Kathy Sebright

Writer. Speaker. Believer. Runner. Truth Enthusiast.

Category Archives: At a loss


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My story isn’t over yet;

I abruptly left the room. It was Sunday and as usual, I was crying in church. Every Sunday, before I step into that building, I tell myself I’m going to do better this time. I’m going to hold it together. I’m going to put my brave face on. I’m going to be settled. But every Sunday, a tidal wave of emotion washes over me and I can’t shut it off. I desperately try, because I’m so tired of being that person, but I can’t make it stop. My soul is overcome.

At the end of the service, a friend from church held out this small green felt bag to me and said something like “I saw this and thought of you” before someone started talking to her. And I wanted to stuff it in my purse and open it later, but curiosity got the best of me. The look on her face was important. This small bag felt important. I stood at the back of the church and opened it. With trembling hands, I read the words etched on the silver bracelet as tears ran down my face. I didn’t have a response. I think I just hugged her and cried. Maybe nodded a few times and said thank you. I couldn’t make an intelligent sentence, I do know that.

I clutched the delicate silver bracelet in my hands that proclaimed “my story isn’t over yet” with a semicolon charm attached. The semicolon of course is used when a sentence could have been ended but wasn’t. I am the semicolon. I am not done. There is no ending punctuation to my life, not yet. My story continues on because I continue on. Even in the wake of the regrettable and reckless things I have done, I am still here. I am still alive. My story is not done; there is so much I want to add to it.

It wasn’t so much the gift of a bracelet. It was the gift of being SEEN. I was seen by her. During this dreadfully long and lonely road I’ve been on, she saw me, shoulders hunched forward in the driving rain, and sobbing all alone. What a gift it is to be seen by someone who cares despite the disastrous mess you have become.

It was so dark at times I couldn’t see it. I had been so focused on the love that I couldn’t feel and the deadness of my heart that I hadn’t noticed right in front of me, there were those willing to step up and step in, giving their love freely to me. Love has been there all along. I haven’t been alone. Love was showing up on someone’s doorstep and crying at their kitchen table. Love was a sweet compliment on my jacket and a squeeze of my shoulder as I cried in a hallway. Love was a phone number on a sticky note and the offer to call anytime I needed someone. Love was a bracelet with the words of my heart etched on it. Love was in the encouraging words and a genuine laugh. Love was in a prayer, a kind smile, and a couch that automatically reclines. Love was the good kleenex. Love was a bottle of windex and a roll of paper towels, ready to protect me from hurtful words. Love was in an email from my soul sister. Love was in the hands of my husband, always steady and strong, willing to pull me back up when I fall on my face. Love was in the faces of my children. There has been so much love around me.

I have been blind. So very blind. I am still here and I am not done. It’s time to get back up. It’s time to rise. It’s time to feel love again. It’s time to be brave again. It’s time to stop hating myself for what I can’t change. It’s time to stop using what others feel or say about me as a measuring stick to what I should feel about me. It’s time to shake off anything that does not fill me with love, peace, or hope for tomorrow. It’s time to break free of the sorrow and anguish that has been dragging me down and I am ready. Yes. I am ready now. It’s time to see myself through the eyes that matter most ~ God. 

Dear friend, I see you. You are going to be ok. I don’t know what it is but I know that you will be ok. You are loved. Please know you are so loved. Find help if you need to. Come find me if you want to. Together, we will be ok. Together, we will keep going.

Your story is not over; there is still so much to add to it.


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Find Help

Tonight, something happened. Something real. Something true.

I didn’t really want to go for a walk anymore. But I had already told myself this morning I would go after dinner. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A new tradition in an attempt to gain some head space and clarity in a life that has been nothing but murky and muted lately. TWLOHA_TitleLogo

My headlamp illuminated a small path in front of me as tiny flakes of snowy rain fell. The small beam of light staring straight out into the darkness had a mesmerizing effect, like turning on your high beams during a snowstorm and suddenly feeling almost lost in a world of snow that seems to be cutting straight through your windshield.

I pulled the collar of my jacket up around my neck as I turned the corner and was hit with a blast of biting wind. I could hear wind chimes in the distance: beautiful deep, metallic sounding chimes that rose and fell with the gusting wind. It was the perfect melancholy soundtrack for walking in the darkness.

I kept walking as tears began to fall from my eyes. I sighed. I did not want to cry again. I was so tired of crying. So tired of swollen eyes and sore noses. So tired of looking like a mess and feeling like an even bigger mess inside. I tried to stop the tears, but I couldn’t. They slowly rolled down my face and became mixed in with the snowy rainy bits that landed on my cheeks and instantly melted.

In that moment, I heard it clearly. As if someone were standing right next to me and whispering into my ear. “It’s time to stop hiding Kathy. It’s time to tell the truth.” My stomach lurched. The truth? No. I couldn’t do that. What would people think of me? How would they look at me now that they know? Again, that voice whispered. “It’s time to stop hiding Kathy.”

You see, I want to hide. I’ve been doing just that for months now. I don’t know what I’m doing right now or if it’s right or wrong. All I know is that when I hear a quiet, stubborn voice telling me to do something I really don’t want to do, I need to do it. I should be saying this to some of you in person. Please forgive me for not being strong enough to tell the truth until now. For keeping you on the outside. For letting you find out with the rest of the world.

For months now, everything on the inside of me has burned with fire and I didn’t know what to do with it. I wanted to scream for help in the midst of these ashes but the words were extinguished in my heart, never to grace my lips. Fear and guilt extinguished those words before I ever got a chance to breathe them out. I wanted to ask for help so many times, but the words floated away from me weightlessly. I wanted to stand on my chair at church and scream at the top of my lungs for someone, anyone, to see that I was vanishing before their very eyes. I wanted to confide in my family that I felt like I was dying and I wasn’t sure if I was going to make it. I wanted to curl up into a ball on the floor in the hopes of someone swooping in to save me. I wanted to be saved from myself but I couldn’t be. I was too good at what I had done many times before: hiding and pretending. Only I could decide if I was going to be saved this time. I had to say yes.

“Yes,” I whispered to the wind. “Yes. I will tell the truth.” THIS IS ME. I pulled the sleeves of my jacket up to my elbows and felt the snow fall on my forearms. I inhaled deeply and threw my bare arms straight up into the air, like waving a white flag of surrender into the dark night. Snowflakes kissed my exposed wrists adorned with jagged slash marks that aren’t even a month and a half old. It started as a whisper. “These are my battle scars. These are my battle scars. These are my battle scars.” I felt hysteria building in my heart over the words I was saying. I repeated myself, saying the same thing over and over. “These are my battle scars.” I don’t even know where that phrase came from. It just popped in my head but it wasn’t enough. I could feel it building and so I did the only thing left to do. I screamed into the night. Not a scream of pain or anguish or even defeat. This was different. If these are my battle scars, this was my battle cry. This was a scream of power. Of fighting back. Of standing back up and charging my way back into my life.

I have been looking at these ugly scars on my wrist like they were my weakness. I saw them as proof of my undeniably weak character. But maybe, just maybe, they need not be weak any longer. Maybe they can become powerful. I got help. You can too.

wspdlogoToday I want you to get help if you need it. You are brave even if all you feel is weak. You can rally every last bit of strength you have left for this fight. You can return, weapons drawn to the front line to face off against your demons. Scream words of resilience and hope and power to the sky. You are not a lost cause. You are not unworthy of love. You are not worth giving up on.

This is me. As flawed as flawed can be. But I am strong. I know I am. Somewhere deep inside lies a soul covered in truth and bursting forth with a light so bright, I know I can banish the darkness inside. Today I beckon you forth from your darkness. Tell the truth. Find help. You are not alone.

If you’re struggling, TWLOHA has local and 24-hour resources on its FIND HELP page: https://twloha.com/find-help

Suicide Prevention Hotline at 1-800-273-8255


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It was a baby, not just a miscarriage

The first time it happened was almost 6 years ago. I was almost 10 weeks pregnant when I woke up that morning. 2 hours later I was sitting in the emergency room of a local hospital. My husband’s hand was wrapped tightly around my arm as my leg bounced nervously while we waited. A young boy sat next to us with his parents and wailed. He held a twisted bloody t-shirt over his hand. There was one of those cheap, white styrofoam coolers at his feet with what can only be assumed the rest of a missing appendage I couldn’t see under the makeshift t-shirt bandage. He had been there when we showed up and now the nurse with a wheelchair was coming to get me already. The boy wailed louder as they pushed me away and his yells about how it was his turn grew more distant. My face burned red for surpassing this poor kid in line and I fought back tears.

The nurse closed the thin, multicolored curtain to my room. They took blood samples, hooked me up to monitors, read over my chart, gave me some medication, and then sent me home with a dying baby. If they were so sure I really was going to miscarry this baby, I just wanted to go home. I didn’t want to stay there or have any procedure. I wanted my home. I curled up on the couch that night not quite believing it. My baby was still alive so maybe the medication would help. Maybe he would be ok. Maybe there would be a miracle.

No such miracle came. I was in agony. Something they didn’t tell me was how much it would hurt. Not hurt in the emotional sense of losing a baby you loved and wanted, but hurt in the real physical sense of what is happening to your body. I was holding my pillow and crying, begging for it to stop but not really wanting it to stop because that would mean my baby was gone. It took a day and a half and then it was 3am and I was crawling down the hallway on my hands and knees. The walls of the hallway tilted up at me and I was sure I was going to throw up. A sharp stab of pain sent me scrambling again and I pulled myself onto the cool bathroom floor. I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t catch my breath. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt and then it didn’t hurt anymore. It was done. I was holding this tiny little baby, my baby not yet fully formed in the palm of my hand. It wasn’t just a miscarriage. It was my baby and now my baby was gone. Facebook-20150814-105806

Why would I tell you something so personal? Why would I share a moment like this? Why would I want to relive something that nearly broke me? Because I wish someone would have told me. I wish I would have known what to expect. I wish I had known that it was ok to grieve for these babies and it wasn’t shameful or wrong to love and miss someone you’ve never had the privilege of meeting alive.

It’s still quite taboo to acknowledge this baby and the one that came after and I don’t understand why. In this culture of oversharing, empowering, and talking about most everything so openly, miscarriage (and stillbirth/infant loss) are sorely under covered topics. It’s a devastating and isolating event that many do not know how to respond to. What made it even more isolating for me was the response by others, as if it didn’t matter and I was making a big deal about nothing. People told me there was probably something wrong with the baby anyhow. People told me I was young and could just have another. People told me to look on the bright side, at least it was early and I wasn’t attached. So many people just did not get it. The more overlooked the lives of my babies were, the more desperate I became to make them real and show the world they mattered. I tattooed them on my wrists. I talked about it. I organized a walk on October 15, national pregnancy and infant loss awareness day. I refused to let the world tell me they didn’t matter. They mattered to me very much. They still do.

Now is probably a good time to admit I don’t have a really good closing point. I just want to reassure you that you are not alone. I want to remind others to be gentle with their words to a grieving mother or father, even if they don’t understand. I want to fill your aching, empty arms with words of hope and love. They mattered. Your baby. My baby. Her baby. His baby. They mattered. Let your tears fall without shame for the love you have known and the love you have lost. It matters.


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Breaking through the wall

Originally posted at http://53riverbankrun.com/blog/roadwarriors/2014/01/20/breaking-through-the-wall-2/

They call it hitting the wall. It’s that terrible point in a race/run where complete and utter exhaustion overwhelms you, your legs become anchors threatening to drag you to a standstill, and every bone in your body screams at you to give up and collapse on the ground right this minute. In March of 2012, I sprinted head first into the wall so hard it dropped me to my knees and I didn’t know if I would ever get back up again.

One cold March morning, I found my (previously healthy) 1 year old son Emmett, unconscious and seizing wildly in his crib. This one seizure would change the entire course of our lives. Suddenly our life was full of hospitals, scans, tests, medications, therapies and a slew of Doctors trying to figure out what was wrong. Watching my son suffer turned me into a different person. It cast me into a deep, dark despair that I had never known before. It made me question everything I had ever believed in and everything I thought I knew about myself. It broke me, over and over, relentlessly until I was a hollow shell of a person, a mere shadow of who I used to be. IMAG0242

For the first time in almost 9 years, my heart wasn’t in it at all. I didn’t want to run anymore. However, I continued out of pure obligation because I was going to be pacing for the Fifth Third River Bank Run for the first time that year. I forced myself out the door day after day regardless of how little I had slept, how long I had been at the hospital, or how heavy my legs and heart were. I didn’t enjoy a single step of it and I felt like a traitor to the sport I had once lived and breathed with such true passion and joy.

Light at the end of the tunnel came almost 2 months later, on the day we scheduled Emmett’s first surgery. My legs complained about the strain after the 3 hour car ride home from the hospital, but I found myself wanting to run away to my home away from home. I bolted down the road, running faster than I normally would but it wasn’t enough. I pushed harder and demanded more until my lungs burned, my heart pounded wildly, and against my will tears streamed down my face. I kept pushing until I was vaguely aware that I had started screaming, a terrible anguished noise that frightened even me, its owner. I stopped and crouched down in the deserted dirt trail trying to catch my breath and calm myself down but it was no use. There was only pain and fear and it was pouring out of me like sweat on a hot summer day. I could either fight it or let it go, so I jumped back up and started running again – screaming, crying, and praying all while I punished my legs into oblivion. When I returned home, my legs shook underneath me, but I felt just a little bit better. Maybe I was not irrevocably broken. Maybe I was going to be ok…

As I continued to run, I felt the life slowly surging back into me. It came up from the road itself, seeping into my shoes, until it was radiating throughout my entire body. Running gave me back the will to fight. I was running to feel strong, brave, and whole. I was running for my son Emmett and to give validation to his life, his struggle, and his suffering. I was running because I loved it once again and I couldn’t get enough.

Running has given me something to cling to on some of the worst days of my life. On the day of Emmett’s first surgery, I ran on a treadmill in the hospital for the entirety of his surgery (7 hours and 26 minutes) while he had his entire skull broken apart and put back together correctly due to a birth defect called Craniosynostosis. I stepped off that treadmill with delirious pride and hope that overpowered the fear. On the day of the worst diagnosis to date, the news about his brain, I took off running for hours until I had to come walking home, exhausted, sore, and hungry but still not defeated. Kathy_Sebright_1982

I truly believe that running heals; it is cathartic, empowering, and real. Whatever you are trying to overcome, whatever you think you can’t do – you can. The answer lies with in you and your refusal to give up. You have the power to keep getting back up and keep charging that wall head on until you are through. Keep running, keep pushing back, and I will see you on the other side of the wall.


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Cloudy skies ahead

Originally posted at http://53riverbankrun.com/blog/roadwarriors/2014/07/16/cloudy-skies-ahead/

black-cloud-hiWe’ve all been there before. It’s the run that takes away nearly all of your hard earned confidence in a matter of minutes. It’s the run that makes you feel like the slowest, sluggish, most out of shape person that has ever attempted to run. In a single word – it’s excruciating. The first question that comes to mind is what’s going on. A runner’s brain tends to be logical, methodical, and usually operates within a definite have a problem, find a solution mentality. But sometimes, into the most logical part of that brain sneaks the black could. The black cloud is powerful; it can overtake even the most self-assured runner if the conditions are just right. It seeks out fear and doubt and amplifies it in your mind. The black cloud makes you feel like a failure before you’re even done trying and before you’ve even had the chance to fail. The black cloud is not above shaming you for every decision you’ve ever made and for every failure (legitimate or not) that you’ve ever tried to bury and forget about. Yes, the black cloud sees it all and uses it all to hand out its harsh judgments without mercy.

Welcome to the deep, dark recesses of my mind just last week. It was Saturday morning and 24 miles were on the schedule. I am training for my very first 100 mile ultra marathon in September. I am not a stranger to the ultra marathon but this 100 mile race will be by far, the longest I’ve ever attempted. Anyhow, back to Saturday morning: less than 2 miles into my 24 mile run and it became clear that this was going to be one of those excruciating runs. The black cloud pushed its poison into my mind immediately and didn’t let up for the next 22 miles. The black cloud wiped out every accomplishment I’ve ever had. The black cloud brought shame and guilt with it and told me if I lost these last 20 pounds, it’d be much easier to run. The black cloud went for the jugular, taunting me for being selfish and for spending so much time on running when I could be at home with my kids and judging me for spending so much money on running shoes when I could be setting it aside for my son’s medical expenses. The black cloud was sure I would never, ever, in a thousand years, be able to finish 100 miles. I mean, I was struggling terribly just to survive these 24 miles and I wasn’t even a quarter of the way there. When my resolve was weakened and I was truly wondering if I’ve gotten in over my head, the black cloud mocked me “Let’s just leave these kinds of feats to the real athletes, shall we?”

I put on my angry face, gritted my teeth, and obsessively watched my Garmin move slower than I thought was even possible. At one point, I took it off and jostled it around a bit, sure that it was broken. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily for me, it wasn’t broken; I was just going that slowly. I scolded myself, I threw myself a big pity party, I got good and mad about not being able to do what I wanted to do, and yet I didn’t give up. I dug deep, I held on, and I pushed through it. As my driveway came into view, I was overcome with emotion. I started to cry from sheer relief at being done and also to be rid of that hateful black cloud. Once I was done running and thinking clearly again, I realized with some embarrassment that the hateful black cloud is me. There is no escaping her. Secretly (or not so secretly anymore), I’m afraid that I can’t do it. I’m afraid that I’m not good enough, not fast enough, not thin enough, and not disciplined enough. And I won’t ever be able to stop that voice in my head until I can give myself some credit for the past and believe that I really can do whatever I set my mind to. A friend gave me a wonderful magnet from Fellow Flowers that says “And when she realized she was brave enough, everything changed.” It’s a great reminder about the power of our own voice. FF

Running has a way of bringing out the very essence of life in each mile like that. There’s no escape from who you are and what lies beneath the surface. So this is what I want you to do if the black cloud comes for you. Just for right now, just for this run, and just for today, shut down that black cloud. Be proud of yourself even if you are not where you want to be. Be proud of what you can do even if you aspire to do more one day. Remember where you have come from, what you have survived, and what you have done in order to get here. Believe that you have done the best that you could given the circumstances, know that you have made mistakes but learned much from them, and realize you are always progressing towards something better. We choose what the voice in our head has to say to us – make it something worth listening to.

 

 


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The Sliver of Hope

Originally posted at http://www.erinelizabethaustin.com/blog/a-sliver-of-hope

I just don’t feel like going, that’s why,” I snapped angrily.  My husband raised his eyebrows and then silently walked away. I sighed out loud.

Really, what was he thinking? Just because it was Christmas didn’t mean we had something to celebrate. Our life was far from a cause for celebration: a sick child, bills we could no longer pay, and a marriage buckling under the stress of this life.  I was exhausted. Hospitals, specialists, medications, more and more testing were all piling on top of work, kids, and a household to take care of. Life wasn’t supposed to turn out this way. This is not what we had in mind when we welcomed our child into this world. We were going to live happily ever after.  Now I would be content in just feeling like we were living. More often than not, we are barely surviving.

I watched my husband load the kids into the car and drive away. Another Christmas party, another chance for fake holiday cheer. No thanks. I looked at the nativity set on the coffee table and a pang of guilt hit my heart. I know why we celebrated Christmas. I was not without faith. I did believe in God, but surely He had abandoned our family long ago and left us high and dry.

What was the purpose for our suffering? What is the purpose in watching our son suffer? Where was God when they handed down that first diagnosis, just one of many? Did God see my soul crumble and the very life drain out of me when they told us this could kill our little boy? Did He see the bills piling up? What about our shaky marriage? At a time when we needed each other the most, everything fell apart. Was God watching all of that too? No amount of prayer made any difference, our lives kept spiraling out of control.  Nope, God didn’t live here and I, for one, would not be celebrating.

The house was dark and quiet. So quiet, I could hear the snow falling. The lights on the outside of the house shone in from the thin curtains. I tried to enjoy the unusual quiet, but I couldn’t. I turned on the radio for background noise; it was pre-set to the local Christian station. Our life weighed heavily on my mind. The events from this last year blurred together. It was the worst year our family had ever seen; a year that dragged us deep into the trenches and then left us there to rot.

I slowly drifted off to sleep.  I must have been dreaming because I abruptly saw myself in church, sitting alone in a large auditorium. I made up the entire congregation; there was no one else. The room was eerily lit by candlelight.  I sat and waited purposefully, but for what, I wasn’t sure. Suddenly the room changed. A faint whisper filled the room. “God did not abandon you my child.” A surge of anger coursed through my veins as I tried to object. “God understands your suffering my child.” “No He doesn’t,” I wanted to yell, but my voice wouldn’t work. “God has been with you all along my child.” How? When? Where? A million questions I wanted to ask, a million ways to disprove it that I couldn’t vocalize. “You are not alone my child.” My anger died down and gave way to a pain so raw I couldn’t speak as tears threatened to fall. “Do not be afraid my child.” I smiled bitterly; I was frozen in fear – fear of the future, that there may not be a future for our son, or that we were missing something that could make a difference in our son’s life. So just where was God? Where was the God who sees, hears, and knows everything? Why wasn’t He seeing and hearing me? “God was listening my child. He was right there all along; the same place He was when His son suffered, when His son died for you.” A lump formed in my throat. Full of foolishness and pride, I had no rebuttal, no way to ration my way out. I was unable to speak once again. “God has great plans for you my child and great plans for your child; have hope.”  The words cut straight through to my dark, angry heart. Tears I had been holding back not just in this strange moment but for months now, spilled over as I felt a sliver of hope make its way in.

A car door slammed and jolted me awake. What was that? A dream? God himself? Bits and pieces of the radio talk program I overheard while half-asleep? Did it really even matter? I understood now. My husband and the kids came bounding in. My tear stained face seemed to startle my husband. He held out his hand and I took it as more tears fell. There was hope in my heart, however small, but it was there. Hope for our marriage, for our family, for our son, and for better days ahead. Most importantly, I let in the possibility that there is a purpose in our pain and we are becoming great witnesses of God’s faith and love. It was Christmas. We did have something to celebrate, many things actually, starting with our family. We don’t know what the future will bring, but we know that God is with us, even when we don’t feel it. We know that there is a purpose in what is happening. We know there is always a reason to hope.

May your Christmas be filled with hope, love, and joy, even amongst the suffering


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The Pit

Originally posted at http://www.erinelizabethaustin.com/blog/stuck-in-a-pit

The truth is I don’t know what it is like to be sick. I am 30 years old and have been in good health most of my life. I am a distance runner that regularly puts more mileage on their shoes in a week than on their car. I don’t take any medications, I don’t have any specialists, I don’t undergo surgeries or procedures, and I don’t have a medical history. So why am I even talking to you? What on earth can we possibly have in common?

I have been down in the pit, you know the one. Down so deep, I couldn’t be reached, reasoned with, or comforted. The pit is empty and hopeless, full of only fear and uncertainty. There is only lateral movement allowed in the pit, never up and never forward. You are stuck there in this dark limbo until you choose to climb out. When I hit the bottom of that pit, in true Kathy Sebright fashion, I crossed my arms and refused to let anyone help me out. To call me stubborn is a laughable understatement. It is true ten thousand times over. Why shouldn’t I just stay in the pit?

People started to gather at the top of the pit, staring down at me. I heard their voices high above me and saw rope after rope thrown down until it was an overwhelming tangled mess. They wanted to help. I dug my feet in deeper. I saw some give up and walk away, their lifeline they once offered to me now at a pile by my feet. Some came and went at odd times, showing up only so they could see the disaster up close and personal. Still others belittled my pain, spoke of how much worse they had it, talked about me, and condemned me both for my lack of faith or faith in the first place. “Where’s her God now?” they wanted to know. When days turned to weeks and weeks to months, there were only a small group of people left. I saw the concern etched on their tired faces as their tears sometimes fell into the pit. I still refused to grab the rope. God put me here. God can get me out. He knows what to do. Heal my child. Make him better. Take it all away. That was the only way I would be ok again.

I was at war with God, in a hostage situation even, trying to force him to meet my demands or else. I spent months in this stalemate, the refusal to budge, the refusal to see this as anything else but underserved punishment, and blinded by the eyes of a frightened mother. I raged at God. Do something. Anything. Don’t just sit there.

There are no words for what it is like to watch your child suffer. I have searched the depths of my soul for a way to paint this picture to those that have never been in our shoes, but I can only come up with an example. More times than I can count or that I would even like to admit, I have begged God to let me trade places with my 2 year old son, until I am crying and screaming reduced to a pile of a person on the floor. I have begged God to strike me down dead this very minute, in the middle of this prayer, in order to spare my son. I will die right here, right now if he will only heal my little boy’s brain. Take away the malformation, the lesion, the hemorrhage, the pain, the seizures, and the uncertainty. No more surgeries, scans, medications, therapies, or alarms in the middle of the night. Dear God, just take it all away. Sounds desperate, doesn’t it? That’s because it is.

The pit consumes you, engulfs you, and changes you, whether you want it to or not. You can never be the same person again once you climb out and that’s not all bad. The day I grabbed the rope and decided it was time to trust God with my son is the day that everything started to change. It was like turning on a light in the middle of the night. At first it hurt to look at, but then it was brilliant and beautiful and I don’t know how I ever saw anything without the light.

If you are in the pit right now, I want to personally throw a rope down to you. Do not despair. You are not alone. You are not forgotten about. God is still holding that rope down to you, even if others are not. Start climbing. He will not leave you there. Trust him. The rope is full of promises for a better tomorrow, a hopeful future, and peace that passes all understanding but only if you take it. You must surrender control. Throw your arms into the air, grab hold of that rope, and let God pull you up.

Today is an ever fleeting moment, gone before we even realize it has slipped through our fingers. I have learned to trust God with whatever will be of my sweet son Emmett. Thy will be done. Emmett is His first, mine second. It was the only way I could be ok again. You can be too. Keep climbing. Live in the light.

Job 33:28: God has delivered me from going down to the pit and I shall live to enjoy the light of life. (NIV)


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The Sign

Originally printed in the Penasee Globe – December 21, 2014

It was cold, dark, and snowing as the brisk wind cut through me. My headlamp illuminated the snow covered road beneath my feet as I ran. There were no tracks to follow. No one had been here anytime recently. There was only me. And I was making my own path.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the road. The road with the house with the sign, that is. Almost 2 years ago, I had been slowly plodding through some serious snow in this same exact place, when I saw the sign on their garage. In cutesy black script, it proclaimed “Life doesn’t get much better than this.” When I saw that sign 2 years ago, I was struck with an irrational and overwhelming urge to pull it down and attempt to break it in half beneath my feet like I would a brittle tree branch. Things were so very different then (although strangely the same). I took off for a long run one particularly bad morning and that’s when I saw the ridiculous sign that almost seemed to mock me.

A gust of wind brought me back to the present. As the snow swirled around me, I found my feet angling themselves to turn onto that road. It was a decision I didn’t consciously make myself. I looked at the sign as I got closer. It was unchanged by the previous 2 years. What a difference. It was my polar opposite. There wasn’t anything about me that remained the same. Everything about me had been touched in some way, shape, or form by what life had thrown at us. IMAG1916_1

I closed my eyes and the past 2 years flooded through my mind. Pools of blood from my son’s broken skull.  My son’s laughter from the next room as his big brother tickled him. Screaming mid run in fear and sheer desperation. Laughing until I cried in the ICU with my husband. My son unconscious and seizing on the floor in front of me. Clutching a friend’s hand so hard it must have hurt, trying to convey everything I couldn’t say. Crying on the floor of a hospital room that smelled faintly of floor cleaner. It was devastating and beautiful and painful and amazing all at once.

I’m not sure when exactly the change took place. It was gradual and it snuck up on me. One day I could clearly see what I couldn’t before: hope, gratitude, and life. I found myself smiling at the sign, seeing it now with different eyes. I turned and continued to run, unsure of my destination but sure of my ability to blaze my own path.

It’s so easy to focus on everything that went wrong. Even at Christmas we all can lose sight of what matters. The greatest gift I have ever known was finding hope, gratitude, and life despite our circumstances. I wish everyone the ability to see things with different eyes and the persistence to make their own path.


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The courage to stop pretending

Originally posted at http://www.mops.org/blog/courage-to-stop-pretending

I could tell you stories of pregnancy and loss, and of holding a tiny lifeless baby in the palm of my hand. I could tell you about the leap of faith it took to try again and the heartbreak of losing yet again. I could tell you about months of bedrest with another baby not expected to live. I could tell you about the first time I called 911 while I watched that baby, my 1 year old son Emmett, unconscious and seizing in his crib. I could tell you about putting on a brave face for my 3 year old son Travis, trying to figure out how best to explain it without terrifying him. I could even tell you about the treadmill run in the hospital for Emmett’s first surgery, while I ran for exactly 7 hours and 26 minutes waiting and praying he was going to be ok. But none of those are quite it.

I think the most courageous thing I have ever done was stop pretending. I was a great pretender. I could smile even though I wanted to fall onto the floor and cry. I could laugh even though I felt hollow and empty inside. I could cite my strong faith while raging against a God that would allow Emmett to suffer so greatly. I could sit calmly in public when just hours before I had been screaming and breaking things up against the wall. The pain emptied my very heart and soul and hung me out to dry. The fear of the future, of the unknown, and of what would happen to Emmett ignited me with a fire so fierce, it threatened to burn me to the ground. The old me was gone, swallowed whole by this wide-eyed insomniac clutching a medical binder as thick as phonebook and pretending to be ok. My old world was gone, replaced by a new one with sterile white walls and words I couldn’t pronounce. This was the life that I pretended to live for much too long. There was no big pivotal moment that spurred me into action. One day I just woke up and said Enough. It has to get better. For me. For them. For all of us. I can’t pretend any more. I sought counseling. I learned to manage my fear and anxiety and let go of what I couldn’t control. I learned it was ok to not be ok and that I didn’t have to pretend for anyone. I learned to stay in the present and eliminate what if questions. Most importantly, I learned to live again, even happily in spite of our circumstances, and that took the most courage of all.