The Paradox of Grief and Joy

I recently wrote to a friend of mine who also has experienced deep loss in her life.  Three years ago, her dad was killed in a collision.  He was biking on a country road outside the city and a negligent driver hit and killed him.  My friend was completely devastated by her dad's death and remained that way for some time.  In the past year or so, I have seen a change in her.  She has allowed the sadness and bitterness to melt away, and developed a vigor for life, a hunger for joy and an ability to savor life intensely. She has found ways to challenge yourself, and she has an amazing drive in her. I admire these qualities of her character.  I wrote her to ask how and when she was able to feel joy again, and when that did happen, how was she able to fight the guilt in feeling joy after such loss.  She wrote and talked about giving oneself permission to feel whatever it is we are feeling, to be patient with ourself, and to be intentional in our healing.  The following is part of my response to her, including some new experiences of joy in my heart...

Thank you so much for the wonderful response you gave me in my questions about grief and joy and healing from big loss.  It feels so good to hear from you, who've been through deep loss, that I have permission to grieve AND to feel joy. I have been living in both these days, and what a strange paradox it is.

The other night I think I felt joy, true and pure joy, deep down and settling, for the first time since our son died. It was no momentous occasion, no height or achievement or delivery of good news that brought on my joy. It was just one of life's simple moments, peaceful and satisfying to my soul. I would like to explain it.

As you can imagine, I've been way too busy these days with teaching and helping Ghaith to run our food cart business and manage things at home... oh, and not to forget the difficult but essential work of healing my heart from our loss. At the end of my long days, what I want most is to sit with my husband, close and cuddled, and just be. Maybe read a book, journal, watch a movie, whatever. He rarely gives me that, what with his parents in our home and his mind almost constantly in business management mode. He comes home most nights with no energy left for me and he crashes. Well the other night when he got home, he didn't crash. He sat with me and we talked and drank wine and dreamed out loud together. And I felt good. Deep down, I felt rested and settled and happy, and for whatever reasons, my happiness in that sweet moment was not immediately followed by pain, or bitterness, or regret, or even guilt over being happy. I took notice of the contentment in my heart, and I mentioned it to Ghaith. It was a familiar and welcome feeling, but one that's been so far away from my experiences in daily living for so long. And then I realized why I was able to feel that happiness so deeply, and from that deep place came the tears. It's because I have come to accept that our sweet boy is not here with us. I've finally learned how to love and accept him the way he is; fully our son and fully not here with us. I have learned how to love him from afar, knowing that I will never know him in this life, and simultaneously believe that he is with me always.

So, joy has snuck its way back into my being, and I have welcomed it's subtle yet significant arrival.

With love,
Tiffany

Life is one big jigsaw puzzle

I see life as one big jigsaw puzzle, which I can see only parts of, but which God above can see in it’s entirety.  I wander through life, picking up pieces as I go, figuring out how this one I’ve just stumbled upon fits into that one next to it, which I put into place two years ago, which is connected to the one below it, which was put into place long before I even realized it was there.  This has been my view on life for a while now, and most of the time I’ve been content to go along with the game.  Sometimes I’ve enjoyed it more than other times.  Sometimes the discovering of the pieces has been pure joy, even magical in essence.  Sometimes, it has felt like pure hell, being handed a piece I didn’t ask for and never would have imagined for myself or my life’s journey. 

Lately I am wearied by the game, which for me has lost it’s luster.  I am scorned, and the finding of the pieces doesn’t give me the same thrill it once did.  Some days, I question the whole game all together.  Does God really have it all together?  Does he see the big picture?  The ultimate plan?  I am tired and put out by the not knowing, the questions, the vagueness of the picture from where I stand.  Just this evening, I had a talk with God.  It went something like this:

God, why can’t I be moved to a better vantage point?  I want to see the big picture.  I want to know why you allowed that to happen and not the other.  I want to understand what significance certain pieces of my life’s journey hold.  I think I’d be able to handle things a bit better if I could just understand why they are happening, just gain a bit of perspective.  I want to know what your plan is.  I want to see it and understand it.  It seems unfair that I am made to walk this unpredictable, sometimes elating, sometimes torturous path I call my life in a fog of confusion while you sit on your throne with all wisdom and understanding.  Please Lord, a bit of perspective here?

And this was God’s response to me.

My sweetness, if you could see the big picture of your life’s journey in it’s entirety, you would not be able to handle it.  The grandness of the highs and the darkness of the despair, the incredible joys and the debilitating lows would be too much for you to take in all at once.  My wisdom is far too big for you to take in.  Each of those pieces I give you along the way has significance in and of itself.  The wisdom you gain as you fit them into place is enough for you right now.  I give each of them to you as a gift, because you have followed me and sought me and you continue to seek me, even in your greatest pain.  That big picture you long for… trust me my dear when I say it would be too much.  Please, don’t worry yourself with thoughts that are too big for you in your present place.  I give you my word and my word is enough for you.  Use it as a lamp unto your feet, lighting your path one step at a time.  In the end you will see clearly what now you only see through the haze, for your day is young and your journey is not over.  What you now see in part, you will later see in full.  I will make your path straight, and soon enough you will arrive, and in that place the Son will burn away the fog, and your eyes will be opened.  For now, you must just trust me and believe and persevere.  

Lacking

I know the Bible talks about being in a place of lacking in life as if it's a good thing, and that we should be thankful for the times when we are lacking.  That it is in those times of lacking in which we are better able to seek and find God.  I've been lacking a lot these past 3 years, in so many ways, at different times.  I guess God really wants me to find him.

http://www.redletterchristians.org/constructing-an-identity-of-lacking-to-find-god/

where the river kisses the ocean

We went to the beach for the day, finally, just he and I.  After almost two years in Oregon, two years of longing for some alone-together time at the beach, we finally made it there.  The only other time we've been to the beach together (without family or friends) was on our honeymoon in the Fresien Islands.  It was sooooo good to be back at the water's edge.  Good, good, good for our souls.  The weather was perfect and the spot we were at was secluded and quiet.

I heard this song today and it made me think of our perfect day...

It's been a long, long time
Since I opened a window
next to my bed
Since I spent the whole day
just feelin' the sun shift on my head
Since I've dug my feet in
into the edge of this continent
It's been a long, long time
It's been a long time
Home is not just where I am anymore
I know how to get there
It's where I wanna be
It's where the river kisses the ocean
Where I feel small
I feel blessed
And I feel like me

~Sung words from Melissa Ferrick: It's Been A Long Time

The following are pictures from our honeymoon in July, 2009.

The Cadillac of bicycles

National Geographic exhibit

Goofy guy!

intense listening

"Intense listening is indistinguishable from love… and love heals."

I heard this in a sermon today from the pastor of Mosaic church here in Portland.  I started listening to his sermons recently and am really enjoying.

Thank you all, my dear friends for listening to me throughout these past 10 months.  You have helped me on my healing journey and I am grateful.

Light and Darkness

I've been thinking a lot about light and darkness since I slammed my face into the nightstand the other night (see previous post titled "Ouch!").  I have an issue, as I mentioned, with staying up too late, and lately it's just been getting worse and worse.  I haven't been willing to see this an an issue, or confront myself truthfully about it because I felt honestly like I didn't have to.  I have believed for months now that because I lost my son and have been in such terrible grief, anguish and confusion, that I somehow had a "pass" in life.  I felt like I had been dealing with enough in just trying to cope and survive amidst all that's been going on with losing Rami, having G's parents in our home, all the financial burdens, and then starting the new business.  I haven't felt obligated to work on my own issues, like somehow because I was dealing with so much already, I didn't have to work on myself.   That is, until I was smacked into reality with a literal smack in the face.

This is not a new issue for me.  I have always been a "night owl", as we are called, but lately it's worse, and it's affecting my life and my husband's as well.  I've been trying to hide the issue, justify and ignore it too.  I don't do anything wrong or dishonest with that late night time, that's not the issue.  I just indulge in things that I enjoy - watching movies, reading, writing emails, journaling, making or baking things... in the quiet of the night.  Those are all lovely things in their own right, but I'm doing them at 2 or 3 in the morning - and then walking around all groggy and confused during daylight hours because I've not gotten proper sleep.  My sleep hours have shifted dramatically to where I'm not keeping the same sleeping hours as the rest of my household, and I'm missing out on quality of life during my waking hours because my body is off balance.  That blow to the head in the dark the other night happened because I was fumbling around in the dark, trying to hide my issue.  I didn't want to turn on the light because that might have made Ghaith wake up and see how late I was going to bed.

Darkness and Light.  They are likened in the Bible to issues of sin and forgiveness, evilness and righteousness.

¹¹ If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me
   and the light become night around me,”
¹² even the darkness will not be dark to you;
   the night will shine like the day,
   for darkness is as light to you.

 ¹³ For you created my inmost being;
   you knit me together in my mother’s womb.  ~Psalm 139: 11-13

It humbles and relieves me to know that my God knows my inmost being.  He knows me better than I know myself.  Even if I hide these things in the darkness, He sees them.  He sees me.  

I looked up light and darkness in the Bible, and found the following verse, which are not meant to be preachy.  I am simply sharing what I've been dealing with and how the Bible is helping me to bring truth to this issue, and hopefully to overcome it.

"He reveals deep and hidden things; 

   he knows what lies in darkness, 
   and light dwells with him."   ~Daniel 2:22

"...wisdom is better than folly,
   just as light is better than darkness."  ~Ecclesiastes 2:13

"Woe to those who call evil good 

   and good evil, 
who put darkness for light 
   and light for darkness, 
who put bitter for sweet 
   and sweet for bitter."   ~Isaiah 5:20

"God is light; in him there is no darkness at all."   ~1 John 1:5

Ouch!

I slammed my face into the night stand in the dark in the middle of the night the other night.  Ouch!  I'd dropped something and bent over to pick it up, not knowing the door of the nightstand cupboard was open.  I hit hard and was bleeding and almost passed out because I'm such a wimp with blood.  I had to wake Ghaith up to help me get cleaned up.  I'm glad I didn't need stitches.  For a while there, I was laying in bed with a big ice pack on my eye, embarrassed and imagining how bad the scar was gonna be. 

Truth be told, it was 4:30am and I was only then getting ready for bed.  I didn't want to turn on even a little light to help find my way to bed because I didn't want to wake Ghaith up.  I have a problem with going to bed.  I stay up WAY too late.  It bothers Ghaith and he's talked with me about it many times.  He's gotten mad at me for it, been frustrated about it, and worried for me and my health as a result of it.  I scared the crap out of him, waking him up with a bleeding face.  After he very lovingly helped me to get cleaned up, I told him I felt like God had smacked me in the face, telling me to stop the nonsense and start going to bed on time!

I talked with Ghaith about my problem, and about the rebuke I was sensing from the Lord, and I asked Ghaith's forgiveness because what I was doing was hurting him.  He prayed for me (for no scar and for my avoidance of bedtime), and then he held me until we both fell asleep - the way it should be every night, if I would just go to bed on time.

I went to bed last night by 3am.  Minor improvement.  Pray for me please.

(Prior to eyebrow blow.  I was playing around with an eyebrow pencil for the first time and I liked the results.)

green eyes. green bird.

You may not know it, but my son Rami had the most beautiful, vibrant green eyes.  I woke up this morning missing him extra special because today he would have been 10 months old.  I have thankfully had a nice slow morning at home alone, consisting of sleeping in, making myself breakfast, then eating, reading and writing while sitting on our back patio next to what I have lovingly named my Rami Garden.  I realized sometime in early spring that my tending to the garden was therapeutic for me and I vowed to keep it up regularly as a way of connecting with my mama needs and desires.  I have enjoyed nurturing my garden with love and care, and watching it grow and change, as I would have with my son if he were here with us.  I asked everyone in our household to keep their hands off the garden, explaining that it was something I needed to do for myself.  They have, for the most part, kept to my wishes.

It’s been an exceptionally quiet day around here.  There are no kids playing, no noisy birds chirping away like they normally do (only sweet, quiet ones), no neighborhood lawn or garden tools making noise, no construction work being done… nothing but the sweet breeze blowing through the lush trees that surround the condo buildings here, and the gorgeous blue sky above.  As I was realizing just how wonderful this moment felt, I stopped to take in the beauty of it all and looked up to the sky, and I felt a connection to Heaven, to the Divine.  That connection was sweet, and for a split second I felt almost blissful.  Reality quickly took over, and my bliss was defeated by thought after thought, my eyes lowering closer to the earth and my surroundings with each heavy weight I allowed in… until my eyes met the dirt of the ground below me and my heart felt heavy with the burdens of this life. 

I took out my journal and began to write about Rami.  I wrote about how much I miss him, how I long to know him, to see him face-to-face, eye-to-eye, and know him for who he is – not who I think, imagine, or speculate he is.  I had impressions of his personality while he was in my womb.  I thought from his hungry kicks that he would be eager, motivated and driven like his baba, and I liked to imagine he’d have a curious love for God’s beauty found in nature, like his mama.  I wrote about the day he was born, and how Ghaith and I had been brave enough to lift Rami’s sweet little eyelids to get our one and only glimpse into our son’s eyes, and oh, what beautiful eyes they were!  Rami had the most amazingly intense green eyes.  I can remember being impressed, thinking Rami really was his own person.  He didn’t have his baba’s dark brown Arab eyes, or his mama’s blue-grey eyes.  He had intensely green eyes, all his own.

As I sat in my Rami Garden, writing about Rami’s incredible green eyes, and feeling lost and far from him, I was suddenly visited by a hummingbird.  A shimmering, green hummingbird.  He came out of nowhere.  I mean, I have never seen a hummingbird on my back patio, and never in my life have I been that close to one.  He flew right up to me, almost eye-to-eye.  I was quite startled at first, and just as soon as I’d realized he was a hummingbird and I didn’t have to feel afraid, he backed off, floated over to a nearby tree branch, and landed.

We sat there for a moment, staring at each other, and then he flew away.  It took a few minutes for me to take it in, feeling confused at first by it all, then realizing what a sweet gift I’d been given in that visit.  I thanked the Lord, and I cried.

Tonight I told Ghaith about the visit from the green hummingbird.  His eyes teared up as my story unfolded.  I was so pleased to see his reaction to the gift I'd been given, to know that he really understood what I was so thankful for.  When I showed him this picture of a hummingbird, he was really touched and told me that he has always felt something special for hummingbirds because of the way they move.  He said they move like angels.

And then I knew the gift was not only for Rami's mama, but for Rami's baba too.  

New pictures

4th of July in our neighborhood (O.k., not so new pictures, but still worthy of sharing.)

 

I found this quote engraved on a beautiful piece of silver jewelry in a shop in Hood River recently.

A sunny afternoon with magnificent natural light and my webcam led to these photos.

Set free the sorrow by the old oak tree

Ghaith and I went to visit Rami’s grave last weekend.  We hadn’t been there in over three months.  That was way too long, especially for me.  I was really needing to get out there and be close to him.  I was so glad it was just Ghaith and I going – no one else came along this time.  Without parents or friends, Ghaith and I were free to let ourselves truly experience the emotions we were each feeling, and express our thoughts openly with each other.

At one point, I was standing and looking at the big beautiful oak tree Rami is buried next to, and remembering the day of Rami’s burial and how I’d been so busy fussing over the pictures I’d brought of the three of us, trying to get them to sit just right on the bench in front of the tree, that I missed being able to watch Ghaith as he walked across the cemetery carrying our baby boy in that little white casket.  I hadn’t realized Ghaith was behind me the whole time, making that long walk from the parking lot to the grave site, carrying our son to his resting place.  It was one of the saddest and most important, honorable moments of his life… and I’d missed it. 

As I was reminded of that memory, I reminded Ghaith about it too.  I don’t know how exactly I expected him to react to my recollection, but his response was surprising to me.  Usually when I talk about Rami, recall something about our pregnancy, or dream talk about how things might be right now if Rami were here, Ghaith doesn’t say much.  He listens, and he shows me his love and support, while remaining calmly reserved in sharing his thoughts.  But on that day in the cemetery, staring at the bark of that tall oak, lamenting about having missed that moment in Ghaith’s walk, Ghaith responded,

“Supposed to he carried me,” (He was supposed to carry me) followed by tears and weeping like I’ve never seen him do before.  Something about that time and that moment allowed my husband to open up and set free his sorrow like never before in these past ten months.  Maybe it was the lack of company, the being along together.  Maybe it was the beauty and serenity of the cemetery that day in the sunshine.  Maybe it was time.  Whatever it was, I was glad for it and relieved for him.  At the same time I was heartbroken, watching my husband break down and sob like that, but I knew it was good for him and it felt good to shed our tears together at our son’s graveside.

Rami would have been 10 months old tomorrow.  Oh how we miss him, with a depth and a pain so present, so strong.  Lord help us learn how to continue on amidst the struggle, the longing and the pain.

This is the tree our Rami is burried next to.  I took this picture on our last visit, back in May.  G's dad was having some quiet time for prayer.

Fighting for Happiness

I've really been enjoying this book I've been reading this summer (yes, I pour through books rather slowly when I want to savor and enjoy them).  It's a memoir of travel, self-discovery, and spiritual formation, and realizing how much bigger God and the world are than our own problems.  I'm getting close to the end, and was encouraged by this passage:

"...people universally tend to think that happiness is a stroke of luck, something that will maybe descend upon you like fine weather if you're fortunate enough.  But that's not how happiness works.  Happiness is the consequence of personal effort.  You fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel around the world looking for it.  You have to participate relentlessly in the manifestations of your own blessings.  And once you have achieved a state of happiness, you must never become lax about maintaining it, you must make a mighty effort to keep swimming upward into that happiness forever...  It's easy enough to pray when you're in distress but continuing to pray even when your crisis has passed is like a sealing process, helping your soul hold tight to its good attainments."

Now, from a Jesus follower's perspective, I read this and am reminded of the passage in Phillippians which says:

"...I know what is is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty.  I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want.  I can do all this through him who gives me strength."  ~Phillippians 4: 11-13

That last line is one of the first verses in the Bible I clung to as a young girl of 13 when I was first introduced to the word of God.  It's what I clung to when I labored my dead son for 10 unimaginable hours in the hospital that night, and it's what I cling to now as I fight for my life, my marriage, my contentment, my - dare I say it - HAPPINESS.  

Selah.

Emerging

self-portrait
7.23.11

I took this picture of myself the other day. It seems to represent where I'm at in my grieving/healing; partly still in darkness but brave enough to step into the light, and longing to feel strong again.  It happened to be the day Rami would have been 9 months old.  

I love you sweetheart.

tears

"He will wipe away every tear from their eyes.  

There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain..." 

~Revelation 21:4

"... he will swallow up death forever.  The Sovereign Lord will wipe away the tears from all faces..."  ~Isaiah 25:8

He comes to me in my sleep

I recently mentioned that I’ve had a few good dreams lately, and that until now I’ve had only bad dreams since we lost Rami.  I may not have mentioned that many of my dreams have been about Rami.  In the beginning of this loss, I dreamt of him almost every night, and on some nights he was all I dreamt about.  In most of those dreams, Rami was far away or lost or in need and I was not taking care of him.  Sometimes I dreamt of being a negligent mother, letting my baby lie in a corner hungry and crying.  Sometimes I dreamt he was lost, and I didn’t care much to find him while others around me stared at me in disbelief.  I would wake up from those dreams with such overwhelming guilt and shame.  Some nights I dreamt Rami was drowning in a lake or swimming pool, or the ocean, and I would frantically search for him, diving deep and then coming up empty handed, gasping for breath.  Sometimes I would find him, pale-faced and cold, his beautiful little lips, the exact replica of mine, blue and lifeless, and I’d rush him to the surface in my desperate attempts to save his life.  I’d watch in horror and sorrow as I came to the realization, night after night, that my baby boy was gone and no matter how hard I tried, I could do nothing to bring him back. 

Sometimes the horror was not in the dream itself, but in the waking moments after sleep, for the dream itself had been tender and sweet.  On those nights, I dreamt of holding Rami, caressing his soft skin, his dark wavy hair, listening to the noises he would make while nestled up warm and close to my heart.  I would nurse him, and he would look at me with such pleasure and contentment in his eyes.  I have never in real life experienced my child’s suckle, but in my dreams I know the feeling full well. 

These days, I don’t dream of Rami every night, which is a good thing because it’s exhausting and I need my energy for other things.  I still miss him or think of him nearly every hour of every day, but I am learning how to function within this reality of being a mother with no child.  I’ve come to view my life in phases; pre-Rami, with-Rami, and post-Rami.  The with-Rami phase was short, but oh-so-sweet.  My pregnancy days were when I felt the happiest, most hopeful and beautiful of all my life.  But these post-Rami days, oh these days.  It’s a challenge, to say the least.  Every day is a challenge, and for more reasons than the missing my son. 

He comes to me in my sleep, but these days it’s mostly only in his sweetness.  And each time he visits, he has grown.  He would be almost 9 months old now, and that’s how I saw him when he came the other night.  He’s so beautiful and strong and healthy, and always hungry for his mama’s milk.  I nurse him, and in the feeding him I too am fed.  Those tormenting dreams have stopped for the most part, and I’ve realized now that when Rami comes, I can enjoy the closeness we have in that place, and when I wake up I don’t have to feel robbed or cheated or teased by my dreams.  I have come to understand what a blessing those dreams are for me.  They happen, interestingly, usually around the time of my period – the female body is so amazing to me.  I miss him more intensely around this time, and that’s usually when he comes to me.  I’ve come to see the mercy in his visits, and I am so thankful for God’s grace in allowing me time with my son.

I told Ghaith the other night of how our son visits me in my sleep.  I had hesitated to tell him, for fear that he would think I was just being silly or ridiculous in my missing Rami.  Ghaith’s reaction was actually very touching, and it helped me to know that although he doesn’t talk about his longings for our son like I do, he is missing Rami too.  

Aladdin's Castle Cafe is up and running!

Love and joy and good dreams for once

Ghaith and I had a really good talk this morning.  It was one of the rare times where we got to sleep in and wake up to a slow morning.  We talked through some issues we've been dealing with lately and as we found the common ground we've each so desperately been needing to stand together on, our conversation moved us to look to our future in a hopeful way.  As we talked, Ghaith took a pen and wrote something on his hand in his artistic and beautiful Arabic script, then wrote the same on mine.  I asked him what it was, and he said, "Amoot", which is Arabic for the kind of love that allows one to feel they would do anything and everything for the person they love.  It's what he and I say to each other when we're feeling affectionate and adoring and in love.  Since we were talking about our future, I asked him to write our future on my hand (Arab people like to talk whimsically about the future), and he wrote in English the words "love" and "joy" (which he spelled like the man's name Joey - he's still working on his writing skills in English).

I love that man.  I amoot him.

P.S. I've woken up two mornings this week from good dreams - GOOD.  Since we lost Rami, I don't think I've dreamt anything but sorrowful, scary and frustrating dreams every night. Waking up from good dreams is a welcome change.

The Poetic Anatomy

It's been 3 weeks since my last post.  Not that I haven't had anything to say, just that I haven't had to time to articulate my thoughts into written word.  And today isn't much different, but I want to put this quote up, which I recently read in the book I'm currently reading called Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.  I'll explain why this has touched me so, in a future post.  To keep it simple for now, it helps me to feel encouraged about the realness of Rami (and others who I've loved and lost)  in my life, past, present and future.

"Just as there exists in writing a literal truth and a poetic truth, there also exists in a human being a literal anatomy and a poetic anatomy.  One, you can see; one, you cannot.  One is made of bones and teeth and flesh; the other is made of energy and memory and faith.  But they are both equally true."

May I vent? Thanks.

Why must people ask me if I'm pregnant???  I AM NOT PREGNANT.  That question is asked on a regular basis by strangers, students, and sometimes full-grown adults who know me and surely should know better than to ask such things.  I do have a slight belly, and always have, and the rest of my body is thinner now than ever before in my adult life.  I can understand why one might be tempted to speculate - but one should NEVER actually ask.

That question has always been frustrating and insulting to me over the years.  The first time I was asked, I was only 17 years old.  I was far too young to be having babies, and shocked at the question.  Right now I could give many, many examples of incidents in which I was asked that question - interactions which are so brief, yet so unpleasant, they seared into my memory.  The first was a shopper that asked me when I was expecting, while I was helping her pick out a pair of Dockers for her husband when I worked at Sears at the age of 17.  There was that co-worker at the school where I interned in Mexico at the age of 22, who, after I insisted I was NOT pregnant, actually went so far as to rub my belly while insisting I could confide him, that my secret was safe with him.  There have been countless students who have so innocently and joyfully asked me if I "have a baby in my tummy".  That question used to invoke embarrassment, frustration, shame and anger in me - and understandably so.  But since we lost Rami, that question does all that AND manages to bring all my regret and sorrow immediately to the surface of my conscious awareness.  It just happened again today, with a stranger this time, who commented on the "little one on the way".  It's maddening!!  WHY do people say such things??  I could understand making pregnancy comments if my belly looked like a basketball under my shirt, but that is not the case.  People simply should not ask such things.  It's so insulting, especially at this time in my life.

Ghaith says I need to get used to it, to let it roll off my back, not let it bother me.  I disagree.  I think I may start putting people in their place when they put their foot in their mouth with me.  I can't avoid the comments, but I may be able to help another woman from being embarrassed in this way after me.

Job interviews

I have another job interview today.  It's one of many in a long, drawn-out series of interviews for the Spanish Immersion "pool of applicants" as they call us at Portland Public Schools.  I went to 7 interviews last year, and all that time and energy and nervousness resulted in - no job.  I'm sure it was because I was pregnant and no one wanted to hire me and deal with the issues that come with a teacher going on maternity leave.  I've been bitter about it, but now I can see that although it has been a financially difficult year, I was blessed by not having my own classroom.  A classroom comes with many obligations and responsibilities, and often long work hours.  This past 7 1/2 months have been by far the most difficult months of my life, as you well know.  There were many days I didn't have the strength to go to work, and many days that I went, but my heart and mind were not invested in what I was doing.  I am thankful I didn't have a classroom full of kids and parents depending on me this year.  As a substitute, I just show up, manage crowd control for the day, and go home when the kids do.  It's a good thing I didn't have to do much more than that.

So, now I'm ready for my own classroom again.  Today's interview is the most important, and the most nerve-racking.  I have to go sit in front of a panel of school principals and teach them a lesson - in Spanish, followed by a 30-minute interview in English, followed by a 30-minute written assessment of my Spanish.  If they approve, then I will get called in for interviews with schools throughout the summer, and hope one of them likes me enough to give me a job.

Here I sit, preparing for my day and praying for calm nerves.  I am good at what I do as a teacher, I am qualified to do it, and the only reason I am feeling nervous is because I have to get up in front of a bunch of adults and do what I do in front of children every day.  I am praying for confidence and peace.

I found this today, and it helps.

"I pray that God, who gives you hope, 

will keep you happy and full of peace as you believe in him.  

May you overflow with hope 

through the power of the Holy Spirit.  

~Romans 15:13

Selah.

Making progress!

A veil of blue, and purple, and scarlet, and finely twined linen

My relationship with the Lord, the sweetness and the trust that once was so evident and strong, has been damaged.  Since He took our Rami home, there is a rift between us, yet still I sense his presence.  I know He is with me all the time, and I believe He loves me with a love that is greater and deeper than I can ever comprehend, and I can see how He is and continues to provide for me ... yet still there is hurt, and broken trust.  I don't want to feel this way, but this continues to be a struggle I have.  I think the enemy of the world would have me stay in this unstable state forever if it were up to him, and I know I don't want that.  I want to return to full trust, but it's not easy.  I find that anytime I proclaim my trust in the Lord, verbal or inwardly, it is immediately followed by the reminder that I trusted Him with my pregnancy and my baby's well being, and where did that get me?  Smack in the middle of the worst pain and despair and darkness of all my life.  If you are a praying person, please pray for me as I wrestle with this.  I don't want to struggle in this anymore, and somehow I need to let go.

I was talking with a woman, a new volunteer at Scarlet Cord last night.  We were volunteering together and had just met for the first time.  She was the only one in the room who doesn't know my Rami story and all the pain that comes with it.  As we all sat around the dinner table and chatted, I was sharing something that happened to be related to the time when I was pregnant.  The woman later asked me how old my baby is, and I had to tell her that my baby died.  She continued with her questions and we had a brief conversation about my loss.  I then told her a bit of the struggle I have just written about, and my feelings of resentment, confusion and anger, about how I would like for all that to fade away, but I don't know when that will happen.  She, in all her earthly wisdom, proceeded to tell me that she knows when I will stop feeling those things... it will be when God reveals to me how He wanted to shape me with the pain, which will show me why He took my son the way He did.

So in other words, she believes God took my son to cause me to go through this personal hell, so that I can be shaped more into His image.  I most definitely do not see this from her perspective, so I quickly changed the subject and then excused myself from the conversation and avoided eye contact with her for the rest of the evening.  I don't see the point in arguing with people like that.  I just avoid.  On the way out the door, she hugged me (ek, get away!) and told me, "I hope your grief does what it's supposed to do in you, so you can move on with your life"... as if God is causing me all this pain to teach me something.  I know God can use this time to shape me, but again (I know I've said it before), I refuse to believe God would inflict this upon me in order to teach me some character-forming lesson.  I don't have enough letters on the keyboard to express my frustration at this way of thinking that so many Christians have!!! 

I was reading the Book of Hope today, and feeling worn out by the distance between me and my God.  His timing is pretty good.  The following is what I read today, and for now it is helping.  It tells of the veil (or barrier, to be more blunt) that was between humans and God, until He came to us in the form of Jesus, in order to tear the veil and make a way for us to be close to him, to dwell with Him.  He is with me, my God is with me.

Selah.

Memorial Weekend

Memorial Day.  It's a holiday created to memorialize those who've died, right?

All day today, people were talking about Memorial weekend and all their lovely travel plans, and then they'd turn and ask me what my plans are... as if G and I could actually afford to get out of town right now.  We can't even pay our bills, let alone take a few days away.  My Memorial Day plans don't include slipping away to Seattle or the coast or NYC for the weekend.  No.  I'm planning on getting painful dental work done and going to the cemetery to visit my son's grave.  I decided to keep my "holiday weekend" plans to myself.  Dental drilling and cemetery visits aren't exactly the best conversation pieces at the staff room lunch table.

Happy Memorial Day everyone!

Looking good for a wedding last Saturday

Today I choose light

My sweetheart would have been 7 months old today, and I think I’ve come to a turning point in my journey.  I had this thought early on, but I knew at that time I wasn’t ready for it.  I’m becoming more ready now.  The thought was this;  My son’s being in Heaven can be a source of strength and light for me, while still being a point of sorrow.  Somehow, those two realities can live within me. 

This morning as I lay in bed reading the Book of Hope, I remembered something moving I heard in a movie a few days ago.  It was “Eat Pray Love”, during the “pray” part when someone taught Julia Roberts’ character that she doesn’t have to be held captive to her thoughts, that she can acknowledge them as they come, and then tell them where to go, and move on. 

“You have to learn how to select your thoughts the same way you select your clothes every day.  That’s a power you can cultivate.”

I heard something similar from a new and treasured friend and fellow mama of a stillborn baby, just last week.  She told me that her grief counselor had helped her move the loss of her daughter from the trauma part of her brain to the memory part, so that when the images, thoughts and feelings from her loss came up, she would no longer be paralyzed by reliving the trauma in her mind over and over again.  She told me she can now acknowledge the thoughts or feelings as they come, and then she can place them back into the memory box, and continue on with her day.

I have a Rami necklace, so does Ghaith.  We had them made in the first month of our loss.  Each is engraved on the back with Rami's name and birthdate, and each holds a small, precious lock of Rami's beautiful, dark hair inside.  Mine is a tiny sculpture of mother and baby in a gentle embrace, surrounded by a neverending circle – a bond tying them together for all eternity.  

Rami Yahya Sahib
10~23~10

I wear mine almost 24/7, and am getting more comfortable with taking it off at times.  I was holding my Rami necklace this morning when it became true for me too, that I don’t always have to feel crushed by the weight of my loss.  When I first started wearing my Rami necklace, it helped me to feel close to him.  It rested between my plump breasts, which were full of the life-giving milk my body was making for the son I’d never feed.  As my breasts slowly dried of their milk, the necklace fell closer to my chest.  Over the months, my breasts grew smaller and smaller and even began to appear droopy and tired, as if I’d actually worn them out by nursing my son all those months.  But I hadn’t.  And I felt cheated again, because now I have a nursing mother’s saggy breasts, without the pleasure of ever having given suck to my baby.  And now my Rami necklace sits directly on my chest between my breasts, which are now smaller and more saggy than ever.  Thank God for the Victoria’s Secret Incredible!

I used to wear my Rami necklace over my shirt, as a proud mama would show off her baby on her chest.  But over the months as everyone around me went back to their normal lives and I continued to grieve, I began to feel ashamed of that gleaming silver sculpture around my neck, like it was too much for those around me – too out in the open – too in your face.  So for some time now, I’ve been wearing my Rami necklace on the inside of my shirt, close to my heart instead of out in the open for all to see.  It has become heavier with time and shame.  And that’s a hard reality to make sense of and walk around wearing every day; the pride of being a mama completely engulfed by the weighty combination of sorrow and shame. 

This morning when I rolled over in bed, I moved my Rami necklace from the back of my neck where it usually falls between my shoulders as I sleep, to the front in it’s rightful spot on my chest.  I anticipated the weight of placing it there, as I’ve felt every morning these past 7 months waking up anew into the reality of our loss.  But this time was different.  Somehow I was reminded of the words of my new friend, and of the actor in the “pray” of “Eat Pray Love”, and of my own thought so many months ago; Rami’s presence in Heaven can be a source of strength and light for me, rather than a heavy burden placed upon my chest. 

Each day is a new opportunity for me to make a choice.  I don’t know about tomorrow, but today I choose light.  I choose strength.  I choose hope, and it feels good and right to do so. 

my anthem these days

I've been paying a lot of attention to the themes in Psalm 30 these past few months.  It talks of being brought up from the grave and rescued by the Lord from the pit... about a time of feeling secure, followed by dismay, weeping and wailing and then silence.  I have lived this, truly.  I have identified strongly with the words of this psalm, but not all of them.  The last few verses speak of the Lord turning my wailing into dancing, and how he will remove the sackcloth and clothe me with joy, that my heart will sing to him and not be silent.  


I'm waiting...


I see Psalm 30 as my anthem these days, for how much I am able to identify and connect with the words of hardship and suffering.  Just now, I looked up the meaning of the word "anthem" and I found definitions including words such as rousing, sacred, and song of praise.  So I do believe that end will come which those last few verses describe because... 


...weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.  


Lord help me.

The following is what I wrote in my journal on the day Rami would have been 6 months old, on April 23rd.

Happy 6 months Rami.

Rami would have been 6 months old today.  That’s quite a mile marker for most mamas and their babies.  It was a rough morning for me, and very well would have been a rough day all together, had I not called Kara and made a date to walk with her in the sunshine.  It’s Saturday, it’s 70 degrees out, and incredibly sunny.  This is the warmest, most beautiful sunny day in months, in many months, in 6 months, to be exact.  I know this because the last time I felt Rami move in my belly was the last sunny day of the fall, exactly 6 months ago yesterday.  The day he died, the weather changed.  It was no small change in weather, it was a marked change and Ghaith and I both noted the gloomy, wet, darkness outside the hospital window that day as we lay in bed with our perfect, lifeless baby boy.  I remember Ghaith commenting on the darkness, and my response was, “It’s gonna be a long winter”. 

I was feeling so dark and heavy in my soul today, just missing Rami, being fed up with Ghaith and his parents and all their expectations, and feeling sorry for myself.  It’s weird to feel so heavy and down inside when the weather is so gorgeous outside.  There are people everywhere.  They are running, walking, biking, strolling their babies, taking pictures, laughing and playing.  It is good to see so many people out, moving, being active and enjoying the sun.  Portland is alive today but I feel dead inside.  It’s like I’m having to re-learn so many things as I re-emerge my life.  These days smiling, feeling joy and being at peace do not come easily, if at all. 

I feel pressure from Ghaith, from our Arab friends, and from others around me to get better, just get over it and be o.k., be myself again.  I look at pictures of myself from before we lost Rami, and it’s hard to believe I will ever have joy like that again, or that I will ever get to a place above this dark cloud of grief.

When or how will I ever get there?

I miss him so much.  I don’t know when that’s gonna stop.  Will it stop?  Will I ever stop wishing Rami were here?  Will I ever feel like myself again?  I’d like to know, and I think Ghaith would too.  He misses Rami, but he misses me more.  The strange thing is, I’m still here, but most hours of most days I’m not really here.  It’s like I’ve become a cast, a shell, an empty replica of myself… but the Tiffany that once was, is no more.  I look like Tiffany, but I’ve changed.  I’ve become someone, or something different.

The other day, I found an amazing example in nature of this feeling I’ve been living in.  I was teaching in a first grade classroom and they were studying insects.  We were reading about crickets, and I was learning new things right along with the kids.  I learned that crickets shed their skin, their entire exoskeleton several times in their lifetime.  They grow out of their skin and literally shed their entire body, leaving an exact replica shell behind.  What’s left looks like the old cricket, but it’s only a transparent, pale colored replica, and it’s empty… a beautiful remnant of what once was.  Beautiful but still… lifeless… empty.

I fee like that.  Still, pale, muted, empty.  A beautiful replica of the Tiffany that once was, but empty inside.

This is what a cricket looks like when it sheds it's skin.

What emerges from that old cricket exoskeleton skin is a gorgeous, vibrant and very alive cricket.  New cricket is bigger, stronger, and ready for the next steps in life.  I know new Tiffany is in here somewhere.  It’s more of a belief than a real knowing.  She’s in here and she’s growing, learning and changing by the day.  She’s waiting to be found.  I believe it’s just a matter of time.  I will not return to old Tiffany, as Ghaith and so many others hope for, but I will become New Tiffany – strong, bold, vibrant and ready to conquer the world.

This is the best smile I could muster up that day in the sun.

I hope my husband will be able to love new Tiffany as much as, or maybe more than old Tiffany.  Lord, please help us with that.

With love,

In-between-Tiffany