All posts tagged: loss

To Make Art of Our Tears

We held a small memorial for a little creature whose ability to receive love taught us all a big lesson: to love is to name is to care is to keep. It is to mourn and to cry, too; and it is to continue to create and care about the living and the dying and the not-yet-born.

One does not need to do anything remarkable to be an object of love. One only needs to be that which it is – cat, boy, mom, dad, human, alive.


More Courage: Just Enough to Rest {a story of a baby lost}

Courage: mental or moral strength to venture, persevere, and withstand danger, fear, or difficulty Encourage: to make (someone) more determined, hopeful, or confident This is a story of more courage. {It tells about my empty spaces, where I found I had none, and how Courage came through the cracks of brokenness.} I never felt my vulnerability more than when I was pregnant with our daughter, Isabella. Except of course, when I was pregnant with our daughter, Annalia. Eight years separated these sisters and a brother in between, and although every pregnancy seemed to rub raw the edges of my confidence, something happened before my daughters that caused me to wrap arms around my soul to keep the badness away. Each daughter’s birth was preceded by miscarriage.

A New Person in Christ {Second Chance Blessings}

I am a new person in Christ – Ephesians 2:15 The Lord will command His lovingkindness in the daytime. -Psalm 40:11 Simple truths robe this Monday morning and the ties that wrap round me begin with “I am a new person in Christ” and “My  Lord will command His lovingkindness in the daytime”. There is always enough of God’s lovingkindness to envelope me and tie me in snug. Winterlight flickers tender through gray February clouds. Coffee steams in mugs the color of earth and robin’s eggs. Coffee’s distinctive scent is undetectable until the cherry pits are roasted, heat applied and the seeds crack and brown and the richness is wooed from the fibers of the seed. And it’s scent is a comfort. And my friend sits opposite of me, our faces both bare of makeup, hair undone, and we visit in the comfort of morning light and coffee scent. Our legs drawn up, we curl on cushions like cats not ready to tackle the to-do lists of the day. And we are not young anymore. …

May{Be} Happy Is the Only Choice

I fill fajitas and listen to my kids recount the day. Z tried some guacamole and declares it “not bad” and my youngest daughter thought she might like sour cream on her fajita. Turns out she doesn’t. The scrape and clatter and chatter around the table makes a melody of filial ease. We talk about summer plans and when dad might get home tonight and if Bella’s getting home in time to eat.  We talk about school. Z’s in high school health and learning a barge-full of facts about substance abuse and mental illness. We pour tea from the pitcher across crackling chunks of ice and someone asks, “Is that how big a pitcher of beer is?” “Yep”, I say through a chip loaded with salsa. And I notice there’s a certain kind of silence — momentary, not long at all, where all three kids at the table with me look at the pitcher and consider. A button on the time machine of their collective brains was pressed and suddenly memory, not health class, becomes …