Strange and Beautiful

It's been just over a week now since we both met and said farewell to our beautiful little Ian. I can hardly wrap my mind around it still. Just before we both settled in to try to sleep last night, Daniel looked over at the clock in our bedroom then back at me. It was about 11:40. "It's Ian's one-week birthday." We both smiled. A weighty smile but a smile nonetheless.

This week has been surreal--not because I've been walking around in either a pain-medication or a depression-induced stupor where nothing feels real. In fact, it's been quite the opposite. I think I've felt things more deeply and more wholly than I have in a long time. I'm pretty sure it's been the same for my family who is here. It's been like a pressure cooker or a magnifying glass for emotions of every kind. Yet again, Ian's life and death are working to edify those who come into contact with the situation, highlighting our flaws and foibles, forcing them to be dealt with.

Every bit of this event continues to be imbued with both joy and sorrow, strange and beautiful, like the cross. We mourn. We grieve. We pray. We praise. We rejoice. We weep. We laugh. We wonder why and then we wonder at His goodness to us.

I keep thinking of the phrase "sorrow and love flow mingled down" from the hymn "When I Survey the Wondrous Cross." It reminds me that God understands my feelings better than I can.

We've been making plans for Ian's memorial and burial and will continue to do so this week. They are both scheduled for this weekend, though the burial time is not set yet. We have to wait until we know when my brother can get here. All the other pieces are falling into place. I know that will too. If anyone needs/wants any of the details, please let me know. You can either comment on this post or send me a message or email through my profile link in the right sidebar.

I miss being pregnant. I don't think many people think that so shortly after giving birth, but maybe I'm wrong. All I know is that every time I think to myself something like "Oh, I can have coffee again!" or "Oh, I can eat all the seafood I want!" I immediately feel guilty afterwards. In those last few weeks before he was born, I felt the same guilt every time I felt like complaining about my discomfort. I knew that Ian being connected to me was what was keeping him alive. How could I want that day to come? How can I be happy now that I can return to normal? I have to keep reminding myself that it does no good to punish myself for something I couldn't change or control. I know this is true and yet I continue to have to fight it.

I miss Ian. Sometimes I still think I can feel him kick, and then I remember. That's happening less and less. I will treasure those minutes with him forever. If I close my eyes, I can still feel his check against mine.  So soft and sweet. I'm trying hard to remember everything I told him. I told him that I loved him over and over, but that's easy to remember. I told him that God had used him to change lives and glorify Himself. I told him that he was leaving a legacy as a big brother, the kind of big brother who everyone would like to have--the kind who goes before you and makes the world a little bit better for you. God used Ian to make me a better person, a better mom. Someday, Lord willing, I'll get to tell his siblings that.

How can a mere 13 minutes so drastically change your life? I didn't know that 13 minutes could seem like eternity and but a moment all at once.

I know this post has been all over the place. I'm rambling a bit, and I hope you can follow.

I think thats's what grief reminds me of--ocean waves. They come and tumble me over, washing and bruising me all at once.

I'll close with that for tonight. I hope you know I am learning to love you all deeply. I don't say that lightly. I know what love is and what it isn't... or I try to anyway. I Corinthians 13 is my guide. Thank you ever for loving me/us too.