New Normal Retreat

the void of noah not being here is the strongest, for me, at home. we spent so much time preparing and imagining him in this place that it's so difficult knowing he'll never be here. and walking past the closed door to his room ... i can't even talk about it let alone go in there.

then the other place his void is felt the strongest, for me, is at work. i returned a couple weeks after noah passed away and it was so, so troubling for me to go back because i was not supposed to be there. it was an eerie feeling. i was planning on spending the three months of summer getting to know this new, little baby boy - taking walks, going to the park, running errands with him on my hip. instead, i'm sitting at a desk trying to find things to do, at a place that had everything all planned to go on without me. everything feels empty.

and those are the two places i spend the most time. the two places i miss noah the most.

so when a friend of ours was gracious enough to offer up her cabin home on lake wenatchee to us, we jumped on the chance. obviously we take noah with us wherever we go, and we wouldn't be able to 'escape' our pain, but it was a chance to enter a part of the world that we had never been, a place yet untouched by noah.

it was a place to begin experiencing a 'new normal.' and those few nights were met with some of the most real and deep mourning, but also with beauty and heaven.

so, so quiet. peaceful. my thoughts slowed down. i was able to breathe.

we read in the sun. we floated in the lake for hours on inner tubes just talking and dreaming. we took morning runs. we sat in silence. we wept. we ate an entire container of artichoke-jalapeno dip.

we watched dvds that made us laugh.

we took a day trip to leavenworth, one of our favorite towns, and ate one of our favorite meals.

but we spent most of the time working on noah's scrapbook.

before noah was born i prepared a scrapbook to document his entire first year and beyond. it was all ready. all we had to do was fill it in with milestones and pictures. after noah died i assumed the entire book was just going to remain empty. a sharp reminder of what could have been, but wasn't. then my husband had the most brilliant and thoughtful idea. we should finish his scrapbook. leave the pages that still apply, like sharing the birth story, first photos, baptism, etc. and fill the rest of the pages with all the cards we received from loved ones at noah's memorial.

this book is a treasure. a memorial of love for our boy. and something our future children can look through to learn about their big brother.

on our last night, while we were walking through the streets of leavenworth, this caught our eye in a store window...

i'm so thankful that our 'new normal' includes rainbows. the promise of wonders to come. thank you, jesus.

our 'new normal' will always, always include noah. our retreat was not a retreat from him, but a beginning of a new life with him, just in a different way then we imagined.

and because of that, heaven feels a bit closer now.

Co-Suffering

warning: in this post i'm just going to be brutally honest. my feelings might not get packaged up nice and candy coated.

it's candy crush time. (i don't really know what that means, or what i'm trying to say. i just wanted to use the words 'candy crush.')

here we go. deep breath.

as much as my husband and i have been shocked by the outpouring of support and love from family, friends, acquaintances and strangers the past couple of months, we have been equally shocked by the ones we expected to be there for us and aren't.

quick. think of the 10 people in your life that, you believe, would drop everything and be there for you at the darkest, most hellish time in your life. now imagine that half of those people are hardly to be found when tragedy strikes. and then half of those half are Jesus-followers. shocked? yeah, us too.

but that's basically what's happening to us.

i have no idea how the mccayla of 2012 would have responded to a family member, friend or acquaintance who's newborn baby died. so i have absolutely no basis to judge. none. and i have no judgment for those i expected more from, just disappointment and hurt.

in the last two months my understanding of compassion has been completely expanded. and i've learned and experienced this through those who are grieving with us. not just sad for us from a distance but are there with us in it. the messy, hard, ugly journey of grief where there's weeping, random laughing, question asking and pain. it's not pretty. (and physical distance has nothing to do with it. some people who are across the globe feel closer to us than those who live 5 minutes from our house.)

i have been in awe of those who love us enough to sacrifice their time and energy to do the dark journey with us, even when they might not feel like it or think it sounds very 'fun'. and even when they don't know exactly what to do because they've never experienced what we're going through.

it only takes a moment to try and put yourself in the shoes of someone who is hurting. what would it feel like, and be like, to experience what that person is experiencing? imagine it. go there in your mind. i know it's hard and difficult to imagine sometimes, especially when it's extremely painful to think about something like your baby boy dying or your sister committing suicide, but imagine what it's like for them. they have to live it. and you get to snap back to reality. and if what you imagined felt difficult, times that by a million and you're probably not even close to how they feel.

compassion. i just looked up what it actually means. it means to "co-suffer."
yes. exactly. that's exactly what i'm talking about. (and us who follow Jesus should know that better than anyone!! shame on us for dropping the ball so often.)

so let me give some practical examples of what co-suffering might look like with a friend who is going through hell and hurting...
*when you say, "let's hang out" you actually pick a day and make it happen.
*you drive to the person's house, send a text to them saying, "we're in the driveway. if you want to talk, we will be here for 15 minutes praying."
*you don't ask if that person needs help with something. (because they obviously do.) you look for the need and you just make it happen. be proactive!
*you fill up their freezer with meals.
*you listen.
*your guilt doesn't hold you back from loving. neither does pride. all bets are off. grudges are forgotten and walls come down.
*in a crisis, you change your plans. drop everything. take time off work. cut your vacation short.
*as time goes by, you check in often. you're consistent.
*a seemingly small gesture like a loving email or a flower left on their porch with a note or a thoughtful card in the mail will do the trick. (but if you consider that person a close friend, step it up a bit.)
*for heaven's sake, just show up. say something. do something.

i know all this might seem kind of harsh and i sound like the most selfish, attention-seeking, greedy person in the world. i, in no way, want to make anyone feel guilty. i understand everyone has their own busy lives with their own hurts, celebrations, good times and bad, so the expectation is not to drown in our sorrow 24/7. this post is just humbly coming from a heart that's in earth-shattering pain and desperately wanting to underscore the importance of compassion and community.

and i'm sorry to say, the suffering didn't end a week after the funeral. it gets worse. most of the time we may look like semi-functioning human beings, getting on with normal life - but we aren't. we're messed up, broken people. and we need you.

thanks for listening.

this post is dedicated to all those who have all shocked us with support. you've inspired us to be more compassionate and love more sacrificially like you. we pray that we too will have the strength to co-suffer with you through your darkest days. thank you for doing the hard journey with us - you're saving our lives. 

Girl Scout Grief

lately i've been in a perpetual bad mood.

i don't feel motivated to do anything, yet i'm bored out of my mind.
the smallest inconvenience frustrates the crap out of me.
i don't have the energy to respond kindly, so i'm short with others.
i'm tired, yet restless.
and our obnoxious neighbors annoy me so much that i want to bomb their house.

...obviously i'm just a peach to be around.

and because i'm sooo well-educated on grief from all the pamphlets and booklets we've been given - i can understand this to mean i am in my "anger phase." i am also smart enough to know there aren't really "phases" in grief. it's all a bunch of bull. yes, there are different emotions and experiences you'll have that are "normal" (ie. sadness, anger, denial, shock, etc.), but to call them phases is kind of misleading. because it's not like once you successfully complete one phase, you get to move on to the next, and pretty soon - hey, look at that, i'm all healed.

it's not like a girl scout earning her badges, people. (that was me being a little short with you. i apologize.)

as much as i'd like to smoothly move from one phrase to the next, earning "grief badges" in some sort of organized fashion, i jump from sadness to denial, then pleasantly linger in shock for awhile, then lose my patience with the kind lady giving me a pedicure, then run two miles to burn off some of that nervous energy, and then finish it all off by drowning myself in a bowl of ice cream. it's a huge hot mess.

but in this moment i'm mad. and my lack of patience and sharp words are just a bubbling up of the horrific anger i feel inside.

anger needs an outlet, and will seep through any crevice to get out. anger brings out the worst in me.

i'm not proud of my behavior. and i'm ashamed of the mean ways i treat people. i'm sorry that this is the wife my husband lives with. i'm sorry that my mother bears the brunt of my unkindness. i'm sorry i don't take a moment to smile at the grocery cashier.

i'm taking out my anger and frustration, that has nowhere else to go, on everyone in my wake.

forgive me. it's only because i'm mad that my baby boy isn't here.

Noah's Pics: Edition One

yesterday a friend mentioned to me that she wanted to see more pictures of noah. say what? you want a new mom to show off her adorable baby boy??

to that i say, DONE!!! and thank you so much for asking.

i think maybe sometimes people feel like if they ask about noah, want to hear the birth story or see pictures of him, that it would just be too hard on my husband and i to share. so they don't. but can i be honest? that just adds to the loss of a bereaved parent. not only do we lose our baby, we lose the experience of sharing our baby with others.

and yes, when we tell you the birth story, we might cry. and yes, we might get emotional when we look at a picture of him. but it will always, always bless us. so please, on behalf of all parents who have ever lost a baby, whenever you get a chance, ask us about our beloved baby and let us show them off.  

so. welcome to edition one (of many) of "noah's pics". i pray that through them you'll get to know our little boy even better as we share more about his time here on earth.

let's begin at the beginning - the very first picture ever taken of noah hudson butler.

noah-boy, one hour old.

... taken by his daddy, right after his first bath. he was being quite the wiggily-wally in this picture because i'm sure he would have liked to say, "excuse me. i know i'm cute, but may i please get swaddled up in that warm blanket now?"

this picture was also taken right after an entire hour of cuddling with his mama. the moment he was born he was given straight to me and i proceeded to fall head over heels in love. during that hour on my chest he did a lot of looking around, ate a little breakfast and took a short snooze. all of it was heaven, for me.

but i am not naive and know far too well that i am blessed to have had those moments. i've heard countless stories of families who lose their baby minutes after they are born, or even while they are still in their mother's womb. and if you're reading this, and that's you, my heart breaks with you. you're right, it is absolutely not fair. and i'm pissed about it.

we may all have different experiences and wishes for what could have been, but we're all rooted together in the same love and longing.

even though i long, and literally ache, for a lifetime of more moments with my boy, today, i choose to be thankful for what i got.

My New Name

so two nights ago i had a full-fledged breakdown.

it basically began when we watched a show on tv where the story revolves around a police investigation about dozens of young ladies who have been murdered in the seattle area. real light and lovely, huh? so the perfect thing to watch when i'm already super emotionally fragile. (that's sarcasm.)

although the show is fiction i still got kind of invested, especially in a story line about a guy on death row for murdering his wife. and they aren't really clear whether or not he's actually guilty of the crime. i believed he was innocent.

so the entire episode went through his last hours before he (spoiler alert) was killed.

it was intense, dramatic and way too graphic.

and the second the credits rolled i lost it. i was so pissed. he didn't deserve to die. he was innocent and i was horrified. and i know it wasn't real but it basically could be.

because the innocent die. for no reason.

and it's not fair. so i wept. and wept. and wept.

i hated the world we lived in. where so much injustice just seems to run rampant. where A+B does not = C. where suffering doesn't make sense. where a baby boy could die from a fatal lung disease.

i felt like i was drowning in despair.

and then, like a flash, i remembered a text i had received the night before from one of my besties. it was sent right after church, where we were singing the song below. and her text said, "God gave you a new name tonight. and i think you already know what it is." and i honestly didn't. so i had to ask her.

but wouldn't you know, that the exact moment in my life where i felt THE most hopeless, would be the moment i remembered my new name.

Hope.

and let me just say right now, my friends, because i'm standing on the edge and know - hopelessness literally kills. it kills your spirit. it kills your reason for living.

but if we can hold on to that 1% of hope left, it's a light that breaks through the darkest of breakdowns. i stand and testify to that Light. because there has to be more to all this disgusting ugliness. one day i believe all will be made right.

my new name is Hope. and i'm desperately holding onto it to save my life.

two months.

my sweet, precious, beloved noah-boy,

you are literally my heart. my greatest joy.

everything that i hold dear and sacred in my life is in you. the wonder of love, of God's creation. and part of your brilliant daddy.

i thank God for that day you were born. june 5, 2013.
for at 11:56pm on that holy night, the world was changed. for good.



my life was changed. for good.

and you came into the world so perfectly!
you barely made me feel sick while i was carrying you.
you were head down, ready to go, for weeks. perfect.
you were the perfect size. 7 pounds, 5 ounces.
you had the perfect cry the instant you took your first breath.
well done, you.

perfectly peaceful, you were.

there was no mistake made.

i once overheard a dear friend, many years ago speaking of me, say, "she could fail at everything, but to succeed at being a mom, for her, life would be a success."

yes.

you gave me the greatest gift. the gift i have been waiting for all of my life. the gift of being a mother. your mother.

and i will always be.

i'll never stop caring for you. i will continue to nurture your spirit on earth by taking deep care of your lasting legacy. i will fight for you. i will stand firm for you. your memory will be long-living. even in death, you will remain alive.

you are a miracle. and though your loss here on earth is great and the pain is deeper than it feels possible to bear, you have inspired us, with every day, to be a miracle like you.

i will remember you in every rainbow, every hospital, every baby's cry, every loss, every blessing, and every tear.

i will remember you on every 5th of the month, 18th of the month, 23rd of the month, and every other single day.

i can't ever forget the bursting joy you brought into this world the moment you arrived, because everything i do is now colored by it. for good.

your life, if only 13 days, will impact and bless the rest of mine.

i promise, in honor of you, to love deeper, purer and with more passion and humble vulnerability, all those in my world - especially your amazing daddy and future little brothers and sisters, our rainbow babies.

be at peace.
for noah, you are peace personified.

sweet dreams, little man.

love always,
your adoring mommy

A Mark of Mourning

earlier this week my husband and i were enjoying a ridiculously cheap and delicious lunch at costco when we noticed a couple with a baby sitting a few tables away. my initial thoughts, as i watched them all smiles, were, "you don't know how lucky you are. you probably got to go straight home with your little love after she was born, didn't you? and now you're just living it up in naive bliss. you have no idea the anguish you avoided because she's healthy." to be honest, i have those thoughts more often than not when i see babies. thoughts rooted in bitterness and self-pity.

and assumptions.

a few moments later, i had a thought that i know was from God - because it sure as heck didn't come from my bitter brain. all of a sudden, i saw beyond their outward appearance of "life is perfect for us" and saw sweet sorrow. maybe their life wasn't as easy as it seemed from where i sat. what if they were trying to have a baby for years and then, finally, she arrived? what if he was told he could never have children, but somehow she got pregnant? 

what if they were parents who once lost a beloved and precious child, and this baby was their rainbow? 

oh, wow. 

my cold heart instantly melted and i was genuinely so happy for them. 

i'm coming to realize that my husband and i are not the only ones who are experiencing pain. even though all too often it feels like we got the short end of the stick, and are alone in it, every person who walks on this earth is carrying their own burden. because we're human. pain just comes with the territory. 

sometimes our burden is very public, like the loss of a child, and sometimes it's hidden behind closed doors, like infertility or an abusive marriage.

we all see the joyful announcement on facebook, "we're pregnant!" - and it may seem so easy and perfect for them. but we don't always know the long, secret road of heartache behind someone's outward joy.

hundreds of years ago in england, black armbands were worn as a sign of mourning. to me, that would feel so freeing and unifying. i kind of wish we did that today. we'd quickly realize how alike we really are and how much sadness and pain there is in this world. i think it would make us more compassionate. a mark of mourning would be a commonality of pain - a "we're all in this together" mentality. 

but maybe i don't need a black armband to show me who's in pain or carrying a heavy burden, i can just assume they are, because they are alive. so i should extend a lot more grace. 

God willing, in a year or so, my husband and i will be that happy couple at costco. giggling with our rainbow baby whilst chowing down on a $1.50 hot dog. 

and when others see us i pray they find hope.

you're not alone in your pain. we've all got it.

except for maybe kate middleton. her life is perfect.