The Carousel

Hello Darling,

It's been a busy weekend!  This week marked your great grandparent's 55th wedding anniversary, Grami and Papaw's 35th wedding anniversary, and Grami's birthday. Today we celebrated by having lunch together.

It is crazy to think that Fall is already here. Next Saturday, JMU football season begins. For the last few years, Daddy and I have gotten season tickets. Last year and again this year, we have seats on the front row, 50-yard line to cheer on the Dukes. I know that we'll have a good time, but this season will be bittersweet. We had expected you to be joining us. There are several JMU outfits in your dresser, and Grami made a special purple and gold tailgating basket for you that she gave me at my baby shower.

I hope the fact that I'm expecting to feel a little sad at the first game will help me better prepare for it. I usually do better on the days that I know will be hard than on the days that I'm not expecting it. There is a line in a book from one of my favorite authors that says, "It is the things you cannot see coming that are strong enough to kill you (Jodi Picoult, My Sister's Keeper)." I think there is some truth to that statement. Last week, we went with family to the county fair. As I was standing next to Aunt Becca and Abigail waiting in line for Abigail's very first carousel ride, it occurred to me that I would never get to take you on the carousel. I had to walk away for a few minutes as the tears fell. Daddy walked with me, gave me a hug, and told me he knew how much it hurt. Luckily, I pulled myself together in time to make it back and wave to Abigail as she went around and around.

I just remembered a song about a child growing up that talks about both the seasons and carousels:

"And the seasons, they go round and round.
And the painted ponies go up and down.
We're captive on the carousel of time...
We can't return, we can only look behind from where we came.
And go round and round and round in the circle game." (Joni Mitchell, The Circle Game)

Grief feels like it's own merry-go-round sometimes with all its ups and downs and spinning. When that thought popped into my head, I googled "grief and carousel", curious to know if anyone else has ever thought the same thing. I came across a post from a blogger grieving the death of her husband a few years ago who said that to her grief felt more like a crazy carousel than a series of stages. She wrote, "If your path has let you off the carousel and you are on a gentle swing - I am glad for you. When I get off, it only seems to be for a little while. Then the ride pulls me pack on."

Unlike the ride at the fair, I guess we never know how long our ride on the grief carousel will last. But what I do know is that it helps to have so many kind and loving people waving to me as I go around and around.

Love,

Mommy

Changed by Prayer

Sweet Baby Boy,

If we are being honest, most of us will admit that we have been jealous or envious of someone at sometime in our lives. The phenomenon of social media ensures that other people's success and happiness is always in our face. The new car. The new house. The promotion at work. The weight loss and dedication to the gym. The perfect marriage. Sometimes it feels like we are in a virtual competition to see who has the best life, and the winner is whoever garnishes the most "likes" on their Facebook wall. Again, if we are being honest, I bet most people will sheepishly admit to liking a post while at the same time thinking to themselves, "How did they afford that new car? I guess I'm just more financially responsible!" (Some people go further than just thinking this...just look at the comments that follow these types posts for proof!)

A pastor I knew once gave a sermon on jealousy and envy. It was years ago, and I don't remember exactly how it went, but the premise was something along these lines: Most of us view life as a pie. If someone else gets a piece of the pie, we do a mental calculation and instantly figure that there is less pie for us. What we forget is that God's pie is infinite. Rather than begrudge someone their piece of pie, we should celebrate it with them.

I know that it is common to feel envious when someone else has something that we want, but I've realized in the last several months that envy grips our hearts the tightest when someone else has something we've lost. It isn't that we aren't happy for them or that we would ever wish our loss on them, it's just that for a brief moment, we wish we were them. Our hearts feel squeezed as we are reminded of what has been taken from us. For me, the squeeze comes when I see a happy couple expecting a child because I know that Daddy and I will struggle with fear and uncertainty if we are ever blessed with another pregnancy. It comes when I see a baby about your age because I am reminded that I'll never know certain things about you like your sleep patterns, your favorite food, or your most treasured toy. It comes when I see a newsfeed full of first-day-of-school or other milestone pictures because I'm struck by one more thing that I've been robbed of experiencing with you.

l almost didn't share this because I worry that people may misinterpret what I'm saying. I worry that they might take the above to mean that I don't want to see posts about babies or children, that I am unhappy for people who have children or who are expecting children, or that I am in general a bad person...none of which is true. I would NEVER, EVER, EVER wish the loss of a child on anyone. As I've told people before, I don't wonder "Why me?", but instead I wonder, "Why anyone?" Spending time with children make Daddy and I happy, and I really mean that. We are determined not to let your death stand in the way of us experiencing the blessings in our lives that come in the form of our nephews, nieces, godson, and the children (both current and future!) of our friends and family.

I'm sharing this only because I know if God put it on my heart that I can't be alone in the struggle. I see other Angel moms struggle with this issue on the online forums I participate in, and I doubt that the struggle is unique to those who have lost a child. I share because I have found something that at least for me stops the envy in its tracks and changes my perspective. I hope that by sharing what has worked for me, others may try it and find that it helps them too:

In those moments when I feel that twinge of jealousy and in those times when longing tightens around my heart, I pray.  I'm not really sure when I started doing this, or even what lead me to start, but once I did, I found that praying made me feel better.

For that happy couple and their growing bump, I pray for a strong marriage and for the safe birth of their little one. For the baby who is the same age that you would have been, I thank God for his/her life and pray for a happy and healthy future. For all those back-to-school students, I pray for their learning and success, and I say a special prayer for the teachers and parents who will guide them through another school year.

I've found, quite by accident, that what they say about prayer is true - it may not change your situation, but it changes you.

Love,

Mommy

P.S. - I wrote this post yesterday, and as I said, I really wasn't sure that I was going share it. Then, as I was scrolling through Facebook, this quote popped up in my newsfeed, and I took it as a sign:

"Once a man was asked, 'what did you gain by regularly praying to God?' The man replied, 'Nothing...but let me tell you what I lost: anger, ego, greed, depression, insecurity, and fear of death.' Sometimes, the answer to our prayers is not gaining but losing...which is ultimately the gain.

Sisterhood

Dear Morris,

Today is a hard day for one of my friends. It is the one year anniversary of the day that she lost her precious twin girls at 22 weeks and almost lost her own life delivering them a few days later. I won't share the details of her story, because it isn't my story to share. But she and I have a story of our own, and I do want to share that one with you.

This friend and I met almost 10 years ago, although we were more like adversaries than friends back then. I wanted to assume the worst about her when I met her, and so I did. It framed most of our early relationship as one of pettiness and drama. Then something happened, and we couldn't have known it at the time, but our lives were forever connected as a result. I'm sure that she could have used a friend during this period of her life, but I'm ashamed to say that I wasn't one. I treated the bad assumptions that I had made about her as facts, and I said and did things that I know probably hurt her.

Over time, we grew up and matured. We were in each other's lives for good, so we found a way to forge a positive relationship. We weren't friends, but we weren't enemies. It seemed good enough to both of us for us to stay that way.

And then came the week my friend lost her babies and came close to losing her life. I remember getting the text from someone telling me that she was in the hospital. I was several weeks pregnant with you at the time, and I couldn't understand yet, but I could relate to the fear of losing my child. That call also made me realize what it would mean if this person was no longer in the world. I thought of her husband, her living babies, of her parents and siblings. I cried and pleaded with God to save her life.

When he did, I wish that I could say that I was instantly a better friend, but I wasn't. Child loss isn't something you can understand until it has happened to you, and so I dropped off a casserole dish and stuck a card in the mail. Then I went on with my life, never once stopping to realize the magnitude of the pain and suffering that she was enduring. I am so, so grateful that others have not done the same to me.

It wasn't until I lost you that this person and I became true friends. Despite our not-so-great history, she was one of the first people to reach out to me. For weeks, I received a message from her nearly every day. She gave me the sweetest wind chime to hang in my oasis; she's left flowers on your memorial bench as a surprise; we've chatted over coffee and lunch; we've attended support group meetings together.

There truly is a sisterhood of women who have lost a child. The bond we share is so great that it conquers the messiest of pasts. It has taught me something about friendship and about the type of person that I want to be. Life is fragile. It is marred with quite enough pain all on its own without us adding more in the way that we treat others. If I could go back in time 10 years and change everything about how this friend and I met, I would. But no one has invented a time machine yet. All I can do is try my best to always be a person of kindness and compassion and to be the best friend I can be to my sweet friend in the years that I have remaining here.

Love,

Mommy

In Memory of Analise and Adelin

Lost August 18, 2014, Delivered August 21, 2014

A Week of Reminders

Dear Morris,

It has been a week full of beautiful reminders and signs of you, and I can't wait to tell you all about it.

On Sunday, Daddy and I went to Grami and Papaw's house for what we thought was a birthday party for your great grandmother. It turns out that the birthday party was an excuse to get Daddy and I to the house. Unbeknownst to us, Grami and Papaw have spent this summer turning their backyard into "Morris Park".  They surprised us and the rest of the family on Sunday by unveiling their labor of love.

Papaw said that when they bought a play set for their grandchildren, they were painfully aware that you would never play on it. They wanted to do something special in your memory, and that's how Morris Park was born. The play set is connected to a patio with a porch swing so the adults can sit and watch the children play. There are rock paths (complete with a lantern guidepost) from the house to the play area and out to a huge rock fire pit area. There are beautiful gardens and memorial stones. Best of all, there is a special metal sign topped with a butterfly, and on it is the name "Morris Park" in gold.

We released purple balloons with messages to you over the swing set to dedicate the park. Daddy and my balloon said, "Morris, not a day goes by that we don't think of you. Our lives are forever changed for the better because of you.  We love you, Mommy & Daddy".  Just like the time we released balloons at the Sadie Rose picnic, the skies released a torrential downpour not long after we let our balloons go. But this time, after the skies cleared, the most beautiful rainbow filled the sky.  My grief has made me feel restless lately, but Morris Park has my heart feeling more settled than it has in a long time.

On Tuesday morning, I had an opportunity to share our story for the first time to a group of strangers. Regina, the founder of Sadie Rose Foundation, invited me to tag along to a meeting and share what the foundation has meant to me and Daddy. I've shared my letters to you with the world, but telling our story out loud for the first time was a big deal for me. I wasn't sure that I would be able to do it without crying (and I'm sure no one would have faulted me), but I got through it. It felt like another step forward in ensuring that your life has meaning and purpose. I arrived at work later that morning to find a gift on my desk from a coworker and a former coworker.  Inside was a beautiful wooden elephant with leather ears.  The card said that my friends had spotted the elephant in an antique store and instantly thought of you. I was so touched by the gift, not just because it was beautiful, but because it is a reminder that whenever I tell our story, your memory lives on.

On Wednesday, I drove to Pittsburgh with a coworker for a few days of meetings. We passed a life-size elephant statue in Somerset.  My coworker did some research and found out that the statue is in celebration of an elephant breeding ranch that is located in the city. Not long after we passed it, my friend Jamie sent me a text telling me that it was World Elephant Day.

Earlier in the week, I began reading a book that Aunt Becca gave me called "Leaving Time" by Jody Picoult. It is a fictional book about a young girl searching for her mother who disappeared after a tragic accident. A major theme in the book is the mother's research into elephants and their grief. There are several beautiful insights and parts of the book that I could relate to, but I'll share those with you another time.

When Aunt Becca gave me the book, she also gave me an envelope. She said, "Don't open the envelope until you finish the book. I think you'll appreciate it more." I'm already a fast reader, but the topic of the book and the curiosity about the envelope motivated me to finish the book even faster. Last night, around midnight, I finished the book and opened the envelope. It contained this letter:

"Dear Keri and Ryan Rankin,

The Elephant Sanctuary in Tennessee has received a Feed for a Day donation for Tarra from Dustin, Becca, Ava and Abigail in loving memory of Morris Keith Rankin. Please accept our sincerest condolences at this difficult time. It is always sad to learn of the death of a loved one, and we all share your loss.

This memorial contribution will be used to support the work we are doing to promote elephant welfare through education and example. You can be assured that this thoughtful gift will perpetuate the memory of Morris in a meaningful and enduring tribute.

The Elephant Sanctuary

Enclosed with the letter was a bio on Tarra. She is a beautiful elephant who has had a hard life. She was born in 1974 in Burma, Asia. At just 6 months old, she was prematurely weaned from her mother and brought to the United States. She spent her first years of life in the back of a delivery truck, used as a mascot for a tire company. She was later purchased by her volunteer caregiver, and the two traveled the world entertaining audiences in circuses, amusement parks, zoos, tv, and movies. Tarra became known for her custom watercolor artwork, and her owner used these talents to educate people about elephants.

If I hadn't already been crying after reading the letter from the Sanctuary, I would have immediately started crying when I got to the end of Tarra's bio. In the summer of 1993, after a 22 month gestation period and 2 days of difficult labor, Tarra gave birth to a stillborn calf.  Her bio notes that first-time mother elephants, both in the wild as well as in captivity, have a 33% rate of stillbirth with their first calf.  My heart breaks at the statistic. Tarra's story did get better though, because in 1995 she became the first resident and founding member of the Elephant Sanctuary in Hohenwald, Tennessee. If she lives as long as the average elephant, she will live another 20 years at this natural-habitat refuge. Now that I know her story, I will be making many more donations to Tarra's care in your memory.

In the six months following your death, we have been blessed through the kind words and thoughtful actions of so many people. I don't take for granted how incredibly fortunate we are to have such amazing family and friends (old and new) as a support system on this journey. I can only hope that we are able to one day repay the benevolence and outpouring of love to others that find themselves on a similar path in life.

Love,

Mommy

Tarra

Born in Burma, Asia - 1974

Founding Member of the Elephant Sanctuary - 1995

Tarra's Bio

Photos taken from The Elephant Sanctuary website

Filled

Good Morning Baby,

Exactly two weeks before you passed away, Daddy and I had maternity photos taken in downtown Staunton. I scheduled them to be taken at 34 weeks, which I was worried at the time might be too early, but I figured it was better to be safe than sorry. Now, those photos are just one more example of God's perfect timing and presence in my pregnancy, your death and birth, and the months that have followed.

Daddy and I wanted to be surprised at your birth in finding out if you were a boy or a girl. To capture the suspense during our photo shoot, I made little chalkboards that read "Oh Boy..." and "Or Girl!" Towards the end of our session, we were walking down a side street, and we came across a wall of wooden railroad ties. Someone (probably a child) had drawn  hearts of different sizes on the wall in chalk. My heart was struck by this random display of innocence, love, and hope. I knew it was the perfect spot to capture our memory. It is one of my favorite photos from that day.

This past Thursday, I had to run some errands downtown. My mind was fairly focused on the tasks at hand as I rushed to get my errands completed during my lunch break. But then I found myself in front of that railroad tie wall, and my heart sank. Not surprisingly, the rain (or maybe a business owner) had washed away all those little hearts sometime in the past six months. The wall was empty...and in that moment, my heart couldn't have felt any emptier itself. Memories of the excitement, energy and happiness that had surrounded us as we marked our pregnancy and your life that afternoon came rushing back to me, and my eyes filled with tears. Despite the usually busy lunch hour, not a soul was around. I stood in front of that wall for a few minutes and let the tears fall.

I pulled myself together and hurried off to finish my errands, feeling even more aware of the void that has plagued me since you died. As I was on my last errand, I noticed a couple that attends my church having lunch. They spotted me too, and they immediately came over to greet me. They gave me a hug, asked how I was doing, and told me how much reading my letters to you has meant to them. I instantly felt better, and the course of my afternoon was changed by our quick encounter. Once again, God's perfect timing prevailed.

I've thought so much about Thursday's events, and I realize that I'm not the only one who has found themselves in front of an empty wall or who has felt the deep void of something or someone missing in my life. It also occurs to me that feeling empty isn't unique to people who have experienced a profound loss. There are people in this world who are holding their babies and loved ones tightly right now, people who are blessed with good health and fortune, people who have every thing this world can possibly offer them...and yet, they feel empty.  Peter, Jesus' disciple, knew that there was only one answer to filling this void:

"For this reason I kneel before the father, from whom every family in heaven and earth derives its name. I pray that out of his glorious riches, he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may have power, together with all the Lord's holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge - that you may be FILLED with all the FULLNESS OF GOD." Ephesians 3:14-19

Because I have accepted Christ into my heart, I will never really be empty. I am thankful that when I forget this truth, as I sometimes do, God reminds me through a hug from a friend, a favorite or meaningful bible verse that "shows" up in my daily routine, a song, an experience...the list goes on and on. I know that the next time I see that downtown wall, a smile will replace my tears. Instead of being a reminder of the emptiness in my life, it will be a reminder of the fullness.

Love,

Mommy

A New Trail

Darling Morris,

Time has seemingly stood still since your death, and yet somehow a half a year has managed to go by. Six months feels like such a big milestone. I have lived 180 days without you. I have spent 4,383 hours missing you. There have been 262, 974 minutes filled with thoughts of you.

Anniversaries and the days leading up to them are difficult. For a few days each month, I am stuck reliving time. I tell myself that I'm only making it worse by going over things again and again in my head, and I try to convince myself that the anniversary isn't really different from any other day. But just like clockwork, the first of the month comes, and my mind automatically replays everything that happened from the day we found out you were gone to the day we said goodbye.

Several weeks ago, I booked a trip to for work this week not realizing that it would fall on the six month anniversary of your death. Once the significance of the date registered, I became anxious. I wondered if the trip would be a bad decision or a blessing in disguise. There have been tough moments, but overall, the trip has been a blessing.

I left for my destination (Sturgeon Bay, WI) on Sunday. I had a short layover in Atlanta, and I stopped to grab a bite to eat. I was halfway through my Chipole bowl when I remembered that I had eaten the same thing the day before you died. Daddy and I had tickets to a UVA and Duke basketball game that night, and we had stopped for a quick dinner at Chipole before the game. The last time I can remember feeling you kick with any certainty is at the game. As you often did, that night you danced as the band played. When I think about those last moments of feeling you alive inside of me, I am torn between tears of desperate longing and tears of sweet remembrance.

I have felt God's presence so many times in the past 6 months, and once again I feel certain that God had a hand in bringing me to where I am this week. After work today, a group of co-workers and I went on a little adventure. We spent the evening sight-seeing, chatting, and sharing food and laughter. One of the places we visited was a state park called Cave Point.  We walked along a worn path for a little ways and came to a small beach area littered with little stone statues. It was an odd, beautiful and intriguing sight.  I took several pictures of them, and I became determined to figure out exactly what they were when I got back to the hotel.

The stone statues at Cave Point

I was disappointed when my search didn't turn up any reference to Cave Point or the little stone statues. However, I came across the term "cairn" in reference to piles of rocks. I had never heard the word before, but when I looked it up, I found pictures of rock statues exactly like the ones I saw on the beach this evening. Quite simply, a "cairn" is a heap of stones thrown together in a conical form. They have many different purposes, but the most common purposes are to mark a grave (or memory) of someone and to denote a path or trail.

On the six month anniversary of your death, I stood in the middle of a hundred or more cairns. There is obvious symbolism in the fact that cairns are used to pay respect to the memory of a loved one. But the deeper symbolism is found in the other purpose of a cairn - "to denote a path or trail."  Today, I took a new path. I didn't dwell on an anniversary date or let an anniversary date have power over me. I chose adventure over agony. I kept moving. I can think of no better way to pay tribute to your life than by living mine.

Love,

Mommy

Mommy standing on "cairns" beach

Mommy and a friend on a cliff at Cave Point