Our "New Normal."

I haven't written in awhile frankly because words have slipped through my mind like sand and they've come faster than I could even type. Part of it too, feels like what I'm saying over and over again is just beating the dead horse and it's hard to not feel like people are just done hearing about how I miss my baby and how I keep asking God "why?" Sometimes too, I just don't want to talk because it's too much to relive. Even "new normal" feels like a joke because nothing about this and our daily life feels anything close to "normal." I get out of the house, I look put together, but I don't feel any better, maybe just more functional. 

Grief still has no fix it's. No solutions. No timetable. No problem solver that's a cure all for the sadness that greets me each day when I think I'm going to wake up from this bad dream and it's all gonna be over with. Some think that if you just look at all the good in your life that will somehow overcome the loss. That's a lie. I look at my kids and thank God for the gift they are, for my husband who loves me in the most sacrificial way, for the many blessings we have, all of those point to the love God has for me, but that can never bring my Bobby back from the grave. I can never move on in my life without Bobby, even if he isn't physically present, for now we are a family of five. Grief makes people so uncomfortable, but the irony is that grief will inevitably find all of us. We all die, some tragically, our days our numbered, this world is fallen, and it hurts. 

The feelings are still coming out raw and the sadness I feel about the loss of Bobby still takes my breath away. Daily life still brings reminders of the nightmare we're living. Recently, it was doing my laundry and finding three pairs of maternity pants and the outfit I wore the day I came home from the hospital without Bobby. It was in the kitchen when I was making lunch on Father's Day and I looked down at something I dropped on the floor. The reality that I could see my feet and bend nimbly to pick it up was crushing. It was the family I saw in Target, a beautiful family of five: two girls and a tiny baby boy. It was the bill that came in the mail for the "you're baby isn't alive" anatomy scan. I wish I wasn't here right now. I wish I could make the sadness leave. 

The closer I get to August the heavier the grief feels. I didn't expect that. For some reason I thought experiencing his death, saying my final goodbye, and my due date would be the hardest part and in the meantime life would just go on. The adrenaline has worn off and in so many ways the rubber has met the road. This is my life and I have to go on, one day at a time. Instead of counting down the weeks until I get to hold my boy, I'm counting down the weeks since I held my boy in my arms. It's backwards. It's broken. And it's a mess that only Jesus can bring beauty out of. 

Grief is a friend too. To deny it, is to deny yourself the healing you need to move forward. Loss is meant to be grieved. Some days its good to stare death in the face and remember that loss hurts and it changes your life forever. A trusted counselor reminded me that this is a process, I'm in transition, that I'm never going to be who I was before and I'm not yet who I'm going to be "after the storm." Reminders like that help on the days that I just want to pull the covers over my head and wave the flag of defeat. Defeat is something I feel and face every day. My hope and faith in Jesus are all I have to overcome it. When darkness seems to hide His face, faith, even as small as a mustard seed is something of worth to my God. Great faith can be small. God promises to not crush the bruised reed. He promises to be faithful even when I'm faithless. He promises to never leave me or forsake me. These are the promises I cling to when I want to give up and when I can't stop asking "why oh Lord?"

It's not a matter of being lifted out of the pit, it's a matter of lifting you're eyes in the pit to the one who knows your suffering and gives a purpose for your pain. Some days all I can do is lift my eyes and that's what his word talks of time and time again. I still don't understand why he hasn't lifted me out, but I'm here and there's nothing in my power I can do to change it. 

Bobby, you are remembered and missed every day. It comforts me to know you will always be my boy. You died in the safety of my womb, you knew my voice, and the sound of my heart beating. You will always be a part of me.  I'm in this pit because I'm your Momma and I love you.

1 comment:

Elizabeth said...

My heart echos the words you write. I grieve with you and for you too! My baby girl Lily was stillborn the week before Bobby. A friend forwarded your blog to me. Even though I have not met you, many things you have said have stayed in my heart and brought reminders of Truth to me. Know that I remember you and your Bobby as I remember my Lily. We see dimly now, but someday He will make all clear. And I cling to His faithfulness til that day!

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