pregnancy

Resources to Help You Heal

For further resources to navigate grief after miscarriage and pregnancy loss, or to learn how to best support a friend experiencing loss, please visit my Miscarriage Stories and Resources page. You will also find a free grief journal and a free 7-day devotional.

If you’d like to go deeper in exploring how to grieve with hope, I’ve written a whole book for you:  Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss (available at all major retailers).

Grief Support Groups

Join us for an 8-week “Deep Dive” grief support group to help you navigate life after pregnancy loss. Find out more here.

Pregnancy Loss Community

Join us at the kindest place on the internet: Our Scarlett Stories – online community, resource library, and more.

Pin to save for later:

Featured Image by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Photo: With my dear friend and agent, Jenni Burke, on my book release day last year (2018).

I thought about becoming an author off and on for years throughout my childhood and early adulthood. I pictured myself like Madeleine L’Engle on Crosswicks farm, writing in my golden years. (I know she also wrote while raising children—as well as before—but I always imagined myself like her in the later stage of her writing career.) I’d have a second story window overlooking a large grassy area and of course an oak tree. Obviously there would be a bubbling brook in the distance providing a baseline for the birds’ morning song. And butterflies. And sunshine. And probably some laughter echoing through the crisp spring air.

On a whim I started writing a blog after our first son was born. I had never read a blog before I started one. “Mine would be different,” I told myself. I want to write to help other people, not just publish self indulgent dribble online. (My sort-of-but-not-entirely-accurate assumption of what a blog was in the early days of blogging.)

Looking back at my earliest posts I can see this desire coming through the words—every post carefully crafted with the reader in mind—but I can also see a young mother, grasping to find meaning in her own words. I wrote to encourage others, but I underestimated how much the writing was also helping me to find myself amidst all the emotional upheaval and career changes of early motherhood.

Not long into writing online I began to write into “tougher” subjects. I wrote about what it was like to have a doctor tell us our baby likely had Down syndrome. I wrote about being disappointed that our child was going to be a boy rather than a girl. I wrote about the shame I felt when I lost my temper with my children or how it felt to have meaningful friendships dissolve into the haze of motherhood or how witnessing village births in Papua New Guinea challenged my perspective on so many things.

After experiencing my first miscarriage, I wrote about that too. Within hours of being home from the hospital I spilled my guts onto the page and posted it for anyone to read that would. (And I was desperate that they would.) It was my way of finding an anchor in the storm, learning how to put language to the newfound agony that was unleashed. It’s how I processed and prayed and asked for help. It’s how I grieved.

It was around this time that I had grown more serious with my writing. I was starting to get my hundreds of hours worth of teaching and preaching material onto paper—stories and antidotes that lived in bullet point notes or in my head. I began to wonder if I would write to publish sooner than my golden years. I wanted to. Yet reality always pulled me back: I was a mom to babies and my life was already incredibly (exhaustingly) full. Writing was what held me together when I felt like other parts of my life were trying to unravel themselves. I wrote with ferocity and purpose both publicly and privately—rarely missing a day, always somehow finding minutes to scratch out words, no matter how scarce the nap time hours were.

In 2014 I was invited on a writers’ retreat in Italy. I had no idea that those ten days would form a precipice on which I would learn to jump from. I entered with purpose and intention, then was hit with a wave of intense insecurity and imposter syndrome when I realized the others on the trip were “real” writers (which, in my mind at the time meant published authors—though I know better now).

One quiet afternoon I sat under a canopy of vines looking out across fields of wheat fringed in sunlight, and more clearly than I know how to articulate I sensed God speaking to me that it was time to write Grace Like Scarlett—the title he had given me days after losing our first baby.

At the time I was pregnant after our first miscarriage and I hardly wanted to write about the most painful experience of my life, but I said “yes, Lord” and resolved to get to work once I was home and back into the normal rhythm of writing.

That normal rhythm never came.

Instead, two days later I was bleeding in a monastery. My second miscarriage had begun. It continued in Saint Peter’s Basilica while I received the blessing of Pope Francis, and in a hospital hallway in Rome, and while I stood under the Sistine Chapel shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers who had no idea I was carrying death in my womb.

My second miscarriage left me angry—a visceral response to the injustice of life aborted without being given the chance to flourish. I couldn’t comprehend the jarring beauty around me while I grappled with the ugliness within my own body.

As painful as that trip was, it cemented a course God had pointed me toward. My dream agent pursued me. I began writing a book proposal through another pregnancy and a third miscarriage and then another pregnancy, and finished it weeks before our youngest was born full term and a million pounds strong. While I nursed our newborn my agent shopped my book proposal to different publishing houses. The offers came quickly and I was lucky to have the choice of which publisher to work with. I had a new baby, a new two-book contract, and a newborn passion to write the message God had already been writing within me.

It wasn’t the book I wanted to write. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to write a book on grief and suffering, or attempt narrative theology around issues of theodicy or eschatology or any of the other sensitive issues I explored while also digging to the depths of my sorrow to describe my own personal loss through memoir-inspired sections. But although this wasn’t the book I wanted to write, it was the book I needed to write—one about grace and hope, promise and presence. It was the book I wished someone had handed me in the days when we lost our first baby to miscarriage—Scarlett. It’s also the book I wished I could have read after losing Oliver. And then Ruby.

It was the book I had to write.

Grace Like Scarlett was conceived at the bottom of my pain where I found God’s goodness was still there. But it grew through my subsequent miscarriages and heartache and struggle to make sense of my faith in which the only thing left standing was my core belief that God’s goodness was reality, no matter how I felt. Grace Like Scarlett came to term as I poured myself into the actual manuscript during the blurry days of sleepless nights and (seemingly) endless newborn feedings. And then a short fourteen months after I started the manuscript, I labored to see the printed book take its first breath in the world.

It was miraculous; it was new life and it was changing me.

It’s been a year since sharing Grace Like Scarlett with the world, and like any new child it’s easy to divide my life into “before and after.” There is a distinct line in the sand that’s drawn when a work comes to completion (or a child makes their appearance to the outside world). Even if that book has been within you for a lifetime, nothing can truly prepare you for the fact that once it’s in print it no longer belongs to you, but to those to whom now give it place on their nightstand.

Never in my life have I come up against such fear and vulnerability, insecurity and doubt as when my words were given permanence in print. But never in my life have I been more proud of my hard work—the tears and the sweat equity and the depths of anguish I explored in prayer so that I could offer something rich and meaningful—and even beautiful—in a world often marked with pain. Never before have I experienced such abundance in my lack, such strength in my weakness, such grace in my inadequacy, such faith in the face of doubt and fear and discomfort, such hope in the midst of hardship.

One year later and I hardly know how to mark this birthday, this anniversary. I always imagined marking it with fanfare and celebration, the equivalent of my heartfelt extravagance as I hosted my children’s first birthday parties. And yet now that this anniversary is here I’m more weepy and nostalgic than anything else. More grateful. More astounded. More rooted in the wonder of its existence. More amazed by God’s kindness.

There is little in my life as miraculous as the way God tenderly led me into writing and publishing Grace Like Scarlett. It won’t be my last book, and I hope I will keep growing as a writer and be able to one day say it’s not even my best book (though that feels strange now to muse). But it will always hold a sacred place in my heart because it was born out of such sorrow and sacrifice.

I read it again not long ago and unexpectedly received the ministry of words, barely remembering that I was the one who first penned them. Writing Grace Like Scarlett was my invitation from Jesus to write down the goodness that he showed me despite my heartache. Writing it was also my invitation—his invitation—to you to look for his goodness, too.

I’ve learned that your eyes will see what you’re looking for, and even in the darkness, if you look for the goodness of God you will see it—sometimes without even squinting. If you become still, you will hear the invitation that pain brings—not just the invitation to heal, but first the invitation to go deeper, to be formed by Christ even as he is formed within you. My hope is that all who turn her pages will discover the powerful simplicity of the ministry of presence, both as a recipient and a giver.

“I wanted to give up on God until I read your words.”

“You helped me see I wasn’t alone.”

“I refer back to your book often on my own hardest days of grief, and it’s also the book I recommend to my clients when they lose a baby themselves.”

“I was burned by my friends who didn’t see my loss as significant, but you’ve helped me to see that God cares and still loves me despite how I’ve felt about him.”

I could tell you the number of printings my book has had or the copies sold. I could brag about this or that feedback I’ve received from a publishing professional with the guise of celebrating a “win” with my “fans.” Depending on your measuring stick these metrics and accolades could impress you or disappoint you. But the true measure of impact comes in how it’s worked its way into hearts, most of which I’ll never know. These snippets of statements from private letters and emails mean more to me than an online shopfront full of five star reviews. Hearing of a book passed between friends means more to me than the sum of each woman buying her own.

As I commemorate the milestone of Grace Like Scarlett’s birth into the world one year ago, I do so with deepest thanks for the One Who Holds All Things Together. He held me together while writing and now holds others together as they crack pages and hearts wide open in hopes he’ll meet them in their pain, too.

Happy birthday, Grace Like Scarlett. I’m proud of you, amazed by you, thankful for you, humbled by you, and blessed by you. I thought my fingerprints were on you, but it turns out yours are on me, too. Thank you for continuing to teach me.

Do your thing in the world, you tender yet fierce book-girl, Grace Like Scarlett. Find the hearts who need you and point them to the only One that can truly heal.

Now, let’s go buy ourselves some flowers, shall we?

Love,
A xo

Purchase a copy:

If you haven’t yet purchased your own copy of Grace Like Scarlett (or a copy for a friend) you can do so on Amazon, Koorong, Barnes & Noble, or any number of other online outlets.

Help others:

If you’d like to help others find Grace Like Scarlett to help them in their grief (or help them better understand the grief of others) you can do two fairly simple things:

1. Request that your local library and church library (or pastoral care ministry) stock Grace Like Scarlett.
2. Leave an honest review on Amazon (or on Goodreads) of how Grace Like Scarlett has helped you (or helped a friend if you purchased as a gift).

Just for fun:

And because it’s fun, a happy first-time-author photo from the first time I got to hold a real copy last year. (I cried not long after this as the sad reality sunk in that this book needed to be written in the first place and I was the one to write it. Such an emotional roller coaster!)

Have you ever felt like Jesus led you somewhere and then took off once he got there?

Me too.

I imagine this is how the disciples felt when they set sail only to find themselves terrified for their lives when the seas began to rage, threatening to swallow them whole. (Mark 4:35-41) These were robust young sailors—not typically the sort you’d imagine would be faint of heart—but they were utterly distraught to find Jesus sleeping through their nightmare. (Wasn’t this Jesus’s idea in the first place?)

But there he was—present, yet asleep.

What did these tough guys do in response to their fear? They panicked of course (sound familiar?), and shook Jesus awake.

He speaks to the sea, telling it to be still, and miraculously—it obeys.

We can’t tell from the text why Jesus commanded the storm to be still. We don’t know if the disciples’ panic was warranted or wise. But we do know that Jesus responded to their desperation. He met them in the middle of their disaster. He calmed the seas, yes, but more than that he reassured them of his presence. Even there in the middle of the terrifying storm, he was with them. He never jumped ship.

“Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” Jesus responds after calming the seas (verse 40).

My entire life I’ve read this as an accusation. I’ve imagined those words said with disdain and disappointment. I’ve heard a hint of ridicule—or at least rebuke—in his tone. I’ve read between the lines and assumed the disciples were a huge disappointment to Jesus in that moment. But recently I read this differently and I’d like you to try and reimagine this passage with me, too.

Think about this:

What if Jesus is not giving a rebuke, but is simply making a sort of statement about what it is? What if we read his words at face value without reading emotion into them that the text doesn’t explicitly say? What if Jesus is asking them a rhetorical question to emphasize the fact that it was not their faith that compelled Jesus to calm this storm—this wasn’t their miracle, it was his.

Read this again, stripped of accusation and disappointment and rebuke:

“Have you still no faith?” Jesus asks, as if to help them see the miracle wasn’t dependent on the strength of their faith.

Remember, we’re told in the text that Jesus rebukes the storm (verse 39), but we’re never told he rebukes the disciples. We’ve made that bit up ourselves.

Friends, the power and presence of God isn’t a gift he begrudgingly gives to help remind us how weak our faith is. He doesn’t drag his feet. He doesn’t say “just this once” rubbing in the fact that we don’t deserve it.

What if, instead, his presence is a gift he gives precisely because he wants to show us that his miracle working power isn’t dependent on our faith? What if a mustard seed is enough after all? What if he really is present in the boat, even if it seems like he’s sleeping?

What if he just wants to remind us how good he really is?

God’s presence with us in life’s disasters isn’t dependent on our ability to see clearly, or have the “right” theology, or the capacity to muster up enough faith. God is present because that’s who he is—Emmanuel, God with us. And he works miracles in all forms because that’s who he is—Messiah, our savior.

Have there been times in your own panic that you’ve felt like you needed to shake Jesus awake? Like, surely he should do something before your crisis swallows you whole? We all have.

God’s grace doesn’t always come in the form we hope for, but it does come. In the case of the disciples, his grace looked like calming the seas. (And I’m sure they were grateful and relieved!) But other times, the seas rage on and the miracle of his grace is that you don’t drown when it seems impossible not to.

Friend, you may be anchored to despair or confusion, anger or sorrow. You may be afraid your faith can’t hold up to the scrutiny of the doubts or questions your pain or crisis has exposed. You may feel caught in a free fall where one question leads to another, and the Sunday school answers you’ve recited your whole life just aren’t working anymore.

Pain, grief, and suffering have a way of unearthing questions and doubts we didn’t even realize we had, but that’s not a bad thing. When you’re in the tender days of a fresh loss or a seemingly larger-than-life crisis looming, the most important thing you need to know is that Jesus is in the boat with you. It might seem like he took off, but he didn’t. He will not let you drown.

You can hang on to your questions, and even begin to ask them honestly before God and others. Your humanity doesn’t repel God—it keeps you tethered to him as you realize your great need. But always, always remember that before and during and after the storm of crisis and questions and pain is this: Emmanuel, God with us.

He’s still there, and he’s not going to bail.

And there will come a day when we’re not only aware of his presence, but we see his power work something amazing on our behalf.

Oh you of small faith, take heart. Your mustard seed is enough.

This post was adapted from Grace Like Scarlett by Adriel Booker, Chapter 10: A Crisis of Faith or a Catalyst for Grace? with permission from Baker Books.

Featured photo by Matt Hardy on Unsplash

Dear Grieving Mom,

Deep breaths.

I know—this is hard. Maybe you’re reading this as you gear up for Thanksgiving or a birthday or Christmas. Maybe it’s the first day of school pictures all through social media that serve as your trigger. Maybe it’s the birth of your friend’s baby who was supposed to be born the same month as yours. Maybe it’s the birth of your own child—a joyous occasion, but also one that brought its own fresh wave of grief for the child you never held.

Sometimes we see these days coming and the lead up is harder than the day itself. Sometimes it’s more sneaky and we didn’t realize an event or occasion was even going to be a milestone day in our grief journey. Sometimes we’re just plain blindsided.

These days aren’t “safe” and there’s no way to prevent them from coming—the named ones or the unnamed ones. As hard as they are, they are a part of our way forward through grief. If you’re like me, your temptation might be to distract or busy yourself through painful days. But let me gently encourage you to open your heart to the sting and invite deeper healing to come.

Just as salt water can cause a wound to sting further while also helping to heal it, so embracing grief can simultaneously hurt and heal.

So instead of distracting yourself or numbing the pain, I’m going to encourage you the same way I have in Grace Like Scarlett—go deep. Dive under those waves of grief. If you try to outrun them or conquer them, you’ll likely be thrown for a loop, tossed under the force of them. But if you’re willing to dive in, and specifically to dive in to the presence of Jesus, I promise you he will meet you there under the surface. You will not drown. You won’t be destroyed. In fact you can emerge on the other side of this wave a little more healed. More waves will come, of course, but you will never be abandoned or left without hope.

I remember a friend telling me she couldn’t bear all the nativity scenes around Advent and Christmas time. Another described the heartache of seeing her family gathered around the Easter table, laughing as normal even though she felt like her world had been flipped upside down. Another faces every Mother’s Day knowing it’s also the birthday and anniversary of her unborn baby. There is no way to avoid these occasions, so these women are faced with no other choice than to find their way through them.

But mama, you are stronger and more resilient than you perhaps think. And even more importantly, you are more loved than you think. God sees you. He sees your pain. He sees your heartbreak. He hears your cry for relief and recognition and he feels your tears even as they fall to your chest. You may feel like the whole damn world has forgotten but he never, ever will. He loves you with an everlasting love so thick and sure and mighty and pure that nothing can ever separate you from it. He doesn’t despise your weakness, your humanity, your fragility. He doesn’t wish you would “pull it together,” and he’s not worried about you being some kind of party pooper. There is so much room for you to be your wonderful self—grief and all.

Do what you need to do today in order to experience your grief and invite Jesus into it. Dive deep. You may need a day to let grief quietly work its way out or you may need a day to take a bucket of balls to the tennis court and pound out your anger through your most focused and forceful serves. You might find it cathartic to draw aside and try to imagine what it might look like to see your child in the presence of Jesus. You might need to talk it out with your husband or sister, or close down your social media feeds and practice centering prayer. However you need to experience and process your grief today, be intentional. If you are a Christian, welcome Jesus to be a part of it.

A Prayer for Hard Days:

Heavenly Father,

We call on you today as the God Who Sees.[1]

You’ve promised to draw near to the broken-hearted, so will you draw near today?

We confess our grief, not because it is a sin, but because confession gives us a chance to exhale. Help us now to inhale grace.

As we cry our tears and feel our pain, would you mingle your very self with our tears and help us to heal a little deeper.

We remember our babies with longing and sorrow, but help us also to bear witness to the miracle of life in your presence.

Thank you that our baby’s aren’t lost, but they are found within your embrace. Help us to find ourselves there today too—wrapped in the arms of our God who sees and knows and feels right along with us.

Amen.

Love,
Adriel

[1]Genesis 16:13

More posts in the Letters to a Grieving Mom series:

• Open when your period returns
• Open on your original due date
• Open when you’re invited to a baby shower
• Open on a difficult holiday or special occasion
• Open on Mother’s Day
• Open on your baby’s birthday or anniversary
• Open during a post-miscarriage pregnancy

Resources to Help You Heal

For further resources to navigate grief after miscarriage and pregnancy loss, or to learn how to best support a friend experiencing loss, please visit my Miscarriage Stories and Resources page. You will also find a free grief journal and a free 7-day devotional.

If you’d like to go deeper in exploring how to grieve with hope, I’ve written a whole book for you:  Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss (available at all major retailers).

Grief Support Groups

Join us for an 8-week “Deep Dive” grief support group to help you navigate life after pregnancy loss. Find out more here.

Pregnancy Loss Community

Join us at the kindest place on the internet: Our Scarlett Stories – online community, resource library, and more.

Pin to save for later:

Featured Image by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Walking alongside hurting people in their pain is a sacred privilege. Thank you for your willingness to hold space for the grief of parents who have experienced miscarriage and other forms of pregnancy loss.

The links and resources below have been compiled for easy reference to keep on hand for yourself and for your congregants when they’re grieving the loss of an unborn baby or supporting a fellow church member through miscarriage and other forms of pregnancy loss. I will continue adding to the list as new resources are discovered or become available, so please consider bookmarking this page and forwarding it to others on your team who serve families or work in pastoral care.

May these resources serve you well as you serve others.

For pastors and lay ministers:

What Parents Need Most from Their Pastors after Miscarriage – Christianity Today Pastors

A Liturgy after Miscarriage or Stillbirth – Anglican Church of Canada

For loved ones:

How to Care for a Friend after Miscarriage

What not to say to someone who’s lost a baby (and what to say instead)

How to Choose a Gift or Assemble a Care Package after Pregnancy Loss

For couples:

Pregnancy Loss Resource Page

How to Keep your Marriage Intact after Miscarriage – Relevant Magazine

Free 7-day Devotional: How to Grieve with Hope after Miscarriage – YouVersion

Men & Miscarriage Series

4 Ways to Support a Father after Miscarriage – Crosswalk

How to Support Your Husband through a Miscarriage

Letters to a Grieving Mom: Navigating Milestone Days after Miscarriage

Journaling Our Scarlett Stories – free journal prompts to guide you through grief after pregnancy loss

Our Scarlett Stories – online support community for parents after pregnancy loss

A gift for hurting parents and those who walk alongside them:

Consider resourcing your church library, bookstore, counseling ministry, Bible study, mother’s group, or women’s ministry with copies of Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss to have on hand for hurting congregants and community members. Consider also using this as a resource to help your church members and ministry teams learn how to walk alongside those who are grieving.

For discounts on multiples copies, please visit Direct2Church.com.

From the back cover:

“With vulnerability and tenderness, Adriel Booker shares intimate stories about her experiences with miscarriage to help readers navigate grief and find God’s presence in their pain. She tackles complex issues about faith and suffering without offering religious clichés or pat answers, and she invites hurting parents to a wide-open place of grace, honesty, and genuine hope as she leads them to discover a redemption story unfolding in the shadows of their loss. Included are practical resources for dads, loved ones, parenting through grief, and pregnancy after loss.”

What pastors are saying:

“Grace Like Scarlett is a raw and challenging look at the impact of miscarriages not only in the life of every woman who has undergone such tragedy but also in communities of faith who seek to care for those who have lost. As a pastor, I find this book offers hope to those in my congregation who have and will walk through this valley. Read it and be ready to give copies to all those who need the encouragement this book provides.” —Steve Mickel, lead pastor of Westside Church, Bend, Oregon

“There are few resources for individuals or churches that I have found to be this succinct and powerful—I wholeheartedly recommend it!”—Ken Wytsma, pastor and author of The Myth of Equality and The Grand Paradox

For discounts on multiples copies, please visit Direct2Church.com.

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At 39, my husband, Ryan, could not recall a single conversation about miscarriage with another man in his life. In his letter to grieving dads, he describes having no idea how to deal with it:

“We discuss other important issues at the pub with our mates, at church, on social media, on the news, and at work, but miscarriage still feels taboo among men, like somehow it’s a secret women’s problem that we simply need to help them ‘deal’ with as quietly as possible so that no one gets embarrassed or uncomfortable. It’s easy to get the impression that a loss like this is inconsequential and small. After our first miscarriage, I wanted to talk openly about it but felt lost for words. There was a disconnect between the way I thought I should feel and the way I actually felt… I think I tried to help myself by tying to help my wife—if she felt better, then I would feel better too. With each miscarriage I clicked into survival mode.”

While every couple approaches grief differently in the aftermath of miscarriage, statistics should compel us to embrace pregnancy loss as not simply a women’s issue, but as a family issue.

The health of our marriages is at stake

According to a study that followed 7,700 pregnant couples for 15 years, couples who experienced miscarriage were 22% more likely to break up than couples who hadn’t. (The statistics were even higher for couples who experienced stillbirth.) In another study, researchers found that 32% of women felt more distant from their husband interpersonally one year post-miscarriage, while 39% felt more distant sexually.

But as hard as miscarriage can be on a marriage, there’s no need to resign to defeat. Our marriages are not bound to fail. In fact, research also supports a direct link between the way partners connect after miscarriage and the resulting closeness they share. The following research is female-centric, but what it reveals is telling for both partners: “When women felt that their male partners failed do to things to show they cared, women perceived greater distance,” wrote Kristin M. Swanson, RN, PhD. “However, when women perceived that their partners engaged in mutual sharing of feelings and experiences, they claimed to be closer…Perhaps when partners failed to do things that showed they cared, women felt abandoned, whereas when men shared feelings, women perceived this sharing as the two of them pulling together through a difficult time.”

In other words, the way we respond to each other after miscarriage has a direct impact on our marriages, intimacy and sex included. For many couples, grieving openly together culminates in greater intimacy than they shared before.

How to support your spouse through miscarriage

So how do we find ourselves on the right side of the statistics? My article How to Keep Your Marriage Intact after Miscarriage at Relevant Magazine will help you find practical help with processing grief, practicing good communication, nurturing faith and spirituality, protecting sex and intimacy, and finding your way forward. 

Continue reading my article on Relevant Magazine: 15 Ways to Nurture Your Marriage after Miscarriage

FREE RESOURCES FOR YOU:

Miscarriage & Loss Resource Page – Stories, Resources, and Support
Journaling Our Scarlett Stories: Journal Prompts to Process Grief after Miscarriage and Loss
Grace Like Scarlett Book Club and Support Group
How to Support a Friend after Miscarriage
What Not to Say to Someone after Pregnancy Loss (and What to Say Instead)
Men and Miscarriage Series
Our Scarlett Stories – Stories of Grief + Grace + Hope after Pregnancy Loss

Available at your favorite retailer:

Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss

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Featured image by Heather Mount on Unsplash

“Why would you let this happen?”

“Don’t you care about me?”

“Why didn’t you save my baby?”

In the wake of miscarriage we’re pummeled with questions—questions about the biology of reproduction, about our bodies, about medical procedures which may be required, as well as questions about how to process grief, how to share the news with friends and family, how to know if what we’re feeling is normal, and many more. But perhaps the most debilitating are the questions tangled up in our faith.

After suffering my miscarriages, I was constantly told things like, “God doesn’t give us more than we can handle” or “God’s ways are higher than ours” or “God works all things together for good.” The theology behind these sentiments (and others like them) may be sound or flawed, but either way, bereaved parents can be left feeling hopeless in our ability to understand what happened, and distraught as we wonder where God is in the midst of our heartache.

Perhaps you’ve wrestled with similar questions. Or perhaps you’ve gulped them down with a hard swallow because you felt like whispering them aloud would be akin to admitting you’re unsure of God’s goodness. Maybe you’re afraid your faith isn’t as strong as it “should” be.

Here’s where I want you to lean in close, sister, and consider the words Jesus cried… continue reading at Kindred Grace.

FREE RESOURCES FOR YOU:

Miscarriage & Loss Resource Page – Stories, Resources, and Support
Journaling Our Scarlett Stories: Journal Prompts to Process Grief after Miscarriage and Loss
Grace Like Scarlett Book Club and Support Group
How to Support a Friend after Miscarriage
What Not to Say to Someone after Pregnancy Loss (and What to Say Instead)
Men and Miscarriage Series
Our Scarlett Stories – Stories of Grief + Grace + Hope after Pregnancy Loss

Featured photo by Ian Keefe on Unsplash

Dear Grieving Mom,

You made it. It’s been one year since you lost your baby. Did you have days where you wondered how life could go on as you once knew it? Did you ever wonder if you’d stop crying? Or how you would weather the storm? Me too.

But now, here you are. One year later and I wonder how you’re feeling? Does it sting a little less? Have you been dreading this day, wondering if the grief will hit you like a freight train all over again?

Nearly a year after my first miscarriage I remember dreading my baby’s birthday. I wanted the day to be perfect—to honor her life and tend to my own heart. I wondered, will anyone remember? Does anyone still care?

And then the day came and it wasn’t at all how I imagined. I felt sad, yes, but I also felt a sense of relief—like, I made it. One year later and I made it. This grief didn’t destroy me. It didn’t wreck my family. It didn’t ruin my faith. But it did change me.

A year after my loss it was easier for me to see how I had been undone and remade into a kinder, more compassionate, more empathetic person. My grief taught me that I matter—my body matters, my emotions matter, my dreams matter. And my grief helped me to enter into the pain of others without being so quick to try and swoop in to “fix” it.  (I admit I still struggle with this—I still would much rather fix someone’s pain than sit with them in the discomfort of it.) But I have grown. I am less uncomfortable with pain and less intimated by the ways it finds its way out through our emotions.

I won’t presume to know how you’re feeling today. You may have a fresh wave of grief or a sense of joy or a tinge of nostalgia. You may feel tired or disappointed or lonely and isolated as you realize that to most people this is just another normal day. So even though I can only guess at how you might feel, I’d wager to say your grief journey has changed you, too.

Would you agree?

I’d like to ask you to do something today, two things actually. First, would you take some time to think about your own grief journey over the last year? If you’re willing, write your baby a letter and tell her all the ways her life has changed you. Tell him what you miss about him and also tell him how you feel toward him now. Ask her if she knows the impact her short life has had on yours; tell him the ways he’s left a mark on the world.

And then—if you haven’t already—do something to mark this day. Buy yourself flowers or a small piece of jewelry that has meaning to you and represents your baby’s life. Perhaps release a balloon or a lantern. Share your thoughts with friends in a text or via social media.

However you feel today is your reality. At the risk of sounding too Oprah-esk (though, admittedly, I love Oprah), you need to “own your own truth” today. Be real with how you feel—the raw, authentic, messy, complicated, simple, beautiful compilation of emotions that mark you in this moment in time. But also know that how you feel doesn’t define you. Instead, let it inform you.

So listen to your heart, listen to your body, and—if you can—quiet your spirit enough to even listen to God. Whether you’re a person of faith or not, open your heart to the possibility that there really is a divine being out there who’s essence is Love itself. Let yourself feel and receive that Love.

Because I’m a Christian, I believe Love’s name is Jesus. I want to pray this blessing in his name over you now:

A Prayer of Blessing

Jesus, bless this grieving mama’s heart today.

May your grace be upon her to continue to heal.

May she see who she is in light of your love.

Where she has experienced confusion or doubt or anxiety, speak your truth into her heart: She is loved. She is worthy. You have not abandoned her—not on the day she lost her baby, not today, and not tomorrow.

Scripture says you draw near to us in our broken heartedness—may she sense that nearness in this moment.

Today on the anniversary of losing her precious child, may she know peace, comfort, healing, and rest.

May she know that it’s okay for her to feel both sorrow and gratitude, grief and joy intermixed.

Bless her as she remembers her baby and honors his or her life.

Bless her as she tends to her own soul.

Bless her as the tears fall and as her heart swells.

Help her to dream again—new dreams, new hope for tomorrow.

Give her today what you’ve always promised: grace for the present, hope for the future, and love for always.

Amen.

Love,
Adriel

More posts in the Letters to a Grieving Mom series:

• Open when your period returns
• Open on your original due date
• Open when you’re invited to a baby shower
• Open on a difficult holiday or special occasion
• Open on Mother’s Day
• Open on your baby’s birthday or anniversary
• Open during a post-miscarriage pregnancy

Resources to Help You Heal

For further resources to navigate grief after miscarriage and pregnancy loss, or to learn how to best support a friend experiencing loss, please visit my Miscarriage Stories and Resources page. You will also find a free grief journal and a free 7-day devotional.

If you’d like to go deeper in exploring how to grieve with hope, I’ve written a whole book for you:  Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss (available at all major retailers).

Grief Support Groups

Join us for an 8-week “Deep Dive” grief support group to help you navigate life after pregnancy loss. Find out more here.

Pregnancy Loss Community

Join us at the kindest place on the internet: Our Scarlett Stories – online community, resource library, and more.

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Featured Image by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

It’s time for me to level with you.

Sometimes I find it hard to keep talking about grief and loss and miscarriage. I think to myself, “People will get so bored of me beating this drum.” Or, “There’s more to my life than this one issue.” Or, “People will just think I’m trying to sell books so will tune me out.” But then I get one more heart wrenching email or one more teary message from someone saying how much they needed to hear their grief is okay or their pain is normal. They needed to hear they have permission to be honest with others and with God and with themselves about how loss is impacting their life. They needed to hear it’s possible to grieve with hope.

Or I think about how I felt in my earliest days of loss, wondering if anyone could possibly understand what it felt like to have my life invaded by this strange type of abstract grief and personal suffering. Maybe I hadn’t heard enough stories. Maybe it would have been easier if more people had been honest about the full spectrum of the parenthood experience. Or maybe it wouldn’t have been easier, but perhaps would have felt less isolating.

I recall wanting to curl up in a cave and die there—not because I actually wanted to die, but because I wasn’t sure how to live under the weight of my sadness. It was frightening.

And so with all of that in mind I dismiss the voice in my head that tells me I might annoy people or that no-one cares, and I share one more time and give one more chance. Because with each sentence uttered or word written I know it might land on the heart of the one who needs to hear:

Your pain matters.

Your loss counts.

You are loved, even still.

October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss (PAIL) Awareness Month so I can promise you I won’t be shying away from this message any time soon. If enough people keep sharing, it becomes less about “announcing” to the world that this matters and more about a movement of every day women and men affirming that unborn babies matter, this type of loss is significant and matters, and the grief parents and family members experience matters, too.

It all matters.

And not only does awareness matter, but sharing stories matter because that’s part of the way we heal—offering our broken pieces to others in vulnerability and trust and then being embraced by empathy and kindness, friendship, solidarity, and practical support. Sharing stories helps and it heals—the storyteller and the listener benefit—but we have to be willing to disarm our knee-jerk reaction to self protect or try to hurry the lesson along. We have to risk the pain, the awkwardness, the potential to be let down by those who don’t understand so that we can be embraced by those who do.

This isn’t about getting over grief. It’s about welcoming grief and allowing it to go through us and transform us. It’s about being whole people with whole souls, even when sorrow undermines our sense of security.

No matter how short a baby’s life is, it counts.

And no matter how big or small your loss feels, it counts.

I’m thrilled to tell you that my book, Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss, is on sale right now for $2.99 in honour of PAIL Awareness Month. If you’ve never experienced pregnancy loss, would you consider investing $3 to read even one or two chapters—a small, deliberate step to better understand and help make the world a more empathetic, kind, and generous place?

And if you have experienced loss, I’ll hope you’ll give yourself the gift of this book. I wrote it to be a warm, safe, gracious companion for you during your hardest, most tender days. Please don’t read this as a sales pitch. It’s not. This is me extending my hand to say “I want to walk this with you and invite Jesus into our deepest places of pain.” For what it’s worth, I don’t make money off of a flash sale like this. And, frankly, I don’t care. What I do care about is the one in four women who need to know they aren’t alone and need to know they can grieve with hope. This is the book I wish I had in the aftermath of my own miscarriages—I wrote it from the trenches because it’s the book I’d like to gift to every hurting parent I can.

Pregnancy loss awareness needs to be more than information passed, it needs to seep deep into our bones and be outworked by the way we commit to loving one another, even when we don’t understand. Please snag this deal while it’s being offered and buy it for yourself and a copy for a friend. One in four of your friends will thank you—because that’s how many women experience this type of loss. This is no small thing.

I am 1 in 4. I’ve had a miscarriage. (In fact, I’ve had three.) But I’m more than a statistic and I’ll keep talking about this until I the world understands this, too.

With hope,
Adriel

Free resources for you:

Miscarriage & Loss Resource Page – Stories, Resources, and Support
Journaling Our Scarlett Stories: Journal Prompts to Process Grief after Miscarriage and Loss
Grace Like Scarlett Book Club and Support Group
How to Support a Friend after Miscarriage
What Not to Say to Someone after Pregnancy Loss (and What to Say Instead)
Men and Miscarriage Series
Our Scarlett Stories – Stories of Grief + Grace + Hope after Pregnancy Loss

Dear Grieving Mom,

You knew it was coming and yet it kind of snuck up on you, too, didn’t it? That first baby shower invitation since losing your baby.

It’s hard—accepting the fact that the world spins onward when our own seems to have tipped right off its axis.

I don’t know if you feel like you need permission or not, but I’m going to issue it just in case: You don’t have to attend the baby shower. Really. This is your choice.

If you feel it will break you then think about how you can bless your friend without attending. Can you make a dish for the host to share? Send a card and a gift? Perhaps you can call your friend or write a letter explaining how you are so excited about celebrating her baby and yet don’t feel capable of holding it together in front of all of her friends. Be honest and vulnerable and tell her you’re afraid you’ll burst into tears and ruin her shower, making everyone feel awkward for celebrating in the midst of your pain. She may be disappointed, and yes, it’s possible she’ll think you’re over-reacting if empathy isn’t high in her strengths. But it’s more likely she’ll respect your honesty. She’ll think you’re brave for sharing. She’ll wish there was something she could do to ease your grief. Not all friends are this wonderful, but my hope is that you’ve found friends who are.

I managed to avoid most baby showers when I was feeling vulnerable after my miscarriages, but it helped that we were in a transition and I didn’t have many friends in the childbearing stage at the time. When I was invited to my sister-in-law’s baby shower, I knew I had to go. Not because she wouldn’t be gracious or compassionate if I was to explain my hesitancy, but because I knew I would regret not deliberately stepping out of my comfort zone to celebrate the precious baby who would grow up calling me “Auntie.”

I was pregnant at the time, close to the end of my first trimester, and yet I was living with a lot of anxiety about the pregnancy. You’d think having a baby in my own womb would give me courage to attend the shower with confidence but it didn’t. I felt as vulnerable and alone as I ever had, biting my lip as I walked up the stairs and took a deep breath before entering into the party.

Here’s the thing: I didn’t enjoy the party. It was hard for me. I felt like any moment I might bust into tears. (Being super charged with pregnancy hormones surely didn’t help.) I engaged in small talk with women I had never met and I tried to tap into the joy I genuinely felt toward my sister-in-law and her baby. And yet it was hard. The whole thing was hard.

I’m telling you this little story because I think sometimes the brave thing is staying home from the shower. Other times the brave thing is going. Either way, it’s going to be hard. So what is it your heart really wants for this specific time and invitation and relationship?

Will not attending cause a rift in an already fragile friendship? Perhaps you should consider going, but then have another appointment set up mid-party that you have to leave early for.

Will you feel resentful if you drag  yourself there and grit your teeth through the whole thing?

Will you regret not going?

Perhaps if you feel you must go, you can consider having a trusted, mutual friend at the party who will cover for you should you need to leave abruptly.

No one can answer these questions for you, but my point is that there is grace for whatever hard call you need to make. Help yourself forward by setting up the support you need in advance. Decide what you want and then own it. If at all possible, invite your friend in to your process. I pray she’ll respond with grace and that together—in whatever form feels right—you can celebrate the precious life that is her little one.

You’ve got this.

Love,
Adriel

More posts in the Letters to a Grieving Mom series:

• Open when your period returns
• Open on your original due date
• Open when you’re invited to a baby shower
• Open on a difficult holiday or special occasion
• Open on Mother’s Day
• Open on your baby’s birthday or anniversary
• Open during a post-miscarriage pregnancy

Resources to Help You Heal

For further resources to navigate grief after miscarriage and pregnancy loss, or to learn how to best support a friend experiencing loss, please visit my Miscarriage Stories and Resources page. You will also find a free grief journal and a free 7-day devotional.

If you’d like to go deeper in exploring how to grieve with hope, I’ve written a whole book for you:  Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss (available at all major retailers).

Grief Support Groups

Join us for an 8-week “Deep Dive” grief support group to help you navigate life after pregnancy loss. Find out more here.

Pregnancy Loss Community

Join us at the kindest place on the internet: Our Scarlett Stories – online community, resource library, and more.

Pin to save for later:

Featured Image by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Do you feel alone in your grief after pregnancy loss?

“Maybe your grief is fresh and raw and you’re still reeling from the suffocating blow of a recent miscarriage. Or maybe you’ve long ago buried a secret grief, but something within is probing you to lean in closer to the pain once again. Grief is wild like the sea, but it doesn’t need to destroy us. We can’t conquer it, but we can navigate it, and we can find Jesus there too. Dive in, friend. Come with me. Let’s go deep.” —Adriel Booker, Grace Like Scarlett

Wherever you’re at in your grief journey, I hope you’ll join me and my team of compassionate volunteers for this free online book club. Together we will read through Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss and search for hope and healing within a loving, supportive, Christian community.

I believe one of the most important things we can do in order to “grieve with hope” is to do it in community with others. Because everyone grieves… but not everyone grieves with hope. There is something incredibly powerful about vulnerability within the context of a safe community space and relationships.

Here’s what you need to know:

Who is this for?

Grace Like Scarlett is relevant to anyone who has lost a baby—whether your loss is fresh or buried in years past. It’s written from the framework of my experiences with consecutive miscarriages, but I’ve also had many mamas of stillborn babies and other types of babyloss say it helped them tremendously as well. And if you haven’t lost a baby but you’d like to join, you are most welcome. Those of us who have lost babies are deeply moved when others take the time to learn more about what this experience is like so they can walk with us through it. Or perhaps you’re in a season of grief from something else and you’d like some solidarity. You’re also welcome. (Please note: The book includes themes from my Christian faith, but I believe others will be able to read and glean from it regardless of your faith tradition.)

Dates

October 1st to November 13th. (November 20th will be a bonus week for those who want to stick around for something extra special.)

Cost

Free to join (and no up-sell at the end!).
Book not included—order it or reserve it from your local library now.

How it works

We will meet live on Tuesday nights in our private facebook group for live interviews (co-hosts will be interviewing yours truly and fielding questions), as well as for group discussion and processing. (Note: You can always catch the replay if you’re unable to attend live.)

Hosts

Weekly interview hosts include: authors, pastors, therapists, ministry leaders, and podcast hosts. I’ve assembled a team of fabulous Co-Hosts and Community Leaders and you are going to LOVE them.

Support

A team of leaders and companions will walk alongside you as you journey through your grief. We believe community is an essential ingredient for grieving with hope.

RSPV

Reserve your spot by emailing “I’m in!” to GLSbookclub@gmail.com.

Bonus for Groups:

If you gather a group of five or more for an in-person gathering to meet alongside the online book club, Adriel will arrange a private Q&A session over Skype with your group during the weeks following the book club. (Your group can meet together live during our Tuesday night chats or you can arrange another time that works for you and watch the replays together each week.)

From the back cover:

Miscarriage is shrouded in such secrecy and stigma that many women are left feeling deeply isolated, unsure how to process their grief. Your body seems to have betrayed you. Your confidence in the goodness of God is rattled. Your loved ones don’t know what to say. Your heart is broken.

With vulnerability and tenderness, Adriel Booker shares intimate stories about her experiences with miscarriage to help you navigate your own grief and know you aren’t alone. She tackles complex questions about faith, suffering, and God’s will with sensitivity and clarity, devoid of religious clichés or pat answers. Ultimately, Adriel invites you to a wide-open place of grace, honesty, and genuine hope as you discover a redemption story unfolding in the shadows of your loss. She also includes a practical resource section for ways to help guide children through grief, advice on pregnancy after loss, and special sections for dads and loved ones.

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Dear Grieving Mom,

This day. It was circled on the calendar and etched on your heart. It was the day you hoped to meet your baby—to hold her, to study him. You planned to take her to your breast. You anticipated smothering his toes with kisses.

You had begun to rearrange your life around this day. It was to be a “before and after” day, marking a huge and happy transition in your life and home. You had planned to organize your work around this day. You had counted months before and after this day as you imagined your crawler at Christmas or your newborn as you took your oldest to school for the first time.

This was the day you were to post the face of your little one on instagram and watch the congratulations pour in as the world was introduced to this piece of your heart you had already known and loved for nine long months.

And yet now this day has come and you are left with nothing to show but a broken heart.

Friend, it’s not fair that your baby isn’t here. A mother should never have to face a due date without a baby in her arms.

You and I both know there are lots of reasons why a baby and mother aren’t together on this sacred day, but today those reasons don’t matter. They are crowded out by the one simple fact that your baby’s not here.

And I’m so sorry.

As you take time to think about how your heart feels and where your soul is in the grieving process, give yourself permission to feel the sadness, the injustice, the heartache.

Have you wanted to cry but couldn’t find the tears? Watch a sad movie and let it help you tap in.

Have you been fine looking at other people’s babies on facebook but now the sight feels like a punch in the gut? Go ahead and hide that friend from your feed for a little while.

Have you been on edge for the last few weeks, wondering why you’ve been so quick to anger? Quiet your soul and ask if sorrow might be the source. (Anger is often grief in disguise.)

I want to be able to tell you this day will get better as the years go on. And for me it has. Due dates are now a time of thoughtful reflection for me—days where I practice gratitude for how God’s carried me, more so than reminders of how much I’ve lost. But I won’t make promises to you that can’t be kept. I don’t know how you’ll feel on this day during years to come. Time does not heal all wounds, but Jesus does. Jesus will. We can grieve with hope.

So whether today has thrust you back into sorrow, has caused you to feel lonely, has brought you to your knees in surrender, to your feet in anger, or filled your mind with doubts and questions please know this: God is not intimidated by any of it. He can handle it all. Your humanity isn’t a burden to him; it’s a gift that keeps you tethered to him. God is with you. He is present. He can keep you in his peace. 

You and I—we have different grief journeys, but I feel confident telling you this: When you feel pulled back into grief it doesn’t mean you are going backwards. Grief is like a spiral—you can spiral up or spiral down. Just when we think life is feeling a little more normal, it can sneak up and hit us like a heat wave. And you may feel it today in great measure. Or you may not. Either way, know this: you cancontinue to grow forward.

Maybe since you saw today coming you feel ready. You’ve talked to a loved one you trust, arranged a quiet moment in your day to pay tribute, or spent time journaling your collapsed hopes. Perhaps you’ve entered into prayer or have drawn aside to meditate on God’s promises to never leave or forsake you. But if you haven’t, know it’s not too late. Take some time now and listen to your own heart—what is it trying to tell you? And then take some time to listen to his—ask God to draw near.

In the sermon on the mount Jesus said, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted” (Matt 5:4 NRSV). Friend, we are not blessed because we mourn—that’s not the blessing. We are blessed because in our mourning we can experience God’s comfort. So may you feel the warm embrace of his comfort today. May you know God’s blessing in the midst of your pain.

Love,
Adriel

More posts in the Letters to a Grieving Mom series:

• Open when your period returns
• Open on your original due date
• Open when you’re invited to a baby shower
• Open on a difficult holiday or special occasion
• Open on Mother’s Day
• Open on your baby’s birthday or anniversary
• Open during a post-miscarriage pregnancy

Resources to Help You Heal

For further resources to navigate grief after miscarriage and pregnancy loss, or to learn how to best support a friend experiencing loss, please visit my Miscarriage Stories and Resources page. You will also find a free grief journal and a free 7-day devotional.

If you’d like to go deeper in exploring how to grieve with hope, I’ve written a whole book for you:  Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss (available at all major retailers).

Grief Support Groups

Join us for an 8-week “Deep Dive” grief support group to help you navigate life after pregnancy loss. Find out more here.

Pregnancy Loss Community

Join us at the kindest place on the internet: Our Scarlett Stories – online community, resource library, and more.

Pin to save for later:

Featured Image by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

He said:

“Maybe it sounds dramatic, but I actually thought my wife was going to die. Her miscarriage was painful and bloody and the whole thing really freaked me out. She wanted to talk about it all the time afterwards, but I hated the memory of her like that so usually would try to change the subject. It took me a long time to realize this breakdown in communication was really affecting our marriage. It affected our sex life, too. I think she always associated sex with the miscarriage, whereas I was hoping it would help us feel closer.” —Anonymous

“She was in such despair after the miscarriage that I didn’t have time to grieve. I felt like I needed to be the strong one, shielding her from a world that was filled with things that made her cry. I wish someone had told me that it was okay for me to be sad, too. I wish I would have felt comfortable crying about it or sharing with friends. Instead, I stuffed it all down. A year later I finally went on anti-depressants and started seeing a therapist. It took me a while to realize that my grief was normal and that it’s okay to need help. Guys just don’t talk about this stuff, at least among my circle of friends. I’m trying to change that now.” —Travis

“I felt so close with my wife after she miscarried. We hugged and cried and talked about it a lot. But I guess I sort of moved on after a few weeks. I still have sad moments every once-in-a-while but mostly it doesn’t affect me anymore. A few times I’ve noticed my wife grow distant toward me and after some probing I realized it’s close to the anniversary of the miscarriage or due date or something like that. I need help remembering, whereas her grief seems to come back much stronger than mine. I’ve noticed when we talk about these things from the heart we feel much closer—and I’m wiling to do that—but I need her help remembering.” —Mark

“I put my grief on hold while my wife was grieving and recovering from the miscarriage. Months later I broke down. My wife had moved past that point in her grief whereas I hadn’t begun. It was a weird and confusing dynamic, but with a lot of communication we grew through it. Our marriage is stronger because we made space for each other’s grief, loved the best we could, and worked through it.” —Pete

She said:

“When I was able to share that with my husband how my miscarriage felt like birthing a dead baby and describe how hormonal I felt on top of all the emotional stuff, it helped him to have more patience with me. Somehow it also helped him understand that I had actuallybeen pregnant and made losing the baby more tangible for him. Grief hit him a little harder after that realization, but that wasn’t a bad thing. It felt good to grieve together.” —Jess

“Our miscarriage was the beginning of some troubling times in our marriage. Not the miscarriage itself, but the fact that I grieved and he didn’t comfort me. My husband isn’t a hard-hearted person, but he just didn’t feel the grief like I did. He couldn’t understand my pain and didn’t communicate his feelings with me well or try to empathize with mine. It was the beginning of a great divide between us, at least from my perspective. Our marriage was eventually healed, but I would recommend anyone going through miscarriage to get professional counseling together with your husband.” —Lisa

“Walking through multiple miscarriages with my husband bound us closer together. We learned how to comfort one another and how to tend to our marriage and our emotions with mutual compassion and love. I hope there are many women who would say this, but I am married to an extraordinary man who is tenderhearted and attentive to God’s voice. I don’t recall him ever being impatient or frustrated with how I processed through our miscarriages. His grief was different and shorter lived, I believe, whereas mine certainly still crops up over the years. But I am thankful to be walking through this with him.” —Sarah

Body Image, Sex, and Intimacy after Miscarriage

While it’s clear men and women experience miscarriage differently (because of its physicality), what seems to be talked about even less are the implications of miscarriage on body image, sex, and intimacy. Yet when I surveyed over 750 mothers and fathers while writing Grace Like Scarlett, over and again these themes came up. Perhaps these women and men felt safe enough to share under the guise of anonymity (or semi-anonymity for those who gave their first names)? Whatever the case, many women described a fear of sex and intimacy, or that they struggled to see sex as a not just a necessity, but a source of pleasure and intimacy. Many women described feeling ugly or even hating their bodies. Still others (both men and women) described an obsession with getting pregnant again and shared how the pressure they put on their spouse put a strain on their marriage.

“Before we knew that my body would not be able to sustain a pregnancy without significant intervention, intimacy was something I began to fear because it would remind me of the grief of each miscarriage. Over the years I was able to work through that and not associate intimacy with pregnancy loss, and we found the ways and means that worked for us in order to move forward physically, but in the last year or two (seven years after our first miscarriage), I’ve realized how miscarriage and infertility still affects my desire to be intimate.” —Sarah

“I thought if we could just get pregnant quickly again, it would help my wife to heal. I never forced her, but I think I might have been a little too eager to persuade her. I remember her crying after sex a few times, and when she did get pregnant again she was excited but her grief didn’t disappear. In retrospect, I think we rushed it—not the sex itself, but the ‘trying.’” —Jeremy

“My husband told me after our last loss how scared he is to lose more of me. He feels I’m not the same since the losses began (and I agree). I experience PTSD that the outside world is completely blind to, but creeps into my thoughts and especially my dreams. While we are intimate often, it’s hard for me to enjoy.” —Catie

“When I got pregnant again after miscarriage, sex was basically nonexistent. My husband tried to control everything so it wouldn’t happen again. (As if miscarriage was in our control!) Somehow he thought it was safer not to have sex so I had no choice but to go with it. It actually made me feel really insecure about my changing body, but I could see that it was his way of coping, which helped me to offer him grace.” —Erika

“The midwife told us we were fine to begin trying for another baby as soon as my wife stopped bleeding and felt well. The next month she became obsessive with making another baby. I felt like she was rushing it and worried about her, but I also felt like opposing her passion would crush her. We didn’t get pregnant for about four months so it turned out okay, but those four months of madly “trying” to make this thing happen put a lot of stress on our marriage. Then when she got pregnant she was afraid of having sex and hurting the baby even though the midwife said it was fine. It was a really hard time for us as a couple.” —Khalid

Do men and women grieve differently after miscarriage?

While it’s a common assumption that men and women grieve differently, perhaps it’s more accurate to say people grieve differently. Sure, cultural constructs may weigh in on how men and women respond to their grief—heavily at times—but we undermine the grieving process when we expect it to look one way or another according to gender. There are certainly commonalities among grief experiences—in that way grief is universal—but there are also differences, which are sometimes vast, sometimes subtle. No two people will grieve in exactly the same way.

Miscarriage is not a women’s issue; it’s a family issue, a human issue. Women grieve. Men grieve. Whole families and support networks grieve.

The grief that results from losing a baby is messy and complex. It’s confusing and can feel abstract because it’s not just a lost baby but a lost vision and dream for the future.

Photo by Krists Luhaers on Unsplash

MISCARRIAGE SUPPORT

For resources to navigate grief after miscarriage and pregnancy loss, or to learn how to best support a friend experiencing loss, please visit my Miscarriage Stories and Resources page or download my free grief journal and free 7-day devotional. You can also find the Men and Miscarriage series here.

If you’d like to go deeper in exploring how to grieve with hope, I’ve written a whole book for you:  Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss (available at all major retailers).

The Story of Scarlett Grace

For days I felt empty. But afraid to articulate my feelings, I dismissed them instead—searching for comfort in the possibility that the sudden change I felt was really just the mark between trimesters.

They say that once you’ve seen your baby’s heartbeat, your chances of losing her diminish to between 3-5%.

We had seen her through an ultrasound only weeks before—healthy, strong, growing right on track.

I knew the statistics. I knew the probability. But we had seen her heart beating. We had seen life. (We were safe, right?)

Two days after sharing my anxious thoughts about the feeling of “emptiness” with my husband we sat in the small, dark room. Fear gripped me while the sonographer worked silently over my belly, measuring and recording.

It’s amazing how five little words can feel so heavy and so big: Your baby has no heartbeat.

Since that day I’ve often wondered if those halls had ever witnessed the kind of wailing that came after my mama-heart had been shattered. But I didn’t care. I let my emotion unleash—it was far too big to swallow and I didn’t even try. I was devastated and broken and grief-stricken immediately as my worst fears were confirmed.

Our unborn baby was 13 weeks old—tiny and vulnerable— yet when we prayed about her we had felt a sense of strength and might surrounding her life and destiny.

How do you fit those contradictory pieces together once you’re told your baby is dead?

The next day I was admitted to the hospital to have a D & C. I was exhausted and spent as I curled up on a couch in the corner of the waiting room, my back to the rest of the patients waiting for their names to be called for various procedures.

Out of the quiet a newborn baby cried down the corridor and again I erupted into sobs, shaking under the weight of my broken-heartedness.

How could this be happening to me?

Though aware of the statistics and the “normalcy” of pregnancy loss, nothing could prepare me to be the one joining—against my will—the awful secret society of bereaved parents with empty arms and deflated dreams. We were so in love with this baby, so committed to care for her and teach her the ways of God, so willing to sacrifice anything for her. But there I was waiting to be dressed in a gown, wheeled down sterile hallways by strangers, and have my dead child scraped from my womb. (Wasn’t she supposed to be safe there?)

This was not the way a woman dreams of delivering her baby… continue reading at the She Is Project>>>

Miscarriage Support

For resources to navigate grief after miscarriage and pregnancy loss, or to learn how to best support a friend experiencing loss, please visit my Miscarriage Stories and Resources page or download my free grief journal and free 7-day devotional.

If you’d like to go deeper in exploring how to grieve with hope, I’ve written a whole book for you:  Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss (available at all major retailers).

Dear Grieving Mom,

It’s jarring, isn’t it—that first period after your miscarriage? As if it was possible to forget what has only so recently happened, your body is giving you this fresh reminder that there’s no baby there. Your womb is empty and it doesn’t feel fair.

After each of my three miscarriages, my first period came with a sting. Not a physical sting of course, but a sting that can only be felt in the heart. You know the kind.

Though logically I knew my body was proceeding to do what it was designed to do, I couldn’t help but feel it was mocking me. Seeing blood on the lining of my underwear was a visual reminder that I couldn’t hold on to the baby I had so quickly grown to love. It reminded me of when I first saw the blood from my miscarriage. That’s the kind of re-living of an event no mother wants to do.

I wonder if you felt similar when you first saw the blood return?

More than anything, I want to tell you you’re normal for experiencing some heartache on this day. I want to tell you that however you’re feeling is okay and that grief takes many shapes. If a day like today brings you a fresh wave of grief that’s okay too.

Perhaps the pain is trying to summon you to lean in a little today—connect with your grief and your pain and remember that you are human. Being human is not something to be ashamed of; being human is beautiful. Author Glennon Melton coined the term “brutiful” which I think encapsulates our humanity perfectly: life can be brutal and beautiful at the same time. It reminds us we are fully alive.

So I wonder what it is that you actually feel today? Do you feel like your body has betrayed you? Do you feel ashamed for having miscarried—like even that term ‘mis-carry’ implies that you’ve done something wrong? In all of my years of trying to understand my own miscarriages—what caused them and what my body was trying to tell me—I’ve learned that “doing something wrong” is rarely ever the reason a baby or pregnancy hasn’t progressed.

Friend, I want to be really honest with you. What I’m sharing here with you today probably isn’t going to do or say some magical thing that will make your pain go away. Your pain is a process and it’s there because something precious was lost—your baby and the future you imagined with him or her. That is no small thing.

But I do want to encourage you to take heart. Take heart that the sting you feel today does change. It’s okay that today—this day—you experience your sadness and your loss and your grief all over again. Don’t worry how you felt yesterday and try not to worry how you’ll feel tomorrow. Focus on this moment—here, now, you and I together. Your heart is trying to tell you something and I believe it is exactly this: your baby mattered.

He mattered. She mattered. You matter.

Your loss is real. Your pain is justified. Your tears are warranted.

As a mother you have made room in your life—in your very own body—for a child. Regardless of if the pregnancy was hard fought for, came as a surprise, or even frightened you, carrying a child changed you so of course you will feel a sense of emptiness where that life seems to have vanished. Nothing will ever take the place of your little baby—no amount of positive self talk, or Bible verses, or homemade chocolate chip cookies, or hugs. Not even another baby who may come later on down the track.

But you also need to know this: You are stronger than you think. Your heart will survive this. Your body will remember what it’s like to feel comfortable in your own skin again.

Make no mistake, your loss will change you. Your heart will expand a few sizes if you surrender to the process grief takes you on. But it is a process. This is not an event to be overcome or a challenge to conquer. Grief is a path to be walked. Some days your pace will quicken, other days it will be slowed. You’ll find unexpected corners and forks and surely a hill or two to scale. But you’ll find your way forward.

And I promise you this: If you haven’t already, you will laugh again.

Friend, there is so much hope.

Now will you do me a favor? As you finish reading, don’t rush off to the next thing. Give yourself a few minutes—some space to breathe. I want you to think about how to honor yourself in this process. You might have thought about how to honor your baby’s life, but have you also spent time considering how to honor your own beautiful, wonderful self in this process?

Perhaps you need to take some time today in prayer to ask God to show you how he thinks of you. Perhaps you need to list ways that your body has served you in the past. Perhaps you need to journal your feelings or treat yourself to the kind of tender care you would most enjoy right now—a bath? A run? A massage? A swim in the ocean? Do you need to slip out the door for a moonlit walk in your comfiest pajamas?

This is not me telling you to “buck up” and do something to make you happy. This is me giving you permission to feel the pain and then respond in a way that is comforting and wholesome. You are a whole person—mind, body, spirit—and today your body is giving you a chance to recall that connection even as it reminds you of your amazing womanhood. So lean in. Listen. Don’t shush your pain or cover up your grief. Instead let your pain and grief inform how you treat yourself today.

Let today be a day you respond with grace to the body and heart that makes up your wonderful you. Be kind to yourself. Give yourself permission let the tears flow and to search for the light. This is not self-indulgence, it’s stewardship of the most important thing God’s given you: your life.

Love,
Adriel

More posts in the Letters to a Grieving Mom series:

• Open when your period returns
• Open on your original due date
• Open when you’re invited to a baby shower
• Open on a difficult holiday or special occasion
• Open on Mother’s Day
• Open on your baby’s birthday or anniversary
• Open during a post-miscarriage pregnancy

Resources to Help You Heal

For further resources to navigate grief after miscarriage and pregnancy loss, or to learn how to best support a friend experiencing loss, please visit my Miscarriage Stories and Resources page. You will also find a free grief journal and a free 7-day devotional.

If you’d like to go deeper in exploring how to grieve with hope, I’ve written a whole book for you:  Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss (available at all major retailers).

Grief Support Groups

Join us for an 8-week “Deep Dive” grief support group to help you navigate life after pregnancy loss. Find out more here.

Pregnancy Loss Community

Join us at the kindest place on the internet: Our Scarlett Stories – online community, resource library, and more.

Pin to save for later:

Featured Image by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

When stories connect us

Two years ago I was headed into the most arduous work of my life. I was writing a book, not only telling my own story, but hoping to do so in a way that would invite, encourage, and inspire others to face theirs in order to find healing and hope. My book was to be about miscarriage, exploring themes of faith and suffering, doubt and incarnation, grief and healing and hope. Not the lightest of subjects, but the truest for my life at the time.

Although not the arc of my entire life’s story, the last several years of my life have been marked by the hushed heartache of recurrent miscarriages—my introduction to the type of grief that sweeps you off your feet and knocks the wind out of you. In those early days of mourning, writing became my lifeline and my prayer. It’s how I let the pain in and how I let it out. It’s how I prayed. It’s how I reached out for help. It’s how I healed.

The first time I shared my story online I was inundated with “me too” stories. It seemed a groundswell of women around me carried similar stories of heartache and loss. Their tenderness and solidarity helped me to see that although in a season of intense loneliness, I was far from alone.

Stories became my connecting point to a world bigger than myself. They also became my connecting point to a smaller world—the world within.

If you grew up in church like I did you’ve probably heard the verse from Revelation 12:11 (what feels like) one million times: “They overcame with the blood of the lamb and the word of their testimony.” It’s so familiar it feels almost insignificant—an unfortunate casualty of knowledge elbowing out transformative revelation. I used to think of this verse only in terms of “salvation stories” because whenever I heard the term testimony used in church settings it was always about how someone decided to follow Jesus. These “conversion” stories are powerful, yes, but most people only have one of them.

And yet our lives are made up of stories—stories interwoven with stories interwoven with still more stories. And the power of those stories has no end.

Permission to tell our stories

When I began sharing my own stories of heartache and hope amidst miscarriage I saw with stunning volume how much power my stories actually had. It was as if sharing my stories gave people permission to share theirs.

Of course we don’t need permission to share our stories, but it can feel that way, can’t it? We often deny the power of our own stories because we’re measuring them up against someone else’s. Ours aren’t as significant or traumatic or spectacular. Ours aren’t as beautiful or tragic, as polished or as miraculous. Ours are regular—familiar because they’re ours.

But what if you and I began to realize how much power to overcome and heal and birth life rests within the sharing of our stories?

In the early days of writing my book I posted a survey on facebook, hoping to get responses from at least one hundred women and men. I had to take the survey down before the day was over because I had already received 750+ responses and had no idea how I would comb through them all.

To be honest the results of the survey didn’t surprise me. I had been listening to (and reading) stories of peoples’ experiences with miscarriage and loss for several years already and the survey only reinforced the major themes I already knew I needed to write into. So I guess in that way, it didn’t do much to “help” me write the book. But here’s what surprised me: The number of people who thanked me for the survey. Over and over again participants said variations of, “Thank you for this survey—it felt good to remember.” Or “Thank you for helping me to share my story—this was so therapeutic.”

And what I realized was that even when people don’t consciously articulate it, somewhere under the surface they just want to be known. They want their story heard. They want to be given voice and to know their experience matters. Some people need more of a nudge than others to help them to share. Some need a framework to help them know where or how to start. Some tell stories naturally and readily. Some don’t. But we all just want to be known. We want to know our stories matter.

The power of story

Sharing our stories heals us and heals others. Our stories free us and free others. Our stories help give language to the ones yet to be told. Our stories require vulnerability but they also produce vulnerability—they give way for others to let their own stories rise.

And this is my encouragement to you, dear one: Let your story be known. It is neither small nor insignificant. It is not too much or not enough. It is not boring. It is not benign.

Your story holds the power to heal. Your story holds the power to declare God’s goodness if you’ll let it. Your story has the power to help others overcome shame, fear, anxiety, doubt, bias, unforgiveness, self-doubt, and all sorts of personal heartache and struggles.

Take courage, dear heart. Telling your story is always worth it. So go there. Don’t be afraid. Don’t hold back. Speak. Write. Give.

Your story matters. Will you be generous with it?

“Be generous with your lives. By opening up to others, you’ll prompt people to open up with God.” —Jesus (from Matthew 5:16, The Message)

Please note: As a gift to those of you impacted by the heartbreak of miscarriage or other types of pregnancy loss, I’ve created an ebook I’d like to offer you at no cost: Journaling Our Scarlett Stories: Prompts to Process Grief after Pregnancy Loss. These prompts are designed to help you journal through your grief as well as to help you tell your story. (Whether you write your story for your eyes only or to share it with others is entirely up to you.)

Save to read again later:

Featured image by Remi Yuan on Unsplash

Here’s a snippet of the interview:

Maggie: What is some advice you can give loved ones as they journey with someone through miscarriage?

Adriel: The “ministry of presence”—being with someone. The whole gospel story is about Jesus coming and moving into the middle of our mess—not running from it or being intimidated by it or trying putting a pat answer on it. But he just came to be with us. As believers that’s what we can do for others—we come and say “I want to hold space for your pain, I’m not going to run away from it. I want to be with you in that.” …And then practical things. I like to tell people that having a miscarriage is like giving birth and grieving a death all at once, and so the same things you would do for a new mom… you care for her tenderly and treat her as if she’s postpartum, but also just lost someone very dear. You bring the flowers. You bring the casserole. You show up.

Watch the full interview here:

“Grief is wild like the sea, but it doesn’t need to destroy us. We can’t conquer it, but we can learn to navigate it. And we can find Jesus there too.” —Adriel Booker

FREE DEVOTIONAL FOR YOU:

How to Grieve with Hope Devotional—A free 7-day devotional on YouVersion Bible app based on Grace Like Scarlett

ADDITIONAL RESOURCES:

Miscarriage Stories and Resource page

How to Support a Friend after Miscarriage and Loss

What Not to Say to a Friend after Miscarriage (And What to Say Instead)

Men & Miscarriage Series including articles such as: Do Men and Women Grieve Differently?; How to Support the Man You Love after Miscarriage; and Marriage, Sex, and Intimacy after Miscarriage.

Book: Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss by Adriel Booker

Welcome to the Men & Miscarriage Series where we’re exploring how miscarriage impacts men, listening to their stories, and finding ways we can support them in their grief. Miscarriage is not a “women’s issue”—it’s a family issue, a human issue. When we minimize miscarriage as a women’s issue only, we reinforce the notion that women are the only ones affected by this type of loss, which simply isn’t true. The Men and Miscarriage Series features contributions by both men and women. I’m especially excited to help set the stage to give space to the voices often unheard in conversations surrounding fertility and pregnancy loss: the voices of men—fathers and grandfathers who have lost and learned to give expression to their grief, and have learned to grieve with hope, despite what cultural norms surrounding masculinity have instructed them. Together may we discover ways to normalize this grief and find our way forward.

Please note: If you’d like to read further, you can also pick up a copy my book, Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss, which includes a special section for dads written by my husband, Ryan.

Guest post by Trevor Bowen

Nothing has left me feeling more helpless as a husband than the loss of our child through miscarriage. Nothing could have prepared me for the pain I felt, and the unbelievable grief and desperation my wife, Krystle, experienced. I had no words of comfort, no sense of understanding, and no relief from guilt.

Guilt.

This was by far the hardest thing for me to overcome. I took it very personally.

Even now, the haunting emotions come back to me: I must have dishonored or displeased God, and I was not worthy of being a dad. This guilt can be extremely debilitating, and for a time it even hindered my relationships with God and my wife.

We had lost a child, yes, but there was something to be said for the fact that we’d never met “her.” (In our case, though we lost her early in the process we were certain she was a girl.)

I’m certain this was different for my wife, but without a proper introduction to my child I didn’t feel the same kind of tie or loss that I expected. I felt loss, for sure, but mostly I struggled with the why questions:

Why did this happen?

Why did we lose her?

What did we do wrong?

What did I do wrong?

What was God trying to say to us?

How do we recover from this?

WILL WE recover from this?

What else will be taken from us?

Will we ever be able to have more children?

These questions and the accompanying emotions left me feeling isolated and despondent. I felt despondency in myself, and I sensed it deeply in Krystle.

I wish I had known some things. I wish I had known:

• This kind of thing happens a lot—to a lot of people.
• I wasn’t alone in my emotions.
• It was ok to not know how to comfort my wife.
• It was ok to grieve as a man.
• It was normal to not have answers.
• There were people I could talk to and should talk to.
• There were people Krystle could talk to and should talk to.

If I could have a heart-to-heart with a man experiencing miscarriage, this is what I’d say: Miscarriage has the very real potential to damage a marriage. I have discovered that when death hits—the death of anything—there’s a sense of separation and loneliness that follows.

In light of this, I would implore you in the following ways:

1. It’s imperative you muster up the courage, humility, and vulnerability to seek counsel.
2. It’s critical you take time to process, both individually and together.
3. It’s normal for this process to take a very long time.

And finally, I’d like to leave you with some things I learned:

God really doesn’t hate me.

All of our stories—especially the ones with great doubt and grief—are ours to share. The loss we feel can, and will, be the source of a healing balm for someone else down the road if we are willing.

Marriage is hard and dealing with death is hard. We cannot do this alone.

People will say stupid things. They don’t mean it and they don’t know what they are saying.

God promises to restore—and he will. We just don’t know how and we may need to wait. Even, at times, for quite a while.

Author bio:

THE MEN & MISCARRIAGE SERIES:

Do Men and Women Grieve Differently after Miscarriage and Pregnancy Loss?

How to Support the Man You Love after Miscarriage and Pregnancy Loss

Lima Beans and Hope in the Freezer Aisle: Miscarriage through the Eyes of a Grandfather

Marriage, Sex, and Intimacy after Miscarriage

From Man to Man after Miscarriage: Honest Talk about Marriage and Loss

(Find the whole series here: Men & Miscarriage Series.)

ADDITIONAL RESOURCES:

Miscarriage Stories and Resource page

How to Support a Friend after Miscarriage and Loss

What Not to Say to a Friend after Miscarriage (And What to Say Instead)

How to Grieve with Hope Devotional—A free 7-day devotional on YouVersion Bible app based on Grace Like Scarlett

Book: Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss by Adriel Booker

PIN TO SAVE FOR FUTURE REFERENCE:

Featured photo by whoislimos on Unsplash

Welcome to the Men & Miscarriage Series where we’re exploring how miscarriage impacts men, listening to their stories, and finding ways we can support them in their grief. Miscarriage is not a “women’s issue”—it’s a family issue, a human issue. When we minimize miscarriage as a women’s issue only, we reinforce the notion that women are the only ones affected by this type of loss, which simply isn’t true. The Men and Miscarriage Series features contributions by both men and women. I’m especially excited to help set the stage to give space to the voices often unheard in conversations surrounding fertility and pregnancy loss: the voices of men—fathers and grandfathers who have lost and learned to give expression to their grief, and have learned to grieve with hope, despite what cultural norms surrounding masculinity have instructed them. Together may we discover ways to normalize this grief and find our way forward.

Please note: If you’d like to read further, you can also pick up a copy my book, Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss, which includes a special section for dads written by my husband, Ryan.

The following is an interview with Sarah about how miscarriage impacted her and her husband Steve’s marriage, intimacy, and sex life. She wanted to share their story so it could benefit other couples, but she also wanted their privacy protected so a few details have been altered, including their names.

Adriel: How has your miscarriage impacted your marriage?

Sarah: Ultimately, it made my husband, Steve, and I a stronger team. Nobody else experienced the loss of our son (Ezra) in the same way we did. Yes, our family and close friends grieved with us, but he was there holding my hands while I delivered our 16 week old at home, so there is an intimacy that was strengthened due to the trauma we both endured. We also were the only ones that got to hold him.

All of this has strengthened our marriage because we look to each other first for everything. Where some may go to a family member or close friend, 98% of the time I share everything with Steve first. Also after our loss there were no more secrets about physical things that happened to my body. This may or may not be a good thing at times.

We now have an eight week old daughter, Lucy, and as is the case with most couples after a birth, my husband learned a lot about my body and bodily functions whether he wanted to or not. This is part of sharing in the experience of having a child together, which in our case was a good thing because we had already entered into conversation about that due to our loss.

Adriel: Has this changed the way your husband approaches pregnancy?

Sarah: During my recent pregnancy, and since having Lucy, I have found it easier to communicate to him about what I am going through. He also has a heightened interest in my physical condition in a way that is unique. I contribute that to the open communication that began after our miscarriage.

Another aspect of our marriage that I don’t think would have been as strong, is that during our season of trying to get pregnant after our miscarriage, and again during my pregnancy, he tried to carry part of the physical burden (hypothetically) to lessen the burden of it on me. I have openly said many times that I am tired of being the one who physically experiences everything—the exams, menstrual cycle, pregnancy, etc. Obviously he can’t take the physical burden from me, but he has taken this to heart and invested in communicating about it and being an active helper through it. He has been my cheerleader, encouraging me when I’ve most needed it.

Adriel: Has your miscarriage brought you closer? How has it impacted your home and the way you related to others?

Sarah: We experienced unexplained infertility for a couple years prior to our loss. We also had just gotten licensed as foster parents when we found out we were pregnant with Ezra and had a three-year-old come live with us when I was ten weeks pregnant. Losing Ezra drove me into depression but we were parents of a toddler and we needed each other to survive. This, in turn, brought us closer and in some ways having the child in our home helped us through that period. God sustained us and used this part of our story to strengthen our marriage. God has also used our story to walk through life with other friends who desire children and are waiting. He is using Lucy to give others hope. This again has made us closer.

Adriel: Did your miscarriage impact your sex life and intimacy? And if so, how?

Sarah: Yes, miscarriage impacted our sex life. As I said before, we journeyed through infertility. This made our sex life frustrating at times—a chore. We argued about when we should or shouldn’t have sex and at times were just plain old tired of it. After our miscarriage it got even harder. Not only did I go through a traumatic delivery of our son, but then my body thought I had had a baby. My milk came in and I became engorged but had no baby to feed. I didn’t want to be touched anywhere. One way to cope with grief is to physically hold each other, but it was not comfortable to be held. Another way to cope with grief is distraction and sexual intimacy can be a good distraction but we were told to wait a couple weeks before being intimate again. At the time it was very hard for us to wait those couple weeks. All we wanted was to get pregnant again. That eagerness faded quickly. We were more tired than ever before and grief weighed both of us down. We were also still parenting a three-year-old, which drained us of any left over energy we had.

After several months and no positive pregnancy test we were getting discouraged. This led me to seek answers via the doctor. Something had to be wrong. After a couple months the answer was that I had an infection (common female infection) but it is technically categorized as an STI (sexually transmitted infection). I started taking antibiotics, which interrupted our sex life a bit. We also got to wondering where did the infection come from? Whose fault was it? Those questions made us both feel guilty at times and caused frustration with ourselves and each other. The only reason we were given for our son’s death was due to an infection. They said it wasn’t anything we could have caused or prevented but they later would recommend we use condoms, thus making us feel like it was one or both of us who was to blame. You can imagine the emotional turmoil this caused us to feel.

Several months later we found out we were pregnant again! This caused my doctor to suggest we use condoms during the pregnancy as a precaution. Again we both felt guilty as if it was one or both of us who may have caused Ezra’s death. My husband especially struggled with this due to the function of a condom, and we both feel our sex life is less exciting and comfortable when having to use a condom. In this way, our miscarriage impacted our intimacy negatively.

So I guess you can say—circling back to your first question—miscarriage impacted our marriage both positively and negatively. But honestly now that we’re through the thickest period of grief, I have to say that overall we grew closer.

To read more on marriage, intimacy, and sex after miscarriage, please see also:

How Miscarriage Affects a Marriage by Lindsey Bell

How My Marriage Changed After My Miscarriage by Jessica Zucker

THE MEN & MISCARRIAGE SERIES:

Do Men and Women Grieve Differently after Miscarriage and Pregnancy Loss?

How to Support the Man You Love after Miscarriage and Pregnancy Loss

Lima Beans and Hope in the Freezer Aisle: Miscarriage through the Eyes of a Grandfather

Marriage, Sex, and Intimacy after Miscarriage

From Man to Man after Miscarriage: Honest Talk about Marriage and Loss

(Find the whole series here: Men & Miscarriage Series.)

ADDITIONAL RESOURCES:

Miscarriage Stories and Resource page

How to Support a Friend after Miscarriage and Loss

What Not to Say to a Friend after Miscarriage (And What to Say Instead)

How to Grieve with Hope Devotional—A free 7-day devotional on YouVersion Bible app based on Grace Like Scarlett

Book: Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss by Adriel Booker

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Featured image by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash

Meet Kevin Lotz:

An Information Technology professional by day, Kevin Lotz enjoys spends his early mornings writing a devotional blog for his kids, extended family, and anyone else that wants to join the journey.  Kevin has done nearly everything in the local church, from park cars to preach.  He currently teaches and is involved in discipleship, spiritual formation, and encouraging others in their walk with Christ. When he’s not working or serving, Kevin is outdoors, reading, or cooking dinner to share with friends.  Kevin prefers mountains to the beach, has lived in six states, and currently calls North Carolina home.  Kevin is also a dad to four amazing grownup kids. Visit Kevin’s devotional blog.

Featured image by John Jones.

THE MEN & MISCARRIAGE SERIES:

Do Men and Women Grieve Differently after Miscarriage and Pregnancy Loss?

How to Support the Man You Love after Miscarriage and Pregnancy Loss

Lima Beans and Hope in the Freezer Aisle: Miscarriage through the Eyes of a Grandfather

Marriage, Sex, and Intimacy after Miscarriage

From Man to Man after Miscarriage: Honest Talk about Marriage and Loss

(Find the whole series here: Men & Miscarriage Series.)

ADDITIONAL RESOURCES:

Miscarriage Stories and Resource page

How to Support a Friend after Miscarriage and Loss

What Not to Say to a Friend after Miscarriage (And What to Say Instead)

How to Grieve with Hope Devotional—A free 7-day devotional on YouVersion Bible app based on Grace Like Scarlett

Book: Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss by Adriel Booker

Welcome to the Men & Miscarriage Series where we’re exploring how miscarriage impacts men, listening to their stories, and finding ways we can support them in their grief. Miscarriage is not a “women’s issue”—it’s a family issue, a human issue. When we minimize miscarriage as a women’s issue only, we reinforce the notion that women are the only ones affected by this type of loss, which simply isn’t true. The Men and Miscarriage Series will feature contributions by both men and women. I’m especially excited to help set the stage to give space to the voices often unheard in conversations surrounding fertility and pregnancy loss: the voices of men—fathers and grandfathers who have lost and learned to give expression to their grief, and have learned to grieve with hope, despite what cultural norms surrounding masculinity have instructed them. Together may we discover ways to normalize this grief and find our way forward.

Please note: If you’d like to read further, you can also pick up a copy my book, Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss, which includes a special section for dads written by my husband, Ryan.

Supporting men through miscarriage, pregnancy loss, and grief

How can wives and girlfriends help support the men in their lives after a miscarriage, especially knowing the expectations society places on them unfairly as if their grief is unwarranted or less important? (See: Do men and women grieve differently after miscarriage?) How can we ensure men have a place in the conversation and not minimize their perspective or experience? How can we help make this a whole family issue instead of just a women’s issue, and work toward slowly helping to shape culture around this deep pain and need?

1. Understand that men grieve too. Even if you don’t see evidence of it, believe this. Sometimes grief is hard to identify when you’re immersed in it, but as we grow forward we can begin to put language around our experiences. The man in your life may need more or less time to do this and that’s okay.

2. Invite conversation about his grief. Ask open-ended questions and then be gracious whether he chooses to respond or not. Do what you can to keep lines of communication open. Listen to what he says and try to notice what he’s not saying (resisting the temptation to put words in his mouth). Listen to understand.

3. Remember that everyone grieves differently. Give grace for this. Don’t judge the way he chooses to acknowledge or express his grief. Don’t ever accuse him of “not grieving enough” or “not caring enough” or any other kind of “enough” statements. These will never be helpful or productive, and in fact may be hurtful and damaging.

4. Give his grief dignity by not trying to make it look or sound like your own. Validate his experience by validating his feelings.

5. Include him in your updates to friends and help educate others that men’s experiences matter too. ( For example, “Ryan and I are devastated. Please remember to pray for him when you think of me. I know he would appreciate you reaching out to him just as I appreciate you reaching out to me. We’re so grateful for your support.”)

6. Lean in to your marriage or relationship. Don’t pull away. Grief can be incredibly isolating. Take intentional steps to lean in toward each other when it’s hard. Walking through loss and grief together can be one of the most bonding experiences of your life, or it can be something that creates a wedge. So even when it hurts, lean in, turn toward. You need each other and no one else will care as much as your partner does.

7. Try to notice the ways he’s supporting you in your grief. Acknowledge and thank him. I know this is hard when you’re hurting, but do your best to not take him for granted.

8. Write him a card or buy him flowers. Bring him his favorite coffee or buy him a voucher for a massage. Treat him the way you hope he will treat you, but in a way that communicates “I see you and I’m thinking of your needs (not only my own).” (See also: Care package and gift ideas for a friend after miscarriage.)

9. Ask him if there is something he’d like to do to help say goodbye to the baby—a ritual or memorial or something to remember your baby by. Don’t just tell him what you’re doing; include him and create something together based on mutual input. (See also: Memorial ideas for remembering your baby after miscarriage or loss.)

10. Remember him on Father’s Day or other significant days that may be particularly sensitive.

The Men & Miscarriage Series:

Do Men and Women Grieve Differently after Miscarriage and Pregnancy Loss?

How to Support the Man You Love after Miscarriage and Pregnancy Loss

Lima Beans and Hope in the Freezer Aisle: Miscarriage through the Eyes of a Grandfather

Marriage, Sex, and Intimacy after Miscarriage

From Man to Man after Miscarriage: Honest Talk about Marriage and Loss

(Find the whole series here: Men & Miscarriage Series.)

Additional resources:

How to Support a Friend after Miscarriage and Loss

What Not to Say to a Friend after Miscarriage (And What to Say Instead)

How to Grieve with Hope Devotional—A free 7-day devotional on YouVersion Bible app based on Grace Like Scarlett

Book: Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss by Adriel Booker

Pregnancy Loss Community: Find supportive community, a packed resource library, in depth grief support groups, and more at Our Scarlett Stories pregnancy loss community hosted by author Adriel Booker.

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Featured image by Nik Shuliahin on Unsplash.

Welcome to the Men & Miscarriage Series where we’re exploring how miscarriage impacts men, listening to their stories, and finding ways we can support them in their grief. Miscarriage is not a “women’s issue”—it’s a family issue, a human issue. When we minimize miscarriage as a women’s issue only, we reinforce the notion that women are the only ones affected by this type of loss, which simply isn’t true. The Men and Miscarriage Series will feature contributions by both men and women. I’m especially excited to help set the stage to give space to the voices often unheard in conversations surrounding fertility and pregnancy loss: the voices of men—fathers and grandfathers who have lost and learned to give expression to their grief, and have learned to grieve with hope, despite what cultural norms surrounding masculinity have instructed them. Together may we discover ways to normalize this grief and find our way forward.

Please note: If you’d like to read further, you can also pick up a copy my book, Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss, which includes a special section for dads written by my husband, Ryan.

Do men and women grieve differently after miscarriage and other types of pregnancy loss?

After we lost our first baby to miscarriage I had to learn how to grieve. It was all new to me—foreign, unfamiliar, clumsy. I knew miscarriage happened to people, but not us. We already had two children—why would things go wrong now? How could this possibly happen?

My sorrow in the earliest days was overwhelming. I wanted to find a cave and curl up and die there. Not because I actually wanted to die, but because I didn’t know how to live under the weight of my sadness.

Have you ever felt so filled with sorrow that it felt good to watch a sad movie just so you could get lost in a different pain and yet still cry your own? I had two songs during my earliest days of grief that provided this kind of outlet for me. Some days I would listen to them on repeat. Crying along with the lyric and melody somehow validated my pain, made me feel less alone. It was like a pressure value release and gave me a sense of permission to let it all out. (Needing permission is a fallacy by the way, but some of us need to be encouraged in this way. Music and art can help.)

One afternoon I asked my husband if he would listen to these two songs with me. I wanted him to experience what I was experiencing; I wanted to share our pain. He listened and when they were over I sat in quiet anticipation of the conversation that would follow, eager to discuss how our baby was being cared for in the safe presence of Jesus. Instead his head remained low, shoulders sunken, eyes fixed on his knees.

“Well?” I gently prodded, almost whispering. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

He shuffled a little. Sniffed. Wiped tears from his eyes.

“I don’t want Jesus to look after her.” His gaze still fixed downward. “I wanted us to look after her.”

And that’s all he said for a good, long while.

We would have many more conversations about our grief in the days to come, but in that moment he needed my presence more than he needed my words. He needed to know that I would sit in the silence and not try to explain the pain away. He needed to know that the shape of his grief was different than mine, and that was okay. He needed freedom to grieve his own way.

Although I knew on an intellectual level that both fathers and mothers grieve the loss of an unborn baby, this moment somehow made it real to me. We had cried together and held each other, but it was still so fresh that I found it hard to think beyond myself and my own grief. I was less curious about my husband’s grief in the way it affected him personally than I was in understanding how it related to us. This small exchanged helped. My perspective was widening. I was learning to better see his grief, too.

It was a few weeks post-miscarriage and we were learning to walk the slow pace through grief. We had survived the initial period of shock and trauma, which felt more like gasping for breath just to stay alive, and now the holy, gritty, regular work of grieving and processing what had happened was only just beginning.

Who is talking about the grief of miscarriage and pregnancy loss? Who is telling the stories?

Social media has changed the way we approach conversations around topics once considered taboo. This is purely anecdotal dotal, but it seems to me women are often leading these discussions and becoming more bold to speak up on matters long considered private or socially impolite. (Certainly concerning topics related to infertility and pregnancy and miscarriage, but other topics as well such as abuse, mental illness, the underside of parenting and relationships, and more.)

When I shared my first miscarriage with friends on social media and on my blog, I was astounded by the number of women who came forward to say me too and thank you. Even my own family members confessed having experienced miscarriages decades prior during a time when a woman was pregnant in church one week and quietly showed up unpregnant the next with no one uttering a word about it.

Social media has emboldened us to more freely share hard things. Women are talking and listening. We’re feeling beginning to feel validated. We’re normalizing one another’s experiences and starting to feel less alone.

But what about the men? Where are the men talking about this?

We can list all the stereotypes as reasons—men aren’t as emotional, men grieve differently, men aren’t as attached, and so forth—but it seems to me these stereotypes only serve to alienate them from a type of grief and pain that already feels alienating and abstract.

This is why I would suggest it’s just as unfair to say “men and women grieve differently” as it is to say “all women grieve the same.” These kinds of generalizations make us into caricatures and reduce us to a single story.* These unilateral statements minimize our experiences and reinforce unhealthy assumptions. They also do nothing to help us connect or heal.

Miscarriage is a not a women’s issue, it’s a human issue

We all grieve differently and respond to trauma differently, and—sure—our gender might factor into this because of cultural norms and expectations, but we’re not doing each other any favors by making miscarriage and pregnancy loss into a women’s issue. It’s a human issue—a family issue, a cultural issue, a religious issue, a health issue. In our current cultural climate, it’s even become a political issue.

Men grieve too. Men grapple with how to mourn the loss of a baby and a dream and a hope of a certain future. Like women, men enter into a complex grief. But unlike women, their grief can be exacerbated by the feeling of being “other” since they did not physically experience the pregnancy and loss the way the woman in their life did. They are finding their way through a changing cultural landscape just as much as we are, but perhaps with even less of a road map forward since they still aren’t talking about it as much as women are.

I remember my husband telling me that he wanted to talk about it more with his male friends but often wasn’t sure how to bring it into conversation. He was over forty years old and had never in his life heard a man talk about miscarriage. If it felt foreign to me, it felt other-worldly to him. This has changed now among our circle, but it started with Ryan initiating conversations when it was still uncomfortable.

So perhaps instead of saying “men grieve differently” in response to miscarriage and other types of pregnancy loss, it’s more accurate to say people grieve differently. And to remember that we need to give space for each person’s unique expression and process.

Grief fits no mold and follows no tidy blueprint—there are a thousand shades and a thousand paths, none of which are a surprise to God.

In closing:

For women:
What have you learned as you’ve watched the men in your life grieve after miscarriage? What do you wish you could do differently? Do you see miscarriage as purely a women’s issue? Why or why not?

For men:
What do you wish women knew about your grief after miscarriage or another type of pregnancy loss? What do you think about this idea that miscarriage is not “just” a women’s issue? Do you agree? Why or why not?

*If you have never listened to Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s TED Talk on The Danger of a Single Story, I urge you to take the time.

The Men & Miscarriage Series:

Do Men and Women Grieve Differently after Miscarriage and Pregnancy Loss?

How to Support the Man You Love after Miscarriage and Pregnancy Loss

Lima Beans and Hope in the Freezer Aisle: Miscarriage through the Eyes of a Grandfather

Marriage, Sex, and Intimacy after Miscarriage

From Man to Man after Miscarriage: Honest Talk about Marriage and Loss

(Find the whole series here: Men & Miscarriage Series.)

Additional resources:

Miscarriage Stories and Resource page

How to Support a Friend after Miscarriage and Loss

What Not to Say to a Friend after Miscarriage (And What to Say Instead)

How to Grieve with Hope Devotional—A free 7-day devotional on YouVersion Bible app based on Grace Like Scarlett

Book: Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss by Adriel Booker

Pin for later reference:

Featured images by Edward Cisneros and Almos Bechtold on Unsplash.

I have a gift for you: seven days of free content to help you know what it means to grieve with hope after miscarriage or any type of heartbreak or loss.

One of the things I’ve found hardest with transitioning to publishing is that my words are no longer free. Please don’t misinterpret this—I think we are worthy of being paid for our hard work and artists and creatives must not apologize for wanting to make a living from their gifts. (And of course, I want people to buy my book and I’d love to bolster our family’s income so I can give even more time to creating valuable content that will serve people.) In saying that, because I truly believe my book will HELP people, the desire to simply give it away to anyone who “needs” it is a strong pull. The struggle is real.

This is one (personal) reason I’m so wildly excited about this free seven-day devotional on YouVersion: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss. It takes some of the concepts from Grace Like Scarlett and packages them into devotional form for YOU for FREE.

The other, more important reason is this: I wholeheartedly believe this will help you.

This devotional is an invitation to feel, to wrestle, to be fully awake in your suffering after miscarriage or other loss. It is also an invitation to be nurtured and understood and to hear from another woman that the pain gets better, even as we long for the day when our tears are wiped away and pain is no more. Wherever you are on your journey of grief after losing a baby—or any kind of personal heartache or suffering—I pray these words will be a gateway for God’s grace. Let’s dive deep together.

I hope this devotional will become a huge blessing for you if you are grieving the loss of a baby or any kind of loss or grief or heartache. The content I’ve included goes much deeper and wider than the specific pain of pregnancy loss, and yet I also hope women and men grieving this specific—often disenfranchised and confusing—type of pain will get so much out of it and know they are not alone.

Ultimately it’s all about this: God can be found in our suffering. Even there, he is with us.

And finally, please consider book-marking this as a resource you can pass on to a friend in need when the time comes.

So grateful for the chance to give this to you.

READ ALONG HERE by downloading the free app or simply use the browser on your desktop.

With hope,
Adriel

Additional resources for miscarriage and pregnancy loss, including stories and practical help:

Miscarriage and Loss Resource Page

Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss

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It always seems to happen to nicest couples. They come in holding hands, beaming with excitement over the much desired pregnancy in her womb. She’s done everything right. She’s researched the perfect vitamins and followed all the ‘rules.’ They are there for a routine visit, no bleeding, no pain, no idea anything is wrong. When I look at the ultrasound screen, my stomach drops and I realize that in a matter of seconds I’m going to break their hearts. There is no heartbeat.

While miscarriage is an all too common problem we see in our offices, we must remember the emotional toll it takes on our patients. How we deliver the news can either bring the patients comfort or make an awful situation even more difficult.

Acknowledge the loss

When I am diagnosing a miscarriage, I look the patient in the eye and say as gently as I can “I am so very sorry, but your baby does not have a heart beat.” I avoid the medical terms of fetus and embryo at this stage, because to this family this isn’t an “embryo,” this is their child. Often the patient is still undressed, so after breaking the news, I find it helpful to give the patient a few minutes to process and get dressed. Then I come back in to give a more detailed explanation. I hate giving bad news when women are undressed and in a vulnerable position, but if I am doing a transvaginal ultrasound, I think it is important for them to be able to see the baby’s heart is not beating.

Often a miscarriage is the first big loss of a woman’s life. She may not have had enough life experience to experience death on any other level. The lack of heartbeat can be devastating. While to us providers, miscarriages are sadly all too common, we must remember not minimize the loss, but to reassure our patients that that it ok to hurt and mourn.

Don’t overload her with information

As doctors we are “fixers.” We want to help people and make women feel better. But while the shock of their loss is sinking in and the tears are flowing is not the time to discuss detailed statistics and extensive medical testing options.

I do explain the options for treatment. I give my patient the choice of waiting for the tissue to pass naturally, taking medication, or performing a D&C. I have handouts for each of these, because they often do not remember details of the visit and that is understandable. I encourage patients to go home and process the information and call back and let me know how they want to proceed.

Reassure your patient that she’s not at fault

While I don’t overload the patient with statistics, I do try my best to reassure her that the loss was not her fault. When any tragedy occurs we all want a find a reason—something we can change or fix to have a better result next time. Our patients overanalyze everything they ate, drank, or lifted for the weeks leading up to the loss, desperately trying to find out the ‘why.’ I explain that most losses are caused by chromosomal issues and not due to external factors. If this is her first loss, I can reassure her that her risk of another loss is not significantly increased. If she has had multiple losses or has risk factors that could have contributed to the loss (smoking or poorly controlled diabetes), I encourage her that we can work on maximizing her health, should she choose to try again.

Take your time

When our patients are experiencing loss, that is when they need us most. The other patients can wait. I find that some patients may want to escape the office as soon as possible, but others just need someone to listen, understand their loss, and provide comfort. If you feel tears welling up, let them fall. So few people are intimately involved in pregnancy loss, so when the patients see your heartbreak, it helps them to see someone else cares about their loss.

Be sensitive

If they are blessed with another pregnancy realize that they are likely going to be more anxious. Give them some grace if they call a few more times than normal. I usually offer to see them more frequently in the first trimester if they want. Some patients find this reassuring, others find it more nerve wracking.

For patients who have experienced second trimester losses, I try to send them a card on their baby’s due date to let them know I’m thinking about them. This is an extremely difficult date for them and having someone else remember and acknowledge their loss can be comforting.

Miscarriage is common, but that doesn’t make it any easier on the patient or us. Acknowledge their pain and encourage them to grieve. Reassure them that they are not at fault. We can’t ‘fix’ their miscarriage, but at the time of pregnancy loss, our patients need our compassion more than our medicine.

Guest Author Bio:

Heather Rupe, DO, is a mom, wife, runner, writer and board-certified OB/GYN in private practice in Franklin, TN. She is the co-author of The Pregnancy Companion: A Faith-Filled Guide for Your Journey to Motherhood and The Baby Companion: A Faith-Filled Guide for Your Journey through Baby’s First Year. She writes for WedMD Women’s Health Blog. You can connect with her on twitter @drheatherrupe.

You can grieve with hope after miscarriage:

Resources and stories for support after miscarriage:

Free downloadable grief journal:

Featured photo by rawpixel.com on Unsplash

Have you ever felt awkward or wondered what to say after a friend has lost a baby through miscarriage (or other forms of pregnancy loss such as stillbirth)? Have you been afraid you’d say the ‘wrong’ thing?

The following suggestions are based on my own experiences of three miscarriages and that of many others who have shared their experiences with me since I’ve been writing openly about pregnancy loss for the last five years. There’s so much room for variation in what grieving parents need and desire and there certainly are not one size fits all remedies to bring comfort, but I hope you find the following helpful anyway.

Below you’ll find suggestions on what not to say, helpful things you can say instead, and some other ideas and things to consider. These could probably be three separate articles, but for the sake of ease for you I will leave them all together and you can skim to the section to find what you’re looking for. (You might also be interested in: Caring for a Friend after Miscarriage or Pregnancy Loss or Thoughtful Ideas for a Care Package to Give a Friend after Pregnancy Loss)

If you read no further than this, let me just say: the ministry of food is always a good idea. Bring a home-cooked meal, bake a pie or a plate of cookies, drop off homemade soup, or send a favorite take out dish. That, and write a card. Hand written cards are always a yes.

Having a miscarriage is similar to giving birth and losing a loved one all at once, so treat your friend like you would if she was simultaneously dealing with postpartum hormones and emotions and dealing with grief. Because she is.

NOTE: I have also reworked this into a facebook live video so if you’re prefer to watch instead of read, you can do so here on facebook or scroll down to the bottom of this post to watch the video.

Things NOT to say to a friend after miscarriage, no matter how well-meaning:

1. God doesn’t give us more than we can handle. (Uh, if this were true, we’d never actually need God.)
2. It must have been God’s will. (Or any variation of God allowing/willing/orchestrating it. Even if this is your theology, it’s probably not the best time to share it. Consider timing.)
3. God needed another angel. (Does God “need” angels more than we need our babies? This sounds cute, but is problematic.)
4. Your baby is in a better place. (Perhaps it’s true, but that doesn’t make it appropriate to say. Your friend just wants her baby with her. I’m not saying you can’t mention heaven if you think that will be comforting to her, but pair it with the acknowledgement that the here and now loss hurts too.)
5. At least you know you can get pregnant. (Please, no “at least” statements. Ever. These only serve to minimize her present pain.)
6. At least you were only X weeks along.
7. At least the fetus didn’t have a soul yet.
8. At least you have X other healthy/living children.
9. You can always try again.
10. Your baby must have been too good for earth. (Will she interpret this has her or her home not being “good enough” for her baby?)
11. I know how you feel. (This one isn’t terrible, but a better variation of this might be: I’ve experienced this too, and I can imagine what you might be going through.)
12. God has a plan/purpose. (Of course he does, but consider that death was never part of his plan or purpose so maybe there’s a better time for this theological discussion and debate. Or perhaps modify your statement with something like: Even when nothing makes sense, it doesn’t erase God’s good purpose and intent for your life.)
13. You can trust God. (Well yes, but… again, timing. Save this one for a better time.)
14. He (God) gives and takes away. (Or any variation of this scripture. This is taking the scripture out of context and it’s not helpful.)
15. God works all things together for the good of those who love him. (A beautiful scripture, but this isn’t the best time for it. It’s also missing some of the intent of this scripture, which I’ll try to wrote more about another time or you can read further in my book, Grace Like Scarlett, where I unpack this scripture in context.)
16. Your baby is an angel now. (Sorry guys, but bad theology in the form of ‘encouragement’ is never helpful or encouraging. Babies don’t magically becoming angels when they die—this is nowhere in the Bible.)
17. It must have been for the best—your baby probably would have suffered, had health issues, etc. (Again, maybe. But let’s focus on empathy, not dissecting or explaining just yet.
18. You seem really normal/happy/fine—aren’t you upset that you lost your baby? (Please remember that each person grieves differently. This is true from person to person and loss to loss if she has suffered multiple losses.)
19. Have you thought about adoption? (Good gracious, adoption is a beautiful thing but this isn’t the time to make this suggestion.)
20. Time will heal everything. (Again, choose empathy, not empty clichés.)
21. You’re still young—you have plenty of time to try again.
22. Let me know if there’s something I can do. (Although this is said with the best of intentions and with absolute sincerity, people in the thick of grief rarely know how to make good on the offer and formulate requests for help. Instead of vague offers, offer concrete suggestions. I will offer a few below to help spur your ideas.)

Things to say when a friend shares/announces they’ve lost a baby:

1. I’m so sorry.
2. I can’t imagine your pain/shock/heartbreak.
3. This is devastating news.
4. My heart is with you.
5. My heart is breaking for you.
6. It hurts because it matters.
7. Losing a baby can feel so lonely—please know I am here for you.
8. I’m praying for you. (You only get to say this one if you really are.)
9. I’m dropping a meal off on Tuesday. If your meal is already sorted for that day, you can put it in the freezer. (Bonus: Bring it in something that doesn’t need to be returned.)
10. What’s your favorite take-out? And would you like me to bring it around for you tonight or tomorrow? (Always offer with concretes when possible.)
11. Can I take your kids for an afternoon? I was thinking tomorrow, unless there’s another day that would suit you better? (Again, offer something concrete, not abstract or vague—give a time and date.)
12. Can I do some school runs for you? Which days would be most helpful?
13. How is your husband? Does he need anything?
14. I’ve experienced losing a baby, too. I know every experience is different, but please know you can ask me any questions you’d like.
15. I can’t stop thinking about you guys. Please know how sad I am with and for you.
16. I love you.
17. I’m crying with you.
18. I don’t even know what to say, but I love you so much (or I’m just so sorry).
19. I’m praying God will bring beauty from these ashes. Or: I’m praying God would draw near to you in your broken-heartedness. (This is an example of a ‘good’ use of scripture. Choose scriptures that relate to hope or comfort or the steadfastness of God. This is probably not the best time for scriptures related to God’s will/purpose.)
20. Is there anyone I can call/contact for you to make sharing the news a little easier?
21. I’d love to hear what happened if it’s something you need or want to talk about, but if you prefer not to talk about it I understand that, too.
22. Please don’t feel pressure to write/text back, but I want you to know I’m thinking of you.
23. May God’s peace surround you.
24. Please know I will miss your baby too.
25. Take all the time you need to grieve.
26. I’m available if you need to vent or process. I promise not to judge you, but to just listen. (You only get to add that last part if you really mean it.)
27. We’re grieving with you.
28. I hope you already know this but it’s worth saying again: This isn’t your fault.
29. Would you like to be added to an online support group I found really helpful after my miscarriage/stillbirth?
30. No words are adequate; I’m just so sorry.

Other ideas to bless your friend after pregnancy loss:

1. Drop off something at hubby’s work that’s specifically for him—coffee voucher, comfort food, etc.
2. Drop off movie tickets or a hard drive full of movies they can borrow for a while.
3. Bring flowers.
4. Drop off a homemade pie or a plate of cookies.
5. Drop off a bottle of wine or specialty coffee.
6. Drop off a new journal and some nice tea.
7. Give them massage vouchers for a bit of self-care.
8. Send them a link to a song that spoke to you when you were hurting.
9. Drop off or order them a book that helped you when you were hurting or that you think might be a comfort for them.
10. Send a hand-written card in the mail.
11. Plant flowers in your garden in honor of their baby and tell your friends you’ll think of them whenever you see it in bloom.

Lastly, a few extras that don’t fit into the above categories:

1. If they’ve named their baby, use his/her name whenever possible. In cards, in texts, when speaking.
2. Mark the day they lost their baby on your calendar, as well as the due date if you know it. Put a reminder in your phone for those days so you will be reminded to pray and reach out to your friend again.
3. Put a reminder in your calendar to check in on Mother’s Day or send a hand-written card. This might be especially important for women who have no other living children because suddenly they feel like an invisible mother that the world doesn’t recognize or affirm.
4. After the initial shock wears off, understand that grieving is a long process. Ask your friends how they’re doing two weeks later, a month later, or six months down the track.
5. Don’t hide baby news from your friend, but do be sensitive. She may not want to come to your baby shower. She may need to hide your photos in her social media news feed for a while. Don’t take this personally—this is about her grief and not her affections for you.
6. If you become pregnant and a close friend has lost their baby, consider telling her about your pregnancy privately before you announce publicly. It may still be difficult for her, but she’ll know you’ve thought of her and she’ll appreciate that you took the time to consider how she might feel and acknowledge that her emotions might be a little complicated surrounding the news.
7. Recognize that subsequent pregnancies (if she’s able to get pregnant again) can be really difficult and treat them tenderly.
8. Think carefully about how and when to ask your friend if she’d like to have more children. (There’s no right or wrong way to do this, but your thoughtfulness in acknowledging the sensitivity will go a long way.)

In closing I want to say this: Thank you. Thank you for being the type of friend who wants to help. Thank you for caring enough to learn, to listen, to google “how do I help my friend after miscarriage?” and to not take it personally when your friend struggles to connect or articulate her grief. Responding to others when they’re in pain is hard and awkward and it doesn’t necessarily get easier the more we “know.” Culturally, we are pretty terrible at this sort of thing. But I am confident of this: When you reach out to help a friend in need, you are helping her know she’s not alone and there is nothing she needs more when she’s heartbroken. (Yes, even if you make a mistake or two along the way.)

Please don’t say nothing. Tell her her loss matters. Tell her you care.

With hope,
Adriel x

Additional resources for miscarriage and pregnancy loss:

Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss (book by Adriel Booker)

Caring for a Friend after Miscarriage or Pregnancy Loss

Thoughtful Ideas for a Care Package to Give a Friend after Pregnancy Loss

Miscarriage and Loss Resource Page

Journaling Our Scarlett Stories: Journal Prompts for Processing Grief after Miscarriage

Featured photo by Becca Tapert on Unsplash

I’ll never forget the first time a man sat in the back row, arms folded across his chest, scowling at me while I preached. Thankfully I wasn’t completely disarmed, but I was perplexed. Still in my early twenties myself, I was young and naive, and didn’t fully grasp why or how people would be opposed to women preaching. Of course, it didn’t take me long to learn this once I discussed this situation with the leader who was hosting me as a speaker. He explained how the young man was adamantly opposed to the pulpit being handed over to me.

I had been invited to speak for an entire week and was determined not to let this burly young man intimidate me, but I confess—it was difficult. It would have been easier if he would have simply left instead of continuing to sit there and stare me down. But he didn’t. He stayed. He stayed and glared.

Miraculously, by the end of the week he was lining up to speak to me personally so he could apologize for his behavior and confess how much he had learned and been ministered to throughout the week. This isn’t always the case, but this particular story happens to end with redemption.

I once shared this story with a friend who is also a preacher and pastor and she recalled the time when a man turned his chair around while she was preaching. He didn’t leave—no, that would have been too passive—he turned his chair backwards and stayed there to make sure everyone in attendance knew how much he disapproved.

These stories took place more than a decade ago for each of us, but they illuminate something women in church are faced with every day: We are made to feel—and sometimes outright told—that our voice and gift are not welcome.

I recently spent fifteen+ hours over the course of five days teaching another group of fifty 20-somethings about life, God, and finding your identity in Jesus. It’s a huge honor to be invited into people’s lives like that and—as much as I do regularly teach and preach—I hope I never take this privilege for granted. All over again I was reminded that women being “allowed” to preach is not a given—and certainly not celebrated in some circles the way I have been fortunate to be embraced and celebrated over the years.

Growing up it was fairly normal for me to see women at the pulpit, though at the time I didn’t know any female pastors other than women’s or children’s pastors, and it wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized not everyone believes teaching ministry or pastoral leadership within the church are legitimate places for women. (Many believe these roles should be limited, such as women only pastoring or speaking to other women or children.)

This makes me incredibly sad because as long as our women aren’t included in the full spectrum of church life we’re missing half of the expression of God’s voice and gift to the church and to the world. (Let it be noted how grateful I am to be a part of a mission and church and family that affirm the contributions of women.)

My week with these young men and women was so rich and beautiful. We went deep as they asked question after question—not the type easily addressed with clichés or Sunday school answers—but the kind that mix doubt with faith and honesty and struggle and conviction and hope and leave us all seeking Jesus a little bit more. How humbling and fulfilling to get to facilitate that, and after pouring out all week I left with my heart absolutely full.

Here’s the thing: God has gifted me to teach and preach and my soul comes alive when I’m given the opportunity. I used to feel timid about saying this but I don’t any more. Preaching is something I’m good at and it’s okay to say that out loud. Honestly admitting we are good at something is humbling because that’s what humility is: it’s confessing who we are— strengths, weaknesses, and all—and not being afraid to be our whole, true selves no matter who is watching or listening or how we perceive them to perceive us. It makes me giggle a little, sure, but I’ve always admired Moses who said he was “the most humble person on earth.” This is humility: agreeing with God about who he says you are (just as Moses did). And as I mature in my own faith, I hope I continue to grow in humility as well. (It’s worth noting here that false humility is when we are self-depreciating or when we downplay the gifts God’s given us. This serves no one and certainly doesn’t honor God. Don’t make the mistake of calling that ‘humility.’)

I hope as a speaker/preacher/teacher I will always make room for the hard questions and give space for others to come to personal revelation through helping unpack the bible and the good and mysterious and wondrous ways of God. I also hope that by being bold and confident in how God’s created and gifted me I will make other young women (and men!) discover and sense permission to be themselves fully, too.

So this is for the young women coming along after me, wondering if you, too, have permission to follow your heart and desire and gift onto a stage or behind a pulpit: There is room for you—all of you.

There’s room for us all at God’s table, in his arms, and within his plan for making all things new. Take your place sisters. Take your place brothers. We can’t change the world flying solo. And we can’t change it without each other. The sisterhood + the brotherhood = the family.

There is room for us all.

Books exploring the theology of women in church and pastoral leadership

This is not the post where I will break down the theology of women in church or pastoral leadership, but I can recommend some resources for you if you’d like to learn more or if you’re still grappling with women’s roles within the church (or home—which is another topic, but intimately related).

The following books and blogs are a good starting point. They are biblical and sound, but still accessible (and not overly academic)

Blogs & Articles:

15 Reasons Why I Support Women in Church Leadership by theologian Marg Mowczko

Mutuality Series by Rachel Held Evans

The Junia Project (this is their resource page—start there—and then explore the blog)

Books:

Scripture and the Authority of God: How to Read the Bible Today by N.T. Wright

Why Not Women by Loren Cunningham and David Hamilton

Half the Church: Recapturing God’s Global Vision for Women by Carolyn Curtis James

Jesus Feminist by Sarah Bessey

After losing a child to miscarriage or stillbirth, many parents find it helpful in their grieving process to do something deliberate to honor their baby. Some choose to commemorate their baby at the time of miscarriage (or soon after) while others choose to honor their baby in ongoing ways through yearly rituals. Still others choose not to do anything formal at all. There is no right or wrong to this—do what feels right to you personally.

There are as many ways to commemorate a baby’s life as there are parents who lose them. In section one are a few of the most popular suggestions, and in section two I will list additional ideas based on responses I received from hundreds of men and women who responded to the survey I took called Miscarriage and Faith Survey in preparation for writing my book, Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss.

Please note: For additional resources and support after pregnancy loss, please see my ever-growing miscarriage, loss, and grief resource page or my book, Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss.

How to remember your baby after miscarriage:

1. Name your baby.

2. Choose a symbol that represents your baby, so that every time you see it, you’ll have a sweet reminder of them (such as a sparrow, butterfly, or rose).

3. Buy or make a piece of jewelry that includes your baby’s birthstone or is engraved with your baby’s birthday or name.

4. Release butterflies, floating lanterns, or balloons with messages of remembrance or goodbye attached.

5. Plant a tree or flowers. Consider finding something that will likely bloom at a special time each year (such as the baby’s birthday or Mother’s Day).

6. Invite your family or small circle of friends for a memorial service at a place that has significance for you.

7. Commemorate your baby with a garden stone or small garden statue that has meaning to you. (Bury the remains of your baby, if you are able to.)

8. Buy a wind chime that will remind you of your baby every time you hear the wind blow through.

9. Get a tattoo with a symbol that holds special meaning. (Popular ideas include your baby’s name, due date, a special flower such as forget-me-nots, or butterflies.)

10. Frame an ultrasound photo or a photo of your baby bump to display with other family photos.

11. Participate in a walk of remembrance in honor of your baby.

12. Donate in your baby’s name to the March of Dimes, SIDS research, a children’s hospital, the Ronald McDonald House, the World Health Organization, the Love A Mama Collective, Every Mother Counts, a pregnancy loss support group such as Hope Mommies, or another organization or charity.

13. Create something: Compose a song, write a poem, create artwork, write a prayer, share a blog post or social media tribute, knit a blanket, or embroider a keepsake.

14. Make a memory box to store ultrasound photos, sympathy cards, a hospital band, or any other small items that hold special meaning.

15. Buy a Christmas ornament representing your child that you can bring out each year and add to your family Christmas tree.

16. Choose a date to commemorate each year and do something special to remember your baby, either privately or with your family or friends.

17. Write a letter to your baby each year on their birthday, perhaps in a journal.

18. Light a candle and take some personal time to reflect on other “marker” dates such as your due date, Pregnancy Loss Awareness Day (October 15), Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, and so forth.

Reader-submitted ideas for remembering your baby lost to miscarriage and other forms of pregnancy loss:

Question: Are there any special ways you commemorated the life of your baby or remember them now?

“I have a ring for each baby we lost, which I always wear on my right finger.”

“We bought a small plant and planted it next to a stream. With my second, we bought a flowered plant and took our toddler down to another stream and plucked the petals off and tossed them in the stream as a farewell.”

“I made a memory box for each baby and light candles on Pregnancy Loss Awareness day (October 15).”

“I asked an artist friend to paint a picture for me in remembrance. It’s a picture of Jesus holding a baby and has the words, ‘He carries me’ on it.”

“I have a small teddy bear that we always somehow hold in family photos to remember the little one who should have been pictured with us.”

“I commemorate quietly alone every year.”

“My husband gave me a necklace on Mother’s Day with our baby’s birthstone and I have him a watch with her name engraved on it for Father’s Day.”

“I have a tattoo with each element of the tattoo representing each baby I’ve lost.”

“We attend a yearly memorial service at a Catholic hospital. I also bring flowers to the hospital on Father’s Day for dads what have lost a baby and I mail angel ornaments to families who have lost at Christmas.”

”I have a private memory garden that no one else knows about.”

“We planted a magnolia tree. They are strong and hardy and bloom every year so it seemed fitting to remember our baby with.”

“I bake birthday cakes on each of their due dates.”

“We do a family fun day every year on his due date so we can celebrate like we would if he was alive.”

“We bought a lamppost at a family camp we attend and each year we take a family photo by it.”

“After six months my husband and I decided to name our baby and write our baby a card. We also had a little goodbye ceremony and this really helped us both to move forward.”

“I was able to save the baby and we took him home to be buried in the yard where we then planted flowers around it.”

“We planted a white rosebush on Mother’s Day.”

“I have a blanket that I bought for her at the county fair and some nights when it feels especially rough I sleep with it.”

“I let go of the pressure to feel like I had to do something special to honor them. Now I remember them and celebrate them every time I thank God for my children that I mother on earth.”

“I’ve marked the day on my calendar and my husband and I quietly remember them each year.”

“We donate Christmas gifts to an angel tree every year in remembrance of our babies.”

“We attend a Walk to Remember each October.”

“When someone asks me how many children I have, I always include the full number of children—in my home and in heaven.”

“I applied for a certificate from Births, Deaths, and Marriages for each of my babies with the names we were going to call them.”

“We built a water well in Uganda.”

“After my second miscarriage we had our priest come to our house and do the Catholic ceremony for parents who have lost an unborn child. It was beautiful.We now remember them on their heaven days and ask them for their prayers.”

“I joined an organization called Hope Mommies so I can reach out to other moms who have lost babies and help them in their grief.”

Question for you:

Have you commemorated your unborn baby somehow? Is so, please share in the comments below.

Please note: The first 18 suggestions appear in the appendix of Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss. (Shared with permission from Baker Publishing Group.) The other suggestions were mined from a survey I conducted in 2016 titled Miscarriage and Faith Survey, which I posted to facebook and garnered 756 responses within a 24 hour period.

Featured image by Nine Köpfer on Unsplash

At a huge women’s conference last year, I sat alone. Several friends sat together in a section above me, but I was in-and-out with seven-month-old Micah strapped to my back (or my belly) and I needed a seat with easy access to the mothers’ room. I remember feeling a bit lost in this sea of ten thousand women, wondering if God saw me. Of course, intellectually I knew he saw me. But you know, sometimes we just need that extra little bit of a reminder, don’t we? Something more tangible. Something we can be sure of.

After the session I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Are you Adriel Booker?” she said quietly.

“Yes.” I tried to place her but couldn’t.

“I feel weird saying this, but I’ve been following you on instagram for a while now and when I saw you here I wanted to say hi. You have no idea how you’ve encouraged me these last couple of years.”

Guys, I cried. I hugged her and cried.

Here’s the truth: Our lives matter. Just living them matters. Regardless of whether or not we do stuff we think is important or worthy of praise or notable or admirable. When we live into our very own selves and do our best to open our lives to bless others at the same time, it matters. It matters to God and it matters to people we don’t even realize are watching. (Even my friends noticed me—they snapped this photo from behind when I had no idea anyone was looking. You see, at the time I was focused on Jesus—seeing him, not even fully realizing he saw me.)

Do you need to be reminded today that God sees you? Perhaps I don’t see you or she doesn’t see you or they don’t see you like you wish… But God does. He sees you. He notices. He cares.

You are seen and you are loved. (I’m reminding myself of this today, too.)

XO,
A

Years ago as a brand new mom to a little boy I couldn’t possibly love more I had my first experience with the kind of anger that scared me.

I can’t remember the circumstances leading up to that moment or what exactly it was that ignited me, but I will never forget the fire I felt searing me from the inside and the violent, ugly thoughts that flashed through my mind.

The darkness frightened me.

No doubt there was a spectacular concoction of sleep deprivation and overwhelm that paved the way for me to lose it. (This is, of course, on top of the upheaval that children naturally bring to a home once accustomed to regular sleep ins and the luxury of a relatively easy weekly laundry rotation.) There were also other factors undermining my explosive emotions—financial pressures, a strained relationship with a friend, friction surrounding my role at work.

But the fact that I visualized throwing my adorable toddler into the wall terrified me. (Yes, I really did just admit that: I visualized shoving my toddler against the wall. Ugh.)

Who was this woman? Was this really me—the Christian mother committed to gentle discipline and intentional parenting? The wife who had never even yelled at my husband?

In that moment I suddenly realized how people could snap right in two and do unthinkable things they regret for the rest of their lives. Never before had I possessed an ounce of sympathy for someone known to abuse a child, but in that moment I was faced with the dark side of my own humanity and this is what I saw: I was capable of anything. Yes, even toward the tiniest person whom I loved with the most giant of loves. I was that person—the abuser—not in action or words but in the temptation of my heart.

To be clear, I wasn’t afraid I would actually inflict physical harm to my son. As angry as I was, I knew I had the self control to not act on what I felt. What most frightened me was the content of my own heart. Simply having the idea jet through my mind at all was enough to leave me shaking and scared and ashamed.

With trembling hands and a heart pounding my insides to a pulp, I called my husband and said, “I’m not okay.” I described how angry I was and confessed the darkness I had seen exposed in my heart. I told him I didn’t trust myself to be alone with our little one until I could figure out how to cool down.

CONTINUE READING (and see what I’ve since learned) on Kindred Mom >>>

Related post:

You might also be interested to read A Mother’s Confessional (in which I confess all of my fears and inadequacies about motherhood).

Podcast:

Listen to my interview about anger and dealing with big feelings in motherhood on the Kindred Mom podcast, episode 036. (My 1/2 hour interview starts around minute 33!)

When you are suffering you don’t need an expert. You certainly don’t need false promises that XYZ will make things better. You just need a companion. And you need hope.

Two days after my first miscarriage I had the distinct thought: Someday I will write a book about this called Grace Like Scarlett. Though I knew in my gut this was true, I honestly didn’t want to write it until much later in my life when things felt “easier” and when I could tie all the hard stuff up with a pretty little bow and title it “resolved.”

I also didn’t want to become known as ‘the miscarriage lady’—there is more to my story and my life than the heartache I’ve experienced. What I didn’t realize then was that it doesn’t matter if people think I’m the miscarriage lady. What matters most is that I know I’m the ‘hope lady’—the one who gets to help point people back to a good God who loves us fiercely and is often misunderstood as we filter our perceptions of him through our worst days. As much as I want to help people know they aren’t alone when grieving a miscarriage or other type of pregnancy loss (or any type of pain or suffering), what I really want is to help expose the goodness of God in the midst of it. This is the whole point.

Although I wanted to hold off on writing Grace Like Scarlett until after I had already established myself as an author writing into other issues, I continually sensed this nudge from the Lord: “No, this is the time—write from the trenches.” I needed to be willing to lead with brokenness and hope.

And so I did.

“In Grace Like Scarlett, Adriel does the hard work of excavating her experience of excruciating loss. Her words keep perfect balance as they dance along edges—grief on one side, joy on the other—never falling into despair or the platitudes of easy faith. Unflinchingly honest, unquestionably authentic, and unashamedly human, Grace Like Scarlett is a must-read for anyone who has or will endure suffering—which is to say, all of us.” —Seth Haines, author of Coming Clean: A Story of Faith 

100 free copies of Grace Like Scarlett

And in closing, here is my Oprah moment: You get a free book! And you get a free book! And YOU get a free book!

My publisher is giving away 100 free advance copies to those who would like to have an advance reading and join me in spreading hope surrounding this type of loss. You don’t have to have experienced pregnancy loss to join in the 100 but you do need to have a heart and desire to help your friends who have. If this sounds like you, you can find out more and apply here.

XO,
A.

p.s. Think you might be a writer too? These are for you: On Becoming a Writer (Part I) and On Becoming a Writer (Part II & III). FYI, Part I is a little more about my journey to publishing and how writing was a revolution for me (especially in my earliest days blogging), and Part II & III is encouragement and resources for writers.

Featured photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

“Fear is a liar. Fear left out the best parts of the story—the parts where God stepped in.” —Maria Furlough

What do you think fear can make you do?

If you are anything like me, you think the answer is “nothing.” You think that though you have fears, surely they are a small non-life impacting part of your life.

I was wrong. You might be too.

At 18 weeks pregnant I woke up at 5:30 am and headed to the hospital to end my pregnancy. I was told my baby would survive all 40 weeks pregnancy, but once born he would die.

Why carry him?

Why go the whole way, torment my heart, my children and my husband? Just end it now. Fear said, make it all go away, it’s too hard.

Fear made me picture people in public cooing over my pregnant belly.

Fear made me picture my baby suffering and dying in my arms.

Fear made me picture my children impacted forever from losing their baby brother.

Sweet friends, fear is a liar. Fear left out the best parts of the story, the parts where God stepped in. To top it all off, it is subtle and it is sneaky and infiltrates the deepest parts of us with half-truths.

Fear leaves God out entirely. Fear does not show you the miracles, the hope, the comfort, and the joy that can come even in the middle of life’s scariest times.

Worst part is? We accept fear. When our friends gush to us about all the things they are not doing because they are afraid, we nod our heads in agreeance. When we take part in decision making and fears are brought up, we immediately take them into serious consideration. When we are faced at an impasse in life, if one way stirs up fears we enthusiastically run in the opposite direction.

Satan is having a field day in us. We don’t even recognize fear as bad, we deem it helpful and self-preserving. We think it protects us and helps us and keeps our loved ones from harm. Fear gives us the illusion of control.

I shudder as I write, because I saw first hand what fear has the power to erase. Like our ever-beloved friend George Bailey in It’s a Wonderful Life, God gifted me with the answer to “what if.” What if I had my baby boy at 18 weeks and ended my pregnancy? What if fear had won? Whole ministries would have been erased, lives never changed, and entire books unwritten.

Carrying Gideon full term changed our world. It helped me to see fear for what it really is and God taught me how to war against it in my life. Having baby Gideon in my arms, gave me kisses and moments I will treasure forever. Tangible peace proved true and trustworthy.

Carrying Gideon full term gave me the strength and peace to have enough hope to have another baby. To have hope in a future unknown (even when healthy babies and pregnancies are never guaranteed).

I wonder where this hits you?

Can you think of times, instances, or opportunities that you ran away from because of fear? Do you know that God has another way for us?

This verse has become the mantra of life in our family: “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid” (John 14:27).

A few things in these words stand out to me and hit me in my fear like a ton of bricks.

1. Jesus spoke this on the night before he died, to a group of men who thought they would lose their lives, and many of them did go on to be martyred.

Peace? Seriously Jesus? Like, can’t you see what is going on? Death and pain and fear surrounds and yet Jesus’s call is still clearly to peace. This is important for us to remember, freedom from fear and living in peace is never based on circumstances. Scary or not, as children of the King we are called to peace in all places.

2. Jesus calls it straight out; His gift looks like nothing the world has to offer us.

We like the facts. We loooooove Google. And we adore all those “quick fixes to life” videos we get in our Social Media feed. Information makes us feel good, it strokes our fears to give us the temporary high that “we’ve got this.” We are in control!

News flash, we are not. And no matter how much sugar we deny our children or how many multi vitamins we take while we are pregnant, crappy things can still happen. We are tricked by our fears to rely fully on what we think we know, on what science tells us, and on what studies show.

We have something greater to rely upon, but it takes a walk on the narrow less traversed path. The narrow path of acceptance of Jesus. And do you know the greater gift we receive when we choose to follow Him? We get the Holy Spirit. Right before John 14:27 in verse 26 Jesus says this: “the Advocate, the Holy Spirit, whom the Father will send in my name, will teach you all things and will remind you of everything I have said to you.”

We don’t need control, or facts, or quick fixes we just need the gift that looks nothing like anything the world has to offer: the power of the Holy Spirit.

3. Do not let fear win. Don’t let it in.

Friends, we cannot stop the fears from attacking us. We cannot stop the arrows from flying but we can choose whether or not we are going to let them impact our lives, our decisions, our families. We can choose not to let fear be a reigning force. We can choose to not let our thoughts or our hearts to linger long on the fearful thoughts that come, but instead fight them!

I am living proof of a life changed and lived without fear. God has good work for us to do. He has fruit that He wants us to bear that fear has been preventing.

Will you join me? Will you join me into the life lived free from fear and filled with a God given, Holy Spirit powered, tangible peace that enables us to do big things?

Maria Furlough is a wife, a mother of five, and the head of women’s ministry at Lake Forest Church in Huntersville, North Carolina. She has been writing and teaching Bible studies for 14 years and currently writes on the blog True Worth at www.mytrueworth.org.

A note from Adriel:

I have come to know Maria during her process of becoming an author, and it’s been my privilege to have a behind-the-scenes look into her life as she simultaneously wrote this book and continued to walk out its message through difficult personal circumstances. Seeing her choose peace over fear over and again in her life has been an inspiration to me. She is the real deal and this book has been forged in the fire. It’s honest, humble, hopeful, and practical. I hope it serves you like it has served me. —Adriel

Featured photo (above) by Li Yang on Unsplash

It’s still school holidays here in Australia so I’m not kissing my kids goodbye to school every morning quite yet, but when I do I cup their cheeks, look deeply into their anticipation-filled eyes, and send them off with this little benediction:

Be brave, be kind, be curious, and always know that you are loved.

Every now and then they roll their eyes or say “Yes Mom! I knoooow Mom!” but more often than not they say it right along with me. I love seeing the twinkle that creeps into their eyes as they join in our whispered mantra. This is the audio reel I want looping through their childhood, and I suppose it’s the reel I want looping through my own heart and head as well.

I spent a quiet moment today in reflection, asking God how I might encourage you. That’s when this simple school morning benediction flashed into my head. I’ll say it again now—this time please read it a little more slowly, knowing it’s for you:

Be brave, be kind, be curious, and always know that you are loved.

Be brave. Is there something God’s leading you to do that frightens you a little? Would you like to reach out to a (potential) new friend? Have you been yearning to try to learn a new skill or join a new small group or book club? Have you been contemplating that shift of job or wondering about turning your hobby into a business or deliberating about a certain leap of faith? Perhaps you’ve been considering pursuing a new client or asking someone if they would become your mentor. Being brave doesn’t mean our fears disappear, but it means we choose to let courage and hope be our motivators instead. So go forth, be brave. Do it afraid if you have to.

Be kind. Perhaps it’s obvious that we should be kind to others, but let me ask you this: Are you in the practice of being kind to yourself? If not, why? Because you are too busy? (Does something need to be cut from your schedule?) Because you feel you need to ‘earn your keep’ and prove your worth? (Have you forgotten that God says you are pre-approved?) What small thing can you do this year to implement kindness to yourself? (For me, this means getting outside in the actual daylight at some point every day. Small walks—fresh air and moving my body with no pressure to perform or meet a goal other than to breathe deeply and notice the small treasures around me a little more.) How can you be more kind to you?

Be curious. When is the last time you were curious about your children? Your spouse? Your workmate? Your neighbor? When is the last time you made yourself the student of a person you love—intentionally seeking to discover something about them you didn’t know before? When is the last time you read an article outside of your usual modus operandi? (This week I read a short piece on a pastor-poet from the 1500’s. Why? Because I was curious!) It feels good to learn simply for the sake of learning. It especially feels good to learn about things and people you care about. So go ahead, let your curiosity spur you toward discovery. Give it some room to grow.

Always know that you are loved. You may not always feel loved. Heck, if you’re like me you don’t always feel loveable. We are quick to see our flaws and become discouraged about our weaknesses, but let us also be quick to pause and reflect on the fact that Love itself—God—has given everything of himself simply so we can know and recognize and receive his love. Do you need the reminder today that you are loved? You are loved. Deeply. Completely. Without condition or measure or end. Will you receive Love today?

Friends, as you start off 2018, may this be a year you carry this little benediction along with you into your normal, unglamorous-but-amazing, holy, magnificent life: Be brave, be kind, be curious, and always know that you are loved.

XO,
A

p.s. A version of this first appeared to our small family newsletter list—those we update on our family life and missions work. When I received so many emails back thanking me for taking the time, I thought perhaps I should share this little benediction more broadly. If you’d like to receive future notes from me you can sign up here. (This is my personal letter, LoveNotes, that’s tailored more for the womenfolk—not the family missions newsletter I referenced above.) LoveNotes are personal letters not published anywhere else online. I send them every few months, monthly at the most, and I almost always include some kind of free gift just because I want to.

Image credit: Josh Adamski

It’s Friday, so we are dreaming of the beach while she gets a chemo infusion.

Allora reminds me regularly that she does not have cancer any longer.

“I have chemo, Mama, not cancer.”

When I look at her journey from that perspective, my heart wells up with gratitude. Gratitude keeps me from being offended, and I can assure you that weekly trips to the hospital give plenty of opportunity for offense.

But she says to me again and again, “I just have chemo.”

It’s true, she has no sign or symptoms of cancer (the tumor in her chest was gone in five days, she had clear scans at day twenty eight) only symptoms of chemo. Even the side and late effects of chemo, though heart breaking for anyone who loves her, are minimal thanks to Jesus’ hand and some practical ways we are mitigating them.

Chemotherapy is rarely optional, editable, or shortened for this childhood cancer in the USA, adults have options. We continue to choose to be extremely grateful that we are just managing symptoms of chemo, not of cancer.

Every single night she asks me to sing this song with her before a hug, kiss, and ugga-mugga goodnight:

“You came, I knew that You would come.
You sang, my heart it woke up.
I’m not afraid, I see Your face, I am alive.
You came, I knew that You would come.
You are a miracle working God.
You are a miracle working God.
You are a miracle working God!”
by Jonathan David and Melissa Helser

I do my best to keep it together until I’m out of the room.

Honestly, some nights those words cause tears to stream down my face as we sing them together and she wipes them with a knowing look as though she understands why I cry. . .maybe she does?

After we sing she often asks me about Lazarus.

“Him was dead?”

“Yes.”

“But Jesus came?”

We talk about how Jesus wept then raised his friend up from the grip of death.

Then she usually whispers, “He came for me too.”

I can’t even breathe a reply.

He came for me, for you, for all of us.

His children are blessed beyond any human condition by a God who wept and weeps when we experience the pain of death, sickness, or sin.

The Man who bore our sorrows, sickness, and more.

Chandler Santiago is a current stay at home missionary mother of three, raising her littles with her favorite man in the heart of the states. She and her family call Kansas City home. They spend their days together crafting a wellness lifestyle, making beautiful things, writing songs, and spending time in nature.

A note from Chandler & Adriel:

September is Childhood Cancer Awareness Month. Less than 4% of federal funding goes toward pediatric cancer research. That includes developing less toxic ways to treat our littlest loves. There are SO few pediatric cancer medicines developed specifically for kiddos.

The next generation deserves more! We need an outcry, though it’s not your child, it’s not just genetics that are at play here and any moment you might find yourself walking with someone affected by childhood cancer. We need to do better for our children.

Please consider a few action steps:

• Pray for Allora and her family—victory over cancer, peace, financial provision (treatment costs $20K/month), and every other form of support they need as Allora undergoes treatment.
• Connect with Allora’s mom, Chandler, and follow their family’s journey on insta: @itschandlerjo.
• Follow The Laurel Crown League and join relief efforts for the Santiago family and others.

Related post:

• Three Ways to Care for a Friend with Cancer — Marissa Henley

Has this ever happened to you? Your phone buzzes, and you look down to see a call from a friend who’s expecting biopsy results. The minute you hear her voice, you know: it’s cancer.

As you process your shock, sadness, and fear, you wonder how you should walk this road with your friend. How can you support her as she endures treatment and survivorship? How will you avoid doing or saying the wrong thing? What does she need most?

I’ve gotten that phone call from a friend. I’ve also been the tearful voice on the other end of the line.

In October 2010, I was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer called angiosarcoma. I endured several months of chemotherapy, radiation, and surgery, most of which took place 700 miles away at MD Anderson Cancer Center in Houston, Texas. My besties kept my household running, meals showed up three times a week, and the prayers of thousands encouraged and sustained me.

I wish every cancer-fighter could feel as loved and supported as I was. But too often, we hesitate to reach out with supportive words and actions. We’re afraid of doing or saying the wrong thing.

Even as a survivor, I struggle to know how to encourage friends in the midst of cancer and other health crises. This isn’t easy to navigate! Although I’m going to share with you some tips I’ve learned along the way, I want you to know I’m a fellow struggler. We’re all in this together as we seek to love our friends well.

1. Consider your circle.

The first step to supporting a friend in a health crisis is to evaluate where you fall in her circle of friends. Are you one of a few close, inner circle friends? A middle circle friend with common interests who socializes occasionally? Or an outer circle acquaintance?

In these days of social media, it’s easy to be confused about the level of our friendship. Knowing what she ate for breakfast yesterday doesn’t make you an inner circle friend. We also need to realize that each of the circles has an important role to play. If you’re an outer circle friend, don’t quit reading! Your friend needs you.

Inner circle friends care for the most personal, intimate needs: caring for her physically and emotionally, keeping her young children, and accompanying her to medical appointments.

Middle circle friends should focus on tasks such as running errands, grocery shopping, yardwork, caring for older kids or teens, and providing transportation.

Outer circle friends, you have three responsibilities: pray, communicate support, and bring food.

2. Make a specific offer.

Once you understand the types of tasks you should offer to help with, here’s one important tip you need to know. Try to avoid saying, “Let me know how I can help.”

I know you’re sincere when you say this to your friend. But she’s hearing it from so many people right now. She wonders who really means it and who just doesn’t know what else to say. And she’s probably too overwhelmed to match general offers of help with her specific needs.

If you want your friend to take you up on your offer, try to be as specific as possible. Here are some examples:

• I’d love to bring you a meal next week. Would Monday or Wednesday work best?
• I’ve got free time next Friday afternoon. I’d love to take your kids to the park while you rest, or I could run some errands for you. What would be the most helpful?
• I’ve noticed that our kids are on the same soccer team this fall. Could I give your son a ride to practice each week?

If she says no at first, don’t be discouraged. She might not be ready to accept help yet. Just keep offering from time to time, and she’ll feel loved by your desire to help.

3. Keep communicating your support.

If your friend is facing a lengthy health battle, you’ll want to communicate support over and over again. It’s best to do this in a way that doesn’t require a response from her. Remember that she’s overwhelmed, tired, and hopefully receiving many messages of support. So as you communicate your love and prayers, don’t be offended if she doesn’t reply.

In fact, you can ease the burden on your friend by letting her know she doesn’t need to respond. Send a text saying, “I’m praying for you today! You don’t need to write me back – just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you.”

Does your friend post online updates to a blog or social media site? You could “like” her post (and please do!), but she won’t know if you actually read it. Commenting on her updates is a meaningful way to show support and doesn’t require her to respond.

Finally, let’s all remember that the Lord will care for our friends even when we fall short. We’ll make mistakes or say the wrong thing. There will be needs we can’t meet. But we can place our hope in the One who will faithfully and perfectly meet our friend’s every need. Our Heavenly Father will give us wisdom as we seek to love and serve our friends by His grace.

About the author:

Marissa Henley is a Christ-follower, cancer survivor, latte addict, and writer. She lives in Northwest Arkansas with her husband, three kids, and one disobedient dog. Her self-published book, Loving Your Friend Through Cancer, is available on Amazon, with an expanded version expected in Spring 2018 from P&R Publishing. // Find Marissa on facebook, instagram, twitter, and on www.marissahenley.com.

Featured photo by Jazmin Quaynor.

Affiliate links used.

After my first miscarriage, I scoured the internet to find miscarriage stories. I needed to know my pain was valid, my grief was warranted, and that I wasn’t alone. I often say that I devoured stories like medication in those early days—somehow they helped heal me as I absorbed them into my broken heart and assimilated my own experiences in light of the larger human story.

In the years since (and through two more miscarriages), I’ve learned how common miscarriage is. Depending on which research you go with, professionals estimate anywhere from 15-25% of pregnancies end in loss. (Many say the number hikes to 50% or higher if you count pregnancies lost before a woman takes her first pregnancy test.) Now that I’m on the wrong end of those statistics, those stats no longer shock me. My own loss has exposed me to the huge, hidden grief that women (and men) share all over the world.

The problem with the ‘hush’ around miscarriage stories

Issues of fertility and reproduction are intensely private for most of us. They are also mysterious and confusing unless we are informed and feel permission to speak openly about our experiences. The paradox is not lost on me.

The problem with keeping the pain of miscarriage hushed is that it breeds shame around a type of pain and a grief so common to the human experience, and shame has the ability to cripple us from the inside out. (This applies to other forms of pregnancy loss and infertility, too.) The stigma we’re used to hearing whispers in a hurting mother’s ears: You couldn’t do it—you couldn’t stay pregnant. What kind of a woman can’t do what she was ‘meant’ to do? Your loss is insignificant. Your grief response is silly. Your body is broken. 

Thankfully the internet age has given rise to honest and vulnerable talk about many issues women face that have previously been considered taboo. For countless women miscarriage sits near the top of the list. Normalizing this aspect of womanhood (and parenthood) is liberating because it affirms we need not be ashamed of that which is beyond our control.

Sharing our miscarriage and stillbirth stories helps and heals

While preparing to write my book, Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss, I surveyed more than 750 women and men about their pregnancy loss experiences. As they shared their miscarriage stories with me, I became convinced all over again that sharing our stories to break the silence around miscarriage and loss both helps and heals us, personally and collectively.

The following are a sampling of those stories, but they are only a slice of a much bigger conversation. In response to this need, we are launching Our Scarlett Stories—a community dedicated to giving platform to stories of grief and hope and the grace holding us together after miscarriage and other forms of pregnancy loss. Please join us there.

Miscarriage stories

Lauren’s miscarriage story of joy intermixed with grief

“It usually hits me in the middle of the night when the house is quiet and everyone else is sleeping. It burns in my throat, and my chest gets tight so I can’t breathe. The tears roll back into my hair. I put my arm over open my mouth and try not to sob. And then I start to get a headache, and I tell myself I can’t do this—can’t get a migraine from the grief. On August 23rd, 2013 we cried because there was no heartbeat on the monitor. On August 24th we cried as we said goodbye to our boy whom I had carried in my womb for 18 weeks. In September I cried because my belly should have been big and round. But it was empty and flat. As flat as it has been after having three babies. I couldn’t help but imagine it an empty black cave. In November, I cried on my oldest’s birthday. Because a dear friend had her baby that day too. And I was fine. I was happy. So happy for them. But I couldn’t stop crying as I stood in the shower thinking about bringing them a meal, wanting to hold this brand new baby girl. Is it appropriate to ask for a private moment with the baby so you don’t have to bawl with an audience? “I just need a second with your 5-day old infant.” Probably not. Why do we insist on saying we’re fine when we’re not?” —Lauren DeVries (read more of Lauren’s miscarriage story here.)

Sarah’s early miscarriage story and shock

“I missed a period a few months ago, took more pregnancy tests than I could count for several weeks till, finally, I ended up with a positive test. This was our fourth pregnancy, and it was a shock. Not what we were expecting, to put it mildly. But, a few days later, I started to bleed, and a few doctor’s visits and some blood work confirmed that we had miscarried, most likely in the first month. This, too, was a shock…and what do you tell people? How do you explain that there was life, and now it’s gone? I got home from one doctor’s appointment, lay on my bed, bleeding, and wondered at the irony of it—the body that had conceived, grown, birthed, and nursed three babies was now erasing all evidence of a fourth. It was so early into the pregnancy, we didn’t even get to find out the gender.” —Sarah Guerrero (Read more of Sarah’s miscarriage story.)

Chantelle’s infertility story and reoccurring grief

“I always wonder if my loss counts, like somehow it’s less devastating than having a miscarriage or a stillbirth. And how would I know? Maybe it is. But it’s my loss and has been the greatest grief of my life. No one talks about this stuff when you’re on the other side of it. Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought I’d get married, grow my career to the place I felt I could quit to have babies, and then have those babies never come. My loss happens over and over again every month. It’s the loss of a dream and an expectation and even my ability to feel like I fit in with all the rest of the women around me. It’s also been a loss within my marriage, while at the same time has brought us closer together. Being infertile has been the heaviest disappointment of my life. And yet even in all of that I’ve learned that there is life beyond the womb. I’m still learning that, but my future is hopeful… even if different to what I once thought.” —Chantelle Thomas

Kathryn’s miscarriage story of letting go of control

“Weeks 7-9 are my trigger time. I rushed out of the conference room with the image of a mother sitting by her baby in the plastic NICU bassinet. Down the hallway I saw my supervisor’s open office door. He talked slowly, helping me find my breath in order to slow the panic from taking over. This was my fifth pregnancy. I dared not hope she could be the third born. How desperately we look for answers, for a way to know why it happened or what will happen. It was first a miscarriage at seven weeks, then a live and perfect birth, then a miscarriage at nine weeks, then a live and perfect birth and now…now what? We made it through week 7, then week 9, then to the second trimester. During my third trimester, my friend learned her baby, at 37 weeks was stillborn. Will the peace never come? We want to hold on and have control, to explain and predict, but it is out of our hands. Even when they are born, as was my alive and perfect daughter from that fifth pregnancy, they are never fully in our hands. We have to let go, do the best we can, and keep our courage to try again.” —Kathryn Anne Casey (Read more of Kathryn’s miscarriage story.)

Maria’s story of infant loss at 36 weeks after 90 sweet minutes

“True confession? Sometimes I go into #infantloss on Instagram just to make myself cry. I cry for the pain of every single Momma that posts in there.  I cry for the pain of this world, that for as long as we are here Mothers will lose their babies.  But I also cry to feel him close again. My tears bring him back.  For only a moment, with those hot tears on my face, I remember what it felt like to hold him. To kiss his cheeks and to play with his toes. I miss him so much.  Every. Single. Day. Yet there is this thing that happens when we have hope. This thing that happens when we believe in a God who is all powerful and all knowing and we can still trust Him even in our loss and our suffering.  This thing creates in us something beautiful.” —Maria Furlough (Read more of Maria’s baby loss story.)

Sky’s recurrent miscarriage story

“September’s friendliness welcomes in the new. The trees wave more often than in summer, the geese call out their pleasantries on their way out, unripened colors crop up. This is the month that Lulu was due, the early beginnings of a fresh season. Instead we lost her in February, “I cant find a heartbeat,” the cold settling in all around. We laid her in a fresh bed of soil, planted a Wisteria that blooms purple in its time. The kids play all around and in her soil, plastic construction trucks and plucked buds find their home in her pot. Butterflies flit around her curly vines; the curly hair I imagine her to have had. A few months later we are surprised to be pregnant again, another chance to hold a new life. I wait and watch and finally hear the strong whir of a healthy heart. This baby waves and bounces. But September finds us having to say goodbye, again. Our baby boy has gone to play in bluer skies with the ones who wait for him. I deliver him wholly, second-trimester; his tiny body, a perfect plum plucked too soon. We haven’t picked a tree for Will yet, the fourth in our backyard garden, his ashes sit on the mantel my husband built for him, it faces the window where hummingbirds hover, their wings a holy heartbeat that let me know how close God is in our love and loss.” —Sky Sanchez-Fischer

Cynthia’s stories of varied grief responses after miscarriage

“I lost two different babies in the same week, four years apart. The first loss broadsided my joy like an eighteen-wheeler on black ice. The second time, grief wore clothes of disbelief. A repeat miscarriage hurt just as much as a first. My medical chart now contained the foul words, history of loss. The second time my body let go when it should have held fast, I was less surprised but still aching. Bracing ourselves for the impact of pain never really lessens the blow, does it? Grief clothed in anger and self-preservation is a real thing. It’s tempting to rely on our own ability to cope quickly; we’re frustrated when we can’t take any side streets to being okay again. But the process of pain is one that cannot be rushed. In the crushing realization that it truly still hurts— that is where we find Him. Deep in the pain that is far from fading, is the beautiful mystery that He is doing something new. I now know that it takes how ever long it takes. One day the wait will be over. We will see with our eyes what we felt in our souls all along. We will agree with C.S. Lewis and say, “Things are far better ahead than anything we leave behind.” So here we wait for that day. We press on holding both the joy and the pain. The grief and the hope of what will be.” —Cynthia M. Stuckey (read more of Cynthia’s miscarriage story here.)

Summer’s ectopic pregnancy story:

“I had never even heard the term ‘ectopic pregnancy’ when the doctor pulled me aside into his office after my ultrasound. I remember feeling like I was outside of myself or like it was a nightmare. He said I had to have surgery to remove the pregnancy or else my life would be in danger but all I could think was is he asking me to have an abortion? Ultimately I did have the surgery, but I still sometimes wonder if there was another way. Mostly I know the truth, but I still have my days. In the beginning I struggled with so much guilt as well as anger toward God. But then I began to connect with the pregnancy loss community and realize there are thousands of women going through the same thing as I am. Knowing I wasn’t the only one was so reassuring. Being connected to others while I grieved has helped me not only learn how to process my grief, but has helped me grow in my soul and in hope for the future. I couldn’t have shouldered this grief in secret.” —Summer Adams

A story of infertility

“I wake up feeling gross and groggy. I head off to work and am greeted by my good friend and colleague who’s coming up to eighteen weeks of pregnancy and she’s holding the cake she made for morning tea for her big reveal of the gender. As morning tea comes around I brace myself with a big smile to go in for the big reveal. The middle is blue and it’s a boy. I stand around smiling, sharing my congrats, looking at the latest scan, and ohhhhh-ing and ahhhh-ing. I look at my watch and think I’ve done my fair share of joining in and slip out to the restroom to find that yep… another month and one more chance gone for becoming pregnant. I feel myself beginning to get angry… There’s been so many moments over the last few years that have been a challenge. It’s hard because you don’t want to stand on a roof and yell, “look at me—poor me—I want kids but for some unknown reason God hasn’t given them to me!” … Sometimes I think being around Christians is harder because they’ve got these expectations that you’re meant to have kids. So many assume that we’re newlyweds because we haven’t got them. Some have the nerve to ask,” do you want kids?” It hurts so much because who doesn’t want kids?” —Anonymous (read more of her infertility story here.)

Elli’s story of acknowledging her pain of miscarriage years later

“Eleven years (and three healthy children) on, I struggle to admit that my miscarriage was any kind of big deal. I know women and families (heroes) who have suffered so, so much more, and those who are still battling. I feel embarrassed to mention it. To make a ‘thing’ of it. But excuses are not necessary. No—more than that—excuses are dangerous and limiting. They separate us from each other. They diminish our experiences and compel us to keep our true selves hidden. Excusing our pain away, placing it out of sight to make ourselves and others feel comfortable, is stopping us really living. While we tell ourselves: my suffering isn’t bad enough to justify acknowledgment, or everybody else seems to be fine with it, so I shouldn’t make a fuss, or, I have so many other good things in my life, I cannot possibly complain.… no one else can every really know us. And we cannot know anyone else. I’ve said it before but it bears repeating: trying to be perfect will only separate us, keep us from each other. Because you cannot touch anybody else’s pain, when you refuse to acknowledge your own.” —Elli Johnson (read more of Elli’s miscarriage story here.)

Update May 2018:

Resources to Help You Heal

For further resources to navigate grief after miscarriage and pregnancy loss, or to learn how to best support a friend experiencing loss, please visit my Miscarriage Stories and Resources page. You will also find a free grief journal and a free 7-day devotional.

If you’d like to go deeper in exploring how to grieve with hope, I’ve written a whole book for you:  Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss (available at all major retailers).

Update May 2020:

Grief Support Groups

Join us for an 8-week “Deep Dive” grief support group to help you navigate life after pregnancy loss. Find out more here.

Pregnancy Loss Community

Join us at the kindest place on the internet: Our Scarlett Stories – online community, resource library, and more.

Featured photo by: Kseniya Petukhova

The fact that you’re here means you’ve probably googled for clues on how to help your friend after a heartbreaking miscarriage or other form of pregnancy loss such as stillbirth, ectopic pregnancy, etc. I’m sorry. There’s no other way to say it other than: this is hard.

Thank you for putting aside your own discomfort, awkwardness, and sadness, and for being willing to put yourself in the vulnerable position of offering support to a grieving friend as she mourns the loss of her baby. I’ve been on both sides of this equation and I realize how vulnerable it feels when you want to do or say the “right” things and avoid the “wrong” ones. (This post on how to help a friend after miscarriage or stillbirth addresses those things more specifically. And this post on what to say or not say may help if you feel nervous about your words.)

The following are a few ideas to help you put together a gift or care package for your bereaved friend. (Please note that my first advice is always to bring them a meal or fresh cut flowers if you can. In fact, you should probably read this post first.) Some of the list below would make fantastic stand alone gifts, others would be best suited toward bundling into a care package. However you end up choosing a gift for your friend, I hope these suggestions help spur your creativity and show you how simple it can be to express your care through a tangible gift. Although I don’t know your friend or her situation, I can confidently say it will mean the world to her that you see her loss as great enough to warrant this kind of expression of kindness.

Your friend has just experienced a birth and death all rolled into one huge life event that can feel extremely alienating; she’ll be glad to know she’s not alone. Thank you for your desire to help her grieve with hope. (And please know that even though I’ve compiled these suggestions with mothers in mind, dads need care and attention too.)

Care package and gift ideas for a friend after miscarriage:

Journal.

A journal is a thoughtful gift to help encourage your friend to explore her grief and get her complicated emotions on paper. I like this one with a pen holder and lined pages. ($12.94)

Organic chamomile tea.

Chamomile tea is soothing and calming, making it a great option for someone under stress or in pain. This one comes in a gorgeous box and definitely says ‘gift quality.’ ($4.79)

Lavender essential oil.

Lavender essential oil like this one can be dropped into a bath, used with a carrier oil directly on your skin, or used in a diffuser. Not only is it a beautiful scent, but it’s known for its calming properties and can be useful in promoting sleep. ($6.75)

Chocolate.

Need I explain this one? Of course not. How about this organic fair trade salted almond 70% dark chocolate bar? ($4.99)

Lip balm.

I love this one ($3.64) or this one ($2.97) by Burt’s Bees.

Plush slipper socks.

Slipper socks like these ($7.99) are one of my favorite comfort items. (These also look good ($0.90) for a less expensive alternative.)

Candle.

This simplicity+hope candle ($13.00) is beautiful and burns for fifty hours.

Packet of flower seeds.

After my first miscarriage a complete stranger sent me a packet of seeds for planting sunflowers. It was one of the most thoughtful gestures imaginable for me at the time. (Having a flower that is hardy and blooms year after year is a wonderful tribute to a baby lost too soon.) These forget-me-not seeds ($1.69) would be perfect.

Book.

This is the book I wish someone gave me after my miscarriage. It was a labor of love to write and gives me great joy to be able to provide this resource to women and their families as they wade through grief. Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss.

Other gift ideas:

This entire package would cost just over $50.00, but you can easily pick a few items to put together according to your budget. (Alternately, you can buy a pre-assembled gift like this Healing Heart Comfort Kit.)

Other gift ideas to consider might be: name a star after the baby, fresh cut flowers, a potted plant or tree (but only if she’s a green thumb—otherwise it can be depressing if it doesn’t survive), a special jewelry item (consider adding the baby’s name or using the stone of the birth month), or a gift certificate for a day spa or her favorite cafe.

Our Scarlett Stories Pregnancy Loss Community

Gift your friend a membership to an 8-week Deep Dive guided grief support group in the Our Scarlett Stories pregnancy loss community. Here she will find supportive community, a packed resource library, in depth grief support groups, and more. Find out more at Our Scarlett Stories.

I hope you find these suggestions helpful. Thank you for your heart to help hurting parents.

Adriel x

p.s. If you’ve experienced miscarriage, stillbirth, or another form of pregnancy loss, would you have appreciated these suggestions? Do you have ideas you’d like to share? If so I’d love to hear them in the comments.

Related content:

Please note: Individual item prices were noted at the time of posting. Obviously they are subject to change without my knowledge. This post contains affiliate links, meaning at no extra cost to you we receive a few cents from your purchase. Thank you for supporting the ongoing running of this blog so we can continue resourcing women in need.

One woman every minute dies in childbirth*.

I am not her. You’re not either.

But every “her” has a name.

She’s built with strength and dignity. She’s woven together by the Creative One—all beauty and resiliency, determination and vulnerability.

She is tender; she is fierce.

She is our sister. Our friend. Our grandmother.

She is our blood.

Somewhere back in time a thousand generations removed, we are family. We still are.

We take for granted safe and clean birth. We look forward to Mother’s Day in hopes of fresh flowers and breakfast in bed. (Can I skip the laundry that day? Will someone else do the dishes? Oh please dear God, can I take an uninterrupted bath?)

But somewhere she’s laboring. She’s bearing down on a promise. She’s birthing new life into the world and hoping she’ll be there to hold a beating heart in her arms.

She’s hoping she won’t be the “one.”

Safe birth is not a given, friends. Maybe for you and I it is, but across the earth our sisters labor and push, rise and bloom into motherhood not knowing if they’ll wake up next to the child they so carefully grew.

Giving birth to a miracle

My baby (Micah) at birth: 4.43 kg / 9.77 lbs

Papua New Guinean baby at birth: 2.2 kgs / 4.85 lbs

That they may have life to the full

Help me stir up magic this Mother’s Day, friends—the kind of magic that’s disguised in reality as we link arms to empower women to empower women… who will go on to empower entire families and communities. It’s that simple and that hard and it really is that beautiful.

The statistics are unacceptable, yet changeable.

Let’s make birth safer for our sisters.

Will you help me? Will you join the Love A Mama Collective and I as we train up midwives and make room in our hearts for more mamas to live?

Will you join in the holy, ordinary, gritty, stunning work of Jesus?

“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” —Jesus (John 10:10)

Please consider donating to the 2017 Love A Mama Mother’s Day Drive on behalf of your mom or another woman in your life. (Or perhaps donate on behalf of a baby you have lost to miscarriage or stillbirth?) We will send you a printable thank you card you can give her to let her know you’ve donated toward our Midwifery Scholarship for a young woman in rural India on her behalf. (Find more about our scholarship recipient, Jerina, here or learn more about the rest of our maternal health work here.)

It’s good to be alive, it’s it? It’s good to have a birth story to tell.

With deep gratitude,
Adriel XO

About the photos:

Please note: The photos of me laboring and birthing our third son, Micah Ezekiel, were all taken by the incredibly talented Lauren+Douglas Photography. They are among the best, most precious gifts I have ever received and I wish I could share every single last one of them. The photos of women giving birth and holding their babies in rural areas were all taken by me, with their permission. They too, are among my greatest gifts; these women have woven themselves into my heart and have changed me. I love them—dearly. Please do not use or reproduce any of these photos without express written permission from me, Adriel Booker. Thank you.

*According to the World Health Organization, one woman dies in childbirth every minute.

To be entirely honest, I miss the “innocence” of Mother’s Day that I used to know. I’m all too aware that not all women fit neatly into the “Mother Box”, and that for some, Mother’s Day is incredibly hard – a time of mourning even. For some, it’s a time of celebration and gratitude. For others, it’s a mixture of both.

I get it. I count myself among those who have experienced miscarriage and difficulty conceiving and the threat of a potentially scary diagnosis of our unborn child. Even before that, I endured long years of wanting to become a mother while I felt like the entire world around me was moving on with their lives in marriage and motherhood and I was left behind in the dust, missing out on the one thing I wanted most.

I also count myself among those who are happy and fulfilled and overflowing with gratitude and wonder at the children that now fill my home and my heart and call me “mama”. As I have mothered them, so they have changed me in ways that have infinitely enriched my life. I don’t even know how to articulate how much I love them, how grateful I am for them, and how blessed I am to be their mom.

The more I mother, the more I realize that mothering doesn’t just belong to women who push babies out of their wombs. There are so many categories of women I want to honor and celebrate this Mother’s Day, not at the expense of our [birth/adopted/step] moms, but alongside them.

Women to remember this Mother’s Day, and suggestions for how to honor them:

• Women who’ve struggled with infertility. Send her a card or leave flowers and a “someone’s remembering you today” note on her doorstep.

• Women who’ve lost their moms. Write a text telling her your favorite thing about the mom she so desperately misses today.

• Women who’ve experienced miscarriages or stillbirth, neonatal death or—yes—even abortion. Let her know that you’re praying for her on a day that serves as a reminder of the child not calling her “mama” today.

• Women who’ve been caught in limbo as they struggle to adopt. Drop off some tea and pray with her that her mother’s love will find it’s destination.

• Women who’ve labored and mothered under the grievous diagnosis of a child or who have a child hospitalized in intensive care. Take her out for a pedicure (or simply wash her feet) and tell her what a hero she is.

• Women who’ve parented through a divorce, especially those with small children who can’t yet make her a card or whisper I love you’s or bring her a sloppy breakfast in bed. Send her out to bunch with her kids while you clean her house (or have her house professionally cleaned).

• Women who’ve lost their children to accidents or disease or suicide. Good gracious, send her flowers. Lots of flowers. She should be flooded with beauty and messages of remembrance on Mother’s Day.

• Women who’ve been shocked into new motherhood. Any woman with children under three probably needs to be encouraged that she’s doing a good job. Send her a card or write her an email, telling her that you see her long hours and hard work and point out how obvious it is that her children are thriving and flourishing under her care. (This probably goes for women shocked into newly mothering teenagers, too.)

• Women who’ve given their lives to mother beyond borders. They mother across dinner tables and youth groups and bible studies and classrooms. They mother and mentor through social work or missionary work, coaching or causes. Invite her to into our celebrations, give her chocolates, and tell her that we see her, too.

• Women who’ve yearned to birth children but sit alone in singleness, waiting for a man to begin a family with. Thank her for her role as auntie to your children and for helping to mother your children so well. Buy her a book about empowering women such as Half the Sky.

• Women who’ve been deployed, serving far away from their families. Send her a pretty e-card and tell her thank you for choosing to sacrifice on behalf of her family and yours and your country.

• Women who face grim statistics for death in childbirth. According to WHO, one woman dies in childbirth every minute. Join the Love A Mama Collective as we help make childbirth safer for mothers and their babies, giving both a better chance at life.

• Women who’s daughters or sons are missing. Whether it be mothers in Nigeria or Nebraska with daughters on the “missing persons” list, remember her – pray for her, lift your voice for her cause, assure her that you’ve not forgotten. (This is what I want for Mother’s Day this year – #bringbackourgirls.)

As I wrote this list, I realized that I now fit into several of these categories—none of which define me or sum up my entire motherhood experience, but all of which are important in bringing depth to my mother’s heart and my parenting journey so far. This Mother’s Day I will rejoice and mourn, but in all of it I will give thanks for the Mother-heart of God that draws me close and covers me, like Jesus longed to do for Jerusalem:

How often I’ve ached to embrace your children, the way a hen gathers her chicks under her wings. (Matthew 23:37b, The Message)

And that’s what I wish for your Mother’s Day too: that you would be held close, affirmed, comforted, and celebrated.

Because you mom, and you mother-heart—you’re changing the world with your love.

Love,
Adriel xo

Psssssst… Still looking for a meaningful way to honor you mom or another special woman in your life this Mother’s Day? Join the Love A Mama Collective as we help make childbirth safer for mothers and their babies, giving both a better chance at life. We’ll send you a printable card for your mom, letting her know of the donation you made on her behalf toward the Love A Mama Midwifery Scholarship. A perfect gift for the woman who has everything… and the one who has nothing.

I knew the statistics—that one woman dies in childbirth every moment—but I didn’t know their names. Knowing her name, Bokoro, altered everything for me.

Related: Read Bokoro’s story (photos taken with permission)

I would never unsee that ankle-deep mud, the pools of blood, the narrow wooden plank, the tattered plastic tarps strung up to shield her from the rain. I would never unsee Bokoro in her strength and dignity, her resilience and beauty as she did what mothers in her region have been doing for centuries—giving birth in make-shift birth huts behind their homes, cutting the umbilical cord with a piece of rock or sharpened bamboo, holding their babies close as they wipe blood and vernix and mud off their tiny bodies.

Since 2011 the women of the Love A Mama Collective and I have been using Mother’s Day as an important reminder: safe birth is not something every woman has access to. All over the world women are giving birth in places where medical care is not accessible and sanitation is poorly understood. Instead of celebrating Mother’s Day with breakfast in bed like we do in nations like the USA, Australia, and others, countless mothers in developing nations are absent from their families because they’ve lacked simple resources, health education, and access to qualified maternal care.

The Love A Mama Collective exists to see this change.

Over the years we have resourced our partners in the field with thousands of clean birth kits, we’ve outfitted rural health centers with solar powered light and dopplers and equipment, we’ve equipped midwives with health education materials, and have tackled a number of other maternal health-related projects. And we’ve done all of it by linking arms through the internet, pooling our resources, and empowering every day women to empower one another.

Women empowering women. Sounds like a good idea for Mother’s Day, right?

Right now we’re in our third year of funding a midwifery scholarship for a young women to receive training in central India where she’ll be serving an area with zero access to maternal health care. To give some perspective on the lack of available care, imagine 17 or 18 OBGYNs servicing all of Australia. And now imagine those doctors are only in the largest cities. This is what it’s like in their area—18 OBGYNs in their entire state of 25 million people.

Not only is our scholarship recipient studying to become a nurse-midwife, but she’s in training to know how to help train other birth attendants to help her serve these communities. She’s a midwife with a mission of local multiplication—women empowering women—to see the statistics turned around in their area.

Donate on behalf of your mom (mum!)

Are you still looking for a gift for your own mom this Mother’s Day? Give her a gift that will give back. And back. And back. Imagine the countless multiplied families that will be impacted by better maternal care as our midwife multiplies her skills throughout the area, training other village birth attendants, moms, sisters, aunties, and grandmothers.

When you give a gift of $10 or more to the Love A Mama Midwifery Scholarship Fund during this year’s Mother’s Day drive (2017!), we’ll send you a printable note for your mom so she can see the donation made on her behalf.

Bonus gift for midwifery scholarship donors

This year, I’m also excited to announce that every single donor who gives $10 or more to the scholarship fund will be entered to win a Mum+Bub Smartband valued at $250. (More on the smartband below.) We will draw the winner on Mother’s Day and email you directly!

New Mama Bundle insta giveaway

We’re also giving away a mum+bub prize package worth $450 through our instagram account. (All sorts of gear for both mother and child—baby carrier, maternity wear, jewelry, body care products, diapers, etc.) Head over to my instagram account (@adrielbooker) if you’d like to enter to win the New Mama Bundle.

Every mother counts. And every gift to help her makes a difference.

Please consider getting involved in the Love A Mama Mother’s Day Drive this year. Make your midwifery scholarship donation here. I can vouch from experience that being deliberate in our service to others will make your soul come alive—a Happy Mother’s Day, indeed.

Love,
Adriel

Bonus: Win a Mum+Bub Smartband

Every donor to the 2017 Love A Mama Midwifery Scholarship Fund will go into the draw for a Mum+Bub smartband, donated to us by Project Nursery. You can use it during pregnancy and well beyond baby’s birth to track your kicks, your water intake, your weight, doctors appointments, time your contractions, count your steps, keep track of diaper changes, feeds, and more. (It’s like a FitBit but with extras especially designed for mama and baby.) The Mum+Bub Smartband is valued at $250!

She was at my door trying to sell me one of those dinner box services. Believe me, I would sign up if we could afford such things. Brilliant concept. With a baby on my hip and a polite “no thank you” on my lips, she turned the conversation to Micah. “How old is he?”

I answered his age and then with raised eyebrows she responded, “Wow, you look so good for having just had a baby.”

She was sweet and genuine and I took her compliment as just that—a compliment. But she was also the most recent in a string of strangers who felt totally free to remark on my body shape and size as if a baby in arms suddenly grants permission for such personal commentary. Weird.

Why were they paying such attention, anyway? I felt annoyed and uncomfortable.

With a courteous smile I gently shut the door and then let my building tension unravel into a puddle before my husband.

Why is my body everyone else’s business? Why all the pressure? Why the impossible standards? Why do people feel free to size me up and then tell me about their assessment as if I wanted to know their opinion? Why is this considered normal small talk? Why? Why? Why?!

He looked at me with a glint in his eye and a half smile. Nodding his head, he signaled his attention was mine. (He knows rhetorical questions of this nature aren’t actually looking for answers, only a listening ear.)

This is the part in the story where some will be tempted to snort and shake their head and tell me I’m a princess or too sensitive or fill-in-the-blank.

This is also the part where you might be thinking, “I wish I got a compliment like that.” And that’s fair—I get it.

But if we’re still thinking of how much or little I weigh, or how good I look or don’t look according to the impossible standards society imposes on us, then we’re still entirely missing the point.

Don’t miss the point

To be clear, what I’m not talking about is encouraging a friend when you know she’s been working hard to achieve fitness goals. Then by all means—notice her achievements, cheer her on, tell her she looks fabulous. What I am talking about is perfect strangers making your waistline their business. Isn’t it more productive and affirming to celebrate what a postpartum woman just achieved than heaping expectation and pressure and body shaming language and ideas (even if it’s indirect) onto her already-full plate?

Look, I realize the sweet sales rep at my door said this as a compliment. I do. I received it as one and I’m grateful she was giving me a compliment rather than a passive aggressive suggestion to lift my game (like this mom shared about her Target experience—ugh). But here’s the thing, the issue is bigger than a ‘harmless’ compliment given as a form of small talk.

The fourth trimester should be a time of healing

The postpartum period (or fourth trimester as some call it) is hard enough for moms physically and emotionally. We are operating on little sleep. We may be dealing with hemorrhoids or cesarean wounds, or stitched up tears in sensitive places. We may have engorgement issues, cracked nipples, mastitis, leaky boobs, or falling out hair. We may have night sweats or the baby blues or full-blown post partum depression. We may lack energy. We might have “baby brain.” We may be weepy. Our clothes might feel tight or saggy or anything in between. We may or may not be able to groom the way we’d like or afford new clothes to fit our new shape. Our muscles might be separated, our back might be misaligned, our pelvis might feel like it’s hanging on by a thread. I mean, honestly, the list goes on and on. (And that is just what’s going on with our own bodies, not to mention what may be happening with our little ones.)

Conceiving and growing and birthing and caring for a baby is no small thing, and yet no one’s handing out capes. There is very little back patting or encouragement that we can do hard things. Instead we’re sizing each other up, staring ourselves down in the mirror, buying contraptions that promise to help us lose the weight! flatten our tummies! feel like a million dollars! tighten up! erase stretch marks! Most moms will tell you the pressure is not only unrealistic for them, but not motivating toward holistic health during a time we’re already feeling vulnerable.

What if we focused on the miracle?

What if instead of being obsessed about losing our baby weight we give ourselves a little breathing space to rest and heal and grow into our new selves while we get to know the astonishing little humans who share our DNA? What if we remember we’ve just done the bewildering work of growing a whole person (while simultaneously growing our ankles to that of a small elephant) and the mighty work of then birthing him into the world? Let’s call that good and leave the weight loss pressure for after we’ve figured out how to trim a fresh baby’s fingernails without dismembering him.

The movement to end body-shaming at large is an important one. And mamas, it’s up to us to lead out in this postpartum subcategory with one another. If we can’t affirm each other deeply then who can? (Here’s a fabulous example.)

Bringing a baby into the world is hard, holy, regular, spectacular work. Our bodies stretch and widen and contract and release and bear down and hold back and tear and heal in all number of mind-blowing ways. Perhaps if we spent a little more time celebrating our bodies for the miracles they are and the miracles they produce, we’d be less obsessed with trying to become our old selves instead of focused on appreciating our new, powerful selves.

You can do hard things, but be gentle on yourself

Welcome to motherhood, dear sweet post-partum mama. Don’t waste it feeling ashamed of your body. Don’t waste it feeling embarrassed by what you have or haven’t “achieved” to fit into your skinny jeans. Take care of yourself, yes. Set goals, work hard, move your amazing body, fuel yourself well. Do all those things. But don’t do them to fit in or feel worthy or cope with shame. Do them because it feels good to do hard things, because movement and sunshine fill your cup, because you’re more at home in your body when you’re caring for it.

But in all of this be gentle. Don’t rush. Be kind. Be accepting. Live in your skin and celebrate the wonders that have already come true for that baby to be in your arms.

Motherhood looks beautiful on you

And hey onlookers, if you want to shoot a compliment our way (thank you!), may I gently suggest a few alternatives? Try these:

“What a delightful baby! You must be so proud!”

“Oh, mama, what a wonderful work you’ve done! Well done! So well done.”

“Can you believe your body made that gorgeous little human? How miraculous is birth?!”

Or simply:

“Motherhood looks beautiful on you.”

Dear Scarlett,

It’s been four years since I was wheeled down the hallway under obnoxious fluorescent lighting by the insensitive surgeon and the nurse with kind eyes. I was thankful to be put under for the procedure, like a child pinching her nose to take a dreaded bite of peas. (Maybe losing you wouldn’t hurt so much if they took you while I was sleeping?) I didn’t know another way and it seemed right. I was sad—under the deep blue ocean type of sad—but I was also at peace. I knew you were no longer there anyway. I had seen your still heart the day before.

A mother shouldn’t have to say good bye to her child. It feels unnatural because it is. Four years later the sting is gone, but the ache isn’t.

I miss you.

It’s a myth to think a mother can “get over” the loss of her child. We don’t get over it. (I’ll never get over you.) But we do get through it. The best way through grief, I’ve learned, is to step into it. Or swallow it. Not swallowing it to make it disappear, but to let it absorb into us, become a part of us—change us and nurture us from the inside out. Some days the temptation is to run like hell away from it. Other days I’ve wanted to ignore it. Still other days I’ve wanted to conquer it as if it was a mountain to be scaled, a challenge to be won.

But it’s not. Grief cannot be overcome.

Grief is a companion and she won’t be boxed in for safe keeping. C.S. Lewis wrote of grief comparing it to the sky—hanging over everything, touching it all. I’ve found that to be true. Although I’m not consumed by grief anymore, it has touched everything I know. It’s changed the way I relate to others, the way I watch the news, the way I read the bible, the way I pray (or don’t pray). Grief has changed my expectations of myself, it’s changed my marriage, my work, my parenting, the way I see Jesus. It’s even changed my life’s metaphors. I think about the ocean much more than before.

I’ve been reading journal entries and letters I wrote to you all those years ago. Sometimes it feels like words are all I have left of you. I don’t have a photo of your sweet face. I have no gravesite to visit. But I do have my words—written to you and for you and about you. They aren’t fancy but they’re honest. Maybe they mean so much to me because they’re all I have.

I remember being mad at myself for not taking ultrasound images when we first saw your heartbeat at eight weeks old, as if the proof you once lived might have somehow validated the depth of my angst and sorrow when you were gone. But I didn’t want them. An eight-week-old embryo looks like… an embryo. I remember telling the doctor “no thank you” and that I would wait and take an image home from our next scan when you looked more like yourself. I had no reason to believe it was the last time I would see you alive. At my next scan a month later all we could see was darkness where your heart was supposed to be beating. I didn’t want to take home an image of that. Didn’t need to—it would be burned into my memory anyway. I’d never unsee that picture.

There have been times where I’ve felt jealous of others who have lost. Jealous of photographs, jealous of memorial services, jealous of their stuffed fridges and homes full of flowers, jealous of those I perceived to have more ‘reason’ to grieve than me, jealous of those I perceived to have less. But I’ve had to learn (and am still learning) that my pain is my pain, my grief is my grief, my suffering is my suffering, my sorrow is my sorrow. No glance to the right or left will make my heartache feel any greater or lessor than the next person’s. It just is what it is. Intellectually I know there’s nothing I ever could have received at the height of my grief that would feel like a “good enough” measure to meet me in my pain. The heart sometimes doesn’t listen to the intellect though, does it? And that’s okay, too—at least for a time.

I’ve realized in these four years how little I know. And yet I’ve also learned so much. My heart has expanded. My eyes have opened. I’ve had questions answered, which have led to many, many more—unanswered, mostly.

I don’t understand heaven or if we share the same space-time continuum. Are you a baby there? Are you four now? In the scope of eternity, these questions are small. They don’t change my longing, my grief, or my hope. I do sometimes wonder if you watch our family. Can you see me now, writing here by the window? Do you know that I’ve written your story over and again on three different continents and that even now I’m writing a book for other hurting parents, too?

You’ve changed my life, Scarlett. I always knew you would. Just a few short months together and that’s all it took to rewrite my entire story. What a powerful girl you are.

Since losing you we’ve said goodbye to Oliver and Ruby, too. Do you know them? Do they know us? I miss them. Sometimes I think of you all as a composite—my baby lost, three in one. Your absence—all three of you precious ones—the hardest loss of my life. Your absence has unraveled me and there are seams I can’t imagine ever being sewn back together. (And perhaps that’s how it should be?)

Most of the time I feel inadequate to write into such sensitive topics. My insecurities flair—can I actually help someone else? What if I say the wrong thing? What if my words are misconstrued? What if they fall short? It would be easier to remain quiet, obscure. I fear putting myself “out there” where people are free to judge me and criticize my words, my beliefs, my understanding of God and the universe. I’m not the smartest person in the room. Maybe we should find her and let her write the words of hope that a grieving soul needs? She might do a better job than me. Probably?

But then I think of you and all that you’ve taught me and I say to my own self: “Courage, dear heart.” If a little babe could teach me so much, maybe a tender heart like mine has something to offer, too. In my pride I’ve wanted to offer a hearty dose of “good theology,” but perhaps the greatest gift I can give is actually my vulnerability. It’s hard to argue a person’s story. It’s hard to argue a broken and healed heart. It’s hard to argue an actual life graced by Jesus.

Would you believe I’ve never struggled with writer’s block in my life until I signed a book deal? Some days the fear feels paralyzing. But I’m writing this for you, child. I’m writing this for us. I’m writing for her—the one buried in grief who’s left wondering where is God in the midst of her pain. I’m writing afraid and I’m writing brave (they’re the same thing, you know).

But today this isn’t about her, or even myself. (Though I want you to know how much your life matters to us.) This is about you and I need you to know: you are real to me. You are loved. You’ve changed my life. You’ve changed the world.

Thirteen weeks and four years.

I miss you Scarlett. I miss what might have been. But mostly I just miss you.

I still love you,

Mama x

Further reading:

Scarlett’s story, Oliver’s story, Ruby’s story.

MISCARRIAGE SUPPORT

For resources to navigate grief after miscarriage and pregnancy loss, or to learn how to best support a friend experiencing loss, please visit my Miscarriage Stories and Resources page or download my free grief journal and free 7-day devotional.

If you’d like to go deeper in exploring how to grieve with hope, I’ve written a whole book for you:  Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss (available at all major retailers).

Featured image by Annie Spratt

For years I wrote in slices and slivers—whenever I could find the time. It was a thrilling and frustrating way to write, but it’s the time I had so I used it. Writing is my job now. (Or at least a major part of it.) I have deadlines and contracts and even a modest paycheck. The privilege of getting paid to do something I love is not lost on me, which is part of the reason I feel strongly about helping fellow writers. (The other reason is that I know how lonely the writer’s life can feel.)

While I’ll be the first to admit signing a book deal doesn’t shift me into the realm of expert, I have learned a few things about writing over the last several years. I’ve been getting more and more enquiries from other writers recently so thought I’d take the time to share here what I’m sharing with them behind the scenes, in case you are a writer (or “aspiring writer”) in need of some encouragement, too.

This will not be a “how to” post, as in how to develop your blog or how to land a book deal (plenty of experts can teach and coach you on those topics). But I do hope this will give you some practical things you can do to move forward, and—perhaps more importantly—some encouragement for your writer’s heart.

Fear, time, and all the reasons (excuses) we give for not writing

Maybe like me, you’ve thought things like: I’ll write when my baby sleeps through the night, when the kids get back to school, when I can afford a babysitter for a few hours a week, when I get that promotion and don’t have to stress as much about money, when I just get caught up on those clogged up emails, when I finish the plot line in my head, after I take that online course on How to Write a Best Seller in Three Easy Steps…

But I’ll tell you a little secret: there will always be a “good” reason not to write. (Those are actually called excuses.)

Let me tackle the biggest one first: most writers feel like we don’t have enough time to write… even if we do have plenty of time to write. For me, this feeling creeps in when I’ve been slacking on time management (not getting enough sleep, too much social media, too much multi-tasking, etc.) or when I’ve not been diligent to “brain dump” as needed and clear my head (and desk) of clutter. It can also happen when I don’t take time to care for my soul and spirit through prayer, meditation, and journaling.

Question to consider: What are the things you need to do in order to use the time you have well?

Writing in the cracks

For most of us, writing happens in the cracks of life; this is not a bad thing. You may be fortunate like I am to create some larger spaces in your days to meet that word count goal or finish a blog post or pen the letter you’ve had on your heart for the last three months. Or you may have all that time and yet still struggle to focus and write like you thought you could. (Raising my hand for this category, too!) Or you may only have tiny pockets of time and your writing is shoved between classes and commitments and parenting and housekeeping and deadlines. (There goes my hand again!) Emily Freeman calls this “writing in the cracks.”

But whatever sort of space you find (or create) for writing, seize it. Make your time serve you and let the words come. Writing for twenty minutes is better than not writing at all. Writing for a morning is better than passing all those mornings by until you can find a full day.

Newsflash: To be a writer, you actually have to write (as opposed to just thinking about it)

If you have a dream to write, you might need to hear a few things:

• There will never be “enough” time. Write in the time you have.
• There’s a chance it will never feel like the “right” time. Don’t waste your life waiting for everything to feel just so.
• You don’t have to know the end of your story before you write it. Begin at the beginning.
• Getting paid to write does not make you a writer—writing does. So write.

Do you see a theme here? Write. If you want to write, write. If you believe you’re meant to write, write. If you feel God’s pleasure when you write, by all means write. If you think you might be a writer but you still aren’t exactly sure, I can suggest an easy way to find out… Yup, you know my answer: write.

If all you do is think about writing but you don’t actually write, you’re a thinker, not a writer. So write. Be a writer. Write the words down—this isn’t complicated, but it is what makes you a writer.

The ‘imposter syndrome’

There was a time a few years ago when I was going through a personal transformation. I knew I was “meant” to write and had some sort of talent for it, but I struggled with the identity of it all. How could I call myself a creative? An artist? A writer? Aren’t those titles reserved for the elite? The uber-talented? The published? People who don’t write in yoga pants during their toddler’s afternoon naps? I have no credentials or training or permission. (Um, who gives that type of permission anyway?) I felt like identifying as a creative, or artist, or—gasp!—a writer would make me sound like a wanna-be. I felt like a fraud and I cared way too much what [certain] other people thought.

Within a short time frame I read A Million Little Ways (Emily Freeman) and Bird by Bird (Anne Lamont) and On Writing (Stephen King). This trifecta of inspiration and encouragement catalyzed an epiphany I needed to have: I write, therefore I am a writer. This simple little truth began to slowly change my life.

I felt challenged to own this identity, even while still feeling like an imposter. I changed my twitter bio and I updated my blog: Adriel Booker, writer. It was a small thing—that declaration—but it crystallized an internal shift that I was slowly coming to terms with: I was admitting to myself what I felt God leading me to do. I would own it regardless of the insecurities I still felt. No longer would I say, “I love to write.” I would say, “I am a writer.”

Dealing with baggage is not a one-off endeavor

Fast-forward a few years and I have no trouble calling myself a writer. (With enough practice, we can train ourselves to do most things we once thought were scary.) But I still struggle to “find the time.” I still sometimes feel inadequate due to my lack of formal training and technical knowledge about grammar and punctuation. At times I still look wistfully at other more-experienced writers as if they know the secret to being a “real” writer and wonder when I’ll feel like I assume they must feel. (Ha!) And yet even with all the baggage that occasionally re-appears on my doorstep, I know this: writers were made to write. And this: if writers don’t write, something inside us dies a little. And I also know this: writers can change the course of our lives if only we gave ourselves permission to incorporate writing into our daily routines.

Why me?

So maybe you can write and you have a message you’d like to share, but you’re wondering if you’re the right person to deliver it. I mean, surely there’s someone else more qualified or more skilled, right?

Probably. Most definitely.

But in the words of one of my favorite children’s authors: “You are the one and only you.” (—Nancy Tillman, On the Night You Were Born.)

Anyone can have the same message burning in their bones, but they can’t say it the way you can. Anyone can share your idea or your insight, but they can’t unpack it the way you can. Anyone can have a similar story, but they can’t have yours.

So write.

Are you short on time? Write in the time you have.

Are you afraid? Write through the fear.

Are you feeling insecure? Write bravely, knowing your worth doesn’t change one little bit with how eloquent or clunky your words turn out to be.

Are you worried you won’t find the words? Write until you do.

Are you feeling illegitimate because no one yet recognizes you as a writer? Release your words to the world and know that is what makes you a writer. (Not a byline or a book deal or a certain number of pageviews or facebook ‘likes’.)

I dare you—start calling yourself a writer.

Hey Writer, try this:

If you’re making the leap (or have recently made the leap) toward calling yourself a writer, let me encourage you to do a few practical things:

1. Write for five minutes every day without predetermining the subject or self-editing as you go. Write stream of conscious. Set a timer. I promise you if you do this for six months you will find your voice. (And I would wager that some really amazing ideas will emerge through these five minute sessions—in between a lot of other nonsense and boring stuff of course.) It might take you a little while to start seeing the fruit of this discipline but I promise you it will come if you stick with it.

2. Start calling yourself a writer. Practice intentionally letting your internal narrative adjust and then begin admitting it to others: “I am a writer.” If they follow-up with the question, “What do you write?” and you’re still only writing journal entries, a simple “I write non-fiction narrative” will do for a response. *wink* You are, after all, a writer.

3. Find support among other writers. Writing can be lonely and isolating, so seek out and connect with others who can relate and spur you on with encouragement, tips, and solidarity. (I belong to an incredible group of Christian writers called Hope*Writers and my only regret is that I didn’t discover them sooner. You can join us if you’re interested.)

4. Read books that will inspire you to write. Yes, read fiction or memoirs or poetry to immerse yourself in language and style that moves you, but add books on writing and creativity to your reading diet as well. They’ll help you not only be motivated to write but will cause you to think about writing when you’re not. (I’ll list some of my favorites down below.)

5. Practice writing and practice editing, but not at the same time. I’m better at writing than I am at editing. By a mile. But one of the things that makes me a better writer is that I’ve learned to set aside my editing as much as possible while writing. Once I get the words on the page without over thinking or self-editing along the way I can shift into editing mode. If I’ve left space (days) in between the writing and editing, I’ll end up with much stronger writing overall. (Aren’t you glad I edited this several times from its initial 4000 word length?! A better editor could shave it down even more.)

Here’s your permission

In closing I’ll leave you with this:

If you are a writer, then write. And if you write, then you are a Writer. Own it. Become it. Start by calling yourself a writer.

So there. Someone has given you permission. (Pssst… you don’t actually need permission.)

Write on,
Adriel x

p.s. If you missed it, here’s Part I in which I share more of my personal writing journey and how I landed a two-book deal: On Becoming a Writer.

On Becoming a Writer, Part III: Recommended resources for writers

Hope*Writers

Hope*Writers—membership site and facebook group for Christian writers. Note: I’m using an affiliate link here, meaning I get a small commission for referrals at no extra cost to you. But cross my heart I’d be linking to this membership even if there was no affiliate program involved. I adore these people and I don’t want to write without them. (Thanks for your support by using this link when you sign up.)

Hope*Writers podcast—I cannot speak highly enough about the Hope*Writers podcast and the professionals (writers and marketers) who host it. I’ve loved every single episode they’ve ever released and I always learn something new. (And it’s free!)

Hope*Writers 90 Day Direction course—for those of you needing help with writing direction or determining how to move forward. (Can you tell how much I love Hope*Writers?) I haven’t personally done this course but am familiar with a lot of the material and I can wholeheartedly endorse anything the H*W team produces.

Helpful newsletters, blogs, podcasts

Stephanie Smith’s Slant Letter—a monthly newsletter with insight and advice for writers. (She’s an editor at Zondervan so she knows her stuff.) Stephanie’s Slant Letter might be the only newsletter I open every time, without fail. So good.

Chad Allen’s blog—helping you find your voice and do your art. Chad is a respected publishing professional with years of experience. His blog is stuffed with helps, how to’s, and insight into the publishing industry. He also offers a course called Book Proposal Academy, which looks fantastic, and does personal coaching.

Ann Kroeker, Writing Coach podcast—short, succinct, and helpful episodes to encourage writers in creativity, curiosity, and productivity. Listen to Ann’s podcast here.

How to write a book proposal

Resources on writing book proposals—Mary DeMuth and Michael Hyatt both wrote excellent ebooks on how to write a book proposal. (Mary’s Write a Winning Non-Fiction Proposal: Get that Book Deal; Michael’s: Writing a Winning Non-Fiction Proposal.)  I used both of these in crafting my own book proposal and found them so helpful. Mary is a seasoned author and Michael is the former CEO of a large Christian publisher. Both have a lot to offer.

Writing software

Scrivener writing software changed my life! (And I am not exaggerating.) I use Scrivener not only for book-writing, but for all of my writing. I have different projects for every area of writing I do: book writing (one for every book and ebook in process), book proposals, blog post writing, newsletters, our family blog, our ministry blog, our non-profit’s website, a course I’m developing, teaching materials, etc. Do yourself a favor and invest the $40 to buy Scrivener, walk yourself through the two-hour tutorial that comes with the software, and never look back. You’re welcome.

My favorite books on writing, for writers:

• Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, Anne Lamont
• A Million Little Ways: Uncover the Art You Were Made to Live, Emily Freeman
• On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, Stephen King
• The Art of Memoir, Mary Karr
• Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art, Madeleine L’Engle
• The Memoir Project: A Thoroughly Non-Standardized Text for Writing & Life, Marion Roach Smith
• The War of Art: Break Through Our Blocks and Win Your Inner Creative Battle, Steven Pressfield
• Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within, Natalie Goldberg
• On the Road, Jack Kerouac*

*On the Road is not a book about writing—I just love Kerouac and his writing style and rhythm. He was the first author to truly inspire me to write so will always have a place on my “favorite writing books” list, even if he doesn’t totally belong.

Affiliate links are used in this post, which means at no extra cost to you, we receive a tiny percentage back to help sustain this blog. Thank you for your support!

Featured image by Pez.

There was a time when I raced to pound my thoughts into a Word document between too-short naptimes and the mountainous loads of laundry only two under two can produce. Writing was a revolution for me. It helped me learn who I was in a deeper, more experiential way and it unlocked a sense of creativity I had shelved years before, trading art for more “sensible” things.

In those early days of re-discovering writing (and absolutely bumbling into blogging), I wrote without fear of who may or may not read my little words. I freely poured my heart and soul into sharing whatever good thing I thought might breathe life into others. Whether it was deep or lighthearted, it was always with heart and intention.

Writing was, for me, a form of ministry and recreation and salvation all folded together into one.

When people asked me what I did for fun or how I spent my free time during those diaper days I would almost always answer: I write. Even though it had been a long-time dream to become an author one day, I never thought of my clumsy cannonball into the pool of blogging as an onramp for that. Truly, I pictured myself getting on with my busy life and ministry and mothering (while blogging in the cracks when I could) and then settling into book writing in my old age when I was… wiser, I guess, or when I had felt like I had somehow earned the right.

Fast forward a few years and here I am signing my first book deal:

I mean, WHAT??! I can still hardly believe it myself… and I’m simultaneously thrilled and terrified. But when I look back at the seemingly ‘unrelated’ events of the last few years, it’s clear to see how God was leading me in this process all along. I’ve begun to realize this isn’t the climax of some great accomplishment, but the beginning of another one. (And—oh!—the learning curve is steep, my friends.)

How did this happen?

The ‘coincidences’ throughout the process of writing a book proposal, securing a literary agent, pitching the book, and choosing between offers (offers!) are just too serendipitous to take all the credit for myself. Looking back at the unfolding grace of God gives me confidence and courage for carrying out what I’ve committed to. (OMG, I have to actually finish the book now. Yikes!) But seriously, I’m humbled and amazed by the way it’s all unfolded.

Now hear me right friends, I’m not saying I haven’t worked hard to get this book deal because I have, but this new endeavor is a blend between my own hard work, the conviction of my husband to create space for me (and constantly talk me off ledges, reassuring me I can do this), the unrelenting belief (and expertise) of my world class agent and friend, the constant encouragement and advice and prayer from my friends (and readers!), and the divine intervention from Jesus himself when I’ve needed it most (whether I was aware of it or not along the way). I mean, with this sort of a stellar combination of support, it’s no wonder things are clicking into place. I’m so grateful for all of it.

Birthing a book baby

Now here I am at 39. I’ve just delivered a baby after three heartbreaking miscarriages and now I’m working on birthing another one—a book baby—and let me tell you it’s painful, exhilarating work in wonderfully (excruciatingly!) similar ways.

I’ve signed a two-book deal and my first book—tentatively called Grace Like Scarlett—will be released next year. (I am so pleased to be working with the stellar team at Baker Books.)

Never would I have imagined my first book would be related to loss and suffering, and I’ve struggled to embrace it at times—selfishly not wanting to become known as “the miscarriage lady.” I mean, there’s more to my life than my suffering and pain. But that’s the nature of our lives isn’t it? We aren’t defined by a single story, and yet a single story can help tell a bigger one if we frame it right.

(On that note, friend—I wonder if you have a “single story” that can be reframed to help tell a bigger one? Because don’t we all? What is yours?)

Write the story

I’ll never forget the moment I felt God prompting me to get serious about writing this particular book. I was sitting on the vine-covered veranda outside a 200-year-old villa in Tuscany dreaming about another book project I was working on. While staring at the cypress trees dotted over the hills before me, God interrupted my dreaming: Write ‘Grace Like Scarlett’ he seemed to say. With some hesitation I whispered my “yes” and two days later I began to bleed again—I was losing my second baby to miscarriage. It felt like a cruel irony as if my “yes” should have protected me from experiencing the pain of loss again.

The years that followed were filled with stops and starts in my writing as I got pregnant again, miscarried a third time, got pregnant again, and then navigated a difficult pregnancy resulting in the birth of our beautiful son Micah. With all of the interruptions and detours (and the emotional minefield of those years), this book is a miracle. Although it’s felt hard to write, the opportunities to move forward with publishing have come somewhat easily. That, too, a paradox.

Hope for hurting hearts

This book baby I’m nurturing and growing—it’s the one I wish I could have read in the aftermath of losing Scarlett (our first baby lost to miscarriage). The question we’ll explore together is one I hope reaches far and wide and deep: What if your suffering is an invitation to something deeper? What if your pain—your own personal “Scarlett”—is the very thing that enlarges your soul to receive Grace?

Grace Like Scarlett is my offering to you, friends, but ultimately to Jesus. I will take my words and ask him to breathe life on them and through them and trust that they’ll find the destination he intended—weary and hurting hearts that need hope. If this is my chance to help tell humanity about the good, gracious, kind God I know then I’ll seize that chance and do my best to offer it wholeheartedly.

Thank you for being a part of this. Thank you for reading my words, opening my newsletters, sharing my blog posts, and sending me emails with your own stories poured out in faith and confidence. Thank you for loving my children and my family along with me as I’ve shared our stories with you online throughout the years. I’ve wanted to power down my blog many times but every time I’ve considered, another email lands in my inbox from you—reminding me why I’m here in the first place.

This isn’t my book, it’s OURS

I have a lot of work to do over the coming months. If you’re a pray-er, will you become a part of seeing this baby birthed into the world? Pray with me and for me while I finish my manuscript and turn it in this July? That’s only one milestone in the long journey of seeing a book placed on an actual store bookshelf, but right now it’s the leg I’m on. It’s a good, hard, holy, regular daily work and I’ll need encouragement along the way as I spend my hours plunking away at the keyboard (or staring out the window in between the plunking—ha!).

I love you. Deeply. Sincerely. Unreservedly. Thank you for being a part of this. If it weren’t for the readers I already have, I don’t know that I’d have the courage to write for the readers I will have. So again, thank you.

Now tell me, what is it you most hope I include in Grace Like Scarlett? I am, after all, writing this book for YOU.

And also, would you please consider passing along this post to a friend who needs this book?

Love,
Adriel x

Other stuff:

LoveNotes // If you’d like to be among the first to know more about Grace Like Scarlett, pre-release bonuses, and other bits and pieces of the publishing journey, please sign up for LoveNotes—my monthly(ish), little(ish) letter. (In reality I only send it every 2-3 months so no need to worry about me taking up lots of valuable inbox space!)

The Lovelies // Some friends and I have made it easier to connect online. Would you consider joining our facebook group, The Lovelies? It’s a gathering place for women empowering women. Perhaps I’m bias, but I think it’s one of the loveliest places on the internet. Read here if you’d like to know more OR simply join The Lovelies on facebook now.

On becoming a writer // I’ve been getting lots of emails lately from growing writers wanting a bit of insight or direction for how to get started or how to move to the next level. Obviously I’m still learning, too, but I’ve written a post compiling all of my best advice along with the resources that I’ve found helpful through the years. If you’re a writer in search of some encouragement I hope these writing resources and practices serve you well.

Click on the image to join The Lovelies:

Part I: The season you’re in

//Summer//

Dear Jesus People of the Farm,

I never understood how some were so infatuated with October. Coming from pine tree country, my framework for autumn was mostly grass turning brittle and inconvenient frosts stealing my beloved summer and strawberries away. I’ve always been a summer girl. Give me strong sunshine and full bloom, thick grass and long, lingering evenings. Nothing makes me happier than salty hair and sandy feet.

//Spring//

And spring? Spring is messy. New birth and growth is always like that. Some days feel like winter, some days tease you with glimpses of summer. We glamorize it a little with fuzzy chicks and daffodils, but let’s not forget the mud, the awkward patches between puddles and fledgling buds.

Women love to swoon over babies but many of us fight the spring of our motherhood when those babies are born. I’m not sure you ever know how good it is to be fully alive and present until you’re hit with the train wreck that is sleep deprivation and the haze it leaves in its wake. Too many mamas wish the spring away and miss the wonder of coming alive because crying and little lungs gasping for air accompany that same coming alive. Unless you’re postured well, the crying and gasping can sound like noise interrupting the peace. Baby growing season is hard, predictably unpredictable. It’s a season of losing control. Some days feel like winter, some like summer, but always in between is a little mess and mud as we give way to the new growth that comes whether or not we felt prepared or equipped.

//Autumn//

But here on the farm all I can see is autumn—glorious October. There’s a maturity that lives here, silently demanding the name Beautiful. When you’re in the autumn it can be hard to remember how important the spring is—that bridge between what feels like nothing and something. Friends, as you watch your leaves turn, give thanks for all those baby sprouts that got you to where you now rest. Remember how hard the new growth season is and enjoy your harvest. (It’s time to enjoy your harvest—dig in, breathe deep.)

//Winter//

Papa Ken taught me something on the hill yesterday. He didn’t know it, but I caught it as we stood near the ‘prayzeebo’ that Jonathan built with his college money. “See out that direction?” he asked me. “You can see the mountains through there during the winter.” That’s all he said but I heard more.

We often think of winter being the season where things are hard to see. That’s when the blizzards come; that’s when the fog rolls in. But in the desolate season of barren trees you can see farther ahead and on through than you can when life is in full bloom. My winter has been like that. It was quiet as if all the creatures were burrowed down, guarding what little they had to sustain them through the cold. Quiet can sometimes feel lonely.

I couldn’t hear much during those winter days, but I could see. I saw clearly.

I saw Jesus and kindness and hope as I envisioned my roots digging deep to find him. I certainly couldn’t hear those things, but I saw them as I imagined him making all things new, starting from right under the frozen-hard ground.

//Tired metaphors//

Let us not forget that talking about the seasons is such a ‘Christiany’ thing to do. We recycle the same metaphors over and over and almost become immune to their potency. If we’re not careful we’ll fool ourselves into thinking we’re being poetic or spiritual but often we’re just relaxing into tired clichés, regurgitating what someone else we admired once said. Until we’re not. Until God breathes life into the metaphor. (Because that’s what he does.)

You know that right? That the oldest of metaphors can come alive and be born again right into our hearts?

Lean in friends: don’t despise the season you’re in. Don’t long for someone else’s season or place or state of being. And please—oh dear God, please—don’t size up someone else’s season or place or ministry to be less spiritual than yours because you’ve forgotten what it’s like in the spring or you’ve never arrived on winter’s doorstep yet.

I’ll remind you as I remind myself—we all see dimly, and perceive a little incompletely. We need one another so we can see Jesus more clearly. Don’t we?

//Mess//

Some of us will be led to live in long seasons of spring—tending to babies (our own or spiritual ones)—and it can look messy and unstructured and immature. Half the time it looks like we have no idea what we’re doing and we don’t. We’re listening to Jesus and listening to our instincts and listening to the saints who’ve gone before us—all those mamas who shushed their babies in the night and took them to the breast when nothing else seemed to work. And half the time we look as if we know exactly what we’re doing because we do. We were born for this—the muddy, messy work of growing new life. But spring is like that—it’s not either/or; it’s both/and. We all know this to be true: those babies are no less human than their mamas or their grandmothers, so let’s treat them with the reverence they deserve, when we know exactly what we’re doing and even when we don’t have a clue.

And yes, I’m talking about babies of all ages. Look deeper and you’ll see those same nurturing truths apply to those we mentor, too.

//Live where you are//

(Can I keep speaking through the metaphor, friends, regardless of what your kitchen calendar says?)

Some of us seem to live in the summer—perpetual honeybees and sweetness and obvious fruitfulness. We dance there oblivious to anything else but the sun on our shoulders. I don’t have much to say about summer because I haven’t been there in a while and perhaps I’ve forgotten a little of the innocence she conjures up with her campouts and late nights under the stars. (She’s coming though, circling back around; I can see her out there ahead and I love her, still.)

Some of us will find ourselves in the autumn. We see shortening days but they are brilliant and mature, warm and inviting. There’s a harvest there that’s far more than we need and it’s our delight to share it with all who come to the table. Hungry, they will come (so feed them). Spread your table thick for a feast and leave the dishes for the morning.

And some of us will land in winter, chilled to the bone and exposed. The forest may grow quiet during winter but remember: sometimes we lose our ability to hear so we can learn to see (and reach) farther than we realized possible.

Part II: What is it you desire?

Before the days of internet and instagram I packed my backpack and a Lonely Planet guidebook and sat at the Frankfurt airport. With a train reader board ahead, a snowboard at my feet, and a highlighter in my hand I looked for convergence and circled my destination when I landed on the bold letters spelling out ‘yes’ to my soul.

I planned to be away for two months in the Alps and came home a year and two months later having left bits of my heart in Hungary and Greece, London and Prague, and a million cobbled streets in between. I didn’t learn much about snowboarding that year but I did learn a few things about myself and about the world around me. I didn’t know Jesus but he managed to unlock my spirituality anyway.

That was the year I discovered I had wings and learned how to use them. When I came back to the States (afflicted hard with wanderlust) those wings had become as much a part of me as my lungs. Maybe no one else saw them but I knew they were there.

//Born with wings//

We’re all born with wings, but so much of the time they’re buried under the skin of expectation and cultural norms and a thousand other layers of excuses. You have them too, Jesus People. You may not have had the opportunities like I’ve had to spread them or strengthen them, but they’re there.

Twenty years and forty-ish nations later, those wings have taken me all over the world. I’ve circumnavigated the globe serving and preaching, giving and receiving, teaching and learning, being changed and becoming myself. If someone ever tried to clip them I’d howl as if they were attached with actual sinew and marrow.

For the last two years my family and I have been in transition, living out of suitcases, making ourselves like chameleons for a constantly changing landscape. For a year we lived in a 95-square-foot caravan. We bought a forty-year-old trailer and painted her up pretty and folded our family into that tiny space. I’ve lost track of how many zip codes we’ve been in or pathways to the bathroom we’ve mapped out and memorized for when it turned dark.

You might say the gypsy life sounds romantic—and it does, it is. We’ve taken our babies on adventures around that great big continent of Australia in ways that baffle my mind with gratitude and wonder.

//Grounded//

But as much as I love my wings my heart yearns for roots. You see unless you are grounded, you can only have little seedlings, potted plants if you’re lucky. They are small and beautiful and very much alive but can never grow into mighty trees.

I believe we’re born with roots and wings. Most of us like to keep our metaphors tidy and neat but the Kingdom isn’t always tidy and neat, my friends. (You know that, I think.)

Did you know you can have both roots and wings? Let’s think about this together.

Some of us love our wings so much that we’re never willing to put down roots. We make those wings into an idol and we thrill at the possibility of possibility and shirk at the idea of becoming grounded. And some of us love our roots so much that we become root-bound. We get tangled up and intertwined so hard in the land that we have no ability to see beyond our little radius that continues to circle around us. Our personalities will help us swing to one or the other. So will our culture, our heroes, our mothers and fathers, and—yes—even our theology.

//The Kingdom of God is like//

Friends, the Kingdom of God is a mixed metaphor. Our longing to fly and our longing to burrow down—it’s all Jesus calling us home, reminding us that we’re still aliens, sojourners. Our citizenship is lodged somewhere completely other and also completely here; the Kingdom is at hand and the Kingdom is coming—the paradox of the here and not yet, the mixed metaphor of roots and wings.

No matter how much you fly, you’ll always long for something more.

No matter how much you homestead, you’ll always long for something more.

When a desire is from Jesus (you need to know the difference), you’d be a fool not to surrender to it. Fighting [Kingdom] desire will wear you out like trying to catch the wind. My friend Amber says, “the fruit of desire will help you know where it comes from,” and I think there’s truth there for all of us worth chewing on.

The desire for home was written into the fabric of our beings. It makes us sprout wings and it makes us dive deep. There’s a season for it all, Jesus People of the Farm. There’s a season for it all, friends.

//Live well//

Thanks for sharing your autumn with me. I’m richer for having dined on your harvest. You’re doing a very good thing here, friends—growing community, loving Jesus, listening, creating, sharing, feasting, living well.

A good thing, indeed.

Love,
Adriel

Image source: freestocks 

I’m due with my sixth baby any day now, but there are only three car seats fitted into our car. Three of our babies have died before we ever held them. Three of them never took a breath as we know it.

This pregnancy has been fraught with difficulty for me. Sometimes I think I’ve handled it well; other times I’ve seriously doubted my maturity and my capacity to handle stress. Physically, I’ve had pain all the way through. Emotionally, I’ve had anxiety all the way through. Spiritually, I’ve had questions all the way through. Mentally, I’ve had battles within my own head all the way through.

Perhaps there was a certain grace keeping me from understanding the depth of my fragility during these last nine months, but now that I can look back over my shoulder it’s easy to see how weak and vulnerable I’ve been all along. I knew that to an extent, but the emotion has slowly and steadily built to a crescendo and it’s hard to imagine anything but birthing this child will cause it to all spill out and find the freedom it longs for. I anticipate many, many tears in the days to come and—strangely—I look forward to them and the release they inevitably will bring.

You’d think hearing the baby’s heartbeat with a doppler or seeing a fluttering heart on an ultrasound would help curb the anxiety. It did, but I’ve seen that before only to return to see a dark, blank screen weeks later.

You’d think making it to the fourteen week mark would bring a sense of relief. (All of my miscarriages happened before thirteen weeks.) It helped, yes, but there was still apprehension and angst.

You’d think feeling the baby move would help ease the fear. It has, but there are plenty of times during the day when the baby isn’t moving and you don’t know when they will next.

You’d think a growing belly and ongoing ultrasounds and dopplers and fundal checks and relentless signs of pregnancy would all help alleviate the thought that something could happen to the baby at any time. Those things all helped, but when—like I have—you’ve heard story after story of a baby’s heart suddenly stopping or a baby born still or an infant dying of SIDS or a child’s life claimed by terminal illness or a friend’s adult son taking his life, you know you are never really “safe” from death no matter what age your child reaches. You know you’re never truly safe from a broken heart.

With all six of our babies we announced our pregnancy early before doctors considered it “safe” to do so (that so-called ‘magical’ twelve week mark when chances drastically reduce for having a miscarriage). And with all six of our babies we’ve known we were risking public grief should something go wrong. But we’ve never once felt a moment of regret for being open or honest about our lives.

Celebration is best done in the company of others; mourning is, too.

Even now at thirty-nine weeks and three days pregnant, I still have moments of fleeting unease—when did the baby last move? (Poke, poke—you’re still okay in there, right darling?) There have been times I’ve wanted to go into labor just so I could see him breathing on the outside even while knowing the safest place he’ll ever be is within my womb, protected from the world. The mind is a funny thing. So is the heart.

But mostly these days I simply feel ready. Ready to hold this child in my arms. Ready to give him a name that will speak of his identity and point toward his destiny. Ready to see my sons greet their little brother and grow into a new version of themselves. Ready to see my husband cradle a newborn again. Ready to have a baby at my breast. Ready to share him with the world outside.

I may be eating my words in a few weeks but I even feel ready to be awake in the night, knowing what an incredible privilege the sacrifice of motherhood really is. I understand it better now. I’m ready to lean into it.

In the loss community, the term “rainbow baby” is often used to describe babies born after miscarriage or stillbirth. The metaphor is happy and it works for a lot of families as they see their new baby as a gorgeous gift after a storm. I’ll probably never use the term for myself personally though. I blame that on the bible.

The first rainbow we see in the bible is the one that comes after the great flood detailed in Genesis. Whether you believe the story is fact or myth is irrelevant in being able to clearly see its intention. God speaks to Noah of promise and hope and a new beginning, yes, but he also gives Noah word that he’ll never again flood the earth. That promise came with assurance that history wouldn’t repeat itself in the same form. It was the hope Noah needed to lead his family into something new, not forgetting the past but knowing it would never happen again. Although bizarre from a literal perspective, I love the story and can easily recognize its beauty and find plenty of application for my own life and for humanity.

But I’ve never had that same reassurance God gave Noah. I’ve never been promised that my personal storm wouldn’t be repeated.

My first so-called “rainbow baby” after Scarlett didn’t make it. My “rainbow baby” after Oliver didn’t live either. My “rainbow baby” after Ruby is now strong and full term and already engaged in my birth canal; he’s hiccupping as I write. But as long as I mother on this earth I have no guarantees that calamity will stay away from my family. I might view rainbows as a lovely reminder that this particular personal storm is over… but they in no way carry with them reassurance that another devastating storm isn’t around the corner. The metaphor is flawed for me and I’m okay with that. I don’t have to use it to appreciate the gift this child is.

My son is not my rainbow baby. He’s my son—wholly and completely loved… just as my other babies are wholly and completely loved, though absent from our home. This child ready to join us in the outside world doesn’t replace them, he doesn’t make up for the heartbreak of death and loss and grief. Love doesn’t work that way. Love stands on its own while also bringing all things together. (That, friends, is a true miracle.)

Miscarriages ensured I lost a certain innocence about pregnancy that I carried before. They also ensured I wouldn’t take cover under false promises or assume that life will turn out as expected. I am not entitled to happy endings, nor am I ungrateful for them when they come. If anything, suffering has made me appreciate joy more… but I will not demand it more. I can’t. I know too much.

I don’t “deserve” this baby or this happiness. I receive him and this happiness with arms and heart wide open. I open the gift with gratitude and—hopefully—I embrace it with the measure of wonder and humility the gift warrants. There’s no assurance my life will never be flooded again, but I’ve made peace with that and I choose to see and absorb the beauty anyway. I don’t need storms or clear skies to find rainbows anymore. I’m less interested in formulas and more interested discovering hope in whatever form it decides to take.

Believe me, I realize my rejection of the “rainbow baby” term could sound negative. Perhaps it might make others uncomfortable to hear a hopeful person say things that could be interpreted as doom and gloom when I talk about the possibilities of more storms to come. But the way I see it, it’s not distain. Rather, it’s a depth of hope and trust that comes not in spite of the risks but because of them.

I have seen the faithfulness of God in the midst of the storm—while in the eye of it surrounded by eerie silence yet thankful to realize I’m still alive, and also while tossed in the fray of it, gulping and gasping for a lifeline, wondering if a rescue boat will come before I drown. I’ve also seen it while safely back on shore, recovering under a blanket and wrapped in the comfort of love and sustaining grace.

There he is—God faithful within it all. (It’s who he is. He can’t not be.)

I’ve also seen the faithfulness of God well after the storm when the clouds are well and truly parted and the seas have grown still. I know the sun will rise in the east again tomorrow and the buds will eventually push their way through the barren winters. I know that love always finds its destination. I also know that new life comes after death—it’s the order of the world (made in light of heaven) and we can always hope for it, look for it, and call it into being.

I understand how little I understand and I see Jesus anyway, through it all. He is the source of life as I know it and my hope rests securely in knowing he never stops creating, never stops reproducing life, never stops loving us into becoming more of ourselves.

Maybe I’m too little of a poet and too much of a literalist but the term “rainbow baby” is a broken metaphor to me so I’ll probably never use it as a descriptor myself. But to be clear, it’s not offensive to me when people refer to our son as our rainbow baby. I understand the sentiment and I receive it gratefully, joyfully, and with my whole heart. He is a gift and he will be birthed out of the aftermath of our storm. There’s enough beauty in that to call forth the splendor of a rainbow, indeed.

And that, my friends, is one more reason to rejoice in his coming.

There’s so much to celebrate with the impending birth of our son. I cannot wait to share the beauty and our joy with you soon.

Love,
Adriel

Update May 2018:

Resources to Help You Heal

For further resources to navigate grief after miscarriage and pregnancy loss, or to learn how to best support a friend experiencing loss, please visit my Miscarriage Stories and Resources page. You will also find a free grief journal and a free 7-day devotional.

If you’d like to go deeper in exploring how to grieve with hope, I’ve written a whole book for you:  Grace Like Scarlett: Grieving with Hope after Miscarriage and Loss (available at all major retailers).

Update May 2020:

Grief Support Groups

Join us for an 8-week “Deep Dive” grief support group to help you navigate life after pregnancy loss. Find out more here.

Pregnancy Loss Community

Join us at the kindest place on the internet: Our Scarlett Stories – online community, resource library, and more.

Is it my hormones? Probably.

Is it the diminishing lack of sleep due to all the physical demands of late pregnancy? Probably.

Is it the overwhelming relief and gratitude I have for carrying this baby to term after three consecutive miscarriages? Probably.

Is it the stress of all the work to be done and the soon-to-be changes in my life, family, and work? Probably.

Is it the fact that my heart has finally allowed itself to open up and fully love this baby as I’ve longed to? Probably.

For so many reasons I’ve not shared as freely about this pregnancy as I did with my first two sons. No doubt because I’m aware of how painful it is to see baby bump stuff plastered all over social media when you’re the one experiencing loss, infertility, or other forms of pregnancy-related grief. Right or wrong, that alone has compelled me to hold back much of the time.

I’ve also not talked much about it because this pregnancy has been plain hard and I’ve felt like I’ve had little to say that wouldn’t come out shaped as a complaint. As much as I’m committed to being honest online (and not only showing the ‘beautiful’ parts of life), I’m also aware that using the internet as a platform for unmitigated negativity doesn’t do anyone any good, myself included.

Truth is, this pregnancy has been one of the most challenging times of my life.

Physically, I really struggled through the first trimester. I was exhausted and weak and sick while trying to navigate a huge move and renovation, which I felt powerless to contribute to. Then, just as the nausea and exhaustion were diminishing, I developed pubic symphysis and PGP. If you’ve never experienced this before—I’m so glad and I won’t bore you with the details. If you have, you know how debilitating it can be. I spent weeks in constant pain and struggled to walk, use the stairs (our bedroom and my office are upstairs, while the bathroom, kitchen, and living room are downstairs), or do anything remotely physical. (Pushing a heavy cart while grocery shopping? Playing outside with the kids? Forget about it.) Physical therapy helped, yes, and so did rest, stretches, and techniques for various things like getting in and out of bed, but being in near-constant pain is difficult for the heart to endure, much less the body. For months I felt like a dark cloud rested over my head, making everything more dim than it ‘should’ have been. That, of course, felt emotionally draining and discouraging.

You can probably imagine the added stress of the “what if’s” and the natural anxiety that comes after pregnancy loss. I didn’t experience heightened levels of anxiety after my first two miscarriages—probably because I genuinely thought they were terrible, one-off tragedies—but this pregnancy was by far the hardest on my heart and mind. By this pregnancy, a firm pattern of loss had developed making it difficult to not think my body must be broken and to worry about the consequences of that. At one point I bought a doppler—best $25 I’ve spent for peace of mind in my life. (I found mine used online, hence the awesome bargain.) Even though I had a strict commitment to only use it after I had been feeling anxious for an entire day (rather than every moment of anxiety—those come and go a lot), I still used it about once a week from about 9-16 weeks along. I’m glad I had it; the reassurance was grace to me. (I’m also glad I didn’t use it at every flicker of anxiety—I can see how a tool like that could quickly become detrimental to your mental health if you didn’t use discipline when determining how often to use it.)

But now here we are—our baby is coming in weeks. Weeks. I’m so grateful for that… and I’ve also managed to find new things to fear. (Go figure.)

Being a part of the baby loss community makes it impossible to think you’ve ever reached a “safe” place in your pregnancy—my inbox is just too full of heartbreaking stories from real women still raw in their grief. I’ve not yet created much time to think about birth, and yet now, that makes me anxious, too. I want to enter into labor feeling educated and empowered like I did with Judah, but at the moment I feel more tired than anything else.

I also feel lonely. Being in our new city is exciting and invigorating on so many levels (I don’t think we could love our community any more than we already do), but approaching birth without friends around to walk it out with feels incomplete. I have wonderful friends in other places—no complaints there!—but we’re still forging friendships here in our new city and that takes time. (And acquaintances don’t throw you a baby shower or bring a meal over once baby is born.)

This baby is coming regardless of how I feel or if I’m ‘ready.’ It’s helped to take some tangible steps like sorting through the boys’ old baby clothes, starting to wash little blankets and diapers, allowing myself the freedom to buy a few newborn items that I don’t need but want, and creating an online gift registry for people that live far away but might want to celebrate this precious one’s life with a gift anyway.

And here’s the thing: my life is filled with blessings—too many to quantify, too wonderful to comprehend—and so admitting the hard stuff is, well, hard. When I admit the hard stuff, it also means I must be prepared to battle the guilt that comes along with admitting it. (Isn’t it so wrong that we allow our gratitude to be bullied by guilt when we acknowledge life is beautiful and brutal all at once? I certainly don’t want that to be my default, and yet sometimes it feels easier to give in to the bullying rather than fighting it.) But ultimately there’s this: Jesus, in his tenderness, is able to hold my heart through all of it—the gratitude and the (false) guilt—and when I hold still long enough I can hear him saying, “Take courage, you are seen, you are heard, you are enough, you are loved.”

Scripture says that Jesus is made strong in my weakness. I don’t always feel that to be true or even know how to comprehend it in principle (much less in practice), but that’s faith isn’t it? Faith, mixed with hope, looks like reaching for something we can’t see or understand and deciding to give ourselves to it anyway. Faith is heading toward my son’s birthday knowing we both belong to Jesus and our belonging isn’t contingent upon my feelings of readiness or worthiness or strength or capability.

As I type these words, my son is moving and twisting and poking at my insides. He reminds me that although at times I feel like I’m in the dark or even trapped without an obvious way forward, I can rest assured things will be okay as long as I stay right here in the present—right where I’m meant to be. It sounds simple, but I know it to be true: it will all be okay.

It’s your reminder, too, friend. We’re safe. We’re cared for. We’ll be provided for. We are loved.

I need to sink deep into these truths. Do you?

This song is my anthem right now:

Sinking Deep by Hillsong Young & Free

Standing here in your presence
In a grace so relentless
I am won by perfect love
Wrapped within the arms of heaven
In a peace that lasts forever
Sinking deep in mercy’s sea

I’m wide awake, drawing close, stirred by grace
And all my heart is yours
All fear removed, I breathe you in, I lean into
Your love, oh, your love

When I’m lost you pursue me
Lift my head to see your glory
Lord of all, so beautiful
Here in you I find shelter
Captivated by the splendor
Of your face, my secret place

I’m wide awake, drawing close, stirred by grace
And all my heart is yours
All fear removed, I breathe you in, I lean into
Your love, oh, your love

Your love so deep is washing over me
Your face is all I seek, you are my everything
Jesus Christ, You are my one desire
Lord, hear my only cry, to know you all my life

(If you’re reading this from an email, please click over here if you’d like to see the video.)

Regardless of where you are on your own journey of pregnancy, fertility, motherhood, or faith (or even if you don’t see yourself within those categories at all), I hope you find yourself “in a grace so relentless… wrapped within the arms of heaven.”

Sinking deep,
Adriel

Have you experienced miscarriage or another form of baby loss?

If so, I’d be deeply grateful if you’d take the time to fill out this online survey as I research for my upcoming book. (I’m interested in hearing from you if you’ve experienced infertility or elective termination as well.) I want to make sure I’m writing to the real needs of real women, not just theoretical stuff or only my own experiences. (It will take you 10-15 minutes, depending on how extensively you choose answer the questions.)

I realize these are sensitive topics, so please feel free to be as personal and detailed as you’re comfortable with. All answers will be strictly confidential and anonymous unless you expressly state otherwise.

Also, would you be willing to share this on your social media accounts or forward this post to a friend? Maybe you haven’t experienced this type of loss personally but you know others who have. Please help me get this in front of the right people. (Dads/partners can take it, too. I would love to hear their perspective as my husband and I will be writing a chapter together specifically for bereaved fathers.)

If there are other things you’d like to share that you think I might find helpful, please share in the comments or email me privately.

With thanks and love,
Adriel

TAKE THE SURVEY NOW.

Please note: There are several questions that relate to faith (I’m a Christian and write from that perspective), but you don’t have to share my faith or care about spirituality to take the survey.

We chit-chatted about the weather and the football and the warm meal being served up by the community kitchen. There was a glint in his eye I recognized, but I hadn’t yet realized where it came from.

Over the course the meal we talked about hope and illness and isolation and strength. We talked about the smoothness of the mashed potatoes (they were delicious!), the delight of children (grandchildren in his case), and the joys and challenges of inner city living.

When he told me he had been HIV positive for a decade and a half, we talked about the marvels of modern medicine and how the city hospital a ten-minute walk from my house used to have an entire floor dedicated to HIV/AIDS patients until that wing was no longer needed. He spoke of nearly dying and how his osteoporosis has underwritten several broken bones since then, and how he goes to three churches as much as he’s able because “each of them differently reflects God.”

His stories of heartbreak and suffering weren’t tales to elicit pity. He wasn’t there in search of charity. He wasn’t pulling on heartstrings, he was—in his own way—offering a response of worship and praise. Perhaps he had discovered the gift of vulnerability and how it makes a way for love to be realized. Perhaps he knew how powerful the light in him truly was.

As the conversation turned toward gratitude I realized why I recognized the glint in his eye. I wanted to cup his cheeks in my hands and drink long and slow of the joy mingling around us. I wanted to kiss his hands and wash his feet and call him Jesus, for I knew I had eaten with the Savior that night.

Leaving the community kitchen my mind wasn’t filled with ideas for how to reach “those people” who were in need, or with what new or innovative ways my family and I might serve. Instead my mind was filled with how “those people” would change me and how much I need them.

What is ‘charity’ and are we getting it wrong?

This image is beautiful, and I agree with the sentiments it hopes to convey, and yet it doesn’t encompass the fullness of truth. Christian charity (which is translated from the Greek word ‘agape’ for love) is a love that’s sacrificial, unconditional, and anything but “crumbs.” Yet we’ve turned it into a slur—the term “charity case” is always used in a derogatory sense—and in doing so we’ve twisted the word (and concept) into something ugly and opposite of what it actually means.

Charity is not something we should despise, but a word that needs to be redefined within our modern context using language our society doesn’t cheapen and throw away. Charity describes the type of love Jesus displayed as he took himself to the cross. His sacrificial act of love certainly wasn’t handing the world crumbs; his demonstration of charity gave the world hope and promise, redemption and purpose.

Like the image suggests, the notion of giving someone a seat at your table (instead of handing them your leftovers) is an idea worth spreading. Absolutely. But that very concept—I would suggest—is what ‘charity’ really is. Christian, gospel-focused charity means making space for others and giving them our best because they deserve it. All image-bearers, all of creation “deserve” it.

It’s not the poor or the “needy” who need our charity; it’s all of us. Matthew helped remind me of that when he extended charity toward me by inviting me into his heart as we shared the table together.

Our labor for justice should be fueled by a motivation of love (true Biblical charity), not opposed to it. Perhaps we’ve just mixed up our definitions a little, albeit with good intentions for positive social change.

Maybe it’s time we get those words straight again so we can walk in the fullness of God’s intentions for our lives. Justice motivated by charitable love is God’s hope for humanity… and sometimes that might look a bit like sharing meatloaf and mashed potatoes.

Who are you extending charity to these days? And who are you receiving charity from? I hope your table is full and that love and justice abounds.

Personally? I can’t wait to go back and eat dinner with Jesus again.

Love,
Adriel x

*Name changed for privacy.

Stepping out of my comfort zone

Two years ago I went to my first writers conference. It was a small, regional one and I had two friends going so I knew I could stick with them if I felt uncomfortable. Although I generally do fine in social settings (I’m an extraverted introvert), at times I have to make myself “turn it on” when I’d rather just slink into the background. Many of my friends would be surprised by that admission considering I’m often described as confident and bold and I do a fair bit of public speaking so am comfortable with an audience. (I just don’t particularly enjoy small talk.) But I promise you, I have my awkward moments too, even if they are mostly internal.

My husband, kids, and I had flown in from Australia and pulled into my parents’ driveway in my hometown of Bend, Oregon. It was the beginning of a much-needed sabbatical after fifteen years in full time ministry and our only plans for the remainder of the year were to have no plans other than Ryan taking over the primary care of the children while I spent some time exploring writing more intentionally. We knew more about what we wouldn’t do than what we would. (We’d decline anything resembling speaking invitations, leadership roles, things that required regular meetings or time commitments, etc.)

After our sleepy but excited 2:00am arrival the night before, I was in the car headed over the mountains to the conference the next afternoon. That night after the first session I stood (somewhat uncomfortably) in a small group of women trying to keep my eyes open and wondering how I would make it through the weekend. I was tired and felt disconnected and insecure, keenly aware that I knew little about the writing and publishing industry.

Everyone seemed friendly enough—I gave myself an internal pep talk—I’d be fine.

Then Jenni said hello. She said she knew me and we were friends on facebook. I didn’t have a clue who she was, assuming she must have been a connection through one of my speaking gigs (I do a fair bit of circuit teaching through my work with YWAM and often get friend requests through those). I bluffed my way through the intro until she helped me make the connection that she knew my little brother from school and bible study and had been following our family’s ministry and work online.

When she left the conversation, my friend said: “That’s Jenni Burke. She’s a big deal literary agent in the Christian publishing industry.”

My response? “What’s a literary agent?”

I laugh about the exchange now because it was the beginning of a genuine friendship with Jenni (who also happens to now be my agent). I feel lucky that we became friends and professional colleagues at the same time—something I think is rare and beautiful.

What will “they” think?

Not long after the conference I noticed Jenni post on facebook about preparing for a writer’s retreat in Tuscany and, on a whim, shot her an email saying how awesome it is to see young women pursuing their dreams. (I work with young people and there’s almost nothing more inspiring than seeing them really go for it and chase their dreams. I especially love to see women leading out like she was.) I also asked what the retreat was and if there were any spots left, along with a line about joking, not joking.

After hitting send I felt like a complete idiot. I hardly knew her and now had the knowledge that she was a “big deal agent.” (I’ll forever think of that as her title thanks to my friend who shall remain nameless—I’m looking at you, A.) Immediately I realized my email should have been limited to just the encouragement; I didn’t’ want her to think I was buttering her up to then ask to come along. I genuinely wanted her to hear an “I’m proud of you!” message with no strings attached. And not only that, but if I had thought about it for more than a nanosecond I would’ve had the revelation that she’s a literary agent and so this trip would be for her clients—you know, real writers with real book deals. I certainly didn’t belong in that group. I hardly even knew what an agent was and I wouldn’t have a clue about what it takes to land a book deal.

In case you didn’t know, there’s no way to take back a facebook message once you’ve hit send.

Three minutes later I get a message back from Jenni: “Send me your phone number! Are you free to talk right now???!”

We spent the next twenty minutes on the phone. She told me all about the retreat and the vision, spent some time affirming me as a writer (I didn’t even know she had ever read a word I wrote), and told me she believed in my development and career as a writer as well as the ministry my husband and I do and wanted to somehow invest in all of it. (My eyeballs were nearly popping out by this point—so glad it was a phone call, not FaceTime.) She also told me she had been feeling like there was one person missing from the group and—without pressuring me to say yes—she wondered if (hoped?) I was that person.

I had been out at a cafe that day for a “writing day” but there would be no writing after a conversation like that. Breathless with excitement, I flew home to tell Ryan and see what he thought about the trip. (I already knew what he would say.) Without missing a beat he said OF COURSE YOU SHOULD GO. We knew immediately it was an opportunity too good to pass up.

The retreat was one month out and I didn’t have a dime toward the cost. For those who don’t know, my husband and I are full time volunteers with Youth With A Mission. (Some call us “missionaries” but I always feel that word has weird connotations so tend to avoid it when possible.) As missionaries, 100% of our income is the support (donations) we’re able to personally raise from friends, family, and churches. We’ve always managed to raise enough for our regular expenses, but dreamy trips to Tuscany to be inspired as a writer? It seemed like an insane ask.

After battling with the “what will our supporters think of this extravagance?” question, I dove in to the process of raising the funds needed. Over the next couple of weeks we raised all the money (I guess others believe in my writing, too) and I booked my ticket to Florence. That’s when the nerves started to sink in.

I recognized a few names from the group—people with books published (or to be published), people who had blogs and social media platforms far more influential than mine, several of whom I was fan of. I did have one personal friend in the group (Tsh) and was glad for that. But mostly? Mostly I felt out of my depth, like I didn’t belong.

Because he is good

When we arrived in Tuscany and opened the door to our villa, all six women (and perhaps a few of the men) in the group promptly burst into tears. No exaggeration there—the beauty and extravagance of what had been prepared for us was overwhelming. I had already been overwhelmed during the weeks leading up to this moment—grappling with my place in the group and all the insecurities that rose up with it and then the amazement as the donations began to pour in from people who wanted to invest in me as a writer—but this moment on the threshold of our villa is when I realized God was doing something special with each person in the group.

Each of us, in our own way and with our own baggage, needed to see that God had prepared a feast for us. Each of us needed to see that we belonged there, surrounded by all the beauty and extravagance and promise of rest. In this time, in this place, in this way—we needed to see it was for us. It wasn’t because we deserved it or earned it in some way. It wasn’t because we were somehow elite or ‘special.’ (Each one of God’s created are ‘special’ and worthy and deserving.) It was simply because he is good. (He enjoys seeing us enjoy life—imagine that!)

You belong

So here’s what I want to ask you, friend: How many times have you felt like you didn’t belong? If you’re anything like me, it’s a feeling that comes with regularity—sometimes with subtlety, other times with blaring obviousness. And how many times have you decided you don’t belong because of some internal framework you’ve set up to determine when you’re worthy or unworthy, qualified or not?

Here’s what I want to say to you: you belong.

If you were invited, you belong.

If you invited yourself and were then included, you belong.

If you invited yourself and were rejected, you still belong. Your belonging is found in him—Jesus.

Sometimes we feel like we don’t belong because we haven’t taken the risk to step into the territory of asking for what we desire.

You have permission

This year has been one where I’ve continually felt the refrain “You have permission” rattling around my brain. It’s a constant reminder that I need at this point in my life because, although I’m finally beginning to believe it, I obviously still need some help internalizing it (hence the need for a refrain).

Let’s be honest, shall we? We all want to be asked, included, invited, sought after. But what if there are times where we already have permission to initiate but we’ve been too afraid to do so? What if God wants to give us the desires of our hearts more than we want it ourselves?

When the disciples saw Jesus walking on water during the storm they were terrified until they realized who it was. Jesus asked Peter, “What do you want?” and Peter replied that he wanted to be called out to walk on the water, too.

You know what happened next, right? Peter walked on water.

Soften your heart toward possibility

Sometimes we’re waiting for the invitation—waiting for permission—but God is, in fact, waiting for us to approach him first. This doesn’t mean he’s our genie or Santa Clause; he’s not waiting around to grant us every selfish ambition or whim we entertain. But as you delight in him (Psalm 37:4) he gives you the desires of your heart. In other words, he plants them there.

The Hebrew word delight in this verse is ‘anog’ (a verb), meaning to be soft or pliable. The more you soften your heart toward God, the more your desires also begin to line up with his—he gives them to you. More and more you can trust those desires and when given the opportunity, you can act on them. Ask. Reach out. Initiate. Don’t wait for permission, but step out in faith. (Remember: faith isn’t required if you already know what the outcome will be!) You might get it wrong—we all make mistakes and run ahead of God sometimes—but when you do a humble response is all that’s needed for his grace to be released afresh in the situation. (See how good God is? I mean, seriously.)

What’s holding you back?

Friend, what are you waiting for permission for? What are you wishing you’d be invited into? What insecurities are holding you back from feeling like you belong in the place you desire to spread your wings in?

The biggest hindrance to feeling we belong is our own sense of insecurity. No matter how much we can encourage and include one another (and we should!) no one can remedy that for you. Insecurity must be confronted in the heart—the work of you and the Holy Spirit together to bring freedom where freedom longs to come.

The ancient Psalm says, “Yet I still belong to you; you hold my right hand… My health may fail, and my spirit may grow weak, but God remains the strength of my heart; he is mine forever.” (Psalm 73:23, 26)

You may feel frail or weak (or any number of things), but the truth is that you belong. You belong.

Over and over throughout my life I’ve seen that whatever the circumstances may look like, whatever I’ve done (or not done), whatever decisions I’ve made, passions I’ve pursued, opportunities I’ve seized or ignored, or successes or failures I’ve had. . . God has been there calling me his own, holding my hand. My whole identity centers around the fact that I still belong to him.

If you bear his name (call yourself a ‘Christian’) then you belong, too. And if you don’t, well you can—it’s an open invite. Permission’s already granted.

What are you waiting for?

Love,

Adriel x

Image credit

It’s not an unusual scene: the kids are running through the house, chasing each other, playing tag, tackling, tickling. Friends are over and the girls have jumped in with the boys. Everyone is giggling and having a great time. Then I notice my boys (ages four and six) corner their little friend (a four year old girl) and I notice her face changes expression. What was once a cheeky smile and glint in her eye is replaced by apprehension and reservation. She no longer wants to play this chasing game but she doesn’t have the words to say no or articulate why.

Although I don’t like to swoop in an interrupt my kids’ play (I think they often learn best by figuring things out on their own), I make an exception.

“Boys, STOP! Immediately.” They turn and look at me, surprised—shocked, even—at the sternness and urgency of my tone.

“Nella,* would you like the boys to stop now?” I ask her. She nods her head and smiles again. [*Name changed for privacy.]

Nella runs off playing and I pull the boys aside.

They haven’t done anything wrong. Everyone has been happily playing and getting along. They were doing nothing inappropriate. And yet they’re still learning how to read one another’s signals. It’s particularly hard when children aren’t able to verbalize their limits or what they’re comfortable with.

Again (for what feels like the thousandth time), I launch into discussion about the issue of consent with my boys. . . because that’s exactly what this little (common) scenario illustrates.

Teaching consent must start early

I’ve been using the word consent with my children since they were toddlers. Not because I care about the size or scope of words they use, but because certain words need not be watered down. They’re little, they’re still learning, but they’re learning (present, ongoing tense) and that’s the best I can do as a parent—inspire them and intentionally lead them in the process. This is not a one-off conversation, but one that’s already happened many times over and will continue to happen and mature over time as my boys grow in their comprehension of the subject.

The recent Stanford rape case has been all over news and social media, causing people outrage over the slap on the hand punishment the perpetrator received. Rightfully so—it’s a case and consequence that demands our outrage. It should spur all of us into collective action to stand up for the rights of girls and women and teach our young people the dire consequences of not heeding the principles of consent.

But it has to start way before our kids hit puberty, and most definitely needs to start well before they hit the college scene. These conversations (and the modeling to go along with it) needs to start while they’re still in diapers for boy and girl children alike.

I’m sure Ryan and I are not getting it entirely right, but we’ve been doing our best to teach our kids about these issues from the day they were born. Below are some specifics—hopefully these ideas and practices serve as helpful to you as you grapple with these issues in your own home.

How we’re teaching our children body privacy, personal agency, and consent:

Don’t require affection.

As much as it warms our hearts to see our kids express affection in a healthy way, we will never require or cajole them into it. Yes, this means even to well-meaning grandparents or other trusted family members and friends. If the kids don’t want to give someone a hug or a kiss, it is within their power to refuse and we don’t allow others to violate that, even adult family members. (This means we will absolutely intervene if a child is resisting and an adult swoops in regardless of our child’s posture toward them.)

Respecting personal agency.

When others are over at bedtime (or during good-byes), we always say to the kids, “Time to say goodbye/goodnight! Why don’t you give everyone a hug or high five or whatever you’re comfortable with?” and then we leave it up to the children to determine what makes them feel comfortable and safe in that particular moment. Sometimes the entire group gets a round of hugs, whether or not the kids know everyone well. Other times a verbal “good night” is the only thing they offer. This is their prerogative and we fully support it.

If we expect our kids to learn to respect the physical boundaries of others, we have to first teach them that their own physical boundaries are important and worthy of our respect. If we don’t respect the boundaries they put up around physical comfort and affection among “safe” people, how will we know they can do so around “unsafe” people—whoever they might be—or people they feel threatened or overpowered by? (And we all know that statistically abusers are generally already known to the children—so are they “safe” or not?) Expecting our children to truly believe their no means no (and others’ no also mean no), means we must also respect their no’s even when we’d prefer they responded differently. As hard as it can be around close family like grandparents (or even siblings), it’s important we never force our kids to be affectionate, because doing so reinforces the notion that their refusal or personal values and comfort/safety are secondary to appeasing the adult involved. (It’s also important we recognize the power dynamic at play there.) We can encourage affection and polite manners without violating our children’s personal agency. Start by offering choices to be verbal, wave, blow a kiss, give a high five, hug, etc. at greetings and goodbyes and go from there.

One yes doesn’t mean a forever yes.

We also have to teach our kids that a one-time yes isn’t an always yes. Just because you felt like hugging Grandpa or Grandma or Uncle Eddie last time they left doesn’t mean you’re required to hug them this time. This can be a sensitive one with family, but adults must recognize that the child’s sense of safety is more important than an adult’s feelings of rejection or offense or disappointment. If they don’t already understand on their own, any respectful adult that loves the children in their life will understand if they are given an explanation by us as parents. (If the adult is unwilling to put themselves in the child’s shoes or heed your explanation and wishes as the child’s parent, well then there are other issues to contend with. Um, good luck to you!)

Words and body language sometimes conflict.

When roughhousing or tickling our kids (which they love, of course!), we have a strict rule that as soon as anyone in the mix says “don’t!” or “stop!” or “no!” we have to cease immediately even if they are still smiling and giggling. It can be confusing when someone is smiling and laughing and also saying no, but we have to teach them that the “no” is even more powerful than the smile. Even if our kids are teasing “stop it!” but actually want us to continue, abruptly stopping and respecting their verbal “no” helps teach them that their words are powerful. Increasingly they will learn to use the right words in the right context while also learning to take the words of others at face value.

Actively help them learn to read body language and signals.

Like the case with our little friend Nella, we also have to teach them to read others’ body language. This social skill is much harder and obviously increases with maturity, but that’s where we as parents have to set the example and be deliberate to pause for teachable moments. We do that by observing our own kids’ body language and articulating it as we’re able (“You look like this might not be fun anymore. Is that true? Would you like me to stop?”) and also calling it out for them to see like I did with Nella. I wasn’t upset with my kids for not picking up her subtle signals, but I did want to make sure they saw that it was important enough for me to immediately intervene. Our chat after the event helped to teach them why I responded the way I did and reminded them why it’s important to grow in these areas. Sometimes it’s not as simple as a “no means no.” Sometimes no answer (not expressly granting consent) also means no.

Ask permission—start early with modeling.

It should never be awkward to ask permission. If we see one of our children relating to a younger child with affection and going in for a hug or to pick them up, we remind our children to ask permission first. “Can I give you a hug?” If it’s a baby, then we also ask the parent: “Can I pat her head please?” We also do this by modeling permission to our kids. Rather than just pulling out the hairbrush and yanking the knots out of their hair, we can say,  “You look like you’re having trouble getting those tangles out, would you like me to help you?” We wait for the child’s permission, which at times only comes after reassuring them we’ll be as gentle as possible. Asking permission does not make you a permissive parent, it makes you a respectful one.

Teach them to care for their bodies.

Another way to teach body consent is by allowing children to have some say over how they take care of their bodies as early as possible. This doesn’t mean allowing them to only brush their teeth when they feel like it, but it does mean explaining why certain things will require your intervention for their own safety. “You must brush your teeth so you don’t damage them and get a sore mouth, but you can decide whether you do it before or after you put on your jammies.” We also do this with food, teaching kids to listen to their body and ultimately bare the consequences of not finishing their dinner if they don’t love the food (natural consequence: they get hungry). Teaching children that their bodies belong to them doesn’t start with “stranger danger” talks, it starts at the dinner table and in the bath and while getting dressed. It starts with helping them to own and care for their body and to gain a sense of personal agency from a young age.

Sharing versus giving.

I’m all for teaching kids how to share, but in the midst of that leaning process, we need to consider their need to learn internal motivation for sharing, not just external obedience. In our house, we use the term “be generous” much more than sharing. For example, if two kids are fighting over the use of a toy we might ask, “how can you be generous in this situation?” Often they will come up with the solution themselves (“How about you play with it until lunch time and I can have it in the afternoon?”). It doesn’t always work out smoothly, but as the kids get older they are getting better and better at coming up with their own ideas of how to be generous and kind to each other. Toddlers can’t come up with a solution like this on their own of course, but you can suggest one and get their buy in. This kind of intention is time consuming and can be frustrating, especially when you know that making a demand (“You’ve had enough! Give Joe a turn with the toy now!”) will get the immediate results you’d like to see. But ultimately, teaching kids they have the power to make personal decisions that effect others is all part of learning respect and consent and love.

Allow kids to have different opinions.

Do we demand unflinching obedience from our children? Or do we teach our children it’s okay to have their own opinions, concerns, and questions? As a parent, I feel like there are a thousand opportunities a day to shut down my kids’ free thinking and make them comply with my wishes. This is a hard one for me. Sometimes I don’t want to take the time to explain, I don’t want to answer questions, I don’t want to hear why someone thinks it’s important to skip nap time even though we have nap time every single day. In those instances I’d much rather have simple obedience—no questions asked, no alternatives suggested, no bargaining cards drawn. But ultimately, I’m more concerned with my kids learning internal regulation and wise decision-making than blind obedience. How can I expect them to learn how to make their own good choices when faced with pressure if I don’t allow them to explore having differing opinions under the safety of our own roof? If I want my kids to be able to hold their own with someone they perceive in authority that puts them in a compromising or unsafe situation, then it starts with me at home being willing to let them engage in conversation with me when they disagree or don’t understand. [See also: Parenting to build relationships, not robots]

Specifics of body privacy.

While teaching body privacy, use anatomically correct names for genitals (this removes the implication that certain parts are shameful or can’t be talked about). We also make sure the kids know that sometimes those private parts need to be touched by a safe adult (when helping to bathe, wipe a bottom, or visit the doctor for instance), but when they do need to be touched it is only to clean or briefly examine. It’s always quick, and it’s never, ever a secret.

Don’t have secrets.

Along those same lines, we have a guideline in our family that there are no secrets, only surprises. As daddy’s birthday is approaching, we might keep his present a surprise, but it’s never a secret.  While our children are still children, we want them to know and trust that everything is fair game to be shared in our family, especially if it’s a ‘secret’ thing that makes them feel uncomfortable. Rather than calling everything a secret, we differentiate between privacy, surprises, and secrets. If mom and dad need to talk about something that’s not appropriate for the kids to be included in, it’s not us sharing secrets, it’s us talking privately. Banning the word ‘secret’ from your vocabulary is hard at first, but you get used to it fairly quickly and we think it’s important for these early years. As the kids get older, we will begin to introduce the concept of “speaking in confidence” and how and when that’s also appropriate.

Three important subjects with lots of overlap

Body privacy, personal agency, and consent are three fairly distinct subjects. . . and yet they have a lot of overlap. All three of these areas require intentional parenting and there are plenty of resources out there for parents who want to learn more about how to lead your kids in conversations surrounding these issues. (A quick google search will easily get you started.) For the purpose of this post, I’ve left all three lumped in together—hopefully it’s not too much information all at once. (Not the best blog post writing strategy considering how short our internet attention spans are these days–yikes!)

I’m not a parenting or child development expert, but I am an intentional parent who’s spent a lot of time thinking through and learning about these issues. I hope you find our experiences helpful. Like you, we’re trying our hardest to do what’s best for our kids. Surely we’re making some mistakes, but hopefully the things we’re doing right will outweigh our missteps. That’s the best you and I can hope for. 

We’re in this parenting gig together so let’s share what’s working and what’s not. Please add your experiences, suggestions, or resources related to teaching children body privacy, personal agency, and consent in the comments.

Adriel x

“I take the good with the bad. I can’t love people in slices.” —Sean Connery

I feel the same about our life in the tiny house: it’s impossible to love it in slices, so I just loved it in whole. That doesn’t mean, however, that it was all easy.

Here are the rest of things we found most challenging while living in our tiny 95 square foot caravan. (And no, I’m not including the time we were pulled over on the side of Australia’s longest stretch of nothing with a blown tire.)

(Part 1 can be found here.)

5. Tiny house = bad weather blues

Because the house is so small, you become dependent on outdoor spaces to supplement your lifestyle. (Another one of my favorite things!) The problem is when the weather isn’t cooperating with your need for outdoor living. We were lucky that we were able to housesit for some friends during the coldest six weeks of winter last year. Not only was it frigid (yes, there are places that get cold in Australia!), but it rained for almost those exact six weeks. Ugh.

We were so grateful not to be confined to our little 95 square feet during that time. We could have done it—necessity is the mother of invention and creativity, right?)—but it was easier to shift the family for those few brutal weeks. Alternately, we could have driven someplace warmer during those weeks to avoid the brunt of winter, but that didn’t work for us as we were in the middle of house-hunting for a “normal” house during that time and needed to stay put.

6. Tiny house = constraints on hospitality

Right off the bat I have to say that I don’t define hospitality as something you do, but something you are. Because of that, tiny house life absolutely does not mean that hospitality needs to be thrown out the window. What it does mean is that you have to be more intentional and creative with the way in which you express your hospitality.

For us that meant outdoor cooking and dining when the weather was nice, or sometimes meeting in the park rather than at our house. But we didn’t let our constraints limit us too much. We once babysat five kids under five in our caravan. Another time we hosted six neighbor kids for an impromptu Saturday morning pancake breakfast. And another time it meant we transformed our kitchen table (that folds down into a bed) for an out-of-state guest to actually stay with us for several days. (She was a close family friend so it worked.)

Where we did feel a bit constrained were the times we would have like to invite larger dinner parties or personally accommodate out of town guests with the level of hospitable care we’d normally prefer. Again, tiny house life doesn’t mean hospitality should go out the window, but it does mean you have to rethink how to express it.

7. Tiny house = limits on baking and cooking and food storage

As an American, I grew up used to big, weekly grocery runs with my mom, which meant a full fridge and pantry. In later years, Costco came on the scene and—hello—it was all over. Buy big to save big—that’s the habit I had to break when moving into the caravan. It was a huge challenge for me to rethink our food and meal habits, but it wasn’t impossible. We learned to eat more European style—do quick runs to the shops for produce and dairy and bread as needed. Planning simple meals that don’t require a ton of ingredients helps, too.)

The other challenge was not having an oven. I felt this a little, but Ryan felt it even more. He loves to bake (I know—how lucky am I?) and he found it a challenge to limit his cooking to not include an oven. Ultimately it worked though. We had a BBQ, two electric hotplates, a microwave, and a rice cooker. Originally I had thought I’d get a small slow cooker, but after looking in several thrift stores to no avail, I never actually got around to fulfilling that desire. If we ever do another long stint in the caravan I might consider adding that to the mix as a way to cater for all my BOYS, but for now, what we had worked. And besides, Aussies love a good reason to BBQ.

8. Tiny house = life on the road meant huge tech/internet challenges

To be honest, this one shocked us. We knew Australia wasn’t the best in terms of internet coverage and access, but we were blown away by just how difficult it was for us to work on the road due to our lack of internet. After having spent a year in the States where internet is literally everywhere and every phone plan seems to include unlimited data, we were constantly frustrated by how hard it was to get online.

Some of that challenge could have been addressed by changing service providers, but since we were locked into contracts, it would have meant paying huge penalties. Even still, much of the areas we drove through had zero access anyway, regardless of service providers. There were times where we were offline for days. Yes, that can sound appealing. . . but only when you’re planning for it and hoping to have an uninterrupted holiday. When you’re trying to maintain working remotely as you go it serves as a major roadblock. Other times when we finally would get access, we’d spend three hours doing 20 minutes of work because the connections were so terrible. Both Ryan and I had moments of wanting to throw our laptops and phones under a tire on the highway many times. (And I won’t even tell you about the time when Ryan drove several hours in the wrong direction because he thought google maps was working when it wasn’t.)

For those that read my favorite things post, please don’t assume that my eight worst things cancel out my six favorite things about our life in the tiny house. (Apples to oranges and all that.) We loved our year in Vinny and we’d do it again in a heartbeat if the timing and circumstances were right. (If you missed Part 1, you can read it here.)

If you haven’t already, you can see more of the day-to-day of what our life in the caravan looked like by following the hashtag #livingsmalltolivebig on instagram.

Adriel x

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LIVING SMALL TO LIVE BIG: A SERIES ON TINY HOUSE LIVING WITH A FAMILY

Ever wondered what it would be like to move into a tiny house on wheels… with a family? Join the boys and I as we spend a year #livingsmalltolivebig and travel around Australia in our renovated vintage caravan. (This series is still in process—I’ll add the links below as the posts go live.)

• Home is where you park it: Why we’ve moved into a tiny house on wheels
• Wings and roots: Of mixed metaphor and the search for home
• Tiny house, big love: A photo essay
• 6 awesome things about tiny house life
• The 8 worst things about tiny house life (Part 1 of 2)
• The hardest part about living in a tiny house (Part 2 of 2)
• Vinnie, the vintage caravan: A tiny tour of our tiny house (including before and after renovation pics)
• Tiny house organizational hacks
• Trip highlights from traveling Australia in our tiny house
• Why every Aussie family should plan a trip around Australia
• Finding a new normal: Transition, chaos, and intentional living

Do you have other questions about our time living in 95 square feet or about tiny house life in general? Please let me know in the comments and I’ll do my best to answer your questions or add to this collection of posts.

There are so many amazing things about living in a tiny house. . . and then there’s the rest. Here’s the juicy stuff: all the dirt. Yup, I’m talking the glamorous side of tiny house living such as toilets, dishes, and—um—sexy time.

Here are the ­­­­­first four (of eight) of my least favorite things about living in a tiny house on wheels:

1. Tiny house = bathroom and laundry challenges

We realize that most Americans who go the tiny house on wheels route move into large RVs, and we think that’s great. But when you picture our family home, please don’t picture a Winnebago because that’s FAR from our truth. We had zero bathroom or laundry facilities in our caravan, which meant plenty of challenges.

For the laundry, it simply meant we had to become better planners. This is an inconvenience, but certainly not impossible. For the bathroom, it meant we were at the mercy of wherever we were staying. Often we were parked at a friend’s house; sometimes we parked in campgrounds. Planning when to shower wasn’t our favorite… but worse was planning (or not being able to plan) when to poop. No one likes to poop in someone else’s house. (Sorry, there’s just no classy way to say it.) No way around it, pooping in someone else’s house is just awkward. I’m not going to elaborate on this one, but it really wasn’t ideal.

Not having our own bathroom also meant the kids couldn’t get up at night and take themselves to the potty without an adult accompanying them. Major bummer for sure. Oh yeah, and then factor in pregnancy. (The only time I ever wished I was a man was during those middle of the night urges to pee.)

2. Tiny house = teeny tiny space

This one’s probably another obvious one, but it’s worth mentioning because it bothers some people more than others. My husband (who is 6’3”) struggled with this one more than the rest of us. He simply always felt large in the space—fair enough, right? For the boys and I it wasn’t as big a deal, but then again, we take up half the space Ryan does.

3. Tiny house = privacy and alone time challenges

I felt the space constraints the most during the times I needed to introvert. (Yup, just used that as a verb… it’s a thing, guys.) Although we had a little bedroom with a sliding door I could shut, leaving the caravan was much more conducive to having proper alone time. We made this work and Ryan and I took turns escaping to a coffee shop when we needed it (which forces good communication—bonus), but sometimes you just want your own space and your yoga pants and home environment. Tiny house inconvenience, for sure.

People have also asked about—you know—adult time. For whatever reason talking about this doesn’t embarrass me much, but writing about it sure does! (Maybe because I can’t choose who reads.) Let’s just say that alone time with your husband or wife doesn’t have to be put on hold, but it does need some consideration. We only had one time where a child (who we thought was asleep) said, “why is the caravan shaking?” much to my shock and horror. (Remember, we had a little sliding door so that part was all good.) Needless to say Ryan and I collapsed into giggling fits after tossing back a “what are you talking about, it’s not shaking!”

4. Tiny house = tiny messes appear monstrous

If you read my post on the 6 best things about life in a tiny house, you’ll note that I mentioned “tidy house” as one of the things I most loved. The flip side of that is that if you’re not super intentional to clean up and tidy as you go, you can quickly feel overwhelmed by even the smallest messes. A few toys or clothes or shoes on the floor become a blanket of unwelcome debris in no time. The breakfast dishes look like post-Thanksgiving collateral damage and an art project table of aftermath makes the entire space look like Coachella just rolled through.

Sometimes you just want to leave the mess for later, but in a tiny space you’ve really got to count the cost to your sanity if you’re going to let things slide for long. This can be hard for messy people and also for neat people—ahem—who don’t like mess.

In order for this not to get too long, I decided to break up my “worst things” post into two parts, so please check back soon for part two. And for those that read my favorite things post, please don’t assume that my eight worst things cancel out my six favorite things about our life in the tiny house. (Apples to oranges and all that.) We loved our year in Vinny the vintage van and we’d do it again in a heartbeat if the timing and circumstances were right.

If you haven’t already, you can see more of the day-to-day of what our life in the caravan looked like by following the hashtag #livingsmalltolivebig on instagram.

Adriel x

Living Small To Live Big: A series on tiny house living with a family

Ever wondered what it would be like to move into a tiny house on wheels… with a family? Join the boys and I as we spend a year #livingsmalltolivebig and travel around Australia in our renovated vintage caravan. (This series is still in process—I’ll add the links below as the posts go live.)

• Home is where you park it: Why we’ve moved into a tiny house on wheels
• Wings and roots: Of mixed metaphor and the search for home
• Tiny house, big love: A photo essay
• 6 awesome things about tiny house life
• The 8 worst things about tiny house life (Part 1 of 2)
• The hardest part about living in a tiny house (Part 2 of 2)
• Vinnie, the vintage caravan: A tiny tour of our tiny house (including before and after renovation pics)
• Tiny house organizational hacks
• Trip highlights from traveling Australia in our tiny house
• Why every Aussie family should plan a trip around Australia
• Finding a new normal: Transition, chaos, and intentional living

Do you have other questions about our time living in 95 square feet or about tiny house life in general? Please let me know in the comments and I’ll do my best to answer your questions or add to this collection of posts.

Actually, it’s so much more.

Our year living in our little renovated vintage caravan (our tiny house on wheels) was the result of one of the best decisions we ever made: to utilize our season of transition and necessary work travel in a way that worked for our family. This meant moving into the tiniest space we’ve ever lived in. Yup, we’re talking about 95 square feet. That’s a matchbox when you add in a pregnant woman, a 6’3” man, and two energetic boys under five.

But we loved it. (Except for when we didn’t.)

Here are some of the things we loved most about living in our beautiful little vintage caravan:

1. Tiny house = less STUFF

Since there is such limited space, you have to be intentional with everything you put in it (or exclude). You’re forced to learn how little “stuff” you actually need. (I was amazed at how, even in that tiny space, I still had to have rounds of purging every few months.) I love, love, loved living with less stuff cluttering up my space and my mind.

2. Tiny house = tidy house

When you live in a tiny area you have to keep things neat and tidy or else you will literally go mad. A small mess looks like a GIANT mess when the space is small. A few dirty dishes look like a MOUNTAIN of dirty dishes when the counter top is only two feet long. I loved that everything in our caravan had a specific place and even the members of my family that aren’t as naturally ordered as I am—ahem—learned quickly that things needed to be used and then put back immediately. I’ve never lived in such a clean and tidy space as when we were living in the caravan. I seriously loved it.

3. Tiny house = increased outside living

Our kids were ages 3½ and 5 while living in the caravan. We set up bunk beds for them with toy storage and book racks so they could have their own little spaces to themselves, but still, it’s hard to play on your bed, the shared kitchen table (which doubled as our office), or two square feet of floor space for long periods. This meant we were always exhorting our kids to “go play outside, boys!” and they did. Being outside is good for a thousand reasons (developmentally, creatively, emotionally, physically, spiritually, etc.) and we will always remember our stint in our tiny house as one in which we all enjoyed the outdoors more than ever before.

4. Tiny house = flexibility

Obviously this wouldn’t count for a stationary tiny house, but since ours was on wheels we loved that we could take our home wherever we went. Our year was crazy-full of travel for us (more than 15 different locations, almost all work-related) and having our tiny house on wheels meant we could travel as a family wherever we went and not sacrifice the sense of “home” we needed and wanted for our kids. It was far easier for us than organizing a zillion airfares, booking hotels, and rental cars. In between our stints on the road, we did have come time living in houses (our parents or friends), but I found this far more challenging since it wasn’t truly our own space and it was living out of suitcases rather than our own little caravan drawers and closet and cupboards. Perhaps I should mention here that Ryan and I both work from home and share homeschooling the kids. Our work and lifestyle choices mean that this level of flexibility really suits our family needs.

5. Tiny house = money saving

Because it was a year of uncanny work travel around various parts of Australia, we saved truck loads of money by having our own car and house, rather than what we would have spent on airfares, rental cars, and hotel costs (all while continuing to pay rent somewhere). We saved a lot of money over the year, which we desperately needed as we planned for moving into the fourth most expensive city in the world (Sydney).

6. Tiny house = family bonding

Nothing will bring a family together (or drive them apart) like living in 95 square feet. For much of the world, sharing a space that size is the norm, but for our ‘Ausmerican’ family, it certainly isn’t. We had no place to hide or avoid each other, no place to isolate ourselves, and no place to pretend our own pesky issues didn’t exist. Living in close quarters meant we had to practice good communication and be intentional with how we had fun (i.e. playing a game together rather than going our separate ways to TV or devices). We made a ton of memories as we travelled and, although we were still working as we went, we also got to make time for lots of adventuring along the way.

There are many other things we enjoyed about life in the caravan, but these six are our top contenders (in no particular order). Have you lived in a tiny space before? What did you enjoy most? If not, would you consider it?

If you want to hear the flip side (trust me, there are also downsides to tiny house life!), look out for my next post: The 8 worst things about our life in a tiny house. And, if you’d like to see more of the day-to-day of what our life in the caravan looked like, check out the hashtag #livingsmalltolivebig on instagram.

Adriel x

Note: The lovely family photos above were taken by our friend Pez. I highly recommend her if you’re looking for a lifestyle photographer in New South Wales, Australia.

Living Small To Live Big: A series on tiny house living with kids

Ever wondered what it would be like to move into a tiny house on wheels… with a family? Join the boys and I as we spend a year #livingsmalltolivebig and travel around Australia in our renovated vintage caravan. (This series is still in process—I’ll add the links below as the posts go live.)

• Home is where you park it: Why we’ve moved into a tiny house on wheels
• Wings and roots: Of mixed metaphor and the search for home
• Tiny house, big love: A photo essay
• 6 awesome things about tiny house life
• The 8 worst things about tiny house life Part 1 & Part 2
• Vinnie, the vintage caravan: A tiny tour of our tiny house (including before and after renovation pics)
• Tiny house organizational hacks
• Trip highlights from traveling Australia in our tiny house
• Why every Aussie family should plan a trip around Australia
• Finding a new normal: Transition, chaos, and intentional living

Do you have other questions about our time living in 95 square feet or about tiny house life in general? Please let me know in the comments and I’ll do my best to answer your questions or add to this collection of posts.

As a family we’ve been in transition for more than two years now. I often wonder when I’ll stop saying we’re in transition. . . and then I wonder, are we always in transition from something to something, or from somewhere to somewhere?

Life is not static, but when things feel unsettled and uprooted, it spurs the desire within me to find order and control and predictability. Although we moved into our new house in February, there is still so much around us that’s undone. I am one of those people that gets into a new place and immediately unpacks and arranges and makes it feel like home. (Yes, I even do this on a small scale in hotel rooms—it’s my way of creating home for myself and my family I guess.) But in our new house I haven’t been able to create home to the extent I would like. We have a few rooms finished, but many, many things are still half-done or completely undone. That’s hard for this pictures-up-on-the-wall-by-day-two sorta girl who’s generally quick to settle into new environments.

In addition to moving, we are also renovating and starting up a new inner city missions community in the heart of Sydney. We’ve taken over a glorious old nine bedroom boarding house (yes, for real) and room by room we’re preparing it for ourselves, our guests, and those we’ll invite into our ministry and community. Our house is filled with (wonderful!) donations and we have been moving them from packed out room to packed out room as we work on fixing floors and scraping and sanding and painting and fixing things one room at a time. It’s organized chaos at the best of times, and just plain old chaos at others.

For someone like me who’s mental health is strongly linked with living space and environment (it took me years to realize that), I’ve found these last few months rough. Add to that a pregnancy that’s been exceedingly difficult physically and emotionally, and I can genuinely say that many days I’ve struggled to keep my both my temper and my depression at bay. The battle for peace has been real. (How ridiculous that sentence even sounds!)

And yet. YET. When I take a step back and look at where we’re at and where we’ve come from, there are undeniable fingerprints of God all over it and I can’t help but to be really, really grateful. Never in my 38 years of life have I loved living in a location as much as I love living here in inner city Sydney. For the first time in years I’ve felt a sense of coming home that I had forgotten even exists. (As time goes on, I will definitely write about and photograph city living more—can’t wait to invite you into our urban village, which we’ve quickly fallen in love with.)

My family is healthy and growing, my pregnancy has hit 25 weeks without a hitch (a Big Freaking Deal after three consecutive miscarriages), and God has opened doors for us in the city and with ministry and work and writing that we could have never opened on our own. I even have a little room on the second floor with a window overlooking the neighborhood where I can steal away to write—something I’ve always dreamed of. Life is good and I am grateful.

But even with all of that, settling into our not-tiny house has made me miss the simplicity and order and completeness of the little caravan we lived in on and off during all of last year. Although it was small, it was “finished” and set up to our liking and everything had a place and a purpose. In our current home we could fit our caravan into our kitchen. (We have never been more thankful for a place to stretch our legs!) Of course we are loving our new-found space, but we are also tripping over the same stack of suitcases that have been in our hallway now for three months because we have no garage (welcome to city living!) or closet big enough to store them—a ridiculous problem in a house with so many rooms and yet only two closets and a pantry.

I suppose we couldn’t fit suitcases into the caravan either, but at least while we lived there we had a good reason to utilize mum and dad’s attic. Now suitcases aren’t exactly something we can get rid of just because we don’t have space to store them, but I find myself longing for the order we knew when we lived in the smallest space imaginable. There really is something to be said for simple living. . . I’m now trying to figure out what “simple living” looks like in an enormous house that is constantly filled with people in and out of our doors. (In three months of living here we’ve only had four weeks in total with no overnight guests, not even including guests over for the day or for a meal.)

As crazy as it’s been, it’s our crazy and I’m going to own it as best as I can. I’m also searching for how to simplify in this new season.

Simple living does not equate to minimalist living for the majority of people, including me (though if that makes your life simpler then by all means, go for it). As my friend Tsh reminds me through her life and her writing, simple living is not as much about the stuff or the space, but about the mindset and the approach—the intentionality.

And that’s what I’m trying to find as I unpack boxes that have been stored for more than two years—what does intentional living look like in this season, in this environment. If I’m honest, I feel like I’m getting it all wrong. That’s probably not true at all; it’s probably more a case of me adjusting to a new version of intentionality.

Part of that intentionality is picking up my (figurative) pen again. I’ve pushed writing aside for months justifying that it’s too far down the priority list (and have, instead, let myself be ruled by the Tyranny of the Urgent—ugh). Because of that I’ve let an important part of me melt away into a barely recognizable puddle. Have you ever tried to scoop up a puddle? It’s cumbersome and messy and that’s exactly how I feel right now. Writing is not coming easily, but I have to resist the resistance (thanks Steven Pressfield) and do it anyway, if for no one’s sake but my own.

So I guess this is my little way of saying I’m back. Though I don’t know exactly what it will look like, I’m picking up blogging again. I find when I’m blogging regularly, my offline writing flourishes too. I think it has something to do with discipline and practice and moving into a creative flow. Maybe there’s also a sense of accountability to something outside of my little hard drive. So although I won’t promise sweeping essays to make you think deeply or poetic prose to make you cry with nostalgia or longing, I do promise here (publicly!) that I’m writing again and this space will hold some of those words.

The internet is a fickle place and people don’t always stick around when you take an announced or unannounced (intentional or unintentional) leave of absence, but I’m grateful for you who keep showing up anyway. Somehow, you make the work sweeter so thank you. 

I’m finding my new normal—my new intentional—in my gigantic, run down old home in the most wonderful neighborhood in the world surrounded by a house full of noisy, energetic boys and half-done renovation projects. And that? It’s good. All of it is good.

How about you? What’s stood in the way, or enabled you, in your intentional living lately?

Love,
A

This ain’t no Mary Poppins

Tears soaked my shirt as I sat glued to the screen while watching Suffragette (the movie) last night. I sat uncomfortably in a mixture of shock, horror, and admiration to see a glimpse of what women have gone through to fight for the right to vote. I suppose I knew some of the stories, but being given vivid visuals (complete with good dialogue and compelling background music) is something altogether different. This was no dance around the living room with cute little sashes like the Mary Poppins version I had consumed as a child.

As I watched the story unfold, I was transported into the shoes (and prison cells) of my sisters from a century ago. I hope I’ll never pop my ballot into the box with the same carefree attitude again.

Although I sometimes still feel the disadvantages of being a women (it’s not totally an equal playing field just yet), I would be a fool not to recognize the privilege I have as a white woman born into this generation and lucky enough to live in the USA and Australia. I’ve seen enough of the world to know that my position of relative wealth and opportunity is still something that the majority of the world’s women only dream of.

The story of the Suffragettes, though a century ago, is still unfolding today as women and men all over the world fight and advocate and work for change for our sisters.

We’ve come a long way.

And yet we have a long way to go in seeing women released into their full potential.

Women empowering women

Since beginning my work with maternal health advocacy and birthing the Love A Mama Collective in 2011 (through our clean birth kit drives), I have been convinced a thousand times over that we are stronger when we link arms together and put our collective heart toward issues that really matter to girls and women. Although maternal health is only one such issue, I believe it’s where our work for girls and women must start. As we see women empowered and resourced to give birth more safely, then we can go on to work for their menstrual health, their education, domestic and workplace rights, voting rights, and so on and so forth (not always in that order of course).

This year for our Love A Mama Mother’s Day Drive we are rallying for moms in three different ways. Two of them are global opportunities and one is local—choose the one that engages your heart most:

1. Love A Mama Midwifery Scholarship

In continuation from last year, we would like to provide another year’s midwifery scholarship for our young nursing student, Jerina, in rural India. In her state there are only 18 obstetricians/gynecologists serving a population of 25 million people. IMAGINE. (That’s bigger than the entire population of Australia!)

Jerina has completed the first year of her degree and has entered the second (of four) years of training. Together we want to raise another $2000 to cover her year’s tuition, books, and board.

As Jerina completes her training, she will then be able to resource dozens (if not hundreds) of young mothers in her area, where there is currently no birth professional or medical facilities available. Upon graduation she will assist Sparrow International (our partners on the ground in India) with setting up their area’s first clinic/birthing center, and will serve not only as midwife, but as a community health educator.

“I am privileged to do this education. This season has given a new perspective to me. It is really a great opportunity to serve people. The subjects are challenging, but it is a great experience. I really enjoy working with the kids. Sometimes I find it difficult in theory classes, but, I have been doing well and I have achieved good marks each semesters. We also get opportunity to go for medical camps. So, we reach out villages and help the poor and needy.” —Jerina, recipient of the 2015 Love A Mama Midwifery Scholarship

If you can see the multiplying potential in this endeavor, please GIVE HERE toward Jerina’s midwifery scholarship. (Note: If you decide to make a donation in honor of your own mom or another special woman in your life, we will send you a printable Mother’s Day card to let her know about the gift given on her behalf. All the details can be found on the scholarship fundraising page.)

2. Clean Birth Kits

Over the last five years the Love A Mama Collective has rallied tens of thousands of clean birth kits to help women in rural environments have safer births. Many of these women have unattended births in environments you and I would never dream of. (I’ve personally seen the following birth scenarios—these are my own photos—during my work with YWAM in rural Papua New Guinea.)

Yes, these women are strong and resilient and doing what they’ve done for countless generations, but they’re also inadvertently placed in harms way due to a lack of access to basic health care facilities and services. Maternal death rates and infant mortality rates soar due to preventable infections that can be remedied with the simple, yet effective, elements of a clean birth kit. If you’d like to gather friends and make clean birth kits in honor of Mother’s Day, all the information you need for can be found here.

3. Love A Mama Local

As much as I have a passion to link arms with mothers in the developing world, the needs in our neighborhood are just as important. If you’d like to do something locally for another mom this Mother’s Day, I’d encourage you to use your imagination. Here are some ideas that we’ve done before:

• Call the local children’s ward at the hospital and ask if there are any long-term patients whose mother would appreciate flowers. Last time I enquired about this the nurses told me there were three and so we dropped off three bunches of flowers with notes that said something along the lines of: “Happy Mother’s Day. We’re thinking of you and praying for you as you sit by your child’s side. Sending love from one mom to another.”
• Buy a struggling or weary mom some encouragement for her soul in the form of a good book. Some recommended reads might be: Surprised by Motherhood (on sale for $2.99 on kindle the last I checked!), The Mother Letters (brand spanking new release by my girl Amber Haines!), Loving the Little Years, or even One Thousand Gifts (thought it’s not specific to motherhood).
• Offer to watch a single mom’s children for a few hours on the Saturday before Mother’s Day to give her a break and to take the children shopping to pick out a small gift for her.
• Give toward a friend’s adoption fund, send a foster mom a thoughtful care package, deliver flowers to a hopeful mom-in-waiting who’s undergoing IVF… Think of women who may need extra care this year: one who’s lost a mother, one who’s lost a child, one who’s grappling with a child’s new diagnosis, etc.

I could go on and on with ideas here but I want to leave it at that—hopefully just enough to get your creative juices flowing. If you decide to participate in our Mother’s Day Drive via the Love A Mama Local option, we would LOVE to hear your stories! If you’re comfortable posting on facebook or Instagram, please use the hashtag #loveamama to share how you’re taking Mother’s Day beyond yourself this year. Alternately, if you’d prefer to be private, then please email us at the Collective and let us know what local goodness you’re getting up to! We’d love to share your stories (anonymously if you wish) and spread the inspiration to other women.

Happy Mother’s Day, happy day

Friends, if you’re a mom reading this in the lead-up to Mother’s Day I wish you a wonderful celebration of your work and service and heart. May you be blessed with a clean house, beautiful flowers, and a lovely hand-drawn card. AND, may you and I both take a moment to consider how we might bless another mom this year as we do something beyond ourselves in honor of moms all over the world and across the street.

And one more thing before I sign off. No, two things! 1) We’ve just—and I mean JUST—launched a brand new facebook group this morning to connect and collaborate with other women interested in girls and women’s issues. Please join our shiny new facebook group if this sounds exciting to you. 2) You can also sign up directly to the Love A Mama Collective mailing list to receive updates (no more than four per year, tops).

With love and gratitude for this incredible community,
Adriel & the Love A Mama Collective team (and of course my adorable little family, too!)

Don’t forget! If you donate toward the Love A Mama Midwifery Scholarship Fund, please let us know so we can send you a printable Mother’s Day card in honor of the woman of your choosing. Instructions are on the donation page.

Please note: All photos of women and babies in this post have been taken with consent. These are copyrighted photos so please do not download or duplicate without written permission. The photo of my family is courtesy of Katherine Wilson Photography (see more here if you’d like) and the flower image source here.

We spent most of last year living in our 95-square foot vintage caravan. (Before you ask, I’ll go ahead and answer: no bathroom, no laundry facilities. Yes, that part was tough—we assumed it would be.) Going into it, I thought I’d write about our experiences much more; I regret that I didn’t. But life is what it is and writing didn’t come easily for me in 2015. There are many reasons for that (some better than others), and I’ve resolved that it was simply a tough year. Those happen. It was also an incredible year—one for our family history books for sure.

I don’t plan on writing much about the caravan life now, but I do want to give you a taste. My friend Katherine “Pez” Wilson took some brilliant images of our family in the van and I’ll forever be grateful for them. Of course, we all have clean clothes on and everything looks sparkling clean and tidy, but the truth is if we didn’t keep things neat and organized in that teeny tiny space I wanted to blow my brains out. So honestly, it usually was as tidy as it looks in these photos (but definitely a little dustier). My family did an amazing job of remembering that every single thing in that itty bitty house had a place. Incredible. (Survival, really.)

I’m not going to comment on the individual images—just share them. I think they speak for themselves and tell this part of our family story well. The one above is from the beginning of our year; the ones below are from the end. You can see some variations in hair and facial hair length for all of us. (Yes, I miss my long hair. No, I don’t really miss Ryan’s hipster beard.)

One of these days I’ll do an actual post of some before and after pictures from our renovation, because those are quite fun (imagine two-tone wood panelling, y’all!) and because I really do read my emails and actually take those into account when writing. (I hear you—more caravan pictures, please! Okay, okay.) I’m still really proud of what we’ve done to make the little home we’ve created. Ryan and I are a sucker for this type of thing. (In another life, we’d buy, fix up, and sell old vans for the fun of it.) In saying all that, I’m also glad to move into a “normal” house in two weeks. It will be wonderful to have our own space again and I’m looking forward to Vinnie the van becoming a holiday home, rather than our home home. (But I would never, ever undo living in there this last year. One of the best decisions we’ve ever made.)

At some point I also plan to write a “10 best things” and “10 worst things” post about living in a tiny house on wheels (we’ll see if I can limit myself to 10 of each!) and I’d also like to write some family travel highlights to help other families considering traveling or caravanning around Australia. It really is a spectacular country and life on the road is pretty awesome and do-able if you can work remotely and “road school” or “world school” your kids as you go. (You can always check out the #livingsmalltolivebig hashtag on instagram for more pics in the meantime. Or sign up for my tiny-ish newsletter—LoveNotes—and see more photos in the next edition.)

But for now, I leave you with a visual story of our tiny house and big love. Thanks again to Pez for capturing our family so well. I adore your work here, and I’m impressed to be in so many of the photos myself—a rarity.

Love,
A x