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