“It was never my intention to stop writing here, to put the pen down and close shop. I needed a breather, yes, but walking away completely was not the plan….”
In the days following the loss of our fourth child I had so much I wanted to say, so many feelings I wanted to share. Words swirled in my head; words of pain and anguish, words of confusion and broken dreams but also words containing slivers of hope, given to me mostly by other women who had walked in these shoes before me. For the first few days I wore my heart on my sleeve, bearing each and every feeling freely, passionately. I didn’t care that people saw me crying at mass, I was mourning. I didn’t mind sharing every last detail of the moments leading up to and after the loss, I was an open book.
But then suddenly something changed, and changed drastically. My heart didn’t stop bleeding, it was still splayed open and broken, but the raw feelings of pain from losing this baby turned to guilt because in some way my loss didn’t feel like “enough” compared to what other women have had to go through. I suddenly felt like my experience wasn’t worthy of anguish because my miscarriage was an early one. I felt so alone despite the fact that so many women were telling me, “I know. I’ve been there. You are not alone.”
Then, slowly, the confusion and broken dreams shifted and began to turn into anger:
“Why?? What is He asking of us?” I yelled from my office chair as Collin walked down the hall. “Our house, our savings, and now our children?? What? Is God just going to strip us of everything one-by-one? What are we doing wrong?”
He immediately turned around and came back to me, wrapping his arms around me as I collapsed into his shoulders in tears. “That’s not what He’s doing, Kate.”
I knew he was right, God doesn’t punish us like this, but I’ll tell you what, it sure as hell felt like He was in that moment.
That night, after putting the kids to bed, we began reading the book of Job. I was feeling pretty beaten down and battered and my faith was a bit shaken. The words of this book were exactly what I needed to hear to regain my strength.
A couple of days later, with the boys’ help, we chose the name Job Simon for the baby we lost. Job was chosen for obvious reasons, Simon was picked by our oldest son who was preparing to present the Stations of the Cross during an upcoming children’s mass, Station 5: Simon of Cyrene helps Jesus carry his cross. The choice was more fitting then I think Keaton will ever know.
Right as Kate was experiencing the overwhelming grief of losing Job, both my husband and I were wrestling with some big work-related decisions. Drew and I had been exploring different job opportunities for a few months, and suddenly we were both in the position of considering job offers at the same time.
At first, it was kind of exciting going through the process together. However, that was really only in those first couple of days when the job offers are shiny and new and flattering—full of all things positive. I don’t think either of us fully realized the added stress and complications that concurrent decision-making would add to the process. During a time when you need to turn inward in order to pay close attention to your heart and your gut for the purposes of your own personal decision, you need to reach outward to support your spouse in their own decision as well. Then, you have to find a way to bring all of those internalized and shared findings into one big, tough consensus. Murphy’s Law of Decision-making also applies. It states that just when one of the vested parties starts to feel a certain way about each of the decisions being considered, the other vested party will suddenly shift their course in the other direction, and your carefully crafted Jenga-structure of a game plan will come crashing down.
We made it through that stressful time of sorting out our individual and family priorities, and, in the end, I accepted an opportunity to return to work while Drew decided to stay with his current employer.
Once those decisions were sorted out, I told myself I’d take a few weeks off from writing at The Sunlit Path—a bit of time to adjust to transitioning back to work, time devoted to scaling that steep learning curve of a new industry and subject matter, time to allow our family to ease into our new schedule.
Then, I told myself, THEN, I’ll come back.
Within a month of losing Job, just as I was beginning to engage with family and friends again, just as I was starting to consider sitting down to write, we were blessed with a really wonderful surprise – inside my womb was new life once again.
I clasped my face with my hands in utter amazement when I saw the two pink lines and instantly began to shake. I was so elated and so, so scared at the very same time. I held my breath for the next few weeks and prefaced every statement with “If we don’t lose this one….” Then, on a Thursday morning while the big boys were at school Collin, Nolan and I entered into the ultrasound room and breathed a sigh of relief when we saw the flicker of a heartbeat.
We shared our news privately with those around us immediately but I didn’t feel comfortable sharing publically. My emotions were so jumbled, I was happy and excited and hopeful but at the same time I was still in pain from our recent loss.
Writing about Job and the things I was still feeling made me feel like a fraud when I knew there was a new baby inside me. But writing about the new baby felt like an injustice to Job.
I’m not sure when I thought THEN would be. As though I’d be able to recognize it: flashing T-H-E-N letter lights, alarm blaring, as if it were shouting, “Time’s up, Ember! Your latest life transition is now complete. Please resume your regularly scheduled activities.”
Life happened, as it tends to do, and instead of things calming down after that initial craziness of starting something new, the intensity only seemed to grow around here. Work, certainly, kept me busier than I’d expected (isn’t that always the case?), but all of a sudden there was another potential client…and another…and then the girls’ school year was coming to an end…and all the end-of-year activities were upon us.
The month of June, the beginning of summer, was basically a blur. Just when it felt like we should’ve been slowing down from all the end-of-year craziness, everything ramped up, all at once. I had three product releases hitting in the span of two weeks. Drew had to travel for work. My Mom and Dad set out on a 3-week road trip out west to see family and friends, which meant transitioning the girls into full-time daycare during that time. Ah…life. It was an intense few weeks, but we made it through.
The 4th of July holiday felt like a deep breath. A much-needed one, caught just in time—when I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding mine all this time. A long, shaky inhale; a cleansing, steady exhale.
I’ve had several months now to process and sort out my feelings and what this experience has taught me, once again, is that it IS possible to experience sorrow and joy simultaneously. I mean, I know that, but when you are in the midst of life and loss these emotions somehow feel incompatible. I have struggled with finding the words to convey exactly how these experiences, the miscarriage followed immediately by new life, have impacted me. While I tend to be an over-sharer in regards to my feelings surrounding our current life circumstances this time I feared that sharing too much of anything would give people the wrong impression, or worse yet, be unintentionally offensive.
As I type this the little girl (It’s a girl!) in my belly, now 22 weeks along, is kicking furiously. It still brings me a bit of pain to know that she is only here because of the child we lost, but her life has brought renewed hope and fervor to this house. After a period of feeling like we were stuck in a thick patch of fog we have started to live fully again. We have a few months yet to go, but we are all eager for her arrival and eager to become a family of six.
The thing about breathing, if you can slow down long enough to actually do it, is that it’s pretty reliable about gently reminding you what’s important, what you might be missing out on, what you’ve clenched up and hidden deep inside and need to let out into the open.
I’d be less than truthful if I talked about life these past few months—the newness and busyness of it all—as being the only reason I stopped writing.
I admit that I’ve been scared to pick back up and write again. There were times when I allowed myself to bleed out onto the page in front of me, and the vulnerability I’d feel after hitting “Publish” was at times too much for me to bear. It didn’t matter if only a few people read it—or hundreds. As an introvert, it is inherently against my instinct to share my innermost feelings with anyone other than my small circle of best friends.
Fear begets fear, and I felt mine grow—little by little—with each new blog post. Fear of judgment, of inadequacy, of over-sharing, of being perceived this way or that; of wanting to connect with others, but fearing I’d be misunderstood…that my words would instead only push people away.
Life keeps happening, as it tends to do, and a truth I stumbled upon for a season might shift beneath the already shaky ground, transforming into something else entirely. What I thought and wrote about yesterday may not be what I’m starting to believe today. There’s something that feels fraudulent and frightening about that to me. It’s growth, I realize, it’s part of the process of living and writing, but it is often difficult to do “out loud.”
Despite the fear, I still feel that urge to write. I’m somehow not fully able to work through what I think or how I feel about what’s going on within me and around me until I let the words unfurl. And I really miss making that meaning.
When I sit still long enough, hushing out the worldly noise, I can hear the words prickling beneath the surface—feel them squirming and impatient beneath my skin—yearning to march up to my fingertips and hop out onto the keyboard. These words may be jittery—helter-skelter—scattering every which way except the way I intend, but I’m going to bite my lip and let them shakily find their way out nonetheless.
There’s no perfect time for us to return here. No clean break from the grief or deadlines, life changes or fear. Now probably isn’t the best time to start writing here again for myriad reasons, but it’s good enough. The perfect time was probably a couple months ago, or couple months from now, but you know…LIFE.
When we touched base with one another over the past few months about The Sunlit Path and whether/when we’d return, despite our never-waning life obligations, we’ve always come back to this underlying truth: We want to do this.
And so, we will.
Thanks for walking with us.