Randall Lawrence Flesner - Obituary

 Randy Flesner - Obituary

Randall “Randy” Lawrence Flesner, age 54, of Walnut Grove, MN, passed away on December 12, 2023, in Redwood County, Minnesota.  

Randy was born on February 8, 1969, in Tracy, Minnesota, to Lawrence and Leora (Foster) Flesner. He was welcomed home by four older sisters, and a year and a half later, welcomed one more sister into the family.  He was confirmed at Our Savior’s Lutheran Church in Lamberton, MN, and attended Lamberton High School, where he graduated in 1987. He served his country in the National Guard and remained patriotic throughout his life.

Randy met and fell in love with his soulmate, Amy, on April 3, 1991.  They were married on April 3, 1993. Together, they raised beloved “fur babies,” beautiful Siberian Huskies and Malamutes, as well a blue and gold macaw “Joey Bird.”  Although they did not remain married, they continued to be the best of friends throughout the remainder of Randy’s life.

Randy’s family was of incredible importance to him and he made certain to let them know how much he valued them.  He was a wonderful husband, son, brother, uncle, and friend.  Randy loved to have fun with those in his life, from the youngest kiddos to those his senior.  He had a fun, playful nature, quick wit, and a memorable, contagious laugh.  He was quick to lend a helping hand, a listening ear, a huge hug, and so much more if someone he cared about had a need.  He was an absolute treasure to many.

A traveler by nature, Randy spent years as an industrial painter and a union member, where he worked all over the country painting things like bridges and water towers.  He loved his job, and often spoke of his coworkers and adventures.  His colleagues became a chosen family, and he cherished them dearly.  Randy also loved riding motorcycle and exploring the great outdoors.

Randall is survived by his best friend and soulmate, Amy (Christensen) Undine of Lincoln, NE, sisters Debra (Daniel) Turbes of Revere, Anita (Joel Byers) Weber of Milroy, Linda (Guy Vanderwerf) DeSmith of Walnut Grove, Sara (Randy) Panitzke of Mesa, AZ, Susan (Mark) Daniels of Morriston, FL, brothers-in-law Brian Vanderlinden of Sioux City, IA, and Richard Weber of Lamberton, as well as many nieces, nephews, great nieces and nephews, and countless other dear family and friends.  He was preceded in death by his parents, Leora and Lawrence Flesner, sister in infancy, Helen Flesner, sister Katherine Vanderlinden, brother-in-law Gregg DeSmith, niece Carissa DeSmith, grandparents, and numerous aunts, uncles, and friends.

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A Celebration of Life honoring Randy Flesner will be held at 2pm on Saturday, January 20, 2024, at Our Savior’s Lutheran Church, in Lamberton, MN.

In lieu of flowers, the family requests that you make a donation in Randy’s honor to your local organizations, such as the VFW, American Legion, pet shelters and rescues, and churches.  Randy held these close to his heart.

A Life in few Words

Along with countless others I know, and probably even more people that I don't know, this week engulfed my heart in sorrow and challenged my emotions like no week has in recent past.

The world lost an incredible man.  I've known for years just how incredible this man was.  He had been around my entire memorable life.  I was in his wedding as a toddler, when he joined as one with my dear aunt.

I've known.

Or at least, I thought I knew.

But it turns out, it takes someone being gone forever to realize that what you know isn't all there is to know.  What you know is only the surface, and the depths of what you don't know reach further than you'll ever begin to uncover.

It's overwhelming, really.

As family and friends gathered today to bid our earthly farewell to this incredible man, I realized just how small our words are when it comes to the life of an individual.

Obituaries and eulogies are beautiful, significant, and often poetic, but they too just scratch the surface.

On my return home, I began to dwell on this fact.  It seemed to me, in a way, that obituaries trivialize and marginalize a person's entire existence into a few key facts that are out there for others, so they can get the highlights, if you will, of someone who many held dearly.

They're important.

They're inadequate.

Listening to people talk about my uncle, Gregg Edward DeSmith, born June 12, 1964, to his parents, Dorothy and Edward, who passed away on Saturday, September 9, 2017, it became all to clear to me that the man I knew and loved for my entire life was even more incredible than my small mind could comprehend.   Gregg, the devoted husband of Linda, and beloved father to Sasha (and Kyle), Carissa, who left this earth at age 2, and Hannah (and Dylan), wonderful grandfather to Kalesia, Elijah, and Miles, dear brother to many, uncle to even more, and friend to countless others, was a man of Jesus.  It was evident today, as I heard about his life and saw numerous people whose lives he touched.

It overwhelmed me, as I longed to be able to tell him that I admired that in him.

He and I spoke occasionally on aspects of God.  I never really pressed in, knowing he believed in God and was raised in a Catholic church, the one in which he was baptized, married, and said goodbye to today in the Mass of Christian Burial.  He knew more about my faith journey than I did his, and today, I felt selfish for not knowing more about what he believed to be true.

But, at the same time, I could see in the way he lived.

Gregg had a servant's heart.  He spent countless hours with those in need, in both small and large ways.  He devoted time, energy, love, and so much more to those around him.  He did so with a willing heart. He did so, expecting nothing in return, and often wouldn't accept anything in return.  It wasn't all that long ago that he saved me in a small way, where my van window wouldn't go all the way up, and it was about to rain for my two hour drive home.  He was on it in a flash and had a temporary solution that still enabled me to see, and I made it home safe and dry, so relieved and thankful for the small gift he was delighted to give me.

He went out of his way to take you aside and tell you that he was proud of you.  No matter what you had done, no matter where you had come from, no matter where you were going, or what you had been through, he saw you as you were, a human, full of giving and receiving love, and he let it be known that you were worthy.  He built you up in spirit and mind.  I cannot personally recall an instance I heard him tear someone down.

He loved and served the least of these, just like Jesus did.

His love for his family was unconditional and overwhelming.  He stood faithfully at my aunt's side for 32 glorious years that were no stranger to stress and sorrow, trials and tribulations, but also great joy and blessing.  They were one.  You could see it and you could feel it when you were with them.

Gregg loved spending time with people.  He had a jolly laugh and a great wit.  He wore a smile often.  He loved to tell a joke and hear the laughter of others as well.   Some of my best memories of him were at his farm, where my large family would gather for days on end.  He would go all out to ensure each gathering was phenomenal.  He had such great humble pride in welcoming us all and allowing us to create everlasting, joyful memories.

He was a delightful mix of manly man and teddy bear, who loved fixing things, classic cars (both real and miniature), go carts and his Harley.  He collected countless unique and older things and loved to share them with people around him.  He loved the outdoors and having a great time with family and friends.

He was adored by so many.  Children and adults alike could call him a friend.  My oldest son, who is not quite seven, sobbed this weekend, as he realized just how great a buddy Gregg was to him, and how devastating it was to know that they would not be making memories together anymore.   He told me about how Gregg helped him to be brave, and how cool it was when he finally rode go cart for the first time, and how Gregg told him he was a little man now. Gregg knew when to encourage my kids and when to be silly, and each of the three of them loved him deeply for that reason.

He was a great buddy to most everyone he met, I feel.  I heard so many claim that over the past two days.

He is going to be missed daily, wholly, intensely, by countless people who knew and loved him, who he loved in return.  Knowing that his all-encompassing bear hugs will never be given again leaves my shoulders feeling vulnerable and cold.  I know I'll receive hugs for the rest of my life, but not one will be quite like his.

Gregg loved the phrase "No Regrets." I smiled as I heard that, because long ago, I had coined that phrase for myself.  I didn't live it like he did though, as I sit here tonight, regretting that I hadn't told him one more time that I loved him, thanked him for all he did for us, and for the endless encouragement and support he never ceased to provide for me and my children.  I regret not taking more photos of him with the people he loved and not having photographic proof of the hardest working hands I remember seeing.  Even with life gone from his body, when you saw him this week, you saw the proof that he worked endlessly to provide for his family and his friends, the stain left behind on his fingerprints as a reminder of how much he gave of himself.

I know with all of my heart that he is with our Jesus now, and my children have reminded me multiple times, through tear-riddled eyes, that his soul is in heaven.  I stand firm in my faith and thankful for everlasting life and salvation through Christ, but at the same time, my human heart and limited mind is having a most difficult time envisioning our lives without him.  I see the farm, and it feels emptier knowing he will never be pulling down the driveway in one of his vehicles, never racing around on a go-kart or hauling with a tractor.  He won't be building or bringing new and exciting fun to us all, or helping the children feed the birds.  His spirit will never leave, but his body and his voice will never be with us as we sit in the summer sun.  That realization takes the wind out of my lungs for a moment and burns my eyes with tears.  I know I'm not alone in this space, missing him so much already, being devastated for us left behind, and overjoyed for he who will never again know sadness.

His body is gone, but his light can shine on.  I hope that his loss will encourage others to live a life like his, showing Jesus inside us to others.

I sit here, exhausted and weary, writing away, knowing that although my words are more in number than an obituary or even some eulogies, they do not suffice.  They will also never begin to scratch the surface of the life that Gregg lived. 

No words really will.

This morning a lifetime ago

It was barely past midnight this morning when I felt the ground give way beneath my feet and the air I tried to breathe suffocate my airways as I heaved violent sobs in the dark of the night. Up until this point, she had always been there as a pillar and a safe place.

It was so early this morning, a horrible ending to one day and the devastating beginning of another.

It was ten years ago.

It feels like this morning.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

She waited until we all left and she breathed her final breath, and in the quiet of her hospital room, my grandma passed away.

I miss her still, every single day.

The ground has given way a few times since then, and still she is gone. Her arms aren't waiting for me in a loving embrace. Her ear isn't there to listen when I cry.

But she didn't leave me completely:

The prayers she must have prayed unceasingly have come to fruition, as I have God at my side, and Godly people in my life who can help stand in where she used to be. 

I wonder though. I can't help but wonder.

Would she be proud? Would she think I'm extraordinary? Would she think I'm brave? Would she think I exhibit grace?

Somehow she's gone and her opinion still matters.

So much has happened in the 10 years since she was laid in the freezing cold ground as I crumbled in the wind. The ground is frozen again. But in a weird way, as I sit here missing her so, I feel comfort knowing she's safe inside the very ground I stand on, while residing up in the heavenlies with the Jesus she loved so much. Her love is written permanently on my wrist, her ring on my finger, her voice in my head, and her warm brown eyes staring up at me through my beautiful young daughter. 

I ache. I pine. I cry. But I find rest, I find peace, finally, ten years later, realizing she's still so close by.

Retreated and Transformed

The Cleansing Stream...

I approached it.  I waded into it. I walked through it.

I was hesitant.  I was nervous.  I was excited.  I was leery.  I was determined.

There's no turning back now.

This stream, though... What is it?

It's a Life Group through the church the children and I became members of after our world was turned upside down.  It's a healing ministry by nature, filled with lessons and group discussions, as well as a full day retreat.

I really was skeptical.

I've been a Christian my entire memorable life, though I have felt closer to God sometimes and very distant others.  I went to a parochial school in kindergarten and first grade.  I continued growing in my understanding and love for Jesus afterward, mostly going to church with my grandma.  I loved going to church with my grandma.  I was confirmed in a Lutheran church back in my hometown.  I made a friend from another town in high school that introduced me to McPrayer (at McDonald's on Friday mornings before school) which I attended a few times, and fell in love with another friend from that town who was also self-proclaimed "on fire for Jesus."  I became a part of their entire family, and grew even more in my faith alongside them, through table prayers, Bible Studies, trips to Sonshine Music Festival, jamming to Christian radio, and so forth.  I attended a Christian college for two years, worked as a counselor and daycamp director at a Lutheran Bible camp for two summers, did youth lock-ins with a college outreach group, attended Bible studies there, and what not.  I switched to a State University to pursue my Bachelor's Degree, but continued my love for God as my relationship with the aforementioned man deepened.  We were married in a non-denominational church, making a covenant to each other, with God, to never separate in this lifetime and to live our lives for God, growing our family in that way as well.  As our children came into this world, we found the church that we attended for five years, until, as I said, the world flipped upside down.

When he up and abandoned us, it was hard to go back to our home church.  The kids were looking for him constantly and he stopped showing up.  I visited our current church, the Church at the Gate, one Sunday morning, and we just never really left.

Through my job at the church daycare, I made a dear friend, one who also attends this church, and she introduced me to this thing called Cleansing Stream.

As I said, I was skeptical.  I have read the Bible (maybe not cover to cover yet, but the majority of it) and I know that Jesus is all about healing.  I've read that we are to be healers as well, and that we have authority to do so in His name.  I know that we are called to pursue the Fruits of the Spirit, and there are so many blessings and promises made to those who seek and love Him.  I know it in theory.  But I have, for as long as I can remember, been skeptical.

For this, I have apologized to God.

Anyway, this ministry was brought up multiple times over the course of the last year and a half or so. I listened and told myself, "well, maybe someday, maybe."  It is offered twice a year, and the last time it didn't work out for me because I was a part of a parenting Life Group.  So, when my friend brought it up again this fall, it worked out scheduling wise, and I couldn't come up with a solid good excuse not to sign up.  So, in faith, I registered.

The DVDs are interesting, thought provoking, and insightful.  Discussion is great to relate to others in the group, as well as to gain more perspective toward your own journey.

But this retreat... this thing I spent my day doing... it was intense.

Truthfully, when my friend would bring up how awesome this retreat was going to be, I was withdraw a little sometimes.  Other times, I would get nervous.  On a few occasions, I would be excited.  She was thoroughly excited about it and believed wonderful things would come for me when I went, but I really did dally back and forth among the multiple responses.

Last night, I was getting ready, mentally, before bed, and nerves set in.  I went to bed, and was very restless in my sleep all night long.  Every time I would stir, I would hear myself saying "seriously, I'm going to be so tired in the morning at this rate, I'm not going to want to go."  I had my sister-in-law set to spend the day with the kids, and when the alarm went off this morning, I really didn't want to get out of bed.  I knew that would happen, so I made myself get up out of bed, shower, and get my body out that door.

As soon as I arrived at church, I was greeted by members of my group and had discussions with them where I detailed my night and how I knew that because I didn't want to go, I knew I needed to come.  They had been through it before and they agreed.

When I entered the sanctuary, I was greeted by a line of church members and friends who each gave me a hug as I found myself a chair.  Truthfully, I've not been much of a hugger the past few years, because of wounds from my marriage largely, so this was a big step for me, allowing these hugs and embracing them, uninhibitedly, in response.

Worship began and every single song we sang was perfect.  My sinuses have been giving me issues for over a week now and my voice has been goofy, but I sang away, feeling peace come over me, knowing that I was going to be okay, no matter what happened today.

The lessons began, and thoughts started flooding.  Negative talk and lies from the enemy, combated by truth from the Father.  After each section, we prayed against lies and bondages, were blessed, renounced strongholds, fears, and so much more.

The first time, wouldn't you know, it lined up perfectly where my prayer warrior was my friend- the one who introduced me to the Stream in the first place.  I was actually quite a bit relieved because there's only been one other time at church that I've really allowed someone else to pray for me (and she was actually right praying, too), so it seemed like a familiar way into unfamiliar territory.

As I started to approach her, my heart started racing and I became unsteady in my own foot work.  She asked me if I was ready.  I don't think I said a word, but she knows me well, and we began.  The tears began falling as we prayed through some bondages and lies.  The leader of the retreat joined and added in.  My head was spinning and my hands were trembling, my eyes pouring tears.  We prayed and prayed.  And I felt release.  Then my hands stopped shaking, my heart went back to normal, my breathing steadied, and I opened my eyes.  I received another hug, perhaps the biggest one I had received in weeks, and in that moment, I was so overwhelmingly thankful for Jesus and for his bringing her into my life.

As I sat there after, praying and trying to take it all in, writing down words that came to my mind, I felt this surge of strength.

The next section was about rejection, and let me tell you what, I was holding onto way more rejection than I knew.  I knew of the big stuff, the rejection of my former husband (toward both me and my children), but there were others there, too.

We were urged to document some of the instances that lead to the feeling of rejection, and then listen to what Truth God had to say in the matter.

"I chose you, before you were born. I wanted you.  I brought you here for a reason.  I love you want I want you.  I also chose your children for you.  You four are Mine. We are all on the same team.  We are FOR one another."

When it was my turn to receive prayer again, I found myself in front of a kind man that I had never met before, who happened to have the same first name as one of my sons.  I noticed right away and he greeted me openly.  He then asked, in some way or another, what a point of rejection was for me.

Up until this very moment, I have not really told anyone, especially someone I didn't know, in a meaningful situation especially, the huge period of distress that the kids and I had been through.  In almost every step of the journey, if I told anyone at all, friend or family, it was initially in writing.  I am a writer-type-person, and it is exponentially easier for me to pen out my thoughts, emotions, and words than it is for me to swallow the lump in my throat and speak them audibly.

Yet, here I was, tears burning down my cheeks again, and the words came flowing out of my mouth, "Over two years ago, my former husband ditched my three children and I. We ended up homeless.  He found himself a boyfriend, and we haven't heard from him, not one word or text, in almost a year and a half."

He looked directly in my eyes, and told me how huge that was.  He then called the leader over (and instantly, my mind went to "gosh, I am such a mess that he needs to help again already (which I then had to dismiss as a lie))" and told me to tell him what I had just said.  So in less than two minutes, I audibly spoke out the truth to two people I didn't know.

That was huge for me.  We prayed, and prayed, and prayed, and prayed.  I received blessings and hugs and Kleenex and more prayer, and more hugs.  They asked what it was that God had told me, if anything, about it all, and I told them what I had written down.

And then, I felt release.    They told me how powerful that Truth was and how amazing it was.

When I went back to my seat, I repented for believing the lie that I was such a mess.  And then I heard in my mind, "You're NOT a hot mess.  The situation was a mess, but you're exactly who I made you to be, and you are perfect."

Well then.

I then wrote down some words that I thought God was telling me about who I was.  Things like warrior, brave, strong, determined, and so forth.  I then, out of seemingly nowhere, found myself humming to these lyrics, "when my faith gets tired and my hope seems lost, you spin me round and round and remind me of that song, the one You wrote for me, and we dance."  (We Dance by Bethel Music)  I wrote it down, not really knowing where it came from.

We moved onto guilt and shame, and those lies from the enemy, as well as fear. (Parts of the outline are a little muddy tonight and I don't have my workbook near me, but regardless, the meaningful content stands even if the time frame is a little off...)  Following the same pattern, we were prayed with and for.  This time, I found myself in front of another person, a woman I had seen around but didn't know.  This time, I came to the altar in a bit of a different stance I suppose.  We prayed as a group and I let go of most of the guilt and shame for things, and when I prayed with this wonderful woman, she spoke to me, "You're a warrior.  You know that?  You might be a peaceful, quiet warrior, or maybe a loud and boisterous warrior.  Whatever it is, you're a warrior."    We renounced the lies, and by this point, I was crying tears of joy and freedom, strength.  She asked what it was that I thought God was saying, and, in my own vernacular, just like the hot mess thing, it was "This isn't an thing, you know?  I've already got this.  We've conquered it."

She smiled, and said "Jesus is dancing all over you right now, all around you."

That song lyric!  It made sense.

There were more sections and topics throughout the day.  We broke binds from soul ties and the spirit of Death and its influence in various ways over our lives.  I visited each of those three prayer warriors another time.  Tears were shared all over.  It was exhilarating and liberating.  I received multiple hugs from multiple people, and gave multiple hugs to others as well.  It seemed like the fence I had built around my heart was torn down, and I was finally able to give and accepted real, meaningful hugs again.

At the end of it all, there was a time for couples.  And I sat there in my chair doodling, seeing as how I was a single, and not paying much attention to it anyway.  Then a dear friend, sitting beside me, leaned over and said something that really hit home.  She asked me who my spouse was now, like when we were in the parenting group, who is it that's in it with me?  Because I'm not doing this alone.

Jesus.

I started bawling as she helped me through that, and empathized with how I felt being a single mother completely on my own, but not really on my own.  She reminded me of how it's good, even if it's hard, and how it's not really an issue at the same time.  And she hugged me, too.

It's hard to explain how I feel tonight, sitting, reflecting, trying to make it tangible and find a way to explain it.  I wonder if it's something I need to explain, should I explain it?  Should I detail the day?

I think I should.  Because, as I mentioned, it is easier for me to write.

But also, because I was skeptical.

I don't know exactly how I've transformed, and I am sure I won't fully know until I meet my Maker at the end of days.  I know that I have transformed though.  I've laid down so many burdens, broken so many ties, let him heal so many wounds, heard so many truths, and freely cried and overwhelming number of tears in front of people I don't really know (which is another something I get anxious about doing).

As I said in my final prayer, "there's no turning back."

The past, while I've known it to be true and have been working really hard to function with it as truth, is done.  As my prayer warrior said, "It's a cleared history.  Today is a new day, and it is a GREAT day."

I have a renewed sense of hope.  I have a renewed sense of faith and belief.  I feel that I'm not going to fail as being a single mother even if their dad never enters the picture again.  Tonight, when we prayed bedtime prayer, I actually believe what I prayed for him and lead my children to pray for him.  Up until tonight, I prayed it because I should, not because I wanted it to be true.

I know the enemy will come on back, trying to get me to believe lies instead of truth again. It's what he does, and he is dang good at it.  I'm so fortunate my friend has been alongside me to point out when I'm latching onto lies again, and now I have a bigger support system to help me on my journey, and I am now a support system to more people as well. Its a blessing, truly.

I write this also because I need it documented, for me.  So if I ever feel myself slipping into the past, I can come right back and read what God said to me, what my friends and prayer warriors said to me, what I said to the enemy, and what I said to myself, fresh out of the experience.

I truly believe that each and every believer could benefit from Cleansing Stream, as skeptical as you may be.

She's still with me.

June 19, 1939.  A beautiful baby girl was brought into this world.  Her name was Leora Mae.  Through the years, she grew into a loving child, a wonderful mother of six children, a wife, a single mother, a grandmother, and a great grandmother.  She was a cake artist, a baker, a cook, a crafter, a singer, a dancer, a friend, a mentor, a chatter, a joker... and so much more.  She left this world on February 1, 2007.  It's been an emptier place since.

It's hard to believe that it's been 9 years since I last heard my grandmother's voice.  Had she not taken her place in heaven already, she would be 77 years old this weekend.

I miss her so.

But, lately, I see more and more that she's never truly left me.

I don't say this in a ghost-haunting or angel-on-earth sort of way.  I say this as a reflection of myself and of my own daughter.

My grandmother is someone I have always cherish and respected.  I look up to her, even still, knowing that she went through many struggles in her own life, and came out of them still smiling, still believing in God, still professing His love and her faith, and still believing in the good in people and the good in the world.

She had a husband she loved, but due to complex reasons, it didn't last forever... much like my marriage.  The reasons for our divorces were greatly different, but the result was similar.  We became single mothers, never in our lives imagining that would be the case.  She raised her six children on her own, and I wonder often how on earth she did that, when I struggle with only three young ones to provide for.

She was one of the biggest influences on my faith.  I loved growing up going to church with her on Sundays.  She would bake goodies for the fellowship hall, and we would attend. I sat next to her, instead of going to Sunday School, and gladly took sermon notes.  I sang my heart out to the hymns and professed my beliefs via the Apostles' Creed, and would pray the Lord's Prayer with heartfelt meaning, not just reciting it as many.  I loved our time together.  I attribute my desire to continue to go to church largely to my Grandma as my mentor and role model in my early years.

Instead of turning away from God when life got hard and messy, she turned to Him.

Now, I can't say that my Grandma was never weary or burdened, or felt worn down raising her children, because obviously, I wasn't around to see it.    But I believe she relied heavily on grace and mercy and all of the promises God makes to us to sustain her each day, through each frustration that motherhood inevitably brings.   I strive to live in that fashion.  Though, I wish she was around to help remind me on the toughest of days, I know that I have other supports who will and often do, not to replace my Grandma, but to walk alongside me as she would if she still could,.

I developed my love for baking and crafts because of my grandmother, largely, as well.  I would often come over to her house and help her bake or cook, or we would paint things, create knick-knacks, doo-dads, earrings, and Christmas decorations.  We colored, and drew, and played card games while listening to the radio, singing along.  She loved country music, but also hymns and Christian songs.  I can still see her foot tapping under the table while her black radio sat beside the window and we played Yahtzee or some other game.  We would both sing along.  I hear songs that remind me of her frequently, and I still sing along and remember her vividly.

I miss her so, Some days more than others, but always, I miss her.  I wonder if she would be proud of the choices I've made, what she would stay when I start crying with struggles, what advice she would give to me in the trenches of single-motherhood, and how much she would love going to church with me now.  I long for her to have met my children. I think she would be amazed and overjoyed that they love to pray, that they sing "Jesus Loves Me," and that they're learning other hymns that I can't help but sing sometimes.  I think she would be so excited to hear my oldest tell his siblings about the Garden of Eden or about Noah's Ark or about the Resurrection of Jesus.

I believe she would tell me I'm doing a good job out here.

As I said, though, she's never fully left.  You see, I feel her inside me, somehow.  Not in a physical way, but in a way that's influenced my spirit, my soul, my mind, and my heart.  I think that she helped me develop so much during my younger years that parts of her personality are shining outwardly through me.  I believe I'm very much like her in ways I never saw before.  I suppose trials will bring character you never expected, and that is what happened here.

I also see her in my daughter.  Norah was named after my grandmother's blood line, the name coming from her own mother's middle name, Nora.  I've loved it forever and to be able to pass it on to my own daughter was such a blessing.    But it's more than a name.

Somehow, I see my grandmother in my daughter's eyes.  Now, my daughter has brown eyes, as does her dad, but when I look at her, I don't see his eyes.  I see Leora's eyes.  I don't know how to pinpoint it exactly, but they seem so familiar, like I'm looking at my grandmother all those years ago.  My daughter looks like me, she looks like my mom, and she looks like my grandmother.  Some of her stances, her gestures, her poses, her remarks, her expressions... they all remind me of my grandmother though.   As much as I  miss my grandmother, I love that about my daughter. 

I wish I could tell my grandma happy birthday this year, to her face, in a card, over the phone... I've left her notes on her grave in years past, done commemorative photos, poetry, and blog posts.  I miss her the most on her birthday.  It's always a hard day, and I often find myself lying in bed, crying over my loss, wishing she was around, and stunned that I've made it so long without her.  I remember the night she died I sobbed hysterically to my former husband "I don't know how I'll live all these years without her with me!"

Somehow I have.

I suppose, it's because she still exists, within me.

Twenty-Two and almost Two

This week has been a rough one emotionally, as it is every year.  Twenty-two years ago this week, my beloved cousin, a beautiful blue-eyed, blonde-haired, joy-filled darling, wandered away on her farm and was missing for days before she was recovered from the river running through her family farm's property.

Twenty-two years have passed, and I can still see the week unfolding in slow motion like a silent film.

Once upon a time, I would have nightmares about it, trying to reach out and save her, although none of us knew at the time where she disappeared to.  I could never reach her, and she was always lost.

There's something undeniably horrific about losing a child.

Carissa was just a few months past two when she went to be with Jesus.

This year, my darling daughter turns two herself, in less than a month.

I have been trying not to dwell on the significant events of the past since my last posts, but as I mentioned in the post "Littered Dates," it seems they always strike me in some way.  Some years more powerfully than others.  This year has been harder in regard to Carissa's drowning than most, simply because of Norah.

My beautiful, bubbly, joy-filled (typically), blonde-haired, brown-eyed darling who looks much like my grandmother, and has hair that styles like a troll doll while she sleeps, just like Carissa.  My Sweet Pea, who embraces you in whole body bear hugs, just like my cousin would.

My daughter, the wanderer.  The free-spirit.  The one who loves to sing and dance.

Carissa lived to be two.  Norah is almost two.  She's almost older than Carissa was.

Now, I don't sit and fear that she's going to disappear like Carissa did, or that I'm going to lose her any day now.  That seems irrational, and it's all in God's hands.  I trust that he's going to allow me countless more days with each of my children, and I pray diligently in that regard.

But it doesn't mean that somewhere, deep inside, I compare the two, and my heart aches, deeply.  It aches for my cousin that none of us were able to watch grow up to become a woman.  It aches for my aunt, my uncle, and her sisters.  It aches for her grandparents, her aunts and uncles, and the rest of my cousins.  It aches for my children and my cousin's children who never got a chance to know her.  It aches.  And, as hard as I try, sometimes, I still place myself in each of those shoes.  I cannot imagine the heartbreaking loss of my own daughter at this age, and I watched my aunt and uncle go through that.  I saw it all unfold.  And it slays the heart to know it can happen at any time, to anyone.

Tonight, I finally embraced the fact that it has been 22 years this week since we last saw her, and since we said our final goodbyes.  I shed some tears, and I held my babies close.

Darling Carissa, you are missed.  You touched us all so deeply in your short life here on earth.  You were a precious treasure to us all, and you will be forever remembered.  Thank you for teaching me so much about love, life, and loss.  I wish you hadn't had to go, but I believe that you've lived on and fulfilled a purpose even though you're not walking beside us.  I love you.

Breathe. Overcome.

Overcome, overcame, overcomer... this is a trio of words that two friends consistently call me, or refer to as my words.  I hear them say this, I feel where they're coming from, but I don't always see it or feel it as truth.  

Here's a little story of the last 18 hours or so, and how I went from feeling defeated and overwhelmed to realizing that I really am an overcomer.  I apologize in advance if at the end it really was hard to follow or see the point.  But, I just need to type.

I never really chose these words as "mine" but they keep coming back again and again.  Now, yes, I have a relationship with God, but as many, I often have times hearing what he's trying to say to me.

I wrote recently about doorways, and how I'm closing one door from the manipulative marriage I was in, and moving forward to whatever is beyond the next door.   I have been through fires and trials, and somehow, I'm still able, most days, to laugh, smile, and relish in the many joys that God bestows upon me.  

Some days, though, I still falter.  I grapple with negative thoughts, fears, and worries.

This past week was a week filled with the grappling.  I've stayed up late mulling over the what-ifs and fearing what may or may not come in the future.  It's been EXHAUSTING.  I had a beautiful reprieve yesterday when I was able to spend a few hours with some long-time friends, allowing my children to play with theirs, and to voice some of these issues and talk through them without children in ear shot.

But for some reason, when I left their house last night and my children fell asleep in the van, they came flooding back, more intense than before.  Fears like... "if I were to die on a weekend, how long would it be before someone was wondering where I was, and how long would my children remain scared, hungry, tired, and alone."   

Now, this fear has plagued me since I first had a baby, and my husband worked overnights.  It would fall into the background from time to time, but it's always been there.  

When I finally returned home, the children were all still asleep, and I had a text from one of my friends who speaks "overcome" to me.  She was asking how I was, and my fingers flew across the keypad on my phone as I emptied my heart to her again.

I had been only half-clinging to God throughout the week, and more clinging to myself, my mind, my strength, my fears.  I knew it even if I couldn't say it.  But, then God reached out and grabbed me, and brought me back to Him.

She called, I didn't answer the first time, but she called again, and I laid down my pride and I answered.  She talked with me, let me cry, and prayed with me.  When she was done, a song I cling to that comes to me often at the perfect time, started on the van radio.  It was the first song I think I heard the entire drive home.  

"Lord, I need you.  Every hour I need you.  My one defense- my righteousness..."  It hit me, as it always does, like he was calling out to me to call out to Him.

She suggested I listen to one specific song when I got home.  I never got to it, unfortunately, because the three children all woke up very upset, and I went through and extensive bedtime routine before getting them to sleep.  At that point, I opened my Bible, which I have admittedly neglected this week, and began reading where I left off.

I laughed to myself as I realized God was showing me what just happened in the van, (as it has many times before) and how it's been His plan for me all along to have that sort of thing happen when I need it most.  As my friend says frequently, I'm not meant to go at it alone, after all.  It happens when I start feeling like I'm crumbling, I find a friend or two that build me up.   I sat there, amazed, though I shouldn't have been, I'm sure, by the verse.  I prayed then that I could be that person for someone else who may need it.  I still pray that.  I've always prayed that, actually.

I digress.  I then began apologizing to God for not trusting Him through the week and worrying so much about things I can't control, that He has under control, and things I can't begin to work on yet while I'm still before the next door in my journey.  I felt a sense of relief, and started sobbing. 

God often speaks to me through music, and right before my friend text me to check on me, I started humming a melody.  It took me only a few moments before I realized what song I was singing.  It's an old favorite called "Breathe on Me" by Jennifer Knapp.

The key lyrics that came to my mind were:

No temptation seize a man that he can't overcome.

Who am I to be fallen?

Crack your back on a slab of wood

come freedom, nail it down, I come crawling

I come crawling.

Come trickle down and save the world

two hands that I can't see

come breathe, come breathe, come breathe on me.

Split rib water, blood and bone,

come now, come Calvary.

Come breathe, come breathe on me.

Testimony come now quickly, whisper in my ear

Celebration

Peace at last not far away, 

empty sheet, a borrowed grave

Salvation

Come freedom come.

Exhausted, I fell asleep on the couch.

This morning, when I woke up to Norah in my bed, stealing my covers, I realized she had slept better last night, than she had in weeks.  She only woke up once (yes, she still sleeps like a newborn).   I went to church, excited as I am every Sunday for that last 8 or so months.

Two songs brought me to tears.  The first was the song that my friend suggested I listen to last night but never did, "Great Are you Lord," by All Sons and Daughters.

She even quoted it to me last night, "It's Your breath in my lungs."  Another breath related word.  Breathe is another message I find myself getting often because I really forget to breathe in the right air sometimes.  

The second song, talked was "No Longer Slaves" by Bethel Music.

You unravel me with a melody,

you surround me with a song

of deliverance from my enemies

til all my fears are gone.

I'm no longer a slave to fear,

I am a child of God.

As I mentioned, I have been dwelling on fears.  Last night, when we prayed, we prayed that be broken.  And here it was, again.  That, and the first line... that's totally me.  I already mentioned that also, God speaks to me through song quite often.  I find he speaks to me through song, through a few close friends especially, and through the Bible readings when I get over myself and my need to do other things with my time and sit down and read it.  I'm working on it.

Today, the message was about overcoming offenses.  I immediately flashed back to a book, "The Bait of Satan" that I had borrowed from my friend and read a few months ago. When I read that book, I felt such a release.  I forgave and moved on from offenses I had been holding onto at the time.  It was such a blessing.

I had said to my friend last night that I wasn't sure what else was burdening me, and we prayed I would see it so I could release it.

Well, there it was.  As soon as I saw the title of the sermon I knew.  I had latched on to new offenses since then, and I needed to overcome them.  A fresh freedom is what I needed.

So, I listened, reflected on the book and the message.  And when the pastor prayed, I released again.  I still need to work, I will admit, because some offenses run deeply. But, I truthfully don't want to hold onto them.  So, I'm working and praying on it in the days ahead.

He mentioned this verse:

This verse, for a few months, has been the screen lock on my phone.  "I have overcome the world."  I see it daily.  Today, I realized I have been seeing it, but I haven't been really reading it.

After church, my other friend said to me again, something along the lines of "how'd you like that?  It was your word again."

It was. 

I sit here, this afternoon, my children with their aunt and uncle a few hours so I can clear some of the clutter from our apartment, and I feel much lighter, not totally.  I still need to figure out what else is burdening my heart and work through it.  But, I'm sitting here with clearer mind, again, seeing my words.

Overcome.  Breathe.

I can do both.  I have done both.  God's done the overcoming for me and He's the air I breathe. 

And my weary heart is going to be okay.

twenty

On January 9, 1992, the world welcomed a beautiful little girl. Her name was Carissa Kay.

Over the next two years, many family and friends grew a deep love for this little girl. She had the craziest blonde hair that you could twist with your fingers and it'd stay that way, standing straight up. She had the most beautiful smile. When you'd hold her, she would latch her legs around your torso and her arms around your shoulders and hold on tight, as if she didn't ever want you to let her go.

She left us, what we feel was way too soon, in 1994, a few months after her 2nd birthday. But, as it seemed she wanted, none of us ever let her go.

It's absolutely incredible to me to think that today would have been my adorable little cousin's 20th birthday. I often sit and wonder, to this day, what kind of child, teenager, and woman she would have become.

I often, also, sit and look back on the times we had with her. She was only a few months older than my younger brother, Bryan, and our family was close knit, so we saw each other very frequently. We all grew up, as cousins, and as friends, almost as brothers and sisters. There was so much love. Of course, there's still so much love, we're just older and spread across the country now.

I wish I had a picture on my computer, or even in my house, to share of Carissa. But, alas, the pictures I had taken of her when I was a child are in my mother's collection.

I try not to dwell on the tragic day that we lost our little angel. Sometimes, I can't help it. I can picture it, vividly, like a movie reel that refuses to be destroyed. I can recall the many days after, the emotions, the faces, the way time seemed to stand still, and how I felt like I was going to throw up for days on end.

I used to have recurring, haunting dreams, where I was trying to save her, and I couldn't. Thankfully, those are no longer.

All day long, I have been thinking of Carissa. She left such an impact on everyone who knew her, I'm certain of it... her parents, her older sister, and even the sister who came years later, especially.

One thing that I'm experiencing this year, on her birthday, more than I had ever thought I would have in the past, is the gut wrenching feeling that my aunt and uncle lost their baby. I have always known it... but now, I look at Spencer, who is 14 months old, and I realize that in Carissa's life, she'd have barely over one-year left to live. I cannot fathom only having that long with Spencer. Now, of course, we didn't know she was going to leave us, and in no way were we prepared. But, how would I handle it if it were me and my baby? I just... I cannot even imagine it. It makes me so overwhelmed with despair.

I've been trying not to dwell on that, though, and instead, to focus on an important lesson that came from Carissa's short life.

Simply, cherish the moments.

I look at Spencer, laughing or crying, today especially, and my heart is overcome with love for my little boy. He's the most beautiful gift that Jake and I have been given, I believe. I am blessed for what little time we've had with him. We'll be blessed again and again, until his time, or ours, has come.

I hope that up in heaven, Carissa is having a joyous day, dancing, laughing, and holding onto God's side as he reminds her how very special, beautiful, and important a young lady she is.

Confessions (written) from (on) my phone.

Our computer is currently out if commission (again). I am afraid this time we will have lost everything on it for good, though I am keeping my fingers hypothetically crossed. That said, tonight, I am writing my blog on my cell phone. I expect that it will most likely be shorter than average, due to the one finger-letter at a time typing method I am forced to use.

I am happy to report that I went to the gym both days this weekend! Except for family swimming, I haven't really gone in ages. On Saturday, Jillian and I worked out while our sons stayed in the nursery and Jake played racquetball. We had a great laugh when we decided to try some of the weight machines, and after pulling on the levers a few times and staring at them quizzically, we decided they were broken, and moved on. Jake later showed us that we were in fact, just kind of... slow, and they worked fine if you had a clue what you were doing.

On Sunday, Jake taught me to play racquetball before we swam with Spencer. I will admit, my skills are lacking, but I had a blast! I didn't score a single point (which autocorrect had me writing store a dingle point, Haha), but I did have a few side-outs, so that says something I guess. Jake was playing "nice" though, so maybe it doesn't say much.

After the gym on Saturday morning, I read a text from ky mom, saying our long time family friend, Josh, passed away that morning as a result of a car accident. It took my breath away. He was a year younger than me, and one of ky brother's very best friends. The funeral is Wednesday.

Sunday night, Jesse and Samantha made it back to Sioux Falls, and we met them for supper. It was so great to see them again! They moved to Alaska in August. They are here for the next week or so and excited to spend Spencer's birthday with him.

They joined us and some friends for trick-or-treating tonight, where Spencer was dressed as a super cute elephant.

I am having a difficult time wrapping my kind around the fact that tomorrow is Spencer's first birthday. It does not seem like a year since we welcomed him into this world! I mean yes, he is walking and can say "Nicole," but it does not seem like it has been 12 months since I gave birth to him.

It is bittersweet. I am proud, blessed, and excited to know our miracle has been living with us a year already, but its sad to know his tiny, infant days are nearing the end. He is nearly a toddler!

People say time goes fast and to cherish the years you have with your children, because they aren't a baby for long. I always understood that, but feeling the time race by is a completely different story. I mused to jake the other night that I don't think it would seem to have gone so quickly, but he changed in size so fast. Newborn clothes for a month, the next size a few months later... barely holding his head up when we brought him home and now walking... its like his life exists in fast forward!

That said, he is sound asleep in his bed after a very long day, and I have this plaguing urge to go watch him sleep a while, thank God for him again, and pray a prayer for his next year of life.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Today, I traveled about two hours to Minnesota, to attend the funeral of my cousins' father, Roger. He passed away early Monday morning, after a battle with pancreatic cancer. He was 52 years, 9 months, and 2 days "young" when he passed.

You can read his full obituary here: http://www.hartquistfuneral.com/obituaries/Roger-Thooft/

Roger was married to my aunt Kat for quite a few years. After they split, I will admit, I did not feel close to him. In fact, we were very distant for most of my life.

But, that does not mean that somewhere, deep inside, there wasn't a place for him in my heart. In fact, there's a place in my heart for anyone I have ever loved. That doesn't mean that my childhood wasn't filled with memories that included him. One of my favorite family vacations, actually, was taken in his bus (which was turned into a camper) with my four cousins, Roger, my parents, my three (at the time) siblings and I, to the Black Hills.

I remember vividly such things as climbing sand dunes, and playing cards in the bus as we trekked along. I remember feeling like we weren't going to make it up the big hill to Mount Rushmore. We took lots of photos that vacation on my old 110 Kodak camera. Actually, my dad took most of them, and the majority of them starred his pointer finger! Haha.

Today was very emotional, despite the lack of closeness I felt for Roger at the time of his passing. I think it was so emotional, just because I knew without his existence, my cousins wouldn't exist. I wouldn't have one of my very best friends in my life, if it weren't for him and his relationship with my aunt at one time.

The funeral was wonderful, though too long for Spencer so I spent most of it watching from the foyer of the church.

The burial was the most emotional part for me. I think, simply, because I stood there, across from my four cousins, their significant others, and their children, and watched them cry. It was incredibly difficult to fight back tears (and I lost) as I watched my cousins Christopher and Bradley, especially, cry. Watching men cry always gets me crying too, in chain reaction form. Watching Kat & Roger's grandchildren as they tried to understand what was going on, or as they did understand, depending on the age, broke my heart, as I imagined me and my cousins (including the four of Kat and Roger's children) as little children at the time my cousin Carissa (who was two when she went missing and was found in the river at my aunt and uncle's farm) was being buried.

Watching my father pat Roger's casket as he said his goodbye to his long-time friend also broke my heart further.

Saying "goodbye" to him myself... was almost surreal.

And realizing for a moment at my arrival at church, but really grasping the thought as I drove back home this evening that my father is only a few months older than Roger. I am a few months older than Christopher, and I was suddenly putting myself in his shoes.

I cannot imagine losing my father at this point in my life. I have friends who have lost parents, and I have lost other family members, but there was something about experiencing the funeral today that really drove home the fact that my father (and mother, and family and friends) are mortal, and we are all here for a very short time in the grand scheme of things.

Needless to say, the thought of losing my father like my cousins lost theirs overwhelmed me to the point of sobs as I drove down a lonely Minnesota highway.

My prayers are still being sent to my cousins, and the rest of Roger's family and friends as they learn to cope with the new normal where they know they'll never be in his physical presence on this earth again.

My mind is a jumbled mess.

I have so many thoughts running through my mind right now that it literally almost makes me dizzy. Of course, I've been kind of lightheaded and dizzy with a slight lack of balance since the procedure on Thursday (which I called about, and they said was okay, so long as I didn't spike a fever or lose a lot of blood...), but I feel like when my mind starts going, I get thrown a little more off-kilter.

Today started out with me waking, but not anticipating the day in a very good way. Today, I had to get up and get showered, and get Spencer ready for church. Now, I feel like I shouldn't have been thinking negatively about it, really, but I was very apprehensive and feeling quite overwhelmed. I guess that's what you get when you're public about your grief, right?

I knew that there was a 98% (roughly) chance that as soon as I entered the doors, I would come face to face with someone who knew of our loss.

Well, I was right.

First, John greeted me, and with a hand on my shoulder, asked me how I was.

"I'm okay, right now, I guess." I believe were my exact words. He inquired about how Jake was doing, and my answer was "he's kind of angry. But, I think he's doing okay this moment, too." Of course, that was just a general assumption, because I hadn't really seen Jake yet, but he seems to usually be doing okay in the midst of the church. So, I thought it a safe guess.

I made it through that encounter without crying. Then, I saw Robert and Jillian standing with Jake by the nursery. Jillian opened her arms as I walked quickly to them, a "safe spot," as you might say, and I dove into her arms crying immediately. In fact, I was so encompassed by her embrace, I ceased to notice Spencer was in my arms, a bit squished. Whoops.

Then, another friend, Wendy, came by to offer her condolences. Her exact words, I will not post, though I remember them clearly. And, Wendy, if you read this, the words you shared were perfect, even if you thought you didn't know exactly what to say. Coupled with your gesture of love, they were perfect. I held strong and didn't cry for a few minutes.

And then, I took Spencer's bag into the nursery, and was embraced by Jenn, to which, I sought shelter in her embrace and began crying again. I confessed to her "I just want to be home." But, I admitted it was good that I was at church. I honestly hid inside the room for a bit to try to compose myself before Jake took my hand and lead me to the sanctuary.

The service... I wish I could say I remembered clearly, but I really did. I tried so hard to focus on the pastor's words, but I found it very difficult. I sat there, "talking" to God in my mind, and trying to focus on my praises to him. It was hard, I will admit. I have no problems praising Him and rejoicing of Him. I am not mad at Him by any means. But, of course, it's always a struggle to be exuberant when you are in pain and sorrow.

Following the service, another dear friend, Carmen, sought me. As soon as she hugged me, I began sobbing again. And she held me so tight, and prayed for me and with me, and Jake, as I cried. And, in a whirlwind, it seemed, moments later, Lance (the pastor) and Joan (his wife) were by our sides, praying for me, for us, as well. I cried all the way through the "Amen," and then, momentarily, the tears ceased. I held strong through a short talk with Hal, and then again with Jenn, before finally meeting up with Kyla. I didn't cry that time either, as she offered words of wisdom, comfort, and hope before I left the building.

Lunch was good, though I don't know that I was "all there," either, as we met with Jake's co-worker/friend, and her fiance.

The rest of the day.. buzzed by. We went grocery shopping, and I text my brother. My mother called and offered words of comfort and her own experiences, and expressed her love for me, until she had to go. It was so wonderful to hear her voice. I turned off my emotions as best as I could as I watched a documentary.

Then, I realized it was almost 8:00pm and Spencer hadn't had supper yet, and Jake was asking me about what I wanted. Instead of being able to answer and make a decision, I broke down sobbing and exited the room.

For some resaon, those two simple instances got me thinking, "I am not okay."

I sat on the bed, in the dark, my entire body sobbing, curled over in a ball nearly, as I gasped for what air I could take in as the tears rained down to my lap.

When Jake asked what I was thinking, I could barely proclaim, "It's NOT OKAY!" He asked what, and I said, I believe, "the whole situation."

I tried to explain my thoughts... on how I feel like I don't know how to take care and cope with myself, when I don't realize how late it is and our baby hadn't eaten. What if I can't take care of him? What if I'm not a good mom? What if my sorrow makes me a failure for him?

Realistically, I know it won't, because I know I will move on, but right now, I'm stuck, and I realized it.

I don't know how I am supposed to function tomorrow when I have to get up for work, and go to work, to take care of other people's children. These people who we all just recently told of my exciting pregnancy. Yes, the children can sometimes be a distraction, but it seems like in the random moments, the miscarriage overwhelms me for no particular reason, and I am stopped in my tracks. What if I spend the day there, just me and the children, sobbing uncontrollably. What if I cannot pull it together?

And then, when I come home, and Jake is not here to comfort me, how will I cope? I feel like right now, I need him available to me to run to at any given moment. And tomorrow, that will not be the case.

The selfish part of me wishes the world could just stop turning for a while. Activities could pause.

I honestly do not know how I am supposed to fall back into my old, typical, daily routine, and have to operate like things are okay. I feel like people will expect me to act like things are okay. And clearly, to me anyway, they are not. Not yet. They can't be, when in a split second I can go from happy to hyperventilating and overcome with grief or anger. Things just are not okay.

I am scared. The world is moving on, or not taking notice (not that I want everyone to take notice, that too, would be overwhelming), but I am not. I am still here, where I was on Wednesday morning, trying to overcome the loss of a child.

Goodbye, Sprout.

This is one blog post I had never imagined having to make. I knew there was always the possibility that this situation would occur, but of course, I had hoped and prayed it would be avoidable.

Alas, what do I really know?

Seeing as how the Oxycodone I took two and a half hours ago did not make me fall asleep like I was told it probably would, and I cannot turn off my mind, I decided maybe I would share what was on it, and hope to find some peace... or at least wear myself out enough to fall asleep. Heck, at this point, I'd give for falling asleep in our computer chair....

On Monday evening, I started spotting. It was light, and when I called the doctor the next morning, they said it was normal and okay. So, I tried not to think about it.

Tuesday afternoon, though, it became suddenly heavy, and I started with light cramping. I called the doctor back on the way home from work, and she was more concerned. I was told to go home, rest, put my feet up, and do as little as possible. If it got worse, go to the ER.

Well, it got gradually a little worse, but come bedtime, it was starting to get better. Jake and I had been enlisting prayers all night, and I thought that perhaps, they were working.

Right before our scheduled ultrasound appointment on Wednesday morning, the spotting started returning again. I looked out the bathroom door at Jake, and simply said, "It's back." Right then, in the pit of my stomach, I felt like I knew what it meant, but I tried to remain positive, anyway.

One of the worst moments of my life came at about 10:40 on Wednesday morning. As soon as the ultrasound images showed up on the television screen, I knew. Before the ultrasound technician said anything about it, or even "looked" at Sprout, I knew. There was no movement at all. There was no pulsating little heartbeat. Just stillness.

And Jake knew it too, I think.

After she looked around at other things, she zoomed in. After a few moments, she uttered, "I'm sorry guys." Tears flowed freely from my eyes. I was right. Sprout was gone.

She asked if we wanted a printout of the image, and I said yes. Now, I have no idea why I did. I can still, very clearly, see the most haunting image in my mind. It's burned there. I don't need or want a photo of it to commemorate that saddest moment.

We cried in the room for a while before moving to the next, where they explained that at about 7 weeks, 6 days, Sprout's heart stopped beating and he/she stopped growing. There was nothing they could have done to prevent it, and it was most likely because there was something "wrong" with the fetus, chromosomes and the like. It was nature's way of protecting us and the baby, basically.

They explained options, and sent us on our way. I bawled all the way to my chiropractic appointment, and then somehow made it through, but on the way home, I broke down again. I laid in the bed, sobbing. Our baby died. The heart stopped beating. I thought I was going to throw up all over myself.

Then, I realized I was lying there with our dead child inside of me. They told me they wanted me to try to "pass it on my own" over the next week, but if I hadn't, they'd do the D&C surgery to remove the tissues. I decided, after talking with Jake, that I didn't know if I could go a week with the constant reminder of what was going on, and then maybe still carrying around our child, no longer living or growing, inside of me. And what if I didn't pass the tissues and have to have the surgery in a week anyway?

Emotionally, I just didn't think I could handle it. So, we called, and scheduled the D&C surgery.

I spent the majority of the day on Wednesday crying uncontrollably. I kept apologizing to Jake. I KNOW it's not my fault, and I was not in any way blaming myself (though, sometimes I feel it would be easier if it were my fault and I had someone to blame), but I was apologizing because I was genuinely sorry for him that his child was no longer growing inside of me, either. Sprout was not just my baby, after all.

I did have a few moments of happiness, of course, where I was not sobbing. Undoubtedly the best part of my day was when I was sitting in the chair by the window, crying so hard, and Spencer was on my lap eating a snack. He peeked his head around to face me, smiled, and shoved a puff snack straight into my mouth, then laughed. I couldn't help but laugh. And then, he kept doing it. It was the first time he willingly shared and allowed me to keep something without taking it back to be funny. It was the sweetest moment.

By the end of the night, I was terrified for today to come. I knew that Wednesday was hard, perhaps the hardest day of my life to date, but the next day was to be the procedure that really finalized our loss.

And to make matters worse, while at first, Jake thought he could/would be there for the procedure, by the end of the night, that wasn't the case. He couldn't switch his route days, and he didn't think he could wait until the middle of the afternoon to get going. So, we settled for him being there until I went in for the procedure.

I hugged him goodnight, and cried some more, letting him know how sorry I was that he lost a child. I couldn't stop crying, I didn't know how. Thankfully, he held me in bed so I was not alone.

This morning, I had a hard time getting out of bed. I prayed it could still be night. I didn't want to wake up, because I knew that in waking up, the nightmare would still be my living reality and there was really no escaping it. To make matters worse, I knew that I would be going through the procedure alone.

Not totally alone, of course. I had God with me. And my mother-in-law, Angela, was also there, as Jake asked her to come to be my support. And while I appreciate it greatly, of course, it wasn't the same as having my husband with me.

Angela and I left for the hospital, as I fought back feelings of being abandoned and alone, and Jake took Spencer to stay with some dear friends, because post surgery, I would not be able to care for him.

The ultrasound I had this morning to confirm wasn't as hard as I thought it would be, initially. But, tonight, I can see it again in my mind. I laid there, eyes transfixed on the screen, seeing the image of Sprout, even more lifeless looking than the day before. And no one was there to hold my hand. Following, the doctors and nurses went through the procedures with me, then I went to the lab for a blood draw, and then it was off to surgery.

Around noon, they took me through the freezing cold hallways into the even colder operating room, where, after a few agonizing and terrifying minutes, they finally put me to sleep.

The worst part of my day was what happened next. I woke up, cold, in pain, and alone, in a sterile, noisy, hospital recovery room with a bunch of medical personnel I did not know. I couldnt' even ask for my husband, because he was not there. I was there. No Jake. No Spencer. No Sprout. I began crying somewhat hysterically as the situation hit me. The nurse gave me oxygen and wiped away my tears as I tried to deal with the fact that indeed, I was no longer pregnant, and Sprout had gone to meet our Maker, instead of waiting to meet us in April of next year.

I don't know that I'd ever felt so lonely. It was truly overwhelming.

When I finally calmed down, they had me recover before meeting Angela back in my personal recovery room.

Seeing her helped me regain my calm. I was able to talk, to smile, to laugh again. We talked about our loss and the heartbreak, but we talked about the good things too. She reassured me that it wasn't my fault, and that these things, as sad as they are, happen.

When I was finally released, we came home, to find the door was locked. I had forgotten my key, so we ended up having to drive to meet Jake to get his. The car ride was a challenge. I felt very sick to my stomach and was fighting back emotions that I just did not want to deal with at the time. Angela was very helpful company then, too.

It wasn't until after she left for home that it started to hit me. I had been relatively numb for the majority of the day. But, I sat down on the couch, next to Wendell, and looked at the toys across the room. Spencer wasn't here, and he wouldn't be having a little brother or sister any time in the next 7 months, after all. I cried.

To cope, I went online and chatted with our friend who he is staying with, so I could hear how he was doing. That helped subside the tears a while. It was a nice break.

At 9pm I took the Oxycodone that they said would most likely make me dizzy and drowsy, and I went to lay in bed. I called Jake. He didn't answer. I waited and called again. No answer. Eventually, he called me back, but it's his busiest night on the route, so he didn't really have time to talk.

Needless to say, I felt abandoned and lonely again. I know, of course, that wasn't his intention, but with the huge loss of the day, the terrifying procedure, and all of the emotions I have been trying to deal with, I just felt... dejected.

I sobbed even harder than I had since finding out about our loss. I tried to call my dad a few times, to no avail.

I know that sometimes, it's easier for some people to cope or to deal by removing or distancing themselves from a situation. Unfortunately, it's really hard for someone who needs the person closest to them to be with them to deal with their own emotions. It's a huge conflict, really.

I can't sleep. When I close my eyes, I see the haunting image of Sprout's lifeless body on the screen. When I open my eyes, my husband and my son are gone. It's just me. When I wake up tomorrow morning, it'll be just me.

I just hope it's not just me for long. I don't know how to handle that.

I will admit though, that the countless prayers, the condolences, the kind words and sweet messages, on Facebook, in my email, and on my phone, truly are immeasurable in worth. I cherish every single one of them, even if I haven't the words or the energy to respond right away. I have never had to deal with something like this, and I'm just living moment by moment as I go along.

I know that it's not the same as losing a child you've given birth to, held in your arms, and watched grow. But, we loved Sprout from the very moment we knew of his or her existence. We were already planning for the future, shaping hopes and dreams. Sprout was definitely a part of us, and a part of our family. And while we did not get to hold Sprout in our arms, he or she definitely took up strong residence in our hearts. In that way, we very much lost our child.

And, I can't say that it'd be easier or harder to go through a miscarriage after struggling with infertility and the invasive and ruthless battle that it takes to conceive a child. I wouldn't know. I have been trying not to think about it. But, when it does cross my mind, I do feel like it is a double heartbreak for me. The rounds of assistance where you get a negative result are harder than I can describe. But then to have that positive result taken away from you... I just don't know how to deal.

I wish it made it "so much easier" to know that I'm not alone in this, and that many of the women I know have miscarried a child also. But, it doesn't. Well, it does, but it also breaks my heart. No one should ever have to lose a child, before or after they are born. It's a heartbreak I never would wish upon anyone.

I wish I knew a way to find closure in all of this. There's no funeral for a child lost before birth, really. It feels absolutely surreal at times. Did this all really happen? Surely it did, as I have the physical evidence and hospital discharge paper to prove it.

But don't worry. I am not angry with God. I refuse to lose my faith. God's what will really pull us through this. God, and the support we find in each other and in our friends and family. And of course, this doesn't mean that I do not appreciate the miracle child that I already have. Of course I do. I may even love him more now.

I am sorry that this was so long and disjointed. But, if you've read all the way through, I thank you, sincerely, from the bottom of my broken heart.

Juror.

Wow, two blog posts in one night!

Normally, I don't blog about current events and matters in the media, but today, well, by golly, I am about to.

But, not in a way that you might think. No, it's not going to be a "I agree/disagree" post.

Yes, it is about the Casey Anthony trial. (I think that's how you spell her first name.)

I have to admit, I've only followed bits and pieces of the story since it happened. I remember it happening way back when, and hearing about it quite a bit, and then not hearing about it as much anymore. Coupled with the fact that we haven't had cable television in quite some time, and I usually don't have an impulse to read the news (sadly), well, I am not all "up on current events," as you might say.

However, I did get sucked right into the news coverage this afternoon as I heard the verdict was soon to be announced. I was covered in goosebumps as the silence on the screen enveloped everyone watching. And, as the "not guilty" charges were read, my jaw dropped, hand covering the shocked expression, and I found myself thinking the jurors were crazy for not charging her with the murder of her daughter.

Yup, I will admit it, initially, my reaction was "SHE IS SOOOOO guilty!"

It didn't take long for me to start questioning the ramification of a not-guilty sentence. Would she become famous now? Make millions writing a book? She sure looked happy. Would I have been?

Yes and no. Yes, if I was not guilty (and I would be RIGHTLY not guilty, mind you, like I would kill anyone, heck, I hate killing animals), I'd be happy. But, I don't know that I'd be so elated... knowing that my DAUGHTER WAS STILL DEAD.

Yeah. Dead. My baby. DEAD.

The thought makes me physically sick. I sat there thinking I might throw up all over the place.

And then, I wondered... "so, if people just keep changing their story, no one would EVER really know the truth, so how could they be found guilty?"

Blah.

Fast forward, tonight I'm sitting here.. thinking about it again as I see all these posts and what not flaring up on Facebook once again. And I found myself, again, initially thinking, "ugh, she is guilty."

But then almost immediately, I got to thinking, "but who am I to think that?"

I mean really. It's not my call. Not only was I not there when it happened, but I was not a juror, and I certainly haven't been well-informed on the case.

But more than that, who am I to decide? The murderer knows. God knows. He'll deal with it.

Just like he'll deal with the baby girl whose life was taken... as he wraps his arms around her and allows her to live with him, side-by-side, for all eternity, alongside the thousands of other innocent children who passed away all too soon.

Furthermore, I began thinking about how I truly hope I NEVER am called to be a juror. I mean, maybe I wouldn't have such a qualm with petty court matters like parking tickets, but seriously... having to decide someone's fate like that? I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. I think I'd be physically sick the entire time. Especially in a trial like the one that ended on national television today.

Just a disclaimer: in no way is this post supposed to imply that we should not gave a jurored court system. It simply is to state I hope never to be a part of it.