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a "normal day"

a "normal day"

October 7, 2009May 27, 2016 stefanieboyce

we enjoyed a day of making pizza nd jayden and daddy at the pond by the church!

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Posted in Family, parenting, trusting GodTagged a normal day, in the midst of waiting

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I can’t believe she’s gone. I miss her so much. Sunday mornings, Justin let’s me sleep in until Ellie can’t wait any longer. Without telling him, she’ll sneak in and jump under the covers to snuggle. (Let’s get real-I sleep in every morning 😉). “Did you sleep ok?” He asks. “Yup.” I answer. Only now he brings me coffee. He used to bring me B. Nine months ago he brought J, too. I’d hear them before I saw them, marching down the hall. Then door would swing open, hitting the wall. There she’d be. Sometimes in a T-shirt covered with breakfast, sometimes shirtless with a bit of red, clammy skin from the washcloth used to clean off breakfast, but always in a diaper-pantless. Her hair completely a mess in some leftover hairstyle from the day before. She was beautiful. He’d lift her in the bed. She’d growl and try to leave. I’d wrap my warm body around her cold one and tuck her under the covers. She’d fight some more, until finally, she’d give in, her body relaxing into mine. The entire family would pile in, breath stinky, hair a mess, in our jammies and declare indeed, Sunday as a day of rest-that it may just be the best day ever-and agreeing with God- it is holy.
Honored our story is featured across the pond! Link in bio.
They told me I didn’t have to. When the team at Swordgirl sent their condolences they said they completely understood and supported me if I decided not to speak at their women’s event he night before Brooklyn’s funeral. Here was my response: “At this point, if you are ok to the Holy Spirit moving, I want to trust that He will show up and meet us all in my deep pain and grief. That His power will be made perfect in weakness. I have the intention of still being used on the 24th, so long as it is ok with you and your team. I do promise you that I intend to be in prayer as I prepare, and find Isaiah 43 so fitting. My feelings will not be hurt if you decide to go a different direction. I know that I will probably be emotional, so if you are looking for someone a bit more “polished” and uplifting/happy, it may not be the right fit. Thank you again for supporting and loving us in our time of deep mourning. We grieve with hope.” And in the spirit of honesty, I don’t “want” to. I “want” to stay in my bed and eat Mac and cheese. But it’s not about me or what I want, it’s about doing what feels right. And trusting God-believing God works best in my weakness-feels right. I’m no Paul of the Bible, but he didn’t stop writing when he went to jail, so I’m gonna trust that the same God that worked through him will work through little ‘ole me. God doesn’t become less worthy of our praise when we are covered in pain. AND.....AND! We are still 100% human so of course I’m scared! So ladies, if you are free Friday, August 24, 7pm, come join us for a night of worship and s’mores in Grayslake, IL at Torch of Faith Church and let’s see how God will move. #swordgirlconference #swordgirl #allthingsnew
I pushed it. Too much, too soon. We don’t think much about what it takes to walk until we can’t. We wander about to and fro, back and forth with little mindfulness on how we got from here to there. It’s a totally different story when we lose the ability to walk. Every therapeutic step is a well thought out effort. Every step a challenge, a painful journey forward. After an injury, the wounded must be slow and patient during the healing process to prevent further damage. There’s tension in this though, because we need to do things that hurt and are uncomfortable in order to walk again. However, in our effort to regain our new found grateful steps, somedays we push it too much. So it is with grief and mourning. I pushed myself too much and learned my limit a few nights ago. The fire in me had died out and I found myself weary and short. Irritated and heavy, craving silence, slowness, time, and not finding much of it anywhere. I was at dinner at Culver’s with some dear friends in an effort to remember Jayden, like we do every month on the 13th. Small talk was flowing, ice cream was melting, and kids were laughing-and what normally feels right, didn’t. It was all too much and I hated that it was. I told my friends, who love us well, that I had to go. It was nothing they did, I was just done. Everything inside of me wanted to feel guilty, to apologize or stick it out- but I had to trust that voice inside me and not ignore it. I had to be honest. I had to go. I thanked them for coming and got in the car and left. If you are in a season of grieving, either walking with someone or the one grieving, be patient. Everyone is relearning how to walk, to walk a new way, and it will take time. Let the grieving lead, and know at times they don’t even know where they are going. And to the grieving, it’s equally important to try to walk again. To show up and be honest when it’s too much. In the wise words of Kenny Rogers, “You've got to know when to hold 'em Know when to fold 'em Know when to walk away And know when to run” We never know unless we try. Grief requires hard steps and buckets of grace. Looking back, I’m so glad I tried and I’m so glad I listened.
Yield and Trust.
Together. There’s a weird feeling I have that my grief feels complete. There had been an anticipation of having to do this again and fear of what it would be like. My greatest fear was B’s passing would be sudden and tragic. A seizure. A morning I’d find her not breathing. Some way that I couldn’t say good-bye. Some way not as holy or sacred as Jayden’s. What parent has to think these thoughts, “I wonder if my daughter’s death will be as beautiful as my son’s?” I do. But, I’m not the only one. There was an incompleteness to my grief. Maybe that sounds wrong but it isn’t meant to. I certainly would have chosen another day of anticipation if it meant I could have B. It’s just J and B were always, J&B. A package deal. It was always hard to separate them, even google photo gets it wrong. Of course they were individuals, too. J was sweet, B was spicy. J was patient, B was ...me. J was a runner, B was a singer. Of course walking back in the house after Jayden left that last morning and placing B on my lap was a gift. And every beep from her feeding machine, every breath in his bed and pjs, every push of her stroller—our entire routine and life with her—connected us to Jayden. Perhaps my grief feels complete because now I can begin to grieve. For the routine, our life, caregiving that remained as reminders, has all disappeared in one breath. We are no longer a special needs family. Our membership to the club got revoked. Expired. And although we never wanted to join, once we did, we didn’t want to leave. Beauty is found in its members. God is found in its meetings. Don’t get me wrong, we will stay connected as honorary members, but honorary none the less. There’s a peace now that comes as I envision J and B together, just like this picture, holding hands. B is probably dragging him around Heaven giving him the tour even though J knows his way around, and I bet J is chuckling and going along with it as she does. Maybe they’re laughing together because B just had to pass on the 6 and J on the 13, so they could share the Monday, but in true Beeba fashion, her Monday would be first. I always wondered why 2, but not any more.
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