Blessed is the Fruit of Thy Womb: A Book Review

Ironically, I offered to preview this book while we were still waiting to find out "for sure" about our latest little one, long before our latest journey of loss.  And so what began as a desire to help a fellow-writer on a topic close to my heart, became a fellow-writer's book helping me on a journey of my heart.

The book is Heidi Indahl's "Blessed Is the Fruit of Thy Womb: Rosary Reflections on Miscarriage, Stillbirth and Infant Loss."

I met Heidi at the Catholic Women's Blogger Conference this past March.  She is a Montessori home-schooling Mom of many and a wonderful witness for her (converted-to) Catholic faith!  She blogs, works on curriculum for other parent-educators, loves Mary...and the best part (well, far from "best," but it was what resonated with me the most and made me love her courage) is that she writes honestly about miscarriage.  That's right, at a point very shortly after we lost our third baby to miscarriage, I learned that Heidi too has lost three littles the same way.  But what's more, Heidi knows the additional loss of her daughter Kenna to stillbirth and her daughter Siena to infant loss.

Her strength astounds me.  Her faith and hopefulness through it all I am still praying to find.  And her willingness to share about it openly and honestly is something I find too little of.  Something that made my journey, especially my first loss, extremely difficult:  Why is this so silent?  Why do I have to pretend this never happened, like everyone around me is?

But Heidi shares her journey.  And in doing so, shares her faith.  And in doing so, shares a bit of the hope that all of us who have gone through similar journeys are longing to find.

So when Heidi shared that she had written a book on miscarriage, stillbirth and infant loss and was looking for a few folks to review it for her, I wasted no time in zipping off my Facebook Messenger note!  

I first took a look at the book in May, and liked it.  

Heidi shares her own story and the journey her family have made through deaths and births and each again.  She shared the joys, the sorrows, and the unexpected grace that came through it all.  And although Heidi and I's journeys are different in a lot of the details, still I could relate.  What's more - I felt like she was relating with me!  It may seem a minor difference, if any difference at all; but for anyone who has experienced the loneliness of grief of any kind, I'm sure you can appreciate the intricacy and importance of this distinction - I wasn't alone, someone (even if only the character on a page) knew what I was thinking and feeling and going through; they were relating to me, and their understanding and affirming support meant the world!   

In addition to being sucked in by her honest story, Heidi had me with her brief reflections.  That's right, brief reflections. I almost hate to admit it, but as a busy, working, exhausted-would-fall-into-bed-before-my-kids-if-I-could Mom, I suck at reading!  I'm a slow reader to begin with, and add to it the lack of time and lack of energy to keep my eyes open, and my best laid plans and best intentions to read anything - from the newspaper, to novels to my prayer book - usually vanish quickly.  But Heidi's book was not a problem for me.  There is a reflection for each mystery of the Rosary (all four sets), and each is only one page long.

And they are beautiful!

Although brief, Heidi is able to bring in real-life elements of her and other women's journey of loss that closely relates to the Mystery and the experience of Mary.  I - the "Master" of Theology - found myself thinking about great theological and sacramental elements of our faith in a beautifully understandable and relate-able way. 

And each reflection ended with a reflection question or two.  I am an introvert, a brooder, a processor, a can't-let-it-go-er, a worrier, an I-miss-my-babies-er.  So with all those things, I can guarantee you I have spent a LOT of time thinking and praying and reflecting about my experiences of loss, and where GOD is in all of it.  But even with plenty of thought over the years and months, her reflections and her questions still opened me up to new thinking.  

Some opened up new insights.  Some opened up new comfort.  Some opened both, and more.  

But perhaps my favorite part of Heidi's book is that for each Mystery, after she breaks open a Gospel event, delves into Mary's love for us and all our children, invites us to think about our own experiences in new ways, then she challenges us to pray for others.  There is a saying that the best way to forget your troubles is to pray for someone else's.  I don't know if that is 100% true or not, but I doubt it can hurt.  And it was such a beautiful thing to me to be invited to pray for all those who would find out they were pregnant this day as I prayed the decade for the Visitation, or to pray for anyone in need of a miracle as I prayed the Wedding at Cana decade, and to pray in thanksgiving for those who walked with me in my grief as I thought about the Agony in the Garden.  Whether you read the book as a book, or as a prayer before each decade, or somewhere in between, the combination of reflections, questions and prayer intentions was beautifully done and opened up a place of grace for me (a place I even stayed awake for each exhausted night! :) )

I was certainly a fan of the book.

And then, the past few weeks happened....

But before I go there, I must make my confession: Mary and I, never best friends.  I mean, I love "Momma Mary" (as we call her in our house) and know that she loves me.  I love her faithfulness and strength and wish I could be more like her.  But we've never really been "tight."  I've tried talking with her at different times in my life, and it never felt like the right saint for me; I always seem to end up praying with someone else in the end.  Though there have been a few times (while pregnant with Layla and while praying for Stephen's name last summer) that I felt Mary speaking to me in a powerful way, I really can't list much more than those two encounters in my life.  So the Rosary (another confession) has been a prayer I tend to say when my brain won't stop worrying about something at night and I need the gentle repetition to help me fall asleep, and less to meditate on Mary's love of us and Jesus. (But I don't feel bad - did you know that St. Therese of Lisieux - one of my patrons, being the patroness of mission - didn't like to pray the Rosary?  And she's AMAZING!!  If she can become a saint without the Rosary, I might stand a slight chance too, right?  Different devotions for different people - the beauty of the church!  But I digress...)  

So without a strong relationship with Mary, and without a regular practice of the Rosary, when I first read Heidi's book, it was just that - a book.  A beautiful, spiritual, relate-able and grace-filled book...but still "just" a book.  It wasn't a form of retreat, as Heidi suggests it may be in her introduction.  Until...

This past week, as things once again spiraled out of control on our fertility journey and we lost our fourth little angel, I found Heidi's book in my bag.  Shoot! I was supposed to review that!  Between our trip, a crazy work schedule immediately upon return, and then the hell of going through this all again, I had totally lost track of my doing this.  So I placed it once again on my dresser beside my bed, and began to re-read it.  Only this time, it was more than a book.  This time, it was a prayer.

It was a prayer in that it spoke to me anew.  Those same reflections and questions that meant a great deal to me even years after my previous losses, had new and fresh meaning still after this immediate loss.  

It was a prayer to me in how it got me outside of myself.  Let's just say that the old saying proved true - during days when I can barely make it through the drive to daycare without crying out in prayers for myself and this journey of mine, it was a true blessing and felt like a load was lightened on my to be able to pray for others (to not be thinking about the pain 24-7; 23-7 is a little better :) ).

And it was a prayer to me in that I prayed.  I would read several reflections, and then pray those Mysteries on my Rosary.  My Rosary that hung next to my bed for years and has only been grabbed a few times, now found its way next to my pillow each and every night.  Maybe it's the grief, maybe it's the book, maybe it's Mary reaching out to me in a way that only another mother who has lost a child can know to do.  But whatever the reason, my Rosary and I are "tight."  Mary and I have a lot more in common to talk about than I realized.  And I can't thank Heidi enough for the gift of sharing her journey, and Mary's, with me just when I needed it!  

* * * *

Whether you "need" it or not, I would recommend this book.  It has beautiful insights into Mary, as well as into the loss that your family or friends (or yourself) may be going or have gone through.  

To learn more about the book and it's author, visit:

Heidi's blog: www.workandplaydaybyday.com

The publisher: Peanut Butter & Grace

A Seller:  Amazon.com

or St. Gerard books 

Finding Myself Inside the Sacred Heart

I've never been much of a devotional kind of gal.  Devoted? Yes.  But devotionals? Not so much.  I don't know why.  It's not that I'm opposed to them, but my faith life has just found expression in other ways, in other tenements of our tradition.  

So honestly, I've never really recognized the Feast of the Sacred Heart before.  I know about the Sacred Heart.  I know the image: Jesus' physical heart - wrapped in sorrow and suffering, yet burning with love - as the representation of his divine love for all of humanity.  But I never paid much attention to when the Church celebrates the solemnity or chose to celebrate it myself.  Nor have I ever found myself praying to the Sacred Heart.  Although it's one of the most popular devotions in the Catholic Church, it was never one I found myself turning or relating to.  

Until this year.

This year is different.  Because this year is all-too familiar.   

After three previous miscarriages, we prayed this time would be different.  But before we knew it we found ourselves in that familiar situation - the series of appointments, the scans, the blood tests, the tears.  This time would be the same.  

The difference is that this year, while still numb from the heart-breaking news, my body would move much more quickly into the physical part of the loss.  And on the eve of the Sacred Heart, I found myself having labor pains for a child I will not labor for.  This feast day was spent awaiting the birth of a child who will never have a birthday.  We find ourselves preparing to deliver a child who has already been delivered to heaven's gates. 

Already been delivered right into the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

Into his pure love!  Into pure joy, complete unity, absolute beauty, utter peace.  This Feast day, my child knows the Sacred Heart of Jesus in the most true way. 

Meanwhile, I too am discovering its depth.  Though in a different way.  While our little angel is being invited into the burning love of Christ's Sacred Heart, I find myself being invited into the thorns, into the sorrow and suffering of Christ.

Our faith, and this devotional that strives to represent it, remind us of the suffering and death that Jesus underwent on Calvary's hill.  But more than that, it speaks to the sorrow that Christ continues to feel each and every day he loves us.  The sorrow of watching a world he loves turn away from him, of watching his beloved children suffer, of wanting goodness for a people who continues to know darkness.  His heart aches with our aches, he suffers when we suffer, he takes our pains and burdens upon himself.  And sometimes, when we don't recognize or return the love, it seems it could all be in vain.  That to me is the true crown of thorns Jesus wears.  

But Jesus' suffering was not - is not - suffering for suffering's sake.  It is suffering for the sake of love.   

GOD created our world out of love, all the while knowing full well that we would turn away, that we would make mistakes, that we would cause him pain.  Yet he made us nonetheless.  He knew our humanity would struggle.  Yet he chose to be in utter solidarity with us.  GOD knew that we would never be able to return the fullness of the Love by which we were created.  Yet we were made and loved from the start (from before the start).

What must it be like to bring about life that you know cannot, will not, serve you?  To love someone so deeply and completely that you ask absolutely nothing in return?  In which your only return will be pain and sorrow, but when done for the sake of the one you love so deeply and completely, that is enough?  

That is the love of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.  It is self-less and true.  

Today, I am suffering.  I hurt, emotionally yes, but in particular this day physically.  And like Christ's pain, mine is for a child I know full well will not be with me, will never be able to return the Love in which they were created.  I made a life that now causes me pain, I am laboring one who cannot bring me any other return in this world.  And in this physical suffering, I am beginning to see the depth of the Sacred Heart. 

For each measure of pain is worth it.  

Though it aches my heart to know that each body ache is in vain, that no life will come from it, it does not diminish the love I feel for this baby.  Nothing can diminish that!  

I don't know how to explain it.  But when you love someone - love them from long before they are even on the horizon of present reality - that love can't be taken away from you.  There may be sorrow.  There may be pain.  There may be suffering.  And all of it because of them.  But you don't stop loving them because of it. 

If anything, your love grows.  Even in death.  

When you join the Divine in the creation of life, you also join Him in the self-less giving of your comfort, of your return, to that life - like it or not.

I will admit, I don't like it.  There is not a single part of me that "likes" this!  This is not how I would have chosen to discover the Sacred Heart.  But this is the invitation I have been given nonetheless.  It is the invitation to find myself inside the Sacred Heart, and all that that means.  

And inside the Sacred Heart I see not only the depth of Christ's suffering, but how the thorns and the flame are completely inseparable.  That is the depth of the Sacred Heart.  That like it or not, when you love, when you create, you take them both.     

And while mine is far from the selfless and true extent of Christ's, I too am invited to offer my heart today - with its thorns and its flame - for my little one.  

Today, I am crawling inside the Sacred Heart of Jesus.  My heart too wears a crown of thorns, a suffering for a life I have loved that causes me great pain, a life that will never be able to love me in return.  And yet my heart wears a flame, a burning love for a life that is worth every ache, every tear, every ounce of sorrow, a life that was destined to be loved - regardless of all else - from the very start. 

On this Feast of the Sacred Heart, my newest child gets to see firsthand the selfless and true love of Christ (one of the only consolations I find).  But their Momma, she gets to offer it.

And like it or not, it is perhaps the closest I will ever come to the Divine.   

"Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened,
and I will give you rest.
Take my yoke upon you and learn from me,
for I am meek and humble of heart;
and you will find rest for yourselves.
For my yoke is easy, and my burden light."

(Matthew 11: 28-30, Gospel reading for the 
Solemnity of the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, June 23rd 2017)

For Baby #7, who would have been 11 weeks this weekend, may you always know how loved you are on Earth, until the day when I can share with you in the full extent of Christ's Sacred Heart in heaven.  

Holy Coffee

I was only in there for a matter of minutes.  But in that time, something profound seemed to happen.

I walked into my favorite coffee shop yesterday morning, in my usual hurry to get my weekly treat and head off to work on time.  A bit dismayed at the long line in front of me - and glad that I got in before the two people who entered immediately after me - a series of events quickly changed my annoyed tune.  As I was waiting in line, a man in front of me turned and said good-morning, a woman who had just gotten her drink and was on her way out smiled as she passed, and then I heard the Barista greet the next customer in line by name, well before he had spoken a word or shown his "loyal member" card to identify himself.

"Hmmm," I thought, "She must know him."

But they did not engage in any deep or personal conversation that would suggest they were friends or even acquaintances outside of the Barista-customer relationship.  "But she knew his name before he even got there?" I just kept thinking.

I placed my order, was called by my name (after I showed my "loyal member" card), and paid for my drink.  But not before I heard another worker at the coffee shop say "Hi Ahli" as he stepped forward to the till to help with the growing line behind me.  A man stepped towards his side of the counter, said "hello" back, and placed his order.

"Wow," I thought, "He knows his name too."

Having finished with my order, I walked to the other end of the counter to wait for my drink.  And as I waited, I watched the first Barista I had encountered this morning give the man behind me his total, before he had even reached the counter also.

"Holy Moly," I thought, "She knows him so well she already knows his order!"

I witnessed the workers of my favorite coffee shop call numerous customers by name, have their orders memorized, give a complimentary carton of coffee to EMT workers to take with them, and even offer to help carry drinks - all with a line of customers long enough to stress out the normal worker of any business, let alone their impatient customers in the line.  But as I waited and watched, taking in all the smiles, "hellos," names and interactions of folks on both sides of that counter, I realized that the line there this day was perhaps a bit more than just a line of "customers."

It was a line of community.

That small, crowded shop seemed brimming with a sense of unity, regardless of the diversity that filled it.  These people - who I had never seen here before, despite my regular stops - all seemed to belong here, to belong to one another in the various relationships they had with staff or one another.  Even I as the stranger felt like I somehow belonged to them as I encountered it all!  And each small action of outreach and relationship seemed to help spur one another on in cheer and a positive outlook on the day ahead.

It was a community!  


* * * * * * 

Now I don't pretend that the recognition of a few "regulars" automatically institutes a community.  Nor that rush hour at the coffee shop is equal to that of a strong faith community or family.  But I also realized in that morning experience, that the two are not mutually un-equal either.

For it was in the simple act of acknowledging another - with a smile or hello from strangers - that I felt a sense of welcome.

"How good and pleasant it is
when God’s people live together in unity!" (Psalm 133:1) 

And it was in the important act of calling one by name - an effort in building and acknowledging the relationship - that I could see individuals feel a sense of belonging.

"For just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others." (Romans 12:4-5)

And it was from having experienced those first two things that people moved on to serving others also - offering smiles and hellos of their own to strangers (heck, even I offered to help someone carry her coffee trays, and held the door for someone entering as I left) as they entered into a sense of involvement. 

"And let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds, not giving up meeting together, as some are in the habit of doing, but encouraging one another." (Hebrews 10:24-25) 

A few weeks ago at a talk by Alejandro Aguilar Titus, Assistant Director for the Secretariat for Cultural Diversity in the Church, he listed these three things - welcome, belonging and involvement - as the important stages that people need to move through in order to have community development within a faith community.  I have been reflecting on them ever since, thinking about the ways I have moved through these stages in my own various communities.  I even spoke about these stages at a talk I did in a parish earlier this week.  And yesterday morning, I saw them played out right before my eyes in a small coffee shop on my way to work.

And while I again do not pretend that the community built in that coffee shop holds the same value or power as a faith community, it was a reminder to me of how important those three stages of community-building are.  Of how very important community in general is!

As I got in my vehicle - iced mocha in hand, ready to face the day - I felt something other than the caffeine buzz stirring inside of me.  I felt joy.  I felt power.  I felt a sense of pride in my world.  It was honestly not a feeling I can say I feel all the time or even every day.  But this morning in what I witnessed, I felt an overwhelming mix of positive emotions, as I had no doubt I had just experienced holiness in that little corner shop.  For that is what community is - holy. 


* * * * * *

Although I was very proud of my preferred coffee shop on that morning (and now prefer it even more), this is not a commercial for the business.  It is a commercial for community.  The holy community that can happen anywhere when we slow down and take the time to acknowledge those around us and allow ourselves to open up to one another; when we share life together - from the simplest events such as morning coffee to the big celebrations of sacraments - with each other; and when we work towards each of the stages of community-building our church calls us to - even outside of the church. 

No matter where you find your community, I encourage you to think about the ways you encounter and interact with others within it.  Do you offer simple acts of acknowledgement and welcome?  Do you continue to build relationships, calling others by name as GOD does for us, so that they may know they belong?  Do you make efforts to involve and be involved?

And for those of us who are members - especially leaders - of a faith community, can we take a lesson from my Baristas and fellow costumers, recognizing that we too probably still have work to do in these areas.  There is no community too big, none too small, no gathering of humans in church or synagogue or mosque or office building or coffee shop or corner of the globe that cannot continue to work on building community with one another!

This is our call.  We are one human family - "neither Jew nor Gentile, slave nor free, male and female, you are all one" (Galatians 3:28).  

We are all one - coffee lovers or tea drinkers, students or businessmen, "regulars" or those surprised by grace on Friday morning! 

 

For those who cry the second Sunday of May

She meant well enough, the woman stretching next to me after my work Friday morning.  She meant very well, in fact.  How was she to know that her innocent enough inquiry was my least favorite question, the one that would pierce my heart as she asked: 

"How many children do you have?”  

It's the question that makes my body start to sweat and my heart skip a beat.  And in that fraction of an un-beating second, my brain and heart begin to battle, trying to carefully calculate my answer.  Do I give the answer they’re looking for – the number of children the world sees, those three children living in my home, whose names are spoken by many on a daily basis?  Or do I give the answer my gut cries out – the number of children seen by my heart, those additional three children residing in heaven, whose names are heard only by our family?  If I say six, will they ask for ages and details?  In which case, do I have the strength today to answer without crying; do I have the strength today to be vulnerable enough to let myself cry?  

In that split-second, that can feel like hours, I wrestle with how much of my story I will share.

For you see, my story is one of grief and loss.  But, unfortunately, like too many others, it is a story of an invisible loss, of suffering from an invisible grief.

My husband and I lost our first child to miscarriage over 7 years ago.  Since that time, we have been blessed with three beautiful children with whom we share our home.  Three lives bookmarked by two more miscarriages, suffered this past year.  Though only twelve, eleven and five week along in our pregnancies, each loss felt as if an entire lifetime had been stolen from me, forcing me into a journey physically, emotionally and spiritually that I could never have been prepared for, even after having experienced it before.  And along that journey, a hurricane of emotions follows – ranging day-to-day and sometimes second-to-second from sadness, to anger, to confusion, to peace, to guilt, to jealousy, to doubt, to faith...and back again.  It is a storm that leaves a path of devastation unparalleled to Hurricane Katrina, where nothing seems to be left untouched, unchanged.  For better or for worse, I am changed because of the lives I carried within me, the lives I have said good-bye to before they’d even begun.  

As a friend of mine once put it, “There's a void that remains from being so close to a miracle that you are touched and transformed by it even as it slips away.”

And while the tiny lives of our un-held babies have slipped away from us, the love and connection I feel for them has not.  They are still my children.  I am still their mother.  

And it is that very fact that makes this weekend a difficult one for me.  

Despite the special holiday supposedly meant to honor me, it is a day in which the void feels even greater.  Although I still find such joy in my little man, my Beanie and my curly-headed monster, although I still feel such gratitude for them as they bring me the only breakfast they know how to make (buttered toast) in bed and homemade pictures, although I still feel love in abundance on Mother's Day, I also feel the ever-present hole of those babies who I didn't get to know well enough to give nicknames, whose finger prints aren't in the butter, whose love I never fully got to share.  

The second Sunday of May becomes a well-meaning day that also pierces my heart.  

The stores are stocked with glitter-spackled, pop-up, singing, poetic and humorous cards of all kinds, with salutations to every proper noun imaginable - Mom, Momma, Mommy, Mother, Grandma, Nana, Grandmother, Godmother, Aunt, Sister, Friend...  You name it!  And each one designed to bring joy and love to any woman lucky enough to open it.   

But what about the women whose love perhaps takes a different form, whose joy is overshadowed by difficulty?  What about those who don't fit the flowerly Hallmark mold on the shelves?  What about the women who wrestle with non-glittery emotions this day?   

My own difficulty each Mother's Day, as I wrestle with the tension between the joy of those children I have been invited to keep and the loss of those who are now in GOD's keeping, has me very aware that this day can be much more difficult than the greeting card companies would have us believe.  It has me aware of the many other women out there like myself whose hearts are pierced a little (extra) each second Sunday of May.  

And so today, I am thinking of them: 

I am thinking of the women who have lost babies.  Those who wrestle with the life they didn't get to keep.

I am thinking of the women who have lost children at any age.  Those who wrestle with having outlived the life they brought forth. 

I am thinking of the women who don't have children.  Those wrestling with infertility or the search for their partner in parenting. 

I am thinking of the women who have given up their babies.  Those who wrestle with the love that led them to adoption, and the hearts that still wonder what if.

I am thinking of the women (and men) who have lost their mothers.  Those young and old who wrestle with the longing to be able to give a card, or a hug, one more May. 

I am thinking of the women in hospital rooms and war zones.  Those who wrestle against the odds, trying to find the strength to fight for their child's health or safety.  

I am thinking of the women who raise their children on their own.  Those who wrestle with the incredible challenges of parenting without the support they need, or once had.

I am thinking of the women who are separated from their children.  Those who wrestle with the distance - physically or relationally - keeping them from being with their children this day.   

I am thinking of the women who are called "Step."  Those who wrestle with what their place is.

I am thinking of the women who are expecting.  Those who wrestle with questions and fear and an unknown they cannot possible be prepared for.  

I am thinking of the women (and men, girls and boys) who have not had the mothers they need.  Those who wrestle with a past of let-downs or a presence of hurt from those they should be loved by the most.    

I am thinking of those women who are struggling.  Those who wrestle with questions of their own abilities amidst the daily challenges of parenting. 

I am thinking of the women whose dreams for their family have been ripped away by violence, displacement, poverty, oppression.  Those who wrestle with being able to provide for their children, who cannot even fathom the sparkling necklaces and perfect bouquets on TV.  

I am thinking of all the women who cry this second Sunday of May.  

It's an innocent enough inquiry.  I hear it all the time from clerks at the store, parishioners at church, old high school classmates, perfect strangers and long-lost relatives. 

But at this time of year, where all our attention is turned towards mothering, and those seemingly simple inquiries tend to multiple - "Do you have children?"  "How many children do you have?" "Do you have big plans for Mother's Day?" - I am reminded that it is not so simple for everyone.  

So for all those who wrestle with the tension of joy and pain this Mother's Day, and for all those for whom a pierced heart is the only thing they are given this second Sunday of May, I am thinking of you.  

You are in my prayers today, no questions asked!