Faith in the Middle

For those of you who don't know, I'm 28 weeks pregnant with our first girl. Yay! I can honestly say now that I'm excited, but it wasn't like that in the beginning.

A few months after having my fourth baby, Lincoln, I didn't want to get pregnant again. Not yet.

It was the same way after I gave birth to my third baby, Kimball. Jayze and had I decided to wait at least a year after we had him. My pregnancy with Kimball, especially the very end, was difficult emotionally and physically. I had a hard time bonding with him, and I was ready for a break. But, after a special experience and a flip-of-the-switch-type-answer from Heavenly Father, 9 months later we were pregnant with Lincoln.

I've been really fortunate in my pregnancies. Morning sickness in the beginning (all day car sickness and extreme fatigue), energized with a cute baby bump in the middle, and then waddling my way through more waves of fatigue and pain until I have the baby. You might say I have textbook pregnancies. It was that way even with Alma all the way up until he passed away. My labor and delivery with him and my physical recovery from giving birth went quickly and well. In fact, one of the women I used to work with told me (soon after I had Alma), "You're born to have babies!" 

With that little bit of context in mind, you would think that making the decision to try getting pregnant for me is easy, but it's soooo not. I've described it to others before that it's like a light switch. I have a baby, then I really don't want to be pregnant again until suddenly I do and it feels right to try again. We've received the go-ahead from Heavenly Father every time. (It was a little different after Alma, but I won't go into that right now). People ask us how many kids we want, and I know after having Alma, it's not that simple. I can have a specific number in my head, but who knows if that's what God has in mind for us? So our way is taking it just one baby at a time. 

However, even with all that, Jayze and I were determined to wait longer between Lincoln and the next pregnancy. And I mean really determined, especially me. I wanted longer to heal and time to accomplish a few personal goals. Plus, I was already slightly overwhelmed with three boys at home. Not enough to be crazy hard, but just hard enough for that daily stretching and sometimes painful HIIT moments that come with being in the trenches of motherhood.

A year went by, and it was weird not to be pregnant with another baby while celebrating Lincoln's one year birthday. That light switch hadn't flipped yet, and I wasn't sure when it was going to happen. To be honest, I was grateful I hadn't felt it yet. I always have a lot of fear during my pregnancies, and I just was not ready.  

Not long after Lincoln's first birthday, Jayze and I started talking more seriously about trying for another baby again. Was it the right time? Were we ready? Was there another child waiting for us? We couldn't decide, so we let it sit. 

One night, a few weeks later and after a moment of subtly knowing I was pitting my will against God's on this matter, I had the very distinct impression, "Do you trust me?" It came like lightning to my heart. I still felt overwhelmed by the thought of being pregnant again, but I couldn't deny it. I knew it was time to set aside my plan and put my faith in Heavenly Father's plan.

The next month we were pregnant. 

I'd like to say I was excited, but the reality is when I saw the pregnancy test results, a mix of emotions washed over me - mostly sadness and anxiety (which is soooo hard to admit). I thought, How am I going to take care of four children here at home four years old and younger? Aidan doesn't start school for another year. They all have such different needs. How am I going to do it all?

In my opinion, one of the hardest parts of motherhood is splitting my attention five different ways. Each of my children all have such different needs and love languages, and I hate not having that one on one time with each of them like I had when it was just Aidan and me. But, I took a picture of the pregnancy test and told Jayze later that night the news. We sat on the couch holding hands, trying to envision the next 9 months. We knew it wasn't going to be easy. It doesn't have to be easy every time. That night as I prayed, I held onto the truth that this was right. I felt a deep peace because I was intentionally putting trust and faith in God. "Do you trust me?" kept coming back, and I decided that yes, even though it was hard, I did trust Him. 

Fast forward to the much-anticipated 20-week ultrasound appointment. We thought we were having a girl (like all the other times!), but this time we were secretly hoping for another boy. We even had a name picked out, which was a miracle in and of itself (boy names are so hard for us!). But at the very end of the ultrasound, after I went to the bathroom three different times and switched positions about 100 more so she could get the right measurements, the ultrasound tech finally saw the gender and announced, "You're having a girl!"

Immediately I was excited, but I was also so scared. You know that feeling of wanting to cry, but it just gets stuck in your chest and the tears won't come? I had that. I walked out of the office to my car and just sat there for a few minutes taking it in. As I stared out the front window to the sunny outside, I thought of when I got the news that Aidan was a boy. It was a similar feeling, except with Aidan I did cry.

It's hard to describe to anyone who hasn't been through it, but I felt that way because just like that I was back at square one. Actually, more like square one and a half. This pregnancy with this sweet little girl right now feels so much like my pregnancies with Alma and Aidan - a perfect mix between the two. Perfect, yet terrifying. Anxiety and what if's and denial waging their war against peace, trust, and faith. An entire 40 weeks of not knowing if we're going to get to bring this child home, but really really really hoping we can.

My pregnancy with Lincoln was the most peaceful I'd had. I truly feel like it was a beautiful, precious gift from God - one I am still immensely grateful for. I knew my body could handle carrying a healthy, living baby boy past 37 weeks, and my heart had healed in so many ways since bringing two other boys home. I felt prompted to give birth to Lincoln naturally (another post for another day), so that's what I focused on. I wanted another boy because I knew I had handled it before and could handle it again.

Having a girl this time makes it feel like we're having our first baby again. New clothes, new blankets, the thoughts of, "What do we do with a girl?" Comments from other people didn't help either. It was painful and annoying to hear, "You finally get your girl!" This might savor a little of bitterness (although I know people really do mean well), but whenever someone tells me that I think of bluntly responding, "Are my boys not good enough?"; "Well, we actually wanted a boy again"; "We're not just over here having all of these kids hoping for a girl"; "I'm glad you're excited I'm pregnant again, but would you be that excited for me if we were having another boy?"

One day I was cleaning up the kitchen after breakfast when the song, "Faith in the Middle" by Hilary Weeks came on. My kids were running around playing, there were dishes in the sink and dirty dishes on the table, but with a wet dishcloth in one hand I stopped in my tracks, leaned on the sink, and just cried. Like, ugly cried cried.

Heaven is open, God has spoken, He has spoken to you
You've had a witness, You know that this is what you're meant to do
The flame is burning and hope is alive, but you've been here before 
And you know there'll be times

[Chorus]
When doors are gonna close and you need them to open
Some will second guess the direction you are goin'
Lot of fading hope might dwindle 
And you're gonna need some faith in the middle
To keep you moving forward when you think you've reached your limits
To step into the battle when you're not sure you can win it
When you question or doubt more than a little, well that's when you're gonna need faith in the middle

Maybe you're thinkin' about leavin', let go, or turning around
You've come so far, you've worked too hard, don't walk away now
You're gonna make it, it's worth the climb
So don't you give up, even though there'll be times 

[Chorus]
When doors are gonna close and you need them to open
Some will second guess the direction you are goin'
Lot of fading hope might dwindle 
And you're gonna need some faith in the middle
To keep you moving forward when you think you've reached your limits
To step into the battle when you're not sure you can win it
When you question or doubt more than a little, well that's when you're gonna need faith in the middle

You're gonna make it, it's worth the climb
So don't you give up even though there may be times

[Chorus]

Those lyrics were perfect for me that day, and they keep coming back to me on the hard days. This spiritual fire is intense and scorching, but I know enough from past experiences that when I turn to God I will come out stronger and more refined in the process.

In one of my workout videos, the people in the video and I are practically sitting on the floor because we're doing such low squats. My legs are burning and I'm hating the instructor because he's not letting me stand up and I don't know when I'll get to stand up. He's sweating and pumping his fist into his hand and says, "Don't run from the pain. Embrace it."

And guys, that is so.hard.to.do. Like, are you kidding me? How am I supposed to embrace this? 

But I tell people now who have lost a baby, "Feel all of the feelings. Don't run away from grief - let it run its course. It's okay to not be okay. It's okay to grieve. You're not crazy. It's painful, it's hard, but if you let it you will become stronger because of this pain. You will rise from this, and it will be beautiful." 

"There's no grief like the grief that does not speak," said Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Speak your grief! Don't hold it in. It will get worse if you run from it, but it will get better if you let it out. 

I love this quote that I posted in one of my blog posts What Matters Most: 

"The price we paid to become acquainted with God was a privilege to pay."
("Refined in Our Trials," James E. Faust, 2006)

With all of these feelings I've had, I know there is something to learn from this. With this pregnancy with my sweet baby girl. I am paying the price yet again to know God. It's not easy, but it is worth it. And as hard as it is, I am thankful for it. Because to know God is worth it.

So I'm going to keep showing up. Showing up for me, for Jayze, for my baby girl, for my boys. Showing up for the battle, and having the faith that no matter what happens, God's got this. God's got me. 

28 weeks + 1 day pregnant with Baby Girl Flake

Love Notes

August is a heavy month and last year was no different. I dreaded it. I always found my mind straying to the past and anxiety was almost a constant. Last year was easier than the one before that, but difficult moments were never far away. It just seems to be one of those months, and I have a feeling it will always be like that in one way or another.

But just like every August since Alma passed away, tender mercies began showing up. Sweet reminders and messages (I call them love notes) from Heavenly Father letting me know He's there and helping me feel Alma nearby. I've come to depend on those love notes, especially when August rolls around.

On one day last August, I was at the temple. I always love going to the temple, and I was especially excited to be there because this was my month. The month where the darkness seeps into my soul and I needed my Savior's light more than ever. The temple is also the place where I usually feel Alma most often, and I was hoping so much to feel his presence there. I desperately needed that comfort and reassurance. As I went about the temple, I kept watching and waiting for something, anything that would let me know Alma was close by, but...nothing. I felt disappointed as I changed back into my dress. I tried to shake the feeling and thought, "Well, maybe next time." I grabbed my bag and began walking toward the exit. As I passed through the doorway, I glanced down and noticed a small rainbow prism illuminating the soft carpet. I took note of it and then strode right by it, thinking, "Hmm, that's pretty," with no further thought. When I stepped out into the foyer, that's when it hit me. That was my love note from Alma. There, at the very end when I had almost lost hope, was a very sweet and very personalized message from my son and from my Heavenly Father.

"...the Lord's tender mercies are the very personal and individualized blessings, strength, protection, assurances, guidance, loving-kindnesses, consolation, support, and spiritual gifts which we receive from and because of and through the Lord Jesus Christ..." (David A. Bednar, "The Tender Mercies of the Lord," April 2005).

Later that month in the evening, I was driving by myself to a church meeting. It had been raining earlier, so the air and ground were still wet and the clouds were white wisps in the blue-gray sky. Since it was summer, it was still light out even though it was approaching 7:00. I was thinking about Alma and was rounding a curve when suddenly, right in my line of sight, was a beautiful, vibrant rainbow set against the soaked trees and rainy sky. I couldn't stop the tears from filling my eyes. Another love note.

"I will not leave you comfortless. I will come to you" (John 14:18).

To those whose grief is still very raw and whose sorrow is still a constant companion, don't give up. To those who are struggling through a trial, some heartache, or failure, hang on. Feel all of those hard feelings and know that it does get better. There will come a time when there is more sweet than bitter. Love notes are all around you...if you just look for them. God is there. And just like He has never, ever left me comfortless, He will not leave you comfortless. You can feel peace. Ask God to help you recognize those tender mercies, and He will send help and you'll come to cherish those sweet love notes. God knows who you are because you are His child.

"We should not underestimate or overlook the power of the Lord's tender mercies. The simpleness, the sweetness, and the constancy of the tender mercies of the Lord will do much to fortify and protect us in the troubled times in which we do now and will yet live. When words cannot provide the solace we need or express the joy we feel, when it is simply futile to attempt to explain that which is unexplainable, when logic and reason cannot yield adequate understanding about the injustices and inequities of life, when mortal experience and evaluation are insufficient to produce a desired outcome, and when it seems that perhaps we are so totally alone, truly we are blessed by the tender mercies of the Lord and made mighty even unto the power of deliverance (see 1 Ne. 1:20)," (David A. Bednar)

March 2019

I recommend this talk (so good): The Tender Mercies of the Lord.
Why rainbows remind me of Alma: 20 Weeks: Rainbow Baby

Shift

I avoided social media for about four months after Alma passed away. I felt prompted to check my messages the night before I gave birth to him, which was a tender mercy because one message in particular brought immense comfort and helped me focus on the good the next day. However, when I was back in the routine of things (as much as possible after losing a child), I logged onto Facebook. After about five minutes of seeing baby picture after baby picture, my heart turned so bitter and hard that I signed out and didn't get on again.

I admire those who have been through something similar and are still able to get on social media right away because it was too difficult for me. It took me awhile to even look at all of the kind messages people sent me online because my mind was blurred with grief and nothing anyone said at that time was good enough for my grieving heart.

When I finally decided I was ready to come back, it was for multiple reasons. One of them was that I needed resources. I needed help. I needed perspective from those who had done this or who were going through it right then like I was.

I remember jumping on the computer and searching online for any sort of personal reference to stillbirths. The hospital had given me a list of in-person grief groups I could attend, but for some reason I couldn't bring myself to go and open up to a circle of strangers - even if they had been or were trudging through the trenches too. I think that was the denial part of grief talking me out of it. That, and fear. But one day when I got on Facebook, I saw a message from a girl in my ward. She had linked a blog post authored by a woman who had just announced she was pregnant with her rainbow baby. Although I was skeptical, I clicked the link which led me to find more posts. Posts of her grieving her first child. And I couldn't get enough. It was like I could have written them, and it felt so good to know I wasn't alone. Someone else had gone through this too, had the courage to share, and provided some relief. I thought, "I'm not crazy for feeling all of these things!"

I'm not crazy.

I clung to those blog posts. And then when I found more blogs written by women who had also lost one of their children, I clung to those as well. Then it was my turn. Four months after Alma passed away, I found the courage to log into my blog and write a few posts. Six months later, I changed my blog's name. The month after that, I shared Alma's story.

Looking back on some of my old posts, I am amazed by how open, vulnerable, and raw I was in my thoughts, feelings, and experiences about Alma. I shared a piece of my heart with the world. And in the process of trying to help even one person, I was able to help myself too and gain a greater relationship with my Heavenly Father than I ever had before.

However, a couple of years ago, I found myself at a crossroads. I felt like my blog had become just about Alma and that people were probably thinking, "Man, just get over it. Why do you feel like you always have to talk about him?" So I stopped writing so much about him. I began to lack the courage to be so open, but I guess, in a way, deep down I was also ready to stop writing about him so often. My perspective and healing had changed. The grief was still there, but it had slightly...shifted.

A blogger I followed once shared what she called her, "Piano Post." In it she shared an article describing personal, daily grief, which continues to resonate with me.

STEVEN KALAS:

When you lose a child, grieving is a lifelong experience

When our first child is born, a loud voice says, “Runners, take your marks!” We hear the starting gun and the race begins. It’s a race we must win at all cost. We have to win. The competition is called “I’ll race you to the grave.” I’m currently racing three sons. I really want to win.

Not everyone wins.

I’m here at the national meeting of Compassionate Friends, an organization offering support and resources for parents who lose the race. I’m wandering the halls during the “break-out” sessions. In this room are parents whose children died in car accidents. Over there is a room full of parents of murdered children. Parents of cancer victims are at the end of the hall. Miscarriages and stillbirths are grouped together, as are parents who have survived a child’s suicide. And so it goes.

In a few minutes, I’m going to address Compassionate Friends. This is the toughest audience of my life. I mix with the gathering crowd, and a woman from Delaware glances at my name tag. Her name tag has a photo of her deceased son. My name tag is absent photos

.

“So … you haven’t … lost anyone,” she says cautiously.

“My three sons are yet alive, if that’s what you’re asking me,” I say gently.

She tries to nod politely, but I can see that I’ve lost credibility in her eyes. She’s wondering who invited this speaker, and what on earth he could ever have to say to her.

My address is titled “The Myth of Getting Over It.” It’s my attempt to answer the driving questions of grieving parents: When will I get over this? How do I get over this?

You don’t get over it. Getting over it is an inappropriate goal. An unreasonable hope. The loss of a child changes you. It changes your marriage. It changes the way birds sing. It changes the way the sun rises and sets. You are forever different.

You don’t want to get over it. Don’t act surprised. As awful a burden as grief is, you know intuitively that it matters, that it is profoundly important to be grieving. Your grief plays a crucial part in staying connected to your child’s life. To give up your grief would mean losing your child yet again. If I had the power to take your grief away, you’d fight me to keep it. Your grief is awful, but it is also holy. And somewhere inside you, you know that.

The goal is not to get over it. The goal is to get on with it.

Profound grief is like being in a stage play wherein suddenly the stagehands push a huge grand piano into the middle of the set. The piano paralyzes the play. It dominates the stage. No matter where you move, it impedes your sight lines, your blocking, your ability to interact with the other players. You keep banging into it, surprised each time that it’s still there. It takes all your concentration to work around it, this at a time when you have little ability or desire to concentrate on anything.

The piano changes everything. The entire play must be rewritten around it.

But over time the piano is pushed to stage left. Then to upper stage left. You are the playwright, and slowly, surely, you begin to find the impetus and wherewithal to stop reacting to the intrusive piano. Instead, you engage it. Instead of writing every scene around the piano, you begin to write the piano into each scene, into the story of your life.

You learn to play that piano. You’re surprised to find that you want to play, that it’s meaningful, even peaceful to play it. At first your songs are filled with pain, bitterness, even despair. But later you find your songs contain beauty, peace, a greater capacity for love and compassion. You and grief — together — begin to compose hope. Who’da thought?

Your grief becomes an intimate treasure, though the spaces between the grief lengthen. You no longer need to play the piano every day, or even every month. But later, when you’re 84, staring out your kitchen window on a random Tuesday morning, you welcome the sigh, the tears, the wistful pain that moves through your heart and reminds you that your child’s life mattered.

You wipe the dust off the piano and sit down to play.

Copyright: Las Vegas Review-Journal

Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Clear View Counseling and Wellness Center in Las Vegas. Contact him atskalas@reviewjournal.com.

My piano, persay, continues to shift. A few years ago, it made me feel almost like a broken record sharing about Alma. But now I'm realizing that he is part of my play and my story, and he will always be a part of my life, even if the grief is no longer obstructing my view and I'm not constantly banging into it.

Instead of writing every scene around the piano, you begin to write the piano into each scene, into the story of your life.

So now it's time. It's time to come back and write the piano into the story of my life. It's time to open myself up again, to weave the hope back in, and help others (and myself) in the process. Because hope is there and healing is possible.