Thank you, from the bottom of our (mending) hearts

Redolent roses from M, a gorgeous gerber daisy from the H's,
and a beautiful bouquet from S. 

The other day, when I expressed how overwhelmed I felt by the incredible outpouring of love and support from friends and family, a good friend reminded me that it wasn't necessary to respond to each note, bouquet, email, or package; we simply have to rest in the knowledge that people want to care for us right now, no strings attached. That goes against everything in me; my mum trained me well to write thank you notes and make calls when packages arrive, so it's hard to just rest in the arms of our friends. Yet, I think I'm starting to learn why that's so important: because their arms are extensions of our Father's, and He invites us to "come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls" (Matthew 11:28-29). And rest is what we so desperately need.

Our "Beanster" (and "Blueberry") ornament, a gift from a beloved friend I've never met,
and the only thing we own to commemorate the tiny lives of our much-loved angels.

And so, in some small way, I hope this post serves as a small thank you--to all of you who have come alongside us to grieve in ways big and small. Beautiful, brightly colored flowers bloom all over our living room mantle, reminding us of hope and life in a time of dark sadness. Not a day goes by when I don't receive a text or an email from a member of our RCC church family, just letting us know that prayers are being lifted on our behalf without ceasing and reminding us--again and again--that we do not grieve our Beanster alone, that he is remembered and loved by so many more than just us two. Two couples from our small group arrived with meals last week, one the night before surgery and one the night of surgery. Neither couple gave us an option to refuse their offers to cook; they simply announced when they'd be coming, told us how to reheat delicious pasta e fagioli soup and a "Mexico meets Midwest" taco pie, and brought with them movies to distract us and conversation to nourish us.

B's extraordinary package.
(Her words in the card are really the most remarkable gifts of all.)

And then there are the letters, emails, and even a package that have arrived from women I've never met in person, women who share our grief because they, too, have felt it. As I've referenced many times in this blog, the women of my online support group are rocks who provide love, comfort, encouragement, and understanding. One in particular, B, has blessed Jeff and me in ways beyond our imagination; she has prayed for us throughout our journey, and she was the angel who sent us the "B" ornament and package contents pictured above. I've never met B, but that doesn't shake my certainty that God has connected us in ways that mere human contact never could.

And so this week draws to a close, and we prepare to celebrate a birth--that of our Christ--next week. Celebrating life seems paradoxical right now, yet it's the only thing that could possibly give us hope in a future unseen, so celebrate we will. And, with gratitude beyond words to each and every one of you, I'll celebrate with a smile on my face.

More incredible friends got us out of the house last night,
and B's beautiful scarf kept me warm along the way!

When Hearts Break, Again.

As the two new posts below reveal, Jeff and I learned I was pregnant again at Thanksgiving, blessed with a new little life after our second round of injections and IUI.

Turns out that 2012 wasn't our year after all. It's been bookended by the losses of our two sweet July babies, Blueberry and Beanster. Today feels both eerily similar to and strangely different from January 13, 2012. Our D&C will be performed in the Maryland headquarter offices of our capable and gentle RE, not in a hospital. This time, extensive genetic testing will be performed, both on our little Beanster and on me. Jeff will not sit alone in the waiting room as I go through surgery; our beloved friend, M, will sit by his side. And we won't come home to an empty house; friends will come to distract us with silly movies, and our church family will bring dinner.

In some ways, this time is so much less lonely. We'd shared our joy--very intentionally--with so many, and so they are wrapping us in prayer and home-cooked meals and constant texts and emails of encouragement. And that is so nourishing and good, and it holds the grief at bay for whole hours at a time.

But, in other ways, this time is so much scarier. We've now lost two sweet angels, both in the seventh week of their brief lives inside me. We know, with this one, that a tiny heart actually stopped beating, which puts our type of miscarriage in a very small minority. It seems the issue isn't just getting me pregnant (as we thought) but keeping me pregnant. And so I am overwhelmed with fear and guilt and doubt. Why can't my body keep my babies alive? What if all the testing reveals nothing we can fix? How do I watch the man I adore and would do anything for grieve again for a lost opportunity at fatherhood?

I trust my heavenly Father has a Plan, and I don't even need to know what it is today. Right now, I just need to make it through today.

Happy Tears

Our little Beanster, measuring 6 weeks, 2 days, with a perfect little heartbeat of 111 bpm!

That's my uterus! That's our Beanster!

Yesterday morning was the appointment I feared so much. As we waited to be called into the ultrasound room, I focused on a verse a good friend had given to me: "The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged" (Deuteronomy 31:8). The more I prayed, the more I heard "do not be discouraged" reverberating in my head. I was anticipating disappointment, but why?

When our doctor and ultrasound tech walked into the room to greet us, both said "Congratulations!" For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why. There was nothing to congratulate, as far as I could tell. With a quick assessment, they started right in on the ultrasound, gently explaining what they were seeing. The only word I cared about was "heartbeat," though, so it took me a moment when our tech said "and there's the cardiac activity!" A second of comprehension later, the tears started.

Cardiac Activity.
Heartbeat.
Little Life.

When talking with the women in my RCC small group in the waiting period between our IUI and positive bloodwork, I tearfully confessed that I knew it would take a miracle to get me pregnant, and I just wasn't sure those were possible any longer. Those women, who love me so dearly, were the strong rocks they always are as they reassured me that it was alright to be naked and humbled before our Father, to admit that my faith was failing me. That night, they prayed for a miracle on my behalf, as I quietly cried and soaked first my sleeve and then a Kleenex.

So this is our tiny miracle, with a tiny, beating heart. And, Father, we are humbled before you.

A Peace That Passes All Understanding.

As I sit at the dining room table tonight, waiting for a friend to come over, I find myself needing to write this post. It's one I hope won't appear on the blog for another 6 weeks or so, but it's on my heart tonight, so it will come out on the "page."

Tomorrow morning at 10AM, Jeff and I will head to the RE's office for a very different kind of ultrasound than we've had the past few months. Unlike my numerous monitoring appointments, this time, we're looking for our little Baby Beanster. The last time we saw him, he was just a tiny little 20mm follicle, one that I prayed about before he began a long journey that Sunday night. Tomorrow, he should be a little bigger and happily snuggled up in his new home for the next seven and a half months or so.

Before our ultrasound last January--the one that revealed our lost Blueberry--I was filled with a sense of joyful anticipation. Sure, I knew that miscarriages happened, but I was still getting very dark lines on home pregnancy tests, I hadn't had a spot of bleeding, and I had no cramping. I was one of the lucky ones without nausea or overly sore breasts, but that just meant God was blessing us even more, right? And so, when the ultrasound screen revealed a picture no father or mother should ever have to see, I was devastated.

But that's not the room I'm living in tonight. Tonight, I am surrounding with an army of prayer warriors, men and women who have loyally walked every step of the last 11 months with us, who have rejoiced in the last two weeks as we shared the news of our pregnancy, who have been sending emails and texts full of encouragement and wisdom throughout the day today.

Today, I'm more than aware that I'm just a temporary home--and we are just temporary parents--to this miraculous little Beanster. And we can do nothing more than pray that God grants us as much time as possible with him.