I'm often asked what helped us heal after our miscarriages. Nothing helped a lot but lots of things helped a little. Here's our list of hope givers, memory makers, smile igniters, and hurt healers.

We gave our babies names because they were real people. We named our little boy Ethan Andrew. Here's where I get vulnerable ... Ethan wouldn't have been Ethan if he would have been born alive. We had a different name picked out, a name that Andrew and I have loved for a long time and still love today. Someday we hope Ethan will have a little brother with that name. I sometimes feel guilty about that, like we devalued him somehow by not sticking with the plan. We told ourselves he didn't look like the name we had picked out. Well ... of course he didn't. He didn't look anything like what we had expected because we were awaiting a healthy, full-term baby. He was the size of my hand. His skin hadn't yet taken on that beautiful baby pink. And he wasn't breathing. We didn't stick with the plan because the plan went out the window when they couldn't find his heartbeat.

The even deeper truth is that I had planned on seeing the name we had chosen in the church program on the day our son was dedicated. I had planned to see it written in perfect, first grade teacher printing, laminated and stuck to a 6-year-old-sized desk on his first day of school. I had planned to see it on a hockey roster, in a high school yearbook, on a wedding invitation. I had planned to call that name from our front door to get him to come to dinner. I had planned to say it in a certain mom voice when he was being a little too rowdy. I couldn't stand the thought of not being able to do those things. We needed a new name. I picked it and Andrew liked it and then our baby was Ethan. Andrew hadn't wanted to name any of our children after himself. But everything had changed and I think he liked the idea of sharing something so sweet with his boy. It was, after all, about the only thing they'd get to share on this earth.

We didn't give our second baby a regular name. We refer to him or her as Little One or as our August Baby because he or she was conceived and lost in August. Sometimes I feel guilty about this too. Maybe we should have picked a "better" name. But we didn't and I think that's probably OK. I'm sure God had already given both of our kids new names in Heaven, names I can't wait to hear when I get there.

A dear friend shared this quote from Jenny Schroedel with me after she and her husband lost their child, Gabriel.

"The act of naming the child is a powerful way to bring light to the reality of that child's existence. Naming is a holy thing - it was the first act that God trusted Adam with. I have heard that there is an Eskimo legend that a baby cries because it has not yet been given a name. We all ache to be fully known, to become who we were meant to be, and a name can be our first guidepost along the way. Naming a miscarried baby not only makes the loss more concrete - it also allows the parents to bond with their child, to claim him/her and to prepare for reunion with them - even as they offer their child back to the one who is Life."

Another important step toward healing was our decision to plant a tree in Ethan's memory. We chose a flowering tree whose petals last a very short time. We thought the brevity of the blooms was fitting. Ethan's grandparents and aunts and uncles joined us at Andrew's mom and dad's lake home to plant the tree together. We had a short time of reflection beforehand, reading aloud a few scriptures and quotes about Heaven. We played "Glory Baby" by Watermark while we put the tree in the ground. My mom brought a lovely birdhouse to hang on one of its branches. I love seeing that tree and I make a point to spend some time nearby it whenever we visit the lake.

I wear two necklaces with the babies' names. I don't wear them every day but when I wear them, people sometimes comment or ask questions. I love that. When our daughter was born, our friend took a picture of her holding one of the necklaces in her tiny hand. I treasure that image - our sweet girl honoring her older siblings. We also had Christmas tree ornaments engraved with "Ethan" and "Little One."

I'm a reader, so it was very important for me to read lots of books about miscarriage and infant loss during that season of grief. It helped me feel less alone and isolated. Some of my favorites are:

"Safe in the Arms of God: Truth from Heaven about the Death of a Child" by John MacArthur

"Losing You Too Soon: Finding Hope after Miscarriage or the Loss of a Baby" by Bernadette Keaggy

"I Will Carry You," a beautiful memoir by Angie Smith

"Hearing Jesus Speak Into Your Sorrow" by Nancy Guthrie

Here are some children's books that I like even though I don't believe their claim that babies who die become angels:

"We Were Gonna Have a Baby, But We Had an Angel Instead" by Pat Schwiebert

"Someone Came Before You" by Pat Schwiebert

"My Brother, He's an Angel" by Savannah L. Leyde

Sharing our story

has been hugely helpful in our healing process. Whether through writing or conversation, with family members or complete strangers, every time I recount our journey through infertility and miscarriage, I feel a bit more whole, not so damaged. It's such a great feeling to help someone else, too. Our story takes on a whole new meaning and depth when we share it with someone who's grieving a similar loss. It's such a privilege to be able to walk alongside others in their grief, to be allowed into that vulnerable place.

My brother-in-law, a carpenter, built a beautiful cedar memory box for storing Ethan's stuff. I rarely open it. It just feels really sad but I'm still so glad we have it. The baby blanket and teeny tiny hat we got from the hospital are in that box. His ultrasound pictures are in that box. All of the cards we received from people after his death are in that box. Some onesies and a blanket used to be in that box. We went back and forth about whether or not to use those things when Harriet was born. We thought about leaving them in the box. They were Ethan's after all. But it made me sad to think of those precious little baby clothes sitting in that box forever, never to be worn. So before my daughter was born, we folded them and set them in the dresser in her nursery. I think she'd be proud to know she got to wear her brother's hand-me-downs.

Every year on Ethan's birthday, March 23, we try to do something fun. The first year, we went to the Science Museum. And on his second birthday, we had a delicious lunch at a restaurant we'd been wanting to try. It's still such a sad day but having something to look forward to adds a little sweet to the bitter.

Letting others in

has helped so much ... letting others serve us, visit us, pray with us, grieve with us, ask questions, tell us about the children they have in Heaven. Those little moments, quick conversations and kind gestures have meant the world to us. It isn't fun to be friends with someone who is infertile or with someone who is grieving, but so many have stuck with us through the awkwardness, through the discomfort, through the deep sadness, through the waiting times. It wasn't always easy to let others in but we are so glad we did.

So that's what has helped us, what has healed us. Nothing fixed it. Nothing brought our kids back. But that's the difference between fixing and healing. Our sadness will never go away but I do believe in complete and perfect healing. I believe that God can meet us in our sorrow and with a gracious, loving hand, rescue us from it. So that something that was once so hopeless can become a beacon for others to follow as they walk through their darkest nights. So that something that was once so ugly can become a beautiful picture of God's transforming work in people's lives. So that something that was once so painful can become part of our story ... part of His story.

The post Little things that helped us survive our miscarriage appeared first on FamilyToday.

It's quiet in my home right now. All I hear are the rhythmic tic-tocs of two baby swings, the whir of a fan ... and a toddler bellowing "moooooommmmyyyyy!" from her crib upstairs. So it's not technically quiet, but it's "resting time" for another 15 minutes, so that's good enough for me. If you were to stop by for a visit right now, you might be impressed. No dishes in the sink (although the stovetop is covered in pizza crumbs). No puddles of baby puke on the floor (the dog is useful for something). And the laundry is done (my mom did it). Although I haven't showered since yesterday morning, I'm pretty sure I smell reasonably fresh because I took a dip in the kiddie pool last night. And I even made time to weed half the backyard a couple days ago. I'm leaving the left half the way it is so that I can see how far the right side has come. It gives a nice before-and-after affect.

But don't be deceived. Although I may look like I have it all figured out (please sense my sarcasm here), this mom stuff is hard. Some days, it's super hard. Like cry-into-the-fridge hard or snap-at-your-biggest-support-person hard. Some days, I'm nauseous and dizzy from tiredness. Other days, I'm full of self-doubt and self-blame. Some days are just-make-it-through days and other days are catch-up-from-the-just-make-it-through days.

Thankfully, I've got support. If I hit a tough spot and don't know what to do, there are pep talks everywhere - from people who love me, people who have walked this road before me, people who are just straight-up wise. They give support. They give advice. They give pints of Ben and Jerry's Salted Caramel Core. But there are other times when it's just me, figuring this stuff out minute by minute. And during those times, I give myself a pep talk. I give myself some advice. And I probably eat that whole pint of Ben and Jerry's.

So feel free to listen in. This is the stuff I'm learning every day, the advice I have to give myself over and over to keep myself on track when the (albeit priceless) monotony of motherhood starts to become too much.

You might be next - balancing your laptop on your belly as you read this. Or scrolling through these words on your phone as you empty your bladder for the 21st time today. You might be freaking out about the fact that you're going to have a tiny little person who relies completely on you. Or maybe you're having twins like I did. If so, I hope you can benefit from these words, not because I'm an expert on managing the littles but because I'm still in the thick of it. It's great to glean wisdom from people who are on the other side - that woman behind you in the check-out line whose twins are 23 now. She's got a lot of good stuff to say. But sometimes it's nice to hear from the woman who has a fresh spit-up stain on her shoulder. That's me. Each shoulder, in fact.

So without further ado, here's the advice I give myself ...

1. When you eat, make it count

It's hard to find time to eat, so when you do make time to feed yourself, choose something that sticks with you. I never eat breakfast foods anymore. This morning, I had a salmon burger with no bun. Yesterday I microwaved a mini chicken pot pie. The day before that, I think I had a taco. It sounds weird but it helps a ton because it keeps me full longer and gives me a lot more energy than a bowl of cereal would.

2. Remember that dads make lousy supermoms

Andrew is a fabulous dad, but he's not a baby person. In fact, the other day, he said that if he could just press a button and have the boys be 2-year-olds, he would do it. And I believe him. Because all of the baby stuff - it's not his thing. He's more of a wrestling, swimming, bike-riding kind of dad. The other night at about two o'clock in the morning, he was burping Louie, and Louie was screaming. "He wants you to stand up," I said. But Andrew just sat there with his eyes closed and continued to burp him. After another 15 seconds of screaming, Andrew stood up and Louie calmed right down. "I hate that he gets to pick," Andrew said. And I started to laugh. "He's a baby!" I said. "He always gets to pick! That's how it works!"

Another example - until recently, if the babies didn't need to be held, he probably wasn't holding them. This completely broke my heart in the beginning, but it's getting much better. Mostly because he's getting better about picking them up, especially when he can put them in the baby carriers and stay busy around the house. But I'm getting better too. I have stopped expecting him to approach parenthood the way that I do. I love the snuggling, blowing raspberries on their bellies, singing to them. And I want him to be just like me. But he's not. And in some ways, that's a very good thing.

We went through these same issues with our first daughter and I actually cried about it a lot. But this time around, I have a better perspective because I've seen him grow and come into his own as a dad. And seeing that happen reassures me that he will have a wonderful relationship with the boys as well. He may not be supermom when the boys wake up in the middle of the night, but he is certainly my daughter's superhero. Any time we encounter a broken toy, a burnt pancake or a heavy box, she looks to her dad for help. The other day while we were stuck in rush hour traffic, she said, "Mom, call Daddy and tell him to come and move all these cars." I love hearing that. I love that she thinks her dad can do anything. So I'll let him be the superhero, and I'll just be plain mom.

So if your baby is still tiny and you're heartbroken because your husband doesn't hold and stare at her for hours, take heart. Even without knowing your husband, I can almost guarantee - it will get so much better.

3. Get help

If you have family or friends or anyone nearby who is willing to help, let them. Seriously ... LET THEM. Resist the temptation to do it all alone because you will become tired and bitter and your kids will suffer. Here's an ugly truth about me - it's really easy for me to fall into the trap of playing the martyr. But when the boys were born, I forced myself to accept help from anyone who offered it. And I'm so glad I did.

I'll admit - it can be tough to have people in your home all the time. It's embarrassing to have my dirty house exposed and have my laundry folded by someone else, especially because I still occasionally wear the massive underwear I was wearing at the end of my pregnancy, even though I'm now 60-some pounds lighter. (Hey, they're comfortable.) But it's worth it. I have felt so blessed by those who have come over to my house, sat in the middle of the mess with me, and loved on my kids. Whether it's been a onetime thing or a weekly commitment, I couldn't be more grateful.

4. Don't get help

Sometimes, you just need to do it on your own. There's going to be crying and nothing will get done that isn't necessary for survival, but you have to do it anyway. When I take the kids out on my own, I often question why I'm doing it. It's usually a disaster. But I need that boost of confidence that comes from facing into the chaos and saying to myself, "I can do this."

5. Don't play the mom-Olympics

One of my biggest pet peeves is when we're out with our kids and somebody says, "Wow! Three kids 2 and under? You're sure busy!" I don't know why, but it just bugs me. I want to say back to them, "All parents are busy, whether they have one child or 10." Or when another mom starts to share some parenting struggle with me and then invalidates her own experience by saying something like, "Well, I'm sure I have nothing to complain about compared to the work/sleep deprivation/diapers/whatever that you handle on a daily basis."

I find myself doing it too - minimizing my problems when talking to a mom who has more kids than me or whose kids are younger than mine. Especially in the multiples community, it's like you get extra points for having more kids or for having them close in age. It reminds me of the "degree of difficulty" component of gymnastics. You get more potential points based on how challenging the elements of your routine are. We act like motherhood works the same way. FYI - it doesn't. And when we think that way, it devalues the experiences of moms who have one child (or two) and are struggling to manage the day-to-day stuff.

So if you're tempted to measure a mom (yourself or somebody else) by how many kids they had in how many years, stop yourself. A woman may have one child and no partner, no friends, no nearby family, no savings account. Or a woman may have lots of kids and two full-time nannies. Thinking competitively makes us unapproachable and makes it very hard to support one another.

6. Don't miss Jesus

Sometimes motherhood feels really, really hard. Like when I've only had maybe three hours of sleep broken up in four chunks and I realize that the sun is rising and I have a whole day ahead of me. Or when a baby just won't stop crying. Or the toddler seems incapable of obedience. Or when I'm adding things to my to-do list with the full knowledge that they will never, ever get done. Those are the times that I can start to feel stuck, almost claustrophobic. But that's where He is. Jesus is right there in the midst of those moments and I have noticed that the more my day-to-day life seems to fall apart, the more I need to lean on Him. I've started to recognize those moments of defeat as gifts because they bring me to my knees in humility and prayer. The opposite is true too ...

Two Sundays ago, I got the kids to church on time all by myself. My husband couldn't believe I did it all by myself and got us there on time. But as the music started and those around me entered into worship, I had such a hard time finding that place of communion and friendship with God. I was still pretty impressed with myself. And I realized how hard it is to have a worshipful heart when we feel like we have it all together. For me that Sunday, it was impossible. I had to spend the worship portion of the service asking God to humble my heart and remind me to rely on Him. All it took was one "successful" morning to turn me from someone who gropes for Jesus hour by hour into someone who is patting herself on the back while those around her worship. So bring on the tough days, bring on the failures, bring on the train wrecks. I'm not interested in perfection if the cost is that high.

So don't miss Jesus. Look for Him in the most impossible, frustrating, defeating moments and He will always be found. Even better than that? He will give you the strength that you need to face into each and every day, no matter how tired you are, how emotional you feel, or how much you need a vacation.

Every single day, He will renew your strength.

So that's the advice I give myself. Well, some of it. I have a sign on my wall that says "we can do hard things." I intended to use it as a reminder for my kids when homework assignments get tough or when they have to wake up early or face an especially mean kid at school. But I'm finding that I'm the one that needs that reminder on an hourly basis these days.

Hard things ... but good things. So, so good.

The post Advice I give myself appeared first on FamilyToday.

If my child marries yours ...

I just want you to know that I'm praying for you.

When I'm awake at night - feeding babies, burping babies, giving Tylenol to a feverish toddler, covering up chilly toes, tucking green monkeys under little arms - I think of you. Because chances are, you're awake too, doing the same sorts of things. Taking care of tiny children that I already love because they will someday hold the hearts that are beating against my chest tonight.

I'm praying that you'll stand firm against the pressures to overcommit and hyper-schedule, that you'll shut out the voices that tell you you're not doing enough, that your kids aren't doing enough.

I'm praying you'll have the wisdom to know when to pick that crying baby up out of her crib and when to just sit outside her door, your fingertips pressed to the wood, willing her to feel your love and comfort and just finally fall asleep.

I'm praying that you will take those children to church ... that the mothers and fathers of our future grandchildren will grow up knowing what it means to worship, even when that means missing out-of-town basketball tournaments and marathon sleepovers.

I'm praying that your love for and commitment to your spouse will swell with each year you're together, that you will grow to love the legacy you are creating just as much as you adore the person you're creating it with.

I'm praying that you take lots of pictures so that I can see where our grandchildren got their sticky-out ears and their mischievous grins.

I'm praying that Jesus will give you just enough strength each day to keep you from losing it but not so much that you forget who that strength comes from.

I'm praying that we will be friends.

Will you pray those things for me too?

I don't really pray for your child. Maybe I should. My husband does that, and I think it's wonderful. But chances are, your child is just fine. And chances are, a lot of the time, you aren't. Chances are, if you're anything like me, you're very tired. And some days, you get so discouraged. Sometimes, your temper erupts, your selfishness wins, and your smile is fake. Sometimes you forget to change the baby's diaper, to spend time being silly with your toddler, to really see your spouse. So it's you I am praying for right now, in the still darkness, with this baby fist pressed up under my chin and this sweet, sleepy breath on my ear. May you feel these prayers when you need them the most. We are in this together, you and I. We are building something beautiful with each onesie folded, each invisible owie kissed, each story read. You don't know how much it means to me that you give your children everything you have every single day ... even on days when it's not much at all. Because your child will fall asleep next to mine for fifty-some years. Your child will be the one holding my child's hand when our first grandchild is born. And when they face the darkest days of their lives, it will be your child and mine, facing into the struggle together.

I'm pretty sure that our longest days - the ones that are brim-full with hair-pulling moments, impossible messes, and toddler meltdowns - those are the days that we are fashioning hearts. And someday, one of the hearts I'm helping create will crash into one of your love-crafted hearts, and what spills out as a result of that jolt ... it's kind of up to us. I promise to tend to these hearts with utmost care, to plant in them humility and peace and selflessness ... especially selflessness. I promise to plant Jesus seeds in these hearts every chance I get. And I promise to keep praying for you.

I'm praying that you will hug your boy tight when he's sad or lonely or scared. Because someday, my girl - all grown beautiful with babies of her own - will be sad or lonely or scared. And he'll need to know how to hold her. Teach him.

And let your daughters hear you speak righteous words that bring life and hope. Because someday, my sons will be worn and weary, and the words you're placing in your daughters' minds today just might become the balm to my sons' souls.

I'm doing my best to do the same. And sometimes ... much of the time ... I fail. Pray for me too.

Someday we will sit on opposite sides of the aisle ... all fancy and with gobs of tissues tucked into our fists. We'll watch our silly, sticky, sweet babies somehow transform into brides and grooms and make the same promises to one another that we ourselves have kept...against all odds and only by His grace. And we will watch these children create families of their own with the ingredients we have given them. The ingredients we are slipping into their souls today.

But until then, I'm sitting here in the dark with babies in my arms.

And I'm praying for you.

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