DixieJax update

(Disclaimer: We haven't written in a while, but we do write around here. A lot. So be warned: this one will take you a while!)

Dear family and friends,

I (Daniele) started composing this email/blogpost months ago. Months. I spent countless sleepless hours writing (so what else is new?) the message many of you have waited to hear. The subject was to have been "A year and twelve weeks." Because that's what tomorrow would have marked. A year since December 12, 2008, the day we lost Eliza. And twelve weeks: the gestational age of Luke and Eliza's little-sister-or-brother-to-be.

The subject was to have been that...but it isn't. As some of you know, a few weeks ago, I had a miscarriage.

This would have been a hard season anyhow, remembering and reliving as we have been the last weeks and days and hours of Eliza's life. But--and I can speak only for myself here--to add losing this baby, this little already-and-not-yet person, to the heap of grief we're still very much laboring under has felt like too much.

Mercifully, Luke didn't know about the pregnancy, and thus has not had to know about the miscarriage. He has had enough in his short life to wrestle with; I'm grateful he hasn't had to add this next impossible-to-understand bit to his load. He's young enough that we were able to keep him suitably distracted--with the help of sweet friends, as always--through the physical challenges of the d+c and the following recovery so that he thought nothing other than that I wasn't feeling well for a couple of days, those days quickly and happily followed by grandparent fun as it was almost Thanksgiving. It's not been that unusual throughout his life, after all, for me to spend whatever chunks of time I could snatch to rest doing so, exhausted and sleep-deprived as I was for most of Eliza's lifetime and wrestling as I have been with grief and then early pregnancy since then. So he didn't even question finding me checked out for a couple of days recently. Mercifully.

For me, it's hard to separate the grief of this miscarriage from the still-very-fresh grief of losing Eliza. No doubt, miscarriages are very common; statistics show that at least 1/5 of all pregnancies end this way. I know the statistics. In many ways, then, this latest loss is one many of you can share in, having gone through it yourselves at one time or another. But I'm sure the experience is different for everyone, and I daresay it is significantly different for us. If nothing else, the death of a child, which this miscarriage very much is in somehow intangible ways, is something very concrete and real for us. We have literally held death in our arms; we have watched our baby die. It's hard not to imagine, then, this little one in similar ways. And that has been very painful.

Sam has been reading through our old emails/blogposts from Eliza's life recently, and he was surprised by the constant positive, hopeful tone of our messages. He even commented that, having read through the story again, he understands now how folks were taken aback at the seriousness of Eliza's condition, hopeful as our communication always was. It strikes me that the tone of this message thus far contrasts starkly with that history.

It is, indeed, a difficult season for us.

But it is good to know we are not alone. I am comforted by the words of the psalmist, "How long, O Lord? How long?" I do not cry out alone. All this trouble is but a breath, and the promise of what is to come after this breath is worth waiting for. It is worth waiting for. It must be. After all, if we didn't have suffering and pain in this life, what would convince us to long for the next?

Meanwhile, although I promised more than one person at Eliza's funeral that the dixiejax blog would continue, we haven't followed through on that promise. I have, however, continued to write my way through this grief journey (and the rest of life, too), although admittedly without Sam's wise input. If you're curious, it's here: http://abitmoreofme.blogspot.com. (Perhaps for those of you whom we had fooled with our co-written dixiejax emails, you'll now be able to distinguish each of our contributions once you've read Daniele-sans-Sam!) I mention that blog only because most of what I feel would be appropriate to include here is already there: my gratitude as I reflect on what you all have meant to my family these past four years, my thoughts on our family's life without Eliza, my hopes and dreams and fears for the future. No matter what doubts I may face, there is one thing that has never been in question, and that is that our family has been tremendously, amazingly well loved. We have felt that love--your love--weekly, daily, hourly this past year, and we are so grateful. You have loved us thoroughly and well and endlessly and creatively, and we have noticed. We are blessed by you, and we know it.

As for what tomorrow holds for us, as many have asked, it is as of the writing of this email unclear. One thing is sure: we will be visiting/having breakfast with Santa, as tomorrow is the day he's scheduled to arrive in a nearby neighborhood tradition. Even that visit will feel heavy, as last year's visit was the morning after Eliza died; Sam was at the cemetery picking out a gravesite as Luke and I greeted Santa. Surreal.

Meanwhile, Thursday held a sweet celebration of Eliza's "heavenly birthday" in Luke's class, during which Luke talked a little bit about Eliza and shared some pictures. Here's what he had to say about his sister: "Eliza was special because she had a very sick brain. She was special because she was very good at being held. I helped my mom give Eliza her bath. I was called the soaper-man. I was at my friend's house when Eliza was dying. I came home to give her a kiss. Then they took her body away in a van." This celebration, surrounded by his friends and beloved teachers, was a precious gift to Luke and to our family. We continue to be amazed at the family-away-from family that Sam and Luke's school is to us, and we are so grateful.

A cemetery visit tomorrow? Perhaps. We have yet to watch the video of Eliza's funeral, which we may do tomorrow, too. We will likely spend a good chunk of time sorting through Eliza's boxes (and boxes and boxes; she was very well-dressed!) of clothes, choosing items to be used in a memory quilt to be created by Sam's mom and aunt. Tomorrow is significant, no doubt, and will be a heavy and hard day for us. But I do wonder--and only time will tell, so remind me to tell you later!--whether this day will be any more difficult than the rest of this season has been and will continue to be.

A year. A year is a long time, in many ways: one sixth of Luke's little life, and more like one third of his memorable life. It's an eternity to him. A year of Eliza's life seemed forever, predicted as she was to not even survive that long, and exhausted as we were by her days and her long, long nights. I confess, though, that a year--as long as it feels sometimes--feels like nothing compared to the years and years and years I will likely have before I'll see my baby girl--and her baby brother or sister for the first time--again. Life feels long; the days feel eternally long. And I dread to rush through the moments that make up these eternally long days; I covet slow, sweet moments to savor with Luke, who seems all too quickly to be rushing toward the person that he will be: a delightful person, I predict (as his mama ought!), but too old and too big (now only one foot four inches shorter than I am, and catching up daily, as he likes to remind me). This dreadfully long year has rushed by and surprised me at its ending already. Which makes sense to me only in my understanding and trust that even time will be redeemed someday. How long, O Lord? How long?

On a lighter note (yes, finally!), many of you know of my affinity for that classic film of the season, A Charlie Brown Christmas. If you missed your chance to see it on television this year, or if you just need one more dose of Linus, never fear: it's been a long time since I've sent out Christmas cards, but Luke and I had a little project in mind one afternoon...perhaps we've created a new dixiejax virtual Christmas card tradition:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NTgWgKj9Xz8

(Now that you've had your youtube break--deep breath--here's Sam:)

And he told this parable to those who had forgotten to wait.

There was a young couple, barely seniors in high school, who dreamed of a daughter every bit as smart as they assured themselves they were. She would turn heads with her looks, her grace, her athleticism, her intelligence; she would be the complete package. Even then they knew her name: Eliza. Ten years later, they eagerly awaited the time of their daughter’s birth. They ogled the blurry ultrasound pictures with glee. They marveled at God’s creative work, his sustenance of the precious vulnerable life of this tiny ever-growing beauty stored up in her mother’s womb. They toyed with other names: Cecily? Anastasia? Caroline? No. She was always Eliza. The due date neared, only two weeks of anticipation left. But what was this? A contraction? This early? No, surely it was the Moe’s burrito. A faithful friend sat close through dinner, stopwatch in hand—“Was that another one?” By midnight, the couple was hospital-bound. At last, at last, we are going to meet our little girl. So many years of suspense down to just a handful of hours.

January 29, 2006. She emerges early in the morning, like so many others that day, shocked by the cold sterility of an uncomfortable world, nurturing memories of a haven lost and longed-for. She is whisked away. The new home of her mother’s arms waits empty. Trouble breathing, they casually explain. The surprised but not-yet concerned father follows. The minutes stretch into hours, the hours through the morning into the afternoon, into the night. No sweet fulfillment of a decade’s worth of waiting. Short visits, attempts to nurse, monitors and quizzical white-coats abounding. What is that fist-clenching and arm-rattling? What a strange little pirate-face she’s making—take a picture! But why does her oxygen drop with these inscrutable signs? Oh, we must stay here for another day? Another night? Life-flight to Duke? Expect at least another week in the hospital? Tears flow. The dreamed-of daughter locked in a plexi-glass box, torn away with our hearts. Still no reason why. Only suspicions, only a need for more assessment, only desperate souls crying out, “My eyes are not lifted up too high; I do not concern myself with matters too great or things too wonderful for me. But I have stilled and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother is my soul within me” (Psalm 131). “Because your love is better than life, my lips will glorify you” (Psalm 63).

April 9. 69 days later. Eliza is home. The first time it has ever been our family home. She comes with machines for supplying and monitoring oxygen, she comes with round-the-clock medications, she comes with inconsolable screaming, she comes with minor ailments as-yet undiagnosed, she comes with one major nameless underlying disease. A disease that has robbed her of any body control, of any hope of hugging, cooing, eating, drinking, seeing, rolling, kicking, kissing, laughing, smiling (so they say), of anything voluntary. She comes to cheering family and friends, whose abundance of volitional charity far surpasses the grief of all Eliza’s incapacity. Indeed, all that Eliza cannot do serves simply to enhance and beautify what she can: she can receive. She can be held, she can be caressed, she can be adored and admired; and her silence can call us into a reverent silence of our own, filled with marvel and wonder and longing. How long, O LORD?

January 29, 2007. Longer than they predicted. One year. Never was there an infant’s birthday party like this. A gym-full of true Family, loved ones near and far united in celebration and retrospection. Raising an Ebenezer: Thus far has the LORD helped us. But that day also passes. The daily and nightly toil does not. What should these new months have brought to our little girl? New cravings for dress-up, in frilly skirts and socks; new adventures in hair-dos, with butterfly barrettes and ribbons; new dolls, with storybook names and invented personalities; new admiration for big brother, with new conflicts and blossoming friendship. No new month would bring this to Eliza. No hope for even the transient joys that our frail humanity offers. No expectation of even an hour’s rest from seizures that no medication can solve. Nothing. Nothing that can be seen with these mortal eyes. My peace I give to you; I do not give as the world gives. How long, O LORD?

December 12, 2008. Teach us to number our days: one thousand forty-eight. There seems to be an ominous rattle in her breathing. The chest x-ray shows a dark area that might be a spot of pneumonia. As always, it’s hard to say. Hmmm. Yes. It does seem to be trending toward pneumonia. It may be a matter of days or of weeks. A fervent night of conjoined prayer. What will become of us without her? How short, O LORD! We cannot breathe without her breath. I’ll just run into school to check in—turn around. Her breathing is slowing. You better come back. Come back. I’m kneeling over her crib now. She is calm. The morphine stills her. 9:15. She exhales. No. Her mother wails, grabs her desperately-awaited, her presciently-longed for baby girl. Her Eliza. Her father sighs tearfully. He has read the eulogy over his daughter, the last Scripture her mortal ears would receive: "If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are to be pitied more than all men. But Christ has indeed been raised from the dead, the firstfruits of those who have fallen asleep" (1 Corinthians 15:19-20). And she sleeps. She really sleeps. For the first time. She is at rest.

6Man is a mere phantom as he goes to and fro: He bustles about, but only in vain; he heaps up wealth, not knowing who will get it. 7And now, Lord, for what do I wait? My hope is in thee. (Psalm 39)
Of all the gifts we have received through Eliza, the one I celebrate most in this season is a spur toward hope, implanted deep within my soul. I have seen hell at far too close a range. I earnestly await the coming King, who was a baby; the lion, who is a lamb.
The simple are killed by their turning away, and the complacency of fools destroys them. (Proverbs 1:32)

I am rescued from this destructive complacency, from pernicious contentment with a broken world. Things are not as they should be, and I will not pretend that they are. I am a foreigner here; the kingdom of which I am a citizen is coming, and I will hasten its coming with my own loyalty to its king. Hell does not happen suddenly. Hell is but the culmination of a daily enthroning of a false monarch, a ruler who has power only to deceive, to proclaim that life is found where only death dwells. I have seen death. No undertaker can warm its cold fingers. I hate it. I want nothing to do with it in any of its forms.

Will you reject it also? Or will you partner with the enemy? Will you hate all that masquerades as light: from the demeaning sarcasm that our culture would substitute for joy, to the rampant pornography that our culture would deem beauty; from the materialism that smirks beneath language of provision and blessing, to the lethargy that cloaks itself in messages of cheap grace and sham love? With God as my helper, I will hate these things with the same hatred that Eliza’s death evokes in me, a pure hatred bursting from a true Love of the rightful King of Kings and Lord of Lords.

And yet, such is the love of our God, that he mourns over the city whose leaders are at that moment preparing to betray him, crying: “How often would I have gathered your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you would not.” And this door remains open to each of us at this moment. Will we blind ourselves with the comforts of this world? (For, though hollow, they are many and mightily deceptive). Or will we choose death to such instantly-gratifying pleasures and life to the eternally-sweet rewards that require waiting? God has made this easy for me. He has sweetened his kingdom for me by placing Eliza in it. The all-surpassing joy of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord dwells more fully in me because of my eternal fellowship with her in him. That’s where she is.

That’s the parable of Eliza, and it’s my story. What’s yours? The God of the universe has made his move: he has made a way, in the death and resurrection of Jesus, for you to know him, to receive his love. He calls you to repent of your allegiance to darkness and to enter his kingdom of light, longing for its full arrival. We make bad trades: we prefer passing pleasure to eternal delight. But God also has an exchange department. He gives beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness. He has made his move. It’s your turn.

If you do not believe, why not? You have not come to unbelief through irresistible logic. Your heart has led you there. You wager your eternal soul on a weak hand: the habitual preference for your own way of seeing and doing things. Wager on something more sure, the Truth that is Jesus Christ. It will take no greater leap of faith than you are currently making.

I am not sure, when all is said and done, that there is any greater hindrance to faith than our difficulty in grasping the love of God. The sheer magnitude of it is too much for our finite minds. The reception of such love cannot be achieved by any number of hours of quiet time or so many volumes of fair speech. I am in love now. And I can say that with all humility because it has nothing to do with my own efforts. I got Eliza. Why did I get to have Eliza? It’s a mystery, more mysterious than Eliza’s disease. Why did I get to have my heart so filled up with love for this precious child that I can never be the same? I don’t know. But I do know that the Love that now floods my existence, though it flows so personally and intimately, is such a broad stream that any may come and play in it. To play in his love means to evict all rivals and distractions, to enthrone the rightful king of love, and to pour out the love that he pours into you.

If you do believe, why are you hovering on the brink of his love? Do you trust that he loves you with an everlasting love, that he demands and craves an exclusive relationship with you, that he has called you to serve him alone, loving him with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind, and your neighbor as yourself? If so, take captive every moment to the Love of Christ flowing to you, in you, and through you. Immerse yourself in His Word; pray for the Spirit to guide you in his paths; unite—even when it’s uncomfortable, especially when it’s uncomfortable—with those who call on the Lord from a pure heart. And Love. Bind it all together with Love.

Long ago, my dad taught me that a parable is an earthly story with a heavenly meaning. Eliza’s story is surely a parable. Oh, beloved, hear and respond. How your true Father longs for you to know him. The coming of the eternal King tarries in hopeful anticipation of your response.

Much, much love to you all,
dixiejax