Tag: loss

If It’s Only By Crying…

On By Anna EastlandIn Poetry19 Comments

IMG_4867

If it’s only by crying
that I can understand
the tears of others
then let me wear them like pearls

If it’s only by losing hope
that I can bring it to others
then let it fly away

If it’s only by breaking my heart
that it can become
big enough to hold everyone
break it

If it’s only by my desolation
that I can walk the valley of grief
with others
then strip me bare

Let my fragility bring others courage
my vulnerability, strength

And from my emptiness
let Your light burst forth
and shine

Lead us through the valley of grief
because if we walk it together
it will bring us Home

IMG_5526

Choosing Happiness

On By Anna EastlandIn Ponderings7 Comments

Recently my dear friend Natalie from Chicago came for a quick visit, as she was back home for her grandmother’s funeral. Her presence was like a sweet breeze from the Windy City. She brought a little pot of cheerful daffodils to brighten my table. I got florally spoiled! It was a gift to be able to see her, and have a heart-to-heart talk while the kids played at the park. A moment of happiness I will cherish for a long time.

I’ve been thinking a lot about happiness lately, and how necessary it is to choose it. Not just as a lifetime hope, but moment to moment. Choosing to embrace each good moment that comes, choosing to smile, to dance with the kids, to laugh when they tell me funny little things, to savour each time they hug or play together well. Tonight we had homemade pizza. “We’re having a nice lifetime,” said my four year old,”This is the best pizza ever!”

IMG_6192

I have to see each of these moments as gifts, despite the underlying ache for my little lost daughter, who is busy painting Heaven’s clouds pink with her rosy cheeks. She would want me to be a happy mother who is present to her children, who is affectionate and fun, who is able to enjoy her children and to apologize when she loses her cool.

We can choose to see life as meaningful gift, painful but precious, or as a terrible burden, fraught with danger. But how would the latter help us? To be paralyzed by fear is to refuse to live. And we must live and love, even as the sun must rise, because that’s what we’re meant to do.

Who among us is without pain? We have all suffered in one way or another…
Yet we still have the ability to choose happiness. The longing in our hearts for truth, goodness and beauty is there because those things exist, and we are meant to possess them.

“The essence of greatness is having the heart of a child,” quoted James Stenson in a parenting talk. I think this is also a choice: to let sadness wither you up and go grey inside, letting yourself become even internally old, or to choose youth—hope, joy, simplicity, trust, laughter—for to embrace life is to be young.

This is not a choice we make only once, for we are so changeable, like the shadows of leaves dancing on a windy day…it is a choice we have to make again and again, every time an opportunity comes to enjoy life, to be silly, to dance, to relish a conversation with a dear friend, to bask in the sunlight that pours down on us.

If we refuse the joy of those moments, because the pain of deep old scars that still throb, we are being like the child who refuses to get over her tantrum because one toy broke, even when she is offered many others. It’s really easy to be that kind of child, but we have to remember the resilience of children who seek joy in each new day, who get excited about little things, who are easily pleased by small shows of affection.

All the daily blessings we receive, all of those good moments, are caresses from God’s hands, and a sign that He is with us, despite life’s struggles. Say yes to them. Say yes to Him. Say thank you. We are in bigger, better hands than our own, and only in them can we truly live as children who know how to trust and rejoice, despite the tears that also come.

As I’m trying to take my own advice, here’s some photo’s of me being a kid on my retreat at Loon Lake, climbing about in the woods and getting wet pulling a raft across the lake. Felt like I was 12 again. Was great!

IMG_6302

IMG_6334

Some Things the Broken Heart Knows

On By Anna EastlandIn Ponderings11 Comments

There are some things the broken heart knows. It knows them in a way not unreasonable, but beyond reason, deeper than it. I know that love is not limited. We don’t run out. There are people who would say that because the baby I lost was my sixth, she didn’t matter as much. That it wasn’t such a terrible tragedy, because I have the others. That perhaps I didn’t need to love her all that much, because I already had enough.

But I can tell you something, from the depths of my soul, that each child is worth all the love the universe can contain. And they do not earn it. Do not need to. A mother’s heart loves her child because that’s what it was created to do, because that’s what it must do, the way we must breathe in order to live.

I love Josephine even though she never took a breath. I love Josephine even though she never once had the chance to smile at me. I love Josephine even though she will never say “Mama,”until I reach the pearly gates. I love her simply because she is my daughter and always will be.

And I want to share with you through my tears, what came to me in prayer: that each one of you, each one of us, myself included, is one of those precious children who is infinitely and unconditionally loved by God.

Perhaps many of us find this hard to except. We think we need to earn love, we think we need to deserve it. But our Father God loves each one of us with all the madness of the heart in love, with all the tender awe of a father holding his newborn child. He loves you simply because you exist. He loves you because he created you and you are his own, and he will love you forever. No matter what. Despite everything. Because the nature of Love is to love.

Every child is a universe unto themselves, it is said, and every child is a unique creation with a unique mission. We should have such reverence and respect for every single person. Created by God they are sacred; loved by God they are precious. In fact so precious that God, just like a human father, so willingly gives his life for each one of them.

I understand this better now. If there is anything I could have done to save my daughter, even at the cost of my own life, I would do it. A parent’s love doesn’t count the cost. God’s love doesn’t need to be earned because a parent’s love doesn’t need to be earned. All it wants is to be returned. And across time and space, from the throne of grace where she sits curled up on our Father God’s lap, my little daughter’s love reaches me.

IMG_6256

Shadow Cat

On By Anna EastlandIn Poetry7 Comments

I can feel grief stalking me like a cat
slipping around corners
just out of sight

She’s lurking
staring at me with her luscious eyes
glowing in the shadows
beckoning

But I’m afraid
and look away
Not again!
Not yet!

I walk away
but the soft paws
pad after me quickly
quietly
surely

Sometimes I tire of running away
and shout out,
“Ok, you’ve won. Come get me,”
but the cat slinks off
ever disobedient

And then
when I least expect it
she jumps onto my lap
settles in with her kneading claws
and that familiar purr

A warm weight of blackness

Once again
I am hers

The Ever Changing Tides of Grief

On By Anna EastlandIn motherhood, Ponderings14 Comments

I received this beautiful advice on grief during the holidays from my lovely big sister. Having been widowed when her children were very small, she knows about grief…that we can’t skip it, but have to go through it. She has been a great support to me since I lost the baby.

Hi sweetie,

I know all these celebratory days are falling flat under the weight of your enormous grief. It’s awful and expected and normal. That doesn’t help. Nothing really helps. You have to ride the wave of it. It will wash over you again and again. Sometimes you’ll think the tide is way out there, that you’re safe and far away from it, and yet another wave will cut you off at the knees.

The intervals will eventually get farther apart and yet when a wave hits you, it will feel every bit as intense. That, in my experience, is just how it goes.

The thing is – the waves will send you spinning but they won’t drown you. You’ll keep going because you are tough and resilient and wise and beautiful and have a thousand blessings to offset the struggle.

All my love,
Dymphny

I wanted to post these words today for all others who are grieving, and especially in honour of two of my friends who recently had fairly early miscarriages. My heart is with you as you ache for your babies in Heaven. Your truly lost a little child, just like me. All the potential for a whole life was there in that tiny little being, that new little soul created in love. It is understandable that your heart is broken. This child—with their unique DNA, their individual soul, their mysterious mission—can never be repeated. It is ok that you long for them forever. Forever will come.

May you be comforted by family and friends, and carried by grace through the ever changing tides of grief. And as you keep swimming to that distant shore of peace, know that you will be a sign of hope for others.

Unexpected Blossoming

On By Anna EastlandIn motherhood, Poetry9 Comments

/home/wpcom/public_html/wp-content/blogs.dir/f08/56183691/files/2014/12/img_4190.jpg

Little one
When you arrived
You were like a little rosebud
Picked in the rain
Crinkled, crimson, vulnerable

And I was afraid
Time would tarnish you further

My heart quaked before seeing you again
And I felt terrible to be a mother afraid
To see her own child

The first night it was true
You were so cold
As if the frost had bitten your beauty
And your stillness was so solemn

I left you that night
Weeping and broken
With a sprig of baby’s breath
Clutched in your tiny fists

But when we returned
Two days later to visit you
Kindly laid out by the hospital chaplain
You were rosier
Your cheeks were fuller
Like the little rosebud
Had begun to unfurl

Such a mercy
Your three biggest sisters
Could find you lovely
Patting your cheek
Holding your tiny hands in theirs
Proudly having their picture taken with you
Their baby

They took turns leaving kisses
On your sweet face
One of the few gifts
You could take to Heaven

But the most beautiful day of all
Was the last one we saw you
At the funeral chapel

Our sweet funeral director Michelle
Suggested I help dress you
In the one dress you’ll wear forever
The one I searched the city for
And finally found in a little Italian shop
On the east side of town
Where the Italian grandmas embraced me
And exclaimed “Que bella, que bella!” at your photo

It was a fall baptismal dress
A cosy knitted one from Europe
With a matching sweater and booties
Creamy white with little bits of shiny pink
The last one in the store
Meant for you

So the day before your funeral
Michelle brought you to us
Carrying you in her arms
With the affection and tenderness of a mother
Wrapped in your cosy blanket
The warmest and softest one I could find

And, little rose, you were in bloom!
Your beauty was enchanting
You sparkled as Daddy held you close
And I even laughed and said
You were our little snow queen

You looked so real, so alive
So much like a little baby sleeping
That your grandmother
Meeting you for the first time
Couldn’t help rocking you back and forth
“My baby, my baby!”

So many came that day
All your five children siblings
Your two uncles
And one aunt
And our friend Fr. Uy
Who delivered your crown

You must have felt the affection
Poured on you as everyone took their turn
To hold you, our precious one
And I remember my brother Monti
The one who flew from Hawaii to be here for me
Saying as he held you, “She’s ok. She’s really ok.”

And as we crowned you with a tiny crown
Of yellow and white flowers
Laced with sparkles
And a tiny medal of our Lady
Hand sewn for hours that morning
By a woman from the parish we hardly knew
You, darling, simply glowed
Sharing with us
A tiny glimpse
Of the radiance of Heaven

/home/wpcom/public_html/wp-content/blogs.dir/f08/56183691/files/2014/12/img_4198.jpg

Why Adults Can’t Handle Fairy Tales

On By Anna EastlandIn Family Life, motherhood, Ponderings, Writing7 Comments

There are many adults who are afraid that kids can’t handle traditional fairy tales, because they are too scary, too gruesome, too awful. I think it’s actually because on a certain level, they are too real. And many of us adults can’t handle real life.

I used to wonder why fairy tales so often were about orphans, or kids whose one parent had died, leaving them in the hands of someone who despised them. Think Hansel and Gretel, Snow White or Rapunzel. Or why they had to fight evil beasts and monsters, like the dragon in Sleeping Beauty. But now I think I understand better why.

Fairy tales can help children realize that life is going to be full of challenges, that it will contain suffering, that sometimes they will feel rejected and alone. But it is also about the triumph of the little guy, the unexpected hero, like in Jack and the Beanstalk. It is about perseverance, guts and hope.

How necessary it is for us to have hope! To believe in the triumph of good over evil, and the certainly of justice, even if that justice is very long in coming.

But now we often prefer to sugar-coat these dramatic tales. We try to cover up the bad bits. “They will be too scary,” we think. Will they be any scarier than real life? How will our kids cope with that?

Our modern western world is so poorly equipped to deal with suffering, because we so seldom have to deal with it in a really dramatic way. We are generally comfortable, have food, shelter, clothes, etc. Not that many people we know are eaten by dragons. Not that many people we know die. So when they do it’s a shock.

It didn’t use to be this way. Not that long ago people knew that things like infant death were a common part of life. They accepted that they needed to work from dawn till dusk, and often be away from their families. They knew that an illness could steal away a loved one like a thief in the night. Now we like to pretend this can’t happen, at least not to us. “La, la, la, la, it’s not real,” we sing and cover our eyes to the possibility of such a loss.

But it’s a delusion. Life is very fragile. It is very precious. It is a gift that can be revoked at any time. Losing a baby in labour taught me this. And as crushing as this loss is, my little one also teaches me—shouts loudly in her silence—that it is of utmost importance to hope. To have faith in something greater than these struggles here below. To know that love is stronger than death. To know that happiness here is complicated, and that our true happiness is yet to come.

So when you feel overwhelmed, remember the fairy tales. Put on your knight’s costume, mount your steed, and ride off into the sunset to face your dragons. Even if they consume you, you will triumph, if you don’t lose hope. It’s that golden thread that connects us to Heaven. It’s our strength in weakness and pain.

And if you meet a weary traveller along the way, someone who is laden down with suffering, help them carry their burden. Offer your heart to help carry some of that weight oppressing theirs. Reach out and cheer them on. In your mercy, in your tenderness, in your affection, you will bring them hope. And the quest to bring more hope to a struggling world is surely an ideal noble enough for all of us.

IMG_5482.JPG

PS These gorgeous swords were lovingly handmade by my talented step-dad Rob Koenig!

The Mystery of Losing a Little One

On By Anna EastlandIn Family Life, Friendship, motherhood, Writing9 Comments

Today I want to share with you an article I recently wrote about losing my little Josephine during labour. I’ve had a hard time doing much narrative about this event, and have mostly blogged poetry since it occurred, as it felt like a safer way to express myself somehow.

But I really felt called to share my experience and to reach out to other bereaved parents, so I was very pleased when the paper accepted my article. I’m posting the link to it in honour of a dear friend who lost her baby son three years ago today. Perhaps you can all send a little extra prayer her way. The pain of losing a little one comes and goes in waves, and I imagine it might be stronger again today. Honouring this in some way is part of healing.

The Mystery of Losing a Little One

IMG_4979.JPG

So to all bereaved parents, I send you my deepest condolences, and stand with you in your pain. May you know that your children are still an amazing gift, and that you have been for them not so much a place of death, as a gate to Heaven.

May our little stars shine forth with their pure, sweet light and ever guide us home.

Closer Than Ever

On By Anna EastlandIn motherhood, Poetry4 Comments

IMG_4640.JPG

The grass is still green
on this side of the world
The sun still shines red
through my eyelids

It warms my upturned face
as the fall leaves fall
with delicate grace

Children still laugh
and the birds still fly
Flowers open and close

You’re gone away
little one
but closer than ever

No longer does your heart
beat in my body
That quick little drum
has faded now

But now that you’ve gone
to be with the stars
you’ve ripped open my heart
exposed Heaven within and

I’ve found you
closer than ever
here in my soul

IMG_4713.JPG

Little Star

On By Anna EastlandIn motherhood3 Comments

The stars go down
to rise upon some other shore,
and bright in Heaven’s jewelled crown,
they shine forever more.
John Luckey McCreery

One of the most exquisite gifts we received in honour of our baby Josephine’s passing was a star. I really mean it. My Uncle Dorn and Auntie Lenore had a star named after her. Because they figured we had enough flowers, and so that when the kids looked up into the sky, they could see her.

So, now and forevermore, there is a little shining star in the heavens named Josephine Pilar. Yes, this makes me cry, but with gratitude as well as sorrow. My beautiful, beautiful baby. My heart aches to be with you.

IMG_4571.JPG

Before whom the stars at their posts
shine and rejoice.
When He calls them, they answer, “Here we are!”
shining with joy for their Maker.
Baruch 3: 34