he would have been ninety.

the death of a loved one is an amputation.

- c.s. lewis, a grief observed

how it is that time passes and somehow the years grow longer on the side of loss, than life?

i've learned that someone can be gone longer than the entire breadth of your time with them and yet there are moments when the weight of their hand still weighs heavy, imprinted, on your shoulder.

and in the middle of happy moments the ache of a memory surprises you freshly and brings you to tears as if it was just the other day, long after you thought you had accepted it. 

---

seventeen years is longer than fourteen, yet still i cling to the few remnants of his voice and the visions of him that i can remember. 

of the daffodils he cut fresh for my every birthday.

of his dancing with moves reminiscent of tevya's to ballads like "beat it" at christmas parties and his dark blue trousers powdered with the sandy dirt from working in the garden. my secret garden. 

of his stirring the pot of hot cereal every morning with the wooden spoon softly patting the sides and his sitting down and scooting his chair across the wood floor with a soft scrape to help me with my homework every afternoon. 

of his shoulders that seemed so broad and his arms that would wrap me up and keep me safe and hugs that would calm the roughest storms inside. 

of his encouraging me to try even when I didn't have to and to be better than i thought i could be and his telling me of how he knew i could be. 

of the man that didn't have to love me as his own, but did. 

of a wet carnation hitting the coffin with a gentle slap as it lowered into the ground on that stormy day that broke me.

my heart will hurt no matter how long the years grow on this side of life without him. there are still so many times i replay the last days and wish for a different ending. for more time and more words and more hugs.

but the truth is, the time that we did have was a blessing and that the life lived together is worth the loss, even in the darkest moments of grief when it doesn't feel worth the ache. because the man i called grampa was one of the most important men i will ever know, and i will forever consider it an honor to be part of his legacy. 

and, really, it's a privilege that i am able to mourn him so.

because even though he was flawed, he loved me well. and when i think of how God loves his children, i remember him. 

thanks for everything, grampa. 

love. 

on death & hope.

there are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind 

- c.s. lewis

recently, some of the people dearest to my heart lost someone that was dearest to theirs. 

an anchor. 

a father. 

a friend.

just days within the anniversary of when i lost mine. making the memory even fresher.

oh, how my heart ached for them.

and how it still aches.

still, i've struggled to find the words to say.

i've come up wanting. so wanting.

so wordless.

instead, all i could do was pray.

______

these past few weeks, i've been thinking a lot about death.

not in a morbid sense--it's just the more life I live, the more fragile it seems. like if i stretched my fingers high enough, up on the tips of my toes, i could touch heaven.

it's true, i think. 

that this life of ours is fragile.

thin.

like tissue paper in the breeze.

______

on mother's day, our pastor took a detour from our scheduled passage and preached on proverbs 31:25b.

"she laughs at the time to come."

she laughs.

she laughs at the unknown.

she laughs at death.

she laughs.

it was such a good and timely reminder, after finding myself at times conflicted over the prior weeks. a reminder to count the joy in today, and look to the future brightly. confidently.

because if there is loss--no, when there is loss. when there is grief. there is hope.

hope of a life fully lived.
hope of the pain of this life finally at ease.
hope of a life ahead.

better than anything we have come to know here.

dear friends, this life is beautiful.
but thin.
fragile.

so breathe it in. 

because, it's just an echo of what's to come.

♥

______

love.

*photo by nick schlax

i won't forget.

"The Lord gives, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." - Job 1:21

i think it's time for me to write about it.

it's been just over four months since we lost our second baby, emery. but it seems longer. like enough time has passed for a haze to settle over it all. but then, there are still moments when it's as fresh as when we watched the little heart beat on the ultrasound, and knew it wouldn't last.

it was a whirlwind happening in the midst of the rest of a life that was full with illness and struggle, but it has left it's imprint on us as if it was a long-lasting season.

i want to write about this to remember. we have no pictures. no tangible evidence that our baby existed. just a name. yet emery will always have a place in our life. a mark on our hearts.

and now having experienced miscarriage, it seems like a whole new world has appeared. it's one that isn't often talked about, filled of others that have experienced the same (and many have been even further along). for them, i hope this will be an encouragement, and that what the lord showed me so clearly through it all would be a comfort to you. no matter how new or old your pain may be.

because we serve a faithful god.
____

we weren't trying to have a baby. it wasn't the right time--we were spending so much time in the hospital, finances were beyond tight, and it felt like we could hardly take good enough care of the little one we already had. we both wanted another baby, but we knew it wouldn't be the best thing to try to take on in the current season.

on christmas morning, we found out i was pregnant. i had my suspicions felt pregnant for weeks. but it was still a shock. and despite the ill-timing, we were elated.

the next few weeks our life seemed brighter. the unexpected gift of another little one had reminded us of how blessed we were, and how kind god had been to us on our journey. we were distracted from the exhaustion as we thought about how our little family was going to grow. and what a great big brother c. would be.

then, i started bleeding. and then it got worse.

i made an appointment to see the doctor. i was already expecting the worst, but trying to trust god nonetheless. i reminded myself over and over that his hand was on our lives. all of them.

at the doctor, they did an ultrasound. although i was still pregnant, she warned us that there might not be a heart beat. and then we saw it. the strong beat on the monitor. immediately, my heart and eyes were flooded. there's our baby, i thought. we're looking at our baby.

it was one of the most bittersweet moments of my entire life. 

having those minutes. seeing our baby, was amazing. but knowing that our baby was still alive, and my body was trying to remove it was unbearable. to be honest, i'm still struggling with this part of it.

then came the news. the sac looked too small, and other things (like the awful amount of bleeding that i was having) caused a frown to settle on my doctor's face.

"there's still a chance", she said. "there's still a chance that things might be okay, but prepare yourself that it most likely won't be."

we went home. and i wept.

that night my symptoms got worse. as nick held me, through the tears i asked, how could god do this to us? how could he give us this baby, right now, and then take it away? haven't we been through enough? why now?

i was hurt, scared, and broken. but what was worse, i was angry at god for allowing this to happen.

nick prayed for me. he read me scripture. he held me tight. then, he simply replied, "god is in control. this is god's child, and any amount of time that he entrusts us with one of his children is a gift. one that we should be humbled by and thankful for."

we went back to the doctor two days later. there was no movement on the monitor.

after having symptoms of a miscarriage for almost a week, we elected for a d&e the next day. my body was exhausted and i don't know if it would have even continued on it's own.

we had already begun to grieve, and it was time for us to let go.
___

the fear of miscarrying has been with me ever since i knew i wanted to have children. when i was pregnant with c., the fear was almost paralyzing at times. i couldn't imagine how i could survive such a terrible trial. but you know what? god was faithful then, and he is faithful now.

i survived. and somehow, am better because of it. & i will cherish those few months with our sweet child.

and through this, i have learned even more deeply what it means to trust the path that god has laid before me. that there is nothing that will separate me from his love, and nothing that he will give me that is too great to bear. there are still days when i will remember our child, and the tears will flow. my heart will ache. but that's okay, because there is joy mingled with the pain, knowing that we had that brief moment in time together.

untitled
surprise.
an unknown life 
growing inside, thriving
until it's not. until the little heart
beats quickly on the screen. as if to say i'm still
here, don't make me go away.
until it's not.
until it's gone.  

i break.

dear emery, we may have only had you for a short time, but you were such a sweet blessing. we'll never stop missing you, little one. until we see you again.

love.

FJM

today is the fifteenth anniversary of my grandfather's death.

rhododendrons from my grandparents' yard

he was more than just a loved grandfather. he was my confidant. my protector. my hero. my best friend.

i still miss him so.

My Grandfather was a man who died too soon, yet not soon enough.

I talked to you
As I walked through
The yellowed field
To the graveyard.


You spoke to me
On the stale breeze
Then watched me leave—
Back to my car.


Ten long years past
The times you thrashed
In pain—I can
Still hear your cries.

It wasn’t fair
you died. I, scared,
Avoided stares
From your dim eyes.


Your daffodils
Bloom in March still,
Despite the chill
Of early spring

At home, New Jersey,
Under a tree
They speak to me.

They wish you didn’t leave.