Gratitude.

Thankfulness.
Grace.
Praise.
Honor.

At the end of this very long day, I'm praying I'll rest with a grateful heart.  With thanksgiving for a day well spent with my people.  With praise and honor for The One who provides the peace I so desperately seek. And with a spirit determined to press on, despite the burning desire that fills my soul every. day. to fold in, to give up and quietly fade into the background.

A dear friend, my brother in Christ, messaged me this morning.  This one, with whom I share the bond of child loss that is simply like no other.  And while our friendship spans over 2 decades, our bond of child loss feels infinite. The news he shared gave my heart a much needed boost- for the first time in six. very. long. years, he's finding small measures of joy in how he is serving each and every day.  He's using gifts he never expected to share Christ with others, vicariously living through their smiles and laughter for a few hours each time and to slowly, but surely begin again to fill his own heart.

I wish I could open a window into the hearts of grieving mamas and dads, of broken sisters and brothers.  I used to think that writing would somehow show the world the depth the of the pain and agony of separation from your child or your children.  But the one certain truth I've learned in the past 4 1/2 years is this.
Unless your child has died before you, there is nothing you can do to possibly understand.  And the longer the time passes from the day they left us, the more they fade into the background.  WE fade into the background.  Another tragedy from another time, and all of a sudden, everyone looks at us and doesn't see what's missing-
they see only what remains.
Yet I never see only what's left, I'm always and forever aware of the holes, the absence, the silence and the sorrow.
I sat at my table today and listened to my son make up memories when we were sharing about Sam and Mercy.  He made them up because he. can't. remember.
Because in June, Sammy will be gone as long as he was here and in January, Max will have lived without his twin almost as long as he lived with her.  And he is only 10.  He will spend his life desperately trying to remember, because that's who he is.  And I will spend mine trying to keep him sane and safe and loved.
I told someone recently that I'm jealous.  SO jealous.  Of anyone whose child lived longer than mine did.  Whose memories span more time and whose imprint was bigger.  Who would be remembered longer, better, more.
Well, that feels like shit.
Because, really, who wants to be jealous of someone else with a dead kid?  or kids?
Not me.
But. I. am.
Because, as I've said before and I'll shout it again.  I would set myself on fire and burn to my bones to spend just one more minute with them.  I'm not going to apologize for being jealous, because it's just truth.  I just want more time!! And I can't have it!

But tonight, I'm going to try so hard. SO FREAKING HARD, to rest well in gratitude for this day, these moments and each one of my 5 beloved children.  Because just before my son had to make up his memories, he spent at least 5 minutes sharing all of the things he was grateful for.  His humility and grace brought me to tears.

Tonight I rest knowing that what remains is this-
Hope.
Hope Remains. 

Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, 4 who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.

2 Cor 1:3-4

all my love, 
clan mac mama

Ironing Board-0, Tiff-1

Um, yes.  Yup,  100% truth.  I absolutely raved like a lunatic in my driveway and beat this poor unsuspecting ironing board to death with the completely indestructible aluminum bat that Charley got for her birthday a few years ago...

I think it's fair to say that I've plowed through the June "suckfest" (as Cassie seethingly refers to this month of crapaverseries,) with my feelings stuffed DEEP into any corner I could find.  Determined NOT to acknowledge the date my kids ran ahead to Jesus, I booked them into camps and sent myself on a trip to visit one of my closest friends.  I spent the accident date aimlessly shopping and ignoring almost every single message/phone call/email.
I tried to pretend that stupid day didn't exist or matter or affect me at all.
Guess what?
Epic. freaking. failure.
Because it did happen, it does matter and my entire life shattered on that day.  My family shattered, my husband, my kids and everything that made us who we were.  into teeny tiny little fragments.
So, news flash.  Ignoring the stupid date doesn't work.

And because I'm just such a glutton for punishment, I decided that the week in between my crapaversary and Cassie's was a GREAT time to go into the attic of the old house and clean out a bunch of furniture.  I mean, it's been FOUR years, right?  We're selling the house and for the love of pete, I can't keep all that stuff, right?
Thus, Charles, Brian and I carted the following items down the stairs and to the consignment store.

The table from my school room-the one where I taught every one of my children, some to write letters, some to write papers, some to do math and all to love the Lord with all their heart, soul and strength.

The chairs that surrounded that tables until they broke.  The ones my little people sat on with their knees when they were too small to sit up and reach the table.  The ones my bigs occupied while they learned all the things my mama heart thought would make them love to learn and want to grow in the wisdom and admonition of the Lord. 

The schoolroom storage tower.  The one that had a label on every cubby, every shelf, and every bin.  Their hands were all over that tower every. single. day.
There was that one summer that I may have left them alone for a bit too long- Oh, they invaded that tower and decided that covering the schoolroom floor with salt and glue was the project of the day.  Needless to say, I slammed shut the doors and left it until 3 days before school started again in August.  That summer, we spent loads of time outside and art projects only happened in the driveway with chalk and water guns...
That tower was filled with all the little things this mama heart thought her people needed so they could create and learn and grow-and discover their different gifts, according to the grace given to each of them. 

My living room wing chairs.  The ones where they snuggled each other, opened numerous gifts, read stories and played games.
I held my son in one of those chairs for the last time on the last birthday he celebrated with us.  

The red toile curtain from my laundry room.  I adored that laundry room.  With it's black and white floor, sweet yellow walls, industrial light and the labeled laundry sorter-this OCD mama was one happy laundry lady.  (That's sort of true...I hated the laundry, but at least the torture chamber where I had to serve was pretty...)
That curtain was a bright spot that framed the window into the room where I washed every one of their clothes, that cast light onto the hooks where their jackets hung and their shoes rested.
Every day of their lives, they wandered in and out of that room with the red toile curtain. 

And finally-the bar stools from my counter.  Sweet seats where my little squad ate countless meals, dyed Easter eggs, did science projects, read God's Word, snuck M-n-M's, and just lived life.
The bar stools. 
Where they sat. 
For. The. Last. Time. 

And when we were all done sorting and carting and sweating, I caught a glimpse of the bins where I stored their baby bedding and keepsake blankets.
Wet.
Moldy.
And since I was in full on plow ahead mode, I just asked Charles and Brian to take the ones that were wet and moldy and said it was time to go.
I pretended I wasn't going to fall apart when I opened those bins.
We dropped off all the precious things that I convinced myself were just things and I headed home.
With bins full of moldy baby keepsakes in the now too quiet van that I used to drive the many minis in.

It took me 4 days to finally open the bins.
To find all the things covered in black, disgusting, flaky mold.  It was like the devil himself shit all over the most precious keepsakes for each one of my children.

So I had a completely nuclear meltdown, the likes of which I haven't had in a very long time.  Then I went to Walmart and bought so much stain remover and vinegar I probably looked like a lunatic. And then I came home and got even madder.
So I took the stupid ironing board into the driveway and beat it to death.
I figured it was better than beating to death actual people. or breaking things that required clean up.
Truthfully, I wanted to take a bazooka and blow out every window in my house.
Anger level-NUCLEAR.
I might still be in the nuclear zone, but at least the desire to blow shit up is tamped down for a while.

So yesterday, my precious friend Kellie did what she always does.  She came alongside me and scrubbed, soaked and gently helped me salvage at least a little bit of the past.  Enough to maybe make a patchwork quilt of all the broken pieces.
Kind of like my heart....
...little broken pieces everywhere, gently and carefully being stitched back together by a God who never leaves, never forsakes and never gives up.

I will bless the Lord, 

Who has given me counsel; 

Yes, my heart instructs me in the night seasons. 

I have set the Lord continually before me;

because He is at my right hand, 

I shall not be moved.

                                                   Psalm 16:7-8

Stitch me, weave me, Sweet Jesus.  

Bless you, Lord, for those you lead into my life. 

Gird me and guide me, 

Hold me close and keep me aright. 

And- 

bind my wandering heart to thee...

all my love, 

clan mac mama

I last saw them-

4 years ago today.  Happily ensconced in the van as they left my driveway, my home and my life-
for the last time. 
It's fitting that I'm listening to the sounds of a thunderstorm as I write these words.  It's as if all the anger and bitterness that has rooted in my heart is pouring out of the sky and dispersing itself into the wind.  Fragmented and broken into tiny raindrops that can't be made whole again.
Because anger and bitterness should never be whole or complete. And the only way I can keep it from covering me again is to bury myself in the truth.
I am a beloved child of God.
He IS faithful.
He didn't take my children to teach me a lesson or develop my character.
And he hasn't been absent from life these last 2 years-
He's been beside me every step of the way, even when I have chosen to the slam the door in His face and on His voice and on His Word.
It's been nearly TWO years since I wrote a single word in my journals.
TWO YEARS.
Two years of flailing, swimming aimlessly upstream in a sea of grief and pain that has felt like a prison sentence.
FOUR years of learning to live earthly life with ever present sorrow, because even in the midst of the most joyful moments, there is sorrow.
Maybe that's why I stopped my journals and slammed the door on my spirit.
Ever present sorrow is utterly exhausting.
And I'm human, so I chose the path of my own strength instead of the One that gives true strength and rest.
And I'm so sorry.   
But if there's one thing I'm certain of, it's this-
it is never, ever, too late to trust in the Lord again.

Today, on the day that marks the very last time I ever held ALL of my children in my arms, I am filled with immense gratitude.
For the time the Lord blessed me with all of them, even when He knew that I would only have some of them for a little while.
That He laid the groundwork for a family in the body of Christ that would walk beside us in the pit of despair, refusing to give up on us and keeping us covered in love, prayer and His Word.
For the gift of His weaving intricate details and relationships, ones that would bear incredible fruit for not just me, but for my husband and my children.
That He has renewed my spirit, even as I continue to walk through the anger and despair, the bitterness and fear.
For the gifts He will bring to help glue the fractured pieces of my heart into one that can find hope in the future, joy in the midst of sorrow and purpose in pain.

I know that none of this has surprised Him.
He knows the end from the beginning and every choice that we will make.
And he paves the way with the Holy Spirit-whispering into our souls and hearts continually, even when we refuse to listen.

I'm listening, Lord.  I promise-I'm listening.

Will you listen too?

Whatever you're walking through today, friends, it's not bigger than God.  I promise.  Even when it feels like it-
it. is. not.

Trust Him with it.
I'll pray that you can and maybe you can pray that I can.

Because a cord of 3 strands is not easily broken 
and where 2 or more are gathered in His name, He is there. 
Be there, gather, pray.  Invite Him in. 

I weep with grief; encourage me by your word.  Keep me from lying to myself; give me the privilege of knowing your law.  I have chosen to be faithful; I have determined to live by your laws. 

Psalm 119:28-30

all my love, 

clan mac mama

Dear Sammy,

your mama has been a mess.
Your little heart would be so broken today.  To see how much we have been struggling, how far we've drifted from each other, from Jesus, from who God created us to be.
Year 4 without you has just sucked. I feel like we've lived in some kind of weird vacuum, devoid of feeling, faith, and connection.
So, today on your birthday, my gift to you is this-
I renew my promise to honor God with how I live and I love, with the words I write, and in all that I do throughout each and every day.
I promise to make Year 5 of you at home with Jesus one that reminds me every day of the joy that you and Mercy wove into our family.
I promise to look at your pictures every day instead of hiding away from them.
I promise to sit with my Bible every morning, like I did when you were with me.  And I'll pretend that you are snuggled in right beside me, trying SO hard to quietly read your Bible when all you really want to do is talk to me and ask me a million questions.
I promise to find joy and laughter and light in the adventures we have as a family, carrying you and Mercy in my heart everywhere we go.
I promise to be the mama to Eva, Charley and Max that I was before you and Mercy ran ahead to Heaven, hiding God's Word in their hearts each and every day.
I promise to honor Daddy and be the Proverbs 31 wife and mama he deserves.

Today, my beautiful son, we WILL celebrate you!  We're going to look at your pictures and laugh at your videos, especially the ones where you act like a turkey and throw a fit.  We're going to the pool and the Sweet Spot, we'll ride our bikes, we might fly a kite and we definitely won't be playing miniature golf or going bowling, since you pretty much hated both of those because you couldn't win.  And Monopoly is also off the table, since throwing your cards when you didn't win that was quid pro quo.  Sweet child-you make me laugh just thinking of all the ways your giant personality invaded our family.

4 years ago today, I held you on your birthday for the last time, blissfully unaware that a mere 6 days later you'd be with our Savior.  I hold on tightly to that day, the memory of your sweet voice, your hands on my face and your little legs wrapped around my waist as I snuggled you so close on that morning, answering all your questions.



I love you, little man.  I miss you beyond infinity.
And my last promise to you is this.
I will choose joy. 

Through the praise of children and infants 

you have established a stronghold against your enemies, 

to silence the foe and the avenger. 

Psalm 8:3

I will choose Christ over the snares of the enemy.  

I will choose to love with abandon in the way both you & Mercy did.  

Every. single. day. 

Happy Birthday, my pocket baby. 

all my love, 

mama

Tomorrow, Sammy would be 9...

And I spend so much time wondering what he would be like.
What our life would be like if they hadn't died.

Would we have adopted as we so desperately desired?
Would we still be in South Carolina?
Would Charles dream of becoming an actuary have born fruit?

What WOULD life be like if they hadn't died?
I hate...
no.
DESPISE!
that I even have to ask that question.
I hate being a bereaved mother and I ABHOR the reality of raising children in a family torn apart by tragedy.

And you know what's incredibly ridiculous?  I FEEL GUILTY for not planning some kind of celebration for him tomorrow.  I feel awful that I didn't order a cake.  I failed at setting up some long distance display of love and remembrance.  I even failed at remembering to put plants and balloons at the garden.

Because I have to fail.  Somehow, this grief is still so raw that it's easier for me to evade the freight train that comes in June than face it head on.  I simply can't avoid the January freight train because I still have to celebrate a living child and I can't crawl into a hole, so when June rolls around, my need to disappear is overpowering.  And my inability to make stupid ass lemonade out of severely sour lemons is seriously apparent.

A friend asked me recently about how my senses were in that time after the accident.  I shared how I honestly felt like the littlest things put me on sensory overload.  How I couldn't even set foot in stores without feeling like I was going to explode.  HOW COULD THESE PEOPLE BE NORMAL?  MY KIDS ARE DEAD?  DON'T THEY KNOW?

Of course they don't.  My broken universe is just that...mine.  And as much as I feel like my entire story is etched onto my face for the world to see, I know that it's really not.  It just feels that way.

SO- in June, the month where so much joy instantly turned to soul searing tragedy, it's like the clock turns back and I'm there all over again.
Standing on the street, screaming.
Sobbing outside an airport, struggling to catch my breath.
Holding the hand of my dead child in a hospital, willing her to open her eyes and say my name.
Walking into a funeral home to finally see my son and falling to my knees because, until that moment, his death was abstract.  Seeing your kids laid out in a funeral home parlor suddenly rips that abstract away.  And you SO VERY desperately want it back.
Because abstract means that maybe, just maybe, this is a nightmare and you're going to wake up.
4 years later and I still feel that way.
I still feel like maybe one morning I'll wake up and see his giant, deep pools of brown staring at me from the side of my bed, while he whispers- "mommy, I sleep wit chu?"  
And I'll wake in the night to the sound of rustling in the pantry, my little candy bandit raiding my stash-alive and bright and beautiful, her mischief just pouring out.
I often wonder if I'll feel that way forever, until I see them again the other side of Heaven.  Honestly, I'm pretty certain I will.
I will never be at peace with the death of my children.  
The peace I hope that someday I will have can only come from knowing that they are with Christ.  Forever, and always; whole, perfect and loved.  
And someday, I will be too.  My family WILL be whole again.

Until then, I'll wait.  And I'll try to do it well, but when I don't-
don't judge.
or get impatient.
just give us all the grace to take this life, with it's myriad of twists and turns, rutted paths and broken dreams, hope for the future and faith restored,
in our own time and at our own pace.

And please, remember them.  Say their names.  Share their stories and keep them alive.  Here, where our broken hearts live until we see them again.

And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "Look, God's dwelling place is now among the people and he will dwell with them.  They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God.  He will wipe every tear from their eyes.  There will no more death' or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away." 

Revelation 21:3-4

all my love,
clan mac mama

30 little minutes-

it only took 30. little. minutes. to set me back almost 4 years.  30 minutes of mounting panic, mental bargaining, searing disbelief-
And I'm back in the sea of grief, tumbling under crashing waves of pain that relentlessly pound me, refusing to give me even a minute to catch my breath.
It was such a simple thing.  I told her-"ride down to the Best's and I'll meet you there."  She heard, "ride down to the beach and I'll meet you there."
Realizing she's not there, chalking it up to miscommunication and assuming she's at home.  Finding out she's not.  SHE'S NOT, no matter how many times I call Eva and make her check.  Driving to the Pier, then the public beach access, following the back route she normally takes to get there, checking the bike parking, driving the back loop again, going home again, calling Charles, my friend and I searching, sending her kids searching-
She can defend herself, she's cautious, she's alert-
And still, my mama heart went there.
To that place where NO mama heart ever wants to go.
Dammit, mine lives there.
No matter how much time passes or how many years I get to have with the precious ones who have remained, my heart still lives in that chasm of pain and fear, disbelief and sorrow, terror and gut wrenching agony.  Because I know that lightning CAN strike twice-or in my case 3 or 4 or even 5 times.

Sure, I can plod along, stuffing my feelings, pretending I'm ok and plastering this stupid smile on my face.

But it literally only took 30 minutes to fling me back into crying in the grocery store, my heart pounding, my ears rushing with the assault of sound and life and NORMAL.

Of course it wasn't quiet in that damn grocery store where I went to wander the aisles.  Because that's what you do sometimes when your heart is broken and your brain won't function, when you just
need. a. damn. minute.  
There was this ridiculously adorable little boy, dark haired and wide eyed, dressed in his rain boots and crazy clothes, pushing his little cart and chatting up a storm with anyone who looked his way.
Holy mother of all things, I wanted to walk up to his mom and just hug her.  Hug her so hard. And tell her how lucky she was, and really, how freaking great she was because she just let him be-
SO. DAMN. LITTLE.
But I didn't.  I bought my stupid dairy free yogurt, my bananas and my wine.
And then I went to get Charley from karate.
Charley.
Because I finally found her at the beach.  After the 3rd or 4th time of driving the stupid loop, checking the bike racks, calling Eva, and calling Charles.  I parked the car and I started walking to the Pier, and then I was running and then I was beseeching-
Sweet Jesus-this can't be happening-NOT AGAIN.
My eyes scanning frantically, not seeing, not recognizing.
Until I spied her in the distance.
Standing at the edge of the surf.  Waiting, watching, ready to take on the ocean and make it her friend, her ally, her place of refuge.

Oh friends, my heart.  I don't know how much more it can take, so I'm thankful that today it kept beating, kept me breathing and thinking and driving and moving until I found her.
And I'm thankful for my precious friend and her children, who searched with me.  And celebrated with me by teaching her to make the ocean her ally as they taught her to surf.  Something I could never do.  Seriously.  NEVER.

Today, my heart is filled with inexplicable gratitude for the One who gave her to me, Who brought these amazing friends into our lives, and for the promise of another day with my sweet girl.  

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; 

and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. 

When you walk through the fires, you will not be burned; 

the flames will not set you ablaze. 

For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior...

Isaiah 43:2-3a

I just have to keep walking, trusting and praying.  It's the only way to save my sanity. And my broken heart.  

love, 

clan mac mama

Humbled-

...there simply isn't another word that could encompass the emotions that washed over me as I looked out at the sea of faces surrounding our family that Sunday morning.  Familiar faces of old friends, new friends, and family.  Unfamiliar faces patiently waiting for my trembling voice to share our story.

The SaMercy Fund was honored to be chosen by Coal Road CrossFit to be the beneficiary of their 6th annual Shamrock Run, held on Sunday March 10th, in La Plata, MD.  

My hometown.  

That little place where our family landed in 1982, the sweet small town that caught us and sucked us in, just like we had always been there.  

And in some ways, it's as though some of us have never left. Because that little place keeps right on holding us up, coming out to support our cause, our family, our mission-even when some of them never met my children, or held their soft, squishy hands, or shared a smile and a moment with them.  

They keep loving us and showing us that Sam and Mercy still matter.  That what happened to my family matters.  That they still love us.  

For the past 3 1/2 years, that community has given incredible rise to our Fund, backing us whenever we ask and stepping out to support us.  Every. single. time. 

So, I'm humbled.  

Thankful. 

And sappy.  

Sad, but happy.  Sad, because I never wanted to be in charge of fund that honored my dead kids.  Sad because I never envisioned my life being about helping other grieving families, finding ways to get through to people about the importance of ATV/UTV Safety, or writing a story that regularly makes people cry. 

Happy-because my heart was buoyed by the love we were surrounded by and the love that continues to snap us back to standing when we fall.  Which happens often, so often.  Because when you're broken in this many pieces, they fall apart- A LOT. 

Cindy, Mike, Ashley, Siggy, Whit, and Kristen-I am beyond blessed by each of you and your efforts for our family and Fund.  I'm thankful for your friendship and your prayers, your love, support and the hearts that each of you wears on your sleeve.  

For my family, especially including the FRAMILY that shows up every single time-both in spirit and in person when you can-You know who you are.  I adore you.  I'm in awe of the ways in which God has worked in my life and the lives of my family to bring each of you to bear on our lives.  

I love you guys-

every one of you.

And I'm just stunned by the final number that was raised and donated to The SaMercy Fund...

$18,000!!!!!!!

Once again, my friends and all those who came out in support-

THANK YOU! 

as always, 

with love, 

in Christ, 

clan mac mama

Welcome to the world, Samuel Joseph...

This precious boy came into this world last night, completely surrounded by love and thankfulness.  He joined a family that loves with abandon, gives every piece of their hearts and radiates Christlike love.
This mama, my cousin Rebecca, welcomed this little boy, carrying forward the name of my sweet boy-
without her mama.
Because her amazing mama lives in Heaven with my babies.  3 incredible souls whose leaving left a hole that can never be filled, but whose spirits and joy still find ways to invade each of our hearts.

Her mama, my Aunt Deb-I could write a book and never tell you all the ways she shaped me.  The love she shared, the wisdom she exuded, and the selfless servant heart that carried me during times in my life that I couldn't carry myself.
I'd be lying if I didn't say that reading the words telling me my son would have a namesake didn't take my breath away.
Because they did.
I never thought, in a million years, that he wouldn't be here to grow up with Becca and Kyle's babies.  That he wouldn't be there to make those crazy memories only cousins can share.
And I was, and still am, humbled beyond words by their selfless and loving act of choosing Samuel to name this beloved boy.  Touched far and deep into my soul.
Samuel-
Welcome to this crazy world.  You're so blessed God chose this family for you.  Your mama and daddy are some of my most favorite people, and they have inspired me for so many years with their faith, patience, devotion to family and insatiable zest for life.  Mama and Daddy will love you with the reckless abandon they love Mols with.  You'll be an amazing, and endearingly irritating little brother.  And we will all love you, cherish you and tell you all about those amazing people who live in Heaven that we miss so much.

Welcome to the family, Sam!
Love,
Aunt Tiff, (AKA TT,) (AKA that crazy lady with the tattoos who drinks too much wine and will always try to steal you from your mom...)

Unfiltered.

A new friend told me the other day that I shouldn't filter what I write...Bless you, Anne, but you might live to regret those words.
I won't.
I'm tired of regret and filtering, worrying that I'm going to make someone uncomfortable or awkward.  Life without my kids and with my surviving children  IS awkward and uncomfortable.  And just like the amputee that has to live without his or her legs by relearning every, single thing-

I, WE-all of us, have to do the exact same thing.  Except our amputation isn't something you see with your naked eye.  It's a cleaving of the heart, soul and spirit.  A literal ripping away of integral pieces of the heart, and shredding what's left.  It's bloody and it's brutal.
And you simply cannot see it.
But I can.  Every day that I look in the mirror and stare at the hollowed eyes that stare back at me now.  Eyes that used to smile when I did, but now only see.  No one tells me they're pretty anymore.  Because they're not.  They're dead kid eyes.  And those eyes don't smile.  No matter how hard you try, the smile just doesn't ever quite reach them.

I see that amputation- 

Every time my son bursts into tears because I said "listen up guys," because I forgot it was just him in the room and not all of the littles.
Every time my oldest child rips my heart to shreds when she tells me that I make everything about Mercy and Sam, and that "it's not all about them, Mom!  It's about us too!"
Every time I watch Charley hold those who are desperate to love her at arms length.  Because she is terrified of loving them back and then losing them all over again.

I SEE IT.

You know how they pick people to get new houses because they're sick or broken or been through something completely awful-like losing a limb, or a spouse, or getting blown up in war?

Is it ridiculous that I just want someone to pick us?  They don't even have to give it to us.  I'll buy the darn thing.  Just find it, furnish it, do some crafty and beautiful thing to create space in my house for the kids who live with Jesus and then hand me the keys.
So I can go home. 

And before ANYONE feels the need to remind me that my true home is with Jesus and nothing on this earth can compare, let me remind you that I KNOW THAT.   I spend every day waged in an internal, spiritual battle of epic proportions-because when you have children to die for and children to live for, it's freaking HARD.  But I have to live HERE, in this world for now.  And as much as I do daydream about that day when we're all truly home, together, in the arms of Jesus-
It's not my reality right now.
This is. 

So for now, I'll just spend some time daydreaming that the #propertybrothers are going to show up and fix it.

A broken hearted mama can dream a little, right?

10 years ago today-

a double blessing came our way.
hearts broken by a babe lost in the womb
were mended in a delivery room
Mercy joined us, oh so quickly!
Max, he was a bit more prickly...
17 minutes he lagged behind.
quite determined to take his time.
Not even a year had passed us by
when Sammy became a twinkle in my eye.
And just that fast,
our family become much more vast!
Twins who adored one another,
quickly took to their little brother.
Much like triplets they seemed to be,
a happy little band of three.
Lil' mamas, Eva and Charley became,
every little thing was made a game!
Each outing was a great adventure,
our little crew always at the center...
of all the chaos and commotion,
precious, curious, whirling in motion.
another 2 years passed, then 3 and 4,
till suddenly 2 of them were no more.
The double blessing was cracked, then broken,
the littlest one, too, could never be woken.
A family fractured, torn and battered,
every dream into tiny shards was shattered.

Now 3 precious ones remain,
here upon this earthly domain.
The time has come to dream new dreams,
to mend and repair the tattered seams,
to find the strength, to see the joy,
of the memories of that girl and boy,
who changed the core of who we are,
who from our hearts are never far.

Redeem us from this lonely place,
fill us with Your saving grace!
For until it is Your face I see,
wrapped in your embrace I must be.

On this day, we'll laugh, we'll cry,
we'll let their love be a lullaby,
comfort and peace we will gain,
a salve to our hearts in their pain.

Remember the love they shared while near,
and keep them in your heart all year.

Finding home...

We're trying so hard to "find home."
We've been praying.
Weighing pros and cons.
Sending emails and doing research.
Scouring the internet for possibilities.
Looking at finances.
Trying to wrap our brains around what it would feel like to sell the home we built to raise our big family in. 
Contemplating what it might feel like to wake up in it again, not such a big family anymore.  Every day.  Without them.  
And knowing we just can't. 
Yet also knowing that this house, this precious and sweet bungalow that has provided us shelter and quiet in these past 3 1/2 years, this is not my home anymore.
HOME. 
It's the place where we can have ALL the things.  In one place. Where we can have a room to unpack every single box of their things.  We can hang their clothes and put up their artwork.  We can touch the things that touched them, that lived in their rooms, that were part of the life they lived so quickly, and brightly
and
so. very. beautifully.
I can't do this anymore.  I can't keep walking into that storage shed and seeing their lives all boxed up.  I can't walk into the house where I raised them and see their cribs and beds and dressers shoved into an attic and covered with dust.  See Mercy's little rocking horse and Sammy's pirate ship-dirty and unloved.
Because that's how this makes me feel. It's grief interrupted, and it's just that.
Dirty and unloved.
We have a precious memorial garden we can't ever seem to tend to, homes we try desperately to take care of and topsy turvy lives that seem to spin faster and faster each and every day.
Because we're just stretched far too thin.  Trying to grieve your children and grieve with your children, hold your marriage together, keep all the balls spinning and face a harsh and impatient world every single day is utterly exhausting.
I just want to wake up in a HOME where it's all in one place.  And I can open the damn boxes and lose my sh*t.  Wail and cry and be covered in snot.  And yell about the unfairness of it all. But-
Then we can remember.
And all the feels that come with that-we'll have those too.  Joy. Laughter. Love. Togetherness. Wholeness.
All the things.
I know it sounds ridiculous, but I just want this thing, this one thing, to be easy.  Nothing has been easy in the past 3 1/2 years.  NOTHING.  And when I say nothing, I MEAN IT.
I just want a house that fits my family, all of it.  In a neighborhood where my kids can have friends and play, where I can maybe make an attempt to do the mom and friend things I used to.  Where I can sit on my porch and look at trees, feel the breeze and watch my kids play.  A place where I can make Sam & Mercy feel alive in my heart again.
I want this thing, this one thing that is so important to me, to what's left of my family-to be easy.  
For the love-I sound like a 2 year old.  And I know it.  my spirit is tattered and worn out. and so utterly sad.  and I know, deep in my soul, that this is what we need.  To go through those boxes-TOGETHER.  To bring them back into our lives in a tangible way.  To know them again.   
In our HOME. 
Sweet Jesus, I know it's earthly and worldly and all that other stuff.  But I'm going to ask, no BEG.  Please, for the love, make this easy.  Help us be wise and discerning and all those other "adulting" words so that we can find a home for this season of life and of our grief.  Here on this earth, to shelter us and give us rest, until we come to our forever home with You.
amen.
love,
clan mac mama