Before 40

In November I will hit a pretty big milestone in life. I turn 40. As I write that number, it seems impossible.  Where have the second have of my 30's gone? The first half I soaked up every ounce of NYC that I could!

Life has been unbelievably busy since I got married 5.5 years ago.  We've lived in five states, changed jobs, had two babies, spent almost nine months in the hospital with our youngest son, lost him to heart disease, then moved again to the Chicago area as we have been navigating loss and grief.

We also bought a lovely house and have finally found some great community through a local church.  We started the adoption journey officially about 18 months ago and we have been actively waiting for 13 of those months.

We have come super close to our forever baby three times now.  Pregnancy is no easy journey. I definitely didn't handle it well either time for different reasons. But, at least there is a due date where it comes to an end. With adoption, there are no due dates. You just WAIT and WAIT and WAIT. So, that is where we are now with our adoption journey. Waiting!

I am sure that many moms (and dads!) could say the same about their lives. Time flies by with all the big and little decisions to be made. Even if you've not moved several thousand times like us. Well, that's an exaggeration but not by much ;).

As I think about this big birthday that is lurking around the corner, it is a good time for me to take stock in a few areas of my life. I am thinking through a few goals I'd like to pursue during the next 70ish days before my bday.

Here are a few goals I have so far:

Run a 10K Race: this is something I did regularly in my old life in NYC but I haven't done a race beyond a 5k in a number of years. I'll start looking for one to do before my birthday.

NYC trip: this will likely have to have after the big bday. We have a reunion trip scheduled for December. Can't wait to see my friends and pretend I live on the upper west side for a long weekend!

Rebuild my blog or launch a new one: This goal deserves its own blog entry but I'll share that this has been on my mind for several months now. The more I grow as a writer/researcher the more I want to explore managing my own site. I plan to continue writing for the different blogs/editors that I currently write for weekly.  I have A LOT to learn for this to be what I hope for it to be but I'm going to jump soon. More details to come.

140's by 40: This goal could also take an entire blog entry...actually an entire book. My weight has gone up and down so many times.  I've struggled with extra pounds since childhood and I've obsessively taken it off several times. Sometimes I did it with eating very low calories and exercising nonstop. But, then I finally learned how to take care of myself and started running regularly. I will expound on this more too. Today I find myself where I've been many times. I am around 20 pounds heavier than I want to be. I am thankful that I'm not 75 pounds heavier like I have been in the past. I need to lose around 16ish pounds to be back in the 140's.  I feel pretty good and strong in the mid 140's.  It is going to take some self-control, a clear plan, accountability, and some good training to achieve this goal.

Adopt: Another goal...more of a dream because I can't control this one is to adopt before I'm 40. So, get to praying, people!

Grief Sets You Apart

I miss my son. My special, strong boy. The missing will never leave me. The place where he belongs in our family only gets larger as he would be getting older. I missed him terribly at Graham's birthday party. His little brother was so clearly absent that I could feel it with each breath that I took. 

I think that I will look for him each day of my life. Every family photo I will notice where he would be. Every meal, every holiday, every moment of my life, I look to the place made just for Hudson. On Graham's wedding day, we will have a missing groomsman. On my deathbed, I will be looking and seeing where he should be standing, next to his big brother, Graham. This hole will never leave me. I will always see and feel it.

Grief is longing and loving and aching. It washes over like a tidal wave that nearly drowns you. Grief changes everything. Everything. It has changed my capacity (everything requires more energy now), the way I see the world, the way I see God and prayer and church and worship. It has changed me. My heart has aged a lifetime.

I feel everything more deeply now. The good and the hard emotions. Joy is more palpable and genuine, and sorrow is felt down in my bones.  

We all carry grief in our hearts. A lost love. A lost dream. A lost marriage. A lost child. A lost parent. A lost sibling. A lost career.  A loss of health. A loss of identity.

Our grief sets us apart. It marks us. We are persevering in a fallen and broken world with battle scars. The danger I am facing is that grief wants to separate me.

Being set apart as a veteran of grief and loss is something that God can use. 

But, grief wants to whisper often and consistently, "No one understands, nor can they understand. You are alone in your sorrow. You are alone in your loss. You don't manage your grief like you should. You should hide. You should be ashamed. You should have more faith. God doesn't even understand you anymore. You are different now. They don't want to know this new you. This hurting you. Just pull away. Just hide. Just manage the tidal wave alone."

I am in the war now. Everything in me wants to retreat and be separated by my grief. Separated from people, family, my own heart, and certainly from this big God who loves me but confuses me.

My new prayer is that God would allow my grief to set me apart, battle scars and all. But, that I won't believe the lies and run away alone and be swallowed by the grief. Because, oh will it swallow you! 

I was reminded of this beautiful song last week and I just realized (after naming this post!) it has the phrase, "set me apart" right there in the lyrics. Lord, chase me down when grief drags me to loneliness, hopelessness, and deep sorrow. Don't let me isolate my heart from those who love me. Don't let my hardened, bruised heart push you away. Mold me, Lord. Make me like clay in your hands. I've been there before but now, I'm so wounded that my heart is hardened in the survival of grief. Soften me, Lord, and then use me again.

The Potter's Hand

Beautiful Lord, wonderful savior

I know for sure, all of my days are held in Your hands

Crafted into Your perfect plan

You gently call me, into Your presence

Guiding me by, Your Holy Spirit

Teach me, dear Lord,

To live all of my life through Your eyes

I'm captured by, Your Holy calling

Set me apart

I know You're drawing me to Yourself

Lead me, Lord, I pray

Take me, Mold me

Use me, Fill me

I give my life to the Potter's hands

Hold me, Guide me

Lead me, Walk beside me

I give my life to the Potter's hand

A Ministry I Never Wanted

When I was in college I spent many hours listening to talks and reading books about giving my all for Jesus. As I listened to seasoned missionaries like Helen Roseveare and passionate pastors like John Piper, I was challenged to consider my comfort zone and flee from it for fear of passivity in the urgent call of Christ. I was deeply in love with Jesus because He had pursued me for many years as ran with all my might away from my church upbringing. As my heart softened to Jesus in college, I began to desire to live a life that honored Him. I started considering where God would use me. I knew from scripture that many who followed Christ went to hard places and went through challenging times. My worldview was being shaped by legacies of Christian missionaries like Nate Saint, Jim Elliot, and Dietrich Bonhoeffer. I needed these challenges to my Americanized view of comfortable Christianity. 

I remember telling God in tears in my dorm room, “I will go anywhere you send me with whomever you choose.” I thought I was offering my whole heart and life. I thought I knew what a mission field looked like and I felt ready for this challenging call of Christ to take up my cross.

I would find myself thinking about the kinds of hard circumstances I might be called to at some point in my life. My limited view imagined that God might call me to live without air conditioning, far from my family, for the sake of The Gospel.

So, it was clear that I desperately needed the challenges of other spiritual giants to get out of my very limited comfort zone. I thought that my worldview had exploded to include the huts in a country without proper toilets. I thought a difficult calling was limited to ministry in the inner city or with a tribe in Africa. I can say with firsthand knowledge that ministry in both of those places is extremely difficult but once again, my scope of calling, ministry, and challenging was extremely narrow.

My view of calling and ministry has expanded with years of walking with Him. I have now seen that God often gives us ministry opportunities that we never asked for and certainly never wanted.

For example, when I approached my late twenties as a single, I thought, “For sure I’ll meet my husband soon. All my friends are married.” When my friends started having their second and third child I thought, “He must be on the horizon.”

But, that wasn’t the case. When my heart was broken at the age of 31 by a man I thought I would marry, God gave me a ministry I never wanted. What I wanted was to be married and raise children but God, in His sovereign goodness, gave me women with broken hearts to walk alongside, study scripture, and do our lives together.  He gave me opportunities to use the pain, rejection, and tears. My worldview about ministry opened again. Living many years of singleness and ministering out of that stage of life was incredibly rewarding but also vulnerable and painful. And, I certainly hadn’t asked for this season of prolonged singleness.

Fast forward a few years and God called me to a new mission field called the Cardiac Intensive Care Unit. I never dreamed of spending nine months in a hospital with my very sick son. I remember holding him and thinking about that same hut in Africa that terrified me as a new Christian. I remember wishing to be in the hut far from the pain I was feeling seeing my son hurt. Once again, God gave me a ministry I never asked for or wanted. I can’t say I did this unwanted ministry well on most days for it was consuming emotionally and physically simply being a mom to a critically sick baby but I have a few select memories of God working through my presence in this unlikely mission field.

I held a mom as her son’s heart rate fell to zero and the code alarm sounded. I prayed for so many heart babies and families whom I would never had known without the calling to the heart unit. I prayed for my own son and sang songs to him about our big God. I told him of heaven and he was my ministry. I wouldn’t trade that previously unwanted mission field for the world, no matter how painful.

Now that we have lost our son, I find myself with a new ministry. Once again this is a ministry I did not want or ask for. I never wanted to be in the “I lost a child” club like the rest of its members. In the year since losing our son, people will reach out to me because they have a sick child, they have lost a child, or a close friend has lost a child. I don’t have magic words but I am honest, vulnerable, and cry real tears with them. I don’t try to suppress their pain with fluffy words or put a quick band-aid on it with a verse out of place. I simply hear their stories, share mine, and together we feebly try to see the hope only found in Jesus.

I’m guessing that God has given most of us ministries we never wanted. I can think of a few just amongst my friends.

Folks like the…

Foster parents who are offering their hearts to the unknown for the sake of the children.

Single women giving their everything for Christ and not settling for less than God’s best.

Teachers who bring in extra supplies and deeply love their students.

Nurses who do their very best even when they are bone tired.

Divorcees who choose to engage in church and love on others even when their lives have been torn apart.

Parents taking care of chronically sick children.

Pastors who come to your side during all the beautiful and horrific things life brings.

Families who are pursuing adoption after long battles with infertility and miscarriages.

While I still am unsure about this ministry with hurting families of child loss, I am honored that God would use my broken heart once again in the lives of others to bring glory for His namesake.

For all of you stepping into ministry moments that you never wanted, I am right there too and I see you. Most importantly God sees you and He’s equipped you, even if you never asked for it!

To God be the Glory

He Should Be Two Years Old

Hudson Taylor Alexander Sylvestre

July 17, 2015-March 20, 2016

He should be two. He should be running. He should be saying, “Mama” and squealing with all his might. He should be having tantrums in Target and stealing his big brother’s toys. He should be wearing hand me downs from big brother. He should have been at the water park with us last weekend. He should be in every family photo. He should be slightly shorter than big brother with slightly darker, crazier hair. He should be growing taller and losing some of his baby rolls. He should be grinning ear to ear and running down the stairs when daddy gets home. He should be in the bathtub splashing his big brother. He should be promoted to the two year old class at church this Sunday. He should be friends with all those cuties. He should be sharing a room with his big brother. He should be hiding while we are seeking. He should be singing, “Wheels on the Bus” and learning his alphabet. He should be saying silly words and pronouncing words in his own way. He should be refusing to eat his dinner and getting gum in his hair. He should be mixing the playdough colors together to make them turn that yucky brown. He should be under my feet as I try to cook. He should be leaving his shoes in the hall so to trip to me and daddy.  He should be the little brother to his big brother. He should be at weddings and on the farm with grandparents. He should be asking for more “Daniel Tiger” and ice cream. He should be buckled in his seat at dinner time. He should be learning about God and singing, “Jesus loves Hudson, This I know.” He should be the youngest cousin to the big ones in the pool.  He should make us a family of four when we go out to eat. He should now get his own seat on the plane. He should be in my arms and not just my heart. He should be two.

Thanks so much to these sweet new friends who did a party in the park for our precious Hudson! That just meant the world to me!!!

Always Thinking for Our Boy

Several months ago I was cleaning out my inbox and I moved an email to Hudson’s folder. I had a quick thought, “I’ll show this to him one day.” I can’t explain why my brain does that. I am very clear that my son is in heaven. I miss him every second of every day. I’m consistently aware of his absence and where he would be sitting at the table, in the grocery cart, in the back seat, at church, etc. But, randomly I have these moments like the one with saving an email for later. I can’t explain why this happens but it does and it catches me off guard. I don’t think I had ever mentioned this happening to Corey and then yesterday it happened to him.

It was a hot, beautiful day to be outside so we took Graham to play in the water and to get ice cream. As we were leaving Corey took Graham to change out of his wet clothes and I went inside the store. We said we would meet at the car in a few minutes. When I came back Corey told me, “I just had a weird thought. I was getting Graham to the car and randomly said to myself that you must have Hudson.”

We both cried for the palpable absence of our sweet boy and then smiled a bit knowing that our hearts can’t help but still parent him and look out for him. We never forget he’s gone but there are moments we are still “mama and daddy.” We save things to show him and think to be sure he’s looked after as we walk to the car.

We’re still looking out for our boy. Always will. Our hearts won’t let us do otherwise even though our minds know he’s in good hands.

Missing you, Huddy Buddy!

You Don't Know Her Name But She Mattered

It was a normal day. As normal as life in the intensive care unit can be.

I was holding my precious baby with half a heart and telling him stories about how I fell in love with his daddy walking the streets of Manhattan. We had been in the unit for months now. I lost track of time and I had to look outside to see if it were day or night. By this point I could speak the language of acronyms thrown around by doctors and confirm dosing on medications for my son like a seasoned pharmacist. I knew what every beep meant and which ones shouldn’t make me tremble and which called the cavalry.

I had so many days like this one watching his numbers rise and fall, conversations with the new fellow who knew less about my son medically than I did and hearing about life outside these walls from what the nurses did on their shifts away from the chaos. Those medical warriors could be saving a life and at the same time talking about their favorite restaurant. It was a normal day for them too.

Normal became unimaginable as I picked out phrases being
said across the room. The specialist and his fellow were with Baby Girl in bed one. We were bed four. We had come to know Baby Girl after months of rooming together. We didn’t know her specific heart challenges but we knew her cries and that she loved to sit in her swing.

Life in the hospital is really never normal but a routine is built. I learned that I would have to step out of the unit when certain alarms sounded, a child was being admitted or coming back from surgery. On this particular day, I was tucked away rocking our boy and no one asked me to step out. I could hear the doctor answer the parents’ questions, “We could operate but we know it won’t work. She will require the same surgery again and again for it simply not to work in the end. We shouldn't put her through that. Of course, you can seek a second opinion but they will say the same.” Baby Girl’s mom pleads, “But, I read something online. Can’t you try that?” The conversation continued for around twenty minutes and the questions became more desperate. A mama and a daddy’s heart pleading for solution.

The last thing I overheard was the doctor saying, “There is simply no more we can do but make sure she is as comfortable as possible.”

Her stunned daddy just stood there over Baby Girl’s bed. No outward emotion. Just stunned. Lost. Her mama kept tearfully asking unanswerable questions.

The best of the best had nothing to offer.

I don’t know what happened with Baby Girl after she left our unit. I think about her often. She was just under two years old. She was a foster child with a severe heart defect. She was loved by her birth parents and her foster parents. Her short life was more complicated than it should have been. She didn’t have hundreds following her story or t-shirts made in her honor. No 5k’s were run in her name. No newspaper articles printed celebrating her fight.

But, I’ll never forget her.

She mattered.

She fought.

She is loved.

For whoever touches you, touches the apple of His eye.
Zechariah 2:8b

Baby Girl, your hips don’t lie J. (A little inside joke between us girls.)

Is God Still Good When Your Child Dies?

As Christians we study the Bible to learn the character of the God we worship. We find that He is sovereign, holy, eternal while simultaneously being tender, loving and good.  Our entire purpose and existence is to glorify this good God and enjoy Him forever not just now in this world but for all eternity. These are the truths of Christianity that we hold dear.  As children we sing, "God is so good. God is so good. God is so good. He's so good to me."

But, is God still good when your child dies?

The last year and a half of my life has been excruciating as I watched my precious baby boy come into and leave this world after just eight months and three days.

So as a Christian I have been forced to my knees in a new way of surrender. To surrender my child to death has caused me to question even the deepest truths of my life and faith including the goodness of God.  It has been near impossible to walk in the depths of despair and say words like the ones of Psalm 106:1.

Say them with me:

"Praise the LORD! Oh give thanks to the LORD, for He is good; For His lovingkindness is everlasting."

Now let’s try saying them as your child breathes his last breath. Or as your spouse walks out the door. Or as the power is shut off. Or as you celebrate Christmas without your loved one. Or as you are huddled in a corner in Aleppo with your terrified family. But, we should say them at these most horrific times because these holy words are true.

I've doubted the goodness of God in my situation and perhaps you have too. When everything in me screams that there is no way God can be good, I must look to His Word and not let my faith be swayed by my emotions or my circumstances. Knowing that God is good doesn't diminish my pain or loss but it gives me firm, eternal ground to stand on. My circumstance is not good. But, He is good.

This I know is true: God's goodness is eternal. He was good when the people of Israel were enslaved. He was good when Jesus was on the cross. He was good during World War II and the Holocaust. He was good when my dad was at war in Vietnam and He is good today as I sit in my home looking at my son's Christmas stocking without him.

We intentionally (though a bit hesitantly) chose our Christmas card this year to remind ourselves that the goodness of God is eternal and not circumstantial. We chose this card because it is still true even in the year our son died.

This Christmas night I’m so thankful that God's goodness is forever. Somehow, in His sovereign will, He will work even the darkest, ugliest, most painful parts of our broken hearts into His good story of redemption alongside the story of the nativity. God doesn't explain Himself fully to us in this life but what we know dimly now, we will know fully when we see Him face to face in all His goodness.

Grieving in the Season of Merriment

December marks the “most wonderful time of the year” and we are reminded of this through song, decorations, sermons, gifts and even smells. As a person walking through deep grief, it feels far from merry most days and certainly not jolly. During a season marked for togetherness, grief can isolate once again even in a room of loved ones.

So how do we get through a season of celebration when our hearts are in tiny broken pieces? How do we take holiday family photos or buy gifts knowing our son is not going to be with us Christmas morning?

There are no simple answers. 

I can tell myself that Christmas is about our savior and the miracle of His birth. I can look forward to time with people I love and cherish. I can take intentional time to “pre-grieve” ahead of Christmas in preparation for moments of celebration.

But, at the end of the day, my heart misses my son terribly even if it is advent. I simply don’t feel merry & bright just because those are the lyrics I hear as I sit in traffic.

Even though I miss our son desperately, I want to be fully present for Christmas for his big brother. Picturing him on Christmas morning, I want the atmosphere of our home to be that of joy and celebration. But, how is that possible when we are missing ¼ of our little family?

I thought I’d share something that has seemed to help me in my grief during this sacred season. I keep thinking about the fact that I will only have a certain number of Christmas days.

My paternal grandfather got 96 Christmas days. My maternal grandmother got 72. My cousin got 37.

My precious son was given ONE Christmas day.

If I think of Christmas in terms of a special gift that you only receive a few times in your whole life versus a day to simply survive, it is somehow a bit easier for me to approach this holy day with less dread and even a bit of anticipation and dare I say...worship.

So, I will hang our Hudson’s stocking as a way to include him on this first Christmas without our boy. In his honor, I will donate to families who are hurting right this minute with children in the cardiac intensive care unit at the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. 

If I count my Christmas days, it causes me to pause and makes me want to be fully present to make significant memories with those I love. I only get a few of these. Even with lots of traditions, each and every Christmas day is unique and special.

So my plan is to walk into my 38^th Christmas day, bringing Hudson along in my heart for his first Christmas day in heaven. 

There is no tension of merriment and grief in heaven. It is just joy there. No more tears. No more tensions.

Thanks be to God.

O Come, Let us Adore Him!

If your heart is breaking today as we enter the Christmas season, perhaps it might help you as well to take a minute and ask, 

“How many Christmas days will I get?”

"I Can't Even Imagine"

I’ve heard this phrase more than any other in the last several months after our precious son, Hudson went to heaven. My reply is often, “And I hope you never do.” I truly mean that. I pray that you may never know this loss.

I do want...

To be heard.

To be understood.

To be normal.

To be held.

For someone else to cry with me.

I read a quote recently that could help explain agonizing grief of losing a child to my caring friends who say to me, “I can’t even imagine.” Basically the author said something like burying your child makes you hear sounds you’ve never heard, taste what you’ve never tasted, see colors you’ve never seen. That language of using the senses to describe devastating grief helps me put my own grief into explainable terms to those who love me.

I feel as though each of my senses are affected. Everything is affected. To put into words how my heart feels is an impossible task but some words I can use are shattered, destroyed, agony, tears, loneliness. I feel a million miles from everyone around me. I’m in a fog and only grasp about half of what is said to me. I think that is survival.

If I’m nothing else through this process, I want to be honest and real. I’m not a hero or a spiritual giant. I’m just a mama whose arms are empty at 3am when I should be holding my baby boy.

I love Jesus.

My heart is broken.

That’s the truth.

I’m seeing colors…ones I pray you never know exist.

Ten Things To Do for Families with Children in the Hospital

After spending nine months at the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia with our precious Hudson, we wanted to share a few things that helped us along the way. Our friends and family did these things so well and we are forever grateful.

Hopefully this list will help you if you find yourself with friends in this horrible situation.

1. Pray: the family is exhausted, desperate and at the end of their rope. They have little to no energy to pray for themselves so pray for them often and let them know that you are praying. Add the family to prayer emails at your church. If possible, keep up to date with the current situation with their child and pray specifically.

2. Send Money: hospital life drains a bank account fast. Parking alone can cost $150-$200 a month plus if the family had to relocate, out of town housing immediately hits their budget. Many families lose jobs if care is longer term.

3. Send Food: Seamless Web or Grubhub will let you order, pay and tip from anywhere in the country and deliver it directly to the family. If you don't use those websites, you can easily find a pizza or sub place near the hospital to deliver.

4. Send notes of encouragement and truth. While incredibly hard to believe truth while in the dark, it is helpful to receive scripture and notes of truth.

5. Don't stop reaching out. Whether a text message, a voicemail or a note in the mail, don't stop contacting the parents. They are consumed with fear and dealing with doctors and specialists all day long so they may not reply but don't back away.

6. Take care of their home while they are away. Mowing the grass, checking the mail (and forwarding it), cleaning it before they return.

7. Go! I know this may be impossible depending on the family situation in the hospital and your situation. But, if you are close to the family and there is a way, go by and see them. If they are local, go even for a few minutes. It can feel like a war zone and like the rest of the world keeps spinning and doesn't know you are at war. People stepping inside the war zone makes you feel remembered and supported.

8. Send money (or gift cards). Saying it twice on purpose. While a homemade meal is wonderful, worrying about rent, house payments, medical bills and so on is salt in a very painful wound. If the family doesn't have a fund, create one and get friends to give. The only way our family survived was standing on the shoulders of people who love us.

9. Send something funny. I know this may seem a little strange and it might not work for some people, but getting a good belly laugh out of me in the last year of my life has been almost impossible. A few friends were good at this and believe it or not, that voicemail left in a crazy voice made me laugh out loud as I had tears in my eyes walking to the hospital AGAIN.

10. Share their emotions. If you are grieving with the family, let them know. If you are thinking of them, let them know. If you cry about their child's situation, let them know. It is so hard to step inside the pain of the situation but somehow it helps. It doesn't make sense really but it does help to know that others are feeling at least a portion of what you are feeling as the parent.

Bonus ideas: help with siblings, care packages, cleaning service, help with pets, send a book, buy a subscription to netflix or hulu, do laundry, do something special for holidays/birthdays


Posted in honor and memory of the strongest little man I've every met, our Hudson.

Dear Hudson: a letter to my baby boy in heaven

From Daddy & Mama

Written for our Hudson for his special service

May 20, 2016

Our Precious Hudson, our Huddy Buddy,

We often told you that you were the strongest person we had ever met. We sang Happy Birthday regularly. We would hold you for hours and sing to you and you would hold onto our finger for dear life. We talked about the seasons, what kindergarten is like, what middle and high school is like, prom, college, your amazing grandparents, fun uncles, aunts & cousins, The Alexander Farm and The Sylvestre farm and about tractors and helicopters. How we met and fell in love walking along the HUDSON River. About your big brother, Grahambo who learned the word, “brother” before he could say Hudson because that is how he knew you, his little brother. We told you about everything but most importantly about Jesus and heaven and how it was a real place where we will all be together.

We are so happy that you know the whole story now. You know what eternity is, what God looks like and you’ve touched the nail prints in Jesus’ hands. You’ve seen the golden streets and spent time with the Apostle Paul. There are no scars on your little body. You know the WHOLE story. THE WHOLE REDEMPTIVE STORY. You know your piece of the story and how much of an impact you’ve had on thousands of people, mostly on your mama and daddy’s hearts.

Forevermore, we will be Hudson’s mama and daddy. Though your home is in heaven, you will forever be our special boy who we would stare into your eyes and wished to bring to our house and show you the precious things of life, the mundane things and the most important things. We will miss your chubby cheeks, your squishy arms, your silly side burns and your little grunts telling us about your day.

We wanted to teach your ABC’s and how to count to five. We wanted to see you run and play and call your name across the house when it’s time for bed. We wanted to cuddle you and Graham on the bed just before it was time for “night, night”. We wanted to dance at your wedding and be your children’s grandparents but God’s plan was different.

God chose to call you home and to reveal to you, before us, His whole redemptive story. We don’t know exactly how heaven works. We know we will worship our amazing God but we do hope that God will allow you to welcome us there. To welcome us home, to be truly home and to finally see the whole story alongside you. What a glorious day it will be, to be with you again, our boy. Our precious Hudson. Our Huddy Buddy.

We miss you and wish we could have you back but sweet boy, enjoy our sweet Jesus. We are so glad you are whole.

We best buddies. Daddy, Mama, Graham & Hudson.

We best buddies…forevermore.

Second Born

Second Born

Many people reached out to us offering their love, support, prayers and their own grief, After losing our precious eight-month old son, Hudson to congenital heart disease in March. Many shared their stories or would say, “I can only imagine what this is like for your family.” My heart would whisper, “I hope you never know.”

But, as I walk this dark, deep valley I do want to share my heart and still be able to connect to others. Sharing my heart allows me to grieve with more authenticity and in a safe way through written words. I still hope you never know this sort of loss and if you have, God be near.

I’ve written the thoughts of my heart since I was a teenager keeping a journal about church camp, boys I had crushes on, begging for my husband, my walk with God and dreams for my future. But, since this unbearable season hit my life a year ago, I’ve not written a single page in my journal. Not one single page. I have written on this blog sporadically and kept up Hudson’s Heart facebook page but mostly out of desperation for prayer.

So here I find myself wanting to remember every aspect of my sweet Hudson and writing is the best way for me to do so.

Here’s where I am today….

Lately I have thought a lot about Hudson being our second born. He’s the little brother to Graham Drake. I often notice families with three children and the second child stands out to me. I see a family with a two-year-old and an almost one-year-old and I watch how the siblings react to one another. I’ve also realized so many of my friends are the second born in their families. In fact, I am the second child in my family.

I share these thoughts with you to try to explain a bit more what Corey and I are walking through as we face the future without our Hudson. Perhaps you are the second born in your family or you have two or more children or your close friend is the second born in their family. While horrific to dwell on this, thinking about not having that person in your family and the ripple effects of that person’s life may help you peer into our grief. Perhaps you already know this loss. I hope not.

I don’t know why I’ve focused on this whole “second born thing” the last few weeks but it has helped me realize why the pain is so intense. I’ve not just lost my eight-month precious son (that would be enough) but all of the community he would have had, his teachers, his neighborhood friends, his Sunday school classmates, his soccer or hockey team, his prom date, his college roommate, his future wife and my future grandchildren. That’s a lot to lose wrapped up in one sweet little life.

Of course the losses would be true no matter Hudson’s birth order but as I think about my family without me or Crystal’s family without her or Corey’s family without Tyanne or Carrie’s or Bethany’s family without them…it makes me not be as angry in my grief. I have let myself just be sad at what all we truly have lost. All those relationships I’ll never have. My Huddy and his whole little life ahead of him and the community he would have built. Lost.

The community he built in eight sort months was more than most in a lifetime.

Just think of what he would have done with 80 years!

We miss you our second born boy! We best buddies!

Love you, Huddy.

Thank you & "How am I doing?"

I don't know that I will ever be able to write each person back who has reached out in the last 8 or 9 months. I owe so many people thank you notes that I should invest in that super cute store, Paper Source. But, that does not diminish each and every note, card, blanket made, care package, gift card, donation, prayer we received. Every single one has been cherished along the way.

My heart is grateful and we would be utterly destitute without you and the generosity of others making sacrifices on our behalf on a daily basis.

So..for what it is worth....

Thank you from the bottom of our hearts. 

You have been a tangible Jesus to our family and you've kept us from being hauled off to the poor house and the loony bin.

The other question I get from people who love me is...

"How are you doing?"

I often don't answer. It is not to be rude. It is because as I read the question worded in so many different ways, I take a moment to reflect.

For months, in just one minute I will be angry, overcome with grief, anxious, full of tears, feel like I may throw up but then belly laugh at my silly husband letting our two year old climb the wall. I'm sleepless yet feel like I've run ten marathons. Every task (including writing this) takes herculean strength to complete. Why does it take me all day to write an email??? I feel like I'm swimming through mud and walking around with cement in my shoes.

How am I supposed to feel? I don't know. I'm mad as hell. I'm devastated. I'll never be the same.

I was reading the book A Grace Disguised this morning. The author lost his mother, wife and daughter in a car accident and he was left to raise their other 3 children. He talks about trauma like this as being an amputation. He says that some loss is like a broken bone that will mend but those who have lost a limb have to learn a new normal altogether. I have a lot to learn.

I've been on the front lines of war and now I'm suddenly jerked back into normal society with PTSD. I'm reading and learning from others who have gone before me on this sorrowful path. I learning that I have no control in my life except my response to what happens.

I refuse to let myself grow bitter because I know we serve a BIG God who does things like allow your baby to die without explanation but He is not cruel. He is good. He is eternal. His ways are not my ways. I'm still mad as hell but He is big enough to handle all of that and loves me just the same.

How am I doing? I'm full of tears and missing my chubby, squishy baby boy and trying to keep myself sane.

My Prayer Life After Losing My Precious Baby Hudson...What does that look like?

This is going to brutally honest...just to warn you.

I don't know about you but my prayer life sometimes looks like a printed plan posted here or there that I diligently pray through. More often than not, it is a breathed prayer here, another there throughout my day, over a meal, as I shower, as I tuck my little Graham into bed, as I drive or walk, etc.

"God, please....we need to park sometime in the next hour. Please help us find a spot where we don't have to walk for a year to get to our apartment!"

"God, please help me find my wallet!"

"God, please be with so and so as they go through this or that."

These are my natural conversations all day long with God. Simple little moments where I try to invite God into my frustration or impatience or whatever is ruling me at the moment. I know I'm supposed to pray in faith but over the last year it has been mostly out of obedience.

But now...what about now?

My sweet husband and I have often stopped to pray together over little things. It is a habit for us.

But now...what about now?

The most important prayers we've ever said seemingly have gone unanswered. And yet, I find myself going about my normal life and breathing a prayer here and prayer there.

Then...I stop...I get angry.

I think....

"Why pray over my lost wallet or phone or a parking place or a job or a house or Syria or the presidential race or ANYTHING EVER AGAIN, when the MOST IMPORTANT PRAYERS...seemingly have gone unheard???"

How can He care about my wallet and answer that stupid prayer in seconds yet not hear me screaming on the bathroom floor for eight months?

Well, if you thought I had answers. You read this for nothing. I don't.

All I have is anger that I'm trying to wash with the eternal words of God.

He is my strong tower. He loves me. His ways are not my ways. His thoughts are above my thoughts. He is God. I am not. He is eternal. I am a piece of grass withering away. I am the apple of His eye. He sent His son to die for me and for my Hudson. He loves me. He loves Hudson.

As I held my baby boy for the last time, we prayed. We prayed over our boy. I will share more about that later but one thing I told God is that we have different values. As a mama...my value is keeping my baby close to me for always. But, it was clear that within a few moments, God was going to allow my son to be taken from me for forever.

So...what does my prayer life look like right now?

Questioning
Anger
Truth
Lies
Tears
Tears
Tears
Anger
Doubt
Truth
Anger
Tears

I know the Bible, folks. I know God. I know ultimately His plans are better than mine but it is almost impossible to believe Him when your child is ripped away from you.

So that's just the brutal truth.

I love Jesus. I'm devastated.
There you have it.

Keep praying. Clearly I need it.

My Response to Monty Williams' Words

Don't get me wrong. I love Jesus. I have for many years now. I love His Word and believe it to be true. I would have lost my mind a long time ago without God's Word as my anchor. With that, I agree with every word that Monty Williams said as he honored God, his wife, his family and even the family of the woman responsible for the accident.

BUT, I think that we (us Christians) expect grief and suffering to be tidy. 

What makes me uncomfortable is the unrealistic expectation we put on ourselves as Christians. We quote Romans 8:28 and all should be okay. We often subtly expect our grief to look like resilience and composure just moments after earth shattering tragedy. I'm 100% guilty of distancing myself from grieving friends and family because it made me uncomfortable and I was unsure what to say. I force words I don't mean when I say, "I'm fine" to avoid others feeling uncomfortable. I isolate myself because how I feel about life as we hurt is certainly anything but tidy and composed.

Grief and suffering isn't tidy. In fact, it's excruciating and ugly. It looks like weeping on the bathroom floor for hours screaming for God to intervene. It looks like questioning everything you've ever believed.

While I applaud the example of grace and forgiveness shown in Monty Williams' words, I hope that we, the church, leave space for the untidy, wrestling with God's painful plans, sleepless nights kind of real grief. 

Let's face it. 
That's the kind of grief we have in common with Jesus anyway.

I want to be better at weeping with those that weep.

Hope lives here.

So my family and I have been at the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP) since June 29th (minus 3 days I went home to North Carolina for work and to sort out a few important details). I had Hudson on July 17th and he has been in the cardiac intensive care unit since.

On the day of so many tests and attempts at a diagnosis, I sat in their diagnostics center and the Special Delivery Unit for many hours. You can't be at CHOP long without seeing their logo and tagline.

I teared up in that lobby as I read those words, "Hope lives here." 

Our sweet Hudson has overcome so much during the three months of his little life and the obstacles aren't over. But, the first time I read their tagline I didn't know if I'd ever even get to meet our sweet boy alive. I desperately wanted their tagline to be true.

 (One day I'll take the time to tell the story of his birth and the miracle that was.)

For now, I want to talk about hope.

Hope: a feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen; a feeling of trust

I've had moments of hope and moments of despair. The idea of hope and even the word "hope" typically leave us feeling positive but this tagline leaves out how hope is produced in us.

Romans 5:1-5

1 Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, 

2 through whom we have gained access by faith into this grace in which we now stand. And we rejoice in the hope of the glory of God. 

3 Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; 

4 perseverance, character; and character, hope.

5 And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.

So where does hope come from?

Suffering. 

Perseverance. 

Character. 

HOPE.

I HATE this chain reaction. His ways are not our ways. Not MY ways.

But, hope comes from suffering.

Ultimately we are left with going back to verse 2.

"Rejoice in the hope of the glory of God." That's our ultimate HOPE. 

Jesus.

I'm telling myself this more than I'm telling you.

I want to be able to sing this song and mean it....

Grander earth has quaked before Moved by the sound of His voice Seas that are shaken and stirred Can be calmed and broken for my regard Chorus Through it all, through it all My eyes are on You Through it all, through it all It is well Through it all, through it all My eyes are on You It is well with me Verse 2 Far be it from me to not believe Even when my eyes can't see And this mountain that's in front of me Will be thrown into the midst of the sea Chorus Through it all, through it all My eyes are on You Through it all, through it all It is well Bridge x3 So let go my soul and trust in Him The waves and wind still know His name(repeat last line during 3rd run) It is well with my soul It is well with my soul It is well with my soul It is well with my soul repeat 3x(increasing in strength and volume) It is well it is well with my soul x3 ahhhhhhh (softly) Chorus x2-3 (softly slowly) Through it all, through it all My eyes are on You Lord Through it all, through it all It is well with me.