hope

For the Love of Toyota

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / Leave a comment

Driving is something I spend a significant amount of time doing. I have to say, honestly, it’s in my blood; even though I didn’t get my license until I was 21 (!!), my paternal uncles, aunts, and cousins are all involved in amateur racing (https://www.facebook.com/Beier-Racing-107119746624381/). I wish I lived close enough to all of them to be involved with it. I think I could be a contender, LOL!  I’m pretty sure that having a leadfoot is a genetic condition. 🙂

My beloved car, Roxie the Rav4, is in the shop, just before her 100,000 milestone. She has a minor leak that I am PRAYING is covered by the extended warranty, as well as a small issue with the shift-stick-thingy that needs to be fixed.

Y’all, based on that last sentence (“shift-stick-thingy?!?”), you should know I am not into Car Talk. I’m going to fall on the sword of stereotype, by how NOT auto-savvy I am. I’m an embarrassment to my gender. I will use sound-effects, adjectives, and I will flat-out invent words when trying to express a mechanical issue to a repairman, and I can literally see them roll their eyes as they walk away from me. I haven’t fallen for the “blinker fluid” joke yet, but that’s probably only because of owning a smart phone and being really good at Google.

I love my car.

10153125747933070

Roxie the Rav4 (I name all of my cars, don’t judge me) is an answer to prayer. My beloved Camry (“Grandma Obama,” long story) hit 230,000 miles; a cable inside of her snapped, and we basically had to do that terrible, horrible thing where you have 1-2 days to find and buy a new car. We were sort of bent over a barrel, but I love Roxie, and I have no regrets. I do feel like she was the car God set out for me. I used to say that if I was ever going to spend a significant amount of money on a vehicle, I wanted it to be one-&-done. I desperately did NOT want to be nickel-&-dimed on repairs. When we bought her, she was gently-used (around 30,000mi.); she’s red (my favorite), she’s fully-loaded, and she has a spare tire on the back of the car. That’s important to me–that means I have more trunk space than the newer models of the same car. 🙂 It’s alllllll about the trunk space, let me tell you.

I don’t care about mirrors, lighting, or drink holders in a car–I’m a dumb chick when it comes to cars, but I’m not completely vapid. I care about trunk space. I want a car that can hold my dog, my groceries, jumper cables and various emergency supplies, a change of clothes, blankets, a first-aid kit, and Jimmy Hoffa. I. Want. Trunk Space, and my Rav4 gives that to me. Now, lest you think this blog is an endless plug for the wonder that is Toyota, please understand that…oh, heck, of course it is. I like my car that much. It’s awesome. It holds EVERYTHING. Not once have I had to turn down a purchase because I couldn’t fit it into my car. It’s glorious. From someone who drove a crappy Ford Tempo, to a well-loved Camry, to this?!?  Having adequate trunk space is HEAVENLY.

So, I’m in a rental..and yes, thank you Weiss Toyota, it’s a Rav4. 🙂 whiterav

I am very, very careful when in a rental. My last rental was a CHEVY SONIC, and I thought my 5’7″ chunky self was going to DIE. I felt like I was driving a can of tuna. Before that, I was in a Kia Soul (from Suntrup Kia), and I actually liked it. It was small, funky, and would be a great car if I didn’t spend 10 hours a week behind the wheel. But getting the chance to have a newer Rav4 for a rental MAKES ME HAPPY, and I’m really enjoying my drive. I’m going to be a tiny-bit sad to turn these keys back in today when I pick Roxie up.

I’m kinda in love with it. Like, don’t tell Roxie the Rav4–it’s not THAT level–but I can definitely appreciate this Rav4 as a pinch-hitter. It has two modes (Eco/Sport) that save gas, and in the Sport mode, the thing can FLY. Dangerous!!! (Yes, husband, I put it back in Eco. I don’t need no tickets, y’hear?!?)! This car is slightly smaller; it’s got bigger tires; and it is lacking the fancy bells & whistles that Roxie has (she’s EXTRA, just like me–JBLs, y’all!!!). However, as far as handling goes, I’m impressed, and will definitely continue my love of Toyotas when Roxie goes on to her eternal rest (in about 350,000 more miles). It makes me so happy to realize that Toyota as a company is not slacking as they get older. They’re getting better, which is unheard of in this day and age.

I recently saw a bumper sticker that made me angry. It said something about how it’s impossible to be a patriot if you’re driving a “foreign car.” I had to laugh at the total ignorance of this statement, particularly in regards to Toyota. My car was most likely made in Woodstock, NY. When I lived in Kentucky, I lived within 10 miles of a plant that made Camrys. My car supports American jobs just as much as the Dodge Charger that my father-in-law drives (and the Dodge pickups that he helped to build for 30+ years at the Fenton plant). Based on the stories I used to hear about the shenanigans at the Fenton plant (now closed), I don’t think I would ever actually drive a Dodge anything. Based on the amount of money I poured into both Fords that I owned (the Fairmont–which was SUPER old–and the Tempo, AKA, “The Yeti,”), I will never, EVER own another Ford, as long as I live. I see no reason to “buy American” if all I’m doing is throwing my money away.

I’m quite sure that if anyone actually reads this blog, I’m going to catch shade for that last sentence. My parents are retired employees of the U.S. Postal Service and lifelong Union members, that weren’t particularly thrilled when my sister brought home a Hyundai Sonata several years ago (she drives a Ford now, BTW). Buying a “foreign” car is not met with affection in either my, or in my husband’s, family. However, I like things that are made WELL.

I’m not saying that I appreciate the finer things in life (who doesn’t?) like I’m some kind of spoiled diva. I’m just an ordinary person with an obsession with trunk space. I don’t demand first-class, or caviar, or brand-name whatevers. I think I basically stay in my lane. However, I appreciate it when something is in my lane, budget-wise, but is made so well that it makes me feel like I’m first-class. Both this rental Rav4, and Roxie the Rav4, are so incredibly made. It’s a spirit of excellence, and we forget as lazy human beings just how wonderful it is to encounter something that’s up to that standard.

I’ve been extremely happy with the customer service I’ve received with Suntrup Kia (I take Roxie there for most of her maintenance; I purchased my vehicle from Suntrup Used Cars) and with Brian, “my” service guy. He speaks “stereotypical female car talk” very well, and has been great to work with. 🙂  Any minor recall issue for my year of a Rav4 has been handled with care by Weiss Toyota, and they’ve been fantastic.

After putting almost 330,000 miles on the two Toyotas that I have owned, I figure at least 1 blog post ought to extol the benefits of owning one of the greatest cars ever made. Like I said before, I”m not great with “car-talk,” but I am a huge fan of things that are made with excellence. I’m a huge fan of quality, and I’m a huge fan of solid customer service, so if you’re thinking of getting a great family car that eschews the mini-van mindset, consider a Rav4.

And if you DO get a mini-van, LOL, get a Toyota Sienna. 🙂

 

 

 

Reckless Love

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / Leave a comment

To be a woman is a wonderful thing. We live in full color, full, intertwined, sometimes blurry, sometimes crystal-clear COLOR, & it’s an intensity that is unique to our perspective.

Or maybe that’s just me, and maybe my crazy is showing.

It comes with drawbacks, this intensity. You feel everything so deeply: love, hate, joy, rejection. You have to learn how to control how much you let certain things affect you. When someone loves you, you reciprocate with your entire heart…but then you realize they’re witholding, & you’ve overplayed your deck. You don’t feel s….l….o…w…l….y. You loveFastAndFuriously.

And sometimes,

You break into a million pieces.

You heal…and then you do it again…and it happens again…and you heal again, maybe a little more slowly this next time….and it happens again…and you…heal…again….a little more slowly….yet again…more slowly…

And the scars meld together.

People love with such reservation…but we don’t want to,  because we’re not MADE to. The world preaches love in the light of narcissism: You will love me MY way. We don’t know how to love someone outside of ourselves, so we are selfish in how we give and in how we receive love. And when two people in a relationship only focus on how they receive love, and forget to ask the other person how THEY receive love, dissonance occurs.

It’s like living in a household playing an endless loop of the audio of nails running down a chalkboard.

You’re endlessly annoyed with each other. You bait each other. Course jesting takes the place of conversation to the point that you can’t even look at each other, and your relationship becomes governed by the remote control and your calendar of events, where you will smile & look lovely, but internally contemplate an impactless life together. Is this all there is?

And the scars meld together.

Marriage is an institution with the possibility of incredible impact. Two people who love Jesus,  and love each other? They can send thousands to flight, and change the atmosphere of a nation. Satan knows this, so he destroys marriages.

Just because you live in the same house, doesn’t mean your marriage isn’t destroyed.

However…

As long as you are in that same house, there is hope (unless there’s an abusive situation—then get the heck OUT. DO NOT try to salvage an abusive relationship without intensive professional help!!!).

Now, this blog isn’t about marriage (maybe it is); rather, it’s about LOVE, and how as women, we desire so strongly to be deeply, deeply loved.  I don’t know much about the uniqueness of men & love. I would like to think that my husband believes I love him, even when we’re spatting about something (which we currently are). I feel like he’s much better at letting things roll off of him, whereas I will stay angry for a week (which I currently am). Along with that, though,  when I say nice things to him, he also lets THAT roll off of him, so it can be very, very difficult for me to know what I’ve said to him that’s registered, that stays with him. I think that finding out HOW to communicate ANYTHING to your spouse is a lifelong struggle for men AND women, much less, finding out how to LOVE them. And the two go hand-in-hand.

I am not the type to tell someone directly what I want for Christmas.  I prefer to drop hints, to see if they listened. It’s manipulative, really: I will judge how well  you know me by the accuracy of your gift. I’m being really, reaaaaaally genuine here. I’m not saying this is a good trait–it’s probably not. But I listen & I watch, & I put a great deal of thought into gifts, because the accuracy of how well I know you is in that little box. I am pursuing your affections by showing you how well I have paid attention to you, and I expect the same.

There’s an example of narcissistic love.  I love how I want to be loved. I love with communication, with an attention to detail, and that’s how I receive love.

But maybe my husband isn’t that way.

And that’s not a bad thing…but it is a mystery I have to unravel, & I have to have patience in the pursuit of that process.

I can’t give up on figuring out how to love him, even when I come to a frustrating standstill.

God never gives up on loving us, on pursuing us, on chasing us down and relentlessly fighting for our affections. He never, ever stops.

I get frustrated. David gets frustrated. We bicker, we spat, we volley for control. We can’t stand to be apart, but we hurt each other when we’re together, but we’re best friends/frenemies, but we really do love each other, but we will never be separated, because God put us together, but that doesn’t mean it’s always smooth sailing, but it doesn’t mean it’s NOT.

But

He

Never

Stops.

I’ve told David before that I’ve been frustrated to the point of thinking about taking a break. What I actually meant is that I want to be PURSUED. I want to feel worthy in his eyes of being pursued again, like I did in those early days….pursued with romance,  with words. That didn’t happen, but again, that’s a narcissistic love. Security generally means there is no NEED to chase; there is only a WANT to be chased, so why ask your spouse to play games?

I will say this, though, with such absolute joy: Our Jesus never stops pursuing us. He values us, He covets our love, and He relentlessly, recklessly, past the point of reason, deeply pursues us to pursue Him. “Further up, and further in.”

We keep singing the song, “Reckless Love ” at our church.  It’s a popular one right now,  and I am here for it. It’s everything I want in a relationship–it’s the pursuit of the Beloved and how He never stops.  He’s not side-tracked; He isn’t blocked. He faces no obstacle in how He chases us. He is CONSTANT. He’s not like us as people…He isn’t detoured by emotion or mental state, or bad hair days, or financial crises. HE LOVES US, and He never, ever stops.

Like, I can’t wrap my head around it. Everything I need as a person, as a woman, as a mother, as a wife, is there in His reckless pursuit of me, and of you.  There’s no communication breakdown that takes it away,  there’s no “writer’s block” that stops it from coming. His love is a runaway train, and when it catches you?

You’re shaken to your core.

You’re undone.

I’m undone.

I can’t process what He does, or Who He is…it’s like getting shattered into fractals, it’s like the sun exploded into your brain…it’s like every circuit that makes you who you are, overloads and short-circuits into a trillion galaxies.

It’s like a molecule of Heaven blew up in your brain.

That

Is

The

Love

Of

God.

And it chases after ME.

“Forty?!? Oh, Lordy!”

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / Leave a comment

Well, it’s here.

Like the proverbial “Monster At The End of This Book,” my 40th birthday has crept up on me, regardless of my attempts to pretend it isn’t happening by ignoring that it IS happening..

Image result for the monster at the end of this book

Alas, the pages are turning…

I’m not really much of a person who “fears” aging. Truth be told, I’m pretty darn excited to have made it this far. I mean, when you think about it (oooh, the condensed version sounds SO exciting!), I’ve survived cancer (“the good kind,” LOL), two rounds of congestive heart failure, devastating loss, blah, blah, blah, and I really have no frickin’ idea how I’m still alive. In my youth, I was in Lord-knows how many car accidents (including a head-on collision)…and, to top it all off, I survived growing up in the 80’s, where things like seat belts were NEGOTIABLE. I am not someone who has survived by any kind of “admirable” grit and fortitude; I am someone who has survived by the sheer grace of God, an inherent sense of humor, and a strong (STRONG) family and spousal support system.

My mental battles have been far greater than my physical ones, and if anything was ever going to take me out, it has always, always been that. My brain, were it not for my spirit, would have killed me a hundred times over. When God said He would send us a Comforter, when He promised us His Holy Spirit, He did it knowing that we as a human race are intrinsically nihilistic, bound for self-destruction, and completely anchorless without His Presence in our hearts. I have Jesus in my heart. I have His Holy Spirit, and I have that peace that comes from knowing that He hears me. I’m not just shouting random things into an empty universe. My heart is heard, my soul is comforted, and I live another day.

That sentence could sum up my 40 years on this planet.

The need to be heard by humanity is massive. We all just want to be heard. It’s why I, and millions of others like me, write or blog, or jump on social media. We want to be heard, and we want to be validated. We want you and the world to recognize that we’re here. We have a voice.

It’s when people stop feeling heard…when they cry out, but no one responds…that the light flickers out of their soul…

There are days when I force myself to remember that I am always, always heard. I am always validated by the grace of God. It’s a theme that’s repeated in what I write, because it means so much to me. This world makes me feel overlooked…I question my worth. Do I matter? Am I making any kind of a difference? Is there any eternal impact in the work that I do, whether it’s on the job or in my home?

I feel as though my footprint on this earth is very, very small…

I don’t say that to pander for compliments. I say that because I think a lot of people feel that way, and I’m not alone in questioning my impact. I’m not abnormal in wondering what ripple I will leave on the ocean of the universe. We all want to leave a legacy, and we all have a story to tell….We all have a story that SHOULD be told.

I’m fascinated by biographies in short form. I’m fascinated by stories told by the elderly, by stories of days gone by…I’m fascinated by history, and the threads woven in the tapestries we look back on in their completed form, even as we weave new ones of our own. I’m fascinated by the colorful people I’ve met that NEED to write a book, but feel as though they’re not interesting enough to do so. EVERYONE is interesting!! I’ve never met a person that didn’t pique my interest in some way.

I think part of why I write is because life is INTERESTING. It’s fascinating!!!  People don’t always see it, but when you combine perspective, vocabulary, and the freedom to wrote, you can paint a picture that makes what seems dull, shine brightly.  You can make what seems dark point directly to the sunshine. The challenge in writing about those times is not to focus on the drama of the story; the challenge is to focus on the triumph as you come out of that drama. You make yourself write more about the positive than the negative, and in doing so, you bring the glory of God into that “dark night of the soul.”

And then, you have the victory.

So, I’m turning 40. It’s inevitable. I can’t stop it, and I’m not sure why I even want to. I mean, what good is it, to whine about something as non-discriminatory as AGE? Everyone ages!

Image result for everybody poops

(Yes, I just put that book there. It’s a classic!)

I’ve been a brat about this whole “birthday” thing. Like, REALLY. Image result for birthday divaI wanted a party (is that selfish?!? I threw myself one for my 30th, LOL. but that’s an ENTIRELY different story), but my family isn’t big on parties, and my husband isn’t big on birthdays in general. Money is tight, and we live in the “real world,” where lavish events are just not in the vernacular. And in my head (and okay, I blabbed incessantly to my poor husband, because he married me and he knows how much of a Brat I can be), I was super-pouty and dejected about it (I’m admitting this not for you to say, “aww, poor Cassidy!” but for you to realize that I. AM. A. JERK.), to the point that I was like, CRYING during praying about it one day. I DON’T KNOW WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME. For some reason, I decided to internalize all of this as some kind of proof of a terrible rejection of me as a human being.

Because I was turning 40.

Because there wouldn’t be a party.

Because my friend at work just unfriended me and made a catty remark about it as she was sending me an e-mail about how horrible of a person I was.

Because my life is hectic and I spend too much time in my darn car.

Therefore, the universe hates me.

I am a terrible human being who does not deserve to breathe.

So, I cried.

A lot.

THESE ARE THE THINGS THAT GO THROUGH MY CRAZY BRAIN.

And this is why I am grateful to the Lord that He gave us His Holy Spirit, to knock some darn sense into me and to REMIND ME that He loves me, even when I’m being an idiot.

It was during the course of a commute where I was bawling like an idiot, praying, and driving, that I heard Jesus speak my heart:

‘Okay, girlie. Here’s a Kleenex. You’ve destroyed your makeup for work today, and it’s a good thing you keep a spare makeup bag in your cabinet. Now, if you’re done bawling like a lunkhead, here’s the facts about you, about 40, and about Me:

‘I love you. I like you. You’re an idiot sometimes, and this is one of those times. That’s not a rejection; it’s a fact. You know you’re being an idiot. Your husband has been nice enough to not tell you you’re being an idiot, but that’s because I made him smarter than you give him credit for. 40, like any decade, is the start of a new chapter, and look at how much changed in your last chapter! Enjoy this. Embrace this. You’re afraid that 40 means you have to change who you are? 40 just means you become MORE of who I made you to be. You get better at being you, because you learn better about Who I Am. You put away childish things, but that doesn’t mean you give away childish hopes. You stay you. There’s nothing to fear.

‘Turn the page, Love. I’m at the beginning of the book, and I’m at the end. There’s no “Monster at the End of This Book.” There’s only Me. I’m all there needs to be, and I’m on every page. Welcome to the next chapter.’

In that instant, where He spoke into my heart, I realized that it wasn’t 40 I was afraid of. It was rejection.

I struggle with rejection. It’s been a battle my entire life; I permanently feel like the kid that’s on the outside-looking-in, always shoved to the side, and wishing I could be one of the cool people of the world. Minor events in my mind meld together to become massive issues, and that’s exactly what was making my approaching birthday so darn depressing; I was looking at everything through rejection-smudged glasses, and my world was bleak. Jesus shone some light on the situation, and when I was faced with the truth of my feelings, I was shook.

In my minds’ eye, I saw the rejection I had been dealing with unfold like 2 pages of a book…I saw a sword come down, and slice the two pages apart. They were caught by the wind, and blew away…

This doesn’t mean that whoosh! Jesus swept in, and now everything is hunky-dory!

This means that I’ve gained some perspective on what has been dragging me down, and now I understand. It means I can shake off the funk of the mid-life crisis that’s been plaguing me, and of all of the thoughts of things I want to do but can’t afford (and don’t have time for). It means I can stop worrying about the footprint I leave on this world, and focus instead on the footprints He leaves as He carries me through.

It means that change is inevitable, but so is the solidity of His Word.

It means that I can still be “meh” about turning 40. I mean, c’mon, it’s 40.  It also means that although my knees quake when I research and find that biblically, 40 is a number defined as a period of testing (http://www.biblestudy.org/bibleref/meaning-of-numbers-in-bible/40.html), that I know I can reach out to find His hand is always there, ready to lead, catch, guide, and hold.

It means that it’s going to be okay.

It means that I, regardless of volume, intention, content, or melody, am heard by the One Who Never Rejects His Children.

And I am always His child…

Even when I’m 40.

Image result for happy 40th birthday

 

 

Grief, Gratitude, and the Grace of Pumpkin Spice

/ Cassidy S. Cooley / Leave a comment

4 years ago, I wrote the following (thank you, Timehop):

“I’m in a season of celebrating one new life, while remembering the short life of one gone far too soon. It’s conflicting, celebratory, sad, & a beautiful dichotomy that is not lost on me, even in my current chaos. Hello, Autumn-you remind me again of what is lost, even in the midst of great, wonderful, amazing gain…”

If you’re new to my blog and haven’t read the “About Me” section, then you may not have picked up on the fact that my husband David & I lost our first daughter, Hannah, at 29 days of age, to late-onset Group B Strep with Bacterial Meningitis. I could wax loquacious about the details, but I will spare you (and me), and stick with the general, “Google It” response that I tend to give in order to stop reliving the worst 5 days of my life.  Our daughter was a preemie (34 weeks), and could not fight off the flukiest-of fluke diseases (even though she was born completely healthy). My pregnancy with her basically wrecked my heart (physically and emotionally), and it was nothing short of a miracle that we conceived and successfully delivered our rainbow baby, Jericho, 7 years later. My pregnancy with Jericho was spent partially in the peripartum “spa” (if you’ve been “incarcerated” into peripartum care long-term, you know I’m joking) of the amazing Missouri Baptist Hospital, under the care of phenomenal doctors (shout-out to Michael Paul, MD, life-saving and baby-loving perinatologist) and nurses that I couldn’t have survived (physically and emotionally) without.

Bringing home a newborn after losing one, is a strange, difficult, conflicting process…For Jericho’s first month of life, I’m pretty sure I didn’t sleep (which led to some serious post-partum issues, that I am neither ashamed of nor silent about. Post-partum depression is real, and if you’re suffering from it, save yourself and your family, and get help), and I’m not so sure my husband did, either. I had a full 8 weeks at home with my little guy, and I think I spent most of my time crying happy tears, crying sad tears, swearing about a lousy milk supply, praying that I didn’t screw this up, and thanking God for how He keeps His promises….while also praying with everything within me that we could just get through the first 30 days. I think when Day 30 hit, I finally took my first post-partum breath. It felt like the oceans receded (proceeded? Words are hard) after being held back for a month…like all of the tension flew out of my body with that breath, and I finally, finally, could rest.

I didn’t, of course—hello, sleep training!—but I knew that I COULD, and that made a huge difference. After 30 days, I think I finally went from handling motherhood like a Swarovski crystal spider-web, and began to actually embrace that this really was my life now…he was ours, and he was everything I prayed for. The reality of the answer to years of prayers was staring me in the face, and he wasn’t going away. He was real…my precious boy…and I could truly, sincerely be happy.

After that first 30 days, through the spring and summer, I began to struggle with the “we nevers.” Jericho would have a milestone moment, and I’d think, “We never got to see Hannah do that.” I tried to turn it off, tried to celebrate what was happening, but the thoughts would creep back…”He giggled…I never got to hear her laugh.” “David, he flipped over…we never got to see Hannah do that.”

At one point, I dreamt that Jericho was lying on my bed, and a little red-haired girl was sitting there with him. Even now, as I type this, I can feel the tears at the back of my eyelids…that image was so, so powerful, as was the sentiment with it: “I will never, in this life, have a picture of my children together. What has happened to us? We will never be a normal family.” I woke up from that dream absolutely hysterical…I was deeply, deeply grieved. I can remember that intensity as if I’d dreamt it last night. Family pictures with one boy, one girl? They are still hard for me to see, even amongst friends…You just never have that sense of completion. You learn to accept it, to view it as your “normal,” but as a parent? You will always recognize that missing person in your family picture.

Anyway, the first year with Jericho was tough, as it is for all parents: You’re learning how to be a mom, learning how to juggle a full work-week, and finding trustworthy childcare. I had further complications that first year; my heart still wasn’t functioning correctly, my gall bladder required 2 different surgeries to remove, and my recovery post-C-section caused scar tissue to develop that would later result in a full hysterectomy just one year after having my son.

However, one of the greatest joys of that year was how often David & I would look at each other, or look at Jericho, and just know how great was the love of Jesus? How amazing was it that this tiny little person came about because of healing, grace, and love? We could look at this child and see tangible evidence that when you have a dream in your heart, and you know beyond the shadow of a doubt that God is NOT finished with you, despite what modern healthcare says– He can make miracles happen!  We could look at this child and know that you cannot accept the things men say, when you hear in your spirit the things God says!!  My son is nothing short of a breathing miracle, and frankly, I am, too. He has that legacy—that legacy of prayer, of hope, of determination. There is nothing in this world I am more grateful for, except my husband and my salvation.

Yep—I’m officially crying now. Jesus, I am so thankful! You can’t know how my heart blows up at just writing these words…I am grateful, with every cell of my body.

Even as I write this, though, I come back to how this blog started, with that quote from 2013: “Hello, Autumn—you remind me again of what is lost, even in the midst of great, wonderful, amazing gain…”

The spring and summer of 2013 were full of new-mom fog, surgery, work, etc. We were just trying to get our feet back under us to charge ahead on our new life together as a Party of 3. But then….

Then came Autumn.

And then came The Hardest Part.

When I went into Missouri Baptist Hospital in October, 2006, the fall leaves were still on the trees. My room overlooked the highway, so I really didn’t get a good handle on watching the season change to winter; when I left my hospital room in November, 2006, winter had come, and the world was bare.  I missed the entire season in a 4-week span, and we brought our little girl home the week before Thanksgiving. By the day after Thanksgiving, she was in a coma, and then she was gone…we buried her on December 1st, the day after one of the worst ice storms Missouri has ever seen. The sun shone, and the world was crystallized for my winter princess.  I’ve never forgotten the beauty of the day my child was buried…it was like the Lord decided to cover the trees in diamonds in her honor. It was stunning, even in the darkness of our grief.

But that year, 2006, I missed the fall. So when the leaves turned in 2007, something hit my heart, and I could only think of that Fall I Had Missed…and every year, I am reminded as such.

In 2013, the reminders came as I was looking into the eyes of my son…my miracle boy…and I was so totally conflicted in ways I hadn’t realized were possible. I had so much, but had lost so much, and the season reminded me of all of it, combined with gutting guilt. HOW dare I mourn, when I had so much to be thankful for?

How could I not, when that world was staring me in the face every day I walked out of my door?

I found myself not necessarily regressing in my grieving process, but really struggling with the dichotomy of grief and gratitude. And I’m writing this not to say that I have ever found an answer to that conflict, but to say that every year, I’m reminded of Hannah’s precious life in so many stronger ways than in my usual daily thoughts.

There is no season like Autumn, in all of its symbolism and glory…it’s a season of death, but a season where colors come alive….where we breath in the dust of the trees as they make their fiery curtain call for the year. It’s a season of living at bonfires and parks, a season where photographers revel in making memories, and where families gather to celebrate all things together…

We know death is coming…that winter is coming…but there is no day like today, and today, we celebrate the abundance of the harvest.  Are we near-sighted, to not hunker down and prepare for the winter? Or do we understand the breath/breadth of life, and own the day with its undeniable charm?

We cram our calendars with activities to take in every moment. That first year? We did it all. And we did the second year, and the third, and I’m getting ready to do it all again in the fourth year with our Rico-Bean. We celebrate the Fall, and we run ourselves ragged with the memories we make…and we make no apologies. I celebrate the Fall season with my little guy, and I never let on that I am internally fighting the conflict of that grief and that gratitude.

And I realize through it all, that there is no “conflict.”

There is only cohabitation.

I miss my little girl. Fall reminds me of her birth, of her death, and of the 29 days we had between…of the crunching of the leaves as I walked into the hospital, and the Christmas decorations as we came out…of that first day home from the hospital with her in our arms…and of the last day, where home was a place I never wanted to go back to…I wish I could separate her birth and her death, but her death came so quickly that I simply cannot. It all happened in the same season…this season…and every day is a reminder…

But every day is also a gift.

Every day, I look at Jericho and marvel at who he is, who he was born as, and what possibilities are to come…Every day, I am so grateful, and so genuinely happy. Every day, I praise God that I get to be that boy’s mother…Every. Single. Day.

This fall, we have adventures planned…it’s his first year in Pre-K, so there are school events (field trips!), fall festivals, our annual events with Parents-As-Teachers, and my favorite, Halloween!!!!!!!! This year, he’s going as Harry Potter for at least one event (he wears glasses, so it’s perfect!).  We celebrate this season; don’t be surprised to see me in my Uggs with my leggings and some S’mores, cradling a Pumpkin Spice Latte in my monogrammed fleece jacket,  as a shining example of Suburban White Chick Bliss (that’s an entire other blog).

Image result for pumpkin spice latte meme

I love this season. I love that it has multiple meanings, deep significance, and a beautiful, melancholy soul. I love the constant reminders of grace, which hovers over the grief and the gratitude. Grace envelopes both feelings, and makes them walk side-by-side instead of in mental conflict.

Grace is how we had our Hannah…how we said goodbye…and ultimately, how we will say “hello,” again…

Grace is how we had our Jericho…how we said “hello” for the very first time…and how we embrace each new day and sleep peacefully each night.

Grace is what brought David & I together in this crazy world—two kids with no idea of what was to come, and no idea how to engage on this life or on this journey—

Grace is what keeps us together, and is what pulls us through the tough times. It pushes us constantly toward the Father Who bestows it in abundance, and works in us independently to keep us engaged…to keep us from throwing up our hands and breaking our hearts in this process.

Grace is what binds our hearts, and binds our hearts to each other.

And Grace is what leads us home…

There is a beautiful loss in the season of Autumn, but it is part of the journey to a beautiful rebirth…and we are constantly on that journey, surrounded by grace, with eternity in our hearts….<3

Ecclesiastes 3:11 “He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.“

Image result for he has made everything beautiful in it's time