One other thing...

It's not the usual newsy DixieJax stuff, but some folks who have read this other thing thought it might be worth sharing. If you're curious, click here.

Love,
Daniele

DixieJax FAQ

Dear family and friends,

It's been a while. We're still here...and still grateful for your continued support, love, and prayers. It's been almost four months since Eliza died; sometimes, that feels like forever, and, other times, it feels like no time at all.

Today, April 9, marks the three-year anniversary of Eliza's homecoming from the hospital. It was Palm Sunday that year. Today has always felt a little more like Eliza's birthday than January 29 does. It was today, three years ago, that WE got our baby. Up until April 9, Eliza felt like she belonged to the hospital, to the doctors, to the nurses...but three years ago today, she was ours.

Over the past four months (and, indeed, three years), many of you have asked questions that we've never had the time/space/opportunity to answer. Here's my (Daniele's) attempt to answer some of those. (I can only answer for myself, though, so look for Sam's two cents at the end!)

*How are you?

This is the hardest question for me to answer, and, of course, the most frequently asked. Hard because 1) I'm never really sure how honestly to answer, 2) I'm asked it in so many places where an honest conversation is impossible, and 3) the answer can change hour to hour, day to day. Some days are harder than others; some days are fairly smooth. I'm far from back to normal, which anyone who knows me will know is exceedingly frustrating to me. I don't do still/patient/uncertain very well. Some days I'm maniacally busy, full of energy, restless; others I'd rather just crawl into bed or the nearest hole. The busy days feel more "normal" for me, as that's my usual state anyhow, but the exhausted days feel more honest somehow. Grief is tiring, so many people tell me. I don't know why, but I do know that it's true.

That said, I certainly am more physically rested than I've been in a long, long time. Generally, sleep hasn't been a problem. When Eliza first died, I was suddenly made very aware of the sleep deprivation we had endured for so long: I could hardly keep from sleeping. Since I've caught up on some long-needed rest, sleep has sometimes been more difficult, but for the most part, I'm grateful to have been granted good rest.

Our pastor, in his Palm Sunday sermon this past weekend, described the day as one that mixes rejoicing and weeping. The King is coming, but He's coming to die. A friend yesterday talked about the Saturday of Easter weekend as an in-between place: between the crucifixion on Friday and the resurrection on Sunday, the already and not-yet. Those places best approach a description of where I live nowadays. Weeping and rejoicing. Somewhere in between.

*How is Luke?

Luke is doing what he "should" be. At first, as I think we reported, he had lots of questions, lots of concerns, all of which he vocalized (as he is wont to do with everything, as many of you well know) or drew or shared in some other way. More recently, we've seen some separation anxiety and some worries, all of which our beloved pediatrician assures us are predictable and normal reactions. As his mother, I've struggled with his neediness--particulary his need for me, of course--when I feel that I'm at my least available to provide the emotional support he needs. But I'm trying to rest more in the arms of my Father these days and thus feel more equipped to let Luke rest in mine. If I can be still and trusting, then Luke can be still and trusting, too. As in all things, I know I can teach him best by example how to grieve; I'm trying to do that honestly and faithfully.

Meanwhile, his school has been wonderfully consistent and supportive of Luke and of our family. He is glad to go every day, and his teachers are great to share with me how he's doing, situations in which he mentions Eliza, etc. He'll be in kindergarten at Sam's school next year, and we're so grateful that he'll be surrounded by "family" every day while he's there. It's more important to us now than ever that he be in a place where he feels loved, safe, and secure; what a blessing, then, that he can be at Trinity, taught and cared for and loved by people who know us and him so well, with Dad right next door in the upper school building. Praise God.

*How is your marriage?

Everyone has read the statistics about couples with disabled kids, couples who lose children. We've never shied away from sharing the personal, so here goes...

We're doing well. We tend to be good in a crisis. At working--being--together, I mean. When Eliza was first born, we were best for each other at the hardest, scariest times. I'll admit that it's hard for me when we find ourselves in different places in the grieving process; I'm not good at not being able to "fix" things for Sam, and when he's sad, I can't fix it. But we're leaning on each other and talking to each other and sharing the things we're doing differently. God is good. That's not to say there haven't been hard--really hard--days, and we know there will be more. But we're clinging to each other and to God. And that's Good, and that's all we can do.

*Will you have more kids?

This is the question that few ask, and those who do admit reticence in doing so; I suspect many more want to ask but fear hurting us in asking. The answer is yes, God willing, yes. It has always been yes. Luke is a wonderful big brother, Sam an amazing father, and I love being a mother, so our family certainly has a future. As you can imagine, it's a difficult conversation in many ways, the details of which we'll keep to ourselves at this point, but don't worry; you'll be among the first (thousand) to know!

*How are you using your time?

I haven't figured out what "normal" looks like just yet. I'm still doing all the things I was doing before Eliza died (minus, of course, the very significant number of doctor appointments and medical details): back and forth to school and playdates; children's ministry, women's ministry, and pastoral care at church; getting together with friends; spending too much time reading gluttonously or writing. I've struggled with inefficiency lately, feeling like I just can't get things done or don't have the motivation to. That's not my style, and I don't like it. Especially after having backed off my church commitments for a little while, part of me is ready to jump back on the horse, but part would rather just take a nap. I'm assured over and over that this is "normal," and I'm recently more resigned to just hanging on for the ride. Frustrating--especially to feel like I'm letting people down--but unavoidable, I'm realizing.

I'm reminded frequently of when, probably a month or so after Eliza was born, I realized I would forevermore be the mother of a dying child or a deceased one. Life would never "return to normal," whatever the medical outcomes. Life never went back to pre-Eliza normal after she was born, nor will it go back to with-Eliza normal now that she's gone. I'm trying to give up the battle for control and give in to just being led. God gave the Israelites just enough manna in the desert for each day; thus far, He has gotten me through each day one at a time, and I'm grateful for each of those days. Matthew 6:34 says, "Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own." If I can do that without feeling like I've let people down each day, each week, then I feel like I've been successful.

*What has been most helpful?

Lots of people have asked me this, both for us and for future reference; that is, what can we do to help others who go through similar situations? I can only speak for myself, but perhaps some of what I can share will help others.

Honestly and first of all, there's not much anyone can do. My daughter is gone, and no one can fix that. I think that's the first thing anyone who wants to help in a situation like this must realize. It's not up to us, and we can't do it.

That said, many people did help in many amazing ways. Initially (and even now), help that I didn't have to participate in at all was the best support. Really practical stuff. A friend--THE friend who cared for us and took care of EVERYTHING--calling to say, "So and so is going to the grocery store; what's on your list?" Not, "Do you need anything?" or "What can I do to help?" but, "Tell me if you need toilet paper or toothpaste or milk." Meals, of course, arriving when I could hardly think of eating or feeding everyone else who was in my house. Prayers, of course. A few dear, sweet, brave friends who just sat with me--in my living room or on the phone or elsewhere--while I cried...and still will. People who cleaned my house, gave my kitchen and dining room a makeover: I've shared what a blessing these things were before, and most of all because it wasn't up to me. I'm grateful to have so many talented, gifted, clever, amazingly generous
people in my life.

As I mentioned earlier, open-ended questions like, "How are you?" or, "What can we do?" have proven the most challenging for me. They're asked in the purest spirit of care and love, of course, but they're impossible to answer. I don't know how I am or what you can do.

What has simplified these exchanges in many cases has been when people have asked much more specific questions, ones I can answer comfortably in public, be it at the grocery store or in the hubbub after church or at the park. "Are you getting some sleep?", "How is Luke?", or, "Is school going okay for Sam?" are sweet expressions of love and care and are also manageable and answerable for me. As for me, I know that these are the questions I'll be asking in the future when I'm on the other side of the equation.

*When will you write a book?

So many people have asked this, that I've started thinking it's time for an answer. My answer has always been, "When we get to the end of the story." Obviously, we're not there yet, nor do we expect to ever be. And we have no idea where to even start or what it's a book about. But stay tuned; again, you'll be among the first (thousand) to know!

*Who/What is DixieJax?

We've had some of the most creative interpretations of this. No, she's not an aunt/grandma ghost writer; no, it's not my nickname (I love this one! My Yankee family shudders at the thought). Sam is one of twelve children, as most of you know, so there are many Jackson sub-families. Each one has picked up a clever nickname, several of which are based on geography. As the only Jacksons (so far!) to have landed this far south, we've gained the moniker "dixie". That's really all there is to it!

But you can call me Dixie if you want.

*What has been the hardest part of losing Eliza?

For me, it's been a physical withdrawal. I remember being shocked at the physical need I felt to hold Eliza those first few days of her life when we were not allowed to at all. Over the course of her life, too, our only real connection with her was physical, as we were unable to communicate with her much beyond that. Initially, then, after Eliza died, the withdrawal of that contact that had so dominated the last almost three years of my life was shocking again. I miss the feel of her. There's a physical emptiness that accompanies the emotional emptiness that is unique to losing someone like Eliza; not many people spend almost three years holding someone most of the day and night every day and every night. It's a shock I couldn't have expected.

*How do you imagine Eliza now?

I can't. And I struggle to every day. Read _The Great Divorce_ by C.S. Lewis. Sometimes I fancy that. Read _The Shack_ by William P. Young. Sometimes I try that on. But mostly I just trust that she is In Christ. And that is Good. Ever so much better than here. And someday, I'll know what that means. Romans 6:4 promises that "We were therefore buried with him through baptism into death in order that, just as Christ was raised from the dead through the glory of the Father, we too may live a new life." Though I miss her terribly, I thank God that Eliza is free in that new life. I thank Him that she is with Him, and I can't wait to see my girl. Is she running, dancing, laughing, singing? I doubt it. I expect something so much better than that. It feels like a long, long time to wait...but I know it is Good.

The (long-awaited?) two cents from Sam: I was at the cemetery last Saturday. I ran my fingers along the creases in the cruel, cold stone. These same fingers that used to run tenderly down her cheek. I wiped away the dirt and grass threatening to obscure the grave-marker. Oh, to brush back those sweet, mischievous locks that hid her shining eyes just once more. I felt a violent grief there. I was not expecting it. Doubt attacked: was not Eliza just feet below my knees, securely sealed in that too-small casket? There I was, knocking on the tomb's door. I guess I just want to find some empty grave-clothes. In the meantime, it is so good to love and be held by a God who knows--who knows from experience.

Some of you may know the song "Sing to Jesus", which contains this verse: "Come you weary, and he will give you rest; come you who mourn, lay on his breast." Two thousand years ago, Jesus met a grieving sister's despair with these words: "I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live...Do you believe this?" She responded, "Yes, Lord; I believe that you are the Messiah, the Son of God, who is coming into the world." I miss Eliza. I hate death and all its cousins. Come, Lord Jesus.

May your Easter be full of truth and love.

With love,
The DixieJax