Community

The following is an article I submitted for consideration in a MOPS International Writing Contest. The topic was community. Since there is little to zero chance that the ditty will find its way to print, I've decided to post it here. At least this way, my MOPS peeps will see the huge significance of the little things they did for us when I was down for the count.

So once again, girls, thank you. You mean the world to me.

Much Love,
Kristin

As with any tragic event, you remember it like it was yesterday. Where you were, what you were doing, who you were with. For me, I had just crawled under my comforter. It had been a busy day chasing kids, training for a 5K, and organizing the basement. My husband and I had stayed up late to watch the Olympic Women’s Gymnastics team compete. And I was beat. I think it was 1:10 in the morning.

As my head rested against the pillow, waves of pain engulfed me. Something was wrong, very wrong. I sat up and laid back down, groaning and writhing in horror. My head started spinning, my vision blurred, and my feet crumbled under me. The pain was paralyzing. “I think it’s the baby, “I cried. “I need to get the hospital.”

Hours later, following IV’s, blood tests, and ultrasounds, our worst fears were confirmed. We had lost our baby. By medical definition, it was an ectopic pregnancy rupture: excessive blood loss, major surgery, and extensive recovery. My surgeon told me it would take a year to feel normal again, but I should be thankful to be alive.

To add to the physical challenges, the heartbreak of losing a child loomed over me. Sure, we had two healthy children already. Sure, the baby was just 7 weeks old. Sure, the pregnancy was unexpected. But it was still our child, my child. On one hand I grieved the loss of a life. On the other hand, I felt shame for all those tears shed when others have had it so much worse.

The story of this loss would have ended there, had it not been for a community who rallied around us. Our families supported us, our church encouraged us, and our friends loved on us to the umpteenth degree. One such group of friends was my MOPS group at the North Way Christian Community.

Hours after the emergency surgery, emails flooded my inbox, prayers supported us, and blog comments encouraged me. A team of moms pitched in to supply meals. Not for one week, not for two, but for weeks on end, until I was able to cook for my family again.

Not only that, but they went grocery shopping for us, they cleaned our home, they stuffed our mailbox with cards of encouragement, and they watched my kids so that I could nap. DVD’s were purchased to relieve the boredom of bed rest, as were bouquets of balloons, flowers, books, magazines, and coffee to make me feel normal again.

But the practical needs were not the only needs addressed. These women allowed me grieving room; time to talk and process the whirlwind of emotions. They didn’t criticize my tears or tell me to just get over it. I have never been more vulnerable. But in this low place, I found strength that I didn’t know I had, because I wasn’t alone.

Many of the women shared their own stories with me: stories of life and loss, despair and hope, and a God who never left them all the while. It was almost as if my vulnerability ushered in theirs. And the end result? Well, that’s still in the works.

When I walked into my MOPS meeting this past Wednesday morning, I greeted friends. There was Kathleen and Kristin and Nancy and Michelle. There were layers of conversations overlapping each other. About marathon training and how cute that scarf looks on you and the next step of the adoption process.

We spoke about food additives and separation anxiety and the dinner that completely bombed. We laughed about our appearance when we leave the house most days – Cheerios glued to our shoulders, wiped noses on our jeans, and stickers affixed to our rears. We also got choked up when we heard the news that caused another mom's tears. Cause what’s important to her is important to us.

I’ve heard it said that a community is a group of people who often share an environment, as well as common interests, goals, and needs. As moms, our goals range from potty training to healthy (and edible) meal preparation to raising responsible children. We understand sleep deprivation and the need for time alone with our spouse. We desire to fulfill our own purpose in this life, as we support our children to find theirs.

But a healthy community is more than just sharing commonalities. It’s knowing and being known. It’s finding practical ways to meet needs, whether those needs are verbalized or not. It’s becoming vulnerable and risking the loss of a perfect illusion. It’s telling our stories and hearing the stories of others. It’s finding strength in weakness and hope in despair. It’s championing those around you and celebrating what makes them smile.

I am honored to be a part of the MOPS organization, particularly the community at North Way. The story of our loss is one we’ll continue to tell. Not because of the loss in particular, but because of the gain. We gained community. It’s a story that hasn’t been completed yet. Because moms gave of themselves, we will give of ourselves. We will love because we have been loved. And then there will be another story told. And another and another.

These Highs and Lows

Highs:

*My parents blew in from RI last night with Ike. Delighted to have them!

*Paul and I had a sweet date tonight - Capellini Pomodoro, Barnes & Noble, and us:)

*Princess party planning, much adored by me. (Elementary teacher in me I suppose?)

*Adden's mischievous laugh and subsequent mad dashing around.

*Celebrating Selah yesterday with family and good friends.

*A Dr. reiterating today, "You know, you're lucky to be alive, young lady. I've heard about you."

*Hardly any pain anymore. Neither am I hobbling around. Returning to normalcy.

*Spending time at youth group again. I love our students. Love, love, love.

Lows:

*Fatigue. Still can't sleep at night. So frustrating cause I'm wiped out. And the circles under my eyes just can't be concealed with trickery.

*Random crying moment today. Thought I was done grieving till my Dr's appointment...

In the waiting room, I flipped a magazine to a photo of a 6 week old baby - with beautiful form and kidneys. Kidneys at 6 weeks. I didn't know...

As I was leaving, I asked if I had to pay for the visit. The receptionist said, "No. It's included in your insurance. This is a Postpartum appointment."

Postpartum? No, I thought. No.... It's not. I wanted to argue. A postpartum appt is 6 weeks after a baby is born. There is no baby... It didn't make it.

Me and myself didn't make it to the elevator without crying. I was so not prepared for me to still have issues with this. It can't even be blamed on percucet anymore.

Maybe grief comes and goes, much like the seasons. Right now, I'm wanting it to go far away. Tears are a tough, tough comfort.

Saran and Leaching

My organs are covered in Saran wrap, of sorts.

So says my surgeon. It helps prevent blood clots after major surgeries.

This new personal fact is rather amusing. And cool.

And disturbing.

I've been raging my own private war against plastics. (Avoid #3, #6, and #7)

I tossed away sippies, bottles, plates, and everything else that was "leaching" out BPA.

So they're not in my cupboards, but they're coating my organs.

Maybe the plastics have leached out at me?

Of Life and Loss and A Bring It On Kind Of Hope

Today was my 5K. I was going to run it pregnant. They say it's fine to run these things pregnant as long as you don't get out of breath. The night before the rupture I ran the race in its entirety in a hefty 45 min. I was barely jogging, but I wanted to protect our little one. I felt strong and healthy and amazing.

Twenty eight hours later, my feet couldn't hold me. I reeled from pain, head spinning, eyes unable to focus. The doctors first diagnosed me with food poisoning, then gas. I was sure hoping for monstrous gas, as that would mean that I hadn't food poisoned our family (or Aunt Suzy) or lost a baby.

When we heard the latter, our hearts sank. I couldn't stop wiping away tears. As they wheeled me into surgery (which was sort of fun- they rammed me into a door) I remember praying for Jesus to hold my hand. I'm sure this was anesthesia driven, but I thought he laughed and said that my hand wasn't good enough. He was going to hold me. Weird stuff.

When I woke, I felt somewhat hopeless. At the same time, I felt the God of all hope carry me through something that I didn't think I was strong enough to handle. Maybe it was the morphine or maybe it was some crazy infusion of the Hulk, but the first tangible words I remember thinking were, "Bring it on."

Me? Bring it on? Who did I think I was? I'm a wimp about all things. But all of a sudden it was like I knew Who God was. He felt stronger to me than ever, more real, more there, more present, more good. I felt like with God I could tackle the world. He gave me grit and hope to fight stuff bigger than me. Not me alone. But, God with me. Together. Bring it on wasn't taunting more pain to come my way. But it was my way of saying, "Hurt just blasted you. But you're going to make it. And you don't have to do it alone." Bring it on.

Remember the first diagnosis as food poisoning? It wasn't out of the question as I've food poisoned people before. Okay, maybe just one. My roommate Andrea when we lived in Korea. But it was just an innocent mishap with frozen pizza. Anyway, I thought my lack of culinary skills had struck again.

The afternoon before the rupture, I had made Paul's great aunt a bunch of mini chicken pot pies. While I was chopping carrots, I couldn't get these words out of my head. Assuming they were for Aunt Suzy, I wrote them down in a little card and sent it with the meal. What I didn't realize was that those words were also for me.

If God is for us, who can be against us?
Who (or what) shall separate us from the love of Christ?

In the book of Romans, Paul says that nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus. Not trouble, hard times, persecution, famine, nakedness, violence...not death nor life, not now or later, not anything.

So I began to think. If no pain in this world can separate us from His love, then every pain in this world can cement us to His love. Not so much the pain in and of itself, but what He does with the pain. How He heals it. How He loves us through it. How He holds out hope if we are willing to open our hands and accept it.

And come on now, though this ordeal was bad in my eyes, it's nothing in comparison to the hurts around me. There are widows and orphans and displaced people groups and single moms working their tales off and HIV ravaging a continent. There are slaves and children in a messed up foster care system and teenagers trying to find their way. There are homeless families and dads burying sons too early and marriages falling apart and thousands of children dying today cause of the food crisis. And then there's my neighbor and I've heard her crying next door.

Nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

My Jesus' love is the only thing that can heal any of my scars. All of the physical ones outside of my ability to control. And all of the self-inflicted ones from past failures, fears, and forgetting a very real God who wanted me to know Him. Not simply as Savior, but more completely as Lord. He has made me whole. But it would be a travesty to hoard this healing for myself.

He has come that we might have life and have it to the full. But when you're scarred by the brokenness of this world, sometimes you can't see beyond your own pain. That's why we need to meet people where they're at, where their scars are. John Perkins says that we need to be sensitive to people's needs as they define them. "Their needs as they feel them. And we love them around their needs." This takes more listening than talking, more seeking to understand than striving to be understood, more getting dirty in the trenches than appearing clean in the pews.

It's ladling soup at the homeless shelter and searching for lice in unclean hair. It's buying new clothes for children at the trailer park so that they can look nice when they go back to school. It's giving money to organizations that help fight child trafficking, because children deserve the right to be children. It's hearing the same old story from your grandfather, because he doesn't have anyone else who will listen. It's seeing with your own eyes what is going on in Africa. It's adopting a child from India or rescuing one from the foster care system. It's loving the children you've got like crazy, even when you don't feel like it.

It's messy and inconvenient and sacrificial and more than you want to know and tiresome. This is love. This is what Jesus came for. He consistently met people where they were and sometimes just offered water. Then He shared with them their real need for Himself -for the author of life to heal deep, brutal scars, hidden in their hearts. By His wounds we are healed.

I'm not sure how you're scarred today. But every hurt matters to a God of love. I'm not sure who around you is crying. But if you have been healed by Jesus, there is no greater honor than to give your Hope away. Maybe physically first, then spiritually. No matter what kind of hideous pain is standing in front of us, we can say, "Bring it on," cause we don't go it alone. We hold a God sized strength inside us, a God sized hope, a God sized love that can heal any wound.

Nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

This is my beautiful Savior.

All Shall Be Well

At last glance of this blog, you saw a pretty teary eyed picture of my heart. I am pretty happy go lucky most of the time, so all the crying was a shock to my system. Suffice to say, things are on the upswing. I am fresh off the heavy meds. Though I miss their potency to relieve the pain, I don’t so much miss the emotional imbalance.

I am creeping out of bed on a more regular basis – to make some coffee, grab a book, turn on some music, read to the kids, play with Selah’s babies. There is still considerable pain just walking. Selah has an awesome portrayal of my walk – arms outstretched for balance, back hunched over, a short stride. It’s really quite a hoot.

Paul’s parents handed the baton of responsibilities over to my brother and mom on Thursday. My mom does the brunt work – preparing meals, taking care of the kids and the house. Dan is a sweet entertainer and makes us all laugh with Little Carrot Man who takes on the world. Selah and Adden especially delight in their uncle’s imagination and games. And Paul…Well, he’s just as amazing as usual. How did I secure such a catch?

As a family, we have been showered with love. Like torrentially poured on! The most delicious food has been made, the sweetest cards and notes written, DVD’s, magazines, and books brought over to relieve any boredom, bouquets of balloons, flowers, coffees, youth group girls stopping by, you name it. Oh, and I can’t forget Best Chocolate Chip Cookie ever. Even with a zero appetite, I have been making room for bites of this baby. Too bad it's not iron fortified. Delicious. Thank you all so much.

And if all of this weren’t enough, there is my beautiful Jesus. We have laughed and cried together. He has whispered peace to my heart (Psalm 94:19, Psalm 29:11). He is healing parts of me that I never knew were broken (Psalm 147:3). He has confided in me that this is His greatest good for me right now (Psalm 25:14). His greatest good. That’s pretty sweet. And I kind of have a hunch He’s right.

So, though things aren’t as I had supposed they would be; they are good. Julian of Norwich says, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things will be well.” And I would have to say, I agree with her. All shall be well and all manner of things will be well, hunchback waddle and soul healing, included.

Waiting for a Mosaic

Fourth day straight here, propped up on the pull out bed in our living room, immobile. The windows are open, letting in a soft and gentle breeze. The sunlight brightens this space, as do stunning bouquets of sunflowers, roses, and daisies. Next to me is a pile of favorite books, thoughtful handwritten cards, carefully chosen magazines, and a Starbucks, which is helping my brain think that it’s returning to a sense of normalcy.


There is also a quiet here. Free from the endless beeping of IV’s that need changed, the drone of my roommate’s TV, the scurrying around of hospital carts. Free from hearing the beautiful laughter and energy of our children, although I miss that commotion immeasurably. Free to listen to a God who wants to love on me and create the most beautiful of all mosaics from these broken pieces. His word is sustaining me.

What happened this weekend, in medical terms, was a ruptured ectopic pregnancy. There was internal hemorrhaging, an emergency surgery, and intense continual pain worse than any labor. My surgeon told me I could’ve easily lost my life. I guess these tubal ruptures are the most common cause of maternal death in early stage pregnancies, yet they are commonly misdiagnosed.


Though the recovery is daunting, what hurts most at this point is the loss itself. We are devastated. I had suspected a pregnancy for about 2 weeks prior to our actual confirmation on Monday. The baby was 6 weeks old, but we had only known about it for a few short days. Still, I had a hard time leaving the hospital, because I didn’t want to leave our baby there. It felt cold and heartless and cruel. A grave shouldn’t be a sterile operating room. If I didn’t believe that Jesus was cradling our little one now, I would be without comfort. He is perfect love.


Despite this knowledge, I can’t stop crying. I assume it’s a result of the medicine, the grief, the hormonal crash, the unmet expectations, everything. Something in me wants to seek a divergence and immerse myself in something that will numb the pain. Another part of me is a good judge and is shamed for feeling grief. I know others have hurt more. We have it so good. I suppose a more balanced view keeps all things in perspective - and - grieves well and joys well, since God’s goodness has never been challenged.


So there ya have it. Since I’m doing a stellar job crying, I think I need to match that with thanks. Here is what I will choose to joy in today:

• My husband – I don’t have to choose to joy in you. You make me smile today and every day.
  
• Our beautiful sensitive daughter
  
• Our crazy curious son
  
• A baby who was spared the heartaches of this world
  
• Paul’s parents for graciously watching the kiddos
  
• My brother for being my friend, helping me, and letting me kick his butt in Scrabble
  
• The youth group students for cleaning our windows, preparing our home for our welcome, and folding toilet paper with love:) You guys are the best!
  
• Church families for praying and making meals and sending notes
  
• Friends who have brought the most thoughtful gifts over
  
• Everyone who has left a message here - I’ve read them over and over
  
• Friends who called at all hours desperate for ways to help
  
• My mom for flying in today
  
• Outstanding medical care
  
• Medicine that takes the edge off (and causes me to dream about large whales devouring small American gymnasts:)
  
• This life and breath
  
• My beautiful Jesus
  

I couldn't thank each of you enough for all you've done. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Your kindness has been beautiful.


With Love Because of Jesus,


Kristin, Paul, Selah, and Adden