Death Has Changed Me

I can remember so many details about September 24, 2016.

Dan and I decided to take the kids with us to a Mizzou game in Columbia, instead of having an adults-only day. We drove our friend Hayden too, because his parents were already there while his sister Bryn was in the hospital for surgery.

I didn't know it until many hours later, but around this time my friend Sean took his last breath.

The rest of my afternoon was really good. Going back to my college campus, sharing old memories with my college sweetheart and our kids, and making new memories of our own.

We drove home that evening, and I felt like it was a satisfying and full day. We got the kids to bed a little late, then exhaled on the couch together around 10pm.

My phone rang, and it was my friend Beth. She doesn't call often and never so late, so my first thought was alarm because I knew her husband was a firefighter. I don't think I even greeted her when I answered the call and started with, "Is everything okay?"

No. Okay disappeared with the words, "Sean died."

I won't try to describe the sounds that came out of my mouth as I tried to unhear what Beth had said. Sean had taken his own life during a shift at the firehouse that day.

You can imagine what the next hours, days, weeks, and months brought. Thankfully, I was already back in counseling so I had a professional helping me through this new wave of grief but it was still overwhelming. I just couldn't make sense of Sean's death. This was a man who loved deeply and laughed often and every single person he met became his friend. How could I have been so blind? How did I not know he was in such deep despair that he didn't want to live any longer?

I can't answer those questions, so the enemy of my soul tries to feed me lies in place of answers. He tells me I obviously wasn't a good friend if someone I love took his own life. He tells me I didn't fight for my friend Sean. He tells me I could've changed things if I had just paid attention.

I know all of that is a lie. I know Sean's death was way bigger than anything involving me. But that's how the enemy likes to spread despair around: trick us into thinking we are bigger than God and could have changed the outcome. He wants us to think we are in control so when something bad happens, we'll shoulder the blame.

Don't get me wrong: I have plenty of regret, especially when I think about the last time I saw Sean. But I'm learning to match every drop of regret with a helping of grace. I know I am doing the best I can at living my life, making the best decisions I know of with the resources I currently have. I still wrestle with my regrets, of course.

And yet I'm choosing to honor my friend by letting his death change my life.

September 24, 2016 changed me and brought a different Elizabeth to September 24, 2017. I've spent the last year channeling the love and grief I have for Sean into the people who I love.

I've spent the last year making shelter for other people's hearts. I've reached out to friends I know are struggling, instead of "giving them space" like I would have done before. I've asked people I love if they have intentions of harming themselves. Sean's death expanded my vocabulary on mental health issues, and it opened my eyes to see so many hurts I was oblivious to before.

Like I mentioned already, I had started therapy again just before Sean died. His death changed my treatment and I went deeper into my struggles much faster than I expected. Sean's death taught me not to be embarrassed to ask for help. My brain is an organ, just like my heart and my lungs and all the other systems in my body. If I had pain or weakness in my heart, I'd get help. Why wouldn't I do that for my brain? Sean's death helped me shake off shame. This last year, I became braver about getting help for an obsessive-compulsive disorder I've lived with for 30 years. It isn't gone by any means, but I'm bringing it out of the dark and shining some Light on it.

I've also spent the last year intentionally seeking out the theme of forgiveness: how to cultivate forgiveness and how to offer it without being so stingy.

I've gone out of my way to build bridges with people I might have said, "Live and let live" to prior to Sean's death.

I've prayed daily for first responders and those living with PTSD. I've checked in with my police, firefighter, and military friends a little more often. I've read the articles Beth has shared about the signs of PTSD, depression, and suicidal behavior. I'm educating myself. There's still so much to learn!

I've been trying to seek out delight this past year, keeping my eyes open for blessings - even in really hard times. I've even tried intentionally creating good memories as a way of "banking" joy to nourish myself when future despair hits. I'm trying to remind myself that hard times don't last and hope wins. I've visited cemeteries a lot more than I'd like, but that's also part of looking for joy. Sitting at Sean's grave makes me immensely sad, but it also convicts me to live a deeper, more vulnerable life.

I'd give anything to go back to September 24, 2016 and change the outcome of that day. And besides that day, there are a few other dates in my personal history I'd like to rewrite. While that's impossible, I can allow those dates to change the person I'm becoming. Doing so turns the ache into a revision.

I miss you, Sean. I am so sorry your pain was so unbearable. There aren't enough "I wishs," "I shoulds," and "If onlys" to make sense of things. You left behind your world of hurt, but created a brand new one in your absence.

You were - and still are - very loved.

A Letter to the McMullin Boys

Dear Ryan, Liam, Finn and Owen,

It's been exactly one month since you experienced the most defining moment of your lives so far. I say "so far" because I'm hoping it doesn't become THE defining moment of your life long-term; there is so much living ahead for each of you! I trust God's ability to bring beauty from ashes, and I am expectantly waiting to see how He'll continue to define and refine your lives.

But this letter isn't about what's to come, it's about what happened last month. It's about the death of your father, Sean.

One day - probably years from now - you'll read this letter. I am not sure what you'll remember from the days we laid your dad to rest, and I trust the people in your lives will be able to fill in gaps for you.

I asked your mom if I could be one of those people and write this letter to you, and she gave me permission to do so. She also gave me permission to take photos at your dad's visitation and funeral, knowing one day you might want to see the honor that surrounded your dad's farewell.

It has taken me a month to write this letter to you. I have been waiting for the shock to subside because I didn't want this letter to be about your dad's death. I want this letter to be about Sean's life; THAT is worth writing about! But, of course, I have to start with his death or, rather, the days we said our formal goodbyes to him.

Before I get much further, I'm going to ask your forgiveness. I know parts of this letter won't make sense, because I'm struggling to make sense of your dad's death. I should wait even longer to write this letter, but then it won't ever be written because I'll never make sense of Sean's death! I'd love for this letter to flow nicely, but it's going to be scattered and sloppy because the memories are so intense.

Boys, please know this before you read any further: your dad was so deeply loved. The loss we all felt when he died was more than an emotion. It was a physical presence. It's as if the Loss has become a person who pulled up a chair in each of our lives and has refused to budge no matter how desperately we've been ignoring it. Then Loss invited Shock to the table, and Grief became the hostess.

Everyone who knew and loved your dad has been walking around with these "companions" for a month now. I can see it when someone posts on Sean's Facebook page, telling a story about him or simply saying how much he is missed.

We can't shake the grief, because we can't shake the love either.

When I left your dad's visitation and funeral, I jotted notes in my phone because I knew I wanted to tell you about these days - one day in the future. Here are the things I don't want to forget:

On the day of your dad's visitation, hundreds of people showed up out of respect and love. There were so many people, we ran out of parking spots at the Stygar funeral home. There's an unused furniture store next door, so people started parking there and walking over. The parking lot is enormous but when I pulled up that night, it was already half full. Overflow was overflowing! I parked (illegally - it would have made your dad laugh) and hugged some friends in the parking lot. I looked at the fire trucks and the flag flying from the ladders, and started choking back tears. I've seen fire trucks and flags like this before, but never for a friend of mine.

Dan, Jackson, and I started walking towards the front doors of Stygar. The firefighters in their uniforms stood with each other, talking quietly. I wanted to pretend they were all friends of someone else, but I couldn't pretend once I recognized some of their faces. When I saw Nick Hercules in his uniform with Christina by his side, the reality of our shared loss unraveled us all.

In the lobby of Stygar, there were so many people it was hard to walk. The line of people who were waiting to speak to your mom and your dad's parents and siblings was so long, it wrapped around the perimeter of the funeral parlor.

In the middle of the hardest days of her life, your mom's grace was tangible and fierce. I watched her comfort the people who were supposed to be comforting her, the people who meant to give sympathy but instead received it. Your mom was wrecked, but she wasn't destroyed. I can't explain what it was like to be a witness to her dignity and strength.

Liam, every time a friend arrived at the visitation, you played host and made sure the friend got to see your dad and say hello/goodbye. You also wanted your buddies to see the firefighters who were standing guard over your dad. When you made sure your friends had greeted your dad, you carried on and went about the building in a way that showed your understanding and acceptance.

Ryan, I watched you become a leader for your brothers. You walked with courage through an experience no one could have prepared you for. For years now, your parents have been laying a foundation for your character. When your dad died, that character went from invisible to visible. We saw the heart of a boy who is becoming a man.

At the end of the visitation, everyone who was still there took a seat. You boys sat with your mom, waiting for the firefighters to file past the casket and salute your dad. In the silent waiting, Finn and Owen’s voices could be heard asking your mom things like, “Does Daddy like my picture?” and “Are we going to have fun tomorrow?” Everyone in the room fought back tears as best as we could, but it didn’t help because the firefighters’ goodbyes made the tears flow again. When that was finished, all of our hearts ached when Ryan grabbed Owen and Finn’s hands and led them to your dad’s casket. When Ryan and Finn turned to sit, Owen stayed. The entire room gasped, then sobbed, as we watched Owen salute the casket then make the sign of the cross before folding his hands into prayer. He stood like that for just a moment, then turned to join your family.

When the visitation was over and almost everyone had left the Stygar funeral home, I was standing with Nick and Kevin. One of the Stygar employees walked over to talk to us. She didn’t know your dad, but wanted to share the grief she felt being present during the visitation. Then she looked at Kevin and Nick, locked eyes with them, and thanked each of them for their service as firefighters. It touched me to see the way a stranger could feel the depth of love for your dad and take the time to share it with someone else.

The funeral was on Thursday. Your family met at Stygar to escort your dad to the church. One of the ladder trucks from your dad’s firehouse was draped in black, and all the other trucks followed behind it on the drive to St. Joseph’s.

As we drove closer to the church, the bells rang long and loud in his honor. The firefighters stationed at the firehouse across from St. Joseph’s stood on their driveway, saluting your dad.

Outside the church, firefighters stood at attention to welcome your dad and family.

I remember sitting in the back of the church, looking at the crowd of people gathered in respect for your dad. During his homily, Monsignor invited Owen and Finn to stand so he could tell them about a stained glass in the sanctuary. Owen and Finn, you stood on your seats and all I could see was your heads popping up above the crowd like prairie dogs.

When we left the church and drove to the cemetery, the funeral procession stretched for two miles.

Traffic came to a standstill. Some people even got out of their cars to stand on the side of the road to honor your dad’s service.

We passed another firehouse, and another team of firefighters stood in their driveway to pay their respects.

When we parked at the cemetery, Dan and I realized we parked by the bagpiper. He was preparing for the funeral, and I heard his warm-up notes before I even opened my car door.

During the burial ceremony, your dad’s partner from the firehouse (Kim) rang a bell three times. The tones went off and your dad’s last call was announced by the fire district dispatcher. We couldn’t stop crying.

When the ceremony was over and people started hugging and consoling each other, we didn’t quite know what to do next. It was like nobody wanted to leave, but we knew we couldn’t stay. After one of the firefighters alerted the other first responders that someone had fainted and an ambulance arrived, we all scattered. Some people said their last goodbyes, and some went on to the reception at the union hall.

Before Dan and I left, we watched your McMullin grandparents, aunts, and uncles as they went to your dad’s casket one more time. Your Casner aunts and uncle did, too.

Later that evening, I drove back to the cemetery to visit your dad’s grave. It isn’t far from my house, so it was the first of many visits for me. I sat by his grave to cry and think about his life and all the things I already missed about him: Adidas and karaoke and mix CDs and singing Eminem together and touring the firehouse and Smithwicks and St. Pat’s parades and Sigma Derby in Vegas and beach volleyball in Jamaica. I thought about one of my first memories from the beginning of our friendship, when your parents were the first people I shared our new pregnancy with. Even if I knew then that I would sit by your dad’s grave now, I wouldn’t change anything – except telling him I loved him more often and responding differently in the last texts we shared. When he texted, "Let's get together soon," I wish I had responded with more than, "Yeah, we should do that."

Sitting by the grave, I also thought back over the last six days since your dad died. So many new memories came to mind: the memory of your McMullin grandparents, aunts and uncles holding each other tightly and carrying one another's burdens. They allowed us to share their loss, graciously acknowledging Sean’s reach went beyond the roles of son and brother.

I thought about your Casner family showing their love through their presence. Your mom was never left alone, and every meal and bath and clothing item was handled by your uncles or aunts. Your cousins gladly took you under their wings, giving you a place of normalcy and safety.

I thought about how the loss of your dad affected our whole community. On Wednesday, Thursday and the following days, I noticed flags flying at half-staff at local schools, police stations and fire houses. When I passed the flags, my heart was heavy with a mixture of pride and sorrow: pride that I got to call Sean my friend and sorrow that I won’t get to hug him or laugh with him again this side of heaven.

I thought about you four boys. Over the past few days, all eyes were on you because the four of you are your father's legacies. You are the last - and lasting - gift he gave us. When we look at you, we see Sean. We see his eyes smiling after a good joke. We hear his voice in the way Ryan or Liam phrase their words. We see his lips when you smile, because you have the same light in your face that he did. Even now, it makes me ache to see the echo of your dad in you – but it makes me so tremendously happy, too. As you live, so does he.

There will be hard days, and there will be easy days. There will be days you feel like things have gotten “normal” again and you’ll be lulled into thinking the hard days are past you. And then somehow, things will feel hard again and you’ll remember life in two parts: life before and life after September 24, 2016.

You have a heavy load to shoulder, but I believe in you. You are Casner-McMullins, and your lineage is your best defense for the road ahead.

And even more than that? You have some deeply good-hearted people on your side, and I’m not talking only about your relatives. You have a community of first responders who want to take you under their wings. You have friends, neighbors, school alumni, church members, and random people your dad helped rescue during his career – people who want to help you succeed and are willing to carry your grief with you.

I am one of those people. Although my individual impact is very small in the grand scheme of people who support you, I’m praying for God to bind all our small hands together so we can carry you and your mom through these days.

Your dad's death took us all by surprise, and it reminded us to love deeper and better and more fully. Your mom told me you've been talking about keeping your eyes open for the helpers when tragedy happens, and I hope compassion and empathy help your eyes stay open through the coming years.

Never forget how loved you are, Finn. You have your dad’s wit and straight-shooting character, never mincing words and always “telling it like it is.” You made him laugh. A LOT!

Owen, I hope you never stop hearing your dad’s voice calling you “Owie.” Don’t forget the memories of him letting you sleep on his belly. You were his little guy, and he protected you and carried you close.

Liam, you are like your dad in the way you march to the beat of your own drum. You aren’t afraid to stand out, and you stick to your convictions. It’s like your dad listening to crazy music no one ever heard of or shopping at British clothing stores. He loved the unusual and unique, and you are so like him in that way.

Never stop seeing your dad’s smile in your eyes, Ryan. You are his first child, and firstborn sons get special blessings from their fathers. Your blessing is in the character your mom and dad handcrafted and labored over these last 12 years. He was always so proud of you.

Each of you are so loved and precious to countless people, including me.

I love you boys!
B-Beth

Sean-size Hole

Sean was a man full of life and laughter. He was a tender-hearted giver, and made a living serving others as a firefighter/EMT and in the CPR training business he owned. He was a loyal friend; it only takes a glance at his Facebook page to know he made everyone feel like his best friend. (Sean is the kind of guy who made friends with our resort’s activities director in Jamaica, and still kept in touch with him!) Sean was generous and lived sacrificially: he would give anything you asked for simply because you asked. He loved and lived well.

Aaannnd…

I need to stop this right here. Here’s the truth: I hate writing this in past tense, because my friend Sean died Saturday at age 46. I hate that I’m describing him by what he did instead of what he’s doing or has yet to do. I’ll never again be able to think of him in current terms, because he’s no longer here. His wife and his four sons don’t get to grow old and grow up with him, and they’ll only see his smile in fading photos.

And I’m sorry to complain or sound whiny, but fading photos can never capture the light that lived inside Sean McMullin. Photos are an empty substitute for a man who made us love him and laugh with him. I can’t make sense of his loss, although my mind keeps trying to shape and polish it in hopes of understanding it. It’s not working because it simply doesn’t make sense.

There’s a Sean-size hole in my heart, and the hearts of his wife, sons, and family: his parents, brother and sister. He has a slew of in-laws who adored him, and countless coworkers and friends – friends like me.

I loved Sean. I *still* love him. I wish I had told him that a lot more.

God, please be with the McMullins. Hold them close and comfort them. You keep track of our sorrows and collect our tears because You know they are precious, as the depth of our grief shadows the heights of our love. May we carry Sean’s memory so we can help his sons know who he was and remind them how loved they are. Show us how to love Beth and the boys well, and bear their burdens with them. Give us strength, God. And please take care of our friend now that he is Home with You. Amen.

LEGOs in the Bath Tub

Forgive me as I take a moment to toot my own horn. I have happened upon a brilliant idea and want to share it with you! THIS is one of the best ways I know to keep my kids quiet:

LEGOs in the bath tub.

It wasn’t planned, except for the fact that I knew I didn’t want LEGOs in the living room. I had heard too many horror stories of parents puncturing their feet by walking on LEGOs. Somehow, we ended up with LEGOs in our master bathroom. It has been a sanity saver.

Jackson plays quietly while I am in the adjacent shower and then get dressed and ready for the day. On weekends, Katie joins him and they build all kinds of contraptions. When they run out of LEGOs (our collection isn’t huge yet, but I’m hoping Santa will help enhance it this Christmas), I take photos of their creations and then we tear them apart so they kids can start fresh.

My friend Beth let us borrow two green LEGO boards. Now I’m wondering why no one sells ceramic LEGO tiles that we can have installed throughout the bathroom!

The Miracles Turn One

Remember those little miracles I’ve written about here, here and here? It’s a big milestone for them: they have turned one! Here’s Owen:

And my godson, Finn:

Almost every time  I visited this past year, I brought my camera with me to capture their lives. I have quite the portfolio of beautiful babies now! Especially their incredible blue eyes.

Happy birthday, sweet boys!

Jackson’s Cupcake Party

A month or so ago, I asked Jackson what he wanted to do for his birthday. His immediate response: “Have a cupcake party!” I am not quite sure what a cupcake party is, so he clarified and said, “I get to invite five friends and have cupcakes!” (And, yes, it was emphatic, with an exclamation! point!) I tried to get more details out of him, but the only other requirements for such a party was: “Play with my toys. And my friends bring presents.” Ah, of course. Can’t forget that!

If you remember from last year’s party, I have a *slight* dislike of birthday parties. (In fact, when I asked Jackson the original question about what to do for his birthday, I was hoping for a response like, “Let’s just stay home and order pizza.” Yeah, right.) The good news is this year, he decided on the guest list himself and gave me lots of wiggle room by specifying only one other thing: cupcakes. So I set out to plan a cupcake party.

SLAM ON THE BRAKES RIGHT HERE! Turns out a cupcake party for BOYS isn’t so easy. Google “cupcake party” and you’ll get lots of pink, frilly ideas. So I just threw together some ideas I like from random web and blog samplings, and called it good. Here’s what our two hour party entailed:

1. Greet each guest and give them a party badge to wear, with Jackson’s photo on it. Why party badges? Because I found them at Leftovers for next-to-nothing cheap! They just seemed like something fun the kids could wear.

2. Playtime, including chaotic balloon chasing. I read on FamilyFun’s website that if you throw tons of balloons onto the floor of any party, it doubles the fun factor. So true!

3. Decorate cupcake carriers. (For the life of me, I can’t find the link to this idea. I saw it at least a year ago on a blog, but can’t remember which one. If anyone ever finds the source, please let me know so I can link it!) I was going to let the kids use glue and glitter and other fun decorations, but if you’ve ever crafted around me or know anything about me, you know I DESPISE glitter. So the kids used only stickers, which turned out to be totally sufficient.

4. Decorate cupcakes to put in carriers and take home. The idea of sprinkles rolling around my kitchen floor is *almost* as terrifying as the thought of glitter running amuck around my house. So the kids decorated their cupcakes on cookie sheets, which helped to contain the rogue nonpareils. (Now I finally know how to pronounce that!) Then, of course, Jackson got hold of a jar of sprinkles that didn’t have a handy sifting cap on it, and he dumped a huge pile of sprinkles on his cupcake. There ain’t NO cookie sheet that could contain that mound of chaos!

5. Eat snacks in cupcake tins, a la Muffin Tin Mom. Jackson picked his favorite foods to eat: Cracklin’ Oat Bran cereal, marshmallows, animal crackers, cheese cubes, apple slices, grapes, celery and carrots. I don’t have enough six-hole muffin tins, but my friend Beth had the brilliant idea to use the plastic carriers that the store-bought cupcakes are sold in. I cut those in half and let the kids use them and then we threw them away for fast cleanup. Sweet!

I also made some cute cupcake straws like these here, but then I realized the straws wouldn’t fit in the kids’ juice pouches. I made the adults use them instead.

6. Decorate a second cupcake – this one for eating!

7. Cupcake hunt. I printed out ten cupcakes (clip art) per child with each child’s name printed on them. Each child had his own color too. While we ate snacks, Katie slipped into two other rooms and hid the cupcakes in some very sneaky places. After snack, the kids were set loose to find their cupcakes.

8. Pin the candle on the cupcake. I used a large cardboard cupcake decoration I bought at Deals, and printed candle clip art for the kids to stick on the cupcake blindfolded. Our friend Alex didn’t want to play, so his mom agreed to be his substitute. The kids got a kick out of telling Michelle where to place her cupcake.

9. Presents. This is one of the reasons I dread birthday parties: I can’t stand when the kids smother the birthday child by clamoring to see the present that’s being opened. It really makes me crazy. In my Google search for cupcake parties, I found this link which had the idea to invite the child whose present is being opened to sit beside the birthday boy. Bonus idea: take a photo of the kids together with the gift, to be used for thank you notes later. BRILLIANT! It worked like a charm for us, also because we used the ottoman as a buffer between the gawkers and the gifts.

10. Playtime and head home. Our two hours was almost up by this point, so the kids played for a few more minutes and then we were done. As a party favor, each kid took home his own cupcake carrier with a cupcake inside. (I like edible favors instead of filler toys.)

Even the Grinchy party-hater side of me was pleasantly surprised with how well this party turned out. Most of all, Jackson loved having his friends over to play and eat cupcakes with him. And that’s what counts!

My Godson

Remember my best friend Beth, and the twins that were born three months early? They are almost seven months old now, and thriving! I was given the high honor of becoming Finn’s Godmother this past Sunday. It was pretty special to me!

I have never witnessed a Catholic baptism, nor have I been a Godmother before. This is all new to me, so I admit I’m flying by the seat of my pants. I was fascinated by the baptismal ritual, including all the anointing oils and prayers and symbolism. I really wanted to pull the priest aside afterwards and ask him all kinds of how and why questions, but I restrained myself. I didn’t want to embarrass my friends or my Godson, you know! Instead, I satisfied myself with taking lots of photos after the ceremony, then Googling as much as I could.

I am blessed to be a special part of Finn’s life, and honored to help him on his spiritual journey. I think it’s going to be pretty fantastic!

Oh, IKEA, How I Love You!

Roughly once a year, a bunch of my crazy friends will join me in a road trip to our closest IKEA. It’s near Chicago, so it’s a five hour drive for us – ONE WAY.

At 7am, we pile into someone’s minivan and hit the road. We talk about anything and everything for five hours, flip through IKEA catalogs and plan our shopping lists, then arrive at IKEA around noon. We browse the showroom for about two hours (initiating any IKEA virgins in our group), then stop for lunch at the cafeteria located inside the store. After lunch, we backtrack to the kids’ furnishing/bedding/toy section before heading downstairs and piling our carts full of Swedish treasures. Usually we load the car and finish up by 6:00. We stop on the road somewhere for dinner, and arrive home around midnight.

It’s like Disney World for women!

This year marks the fifth time I’ve done this crazy trip. My friend Beth (the mom of four boys – two of them being the set of twins that arrived in August) wanted to celebrate her birthday by getting out of the house and taking a trip to IKEA. She invited me, her neighbor and another friend to road trip. I gladly agreed and emptied my minivan in preparation for the trip. It’s a good thing it was emptied, because we needed EVERY spare inch of room. My only regret from the trip is that I didn’t take a photo of the loaded-down minivan before it was unloaded. (Well, THAT and another small regret – misplacing bed pedestals that were the deal of the century.)

One of us bought an entire dining room set: table, chairs, benches, curtains, mirrors, centerpiece, etc. Three of us bought secretaries (those desks that close up and hide your workspace).

I bought lots of odds and ends like this:

And this:

And this:

One of us (I won’t name names!) spent so much money that her credit card company called to make sure her card hadn’t been stolen.

During yesterday’s snow day, I moved the clothes sorter I bought for Jackson’s room into his closet.

I made drawer dividers from foam core and labeled the drawers using yarn and laminate sample chips that I found at Leftovers.

I also cleared a space for my new secretary desk to fit in the kids’ craft room. Last night, my wonderful husband assembled the parts and I am blogging for the first time from my new desk. Next on my list is finding time to organize everything inside the desk.

Hooray for IKEA! Now if they would only open one in the St. Louis area. Pretty please?!

Update on the Miracles

I got to spend some more time with my friend, Beth, in the hospital today. Her twin boys (the miracles I wrote about  here) were born almost four weeks ago. They were very early – only 28 weeks gestation. This is the third time I’ve visited the boys in the hospital, and I brought my camera along to document their growth.

Beth’s husband was there with the boys, too. He snuggled little Owen in his arms, and they looked so peaceful and quiet.

Owen is so tiny it makes me ache just to look at him. Every maternal instinct in me cries out with the need to protect him, and he isn’t even mine!

Baby Finn got his nose cannula removed yesterday, so this is the first time I’ve seen his face so clearly. Isn’t he adorable? His hair is so soft and downy, like a baby chick.

I got to watch Finn nuzzle his mommy and practice the art of latching and breastfeeding. It’s amazing to me how God programmed babies to know exactly what to do when nursing. 

Another friend of mine was asking about Beth and the babies’ progress, and I told her it is such a mix of emotions right now – to see these little miracles, but to also know how tenuous life really is. Their beauty is astounding, as is Beth and Sean's strength and grace. You never truly know how strong you are until you face the unimaginable. I am honored to be a witness to this family’s love!